by James Cook
More and more appeared. It was like some secret meeting, but whatever force drew us all together was not a part of my awareness. I felt the things my body felt, but as I watched the few become the many and the many become the swarm, I felt nothing. No pull, no incessant nagging to join with others. No inner radar telling me where to find more of the restless dead.
Nonetheless, they kept on coming. Maybe they were following that same strange directional sense I'd felt when the gunshots went off, but wherever the sound had come from, it had to have been left behind long since. I'd been walking almost all day, after all. Even a slow walker can cover a lot of distance in that time.
What was it, then, that drove my body forward? A scent trail I wasn't catching? Some subtle input I was unaware of? It had to be something. There was no way all these other ghouls were joining the party by sheer coincidence.
There was an intensity in the air, ephemeral but real. I felt it the way you know someone has walked into a room even when you can't hear or see them. There was a pressure to the air, the tension of a breath held for far too long. Alone, trapped inside my head, I had barely noticed it. But surrounded by the hungry dead it couldn't have been more obvious.
Hunger.
Deep, visceral need. The monster dwelling in my body responded to it, and my own (not mine, dammit) hunger responded in kind.
The group was headed for something, drawn to it like moths to a flame. As I pushed the sensation of hunger down, down, down into a place I didn't want to look, I hoped that, like moths that flew too close to the fire, I too would burn when I got there.
Now more than ever.
*****
My body wasn't relying on its higher functions to do any of the heavy lifting in a neurological sense, but its momma didn't raise no fool.
In front of the horde, now at least a hundred strong, lay a large creek. The creek itself wasn't the main problem; the steep drop that led to it was. The milling press of bodies drifted to and from the edge, every corpse in the crowd taking its turn contemplating the challenge before them as much as their withered gray matter would allow.
The sense of urgency faded somewhat when the way forward was blocked. I seriously doubted that would have been the case had some new stimuli reached our ears (or noses, or whatever), like gunshots or fresh blood. As it was, my body shuffled around the edge of the bank with all the others, locked in a holding pattern with no clear exit.
It was nighttime, and I realized my night vision was much more impaired than it had been during my life. Chalk it up to the vital functions stopping, I guess. The animating force that drove us, be it virus or voodoo, seemed to have its limitations. One of the many sacrifices made, apparently, was the involuntary ocular adjustment to darkness.
Denied the ability to sleep, which in my current state might technically be death, I grew frustrated. As unnerving as it was to share all the sensory information with my body while having zero control over it, finding myself essentially blinded was driving me crazy. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take it. I wanted to be wherever my body was heading because logic suggested there would be people there. My body and I both had a great desire for that, if for totally different reasons. People who had survived the Outbreak almost certainly knew how to defend themselves, after all, and I had high hopes that someone would kill me.
Funny how death can give you perspective on life, especially the quality thereof.
As I shuffled there in the darkness, the sudden, crystal-clear memory of my grandmother dying snapped into my mind. I remembered visiting her three times a week once the cancer reached the point where doctors somberly ask you to please step into the hallway. Three times a week, an hour at a time, I watched her die by inches.
At first, the cancer wasn't so bad; that's the great deception that comes with the disease. It's a liar, plain and simple. She felt bad, of course, which was what sent her to get checked in the first place. Hospice came soon after, even though she didn't feel quite like death yet.
But then came the progression. From being told she was dying, but being able to do things for herself, to actually feeling death begin to happen. Slow and steady, with a grip like iron, it came for her. Day by day she declined, mental faculties sharp, which given my current predicament I now saw as a curse.
She was in pain. So much that at one point she began asking me to end it. A lifetime of culture and society training you to think one way is difficult to break even when you're faced with the reality in front of you. I remember thinking that all she needed was another dose of medicine to get her through the rough parts. Another pain pill to take the edge off the jagged downward slope that was the end of her life. A life, I thought, that was as precious as any other, and not to be ended.
