by John Ringo
Initially, he had busted his ass trying different ground based dipole antennas, hoping that he could reach a government or military organization from the site’s relatively high hilltop location. The Executive Committee’s prohibition on transmitting was probably a good idea, but afterwards he was reduced to listening for news. The news all pointed one way: downhill.
Eventually, the number of active broadcasters was almost zero. As a result, he rarely got a chance to transmit, other than talking to their own scavenging parties within a smallish radius.
There wasn’t even enough chatter to rotate the radio watch apart from Gunner checking during morning and evening hours.
It had been nearly four months since they had all run from New York. Apart from Kendra, there weren’t really any familiar faces anymore. Some things were familiar—the PC police were alive and well. In an ironic twist, one of the people that his team had saved from Washington Square Park was that skinny schoolteacher Christine.
She had become the most aggressive enforcer of proper speech, organizer of mandatory community meetings and more recently, had been trying to get Randall to support her notion to broadcast by radio that their camp location was a “beacon for a newer, better humanity.”
Hanging a bloody steak around his neck and going for an indefinite unarmed stroll out the front gate was a simpler way to commit suicide, in Randall’s opinion. Every time he happened to catch another heart-breaking final transmission from a station that went off the air, Randall considered his options.
He’d never been a quitter, but it seemed increasingly likely that he was never going to connect with Worf, any of the bank dudes or that hyperactive little psycho Cathe. She had been a pain in the ass, but she hadn’t lacked for gung-ho spirit.
Randall hoped that she had sold her life expensively.
Hoo-ah, Specialist Astroga.
The CB radio speaker popped and scratched. Someone had broken squelch in range of his antenna. There weren’t any foraging parties out at the moment so it might be someone screwing with a radio in one of their remaining vehicles.
He swiveled his head in time to hear a transmission so clear that the sender could have been in the CHU with him.
“Site Blue, Site Blue, this is Bank of the Americas’ Unit Two, transmitting in the blind, how copy, over?”
Randall lunged for the radio, managing to knock over an adjoining table, spill his coffee and painfully bark his shin on a stool before he reached the mic.
“Station calling Blue, say again, over,” he finally panted.
“This is Unit Two, Bank of the Americas’ te— Hey, Gunner, is that you?”
“HOLE LEE SHIT! ASTRO WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”
* * *
Head wounds are funny things.
A tiny twenty-two caliber bullet can penetrate the skull and bounce about the interior, thoroughly and lethally scrambling the target’s gray matter. A rifle round can strike the relatively elastic skull of a younger person and literally ricochet around the external circumference of the braincase before exiting on the opposite side, leaving the victim alive but suffering from a hematoma that might eventually kill them, or not.
And sometimes head wounds turn out to be the nonlethal, heroic grazes made famous in unrealistic Hollywood movies.
Luck, really.
Paul had woken up with a splitting headache, one eye glued shut, a pillowcase over his head and his hands still tied behind his back. He listened for a long time before he tried to move, but it was as silent as the grave. His thirst had eventually overcome his caution.
After what felt like several years of inchworming on the gritty floor, he had found the sharp edge of what had turned out to be a ceramic tile. Persistence, desperation and a willingness to abrade his swollen hands had resulted in the eventual parting of the nylon tie that had pinioned his wrists. After that it was a piece of cake.
Except for, you know, being abandoned alone and weaponless in a town that still attracted infected. Oh, and apparently he was a kill-on-sight target for the organization that he had been fighting to protect.
Groovy.
Once he’d cleared the cobwebs, Paul realized where he was. A glimpse at the street outside confirmed his location. He recognized the main thoroughfare of the hamlet a few miles outside the main gate of Site Blue itself.
He’d survived, that was the main thing. A rain shower had provided enough water to get the crusted scab off his head and restore vision to both eyes.
He’d been lurking inside a small office building, very cautiously double-checking already cleared rooms for anything to eat when he heard a vehicle.
