River of Night

by John Ringo

  “Sorta,” Mr. Dragon replied. “For now, I guess.”

  Eva smiled. She knew what was coming. It was nice to know a little more than everyone else.

  “Gentlemen and lady,” Green said, nodding towards Eva, then tapped on the large map. “There are a number of candidate sites. When I have determined the best options, we’ll move there. Now, if there are no further questions, carry out your tasking.”

  * * *

  “That’s a LOT of zombies,” Brandy said in an artificially normal tone of voice. “How many do you think that is?”

  “The way they move around I don’t think that we can get an exact number,” replied Mike in an offhand way. “Call it six or seven thousand. What matters is that many could actually just push the fencing over, if they ever came at it at the same time. The first several ranks would be so much mashed strawberry gelatin, mind. Still, our fence can’t hold that kind of mass. So priority number one is not attracting attention.”

  “That many?” Brandy said, looking back across the dam and then back at the road leading south to Chattanooga. “How are you getting seven thousand from that?”

  “Count the number in an imaginary box that’s about the size of a football field,” Mike replied, squinting back at the mass of infected. “Then multiply by the number of football fields that are in view.”

  The infected were clustering in groups, walking along the fence, across the dam, along the shore—in short, everywhere that the technicians could see. A sort of low growling was audible, like the idling of a distant chain saw. Remnants of uniforms were visible, though most were naked or nearly so. Many of the infected had open sores or partially healed wounds. Skin infections seemed to be common.

  “Could be worse,” he said distractedly. “If the H7D3 infection rate in Chattanooga is the same as it is here, then more than two hundred and fifty thousand zombies started out and so far, less than ten percent of them survived to reach this far.”

  “So…” his aide said, “You’ve, ah, you got a plan, right? For if they decide that they really want, um, in?”

  “Well, what I’ve got is an idea,” the stout engineer said, rubbing his chin. “And maybe some prototypes. You know those really big transformers that we stocked in the repair yard?”

  “Sure,” Brady said uncertainly. “Um, so we are gonna repair them to death?”

  “Nope,” Mike replied, frowning. “Well, in a manner of speaking. What we do have is a lot of power and no customers. I figure that we can do more with it than we have been.”

  “Oh!” Brandy exclaimed. “An electric fence. Duh! I should have through of that.”

  “Well, sure,” Mike gave her a little side eye. “Except electric fences are boring. First, we have to see how many really big capacitors we have.”

  * * *

  Tom kept his speed down. The cloudy night was profoundly dark, unlit by either artificial light or stars. Even the dash instruments were turned off in order to avoid glare on the night vision goggles which he wore. In the days since the loss of his second, the depleted convoy had pressed on, driving at night as well as day time, extending the distance between any possible pursuit. Behind him, the emotionally exhausted passengers were squeezed together, sleeping fitfully.

  Tom was exhausted too. He knew from experience that he could last up to three days with scant rest. After that, decision making and motor skills would erode past the level of usefulness.

  Tomorrow would be the third day.

  More than the lack of sleep, more than the anger over the loss of Gravy, the sense of being alone weighed on him. Every decision that he made carried life or death consequences, and there was no respite in sight. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he could just…stop.

  Beside him, Risky swayed slightly, belted into the front passenger seat.

  Though his NODs painted a bright green and black picture, he knew from experience that judging relative distances through the device was tricky, at best. The decision to purchase the very expensive, top of the line military night vision devices that he now wore had been a good one. However, it felt as though it had been made by a different person a lifetime ago.

  Thankfully, the road was mostly clear and the two Suburbans were able to stay on the blacktop most of the time, easing the task of driving.

  It also allowed Tom time to reflect.

  Outwardly he gave no sign about the turmoil and grief that ate at his conscience. Tom knew that he had been utterly responsible for Durante’s death. He wanted to rewind the day, to return to the decision to stop at that stupid town.

