Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line (33 page)

Our first order of business in Colorado Springs was to secure lodging.

On the way in, I talked to a few soldiers familiar with the area and they recommended the Mountain View Hotel. It was on the south side of town, well away from the crime-ridden refugee districts. The southern part of town had been rebuilt since the Outbreak and boasted the city’s best restaurants, safest streets, and cleanest hotels.

Once lodging was taken care of, Eric arranged livery services for our livestock while I rented space on a warehouse floor for our trade. By the third morning, we were settled in, fed, bathed, our animals well cared for, and wearing new, non-travel-stained clothing.

Eric and I woke up early and made our way to the complex of government buildings near the former shopping mall that was now the Colorado Springs Federal Refugee Intake Center. We stopped by the Intake Center, stood in line with travel-weary new arrivals for the better part of an hour, and paid five .308 rounds—the equivalent of twenty federal credits, according to the clerk—to send a message to Hollow Rock that we had arrived safely in Colorado Springs. The message would be put on the board at city hall, which Eric knew Allison would be checking on a daily basis. It occurred to me it had been nearly three months since Eric had seen his wife and son, and I felt like a sorry bastard because I had not once thought to thank him for all he had done for me. On the way out of the Intake Center I corrected that mistake and apologized for taking so long to get around to it.

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

“Fuck that. You’ve done more for me than I can ever thank you for.”

“You’d have done the same for me.”

I started to reply, hesitated, and decided to shut my mouth. Eric was right. I would have.

Our next stop was the Federal Militia and Contractor Liaison Detachment (otherwise known as MCLD), a squat cinder-block building with as much charm as a case of foot fungus. I told the guard at the entrance our names and registration numbers in the Archive. He called them in and told us to wait while someone inside checked us out. A few minutes later, he checked us for weapons and let us into the building.

The interior was austere and white with bare concrete floors and scavenged pre-Outbreak furniture. The receptionist, an attractive brunette in her late twenties, asked us our business. We informed her we were there to collect payment for services rendered. The young woman clicked and clacked at her computer for a few minutes while the two of us stood and waited. I didn’t mind. The building was air conditioned, a pleasure I had not enjoyed since the Outbreak.

“Second floor,” the receptionist said finally. “Stairway is around that corner over there, first door on your right. Go to the front desk and ask for Mr. Belson. He’ll settle your accounts.”

We went up the stairs and down the hallway toward the front desk. On the way, I said, “What are you collecting for? You earn a reward for killing that Lopez guy?”

“No. The job in Illinois,” Eric said.

I stopped walking. Eric went ahead a few steps before looking over his shoulder. “What?”

“You never collected on that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t need it. Figured I’d save it for a rainy day.”

I shook my head. The reward I had been paid for my part in bringing down the Alliance had been substantial. I could not imagine Eric’s was any less.

“Why are you collecting it now?” I asked.

“So I can give it to Sabrina.”

I stared at him a few seconds, then couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You son of a bitch. You knew I wouldn’t take it.”

“Nor Elizabeth.”

“And you know Sabrina doesn’t share our pre-Outbreak sensibilities.”

“She’s a practical girl. Must get that from her mother’s side.”

I walked closer and put my hand on my friend’s shoulder. “In that case, maybe I’m not so impractical after all.”

“You sure?”

I shrugged. “I lost a lot of trade on this trip. I have a family now. And besides, you can take what I owe you out of my trade once you get back to Hollow Rock.”

“Sure I can.”

I gave him a searching look. “But you won’t.”

Eric tilted his head and said nothing.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

We filled out the paperwork and both of us signed a form assigning Eric’s reward over to me. When we were finished, I went to hire a wagon while Eric went back to the hotel. I watched my old friend walk away and felt a sharp pain in my chest and wondered if I had made the right decision coming here.

Nothing for it now. Done is done.

I ended the day richer by six M-4 rifles, ten Beretta M-9 pistols, two thousand rounds of 5.56 ammo, a thousand rounds of .308, a thousand rounds of nine-millimeter, fifty one-liter bottles of grain liquor, ten pounds of sugar, thirty pounds of salt, and enough federal credits redeemable at the local exchange to keep my family fed for three months. If I traded two of my oxen, a few of the pistols, and maybe five or six hundred rounds of ammo, I could buy a place in a nice part of town. Maybe even a little plot of land. Not a bad prospect.