It took him a minute to screw up enough courage to carefully peek out.
* * *
“Why are we stopping here?” Cathe Astroga didn’t yell, but she definitely wasn’t using her “inside voice.” “You all heard Gunner. He’s alive!”
The battered silver blue Suburban slowed and rolled to a stop in the middle of road. No infected were in view, and the usual assortment of desiccated corpses, broken windows and wrecked vehicles occasioned no comment from the experienced members of the team.
The fourth rider was Luke Connor. He was the oldest surviving family member of one of the redoubt’s families. His parents had died getting their kids almost all the way to the hideout when they became symptomatic. His father had done for his mother, and told Luke to drive his sisters the rest of the way to the camp where they had summered only the year before. Now the quiet, stocky red-haired high school senior rounded out their crew.
Everywhere he looked, he saw a new reminder of what everyone else in the car had known for a while. It really was all gone.
“Shut up, Specialist,” Sergeant Copley said, fully back in Army mode. “Gunner ain’t going anywhere. You heard what he said about the camp. We can wait here to give it a think and see if we can connect with Smith when he shows up.”
“Now that we’re mostly out of the valley, Tom might be able to hear the radio,” said Risky. “We’re only four miles from the Site. We’re better off going to the camp together, if things are as…different as Randall said.”
She looked at Copley.
“What do you think?”
“Well, Gunner is a pretty steady troop,” Copley said, considering. “He isn’t prone to making shit up. If something feels hinky, well, he’s probably right. How long can we wait here?”
Before Risky could answer, Luke excitedly called out, “Zombie, right side!”
He began to lower his window to take a shot, but Astroga took in the “zombie” with a single glance and delivered her now patented head chop to the inexperienced, if keen-eyed teen.
“Check fire, hero,” she ordered calmly. “Your ‘zombie’ is fully dressed. Which means that he isn’t a zombie. Sheesh, you’re more excitable than a second lieutenant.”
She took another look.
“Hey, does that guy look familiar…?”
* * *
“You’re saying that the bitch had you shot?” Copley asked Paul, not waiting for him to finish guzzling water one of their canteens. “Hey, slow down—you need to sip that or it’s gonna come back up.”
They’d given him some water and started cleaning up his nasty, if superficial, head wound, while he explained the current situation.
“Yeah,” Paul gasped. “Sorry. It tastes so good!” He wiped his face with a dirty shirt sleeve, carefully avoiding the bandage work that Astro had taped in place. “Yeah, she had her crew dump me. I don’t know who the shooter was or if he actually thought I was a zombie. I remember getting drugged and I remember waking up. The rest is guesswork. Kohn and her dog, Schweizer—they knew I wasn’t a zombie. It’s payback. She must’ve decided I was a threat after I turned down her offer to set her up as the permanent executive at Site Blue.”
His rescuers muttered angrily, crammed inside the Suburban, which in turn was tucked into an overgrown side street, engine off and windows up.
“Kohn has full control
,” Risky asked, clearly considering the ramifications of what he’d already told them. “Kendra belongs to Kohn now. And everyone thinks that you’re dead.”
“Pretty much,” Paul said. “Kohn won’t tolerate any competition. As soon as someone from the Bank shows up, they’ll become a threat.”
“Gunner told us that it’s been three days since they dumped you,” Risky said, looking around her little audience and stopping at Paul. “And that a significant force of visitors has shown up.”
“I don’t know how long I was out exactly, Risky,” Paul answered. “And I don’t know shit about visitors.”
“We need more information,” she said, tapping the map opened on the dash. “If Tom reaches the camp before us, it would be bad.”
“He is the worst possible threat to Kohn’s legitimacy and she knows it,” Paul said. “I don’t think that she could have him shot out of hand though, especially if you were already there, visible to the camp.”
“Why not just roll up and let them see Rune’s still alive?” Astroga offered. “It would show that she’s a lying, backstabbing, murderous—”
“Because her people would have to start shooting right away,” Paul replied. “And there’s still more of them than us.”
