Savages (28 page)

“Think they’re in the trees?”

Static. “Could be. Or they may have run for it.”

“Still got your IR scope?”

“Wait one.”

I waited. A few minutes later, the earpiece crackled. “Nothing.”

“So they escaped.”

“Yep.”

“How long until dawn?”

A pause. “Two more hours.”

“First light?”

“First light.”

I clung to the tree, looked to the eastern horizon, and prayed for daylight.

When Gabe and I had first arrived in Hollow Rock, I had a newly minted gunshot wound in my side that damn near killed me. Doctor Allison Laroux, now Doctor Allison Riordan, who was the only doctor in town at the time, saved my life. Later, she fell victim to my masculine charms. Or maybe it was the other way around. My memory of that time is a bit hazy.

Anyway, after I recovered, Gabe insisted I stop lifting weights and instead focus my physical training on muscular and cardiovascular endurance. I considered it an ironic suggestion coming from a man boasting two-hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, but I took the advice anyway. Most of my workouts since then have involved body-weight exercises—more commonly known as calisthenics—and a hell of a lot of running. And when I am in the field, rarely does a day pass when I do not look back on my decision to follow Gabriel’s advice and feel a profound sense of gratitude. Especially when being out in the field involves running for a prolonged period of time.

It was not long after dawn when the infected got bored and wandered off, leaving a smattering of flesh-stripped corpses in their wake. I followed Gabe while he walked a wide circle around the carnage, and somewhere near mid-morning, he stopped, crouched, and traced a line on the ground with his eyes.

“Got ‘em.”

“You sure?” I looked where Gabe was looking and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I’m not much of a tracker, despite my old friend’s attempts to the contrary.

“Yep. They went that way.” He pointed southward. “Tried to cover their tracks, but didn’t do too good of a job.”

“On the run?”

The big man looked over his shoulder. “They were surrounded by infected and taking heat from a fucking gunship. What do you think?”

“I’d have run away too.”

“Looks like you still have a chance.” And with that, Gabe started running.

My oldest and best friend has long legs and insane endurance, but he is in his early forties, built like a brick shithouse, and I am only in my early thirties. He outpaced me the first few miles, but his size and the oxygen requirements of all that muscle eventually slowed him down. By mile four or five, we were side by side. At mile seven or eight, Gabe slowed and signaled for a halt.

“What is it?” I asked between labored breaths.

“We’re close,” Gabe said, hands on hips, chest heaving.

I reached back, undid the Velcro strap holding my rifle barrel to my web belt, and checked the weapon. Safety off, round in the chamber. “How close?”

“Passed through here not more than an hour ago.”

I looked down at the moist earth, the dead leaves, pine needles, and small crawling things and considered our options. “We should move in slow and quiet.”

“Agreed.”

Ghillie suits. Slow, deliberate crouch-walk through the forest. Twenty meter interval between the two of us. Another mile, and we heard gunfire.

I keyed my radio. “Hawk, Irish. How copy?”

A few heartbeats passed, then static and Anderson’s voice. “Copy Lima-Charlie, Irish. Hawk is indisposed at the moment. Twenty on Wolfman?”

Gabe keyed his mic. “Right here.”

“Good. Damn glad to hear from you. We are under fire, holed up in the Pulaski County Sheriff’s Office.”

“Christ,” Gabe muttered, referencing the map in his finely-tuned head. “We’re just outside Mound City, almost at the river.”

“Sitrep?” I asked over the radio.

“Surrounded by a fuckload of infected and a bunch of pissed off SS troops. These bastards just don’t give up.”

Gabe looked at me, the gray eyes flat and cold. I knew what he was thinking. I nodded and checked my carbine again.

“We are inbound, Shorty.” Gabe said. “Hang in there.”

Anderson sounded harried, gunfire chattering in the background. “Sooner is better. Shorty out.”

We headed toward the sounds of fighting.

*****

Mound City was a small town hugging the Ohio River at the border of Illinois and Kentucky. The Pulaski County Sheriff’s Office was at the northeast corner, backed by overgrown fields and a thin strip of old-growth trees. Gabe and I took position in the thick greenery where we could commune with branches, leaves, birds, and bugs, and peer at the town through dialed-up scopes. It was mid-afternoon, and the hot sun had turned the last few days’ rain into a fume of stifling humidity. The stench of the undead was strong on the wind.

