Surviving The Dead (Short Story): Quick Killer & The Iceman

by Cook, James N.

  I let him get as far as pushing up onto his hands and then delivered another kick, this time to his liver. The liver is a bad place to get hit. The Vagus nerve runs behind it, and if it takes a good whack, the pain is as bad as a gunshot wound.

  White’s breath left him in a rush, and for a moment, all he could do was stare white-faced into the distance. Then he let out an agonized groan, clutched the right side of his body, and curled into the fetal position.

  I took a few steps back and looked at his friends. “Anyone else?”

  At this, Great Hawk stepped up behind me. In one hand he held a knife, and in the other his ancient tomahawk. I had seen him use both weapons in the past, and for the sake of the men arrayed against us, I hoped I would not have to see it again today.

  “You’re buddy here fucked up,” I said. “He picked a fight with the wrong guy and he got smacked down for it. Then he picked a fight with another wrong guy, and, well, you see the result.”

  I waved a hand at White. He was still curled up on the ground, trying to breathe.

  “So that’s twice today he screwed up. You want to make the same mistake?

  The men shuffled backward, their eyes shifting back and forth between my face and the weapons in Great Hawk’s hands. I could imagine what they were seeing—a lean guy who didn’t look like much, but had just dismantled a man they considered intimidating, and a nightmare of an Apache warrior with cold steel in his hands and death in his eyes. One of them spoke up and made the wise choice.

  “Fuck this,” the man said. “Sorry, Alan, but I didn’t sign up for this shit. Come on, guys.”

  And with that, the five of them left.

  FOUR

  Mijo Diego was crowded.

  I could smell the place two blocks before we arrived, which was half the reason I liked it so much. Hollow Rock mostly smelled like wood smoke and horse dung these days, so the scent of braised meat, roasted potatoes, and fried tortillas was a welcome respite. The other reason I liked Mijo Diego was the food, which was some of the best in town.

  After we had been seated, a waiter showed up and poured us some water. We ordered, and a short time later the waiter came back and set down our plates, along with a wooden container of warm tortillas and a bowl of créma fresca that was far and away better than anything I’d had before the Outbreak.

  When the waiter left, Great Hawk said, “You handled that well back there.”

  I spooned a dollop of créma onto my plate. “Tell that to Alan White.”

  The Hawk scoffed. “He got what he deserved. You could have done worse.”

  “True. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about the way things went down.”

  “It was his own doing. If he had been less belligerent, we would not have left him lying in the alley. And he would not be nursing bruised ribs in the morning.”

  I let out a breath and stared at the table. “The guy’s an asshole, but to be honest, I didn’t really want to hurt him. If I beat up every asshole I met, I’d never have time for anything else.”

  The Hawk’s mouth curved up a little. “Do you think we will see him in the store again?”

  I took a bite of roast pork and washed it down with water. “Maybe. Depends on how fragile his ego is, and how badly I bruised it. Never can tell with these things.”

  “He may go to the police.”

  I looked across the table. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he did, they’d come talk to us, and we’d give our version of things. That wouldn’t look too good for old Alan. Especially if they question the other guys. Not to mention he would have to publicly acknowledge me kicking the shit out of him.”

  Great Hawk pondered a moment. “I suppose you are right.”

  We ate in silence for a while. The restaurant buzzed and hummed around us. I loved it here this time of day. There was no electric lighting, only candles and lanterns. The restaurant was made of darkly stained wood, and the firelight gave it a soft, calming glow. It was the kind of environment where a man could forget about his day and think of other things. Like his son, and his wife, and maybe persuading the aforementioned wife into certain bedroom activities when she came home from work. Provided she wasn’t too tired, of course.

  My plotting was interrupted when the door opened and a man stepped into the lobby. Ordinarily, this would not have warranted much attention. Mijo Diego was popular, and people came and went all the time. But there was something about the man’s manner that sent up a flag. He was tense, wide-eyed, and slightly winded. There was also something furtive in his posture, as if he were trying very hard not to be noticed. Great Hawk shifted in his seat, and I knew he had picked up on it too.

  “Trouble, you think?” I said.

  “We will see.”

  The hostess addressed the man. He held up a finger and looked around the restaurant. After several seconds of searching, his gaze landed on me and lit up in recognition.

  I’m not much of a lip reader, but I’m fairly certain he told the hostess he was meeting someone and pointed in my direction. She smiled politely and let him pass. He set off on an intercept course straight for my table.

  I looked at the Hawk. “Why me?”

  “Because you, my friend, are a shit magnet.”

  I turned my head and watched the man approach. He was older, perhaps early fifties. His hair was gray, his clothes were well-made and stained from hard use, and his boots were of pre-Outbreak manufacture. By the dirt clods stuck to the soles and the dark, earth-stained color of his hands, I figured him for a farmer. When he arrived at my table, he nodded at Great Hawk and then fixed his eyes on me.

  “Mr. Riordan? Eric Riordan?”

  I took a bite of my food and spoke around it. “Who’s asking?”

  “Sir, my name is John Redstone. I…uh…well, I need your help with something. Something really important.”

  I blinked at him. “Is it business related? Because if it is, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

  I waited. He stood and looked around nervously.

