Savages (25 page)

Rain began falling in sheets. The canopy overhead did little to shield us. Large branches thrashed and broke from powerful storm-gales. Limbs big enough to kill a man—widow-makers, my father used to call them—fell around us with nearly the same frequency as raindrops, forcing us to fan out to avoid losing everyone in case one of the heavy missiles found its mark. Twice, I heard cracking above my head, looked up, and barely managed to dive out of the way before being crushed.

As if I didn’t have enough problems.

Great Hawk shouted above the wind for everyone to stop, pressed the sat-phone to his ear, and listened. The dark eyes closed and, for once, I actually saw weariness on the Apache’s inscrutable face.

“What is it this time?” Gabe called out.

Great Hawk put the phone away. “Infected. Anderson’s group is surrounded. They have taken to the trees.”

I looked upward to the twisting sea of branches and howling wind. It was a better option than being eaten by infected, but not by much.

“How many?” I asked.

A shake of the head. “Legion.”

I leaned back and laughed. It was either that or scream. “That’s great. Just fucking wonderful. What’s next? Bombs? Fire? Bears with assault rifles and goddamn laser beams coming out of their eyes?”

I earned myself a glare. “We will lead the infected away so they can escape.”

May cursed softly, wiped his brow, and flung a stream of rainwater to the ground. Hicks was silent and expressionless, hands on his rifle. Gabe nodded grimly and drew his falcata. I reached over my shoulder and realized I did not have my sword. Must have lost it at the crash site. The loss of the weapon hit me sharply, like waking up and finding a limb missing. I had carried the sword since the Outbreak, and it had saved my life many times. Being without it gave me an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability. If my ammo ran out, I was down to just my knife. Not a good feeling.

“Sure,” I said. “What the hell. Got nothing better to do.”

The storm lessened as we covered the remaining ground to Anderson’s location, which meant the widow-makers stopped falling and the torrential downpour settled into the kind of slow, soaking rain that makes the ground muddy for days after it ceases. I did not mind. It covered the sound of our footsteps.

We approached from the east because Anderson said there was a natural rise in that direction which would give us the high ground. Near the top, Great Hawk signaled for everyone to drop and belly-crawl to the ridge. I obeyed, silently cursing the whole way. By the time I reached the top, in addition to being soaking wet, I was now streaked with mud from neck to nuts.

Great Hawk pointed at me, made a remarkably natural sounding bird call, and motioned me closer. I crawled slowly to his position and gave him a look that said,
what do you want
?

He handed me a small pair of binoculars. “Tell me what you see.”

The vision thing again. At least the Hawk appreciated my talents.

I adjusted the lenses and scanned the area in front of me. At the base of the hill, I saw the burned out remnants of a house slowly being consumed by bugs, rot, and creeping vines. A barn disintegrated in comfortable silence a short distance beyond, several rusty vehicles were sinking into the earth next to a collapsed garage, and where the treeline ended, grass, shrubs, and saplings created a tangle of crud that stood six feet at its lowest and far taller at its highest. The grass swayed and the saplings trembled, but not like they would in a wind. Looking more carefully, I saw glimpses of wasted gray and white flesh, and the occasional hand bent into a claw.

Infected, and a hell of a lot of them.

There was no sign of Anderson or his party. I told Great Hawk what I saw. He grunted and said, “Search the trees.”

So I did. It took a while, but I finally spotted a mote of fiery red among the greenery that turned out to be Lena Smith’s wet, tangled hair. I switched to my rifle, dialed up the magnification on the scope, and looked again.

Her clothes were torn and ragged and not at all appropriate for running around in the wilderness. She wore no shoes and her feet bled from myriad cuts and scrapes. By comparison, the soldiers and pilot looked well put together, if not exactly comfortable.

Again, I filled in Great Hawk. He nodded slowly, thought for a few seconds, and said, “You and I will draw the infected east. The others will follow along the flanks until we have led the horde two klicks away. Then the others will lead the horde north a klick and draw them west before doubling back. That will put a wall of infected between us and Samson’s men.”

