by W. J. Lundy
Outside, Brad could see uniformed men pressed up against a log half-wall. They were firing into a series of chain link fences that were lined with twisted bodies of the infected. Some were farther up the fence, tangled in strands of heavy barbed wire. A shrill whistle and the crack of an explosion to their front spit dirt, snow, and blood at them as a mortar round impacted in the middle of the horde just feet from the perimeter fence. Brad crouched down and looked forward. He could see there wasn’t just one fence—or hadn’t been. The men were at a log wall; beyond that was a twelve-foot-tall chain link fence, a short snow-covered dog run, then a second chain link that was currently bowed in and full of holes.
A corporal on the wall saw Brown and turned toward him. “Sergeant, they’ve breached the outer wire; they’re inside the dog run, and they’ll have us surrounded soon. We’d like to pop the fire pots to draw them away.”
Brown frowned and rubbed his forehead. “What’s the captain have to say about it?”
The corporal shook his head. “Sergeant, the TOC was hit by direct mortar fire. We haven’t been able to reach them.”
“Well, hell.” Brown ducked as another mortar struck to their front. “Get the pots ready to go on my word. We only have one go at them, so we have to make sure we have their main body in range before we use it. Get the fifty cal teams set up and standing by.”
The corporal clenched his teeth and nodded. “Roger that.” The man turned away and ran along the log fence.
“What’s going on here?” Brad asked.
“Primals have breached our fences, they’re filling the dog run, and we’ve lost contact with the TOC.”
“Sounds great,” Brad said.
Brown grimaced. “Yeah, that’s terrific, but don’t sweat it. We’ve got a contingency plan, and it’s time to use it.”
Brad stared at him. “I picked up on that, but exactly what the hell is it?”
Another mortar went off to the front, kicking mud and Primal parts into the air. Brown guided them closer to the low wall and took a knee. “The infected are attracted to bright lights; for whatever reason they love a fireworks show.”
Brad shook his head in frustration. “I’m aware. I was born during the day, but it wasn’t yesterday.”
The big sergeant sighed. “We have pots buried all around the perimeter. They’re filled with gas and oil, triggered by artillery simulators. We light off one of those bad boys, and it’s like ringing a dinner bell. These things drop everything and run at the pots. Attached to every pot we have a pair of heavy machine guns dialed in for intersecting fire.”
“You’ve done this before?” Chelsea asked.
Brown nodded. “A couple times. It’s really messy, but it works.”
“Won’t it attract even more of them?” she said.
Brown nodded. “Yeah, but not any more than a full-on gunfight. We’ve never had an infected attack like this before, though—an attack supported by whatever it is out there shooting at us. If we can’t get those mortars to stop, more will just come in and replace the ones we kill.”
There was another impact, this one right on the inner fence. The steel bar holding the fence bowed in but still held back the mass of infected. Brad turned away as he was pelted in the face with bits of frozen dirt. “Hold off on lighting the pots. From the frequency of those blasts, there can’t be but one team out there. You have any armor?”
Brown nodded his head. “I’ve got a police MRAP. No crew-served weapons, but it’ll still stop bullets.”
“Put some troops on the roof and see if they can get us a location on the mortar team, then get me a couple shooters and that MRAP. I’ll stop those mortars for you.”
Chelsea put her hand on Brad’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping us alive. If that fence falls, we’re all dead.” He turned back to Brown. “You going to get me that truck?”
“Roger that, Sergeant. I’ll take you to it.”
Brown had been holding back… they didn’t have an MRAP—they had a fleet of Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles. At least a half dozen in a mix of differing configurations. Some painted black, others olive green with a variety of police markings on them. Brad walked down a darkened aisle in the basement converted into a below-ground parking structure. A man in green coveralls was wrestling with a compartment on the side of a black painted vehicle with “Special Response” painted on the side in bold white letters. “It’s a six-by-six Cougar. You familiar with it, Sergeant?” Brown asked.
