“Captain?” Kay asked, rising to her feet, the worry clear on her face.
“Listen, guys. It’s happening,” Hastings said, breathing hard.
“What’s happening?” Diana asked. Hastings noticed her hair was wet as well. She noticed his quick examination and nodded toward Kenny. “He needed a shower, and he wouldn’t take one unless I did, too.”
Hastings nodded stupidly then waved the explanation away. “Yeah, great. There’s a very sizeable force coming down Interstate 78. It’s still a day or so away, but I want you guys to check everything and make sure you’re ready to bounce out of here in case we have to evacuate.”
“Evacuate?” Kay echoed. “Evacuate to where, exactly?”
“Somewhere the reekers aren’t attacking,” Hastings said. “You still have the MBITR Carl gave you?”
Kay pointed at the bunk next to her, where the blocky radio sat. “Right here.”
“Keep an ear out. One of us will call you on it.”
Diana continued toweling off Kenny’s head, while the young boy tried to pull away. Diana seemed more concerned with getting the boy dry than listening to Hastings’s news.
Hastings looked around, but he didn’t see Tharinger or Hartman anywhere. Or Slater, for that matter. “Where are the other guys? And Master Sergeant Slater?”
Kay pointed toward the latrine. “Showering.”
“Stay put for a minute.” Hastings headed for the latrine.
Slater was standing outside the shower area and toweling off. “What’s up, sir?” he asked, obviously reading Hastings’s body language.
“We’ve got inbounds.” Hastings turned toward the shower just in time to see Tharinger zoom past the doorway on his belly, hooting as he bodysurfed on the tiled floor. Hartman laughed from inside the shower.
“You two! Finish up and get your asses out here, ASAP!” Hastings barked.
Tharinger scrambled to his feet. “What’s going on, sir?” he asked, eyes wide.
“About seventy thousand guys named Reeker T. Zombie are on their way. You finish up, get dressed, and meet me outside.” Hastings turned back to Slater. “You too, Slater. You mind if I put you to work?”
“Not a bit, sir.” Slater reached for his uniform. “I’ll be happy to skip shaving today, anyway.”
Hastings returned to the sleeping area. Curtis and Josh were still banging away on the game console, but several of the civilians Slater had brought were clustered around Kay and Diana, who were trying to get Kenny dressed. The boy flapped his hands in front of his face and made some low whooping noises, but every now and then, he would look away from his wriggling fingers and up at the men and women standing around him. His eyes met Hastings’s, and for an instant, Hastings thought he could see a glimmer of intelligence there, buried deep. Mixed in was a hint of dread, which prompted Hastings to give the boy a smile he didn’t necessarily believe in himself. The kid knows something’s going down.
Kenny whooped again and fixed his attention back on his fingers.
“So, Captain, is there something going on?” asked a tall, rangy older man with long gray hair and a thick beard shot through with white. He was dressed in a T-shirt tucked into a pair of scruffy jeans. A big leather belt was wrapped around his skinny waist, and the butt of a pistol protruded through the holster on his right hip. Wire-rimmed glasses magnified his green eyes, and well-worn work boots adorned his feet. He looked like a mix between a biker and a wayward cowboy.
“You could say that,” Hastings said. “Who are you?”
“Bill Everson. Retired Master Gunnery Sergeant, US Marine Corps.” His voice was rich and deep. “I ran the machine shop at the naval facility you guys rescued us from.”
“And he did it in true Marine Corps style,” Slater said, as he entered the room. “Everything was decorated with cream-colored doilies.”
Everson smiled. “Well, I just wanted to make you feel at home, Sergeant. After all, everyone knows that SF stands for Slow and Fat.”
“Next time, just set out a bowl of pork rinds and some Bud. It’s easier.”
Kay shook her head. “I’m sorry. Are we in danger or not?” she asked, looking at Hastings.
“We are,” Hastings said. “It’s not immediate, but it’s going to be rolling in sometime tomorrow.”
