Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within (37 page)

“Why’s that?”

“Guy’s a fucking psycho. He’s into torture and shit. Anytime somebody needs to be punished, he’s the one that does it. He also likes to buy women from slave traders and take them down into the tunnels. I’m not sure what he does with them, but sometimes, if you stand near the hatch, you can hear them screaming. He brings them back in fucking trash bags, man. I’m telling you, stay away from that guy.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“No problem. My name’s Paul, by the way. Paul Harris.” 

“Logan Morrison.” I shook his hand.

“You from around here?”

“No, I’m from down south. Texas.”

My eyes had fully adjusted to the sunlight and as we crossed the parking lot to the admin building, I took a moment to look around. The place looked just as abandoned as the first time I had seen it, but now that I was on this side of the highway, I could see dugouts in the side of the road where lookouts were stationed. Anybody who passed by on the road would run right into their line of fire. Along the treeline, I saw evidence of other watch stations positioned well apart, but all within sight of each other. It wasn’t the strongest perimeter, but it didn’t have to be. Between the warehouse and the tunnels, the Legion troops stationed here had plenty of protection. I wondered how I could use that against them.

“Listen man, there’s a few things you need to know,” Paul said. “Rules of the road.”

“Okay.”

“First, don’t go thinking that the leaders trust you. They’re not stupid; they know you’re probably pissed at them for all the shit they put you through. They’ll watch you close, and if they don’t think you’re serious about joining up, they’ll send you right back down to the mines. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times. Couple of guys even got themselves killed.”

“Good to know. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Don’t try to run away. The last guy that did that was this kid named Morrow. He was a smart fucker; he almost made it, but one of our trackers caught up with him in a little town not far from here. They worked him over pretty bad, and then stuck him back in the mines for a month.”

Morrow, you poor bastard. Everything you told me was true
. “What happened to him after that?”

“He straightened up and got on board with things. Fought his way out, and got assigned to a crew. Kid had bad luck, though. About two weeks later, he got killed in a firefight down near Hollow Rock, along with a bunch of other guys. Fuckers set a trap for us.”

A trap? Is that what the leadership around here was selling? I guess they had to cover up getting their asses kicked somehow.

It occurred to me that if this guy was one of Lucian’s personal guards, then he’d probably overheard a lot of information that I might find useful. We were still a good two hundred yards from the admin building, and setting a leisurely pace. I decided to go fishing.

“What’s Hollow Rock?”

“Little town southeast of here. You should see it, man. They got this big-ass wall that goes around the whole town. The place is surrounded by farms, and they got more food than they know what to do with.”

“Why would they attack the Free Legion?”

“ ’Cause they’re still operating under the old rules,” he said contemptuously. “They don’t want to trade with us because we allow slavery. The fuckers just don’t get it; the old ways are dead. It’s all about survival of the fittest now. But that’s all right, they’re gonna learn. They think because they got the Army on their side they’re protected from us.” He snorted, a grin creasing his face. “They don’t know shit. Lucian’s gonna make them pay for what they did.”

“Is he going after them?”

“Shit yeah. What do you think the tunnels are for?”

My heartbeat went sluggish, and I remembered the sign at the main intersection in the tunnels. HR AXS. Hollow Rock Access. Lucian talking about an offensive.

The pieces fit.

We arrived at the office building and stepped inside. Just beyond the threshold, a pair of watchmen challenged us and Paul told them we were headed up to the quartermaster’s office.

“Meet the newest member of the Legion.” He gestured to me.

“Congratulations,” one of them said, offering me a handshake.

“Thanks.” 

“Welcome aboard, man.” The other guard clapped me on the shoulder, smiling.

Why the hell was everyone being so nice? These guys were supposed to be hardened criminals. What was with all the smiles and handshakes? It was making me nervous.

Paul led me around the corner and up the stairs. When I walked out of a vestibule and through to the work area, I stopped and stared at what was in front of me. When Paul had said that the quartermaster’s office was on the second floor, I thought he had meant just a small part of it, an office or something. But that description hadn’t been accurate. The quartermaster’s office wasn’t just
on
the second floor, it
was
the second floor.

Everything had been stripped out. The cubicles, file cabinets, desks, and computer equipment were nowhere to be found. In their place stood row after row of shelves all the way to the ceiling. A few men meandered through the stacks filling out inventory sheets and stacking boxes on pallet trucks. A desk had been built near the stairwell door, and seated behind it was a plump, surly looking man flanked by two armed guards.

“Mr. Harris. What can I do for you?” Upon recognizing one of Lucian’s assistants, the man’s mood brightened immediately.

“We got a new recruit.” Paul slapped me on the arm, sending out a plume of dust. “Need to get him cleaned up and outfitted.”

“Sure, sure,” the man said, all smiles. “Come on back, young man. Let’s have a look at you.”

He motioned me forward, and I stepped through a low, swinging door to his desk.

“Christ’s sake, you must have just come from the mines. Well, let’s get you sorted out then. Tyrone, would you mind helping our young friend here get what he needs?”

Tyrone, a tall black man with biceps the size of my head, grunted and led me to a bathroom at the far end of the building. Much like the main floor, the bathroom had been stripped out. The room’s only features were a mirror to my right, broken pipes jutting out from the walls, and a single pipe protruding from the ceiling that branched out into four shower heads. The opening the pipe came through was rough, as though cut by hand.

“Holy shit,” I said. “You have a working shower.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Tyrone replied. “There’s a water tank up on the third floor. Helped build it myself. We cut holes in the ceiling and ran a couple of pipes down. It ain’t the Hilton, but it ain’t bad.”

He stepped outside for a moment and came back with a bar of soap and a towel. “Here you go. I’ll go find you some clothes. What sizes you wear?”

