Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line (14 page)

The barricade consisted of galvanized steel posts standing nine feet tall, each driven into the ground eight feet apart, with enough half-inch steel cable to surround an eighth of a mile square encampment. His men used post-hole diggers and manually rotated augers to dig the holes for the posts, used sledgehammers to pack them in with dirt, then strung the cables up the posts eight inches apart from bottom to top. The cables were then tightened at various intervals around the perimeter using heavy duty turnbuckles and torque wrenches to ensure proper tension. The men would camp inside the main perimeter while a larger, less heavily reinforced cable fence was set up for the livestock. This one was designed not so much to keep the infected out, but to keep the animals in. If a large horde of ghouls showed up, the raiders would simply release the livestock. The animals knew where their food came from, so if released, no matter how spooked they were, most of them would eventually get hungry and follow their nose back to camp.

At three sides of the main perimeter, teams of men were putting together pre-fabricated guard towers. The towers were simple wooden affairs held together with nuts and bolts. They could be put up and taken down repeatedly, sparing the raiders the trouble of cutting raw wood and scrounging for nails.

Heinrich looked over the tents being set up in orderly rows and spotted his large command tent in the center. He turned to Maru. “Walk with me.”

The two men entered the command tent. Heinrich returned a salute from the guard within and told him to inform the other guards outside to post up out of earshot. The man acknowledged and left.

“Something on your mind, Chief?”

Heinrich watched the guards walk away from the entrance, then closed it and sat down on a stool near a small folding table. “Have a seat.”

Maru sat across from him. There was a combination lockbox on the table from which Heinrich produced a map drawn on graph paper.

“I was going to wait to tell you about this, but considering what we captured today, I think I’m justified in moving up the timetable.”

Maru looked at the map. “Is that Parabellum?”

“It is indeed. Secret tunnels and all.”

The big Maori grinned, still looking at the map. “Where did you get it?”

“Let’s just say Necrus Khan is not so well liked among his men.”

“Too bad for him. And for the fella who gave you this.”

Heinrich chuckled. Maru’s pragmatism was one of the many things the raider chief liked about him. “Yeah. He’s not around anymore. Can’t have any loose ends.”

“’Course not.”

“Any guesses why I went through the trouble of obtaining this map?”

“Tired of raiding on the dangerous highways of Kansas? Looking for a bigger score, something a bit more permanent?”

“Something to that effect.”

Maru’s smile broadened. “Carter know?”

“He helped me plan it.”

A nod. “So what did you have in mind, Chief?”

Heinrich told him. Maru’s expression grew serious as he listened. When Heinrich was finished, Maru sat quietly for a while rubbing his chin.

“It’s a good plan. Hard part will be getting into position unseen.”

“True. It’ll have to be a night operation.”

“Won’t make things any easier.”

“No. But it’ll be worth it. Just imagine having Parabellum all to ourselves.”

Maru rubbed his hands together. “That would be nice. What do you want me to do?”

Straight to the point. I like that
. “We’re going to need at least eight infiltrators to make this work. I want you to start vetting the men, find some likely candidates. Carter and I will do the same.”

“Not a problem. Anything else?”

“For now, no. But be thorough, Maru. And be discreet.”

“Right, Chief.”

Heinrich thanked Maru for his work earlier in the day and dismissed him. When his colonel left, Heinrich sat down in the armchair and put his feet up on the ottoman that were part of the small number of luxuries he allowed himself. He rang a small bell and his steward, a teenage boy too young to fight but old enough to take orders, stepped into his tent. The boy wore a leather cord around his neck to which was attached a metal disk with the skull-and-lightning-bolt emblem of the Storm Road Tribe, an announcement to his men that he was the chief’s servant and was not to be abused. Verbally or otherwise.

“Sir?”

“Whisky. Pre-Outbreak stuff. And something to eat.”

“Yes sir. Right away.”

The boy shuffled off. Heinrich put his hands behind his head, sank into his chair, and thought about Parabellum. How nice would it be if he could catch Necrus Khan alive, maybe turn him over to Carter? That would be a pleasant day indeed.

