River of Night

by John Ringo

  “Off!” Tom repeated. “It stays off.”

  He got the unwieldy SUV turned around and a few moments later all three vehicles were picking their way back the way they’d come.

  Tom knew his passengers by now. The drill was well practiced.

  In three, two, one…

  “Mr. Smith, is it okay if we talk?” Astroga asked politely. “As long as we maintain our security scan?”

  Tom grunted neutrally, which was all that the juniormost Army soldier needed.

  “Because I’ve been thinking,” Astroga continued, “and you being the expert, maybe you can answer this question that’s started bugging me. I figure that this emergency is going to go on for a long time. We are gonna have to build everything back up, but before we do that, we have to clear out all the zombies, and there’s steps before that.”

  “Make it march, Astro,” Tom said, keeping his eyes front. He smelled a rat.

  “So the question is: what’s the best sort of man to have with you during the zombie apocalypse? For aspiring, independent women like us?”

  Meeting her eyes in the rear-view, Tom raised his eyebrows.

  “My going-in position is that the definition of a good man has changed,” she added helpfully. “What do we want from a man, now? With all this?”

  She gestured towards her window.

  “We’re not having that conversation, Astro,” Tom replied sternly, returning his eyes to the road. “Ask me la—”

  “Is interesting question,” Risky said with a sideways look at her driver. “In Manhattan, it was all about money. Money not so important now. What does a good man have to bring to table?”

  “Respect,” said Christine.

  “Guns,” Astroga countered. “Big guns!”

  “Yeah, is he cute?” Jonsdottir added, flexing a slender biceps. “A cute prince, with big guns, like in the movie.”

  “The other kind of guns, silly,” Astroga said. “Sheesh.”

  “He’s supposed to be good in bed?” said Cheryl, drawing verbal admonishments from a couple of adults before collecting a head chop from Astroga. She indignantly waved a wrinkled fashion magazine that sported a lurid cover and added, “What? Its says so right here in the survey results!”

  “Must look healthy, no biting!” Risky said, looking at the cover. Tom saw her quirk an eyebrow in his direction as she added, “Maybe nibbling is fine.”

  A few more suggestions originated from the back seat, and in short order the participants were getting titters, and finally an outright belly laugh all around.

  “Can we drop the subject?” Tom said, clearing his throat. Whether the exchange was morale-boosting humor or not, a few of the ideas were a bit…specific. He felt a warmth spreading across his face and hoped that his tan covered what he suspected was the start of a blush.

  “So you’ve got a healthy guy in mind,” Astroga replied, ignoring Smith and turning to Risky. “How do you let him know that you’re interested?”

  “Smile at him a lot,” offered Jonsdottir.

  “Act like you need help,” Blaine offered.

  “No, never that,” Risky said. “Offer help instead.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Bloome. “What kind of help, Risky?”

  “Like Specialist Astroga said, it’s different world now,” Risky said. “Best kind of man not just interested in nice makeup and a good body,” she added, turning to look at both teens, who were listening carefully for a change. “If you find man that makes that priority, look for different man. World was never perfectly safe. This especially true for the physically weak, and sorry, but is fact that average woman is much weaker than average man.”

  There was an offended huffing sound from the very back row.

  “There is reason that men and women have different events in sports,” Risky replied, dismissing the implied objection. “The world is not, how you say, inherently equal, no matter what the weak wish. Old civilization had problems, but the old, the young and the weak were protected from the worst threats. Now, is even worse for women—no police, infected everywhere. But any man worth having wants more than good-looking woman who only needs protecting. He wants partner who can carry her share, cover his back with rifle and is not afraid of blood. You don’t want prince who will come rescue you—you want man who puts strong woman over woman who asks for help all the time. He will want decisive woman, not wishy-washy supermodel who can’t decide what salad to order.”

  “Yeah, girl power!” enthused the teens.

  “Does not come automatically,” Risky said, smiling to soften her words. “If you want power, must accept problems of responsibility. But we will teach you. Right, Specialist?”

