“That one was practically an Olympian,” Guerra said conversationally. “Shoulda let it tap Big Carl on the shoulder before I hit it. That would’ve been priceless.”
“Yeah, and so would the ass-kicking Ballantine would have given you,” Hastings said.
The rest of the horde made it to the guardrail. The zombies piled up there without even trying to climb over the metal restraint. Instead, they just fell over it and collapsed to the ground on the other side, cresting the rail like some fetid tsunami of rotting flesh washing ashore. A cloud of black flies darkened the air around them from the insects orbiting the stinking mass. It was a curious phenomenon. By rights, the flies should have deposited eggs that would hatch, releasing masses of maggots. Since the zombies were nothing more than animated dead flesh, in theory, the maggots would have had first-class dining opportunities. But it never happened. Whatever reanimated the dead also warded off the predatory insects that would normally attack a decomposing corpse with zeal. Hastings wondered why the flies didn’t do the deed. It would have been enormously helpful if they did. But nothing preyed on the reekers—not insects, not animals, and apparently, not even bacteria. It was a biological oddity, almost as mysterious as the appearance of the zombies themselves.
Below, the three soldiers ran up the hill as fast as they could. Hastings got to his feet, his assault rifle still at his shoulder. Guerra remained prone and fired on another runner that detached itself from the mass of necrotic flesh crossing the highway.
Hastings held his fire. Shooting anything but a runner would just be wasting ammunition. “Hartman, how’re we doing back there? Over.”
“Six, we’re ready to roll when you are. No reekers here yet, but I imagine they’re coming now that you guys have started shooting. Over.” There was no recrimination in Hartman’s voice, just cold truth. Gunfire could be heard for miles in each direction, and every reeker in range would zero in on the noise and attempt to follow it to its source like sharks tracking a ribbon of blood through a dark sea.
Ballantine caught up to Reader and Tharinger. He stopped to check and make sure they were clear from behind. The closest zombie was almost two hundred feet away, so he continued slogging up the hill. Reader and Tharinger huffed and puffed their way toward Hastings and Guerra, taking great care to stay out of the latter’s lane of fire.
Hastings heard them gasping for air behind their armor as they approached. “Keep going, guys. Get to the Humvees,” he ordered.
Both men mumbled something and continued past him with the gas cans.
Ballantine crested the hill next, almost sauntering over to Hastings. He looked down at the prone Guerra then back at the mob of zombies advancing toward the hill. “You know, this probably isn’t the best time to take a siesta, Guerra.”
“Blow me,” Guerra replied.
“I don’t have time to organize a search party.”
“Come on, Ballantine. I saved your ass, man.”
Ballantine shook his head. “Less than ten gallons of diesel, Captain.” Ballantine hefted the gas can he carried. “This one’s empty.” He was taller than Hastings, who was six-one, by a good three inches. “Let’s do what we can with what we have,” Hastings said. He pointed toward the growing horde advancing toward the hill at a shamble. “We have to bug out before they get too thick.”
“Hooah.”
“Sergeant Guerra, any more runners down there?”
“Affirmative, but they can’t get through the crowd just yet.”
The mass of rotting former humanity still seemed confused by the guardrail. While over a hundred reekers had fallen over it, almost a thousand stood bunched up behind it.
“Then let’s get the hell out of here,” Hastings said. He saw movement from the corner of his eye and turned to the left. Ballantine did as well, raising his M4. Three reekers stumbled down the opposite hillside, their dead faces turned toward the men as they lurched along.
Guerra got to his feet. He glanced at the zombies coming down the other hill but didn’t comment on them. That more would be arriving was a given.
Hastings led them back to the Humvees at a trot.
*
They put the lion’s share of the diesel in the Humvee that was almost dry then poured the remainder into the second vehicle. It wasn’t much, but they would be able to put some miles between them and the zombies massing on the other side of the hill. By the time they secured the gas cans and mounted up, the first reekers had crested the hilltop and begun staggering down the slope. They reached toward the soldiers while moaning plaintively.