But not for Necrus.

“Chief, you awake?”

Heinrich opened his eyes in the darkness. A small sliver of gray appeared at the back of his wagon as the curtain was moved aside. A dark, head-shaped blob appeared in the middle.

“I am now. What is it?”

“Scouts are back. Say they want to speak with you.”

“They say what about?”

“Yeah, but you should probably hear it from them.”

“All right, Maru. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Right, Chief.”

Heinrich sat up and rubbed his face and looked at the pocket watch passed down his family line starting with his great grandfather. It told him he had only managed three hours of sleep. Whatever the scouts had to report, it better be good.

After tugging on his boots and rinsing his mouth with water he climbed out of his wagon and looked around, letting his eyes adjust. There was not much of a moon that night, the majority of light in the camp coming from small, low-banked fires. Knots of men coming off watch huddled around the fires and cooked meals of hard-tack bread, dried peas, and preserved meat. The wagons were arranged in a square, the tents in the middle. Two dozen men were on security patrol at all times. Everyone slept inside the square. Heinrich had foregone his command tent for the last few weeks, opting instead to sleep in his wagon. If any federal types showed up, or if his caravan was surveilled from a distance, he did not want anyone to immediately know who the leader was. The more closely he and his small army resembled legitimate traders, the less likely they were to run into trouble.

“Maru?”

“Over here, Chief.”

Heinrich looked. His colonel stood a few feet to his right, eating a bowl of rehydrated camp rations.

“You’re going to spill that walking around in the dark.”

Maru gave his small, tight smile. “Nah. Used to it.”

“You say so. Lead the way.”

True to his word, on the walk to where the scouts sat around their cook fire, Maru did not spill a drop. Heinrich watched him and realized there was nothing particularly special about how he accomplished this. He kept his eyes forward, watched the ground in front of him, and let his hands and mouth go through the motions of eating automatically, as if on autopilot. The kind of thing anyone could do with concentration and practice. Heinrich had a feeling those two qualities, concentration and practice, had a lot to do with why Maru excelled at a great many things.

“Here we are, Chief.”

The scouts began to stand as Heinrich approached, but he hissed at them and motioned them to stop. “What are my orders?”

The men froze, then sat down. “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again,” one of them said.

“It damn well better not. Now what do you have to report?”

“We scouted out the settlements around the Wichita Safe Zone. Talked to our contacts there.”

“And?” Heinrich said impatiently.

“The troops stationed there just rotated out last week,” the scout said. “Got a bunch of new guys.”

Heinrich looked at the scout closely and saw, beneath the beard and scraggly long hair, he was speaking to a kid in his early twenties. He made a motion for the young man to continue.

“Get to the point.”

“Well, sir, the troops there are new to the place, don’t know their way around. Still learning emergency drills and procedures, that sort of thing. And there’s about half as many as there used to be. Won’t be able to mount much of a force if someone hits a caravan near the safe zone.”

Heinrich stared a moment in silence. He had an idea where this was going. “I’m waiting for the part where you tell me why you thought it necessary to wake me from my sleep.”

The scout clutched his food bowl and shuffled his feet in the dirt. “There’s a big caravan coming in soon, run by a guy named Spike. Informants say he’s a rich man. Supposed to be eighty-four wagons, all hauling trade bound for the springs.”

“What kind of trade?”

“Salt, ammo, guns, food, maple syrup from up north, rice from down south, salvage, candles, soap, all kinds of stuff. And lots of it.”

Heinrich put his hands on his hips and considered this development. The Wichita Safe Zone was well-guarded by the Army—infantry, artillery, air support, the works. But any army is only as good as its troops. Heinrich had been listening to the bulletins the president made every week. He knew a huge number of troops were finishing their enlistments and opting to leave the military, meaning most of the soldiers being sent to Wichita were new recruits. Probably never even seen real, pitched combat. If he could find this caravan, hit them well out of sight of the troops and other caravans, he just might pull it off. It would be taking a huge risk, but if what the scout said was true, well worth the reward.

“When is this caravan due to arrive?”

“Three to four days, sir. Depends.”

