Savages, page 17
part #5 of Surviving the Dead Series
The fight raged on all sides of the cart barrier. Stewart and Taylor ran back toward camp in a low crouch as Hicks and Bjornson fired over their heads, taking out pursuing infected. The two fleeing soldiers leapt over the barrier and tumbled to a halt a few feet past the firing line. In an instant, they were back on their feet, reloading and joining the fight.
I took position where Anderson told me to. The only person there was Liddell, and he was hard pressed to keep the infected back. The closest of them were only a few feet away. I let the AK dangle from its sling and drew my pistol. The Makarov felt strange in my hands, but the sights lined up just fine. I focused on a pallid face and fired. The forehead erupted red and the face disappeared. I repeated the process as fast as I could until the mag was empty, only missing once. Now we had some breathing room.
“Thanks,” Liddell said as he reloaded. He was my height, shaved head scorched brown in the sun, long red beard, strong build. “Nice shooting.”
“Kind of my thing.” I aimed the AK and fired. Better. Much more accurate than the pistol at this range. The thirty-round mag was nice too.
I went to work. The old hypnotic feeling came over me the same as it always did. I could almost swear I heard a metronome at work in the back of my head, and with each tick of the striker, each second, my finger twitched and a ghoul dropped. I no longer took note of their features. My eyes were motion detectors. My brain became little more than facial recognition software. Was it alive? No? Shoot it.
The chamber locked back on an empty mag. Reload. A little different process with the AK. I had to move the weapon off my point of aim, depress a lever, sweep the mag free, and then lock in a new one. With an M-4 configuration rifle, I could have just let the mag drop without shifting my aim. Much faster that way.
More bloody faces. More gunfire. The ghouls just kept coming, and coming, and coming. I knew what the problem was. It was the noise. All these guns firing, firing, firing, but we had no choice. We were surrounded. So I kept shooting, and eventually, I heard the shouts begin behind me.
“I’m out!”
“Last mag!”
“Going to my sidearm!”
“Get ready to draw hand weapons!” It was the first time I ever heard Great Hawk raise his voice.
Worry began to pierce the fog. I had my sword and stick, but would they be enough? No time to worry. It didn’t matter. If things did not work out, there was always the backup revolver. I reached to the small of my back and felt its comforting weight there. The cyanide pill was in its place as well. No worries.
I emptied the last magazine on my vest. The barrel of my rifle glowed a dull, muted red in the darkness. Probably a good thing I was out of ammo, wouldn’t want a cookoff with a round in the chamber. I dropped the rifle and handed Liddell my Makarov and two spare mags.
“Hold them off.”
“Wait! Where are you-”
I did not hear the rest because Liddell started shooting.
I shouted, “Gabe! Gabe, you with me?”
“Over here!”
I stopped at my bedroll, grabbed my sword and stick, and ran toward the sound of his voice. When I reached him, he was emptying his own pistol, each shot sending an infected to its final rest.
“Got your sword?”
He reached a diminished left hand under his vest, grunted, tugged, and produced the blade. His right hand kept firing, each round finding its mark.
“Let’s jump the carts. Hit ‘em on the move.”
He fired his last two rounds and dropped the pistol. “On me.”
The big man did a flat-footed leap over the cart in front of him and hit the ground swinging. I lifted the handles, stepped past, and let the cart fall. No need for dramatics on my part.
I dug an Army surplus L-shaped flashlight with a red lens cover from my web belt, clipped it to my vest, and hit the switch. A dim cone of red light shone in front of me, lighting up the pale, wasted faces of ghouls. There were dozens of them. Piles of dead bodies littered the ground in a wide circle beyond the line of carts, making hard going for the undead. Good. I braced my Y-stick, brought my sword up to shoulder level, and went to work.
I allowed myself no more than two seconds per ghoul. Hit the neck with the stick, lift a little, touch the sword point to the top of the cheekbone, and thrust. A quick rotation of the wrist, then withdraw. I did not wait to watch them fall. It would have been a waste of time.