“Ever seen that many infected in one place?” I said into my radio. We were on our own channel, the rest of Task Force Falcon unable to listen in. For the third time in the last ten minutes, I had to wipe condensation from the lens of my optics.

“Yeah, but it’s been a while.”

There thousands of them, clawed hands scraping uselessly at walls of brick, cedar, and vinyl siding. The sheriff’s office was an oasis in a sea of undead. Our friends and allies were inside, fighting a large-scale sniper duel with more than thirty of Samson’s men. The enemy troops had taken position on houses and other buildings across the street, lying on rooftops.

I focused on one of them, a youngish man with a dense brown beard, long hair, and tired eyes. Despite his role as aggressor, he looked like a hunted thing. I shifted the scope and took in a few more gaunt visages. The young man’s compatriots did not look much better. I got the distinct impression their heart was not in this fight. It gave me an idea.

“Hey,” I said into the radio mic, “you remember what Samson looks like?”

When Gabe spoke, I could almost hear the grin on his face. “Kill the head of the snake and the body dies. Right? If only I had a bigger gun.”

“I have faith in you, old friend.”

“Could use a spotter.”

“Got nothing better to do.”

It took Gabe a few minutes, but he finally found what he was looking for. “Got him. Red rooftop, corner of Ohio Avenue and Pearl Street.”

I scanned until I located the street signs, dialed up the scope’s magnification to its highest setting, and focused on where Gabe directed. Sure enough, I saw General Samson’s narrow, hateful face behind a pair of long-range binoculars. He had dark hair where his scalp had not gone bald, a reddish beard, strong jawline, and a straight, aristocratic nose. If the ocean of infected howling for his flesh affected him, he gave no indication. He stared through his binoculars with singular focus, his attention was wholly consumed by his desire to kill the men in the Sherriff’s Office.

“You know,” I said over the radio, “he probably thinks Lena Smith is in there with them.”

Static. “The thought occurred. Probably explains why he’s being such a tenacious son of a bitch. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.”

“Right, and I’m thinking if we get him out of the way, his men won’t be too motivated to keep up the fight.”

“One way to find out. Give me a range.”

I did, using the reticle on my scope. Approximately two-hundred and forty yards. Tough shot with a standard M-4 carbine chambered in 6.8 SPC, but not impossible.

“Concur,” Gabe said. “Stand by.”

There was a part of me that wanted to take the shot myself, but I told it to shut up. Gabe had taught me everything I knew; he was the real sniper, the one with the crazy Quantico training. I’m good, but I’m not better than my mentor. So I concentrated on my role as spotter, looking through the scope with my non-dominant eye closed, gaze unfocused.

“I have a shot,” the earpiece said.

“Send it.”

The first one missed, impacting against the asphalt shingles a few inches to the right of General Samson. One of his men jerked in surprise and looked around, did not seem injured, but had obviously heard the impact. Samson continued gazing through his binoculars, unaware and undeterred.

“Correct to the left. Azimuth off by less than a foot. Elevation low by about six inches.”

“Copy.”

I watched and waited. Seconds passed, and then I saw Samson’s head jerk backwards, a neat little hole in his forehead. The binoculars dropped from limp fingers as he began rolling down the rooftop, his men watching in stunned horror as their commander fell into the waiting arms of the infected. In seconds, he was torn limb from limb. I peeled my eye from the scope. No need to make further additions to my already ample collection of nightmares.

“Got him.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“What now?”

A pause. “Now we wait, amigo.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure. Why not?”

So we waited.

*****

As they are wont to do, the undead took their sweet-ass time before giving up and wandering away. Probably did not help that Samson’s men kept firing for another ten minutes after the demise of their fearsome leader.

Gabe and I began actively sniping them, but they figured out what was happening and quickly got their asses behind cover. I got two, and Gabe got four. Typical Gabe. I clicked the button on my radio and told him no one likes an overachiever. He told me not to be jealous. I suggested he perform an anatomical impossibility and settled in to wait for the infected to leave.

By nightfall, all but a few dozen had wandered off. The ones left behind were mostly crawlers and those too mechanically non-functional to manage more than a slow shuffle. Gabe and I discussed moving in and trying to take out more of Samson’s men, but they saved us the trouble by emerging from their hides and scattering into the forest.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Static. “Yep. I’ll call it in.”

I switched back over to the command net and listened while Gabe gave a sitrep. Great Hawk was back on the horn. “Do you still have batteries for your radios and NVGs?” he said.

“Affirmative,” Gabe replied. “You guys got transportation?”