  Finally I said, “So what do you need?”

  His mouth opened and closed several times. His eyes grew worried and, to my surprise, began to water at the brims. After another glance around the restaurant, he squatted down on one knee, leaned in close to me, and said, “It’s my daughter. She’s in trouble.”

  I let out a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Listen, Mr. Redstone, I don’t know what-”

  “You run a security company, right? Great Hawk Private Security. A friend told me about you guys. Said you’re as good as the Blackthorns.”

  I paused. “Yes, you heard correctly. But I’m afraid my associate here,” I pointed at the Hawk, “handles that area of my business. And since we’re talking about business, you’ll have to come see me at my office. Tomorrow.”

  At this, his chin started quivering and the tears that had been threatening finally tumbled down his cheeks. “You don’t understand. There’s no one else I can go to. They said they’d kill her if I talked to the sheriff.”

  I stared at him. He stared back, and the desperate hope in his eyes moved me with pity. I looked at the Hawk. He gave a little shrug and nodded toward the old man.

  “What’s this really about, Mr. Redstone? You’re not telling me much.”

  He clasped his hands together, took a deep, shaky breath, and when he looked at me again, his gaze was resolute.

  “My daughter has been kidnapped.”

  FIVE

  The Hawk and I led John Redstone through back alleys to the general store. Once inside, I lit a lantern in the office and the three of us sat down at a small wooden table. Redstone looked just about panicked, so I grabbed a bottle of Stall’s Reserve, took three glasses from my desk, and poured us all a drink.

  “Okay,” I said, after Redstone had drained a glass and was somewhat calmer. “Start from the beginning. What happened?�
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  “I left home yesterday morning,” he said. “Came to town to buy some supplies for my farm. When I got back, my daughter was gone and there was a note on the door.”

  “All right,” Great Hawk said. “Was there anyone else home when you left yesterday? Anyone but your daughter?”

  Redstone shook his head. “No. Our farm is small. It’s just the two of us.”

  “Does anyone visit regularly?” Great Hawk said. “Were you expecting anyone?”

  “No. No one.”

  I put down my glass. “John, you realize that’s strange, right? I mean, even small farms hire out for labor. It’s dirt cheap around here. Farming is hard work, and a lot of it. How is it you and your daughter manage on your own?”

  Redstone watched me for several seconds. I could see the gears turning over in his mind, weighing what to say.

  “John,” I said, “whatever you’re hiding, ask yourself this: Is it more important than your daughter’s life?”

  There was a moment of resistance, and then it crumbled. He put his hands to his face, rubbed a few times, and took another long pull of moonshine.

  “We’ve been trying to keep everything quiet, but I guess the word is out.”

  “What word?” Great Hawk said.

  “What we’re growing.”

  The Hawk and I glanced at each other. “Okay,” I said. “What is it?”

  “Hops.”

  I blinked a couple of times. “Hops? As in the little flowery things you put in beer?”

  A nod.

  I sat back in my chair. Things were becoming clearer.

  “Nobody grows hops around here,” I said.

  “No,” Redstone replied. “They don’t. Everybody imports them from out west. It’s why good beer is so expensive. Not many growers.”

  “I am sorry,” the Hawk said, “but I need clarification. What does growing hops have to do with your daughter’s kidnapping?”

  “Everything,” Redstone said.

  I looked at Great Hawk. “You haven’t been following the commodities markets, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. Beer is a local thing in most places. People make it out of whatever is available. All you really need is grain, yeast, and water, and that’s what most people use. How do you like the beer around here?”

  The Hawk made a face. “It tastes like shit. I do not drink it.”

  “Exactly. But if beer is made with the right ingredients,” I pointed at Redstone, “it’s much better. Now, in the last couple of years, there’s been a boom in growers producing the right kinds of grains to make beer. And several breweries make yeast strains for different kinds of brews. How am I doing so far?”

  Redstone nodded.

  “The missing element,” I went on, “is hops. There are only a few growers in the country, and their yields are low. So the price of good hops is high, and only the wealthiest breweries can afford them. Which is why a decent pint of beer costs two days’ pay. But if someone found a way to grow hops, good quality ones, and produce them at high yields…well, that would knock the bottom out of the market. Level the playing field. A great deal for consumers, but a shit one for the few breweries who can afford to buy hops. Not to mention the growers. And, Mr. Redstone, I’m guessing there’s a good reason you’re keeping your operation secret.”

  The old farmer took a shaky breath. “I was a botanist before the Outbreak. Brewing beer was a hobby of mine for a long time. I got pretty good at it. Used to sell my brews to bars in my hometown. Didn’t make much money, but, you know, it was a labor of love.”

  The Hawk looked impatient. “Please get to the point, John.”

  “Right. Well, a few years ago I got a land grant from the government. At first I was just subsistence farming, but then I managed to get my hands on some living rhizomes. You see, I knew this fella who-”

  “John,” I interrupted. “Focus.”

  “Right. So anyway, I started experimenting, and I figured out a way to increase the yields.”

  “How big of an increase?”

  “Big,” John said. “Enough to really change the game.”

