These Dead Lands: Immolation (3 page)

“Roger that,” Hastings answered.

Ballantine and Guerra emerged from the second Humvee, leaving Hartman behind the wheel. Ballantine pointed at the trees on the other side of the street, and Guerra turned to face them, his rifle in his hands. Everyone was in full battle rattle, as the troops called it.

Hastings hefted his rifle and scanned the area. He was already sweating beneath his multicam uniform. Down the street, a shambling figure emerged from the tree line and picked its way past an abandoned car. It slowly turned and headed toward the idling Humvees, its shuffling feet moving through a pile of trash. Hastings pointed out the solitary zombie to Ballantine, who nodded and reached inside the Humvee for a metal bar with a rubber handle attached to it. When the reeker got in range, Ballantine would bludgeon it with the “brain bar,” killing it without making any undue noise or wasting a bullet.

“It’s locked up tight, sir,” Tharinger said when Hastings joined him at the gate. “If you ask me, the lock and chain are probably stronger than the gate itself. We might pull down half the fence if we use the Humvee.”

Hastings shrugged. “Fine by me. It’s not like we’re staying for very long. Let’s get it hooked up.”

A minute later, the steel cable from the winch mounted on the Humvee’s bumper was hooked up to the frame of the gate. Hastings motioned to the driver to put the Humvee in reverse. Stilley backed up, and the gate, after putting up only a token defense, was ripped off the hinges. Stilley dragged it halfway across the street before coming to a halt, and the skittering racket of steel on asphalt made Hastings shudder. He shot Stilley a withering glare, then he and Tharinger disconnected the cable, so Stilley could activate and retracted it. Hastings signaled for Stilley to pull the vehicle inside the open fence then waved for Hartman to follow.

“Guys, fall back inside the fence,” he told Ballantine and the others.

“Hooah.” Ballantine motioned the other soldiers in and slowly followed them. He kept his eyes on the lone reeker down the street. It plodded toward them relentlessly. Filthy rags that had once been clothes fluttered in the gentle, humid breeze.

Hastings pulled open the driver’s door on the second Humvee. “Out, Hartman. Help Tharinger with the fuel.”

“Yes, sir!”

The door of the other Humvee opened, and Stilley stuck his head out. “Hey, you want me to dismount too, Captain?” His voice was high and loud in the cemetery-like silence of the neighborhood. Hastings waved him to silence halfway through his question, but Stilley didn’t seem to notice. Sweat ran down his dark face from beneath his helmet.

Hastings ran over and leaned in close. “Stilley, you have
got
to practice noise discipline. Every word you say is practically a fucking shout. You need to change that right now. Do you get me?”

“Yes, sir,” Stilley said in a lower voice as he leaned away from Hastings. “Do you want me to—”

“Stay in the vehicle, but switch off the engine.” Hastings slammed the door, and the Humvee’s engine stopped an instant later. He joined Tharinger and Hartman at one of the oil delivery trucks.

Tharinger rapped his knuckles against one of the saddle tanks. “We’re good, sir. Tank’s full.”

“Let’s get as much as we can,” Hastings said. “It would be great to fill both vehicles.”

“Hooah.” Tharinger unscrewed the fuel cap and inserted the siphon’s hose while Hartman got the first gas can ready.

“Captain, we have movement,” Ballantine said over the radio.

Fuck
. “How many, Ballantine? Over.”

“Just the one reeker still. Sorry, I wasn’t clear. We have a vehicle heading our way. Looks like a Toyota, one of those little Prius jobs. Over.”

A Prius
.
Well, they probably don’t want any diesel.
Hastings stepped back and looked toward the street.

Reader and Guerra were inside the fence, on either side of the gap where the gate had been. Ballantine was just behind Reader, and both men were staring down the street in the direction of the solitary zombie Hastings had seen earlier. “Sir, orders? It’s getting kind of close. Over,” Ballantine added, and Hastings realized he had been keeping him on the hook without giving him any clear direction.

“Do nothing, Ballantine. I’m not so sure we’re in the business of killing the living any longer.”

“Roger that. Looks like the driver’s slowing to stop. Over.”

And sure enough, a silver Toyota Prius glided to a halt just outside the fence.

“Guys, keep doing what you’re doing but stay sharp,” he said to Tharinger and Hartman. “I’ll be right back.”

“Roger that, sir. We’re good here,” Hartman said. His hand was on his M4A3’s pistol grip, and he held the weapon in a low ready position.

