River of Night

by John Ringo

  He glanced across the barn at the table where Worf, Astroga, Ralph and Eric were being run through a class on the antique machine gun by Junior. The tall, broad-shouldered youth was developing a progressively goofier expression as Astroga asked questions from close range. The younger daughter Jordan, who had been the ammo bearer for her brother, was at the briefing table sharing a bench with her parents. She also shared their same skeptical look.

  “I agree with Robbie,” Pascoe said, squinting at Tom. “You done fucked up, Thomas. But that doesn’t mean that I have any better ideas.”

  “Wait a minute, Davey!” Robbins said angrily. “You’re ready to pull up sticks and take our families on the road, out there?!”

  “In case you forgot, Rob,” Dave Pascoe said, then spit into an empty beer can, “Smitty was the man who gave us all the heads-up that got us here before the virus spread. Took a mite of risk doing that, too. He ain’t said anything about it yet, but I’ll bet my last roll of Cope that he also toted along vaccine for everyone.” He looked back over at Tom. “Right?”

  “We have vaccine,” Tom admitted. “We’ve followed the refrigeration protocol so it should be good. Can’t recommend it for anyone under twelve, ten at the lowest.”

  “Better than nothin’,” Pascoe said, grinning at his old teammate. “Like that vaccine, a lot of really useful stuff, infrastructure, is going to go bad without someone to tend it. Better we try to get to some of it sooner than later.”

  “Given the scenario that we find ourselves in, Tom, what we need is time,” Robbins Senior said as he looked first at Pascoe and then at Tom. “The tangos that you bumped into could be heading this way right now, correct?”

  “Yes,” Tom answered. “But we bloodied them pretty good. If they were going to pursue instantly, we would have seen them already. While things get sorted for the move here, we can send a couple of teams to double back till one or both are in contact and delay the shit out of them. If we give them a second bloody nose, I think that they will chase us in order to defeat us in detail this time.”

  He leaned over the map, and started tracing routes between the camp, Site Blue and the nearest dam.

  “So we make two teams. Put some demo and say, four shooters in each truck. We’ll retreat towards Blue while you head for the plant. Each scout truck covers one of the possible approaches to Blue. If we stumble into them unexpectedly, we can run faster than they can push, so we buy you time. If they chase us all the way to Blue, they bounce off the Site’s defenses, and we still buy you time.”

  “How do we coordinate?” queried Pascoe.

  “Mostly, we don’t,” Tom said. “The ridges limit VHF to line of sight. HF might work if we can get a decent antenna, good tropospheric conditions and an operator that knows his ass from a hole in the ground. We can set up a comms window once a day or so, but don’t count on it unless we can get to a high point, or we’re really close. On your end, start at Fort Loudon, then Watts Bar and Chickamauga. There’s one more past Chattanooga, but getting that close to a city is dangerous. If the first three are clearly beyond restart, then come back here. We’ll do the same.”

  “Delaying tactics are supposed to be a specops specialty,” Matt Detkovic said, suddenly speaking up. “That’s your thing.”

  Detkovic was a member of their little brotherhood, but his family hadn’t made it to the refuge unscathed. He’d taken the necessary actions to keep his wife from harming anyone after she turned, and as a result of heroic efforts, he hadn’t lost any of their large brood on the way to the refuge.

  “Strictly speaking, the Australian SAS prefers the word ‘commando,’” Tom replied mildly. “But I agree. You were First Group at Fort Lewis, right?” He referred to the U.S. Army First Special Forces Group which, pre-Fall, had been based outside Seattle.

  “Yeah, and I was an combat engineer before that. E-9 when I got out,” Detkovic said, looking around the barn. “Who do you think built all this, and trained all the kids?” A chorus of groans and jeers sounded. “Well, me and some of these slack-ass no-loads.”

  “Well, Sarn-Major, welcome to the zombie war,” Tom said, essaying a smile. “We can plan for a few more hours, then get some more sleep. I’ll pick the scouts while Robbie, Kap and you organize the movement for everyone else. A day of prep, maybe two, and we hit the road. Rendezvous at the river in a week or so.”