  I drained my glass, leaned forward, and put my arms on the table. “So you wanted to keep things quiet until you had enough hops to go to market. Which would change everything in the brewing business as we know it.”

  Redstone nodded.

  “And a lot of people would stand to lose a lot of trade if you did.”

  Another nod.

  “I do not understand,” Great Hawk said. “If these people are afraid of your operation, why kidnap your daughter when they could simply kill you and burn down your farm?”

  I gave the Hawk a look.

  He shrugged. “Just being realistic.”

  “They don’t want to destroy my operation,” Redstone said. “They want me to sign it over to them.”

  A silence fell over the room.

  “So this is a strong-arm,” I said.

  Redstone said nothing.

  “Any idea who took her?”

  “Like you said, a lot of people stand to lose big if my plan works.”

  “Before we get to that,” Great Hawk said, “what was on the note?”

  “I have it right here.”

  Redstone handed a small slip of yellow paper to Great Hawk. The big man scanned it, then handed it to me.

  It read:

  Redstone,

  We have your daughter. If you want her back, you’ll sign over the deed to your land and everything on it. If you go to the police, your daughter dies. If you do anything to sabotage your farm, your daughter dies. Do exactly as we tell you, and you can both go free. Be at the central market in Hollow Rock two days from now at exactly noon. Wait at the park bench next to the Civil War memorial. You’ll get your instructions from there.

  Come alone.

  And that was all. I put the note on the table.

  “So what should I do?” Redstone said.

  “Right now, John, you need to get some rest. You can stay at the Iron Rabbit for the night. Great Hawk and I will come up with a plan. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  The old man looked at me, then at the Hawk. “So you’ll help me?”

  “We’ll try,” I said. “And John, just so you know, our services are not free.”

  “I…I don’t have much to offer you. I don’t have much trade.”

  “No, but you do have a cash cow that’s about to give birth. If we get your daughter back, I want twenty percent.”

  He looked stricken. “Of what?”

  “Of everything. A full twenty percent stake in your business. In writing.”

  I watched him go through the five stages of grief in about eight seconds. When he was done, he said, “Fine. Whatever it takes. But if you don’t get her back alive, you get nothing. Deal?”

  He reached a hand across the table. I shook it. “Deal. Now go to the Iron Rabbit, ask for the manager, and tell him Eric Riordan sent you there as a business consideration. He’ll know what that means. And don’t worry about trade. He’ll let you stay for free.”

  A bitter tone crept into Redstone’s voice. “Does the manager owe you something too? Is that why he won’t charge me?”

  “No,” I said, and poured another drink.

  “Then why?”

  I leaned back in my chair and smiled. “Because I own the place.”

  SIX

  At ten minutes before noon on the appointed day, Great Hawk and I sipped willow tea in a little café. We sat where we could not be seen from the street and watched the market square. John Redstone sat forlornly on a park bench next to the Civil War memorial, as instructed. He had his hat in his hands and was looking around nervously. I told him we would be there, but he would not see us. I had also told him not to look for us, as that might tip off the courier coming to meet him, thereby endangering his daughter. From the way he was peering into crowds and scanning people at market stalls, I could tell the advice had been wasted.r />
  “Did you talk to Allison?” Great Hawk asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She was less than pleased. But she also knows I’m doing the right thing. She just wishes I would let somebody else do it.”

  “Why do you not?”

  I thought about that for a few seconds. It was a good question. There was no need for me to do this kind of stuff anymore. I had earned enough trade I never needed to work again. Hell, my grandkids wouldn’t need to work. Great Hawk Private Security was doing well, and we were slowly but steadily increasing the number of skilled contractors working for us. It would have been much simpler for me to let Great Hawk handle things. He had plenty of good people who could do what I was doing, and do it just as well. But, for reasons I could not explain, here I was.

  “I don’t know, Hawk. Maybe I’m just bored.”

  The Hawk grunted, but said nothing.

  A few more minutes passed. People milled around the square trading goods and talking and smiling and arguing and doing all the thousand little things that constitute a life. Children played. Moms scolded them. Dads heaved tired sighs and looked longingly at the booze stands that would not open for another four hours. Some of the families were of the natural variety, and others of the Outbreak variety. By that I mean mixed allotments of men, women, and youngsters of varying ethnicities and ages, people who came together during the Outbreak, stuck together for survival, and had carried on that way even after reaching the relative safety of Hollow Rock. I took a strange comfort in knowing that no matter how much the world may have changed, the crucible of shared hardship could still create powerful bonds between people from vastly different backgrounds. It gave me hope the diminished ember of humanity still burning in the world might someday ignite into the shining blaze it once was.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t. Time would tell.

  “Here he comes,” Great Hawk said.

  I followed his gaze. A man dressed as a day laborer walked through the crowd toward the Civil War memorial. Unlike the meandering townsfolk around him, he walked quickly and with purpose. His clothes were cut from the right cloth, but lacked the dirt, stains, and crude patching laborers collected from cutting lumber, repairing roads, and toiling on farms. My guess was the man had bought the clothes in the market square, changed, and come straight over. Which meant he lacked the foresight to rough up his clothes to enhance the illusion.