And there was still the job interview to consider.

*****

The headquarters of the Blackthorn Security Company occupied a set of buildings that had once been a pair of motels across a parking lot from the local IRS office. It was bordered on the north and east sides by Fountain Creek and the Pike’s Peak greenway trail. I heard the sound of cadence being called on the trail and saw men in the distinctive dark uniforms of Blackthorns running behind a tall, lean trainer. If everything went the way I was hoping it would, it might be me leading those recruits on their next run. The prospect made me quicken my pace.

A very attractive receptionist met me at the front entrance. I gave her my name and my reason for visiting and she directed me toward a set of comfortable chairs. I sat down and listened to the drone of generators and enjoyed the cool bite of air conditioning as it pulled away the light sweat I had broken on the mile and a half walk from my hotel. A few minutes passed before the receptionist told me Director Flint was ready to see me. She led me down a long corridor and stopped at a corner office. At her knock, a deep voice said to come in. The receptionist opened the door and went away.

Hadrian Flint, Director of Operations for the Blackthorn Security Company, sat behind a mahogany desk. I walked in and looked him over. He was almost my height, lean and trim, with dark brown skin, a shiny bald head, neatly shaved goatee streaked with gray, and black eyes about as forgiving as the edge of a knife. The smile he showed as I approached did nothing to soften his countenance.

“Mr. Garrett, a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said.

I shook his hand. “Likewise.”

“Please, have a seat.”

I sat. Flint opened a laptop computer and typed what I assumed was a password to unlock it. The laptop’s power cord ran to a plug in the floor next to the desk. Overhead, fluorescent lights had been removed and replaced with LEDs. The air conditioning was cooler here than in the lobby, which meant Flint had his own thermostat. Very posh indeed.

“I assume you received my letter?” Flint asked as he sat down.

“That’s right.”

He leaned back in his seat. “Well, you’re here, so you must be interested.”

“I am.”

A few clicks on the computer. “You came highly recommended from one of our top clients. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to divulge much about you other than your service record in the Archive. That said, I have to say I was impressed. Graduated top of your class at Quantico, five deployments, two bronze stars, a silver star, more confirmed kills than malaria.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Your country owes you a debt of gratitude.”

I didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. “Thank you.”

A nod.

“Let me guess,” I said. “General Jacobs.”

The smile was genuine this time. “Not too hard to figure out, was it?” 

“Considering our history, no.”

“How did you come to know the general?”

“Well…you might want to ask him about that.”

“Classified?”

“Why I defer to him on the subject.”

Flint crossed his feet in front of him. “Fair enough. So tell me about what you did after the Marines.”

I took a breath and let it out. Tapped my fingers on my legs a few times. I’d known this was going to be hard, but now that it was in front of me, it was like I had a clamp holding my mouth shut. I told myself to get over it. The world had changed and not for the better. There were not many places for people like me in the civilian world, and if I wanted this opportunity, the time for keeping my sins to myself was over. My life wasn’t about me anymore.

“Did some time with the CIA,” I said. “Black ops, mostly contractor stuff. Had a bad mission in Baghdad and got shown the door.”

“How come?” Flint said.

“Bad intel. It was a rescue mission. People we went in for got killed. Asshole who sent us in wasn’t about to ruin his career over a trifling thing like the truth.”

“So he pinned it on you.”

“Enough to get me rolled out, at least.”

“I don’t find that surprising.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve had a few encounters with Christians in Action myself.”

I nodded and waited.

“So what about after the CIA?”

“Went to work for a merc outfit,” I said. “Aegis Incorporated.”

“I’m familiar with them as well. What division?”

“Global rapid response.”

Flint let out a whistle. “How long did you last at that?”

“Long enough to stack my chips and retire.”

“I see. So what got you back in the game?”

I shrugged. “Same thing as most other guys like me since the Outbreak. Gotta earn a living somehow.”