Heinrich turned to Maru. “Put more scouts in the field at first light. I want this caravan found, and I want it tracked. Notify Carter first thing in the morning and get the senior officers together at the livestock pens by nine-hundred hours. Mandatory.”

“Right, Chief.”

He turned back to the scouts. “Who else knows about this?”

The senior scout shook his head. “No one, sir. Just you and Colonel Maru.”

“Keep it that way. I mean it—you two keep your fucking mouths shut. You blab about this, you’ll never blab about anything ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir. Very clear, sir.”

“Good.”

Heinrich bored into the scouts with his gaze, watching them wither under its heat. Satisfied they knew the score, Heinrich headed back to his wagon, smiling inwardly. He thought to himself that in the ongoing debate as to whether it was better to be respected or feared, he had always found fear the far more useful emotion. Respect was just a side effect.

Eric

Six weeks’ travel from Hollow Rock found us a day’s ride outside of the Wichita Safe Zone.

It was bitterly cold and overcast most of the way. We crossed the Mississippi on the western border of Kentucky and then began the long slog across Missouri. Or Misery, as the traders in Spike’s caravan not-so-lovingly called it.

Wild game was plentiful, even in winter, but the weather and the harsh terrain made for slow, difficult going. By the second week, I was very, very tired of having to get out and put my shoulder to a wheel and push the wagon out of a rut or pothole or mud-slop or whatever crap we had become mired in whilst serenaded by the grunting and cursing of Gabe, Hicks, and Elizabeth. Sabrina did not have to push a wheel, being that she was the smallest and lightest of us and someone had to hold the reins and beseech the oxen to pull.

The road flattened as we approached the Kansas border, and though at first I was grateful, I quickly grew weary of the steady, unending, monotonous sheen of white overlaying what would be tall fields of wheat and barley come spring.

If not for the maps and GPS units we had with us, I would have been completely lost. The roads were invisible. The plains seemed to stretch on forever, broken up by the occasional patch of woodland or pitched roofs of houses, farms, and small bits of crumbing civilization. We stopped four times at settlements to resupply and send brief HAM radio messages back to Hollow Rock to let our friends and loved ones know we were still alive and as safe as could be expected. My sleeping bag was supposed to be rated down to -35 degrees Fahrenheit, but I still woke up shivering every morning. The only redeeming quality of the bleak Kansas winter was there were no infected to be found.

At night, when I lay alone and cold, I thought of my wife and son and missed them and wondered if I had made the right decision coming along on this trip. I certainly had done nothing of significant value thus far, and had encountered no opportunities to expand my business interests westward. A very loud, very persistent voice in my head was telling me I had made a mistake. I told the voice Gabriel was my friend, and we had been through too much together not to tag along with him this one last time. The voice asked if I really thought this was our last journey together, and when I answered in the affirmative, the voice laughed uproariously. I told the voice to shut up and resolved to ignore it from then on.

The day before we reached Wichita I sat in the driver’s seat, reins in hand, with Sabrina riding shotgun. Literally—she was holding Hicks’ Benelli. Gabe had ridden off somewhere to inquire where his cargo would be stored while we were in the Safe Zone. Elizabeth lay snoring gently on her bedroll behind me. Caleb was riding in a wagon with some ex-Army type he knew from the battle of Singletary Lake. So, for all intents and purposes, Sabrina and I had the place to ourselves.

“You know a lot about business and trade and shit, right?”

I looked at the girl next to me. For the last hour, she had said nothing, just stared at the empty vastness of the snow-covered Kansas plain, lost in her own thoughts. It took me a few seconds to clear my throat and answer.

“Yeah. I know a bit.”

She flicked a hand toward the beasts drawing our cart. “Where do the caravans get those things? I don’t remember oxen being that common when I was a kid.”

“You ever eat a cheeseburger before the Outbreak?”

A low, hungry sound. “God yes. Loved the things. Don’t remind me, haven’t had one since I was ten.”

“Ever see a grocery store or a restaurant running short on beef?”

“No. What’s your point?”

