Savages, page 5
part #5 of Surviving the Dead Series
But what about Gabe, and Elizabeth, the Glover family, and all the other friends I had made? I couldn’t just leave them. Could I? They were all capable survivors. They did not need me. I would miss them, but I could live without them. Right?
The smell of food cooking reached my nose. Not surprising considering I was sitting on the roof of the chow hall. The smell did not entice me. I had no appetite. Probably would not until I was back home with my wife. Then we would talk and figure out what to do next.
I stared across the long field leading to Hollow Rock. The only movement I could see was wandering infected. The moon was almost full and the sky was clear, allowing me to see all the way to the north gate. Hollow Rock was quiet. Fort McCray was quiet. No lights, no laughter, no loud voices coming from the enlisted club. Everything but the barracks and the chow hall were closed. The sentries on the perimeter wall carried suppressed rifles and wore NVGs. Noise discipline was in full effect. Same for Hollow Rock. It had taken a while for things to settle down over there, but they finally did.
So what now, Riordan? What’s the plan?
For right now, I sit here and try not to think too much. Eventually I will get tired, and I’ll see if I can scrounge up something soft to sleep on. Tomorrow, I’ll find Gabe and grill him for information. Or the guys in Delta Squad. Or Captain Harlow. Or someone.
It was late in the night before I got tired. A supply sergeant who owed me a jar of instant coffee—no small debt in a world where coffee grew rarer by the day—earned himself a chunk of credit by issuing me a ground mat and a sleeping bag on the promise I would return them in the morning.
When I slept, I dreamed I was on a small boat and Allison was on a distant shore. There was a swarm of infected approaching at her back. The forest behind them was on fire. Allison did not seem to notice. She smiled, and waved, and rubbed her large round belly with our child in it. I screamed at her to look back, but she did not hear. The boat drifted farther away, the fire blazed higher, and the moans of the undead grew louder. I tried to jump overboard and swim to her, but my legs would not respond. I screamed until my voice died in my throat, to no avail. I did not understand why Allison could not hear me, why she didn’t sense the danger. Then the boat was being tossed by heavy waves, and voices shouted at me from under the water, saying, “Hey, wake up!”, and I could not breath, and …
My eyes opened. Someone had clamped a calloused hand over my mouth. In the dim half-light, I saw a face wearing NVGs with a finger over its lips. I relaxed and nodded.
“Sorry,” I said when the hand let go.
“S’okay. Happens all the time.”
The soldier stood and turned to walk away. “Does it happen to you?” I asked.
He stopped. “It used to.”
“But not anymore?”
“No. I wish I knew why.”
The door to the drill hall closed gently as the sentry went back out on watch. I lay with my hands behind my head and watched the high windows turn blue, then gray, then pale yellow. With the morning came birdsong—high, melodic, and unapologetically disinterested.
*****
“I don’t care how many infected are out there,” Gabe said. “I’m going home.”
“Sir,” the sentry at the gate replied, “I can’t open the doors.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“How are you getting out, then?”
Gabe pointed at the catwalk along the wall. “I have rope.”
“But the infected will be on you in a heartbeat. We’re not authorized to use live ammo right now.”
“Got it covered,” Gabe said. He hooked a thumb at me. I raised my rifle and tapped the suppressor at the end of the barrel.
“But you can’t-”
“I’m not military,” I said. “I can use all the ammo I want. And with this suppressor, I won’t attract any more infected. We don’t need your help. We just need you to get out of the way.”
“What about him?” the guard said, inclining his helmet toward Gabe. “He doesn’t have a suppressor.”
Gabe drew his falcata and held it up. The polished blade gleamed in the morning light. “Got that covered too.”
The guard eyed the Sword of Gabriel warily and took a step back. “Fine,” he said. “Your funeral.”
