Divided We Fall (17 page)

“Primals, by the look of it; took a lot of gunshot to bring ’em down,”
Joey said.

Brad nodded, starting to sweat as the mission became more
dangerous.

He looked at his map; Brad knew the turn off was the approach to
the Cloud family farm. He made the decision to go ahead with only Chelsea and
Joey, holding the others back. He wanted to approach the gates in a small
patrol so as not to startle any guards or someone hiding. The others halted and
formed a small security perimeter at the base of the drive. He passed
instructions back to Turner, who was traveling the road just a few minutes
behind them and would hold in place, ready to move up as a quick reaction force
if needed.

They walked in a square, Joey beside him, Cole and Chelsea behind
him, slowly moving up on what was quickly showing more signs of a fight. Another
Primal body lay in the grass, then a man with a shotgun blast to his shoulder.

“Sure this is a good idea, boss?” Joey asked. “I mean, just
walking up all casual like this?”

“No—as a matter of fact, I don’t,” Brad said.

They approached the rear of an old blue pickup truck, the front
windshield shot out. Bullet holes cut through the side fenders. Brad held the others
back as he walked up along the side of the vehicle and looked into the empty
cab. Behind it, another truck followed a long, tubular steel gate blocking the
road ahead. The air was damp and swampy from the heavy trees holding in the
decaying moisture of the forest floor. There was a subtle breeze dissipating a
heavy smell of death, the stench instinctively raising Brad’s alert lever. He
walked forward around the front of the truck and heard a shout.

“Stop where I can see ya!”

Brad froze and held his hands in the air, allowing the rifle to
hang from its sling.

“It’s okay; I’m with the Army. Colonel Cloud sent us,” Brad said.

“The Army, you say?” the man replied. Brad watched as a skinny rag-covered
man stepped from the shadows alongside the gate. Dressed in canvas pants and a
flannel work shirt, he stepped into the open, his right hand holding an AR15,
his left scratching at his beard.

“That’s right, we’re with the Army,” Brad repeated moving to where
the man could see him clearly. Another man stepped into the open, dressed
similar to the first but carrying a pump shotgun and had a bandana wrapped
around his forehead. The men walked to the steel gate and waved Brad ahead.

“Hell, we ain’t seen much of anyone up in these hills,” the
bandana man said while the first continued to scratch at his beard.

“You okay?” Brad asked the scratcher.

The bandana man laughed, smacking scratcher on the back. “Lice” he
said. “Everyone’s got ’em.”

Brad subconsciously took a step back, causing both of the men to
laugh. “Hell… ain’t nothin’ to be a–scared of,” Bandana said, watching Brad
step away. “Chuck is gonna make a run into town and get us something for it
once things settle down again.”

Brad heard a branch snap behind him. The two guards raised their
weapons, and Brad turned to see the rest of his group approach the truck. Joey
and Cole stepped out to the side while Chelsea stayed just behind them.

Scratchy’s chin lifted. “That a woman you got with ya?”

Brad ignored the question. “I’m looking for a man. Dan Cloud; is
he here?”

The two guards looked at each other; one pulled the other back so
Brad couldn’t hear what was said, then he looked back at Brad. Bandana turned
back while Scratchy jogged up the road. “We gonna go get Chuck; he’s in charge.
He can tell you best about Dan.”

“Is Dan here?” Brad asked again.

“You should just talk to Chuck. He’s a soldier like you all, and
you’ll like him,” the man said.

Brad stood waiting; he pulled the mic from his shoulder preparing
to speak.

“Whoa… what’s that?” the man asked, pointing at the radio hand mic.

“Just giving my people an update. I have a whole lot of soldiers
down on the road waiting to move up.”

“I think you best wait before you go doing that. This is our
place; we might not find you all welcome.”

Brad nodded, letting the radio mic hang at his shoulder. He turned
and saw that Joey had moved a bit to the left, better positioning himself. Cole
was doing the same on the other side. With Chelsea now perched alongside the
fender of the truck, the group formed a small defensive triangle, putting
themselves within a quick leap of cover.

