Nichols hesitated, looking at Patel’s body slumped against the door and then back to the muzzle of the major’s pistol. The concussion from the bullet Brooks had fired must have stunned him more than he’d suspected, because he struggled to put the pieces of his orders together.
“Do it now, or I’ll do it myself,” she says, moving the gun a fraction of an inch closer to his head.
His first reaction was relief at how uncharacteristically reasonable the major was being. He was obviously having an issue putting thoughts to action at the moment, and it was damned decent of her to offer doing the job herself while he mentally regrouped. Then the realization of what she’d truly said and the ultimatum she given him came crashing home. He looked at Patel and the gore spread across the window and absently noticed where Brooks’ round had impacted the bullet-proof glass. Bloody brains and bits of pulverized skull fragments dripped from the corporal’s exit wound and were puddling in the seat. Fighting against the impulse to vomit again, he swallowed back the gorge building in his throat and said with resolve, “I’m on it.”
Leaning over Patel’s corpse, he set his hand on the door handle and glanced in the side mirror to make sure there were none of the infected lurking near the door. He could see there were a few gathered at the back of the MTV who were busy feasting on school children, but none were near his door. Reaching for Patel’s hip, he heard Brooks draw in a sharp breath as he touched the pistol still holstered there.
“We might need this,” he says, before carefully extracting the sidearm and handing it to the major, butt first. Next, he reached around the corpse and removed the two loaded magazines. He felt a twinge of pain in his left shoulder as he handed them over to Brooks. She set them on the seat next to her where she’d placed the corporal’s sidearm and relaxed her grip on her M9. Checking the mirror for a second time, Nichols grabbed the door handle and pulled, disengaging the latch. It popped open a couple inches from Patel’s weight leaning against it. Nichols shoved his shoulder into the dead corporal, triggering a stab of pain in his shoulder from the sudden contact. Patel’s body tumbled out and onto the ground in a sprawl. Nichols tried to slam the door, but the pain in his shoulder was too severe, and he had to use the other hand to pull it shut.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” Brooks asks, lowering her M9 to rest on her leg, but keeping it pointed at him.
Nichols slips his hand under his shirt and touches the epicenter of the pain in his shoulder. When he pulls his fingers out, the tips are covered in blood. He shows them to her and says, “You shot me!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d shot you, you’d be out there too. I’m sure it was just a ricochet from shooting Patel,” she dismisses. “Now, slide over and get us moving. We passed a gas station a few blocks back, so go there first. We need to fill the tanks while we have a chance.”
“It might not be that simple. The power’s out all over, and it’s not like we can just siphon it out of the tanks buried in the ground. Gravity doesn’t work that way,” he tells her.
“I know that. These vehicles come equipped with a hand pump for just this kind of situation,” she tells him, glancing at the blood coating his fingertips. “When we get to the filling station, we’ll put a bandage on your shoulder before you fill the tanks. Then I’ll cover you,” she adds.
Nichols sighs, knowing what laboring over a hand-cranked pump was going to do to his damaged shoulder. While Brooks had said she’d be covering him while he worked the pump, he knew a more accurate description was he’d be toiling away in pain while she held a gun on him. He couldn’t shake the feeling their roles had suddenly changed from commander and subordinate to abductor and expendable hostage, with the firing of a single bullet. He decided he’d need to be extremely careful with the major until he could make his move, or else he’d end up like Corporal Patel, who was already disappearing in his mirror.
Chapter 5
“Any word from that bitch at the stadium?” Sergeant Ian Brubaker asks his second in command.
“Nothing since this morning,” Lance Corporal Johnathan Ferguson replies. “Should I tell the men to get ready to move out?”
Sergeant Brubaker had assumed control of the small platoon the night before, due to his lieutenant’s fatal error in judgment.