Hastings jogged toward the gate, glancing in both directions. To the north, the single zombie continued to slog toward them. It was about seventy meters away, and Hastings thought he could hear it groaning softly. Looking south, he noticed the police cruiser in the middle of the strip mall parking lot was surrounded by hundreds of brass cartridges. The cops had apparently gone down fighting.

He then directed his attention to the Prius as he slowed to a walk. Hastings was startled when the driver’s door opened, and a man climbed out. The guy wore a Kevlar helmet and ballistic armor over a multicam uniform. He was absolutely filthy, and Hastings was surprised he couldn’t smell him from where he stood. The grime on his weathered face served to make his blue eyes stand out bright and strong. With several days of razor stubble serving to further darken his countenance, the soldier’s shocking gaze made Hastings fancy he was facing down a modern-day Rasputin. The man’s uniform had master sergeant insignia, and the nametape read
SLATER
. On his shoulder was the patch of US Army Special Forces: an arrowhead with a VS-42 dagger atop three lightning bolts.

“A snake-eater driving a Prius?” Hastings said.

“I traded in a BMW touring bike for it,” the newcomer replied. “Not something I’d normally do, but the mileage can’t be beat. Of course, it can’t take much of a beating.” He nodded toward the front of the car, where its fascia and hood showed strong indications that a body had landed on them. “Hitting one reeker almost took me out and screwed up the alignment real good.”

Hastings nodded. “We’re Task Force New York.”

“Joint Task Force Bravo.”

The designation tickled the back of Hastings’s mind. “Bravo? You were in Boston?”

“Yep. A week ago, anyway. You guys have any news?”

“Negative. Our net’s been silent for days. You?”

“Same. All regional commands are down, but I was told Bragg is digging in for the fight. They expected to be under siege two days ago, and I figured I’d give ’em a hand.” Master Sergeant Slater looked around. “Of course, I have to drive through the oasis of post-apocalyptic New Jersey to do it. Is that where you guys are headed?”

“No. We’re trying to cut across into Pennsylvania then head north again. We’re going for Drum.”

“Gone,” Slater said. “Not there anymore.”

Reader, followed by Ballantine and Guerra, had drifted over to join them. “Say again, Sergeant?”

“Fort Drum is gone. It was a major FEMA evacuation site. It came under attack almost two weeks ago, right after Task Force Albany went down for the long dirt nap.” Slater turned as the moaning zombie mounted the sidewalk thirty feet away.

It stumbled and fell onto its hands then slowly picked itself up again. Flies buzzed all around it.

“Anyone going to take care of that thing?” he asked, his tone conversational, as if he were completely unaware that he had just dropped a massive bomb on Hastings and his men.

Hastings’s mouth was suddenly dry, and his heart was pounding in his chest. “Sergeant, what else do you know about Drum?” He shot a glance at Ballantine. “Sergeant Ballantine, zero that reeker.”

“Yes, sir.” Ballantine walked around the fence.

Slater watched as Ballantine made quick work of the zombie, pounding its head into pulp with his brain bar. The NCO swung with much more force than was necessary, and gooey black ichor splattered across the sidewalk as the ghoul collapsed to its knees and then kissed the pavement. Ballantine stood over it, chest heaving beneath his armor.

“Slater?” Hastings prompted.

Slater locked eyes with Hastings. “That’s about it, Captain. Drum was rubbed out by a few hundred thousand reekers that pushed down from the north and in from the east. I rode past most of them on that BMW I told you about before one of the runners took it out from under me. That’s when I picked up my current chariot.” Slater patted the roof of the Prius. “From what I know, half the post burned to the ground, and the rest of it is a very messy mortuary.” He glanced away. “I’m sorry if any of you lightfighters had dependents up there. When I heard the news, it didn’t sound like anyone made it out alive. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a Green Beret,” Hastings said.

“Yeah. Senior NCO of an alpha detachment.” He smiled, and his teeth were bright white against his dirty skin. “
Former
senior NCO of an Alpha Det, anyway. All my guys are gone.”

“We could use you,” Hastings said, even though he was beginning to think the Special Forces soldier was a bit on the fucked-up side, mentally. “We could definitely use your skills. You should come with us, Sergeant.”

“To Fort Drum?”

“Yes.”

