The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel (2 page)

There were none.

“Let’s move out.”

Cole looked over at Hicks and grinned, his white teeth contrasting starkly with his dark brown skin. “Let’s do this.” He held out a huge fist, which Hicks bumped with his own. The young soldier felt the old familiar anticipation begin to course through him.

“You know me, brother. I live for this shit.” 

The only reason Holland was Delta Squad’s designated marksman was because Hicks had never volunteered for the task.

Holland was well aware Hicks was the superior rifleman, but kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want to lose the prestige of his position. Despite this, from time to time, Hicks found it necessary to flex his muscle on the subject.

Walking out on point, he peered through the scope of Holland’s sniper carbine—which he had traded for his M-4—and held a closed fist over his shoulder. The men behind him repeated the gesture until the recon detail came to a halt. Hicks turned slowly and made a few hand signals toward Sgt. Kelly.

Possible hostiles sighted. Hundred meters ahead. Dug in.

Kelly raised his hands.
How many?

Three fire teams. Two straight ahead, one to the east.

Kelly acknowledged, carefully backed off until he felt confident he would not be overheard by the enemy, then keyed his radio and relayed Hicks’ information to Lt. Jonas.

“Very well,” Jonas said. “I’ll have First Platoon switch directions and cut them off to the west. You circle around eastward and make contact. Remember our ROE: do not fire unless fired upon. Over.”

“All right, you heard the man,” Kelly said over the radio. “Maintain the line, but swing it around eastward. We’ll come at them from behind. Be on the lookout, fellas, there could be more of them out there. And don’t forget to keep your eyes peeled for walkers. Two clicks to acknowledge, and for God’s sake, maintain protocol.”

Hicks listened to the clicking of radios until it was his turn, then pressed the button twice. When all fire teams had checked in, Kelly gave the order to advance.

Hicks threaded his way silently through the forest, Cole’s heavy footsteps close by. The big gunner stayed behind Hicks and a few meters to his right, scanning the forest with his SAW light machine gun. Hicks led the team on a wide arc behind the hostiles, moving within a hundred meters of the farthest targets and taking position under a cluster of cedars. He and Cole dropped to their bellies, positioned their weapons, and waited.

A few minutes later, the fire teams behind them moved into position and began passing signals down the line. Not for the first time, Hicks was grateful there weren’t many new people in Echo Company. All of the men on the recon detail were experienced veterans, many of them with pre-Outbreak combat experience. They moved swiftly and efficiently, staying low and quiet. There was no arguing or confusion. These soldiers knew the importance of stealth when closing in on an enemy position. One wrong footfall, one cough or sneeze, one dropped rifle, and the element of surprise would be lost. No one wanted that, and they were appropriately careful.

Hicks watched the other fire teams pick targets and signal each other their lanes of fire. Since he and Cole were on point, they were covering the easternmost group of targets with Holland and Fuller providing crossfire.

As he lay silently among the husks of dead cedar boughs, right eye an inch away from his scope, Hicks heard his radio crackle in his ear. “All stations in position,” Kelly whispered. “Remember, fingers off the trigger until they give us a reason to shoot. Engaging now. Stand by.”

From the corner of his eye, Hicks saw Kelly stand up and level his rifle. “You’re surrounded,” he shouted, voice echoing down the embankment. “Stand up and put your hands over your head. Do it now!”

One of the bundled shapes ahead of him responded by rolling over onto its back and opening fire in Kelly’s direction. The veteran sergeant dropped to his belly and returned fire as the men around him let loose with their M-4s. The offending gunman died in a hail of bullets, a few stray rounds striking the man next to him and eliciting an agonized scream.

“Okay, he’s down. Cease fire,” Kelly said calmly over the radio. The chatter of rifles ceased.

Kelly shouted, “Unless the rest of you want to die too, I strongly suggest you stand up and keep your hands where I can see them.

A moment passed as the gunmen looked around and realized how badly outnumbered they were. Heated whispers passed between them.

