by John Ringo
“Sounds like it,” Pascoe said with a worried look towards their little laager, just out of sight. “I hate to give away our position, but I don’t want to wrestle with a lot of zombies and the big gun will chop them up good. I’ll initiate and you can use the flash to aim in.”
As Pascoe began to aim towards the sound, there was a thump, an inarticulate but clearly querulous growl and finally a shout of alarm.
That wasn’t an infected.
* * *
Being woken from a sound sleep by the sound of nearby fully automatic fire is a very unpleasant experience. Even after the recent gunfights, and despite not being fully asleep, Tom still spasmed in alarm when he was roused. The heavy chugging of Junior’s weapon was distinctive, sounding like nothing else in the Fallen world.
He rolled over to see Ralph’s wide open eyes at close range.
“Start the truck!” Tom yelled. “Lights off, keep it running and be ready to punch it when we get back.”
Without waiting to acknowledge Fat Ralph’s shaky nod, Tom shrugged into his plate carrier and grabbed his rifle and ran for the short path that led to the observation post. Ahead, the bass timbre of the vintage machine gun had been joined by a growing rattle of what had to be return fire. As he pounded into direct line of sight of the firing position, the gunner finished his first belt. Absent the overwhelming bass of the thirty cal, Tom noted three things immediately: first, his tinnitus had once again been stimulated to a fine, fresh high pitched whine. Second, despite the strength of the tinnitus, he could still hear the sharp popping of several rifles. And over it all, the building sound of howling.
As Junior began to reload, Tom dove into a prone position and immediately starting shooting into the center of a group that had been lit by the muzzle flash of the big gun. To his right, he could hear Pascoe cursing as he tried to neatly flake out a second belt. His hearing was too far gone for him to make out the clicking and racking sounds that Junior must have been making as he frantically tried to reload the gun under stress.
Tom knew that there were several qualities of infantry combat that could not be appreciated until they were experienced. Among them was a truism—that in combat even simple things become very, very hard. Junior had likely been drilled on reloading and clearing malfunctions hundreds of times by his veteran father. He was good enough to have familiarized the other members of the team on the gun. None of that could prepare him for the shattering experience of shooting at men, being shot at, and still calmly, precisely reloading a finicky mechanism. It didn’t help that dark shapes, both howling infected and screaming men, loomed in the darkness.
“Get that gun up, Pascoe!” Tom yelled, adding, “Changing mags!”
Before he could insert a fresh magazine in the well of his rifle, an infected, drawn by movement and sound, sprinted towards him. It stumbled short of its target, tripping into the gun pit and falling across Junior and Pascoe. Tom made a fast draw with his pistol and simultaneously jumped onto the infected’s back, pinning it with his knees. Despite his desperate haste, he very carefully placed his Sig-Sauer pistol in contact distance of the thrashing infected’s head, where it lay between Pascoe and Junior, before safely drilling a round through its skull and then into the dirt beneath.
The sound of incoming fire increased. Tom felt first a punch on his chest plate and then the now familiar impact of a bullet, accompanied immediately afterwards by a freezing sensation on his leg, as he absorbed another wound in his left thigh.
“It’s jammed!” cried Junior desperately, hammering at the feed tray.
“Leave it, run!” screamed Pascoe. He raised to one knee and fired single shots as rapidly as he could reacquire each subsequent sight picture.
Simultaneously a knot of infected ran into the pit.
Instantly Tom was in the zone. His pistol came up, the front sight post covered the zombie’s center of mass and Tom stroked the trigger four times before the target stumbled. Tom pivoted fractionally, delivering another series of rounds into the closest infected before it too dropped. The next infected closed all the way and bit Tom’s plate carrier, helpfully holding mostly still as Tom jammed his Sig against its chest, emptying the magazine.
“Tom, get the kid out of here!” Pascoe screamed, but Tom still had company.