I mulled it over. Aside from the obvious dangers, it was a good plan. “Let’s test our weapons. See if they were damaged in the crash.”

Great Hawk leveled his rifle and let off two shots. “Sounds good to me.”

I did the same, and the rifle worked just fine. Then I produced my pistol. As soon as I drew it, I knew it was a lost cause. The suppressor must have gotten wedged between me and the bulkhead of the helicopter when it went down. There was a plainly visible bend where the can connected to the barrel threads, rendering the gun inoperable.

“Well that fucking sucks.” I removed the magazine, which did not appear damaged, and hurled the useless hunk of metal into the clearing. Great Hawk’s pistol worked fine.

Figures
.
At least I still have my Kel-Tec
.

The .22 magnum pistol was fine against the undead, but if I was going to be fighting the living, I wanted something with more stopping power. Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

The others conducted their own tests. No problems. I should have figured I would be the only one with a damaged weapon the way my luck was going lately. Hopefully the airdrop would yield another sidearm. Preferably a suppressor-equipped Beretta M-9, but I would take whatever I could get.

Great Hawk called Anderson, told him the plan, and then radioed the rest of the team. “It is time to move out,” he told me. “Are you ready?”

I slid my rifle around to my back and did a few stretches. “Just another day at the office, chief.”

*****

Five long hours later, it was midafternoon, the horde was scattered nearly half a mile north of us, I had expended eighteen 6.8 SPC rounds shooting infected I could not avoid, and had experienced the unique pleasure of having to shoot two grays while taking a crap.

Not when I was finished, or cleaning up, or on my way back to where Great Hawk waited. Oh no, that would have been too dignified. As per my usual luck, they attacked right smack in the middle of the really emotional part.

At least I’d remembered to keep my rifle close at hand.

As soon as Great Hawk gave Anderson the all-clear, his party descended from their perches and headed south. We caught up with them near nightfall taking a rest on the edge of a riverbank. At least I think it was a river. Maybe just a big stream. I don’t know. My grasp of Southern Illinois geography is not that great.

We rested, boiled some water, filtered it as best we could, and spent half an hour trying to catch fish with lines and hooks from our little survival kits baited with worms we dug out of the ground. No such luck.

Hungry, dejected, and damn near dead on my feet, I plopped down near the little smokeless Dakota fire Gabe had dug and ate the cookie bar from the lone MRE in my rucksack. We all had one, but most of the others were saving theirs. I could go a few weeks without food if it came down to it, but since Gabe, Hicks, Great Hawk, May and I would be venturing forth in less than an hour to retrieve the air drop, I wanted some quick energy.

“Maybe you should stay behind,” Gabe said. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, old buddy. You always know just what to say. And for the record, I feel like shit.”

“So take a pass on this one. No one will blame you.”

I shook my head. “Nope. I want first dibs on the gear. Besides, you’ll need help carrying it all back.”

Gabe shrugged and let it go.

After nightfall, we put the last of our fresh batteries into our NVGs, I borrowed Anderson’s pistol with a solemn promise to bring it back or die trying, and off we went. We did not make it more than a few hundred meters before I heard a limb snap, looked, and saw a knot of twelve infected approaching. The others noticed at the same time.

“Got ‘em,” I said.

The ghouls were only fifty or so meters away. A quick ammo inventory revealed I had a full mag in my rifle, four more full ones on my vest, and an orphan with only eight rounds in it. One-hundred and fifty-eight rounds all together. I could spare a dozen.

“I’ll go with you,” May said and drew a long-handled hatchet from his belt. “Save some ammo.”

“Fine by me. Just stay to my right, and if you get in trouble, fall back.”

“Got it.”