Flint steepled his hands and tapped his index fingers together. “General Jacobs told us you did some work back east training volunteers.”

“Yep. Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia.”

“I read a few reports on them. Seems you trained them well.”

“That’s the rumor.”

Another smile. “Confidence. Assurance. I like that. It’s what we look for in our trainers.”

“As well you should,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Please.”

“What is it you want me to do? I mean, I know you want me to train your men, but specifically, are we talking firearms, wilderness survival, intelligence gathering, fieldcraft, sniper training …” I held my palms up.

“All of the above. Assuming you’re up to it.”

“I am. And then some.”

“You’ll have to prove it.”

“Be glad to.”

Flint regarded me thoughtfully for a long moment. The generators hummed. The air conditioning continued to feel wonderful. A door opened and shut somewhere down the hall. There was a faint buzzing in the room, the sound of electricity coursing through wires and pre-Outbreak devices. It had been a long time since I had heard it, and it was comforting. I felt like a middle-class merchant in the lavish manor of some obscenely rich feudal lord learning what real wealth looks like. Flint rose to his feet and offered me a hand. I stood up and shook it.

“I think I’ve seen enough. Welcome aboard, Mr. Garrett.”

General Phillip Jacobs’ office was a spartan affair with white cinder block walls, metal shelves, gray file cabinets, a few plaques and framed college degrees on the walls, pictures of his family from before the Outbreak, and an ugly metal desk with a green formica top. The only luxury he allowed himself in the small space was a window-mounted air conditioner, which rattled gently, the temperature set just short of maximum cool and the fan set to medium. He had removed his ACU jacket and sat behind his desk in his moisture wicking undershirt. A few years ago he would have considered the office uncomfortably warm. Now, with the thermometer on his desk reading seventy-nine, he felt pleasantly cool.

He stared at the manila folder in front of him. He had read it several times and committed most of it to memory. His memory had always been sound, allowing him to recall details and minutia that had been critical to his ascent through the ranks. Now, as the director of Army Special Operations Command, his sharp mind was indispensable to carrying out his duties, and he knew it. Consequently, he exercised daily, ate a healthy diet whenever possible, indulged in alcohol rarely and only in small quantities, and did everything he could to get at least seven hours of sleep a night.

He looked up from the manila folder to a simple wooden plaque above the entrance to his office. It was a piece of oak stained a rich dark brown with three words carved in black. The words comprised the mantra Jacobs repeated to himself every day when he woke up.

Hold the Line
.

And he had. It had cost him dearly, but he had helped orchestrate the organization of what was left of the US Army, implemented new training to deal with emerging threats, convinced frightened politicians to commit resources to provide the Army with much needed new technology to fight the revenant scourge, and was the mastermind behind the downfall of the Midwest Alliance.

It was this last accomplishment that caused him to lose the most sleep at night. The conflict with the Alliance had been nothing short of civil war. The fact the Alliance had been in league with an invading foreign military force did nothing to change this reality. Jacobs had been forced to plot against people he had once sworn to protect, and he had not flinched. But for all that, he had not acted with ruthless abandon either. He had planned carefully and avoided loss of life whenever possible. But war is war, and in war people die. He had sent good people to their deaths, even non-combatants. His actions haunted him, but he knew deep down it had to be done. And in the end, the Alliance had crumbled and a much larger, more destructive conflict had been avoided. He often wondered if the men who had ordered the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had used the same rationalization.

The general returned his attention to the folder on his desk. He opened the front cover and looked again at the young man in the photo. He was in his early twenties, sandy blond hair, blue eyes, a scattering of scars on his cheek and the side of his neck just behind the ear. According to his service record, the scars extended from his face all the way down to his left hip. Jacobs had never asked the young man about it, but he had a good idea of where the scars had come from.

When an explosion goes off close to a person, their natural reaction is to close their eyes and turn away. Jacobs guessed this had happened to the young man, and a flight of shrapnel had peppered the left side of his body as he turned. It would have been a painful and traumatic injury, requiring medical treatment and weeks of healing. This by itself was not odd. Life in the Army was dangerous. What
was
odd, however, was the fact the scars had already been there when the young man enlisted.