“Not to mention we should try to save as many as we can,” Copley added. “Even the sympathetic ones wouldn’t be certain which way to jump, and they’re going to be too scared as long as Kohn is sitting at the head of the table.”
“Yes,” Risky said. “Joanna Kohn is the main thing. So let’s see about changing seat assignments.”
* * *
“Leave your guns in the car!” an unfamiliar man in jeans and a red Pendleton shirt ordered the foursome.
“My name is Sergeant Copley,” replied Worf. “This is Unit Two from Bank of the Americas. You know, the folks that own this camp?”
“I don’t care if you’re God himself,” came the answer. “No one inside armed. Either leave the guns in the car or drive off. Try to stay there and we’ll purely riddle that fancy ride of yours.”
“Who’s in charge?” demanded Risky. Coached by Rune during the day that they had spent treating his injury and debriefing one another while they waited in vain for Smith to show, she drew on the magic name. “Is Joanna Kohn here? Inform her that we’ve arrived.”
“Umm…” the guard said, looking uncertain for the first time. “Look, no guns, really. Standing orders. Leave someone in the truck to watch your stuff, and I’ll walk you to the meeting where she’s at. Best I can do.”
Risky exchanged looks with Worf. After the longest radio conversation with Randall that they had dared, all had agreed to conceal that they had been in contact. It seemed expedient to see how they were welcomed by hosts who believed them ignorant of recent history.
It would also give them the chance to distinguish between the guilty and the gullible by confirming who knew that Rune had been murdered and who merely believed him infected and then eliminated.
Worf pursed his lips and evaluated the defenses. In addition to the gate guard, two more men were visible at the top of the earthen berm that stretched in either direction, obscuring a view of the interior. An eight-foot wire fence was set along the bottom slope of the berm. Interestingly, there weren’t any dead infected in view.
At ground level, inside the gate, two more men hustled up, breathing hard. Both had the same weapon as the rest, the ubiquitous AR. None of the men looked particularly at ease as they handled their weapons, but they did appear to be nervously determined.
With a final squint, he nodded to Risky and unslung his carbine, laying it on the back seat.
“Astroga, you are in charge while we go inside,” he said. “If we aren’t back in two hours, go back to our last rally point and wait for contact. Got it?”
“Copy that, Sergeant,” Astroga said. For a wonder, she wasn’t lippy.
The guards waited patiently as Risky and Worf continued to divest themselves of weapons, finally standing aside to allow them into the compound.
“Follow me, please.”
* * *
Just before they completed their walk to the administration hall, Risky and Worf were met by one very relieved Specialist Randall.
“Man, am I glad to see you!” Gunner said, practically vibrating with excitement. “I thought you guys were all dead, it’s been so long!”
“Good to see you too, Gunner,” Copley replied as Risky exchanged hugs with Randall. “Glad that you made it!”
The two men exchanged pleasantries for a moment before Risky jumped in.
“Anything new?” Risky said, smiling for the benefit of the guard while eyeing Randall meaningfully. They had agreed to not reference Smith but to immediately alert each other if he came up on the radio. “Maybe something special on the menu?”
“Same old, same old,” replied Randall, “But mostly, I am sick of MREs. Not much hunting is allowed anymore.”
Risky began to ask about hunting as the entrance to the building hove into sight. The pair chatted casually, but Risky watched Copley survey the scene carefully.
“Hey, Gunner,” he asked. “Why isn’t anyone armed? Zombie apocalypse, yaknow?”
“Standing order from the Rules Committee,” Randall said. “No guns inside the compound. They’re all stored in the armory and guards or foragers draw them as required. The idea is to conserve ammunition and prevent accidents, they say. I kept this.”
He rotated one hip so that his kukri was obvious. “I don’t think that they like it, but no one has gotten around to actually saying no. Yet.”
