by Ben Reeder
“Nope,” she said.
“Then I just have one question. Where was this convoy from?”
“Hastings,” the woman said. “We’re from Hastings.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks. Look, we’re heading that way. You’re welcome to come with us. We’ll wait for a couple of minutes.” I took a couple of steps back and then to the side before I turned around and holstered my pistol.
“We’re just leaving?” Amy asked when I walked past her.
“In a few minutes,” I said as I went back to the truck. “We have at least part of what we need.” I stopped long enough to cut a swatch of cloth from one of the crawlers and wipe the blade of the Deuce down before I put it back in the Kydex sheath.
“Wait!” we heard from behind us. We turned to see a woman in BDU pants and a green t-shirt stumbling toward us with her rifle slung. Her skin was pale, even more so against her dark hair. It made her eyes, almost as dark as her hair, stand out. “Please, wait.” I put a hand out to Amy, a caution against drawing her pistol again.
“You’re really going to Hastings?” the woman asked when she caught up to us. I nodded. “Then I’ll go with you.”
“Invitation’s still open. I’m Dave, this is Amy,” I told her. Up close, I could see the white lines of salt rings on her t-shirt.
“PFC Allie McKay,” the woman said. “First Squardon, 134th Cav, Troop A.”
“Is there anything you need to grab from the truck?” I asked her.
“Come take a look,” she said. We followed, and she pulled the rear cover aside to reveal stacks of cardboard boxes labeled “Humanitarian Daily Ration” and cases of bottled water. The wind shifted and I caught a whiff of excrement. On the south side of the road, I could see its source. To McKay’s credit, she had managed to get her waste a pretty good distance from the truck. She’d used the empty ration bags to keep things contained and as close to sanitary as possible but two weeks in the same little space made for a lot of smell. More than one of the bags had come open as well. She climbed into the back of the truck, and I pulled myself up behind her.
Inside, I could see where she had cleared a place for herself in the middle of the truck’s cargo. A collapsible bucket stood in the corner of the space, and a makeshift pallet made from stacked cardboard boxes was laid out along one side. Her BDU blouse was folded neatly atop one of the boxes, and she had set her helmet on top of it. Two empty magazines were stacked beside it, along with a spoon, towelettes in packets, a stack of napkins and a handful of other condiments from an accessory pack. Several foil pouches of crackers and spreads were laid out next to that. I’d only been outside the wire a few times while I was in Iraq, but I recognized the soldiers’ habit of always keeping some food stashed away. In the Air Force, I was always sure of when and where my next meal was going to be, but in the Army, that wasn’t always the case. Besides that, most soldiers burned a lot more calories than the average airman did.
“Welcome to my Fortress of Solitude,” McKay said as she picked up the helmet and pulled her blouse out from under it. “Sorry it’s such a mess, but it’s the maid’s day off. But hey, help yourself to anything from the kitchen. I’ve got plenty.”
“Grabbing a couple of these boxes wouldn’t be a bad idea. But do you mind if I take a look at your radios?”
“We only had one,” she said as she stuffed the crackers and spreads into her cargo pockets. “And it’s not even good for spare parts now.”
“Was it in the lead vehicle?” I asked. She nodded and tucked the spoon into her breast pocket before she grabbed the two empty magazines.
“One of the guys got bit and started to turn, then the next thing we knew, a grenade went off inside it.”
“I guess there are worse ways to go,” I said as we each grabbed a case of water.
“Yeah, but they also had all the ammo. You wouldn’t happen to have any five-five-six on you, would you? I’m fresh out.”
“Actually, I do. Let’s grab a few mags before we head out so we have something to put it in.” Ten minutes later, we had ten extra magazines, and two cases each of the HDRs and bottled water loaded into the back of my truck. McKay climbed into the rear of the cab and stretched her legs out as she started to load the spare magazines.
“So, what happened back there?” I asked as we pushed on.
