Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within (30 page)

The Midwest Alliance. Had to be.

But that didn’t explain the Chinese manufacturing stamps, or the Korean shipping manifests, or the Russian ammo. I had a piece of the puzzle, but not all of it. To learn the rest, I would have walk down the hill, get across the highway, and allow the Legion to capture me.

I sat there for a while, staring and thinking about the difference between planning a thing, and actually going through with it. It’s all fun and games until you come face to face with the part of your mission that might get you killed.

“Well, I made it this far,” I muttered, standing up. “Might as well see it through.”

While checking my gear for the last time, I decided that there was no point in letting the Legion have all of it. After searching around for a while, I found an old culvert that ran beneath a
raised stretch of road near the bottom of the hill. One side of the culvert had caved in, and thick debris clogged the other side, effectively preventing any water from flowing through it. I wrapped the M-4 and the CZ in a trash bag to keep them dry, along with the lock-pick, the multi-tool, and a bottle of water, and cached them in the culvert. The Sig, the hunting knife, and the Ruger I kept with me, as well as the ax and the crowbar. It would look strange if I showed up completely unarmed.

Finally, I cast a glance across the field at the warehouse, and set off toward it. My heart began to beat faster as I approached, and it took an effort of will to stay calm. I looked across the field, checking around and behind me just like any survivor would, but kept my movements casual, trying not to give away the apprehension that was building to a fever pitch.

I reached the road that ran alongside the structure and discovered the ditch beside the road was deeper than it had looked from up the hill. If I stood on the bottom, the edge of the pavement would be a little above my head. The ditch on the other side looked just as deep. I could climb it, but it would be a pain in the ass. Casting a glance around for a better place to cross, I saw a gravel road that intersected with the highway a quarter-mile to the north, near the edge of the surrounding woodlands.

Looks like a nice place to set up an ambush
, I thought. Plenty of cover, deep depressions on both sides of the road. They could probably hide three or four people over there.

Holding the Ruger loosely in my hands, I headed toward it. As I got close, I saw movement in the tree line and heard metal scraping on dirt from down inside the ditch. If I were approaching with bad intentions, this would be a good time to open up on them. Take the initiative, and rock them back on their heels, maybe try to escape. If Gabe were here with me, we could leapfrog backwards, laying down covering fire as we went.

But Gabe wasn’t with me, and my purpose was not to escape. So I kept walking.

I made it almost to the rise in the side of the road where the gravel path met the pavement before they sprung the trap. As I had suspected, there were four of them, all armed with the familiar Chinese assault rifles. Two of them emerged from cover in the woods where I had already spotted them, and the other two climbed a set of steps carved into the ditch on the opposite side of the highway.

“Stop right there!” one of them shouted. “Drop the gun and get your hands up!”

For just the briefest of moments, I hesitated. It would have been easy to sprint to my right, spraying bullets as I went. I was certain I could hit two of them on my way to the tree line before taking off through the woods. They would have a hard time getting a clean shot at me in the thick stands of pines and cedars. But then I reminded myself what I was doing this for, and remembered Grayson Morrow’s instructions:

Don’t try to fight them when they find you, just do as they tell you. If you try to fight, they won’t hesitate. They’ll kill you. Surrender quietly, and they’ll take you to the tunnels. It’s where they take everybody they capture
.

Doing my best to look surprised, I let the Ruger fall to the ground, and raised my hands.

“Mike, get his weapons,” the one in charge said. He was standing to my right, one of the two who had emerged from the trees.

“What the hell?” I said, stepping back.

“Don’t you fucking move!” the leader shouted again. “Take one more step and you’re dead!”

I stopped, and stared around in what I hoped was an expression of stunned disbelief. They must have bought it, because they didn’t shoot.

The one identified as Mike strode forward. He was shorter than me, skinny, with a narrow, ratlike face. He grinned as he picked up the Ruger.

“Thanks,” he said, holding up the rifle. “I’ve been wanting one of these.”

“Mike, stop fucking around,” the leader said, and motioned at me with the barrel of his AK. “You, drop the pack and the web gear. Try anything stupid, and I’ll turn you into hamburger.”

My hands shook a little as I took off the pack, and unbuckled the load-bearing harness. Rat-face Mike stepped forward with a swagger in his step and whistled as he looked over my equipment.

“Ooohh, Sig Mosquito. These are popular. I’ll get a good price for it.” He pulled the gun from its holster and stuck it in his belt. “What else you got for me?”

He smiled up at me, brimming with confidence, and I almost laughed at him. The little rat-fuck had no idea how close he was to dying. A quick strike to the throat would distract him, followed by a thrust from my hunting knife to finish the job. A twist of the blade on the way out, and he would be standing in a pile of his own guts. It would take seconds to do it, quick and easy.

I’m going to catch you alone sometime, Rat-Face
, I thought.
We’ll see how cocky you are when I open you up and strangle you with your own intestines.

Stripped of my weapons and equipment, I stood still while Mike and one of the others searched me. It was not a gentle search, and I had to give them credit for being thorough. If there had been a weapon hidden on me, they would have found it.

“He’s clean, Tommy,” Rat-Face Mike said, stepping back and training his rifle on me. Tommy, the leader, stepped closer.

“What’s your name, shitbird?”

He was taller than I was, and heavyset, with broad shoulders and thick, ham-sized hands. A grizzled beard coated his face all the way down to the collar of his shirt, and he reeked of body odor and old booze.

“Logan,” I said, without hesitation. “Logan Morrison.”