“We don’t have all day, kids,” Kelly said. “I’m going to count to five, and then my men are going to open fire. One. Two. Three-”

“All right!” a voice shouted. “We surrender. Everyone, on your feet.”

The remaining insurgents obeyed the command, rising to their feet and raising their hands.

“Move in, but be careful,” Kelly radioed. “If they try anything, shoot them.”

Hicks, Cole, Holland, and Fuller approached the two men nearest them. Hicks pointed at the man on his left. “Step that way until I tell you to stop,” he said.

The man complied, his ghillie suit dragging the ground in his wake. When he was far enough away from his companion, Hicks ordered him to a halt.

“Turn around and put your hands on top of your head. Good. Now get down on your knees and cross your ankles.” He moved forward until the barrel of his carbine was a few inches from the insurgent’s head, then nodded to Cole. The big man slung his SAW behind his back before quickly and firmly zip-tying the gunman’s hands. Holland and Fuller did the same with their prisoner.

Kelly keyed his radio and told the recon detail where to bring the detainees. Hicks kept his gun trained on the back of the insurgent’s head as they marched him over and ordered him to sit. Two other fire teams brought his surviving comrades to join him.

“What about those two,” Kelly asked, pointing in the direction of the men who had been shot.

One of the SAW gunners from Second Platoon shook his head. “Sorry, Sergeant. Both dead. The guy that shot at you looks like Swiss cheese, and the other guy took a bullet to the femoral artery. Bled out before we could do anything about it.”

Kelly let out a sigh. “Oh well. Two less assholes in the world.” He looked over at Hicks and punched him in the arm.

“Man, those guys were camouflaged like a motherfucker. How’d you spot ‘em?”

Hicks pointed behind him. “Picked up their trail while I was out on point. Saw there were at least six of them, passed through not long ago. So I asked myself where would I set up if I wanted to use walkers as a distraction and snipe me some federal types. I’ll give ‘em credit, though, they picked a good spot.”

Kelly looked in the direction the insurgents had been aiming and stepped closer to the treeline. There was a low knot of dense vegetation where the field met the forest, and then a broad, flat plain beyond. He knelt to stare through the brush at the undulating knot of infected pressed against the south wall.

“I see what you mean,” he said. “If First Platoon and the Ninth had set up in that field, those assholes would have had them dead to rights.” He cast an angry glare toward the prisoners. “Sneaky fucks.”

“Well, we stopped them,” Hicks said. “That’s the important thing.”

“Yeah.” Kelly inclined his head toward the horde. “Now for the fun part.”

*****

Hicks didn’t need the Y-shaped stand under his weapon’s foregrip, but he didn’t mind using it either.

It was a simple thing, constructed of three lengths of slender, interlocking aluminum pipe with a thin bungee cord holding them together. When not in use, it could be broken down and lashed to his pack, similar to the red and white collapsible canes used by blind people. Every soldier in Echo Company—and the Army, for that matter—had one. They were modular, making them adjustable to a particular soldier’s height. The stands increased accuracy rates so much that Central Command had made them mandatory equipment. 

“You know, Hicks,” Holland said between shots, “you can give my rifle back any time you want.”

Hicks grunted and lined up another shot. The walker in his crosshairs had been a woman once. Her clothes had long since fallen apart, leaving her mottled gray skin exposed to the elements. Only her back was visible, but Hicks could tell she had been attractive when she was still alive. Early twenties, slim physique, well-muscled legs and buttocks, probably a runner or a fitness nut. He squeezed the trigger, felt a light jolt against his shoulder, and the walker fell.

“I don’t know, I kinda like it,” Hicks said. “It’s a little heavier than my M-4, but the extra weight reduces recoil. Scope’s not too bad either.”

“Very funny.” Holland shifted his aim, let out a breath, and fired another shot. “You want to take my job, go right ahead. I’m tired of crawling around in the dirt anyway.”

Hicks let out a sigh and raised his right hand. A militiaman behind him tapped him on the shoulder and took his place on the firing line. Holland followed suit.

“Here,” Hicks held the sniper carbine at arm’s length. Holland took it and gave Hicks back his M-4.

