Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (14 page)

CHAPTER 20

From the journal of Maj. Isaac Crane

August 7, 2015

Well, the day finally came. I knew that it would, but I was holding out hope that the situation could be handled differently, but that bitch just wouldn’t leave well enough alone. That snot-nosed little shit of hers can take the blame for it, too. If he hadn’t had his little fucking nose in my business, then maybe she would still be alive. Oh fucking well, just one less mouth to feed.

Rip had been reading Crane’s journal for the last three hours. Page after page, he watched the sanity of his former commanding officer slip. The entries in the journal that made up the first three months of the outbreak sounded like a man who was just desperate to survive, but as the entries became less frequent, so did the appearance of sanity in Major Isaac Crane.

Rip thumbed through the journal and had finally settled on the page from nearly eight years ago, the entry that had apparently been written just after Katrina was murdered. The callousness of the tone struck him. He felt like his wife’s life wasn’t worth more than a paragraph in the book of a deranged man. Rip breathed a deep sigh and flipped to another page, disgusted with the current one.

Before he could delve into the next entry, the truck smacked an abandoned car on the side of the road, literally shaking loose his thoughts. Clay was by no means Richard Petty, keeping the truck at a paltry thirty miles per hour, but dodging the ruined remains of cars and trucks was obviously not his forte.

Rip looked up to Clay with a slightly annoyed look. “Don’t try and miss them all, Clay.”

“Sorry, brother. This thing drives like a goddamn brick with wheels. The steering is for shit and the acceleration is sluggish. That and I think our fuel is just about worthless.”

“What’s wrong?” Rip asked.

“Well, at this rate we are going to burn through all of our fuel supply in about two hundred miles. That will leave us about twenty or thirty miles short of our destination. I say that we stop in Utica and see what we can get.”

“Way ahead of you, Clay. I noticed there is an old train station outside the city. I set it as a rally point in case we needed it. I’ve also got one set for Poughkeepsie, just in case.” Rip looked up from his map. “Make a left here and follow the train tracks.”

The city of Utica, New York had a pre-apocalypse population of 62,000-plus individuals. One of the city’s many nicknames was the “Second Chance City,” and the city lived up to its name. Many of the city’s residents had gotten a second chance at existing—as one of the undead. Nestled in the Mohawk Valley, it was an ideal spot for the crew to stop and reassess. According to Colonel Patterson, the city had largely been forgotten during the initial outbreak. The exodus was chalked up to the city’s history of losing massive amounts of people for no apparent reason. During the post-WWII days, there had been a mass departure that drove the population from over 100,000 down to under 75,000. A running joke in the city in the 1980s had residents putting bumper stickers on their cars that said,
“Last one out of Utica, turn out the lights.”

And it looked as if the last one had done just that.

The day was overcast, with not the slightest bit of sunshine. Rain looked imminent, as well as a good bit of thunder and lightning being possible. As they drove toward the abandoned city, a few drops of rain visited the windshield. The up side of the dampness is that it kept noise down; dry leaves and trash made a hell of a lot more noise than wet leaves and trash.

Twenty minutes later, the deuce-and-a-half slowed down just outside of Utica. The city’s derelict train station made a decent place to hole up in for a short while. Wind tainted with the smell of decay and trash swept by the truck as it rumbled into town.

The truck pulled alongside the abandoned train station, air brakes hissing as it came to a halt. Rip sat in the front of the truck with Casey and Clay. He sliced his hand across his throat to Clay, signaling him to kill the engine. Clay reached down without taking his eyes off the road in front of him and ceased the engine. As soon as the rumbling diesel motor stopped, it was eerily silent.

Rip stuffed the aging map that he had been using to guide them into the dash of the truck. Without a word, he grabbed his M4 and stepped out of the vehicle.

“Where are you going?” Casey asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Aside from the occasional ticking of the still-hot engine, there was near-complete silence. The calm unnerved her.

“Just going to take a quick look. Utica was going to be a backup stop if we needed it. We are burning through too much fuel already. At this pace, we will never make it to Sleepy Hollow, at least not in a vehicle. So if you feel like walking the rest of the way, then by all means, let’s go.”

“Just be careful,” Casey replied, slightly annoyed. Post-apocalypse or not, she still had the patience of a sixteen-year-old girl.

