Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line (12 page)

“Such as?”

“Sawgrass Bowyers in Winfield, Kansas is a thriving endeavor.”

“Yes they are.”

“They’re also small time, and they charge an arm and a leg for what they sell.”

“Their stuff is worth it. Ever seen one of their crossbows?”

“I have. And sure, they’re well made. But they use old-school methods. I’m willing to bet I could come up with a manufacturing process that produces crossbows and bolts of similar quality at a fraction of the price.”

“How do you plan to pull that off?”

“The old fashioned way. Headhunting and economy of scale.”

“So you’re going to steal employees from Sawgrass?”

“Only if I can’t find a good bowyer elsewhere.”

I had to smile at Eric’s audacity. “You don’t do anything half-assed, do you?”

“Hey, if you’re gonna dream, dream big. Which brings me to my next idea.”

“And what’s that?”

Another swig of whisky. “Great Hawk made some rumblings about starting his own private security company.”

I was quiet a few seconds. “Did he now?”

“Yep.”

“Hmm. Does he intend to compete with the Blackthorns?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, we happen to know this guy who might be working for the Blackthorns pretty soon. Maybe we could leverage what you know, and what Great Hawk knows, and create some kind of strategic partnership.”

“I doubt they would be interested.”

“Only because they haven’t heard my sales pitch.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back. “Then let’s hear it.”

Eric sat up straight and used his Earnest Concerned Citizen voice. “How many men does the Blackthorn Company currently employ? Two hundred? Three? What’s the attrition rate compared to the number of men who pass training and are selected to wear the uniform and take contracts?”

“Good question.”

“And how much does it cost to hire one of these men? Let’s say you’re paying in ammunition; .22 long rifle and .22 magnum are always in demand. If I were to pay half of the fee with LR, and the other half with magnum, how much would it cost to hire a single Blackthorn for twelve weeks?”

“A hundred rounds LR and fifty magnum per week.”

“A princely sum. Now convert that to other forms of trade, and you’ll see the dilemma these prices create. Only the most prosperous of traders can afford that kind of protection.”

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

“For you, no. There are plenty of people willing to pay those prices and then some. But what about everyone else?”

“What about them?”

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘untapped market’?”

“I think I see where you’re going with this.”

Eric went on as if I had not spoken. “Did you know it’s been almost four years since the Outbreak?”

“Yes. I know how to read a calendar.”

“Of course, of course. Did you also know that during the first six months of the Outbreak more than two-hundred thousand survivors joined the Armed Services, and that most of them served in Army infantry units?”

“I was not aware. Where’d you find that out?”

“It’s a matter of public record. You know those bulletins they read out over the radio every Saturday?”

“I am aware they exist. I generally choose not to listen to them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re as boring as they are depressing.”

“Well, if you had listened to them, you would be armed with the facts I just related. Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, ‘how does that relate to the topic at hand’? I’ll tell you how. Look at the timeline. In the next few months, those enlistments are going to expire. Now, I know a great many soldiers will reenlist, and I commend them for doing so. Our country needs soldiers. But quite a number will also be taking their walking papers. At a conservative estimate, let’s say twenty percent decide to get out.”

“I think it will be a lot more than that.”

“Like I said, a conservative estimate. What is twenty percent of two-hundred thousand?”

“Forty thousand.”

“Exactly. Forty thousand hardened, experienced soldiers. Men who have spent the last four years fighting infected, and marauders, and insurgents, and every other hellish challenge the wastelands could throw at them. And not only did they survive, they
won
. The Center for Revenant Extermination estimates that more than ninety million infected have been wiped out since they started using satellite data to estimate the undead population. And while individual citizens certainly account for a not insignificant amount of that, I think I can say unequivocally that without the Army’s courageous efforts, that number would be far, far lower.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“The Midwest Alliance is no more. The Republic of California is hemmed in. With every passing month, more and more marauders are apprehended or killed. The roads are getting safer. Trade is on the rebound. The economy is beginning to recover. And none of it would have been possible without these soldiers.”

“Can’t argue with that either.”

“Now one problem we still have, the same problem we had before the Outbreak, is when these troops leave the service, what do we do with them?”

“What indeed?”

“They’re going to need work. But what can they do? Do they know how to farm? How to build? Maybe some do. But most probably don’t have marketable job skills. So again, what are they going to do?”

“Resort to banditry?”

“You shouldn’t make jokes. It is a very real possibility. But I have a better solution.”

“And what’s that?”

At this, Eric gave a broad, toothy grin. “They can come work for me and my associates at Great Hawk Security.”

