The Soldier (Book 2): Sanctuary

by Lundy, W. J.

  “Really?” Gyles grunted and shook his head, ignoring the comment about mouths to feed. “It says survivors. How could that mean anything else?”

  “Don’t mean they are asking for help,” Weaver said again. “Sounds to me like they are asking folks to join them.”

  Gyles nodded and looked back to the young soldier. “You heard anything from Alamo?”

  The man shook his head. “No, Sergeant, the radios are still hacked. Just clicks and static. Only the small Motorolas at short range seem to avoid whatever it is jamming us up.”

  Gyles rubbed the stubble on his chin and looked at the note a bit longer before folding the strip of cardboard and stuffing it into a cargo pocket on his trousers. “Yeah, you’re right, Weaver.” He turned and looked back as his men exited the market, securing the doors behind them. He could tell by the way they were grouping up that the trucks were loaded, and they were ready to go. “Mission priority is getting this food back to Camp Alamo.”

  He looked out toward the city streets then back to the group surrounding him. He faced Weaver and said, “Get the convoy back to base. I’m taking a truck and four men. I want to head toward town and see if I can find this church.”

  “Come on, bro, you can’t be serious,” Weaver said, moving closer.

  “I’m not leaving anyone out there if we can help it,” Gyles said. “Not again.”

  Weaver sighed and put his hand on Gyles’s shoulder. “G-man, what happened at the armory wasn’t your fault.”

  Gyles pulled away and hardened his jaw. “Sergeant, get these supplies back to Alamo.”

  Chapter Two

  Day of Infection, Plus Eighteen

  Camp Alamo, Near Hayslette, Virginia

  Luke moved down the long, narrow hallway and into the communal area of the machine works factory, a large open bay filled with cots and tarps. At one end was a spacious kitchen area, where makeshift tables were organized in a similar fashion to a high school cafeteria. The family housing section was a converted factory floor with entrances on each end. There were two of them, to be exact—housing areas Alpha and Bravo, both filled to double the capacity of what was originally estimated.

  Above their heads, stretching the perimeter of the building and crisscrossing the floor, were steel catwalks patrolled by Marines. Places normally walked by plant electricians and foremen were now the stomping grounds of heavily armed security forces.

  On the factory floor, keeping order was the responsibility of civilian law enforcement—made of remnants of state and county police officers and another dozen former cops. Being a sheriff’s deputy put him into the rotation to make the daily presence patrols down in the survivors’ camp. His hand drifted to his empty holster. Nobody on the floor was allowed firearms, including the law enforcement. All weapons were checked at the main entrance. All he had was a collapsible baton which he wore on his duty belt next to an empty pepper spray pouch.

  He didn’t like being disarmed in here, but he understood it. With the infection just outside the factory walls, paranoia and fear were high, and everyone was on edge. Even though everybody was given a rigorous exam for infection before being allowed inside, mistakes still happened, and the survivors here had reasons to be afraid. The last thing they needed was for a shootout to occur over a suspected outbreak. It had happened before, with several killed, and the Colonel was adamant that it would not happen again. Luke moved deeper into the family areas and past children playing, then beyond a cluster of civilians being led in prayer by a white-bearded priest. Along a wall, a pair of men in heavy coats skinned a deer as a couple women stretched meat from a previous kill over a low fire for smoking.

  Most men were confined to the buildings of Camp Alamo, but the Colonel had made exceptions for some of the hunters and anglers who’d proven themselves able to bring home game. They would go out with the patrols and be dropped near hunting grounds to be retrieved on the return trips. Stopping and watching the men work, Luke could see they must have had a good hunt. One of the hunters turned to see him looking. The man nodded and held up a hunk of venison. Luke smiled and waved the man off. The man returned the smile and quickly turned back to the carcass he was processing.