Rip held his M4 across his chest and motioned for the crew in the back of the truck to disembark. Seabass, Witch, and Hacker all climbed out. The last to drop down from the bed of the truck was Colonel Patterson. The colonel stretched and popped his aching joints, second-guessing his decision to ride in the back. The men gathered around their leader.

“We’re already down over a half-tank of fuel. Even with the Jerry cans we have, we are going to come up short by about fifty miles or so. Let’s get the cans out, top off for now, and do a quick search for some fuel.”

The unfortunate task of doing a quick search of the surrounding area fell on Witch and Hacker. Both men were young—so to speak; they were young
er
than the rest of the crew. The trek thus far had run down the diesel faster than expected due to several factors. The truck was in less-than-optimal condition, and the diesel fuel that it ran on wasn’t the best quality after years of sitting derelict. Witch and Hacker would make a quick sweep of the area, keeping an eye out for diesel or anything else of use. They filled the tank with the Jerry cans and brought them back to Witch and Hacker.

Hacker nervously adjusted the ancient Brooklyn Dodgers hat that constantly adorned his head. “Man, why is it that
we
have to do this shit?”

Witch slung his M4 off his shoulder and flipped the selector to semi. “Because you’re dependable,” he joked.

“I hate being dependable.”

Colonel Patterson laughed and handed Hacker a shotgun. It was a black Mossberg 590, complete with a mean-looking bayonet. It was one of a select few scatterguns that were made with a bayonet stud. Hacker frowned and grabbed the black shotgun.

“What’s this for, colonel?”

Patterson motioned for him to hand over his M4. “Might get a little frisky inside those buildings. There’s a gas station about a half-mile away and an Army/Navy store beside it. Check out the two buildings and gather up anything of use, diesel fuel first. If you find anything worth getting, grab it.”

Hacker reluctantly handed over his M4. He released the rack on the Mossberg and checked the tube. The shotgun held five rounds and one in the chamber, along with a five-shot sidesaddle that held five frangible slugs. Not much use in long-range scenarios, but more than effective in close-quarters battle.

Rip grabbed the map out of the truck, flattened it out against the door, and pointed out their position. “The gas station is somewhere around here, according to the colonel,” he said, pointing to the map. “If you guys get overrun or held up, I will be listening. If we have to, we will roll into the city with the deuce-and-a-half and pick you up. I want to avoid going in as much as possible, but if you get caught in some bad shit, let me know and we will bring the fucking cavalry with the quickness.”

“Roger that, sergeant,” Witch answered. Hacker simply nodded.

Rip turned to the rest of his crew. “Seabass, I want you on the fifty. Everyone else set up a perimeter. If you see a target, call it out, but
do not
engage. I want to keep it as quiet as I can for as long as I can. This city had over fifty thousand people here, which means over fifty thousand possible undead, not to mention the Riders. Witch, keep an eye out for them inside the city; I’m sure they have eyes around us as well. And remember, Hacker…”

Hacker tossed the Mossberg over his shoulder and winked back to Rip. “When in doubt, shoot it out. Gotcha, sarge.”

CHAPTER 21

Long rows of brick buildings, one after another, lined the streets as Hacker and Witch bounded down the road. Hacker moved while Witch covered. Hacker didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the shotgun being loaded with 00 buckshot, so he waved Witch over to his position. Hacker slunk back between two buildings into a narrow alley.

Witch looked left and right, as if he was crossing the street and looking for traffic. Nothing either direction caught his attention, so he sprinted to Hacker’s alley. He stayed hunched over, moving like a well-armed beast across the road.

“What is it?” Witch asked as he got to within a few feet of Hacker.

Hacker was already unloading the 00 buckshot and placing them on the ground. He grabbed the slugs off the sidesaddle and began feeding them into the tube. “Buckshot isn’t gonna do any good from this range. I doubt we’d do anything more than piss something off. Gimme a second to load the slugs, then we can move on.”

“You learn that playing
Call of Duty
?” Witch asked jokingly.

Hacker racked the shotgun, the slugs now its primary round. “
Battlefield
, actually.”

Witch pulled his M4 back into his shoulder and turned towards the street. He looked up and down the street again, and then bounded his way forward. Hacker slung the shotgun over his shoulder and grabbed the Jerry cans. He trudged his way across the street, following Witch.