“My point is the pre-Outbreak cattle population in this country was massive. And oxen are cattle. Specifically, castrated bulls.”

“Castrated? Why?”

“Makes them more docile, easier to train.”

“Still doesn’t tell me where they come from.”

“They come from all over. Back four years ago, when it was obvious the government had collapsed and everything was going to hell, most ranchers turned their livestock loose. Figured they had a better chance roaming wild than starving to death in holding pens.”

“The infected didn’t get them?”

“Oh, I’m sure they got some. The sick, the old, the lame, the very young. But your average healthy cow is more than a match for even a large number of infected. You see, like all animals, cows are immune to ghoul bites. They also have tough hides that are extremely difficult to bite through, they’re very physically powerful, and they can run in excess of twenty miles an hour. When traveling in herds, they can fend off hordes thousands strong just by trampling them. So, since the Outbreak, cattle populations have boomed nationwide. An entire cottage industry has cropped up around them. Young bulls are one of the most valuable commodities a wildcat rancher can hope to find. Just cut their balls off and teach them to pull a yoke, and you’ve got yourself an ox. And oxen are not cheap.”

“So there there’s good trade to be made in ranching?”

I shrugged. “Sure. It’s dangerous, brutal work, but if you can stay alive long enough and get some good people working with you, yeah. You can make a living at it.”

Sabrina nodded quietly and did not speak for another hour. It had been this way with her for the last three months or so. The questions she directed at me mostly regarded the elements of post-Outbreak society she did not understand, and the questions she asked her father pertained to life before the Outbreak. What kind of car is this? Were there really billions of people, once? What does the Pacific Ocean look like? What was New York City like? Which war did you fight in? How do you say the word on that sign over there? How many languages do you speak?

One of the difficulties we encountered early on was, despite Sabrina’s age and natural intelligence, she had only a fifth grade education. Worse, the nearly four years of day-to-day survival she’d endured since the Outbreak had done nothing to sharpen her recall of what few lessons she had learned.

She could read well enough, and could do basic four-function math, but her memories of history, science, civics, and everything else kids used to learn in school were spotty at best. When she wrote, she often misspelled words and substituted correct spellings for what the word sounded like. For example, she’d once left a note on the store corkboard reading, “Jonny helpd me cleen the shop today. He is a good helpur.”

She was not quite sure who John Adams was. She remembered Abraham Lincoln’s name, but not why he was important. She regarded the wars our nation had fought like stories of great, mythical beasts repeated to frighten unruly children. She could not find England on a map. Or Hawaii, or Japan, or any number of other places. Oddly, though, she knew where to find Madagascar. Something to do with a kid’s movie she watched as a little girl.

I remember the first week she was with us, I pointed to the night sky and said, “You can see Venus tonight.”

She scrunched her eyebrows at me and said, “That’s a planet, right?”

“Yes.”

“Closer or farther than us?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. To the sun. Venus is part of our solar system, right?”

“Yes. And it’s closer. Mercury, Venus, then us.”

It was at that moment I decided to have a nice long chat with Gabe about seeing to her education. He listened and took action.

Despite his efforts, however, there is only so much a kid can learn in three months, and only so much that can be learned about her. I knew she liked to read. She came over to my house often and sat alone on a chaise lounge in one of the guest rooms reading to herself, her lips moving over the prose of Steinbeck and Hemingway and Joyce Carol Oates, an old Oxford English dictionary close at hand for the difficult words. When she finished a book she wandered into Allison’s office and hungrily perused her small library of paperbacks for a new one. Sometimes she would read six or seven books a week.

Math, on the other hand, she did not like very much. She was good at it, she just did not enjoy it. I told her I did not enjoy it either, but it was necessary for her to learn. At this she shrugged—her go-to response for pretty much everything—picked up her math textbook, and set to work. And my God, did she work fast. In a week, she was caught up on junior high math. Two weeks later, she was ready for algebra. By the time we were three weeks on the road, she had mastered statistics while sitting in her bedroll at night and working problems under a little battery powered reading light. I spoke of this to Gabe and asked if he had done any testing of her mental acuity yet.

“She can’t do what I can do,” he replied.