He tore the RMJ hawk out of the Kydex sheath which he’d slung below his plate carrier. It came free in his hand and he began using short, economical strokes. He deliberately rejected the temptation to take a really big swing that might bury his weapon in a target for too long. The paracord handle stayed firm in his grip despite the blood that started to cover everything.
Another infected loomed out of the darkness and he tore out its throat with an efficient forehand stroke. A screaming man stumbled against his shin, hag-ridden by a zombie that bit at his shoulder. Tom hacked downwards, killing the man first with a blow to the back of the neck, and then spun the hawk to take the zombie in one eye with the spike. A sudden hot wetness splashed across his face, as the arterial blood from the gaping wounds briefly jetted in all directions.
“Tom, we ARE leaving!” Pascoe yelled, trying to tow the teenager away from the stubborn machine gun.
Tom joined him as they dragged Junior backwards. As the boy finally lurched into a crouch, abandoning his father’s weapon, Tom heard Pascoe’s firing resume, but the despite the very large amount of enemy fire, surprisingly few rounds were actually striking near them.
“Pascoe, go dark!” Tom ordered.
It wasn’t Tom’s first rodeo and he knew how confusing nighttime engagements could be. Their best chance was to deny the numerically superior enemy an aiming point. The teen was already moving down the trail, as ordered.
The two of them stumbled after Junior, Pascoe running into every branch, and falling down more than once.
Tom’s M4 banged against his hips and back as it dangled on its sling. He held onto his tomahawk, but used his empty hand to grab Pascoe and half drag him the remaining distance to the truck despite the growing burning in his leg.
Behind them, firing continued as their assailants continued to shoot towards both zombies and their now departed prey. The screams from the injured men were nearly indistinguishable from those of the zombies.
* * *
Jason couldn’t hear or see any more incoming fire.
“Cease fire!” he began repeating at the top of his lungs. He could barely hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
A mere two dozen repetitions were required to get most of the Gleaners to stop shooting, only to start again when one man shot a still mobile zombie. Jason had to repeat the drill, twice more, before silence finally reigned. Jason pulled the remaining men into a single line, spread in a shallow C shape across the front of place where the machine gun had been. After a few silent minutes, he made half the survivors slowly stand, and walk forward.
The gun was still there, as were several dead or mostly dead zombies, one of their own men—who was most definitely dead—a lot of blood.
And exactly zero enemy.
Well, fuck.
CHAPTER 13
The bag over Paul’s head was speckled with blood.
“Do zombies even sleep?” asked the newly appointed security guard. “This guy has been limp for hours.”
“After we confirmed the diagnosis I had him tranked,” Schweizer said, lowering the tailgate on the diesel pickup. “Just get him off the truck. We’re the only three that know the whole story. We dump him, you shoot him and we go, right?”
“Whoa, what? Why didn’t we just do this at camp?” whined the former townie. “Just bury his ass in the ditch outside the gate, like any other shambler.”
“The administrator doesn’t want a martyr, considering that he cost us so many lives,” said the manager by way of explanation. “Out of sight, out of mind. This place is nice and anonymous. No memorial. He can just fade away.”
“You shoot him then,” retorted the guard. �
��This is fucked up enough, I ain’t gonna murder this asshole. We held him down for you back in the camp. I figured it was a simple takeover, beat his ass and move on. I didn’t know you were getting him killed.”
“You think that you can back out now?” Schweizer said, resting his right hand on his pistol. The other two men were armed, but as in any pack, the pecking order was clear. “I’m not asking you to hate him. But I’m telling you: just get him off the fucking truck. Drag him inside and get rid of him. Leave the body for scavengers and off we go.”
The two men eyed their new boss. Kohn was the undisputed master of the camp and Schweizer was her man. There wasn’t any upside to making an issue of this.
At the moment.
“Sure, sure,” said the first. He turned to his companion. “Grab his feet and we’ll tote him inside, no sweat.”
Rune’s slack body was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Situated on a crossroads, the nondescript town was at the edge of the cleared zone around Site Blue. Zombies regularly filtered in. Either the feral dogs or infected could be relied upon to clean up any remains.
