Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line (8 page)

Spike grinned. “Fuck you, jarhead.”

“Sorry, you’re not pretty enough. And I figured you were here for business, not pleasure.”

The grin faded. He put on his business face. “That I am.”

“What did you bring me?”

“Salt. And lots of it. Just like you asked.”

I stared at him flatly. “I
asked
for delivery two months ago.”

“Yeah. About that.” He put down his cup and crossed his hands on the table. “We lost that shipment.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I thought you hired Blackthorns to guard it.”

“I did. Eight of ‘em. And five other merc types, and an armored wagon, and a goddamn heavy machine gun. It wasn’t enough. Found their remains in central Kansas.”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t think he was around that day.”

Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.
Eight Blackthorns,
I thought, shaking my head.

The Blackthorn Security Company had been in business for only a year or so, but had already garnered a reputation as the best mercenary outfit around. They were fierce, fearless, highly trained, and when they signed a contract, they pinned their lives to it. They had armor, weapons, explosives, night vision equipment, the works. Pound for pound, the rival of any pre-Outbreak security outfit. Maybe better. I had heard that Tyrel Jennings, the company’s founder, who happened to be an ex-Navy SEAL, utilized a cadre of special warfare operators from every branch of the Armed Services to train his men.

“Must have been a hell of a fight,” I said.

“Lots of bullet casings. Lot of dried blood. Some of the bodies were marauders. My people didn’t go down easy.”

“That’s something, I guess.”

Spike tapped his thumbs against his mug. “Yeah.”

“Can you absorb the loss?”

“Most of it. Shipment was insured. FTIC.”

The acronym stood for Federal Trade Insurance Commission, a public-private venture established to keep trade, the lifeblood of the new barter economy, flowing. Any trade going in or out of Colorado Springs and the surrounding communities had to be insured. If it was not, caravan operators faced steep tariffs that were usually more than the FTIC’s insurance premiums. The commission hired agents in most of the large settlements in the new Union—including Hollow Rock—which allowed contracts to be purchased by just about anyone. In the event of a loss, the commission paid out in the various commodities the government always seemed to have in ample quantities—fuel, bullets, and medical supplies.

“Won’t get back what I spent on security,” Spike went on, “but I don’t really care about that. I lost some good people, Gabe. People with families. There were women and children in that caravan. We never found the bodies. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

I would have liked to tell Spike it meant there was still hope, but we both knew better. Even if they survived the attack, the captured traders faced a fate worse than death. Few people rescued from marauders lasted very long. Most committed suicide. And those who had the strength to go on had to live with the memories of what happened while in captivity every day of their lives. I stared at my hands and breathed out slowly.

“Any clue who did it?”

“Yeah. Guy in my outfit, ex-Army fella, recognized the symbol the raiders drew on their weapons. Skull with crossed lightning bolts beneath. Said they call themselves the Storm Road Tribe. If I ever find them, they’ll be the fucking Storm Road Corpses.”

“You report it?”

Spike nodded. “When I went looking for them, I had to bring along a rep from the FTIC. Bastards wanted verification. Tried telling the rep my people wouldn’t have hijacked me, not with the Blackthorns around. Guy said I wasn’t the first person to say that. Shit world we live in, huh?”

“Most of it, yeah.”

I finished my tea and let Spike brood quietly for a while. The little refrigerator hummed comfortably in the corner, reminding me of better days when life seemed bright and shining and hopeful. Sometimes I would come in the back room after closing the shop and sit with my eyes closed and listen to the refrigerator hum and imagine I was back in the house my father built, dozing on the couch and waiting for dad’s truck to crunch the gravel in the driveway. Time was, I found the hum of appliances annoying. Now it sounds like home.

“Well, guess we better get down to business.” Spike pushed his cup away.

“Yeah. Your crew through the gate yet?”

“Going through inspection. Be a few hours.”

“In that case, I’ll meet you at the caravan district tomorrow morning.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “You can’t take possession today? Costs trade to stay overnight, and I got customers in other towns waiting on me.”

“Take the expense out of my shipment.”

Spike dipped his head. “Fair enough.” He stood up and yawned expansively, arms stretched behind him, leather armor creaking from the strain. “Christ, if I’m honest, a hot meal, a few drinks, and a night behind a well-guarded wall sounds like just what the fucking doctor ordered.”

