Plague of the Dead (39 page)

    Sherman was tossing his attack plan for raiding what remained in the sporting goods store when the civilian Jack came up alongside him. He was one of those left unarmed, but he’d jogged up silently, leaving the rest of the unarmed folk in their hideaway.

    “General,” he said, nodding.

    Sherman looked over, still caught up in thought, and nodded in reply. He then performed a near-perfect double-take, grimacing when he glanced down at Jack’s bare belt.

    “You have no weapon. Get back with the others,” Sherman said, a bit more aggressively than he’d meant to. Jack held up a hand and made a peace sign, grinning lopsidedly.

    “Don’t really like sitting, Sherm,” he said. Sherman might once have gotten more angry at the civilian shortening his last name, but it seemed almost endearing from the friendly, sensible fellow. “I’d like to do something. I heard your little speech yesterday about volunteering-well, my hands are empty. Think maybe you could use them carrying things at that store while someone armed keeps an eye on my back.”

    “Don’t know,” Sherman said, shrugging. “It’s always best to rely on yourself in close-quarters like we’ll be facing in town. If you go around a corner first-”

    “I know, I know-it’s a risk. But the soldiers here take the same risk every time they go out. I don’t mind. Gotta earn my keep.”

    Sherman looked the man up and down, pretending to evaluate him. Truthfully, the moment Jack made his proposal he’d decided to bring him along-but it was good to make folks sweat now and then. It kept them sharp.

    “Alright,” Frank said slowly. “But like I said, don’t go around any corners first. Let my boys clear the way.”

    “It’s a deal. So, what do they call you at home, General?”

    “Frank. Feel free to use that. I’m getting a little tired of being addressed by rank after all these years.”

    “You got it, Frank. Thanks for letting me come along. Much appreciated. Don’t worry-I won’t get in your way. I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” Jack said, performing a slight bow with his head and slowing his stride.

    Sherman pulled away from him, fighting the temptation to grin again. Almost every day the people he was with found some small way to impress him. It was strange-before Morningstar had decimated the so-called civilized world, he’d been disgusted on an almost daily basis with people in general. Now, those he knew had earned nothing less than total respect from him. Odd how tragedy, death, and violence brought out the honor in people. They were finally seeing what a lot of fighting men had already learned-that life was a lot less complicated than people make it out to be. In the end, it’s down to whether you have to die-and if you do, the method in which you check out.

    He had a grim feeling at least some of those with him on the road would have to make that decision soon.

Edge of Hyattsburg

2134 hrs_

    Night had fallen a few hours before. Sherman had noticed at dusk that the street lights were still operational, as well as a few of the automated floods that kicked on as night approached. He’d confirmed with a soldier who hailed from the northwest that the power supply came from a rural town that relied on the plant for most of their jobs-chances were decent they were still alive and kicking. The infection seemed to spread from the edge of the West coast and the edge of the East coast inland in both directions. It was an odd pattern, but Jack, the civilian welder, offered a rather intriguing and plausible theory:

    “Well, it’s cheaper to fly on shorter flights, right? So wouldn’t it be shorter to fly into la Guardia or BWI or Dulles than it would be to fly to Oklahoma? Bet half the infected that started the Morningstar plague here came in as cheap and quick as they could when they ran outta Africa back in the early days.”

    Sherman agreed. It might not be a one-hundred percent accurate theory, but he figured Jack had gotten at least part of the solution down.

    For now, though, their worries were not global-they were quite local, and very personal.

    With the addition of the streetlamps’ glow, Sherman had delayed the operation by a few hours to allow them to work in total darkness rather than the half-illumination of twilight. It was easier to shoot in the dark than at dusk. Not to mention half the carriers who heard them might not see them-and their escape route when they were done would be well-lit by the yellow incandescence of streetlamps. For once, Lady Luck-or God or Karma-seemed to give them a small break.

    The soldiers’ raiding party had crouched on the edge of the town in thick, young vine growth. Though there were little leaves on the vines in the dead of winter, they still wound around each other so thickly it was easy to remain hidden behind them. Once Sherman was satisfied the town was quiet and quite settled for the night, he’d raised a hand and signaled for the men to move out. All of them knew the location of the store as well as the theater, and all had been well-briefed on their primary and secondary objectives.

    Sherman played back the briefing in his head as the men silently padded in towards Hyattsburg, double-checking himself to make sure he hadn’t forgotten a thing-just in case.

    “Men, let’s review,” he had said as the soldiers kneeled in a school-circle around him after a quick half-ration snack two hours earlier. “Here’s a short rundown: primary objectives. You have two. The first is the procurement of additional weapons and chow. Both of these items are of equal importance. Use your common sense. Recover equal loads of both, and rotate what you grab in each trip to the storeroom Stiles found. One trip, weapons and ammo. Next trip, food. I don’t want to hear about anyone calling dibs on the firearms, either. They’ll be distributed based on your individual backgrounds and talents. Second primary objective-though some of us will head back with what we recover from the store, the rest of us will relocate to the alley behind the theater and prepare to launch a rescue on our men stuck inside. Remember-those of you who are coming-silence is key. Absolutely
nothing
must distract the infected and their dead cohorts from Stiles, our runner. Wait until the main doors are clear before sweeping out into the street. Secondary objective-only one, this time, and this is it. Triple check everything. And I mean it.”

    Sherman remembered pacing back and forth, shaking his head as he’d spoken, remembering past fatalities that could have been prevented if they’d been more cautious.

