by Ben Reeder
“We’ll have to bring her a t-shirt or something.” She clambered up onto a crag of rock and looked west, leaving McGregor to hold the flashlight while I set up the portable dish.
“You make a pretty decent father,” he said as I fiddled with the dish.
“Now, yeah,” I said. “Point the light a little more to the left…thanks. Before Zompoc Monday? Not so much. Most parents taught their kids things like…God, I don’t even know what they taught them. But now? I’m teaching her how to use a sword, how to field strip and clean a pistol…how to kill zombies. It’s a really screwed up world where I’m a good role model.” I worked in silence after that as I aligned the dish toward the satellite I needed.
Twenty minutes later, I was on the air.
“Magic Man, this is Lucky,” McKay’s voice answered on my third call. “How was your trip?”
“Not so bad,” I said. “No one was on the roads. Is Coach back?”
“Yeah,” her voice came back, suddenly less cheerful. “But the news isn’t all good. Hang on, I’ll get him.”
“Dave,” George’s voice came a few moments later. “How ya doin’ son?”
“Pretty fair,” I said. “Allie says you’ve got unpleasant news.” Amy’s boots sounded on the rocks as she came closer.
“Some good, mostly bad,” he said. “We found the farm, but by the time we got there…hell, son, there’s no good way to say it. The parents were dead, and so were two of the kids.”
“Which two?” I asked, my voice suddenly tight. Behind me, Amy let out a soft sob.
“Tad and Molly, the oldest boy and the youngest girl. We’re still not sure what happened. The two who were still there are pretty traumatized. I’ll spare you the details, but…”
“Don’t,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
“Not much to tell. When we got there, there were four graves dug beside the house. The boy…he hides most of the time. The older girl hasn’t said much. Mostly she just curls up in a ball and mutters. From what the Doc got out of her, the old man went after the youngest girl, and the older boy shot him. Then the mother stabbed the boy, and the oldest girl got momma from behind. Sounds like the two kids…they took a long time dyin’, Dave. What we found in that house…I’m gonna be seein’ it every time I close my eyes.”
“I’m sorry, George,” I said. I let up on the transmit key and bowed my head.
“Don’t you apologize, son,” he said. “There wasn’t anything else you could have done. I asked myself a hundred times on the trip back if there was anything I would have done differently in your shoes.”
“Well, for what it’s worth…Lena did better than most people would have. I wish I’d been able to go back.”
“I’ll tell her you said that. But don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of them. You just get to where you need to go.” As his words faded, I could see the gleam of tears on one cheek as Amy turned and walked a few steps away.
“Will do, Coach. Magic Man, out.” I shut the radio down and gestured to McGregor to stay next to it as I walked toward Amy. Her head turned slightly as I got closer.
“Do you remember when I asked you how you dealt with having to kill people?” she asked as she reached over and took my hand. “Well, I know what I’m willing to kill for.”
“Is it something you’re willing to die for, too?” I asked.
“If I have to,” she said. “A lot of the stupid shit you do makes a lot more sense now.” She leaned her head on my shoulder.
“I’m glad it makes sense to somebody,” I said.
Morning came way too soon, which I’d noticed it had a bad habit of doing. Since we were going to be outside the bubble today and heading deeper into zombie country, I went with my black cargo pants and t-shirt instead of the Park Ranger dress uniform. We were halfway into our armor when we noticed everyone watching us.
“You know we’re going to be inside armored cars, right?” Caldwell said as she put her hair up into a tight bun at the back of her head.
“We have to get out some time,” I said. “Like at the end of the day, or if we stop to fuel up.”
“I’m sure as hell not sleeping in one of those things,” Amy said. She held her right arm out to me and I laced her vambrace up.
“They’re just trying to compensate for something,” Landry said. That got a few laughs. The ribbing lasted until we put our body armor on and picked up the swords.
“Do you bring a knife to a gun fight?” Armstrong asked with a grin.
“Never jams, never misfires, never runs out of ammo,” I said.