Hastings ordered Specialist Craig Stilley behind the wheel of the lead Humvee. Guerra rode in the second vehicle, which would keep the two apart and away from each other’s throats for a little longer.
“Okay, sure thing, sir,” Stilley said in his booming voice.
“You know how to drive, right?” Hastings asked.
“Oh, hell yeah, sir. Happy to do it.” Stilley sounded genuinely pleased with the duty. He pulled open the Humvee’s armored driver’s door and slid inside.
Hastings and Ballantine exchanged a glance. Better you than me with that idiot, sir, Ballantine’s look said. Then they climbed into their respective vehicles. Before the reekers managed to make it halfway down the hill, the two Humvees were crossing a field, leaving the dead behind.
*
“Stilley, let’s hold up here,” Hastings ordered an hour later as the two vehicles rolled down surprisingly clear suburban streets. “I want to check out that oil company there.”
Stilley brought the Humvee to a halt. The low-lying buildings to their right were surrounded by a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. “Well, that’s heating oil, sir. We ain’t gonna be able to use that.”
“Stilley, are you fucking blind?” Tharinger asked from the rear seat. “Look at the delivery trucks, man!”
“Oh, yeah,” Stilley said.
“Pull up to the gate,” Hastings told him. Into his radio: “Ballantine, we’re going to check this out and see if we can get more fuel from any of those trucks. The place seems pretty unmolested. Over.”
“Roger that, Captain. You want us where? Over.”
“Maintain overwatch, and let us know if the shit’s about to hit the fan. I don’t envision we’ll be out of visual range, so just stay in the street. Over.”
Stilley stopped the Humvee in front of the padlocked gate.
“We’ll have to hook the winch to the gate and use the Humvee to pull it down,” Hastings said. “Stilley, stay in the vehicle. Tharinger, you’re with me. Keep an eye out, we probably won’t have the place to ourselves for very long.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Down the street, the remains of a strip mall smoldered, though it looked as though the fire had started days ago. The charred carcass of a police cruiser sat in its parking lot. There were two horribly burned, man-sized figures stretched out beside the vehicle, but the shapes were barely recognizable as human remains. At least they ain’t walking around looking to eat us. Hastings and Tharinger stepped out of the Humvee, weapons close at hand.
The top hatch on the second Humvee opened, and Reader stood up in the turret and gripped the handles of the mounted MK19 grenade launcher. “I’ll keep an eye out for you guys,” he said over the radio.
“Roger that,” Hastings answered.
Ballantine and Guerra emerged from the second Humvee, leaving Hartman behind the wheel. Ballantine pointed at the trees on the other side of the street, and Guerra turned to face them, his rifle in his hands. Everyone was in full battle rattle, as the troops called it.
Hastings hefted his rifle and scanned the area. He was already sweating beneath his multicam uniform. Down the street, a shambling figure emerged from the tree line and picked its way past an abandoned car. It slowly turned and headed toward the idling Humvees, its shuffling feet moving through a pile of trash. Hastings pointed out the solitary zombie to Ballantine, who nodded and reached inside the Humv
ee for a metal bar with a rubber handle attached to it. When the reeker got in range, Ballantine would bludgeon it with the “brain bar,” killing it without making any undue noise or wasting a bullet.
“It’s locked up tight, sir,” Tharinger said when Hastings joined him at the gate. “If you ask me, the lock and chain are probably stronger than the gate itself. We might pull down half the fence if we use the Humvee.”
Hastings shrugged. “Fine by me. It’s not like we’re staying for very long. Let’s get it hooked up.”
A minute later, the steel cable from the winch mounted on the Humvee’s bumper was hooked up to the frame of the gate. Hastings motioned to the driver to put the Humvee in reverse. Stilley backed up, and the gate, after putting up only a token defense, was ripped off the hinges. Stilley dragged it halfway across the street before coming to a halt, and the skittering racket of steel on asphalt made Hastings shudder. He shot Stilley a withering glare, then he and Tharinger disconnected the cable, so Stilley could activate and retracted it. Hastings signaled for Stilley to pull the vehicle inside the open fence then waved for Hartman to follow.
“Guys, fall back inside the fence,” he told Ballantine and the others.
