Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within (55 page)

“So what was the Legion’s end game here, Phil? What were they trying to accomplish with all this? They didn’t need Hollow Rock. It doesn’t add up.”

General Jacobs shook his head and sat back in his chair. His chin sank to his chest, and he rubbed at his eyes. “I’m not supposed to talk about this, but I think you deserve to know.”

I stayed quiet and waited.

“We don’t know the whole story, but here’s what we do know. The Midwest Alliance has declared itself an independent nation, and it is claiming territory. Out west, the Republic of
California is doing the same thing. Until about four months ago, the leadership back in the Springs wasn’t too worried about it. We had our hands full just getting Colorado, Nebraska, and Kansas under control. Restoring food production, getting an oil refinery online down on the Gulf Coast, that sort of thing.”

“So what changed?”

Jacobs opened a drawer on his desk and removed a file folder. He shuffled through it, pulled out a glossy 8x10 aerial photo, and handed it to me. It showed a massive flotilla of ships approaching a harbor.

“Where is this?” I asked.

“California. Humboldt Bay.”

My stomach began to twist up.

“Where are these ships from?”

“We’re not exactly sure. Some of them are from China. A few others from Russia. But we believe most of them are North Korean.”

I let out a breath and dropped the photo in my lap. “How many of them are there?”

“That picture there, it’s just a fraction. There are hundreds, possibly over a thousand ships. Almost all of them freighters, but a few warships as well.”

I remembered Eric telling me about the Legion supply cache. The Chinese rifles. The Russian ammo. The Korean shipping manifests.

“This is a problem, Phil.”

“Yes, it is.”

The weight on my shoulders that had been lightening up the last couple of weeks suddenly grew heavy again. More pieces started falling into place.

“So the Midwest Alliance is in cahoots with the Republic of California. Enemy of my enemy, and such. They’re both making a land grab, with Colorado dead in the middle. This flotilla shows up with guns, and food, and ammo, and God knows what else, and they set up shop in Humboldt Bay. They’re sending weapons and munitions to the Alliance, and in exchange they’re getting …”

I held out a hand to Jacobs.

“Food,” he said. “The Alliance is in prime farming country. Much like Hollow Rock, they have more abundance than they know what to do with. On top of that, they’re slowly beginning to bring electricity and manufacturing capacity back online, however limited.”

“Aren’t we doing that as well?”

“We are, especially now that we’ve secured the Hoover Dam.”

I reached up to scratch my beard, only to find that it wasn’t there. I let my hand drop. “So what does all this have to do with Hollow Rock and the Legion?”

“It was a power play. War by proxy. The Alliance wanted us to know what they’re capable of. How far they’re willing to go. They wanted to capture Hollow Rock for no better reason than the federal government offered this community its support. Agents from the Alliance found an easy ally in the Free Legion and started helping them ramp up their operations. They wanted to cut this town’s head off, put it on a pike, and stand it up outside their gates. The subjugation of Hollow Rock was to be a warning to the President to stay off their doorstep, or suffer the consequences.”

“But it didn’t work out for them.”

“No, it didn’t. You played a big part in that.”

I dismissed the comment with a wave. “And what did it cost them? The Alliance, I mean.”

Jacobs didn’t answer. His gaze shifted away.

“They won, Phil. They didn’t get Hollow Rock, but they go an AC-130. They got Steve. They got quite a few soldiers. Every plane we lose is one we can’t use against them. Every bullet we shoot at cannon fodder like the Free Legion is one we can’t shoot at them. Every one of our soldiers that dies is a soldier we can’t send to fight them. That’s what they’re doing. They’re chipping away, bit by bit. You ever heard that old joke about how to eat an elephant?”

Jacobs chuckled, but it was bitter and without warmth. “One bite at a time.”

“Guess what, Phil. We’re the elephant.”

Jacobs stood up and walked to the window. The blinds were shut, and he reached out a hand to open them. Light filtered in through the slats and cast streaks of shadow over the old soldier’s face. His crow’s feet and frown lines stood out in stark relief.

“This is just the beginning, Mr. Garrett. The first salvo in what my gut tells me is going to be a long battle. The Alliance, the flotilla, the Republic of California, they’re not just going to go away. Sooner or later we’re going to have to deal with them.”

He turned and looked at me. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

The weight on my shoulders pressed down harder.

“So for now, where does that leave us?”

Jacobs straightened up and walked back to his desk. “For now, we finish mopping up. The Ranger company has been called north to Kentucky, and most of the First Expeditionary is going with them. I’m headed back to Colorado, and I’ll be taking Great Hawk, Grabovsky, and Wilkins with me. Marshall will stay behind to help you finish training the militia. I pulled a few strings with Central, and they’re letting me leave a few dozen men here to help see Hollow Rock through the winter. More importantly, now that the Legion is gone, this town will be getting a facilitator.”

I kept my poker face on. “What’s a facilitator?”

“Oh, that’s right, I haven’t told you about them yet.” He went over to a safe on top of a file cabinet, keyed in passcode, and took out a file folder. On the front, in bold black letters, it read: PHOENIX INITIATIVE: TOP SECRET.

“Phoenix Initiative?”

Jacobs brightened. “That’s right. You didn’t honestly think the federal government didn’t have a backup plan in case of a mass extinction event did you?”

He handed me the file, smiling. I spent a few minutes flipping through it and scanning the pages. As I read, for the first time in longer than I could remember, I started getting excited.

“Is this for real?”

The general laughed. “Of course. I couldn’t make that shit up if I tried.”