  “You betcha,” Astroga replied. There was a longish pause. Tom knew this part of the script, too.

  Three, two, one…

  “Mr. Smith, if I change the music, can we turn the tunes back on?”

  CHAPTER 6

  The fitful breeze stirred a fading American flag and rattled the halyard against the aluminum flagpole.

  Another small Southern town, of the kind Tom and the rest had seen several times before.

  The sameness was simultaneously comforting and unsettling. There were the usual two churches, elementary school and a medium sized chain supermarket. There might be a hardware store. A pharmacist. An auto shop. Perhaps two hundred homes, ranging from double-wides to stick-built construction.

  The usual number of long dead bodies in view, usually recognizable because of the remnants of clothes, especially shoes, that marked each person’s final resting place.

  Total silence, save for the occasional bird call.

  “What do you think, Boss?” Kaplan inquired. “Nothing has moved in the last half hour. Around or through?”

  “Not sure, Kap,” Tom said, lowering the binoculars and squinted at the early afternoon sun. “I don’t really want to backtrack. The last good lay-up spot was two hours back. I hate to give up that much ground. I think that the main road looks clear enough to get through without detouring or pushing. Map says we can find a camp spot about another hour up the line.”

  Most of the party was staying in the SUVs, including their newest acquisition, the Dodge, below the line of sight to the town, hidden by the gentle rise of the road that they had followed. Drivers remained behind each wheel, and the passenger side doors were open on the first two vehicles, just in case Tom and Kaplan had to scamper back in a hurry.

  “Wouldn’t mind a look see,” the security specialist said thoughtfully. “If we see a lot of infected, we just drive on. No infected—we can take a look for salvage. I wouldn’t mind a hose pump for transferring fuel.”

  Many abandoned vehicles still had partially full tanks, but Smith insisted on topping off their tanks whenever they could and siphoning gasoline was a hated chore. The rubber hose method had been their standby. However, Tom suspected that the gas stations they passed had plenty of fuel. Without electricity to power the main pumps, there was no way to get at it unless they found a manually operated pump.

  Tom took another look through the glasses and considered.

  “Right,” he said decisively. “We go through.”

  * * *

  For the sake of security and the comfort of human contact, the drivers had instinctively parked together in front of the hardware store. Tom ordered most of the staff to stay with the vehicles, armed and watchful. Meanwhile, two pairs would scout Ace Hardware and the grocery, respectively.

  Tom took Worf into the grocery. They ghosted through the aisles, stepping gingerly in part to avoid making noise but principally because the volume of remains was impressive.

  “Why so many bones?” Worf said wonderingly. “Why choose to die here?”

  Tom bent and picked up a polymer framed pistol, the slide locked back on an empty magazine. He held it for the other man to see. A few empty pistol magazines peeked out from the litter.

  “They were fighting over the supplies,” he said. “This must have been t
he first place everyone decided to go when they ran out. Maybe this guy…”

  Tom nudged a clothed skeleton, mostly complete except for the upper skull and one arm. The chest and legs were somewhat protected by an equipment vest and heavy trousers. Despite the decomposition, it had clearly been a really big man. Incongruously, a velcro patch of a small white rabbit armed with a switch blade gleamed on the vest, below the remains of dry yellow beard.

  “…decided to protect what he was buying, or looting.”

  “I see a fair bit of brass,” Worf said, pointing at scores of spent cartridges scattered on the dirty floor. “Must have been a real rodeo here, at the end. Not gonna lie—not sorry I missed it.”

  Tom followed the gesture and then did a double-take.

  “Now that…” Tom said, leaning over and shaking garbage from a small axe “…is worth the salvage.”

  “R-M-J,” spelled out Worf, reading the logo. “Shit. That’s a six-hundred-dollar tomahawk! How did that end up here?”

  “Finders keepers,” Smith said. “This thing can chop through nearly anything.”