“Yeah, I know what makes it tick.” Brad looked left and right for a garage door. “How do I get it out of here?”
The man in coveralls turned around, wiping grease from his hand with a rag. “There’s a dugout at the far end of the structure. Get mounted up, and I’ll show you the way.”
“You?” Brad asked.
“Yeah, you ain’t taking my girl unless I come along. I spent almost a year tracking these down, wandered over half the state; I’m not about to lose one.”
Brad looked up and down the row of armored vehicles. “You found these?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The man pointed to an armored Humvee with plates welded to the windshield. “It started with Sue down there on the end. My team’s been hitting up every police station in the directory, looking for these old battle cats.”
Brown laughed, moving in from out of the shadows. “Don’t let Palmer scare you off. He’s a good wrench, and he knows his way around outside the wire.”
Brad nodded and extended his hand to the mechanic. “Okay then, get everyone on board, and let’s get outside. Palmer since this is your girl, you drive.”
The man smiled with stained teeth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Don’t want any of you grunts rolling my girl over again. Last time she was out of commission for a month.”
“Whatever,” Brad said, moving to the passenger door. He swung open the heavy door and pulled himself into the seat, a sudden case of déjà vu coming over him. For an instant, his mind was back in the deserts of Afghanistan. He closed his eyes tight and opened them slowly. He wasn’t in Afghanistan, and it wasn’t Primals lobbying mortars at their Forward Operating Base. He was as close to home as he’d been in years, and people were still trying to kill him.
“You okay, Brad?” Chelsea asked from the compartment behind him.
He nodded. “Yeah, just thinking about the good old days.” He looked to Palmer beside him, who already had the vehicle started. Brad leaned left and surveyed the space, watching a well-worn soldier enter from the back and secure the rear hatches. The big soldier didn’t speak, but he carried himself like a veteran, and he had the scars and the stare to go with them. He had long black hair falling from under his Kevlar helmet. His MultiCam uniform was faded and patches covered the elbows. Brad squinted, looking for a name tape or rank insignia but found none.
Chelsea was just behind him, with Brown in a drop seat across from her. The soldier in the rear took a back seat, sitting with his rifle near an open firing port in the sides of the vehicle. Brown caught his confused stare. “Palmer removed some of the exterior armor and cut in those firing ports.”
Palmer looked back and nodded. “Removing larger armor plates opened up the vision ports and lightened her up. But don’t worry, Sergeant. The infected won’t never get in Bertha; she’s a mean girl, and even though we don’t have a big gun mounted up top, those firing ports are a game changer.”
“I see,” Brad said. “You got us a location on those mortars?”
Brown nodded. “Our spotters on the roof gave us a good direction, and I have an idea of where they’re set up. There’s an old corner market about 1,500 meters in that direction, beyond the high trees.”
Brad put a hand to the stubble on his chin and turned back to the front. “Sounds about right for a sixty mike-mike. Palmer, take us out.”
“On it,” the man said, rolling the heavy vehicle forward. Taking a left, he drove down the drive to a narrow ramp built of earth and old l
umber. He centered the Cougar and beat the horn until a man opened a door and ran out, waving at the vehicle. He grabbed the pull handle of a sliding door and ran it open. Light poured into the basement and Palmer mashed the accelerator, launching the Cougar up the ramp. Just as the last of the vehicle cleared the exit, the door was shut behind them. The Cougar raced out onto a gravel road then made a hard right onto a snow-covered access road that put them in the dog run between the two perimeter fences.
Surveying the area, Brad could see they’d left the factory somewhere on the back side, away from the attack. He couldn’t see an exit. “How do we get out?” Brad asked.
“We have a sally port on each end of the fence,” Palmer answered. “It’ll be dangerous opening the gate with the wire breached and the outside full of them zombies, so I have a proposal.”
“Yeah, why am I thinking it’s going to be something stupid, or you wouldn’t be asking?” Brad said.
Palmer smiled and looked over his shoulder at Brown. “I like this guy.” Palmer’s face turned serious. “I intend to drive Bertha around to the front and run her right through the breach in the wire.”