I handed the folder back to him. “You’re trusting me with an awful lot of classified information, General.”

He heard the suspicion in my voice, and held up a hand. “You’ve proven yourself, Gabriel. I have no reason not to trust you. And the way I figure it, if I want your help in the future, I’ll need to keep you in the loop.”

I stood up. “You figure right.”

Jacobs smiled again, got out of his chair, and held out a hand. I shook it.

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done, Gabriel. Same goes for Eric. Let him know for me, will you?”

“I’ll do that. You take care, Phil. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

I left his office and stepped outside into the driving wind. A pair of ski goggles kept the snow out of my eyes as I walked home. I thought about Captain McCray, and how I had treated him. Constantly suspicious of his every action. I thought about how I’d always given him a hard time, always assumed he was working toward his own ends. I still wasn’t sure if I was wrong about that, but whatever else Steve had done, he had died a brave and loyal soldier. He had pledged his life to protect what was left of the United States, and he’d kept that oath. For that, if for nothing else, he had earned my respect.

When I got home, Liz was sitting by the stove in a terry-cloth robe reading a novel.

“How’d it go?” she asked, looking up.

“Jacobs told you about the facilitator, right?”

“Yes, he did.”

“How are you not bouncing-off-the-walls excited?”

She laughed, her voice musical in the chill air. “Who says I’m not?”

She stood up and walked over to me. Her arms went around my neck, and I pulled her close, squeezing and pressing my lips to her cheek. I ran my hands over her back and realized she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Or a shirt.

My hands drifted further down, and discovered an absence of panties. Elizabeth’s fingers slid up my neck, bringing out the goosebumps. I leaned back just far enough to tilt her face up and press my lips to hers until they parted, and I felt her soft tongue against mine. I took my time and did a thorough job of things. Her hands kept moving and she let out a soft moan.

I came up for air. “I hate this robe. It looks terrible on you.”

She giggled, and snuggled closer. “Maybe you should take it off me.”

That was exactly what I did.

It always surprises me how quickly people move on with their lives. Whatever the event, through any tragedy, the survivors always find a way to carry on.

We lose a loved one. We have a funeral. We spread the ashes, we hold each other and say comforting things, and then we get on with the business of living.

A house burns down. We sift through the charred remains and salvage what we can. We carry off the wreckage and make plans to build a new home. And then we get on with the business of living.

We suffer trauma, and lose our way for a while. We mope silently around the house for a few days. We get drunk. Being drunk feels better than the hurt, so we get drunk again. Finally, we get a stern talking-to from our significant others telling us that while they know we’re hurting, drowning our sorrow in a bottle isn’t going to make things any better. Then that significant other kisses us gently, and something breaks loose, and then we’re crying like a baby again. Later, when all the tears are wiped away, we feel better. Stronger.

And then we get on with the business of living.

*****

In late December of one of the best and worst years of my life, I attended two events. One of them a month late, and the other far too early.

The first was the graduation ceremony for the Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia. Or as they jokingly called themselves, the Bloody Nine. At first, I thought that whoever named them must have been a big fan of Joe Abercrombie’s
The First Law
series. But apparently, that was not the case. Some of them said it was because they had seen combat and taken casualties before they had even graduated from basic training. Some said it was because of their unit patch, a crimson 9 on a plain green circle. Whatever the case, either name sounded better than simply “the militia.” At least their unit was now important enough to warrant capitalization.

In the spirit of naming things, the Bloody Nine’s training facility, formerly known simply as “the camp,” was renamed Fort McCray. Mayor Stone even commissioned a plaque in Steve’s honor, and in honor of all the brave men and women who had given their lives in defense of Hollow Rock.

I think Steve would have liked that.

Sanchez, Flannigan, and two others were promoted to NCO and assigned one squad each. Marcus Cohen gave up his deputy’s star, accepted a field commission from General Jacobs, and
took the helm as the Bloody Nine’s commanding officer. He was a good man for the job, but he wasn’t the general’s first pick.

That had been me.

Needless to say, I turned him down. I can barely hold myself together most days, much less a militia. I told Jacobs as much. He had smiled sadly, patted me on the shoulder, and let the matter rest.

The second event was Steve’s memorial service. It had taken the Army a while to recover his remains, and the remains of the men who had died with him. The remains had been transported back to Hollow Rock, cremated, and the ashes either sent back to families, or buried at a nearby cemetery. Steve had no family left, so in Hollow Rock he remained. It was nice to have him close by; I could go and talk to him if I wanted to. Maybe he could hear me, maybe he couldn’t. There was only one way to find out, and while my enthusiasm for life had dimmed somewhat, I hadn’t sunk that low just yet. Someday, maybe. But not now. Not while I still had Allison in my life. And Gabe. And the Glovers. And all the other friends I had made along the way.

On my way home from the memorial service, I stopped by the clinic to check in on Allison and see if she had any work for me. Now that the Legion was gone, I had a lot of free time on my hands. I spent most of it at the clinic helping out where I could. Washing sheets, emptying bedpans, sterilizing instruments, having hot, steamy monkey sex with Allison in the supply closet. You know, the basics.

My heart and soul stood in front of the clinic with a couple of nurses, all of them watching a bustle of activity up the street at the VFW. I stopped beside her and bumped her with my hip. She smiled and bumped me back.

“What’s going on down there?” I asked.

“Remember Gabe saying that the Army was leaving a few troops to ride out the winter with us?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they arrived today. The mayor is putting them up in the VFW hall.”