A knock sounded at his door.

“Yes,” Jacobs said, closing the folder.

The door opened and a lieutenant on his staff stood in the entryway. “He’s here, sir.”

“Send him in.”

The door opened wider and Sergeant Caleb Hicks entered General Jacobs’ office.

“Have a seat, Sergeant,” Jacobs said.

The young man complied. Jacobs looked him over. Hicks looked much the same as he had the last time they had met, tall and lean and probably weighing around two-hundred and ten pounds or so. Judging by the width of his neck and the diameter of his wrists, Jacobs guessed the kid was a lot stronger than he looked. But his physique was not Sergeant Hicks’ most striking feature. It was the eyes that held Jacobs’ attention. Most kids Hicks’ age would have been shuffling and nervous in the presence of a general, but Hicks did not look perturbed in the least. His eyes were steady and attentive, taking in everything and giving away nothing. Nevertheless, the general detected a hidden danger there, an understated ruthlessness. From what he had learned about the young sergeant and his performance thus far, Jacobs did not find this surprising.

“I trust you’ve settled in all right?” Jacobs asked. “Quarters, laundry service, new uniforms, all that?”

“Yes sir.” The sergeant’s voice was a mild tenor. He spoke quietly, but somehow his tone still held a strong resonance.

“That was good work you did in Kansas. You and Mr. Garrett both.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They sat for a moment in silence.
Kid doesn’t give you anything
, Jacobs thought.
Just sits there and stares.
The general leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his stomach.

“You’re wondering why I asked you here,” Jacobs stated.

“Yes sir.”

“Let me ask you a question, Sergeant Hicks. How do you like it with the First Recon?”

There was a flicker behind Hicks’ eyes that Jacobs took for mild surprise. “All right, I guess. Got a good squad, good platoon. Good bunch of guys.”

“You’ve made friends?”

A small smile. “Yes sir. Like I said, they’re good guys.”

“How hard would it be to take on a new assignment?”

Hicks’ eyebrows came together. “Sir?”

“What I mean is,” Jacobs explained, “how hard would it be for you to walk away?”

The young sergeant thought it over for a moment. “Well, sir, I guess that depends on what I’d be walking away for.”

“How about something that gives you more autonomy. Something larger and more important than killing ghouls and hunting raiders in an FOB on the frontier. Something that gets you away from all the mickey-mouse bullshit a regular soldier puts up with and allows you the freedom to exercise your own judgment and carry out missions as you see fit.”

Hicks’ eyes glittered. “What did you have in mind, sir?”

Time to show my hand
, Jacobs thought. “First, let’s go over your history.” He opened Hick’s personnel file. “Your father was Sergeant First Class Joseph Hicks, a former Delta operator.”

Jacobs glanced up to see what effect the pronouncement had. Hicks’ face remained impassive.
Probably knew we’d figure that out sooner or later
.

“Judging by your birthday,” Jacobs went on, “you were born late in his career, shortly before he retired. We have no records of you or him for a few years after your mother passed away. According to her death certificate, she passed during childbirth.”

Another check for reaction. Hicks showed none.
Figures. This is all stuff anyone could find in the Archive with a little digging.

“At the age of five, you showed up in Houston, Texas. Your father remarried and took a job at a company called Black Wolf Tactical. Your parents home schooled you. You finished your high school requirements two weeks before the Outbreak.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“After the Outbreak, you showed up again in Colorado Springs. Worked for the city for a while, then took a job with a salvage outfit. Seems you amassed quite a little fortune for yourself. But then it all went bad. Your common law wife, Sophia Holden, passed away due to complications from childbirth. The child didn’t make it.”

Finally, Hicks’ façade cracked. He swallowed and looked down for a moment. When his eyes came back up, there was a hint of anger. “There a point to all this, sir?”

“I’m getting to it, Sergeant. Afterward, you had several arrests for vagrancy and public intoxication. There was an altercation with a rather famous individual, Mr. Tyrel Jennings, founder and CEO of the Blackthorn Security Company. Didn’t go too well for you. Says here you had to be treated for a mild concussion. Then, a few months later, you were arrested and charged with felony assault. Put a man in the hospital. Messed him up pretty bad.”