Chelsea gasped. “Are you crazy?!”
Palmer nodded. “Well yeah, but that’s beside the point.” He slowed as he made another hard series of turns within the fenced area. “We have at least three breaches in the outer wire, one big hole right in the front. We have zombies in the dog runs; they’ll be all over those gates, and why risk getting out of Bertha here to open them? Or worse, destroying the gates by ramming them.”
Chelsea shook her head. “There has to be a better way than ramming through the gate; what if we get stuck?”
Brad stared ahead, seeing the mass pour through the hole in the outer fence. “He’s right. And it’ll lead the Primals away; they’ll follow us,” Brad said.
“Ha!” Palmer exclaimed. “Told you I like this one. Exactly… it’ll lead them away. Those fire pots and machine guns help lure them into kill zones, but the fires always bring in more. We can do better; we can grab the attention of the mass and lead them right back to that mortar team.”
“Let’s do it,” Brad said.
Chapter 7
Miles East of Crabtree, West Virginia. Free Virginia Territories
After several miles, Brooks paused and rode back toward the team. They were at a tall bend in the railroad tracks. The men recognized the area from traveling through the low canyon days earlier, and it also being the place where they’d attacked Carson’s train. Brooks held his position at the bend and waited for the others to get in close before he spoke. Joey and the new man, Riley, stayed back covering their trail.
“It’s gone,” Brooks said in a low voice.
“What’s gone?” Sean asked.
“The train; it’s gone.”
Sean looked toward the path they were riding. “How far ahead did you ride?”
“A mile, maybe a bit more. It’s gone. I know where we left it; I remember the spot where we unloaded the civilians. I’m telling you, it’s not there.”
Sean laughed, shaking his head side to side. “Well, I’d hope you wouldn’t accidently go past a big ass train, but it didn’t just vanish.”
Moving his horse to the outside of the others, Henry looked down into the low ground. The others followed his eyes and could see where the snow was trampled from the infected horde traveling in the same direction. “When you left the train, did you damage the locomotive?”
Brooks shook his head. “We got separated. The bastards put a bomb on a coupler somewhere ahead of us. Brad was on the front when it went off. The rest of us got cut loose from the engine.”
“I see,” Henry said. “So it appears, whoever took off with that engine came back for the rest of their train.”
Brooks scowled. “You saying Brad is dead, old man? You think he failed to accomplish his mission?”
“Not necessarily,” Henry said, reaching into his shirt pocket for the pipe. He went to pack it but looked down at the Primal tracks in the snow and thought better of it. He put the unlit pipe between his lips and looked to Brooks. “He might have finished what needed doing, stopped that train, and moved on. I imagine locomotives ain’t easy to come by, so whoever owned it, probably came looking when it never returned home.”
“So, what do we do now then?” Brooks said, this time looking at Sean.
The SEAL chief shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing’s changed. We came looking for Brad, so let’s keep looking.” Sean’s horse whinnied and spun around. Sean grabbed at the reins and dug in his heels to straighten it.
“You okay there, Chief?” Brooks said with a grin.
Henry put a finger to his lips. “The horse is telling us something.”
Sean’s mount calmed, but took steps back, nervously snorting. “And what exactly is she telling us?” he said in a low voice, his free hand rubbing the horse’s neck.
Henry shook his head and pulled his rifle from the sheath. “No quick movements, but we ain’t alone.”
“Primals?” Brooks said, tightening the grip on his own rifle.
Casually looking up at the high ridge behind him, Henry squinted and said, “I had a feeling about something for the last mile or so.”
“A feeling?” Sean asked.
Henry nodded and pointed to a pile of broken ice and snow where the canyon met the railroad bed. “These clumps of snow on the ground? They came from up there… Could be natural, just normal snowfall, sliding off the edges above—”
“Or could be someone knelt there and knocked it loose,” Brooks interrupted.
“People then?” Sean asked.