He started to walk toward the door, then stopped and snapped his fingers. “Shit, almost forgot. I got something for you.”

“What?”

He stepped closer, reached under the armor on his right forearm, and removed a small plastic tube. “Letter from Mr. Hadrian Flint, director of operations for the Blackthorn Security Company. I can vouch for its authenticity.”

I reached for it. “He deliver it in person?”

“Yep. Said it’s for your eyes only.”

“You didn’t read it?”

“Check the seal.”

I did. It was intact, the signet of the Blackthorn Company pressed into red wax. No way Spike could have opened it and resealed it, not without a signet ring. And the Blackthorns guarded them jealously.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll consider the tea my tip.”

He left through the back door. I locked it behind him, sat down, and opened the tube. The letter was brief and to the point. It could not have come at a better time.

I rolled the letter up, put it back in its tube, and stuffed it in a cargo pocket. I thought about the salt I had purchased, how it was one of the best ways to collapse a large amount of wealth into a small, portable volume of trade. I thought about how salt was once less than a dollar a pound, and how that same pound today was the equivalent of half a month’s wage for a farm worker. I thought about the trade routes between Hollow Rock and Colorado Springs, and the upcoming election, and how nice it would be to have Elizabeth in my bed every night and wake up next to her every morning and finally have the family I thought God or fate or whatever turns the gears of the universe had seen fit to deny me.

My eyes closed, the fridge hummed, and I decided to close the shop early.

Eric was exactly where I expected to find him—picking a fight. Or a sparring match to be more accurate.

The Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia has its own training facilities at Fort McCray just outside of town. I rode my horse there, left him in the public livery, and proceeded to the militia’s corner of the base.

The gymnasium is a far cry from the empty field where Eric and I once held unarmed combat training for the men and women who risk their lives serving their town. The facility has mat space, punching bags, free weights, and an honest to God boxing ring. Where the guys who built the place found the ring, I have no idea. But I don’t mind using it from time to time. Neither does Eric.

I climbed the corner, leaned on a turnbuckle, and said, “Keep your hands up, Riordan.”

Eric looked my way for a bare instant and caught a right hook from Manuel Sanchez. He managed to slip the follow-up overhand left and circle out.

“You’re an asshole, Gabe.”

I laughed quietly while the two men finished their round. Sanchez was winning, as usual, but that did not surprise me. Prior to the Outbreak, he was a top-ten ranked welterweight about two or three fights from a title shot. Eric has fast hands, and is the bigger man, but Sanchez is a pro. And there no substitute for pro. My old friend looked relieved when the guy keeping time called for a break.

“If you want to watch me get beat up, strap on some gloves,” Eric said as he walked over to my corner.

“I don’t know. You’re getting pretty good these days.”

He eyed me to see if I was kidding him. I wasn’t.

“Yeah, well, Sanchez is a good boxing coach.”

The Pride of Hermosillo looked over his shoulder. “I heard that.”

“You’re also a dick. You hear that too?”

“Smartass.”

I flicked a finger at Sanchez. “You in a nutshell.”

Eric stripped off his gloves and squirted water into his mouth with a white squeeze bottle. His longish hair dripped with sweat and his shirt was soaked through. “You here for a reason, or you just like busting my balls?”

“Got plans this afternoon?”

“You’re looking at them.”

“Sarah’s putting together a volunteer sweep. Still not too late to sign up. Figured with all the time you’ve been spending at home you could use a little recreation.”

Eric looked over his shoulder at Sanchez. “You know, I do feel like shooting something.”

“Good. Clean up. I’ll wait outside.”

“Right.”

*****

“Christ’s sake, Eric. You stink.”

He sat up straight in the saddle, tilted his head at what he thought was a rakish angle, and said, “I smell like a sporting man possessed of good health and vigor.”

“Really? I didn’t realize sporting men of good health and vigor smelled like sweaty butthole cheese.”

“Oh, quit your bitching. Everybody stinks these days. No such thing as deodorant anymore. You’re not exactly a spring lily.”

The wind picked up, blowing a dusting of snow across the field. Red tossed his mane and rumbled in irritation. I patted his neck and tightened my scarf around my face. 

“There’s normal stink, and then there’s post-workout stink. When I told you to clean up I meant more than just changing your shirt.”