Hicks stared and said nothing.

“Judge gave you a choice. Labor camp, or the Army.”

A nod.

“And you chose the Army. Smart decision, if you ask me. I’ve seen those labor camps. Wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

No response.

“There are a few other things I’ve pieced together,” Jacobs continued. “According to the M&D list, there were three people associated with you that passed away between you leaving Houston and arriving in Colorado Springs. Blake Smith, a co-worker of your father’s at Black Wolf Tactical, your father himself, and your stepmother, Lauren Hicks.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Hicks’ anger had passed like a cloud’s shadow on the plains. His face was once again calm and impassive. Jacobs was impressed. He thought again about what his job required of him, and what he was about to say to this young man, and felt a surge of regret.

“For what it’s worth,” he said with genuine sympathy, “I’m sorry about your wife and child and your parents. And anyone else you lost, for that matter. My wife and my daughters…”

Jacobs suddenly found he could not speak.

“The Outbreak,” Hicks said.

Jacobs nodded.

“We have that in common, then.”

“Us and the whole damn world,” Jacobs said, his voice rough.

They sat together in silence a few moments, an understanding passing between them. Jacobs cleared his throat and closed Hicks’ file.

“I’m no detective,” the general said, “but I’d like to run a few theories by you.”

Hicks stared.

“It has occurred to me that you possess skills far in advance of any infantry grunt I’ve encountered in my long career in the Army. And I’m not the only one who has noticed this. Yet you seem to go out of your way to downplay your abilities.”

A shrug.

“Any reason why?”

“I don’t like to make waves, sir. There’s an old Japanese saying:
The nail that sticks out gets hammered down
.”

Jacobs chuckled. “If only more people followed that wisdom. Son, I’ll level with you. I don’t think you’re lying to me, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

He waited for Hicks to respond. And, of course, he didn’t. So Jacobs forged ahead.

“The first thing that stands out to me is the list of people your father worked with at Black Wolf Tactical. Tyrel Jennings and Blake Smith, for instance. A former SEAL and a Green Beret, respectively. Jennings arrived here at the Springs in an Army convoy two weeks before you did and filed a notice with the registry at the Intake Center. Put down a deposit to have a runner notify him if the names of you, your father, Sophia Holden, Blake Smith, or Michael Holden showed up there or on the missing and deceased list. Not long after that, Michael Holden left town and you and Tyrel Jennings became coworkers.”

He gave Hicks a searching look. Still nothing.

“Obviously, none of these things are coincidence. So here’s what I think happened. You knew Michael Holden, Tyrel Jennings, and Blake Smith since you were a little boy. Your father worked with them and they became close friends. You were home schooled, which left you with plenty of free time and gave your parents a great deal of flexibility as to how you spent that time. Furthermore, from what I understand of the training facilities at Black Wolf Tactical, they were the best a person could hope to find outside the special operations community. How am I doing so far?”

Hicks shrugged. “All factually correct, sir.”

“Indeed. Now, what I’m going to say next is pure conjecture, so I don’t expect you to confirm or deny it. But here’s my theory. I think you were trained by some of the best special warfare operators the military ever produced. I think you started that training before you were old enough to read. If I’m right about that, then you spent your formative years with a gun in your hand and with access to top notch training facilities and instructors the envy of any spec-ops program. You learned marksmanship, unarmed combat, explosives, edged weapons, tactics and strategy, fieldcraft, infiltration and evasion, close quarters combat, and God only knows what else.”

Jacobs paused. Hicks’ blue eyes were as cold and empty as a winter sky. The only sound in the room was the gentle rattle of the air conditioner. 

“I’ve heard people spout conspiracy theories about the government kidnapping orphans and training them to be super solders. All ridiculous, or course, but a fascinating concept nonetheless. Except I don’t think you’re a concept, Sergeant Hicks. Nor do I think you’re a conspiracy theory. I think you’re the real thing. A man trained virtually from birth to be something extraordinary. And as impressed as I’ve been with what I’ve seen from you so far, I think we’ve only scratched the surface.”