“Negative, Wolfman. Had to let the horses go.”

“Same here.”

Great Hawk was silent a few moments, then said, “I am thinking a few things. I am thinking Samson’s men do not have batteries. I am thinking they are operating in the dark and dodging infected. I am thinking they are low on ammunition, food, and water. I am thinking we could track them, just a few of us, and determine if further action is needed. The rest of us can proceed south to await evac.”

“Speaking of,” I asked. “Any word from Tex?”

“Package has been delivered, Irish. Safely. Along with the pilot from the other helicopter.”

I let out a breath. All four targets dead, Lena Smith safely in Union hands, one indispensable pilot saved, and all it cost were the lives of three pilots, two aircrewmen, Stewart, Taylor, McGee, and Liddell, all highly-trained warriors our country could ill afford to lose. I swallowed my bitterness and resolved to give General Jacobs an earful the next time I spoke to him.

“How about Tex?” I asked. “He all right?”

“He is on the transport with Lena Smith.”

“Lucky him.”

“Let’s stay focused, people,” Gabe said, “We still have a job to do. The last thing we want is Samson’s men dogging our trail until evac arrives. How much longer, Hawk?”

“Dawn tomorrow. Allegedly.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. So who wants to volunteer for the night’s festivities?”

“I’m in,” said Bjornson.

“Me too.” Gabe this time.

“You know me, brother,” I said. “Your fight is my fight.”

“I will go as well.” Great Hawk said.

I checked my rifle and ammo. Good to go. “Okay, fellas. How about we stop flapping our gums and make this shit happen? The longer we wait, the farther the enemy will run.”

“Meet me behind the courthouse,” Great Hawk said. “We will find their trail and give chase.”

I climbed down, found Gabe, put on my NVGs so I could see in the quickly falling gloom, and followed the trackers.

Samson’s troops regrouped half a mile north of Mound City, then turned southeast and made a beeline for the Ohio River. Along the way, we came upon the recently reanimated corpse of one of the fleeing troops.

“Rot got him,” Bjornson said, staring at the walking dead man.

No shit. Figure that one out by yourself?
“So they’re down to twenty-four men. Or less.”

“Better and better,” Gabe said.

I decapitated the ghoul with my MK 9 and proceeded on mission.

We found them scouring the river bank, gathering canoes and anything else that would float. I counted eighteen. Gabe concurred. None of the insurgents had night vision.

“We got the drop on ‘em,” Bjornson said into his radio. “I say we ambush ‘em, hit ‘em hard, take out as many as we can.”

“Any objections?” Great Hawk asked.

I thought about the last few days, the gunfire, the fighting, and the bloodshed. I thought about how many people were lost during the Outbreak and everything that happened after. I thought about the guilt riding my conscience, and what kind of a father I was going to be to my child.

When he or she was old enough, what would they think of me? I wanted them to love me, respect me, and when I am gone, I want them to be able to say their father was a good man. But to do that, I had to
be
that person. I had to be someone worth loving, and respecting, and saying nice things about after I left the world.

I searched myself and decided that the kind of man I wanted to be, the kind of man I wanted to raise my children, was smart enough to learn from his mistakes. Smart enough to turn away from a fight if there was an alternative. Smart enough to speak up against needless killing, and, when he could, try to find a better way.

“Hold on,” I said. “Let me move in, get a read on their disposition.”

“The hell for?” Bjornson demanded. “We got ‘em dead to rights. Let’s take their sorry asses down and get the fuck out of here.”

Great Hawk said, “Wait, Sergeant. The Irishman has a point. I will go with you, Irish. We will gather more information and then decide how to proceed. Viking, you and Wolfman remain behind as fire support.”

“Copy,” Gabe said.

“Sure. Fine.” Bjornson did not sound happy.

We moved in. Great Hawk was a ghillie-suited ghost in the shadows of the trees, his steps silent, rifle at the ready. If I had not been wearing NVGs, I would never have known he was there.

At the riverbank, the foliage thinned and we went down to our bellies. Samson’s men had gathered in a loose cluster behind a house that had burned down years ago. A small pier in the back yard was still intact, jutting out into the river. There were several small boats tied to it, each with a pair of oars. The Hawk and I crawled slowly and quietly until we were in earshot of the conversation.

“…it’s over, Jason. Do you understand? It. Is. Over. Samson’s dead. The president is dead. So is the council speaker and the secretary of defense. The vice president is missing. We’re down to just a few men. We’re lucky we survived this long. I’m not pushing my luck any further.”