  The tomahawk was anodized steel, Despite the lack of maintenance, the sharpened edge still gleamed. Opposite the blade was a wicked spike, sharpened on both sides and curving gently back towards his hand. Green paracord served as a grip. Tom bounced the handle a few times contemplatively and then unstrapped the sheath that still adorned the corpse’s vest.

  “Thanks, mate,” he said, saluting the single battered corpse.

  One aisle over, Tom heard Worf inhale sharply.

  “If you liked that, you’re gonna love this.”

  Tom turned a corner and found the floor carpeted with skeletal remains. The vinyl flooring was nearly completely obscured by the bodies, or rather, parts of bodies. Few clothes were visible in the light that filtered through the front of the store.

  “Whoa,” Worf breathed quietly. “That’s a lot of bones.”

  “No clothes,” Tom said dispassionately. “The bodies are disarticulated. Brought here and eaten post-mortem. It was a larder while the water lasted.”

  He looked down the adjoining line of shelves. They were bare but the floor was ankle deep with chewed plastic bottles. He picked one up and read the brand name.

  “Looks like the zombies like expensive designer bottled water, too,” he said. “Liked it enough to chew their way into the bottles to get a drink.”

  “You can’t bite through a plastic bottle!” Worf said, objecting quietly. “No way!”

  “Apparently you can if you’re thirsty enough,” answered Tom. He glanced back at the bone pile. “Looks like this was the buffet area.”

  “Where did they all go?” Worf asked.

  “They’re animals,” Tom replied. “They go where there’s water, food and shelter. But not here, not anymore.”

  Having swept the aisles from one end, they paused near the back of the store. There was a set of swinging doors to the rear stockroom, but they clearly had been closed for some time, blocked by refuse that was piled against them.

  “Okay. Let’s fill a bag with any canned stuff that looks useful and get out,” Tom said. “I’m about rea—”

  Outside, shots rang out.

  * * *

  “Eva, don’t forget!” Biggs blustered. “My town, my gleanings! You’re just here to help and advise.”

  “Sure thing, Biggs,” the slender brunette answered nonchalantly. “It has nothing to do with Mr. Green wondering if you are an asset or a liability, right? Whatever you gotta tell yourself. Just remember that Green sent me along to keep an eye on you.”

  She tugged at the heavy fireman’s coat. What she really needed was something for a female firefighter, but so far she was making do with a men’s extra small. Clearing towns was as much about making sure that you didn’t get swarmed and bit by infected as it was finding and “rescuing uninfected survivors.” She wore her armor on the inside of the coat. Only the lieutenants had both proper body armor and vaccine, so working hard enough to earn the heavy clothing was literally a matter of life and death for their recruits. Even for the vaccinated, avoiding bites was helpful. The vaccine didn’t protect against the plethora of really disgusting bacteria found in the average human’s mouth, let alone a carrion-eating shambler.

  However, the huge crowds of zombies that had been common at the start of the Fall seemed to have left this town on their own.

  The Gleaners had found that absent a water source, most infected would decamp from their old homes and spend their time closer to the many lakes, rivers and creeks that were common in the area. Still, you could run into a pack unexpectedly. All it took was a windmill-filled water tank or a cattle pond.

  Somewhere, there was going to be a really big swarm, but it wasn’t here. That was good enough for the Gleaners.

  “On your last visit, how far did you get before you fucked up?” she asked Biggs, completely unintimidated by his size. Of course, her right hand stayed on her rifle’s pistol grip.

  “Maybe a third of the place,” he growled. “Up ahead a few blocks.”

  “Let’s just do the sweep and move on,” Eva said, adding, “I want to get back before dark.”

  Biggs nodded and raised his fist over his head, pumping it once. The line of forty or so men waiting next to the parked convoy left their vehicles and began sweeping through the outlying homes of the abandoned town. Khorbish took station on the side farthest from the leader.

  As the line of armed men combed through the town, the labor gang of fifty chained men were lashed into position. As they reached each successive abandoned car they would release the brakes and push it clear of the road. Locked vehicles were dealt with simply by smashing windows. Tangles of vehicles were either pulled apart or shoved by main force using the reinforced winches and bumpers of the semi tractor wreckers salvaged by the Gleaners.