That complex of memories unfolded between heartbeats (or would have, if my heart had any life left in it) and a fresh wave of emotions came with it. But it was different now, tempered by my situation. Looking at her death as it came back to me, I wished she’d had a better end. The justifications and sad logic in my head were defense mechanisms, used to ignore the brightness of the truth: she was suffering, dying, and I watched it happen like some macabre reality show.
It seemed simple, in retrospect, ending the life of a person who knows the rest of her existence is going to be written in pain. A single terrible moment, the weight of guilt and responsibility heavy, but the results worth it. In the micro scale, it couldn't make more sense. But of course there were other considerations.
There was family to think about, and laws, and society, and on up the ladder until the size of the repercussions became too much to fight against. I remembered the months leading up to her death with grim discomfort, and then the relief I felt when I got the news of her passing. She got her end, finally, long and awful as the journey was. If there really is an afterlife, I'm sure the transition was a welcome reprieve.
I should be so lucky.
My reverie was interrupted suddenly by a commotion in the swarm around me. Bodies pushed back from the edge of the drop, forcing me to move back or be knocked over. An irregular scraping sound accompanied the wave of movement backward, followed by a splash. One of the others must have fallen off the bank of the creek.
The pressure on my body released as the tight mass moved forward. A symphony of faint grunts followed, along with the sound of dozens of bodies scraping against grass and dirt as well as the occasional dry crack of a bone breaking.
In front of me, the swarm was walking off the edge of the drop like stereotypical lemmings. As the way forward cleared, I saw one ghoul far out in front up to his waist in the water as he waded along. Interesting. The rest of them might not be great shakes in the brains department, but at least some remnant of problem-solving abilities had to exist. After all, they'd seen one of their fellows fall off and survive, then cross once he was in the water. Crude logic-
Sonofabitch!
The world tiled around me as I tried to throw my arms out to catch myself. It was off-putting to send out the familiar signals to my limbs and have them not respond in the slightest.
I'd distracted myself so much I hadn't paid attention to what my body was doing. Not that I could have changed it, but as my entire existence now seemed to revolve around my thoughts and only my thoughts, it seemed prudent not to allow myself to panic or be caught off guard. If the rest of my life’s purpose was to simply abide and observe, I owed it to myself to at least do it right.
After all, I didn't have anything else.
SIX
By the time they stopped for the night, First Platoon had left the yellow zone behind and strayed deep into the red.
That was how they marked it on maps, the various concentrations of undead from one area to another, designated by the estimated number of infected per square mile. Green zones had twenty-five or less, yellow meant no more than a hundred, and red stood for anything beyond that. There was one other designation—black—reserved for major cities, large towns, and other areas where the i
nfected were so thick that not even a large force of heavily armed troops with artillery, tanks, and air support would stand a chance. No one, not even the bravest, most bat-shit crazy of the human remnant went into the black. Not unless they wanted to die screaming in a swarm of ghouls.
Fort Bragg and most of surrounding Fayetteville were green. Not exactly a safe place to walk alone at night, but as long as people armed themselves and took a few sensible precautions, it was manageable. Yellow was hazardous, but survivable for the well prepared, making it prime scavenging territory. Red, however, was no fun at all. Nobody liked moving through red zones, not even marauders.
Ethan looked down at the map stretched out on the desk in the command car and felt his shoulders slump. This shit never gets any easier, does it? It was a new map, recently updated and given to them by a member of the Phoenix Initiative. The scientist who drafted it had used some kind of satellite thermal imaging technology to determine the location, density, and dispersion of the infected population throughout North Carolina and neighboring Tennessee. His findings were not encouraging.
“Did you spill a bottle of red ink on this thing, sir?” Ethan asked Lieutenant Jonas. “It’s bleeding all over the place. I feel like I should go get a first aid kit.”
Jonas chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He ran a finger westward from Salisbury to a region just west of the Tennessee River. “Sorry to say it, son, but we’re in the shit from here all the way to Western Tennessee. I’m afraid the halcyon days of easy living and four-man watches are a thing of the past. We’ll have to double the watches and start bedding down in the U-trac.”