“Never been used, either,” Landry said. Amy turned and moved toward him. McGregor moved to stop her but I put a hand on his arm and shook my head. This needed to be dealt with, but not by me, no matter how much I wanted to handle it myself.
“Have you ever killed a zombie with a knife?” she asked softly.
“I never let any get that close,” Landry sneered.
“Ever fought any with your bare hands?”
“No,” he said incredulously.
“We have,” she said and turned her back on him. A chorus of jeers rose around him, and he stalked off after a few seconds. McGregor looked at Amy, then at me with a newfound respect in his eyes.
“How many has she killed with a sword?” he asked.
“At least ten,” I said. “She also saved my ass when she shanked a ghoul, then she spiked it to finish it off.”
Caldwell fell in next to Amy as we filed out of the barracks room, and McGregor stayed next to me. “You’ll be in Stagecoach Two to start with,” he said as we walked into the garage area. “Come end of day, I want you scouting ahead on your bike for a good place to set up for the night. If we have to stop, you do the dismount.”
“So, that’s a no to the comic relief, huh?” I said.
“You’ve been out in zombie country for the past three weeks, so you’re either lucky as hell, or you know your shit. I don’t care which, as long as you get the job done.” He pointed toward the lead vehicle before peeling off toward the second car. I headed for it, and felt my gut clench as I saw Landry waiting beside it with his P90 cradled in his hands. He pointed at me, then crooked his finger at me. I held up one finger then headed over to pick up a P90 of my own from the rack. He stood glowering at me as I came up to him.
“That was pretty chickenshit back there,” he muttered as I stopped in front of him. “Letting a little girl do your talking for you.”
“Your first mistake,” I said softly, “is not taking her seriously. Your second is assuming she was defending me.” He frowned at me as I climbed into the Guardian. Armstrong was already in the front seat by the driver, and he pointed me to the seat behind him. Once I stowed my gun, I planted my butt in the seat and pulled my helmet off.
“You’re gonna get awful hot in all that,” one of the other agents said.
“I’d rather sweat than bleed,” I answered while I pulled my shemagh from inside my vest and did a basic bandana tie around my head. With the Secret Service radio earplug in, I could hear the other drivers checking in as everyone loaded up. Once the last vehicle was ready, I heard McGregor’s voice come over the radio.
“This is Stagecoach One taking primary call sign, we are ready to depart,” he said.
“This is Stagecoach Two, taking Tracer,” Armstrong said over his radio.
“Stagecoach Three, taking Halfback,” Caldwell said. In front of us, Landry pressed a button on a standing console, and the metal door slid to one side to reveal a long tunnel that lit up as we moved forward.
“I thought we were Stagecoach Two,” I said to Armstrong as Landry crouched in the vehicle hatch behind me.
“Those are our roles,” Armstrong said, looking over the seat as we drove. “Tracer is the lead vehicle, Stagecoach is the President’s vehicle and Halfback is the follow vehicle.” We slowed as we approached a concrete wall, and Landry jumped clear of the hatch. My skin started to crawl a little, so I grabbed my helmet and went to
the gun rack to retrieve my P90 about the time Armstrong turned to tell me to cover him.
“Open the back hatch,” I said while I paused at the side hatch. “We’ll come back in that way.” The other agents barely hesitated as I jumped clear of the Guardian, and I heard the hatch closing up behind me. Landry looked back over his shoulder at me, but aside from a frown and a quick gesture for me to move to the left, he seemed to be the consummate professional.
“Clear the left side,” he said, then he hit the control panel. This door dropped into the floor, and I brought my gun up to my shoulder as the edge came down to eye level. I scanned both sides as the motors whined, and saw someone standing off to the right of the door in a pair of shredded pajama bottoms. Without thinking, I stepped forward, brought the P90 up and put a round center mass. The strange tension at the back of my neck eased a little but didn’t dissipate.
“What the fuck?” Landry hissed.