  The occasional single zombie lurched into view, stirred to action by noise or disturbed by scavengers, only to be dropped at close range.

  On the second block, they hit pay dirt.

  A whoop went up, and one of the men came outside, carrying a middling sized child under one arm. The girl fought and kicked ineffectually as the sweeper brought her over to the center where Biggs and Eva waited.

  “Fresh as a daisy!” exclaimed the man, presenting his find to the field boss as Khorbish trotted up, drawn by the commotion.

  “Well, that’s not too bad,” Biggs said, his eyes alight. “Any more like this?”

  “Nah, Boss, just the one,” the sweeper replied as his boss took possession of his prize.

  Eva considered the young girl at close range. She was remarkably clean and her blonde hair was tied back in two braids. Perhaps ten years old, she kept swinging her fists against Biggs’s leg and side, but the thick clothing and armor mitigated her ferocity.

  “Man, this one is a peach!” Biggs crowed. “Just the right size for the rec hall. Betcha she smells good enough to eat!”

  He leaned down to sniff the girl’s hair.

  The short girl reared back and unhesitatingly latched onto his ear, blood spurting from her lips.

  Biggs screamed and straightened, raising her into the air even as his gloved fists struck her loose. The little girl was thrown several feet away, but hit the ground and rolled to her feet. She immediately began to sprint away, towards the center of the uncleared town.

  Eva laughed into her fist as Biggs clapped his right hand to his bleeding ear, and clumsily tried to cross draw his pistol with his left. Khorbish smiled appreciatively. Even the sweeper was laughing, but he turned to recapture the girl.

  Biggs finally made the draw and aimed his pistol at the small form darting between two houses and fired several rounds.

  “FUCKING LITTLE BITCH BIT ME! F-FUCKING KILL HER!” Biggs screamed as Khorbish grabbed the pistol hand and forced it down. The two men struggled for a moment before Biggs shook free, glaring.

  “Don’t shoot her, you idiot!” Eva yelled. “The kids belong to Gre
en. We’ll run her down, she can’t get far.”

  She turned to the rank-and-file Gleaners that were hovering a few feet away, having paused when the shots were fired.

  “Well? Get after her!”

  * * *

  Kaplan had drawn the hardware store and asked Vinnie to accompany him. The place was thoroughly picked over.

  They were examining a foot-operated inflatable pool pump to determine its suitability for fuel recovery when they heard shots.

  “Come on!” yelled Kaplan. He sprinted back towards the cars.

  Exiting the front of the store he surveyed the scene. Concerned faces looked first his way, and then towards the grocery as Smith and Worf exited. One of the teens pointed down the street where a small figure was sprinting hard. Another figure hove into view, then another and another. They were all clothed, and presumably, not infected. They chased the runner.

  Kaplan snapped his M4 up and flipped the 3x magnifier into place behind his red dot Aimpoint. The figures jumped in size.

  A little blonde girl chased by…dudes in fireman’s coats?

  Armed men in firefighter turnout coats.

  “On me,” Kaplan ordered his wingman and ran across the street.

  * * *

  Hank was a loner. Despite his study of country music, playing football, and some bitching tats, he had never made any strong friends after high school. When the zombie plague came, he got sick, just like Mama and Pop. But they died while he lived.

  The few survivors in his little town had still kept their distance when he emerged, gaunt, and starving. Popular he might never be, but Hank was canny. Pop’s old M1 carbine did for the occasional zombie until the new folks showed up a month back.

  When the Gleaners rolled through and offered him a probationary place in their new world he’d said “Fuck yeah!” It wasn’t the vaccine they held out since he figured he was immune now. But to be part of something, maybe something big?

  Oh, hell yes.

  So when the top dog got his ear bit by the itty bitty girl and that scary bitch Eva said fetch!—well, Hank was gonna fetch.

  Little girl had some wheels on her, that was for sure.

  Suddenly he spotted movement ahead of her. More Gleaners?