Ethan nodded grimly. He was just as tired as everyone else, and while he didn’t relish the idea of double watches and sleeping in the cramped passenger carriages, he vastly preferred the additional hardship over having a hungry ghoul bite his face off in his sleep.
“I’ll get the men to work on the braces and barricades,” Ashman said, his head nearly scraping the ceiling of the command car. “You need me for anything else, sir?”
Jonas gestured around at Ethan and the other squad leaders. “Nope. Nothing these fellas can’t handle.”
The tall platoon sergeant nodded gratefully and stooped sideways to twist his bulk out of the command car. Once outside, he stood up straight and heaved a sigh, relieved to be out of the U-trac’s cramped confines.
“Sergeant Kelly, I assume you’ve updated the watch rotation?” Jonas said.
Kelly nodded, the single light bulb in the ceiling gleaming on his bald head. He was a little shorter than Ethan, medium build, and like most of the men in First Platoon, sported a growth of reddish-blond beard that was forbidden by regulation. Razors were in short supply, even with the Army’s resources, and soldiers in the field often hoarded them as valuable trade items. Once away from the insulated, spit-and-polish strictures of Fort Bragg, field units relaxed or altogether ignored many of the more cumbersome regulations heaped upon common soldiers. They had a hell of a lot more important things to worry about than the length of their hair, or the level of shine on their boots. Out in the wastelands, just staying alive from one day to the next was challenge enough.
“Already done, sir,” Kelly replied.
“Very well. Thompson, you stick around for a minute. The rest of you, get this pig braced up and get your men situated. It’s going to be a long, cold, shitty night. Do what you can to make your men comfortable.”
The squad leaders nodded silently, all of them understanding the lieutenant’s implied message. Officially, they weren’t supposed to go scavenging except in life or death emergencies. By rule, salvageable goods were supposed to be left for civilians. The Army, after all, had far better access to basic necessities than the average Outbreak survivor scraping out a living in the wastes. However, every man in First Platoon was a seasoned campaigner, and they all knew the importance of making life as comfortable as possible in the field. Even something as simple as a scavenged blanket and a couple of dusty couch-cushions could make the difference between an aching back, and a good night’s sleep. Ethan knew that fact all too well, having spent many a night sleeping on just such an arrangement. He also knew how important those kinds of things were to morale, and woe betide the squad leader who ignored them.
As soon as they were dismissed, Kelly and the other squad leaders called to their senior men and gave whispered instructions. Those men then went to their packs, retrieved weapons and ammunition, and informed First Sergeant Ashman that they were going out ‘on patrol’. Ashman acknowledged them, knowing full well that their ‘patrol’ would most likely consist of searching the various nearby trailer parks, houses, abandoned businesses, and crashed vehicles for items worth dragging back to camp.
With the others gone, Ethan looked expectantly at Jonas. The lieutenant sat down in the chair in front of his desk and swiveled it around, sliding off his reading glasses. “Thompson, I want you to pick a few men, no more than three, and retrace our path back about a mile or so. I got a sneaky suspicion we ain’t seen the last of those raiders. If they’re out there, I want you to find them.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow and stared for a moment. “Sir…if I may ask, why me? Sergeant Mallory is former SF. I know he’s a little older, but he’s still better suited for this kind of mission than I am.”
“Sergeant Mallory is a good man, but he’s forty-six and he’s been out of Special Forces since the Clinton administration. It’s why he’s down here with the rest of us infantry grunts.”
“What about Sergeant Kelly? He’s been in since before the Outbreak. Did tours in Iraq. Why not him?”
Jonas’ face darkened ever so slightly. “Are you turning chicken shit on me, Thompson?”
“No sir,” Ethan replied evenly. “I’m just not sure if I’m the best man for the job.”