  He replayed every decision. Every possible inflection point. The endless balancing of time and resources against risk.

  Tom suppressed a sigh. Fuck melodrama.

  It was no use feeling sorry for himself. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t thought through the worst case scenario back when he was the cock of the walk. He took the deal with the bank and his word was his life. Maybe he could relax a bit once they gained the security of Site Blue.

  Occasionally an obstacle or route detail would interrupt his silent self-recriminations. They occasioned short radio alerts to Kaplan, driving the trail vehicle, and punctuated Tom’s long watch. Without either routine vehicle traffic or anyone actively working to keep the road clear, a surprising amount of debris was accumulating on the roadbed. Rather than risk damage or a puncture, Tom slowed down to a walking pace in order to navigate the road when it wasn’t certain that the way was clear. In the brief stretches that were completely open, he could maintain a slightly higher speed and return to thinking.

  There was no calculus where Tom could find an answer other than his own culpability for their losses.

  There was no scenario, short of dying, where he didn’t have to continue to shoulder the responsibility.

  The long night wore on.

  Near morning the radio, turned down to preserve battery life, broke squelch.

  “Thunder, dawn is coming up,” Kaplan said. “Let’s start looking for a spot to lay up.”

  * * *

  Risky woke as the Suburban subsided, coming fully to rest. The vehicle was still dark and quiet, but a lightening of the eastern sky signaled the start of another day of survival. Behind her, the kids began to stir.

  She turned her head, watching Tom scan the area through the four-barreled night vision rig that was clipped to his cranial. It gave him a slightly insectoid appearance, as the green phosphor glow from the image intensifiers scattered light against his face.

  She felt, rather than saw, his fingers double-check the position of the lighting switch. In addition to blinding himself if the interior lit when then doors open, a sudden flash of artificial light would betray their exact location to any observers, sentient or otherwise.

  “Everyone stay put until I check the area,” Smith ordered. “Back in a moment.”

  He didn’t ask Risky to back him up, so presumably he intended to collect Kaplan and give their stopping place a once over for infected or other survivors. She couldn’t make out their surroundings yet.

  “Miss Risky?” asked Elf. “Can we get out? I have to go.”

  “Hold on a few minutes. Mr. Smith is checking to make sure that it is safe, first. When you get out, stay with Katrin.”

  The newest survivor much preferred the company of the younger members of the party. Katrin and Eric had taken her under their wing, but Elf also tried to stay close to Risky.

  Risky reached between her legs and double-checked the position of the safety on her muzzle-down M4. She flexed her feet to work out the tightness in her calves.

  “Damn, it stinks in here,” said Dina Bua from the rear bench seat.

  The confined space of the car actually wasn’t too bad, compared to some of the places that the survivors had encountered. The sour redolence of body odor clashed with the chemical fragrance of baby wipes. Eric’s unfortunate “tummy trouble” hadn’t helped either.

  It didn’t really bother Risky overmuch since she was p
reoccupied thinking about her pending chat with Smith. The sky continued to lighten as the rest of the occupants fidgeted uncomfortably. Nearly twenty minutes passed during which the fidgeting grew into near panic as the passengers waited for the all clear and a chance to race for the nearest bush.

  Tom loomed into view and tapped the passenger’s side window. When she looked up he gave her the thumbs-up and turned away again.

  “All right, you can get out now,” she announced to the rest of the passengers.

  Outside, she noted that either Tom or Kaplan had set a sentry facing the way they came. The needful rotated through the designated latrine area while others prepared a makeshift meal on the tailgate of the second Suburban. The sun was coming up like thunder, and Risky could now make out that they were on some sort of scenic overlook. Below them she saw another valley through which a large interstate ran. A small town clustered around the visible offramp.

  Kaplan and Tom were looking at a map as Risky approached.