His recently departed lieutenant had allowed a family of refugees to wander into camp, looking for safety. The family consisted of a set of exhausted parents and their three daughters, ages seven, three, and an eighteen-month-old. The mother had the youngest girl slung to the front of her in a makeshift papoose and the father was carrying the three-year-old on his shoulders. Their eldest daughter was forced to traipse through the bushes and underbrush on foot, clutching her mother’s hand. If Brubaker had ever gotten their names, he couldn’t remember them. All he remembered was the look of relief on their dirty faces as they entered the camp and how quickly it changed to fear when the entire squad leveled their rifles on them. It was Lieutenant McDonald who’d stopped the soldiers from shooting the family the moment they’d limped out through the trees.
But the father had assured the captain none in their group was infected. As a precaution, the lieutenant ordered the squad’s medic to examine the family, who’d pronounced them all, infection-free. Lieutenant McDonald had ordered his men to place the family in one of the supply tents to give them a measure of privacy while they cleaned up. The soldiers had to rearrange the crates inside the tent to allow enough room for a few cots to be set up and some room for the children to move around. He issued additional orders for them to be provided a change of clothes, at least for the parents, and taken several blankets to keep them warm through the approaching night. Lastly, he had some MREs and bottled water taken to them before returning to his duties of command.
Unfortunately, the squad’s medic hadn’t bothered to closely inspect the seven-year-old girl. Perhaps because the pony-tailed kid looked innocent enough and hadn’t shown any signs of illness when the family arrived. Another factor may have simply been tensions were running extremely high and were taking their toll on everyone. Either way, the medic’s lack of thoroughness had been a costly mistake.
As night fell, the lieutenant had gone to check on their guests. He’d wanted to see how they were settling in and if there was anything they needed. By then, the darling seven-year-old had already torn through the throats of her parents and killed her siblings. When McDonald pulled the tent flap aside to see the child devouring her youngest sister, he froze. This gave the demon-child enough time to leap on him and chew into his face. The ensuing commotion raised the alarm to the camp. Sergeant Brubaker was the first to arrive, but without hesitation, he put a bullet in the little girl’s brain. The other soldiers followed his lead, shooting the parents who were beginning to stir. Then he told the men to burn the bodies before respectfully dispatching the lieutenant into the hereafter. The medic was only a few yards from Brubaker when the lieutenant’s glare fell onto him. He backed away, trying to make up excuses for what had happened. Brubaker wasn’t hearing any of it and put a bullet in the medic’s head for his incompetence.
Since then, there’d been nothing on the radio from command and the men were showing signs of the psychological strain. It hadn’t helped when less than half of the team sent out on a flushing run had returned alive. They reported being attacked by snipers at the hardware store several miles to their east and Brubaker had ordered the perimeter guards to be doubled.
“Have Merriweather check the equipment again. Make sure there’s nothing wrong with it,” Brubaker says, having already given this same order twice in the last twelve hours.
“How many times do you want us to check it, Ian? It’s working just fine. It’s just that nobody’s saying shit out there. Just the occasional transmission from those fuckers who hit our men last night! We ought to be out there hunting those fuckers down instead of sitting here with our thumbs up our asses!” Ferguson replies.
“John,” Brubaker began, trying to keep his
temper in check. “We’ve been friends for a while now, right?”
“Ever since basic training,” Ferguson answers.
“Yeah. Long enough for you to know how this shit works. If I give you an order, you better damn well follow it. Without questions or opinions. Is that understood, Corporal?” Brubaker asks, practically spitting the last word to make his point.
“Aye, aye, Sergeant,” Ferguson replies, as if he was taking orders from Captain Bligh. “Yar. Anything ye say, sir,” he adds, giving a half-hearted salute before spinning on his heels and walking away without waiting to be dismissed.