Jonas stared searchingly for another moment before his expression softened. “Staff Sergeant, I want you to do this because my instincts tell me you are the right man. You have a nose for trouble, and your healthy sense of paranoia has pulled this platoon’s ass out of the fire more than once. You’re smart, you’re cautious, and you’re deliberate. That’s what I need right now.”
The lieutenant stood up, picked up a set of keys, and clapped Ethan on the arm. “And besides, the only way you’re ever gonna get better at woodcraft is to practice. It’s time for you to start stepping up and taking on more responsibility.”
“Sir?”
“You might not have fought in the war, but unless I misjudge the situation, and I don’t think I do, there’s a whole other war brewing on the horizon. It’s time for you to take the skills you’ve learned and start applying them.”
Ethan frowned, more confused than ever. Jonas gave him a reassuring smile. “Come on, young man. Let’s get a move on.”
Jonas stepped outside, and Ethan followed. The lieutenant selected a key and unlocked one of the cargo containers just behind the U-trac’s engine. The front of the container was completely black, and reeked of JP8 fumes. Jonas swung the doors open and selected a green plastic box from a shelf near the top.
“Here’s four suppressors,” he said, removing them and handing them to Ethan. “Make damned sure you bring them back. They’re worth more than your life.”
“Yes sir.” Ethan reached out to take them.
Jonas closed the container and locked it. He took a few steps away and looked out over the assembly of soldiers carrying out their various tasks. Ethan followed his gaze, taking in the men’s patched, threadbare uniforms, scuffed boots, scruffy hair and beards, and the hodge-podge of axes, crowbars, and other tools they had converted into melee weapons. Here and there, he saw soldiers who had supplemented their meager issue of uniforms with scavenged civilian clothes—gloves, scarves, hooded sweatshirts under their jackets, and name brand hiking boots. Wearing civilian clothes with their uniforms wasn’t allowed, technically, but Jonas wasn’t the kind of man make a soldier suffer the cold when there was something to be done about it. Ethan
knew that not every CO was so lax, and he was grateful be in Jonas’ platoon. In fact, he couldn’t think of anyone else he would rather serve under.
“Was it like this before the Outbreak?” Ethan asked.
Jonas turned to look at him. “Like what?”
“This.” Ethan gestured at the rest of the platoon. “Not ever having enough clothes, enough food, enough ammo. Not having enough of anything, really.”
“Well, making due with damn little is nothing new,” Jonas said with a chuckle, “but things weren’t nearly this bad before the Outbreak. This platoon, these men, our gear, it’s a shadow of what the Army used to be. Time was we could at least get new uniforms, although we had to pay for them, and there was enough food to go around. Now, well…things have changed. And not for the better.”
The two men stood next to each other for a few seconds, silence stretching between them. Finally, Jonas said, “So who are you taking with you?”
Ethan glanced at his commanding officer, searching his face. From the slightly amused glint in the lieutenant’s eye, he reckoned this was a test. Jonas was fond of tests, and quite often, the subjects of his scrutiny had no idea they were being tested until it was over with. He figured it best to err on the side of caution.
“Holland.”
Jonas nodded. “Good choice. No brainer, that one. You’re gonna need a sharpshooter.”
Ethan scanned the men buzzing around the U-trac. Most of them were attaching bracing stanchions to the sides of the cars, similar to stabilizers on a crane. The stanchions were triangular bars that extended outward from the carriages and had flat, round feet hanging just a few inches off the ground. If the infected massed on one side of the U-trac or the other, the stanchions would keep the weight from derailing the cars or rolling them over. Additionally, the men were assembling a system of interconnecting steel bars fastened by mounting brackets welded to the carriages’ frames. The bars formed a waist-high cage around the transport that would hold off the infected at about ten feet. All of the safety measures, braces and barricades alike, could be mounted or taken down in a matter of minutes. And none of them were anchored to the ground, which meant that if the U-trac needed to get going in a hurry, they didn’t have to waste time dismantling their defenses. They could simply throw the engine in gear and take off. The countermeasures could always be removed later when they were out of danger.