Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line (15 page)

A semi-circle of five guard towers stood behind the checkpoint, all manned with M-240s and snipers carrying long guns. I spotted two M-110s, two bolt-action .338 Lapua magnums, and in the center, a big Barrett .50 caliber. There were additional machine gun nests at ground level laid out to create a crossfire on the highway, as well as numerous troops armed with everything from M-4s to LAW rockets. All in all, not the kind of place one wanted to get mouthy with the security staff.

Probably best if I kept quiet.

A discussion spanning perhaps two minutes occurred at the checkpoint, after which the officer in charge directed Spike and his men to take the caravan up one of the avenues headed northeast. As we entered the massive compound, I could feel dozens of eyes watching us, alert for the slightest indication of malfeasance. I kept my hands on the reins, my eyes straight ahead, and did my best to look disinterested.

“I hope they have baths,” Sabrina said. “I could go for a bath.”

“I think we all could.”

“And laundry. My clothes stink. Smell like sweat and cow shit.”

As she said this, the beast at the top right of the four-oxen team pulling us along voided its bowels less than two feet from the face of the animal behind it. It did not break stride, nor had any of its brethren the hundreds of times I had witnessed similar events in the last six weeks. It occurred to me a few days into the journey that anyone wanting to track the caravan’s progress need not keep us in sight—just follow the trail of dung piles and they’d be on us in no time.

“You know what I miss more than anything?” I said.

“What?”

“Cars. I miss cars.”

“Not so bad here.”

I looked around the square we stood in. It had once been a residential neighborhood on the northeast side of Wichita. Now, it was a bulldozed patch of snowy ground dotted regularly with bare foundations of houses long destroyed. A twelve foot wall of concrete and steel surrounded the square, complete with catwalks and guard towers at the corners. I counted twelve troops on duty, two machine guns, and a single sniper in the northeast tower.

“How big you figure this place is?” I said.

“’Bout a quarter-mile square.”

I looked northward and saw a long, dome-shaped building shaped like half a cigar planted into the ground. The roof peaked out at twelve feet or so with walls maybe thirty feet apart at the base. I had seen buildings like it before at Fort McCray. The soldiers called it a drill hall, but the civilians in the caravan called it a long house. The floor was bare concrete, the windows were horizontal and mounted eight feet off the ground, and the doors at either end were made of reinforced steel. The building’s purpose was to put a roof over people’s heads and provide a layer of protection from the elements, nothing more. No heating system, no place to prepare food or do laundry, no fires allowed inside.

To the south, well away from the long house, were the livestock pens and the biggest damn latrine I had ever seen. Wooden buildings marked MENS and WOMENS straddled the latrine side by side. When our caravan left, an excavator would pour mulch over the latrine, then empty it into trucks and haul it to the edge of the city where it would be used to make the fertilizer the government provided as a subsidy to farms in the area.

To the east were bathing facilities, and to the west was another long house, this one with just a roof and support posts, no walls, with cooking stations and rows of picnic tables. A tangle of caravaners were already hauling bags of grain, beans, and boxes of preserved vegetables to the cooking stations. A team of two dozen men and women worked to haul the oxen and horses into the livestock pens where children were already emptying feed bags into large bins and pumping water into long troughs. Spike and a few of his men, including the two Blackthorns, spoke calmly with a quartermaster whose attention never seemed far from a clipboard in his hands.

“What do you think they’re talking about over there?”

Gabe looked in Spike’s direction. “Ordering supplies, applying for passes to the market district, that kind of thing.”

“Where’s the market district?”

“Not sure. This is my first time here, same as you.”

“You know if they have hotels there?”

“They do. Laundry and private baths too.”

I smiled. “You and your daughter think alike.”

“Hmm?”

“Something she said on the way in.”

Gabe’s eyes tracked to Sabrina sitting in the wagon. She had her feet kicked up on the buckboard and was leafing through a paperback. As I watched, a few years seemed to drop off my old friend’s countenance, the hard lines easing, the jaw less tense, the eyes softer and kinder.

“Maybe there’s a nice place to eat,” he said. “I bet Sabrina would like that.”

I patted the big man on the shoulder. “I bet she would.”

Elizabeth sat up from the back of the cart and rubbed sleep out of her eyes. “We there yet?”

