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

by Cook, James N.

  *****

  The instructions the courier had given John Redstone instructed him to be at a roadside trading post ten miles west of Hollow Rock the following evening at sundown. The location made sense, given what the courier had told us. If his statement was true, his cohorts were holed up in a hunting cabin four miles north of the trading post, making for an easy ride to the meet.

  This begged the question of whether or not they would be waiting when Redstone arrived. If it had been me, I would have posted a lookout well in advance. I would also be watching the approaches to the post a mile or so east and west in case Redstone was followed. The courier told us his band of raiders had horses, so getting ahead of anyone who smelled like law enforcement would be no trouble.

  Which was why I had taken a few precautions ahead of time.

  Once the prisoner was safely locked up in a warehouse basement and our gear was ready to go, Great Hawk and I took a wagon to Stall’s tavern to meet a couple of the Hawk’s associates. The men were members of a nationwide organization known as Runners. My dealings with Runners had been few and far between, but enough to give me a clear idea what they were about. To put it simply, they were the postal service, pony express, and Pinkertons all rolled into one. Their specialty was delivering messages and packages across the wastelands, and doing it faster than any government provided service could offer. But just calling them a delivery service was to understate what it took to do their job.

  For starters, to be a Runner, one has to be a survival expert, a skilled guerilla fighter, and an expert at evading and eliminating the infected, not to mention the thousands of raiders, thieves, cultists, and assorted murdering scum that have spread across the lawless spaces between trade routes like a cancer. And to top it all off, they must accomplish these tasks working alone, or in small groups of two or three.

  Despite the inherent risks, however, the Runners are never short of recruits. Their work is dangerous, but highly lucrative.

  After entering Mike Stall’s place and having a brief word with my old friend, the Hawk and I proceeded to a table at the far end of the tavern floor. I approved of the location. The two men seated at the table had a commanding view of the entire room, as well as all entrances and exits. The only thing I didn’t like was, due to the seating arrangements, I would have my back to the door while we negotiated. I decided it was a small price to pay if these men could deliver what Great Hawk said they could.

  When we reached their table, I looked both men over and gathered what I could about them from their appearance. They were about the same height, just under six feet, and both had the lean, weathered look of men who lived mostly outside. They were bearded, hair clipped short, skin dark brown from long exposure to the sun, and their expressions had all the warmth and openness of steel vaults. One was Caucasian, the other Hispanic. Both were well-armed with pistols, knives, hatchets, and a pair of M-4 carbines leaning against the wall next to the table. Their clothing was hand-sewn from a patchwork of fabric that formed a woodland-pattern camouflage well-suited to the forests and fields of western Tennessee.

  Taking all this into account, I estimated them to be experienced survivalists and capable fighters. And they both looked harder than railroad spikes. Which is to say, they were exactly what I was looking for.

  “Thank you for meeting us,” Great Hawk said, extending a hand.

  The Hispanic man stood up. When he spoke, it was clear that he was American born, his voice unaccented. “Always a pleasure, Lincoln.”

  “This is my business partner, Eric Riordan.”

  The Hawk shook the man’s hand first, and I followed suit. The Caucasian fellow sat and stared quietly.

  “Name’s Tony Jasso,” the Hispanic man said before pointing a thumb at his associate. “Mr. Personality here is Jim Vance. It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Riordan.”

  “Likewise. Mind if we sit?”

  “Please.”

  We took seats, and a waiter brought us a pitcher of water and four glasses. After pouring, the waiter left.

  “So what do you got for us?” Jasso said.

  “Rescue operation,” Great Hawk replied as he produced a map from his coat pocket. He spread it on the table, flipped it so Jasso was looking at it right-side-up, and pointed to an area north of the highway headed out of town. “There is a group of raiders holed up somewhere in this area in an old hunting cabin. They have a hostage. We intend to rescue her.”

  Jasso’s eyes narrowed as he studied the map. His associate, Vance, leaned over to get a better look.

