Savages (27 page)

The second was in even worse shape. How he was still alive, I could not fathom. Gabe walked over and stopped beside me.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You wanna do it?”

“Sure.”

I leveled my rifle and fired twice. The twitches and gurgling and blood-spitting stopped. I walked away, set my rifle against a tree, and dry-heaved for a few minutes. Nothing came out but a few long strands of sour-tasting spit.

I needed to eat. I needed to sleep for a month. I needed someone to reach inside my memory banks and delete the carnage I had just walked through. Most of all, I needed to get the hell out of this forest and back to civilization, back to my life. 

When the retching subsided, I walked back and joined the others. Gabe and Anderson were in conversation with Great Hawk, while the rest had gone to chase down horses. The possibility of riding out of this place appealed to me very, very strongly.

“We’re only a few miles from I-57,” Great Hawk said, eyes fixed on the ruggedized tablet. “We will continue south, parallel the highway, and then scavenge for boats along the Ohio River.”

“Then we can follow it south to the Mississippi,” Gabe said. “Take that all the way down to Tennessee.”

“That will not be necessary. Evac will show up before then.”

“Yeah, well, it never hurts to have a back-up plan.”

Anderson tapped Great Hawk on the arm and looked over his shoulder at the ridgeline. “We only got half of Samson’s cavalry. The rest of his troops won’t be far behind. And I sincerely doubt they’ll stop at the Union border.”

“No to mention every ghoul between here and fucking Mexico is headed our way right now,” I said. “Those explosions must have echoed for miles. We’ll be up to our ears in undead by nightfall. We’re going to have to find shelter.”

Great Hawk put away the tablet. “I will scout ahead. Anderson, you are in command until I return.” He handed Anderson the sat-phone. “I will find shelter and radio in. If you are out of radio range, I will text you from the tablet.”

“Works for me,” Anderson said.

“Here,” I said, taking a magazine from my vest and giving it to Great Hawk. “Just in case. You can never have too much ammo.”

The Hawk took the mag. “Thank you, my friend.” He accepted another spare from Gabe and Anderson each. After thanking them, he said, “I have a plan to slow Samson’s men, but I will need volunteers.”

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

He told me. I liked it so much I smiled. “Count me in.”

“Me too,” Gabe said.

A nod from the Hawk. “Good luck to you, then.”

A few minutes later, Bjornson, May, and LaGrange showed up on horseback with four more mounts in tow. Great Hawk selected a tall mare with a brown coat and little splotches of white on her face. Then he wished us luck again and rode away at a gallop.

I looked at Gabe. “You ready for this?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

A shrug. “Never stopped us before.”

I swapped the partially depleted mag in my rifle for a fresh one. Pulled the charging handle. Caught the expended cartridge. Loaded it into the half-empty mag. Checked the safety.

“Nope. Never has.” 

We had a few known quantities working in our favor, and a few making our job a pain in the ass.

As to the former, we knew Samson’s men had radios. We knew they were smart enough to check in periodically, and when the dead outriders did not, Samson would know something had gone wrong. There was also the possibility he heard the explosions. Either way, he knew the game was afoot.

And since he and his men had survived the Outbreak as long as Gabe and I, they knew the sounds of fighting were going to bring ghouls. Lots of them. Nightfall was fast approaching, meaning chances were pretty good they would try to find shelter for the night. Furthermore, if they were as smart as I gave them credit for, they would assume our group was being forced to do the same. Which meant they probably weren’t worried about Great Hawk and the others running far enough away that Samson’s scouts couldn’t find them.

As to the latter issues, the rain had picked up again, the hordes were starting to arrive, and since our job was to follow the outrider’s backtrail, locate the rest of Samson’s forces, and harass them guerilla style, this did not create ideal conditions. It did, however, give me the opportunity to field test the MK 9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. Or Rot-chopper, as it is affectionately known in the Army, Rot being an increasingly common slang term for the infected.

The trail led just over two miles back to the stream near where we had set up camp the night before. Which made sense, considering the water consumption a hundred-and-twenty men are capable of. They would need an abundant source to fulfill their needs.

Along the way, we encountered two small hordes. The first one, we skirted by urging our horses to a gallop and outrunning them. The second was larger and spread out over a wider area—no getting around them—so we dismounted. I let Gabe hold the reins of both horses and approached the undead with the MK 9.

“Work fast,” Gabe said, a pistol in his free hand. “No showing off. Just cut a path so we can get out of here.”

“Will do.”

The first three ghouls were all children. I hate fighting infected children. Not just because they are faster than their adult contemporaries, but because they are freaking
children
. Or used to be, anyway. Looking at their wasted, evil little faces awakens a dread, a sense of violated taboo, which cuts me to the bone. It’s a reminder that the Phage, like death, spares no one, has no pity, no remorse, and if given the opportunity, will consume us all.