“Thanks,” Holland said. He looked toward the line of soldiers firing upon the horde forty meters in the distance. “I’m still pissed at you for fucking up my hand, but I have to admit that was good work you did earlier. You’re a hell of a tracker.”

“Thanks.” Hicks slapped him on the arm. “You might be annoying as hell, but you’re a good man to have around in a fight.”

Holland grinned. “Fuck you.”

Both men jumped a little when they heard Sergeant Ashman’s voice amplified by a bullhorn. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Weapons safe on the firing line!”

“Fuck me running,” Holland mumbled.

The next command was predictable. “Draw hand weapons and prepare to advance.”

“Here we go.” Holland drew his twin tomahawks and gave them a little twirl. Hicks reached over his shoulder and grasped the handle of his short, heavy bladed spear and drew it from its makeshift leather-and-para-cord sheath. Ahead of them, Cole stepped away from the firing line and gave his massive bar mace a few warm-up swings.

The commanding officer of Second Platoon turned to his men and raised his bullhorn. “Draw blades!”

Second Platoon, who had spent the winter exterminating infected in Kansas, all drew the Army’s new standard issue melee weapon: the MK 9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. It consisted of a heavy twenty-inch blade forged from high-carbon steel, similar in shape to a bolo machete, and a twelve-inch plastic composite handle.

Designed to be wielded two-handed, the MK 9s could split a walker’s head in twain with a single overhead chop. Hicks had seen them put to hard use many times, and although he preferred his spear, he had to admit the big, ugly weapons were effective.

He watched Second Platoon warm up for a few moments, then turned to Holland. “Stay behind me and to my right,” he said. “Make sure any walkers you kill fall away from me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Same thing we always do.”

“Makes me feel better to say it.”

To his left, Hicks saw Ashman raise his bullhorn. “Drop your gear except hand weapons and water. I don’t want to see anyone with a rifle except squad leaders. Don’t forget to don your gloves and PPE. When the fighting starts, make sure you pace yourselves. Remember to take long, deep breaths. We’re in for a long fight, boys, so be smart and look out for each other.”

Hicks and the other men in First Platoon put on goggles and wrapped thick scarves around their mouths and noses. Second Platoon switched from their Kevlar helmets to the Army’s new plastic helmets designed specifically for fighting revenants. Hicks thought they looked like the offspring of an aviation helmet and a plastic face shield, and from everything he had heard, they were horrifically uncomfortable. Hicks preferred the scarf-and-goggles method.

One of the Army’s new innovations he did like, however, were his armored gloves. Sewn from dense nylon with hard plastic plates woven around the knuckles and forearms, they extended from his fingertips all the way past his elbows and had a Velcro strap at the top to secure them in place.

The Army, after conducting research to assess how they could better protect troops from revenant bites, had discovered over ninety percent of bites were inflicted on the hands and forearms. Subsequently, after using one of their few remaining manufacturing facilities to turn out over a hundred thousand pairs of armored gloves, the casualty rates directly attributable to walker attacks fell to a fraction of what they had been before. Hicks flexed his hands a few times to loosen them up, adjusted the position of his plastic armor, and double-checked the straps above his elbows.

Good to go
.

“All right,” Ashman shouted, holding his custom-forged zveihänder over his head, poised for a skull-splitting chop. “Form up.”

Hicks ceased his warm-up routine and fell in line. Cole stood to his left, Holland to his right. He brought his spear to the ready position and adjusted his stance, weight centered over the balls of his feet, legs braced at the proper angle.

The people on the catwalk in the distance continued beating pots and pans together and shouting at the infected, keeping them packed against the wall. Ashman stepped in front of the platoon, raised his sword, and opened his mouth to give the order to advance. But before he could, Lt. Jonas’ voice cut across the field.

“Hold up, Sergeant,” he shouted, radio in hand. “I have a better idea.”

Ashman, somewhat crestfallen, lowered his sword. Hicks watched him walk over to their CO before turning his attention back to the wall.