“What exactly are we talking about, sir?” Everson asked.
“There’s a force of reekers heading our way, walking down Interstate 78,” Hastings said. “Preliminary headcount is fifty to seventy-five thousand. We’re about to launch a mission to do a deeper recon to evaluate the true size of the force, but either way, it’s substantial.”
The people exchanged nervous glances. Everson looked at Slater, who shrugged slightly.
“That’s a pretty big force,” Everson said. “How are we doing on munitions?”
“We have a fully stocked ASP,” Hastings said. “More than enough to do the job. Mind if I ask what you did in the Corps, Mister Everson?”
Everson nodded. “Senior ground ordnance weapons chief. Basically, I was an armorer.”
“Good skill to have. And as a former senior NCO, I’d guess you still remember your rifleman training?”
Slater jumped in and said, “They’re not as highly developed as his needlepoint skills, sir, but Everson can generally shoot anything you put in his hands. He came in right handy a couple of times during my stay at the naval facility.”
Hastings looked around at the rest of the civilians. “Who else here is prior service?”
A red-haired man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties raised his hand. “US Navy. I was a sea combat air controller, radars and stuff like that.”
A woman of similar age raised her hand as well. “I was a ship’s serviceman. I helped run the ship’s store on an aircraft carrier.”
“You guys know how to shoot? How to follow orders, work inside a tactical picture?”
“Well, yes,” the woman said. “But I haven’t really done anything like that in almost ten years. I still remember my way around an M16, though.”
“Same here,” the red-haired man added.
“I’ll make sure they’re squared away, sir,” Everson said. “Everyone here might not be trained up to military standards, but they know what we’re up against. Everyone’s had time putting rounds downrange. We weren’t exactly sitting around doing nothing until Slater here showed up.”
“Okay. Everson, you know your way around the Gap at all?”
Everson nodded. “I do. I’ve spent some time here, long enough to know that we’re here in the cheap seats, when people of our caliber should be lounging about in comfort in the distinguished visitor’s quarters by the Marquette Lake,” he added with another smile.
Hastings had no idea what the guy was talking about, but he figured it meant he knew the lay of the land. He heard footfalls behind him, and he turned to see Tharinger and Hartman emerging from the shower area, dressed in ACUs. “Okay. This is Sergeant Hartman. He’s going to run over to the arms room and procure”—Hastings turned and did a quick count of heads—“fourteen M4 rifles, with four hundred twenty rounds each and fourteen mags. He’s then going to bring them back here and hand them off to you, Mister Everson. I’m going to presume you know your way around that particular weapon?”
“I’m familiar with the entire M4 family up to the A3 model, including SOPMODs,” Everson said. “And if I’m getting a chance to add to a wish list, I’d like a few gun trucks, two SAWs with five hundred rounds, and four M203s with four HE rounds and two smokers.”
“We’ll need some time to pull that together,” Hastings said. “For now, let’s assume you’ll just get the rifles. We’ll try and backfill with other gear as we can, but right now, I want Hartman to go to the arms room and see if he can get the basics. Hartman, go.”
“On it, sir,” Hartman said. He scurried over to his bunk, grabbed his helmet, vest, and rifle, and shot out the front door.
“Everson, you’ll be responsible for training up the o
thers,” Hastings said. “Everyone needs to know how to shoot, move, communicate, break down their weapons, and keep them operational. Since you’ve been on post before, you probably know where the small arms ranges are, right?”
“Grid A thirty-two on the map,” Everson said. “We’ll need transportation to get there. Maybe your man Hartman can scare up a van for us from the motor pool when he comes back. No one’s using them right now, and that way we can travel as a group.” He pointed at Kenny. “We’ll have to do live-firing in two groups, because someone has to stay with the kids, and this little one here is a flight risk. We’ll have to be very careful with him around the ranges, so whatever we need to keep him distracted, we bring it with us.”
Hastings was impressed. “Sounds like you’re a resourceful guy, Mister Everson.”