  “I’m pretty sure we’re in the right spot,” Kaplan said, agreeing with something Tom said. “That should be a town called Smyth, but I am not anxious to go into the valley and look for a name, if you catch my meaning. Still, this is a different map than the one Gravy showed me. The scale is off. The ranch might be another five miles or another ten. It isn’t marked as clearly on this one so I can’t tell.”

  “Okay,” Tom replied. “I’ll wait and you get the other map out. I’m planning on talking to Risky anyhow and everyone is glad for a break out of the trucks.”

  “It was Gravy’s map,” Kaplan said. “I. Don’t. Have it. I thought you…”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment.

  Risky realized that they were talking about a map that had been in the wrecked Dodge.

  “We got the kids’ bags, and some other stuff—” She started to say.

  “Gravy had a map case, about so big,” Kaplan said, holding his hands apart in the shape of a paperback book. “Plastic cover. You’d know it if you had seen it. The SAFE was just circled. But it had everything else on it, labeled. Site Blue, the different dams, our route, National Guard armories, everything.”

  They looked at each other again and without a word began searching first one truck and then the other. A quarter hour later, the ransacking was complete.

  No map case.

  “So the map and everything on it is at the wreck,” Tom said meditatively. “That’s…not good.”

  “Was at the wreck,” Kaplan said, correcting his boss. “Yeah, everything. Figures. We weren’t thinking about sanitizing our gear. This hasn’t ever been an op. We have been in bugout boogie mode but without worrying about any OPFOR.”

  Kaplan’s voice was calm but he betrayed his concern by lapsing into milspeak.

  OPFOR referred to Opposition Forces. If fighting the infected wasn’t enough, now they had to account for the existence and motivations of an organized hostile force as they continued their trek to Site Blue.

  “So, who is OPFOR?” Risky asked. “Apart from kidnappers of children, that is?”

  “The next thing is to get to the ranch,” Tom said, ignoring the question. “Once we get there, we refit and resupply. Two-Ton and the gang might have intel on conditions around here.”

  He looked at Risky directly.

  “Is the girl okay?”

  “Her name is Elf,” she replied tartly. “She is physically okay. A little shaken, I think. She’s staying close to me or the other kids for now.”

  Tom looked over her shoulder at the group. Some were still eating. Astroga, who had the watch, was demonstrating malfunction drills for Fat Ralph. Smith looked back down at the town below.

  “Right, then we get a move on,” he said, rolling his shoulder and cracking his neck. “With a little luck, we get there by lunch.” He strode back towards the lead car.

  Risky had remained poised to continue talking. Kaplan carefully declined to notice and walked towards Astroga.

  Risky watched Tom’s receding back and refrained from gritting her teeth.

  CHAPTER 9

  The access road was unexpectedly difficult. The Suburban had to be carefully diverted around or in some cases, eased across large, jagged rocks. There were unaccountably steep sections and one stretch that appeared to have washed out despite any evidence of a drainage or a stream uphill.

  In the end, they had to move the emptied vehicles one at a time, while Tom and Kaplan alternated between driving or being a road guide.

  “Your friends have a shit road, Tom,” said Kaplan.

  “That’s the point,” retorted Tom. “You have to want to get up this road. Casual tourists and refugees in anything but a dedicated four-wheel drive wouldn’t persist.”

  Just past a sharp bend they had to halt in front of an unexpected sort of obstruction.

  “I think you misread the map, sir,” said Astroga helpfully. “It’s okay, happens a lot to officers.” She snapped her fingers at a nearby middle schooler. “Take a note.”

  Eric flipped open a familiar, small green notebook and began writing while Astroga dictated.

  “Number fifty-eight: officers will always misread the map and should rely on E-4 navigational expertise.”

  “Isn’t that your notebook, Astro?” Tom commented, with a glance Eric.

  “Yessir,” she answered. “But now I got people for that.”

  “Ex-per-tise,” mumbled Eric. He looked up. “Does that word end in ‘se’ or ‘ze’?”

  “Never mind,” Tom said. “Here’s what you put down.”