I saw the backhanded blow coming, but rather than try to get out of its way, I simply rolled with it. My head snapped to the side, and stars exploded in my vision. I managed to keep my feet until another blow crashed into my gut, slamming all of the air out of my lungs. That one put me on my knees.

“Wrong answer,” he said. “Your name is maggot. And from here on out you are the property of the Free Legion.”

I suppose I should start begging now
.

“Listen, please, just take—”

The next blow was a kick aimed at my head. The leader, Tommy, stepped into it and brought it forward from about three counties back. If I had been stupid enough to sit still for it, it might have snapped my neck. Thankfully, I’m not stupid. I let it clip the side of my head and threw myself backward to make it look as if the kick had leveled me. Even though I dodged the worst of it, the force of the blow was still enough to rattle me, and I didn’t have to fake the dazed expression on my face as a pair of hands lifted my roughly back to my knees.

“You will do as you are told.” He punctuated the sentence with a vicious backhand. My right eye began to swell immediately.

“You will eat when we feed you, which won’t be fucking much.” Another strike. Harder this time.

“You will speak when you are spoken to.” He reared back and slammed a fist into my face. I rolled with it as best I could, but it still hurt like a bastard. Warmth poured from my nose, and my next breath blew out a spray of blood from my upper lip. 

“And if you even think about trying to escape, we’ll string you up by your balls and skin you alive before we kill you.” He finished with a final backhand.

It would have been easy to rear back and kick Tommy in the balls. I could have overhooked the arm of the raider to my left and dislocated his shoulder. After that, I could have thrown the one on my right at the rat-bastard covering me with a rifle. They were both smaller guys, and the impact would have knocked them over. I might have been able to grab a weapon, spray them all with lead, and escape.

Instead, I let myself go limp, head lolling down to my chest.

Satisfied that he had sufficiently beaten the shit out of me, Tommy stepped back and motioned to his men. “Zip this fucker up and take him to the pit. Looks like we all get booze and bitches when Lucian gets here.”

The two men holding me whooped and hollered as they planted me on my face and bound my hands behind my back with zip-ties. They pulled hard on the plastic restraints, tightening them until the hard edges bit deep into my skin. Once secured, they lifted me to my feet and began half-dragging me toward the back of the warehouse. On the way, I had to keep my head down to conceal a smile.

I survived
, I thought.
I’m still alive
.

I raised my head enough to see the back entrance to the building, and the pitch-black interior beyond.

“Let’s go, sweetheart,” Rat-Face Mike said, and thrust me ahead of him.

I lost my footing, and
fell forward into the darkness.

Part III

Under the sword lifted high, there is hell making you tremble.

-Miyamoto Musashi

The Book of Five Rings

The first thing I noticed was that Grayson Morrow’s description of the warehouse’s layout was spot-on.

The second thing I noticed was the smell.

It was dark, earthy, and close, like a rag over my face. The smell of dirt, mold, and decaying leaves, all tied together by the fecal odor of decay. It reminded me of the mulch pile my father had kept in our back yard, only a thousand times more powerful.

Around me, the concrete floor stretched away into darkness except for a small, well-lit section near the far wall. There, someone had put up crude wooden partitions that reminded me of another warehouse I’d been in back in North Carolina. On that side were propane grills, candles, a few Coleman lanterns, couches, and boxes upon boxes of hard liquor. A few stooped figures hustled about sweeping the floor, tidying, and placing neatly folded clothes on beds. Only a small number of off-duty Legion troops occupied the area, all seated around tables and talking over plates of food.

On the far wall ahead of me, about two dozen rubber hospital mattresses lay on the ground, arranged neatly in rows. They had no sheets or pillows on them, only thin, rumpled blankets. Beside each palette, a heavy iron ring protruded from the concrete floor. Connected to each ring was a set of leg irons like the ones used by prisons. Most of the mattresses were empty, but on a few of them, figures sat huddled and shivering under their blankets. Chains extended from restraints on their ankles to the anchors driven into the floor. I was pretty sure they were all women.

Rat-Face Mike, and the asshole on my right, dragged me by my arms and dumped me on one of the thin green palettes. They clamped the leg irons to my ankles, and then, to my surprise, they cut the zip-ties on my wrists. My relief was short lived, however, as Rat-Face pulled a set of standard police handcuffs from his belt and clamped them over one wrist. His friend placed the barrel of his AK against my head.

“Give me your other hand,” Rat-Face ordered.

I did as he said and held out my arm. He cuffed my other wrist, and then stood up and took a few steps away. At least now my hands were in front of me.

“We need to lay out a few ground rules.” Rat-Face drew an expandable baton from behind his back and whipped it to the side, extending it to its full length.

“First: You don’t speak unless spoken to. I don’t want to hear any begging, or bribing, or bargaining, or any of that shit. Don’t wanna hear it. It’s annoying, and it won’t do you any good anyway. If I want something from you, I’ll take it, and there ain’t a fucking thing you can do about it.”

He pointed at me with the baton. “Second: You will do as you’re told. I don’t care what it is we tell you to do, you fucking do it. If someone tells you to lick his boots, you do it. If someone tells you to wash his clothes, you do it. If someone tells you to get down on your knees and suck his cock, you do it.”

To punctuate, he stomped his filthy hiking boot on the ground in front of me. “There, your first opportunity to learn. Lick it.”

This was the part I had been dreading.

In my long conversations with Grayson Morrow, he had told me about the methods by which the Legion recruited from the ranks of those they captured. Oddly enough, they weren’t looking for people who were weak and pliable. They didn’t want the meek, or the frightened, or the easily manipulated. They looked for people who were strong, tough, and defiant. They looked for the people who would rather swallow their blood than their pride.