Not today.

I kicked the first one, barely a toddler when it died. As the ghoul-baby went flying, I hit the tallest of the three with a backswing. The MK 9 cleaved through the skull so easily I thought I had missed for a moment. But then the dead kid fell, the top of its cranium coming off like a slice of cantaloupe, and before I could stop to admire my work, the third one lunged and forced me back a step. I put the point of the blade against its throat and shoved hard, expecting it to knock the little ghoul over. Instead, the point penetrated all the way through and hit the spine. A lethal cut to a human, but only a minor inconvenience to a ghoul. I pulled the blade free and chopped downward with a strike called a pear-splitter. As the name implied, it cut the ghoul-kid’s head in two neat, even sections.

By the time I recovered, the first one I kicked had gotten back to its feet and was coming in at a slow trot. This time I swung with less force and more careful aim. The result was a neat, clean decapitation. I held up the MK 9 and looked at the sweep of its blade.

I could get used to this thing.
The ghouls began to converge from all directions, but slowly, more like the steady ingress of high tide rather than a flood.

The MK 9 was surprisingly easy to use. By the eighth or ninth kill, I had the hang of it. The best technique was to use the full length of the handle to my advantage, one hand at the bottom, the other high, just below the bolster. Swing from the hip, follow through with the shoulders, keep the blade in a continuous arc, and be careful not to swing too hard. If my aim was true and I set my feet properly, about three-quarters strength was all it took.

The blade became stuck few times, but was easy to dislodge due to the leverage afforded by the long handle. Hacking and slashing wasn’t as quick as my old choke-and-poke method, and was significantly more tiring. Oddly, however, I found it intensely satisfying. There is something visceral and elemental about defending one’s life with a big sharp hunk of metal. I won’t say it was fun—it wasn’t—but it spoke the language.

Twice, Gabe had to shoot ghouls who got too close while I was occupied fighting others. But only twice. The MK 9 worked well enough I had little trouble keeping the horde at bay. If they had been more tightly packed, it would have been a different story. But with an interval density of about thirty feet, I could handle it.

After twenty minutes of steady work, there were very few ghouls ahead of me, but on the trail behind, they had bunched together and formed the now-familiar teardrop shape. The faster, less damaged ghouls made up the narrow pointy part, while the slower ones fell behind and formed the larger body.

Once Gabe and I were out of danger, or as out of danger as one can be these days, we mounted up and set off at a steady trot. An hour passed. We saw no more ghouls, and it became obvious the horses were getting tired. I knew how they felt. I ached in every bone and was starting to get lightheaded from hunger.

“We’re not far from Samson’s camp now,” Gabe said, startling me. I had nearly fallen asleep without realizing it.

“You think?”

A nod. “Tracks are fresh. Looks like they turned east here and headed for the stream. We should veer west, ride out behind them, and come in from the north. They won’t be expecting an attack from that direction.”

“I hate to say this, Gabe, but I could use a rest. I’m about used up.”

“I know. If the bags under your eyes got any bigger, I could use them for luggage.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

“Horses are tired too. Need a drink and a chance to forage.”

“Same could be said for us.”

Another hour of riding brought us to the bank of the stream somewhere north of Samson’s force. Gabe said they were less than two miles away, and lacking better information, I took him at his word.

While the horses drank, Gabe said, “We’ll have to let them go.”

“Let who go?”

“The horses. If we tether them, they’ll be sitting ducks.”

“So will we, after we attack Samson’s troops.”

“They’ll have more horses. We’ll figure something out.”

“Improvise and overcome, right?”

“Exactly.”

The two of us found trees with limbs in the right configuration, made sleeping platforms from trimmed down saplings and branches, and lashed them securely in place with para-cord. My summer bedroll consisted of a black yoga mat that was long enough for me to stretch out on, a rectangular pillow I had made with tough fabric and foam harvested from a car seat, and a thin camouflage blanket scavenged from an abandoned house. I rolled it out over my rough pallet, tied myself to the tree with more para-cord, and lay down. Gabe tied the horse’s reins under his palette, but made sure the knots were loose in case the infected showed up. I hoped the horses would be smart enough to bolt if that happened.

It was the last thought I had before I fell asleep.

*****

The rain woke me up.

I had gotten used to the soggy pitter-patter of the last few days, but this rain was different. A strong wind hurled it at the forest, rocked the trunk I had lashed myself to, loosened the structure of my sleeping palette, and sent water cascading down in sheets. I shielded my face from it and sat up. There was no light to see by. My hand groped in the dark, freed my fighting knife, and cut the para-cord holding me in place.