“We got orders to set up a road block north of Clay Center, and an aid station for refugees at the church,” she answered after a few moments of thought. “We pulled up and saw all the people in the lot, so the LT gets out to go talk to them. I guess he figured they were waiting for us or something. And then, they all just run at him. And he just freezes up…just stands there. We don’t want to rock and roll with him downrange, but Sergeant Crow, he tells us to shoot. So we did. Brought a lot of them down, too. But this one group, they get to the LT, and down he goes. Once that happens, we go full auto on ‘em, mow ‘em down like wheat, you know?” She stopped and took a shuddering breath before she continued. “But it’s still not enough. They got to the Humvees first…that’s about when the grenade went off. And then they got to the guys from the trucks. They just kept shooting at them…and after the first time, they got up…and then…they wouldn’t fall down, no matter how many times we shot them. They just kept coming…” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze went to something distant, something only she could see.
“You have to shoot ‘em in the head,” Amy said softly. McKay’s eyes focused on Amy, but I wasn’t sure what she was actually seeing.
“Yeah, I figured that out,” she said, her voice still distant. “I was in the back of the truck when they charged the LT. I just had my M4 with me. They didn’t even issue us vests or packs. The other guys…they got out, and started shooting. Stan…he ran out, so he grabbed a shovel off the truck and started swinging. I should have got out. I should have been with them.”
“You did the right thing,” I said. “I don’t know if you’ve looked around lately, but there aren’t enough people with a pulse as it is. If getting corpse munched was the only way to save your buddies, sure, I can see that, but you’re still human, and right now, that’s like your primary MOS.” She nodded and her expression changed.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a soft smile. “I haven’t talked to anyone for two weeks. So, do you know what’s been going on anywhere else?” I let Amy take over the conversation from there, and focused on driving. Like most towns we’d seen, I figured there would be some attempt at containing the mass exodus with road blocks. So as soon as I found a set of railroad tracks that looked like they would lead into Hastings, I followed the gravel road the paralleled them for as far as I could go. Eventually, the road, named Technical Boulevard according to the lone green street sign I saw, veered away from the tracks. With no other option immediately open to me, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances.
I went off road. To my surprise, the ride improved a little. We took the extremely scenic route for about a mile before the tracks veered north and I was forced to reconsider my brilliant plan. Before I got too deep in my own reasoning, I remembered that I had access to a better source for knowledge about the area.
“Allie, is there a set of tracks that goes through Hastings from east to west?” I asked as I coasted to a stop.
“Sure, but why not take the old right of way instead?” she asked as she pointed across the tracks. “It goes all the way into town, and it crosses behind all the places where we planned to put roadblocks.” Where she pointed looked like a row of trees on the edge of a field, but when I pulled forward a few yards, it resolved into a tree lined path. I backed up and turned to bring the truck’s nose perpendicular to the railroad tracks, then gently eased it across them, thankful for four wheel drive. The rear end scraped as we bounced over the second rail, and then we were rolling away from the tracks and toward the right of way. The ride was a little rougher, but it looked like a straight shot into Hastings.
When we finally ran out of open fields, w
e found ourselves emerging onto a street that ran by a park. Allie pointed across the road to where the right of way continued. It led us through the back side of the town’s industrial district, past storage sheds and salvage lots, and all the way to another set of railroad tracks. I followed those west at Allie’s direction, and turned back north on a street called Woodland. Stacks of PVC pipe in every size imaginable lined the roadway, then gave way to a storage business on one side and a line of repair shops on the other before it ended at a cross street.
“That’s the armory,” Allie said, pointing to a two story brick building with a chain link fence surrounding a lot on the side facing us and a white garage or storage building that butted up against the fence “It doesn’t look like it’s been-” she started to say, and then abruptly stopped as a man wearing black pants and a green flak jacket emerged from behind the storage building. Immediately, he brought an assault rifle up to his shoulder and opened fire. As soon as I saw the gun move, I pushed my foot down on the gas, and we burned rubber across the road and jumped the curb, then bounced over the concrete parking stops. Rambo ran out of rounds before we hit the curb, but he still managed to hit the truck a few times. We shot across the side lot, then across the road that ran in front of the armory before we hit grass again and found ourselves in a shaded park. More shots rang out behind us, but it seemed like most of them were killing any trees that dared to shelter us, though a couple of rounds hit the body of the truck with hollow sounding thunks. A beige building loomed up ahead, and I swerved to put it between us and the armory.