Brad saw Scratchy jog back down the driveway; more men followed
him, and a fat man moved slowly behind, badly limping from a poorly bandaged
leg wound. Brad reached at his chest, pretending to adjust a strap while the
others’ attentions were focused on the limping fat man. Brad slipped a hand to
the radio pouch and muted the volume of his radio, while hot mic–ing the
transmitter. It opened the channel so Turner would be able to listen in on their
conversation.

The fat man limped ahead while the rest of his party spread out
behind him. Every one of them filthy, dressed in rags, and carrying weapons in
their arms. The fat man got to within a few feet of the gate. Brad could
already hear his heavy breathing and see the man’s forehead beading with sweat.
The man stopped and looked Brad up and down; his eyes drifted, searching the
rest of Brad’s group, then locking on Chelsea to linger a bit too long.

Brad spoke, breaking his stare. “I’m Sergeant Brad Thompson. I’m
here looking for Dan Cloud.”

The fat man coughed then grinned. “Well, hell; it
is
the
Army! I was in the Corps myself—”

“Chuck was Special Forces, Recon Marine,” Scratchy said excitedly.

 Chuck grinned and nodded at Scratchy. “So, what brings you up to
my place?” the fat man asked.

“Like I said, I’m here to see Mr. Cloud. I have word from his
son.”

The fat man coughed and spit at his feet then looked back at Brad.
“Well… you may as well give the information to me then; the man you’re looking
for isn’t here. I live up here with my friends. Cloud isn’t here no more. If he
comes back, I’ll pass it on to him.”

“Looks like you all had some trouble. I saw the bodies,” Brad said.

Chuck nodded. “Yeah, bunch of guys come up here and attacked the
gates. We took ’em out though; killed ’em right in their trucks,” Chuck said,
pointing at the disabled vehicles. “We tracked them into town… ran into some of
the infected… had to turn back, haven’t heard from ’em since.”

Brad watched the expression of Scratchy and Bandana as Chuck told
his story. Bandana looked off into the trees avoiding eye contact, while
Scratchy smiled showing rotten teeth, his dirt-caked fingernails continuing to
dig at his lice-infested beard.

“You were attacked?” Brad asked. “You know where they came from?”

Chuck nodded and coughed. “Yup, two days ago. And nope, probably
one of the groups down the mountain; lots of bad folks down that way,” Chuck
said, getting a giggle from Scratchy.

“Mind if we go up and take a look at the house?” Brad asked.

“And what exactly would you be looking for?”

“Just quick look around, see if there’s anything we might be able
to do for you. I have a convoy of trucks down on the road, food, water,
supplies, ammo… things to help you out. Medicine for that leg,” Brad bluffed.

Chuck used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Well…
I guess a look around won’t hurt,” he said. “Go on and open the gate.”

The fat man stepped back while Scratchy snaked a chain around the
rail and Bandana pulled the gate open. Brad turned while waving the others
forward; he moved around the gate then stopped at the front. Chelsea passed
through the entrance behind him, squeezing around the men; Scratchy reached out
and touched her hair. Chelsea spun quickly, catching Scratchy in the teeth with
the buttstock of her rifle. The man’s lower jaw seemed to explode with blood as
the man tumbled back. The rest of Chuck’s group burst into sadistic laughter at
the display.

“Hell, she’s a feisty one,” Bandana chuckled as Scratchy writhed
on the ground clutching his jaw.

Joey rushed up behind Chelsea. Moving through the gate, he pressed
his elbow deep into Bandana’s diaphragm, causing the man to gasp as he leaned
back against the railing. “She’s a Marine and you better treat her like it.” He
scowled, his eyes cutting into Bandana.

Bandana chuckled nervously while trying to back away.

“Okay, enough of that. Bo didn’t mean nothing by any of it,” Chuck
shouted over the others. “Let us move this conversation up to the house, so I
can see what you all got to offer me.” Chuck turned away from the group and
began limping back up the narrow driveway. Brad waited for the others to move
out before he stepped ahead. Two of Chuck’s men lingered by the gate, holding
off so they could fall in behind Brad.

Joey moved close to Brad and spoke softly, “What you doing, bro?
This group ain’t right; we should be turning back.”