I evaluated the young soldier as we walked. He was a little taller than me, broad through the shoulders, narrow at the waist, and very long of limb. There was an athletic spring to his step and he gripped his hatchet with casual familiarity, giving me confidence he was well experienced with the weapon. Looking closer, I figured his age at somewhere in his mid-twenties. I wondered if he had already been enlisted in the Army when the Outbreak hit, or had signed on afterward.

“Let me get the first two,” May said. “Make it easier to take out the rest.”

Before I could respond, the young soldier took three running steps and buried his hatchet in an undead woman’s skull. She looked like one of the older ones, pre-Outbreak clothes in tatters, shoes gone, most of her face and the flesh covering her stomach missing, long ropes of intestine dangling to her knees, the ends torn away by sharp brush or her own feet. There was a dark, maggot-ridden cavity where her digestive organs had once dwelled. I did not want to look, but found my eyes drawn there anyway.

May pulled her sideways so she made a trip hazard for the ghouls behind her, ripped his hatchet free, and hit the next one. A man this time, dressed in durable post-Outbreak clothes, the shoes still intact, obviously not dead for very long.
A victim of one of the Alliance’s border incursions? Marauders?

It did not matter. I raised my rifle, fired three times, and three undead fell across their fellows to form a small pile. The rest neither noticed nor cared. Hands reached, faces contorted, milky eyes stared wide and fevered, mouths opened to expose blackened teeth, animal moans and hisses and some kind of creepy yipping sound. Typical ghoul behavior.

May stepped to the side and cracked another ghoul on the back of the head, a professional blow, the brain destroyed on impact and the blade aimed so it passed through flesh and bone and exited the base of the neck smoothly. Another kill on the backswing, and a few bouncing steps to get out of the way. I took it as a cue and fired twice more. Two less ghouls in the world.

“Nice shooting.”

“Thanks.”

May stepped in and swung again. Like all of his kills thus far, he was careful not to attack head on, but rather from the side. It was a good strategy for an axe wielder, being that the front of the skull is the strongest, densest part. It is much easier to smash the big spherical bone at the thinner parts on the sides and back where it is less difficult to break. Additionally, attacking from an outside angle keeps one free of a ghoul’s grasping hands.

I have been grabbed by the walking dead before. Their tireless strength is nothing short of terrifying.

Of the last two undead, one fell to May’s axe and the other to my rifle. May cleaned his weapon with wet leaves and slid it back into its harness. I led the way back to the others.

“Feel better now?” Gabe asked, smirking.

“Actually I do.” And I did. Nothing chases away the blues like doling out a few high-velocity lead injections to the undead.

“We must be careful and silent from here on out,” Great Hawk said. His voice was like an ice bath, shattering the levity of the moment. “There may be more infected, and some of Samson’s outriders could be nearby.”

“That could be a good thing,” Caleb said.

We all gave him a look.

“Horses.”

“Ah,” I said. “Still, I think we’d be better off following the Hawk’s advice.”

As we began walking again, I heard Caleb mutter, “Speak for yourself. My damn feet hurt.”

The pickup went fine.

The rest of the night did not.

We found the dropped crates with no trouble—two small olive drab containers dangling from parachutes caught in high branches. Hicks climbed up, slithered out on a limb like a tree snake, and cut them free. A short drop, two thumps, and we were in business.

One of the crates yielded several new Beretta M-9 pistols equipped with suppressors. I made a little
yessss
sound, stashed Anderson’s gun in my pack, and slipped a replacement into the empty holster under my arm. Next, I filled the empty slots on my vest with freshly loaded P-mags for my rifle, and, on my leg, fifteen-round standard metal magazines for my pistol. I thought about ditching the orphan with only eight rounds in it, but decided not to. What good was a cargo pocket if I never used it?

Okay. Primary weapon. 270 rounds of 6.8 SPC for the carbine and a last-chance eight rounds in my pocket. Another hundred cartridges still in the cardboard boxes in my pack. Standard 5.56 NATO would have been lighter, but was not available. I didn’t mind. The extra stopping power was worth the back strain.