  “Fucking SAS,” Robbins said, scowling at his guest and then turned to his wife. “What do you think, Deb? Shoot him or feed him?”

  She pursed her lips and looked from her son who was balancing on the edge of his seat and then back to Tom’s face. Her gray eyes were level. “We try it his way. I can always shoot him later.”

  “Okay, show me where on the Tennessee,” Rob growled at Tom.

  “Here,” Tom said, stabbing the map on the table. “We’ve got some options, but I figure we try this place first. Little place called Spring City. Right next to Watts Bar hydroelectric power plant.”

  * * *

  “Okay, your turn, kid,” Robbins Junior said to Eric.

  The Robbins family maintained an armory for all of the families, but a few of the recent arrivals had expressed an interest in learning how to use a couple of the more unusual items, including the large antique machine gun that had caught their eye during the arrival of Smith’s wandering band.

  In the background, Copley and Pascoe were overseeing a fundamentals of combat shooting class for the older kids.

  Worf, Astroga and Ralph had rapidly grasped the fundamentals of reloading the M1919 as well as clearing basic feed jams but neither Katrin’s nor Eric’s obvious interest was buttressed by any previous experience. Still, they’d stepped up, and Eric went first.

  The gangly middle schooler was about the size of his adopted mentor, Astroga, but lacked any of her confidence. He hesitantly grasped the weapon, pulling the stock to himself as the weight remained on the workshop table. As his hands sought the feed tray cover latch, Astroga slapped his hand.

  “What’s the first thing that you always do with a weapon?” she demanded.

  “Uh,” Eric stammered, obviously nervous about being the focus of the attention of three adults.

  “You wanted to learn,” Astroga added. “Settle down and remember. We already covered this during range time with the M4s.”

  “Check to see that it’s on safe,” he replied.

  “Right, so do it,” she said encouragingly. “And?”

  “Visually inspect to see if it’s unloaded,” he replied, darting a look at Junior, whose intimidating teenage scowl deepened.

  The lesson proceeded and Eric’s hands became a little more confident.

  * * *

  “I want to stay with you, Miss Risky!” Elf was not happy about the plan.

  Once the combined group had accepted Smith’s leadership, the preparations had moved forward quickly, and within two days the scout teams were set to depart. Elf, the ’tweens and the other children were going to stay an additional day at the ranch while the balance of the households were packed and winterized. The ranchers and the noncombatants from the original bank party would be in the main group that proceeded towards the river, led by Kaplan and Robbins. Meanwhile, Smith had composed two smaller groups entirely made up of fighters. In addition to gathering intelligence his teams would find ways to discourage or at least delay possible pursuit.

  “I’ll only be gone for a short while,” Risky said, reassuring the diminutive girl. “Mr. Smith and his friends are going to protect us and I’m going to help them. I’ll only be gone a few days, I promise.”

  Risky looked up and saw Katrin watching with sad eyes.

  “Will you take her? I have to go,” Risky said as she gently untangled Elf’s hands from her shirt. “Katrin will care for you until I’m back, little one.”

  Unbidden, vivid memories and emotions swelled inside her. Risky’s eyes brimmed while she fought to keep a smile on her face, watching the teen lead their newest rescuee away.

&n
bsp; Standing, she spotted Smith finishing a conversation. Risky sighed. The only times to approach Tom Smith were always going to be either inconvenient or awkward. Squaring her shoulders, she marched over.

  “Hi Risky,” Tom said, looking up. “Are you still sure that you want to come with the second blocking group?”

  “Why not?” she replied. “Makes most sense. Durante trained me himself. We have worked together. I’m, how you say, ‘read-in’ for team procedures from BERT. But before we go, you and I need to talk.”

  She watched Tom’s light brown eyes widen a trifle at the sound of her last words.

  Infected attacking? Smith would keep calm. Evacuate the bank? Smith was relaxed in the clutch. But pre-Fall or post-Fall; why is it that a woman’s informing a man that it was time to talk would consistently inspire that kind of reaction?