Henry smiled and looked up again before turning back to Sean. “Yeah and more just ahead of us. I caught a glimpse of him just as your horse stirred. They’re watching us.”
Sean rubbed his chin. “I got it. Thoughts, Henry?
Without turning again, the old man tilted his head toward the high ridge. “Worst case, something is up there. And if it’s hostile people, they’ve got the high ground and we’re trapped.”
“So… what? We just keep moving?”
Henry nodded his head. “We’re in a canyon, only one way in or out, and I have no intentions of turning back.”
“Push through then?” Sean whispered.
“Yeah, but call your boys up and have ’em ride two-by-two,” Henry whispered. “I’ll be leading the way now. You all see me run or go down, you better be ready to fight.”
“What are you planning?” Sean asked.
Smiling, Henry said, “Not much daylight left. We need to find cover and get off this trail. I plan on seeing who’s hiding around that corner, or keep riding until they stop us.”
Brooks spoke low. “I don’t know, Chief. What’s to stop them from killing us?”
“They could have already shot us, if that’s what they wanted.” Without waiting for a response, the old man nudged his horse forward with a click of his mouth. Sean turned to Brooks. “Tell the boys to stay close; I’ll take slack behind the old timer.”
Sean kicked his horse, moving ahead and riding wide to the left so he could keep his eyes on Henry as the old man rounded the bend in the canyon. He expected to see a roadblock or a man blocking their path, but there was nothing, just more snow. Sean rode on and moved his horse right as he turned the corner. He looked at the ground near the canyon and could see dry patches where a man could potentially walk and avoid leaving tracks in the snow.
Ahead, Sean saw Henry’s posture change. The old right man’s elbow pushed out as he let his lever-action rifle hang unthreatening, low in the pocket of his arm the way a duck hunter would carry a shotgun. Sean scanned up and could see why. There were silhouettes high on the ridge above them. Two, maybe three, men dressed in flannel and hunting camo were attempting to stay hidden, but with the sun low in the sky, they were sky lining themselves on the high ridge. Sean never would have seen them if he wasn’t looking.
Just fifty feet ahead, Henry pulled his reins back
and sat high in his saddle with the rifle across his legs. Sean cautiously closed the distance until he was right beside him. He dropped his right arm and flashed a palm to the riders behind him, signaling for them to keep their distance.
“What is it, Henry?” Sean whispered.
“I think we’re about to find out,” the old man replied. “They’re just to your left.”
A twig snapped and three men holding rifles stepped from the thick cover of the trees. Sean cursed himself; he’d allowed his eyes to focus so much on the high ridge that he’d missed those in cover. Sean let his horse turn naturally to face the men on the ground. They were tall but not husky. One was older with deep lines at the corners of his eyes, the other two, far younger and maybe in their twenties. They all shared a family resemblance with narrow cheeks, rusty-red hair, and green eyes. The men eyed him suspiciously, but they carried their rifles at the low ready.
“You’re a long way from your mountain, Henry,” the eldest of the three said.
“I see even Armageddon can’t kill off you damn gingers.” Henry grunted then pulled out his pipe and placed it in the corner of his mouth.
The man on the ground grinned. “Not all of us, anyway. You know you shouldn’t be smoking that. The zombies can smell it for miles around.”
“You see it smoking?” Henry scoffed, rolling his eyes.
Sean looked at Henry quizzically. “You know each other?”
Henry sighed. “Yeah, I know him.” He moved his rifle and let it drop back into the leather sheath. “This is Eli Baker and his sons.” Henry turned back toward the man on the ground. “If I had to take a guess, those are your shit head nephews up on the ridge.”
Eli laughed. “You’d be guessing right. Who you riding with Henry? You looking for trouble?”
The old man spat on the ground. “Screw you, Eli.” He shifted in his saddle, looking behind him then ahead on the trail. “So, you going to take us back to that dump of a ranch of yours? I got some hungry soldiers from Dan Cloud’s place. We could use a place to spend the night.”