Savages, page 2
part #5 of Surviving the Dead Series
“Everyone back off another twenty yards and maintain that distance. Kill as many infected as you can, but if you see one wearing a vest, aim for the little black box in the upper right corner. Fuller, Cole, go to work. Riordan, keep doing what you’re doing.”
Understanding spread rapidly. These men had seen more action than most other soldiers in history and did not need to be told twice. Kelly’s squad followed the same maneuvering. His designated marksman, a specialist named Thorne, sighted through his sniper carbine and hit the detonator box on another walker. The results were the same. We were still on the retreat and had to cover our heads against a hail of dead tissue and dirt clods.
“Goddammit, Kelly,” Ethan shouted into his radio. “Did you not hear the part about falling back twenty yards?”
When we reached a safe distance, the squad turned and opened fire. Cole’s SAW rattled angrily as it cut the legs out from under the foremost rank of ghouls. Fuller loaded grenade after grenade into his launcher and sent them flying. The others aimed through their ACOGs and dropped infected as quickly as they could without overheating their rifles. I blew up six more vests with only eight shots. Not bad. The impact of the explosions was less pronounced at this distance, but the results within the swarm were equally as devastating. In less than five minutes, just as the sound of a tank engine and squealing treads came over the ridge, we had reduced the horde by half.
It occurred to me I had not seen any grenades go off in the last few seconds, so I turned to my right to look for Private Fuller. He wasn’t there. I had just started to look around for him in the tall grass when something tugged hard at a pouch on my vest. I heard an all too familiar whup, and an instant later, a crack split the air.
“Shit!”
I hit the ground and found myself lying next to Private Fuller. His eyes were fixed and glassy, the face muscles slack. There was a large red hole where his Adam’s apple should have been. A man shouted, “Sniper! Everybody down!” in a voice that sounded remarkably like mine, but an octave higher.
Thompson had been trying to listen to his radio above the noise. When he spun and saw Fuller, his face went blank for the barest of moments, and then he was moving. In seconds, the firing stopped, we were all lying face down in the waist-high grass, and the Howitzer had changed course to get between us and the treeline.
I lay with my face close to the ground, desperately wishing I had brought my ghillie suit and a more powerful weapon. With time and luck, I could work my way to the treeline and counter-snipe whoever had shot Fuller. But I did not have my ghillie suit, and my carbine fired standard NATO 5.56 millimeter rounds. So I was stuck breathing in dirt and grass like the rest of the squad and hoping like hell the Howitzer could dismantle the horde and scare off the sniper so I could get away without any unwanted perforations in my precious, irreplaceable hide.
It also occurred to me that with all the body armor in my personal arsenal and in my business inventory, there was no excuse not to wear it. Sure, it slowed me down and made me sweat like a glass of ice water on a summer day, but the discomfort beat the alternative.
My thoughts of weapons and armor ceased as the roar of the Howitzer echoed to the far reaches of the vast field. I wanted to look up to see what kind of damage it had done, but did not dare. If I were in the sniper’s position and saw some idiot raise his head, I would smile an evil smile and mutter something nasty while I squeezed the trigger.
A few seconds passed and the Howitzer thundered again. And again. Thompson crawled over to me, spared a glance at Fuller, and asked, “Any idea where the shot came from?”
I looked closely at Fuller’s throat. “The wound is in front, dead center. Shooter probably aimed center of mass, but the round went high. That tells me he’s above us and directly ahead, due east. Probably in a tree somewhere.”
“Any clue how far?” Thompson asked.
I stayed low as I turned Fuller’s body over. The bullet hole in front was small, the one at the back larger, about the size of a golf ball. The projectile had hit the young soldier’s spine at the base of his skull and scattered it into the grass behind him. He died without a peep, probably before he hit the ground. When I considered how focused the squad was on the horde at the time, myself included, I understood why no one noticed him fall.