Brad turned his head so that he was looking at Joey but speaking
into the open mic. “Hey, we’ll just move up to the house and take a look
around. I’m sure Turner is
someplace close
if we need him. He’ll know he
can’t
just walk up the driveway.”

Joey caught the change in the infliction of Brad’s voice and
pursed his lips in recognition. “I gotcha, bro. Just stay loose; something
ain’t right.”

The road wound up the hill to a regal log cabin; beyond that stood
farm buildings typical of any place Brad had seen in the Midwest. The place fit
the surroundings, but the men occupying it did not belong. A flagstone walkway
led up to a long covered front porch that ran the length of the cabin. Brad saw
Chuck already at the railing. A man beside him moved up the steps and dropped
heavily into a porch swing. At one end of the porch was a pile of broken
furniture and suitcases full of spilled luggage and belongings. Brad turned the
corner and walked up on to the porch; he stopped short of the last step and
examined the pile.

“What’s all of this? Are those children’s clothes?” Brad asked.

Standing near a hand-carved door, Chuck paused and looked back.
“Oh, that stuff. Yeah, place is full of it; we cleared it all out to make room.
Ain’t no women and kids here so not much point in holding onto such things.”
Chuck pushed in the door, allowing his guards to enter first, then waved a hand
at Brad and ushered his group inside.

They entered a large formal family room. Expensive furniture was
awkwardly arranged around a large wooden coffee table that had food cans and
dirty dishes scattered across it. Chuck pointed to a high-backed chair and
asked Brad to sit. Brad moved into the room; he paused to look around while
Joey stepped just inside the door and moved to the right, taking up a position
with his back to the wall. Cole moved just past him and stopped. After Brad
watched his men settle in, he continued to the chair and sat, Chelsea stopping
just behind him. Brad saw she held her weapon at the ready.

The living room opened into a kitchen that featured a long wooden
lunch counter and bar near the hallway leading further into the cabin. Brad
spotted a tall and dark mustached man leaning against a column, a rifle resting
in his hands. The man did not move—he just watched. Chuck walked around the
table and dropped into an overstuffed leather sofa. He dug through a pile of
blankets and removed a half-filled bottle of bourbon; Chuck then removed the
cap and took a long pull. He went to pass the bottle to Brad.

“Sorry, I’m on duty,” said Brad, putting up a hand and waving it
off. “So Chuck, you didn’t tell me how you acquired this property.”

The fat man’s mouth went tight; he turned and passed the bottle to
a man who had stopped just by his shoulder behind the sofa. “Huh?” Chuck
coughed into his sleeve then spit onto the hardwood floor between his scuffed
and worn leather boots. “It’s a family place,” Chuck said.

Brad looked at the man over Chuck’s shoulder; he held a large
nickel-plated revolver in crossed arms, a finger on the trigger. The man did
not move his head, but his eyes continuously shifted between Joey and Cole. The
man at the counter seemed less interested; he moved, sat on a stool at the
lunch counter, and placed his rifle across its surface to light a cigarette.

“I was told I could meet a man here; his name is Dan Cloud. How do
you know him?” Brad asked.

Chuck shifted uncomfortably. “My uncle.”

“And he just left?” Brad asked. “Did he say where he was going?”

Chuck shook his head. “Nope, just left. Listen… these supplies you
got, are they close?” Chuck asked, his tone changing.

A gunshot came from outside, followed quickly by another, then
rapid-fire blasts from a shotgun. Chuck’s guards ran to the window; the man at
the lunch counter jumped to his feet and rushed forward. Brad gripped his rifle
and pushed back away from the chair.

“What the hell is this?” Chuck yelled, staggering to his feet. “Is
this you?” he asked, pointing a finger at Brad.

Chelsea moved over to Brad with her rifle at the ready, Joey and
Cole immediately doing the same. The guards were looking out the windows,
searching for targets, not seeming to take the soldiers in the room as a
threat. Brad grabbed the radio; as soon as he cleared the channel, he heard
Turner’s panicked voice.
“Three-One, Three-one, are you in contact? Over!”