“Hooah.” Ballantine motioned the other soldiers in and slowly followed them. He kept his eyes on the lone reeker down the street. It plodded toward them relentlessly. Filthy rags that had once been clothes fluttered in the gentle, humid breeze.
Hastings pulled open the driver’s door on the second Humvee. “Out, Hartman. Help Tharinger with the fuel.”
“Yes, sir!”
The door of the other Humvee opened, and Stilley stuck his head out. “Hey, you want me to dismount too, Captain?” His voice was high and loud in the cemetery-like silence of the neighborhood. Hastings waved him to silence halfway through his question, but Stilley didn’t seem to notice. Sweat ran down his dark face from beneath his helmet.
Hastings ran over and leaned in close. “Stilley, you have got to practice noise discipline. Every word you say is practically a fucking shout. You need to change that right now. Do you get me?”
“Yes, sir,” Stilley said in a lower voice as he leaned away from Hastings. “Do you want me to—”
“Stay in the vehicle, but switch off the engine.” Hastings slammed the door, and the Humvee’s engine stopped an instant later. He joined Tharinger and Hartman at one of the oil delivery trucks.
Tharinger rapped his knuckles against one of the saddle tanks. “We’re good, sir. Tank’s full.”
“Let’s get as much as we can,” Hastings said. “It would be great to fill both vehicles.”
“Hooah.” Tharinger unscrewed the fuel cap and inserted the siphon’s hose while Hartman got the first gas can ready.
“Captain, we have movement,” Ballantine said over the radio.
Fuck. “How many, Ballantine? Over.”
“Just the one reeker still. Sorry, I wasn’t clear. We have a vehicle heading our way. Looks like a Toyota, one of those little Prius jobs. Over.”
A Prius. Well, they probably don’t want any diesel. Hastings stepped back and looked toward the street.
Reader and Guerra were inside the fence, on either side of the gap where the gate had been. Ballantine was just behind Reader, and both men were staring down the street in the direction of the solitary zombie Hastings had seen earlier. “Sir, orders? It’s getting kind of close. Over,” Ballantine added, and Hastings realized he had been keeping him on the hook without giving him any clear direction.
“Do nothing, Ballantine. I’m not so sure we’re in the business of killing the living any longer.”
“Roger that. Looks like the driver’s slowing to stop. Over.”
And sure enough, a silver Toyota Prius glided to a halt just outside the fence.
“Guys, keep doing what you’re doing but stay sharp,” he said to Tharinger and Hartman. “I’ll be right back.”
“Roger that, sir. We’re good here,” Hartman said. His hand was on his M4A3’s pistol grip, and he held the weapon in a low ready position.
Hastings jogged toward the gate, glancing in both directions. To the north, the single zombie continued to slog toward them. It was about seventy meters away, and Hastings thought he could hear it groaning softly. Looking south, he noticed the police cruiser in the middle of the strip mall parking lot was surrounded by hundreds of brass cartridges. The cops had apparently gone down fighting.
He then directed his attention to the Prius as he slowed to a walk. Hastings was startled when the driver’s door opened, and a man climbed out. The guy wore a Kevlar helmet and ballistic armor over a multicam uniform. He was absolutely filthy, and Hastings was surprised he couldn’t smell him from where he stood. The grime on his weathered face served to make his blue eyes stand out bright and strong. With several days of razor stubble serving to further darken his countenance, the soldier’s shocking gaze made Hastings fancy he was facing down a modern-day Rasputin. The man’s uniform had master sergeant insignia, and the nametape read SLATER. On his shoulder was the patch of US Army Special Forces: an arrowhead with a VS-42 dagger atop three lightning bolts.
“A snake-eater driving a Prius?” Hastings said.
“I traded in a BMW touring bike for it,” the newcomer replied. “Not something I’d normally do, but the mileage can’t be beat. Of course, it can’t take much of a beating.” He nodded toward the front of the car, where its fascia and hood showed strong indications that a body had landed on them. “Hitting one reeker almost took me out and screwed up the alignment real good.”
Hastings nodded. “We’re Task Force New York.”