  “I must say something, Tom. Even though it cost Dave his life, I don’t regret saving Elf. But I’m so very sorry that he died. I know that he was your friend.”

  “Gravy was my friend, yes,” Smith said carefully. “But he was my responsibility. The girl, however tragic her situation, was not my responsibility. Not until you made her our problem. I know that you feel bad about Durante’s death, but he was. My. Responsibility. And you made a decision about that without asking me. Without asking him.”

  “Tom, look!” Risky gestured towards the corner in the barn where Katrin and Cheryl were hanging out, attempting to pull the newest refugee into their play. “What do you see?”

  Smith looked at Risky, then back at the kids. They were sitting around the children’s table. Jonsdottir was weaving a circlet of flowers and trying the fit on Elf’s head.

  “They’re kids, Risky,” Smith said, shaking his head. “They’re just goofing around. I don’t see what you mean.”

  “All four are orphans, Tom,” she said gently. “They know it. I understand about your responsibility. To the people that you brought out of New York. To bank. But if you complete bank arrangements and those orphans all die, is it truly honorable? Why feel bound to some promise when what’s real, when what is right now has changed so much?”

  “I haven’t changed. I will live up to my agreement,” Smith said. Only a slight strain betrayed Smith’s frustration with the implication that he might somehow not honor the bargain that he made with BotA. “What on earth makes you think that I won’t?”

  “That’s just it,” Risky said. “I know that you will. My question is what do you owe a dead person?”

  “Risky, I just don’t understand what you are asking. Who’s dead—besides Durante?”

  “What I’m saying is that the bank, as you knew it, the way it was when you worked there, it’s gone…” Risky ignored his jibe about their dead with an effort. “There’s no bank. There’s just some scattered and scared people who used to work for your bank. There’s some digital records about who owed money to who. But the system that moved money around and made the economy work? The system that we fought to protect long enough for someone, anyone, to find a better alternative to the vaccine we made, or even a cure—that system? Is dead.”

  As she spoke, Risky felt the rightness of her words. She pushed away her anger at an unfair world which seemed at every step to only grow worse. Risky knew better than to expect fairness. Fairness, justice, even basic survival—these were things that she, they, would have to build. These were things that one fought for. Again, her tired eyes began to brighten with incipient tears and both her articles and pronouns suffered.

  “What we have is this!” She tapped herself on the chest. “And this!” She lightly poked his sternum and then made a short gesture to the side where others were carefully not listening. “All them including those we rescue. Protecting is honorable course. Your plan to rebuild, to turn on power and kill infected, that plan is plan worth fighting and dying for, not helping some escaped banker count money while world burns. Why go to Site Blue at all?!”

  “I can’t walk away from Site Blue, Risky,” Tom said gently. He stepped a little closer. “Paul is there, other people that I’m responsible for. I pledged to do everything that I could to save the bank. The people who followed my plan believed in me. I’ve got to redeem my word to my satisfaction—even if no one else sees me do it. Or agrees.”

  Risky watched him search for words.

  “I knew that I was writing a blank check when I took the bank’s salt.” He chuckled for a moment. “Blank check. Heh. So, I’m going to see this through.”

  Risky felt, rather than watched, as Tom drew close enough to hold her hands. At this distance, she could see that his eyes were speckled with gold.

  “After that, then maybe there is something else for me to focus on. Maybe someone else.”

  “Oh!” Before replying, Risky swallowed and schooled her features at his revelation, though her hands trembled slightly in Tom’s warm grasp. “Oh. Is not the ordinary world any longer, Thomas. We can’t count on later. There isn’t time to wait for dinner invitation. I know that you can’t walk away from your duty, even if I think it is stupid. That’s part of my problem. Is part of the reason that I brought the boat back. I think that you’re the right person.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes.

  “Risky, I am very sorry that I am making you upset,” Tom said, as they both continued to ignore their audience. She felt his grip tighten as he squeezed her hands. He searched her eyes. “But what do you think that I’m the person for, if not to live up to my word? To save everyone? To kill all the infected? To be with?”