I told him, factoring in how much weight I had lost. He left, and shut the door behind him.

Stripping out of my clothes, I tossed them into a pile in the corner, kicked my boots on top of them, and turned the valve to let the water run. It was cold, but not freezing. I spent a half-hour scrubbing myself down over and over again, trying to clean off all the dirt that had accumulated in every crack and crevice in my skin. My hair and beard were the worst parts, tangled and matted as they were.

Once done, I looked at myself in the mirror. My ribs stood out in stark contrast under pale skin, and I could see the striations and bulging veins in my muscles. The hard work I had done in the mines had made me stronger, and even though I had lost weight, I was denser now. Compact. Stringy.

A knock sounded from the door. “You done in there?”

“Yeah.”

The door opened. Tyrone thrust his arm inside, holding a small white trash bag. “Here’s your clothes.”

I took it from him and he withdrew his arm, shutting the door. Inside the bag was a set of thermal underwear, an unopened packet of boxer briefs, a few plain T-shirts, socks, two pairs of sturdy Carhartt pants, two Army surplus bush jackets, and a thick Gore-Tex winter coat. Further down, I found a knit cap, gloves, belt, and a pair of Browning combat boots. Not bad. Not bad at all. I got dressed and stepped outside, carrying the bag. Tyrone was waiting for me.

“You look a damn sight better. How you feelin’?”

I managed a smile. “Much better now. Thanks.”

“Come on with me.” He turned and walked back toward the front desk. When we arrived, Paul was there chatting with the pudgy man behind the counter.

“Look at you, Morrison. You look like a human being again.”

I forced a laugh. “I feel like one, too.”

“Grab a backpack and a sleeping bag from that shelf over there. George has a few presents for you.”

I went where he pointed and picked out a few items that looked adequate. Taking my new clothes out of the trash bag, I stowed them in a rucksack and went back over to the desk. Paul motioned to the man behind the counter, who produced a small cardboard box. “This is yours,” he said.

I pulled it across the table and picked through it. There was a Faraday flashlight—the kind you shake up to charge—a wind-up lantern, paracord, zip-ties, a mess kit, two emergency ponchos, a multi-tool, and a Swedish fire steel. I nodded in approval and stuffed them in my pack.

“Thanks, man. This is good stuff. What about weapons?”

The fat man chuckled. “Not while you’re still a prospect. You can have an ax or something to protect yourself from the infected, but no guns. Not till you’ve proven yourself.”

He dismissed me with a wave. “Good luck, kid. You’re gonna need everything in that box before it’s over with.” 

“Let’s head downstairs and go through all the orientation stuff,” Paul said. “Then we’ll see about getting you assigned to a crew.”

I nodded and followed him down the stairs. Back on the first floor, he led me to a corner on the opposite side of the building from Aiken’s office. The room was empty except for a folding table and a couple of office chairs. On the table were a few binders and a box of file folders. Paul rooted around in the files until he found one with my name on it and pulled it out. He motioned for me to sit down, and then took a seat at the table across from me.

Over the next fifteen minutes, he laid out the rules of serving in the Free Legion. There weren’t many of them, but they required explanation. The first and most important rule was loyalty. Loyalty to the Legion, and loyalty to my crew. That meant following the orders of my crew leader, the senior staff—which they called the Carls—and the Warlord, Lucian. I asked if Warlord was Lucian’s actual title, and Paul confirmed that it was. I almost laughed, but seeing the serious expression on Paul’s face, I held it in.

(Seriously, though. Warlord? Shouldn’t the guy be wearing assless chaps and a spiked codpiece, and drive around in a dune buggy or something?)

My crew leader was responsible for my training, which would begin sometime in the next week or two. They had a strict curriculum, and everyone in my crew would help. The training would consist of basic marksmanship, land navigation, urban combat, patrolling, setting up perimeters, land warfare, traps, unit tactics, and an introduction to explosives. Gabriel had taught me all that stuff years ago, but Paul didn’t need to know that.

Next, we discussed salvage. Even as the low man on the totem pole, I was entitled to a share of anything I found. If the quartermaster didn’t want it, it was all mine. Any male slaves I took belonged to Lucian and the Carls, but they would compensate me for them. As for women, the first one I captured belonged to the Legion, but any others were mine to keep. When I asked what happened to the women who were given to the Legion, I got about the answer I expected. I didn’t reach across the table and rip Paul’s heart out through his mouth, but it was a near thing.

Last, we talked about ascension through the ranks. My current rank was that of prospect. If I proved myself, I could become a regular, like Paul. If I demonstrated intelligence, motivation, leadership, and resourcefulness, I might be considered for promotion to crew leader. Promotion to Carl, however, was a dim possibility. Unless the Legion got big enough to warrant commissioning more of them, or if one of them died, it was unlikely that I would achieve that rank anytime soon. I nodded understanding at that, all the while thinking to myself that the Legion’s growth prospects were about to become extraordinarily grim.

Once finished, Paul had me sign a document confirming that I understood the terms conditions of membership in the Free Legion, and that I consented to abide by them.

As if I had a fucking choice.

We then went back across the parking lot to the warehouse and tracked down Kasikov. He was down in the tunnels supervising the grumbling Legion troops that Lucian had ordered to begin work on a walkway of wooden planks. The planks would provide an even surface for the luggage carts they would use to move supplies and equipment back and forth between sites. I tried to sneak a peek down the Hollow Rock access tunnel, but all I saw was darkness.

“There are not being openings on any of the crews except one,” the big Russian said with a grin.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Which one is that?”

Kasikov’s grin swiveled in my direction. “Mine.”

Paul seemed pleased. “Well, that was easy. Logan, say hi to your crew leader.”