The man speaking did so with an air of authority, his voice that of a person accustomed to being obeyed. The other individual stood stiffly, his face a mask of inner conflict.

“But those troops we fought …”

The leader made a cutting motion with his hand. “Those Union troops aren’t interested in us. If they were, they’d have sniped us while we ran away. We’re nothing to them. They wanted Samson. They set a trap, and the dumb bastard walked right into it. If he’d gone west like I told him to, all the people we lost would still be alive. And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, the general was crazy as a shithouse rat. I’m talking in-fucking-sane. What happened to him, he brought on himself. And I, for one, am glad the loony son of a bitch is gone. You want to follow in his footsteps? Go or it. I’ll raise a drink for you when you’re dead.” 

The second man shuffled his feet. “So what are we supposed to do we do then, Captain? Stay out here? We’ll die of exposure, assuming the infected don’t get us first. I still say we should go back to Carbondale.”

The leader put his hands on his hips and took a step forward, leaning down so he was in the second man’s face. “Go back to what, exactly? There’s nothing for us to go back to. We’re hated in Alliance territory. If you go back, you’ll be strung up by your balls and left for the crows. Is that what you want?”

The second man looked down and did not answer.

The leader stepped back and addressed the group. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re going to climb in these boats, head downriver to Kentucky, and scatter. None of us will tell any of the others where we plan to go. That way, if one of us is captured, he won’t be able to rat out the others.”

Silence. Worried glances back and forth. The leader ran a hand across the back of his neck and sighed. “Look, fellas, I don’t like this any more than you do. But it’s time to face reality. Our days in the SS are over. That part of our lives is behind us. It’s time to move on. You want to go back? Fine. Go back. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With that, the leader turned away from his men, climbed into a boat, and started unlashing the lines from the pier cleats. After a few seconds hesitation, some of the others climbed in with him. The rest headed for other boats.

“What do you think?” Great Hawk whispered into his radio.

“I think we let ‘em go. They’re no threat to us now.”

We watched the former insurgents paddle down the river until they were out of sight. “Better let them have a head start,” I said. “Wouldn’t want to run into them on the river.”

“Good thinking.”

The two of us crawled back to the treeline and briefed the others. Bjornson was not happy about letting Samson’s men go, but relented when Great Hawk explained it was not fucking optional, and this was not a fucking democracy.

“I am sorry for the men we lost,” the Hawk said, softening his voice. “I understand the need for revenge, but our mission is over. Killing those men will not bring your friends back. It is time to go home, Sergeant.”

Bjornson looked down, nodded, and began walking southward. The rest of us followed, the Ohio River to our right, a narrowly avoided war behind us, and an increasingly uncertain road ahead.

*****

The helicopter showed up at dawn, as promised. A Chinook this time, not a Blackhawk. I was not exactly thrilled to be riding in a chopper of
any
sort again, but it was the fastest way home. Thankfully, no enemy aircraft showed up to shoot us out of the sky.

None of us spoke much during the flight. Just a few comm checks, but no real conversation.  Task Force Falcon had lost four men, and the survivors were beginning to feel the loss. There had been not time to mourn when we were running and fighting for our lives, but now that we were safe, there was time for reflection.

I felt bad for the lost men. I felt bad for their friends. But it was a distant, generalized sort of grief, nothing sharp or acute. More like the pang of concern one feels when hearing about some distant tragedy, an earthquake or hurricane or other disaster. I felt it, but was not truly affected by it. Not the way Anderson’s men were. I wondered what it said about me. I wondered what kind of man I was becoming. I wondered if pre-Outbreak Eric would approve of this version of me. I wondered if he would even recognize me. Somehow, I doubted it.

When we landed, I said a quick goodbye to Anderson and the remainder of his team. I told them I was sorry for their loss, and wished them luck. Then we shook hands, Anderson first, followed by May, LaGrange, and finally Bjornson.

“You know,” Bjornson said, “I was wrong about you. You’re all right, Riordan. Sorry for giving you so much shit before.”

I waved the apology away. “Water under the bridge, amigo.”

He clapped me on the shoulder and followed his brothers toward the command building. Great Hawk remained behind with Gabe and me.

“So what’s next for you, chief?” I asked the big Apache.

He shrugged. “I think I will stick around for a while. This place seems as good as any, and better than most. I will need to find a job. Know anyone who is hiring?”

I smiled. “I think I could find something for you.”

A pat on the shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”