We stepped past him and ascended the stairs to the catwalk. Gabe unslung the coil of rope across his chest and tied it around his legs and hips like a rappelling harness. I took the loose end and passed it around a section of steel railing, doubling the rope for easy retrieval. Gabe connected the anchor end to a carabiner, stepped up onto the battlement, and began easing his weight backwards.
I looked around the perimeter wall. There were no sentries on patrol. The only guards above ground level hid behind camouflage blinds in guard towers. Captain Harlow did not want the infected to see them and crowd against the wall, as if the ambient noise of more than three-hundred soldiers was not enough to attract them.
I peered over the edge and settled my carbine against my shoulder. The VCOG was set to its lowest magnification. Only a few infected clawed at the wall, but their moans would soon attract others. There would have been many more undead if not for an intrepid old fellow by the name of John Wollodarsky.
Wollodarsky owned an ultralight helicopter he built from a kit before the Outbreak. He told me about it one day while foraging around my store for something to make a fuel filter out of. The ultralight was his backup plan in case he ever had to bug out of Hollow Rock. He cranked it up once a week to make sure it still worked.
On the night of the attack, the crazy bastard convinced Sheriff Elliott to lend him some fuel and proceeded to fly a few laps around town. When he had the ghouls’ undivided attention, he led them three miles away before heading for one of the many safety towers surrounding Hollow Rock.
The safety towers were a recent innovation. I wish I could say they were my idea, but they were not. A caravan leader told Mayor Stone about a town in Kansas that had built fifteen-foot towers with retractable ladders at various locations along nearby trade routes. The idea was to give travelers a place to wait out the infected if they became stranded. It was so simple, and so logically sound, I was ashamed I didn’t think of it myself.
I looked southward and hoped John Wollodarsky had brought enough food and water to last a couple of days. I hoped he was sensible enough to lie quietly until the grunts and groans faded into the distance. I hoped he waited an extra couple of hours in case a ghoul with its throat ripped out stuck around when the others left. Most of all, I hoped he had enough fuel to get back to town safely. Any man who demonstrates uncommon valor deserves a free libation of his choosing. And I intended to buy him one. Or twelve.
“You ready?” Gabe asked.
“One second.” I fired four times, clearing a space for Gabe to touch down.
“Go,” I said.
He went. One bounce off the wall and he was on the ground. Four seconds later, the rope hung limp and Gabe had drawn his sword.
It was a hell of a thing to watch the big man fight. At six foot five and two-hundred fifty pounds, the veteran Marine scout sniper and ex-CIA operative could lay down an impressive ass kicking. His blade flicked out almost faster than the eye could follow, each swipe sending a section of cranium sailing through the air. He killed three ghouls in the same time it takes to say the words.
“Sometime today, Eric,” he said, not looking back. More ghouls were approaching.
“On my way.”
I pulled the trigger five more times. Nine rounds. Twenty-one left in the mag. The tactical sling made a zipper sound as I moved the M-4 around to my back and secured the barrel with a fold of Velcro attached to my web belt.
Unlike Gabe, I did not bother making a harness. There was not enough time. I grabbed the rope, lowered myself over, and clamped it between my knees and boots. Friction heated my gloves painfully as I slid down. Once on the ground, I flapped my hands a few times to cool them, then pulled the rest of the rope from the railing. Gabe glanced back at me.
“Forget the rope,” he said. “We’ll find more.”
Gabe was right. Several dozen infected were lurching toward us, attracted by the noise we made. I dropped the rope. Some lucky soldier, probably someone on overwatch in the guard towers, would retrieve it. Nylon rope is rare these days. Valuable. I hated to leave it behind, but I was not about to die for it.
I took point, Gabe running a few steps behind on my left side. I held my rifle in a right-handed grip, my most comfortable shooting position, which was strange considering I am mostly left-handed. I can do most things with either hand, but with some activities, writing and eating being chief among them, I am an irredeemable leftie. Many years ago on a date, I tried eating right-handed with a pair of chopsticks. My date laughed at me and said I looked like I had a brain injury. I did not ask her out again.
