The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel (8 page)

Lieutenant Jonas was not surprised.

“You have a way of sticking your nose into things, don’t you?” he asked Eric. The old soldier stood at the north gate, his platoon in ranks behind him waiting for the guards to let them out.

Caleb stood out of the saddle and stepped down, followed closely by Riordan as he walked over to his platoon CO. Jonas directed his disapproving gaze in Caleb’s direction. “How’d he Shanghai you into this?”

Caleb stepped close and kept his voice low. “Probably best if I don’t say it publicly, sir.”

The lieutenant paled visibly. He was a good man and a fine soldier, but he had a weakness for games of chance. It was a character flaw he worked hard to conceal from those higher up in the chain of command. By his expression, Caleb could tell that was the first place his thoughts went.

“Very well, Specialist. Fall in with your squad.”

Caleb walked a few steps behind his CO, then stopped to watch and listen. Lt. Jonas didn’t notice, his attention turning to Deputy Reid. “Quentin, I don’t suppose you’d mind running our horse back up to HQ?”

The young man shook his head. “Not at all. I’ll leave a note with the disbursing clerk.”

“Very well.” Jonas shifted his attention to Eric. “Something I can do for you?”

“Going on a salvage run today. Thought I’d bring Delta Squad along. Standard fee.”

Jonas shook his head. “Afraid not, Mr. Riordan. Word came down from General Kyle himself. We’re to report to company HQ and await orders.”

“What about the guys from the Ninth?”

“Them too. Lieutenant Cohen just sent a wagon for Sanchez’s men a few minutes ago.”

Eric put his hands on his hips and leaned closer. “Come on, you can spare one squad, can’t you? I got the transport for the next two days, but I can’t do a salvage run on my own.”

The lieutenant shook his head again. “It’s out of my hands. Orders are orders. Maybe you can hire a few guardsmen.”

Caleb watched Eric stare at the ground for a moment, gears turning behind calculating eyes. “Okay,” he said finally. “How about I tag along? You’ve hired me as a contractor before, scout work and such. Captain Harlow knows me. Just tell him I offered to help out.”

“He’s pretty tight about our budget. I can’t afford to hire you right now.”

“I’ll waive my fee, then.”

Jonas thought it over. “I don’t suppose you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”

Eric shrugged, expression neutral. “Thomas Edison once said opportunity is missed by most people because it’s dressed in overalls and looks like work.”

The old soldier laughed. “All right then. Fall in with Delta, but keep a low profile.”

“Will do.” Eric gave Caleb a wink as he stepped past the lieutenant and walked with him toward his squad.

“Nicely done,” Caleb said.

Eric suddenly grew serious. “Anything dangerous enough to require the attention of all of Echo Company and the Ninth TVM is something the people of Hollow Rock need to know about.”

Caleb said nothing as the gate opened and they marched toward Fort McCray.

*****

As Master Sergeant Ashman called the platoon to a halt, Caleb thought about how well the day had started, and that he should not be surprised the fates had decided to balance the scales to the side of shitty.

On the gravel trail between Hollow Rock and Fort McCray, the path wound down around the back of a heavily wooded hill in defilade from the guards in the towers—meaning they couldn’t see it even with field glasses. Worse, the depression between hills followed the natural contours of the land, making it the path of least resistance for someone on foot.

And the undead, generally speaking, always followed the path of least resistance.

Consequently, every man in First Platoon was on alert, fully aware that if they were going to run into walkers, this was the most likely place. And because Caleb’s day had started out so well, he blamed himself for the bad luck his platoon had just encountered.

Delta Squad was close to the back of the formation, so Caleb’s first indication of the trouble ahead was a not-so-distant chorus of moans and howls. No matter how many times he heard the mourning call of the undead, it still sent a chill down his spine. The men around him groaned in irritation.

“Great,” Holland said. “Just fuckin’ great. This is exactly what we need right now. More walkers.”

“Shut up a minute.” Thompson fluttered his hand impatiently at Holland, two fingers pressed against his radio earpiece. Finally, he took his hand from his ear. “Okay, there’s a big horde up ahead, about three hundred strong, spread out over a few hundred meters in the saddle between this hill and the one leading up to Fort McCray. We’re to fan out fifty meters ahead in standard crescent formation. Rifles only, no SAWs, no grenades.”

“Man, shit.” Cole slid his SAW around to his back and turned toward Caleb. “Mind helpin’ me out?”

Caleb unlashed an M-4 carbine from Cole’s pack and handed it to him. The big man checked the round in the chamber before switching off the safety.

Thompson watched the exchange quietly, then said, “We’re to take position on the far right. Our squad will lead off and get the Rot pointed in our direction. Once we have them bunched, we’ll form a shitpile at a forty meter standoff with Charlie Squad backing us up. Alpha and Bravo will circle ninety degrees from our line of fire and light ‘em up from the left flank. If they start to move around the shitpile, Charlie will leapfrog us and box them in. No matter what, we are to hold position. Any questions?”

Caleb shook his head, along with the other men in his squad. None of what Thompson said was anything new. Every man in First Platoon had fought countless battles with the undead, and the tactics Thompson described were as familiar to them as the grips of their rifles.