  “Yeah, I know the area,” Jasso said. “Made some deliveries out that way. There’s a trail between these two roads that leads to Meachum Crossing about twelve miles northeast. Good hunting grounds. Deer, wild hogs, feral goats, that kind of thing.”

  “Meachum Crossing,” I said. “That’s a new one, right? Trading post, only been there a couple of years.”

  Jasso nodded. “Yeah. Sort of a waypoint for Travelers to gather and trade. Mostly salvage—meat, furs, stuff like that. Folks that live there sell manufactured goods in exchange for whatever the Travelers bring in.”

  I nodded. Travelers are people who eschew camps and fortified towns, preferring to live free in the wilds. They usually travel in small groups, but some of them have formed nomadic communities that number in the low hundreds. Their women come to Hollow Rock on a regular basis to give birth and raise their children until they are old enough to survive on the road. And by old enough, I mean three or four years. Personally, I don’t know how they do it. The thought of my little boy being exposed to the harshness of the wastelands at such a young age terrifies me. But Travelers are, more than anything else, extremely resilient people.

  “Have you ever seen any old hunting cabins out that way?” I asked.

  Jasso thought about it. “Yeah, seen a few. Most of them are farther north, though. You said the place we’re looking for is about four miles from the trading post on the highway?”

  “Right.”

  Jasso looked at Vance. The two men shared a moment of silent communication, and then Vance said, “I can only think of one that close. Remember about two years ago when we got that twelve-point buck?”

  Jasso’s eyes brightened. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. Little place in a clearing. Found it by accident, right?”

  Vance nodded.

  I looked at the Hawk. “That might be the place.”

  “Yes, I think so. It matches what the courier described.”

  “Courier?” Jasso asked.

  “We caught one of their men delivering instructions to the hostage’s father,” I said.

  “Gotcha,” Jasso said. Vance smiled a little and made a huffing noise that might have been a chuckle.

  “So what’s the plan?” Jasso asked.

  “Well,” I said, “assuming you’re willing to take the job, we need a guide to take us to the cabin.”

  “Just a guide?” Jasso raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need backup?”

  “Backup is always nice. Never hurts to have someone watching your six. But how much assistance we need depends on how much you charge.”

  “What do you have for trade?”

  “What do you want?”

  Jasso smiled. “Something light, but valuable. Sugar is always good. Maple syrup, spices, seed grain, coffee, tobacco, marijuana, feminine hygiene products, toilet paper, soap…you get the idea.”

  “Ammo?”

  “Depends on the caliber.”

  The next five minutes passed in negotiation. Jasso asked an astronomical sum, which I outright refused and cut in half with my counteroffer. He then asked for fifty percent more than what I offered, which I again refused and made a slightly higher offer. Eventually, we settled on fifty rounds of .45 caliber hollow-point ammunition, half a pound of sugar, and a box of tampons. It was a lot to pay, so I let Jasso and Vance know I expected them to stand and deliver if it came to a fight. Jasso looked insulted, but agreed. I took a piece of paper from the messe
nger bag I usually carry with me and wrote down the terms of the contract. The two Runners read it, and then all four parties signed. Mike Stall was kind enough to sign as a witness.

  “Okay,” Jasso said afterward. “Now that we’re all legal and shit, when do we ride out?”

  “How soon can you be ready?”

  “We’ll need a minute to grab our stuff.”

  “Go get it.”

  Jasso and Vance stood up, shouldered their modest-sized backpacks, and picked up their rifles.

  “Okay, bossman,” Jasso said. “Ready to go.”

  I grinned at them and said, “I like your style, fellas.”

  NINE

  We left an hour and a half before sunset.

  I sent John Redstone ahead of us two hours prior. The trading post he was headed to had a small tavern and livery next to it. I instructed him to stable his horse and wait in the tavern until we arrived. If he was approached by one of the kidnappers before we got to them, he was to refuse to leave the tavern or sign any documents until the raiders provided proof of life. If they refused, his next order of business was to cause a scene.