The two men grabbed Rune’s feet and towed him inside while Schweizer clambered back in the truck.
Inside they stopped in what had been a convenience store.
“How do you want to do this?” asked the first.
“I don’t,” replied the second. “You talked me into this bullshit, you do it.” Suiting action to temperament he immediately walked out.
The first rolled his eyes. He drew his pistol and aimed it at the prone figure. Long seconds went by.
Killing another person is hard.
Pre-Plague, it was a well-established axiom that most rank and file soldiers will actively work to not shoot their opponents, even in the heat of battle. In other than special operations units, the majority of soldiers wouldn’t shoot, or would shoot to miss. Outside combat, it’s an even rarer person who can initiate lethal violence. Psychopaths aside, there is simply too strong an inhibition to killing. Executing an unresisting human, absent a strong compulsion such as revenge, is simply not possible for normally socialized humans.
Despite the horror of the Fall, most survivors were pretty normal. They were traumatized, sure. Often desperate, certainly. But they were ordinary rural and exurban folk who were just trying to cope. Unless you started the Fall as a sociopathic murderer, one usually did not become a emotionless killer afterwards. Kill attacking infected? Yep. Drop the hammer on someone you know to be a sentient human? At a time when humans were edging towards extinction? When that person was helpless?
Just.
No.
This new guard had been an ordinary exurban dad, then a scavenger, and then had briefly trained under the supervision of the same man he was supposed to shoot. He was no better equipped to murder in cold blood than any other average man.
He willed his disobedient finger to squeeze. The muzzle of the pistol wavered back and forth. The guard literally closed his eyes.
* * *
Outside, Schweizer watched the first guard walk out and stand by the tailgate. One minute went by. Five. Just as he was about to get out and stomp inside there was a single gunshot. Moments later the second guard exited, looking ashen. He walked towards the truck and nodded his head.
Good enough.
Schweizer cranked the engine over and waited for his newly initiated staff to get aboard.
* * *
Kendra stared at her coffee cup. Paul had loved coffee. Other customers in the dining facility respected her space, allowing her to brood alone. Joanna had allowed her several days to compose herself after the patch test on Paul had come back positive for H7D3. After the obvious diagnosis was confirmed, the security team…disposed of the new zombie.
Kendra didn’t want to know.
She felt like a different person, now. Her skin felt different. Her clothes, which hadn’t changed, were unfamiliar. The very color of what should be well-remembered surroundings appeared to be fundamentally different. Somehow.
Kendra didn’t know what this meant. Was she insane?
Did it matter?
She casually wondered what kind of person she was becoming in this place.
“Hey,” Christine said, sliding onto the bench alongside Kendra. “Ms. Kohn wants you.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Kendra replied flatly. “She said to take a few days.”
“Kendra, that was almost two weeks ago. You have been coming in here, ordering coffee, watching it cool and afterwards, walking the fenceline, every day for twelve days,” Christine said, pausing. “Look, I know ho—”
“Don’t even say it,” Kendra said, turning empty eyes towards the skinny blonde, who was leaning as far away as she could. “Just don’t. I’ll go see Kohn in a bit.”
Christine bit her lip and nodded. She got up and swiftly walked out. Normally, hurting Christine’s feelings—really anyone’s feelings—would have bothered Kendra.
She shrugged mentally.
Apparently, she was becoming the kind of person who didn’t give a fuck about that anymore.
She shoved her cold coffee away and stood.
* * *
Prior to Paul’s death, Kendra had always felt that the office of the camp administrator was mostly theater. She felt that the building layers of bureaucracy were equal parts playacting and self-aggrandizement. Sheepishly, she admitted that she sort of went along because that kind of hierarchical structure was familiar, even a little comforting.
It was what she knew.
Now she felt empty. The kabuki dance of guards at the Administration building and the secretary that warded Kohn’s door neither impressed nor reassured her. They were just things.