  “Yes,” she said, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly through her nose. “Yes. All of it. For now, we get to Site Blue. You redeem word. Then we talk about the rest. Make promise that you won’t die being brave and stupid! Agree?”

  “I promise to try,” Tom replied, letting go of her hands to hug her softly, as though she were spun glass.

  “Try hard!” Risky said, getting the last word, and then she fiercely returned his embrace.

  * * *

  The homestead smoldered in the background. It was a testament to the horrors that had become commonplace that no one blinked at the smell of what was literally a funeral pyre for most of the family that had declined their invitation to join the Gleaners.

  After a brief exchange of shots convinced Eva that taking the house wasn’t worth the casualties, she had ordered the house fired. The one Gleaner casualty wasn’t too bad, despite his hollering as his wound was dressed.

  Jason had worked his way forward alongside another of the original Gleaner Guard whose thick, almost squat appearance had prompted the former cop to mentally dubbed him “Short Round,” even though he heard others call him Dragon. Like the other Guards, his equipment was several notches up from that of the average Gleaner. Still, it had required three of their improvised incendiaries before the roof properly caught fire. Then they had sat back while the house burned, expecting the survivors to bolt.

  The ex-cop had watched the windows and doors from an improvised hide and waited until the second floor sniper used the same window once too often. Jason knew he wouldn’t forget the sight picture through his variable power Leupold scope, the crisp release of the trigger, the briefest blossom of red against the white-haired man’s work shirt.

  As the roof began to collapse, an older woman and teenage girl had run out, their hair smoldering. No one else tried to escape. Briefly, Jason had heard a church hymn being sung inside.

  Eva had inspected the new captives before questioning them, almost gently. Jason saw that her demeanor was not unkindly and he’d relaxed.

  Briefly.

  Then Eva had turned the mother over to the convoy’s rank and file. The new victim didn’t start screaming until they threw her daughter onto the ground next to her.

  * * *

  Afterwards, the Gleaners took advantage of the open-sided barn to eat in the shade and perform simple maintenance before resuming their route.

  Jason was certain that his growing moral flexibility
wouldn’t stretch to actual participation, so he had elected to excuse himself from the just concluded public rapes. Shooting an armed combatant was one thing. What followed was revolting. In the scheme that Green had built, it was as necessary as the rest, perhaps. Despite the absence of any objection at his abstinence, Jason saw a few speculative looks came his way. Even after the horror of metro D.C. during the height of the plague, the mercy killing of his partner and all the rest, he wasn’t fully comfortable with…all this.

  Green had a plan to get to some kind of civilization and his was the only organized group, though.

  Jason was familiar with the adage about eggs and omelets. In a broken world with billions dead, the means justified the ends, right? Even God had turned his back. And he wasn’t a cop anymore. Not his problem. He just had to keep repeating that to himself. He’d get around to believing eventually.

  Meanwhile, he tried to continue to get a feeling for what he had to work with. He laid down his Colt Enhanced Patrol Rifle, no doubt scavenged by the Gleaners from an abandoned police vehicle. He pushed out the takedown pins and levered open the receiver marked “Law Enforcement Use Only.” The little auto sear modification that he’d fashioned from stiff wire was black with carbon. In fact, the entire fire control group was dirty, probably due to the Russian ammunition they’d been using.

  “What’s with the blue latex gloves all the time, man?” Jason said as he reached for the rags next to where Short Round was cleaning a rifle on a workbench.

  The Gleaner had actually worn the gloves during the fight but afterwards carefully stripped them off before beginning to work on his rifle.

  “Are you seriously asking me if I am from the Triads because I’m Asian?” Short Round said, giving the cleaning rod a vicious twist. “Zombie apocalypse or not, that’s some fucked up stereotyping, man!”

  “Easy, easy!” Jason replied, holding up his hands placatingly. “The neck tattoo, the occasional bit of Chinese slang, the fact that almost all of the people that Green pulled off the prison buses were from organized crime of one sort of another, you know…”