A few months ago, while working for me on a salvage run, Fuller had taken a shot to the ribcage. We shared a two-person room at the Hollow Rock Emergency Clinic while I recovered from a gunshot wound of my own. During that time, stuck in a room together with nowhere to go, I got to know the young man.
He was intelligent, witty, and had an unusual sense of humor. He told me about his parents, his sister, how they died during the Outbreak. How he had survived afterward by scavenging weapons from dead cops and soldiers, pilfering food from abandoned houses, and sleeping on rooftops. He once shot a goose with a crossbow and ate it raw because he was starving and being pursued by a cult of cannibals, and could not risk making a fire. A few days later, he saw an Army convoy go by and approached them. The soldiers disarmed him, fed him, and then took him to meet the officer in charge. He took the Oath of Enlistment on the spot, and a month later, he was in basic training.
And now here he was, at the age of twenty-three, laid out dead in an empty field in Western Tennessee. It was a familiar story. Fuller, like so many others, had endured hardship that would have been unimaginable before the Outbreak. He had found reserves of strength and courage he probably did not know he possessed. He had fought like a mad animal to stay alive, and succeeded. And despite the odds, despite the bitter struggle his life had become, despite the darkness all around him, he had tried to make a difference in this shattered, crumbling excuse for a world. He had fought to preserve what was left of a once-great civilization and give his fellow survivors a shot at some kind of a future, no matter how bleak. But for all his courage, for all his endurance, for all he had strived to do, his story was at an end. Throat torn out by a sniper’s bullet. Blank eyes staring lifelessly at a blue expanse of impartial sky.
“Thirty caliber projectile,” I said, wiping a hand across my face. “And damned powerful. Probably not a seven-six-two by fifty-four like most of these Alliance and ROC assholes use. It would have hit lower and done more damage.”
“How does that help us?” Thompson asked.
“The shot was almost perfectly centered. Meaning centerline of the body, where all the vital organs are. That sniper out there is good, knows his business. Probably accustomed to firing Dragunovs, or whatever the hell they use. But now he’s using something unfamiliar, something more powerful than what he’s used to. That’s why the round hit high; he expected more drop from the projectile. If it was a seven-six-two by fifty-four, it would have hit Fuller in the chest and made a much bigger exit wound because of the slower speed of the bullet. More kinetic energy would have transferred into the body cavity. But it went straight through at very high speed and didn’t take much tissue with it. Which meant it had enough power to tear through flesh and bone without slowing down very much.” I paused a few seconds, thinking. Thompson stared at me impatiently.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking the sniper is using a .300 Winchester magnum. I’d say he’s between five to six hundred yards away, judging by the wound and the distance to the treeline, and straight across the field from us.”
Thompson responded by keying his radio and relaying what I told him. Moments later, the long barrel of the Howitzer repositioned and began firing again. After four rounds, I risked a glance upward. The big gun pointed at a high angle, laying down a rain of high-explosive fragmentation rounds over a wide area at the range and bearing I had specified. The tall, old-growth trees in the distance splintered and shattered under the barrage, thick limbs crashing to the forest floor. If the sniper had taken position where I suspected, he was having a very bad day. The thought put a smile on my face.
“Eric, I need you to do something for me.”
I looked at Thompson. “What?”
“Use the Howitzer for cover and take a look at the horde through your scope. I need to give Captain Harlow a sitrep.”
The smile died. “Can’t the guys in the tank do it?”
“Not without exposing themselves. You’ll make a smaller target in the grass. Like I told you, use the tank for cover.”
When I hesitated, Thompson reached out a hand. “Give me your rifle and I’ll do it.”
“No. I got it.”
I hugged the ground as I snaked my way toward the tank, once again wishing like hell I had brought my ghillie suit. My clothes and gear were a light desert tan, which matched the color of the grass. So at least I had that going for me.