I sat up, swung my legs so I was straddling the trunk, and assessed my situation. I could feel my vest and everything in it. Soaked, but still there. Pistol in its holster. Rifle lashed to my chest. Blanket was a lost cause, but I wanted to save the yoga mat. Rubber dries just fine.

“You all right over there?” Gabe called to me.

“Just dandy,” I replied. “Needed a shower anyway.”

“Glad you realized that. You were starting to get a little ripe.”

“Yeah, and you smell like fucking roses. Any clue where the horses are?”

“Gone.”

I let my head drop. “Wonderful.”

“Oh, it gets better. Put on your NVGs and look down.”

My rucksack was hanging just below me. I had been sensible enough to put the rain cover over it, so when I extracted my night vision goggles, they were dry.

“Shit,” I said, looking down.

Gabe, not hearing me, said, “You see what I’m talking about yet?”

“Yes.” Louder.

What he was talking about was a horde passing beneath our feet. A few looked up at me when I spoke, but kept moving. Strange. Ghouls weren’t usually so blasé when they spotted a living person. “They’re like lemmings. What the hell is going on?”

“Listen,” Gabe replied.

So I did. And I heard it. Gunfire. Not small arms, but the kind that comes from aircraft. Big, thudding, booming shots, and rapid fire at that. My heart lifted.

“Got your radio?”

“Yeah. You?”

I pulled it from my pack, shielded it from the rain as best I could, and stuck the earpiece in. “That one of ours?”

Static. “I think so.”

“How?”

“Great Hawk had two tablets. Remember? One he brought from Hollow Rock, and the other he got from the supply drop. I jury rigged a couple of radio batteries we took from Samson’s outriders and made a charger.”

I laughed. “You clever son of a bitch.”

“I have been so accused.”

“You called in Samson’s position?”

“Texted, actually. Took a long time to transmit, but yeah.”

“What’d they send?”

“AC-130 is my guess. Heard it pass. Definitely not a helo.”

I processed that and said, “What the fuck is taking so long with the evac anyway? It’s like Central
wants
us to die.”

“Not sure, brother. But the next time I see General Jacobs, we’re going to have a nice long talk about it.”

“I want to be there.”

“We get out of here alive, you will be.”

“Speaking of getting out alive, you got a plan, Stan?”

“My name ain’t Stan. And yes, I have a plan.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“I was thinking we’d hang out here in these nice safe trees until the ghouls pass, then hump over to Samson’s camp, or whatever’s left of it, and see what we can see.”

“Wow, Gabe, I stand in awe of your intellect. No way would I have ever thought of that on my own.”

“Blow me, smartass. You asked.”

I sighed. He had a point. “What time is it?”

“Three-hundred hours.”

Three in the morning in civilian time. I had actually managed six hours sleep. “You think an MRE tastes any better in the rain?”

“I doubt it. No harm in trying, though.”

So I ate an MRE. The main course, side dish, crackers, cheese spread, and cookie bar. The chemical heater pack and the baggie with chewing gum, Tobasco sauce, utensils, wet napkin, sugar packets, and instant coffee, I stashed in my pack. All that stuff was valuable trade. And while I often serve my country as a mercenary (
ahem
, private security contractor), I am first and foremost a business man. And a good business man never tosses away easy money. Especially when it is small, light, portable, and worth much more than the cost of carrying it.

Belly full and feeling somewhat rested, I clung to the tree, prayed none of the lighting in the distance found its way closer to me, and rested my head against my arm. There was nothing to do now but wait.

At least my seat was not too terribly uncomfortable.

*****

The AC-130 had wreaked havoc.

A circle of trees covering two acres had been thrashed and chopped to pieces by large, airborne cannons. The infected had shown up during the bombardment, evidenced by their corpses lying in various states among the remains of once-living men. Some of the infected lay permanently dead, while others crawled through the mud and shallow holes left behind by the Union artillery, their bodies horrible to look upon, entrails streaming behind them as they pulled themselves along with bloody, skeletal hands. 

“How many killed do you think?” I asked Gabe. We were perched in trees less than fifty meters from Samson’s camp.

“Hang on.” A minute ticked by, and then he said, “Eighty-eight dead, best I can tell. Most of the horses with them.”

“So Samson’s down to thirty-two, all on foot now. How the hell did they get away?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

We had moved in when the infected thinned out to the point it was safe to travel, and then made our way closer to the encampment, taking to the trees. The undead had stripped most of Samson’s men and horses down to blood-crusted bones, and the others were nowhere to be found. I shifted position in my perch, and a thought occurred to me.