  “But won’t that be dangerous?” he asked when I gave him his instructions.

  “I have a couple of guys there already. If things get hairy, they’ll intervene.”

  “How will I know who they are?”

  I shook my head. “You won’t. But trust me, they’ll be there. And they’re more than capable. So if things go south, get out of their way and let them do their jobs. In the meantime, do whatever you can to stall. Hawk and I will need time to find your daughter and bring her back.”

  The old man let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know…”

  “John,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We know what we’re doing. We’re professionals. You came to me, remember? If you want to save your daughter, you’re going to have to trust me.”

  A slow nod. “Okay.”

  *****

  I rented four horses from a stable run by the best trainer in Hollow Rock. The animals were calm of demeanor, easy to manage, unafraid of gunfire, and in excellent physical condition. They were also expensive to rent, but when traipsing into the wastelands, one does not want to skimp on transportation. If trouble shows up—and in the wilds, it almost always does—a fast, reliable horse can very well mean the difference between living and dying.

  The four of us rode eight miles in the direction of the trading post before veering off the road and into the woodlands. It was forty-five minutes until sunset, which gave us just enough time to reach the target area by dusk. We rode at a light canter to avoid tiring the horses too much. If things got loud when we confronted the raiders, the noise was bound to attract every ghoul within a three mile radius. We wanted the horses to be ready to run if that happened.

  The forest we rode through was old growth, the trees standing several feet apart, which left us plenty of room to ride single-file along the trail. We stopped a few times to take compass readings and let Great Hawk do his land navigation thing. The light waned quickly, covered as we were by the forest canopy, and a dark haze began to permeate the spaces between tree trunks.

  Long experience has taught me that night always falls faster in the woods, so I had come prepared. The Hawk and I both had night vision goggles with freshly charged batteries. Jasso and Vance, unfortunately, did not. Before leaving, I asked them if they had a problem operating at night. The two men had shared an amused look and told me they would be just fine. Considering their chosen vocation, and the length of time they had been at it, I saw no reason to doubt them.

  When it was getting dark enough that I was having difficulty seeing more than about twenty yards ahead, Great Hawk pulled up on his reins and held a fist in the air. The rest of us stopped and waited silently for him to speak.

  “We are close,” he said.

  I walked my horse next to his and breathed deeply through my nose. “Wood smoke. You smell that?”

  “I smelled it half a mile ago.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because you are not always stupid.”

  “Thanks, Hawk. You’re a peach. So what now?”

  “We will tether the horses here. Do not drive the stakes too deep. If any infected show up, they need to be able to run.”

  “Of course. And after that?”

  “We approach on foot.”

  I looked at him impatiently. “Yeah, I didn’t think we were flying in. What’s the plan of attack?”

  “I will know when we get there.”

  “Fair enough.” I turned my horse around and rode back to Jasso and Vance. “Dismount here,” I said. “Tether the horses, but keep the stakes shallow. Ghouls might show up.”

  The two men nodded assent and stepped down from the saddle. When the horses were secured, we used the last remaining light to do an equipment check.

  The Hawk and I had the same loadout with the exception of primary weapons. His was an M-4, and mine was a sniper carbine I had built myself. My carbine was longer and heavier than a standard AR pattern rifle, but much more accurate. I doubted I would need it, but figured it would be better to have and not need than need and not have.

  Our secondary weapons were Glock 21s chambered in .45 ACP and equipped with night sights, sound suppressors, and rail-mounted flashlights. We both wore the same surplus Army combat fatigues, MOLLE vest, web belt, and level III body armor with hardened steel plates in the front, back, and side panels. The armor was heavy, but it could stop any pistol caliber cartridge, and most intermediate rifle rounds.