“I think someone took over the armory,” McKay said.
“Yeah, I was getting that impression!” I yelled as I yanked the steering wheel to the right to miss a Humvee that was bearing down on our left side. The other vehicle hit its brakes as we swung through someone’s yard and came back onto the street. I heard the chatter of a machine gun for about a second and saw chunks of asphalt fly in front of me and to my left. I swerved right and left to spoil their aim, but they didn’t seem to be shooting at us.
“The gun jammed!” McKay said from behind me. In the rearview mirror, I could see her looking out the back window.
“Good,” I said as I poured on the speed. More automatic fire came, and I reached out to push Amy down in the seat as I heard a few rounds hit the rear of the truck. Then the back end started vibrating and the Humvee gained ground as I lost speed. The sound of rubber slapping against asphalt and the truck frame beat an uneven rhythm as I tried to keep what little lead I had on our pursuers with a rear tire gone. Behind us, I could hear someone yelling triumphantly, and I promised myself I’d make them pay for that.
“We’re going to have to ditch the truck,” I said as the back end started slewing back and forth. “Once we stop, McKay, I need you and Amy to get to cover.”
“Copy that,” McKay said as she slid my M4 onto the seat beside me. “We’ll cover you.” She handed Amy the shotgun and chambered a round in her own rifle. Seconds later, the Humvee rammed us, and I almost lost control of the truck. As I tried to straighten the front end out, shots rang out behind us, and I heard rounds zip through the cab. Then a telephone pole filled the windshield and everything stopped except for me.
The next thing I knew, I was face first against something white, and I felt like I’d been kicked in the chest by a mule. I pushed back and found myself looking over a deflating airbag. Amy was shoving her way clear of hers, and McKay was slumped over the top of the seat with a red stain spreading across her back. I shoved McKay’s rifle at her and groped for my own.
“Cover,” I said through the cotton that seemed to be filling my mouth and head. “Get to cover.” She grabbed the gun and opened the door of the truck as I fumbled for the latch to my door. Finally, I got it open and stumbled out. The ground swayed beneath me and I went down, the M4 clattering away from me as I caught myself.
“Man, look at this fucking loser,” I heard someone say. The world moved around me as I tried to see who was talking, tried to find a target. “We seriously poned his ass.”
“Watch this shit,” another one said. Something hit me in the left side and knocked me rolling. I landed on my back and reached for the SOCOM. A chorus of expletives filled the air as I pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in my hand three times before I heard someone scream. Before I could pull the trigger a fourth time, one of them kicked my forearm, and the gun went flying. I reached for the Colt with my left hand, and a weight fell on my chest.
“Get his other fuckin’ gun!” the first guy said as he grabbed my wrist. More of them fell on me, and one pulled the Colt from its holster. “Mother fucker ain’t such hot shit now, is he?” Then his rifle butt hit me in the head, and things went black for a little bit. When I came to, my hands were behind my back, and one of my captors was squatting in front of me with the SOCOM in his hand.
“Aw, fuck, you shot one of the bitches,” another guy whined.
“No big loss,” the guy in front of me said. “There’s another one around here somewhere. She couldn’t have gone far. We’ll put this fucker down and then we’ll go get her.”
“Asshole shot Craig. Put a fuckin’ bullet in his skull.” My head was clearing and I stayed quiet, trying to size the men around me up. The first thing that I realized was that “men” barely described them. Most of them looked young, either barely out of high school or in college. The one in front of me seemed to be the oldest, and I wouldn’t have pegged him as older than twenty. Dark haired, pale and beady eyed, he struck me as the kind of kid who thought his video game exploits made him a bad ass.