Ahead of me, Gabe’s sword flashed in the moonlight, the polished blade growing dark with accumulated gore. The gunshots behind me stopped, and I heard Anderson shout for two of his men to collect magazines, grab a box of ammo from a cart, and get to work reloading. Everyone else drew hand weapons—axes, crowbars, and a couple of homemade warhammers—and started busting skulls.
“What are you two doing?” Great Hawk shouted. He sounded angry. “You are going to get yourselves killed!”
“Trust us,” I called back. “We’ve done this before.”
The others stood behind the carts and used them as a buffer, swinging their weapons from a distance. This technique worked fine so long as only one or two undead pushed against the barriers. Three or more, and their forward pressure would be enough to shove the carts out of the way. It was better not to rely on them, and instead utilize humanity’s best weapon against the walking dead—agility.
We ran hard, killing only enough ghouls to clear the path until, finally, we were clear of the horde. Gabe and I paused a moment, hands on knees, and drew in deep breaths. We were not winded, but the work ahead would be difficult. Best to flood our muscles with oxygen while we had the chance. Back at camp, somebody shouted something unintelligible and I heard the unmistakable bark of an AK.
“Looks like they’re reloading fast,” Gabe said.
“Not fast enough. Come on.”
We started shouting as loud as we could and clanging our weapons against our knives. Slowly, one by one, the ghouls turned in our direction. But others closer to the sound of gunfire did not notice us. Gabe indicated he was going right, so I took off to my left.
As I ran, I darted in from time to time and dropped a ghoul. I kept my mind carefully blank. Running half-blind through the darkness while surrounded by God only knows how many infected is the kind of thing best done with as little thought as possible. Think too much and you start to panic. Better to keep moving.
A minute or two passed. I ran into the forest, got disoriented, backtracked, killed four more infected, and found my way back to the clearing. Great Hawk must have figured out what we were doing because he and the others stood back-to-back in a tight, silent circle, weapons at the ready. Gabe’s booming voice sounded directly across from me and perhaps a hundred yards away. The way back to camp was clear, so I ran to the barrier.
“Don’t shoot, it’s Riordan,” I hissed as I drew close. No one fired.
“What’s going on?” Great Hawk asked. It occurred to me this was the first time I had ever heard him use a contraction.
“We’ve got them split up into two groups. Gabe is straight that way. What we should do is fan out at double-arm intervals and start rolling them up from one of their flanks.”
Bjornson lowered his weapon. “Are you out of your fucking mind? There must be hundreds of those things out there.”
“Yes, but they’re spread out, probably not more than one or two per hundred square feet. Easy pickings.”
Bjornson shook his head. “No fucking way.”
Anderson started to say something, but I interrupted him. “Fine. Stay here and be cowards. I’m going to help Gabe.”
With that, I sprang over a cart and ran toward the sound of Gabe’s voice. Great Hawk said something in his native language I did not understand, but I got the impression it translated into something vile and very likely four-lettered. I heard a grunt, then more grunts, and then the sounds of boots pounding after me.
As I had asked, the men spread out roughly six feet apart and followed my lead. “Only kill the ones that get in your way,” I called out. “Avoid them if you can.”
We got bogged down a couple of times at some of the thicker knots of ghouls, but eventually we made it through and found Gabe standing in the bed of an abandoned pickup truck.
I had to give the man credit for quick thinking. He had let two layers of undead gather around the walls of the truck and lopped their arms off at the shoulder. Unable to grab him, they formed an impenetrable, if still dangerous, buffer zone from the rest of the horde. Rather than continue killing, he simply stood still in the middle, well out of reach and relatively safe. When he heard us coming, he started stomping his feet, clashing his weapons, and shouting as loud as he could. The ghouls surged at him with renewed frenzy, to no avail.
Great Hawk hissed and motioned for everyone to approach slowly and quietly. The only sounds we made as we closed in on the pickup truck were the soft crunch of boots over leaves and our own ragged breathing. We were in woodland now, emerging onto a narrow dirt road. A few ghouls turned at our arrival, but most stayed focused on Gabe.