  Luke passed the hunters and leaned against the wall near the prayer circle. Annoyed glances caught his eye from the parishioners, but they weren’t looking at him. Their grievances were from the shouts of laughter coming from behind a long blue tarp that had been hung to cordon off a corner of the factory floor. An old woman with pulled-back grey hair locked eyes with him then turned her head toward the tarps. She quickly lowered her gaze before Luke could speak. The woman was afraid to make a report, but her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

  Luke had been a cop long enough to know the signs of an intimidated population, and this camp was quickly becoming one. Even though closely guarded by the military and patrolled by police, the floor-dwelling community had become its own subculture. The population had divided, with elements taking charge, even if not officially. He shook his head, looking at the people gathered in protective circles. It reminded him of a prison; there was no freedom here. This was no way to live. These people wouldn’t last here—if the Primals outside didn’t get them, they would devour themselves inside.

  He put his hands on his hips and looked at the long blue tarp hung from the bottoms of the catwalk above. He moved beyond the gathered congregation and headed toward the screened off area. The tarp was new, but he knew from previous walks through here, that there was a water tap and restrooms on the far side. As the only water supply for the entire factory floor, there had always been lines here on his previous visits. Now the corner was quiet, and he intended to find out why.

  Stepping closer, he stood outside the tarp and listened to the laughter on the other side. He clenched his jaw and pulled back a cut on the tarp and stepped through. Inside, he found a trio of rough men standing over the water point. Behind them was a large tap with a length of rubber hose and a deep stainless-steel basin. They were laughing at a young girl wearing a small backpack. She was tall but frail, maybe seventeen; it was hard to judge because of her thin stature. Luke moved in stealthily, his presence not known to the trio. The girl held a crumpled gallon water jug. She was asking for it to be filled as the men toyed with her.

  “What you got in trade, girl?” a gangly man in a sleeveless flannel shirt asked. As he spoke, his voice cracked with laughter. “You know, this water ain’t cheap.”

  Luke could tell by his posture that he was the gang leader. He spoke not with authority, but infliction in his voice that begged for attention and laughs from the others in his mob.

  A second, heavyset, squat man snatched the jug from the girl in a quick motion, nearly knocking her to the floor as she flinched away. A third, square-chested man pushed his shoulders out and howled with laughter. “Shit, girl, now you ain’t even got a jug to carry it. How you fixin’ to buy a jug to hold all that water?” He howled again. “This day just getting expensive for you, ain’t it?”

  The girl stepped away and shook her head. “Please—I just need the water.”

  The gangly leader laughed again. “Like we said, how you fixin’ to pay for it?”

  Luke had heard enough; he stepped forward, ensuring to stomp his boot heels as he moved into the space. Gangly took his eyes off the girl and looked back at him, his face registering surprise to find him already inside their makeshift shelter.

  The man’s eyes shifted left to right, trying to determine if the lawman was alone. “Aww hell, look at this, boys. It’s Johnny Law,” he said with the others choking back laughs and giggles. “What can we do ya for, Sheriff? You looking for water? You know the law always drinks for free at our tap.”

  Luke took a few steps closer, positioning himself tactically, stopping just over the girl’s left shoulder. He crossed his hands in front of himself and glanced at the girl, who looked back at him with desperate eyes. He exhaled softly and shook his head. “So, what—you chuckle monkeys
just decided this is your tap now? That what’s going on here? I don’t remember water rights being a thing in this camp.”

  Gangly smiled with crooked teeth. “Oh no, it ain’t nothing like that. Yeah, we just guarding it, you know, just to make sure everyone is sharing and whatnot. We don’t want just a couple folks hogging all the water.”

  Luke tucked his upper lip and nodded thoughtfully. “Didn’t realize that had become a problem.”

  “Oh, it ain’t; not yet,” Gangly said. “Mostly because we been keeping things orderly and all that.”

  “So, you are filling the girl’s jug then?” Luke asked. “You know, with the way you all are just helping out.”

  The big barrel-chested man took a step toward Luke, smiling out of the side of a clenched mouth. “Heck, we wanted to, but turns out the girl ain’t got no jug. We was in the middle of bartering when you interrupted.”