A small ghoul weaved around slower moving adults. I took aim and fired three times before I finally brought it down. Moving targets are difficult to hit on the run. Gabe angled a few feet away from me and knocked another ghoul down with a jumping front kick. The force of the blow sent the skinny creature tumbling ass-over-heels into two more that tripped over it. Three running steps later, Gabe was back in position.
We kept moving, my rifle emitting muted barks and Gabe exerting his impressive reserve of brute force and swordsmanship. The undead seem slow, but are faster than they look. They began to crowd around us. When they were too thick to keep going ahead, we doubled back and ran a hook pattern to the west. This forced the infected to cross paths and bump into one another, slowing them down. Two-hundred yards later, we executed the same maneuver in the opposite direction. Now there was a maelstrom of ghouls whirling and thumping like a pen of blind, drunken sheep.
The horde, such as it was, thinned out ahead of us. As long as we maintained a steady pace, the ghouls behind would not catch up. I slowed to a fast walk as Gabe came up beside me. We were both breathing hard and sweating in the growing heat. The tall grass pulled at my legs and forced me to step high to make sufficiently swift progress.
“Nice work,” Gabe said between deep breaths. With his longer legs, he was not having nearly as much trouble.
I checked my rifle. The slide was locked to the rear on an empty magazine. I ejected it, stowed it on my vest, and inserted a fresh one. Hit the release. Clack-chop of a round going into the chamber. A comforting sound.
“Look there,” Gabe said, pointing with his sword.
My eyes followed. Wollodarsky’s ultralight crossed the sky ahead of us, blades beating against the air as it cleared the wall and vanished into the open space at the center of town. I hoped the old man got a hero’s welcome, and I hoped the infected were too far away to track him.
“Crazy old fucker,” I said.
“No crazier than us. At least he’s above the fray.”
I aimed at a ghoul blocking our path. “Good point,” I said, and fired.
SEVEN
The clinic was a buzz of activity. I stopped to stare at it.
“She’s probably still there,” Gabe said.
“I know.”
“You going to see her?”
I hesitated. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. She’s probably busy.”
“Well, I’m going to see Elizabeth.”
I clapped him on the arm and started down the road. “See you in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
On the way home, I saw a pile of horse manure on the side of the road and remembered I had let Red out of his stall and had not told Gabriel. Gabe would not be happy if Red was missing when he got home. A sense of alarm told me to run, but I was too tired. A brisk walk was the best I could manage.
I turned the corner on our street and saw Red with his head down munching grass in my front yard. He still wore the saddle I had put on him. His long tail switched at fat flies trying to land on his flanks. He did not seem to be in any discomfort. I called to him and walked closer.
Red nuzzled my chest, sniffed at my face, and left a smear of horse snot on my forehead. I laughed and wiped my head across his shoulder, leaving a sticky smear in the reddish-brown coat. “Bet you’re hungry, big fella.”
I led him to the barn by his halter and removed the saddle and blanket. After tossing them over the sawhorse, I put Red back in his stall. He went along willingly—a human putting him in his stall usually meant feeding time. The padlock securing the feed room was clamped shut, so I threw a big wad of hay into Red’s stall to give him something to munch on and went home to get the spare key to Gabe’s place.
As I came up the drive, I heard voices coming from inside the house. A boy of about eight years sat on the front porch feeding pieces of dried fish to a stray cat. I stopped. Thoughts swirled in the old gray matter until a reasonable explanation presented itself. Nonetheless, I rested a casual hand on my pistol.
“Hi,” I said to the boy as I stepped onto the porch.
“Hi,” he said. He was thin, like all kids are now, and most everyone else for that matter. The boy had dark hair and eyes, and did not seem put off by my arrival.
“When did you get here?” I asked him.
The boy looked down and fed another scrap of fish to the stray tabby. I noticed the cat was missing one eye and half its left ear. Another hardened survivor.