A minute or two later, I stood up behind one of the Howitzer’s treads and, just for kicks, rapped my knuckles against the outer surface of the crew compartment. Or whatever it’s called. I may as well have knocked on a mountain. I had expected a hollow ringing, like hitting the side of an oil drum, but only got a dull thunk. I doubted the men inside could hear.
I should have asked Ethan if he radioed the crew. Now would be a really bad time for the driver to put this thing in reverse.
I waited half a minute with my hands pressed tight against my ears. If the gun went off with me this close, the best I could hope for was the mother of all migraines. There was also the recoil to consider. The crew had not bothered to put down the Howitzer’s spades, so if they fired, I was going for a ride. And not the fun kind.
Another minute went by. No boom. I knew Ethan was not stupid, but one can never be too careful. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I stood and balanced my rifle atop the tread. The scope magnified the pine stands a few hundred yards distant, bent and twisted trunks and limbs still falling against one another. I did not see the sniper, but that did not mean he was not still out there. If he had half a brain, when the first artillery shell went off, assuming it did not kill him, he would have scrambled for cover. Then again, the frag rounds had shredded the better part of an acre of forest and sent lethal shrapnel over a much larger area. If the sniper had been anywhere in the vicinity, he was hamburger.
I searched some more and waited. I still did not see the sniper. No shots came my way. At the very least, we had forced him to keep his head down. Hopefully he would stay that way. Shifting position, I turned my attention to the horde. The big gun had eliminated all but maybe thirty or forty undead, only one of them rigged. They seemed disoriented, walking in wide, unsteady circles. I wondered if the concussion from the blasts had thrown off their equilibrium. The undead hunt primarily by sound, so maybe the gun had blown out their eardrums. An interesting theory. I lined up a shot at the last ghoul rigged with a bomb and detonated its vest. Its limbs were still pinwheeling through the air when I hit my belly and started crawling back to Delta’s position.
“Horde is toast,” I told Ethan. “Only a few dozen left, none of them rigged.”
“Good. Thanks, Eric.”
“Anytime.”
He got on the radio and gave a sitrep, then told us we were to head south to meet the other half of First Platoon en route via Chinook.
“Expect the southern horde to be rigged as well,” Sergeant Kelly said. “Riordan, try to detonate as many vests as you can. Everybody stay behind the Howitzer on the way down there. Never know if there might be another sniper. Let’s move.”
The mobile artillery piece pivoted in place and turned toward the south wall at the speed of a slow run. As we followed it, I said to Thompson, “What about Fuller?”
The lines of his face were tight and sharp. “We’ll come back for him.”
I spared a glance at the fallen soldier. He lay where we had left him, no breathing, no nervous twitches, no movement at all. The total stillness of death.
Rest easy, amigo. Your fight is over.
THREE
Half an hour later, the southern horde was a scattering of dead bodies in a field.
The Apache, Second Platoon, the Ninth TVM, and a contingent of town guardsmen had eradicated the horde pouring in from the north. But it was only a temporary reprieve. The battle had been loud, and every walker within ten miles was undoubtedly on its way to Hollow Rock.
While First Platoon trudged behind the Howitzer toward the north gate, I said a quick goodbye to Thompson and set off at a run for the southern wall. Once there, I hollered until a guardsman noticed me, recognized me, and lowered a rope ladder. Climbing over the wall was not the safest way to get into town, but it was the fastest. And it put me on the ground a few hundred yards from my house.
The streets on my side of town were lined with houses and trailers in roughly equal proportion. Looking around, it did not appear as if any of the artillery shells had landed nearby. All the smoke and shouting came from the north, closer to the gate.
I surmised the north gate had been the suicide troops’ primary target, the buildings behind merely collateral damage. And it was a lot of collateral. The north gate was the entrance for trade caravans. Consequently, new buildings had popped up close to it to serve the needs of visitors and traders. There was a livery, three outfitters, food stands that served grilled meat and roasted vegetables, a clothing exchange, public latrines and showers, a feed and tack shop, a guardhouse, and more than a dozen trading stalls. Gabriel and I owned two of them. One for general goods, and one for weapons and ammunition. They were not manned today, being that no caravans had been spotted heading toward Hollow rock for the last week and a half. But there was a strong possibility both my stalls, and the inventory inside several metal lockboxes, had been destroyed. I did not care. The only thing that mattered was finding Allison.