Deputy Sarah Glover turned around in her saddle and cut the air with an angry hand. “Will you two shut it,” she hissed. “We’re on a sweep for Christ’s sake.”

We shut it. Sarah glared a few seconds more and then went back to scanning the treeline with her field glasses.

Around us were five other riders, all heavily armed, with Sarah out on point. The day was the gunmetal gray of winter overcast, a strong wind blowing heavy clouds fast across the sky. Loose powder on the open field surrounding Hollow Rock skidded across the ground in streaks of billowing white, ghostly in the afternoon dimness. Red’s hooves sent white puffs of snow cascading in front of his legs with every step, making the already difficult going that much worse. He didn’t like it. The other horses didn’t like it either, and their riders were not any happier.

Ahead, Sarah held up a fist and leaned back in her saddle. Her mount came to a halt. She turned, pointed two fingers at her eyes, and gave a signal to hold position. Everyone complied. A minute or so passed while Sarah adjusted the lenses and looked through the binoculars again. Finally, she rode back to us and spoke in a low voice.

“Jackpot. Good sized horde, about two hundred yards north beyond the treeline, moving slow.”

There was a general nodding of heads. The fact the infected had been slowed by the cold was no surprise. A few degrees colder, and they would have been immobilized completely. Winter may be tough on food production, but it’s a bonanza for ghoul hunters.

“We’ll let them move halfway across the field,” Sarah went on, “then ride in and circle clockwise. Everyone got your hand weapons?”

I patted my falcata. Eric patted his military issue MK-9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. Which, a thousand years ago, would have been wielded by conscripted Chinese peasants and called a da-dao. Meaning, ‘big knife’. The MK-9 is designed for one thing, and one thing only: chopping. And at that, it excels.

The other volunteers made similar motions. “All right,” Sarah said. “I’m on point. Riordan, you’re second. Coleman, Morris, Jones, Haynes, and McCoy, in that order. Gabe, you’re on anchor.”

I let out a breath and cursed silently. The role of anchor was to keep a little distance and be ready to ride in and lend assistance to anyone finding themselves in trouble. Lost weapons, injured horses, thrown riders, that kind of thing. It did not happen very often, especially with experienced guardsmen like the five who had ridden out with us. Which meant I might not see any action today, thereby defeating the purpose of my presence.

“Sure, Sarah.”

A curt nod. “Standard tactics. Ride and halt on my command, fall out if your gun jams, and for God’s sake, don’t forget to stake your horses before we move in on foot. Everyone clear?”

We were.

“Stay loose, gentlemen. Be ready to go.”

Sarah adjusted her M-4 on its sling and checked the chamber. I did the same. Made sure the magazine was seated. Safety off. Suppressor screwed on tight. Then we waited. The wind died down somewhat. The groaning of ghouls became gradually louder until the first of them emerged from the treeline.

Your average ghoul, assuming their legs work properly, moves along at about two miles an hour. Under the current conditions, with thirty-something degree air clutching at their necrotic tissues, they moved at maybe half that.

Step by halting step, the horde took shape on the field. After ten minutes of watching and waiting, more than two-hundred ghouls marched disjointedly across the white plain in the now-familiar teardrop formation, the fastest ghouls in the lead, the slower ones in the press behind. They were spread out loosely, perhaps ten feet or more between one walking corpse and another. This was both good and bad. Good because targeting would be easier, bad because it was farther for the horses to travel.

Riding a horse is not like in the movies where the animals run and run tirelessly. Horses are living things that need oxygen, water, food, and rest. Their muscles get sore. They are prone to injury. When they run, they get tired. And just like people, some are in better shape or more athletic than others. That said, the hard part of riding in formation is not keeping pace, it’s preventing the horses’ instinctive herd mentality from letting them bunch together in a cluster. Doing so is great for confusing predators, not so much for fighting the undead. In this case, I was not worried. Red was a good mount, and I had worked with the other guys before. They, and their steeds, were reliable.

“Okay, looks like we’re ready,” Sarah said, lowering the field glasses. “Everybody good?”

A round of affirmatives.

“Ten yard intervals, fellas. Let’s move.”