  This time, it was Luke who smiled. He looked toward the girl. “Young lady, is that your jug?”

  She went to speak, but before she did, her jaw began to tremble and she shook her head no. Luke nodded. “I see.” He pointed to the jug in the squat man’s hands. “How about you all give her that one then. You don’t need it, do you? You seem to have plenty,” Luke said, pointing to a pile of empty water jugs stacked behind the trio.

  Squatty laughed. “Nope, she can’t have this one here—it’s a family heirloom,” he said, causing the other two to burst into raucous laughter. “And those there have all been reserved for others. We got them on hold for preferred clients.”

  Luke sighed and rolled his shoulders. “I seriously can’t believe you are willing to take an ass beating over a faded and half-crushed empty milk jug.”

  “Da hell did you say to me, boy?” the barrel-chested man snarled, pushing his biceps out and taking another step forward. “I wouldn’t go getting all uppity in this camp just cause you’re wearing a badge. Shit ain’t the same as it was a month ago, you know.”

  Luke held his smile on the man, his expression hardly changing. “I said fill the girl’s jug and let her be. Do that, and you can sleep with all of your teeth tonight.” Luke paused and squinted at the man’s jaw. “Well, at least with the few rotten teeth you have left, you greasy, pork chop-looking sack of turds.”

  Without another word, the barrel-chested man charged forward. Luke had anticipated the aggressive move and stepped quickly to the side. He kicked out with the toe of his boot, catching the man’s ankle and tripping him. The man tumbled forward, into the concrete floor. Luke canted his body and bent his knees. Just as the man turned and looked up at him, Luke delivered a swift, but controlled kick to his face, the steel toe of his boot landing with a sickening crack.

  Luke pivoted back and faced off the two remaining men. Squatty stepped backward, while Gangly glared at him with his jaw locked. The presumed leader tried to appear threatening, but it was obvious the tall man was a coward and not a fighter. Luke looked back down at the grounded man, who was attempting to rise with his eyes spinning in his head. He grunted then dropped flat to his back, unconscious. The trio’s muscle lay on the floor, bleeding from his mouth.

  Luke pointed a finger at Squatty. “The jug, fill it.”

  Squatty nodded and stretched out his arm to hand it over.

  “No, you fill it first,” Luke said. “And say one more word, and I’ll drop you like your sack-of-shit friend.”

  The man gritted his teeth and dropped the jug. He shook his head and stepped back, pulling a long-bladed knife from his back.

  “Ahh, look at that. The pig has teeth after all,” Luke said. He looked to Gangly. “What about you? You got balls too, or are you going to let your fat girlfriend do your fighting?”

  Gangly snarled yellow teeth and clenched his fists. “Why, you son of a bitch. You’ll regret this.”

  Luke grinned, pulling the collapsible baton from the back of his duty belt. He snapped it to its full length. “How ’bout we leave my momma out of this and just focus on your problems for now.”

  Gangly shoved his way ahead, but before he could close the distance, there was a boom from overhead and a group of twelve-gauge rubber pellets slapped the man just below the neck and in the face, knocking him back and unconscious. Squatty used the distraction to try to get at Luke. He underestimated the distance and Luke easily stepped to the side, swinging the baton full force and catching the short fat man in the temple. There was a loud crack, and the fat man fell backward, his head smacking the concrete before his feet hit the ground.

  Luke pivoted, holding the baton like a sword, checking his back. The girl was cowering with her hands held over her head. He looked up as a young Marine was racking a Remington 870 on the catwalk above.

  “What the hell you doing down there?” the Marine said.

  Luke shook his head and walked to the jug on the ground without answering. He moved to the tap and filled it before returning to the girl and handing it to her. She looked up at him with wet, tear-filled blue eyes. Up close, she looked older than she had before, or maybe the stress of the last couple weeks had aged her. Her eyes showed maturity that her face hadn’t. He shook his head and looked away.

  “You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t need trouble here,” she said.