“No. I’m going to Bragg. There’s no one left at Drum, unless you count a few hundred thousand deadheads. Don’t go up there, boys. I’m sorry, but your people are dead. Don’t get yourselves killed just to confirm what’s already true.”

“Fuck you, Sergeant,” Guerra said.

Slater ignored the comment.

“You need anything?” Hastings asked, suddenly wanting to be quit of the strange man with the thousand-yard stare and the quirky grin that said all his dogs weren’t barking.

Slater fixed those shining blue eyes on him. “What’ve you got?”

“Seventeen thousand rounds of five-five-six,” Hastings said. “Fifty-one M65 grenades. Sixty-nine forty-millimeter high explosive grenades.”

“Sixty-nine, dude!” Slater leered. When the light infantrymen just stared at him, his grin slowly faded. “
Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure
? You guys never saw it? Ballantine, you must’ve been old enough to see it—maybe the rest of these guys are too young.”

Ballantine just stared at the zombie he had killed. Flies were crawling all over the corpse.

Slater shrugged and looked at the oil company building behind Hastings then at the fleet of oil trucks sitting inside the gate. “Well, this thing needs unleaded, not diesel or heating oil. I’m good on ammo, Captain. Thanks. Got anything else?”

“Not really, Sergeant.”

“Nothing?”

“A few MREs. Some medical supplies—combat gauze, that kind of stuff.”

“Water?”

“No. We need to scrounge some up.”

Slater shook his head. “All that ammunition and no additional resources? Truly, you lightfighters mystify me.” He walked around to the rear of the Prius and opened the hatchback. Inside were several cases of water, along with other supplies. He pulled out one case of water and carried it over to Hastings. “Have yourself a case of Poland Spring, courtesy of the Devil’s Brigade.”

Hastings took the offering. “Thanks. Why Bragg? You’re with the Seventh. Aren’t you guys posted out of Eglin?”

Slater looked at him as if he were daft. “Why would a Special Forces soldier run to help defend Fort Bragg, you ask? Sir, you
do
happen to know that Bragg is the mother ship of all Army Special Forces?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I knew that.”

“Then I’ll have to consider your question irrelevant, sir. Hey, you guys need anything else? I have a box of Twinkies. You want ’em? I don’t eat those things, but it’s gonna be a long trip, so I pretty much took anything that I came across. No? How about some Claymores? You never know when those things can come in handy. I have twelve of ’em right behind the front passenger seat.”

“We… we’re good,” Hastings said. He had gotten a whiff of Slater, and the man smelled as bad as a reeker.

“Well. If you say so, sir.” Slater took a step back and scanned the area.

Hastings stood there on the sidewalk, holding the case of bottled water. He realized zombies could appear at any moment, and he would have a tough time fighting them off with his hands full. He turned to Guerra. “Put this in one of the Humvees and check in with Hartman and Tharinger. I’ll take your position.”

“Hooah.” Guerra snatched the water from Hastings’s arms and jogged back to the Humvees.

Hastings shifted his M4A3. The Special Forces soldier had a Heckler & Koch 416 slung across his chest, the same caliber as the M4 but reportedly a million times more reliable than the weapon Hastings held. However, it looked almost identical to Hastings’s standard-issue assault rifle.

“You guys still going to Drum?” Slater asked.

“Yeah,” Hastings said. “I think we are.”

Slater sighed heavily and turned back to the Prius. He put a hand on the hatch and started to close it. Then, he pulled out a plastic bag and tossed it to Hastings, who instinctively caught it. It was an unopened package of Snider’s Mini Pretzels.

“Take some pretzels for the road,” Slater said. “And hey, be careful of anyone you see. All the good people are pretty much dead or managed to evacuate to the west—I heard they’re turning places like Denver and Salt Lake into fortresses. Anyone left is either just really unlucky or a hardened criminal who doesn’t have much of a problem surviving among the dead. Chances are good they’ll be really happy to take your vehicles, weapons, and gear. Be on the lookout for ambushes and the like.”

Hastings smirked. “You’re kidding, right?”

Slater didn’t smile as he slammed the hatch closed and walked back to the open driver’s door. He looked across the top of the car at Hastings. “Do I look like I’m having a ha-ha moment, Captain?”

“Can’t really tell, Sergeant.”

Slater shook his head. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. Getting jacked up in an ambush has got to be better than being eaten by the dead. Later, guys. We won’t be seeing each other again.” He climbed into the car and drove away.