The boy said, “Yesterday. Our house burned down. One of those bombs landed on it.”
“Everyone in your family all right?”
“Yeah. None of us were home. One of our neighbors died, though. Mrs. Steadman.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
The boy shrugged. “She was mean. Her and my dad argued a lot. He had to send for the sheriff one time when he caught Mrs. Steadman stealing out of our garden.”
I did not know how to respond. The boy reached out to the cat with both hands, one holding fish, the other gently scratching at its ears. The cat began to purr.
“I’m Eric, by the way. I live here.”
“I know who you are. Everybody does.”
“You got a name?”
“Brandon.”
“You staying here now, Brandon? You and your family?”
“Yeah. Doc Laroux said we could stay here until we can get a new place. Lots of folks are staying with other people now.”
I winced, and was immediately glad the cat held Brandon’s attention. I liked my house. I liked that it was just me and Allison. I liked our privacy. But the house had four bedrooms, and we only used one. There were two guest rooms and Allison’s office. The office could be cleared out to accommodate more people if necessary. Whatever disruption our new guests might cause to our lives was small compared to what they were now going through. I could only imagine how much they had lost.
Don’t be selfish, Riordan. Go inside and introduce yourself.
I went in. The foyer opened into the living room. The couch and recliner and fireplace were right where I left them. Atop the dining room table were plates, flatware, and the remains of a recently-eaten meal. I remembered making love to Allison on that tabletop and determined it best if my guests remained ignorant of that information.
“Hello?” I called out.
A man in his late thirties emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel. He was short, broad shouldered, and had the same face as the boy on the porch, aged thirty years. He smiled and came over to offer me a handshake. His eyes registered recognition.
“Hi, Arthur Silverman. Call me Art.”
I accepted the handshake. It was calloused, strong, and gritty like sandpaper. The hand of a farmer. “Eric Riordan.”
He smiled. “I know who you are. Sorry to barge in on you like this.”
“Your son told me what happened to your house. I’m sorry.”
The smile went away. His eyes dropped and he nodded. “Yeah. Burned all my crops too. I only had a few acres and some chickens, but we made it work. Don’t know what I’m gonna do now. Might have to sign on with a caravan and head someplace else.”
“There’s always the military.”
“No, I’ve been down that road already. Four years in the Army. Infantry. ’04 to ’08. Served in Iraq.”
I held back a grimace. “I know some folks who served around that same time. Tough years, from what I understand.”
“Tough enough I don’t ever want to go back.”
I unslung my rifle and hung it on a hook by the front door, followed by my MOLLE vest. The shirt underneath was soaked through with sweat. A long pull from my canteen eased the burn in my throat. I stared at my gear and worried over the fate of my pack. There were valuable things in it. But like everyone else, I had left it in the transport when the bombs started flying. Now that things had calmed down, I hoped someone from Delta Squad found it and kept it safe. If one of the troops from Second or Third Platoon realized it was a civilian contractor’s pack, it was as good as gone.
“I’ll get this mess cleaned up,” Art said. He began stacking plates in the dining room.
Normally I would have offered to help, but right then all I could think about was filling a bucket with water, wiping myself down with a sponge, putting on clean clothes, and sleeping for ten hours. After I gave Red his dinner, of course.
“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, how many of you are there?”
“Me and my two kids,” Art said. “My boy Brandon, and my daughter Jenny. She’s outside using the facilities.”
By ‘facilities’ he meant the outhouse. I’m proud of my outhouse. A friend of mine, who in my opinion is the Michael Jordan of carpenters, helped me build it. By post-Outbreak standards, it is downright posh.
“Take whichever rooms you like,” I said, “except my bedroom. I’m afraid that one is reserved for me and Allison.”
Art laughed. It was an awkward laugh, like he was out of practice. His expression held a kind of guilty tension I had seen on many faces since the Outbreak. The notable absence of his wife likely had something to do with it. He held up a hand.