“Halfway,” Gabe said. “We’re in the Wichita Safe Zone.”

The former mayor of Hollow Rock stood up and climbed down from the wagon. Once on the ground, she raised her arms and stretched luxuriously. I tried very hard not to notice the line of stomach and navel her shirt revealed as it went up and the wondrous way her large breasts lifted under her wool sweater as she put her arms over her head. When I felt my eyes lingering too long in places they shouldn’t, I looked away and told myself I was only human, it had been over a month since I had seen my wife, and Elizabeth was a very attractive woman. No shame in noticing a woman’s beauty any more than appreciating a bright sunrise. Except pretty sunrises did not elicit a low tug in my groin.

Stop it.

“So what now?” Elizabeth said.

“Now I’m gonna go talk to Spike,” Gabe said, “and get passes to the market district.”

“For all of us?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

Gabe grunted acknowledgement and walked in Spike’s direction. He was still in conversation with the quartermaster, who saw us approaching and pointed.

“Who’s this?”

“Gabriel Garrett and Eric Riordan,” Spike answered. “They’re VIPs in this caravan.”

A greedy twinkle appeared in the quartermaster’s eye. He was a squat man, broad through the shoulders and narrow at the waist, pale skin, shaved head, wearing a neatly pressed uniform and clean boots. The nametag on his chest read, SWANSON.

“What can I do for you, fellas?”

“Need passes into the market district,” Gabe said.

“For what purpose?”

Gabe’s eyes narrowed. “Trade.”

“And what are you trading?”

I looked at Spike. “He always ask this many questions?”

“No. He doesn’t.”

Swanson glared at Spike. “It’s part of my job.”

“Listen,” Gabe said. “We already went through inspection. Spike is known here. I’m registered in the Archive and will sign a waiver of responsibility for the rest of my party. Last I checked, those were the only requirements to obtain passes in a federal safe zone.”

Swanson’s grin was as greasy as a skillet full of lard. “That and the approval of the quartermaster. So what are you trading?”

Gabe chuckled. “So you want to play that game? No problem. I’ll just head over to the radioman and send a message to General Phillip Jacobs, head of Army Special Operations Command. He’s a friend of mine. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to know one of his quartermasters is extorting traders in a federal safe zone.”

The grin vanished. “Now hang on, no one is trying to extort anyone.”

“Bullshit,” Gabe said, pressing his advantage. “I know your type. You’re a fucking worm. You abuse your position for personal enrichment. You bully traders and force them to pay bribes in order to access facilities and services they have every right to as Union citizens. And I’m willing to bet the poorer and weaker they are, the more you take. It’s little shits like you that make it hard for honest traders to earn a living.”

Swanson’s face turned bright red. “Now listen here-”

“No, you listen. You’re going to go to the guard shack and fill out five passes. You’re going to bring them to me. I will pay the standard fee; the equivalent of twenty-five federal credits is twenty grams of salt. You will take it with a smile and a thank you. And if you don’t, I’ll call General Jacobs, and by the end of the month you’ll be busted down to specialist and manning a watch tower in the Nevada outposts. Do I make myself clear?”

Swanson sputtered a few times, too enraged to speak. One of the Blackthorns flanking Spike rubbed his mouth to conceal a smile and said, “You better do as he says, Swanson. I’ve heard of this guy. He’s got pull.”

Swanson looked at the Blackthorn, then at Gabe, then turned on his heel and stormed off toward the guard shack. Through the window, I saw him sit down behind a desk and open a laptop.

“Probably checking your file in the Archive,” I said.

“Yep.”

“I wonder if we’ll see the very moment he learns you’re telling the truth.”

A smirk. “Keep watching.”

Sure enough, as we watched, the angered expression evacuated Swanson’s face and was replaced by a wide-eyed, horrified realization. He closed the laptop, grabbed a box of small papers, and began writing furiously. Finished, he composed himself and returned to where we stood.

“Here you go,” Swanson said, handing over the passes.

Gabe took them. “Where do I pay the fee?”

Swanson did not make eye contact. “Supply building, north gate. The green converted shipping container.”

“Thank you. And do yourself a favor, Sergeant Swanson.” Gabe leaned in close. “Be honest from now on. I’ll be keeping tabs on you.”

With that, we went back to our wagon. I managed to hold the laughter in until we were out of earshot, but it was a near thing.