“Contact right, ghoul,” I said. “Don’t worry little brother…there are more.” As the door came level with the ground, I stepped forward and swung my weapon to the left. When nothing leaped out in front of me, I keyed the mic on my new radio. “We have dead in the garage,” I said softly.
“Landry, can you confirm?” Armstrong asked.
“Negative,” Landry said. “He dropped one, but I don’t see any- Wait a second…I think we have a survivor.” I froze as I heard a faint voice in the distance. When I didn’t hear it again, I took a slow step forward, still scanning left and right. “Did you hear that, Stewart?” he asked as he matched my movement.
“I heard something,” I said. “Don’t know what it was. But I know there’s at least one more infected in here.” We moved forward another few steps, and I could see that we were in the parking garage near the front gate of the park. Nothing moved but my instincts were practically screaming at me. Then, I heard it.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said. “Is anyone there?”
“We hear you,” Landry called out, but my hackles went up.
“Hello?” she said again. A figure stepped into the light from behind a column only a few feet from us, and Landry lowered his weapon. She was lit from behind, so all I could see was a dark silhouette, but something still didn’t feel right. The shape was right for a woman, and her arms and legs looked whole. Nothing looked out of place, but she also didn’t look right, somehow.
“Tracer, we’ve made contact with another survivor,” he said into his wrist mic as he took a step forward. “Ma’am, over here.” She turned and let out a giggle that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Hello?” she said again, and it finally clicked in my head. She had said the same word three times in a row, and all three times, it had sounded exactly the same. I brought my gun up as Landry stepped forward, almost into my line of fire.
“Landry, move!” I said as she tensed. He turned his head my way, and the woman crouched a little. With a desperate titter, she launched herself at Landry. I let go of the gun and threw myself forward to hit her in midair, but her momentum knocked me back into Landry, and we all went tumbling. My gun hit the ground about the same time we did, and I pushed her away from me with my right arm as I groped at my belt for my knife. My fingers closed around the Tainto’s grip as her giggle turned into a feral scream, and she grabbed my forearm. Her mouth opened to emit a putrid stench and she bent her head toward my wrist. Behind me, Landry was yelling something, but I could barely hear him over the ghoul’s screeching.
Her teeth inched closer to the soft point in my armor, the place where my wrist was only protected by the leather of my glove, and I got my knife up in front of me. My left hand drove forward, and the point of the knife slid into her left eye. Vitreous fluid mixed with black blood gushed across my glove and the knife hilt, and the ghoul fell silent with a gasp. When I pushed her away, she stayed there this time.
“What. The. Actual. FUCK!” Landry yelled. We heard feet pounding the concrete behind us, and got to our feet to find ourselves facing the barrels of four more guns.
“Are you guys okay?” Armstrong asked. “Did she bite you?”
“I’m good,” Landry said quickly. He raised his hands to show no blood or bite marks on his arms. Everyone’s aim shifted to me.
“Stewart, what about you?” Armstrong asked. I looked at him with ghoul eye goo dripping from my arm and the knife and grimaced.
“She slimed me,” I said. For a few seconds, silence reigned, then Armstrong laughed, just a chuckle at first that grew into a full out belly laugh.
“You,” he said between guffaws, “are one fucking hard core nerd. Caldwell, bring the decon kit from the truck, please,” he finished into his wrist mic.
Forty minutes later, after spending half that time under the watchful eyes of Armstrong and half of the Secret Service team getting my hands and armor scrubbed down, we were back in the vehicle and emerging into the sun. Across from me, Landry was ashen faced and quiet.
“How’d you know she was…one of them?” he asked after a few minutes of watching the road twist and turn.
“Mostly it was the way she talked,” I said. “She kept saying the same thing, and at the last, I realized she was saying it exactly the same way every time. Like a recording.”
“You saved my ass,” he said. “Thanks.”
“No worries,” I told him.
For the next half hour, we rode in silence. To get out of the Black Hills National Forest, we had to follow a small road that ran behind the monument through some of the most majestic country in America. Forested mountainsides loomed over us on either side of the road, reminding me of how small we were by comparison. Eventually, we hit Highway 16 and turned south. With every inch of road we covered, I wished I could see Amy’s face, and wondered if she could even see any of this. Armstrong pointed to our left as we approached a stop light long the road.