Brubaker was pretty sure he heard his friend of six years muttering something under his breath as he left, but he didn’t have the time or the energy to pursue it. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of prescription painkillers he carried with him at all times. Two years ago, he’d injured his knee in a bar fight while on leave. Nothing official had ever come from the incident but it had earned him eight weeks of light-duty. After the knee was healed and rehab was over, he continued to complain about the imaginary pain to feed his newfound addiction to OxyContin. He popped the top off with one hand out of reflex and shook three pills into his mouth. He dry-swallowed the oxy as he counted the remaining pills in the bottle, even though he already knew how many he had left. Addicts always know exactly when they’ll need to resupply, but he checked anyway, hoping the pills had somehow magically multiplied. Twenty-three tablets were only going to last him three days at the most, and berated himself for not replenishing his supply before leaving. But there hadn’t been enough time. He’d stopped trying to get them through legal means. There wasn’t a thing wrong with him at this point and he couldn’t find a doctor to write him a script for a no-questions-asked, unlimited refill. Consequently, he’d been buying them on the streets and from discreet connections for the last five months. He decided he’d wait another six to eight hours before rallying the men and heading back to the stadium to see what the hell was happening. Along the way, he was confident he’d find a closed pharmacy to fit his growing need. He’d take Percodan if they had it and would double up if all he could find was Vicodin, but nothing settled that craving like good old, reliable oxy. With the decision made, he shook another pill into his mouth, pulverized it between his teeth and washed the bitter taste down with a sip of water. He rubbed his face with both hands and waited for the warm numbing feeling to kick in.
“I’ve got people moving our way,” a tiny voice crackled from the earpiece dangling from his collar that led to the small portable radio clipped to Brubaker’s chest. The sudden noise shook Brubaker from his thoughtless daze, and he fumbled with the cord before getting the device back in place.
“Who is this?” Brubaker asks through the throat mic.
“Private Gracey. I’m on the east perimeter,” the soldier replies.
“How many?” Brubaker asks, rubbing his nose from the familiar itch as he got to his feet.
“I see three men,” Gracey answers.
“Are they infected?”
“Can’t tell for sure, Sergeant. But if they are, they haven’t hit Stage Three. They’re trying hard to be quiet,” Gracey replies.
“Are they military?”
“I doubt it. Looks like they’re wearing civvies,” Gracey answers.
“Have they seen you?”
“Again, not certain but I think that’s a negative, Sergeant. And I don’t think they’ve spotted the camp either. The trees are pretty thick and they’re in a lot deeper than me.”
“What are they doing?” Brubaker asks.
“Moving slowly and in single file,” Gracey answers. “One more thing. It looks like they’re armed, Sergeant. They could be those bastards who sniped our guys.”
“Where’s your exact location, Private?” Brubaker asks immediately.
“I’m directly east of the latrine, about fifty meters inside the tree line,” Gracey reports.
“Ferguson,” Brubaker calls over the open channel, hoping the other soldiers had their radios on and in place, unlike what he’d been doing a moment ago.
“Go for Ferguson,” the corporal answers immediately. There wasn’t a hint of animosity or pirate left in his voice from their earlier exchange and his tone was icy with the prospect of retribution.
“Take four men and get to Gracey’s position but do not engage unless you’re forced to. I’ll meet you there,” the sergeant orders. Grabbing the M-4 he’d hung on the back of his collapsible chair, he moves at a fast walk toward the other side of their camp.
“Roger that. Hold our position unless engaged,” Ferguson confirms.
“Everyone else,” Brubaker says, addressing the rest of the soldiers listening, before he broke into a run. “Take cover and keep your eyes open. These guys might just be a distraction.”
Brubaker reached the tree line a couple minutes later, slightly winded and looking for Ferguson and his men. Creeping into the trees, he kept low and moved as quietly as possible. He spotted Ferguson’s familiar silhouette first and Gracey was next to him. The other soldiers were flanked out on either side of them, about ten feet apart, forming a textbook firing line. Ferguson turned to face the sergeant when he heard him approaching and pointed deeper into the forest.
“Where are they?” Brubaker whispers when he didn’t immediately see the three men.