“Gotta tell you, old buddy. It’s a pleasure to watch you work.”

Gabe did not answer, but I could see the amusement in his eyes.

When I hear the word ‘marketplace’ I generally think of the market in Hollow Rock near the north gate. I expect a vibrant, bustling place of smiles and laughter and haggling and good-natured shouts of merchants exhorting the value and quality of their wares. I expect the smell of food and wood-smoke in the air, the laughter of excited children, the sound of wagers being placed in gambling booths, the odor of marijuana smoke from head shops (which, in Hollow Rock, were conveniently located next to the food vendors in a mutually beneficial strategic partnership).

The market in the Wichita Safe Zone was certainly bustling, but it would have been ambitious to the point of disingenuousness to call it vibrant. There was no shouting. No one seemed good-natured. There was some smiling and laughing, but it was muted and conducted between members of the same caravan, not between traders and merchants. There were very few children present, mostly teenagers. This was not a place where people came to have a good time.

“Looks kind of dull,” Sabrina said, echoing my thoughts.

“I hear it livens up at night,” Gabe replied.

“So what’s our first stop?” Hicks said. It was the first thing I had heard him say since rejoining us. I glanced his way and noticed him looking around curiously, eyes taking in everything.

“Local smithy,” Gabe said. “Commissioned a blade for the little lady.”

Sabrina shot him a glare. “Since you’re buying me a sword, I’ll let that ‘little lady’ shit slide.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sabrina” I said. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Now children,” Elizabeth cut in. “It’s a nice day and there’s shopping to be done. Let’s all play nicely, okay?”

I shook my head at the ingratitude of youth. Sabrina lapsed into sullen silence. Gabe patted her on the shoulder, but otherwise left her alone. Caleb, as always, looked indifferent.

The sound of the forge reached us shortly ahead of the smell. I could detect at least two hammers beating on something metal and wrinkled my nose at the acrid scent of charcoal burning at over fifteen-hundred degrees. The forge itself was a squat structure built from a patchwork of mismatched bricks and homemade mortar with several cylindrical steel chimneys jetting black smoke into the sky. A gangly, pimple-faced boy of no more than thirteen greeted us at the door.

“Welcome to Wichita Custom Fabricators. What can I do for you?”

Gabe spoke up. “Name is Gabriel Garrett. Commissioned a blade about two months ago. Message came via radio from Hollow Rock over in Tennessee.” He produced a slip from his shirt pocket. “Here’s your confirmation of receipt.”

The boy read the slip, nodded to himself, and said, “Just a moment, sir.”

We waited while the boy disappeared into the darkness of the forge. He returned a moment later smiling obsequiously.

“Do you have your method of payment with you, sir?”

Gabe patted an old Army messenger bag slung across his chest. The boy stepped aside and gestured for Gabe to enter. He did, followed by Sabrina. The rest of us waited at the entrance until, a minute or two later, Sabrina emerged grinning broadly. For a few seconds I had the feeling I was seeing what she may have looked like had the Outbreak never happened, none of the cynicism and suspicion and canned violence, the face of a happy teenage girl unmarred by trauma or tragedy. It was a bittersweet thing to see, and I had to remind myself not to dwell on things that could not be changed.

“You gotta see this thing,” Sabrina said to me.

“Is it nice?”

“It’s fucking badass.”

I gestured to the cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. “Let’s see it.”

“Not here,” Gabe said. “Too many eyes. People might get funny ideas.”

“Right. Well, I’m hungry anyway.”

“Seconded,” Elizabeth said. “I smell something good coming from up the street.”

Gabe made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Lead the way.”

She did, and as she walked ahead of me, I could not help but notice the form-fitting cut of her pants and how trim and well-muscled her legs and butt were. I allowed myself a few moments of admiration and then stared at the ground for the remainder of the walk and thought to myself that I really, really needed to get back to Allison.

*****

Two days later, it was time to leave.

The others were already back with our gear, our newly replenished supplies, and our wagon. I lingered a while that morning on the rooftop deck of our hotel, mug of tea in hand, staring at the Kansas plains stretching endlessly westward. It was warm that morning, nearly seventy degrees, with the first hints of spring whispering in the mid-March air. There was no reason for me to stay behind; Gabe and Elizabeth had seen to our supplies, and Sabrina and Caleb had taken care of our laundry. I was bathed, shaved, hair neatly trimmed, and I had done an outstanding job the last couple of days of holding down a barstool and paying too much for medium-quality hooch at the hotel’s tiny bar.