“Great Hawk Security?”

“Hey, it was his idea, so he gets to pick the name.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“We have the capital. We have a qualified trainer, a Navy SEAL like Mr. Jennings. And if we can establish a base of operations in Colorado Springs, we’ll have access to as many troops as we desire. Great Hawk believes that if we select qualified, motivated candidates, we can prepare them for a career in private security in as little as three months.”

“Three months?”

“Of very intensive training, utilizing seasoned troops, supervised by the Hawk himself. Of course, if anyone in the special operations community would like to apply to be an instructor, they are more than welcome to do so.”

I felt my mouth stretch into a grin. “I gotta admit. I like it.”

“And, if we were to operate as a subsidiary of the Blackthorn Company, well, that would only add to our prestige. And by making well-trained, armed security personnel widely available, we can decrease the costs involved significantly. This will allow us to take contracts from traders who ordinarily would not have been able to afford such services. And Gabe, let me tell you, there are a hell of a lot of them. It’s the way retail works. To put it in pre-Outbreak terms, you don’t need a thousand customers to pay a hundred-thousand dollars each when you can get a million customers to pay a hundred dollars each.”

“You make the same money either way.”

“Exactly.”

“Won’t this undercut the Blackthorns?”

“Absolutely not. We’ll offer tiered services, with the Blackthorns being reserved for the most elite clientele with the most sensitive needs.”

“Elite clientele? Sensitive needs?”

“Hey, it’s good advertising copy. Rich assholes like to feel important.”

“
We
are rich assholes.”

“
I
am merely rich.
You
are the asshole.” 

I tossed back the rest of my whisky and tapped the rim. Eric poured in two fingers. “You know, Riordan, you might be on to something with this.”

“It’s about time you admitted to being an asshole.”

“Not that, idiot.”

He held up a hand. “I know. And you’re right. I think with the Hawk’s know-how and my business savvy, we can make this work.”

“It’s possible. It’s also academic.”

“How so?”

“Your entire enterprise is contingent on us making it to Colorado Springs alive.”

“Yeah, well, just because we’re on step one doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be thinking about steps two through twelve.”

I nodded. Eric finished his whiskey, stuffed the bottle into his coat, and bid me a good day. I sat in the stillness of my kitchen, looked out the window, and watched light flakes of snow descend from a dark iron sky. It would be cold in Kansas. The winds would be strong.

I went to my office, took out a pen and a notepad, and started planning.

The next month was a busy one.

I gave my list of supplies, gear, and other necessities to Eric and trusted him to see to the logistics. He’s good with that sort of thing. I could have done it myself, but Eric was willing and I had more pressing concerns.

Sabrina turned out to be hell on wheels with a knife, but was not such a great shot with anything but her little Marlin rifle. She mostly used her pistols against the living, and only at close range. Anything beyond ten meters and her accuracy plummeted. So we spent two or three hours a day at the Militia’s range at Fort McCray working on her marksmanship. She learned quickly, and by the end of the second week I was confident she had mastered the basics. From then on, we ran drills at the live-fire confidence course and the close-quarters combat facility.

I had expected some push-back from her during all this, but she surprised me by seeming to enjoy the experience. She had a keen interest in anything that increased her odds of survival, be it weapons training, wilderness survival, guerilla tactics, or whatever else. In working with her, I came to understand she possessed keen intelligence combined with cold, calculating ruthlessness. Rather than rely on intimidation, brute force, and superior fighting skill—otherwise known as my methods—she opted for deception and speed. During our few practice fights, I learned just how quick she was with those two little curved daggers of hers. And how lethal. 

On the first day of February, Elizabeth held a town hall meeting to let everyone know she was not running for reelection. Further, she informed them she would be leaving Hollow Rock in two weeks and would be turning administration of the city over to the city council, who would elect a mayor pro-temp. This news was not well received.

In her farewell speech, Elizabeth highlighted how the town had gone from seven hundred residents to more than three thousand, and in a time when most of the country had been devastated, her city had risen to the challenge and not only survived, but prospered. She said this was not simply because of her leadership, but because the people of Hollow Rock were decent, honest, hard-working folks who were willing to work to build a future and willing to fight to defend it. She told the townsfolk she was not worried what would happen to them because she knew they were tough, self-sufficient people who could hold their community together regardless of who sat behind the mayor’s desk. She also informed the townsfolk the city council was more than qualified to run things until November, being that they ran most of the city’s day to day operations anyway. The only difference, for the most part, would be someone else’s signature on the daily mountain of paperwork.