“Joint Task Force Bravo.”
The designation tickled the back of Hastings’s mind. “Bravo? You were in Boston?”
“Yep. A week ago, anyway. You guys have any news?”
“Negative. Our net’s been silent for days. You?”
“Same. All regional commands are down, but I was told Bragg is digging in for the fight. They expected to be under siege two days ago, and I figured I’d give ’em a hand.” Master Sergeant Slater looked around. “Of course, I have to drive through the oasis of post-apocalyptic New Jersey to do it. Is that where you guys are headed?”
“No. We’re trying to cut across into Pennsylvania then head north again. We’re going for Drum.”
“Gone,” Slater said. “Not there anymore.”
Reader, followed by Ballantine and Guerra, had drifted over to join them. “Say again, Sergeant?”
“Fort Drum is gone. It was a major FEMA evacuation site. It came under attack almost two weeks ago, right after Task Force Albany went down for the long dirt nap.” Slater turned as the moaning zombie mounted the sidewalk thirty feet away.
It stumbled and fell onto its hands then slowly picked itself up again. Flies buzzed all around it.
“Anyone going to take care of that thing?” he asked, his tone conversational, as if he were completely unaware that he had just dropped a massive bomb on Hastings and his men.
Hastings’s mouth was suddenly dry, and his heart was pounding in his chest. “Sergeant, what else do you know about Drum?” He shot a glance at Ballantine. “Sergeant Ballantine, zero that reeker.”
“Yes, sir.” Ballantine walked around the fence.
Slater watched as Ballantine made quick work of the zombie, pounding its head into pulp with his brain bar. The NCO swung with much more force than was necessary, and gooey black ichor splattered across the sidewalk as the ghoul collapsed to its knees and then kissed the pavement. Ballantine stood over it, chest heaving beneath his armor.
“Slater?” Hastings prompted.
Slater locked eyes with Hastings. “That’s about it, Captain. Drum was rubbed out by a few hundred thousand reekers that pushed down from the north and in from the east. I rode past most of them on that BMW I told you about before one of the runners took it out from under me. That’s when I picked up my current chariot.” Slater patted the roof of the Prius. “From what I know,
half the post burned to the ground, and the rest of it is a very messy mortuary.” He glanced away. “I’m sorry if any of you lightfighters had dependents up there. When I heard the news, it didn’t sound like anyone made it out alive. I’m sorry.”
“You’re a Green Beret,” Hastings said.
“Yeah. Senior NCO of an alpha detachment.” He smiled, and his teeth were bright white against his dirty skin. “Former senior NCO of an Alpha Det, anyway. All my guys are gone.”
“We could use you,” Hastings said, even though he was beginning to think the Special Forces soldier was a bit on the fucked-up side, mentally. “We could definitely use your skills. You should come with us, Sergeant.”
“To Fort Drum?”
“Yes.”
“No. I’m going to Bragg. There’s no one left at Drum, unless you count a few hundred thousand deadheads. Don’t go up there, boys. I’m sorry, but your people are dead. Don’t get yourselves killed just to confirm what’s already true.”
“Fuck you, Sergeant,” Guerra said.
Slater ignored the comment.
“You need anything?” Hastings asked, suddenly wanting to be quit of the strange man with the thousand-yard stare and the quirky grin that said all his dogs weren’t barking.
Slater fixed those shining blue eyes on him. “What’ve you got?”
“Seventeen thousand rounds of five-five-six,” Hastings said. “Fifty-one M65 grenades. Sixty-nine forty-millimeter high explosive grenades.”
“Sixty-nine, dude!” Slater leered. When the light infantrymen just stared at him, his grin slowly faded. “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure? You guys never saw it? Ballantine, you must’ve been old enough to see it—maybe the rest of these guys are too young.”
Ballantine just stared at the zombie he had killed. Flies were crawling all over the corpse.
Slater shrugged and looked at the oil company building behind Hastings then at the fleet of oil trucks sitting inside the gate. “Well, this thing needs unleaded, not diesel or heating oil. I’m good on ammo, Captain. Thanks. Got anything else?”
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 2