“Can’t tell,” Private Gracey replies quietly. “I lost them in the trees as soon as Ferguson and the others got here. The last time I saw them, they were lined up about fifty meters on the other side of those two big oaks,” he says, indicating the old-growth trees another hundred meters deeper into the forest. “It looked like they were following that game trail. When I heard the corporal coming, I turned my head and waved to show him my position. When I turned back, they were gone.”
“Any chance they saw you?” Brubaker asks.
“Not me. I was raised hunting deer in woods like these,” Private Gracey answers, glancing at Ferguson and then the four other soldiers. “Maybe them,” he adds.
“Fuck,” Brubaker hisses, fighting the urge to retrieve the little brown bottle from his pocket and chew another oxy.
“I know, right?” Gracey replies in a whisper.
Brubaker ignores the private’s comment and weighed his options. Whether these men were the same ones who’d attacked his men the night before or not, there could be more of them. But why were they sneaking around his perimeter? Why hadn’t they just walked into their camp, announcing their arrival and begging for sanctuary like the Berringer family had. The name of the family he hadn’t been able to recall, suddenly popping from his memory. No. These men wanted something other than the safety of a well-armed army platoon. Perhaps they wanted to steal what they could and scurry off back into the trees. Maybe they were just doing some reconnaissance. Scouting ahead to plan their next move. Shit. For all he knew, they were laying tripwires and landmines. Regardless of their intentions, his primary goal was to protect himself and his men, in that specific order. Next, was to get out of these woods and replenish his supply of pills. After that, he’d try to hook up with another platoon. Perhaps he’d even be able to relinquish this unwanted command and go back to simply following orders instead of giving them. He reflexively rubbed his nose and felt the warm feeling of his pills kicking in. Using practiced hand signals, he instructed the soldiers on both sides to stay low and quiet while fanning out farther to the sides.
“What’s your plan?” Ferguson whispers to Brubaker. Using the comms device strapped to his throat, the question was virtually silent but came out loud and clear through the earpiece. Brubaker realized his dramatic use of hand signals had been unnecessary and decided he’d just seen too many movies where he’d thought they’d looked cool. Before their current age of technology, hand signals had been an absolute necessity. Today, they were only used in rare situations when radios weren’t available or when their tiny batteries ran out.
“I’m going to draw them out of their hidey-h
ole and see what the hell they’re after,” Brubaker replies, using the common channel so all the men could hear his orders. “Watch your fields of fire and control your zones. Radio in the second you acquire a target but do not shoot them all. We need at least one of them alive for interrogation. Understood?”
“Roger that. Leave one alive,” Ferguson relays, flipping his safety off.
The other soldiers radio back, letting Brubaker know they were in position but still had no sign of the three men they were stalking. Or the men stalking them, Brubaker thought to himself, before he began.
“This is Sergeant Brubaker of the United States Army and I’m addressing the men hiding in the trees. Come out and show yourselves,” he shouts without standing to reveal his exact position. After a moment of silence, he continues. “We know you’re out there and we have you surrounded,” he lies. “Put down your weapons and show yourselves before someone gets hurt for no reason.”
Again, there was no response, but Brubaker was certain he heard a faint rustling in the leaves. He just couldn’t decide if it was from someone moving in the brush or from the slight breeze blowing through the trees.
“I say again,” he continues. “Place your weapons on the ground and come out where we can see you, for your own safety. We’re with the United States Army and we’re here to help you.”
“You mean like you helped those people last night?” a voice barks with contempt from far to Brubaker’s left, rather than from the right where Gracey had reported his last sighting of the three men. He figured it was possible the men had moved without being seen through the thick foliage and turned his attention in the direction the voice came from.
“What about last night?” Brubaker asks, trying to keep the man talking so his men could zero-in on his position.
“We saw what you and your men did last night. You weren’t trying to help anyone,” the voice shouts back.
The F*cked Series (Book 4): Hard Page 7