“All through hard-won experience, Captain.”
“Sir, I’d like to change gears for a moment,” Slater said. “You mentioned a recce flight. I’d like to get in on that.”
“Sorry, Slater. I’ll need you north of the post, up on I-81. There’s another defensive position being erected up there, and I’d like you to oversee the emplacement. Specifically, I want you to organize active defenses—claymores, preferably mounted high and daisy-chained in a way to provide multiple firings with the projectiles coming down at head level.”
“Awesome,” Slater said, his voice neutral. “Do we have a force coming in from the north, as well?”
“Not yet, but it’s an open roadway. We squirted down it for a few miles, so if any of the reekers are up there, they’ll find their way down once the action starts.”
“Roger that.”
“Captain, how far away are these things?” Kay asked. “You said they wouldn’t get here until tomorrow?”
“That’s a guesstimate at this point. They’re coming down the interstate, but they’re only about forty miles away. We’re presuming the dead traffic will bottle them up for a while and hold them back, but we could see them as early as tonight. That’s why I’m pushing for you guys to train up and get ready to pitch in if the post is compromised.”
“We have a get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge plan yet?” Everson asked.
“No, not yet. But we have the trains and maybe enough capability to move everyone out using them, in coordination with a road movement. We’ll have to work on that.”
“Sir, has anyone heard from Rawhide over those freqs I gave you?” Slater asked.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant. I haven’t followed up on that. I did deliver the frequencies to the command group, but if contact has been established, I don’t know about it.”
That didn’t seem to sit well with the Special Forces NCO. “Sir, if Bragg is still out there—”
Hastings held up a hand. “I know you’re eager to get back to Fort Bragg, Slater, but we have other fish to fry right now.”
Slater nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Hastings turned back to Everson. “Questions for me?”
Everson shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll do what has to be done. By this evening, everyone who can fire a weapon will have some range time, and I’ll see to it that people can take care of themselves.”
Hastings looked past Everson to where the tall bully, Walker, stood at the rear of the small group. “Mister Walker, I just want to impress on you that if we have any problems with you, I’m sending you out to one of the perimeter locations. We’ll see how well you get along when looking at several thousand reekers who want to tear you apart.”
Walker looked shocked. “Did I say anything? Was I doing anything wrong?”
“Not yet,” Hastings said. “I just wanted to get that out of the way.”
“Walker will be fine, sir,” Everson said. “Leave him to me. Right, guy?”
“Absolutely right!” Walker said.
Hasting checked his watch. “Okay, I’ve got to roll. Slater, you’re with me. Tharinger, hang out here and help Mister Everson get things squared away when Hartman returns. After that, head over to the motor pool and try to get one of those vans Mister Everson mentioned. Go with them to the range and make sure everything stays cool. Tell Hartman he’s to PMCS the remaining vehicles and ensure they’re roadworthy. We might be needing them soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
Slater cleared his throat slightly.
Hastings told Tharinger, “And on your way back from the motor pool, stop by the TOC and find out if anyone’s heard anything from Fort Bragg.” He jerked a thumb toward Slater. “Papa Zero Three’s getting impatient.”
“Thanks, sir,” Slater said.
“No sweat. Get your stuff, Sergeant. You’re with me.”
Slater turned and headed toward his bunk. Everson shepherded the civilians away, describing what he thought the rest of the day would look like. Kay picked up the MBITR and headed toward her boys.
“Get yourself squared away, Tharinger,” Hastings said. “That does not include working on your shower body-surfing technique.”
Tharinger gave him an embarrassed smile. “Yes, sir.”
As the private turned away and headed toward his bunk, Hastings went over and sat down heavily beside Kenny and Diana. “Well, this is going to be a peach of a day.”
“Did you expect things to be any different, General?” Diana asked. She rummaged through a backpack on the floor and pulled out a package of jalapeño cheese and crackers. She spread some cheese on a cracker and handed it over to Kenny. The boy accepted it immediately and began chowing down.