After the meeting, when all the hands had been shaken and all the goodbyes said, I commented that Elizabeth failed to mention the city council had known of her intentions for months and had plenty of time to plan accordingly.

“What difference does it make?” she said. “Do they really need to know? Will it help them sleep better at night?”

“Probably not.”

“Well there you go.”

Elizabeth came over the night before we left. She had sold or given away everything she owned that was not coming with us to Colorado Springs. Her worldly possessions barely took up half a wagon, including her savings, which, at my recommendation, she had converted to non-perishable marketable commodities including a ten-gallon steel drum of Mike Stall’s high-quality moonshine, twenty pounds of sugar, ten pounds of water purification tablets, fifty pounds of dried beans, and fifty pounds of winter wheat seed, all locked in fiberglass crates.

“Why seed grain? Why not just buy regular wheat or flour?” she asked me. “Isn’t that valuable enough?”

“The seeds I’m buying for you are heritage grains from organic growers donated by the Phoenix Initiative, not the genetically engineered pre-Outbreak stuff. In other words, after harvest, you can keep some of the grains and replant them to make more wheat. Can’t do that with the grains we used in the old days.”

“Oh. So they’re sustainable.”

“Exactly. Which makes seed grain far more valuable than harvested wheat or flour.”

“Gotcha.”

The night before we left, Elizabeth made dinner. The three of us, my soon-to-be wife, my daughter and I, ate together at the little table in my kitchen. I looked at their faces in the candlelight and watched them talk and smile and laugh and wondered at how natural it all felt. Like this was the way things should have been all along. I thought of Karen and wondered what might have happened if I’d just sought counseling and not gone off the deep end with anger and depression and hard liquor. I may as well have sat there and wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t joined the Marines. I would probably be dead, I never would have met Karen, and I never would have fathered Sabrina. I also never would have worked for Aegis Incorporated or learned of the Reanimation Phage. I never would have stolen that gold in Afghanistan, never would have smuggled it into accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands, never would have bought that cabin from Eric, never would have met the best friend I have ever had. I was not willing to say things had turned out well since the Outbreak, but for me, they could have been a hell of a lot worse.

Sabrina turned in early, as she always does, and Elizabeth and I filled the tub with hot water and took a bath together. It was probably going to be a month or more before either of us would have another opportunity to properly bathe, so we decided to do so while we could.

I lay on my back in the tub, Elizabeth sitting astride me. We held each other for a while, and when she noticed how happy I was to see her, she sat up and kissed my neck. I made a noise deep in my chest and she pressed her lips over mine, our mouths opening, her soft tongue touching mine with an electric jolt. When the pressure became too much to bear, we dried off and retired to the bedroom. I lit a candle so I could see her.

At thirty-eight years old, she has the body of a much younger woman. She is tall, about five-foot ten, and broadly built. Not fat at all, just well-constructed. Her arms and shoulders are striated with muscle, there are small, graceful ridges in her abdomen, and the flare of her hips is wide and perfectly curved. Her breasts are probably not as firm as they were when she was younger, but they are still heavy and beautiful. I love the weight of them in my hands, the way her nipples become erect when I kiss them. She has wide-set brown eyes, dark wavy hair, and a full, sensuous mouth. Sometimes I lie in bed next to her at night and stare at her lips, marveling at how gorgeously shaped they are. It is a constant struggle not to kiss her every time I look at her. Sometimes I do not succeed. Thus far, she hasn’t complained.

We made love quietly so as not to wake Sabrina. I took my time, not wanting the deliciousness of it to end. We started out with Elizabeth beneath me, and as always, she somehow wound up on top. I could not say exactly how it happened, as I was too lost in the process.

I knew she was close to orgasm when her nails bit into my chest and her hips ground forward and back at a frantic pace. Her eyes pinched shut, a red flush spread form her chest all to the way to her face, and her white teeth bit down on her lower lip. She did not cry out, but could not stop a low, repetitive moan from escaping her throat.

I held out as long as I could, but when she went over the edge, the grinding and the warm wetness and the little convulsions inside of her were more than I could take. I gripped her thighs and surged upward. I knew Elizabeth would have finger-shaped bruises on her legs tomorrow, but at that moment, I didn’t care. All I could think about was the fire roaring through me, the clenching of muscles deep in my groin, and the satisfying sound of Elizabeth’s ragged breath.

When it was over, Elizabeth collapsed on top of me, her soft skin damp with sweat. I ran my hands over her back and kissed the tops of her shoulders.

“That,” she said, “was awesome.”

I found I could not disagree. Neither of us had any trouble sleeping that night.