“Who do you mean, they?” asked Risky.
“You’ll see,” replied Gunner.
They walked past two up-armored SUVs. The work looked factory done, even if the paint job was obviously a hand-applied rattle can treatment. Each had a large, capital “G” the doors. Copley hooked a thumb towards the nearest one.
“Nice whip.”
“Not ours,” Randall said. “And with that…”
“Let’s go,” urged the impatient guard. “The administrator is inside.”
* * *
At first Risky thought that the inside of the meeting hall only seemed dark because of the relatively bright exterior. Then she realized that although there were electrical fixtures, they were few in number. One of the brightest lights shone towards the head of the space. It illuminated a long, narrow table covered in a rough green cloth, behind which sat several people.
She recognized a few.
Joanna Kohn wore her familiar gray tunic, sitting behind a neatly hand lettered sign that read “Administrator.” To her right was a vaguely familiar man that Risky had met during the indoctrination period at Bank of America before the Fall. His sign read “Security” but his braided and beaded beard read “poser.” Additionally, the hapless female survivor that Tom had retrieved during his escape from Washington Park was there, perched on a folding seat behind a sign that read “Culture.” There were others in a variety of mismatched attire.
The opening of the outer door had interrupted the meeting.
“Administrator, these are the folks that just arrived,” their escort announced them. “They say that they’re from Bank of the Americas…” as eyes swiveled towards Risky and Copley, the guard belatedly added “…and that you know them.”
Absent any reason not to, Risky strode confidently forward, paced by Copley a half step behind. Risky sensed something was not quite right.
She hadn’t expected a welcoming parade or a party. She also hadn’t expected complete silence. She schooled her features and scanned the room as she halted at the last row of seats, all of which were occupied.
“Miss Khabayeva, welcome to Camp New Hope,” Kohn said, leaning back from where Schweizer had murmured in her ear a moment previous. “Are you traveling with Mr. Smith?”
“We’re alone,” Risky replied. “Just the four of us from the bank. We’ve been trying to reach this place for months.”
“Adm
inistrator, this answers my question,” a new, deep voice sounded to her right. It belonged to an enormous man who was standing to one side, in the shadows cast by the limited lighting. “I told you that our peaceful recovery party was attacked by a group that was from Bank of the Americas—and here they are, apparently allied with you. Interesting.”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Copley angrily. “We haven’t attacked anyone. Ever.”
“My name is Loki,” the hulking figure said, stepping fully into the light. He was dressed all in black, down to his clean plate carrier and its empty equipment pouches. A stained, buff-colored fireman’s turnout coat was folded over one arm. “And my boss has twenty dead men who would disagree with your statement. If you hadn’t killed them all.”
He turned back to Kohn.
“Now we talk about the return of the girl.” It wasn’t a question.
“Girl?” Risky said, instantly making the connection. Her anger flared and she turned to squarely face the much taller man. “Was your imbecile that tried to steal her from her family? Was your group of murderers who killed Durante?”
“So you do have her,” Loki said, carefully looking over his questioner before turning back to the table. “Kohn, I asked nicely already. Now, I’m telling you. Return the girl. Turn the head of this group over to us. Do it, and we’ll leave you alone.”
He looked at the two electric lights that struggled to illuminate the meeting room.
“We might even be able to trade for supplies that you could use…”
Risky watched the byplay intently, gauging the room and waiting for her moment. As she began to shift her weight onto the balls of her feet, she felt Copley firmly grip her elbow. She glanced back to see him staring at her intently.
She heard Loki finish.
“…or don’t give me what I want, and we’ll come take it anyway. And anything else we want.”
At the head of the room, distanced by her desktop, Kohn met Loki’s eyes squarely.
“I do not respond well to threats, Mr. Loki,” she said acidly. “If you want to treat with us politely, you can return tomorrow. If you wish to trade, trade. If you prefer to fight, fight. That is all. You are dismissed.”