“You good on the crackers?” Hastings asked.
“We’ve got a couple hundred packages now. Good through at least next Saturday,” Diana said. “Turns out he also likes the mocha dessert bar and this shit… what’s it called? RipIt?”
“Never underestimate the power of RipIt,” Hastings said. “Take it easy on that stuff. It’s packed with all sorts of go-juice to keep a troop running around all day. He has enough trouble sleeping as it is. And same for the mocha bar, it has real coffee in it.”
Diana shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to faze him all that much. If he likes something, it goes down the hatch. I remember his mother telling me he likes chocolate milk, too. That’s not in any of these MREs, is it?”
Hastings shook his head. “No. Only from the dining facility. You know where it is?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you can take him for a walk over there. He’s got to be getting a little nutty, hanging around here all the time,” Hastings said, watching as Kenny ate a cracker with one hand while fooling around with a food wrapper with the other. He made smacking noises as he ate.
Diana smirked. “Sure, I’ll be happy to take him on a walking tour of the base in between visits to the gun range.”
Slater walked up, wearing all his gear. “Ready here, sir.” Hastings noticed his vest was stuffed full of spare magazines for his rifle. No one believed in traveling light anymore.
Diana regarded him with a closed expression. Was she scared? Nervous? She should have been, but she had a knack for hiding behind a hard shell. Hastings envied that. Impulsively, he bent over and kissed the top of Kenny’s head, and for a brief instant, Kenny leaned into him before starting in on a second cracker. For Kenny, that was the equivalent of a bear hug.
“Take care of the kid,” he said, getting to his feet. “And if you need a break, palm him off onto someone else for a while. He needs to figure out how to get along with other people.”
“Even if it means crying and screaming?”
Hastings nodded. “Even if it means that, yeah.”
“You thinking I might not be around forever, General?” Diana asked.
“No one is,” Hastings said. He turned to Slater. “Let’s move out, Sergeant.”
*
Working with the rest of the troops to set up an expansive barrier of razor and tanglefoot wire along the Swatara’s muddy bank, Guerra noticed a heavily fortified house on the other side, set back from the road. The building and yard was surrounded by what looked to b
e a hastily erected stockade fence. Two corpses lay just outside the fence, presumably former zombies. Guerra kept an eye on the house. After what had happened on the road to the rail yard, he no longer trusted civilians not to go to guns on him and the men.
One of the National Guard soldiers noticed Guerra’s frequent glances across the creek. “What’s the problem, Sergeant?”
Guerra nodded toward the house. “Just keeping an eye out. Came under fire twice yesterday by armed civilians in fortified structures.”
The Guardsman laughed. “I don’t think you have a lot to worry about, Sergeant. That’s Amish over there.”
“Amish? Like in that movie Witness?”
“You got it. Horse-drawn carriages and all.” The Guardsman carefully unspooled more razor wire. The end was attached to a ground stake by an aluminum tie wrap.
“Anyone ever talk to them?” Guerra asked.
“Yeah, I think we’ve contacted them a couple of times. They just want to be left alone.”
“Maybe someone should try again.”
“Yeah, maybe.” The Guardsman focused on his work, running a length of wire to another ground stake. “You want to help me tie this length of wire off?”
“Yeah, sure.” Guerra secured the wire to the stake with a tie wrap then worked with the Guardsman to set up the next run. Even though he wore heavy gloves, he still handled the razor wire gingerly, as if it was an angry snake that could strike at any moment.
Mosquitoes buzzed all around, and it took a great deal of self-control on Guerra’s part not to lose his shit and start screaming like a prissy schoolgirl. The Guardsmen didn’t seem bothered by the winged pests, so he sucked it up and acted as much like John Wayne as he could, even though he knew the slow-moving creek must’ve been a virtual mosquito hatchery.
Movement in the house across the way made him stop. Guerra eyed the house suspiciously.
The Guardsman looked up at him with a frown. “What’s up, Sergeant?”
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