Bjornson was the closest soldier to my position. He stood a few feet to my right, his hands clasping the haft of a hammer made from cast iron pipes. The hammer had a screw-on cap at the bottom, a T-intersection at the top, and a short, thick bolt held in place with silicone tape and a huge lug nut. It looked heavy, but Bjornson handled it with no problem.
A ghoul emerged in front of him from behind a tree. Without breaking stride, he pushed its arms out of the way, sidestepped, and nailed it on the back of the skull with a powerful overhand bash. The ghoul’s skull shattered, chunks of bone and brain tissue spattering the surrounding trees more than ten feet from where it stood. The corpse went limp and slumped to the ground. Before it was down, Bjornson had already moved on.
Impressive weapon.
I moved to the pickup and started killing. The ghouls trying to reach Gabe had their backs to me, forcing me to tap them on the shoulder and wait for them to turn around before killing them. Four lay permanently dead at my feet before the rest figured out what was happening. By then, Great Hawk and the others had surrounded the truck and were hacking away at undead skulls.
My sword got stuck in a ghoul’s skull. Unable to free it quickly, I let it drop, switched to my fighting knife, and kept on killing. It was the work of less than five minutes to dispatch them all. There was no conversation, just the moans of infected and the grunts of men swinging weapons.
As usually happens when exterminating ghouls in the dark, I pushed a dead body away from me, turned to find the next target, and saw only living people equally as frenzied and tired as I was. I let my arms fall but held on to my weapons.
An ear-piercing scream sounded from the front of the truck. I sprinted around the tailgate and saw Stewart on the ground with two ghouls attached to his back. The screams grew louder and shriller as the undead sank relentless teeth into his shoulders, each bite ripping away gobs of bleeding flesh.
No, no, no …
Great Hawk made it before I did and buried his tomahawk in the back of a skull. Without thinking, I drew my revolver, aimed on the run, and when the last ghoul raised its head with a mouthful of gore, I fired. The bulled punched a neat hole through its eye, and a burst of skull fragments flew from the exit wound. The ghoul went limp.
“Ah shit,” Anderson said as he rolled Stewart over, his voice anguished. “Goddammit, Stewart, you forgot to check behind you.”
I don’t know if Stewart heard him or not. He was in shock, face pale, eyes wide and vacant. My flashlight still shone, lighting his face in deep crimson. The blood covering his torso looked black in the sullen glow. I looked away long enough to turn a circle and check for other ghouls we may have missed. I saw none.
Gabe stepped beside me and we both stared as Anderson knelt beside Stewart. He looked at me and then at the revolver in my hand. “Mind if I borrow that?”
I handed it to him. He opened the cylinder, saw four rounds remaining, and nodded slowly. “No one needs to stay. I’ll take care of it.”
No one moved. Stewart whispered something. I could not make out the words, and decided I would not ask Anderson what he had heard.
Less than a minute later, Stewart died. Anderson closed the fallen soldier’s eyes with a gentle hand, put the pistol to his head, and looked away. “Goodbye, brother.”
The shot echoed into the night.
TWENTY-ONE
Gabe and Great Hawk returned shortly before sundown with a basket of food.
The basket was woven from vines and obviously not meant to last more than a few days. The food itself was wrapped in some kind of thick, inedible bread. To access our meal of roasted meat, potatoes, and grilled vegetables, we first had to break away the bread substance with hard taps from the hilts of our knives. The Frisbee-shaped bread broke easily around the edges, and the two halves made serviceable plates. Clever.
We ate with our fingers while Great Hawk laid out the plan. The rendezvous was set, all we had to do was wait and show up at the appointed time. He wanted me, Caleb, and McGee on overwatch. We would have radios, and if anything looked out of place, we were to notify Gabriel. I expressed to Great Hawk I did not like being left out of the briefing. I wanted to see the intelligence asset for myself before risking my life on his or her say so.
“You do not trust Gabriel and me to handle it?”
“It’s not a question of whether or not I trust you. It’s a question of whether or not I trust them.”