“Yeah, shoot his ass, Damon,” another guy said, This one was big, blonde and handsome, right up until I looked into his eyes. What I saw there was ugly. Beside him was a dark haired kid half his size. Where the blond guy was carrying an M4 and wearing a bandoleer of bullets across his chest, this guy had gone the edged weapon route, with a pair of knives on his hips, one strapped to his forearm and another sticking up from the top of a cowboy boot. He even carried a katana in his right hand. The only gun he deigned to carry was a big revolver on his right hip. Beside him was a kid in a dark colored hoodie with a green flak vest over it and an M4 slung across his back and another in his hands.
“Nah,” Damon said. A slow smile crept across his face as he turned his head to look at the big guy. “I’ve got a better idea. Go get that bottle of bleach.”
“What are you planning to do?” I asked as I ran the fingers of my right hand against my left wrist. “Get my whites sparkling clean?” My fingertips brushed steel, and I felt the dimple of the keyhole. If they had known the right way to cuff someone, they would have had my palms out and the keyhole up on both sides. I put my hand to the small of my back, but the revolver was gone. My hidden handcuff key, however, was still clipped to my belt loop.
“Not your whites,” Damon said as another guy came trotting up with the Mossberg in one hand and a bottle of bleach in the other. “Fuckers like you need to die slow. So you’re gonna drink some bleach.”
“Yeah, drink the bleach!” the knife guy said.
“Go ahead, drink the bleach,” the big guy chimed in with a big grin. The fifth guy, a lanky kid with his head shaved and the beginnings of a patchy goatee starting to sprout from his face, handed Damon the bottle and chuckled.
“Boy, that’s original,” I said as I pushed the key into the hole and slowly turned it. “But it isn’t a good idea.” I could feel the tension pressing against the key. A fraction of an inch was all it would take to free my hand, but Damon was too far away. I needed him closer.
“Maybe not for you,” he laughed as he unscrewed the cap. “But for us, it’s gonna be a fucking blast.”
“No, it isn’t,” I said, willing him to come closer. “I know more uses for what’s in that bottle than you do, and none of them are pleasant. So if I was you, I’d back up and get the hell out of here.” That made them laugh, and Damon started to lean in toward me. I turned the key far enough to free my left
wrist, and reached for him. His eyes went wide as I grabbed his flak vest and drove my forehead into his nose. As he stumbled back, I grabbed for the SOCOM and put him in front of me, right in his team’s line of fire. The pistol slid free of his grip as I heard a loud gunshot. When I pushed Damon away from me, I saw two things I didn’t expect. One, the lanky kid with the bad goat and my shotgun was falling backward with a hole in his chest, and two, the other three guys were scrambling for the Humvee. Damon scrambled away from me and ran for the driver’s door of the Humvee. Bullets starred the Humvee’s windshield and sparked off the hood as the crack of another gun peppered the air. Another shot rang out, and half of the big guy’s head went away as he tried to open the passenger side door. His buddy in the hoodie grabbed his rifle and jumped in just as more shots slammed into the door. They backed away for a few yards, then did a sloppy turn and tore off down a side street. I looked over my shoulder to see who was shooting, because the gun I’d heard firing was no M4. An older black man in blue jeans and a denim jacket was walking toward me with a bolt action rifle raised to his shoulder. Behind him were two other men, one with a semiauto rifle and the other carrying a bolt action hunting rifle with a scope. A second later, the first man lowered his gun, then dropped his gaze to me.
“You all right, son?” he asked.
“I should be. Can’t say the same about the lady in the truck, though,” I said as I got to my feet and leaned into the cab. I was pretty sure I knew what I was going to find, but I put my fingers to McKay’s neck anyway. To my surprise, I felt a weak pulse.
“Sorry about your girlfriend, son,” he said.
“Don’t be,” I said as I grabbed my D.A.R.K. trauma kit from my belt. “She’s still alive!”
Chapter 4
Cold Comfort
~ On wrongs swift vengeance waits. ~ Alexander Pope
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time.