I knew the day was going to move quickly, but I could not seem to work up the motivation to settle my bill and check out. And as underwhelmed as I had initially been with the newly-constructed wooden lobby and bare floors and creaky stairs of the Heartland Inn and Tavern, I had to admit I was going to miss the place. The beds were clean, the staff was friendly, and someone came by to empty the composting toilet every evening. Certainly beat the hell out of life on the road.

I sipped my overpriced tea and thought about Allison and my infant son and how, if I got home on time, I was going to have missed six months of my little boy growing up. Granted, I was missing out on the screaming and crying and soiled diapers portion of his upbringing, but I regretted not being there nonetheless. I didn’t mind so much when he screamed and cried. It was gratifying to calm him down and feel him relax and fall asleep in my arms. And while changing and cleaning cloth diapers a few dozen times a day—or so it felt—was no picnic, I found would rather be doing that than sitting here on this rooftop with a heavy feeling in the bottom of my gut at the prospect of climbing back into that goddamn wagon and spending another six weeks on the road. And that was not counting the journey back to Hollow Rock.

Maybe I could pull some strings with General Jacobs and get myself on a military flight back home. It would be ridiculously expensive, but getting there in a matter of hours versus a minimum of twelve weeks would be more than worth it.

A door opened on the ground floor and I heard footsteps on the stairs leading to the roof. A waiter stopped next to me and asked if I would like anything else. I drained the last of my tea and told him no, I’d be checking out in just a few minutes. He thanked me for no reason, the way hotel staff always do, and left. I put my cup down.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I said aloud. “You started this with your eyes wide open. Now finish it.”

I stood up, gathered my things from my room, paid my bill by measuring out four ounces of sugar into a small bowl on a scale in the hotel kitchen, and headed for the caravan district.

*****

There were three additional horses attached by lead ropes to the tailgate. Caleb sat atop a fourth one I had never seen before.

“What’s with the extra livestock?” I asked as I slung my rucksack and duffel bag of weapons into the rear of the wagon.

“Weather’s warming up,” Gabe said. “Infected and marauders will be out and about. Figured we ought to take some sensible precautions.”

I walked over to the horses and let them sniff at me. “Which one is mine?”

“The one trying to bite your ear.”

The horse in question was not really trying to bite my ear. Horses have a way of probing at people with their semi-prehensile upper lips by way of greeting. Still, it tickled and I gently nudged the horse’s muzzle away. He was a brown gelding, not quite as tall as Red but sturdily built, possessed of the confident, unhurried manner of a horse used to being ridden long distances.

“Seems friendly enough.”

“Get used to him. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Only one person in the wagon the rest of the way. I want everyone else on horseback, full loadout. So suit up.”

I let out a sigh and wiped a hand across the back of my neck. It was probably pointless to argue with Gabe about this, but I had to try. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”

“No.”

“There are eighty wagons in this caravan.”

“Eighty-four, actually.”

“And no less than a hundred and twenty people, all armed, driving them. And an additional thirty guards on horseback, two of whom are Blackthorns.”

“So?”

“So marauders travel in small bands, typically no more than twenty or thirty. And they’re not known for negotiating strong alliances. You’d have to be nuts to take on this caravan with anything less than a hundred people on horseback.”

“It could be done with less if they were well trained.”

“Which most raiders are not.”

“And your point is?”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “My point is this is unnecessary. Riding in the wagon is exhausting enough.”

“Tell you what, Eric. When we get safely to Colorado Springs, I’ll buy you dinner and as many drinks as you want, and you can say ‘I told you so’ until you’re blue in the face. But until then, we do this my way.”

As usual, his tone brooked no argument. “Fine. But you better set aside some serious trade. I plan to have many, many drinks on your dime.”

“I sincerely hope you do.”

“By the way,” I said, climbing into the wagon and rooting for my MOLLE vest. “How much did the horses cost us?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m selling them as soon as we get to Colorado.”

I found my vest and spare ammo and began gearing up. “Never let it be said you’re not a practical man, Gabe.”

“Glad you noticed.”