  Behind him the first SUV audibly scraped past a boulder. Tom elected not to look over his shoulder.

  * * *

  The entire party was staring at the obstacle that blocked further progress.

  A tall chain-link gate, reinforced with crossmembers, barred the road at the point of their further travel. A bright white sign was wired to the gate. The legend was picked out in bold black letters. It warned against touching the fence without opening Master Switch #12, and appeared to belong to something called the Interbureau Liaison Agency, Bio-ecological Research Division. It went on to specify the gate for dropping off radioactive material, an exposure limit to same and pledged that Americans’ taxes were being well spent. The last bit made Tom snort.

  “Are you sure, Boss?” Worf said dubiously. He had taken to using the same title for Tom as the bank team. “This looks some kind of official installation.”

  The faces behind Worf looked more worried than puzzled.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Tom leaned back from reading the sign and examined the wire-topped chain-link fence more closely. Neither the sign nor the new installation were things he’d seen on his last visit long ago. The sturdy obstruction disappeared into the woods on both sides of the road. Deep drainage ditches complicated the task of anyone who might try to bypass the gate. “The guy that runs this has a sense of humor. This feels like something he would do.”

  A small junction box was mounted on the gate post. He popped the lid, revealing a button and a small grille.

  “Everyone stay cool and mount back up,” Tom said decisively, pressing the exposed button. “Two-Ton, this is Thunder at the gate,” he said, and after waiting a beat, he repeated the call again.

  A minute later the grille issued tinny scratches.

  “Thunder, that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, with friends,” Tom said, releasing the button as he finished talking.

  “Did you bring my hat?” the voice inquired.

  “Yeah, I brought the Eagles hat you wanted,” Tom replied.

  “That’s got to be a code, right?” In the car Worf looked at Kaplan.

  “Yeah, a real simple one,” Kaplan answered, turning the engine on. “The challenger asks for an in-extremis verification, in order to see if we are forcing Tom to get us inside. Tom answers with a sports team whose color corresponds to our situation. The New York Eagles have green jerseys. Green means everything is legit.”


  “That’s pretty cool, actually,” Astroga piped up from the last bench seat. “Gotta remember that one.”

  “How about that handle?” Worf asked, leaning back in his seat. “Thunder? How do you suppose the Boss caught that handle?”

  “The whole nickname is Thunderblast,” Kaplan mused. “That one I don’t know. Way too cheesy to be legit though. There gotta be a story. He prefers ‘Train,’ so we all call him Thunder.”

  A loud buzz sounded and the gate slid aside while the motor hummed efficiently.

  “This guy has power, whoever he is,” Astroga observed. “I’ll offer free handies to that voice if they have hot water showers and they’re ready to share.”

  Worf rolled his eyes.

  * * *

  The road improved remarkably just past the gate and the vehicle ascended past a few more twists and turns before being halted by a single empty-handed man. Tall, the ruddy faced man was another member of the shaved head and a sharp beard club. His hands were empty, but otherwise he wore a complete set of up-to-date tactical equipment, including a very short black rifle hanging from a friction strap.

  “Only one guard?” Worf said critically. “Seems a little…light.”

  “Left side, in the trees,” Kaplan said, grunting. “Dirt mound with dark green moss. See the bipod? That’s a belt fed. You can count on more than one if Tom’s description of this crew was accurate.”

  “Not seeing i…” Word said, but then paused. “Wait, ah. Got it. Nice camo. Gotta love competent allies. They really are allies, right?”

  * * *

  “Tom?” the man called out as the lead SUV stopped short. “That really you?”

  Tom eased his door open with no particular haste, keeping his hands well in view. He paused for a moment to inhale. The pines scented the air, and that simple breath made him feel a little better.

  “Yeah, Robby,” he replied. “It’s me. And some friends. Mind if we unass? Everyone is carrying, except for the kids, but I vouch for all of us.”