Sidearm. Fifteen rounds in the weapon, four spare mags with fifteen rounds each on the drop harness, and a box of fifty spares in the ruck. Sounded like a lot, but really wasn’t. Not with the infected around. I would have to use the pistol sparingly.

Food. Three MREs. I could easily stretch the rations out to six days, and planned to do so.

The little revolver was fully loaded and there were twenty spare rounds in the rucksack. I hoped I would not need them. If I did, I doubted I would have time to load more than one. Which, considering the gun’s intended purpose, would be all I needed.

Grenades. Four of them. There were other explosives—LAW rockets, claymores, breaching charges, etc.—but I left those to the professionals. Grenades scare me badly enough. No need to weigh myself down with implements of destruction I have neither the experience nor the inclination to use.

Now my ruck was full and the weight was beginning to grow uncomfortable. I ignored it. The pain was a much easier problem to deal with than being low on ammo in ghoul-infested wilderness. Such things are not conducive to longevity and good health. Besides, ammo is like water. The more you use, the lighter it gets. And the closer you are to dying.

Within the second crate were several of the Army’s newly-developed MK 9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tools. The MK was pronounced ‘mark’ for some reason. No one ever accused the military of being good at spelling.

I stared at the ugly black-coated blades for a moment, reminded myself my sword had been lost and I needed another ghoul-killer, and removed one. It was lighter than it looked. I guessed the blade length at twenty-two inches, which meant this was a second generation weapon. The originals had only been twenty inches.

The blade widened along the length of a distal taper and was sharp enough to shave with. The profile was similar to that of a Chinese war sword; Da Dao pattern, if memory served me. Looking closely at the edge under the light of a headlamp, I saw dark whorls in the metal that indicated folded and layered steel that had been differentially hardened. Which meant the spine was tempered to be softer for flexibility, and the outer lining harder so the steel could hold an edge. All good things.

The handle was a foot long with hardwood scales, full tang construction, and a round lanyard pommel twice as big around as my thumb. Simple steel bolster welded to the tang. Belt sheath made of hard plastic and woven nylon. Fit and finish were tight and functional. It would do.

A few practice swings felt pretty good, although the sword was a bit front heavy. I added the sheath to my web belt and tried a few practice draws. Not exactly smooth, but not completely terrible either.

“Think you can use that thing?” Gabe asked.

I shrugged. “If eighteen-year-old conscripts can do it, so can I.”

“I’ll get you another pig-sticker for your birthday.”

“If we live that long.”

The wolf grin flashed in the darkness.

The most important items in the arsenal were our real weapons: radios. And plenty of batteries. I grabbed one of the former and several of the latter. More than I needed, probably, but I am a firm believer it is better to have and not need than need and not have.

Great Hawk smiled a little at the discovery of a new ruggedized laptop. Flipped it open. Powered it up. Found our location on GPS. Stuffed a cylindrical black thing in his vest. I asked him what it was, and he told me it was a backup power supply. Gabe deemed it a wise addition. I agreed.

The next part involved stuffing things into duffel bags and carrying them back for the others to root through. I doubted they would be disappointed with the pickings.

*****

When one is flush with ammo, replacement weapons, food, explosives, and in the company of trained killers friendly to your cause, it is easy to grow complacent. But complacency is bad. It is lethal. It kills smart, capable people every day. In these moments, when I have been through some disaster or another and survived when most people would not, and I think I’ve made it through the worst and things will get better soon, I always try to be extra cautious. Because, in my experience, the hammer always falls when I think I am farthest from the anvil.

We were halfway back to the others when we heard gunshots. I wondered briefly what idiot was firing an unsuppressed weapon and then realized it was not an M-4. The Kalashnikov rifle has a very distinctive chatter. I would know it in my sleep. And it was very close.

“Down!” Great Hawk hissed.