“We have risked much, and this person has never been wrong.”
“Fine. Great. Two points for them. I still don’t like it.”
“Eric, please. I need a competent sniper with sharp eyes to make sure we are not interrupted. And I have noticed that your eyesight is exceptional.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me, Hawk.”
“I am not. I am stating a fact.”
Gabe washed down a bite of carrots and squash. “What is it, 20-10 or something like that?”
“Yes. I have 20-10 vision. The doctor who did my Lasik surgery was an overachiever. Now can we focus on the topic at hand?”
“Lasik surgery?” It was the most Hicks had said in hours.
“Yes. My eyesight was shitty until I was 21.”
“How shitty?”
“Coke-bottle glasses shitty.”
“Really?”
I let out a sigh. “Yes, really. My old man paid for the surgery. Twenty-first birthday present. Had 20-10 vision ever since. Now, again, about this intelligence asset …”
“If I see something I don’t like,” Gabe said, “I’ll tell you. I need to be in the room for that briefing and we both know why.”
I could not disagree. There was no substitute for Gabe’s perfect recall. He would be the mission coordinator, and I knew beyond doubt he would get everyone where they needed to be to do their jobs, and then get them out safely to the extraction site.
“The only other snipers on my level are you, Hicks, and McGee. You three are our best chance at stopping any trouble before it becomes a problem. Be practical, Eric.”
I nodded reluctantly. As much as I hated to be out of the loop, even briefly, I had to admit the big man had a point. “All right. Fine. Just don’t be in there all fucking night. I don’t want to piss my pants before going into a fight.”
I was not kidding. On sniper duty, one must remain as still as possible. Which meant if I had to urinate, and could not hold it, leaving my station was not an option. That left but one course of action.
Gabe chuckled. “I doubt it will take very long.”
*****
“Lying bastard.”
Gabe ignored me. He could hear me through his earpiece, but did not respond. Great Hawk elected to remain silent as well. Three hours had passed since I had circled the block, spotted a conveniently located rooftop, and set up my hide. Gabe, Anderson, the Hawk, and a couple of others had been in the basement of the restaurant all night. I could not hear what they were talking about, but no one had sent a duress signal. I could only assume all was well for the moment.
My radio buzzed, letting me know someone was trying to contact me on another channel. I looked at the readout and switched over. “Yeah?”
“You’re breaking protocol. Radio silence.”
“Chill out, McGee.”
“Don’t tell me to chill out.”
“How ‘bout I tell you to fuck off, then?”
“Enough,” Caleb cut in. “We don’t have time for this shit. Switch back over to the command net.”
“Yes, mommy.” I switched back over.
Another twenty minutes rolled by. The pressure in my bladder did not abate. I was beginning to seriously consider the option of last resort when I heard my earpiece buzz.
“Coming out.” It was Great Hawk.
May emerged first, followed by Bjornson, Liddell, Great Hawk, Anderson, and bringing up the rear, Gabriel. I thought at first the asset had remained behind, but then the Hawk took a step to his right and I saw the person we were all risking our lives for.
She was petite, dark red hair hanging straight down to her shoulders, and stood maybe five-foot-two. The night vision scope did not reveal much of her facial features, but I got the impression she was attractive. Her age was indeterminate at this range.
“Overwatch, break off and meet at the mission rendezvous.”
I keyed my mike. “Station one, copy.”
McGee and Hicks acknowledged as well. I checked the streets. No late pedestrians, no guardsmen afoot. I disassembled my rifle, stowed it in my rucksack, and climbed down to street level.
The alleyway reeked of old garbage, urine, and something dead. It was almost completely dark. The night sky above was clear, allowing a small amount of starlight to filter down past the walls and rooftops. It would have been nice to have Gabe’s IR goggles right then.
A shapeless bundle moved somewhere to my left, concealed in darkness. I heard a groan. My hand went to the suppressor equipped pistol under my Army surplus bush jacket. It was too warm for the jacket, but I had to hide the gun somehow.