  He swallowed hard and looked back at the men on the ground. They weren’t moving. He relaxed his defensive posture when more Marine guards entered the tiny space. He collapsed the baton and tucked it back into the belt holster. He turned to the girl. “Don’t worry about them, they won’t bother you or anyone else—not anymore.”

  She shook her head. “The Colonel will send ’em out. They’ll die. I didn’t want that. These men had friends, who do you think they will blame for this?”

  Luke smiled at the girl and reached out to move hair stuck to her forehead.

  “What’s your name?”

  Her lip quivered. She looked left and right then said, as if giving up her only possession, “Kate.”

  “Kate short for Katherine?” Luke asked.

  “Kate short for Kate,” she snapped sharply.

  He smiled and stepped closer, looking her in the eye. “Do me a favor, Kate, and keep worrying about people, but let me handle this. Okay? This camp is better off with those men being exiled.”

  The girl blinked away tears and hugged the jug of water, looking back to the men who were now on their feet, still dazed, their hands flex-cuffed behind their backs. She looked at Luke and nodded her head.

  A Marine corporal approached as Luke stood, watching the men being carried off. “We’ll need you to come up front and file a report on this.”

  Luke nodded and looked at the blue tarps. “Can you get your people to rip this shit down before they leave?”

  The man stared at the tarps and nodded. “Can do,” the Marine said, turning away.

  “What about the girl?” Luke asked. “Any idea what her situation is?”

  The Marine shrugged. “Forget about it. She isn’t our problem. Let her people take care of her.”

  Luke frowned and stepped off toward the exit. At the end of the factory floor, the young girl stood in the walkway, blocking his path. Obviously waiting for him, she still held the water jug against her chest. He stopped and the girl moved toward him, saying, “You can’t leave me here after what you did. They’ll kill me.”

  “What I did?” Luke snapped back. “I saved you.”

  “I could have handled myself. I didn’t ask you for help.” She pointed behind him. Several men stood, leaning against a brick wall, staring back at them. “You think beating up a few punks changed anything? All you did was put a target on my head. I’m as good as dead if I go back in there.”

  Luke turned and stared at the men. They stared back, unintimidated. He took a step toward them and felt the girl’s grip on his arm. “You going to fight them all? They run this place, they’ll kill you too.”

  “The Marines run this place,” Luke said, pulling his arm away. “Not a bunch of half-assed water
pirates.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Maybe at first, but not anymore. The Marines don’t care as long as we stay in our own mess and don’t interfere with the cops or them. They don’t care what happens in here. They knew about the water, and they did nothing. They know about a lot of stuff that they don’t stop.”

  Luke rubbed his tired eyes. He turned away from the men and looked back toward the exit door at the end of the factory. “Well, you can’t come with me.”

  “If you leave me in here, they’ll kill me. I’m all alone. I don’t know anyone and everything I own is in this pack.”

  He shook his head, frustrated, then sighed and looked back toward the doors. “Listen, I’ll see if I can get you transferred to a different facility. But that’s it; there isn’t anything else I can do.”

  “The other building won’t be any different.”

  “Take it or leave it,” Luke said. “It makes no difference to me.”

  She nodded her head. “Fine then, just get me out of here.”

  Chapter Three

  Day of Infection, Plus Eighteen

  North of Hayslette, Virginia

  Gyles knew Weaver wasn’t happy about being left out of the short search patrol. There wasn’t much mistaking it when his long-time friend all but refused to let him go alone. Weaver was a professional, and apocalypse or not, the man would follow orders. Gyles would have liked nothing more than to have him along, but he also needed someone to ensure the team and supplies returned to Alamo safely.

  Even though Weaver was adamant about not being the one to lead that convoy, Gyles also knew his number two in command wasn’t the type to disobey an order. Reluctantly, Weaver did as he was told and led the rest of the men back to camp—on one condition, and that was with standing instructions that if Gyles wasn’t back by the next evening, Weaver could go out after him.