*****

There was nothing poignant about leaving Hollow Rock.

A stable boy came by that morning and collected Red and all his tack and said he would meet me at Spike’s caravan. I tipped him a couple of shotgun shells. He accepted them gladly and said he would miss having me around, and good luck on the journey. I wished him the same.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” the boy said.

“We’re all on a journey, son. Just a question of how far it takes you.”

It was a bitterly cold morning, the sun just barely beginning to stretch its golden fingers over the eastern horizon. The sky was clear and dark, the color of Rocky Mountain granite. A half-moon hung brightly in the sky, casting silvery light on the world below. Most of the town was catching their last hour of sleep, the promise of morning within reach. All was still and quiet, the air biting sharp against the skin of my face.

Sabrina and Elizabeth walked with me. We were dressed in warm travel clothes and carried rucksacks filled with a few items we had not yet delivered to the caravan. I had left behind all the furniture in my house, as it did not actually belong to me. The place I’d lived for the last couple of years belonged to Allison Riordan, who had inherited it from her grandmother. The furniture had been there when I moved in. I did not know who would live there next—Allison would probably rent the place out—but at least it would be fully furnished.

The stillness and peace of the morning ended when we reached the caravan district. Spike’s people had already struck camp and were ready to leave. Lined up in front of the north gate were nearly a hundred wagons in orderly rows and twice again as many pack mules laden with supplies tethered to the backs of carts. The wagons contained mostly cargo, the accumulated trade of nearly three months on the road. Spike had turned a profit bringing his shipment out here, and he would turn another one when he returned to Colorado Springs with all he had acquired along the way. There would be numerous stops in towns along the trade routes to resupply and send messages.

Spike saw us coming and shouted something to one of his men. I was too far away to hear it, but guessed the meaning when one of his people kicked his mount and rode toward us. I scanned the setup as he approached. Most of the caravaners rode in the wagons, but there were thirty people on horseback, all men and all heavily armed. I noticed two of them wore the distinctive dark uniform of the Blackthorns. It appeared as if Spike had put them in charge of the security detail.

“Mr. Garrett?” the rider said as he reached us.

“That’s me.”

The man dismounted. He was medium in height and build, brown hair and beard, and a hard, tanned face with pale green eyes. The hand holding his horse’s reins was dark, calloused, and criss-crossed with thin scars.

“Name’s Weidman. Be showing you to your wagon.”

I made a gesture. “Lead the way.”

We walked abreast of his horse, a magnificent Arabian with a powerful look about him. Arabians are spirited animals, and can be difficult to manage for the inexperienced, but their endurance and toughness is virtually unmatched. I planned to purchase one for Sabrina once we reached Colorado.

Weidman led us to a wagon in the middle of the convoy. Like all Spike’s wagons, it was custom built with a steel frame, wooden flooring and box walls, a dome-shaped cover lined with camouflage-painted tarpaulin, and large steel wheels treaded with hard rubber. Each wheel boasted its own independent suspension system consisting of springs and shocks cannibalized from scrap automobiles. I had ridden in many wagons like this one, and they were a damn sight better than the rickety shit-heaps the pioneers had taken to Oregon and elsewhere.

The wagon was filled with supplies, per my instructions. Red was also waiting for me, a blanket draped over his back and his halter tied to a steel ring screwed into the tailgate post. He clopped over when he noticed me and nudged me with his big, smelly muzzle. I scratched him behind the ears and said some low, soothing words. Mollified, he went back to snuffling the frozen ground.

“Everything in order?” Weidman asked.

“Good so far. Where’s my cargo?”

Weidman pointed. “See the numbers painted on the sides of the carts?”

“Yep.”

“Yours are forty-two through forty-seven.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Better hurry. We leave in fifteen minutes.”

“Will do.”

I quickly saddled Red and rode him to the third rank of wagons lined up in front of the gate. The man driving number forty-two handed me a shipping manifest. I read it over, then looked into the wagons and counted the salt barrels. They were all accounted for, as well as the other trade I was bringing with me.

“All right,” I told the driver, handing back the manifest. “Thanks for your time.”

He grunted. I rode away.

Back at the wagon, Sabrina and Elizabeth had thrown their rucksacks in the cargo area and made themselves comfortable on the bench. I unsaddled Red, tethered him to the tailgate post, and fed him a handful of grain from a feed sack. While he chewed, I climbed into the driver’s seat and took up the reins. The animals pulling us were a team of four oxen. Elizabeth put a hand on my arm and pointed at the stinking, bulky creatures.