  Great Hawk also carried his ever present knife and tomahawk combo, and I had a Ka-Bar combat knife and a government-issue MK-9 anti-revenant personal defense tool. Or, as the grunts at Fort McCray called it, a ghoul chopper. The weapon was coated black to avoid reflecting light, and patterned after the Chinese Dadao war sword.

  As for Jasso and Vance, they had M-4 rifles, Beretta M-9s, and an assortment of knives and small axes. The two Runners had decided to forego body armor, preferring to rely on speed and maneuverability to avoid getting shot. There was a time, once, when I would have agreed with that philosophy. But after taking two bullets and enduring the long and painful recovery that followed, I have come to appreciate the value of equipment that prevents any unwanted orifices from manifesting on my person.

  Great Hawk took point as we moved slowly toward the cabin. The smell of burning wood grew stronger, and I thought I could hear voices through the still evening air. The trees grew denser, their trunks thinner and shorter, which told me we were walking across land that had been cleared in years prior, but was now being encroached upon by the forest. I sincerely hoped that when we reached the outer perimeter of the cabin we would find tall grass covering any open spaces.

  For once, my hopes were not in vain. It was almost full dark when we finally came within sight of the raiders’ hideout. The trees were little more than saplings at this point, and beyond them, waist-high grass covered a clearing of less than a quarter-acre. Peering into the gloom, I saw the tall grass reached a small cut of lawn less than eight feet around the cabin, just enough to reach the primitive camp-kitchen and outhouse. We would be able to approach very close without being seen.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder, and when I looked over, Great Hawk was holding his NVGs and pointing at his eyes with two fingers. I gave him a thumbs up and put on my goggles.

  Through the grainy green illumination of the NVGs, a few things became quickly apparent. First, the raiders had made no effort to cover their tracks. There were swaths of grass in numerous directions displaced by men walking through them. From the pattern, I surmised the kidnappers had set up a walking patrol around the area. I crouch-walked over to Great Hawk and spoke in a low voice.

  “Patrols,” I said. “Looks like two men, probably on a rotation.”

  “I believe you are right.” Great Hawk turned to Jasso and Vance. “I want you two to walk a counter-patrol in the opposite direction. It lo
oks like these men are moving clockwise around the perimeter. See if you can intercept them.”

  “No problem,” Vance said. “What do you want us to do when we find them?”

  “Eliminate them. But do it quietly. Are you okay with that?”

  Vance smiled. It was cold, bright as stainless steel, and reminded me strongly of a piranha I’d once seen in an aquarium.

  “Yeah, we’re good.”

  The two men left silently and soon disappeared into the forest. Great Hawk and I looked at each other.

  “Ready to do this?” I asked.

  Great Hawk drew his pistol and checked the chamber. I did the same. There was no need to check safeties. Glocks don’t have them.

  “Ready,” the Hawk said.

  We moved.

  TEN

  We took our time on the approach. Great Hawk took point, and I followed a few feet to his left. We stayed low, our heads well below the top of the grass. When we were within twenty feet of the cabin, the Hawk held his palm out flat and lowered it slowly. I gave a thumbs up to acknowledge and dropped down to my stomach. The two of us crawled the rest of the way.

  The view through my goggles had gotten clearer as night fell. The last tendrils of daylight no longer washed out the image. When I reached the edge of the grass I could see the cabin in sharp definition. A single lantern burned within, causing the windows to glow like iridescent algae.

  I did not see anyone outside. I also had no idea if Jasso and Vance had dealt with the patrol. If they had, and all the other raiders were inside, we would be facing ten gunmen. I doubted all of them were inside. In all likelihood, the leader of this gaggle of assholes had probably sent four men to the trading post to meet with John Redstone, which would mean six hostiles in the cabin.

  Or maybe the leader had sent three. Or two.

  There was only one way to find out.

  I looked over at the Hawk, pointed at myself, pointed at the cabin, and then forked two fingers toward my eyes. Great Hawk gave a thumbs up.