Not even particularly important things.
Kohn rose from behind her desk as Kendra knocked and stepped inside.
“Kendra, please sit down!” Kohn’s said, her voice low and pleasant. “I am sorry that I had to disturb you.”
They sat in two salvaged easy chairs, separated by a brown drum table. What looked like a genuine inlaid antique had been decorated with a hand-painted acrylic fleur de lis garnished in turn with violet flowers. Their garishness was lost on Kendra, who stared between her boots.
“I know that you are still processing our loss,” Kohn said.
“Our loss?” Kendra said, looking up, her eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. “Whose loss?”
“I know that you cared about him, Kendra,” the administrator said soothingly. “But we all depended upon him. Even if you feel like you lost the most, we all lost something.”
Kendra’s eyes focused past Kohn, looking at the interior wall of the office, a mere thousand meters away.
“I asked two of our staff to attend to Paul respectfully,” said Kohn after a very long pause. “I have a report that they did not. It…bothers me. However, I cannot take direct action for myself.”
“Attend?” Kendra said, her attention riveted. She leaned forward, her teeth unconsciously bared. “Does that fucking mean what I think it means?”
“Yes,” Kohn replied, instinctively leaning away a fraction of an inch before she grimaced for a moment and sat straight, schooling her calm mask back into place. “We had to euthanize Paul. I gave the orders, regretfully, but I gave them. I know that you might choose to hate me for that. It was necessary. He was infected. He had turned. You saw.”
“I know. I saw,” Kendra said, her voice cracking slightly. “So?”
“The two I trusted appear to have…” there was a slight hesitation. “…not followed my orders to the letter. There is a reasonable suspicion that they shot Paul out of hand. For sport.”
“WHAT?” Kendra said, exploding upright. “Who?!”
“Two recent immigrants to the camp who were failed trainees for Paul’s project,” Kohn said. “They were trying out to replace our security losses, which are grievous. We need all the help that we can get. However, I need you more. If we are to work together, then I have to let you do
this. I cannot hide it. If you choose to take action—well, it is yours to take. For the long term, for the greater good, we must have discipline. You worked in the security department of Bank of the Americas. Your actions will be accepted. You will enforce discipline. The rules of the camp that I administrate will be for all.”
“What are their names?” Kendra said. Moments ago, her eyes had brimmed with tears. Now they were hard. “And where are they, specifically?”
“Schweizer has the names,” Kohn replied. “I will direct him to give them to you.”
* * *
Tom had ordered Ralph not to stop at the last bridge on the route to Site Blue. The only hale member of their little team was their least experienced man and Tom didn’t really trust him to set the remaining orange bucket demolition charges, even under supervision. They would rely on speed to beat their pursuers to Site Blue.
If they continued to pursue, that is.
Tom had gotten lucky. The leg wound was mostly superficial, but he had disinfected and bandaged himself in order to give the wound a chance to knit.
Pascoe was worse off. He would probably keep his eye, but wooden splinters from a bullet impact on the trunk they’d used for a shooting rest had driven into his eyes, nose and mouth. The swelling was comical. When it receded they would know more about his long-term outlook.
Tom turned and looked into the back seat while Fat Ralph drove.
“So, how does everyone feel about a leisurely drive straight through to Site Blue?”
His gaze lingered on a glum-faced Junior, whose thigh was bandaged. The quadriceps had deep scratches and lacerations from the zombie attack and the opposite calf had caught three shotgun pellets, two of which remained in the muscle.
Pascoe shared the rear seat.
“Hot damn, we’re back in the cars!” Pascoe said jauntily. Beneath the bandaged eyes, his bright white teeth gleamed. “I love a good vehicle patrol! Let’s do this forever!”
“Better than walking around, getting shot and bit,” offered Junior.
“Fuckin’ A,” said Fat Ralph, who kept his eyes on the nice smooth road. “Fucking. A. Love me a road trip.”