My boots crunched in the gravel driveway as I sprinted to the door. I tried the handle and found it locked. For a moment, I debated unlocking the door and going inside, but decided against it. Allison was not home. If she had been when the fighting started, she would have left by now. She was not the town’s only medical doctor anymore, thanks to the Phoenix Initiative, but I knew she would not stand idle when people were hurt and dying.
Next to the house Allison and I share is the place her grandmother lived until her death a few years before the Outbreak. Gabriel lives there now. He has made a number of improvements to the property, including a half-acre corral and a small barn where he keeps his horse. I jogged into his back yard and entered the barn through the open front entrance.
The barn smelled of hay, grain, piss, shit, and sweaty horse. Red was in his stall, head up, prancing and whinnying, spooked by the explosions. I walked over to the five-foot wall that contained him and spoke soothingly.
“Easy now, big fella. Easy now …”
I put my hand under his nose and scratched and rubbed his neck just below the ear. He calmed quickly. Red was an agreeable horse most of the time, but tended to bolt when startled. Fortunately for Gabe, Red did not startle easily. I grabbed a lead rope and clipped it to one of the rings in Red’s halter, opened the door to his stall, and led him to the dirt-floored tack room. A western saddle hung over a sawhorse in the corner, along with blankets and reins. I laid a blanket over the horse’s back, saddled him, and connected a bit and reins to his halter. He accepted the bit without complaint.
“Come on, big guy,” I said as I swung into the saddle. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Red walked slowly out of the barn and paused a few seconds to sniff the air. I had ridden him enough times to know he was not one to be rushed. Impatience nagged at me as I gently kicked his haunches, urging him forward. He walked, then began to trot. I kicked harder and he picked up to a light gallop. I kicked with more insistence. When Red finally realized my hands were loose on the reins, he opened his stride and gained speed. I kept urging him on until we were flying over the grass bordering Seminary Street toward the north side of town. Red might have been slow to get started, but once he got going, he could really move.
The smoke grew thicker as I rode closer to the gate, orange tongues of fire lapping angrily in the near distance. My eyes watered and I had to put my goggles on and pull my scarf over my mouth and nose. Red did not seem bothered. I tugged the reins to slow him down as we approached the clinic.
Through the black and gray haze, I could see nurses and volunteers moving in front of the entrance. I dismounted Red, turned him toward home, and slapped him on the haunches. He took a few clattering steps, swung his big head in my direction, and gave me a mildly offended glare.
“Go on, Red. Go home.”
He snorted and set off at a trot.
I jogged toward the clinic, rifle clutched, gear bouncing on my vest and belt. The smoke had been thick when I arrived, but the wind shifted direction and I could see better now. Near the gate, low wooden buildings burned furiously amidst shattered rubble. I glanced toward where my two stalls were, and sure enough, they were smoldering slag heaps. There might be something salvageable, I thought, but it would have to wait.
“Allison!” I shouted. No one answered. I yelled again. Same result. A nurse I knew named Brett Nolan walked past and I grabbed him by the arm.
“Brett, where’s Allison?”
“Inside,” he said, prying my hand from his arm. “She’s busy. There are a lot of wounded.”
“But she’s okay?”
“She’s fine.”
Relief flooded through me. I had to put my head between my knees until a bout of lightheadedness passed.
“You okay?” Brett asked.
“Yeah. Just catching my breath.” Feeling better, I stood up straight.
“We could use some help,” Brett said.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Drop your gear in the lobby and go talk to Samantha. She’s in the storage room behind the reception desk.”
“Will do.”