I dropped the duffel bag I was carrying and hit the dirt. The ground was wet and muddy and smelled of rotting vegetation. The rain had stopped, but water dripped from soaked leaves and branches with steady cadence. A drop fell and landed on the rear aperture of the back-up iron sights that sprang up in front of me. I do not remember raising the rifle or even thinking it was something I should do. It just happened. Kind of like breathing.

My hands moved and my eyes scanned while my brain struggled to process the rapid influx of new information. The NVG lenses got in the way, so I flipped them up and activated the night vision on my scope. No green beam from the PEQ-15. I thought about turning it on, but saw the others had not done so, and decided against it. Made sense. We did not know if the enemy had night vision capabilities, and until we did, discretion was the best policy.

“Got anything, Riordan?” Great Hawk again.

“Not yet. Hang on.”

Another burst of fire thundered through the trees.
Fucking moron is ringing a goddamn ghoul dinner bell.
My teeth clenched as I shifted to scan in the direction of the shots. At first I saw nothing, then I caught movement. Increased the scope magnification and looked again.

“Got him.”

“How many?”

I watched and waited. About a hundred yards away, a lone, armed horseman rode slowly through the trees. Two dead ghouls lay to his right. Seconds passed, and nothing else happened. No other riders approached.

“I only see one, but I guarantee there are others nearby.”

“Take him out.”

I looked back at Great Hawk. “You sure?”

“I want his horse. It will get Lena Smith to safety faster.”

A roll of the eyes. “Aye, aye, chief.”

The scope appeared, the reticle went where it needed to go, and the right index finger gave a steady squeeze.
Crack.
The head in the crosshairs snapped backward and its owner toppled out of the saddle. The horse glanced back at him, sniffed, and continued on as if nothing had happened.

The brief rush that materializes before the trigger-pull faded. Adrenaline. The knowledge that I was about to end a life willfully, with malice, and in so doing would live a little while longer. It’s callous, tragic, stupid, and wasteful, but when you take up a gun and set out to war, those are the rules of the game. You kill me, or I kill you. Be quick, or be dead. And this time, it was the other guy who made the mistake. Sorry, pal. Nothing personal.

“Nice shot,” Gabe said. I turned to see him looking through his own scope.

“Thanks.”

“Stay here,” Great Hawk said. “I will be back shortly.”

He stood up, stepped around a couple of trees, and was gone. There was no way I could track his movements—he was too skilled for that—but I knew exactly where he was heading. So I watched through my scope, and a minute or two later, the Apache reappeared. The horse seemed mildly startled, but did not run. Great Hawk approached it slowly, kept his hands low, and let the animal sniff his palm. His other hand came up and gently scratched the horse’s neck until it relaxed and went back to snuffling the forest floor. Mission accomplished.

Great Hawk then turned his attention to the dead insurgent, searched him, and produced a radio. He held it up to make sure I saw it.

“They have radios.” I said.

Gabe hissed something four-lettered and not intended for polite company. I felt like doing the same. Repeatedly.

Great Hawk swung into the saddle and rode back to us. “I will proceed ahead,” he announced upon returning. “Tie the duffels together and load them on the horse.”

We did, and secured them to the saddle with para-cord. Once done, Great Hawk turned his mount and rode away.

“Fucking Lena Smith,” May grumbled. “Hope she knows how lucky she is.”

“Look on the bright side,” Gabe said. “At least we don’t have to carry the duffels anymore.”

“Good point.”

I flipped my NVGs back down and looked in the direction of the insurgent I shot. His presence was a disturbing development. It meant some of Samson’s men, probably outriders, had escaped the horde we put in their way and were tracking us. Which meant they must have had a general idea of where to begin looking in the first place.

“They’re tracking her.”

Hicks looked at me. “What?”

“Lena Smith. Has to be.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Gabe said. Hicks caught our meaning and nodded in understanding.

“We need to pick up the pace,” May said.

We started running.