The good deputy rode out first, Eric and the rest following behind. I went last and urged Red gently with my heels to maintain the proper distance. In less than two minutes, we reached the horde and rode a few circles around it at a slow canter. This caused the ghouls to attempt to follow us, thereby ruining their formation and causing them to collide and trip over one another.  The effect was like dragging a magnet around a pile of iron filings.

By the time Sarah called a halt, the horses were steaming the air with perspiration. The smell of death and sweaty horse filled my nose as I rode a short distance away from the main formation. At least it was cold. The odor would have been twice as bad in the heat of summer.

Red’s flanks heaved slowly beneath me, but not hard enough to cause worry. He was just catching his breath; he’d be good in less than a minute. I sighted down my rifle and estimated the distance to the horde at twenty to twenty-five meters. Dangerously close in warm weather, but at the rate this horde was moving, it would be a full five minutes before they reached us.

Sarah patted her horse’s neck, stood up in the saddle, shouldered her rifle, and turned to look at me. “Gabe, eyes on.”

“Roger that.”

She aimed her weapon. “Fire at will.”

A staccato chorus of muted cracks filled the gusting air. We were all armed with M-4s on loan from the Army, equipped with suppressor’s and ACOG sights. Our ammo had been purchased by the City of Hollow Rock during the summer with trade from tax revenue, not a small amount of it collected from G&R Transport and Salvage. The fact that I was sleeping with the mayor did not exempt me from the responsibilities of citizenship. I did not mind. I knew my taxes were being used wisely.

On the firing line, Eric was racking up the highest tally, as per usual. I took a small amount of pride in this. He learned almost everything he knows from me, after all. His keen eyesight and cool head under pressure have saved the lives of many of Fort McCray’s soldiers. And while they do not entirely accept him, the troops at least respect him.

The five guardsmen with us, regulars who did the job full time, conducted their work with casual efficiency. These were not military men, or former law enforcement, or anything like that. They had been farmers and tradesmen and laborers before the Outbreak. But what they lacked in formal training, they made up for in courage and perseverance. Hard necessity had taught them the merciless lessons of survival. They learned marksmanship on the fly. Most of them had never stood next to a horse in their lives before civilization collapsed. But now they all knew how to ride, and shoot, and set up a perimeter, and sweep for ghouls and marauders, and do the dangerous, grinding work it takes to keep their homes safe. They were not professionals yet, but they were learning fast.

One of the men stopped firing. I sat up a little straighter in the saddle. He canted his rifle to the side and worked the charging handle. A round ejected and disappeared into the snow. The rifle came up and he tried to fire again. Nothing.

“Jones,” I called out. “You good?”

He ejected another round, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Same result.

“Damn thing ain’t working.”

He wheeled his mount and exited the line. “All yours, buddy.”

“Got it.”

I took his place, maneuvered Red into position, and leveled my M-4. The ACOG reticle settled on a ghoul’s forehead. A gray, this one. I hate grays. Not just because they look completely inhuman, but because I don’t know what is happening to them. I know they started out as human beings, then became infected, and afterward underwent some kind of change where they shed their skin, exposing dead, grayish-black muscle tissue—hence the name—and my experience with them has led me to develop some disturbing theories regarding their capabilities.

First, they seem to be able to heal. Most ghouls are covered in bite wounds. They wouldn’t be ghouls otherwise. It takes a bite or some other kind of fluid transfer to spread the Reanimation Phage. And when the infected get their hands on prey, they never stop at one bite. Some of the undead are so badly mangled they can barely move. Some are completely immobilized by the injuries that killed them, little more than animated skeletons held together by strips of gristle. But the grays, for the most part, do not have injuries visible on their bodies. I am not the only one who has noticed this.

Second, their skulls are far more difficult to crack than normal infected. I know this from experience. My falcata is sharp enough to shave with, and made from very high quality steel. With most ghouls, I do not have to swing very hard to make a cross-section out of their craniums. With the grays, however, a swing with the same force results in my sword lodged two inches into dense, fibrous bone. I have learned it is better just to decapitate them.

Last, and perhaps most disturbingly, they are faster than normal infected. Not as fast as a living person, but fast enough they are at the vanguard of every horde I’ve seen for the last several months. This could be a result of their healing ability. Or it could be an indicator of some kind of long-term metamorphosis. I don’t know. I’m not a biologist, and even if I were, I don’t have enough information to say anything conclusively. What I do know is this: the more grays I kill, the better I feel.