After about ten more minutes of tactical leapfrog, they reached the gas station. Ten years ago, it was an Exxon, but now it was little more than a windowless, broken, derelict structure. The darkened interior could hold any number of surprises, not the least of which was the undead. There had been no moans, groans, or other signs of zombies since they left the train station, a fact that was not lost on Witch. A relatively new operator before the apocalypse, his instincts were sharp and very little unsettled him. Putting down the undead with extreme prejudice, he could handle; figuring out the unknown, that was a little different.

Hacker set the two Jerry cans down and pulled the Mossberg from his back. “Nice and quiet, ain’t it?”

Witch was looking through the ACOG on his M4. “Yeah, too…”

“Don’t say ‘too quiet.’ Too cliché, dude.”

“Fair enough. Dammit, I can’t see shit inside there. Too damn dark.”

“What are you thinking?”

“You take a slow approach and I will cover from here. Don’t go inside just yet, though. I want to see if anything gets spooked.”

Hacker frowned. “So I’m zombie bait?”

“Pretty much,” Witch answered very matter-of-factly.

Hacker pulled the shotgun to his shoulder and slowly moved forward. “I fucking hate being dependable.”

Hacker keyed the radio on his chest rig. “Tombstone Three to Tombstone One. Gas station in sight. Moving in now. We’ll let you guys know something in five mikes. Going to take a few minutes to get the station clear. Over.”

* * *

“Copy that Tombstone Three. Stay frosty.”

Seabass yanked mightily on the two handles of the M2 Browning, a.k.a. “Ma Deuce,” chambering the first .50 caliber round. Satisfied the gun was ready, he patted the top of it reassuringly.

“So how long do we give them before we bug out?” Seabass asked Rip.

Rip stood a few feet below him, scanning the area. The perimeter was secure; nothing was going to get to them or by them. Clay was to the left front of the truck, Colonel Patterson alongside. Two Marshals were at the opposite front, and three Knights covered the rear. Casey sat on the hood of the deuce-and-a-half, her MP5SD in her lap.

“It took them twenty minutes to get there. Therefore, another twenty to fill up and twenty back makes an hour. Anything outside of that window probably means trouble. If we lose radio contact for more than a half-hour, we will roll into town.”

“Roger that, sergeant.”

Casey slid down from the hood of the truck. She didn’t say anything, but she did walk up to Rip and pat him on the back. He seemed like he needed some sort of positive reinforcement. Although the mission was far from over, it had gone relatively well so far. There were certain unexpected hiccups that would invariably show up, but he had handled them well. There was much more to do and much further to go before a high-five was in order.

Rip barely noticed Casey’s gesture. He kept his gaze on the horizon and walked to the edge of their perimeter. Wind blew more trash in front of him, assaulting his feet with detritus. The sweaty grip that he held on his M4 was one that he didn’t like. Rip thought by now that handling the less-than-optimal conditions he faced the last week or so would have made him a little more at ease. That wasn’t the case. There were still too many variables that he had not faced, especially the added adaptation of leaving Fort Drum.

Movement off to his left stopped his thoughts.

Rip stopped and perked up. He didn’t realize it until now, but he’d been walking with his head down, deep in thought. He wondered absently how big something had to be to grab his attention, especially considering the fact that he hadn’t been paying attention.

“You saw that too, didn’t you?”

Rip also hadn’t noticed Colonel Patterson a few feet behind him. Patterson now looked toward the spot where Rip’s peripheral vision had caught a glimpse of… something… or someone.

The sun hadn’t made an appearance all day long, and now it was needed more than ever. With the slight bit of wetness sporadically covering the area, a little sunshine might give away movement. It was as if the sun didn’t want to break through the gloom of cloud cover, as if the clouds were the cancer and the sun was the cure, desperately trying to rid it from the sky to no avail.

Rip swiftly looked behind him. “Yeah, I saw something. Movement off to the left, maybe a hundred, hundred and fifty yards.”

“Didn’t look like it was moving fast,” Patterson said.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Rip said. He pulled his M4 up, looked through the ACOG scope, and scanned the horizon.

Something moved in the distance.

Rip saw it.

“Shit.”