    “What I’m trying to say is-remember the fight on the destroyer? If we’d checked every last refugee for the slightest cut, and done a bit more quarantining, we wouldn’t have lost good men in battle. Think an alley is clear? Triple check. Think your weapon is ready to fire? Triple check. Think that corner is safe? Triple check the fucking thing.”

    Sherman had stopped again, cheeks actually darkening to what might have been considered a blush. He almost never swore, especially around those under his command.

    “Other than that, you know the drill. Watch your buddy’s back. Play smart. Play safe. And maybe, with a bit of luck, we’ll all make it out of this dead zone and get to see the Rocky Mountains before the month’s out. Hell, maybe we’ll camp a couple days. Raid a store for some beer, maybe. You’ll have earned it if you pull off this op tonight.”

    At this, the soldiers had sensed the review was over. As one-but quietly and subdued-they chorused: “Hoo-ah!”

    Sherman remembered nodding with satisfaction.

    “Tonight it’s game time, men. Get ready.”

    As the soldiers stepped over the cracked curb, they settled into their professional habits, fanning out, holding weapons at the ready with barrels pointing so they overlapped each others’ fields of fire. They moved to opposite sides of the street, using the stoops, steps, corners, and lampposts as pieces of cover. None of them so much as brushed against any circle of light cast from the few automated bulbs-they stuck to the shadows.

    Jack and Sherman stuck together in the middle of the wide street, the nearest soldier a good ten or fifteen yards away. It was actually the safest place to be. To get to the two, a carrier of Morningstar would have to break through the columns on either side. Sherman had his pistol drawn, the safety off, held at the ready. He was no hypocrite-he had triple-checked the weapon himself.

    They almost made it to the sporting goods store without incident. Sherman looked ahead, and made out the sign denoting the laundromat where Stiles said he’d been bitten. Signs of battle were still apparent, even though it had happened almost a full day before. The corpses were tough to miss-five of them, in and around the storefront. All had been dispatched with quick shots to the head, except for a corpse wearing a work uniform, lying face-up on the sidewalk. His skull looked as if it had been half-smashed in by a rifle butt. His nametag read DON. Sherman guessed this was the one that had gotten Stiles. The soldier had probably instinctively smashed the reanimated carrier with his Winchester a few times before getting enough of his wits back to put a bullet through its eye socket. Sherman grimaced when he saw Don’s sliced throat, again flashing back to Stiles’ full account of his foray. The smallest slip-up, the tiniest piece of carelessness-that was all it took. That was all it
ever
took.

    The rest of the corpses seemed to form a line leading towards the edge of town. Sherman’s mind’s eye saw the scene: Stiles retreating on his wounded calf, firing as he hopped backwards, carriers running out of the darkness at him. Must have been hell.

    The store had been left in good shape by Stiles. He’d closed the door and set an ashtray upright in front of it. It was still standing-that told Sherman nothing infected (and brainless) had opened the swinging door since the scout had left.

    
Good thinking, soldier.

    “Right column!” Sherman stage whispered, getting a column’s attention. Five sets of eyes flicked over to him. He hand signaled for them to move in on the store. They worked silently and efficiently, shining lights in the windows, scanning the rows and alleys, and then turned, crouching and forming a small, hemispherical defensive perimeter around the main entrance. “Left column!”

    His second set of hand signals sent the left-side column jogging towards the entrance. The only sound, besides Sherman’s whispers, was that of rubber boot soles on black pavement. The left hand column filed quickly into the store, spreading out, scanning the rows again. They cleared the store in less than a minute. A corporal appeared in the swinging door’s frame and signaled the all-clear to Sherman.

    “Alright,” Sherman whispered once he’d gotten to the doorway. “Get to work! You men inside-load up your packs! Quickly, now! Two of you out here, get in that storeroom and pass the gear up the steps! Go, go! Work fast!”

    They knew what to do. They could have done it without Sherman’s orders-but his presence definitely boosted their confidence. They didn’t take more than five minutes to load six ALICE packs to the brim with ammunition and cans of food. It was enough ammo for months, but only enough old rations for a few weeks. Three, maybe four, tops, if managed properly. Sherman was pleased enough. They’d scrounge fresh food where they could to save the rations. The tins wouldn’t go bad until Jesus decided his beard wasn’t fashionable and shaved it off-or when Hell froze over. Both were equally unlikely.

    Sherman, still standing in the open doorway as the squad finished, nodded simply. He directed the soldiers with full packs back they way they’d come. They’d be near useless when they had to run after the rescue-best to get them out and secure their new gear. They nodded, one or two whispering a furtive hoo-ah, and dog-trotted down the street, moving as fast as they could without making too much noise. Sherman had confidence they’d make it if they didn’t draw attention to themselves.

    He turned, surveying those left around him, and scowled. Near one of the perimeter guards, he spotted Jack-the civilian welder. He’d worked fast and hard in the storeroom, throwing whole boxes of rations up and out of the basement to the soldiers above. He seemed to have missed the bus out of town, though. Sherman ran over to him.

    “What in the name of Saint Peter do you think you’re doing, guy? Next move’s combat for sure. Get the hell after that squad that just left!”

    “No can do, sir. Armed now. Still gotta be useful-and I had no pack to carry stuff out. What’s better? An empty-handed civvie, or an extra gun?” Jack held up a small pistol, grinning impishly. Sherman looked perplexed. Stiles hadn’t said there were any more pistols. Jack seemed to sense his confusion and explained, “Someone must have dropped it. It was on the floor just inside the door, half under one of those shelf units. Nine-millimeter. Looks Polish or something. It’s a gun, though, right?”

    Sherman knew the last comment was rhetorical, and probably laced with undetectable sarcasm.

    “You know how to use that?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.