“You tried already?”

“Yes. Her capacity for repeating quotes and pieces of information is remarkable, but she does not have an eidetic memory. Close, but not the same. That said, her ability to learn and absorb new information is far beyond what I can do.”

“How so?”

“There’s a difference between memorizing and learning. Memorizing comes naturally to me. Doesn’t take much effort. Learning is taking that which is memorized and applying it in a useful way. Take her knife fighting, for instance. She only trained for two years, but her level of advancement is beyond that of some masters I’ve trained with. If somebody teaches me a new technique, I have to drill it hundreds of times, build muscle memory. Sabrina’s not like that. I teach her something once, and she’s got it. Barely needs to practice.”

“Must be nice. What do you think it means?”

Gabriel poked a stick in the fire and looked at his daughter with a glimmer of pride. “It means she’s barely reached a fraction of her real potential.”

Without looking up from her textbook, Sabrina said, “You two assholes know I can hear you right?”

“Sorry. Thought we were being quiet,” I said.

“Not quiet enough.”

I frowned at her. “Yeah, well, do me a favor. Don’t call your father an asshole.”

Her eyebrows lifted enough for the gray eyes to fix on me. “Why not?”

“Because he loves you,” I said flatly, “and he’s been nothing but kind and generous and patient with you. And he’s my friend, and I don’t like it when people insult my friends. So knock it off.”

She did not reply, but I had not heard her insult Gabriel since. Me, yes. Plenty of times. But not Gabe.

Ahead of us, the Wichita Safe Zone grew larger and more distinct. Having 20/10 vision, I was able to see it much better than most of the other people in the caravan. In this instance, I was not so sure my enhanced eyesight was such a good thing.

Wichita, like most major cities, was a burned-out wreck of what it had once been. The place reminded me of pictures of Hiroshima after the bomb: flattened buildings, rubble-strewn streets, bare patches of scorched ground where houses once stood, broken ruins of walls and foundations and columns stretching upward like fingers on a skeleton’s hand, and covering it all, a thick layer of gray dust and black soot.

About a year ago, the Army had embarked on a mission the president had dubbed Operation Relentless Force. Over a hundred-thousand soldiers set out with tanks, artillery, and air support with the sole intent of liberating Kansas from nearly three million infected. They had succeeded, but at great cost. Over ten thousand troops were lost to the infected, with another ten thousand dying of exposure, disease, accidents, and skirmishes with raiders and marauders. I suspected friendly fire factored into that number as well, but the brass at Central Command did not like to discuss such things. Not publicly, at least.

By the end of it, Kansas was as ghoul free as anywhere on Earth. Even in the spring and summer, if rumors were to be believed, one could ride for days without seeing a single walking corpse. I had my doubts about that. No one had built a wall around Kansas, and the last time I checked, the infected do not give a pinch of flying monkey shit about state borders. Ergo, I treated Kansas with the same level of healthy paranoia I treated every place else.

The military presence was light as we rode into town. Most of the ruins on either side of us had been bulldozed to allow the Army to lay down a broad concrete highway through the ruined city. Guard towers manned with light machine guns stood at staggered intervals on alternating sides of the unmarked gray road. Our caravan rode single file northward while people leaving town traveled southbound to our left. Ahead, I could see the sectioned square walls of the various districts rising out of the ashes, small figures of soldiers patrolling the catwalks.

“Security seems pretty light,” Sabrina said. “Last time I was in a safe zone the place was crawling with troops.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Strange.”

We continued bumping and rattling along until we reached a crossroads that branched off in eight directions. I had heard one of Spike’s guards refer to this area as Eight Points, referring to the various avenues for caravans to go.

The caravan ground to a halt as the lead wagon reached a large security checkpoint. A low wall of concrete highway dividers barred the way ahead for a hundred yards on each side of the entrance, which itself was wide enough to allow four carts through side by side. Four forklifts loaded with additional highway dividers waited in a row not far away should the gates need to be closed quickly. I did not see drivers waiting in them, so I assumed the task had been assigned to designated soldiers nearby. It’s what I would have done, anyway.