“Over there, that’s the Crazy Horse Memorial,” he said. He handed me a pair of binoculars. “Pop that back hatch and keep your eyes peeled on our nine o’clock. If there are any infected in the area, this is where they’d likely be.” The rear roof hatch slid open smoothly and let in a rush of cool air. When I popped up to look around, my eyes took a moment to adjust to the unfiltered sunlight. I took a moment to scan the area around us before I took a few seconds to focus on the Crazy Horse monument itself. Then my eyes were back on the road again.
“Nothing on our flanks,” I reported.
“Get back inside and button up,” Armstrong said. “We have contact forward.” I dropped down and slid the hatch shut, then dogged it and clambered to the seat behind Armstrong. Up ahead I could see four pickup trucks waiting, two on either side of the road. Something about the arrangement seemed a little too obvious.
“Scan the citizen’s band frequencies,” I said. Armstrong fumbled at the radio, so I leaned forward and punched in the command. Seconds later, I heard a burst of static, followed by a voice speaking softly.
“They’ve seen us…they’re slowing down. They’re almost even with you….get ready.”
“Stop!” Armstrong ordered. “Cover flanks!” Behind me, I heard the turret’s servos whine as it traversed. “Stagecoach, cover flanks. We are boxed!” he called over the radio.
“Rafe, they stopped,” the CB blared. “Get behind ‘em and go for the truck. Kill the driver or shoot the tires and engine.”
“Fire both guns,” Armstrong said. “Light the side of the road up.” Overhead, the M2 and the grenade launcher pounded away, and from the small window in the hatch, I could see a string of explosions along the side of the road going toward our rear. An orange blossom of flame went up as a round found something flammable and set it off. Orders flew and we surged forward. Up ahead, I could see the trucks back up and try to retreat, but Armstrong wasn’t having any of it. Our gunner blew the lead truck on the right into oblivion with a trio of forty millimeter rounds, then punched a series of holes in the one behind it with the machinegun.
“Stagecoach Three, y
ou’re in the middle,” McGregor said over the radio. “Stagecoach Two, you still have Tracer.” The diesel rumbled as we got up to speed and I watched the four pyres of the would-be bandits as we passed them. I shook my head, amazed at how humans were still preying on each other in spite of the greater threat of the undead.
We followed a county road around Custer, then got back on 16 and followed it west, crossing into Wyoming by nine A.M. It took us out of our way by about fifty miles, but once we rounded a curve in Newcastle and turned south onto US 85, the next town was eighty miles due south of us, with nothing but straight, flat and empty road between us and it. Around noon, we hit the edge of Niobara county and saw a hand painted sign under the county limit sign. “All survivors must report to the Niobara Safe Zone upon entering county. Proceed to Niobara Women’s Correctional Center IMMEDIATELY!” it read. Below it, in smaller letters, was the line “By order of President Shaw.” We pulled to a stop a few feet from the sign and Armstrong leaned forward.
“Stagecoach, looks like we have a bunch of folks backing the wrong horse,” he said into his mic.
“I see that,” McGregor’s voice came back over the main radio. “Stewart, I want you to scout the way ahead. The only thing that matters is getting our package to her destination, you clear on that?”
“I got it,” I said.
“Better you than me,” Landry said as I grabbed my M4. Once I was outside, it took a few minutes to get my bike off the back of the truck. Amy joined me as I was putting the M4 in its scabbard.
“I should be going with you,” she said.
“You’re the only other person who can feel when infected are nearby,” I said. “And, your mother would kill me if you didn’t make it.”
“You can’t keep using that excuse forever, you know.”
“It’s still working. But, the other reason is more important. Plus, none of these folks is going to let a teenager go into a potential fight.” I tucked the USGS map McGregor had given me into the clear section on top of the tank bag and gave him a brief wave before I turned back to Amy. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back pretty quick.”