“Hey Ethan, what about me?” Eric said, stepping around Cole.

Sgt. Thompson smiled at his old friend, reminding Caleb the two men had known each other since before Thompson joined the Army. “What are you packing?”

Eric slid his state-of-the-art rifle around on its sling and held it up for Thompson to see. “M-6. Law enforcement configuration, ACOG scope, suppressor ready.” He patted the military grade suppressor on his MOLLE vest.

“Ammo?” Thompson asked.

“Two-ten in mags, another hundred boxed up in my pack.”

“LT won’t be able to reimburse you.”

Eric shrugged. “I’ll be all right.”

Thompson nodded. “Fair enough. Fall in with Holland’s fire team; we can always use another marksman. As for the rest of you, once we whittle ‘em down to about a hundred or so, expect to move in with hand weapons. Now, last chance—any questions?”

The young staff sergeant was met with silence.

“All right. Move out.”

Eric fell in behind Caleb as the squad moved into position. When they were halfway down the hill and forty meters from the trail, the horde below came into view. The ghouls noticed First Platoon, sent up a swarm of howls, and began scrambling up the embankment to reach them. In their desperation, they bounced off one another and crawled heedlessly over those who fell. There was no cohesion to the horde, just a mutual desire to sink their teeth into the walking fleshy things up the hill.

Caleb took his usual spot on the far left, unfolded his aiming stick, and balanced the foregrip of his M-4. Eric set up a few feet to his right, sitting down to fire from a seated position. The rest of the squad followed suit until they were a few feet apart, rifles aimed, ready to go to work.

“Standby a minute, fellas,” Thompson called out. “The rest of the platoon is still getting into position.”

Caleb relaxed, stood up straight, and took a few deep breaths. He remembered his earplugs and put them in, grateful it occurred to him before the shooting started. He turned his head and shouted at the other members of his squad to do the same. Cormier, Page, and Fuller cursed softly as they too realized they didn’t have their ears in. Their standard issue M-4 rifles were accurate, reliable weapons, but extremely loud.

Down the slope, the horde drew slowly, inexorably closer. A couple of minutes passed before Thompson’s voice cut the air.

“All are stations in position. Fire at will.”

Caleb leaned over his rifle, picked a target, and centered his ACOG reticle. The walker in his sights was female, clothes long since disintegrated, gaping black wounds visible on her arms, legs, and torso from where other infected had torn into her before she died. Caleb felt a pang of pity for the person she had once been. Judging by her wounds, she had literally been eaten to death.

Hell of a bad way to go.

He let out a breath, squeezed the trigger, and felt the rifle’s recoil. In his sights, a spray of black and red erupted behind the walker, painting the ghouls behind her with matted gore. Her body stiffened, gave a final shudder, and fell.

One down, about seven billion to go.

Despite the earplugs, the gunfire to his right was still very loud. He ignored the noise and kept firing, heartbeat steady, posture relaxed, leaning into his weapon, feet braced, a slight bend in the knees, the movements as familiar as breathing. It would have been easy to pick up the pace and drop walkers at double his current rate, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His father’s words came back to him, always compelling despite the passage of years:

Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb. People will try to make a tool out of you. Bend you to their will. If they can’t win you over with charm, they’ll find some leverage, some way to hurt you. They will try to own you. Believe me, son. I know.

In the early days after joining the Army, he had shown off a few times. Couldn’t help himself. He had used his tracking and marksmanship skills to hunt game and supplement his platoon’s meager rations with fresh meat. It had won him many friends, but had also attracted the attention of Lieutenant Jonas.

While standing watch one night, eyes searching the forest around him for walkers, ears straining for footsteps, he heard the old soldier approaching. The lieutenant was trying to be stealthy, but he was as loud as thunder compared to Caleb’s father.

Caleb knew who it was by the tread, but because the night was pitch dark, he was expected to call out a challenge to anyone approaching the camp. When Jonas was close enough to hear him, he whispered, “Mockingbird.”

Jonas answered with the appropriate pre-arranged response. “Fireball.”

“Approach and be recognized.”

Caleb kept his rifle at the low ready as his CO stepped into sight. “Nicely done. You’ve got good ears.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The lieutenant stopped beside him and peered out into the forest. “Everything quiet?”

“Yes sir.”

“Any sign of walkers?”

“No sir.”

Jonas was silent a moment, then said, “Mind if I ask you a personal question, Private Hicks?”

“Sir?”

“Where did you learn how to track and shoot?”

Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb.
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why do you want to know?”

“You stalked a deer on foot today and brought it down with one shot from a 5.56. Any man can shoot like that is wasting himself as a regular infantry grunt. Might be we can find something else for you to do, if you’re up to it.”

Caleb looked down and shuffled his feet. “I don’t know, sir. I feel like I still have a lot to learn.”

The lieutenant nodded. “No pressure, son. Just thought I’d bring it up. Give you something to think about.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, right. My dad used to take me hunting a lot. Taught me how to recognize tracks, read terrain, find breaks in foliage, that sort of thing.”

“Hm. Your old man must have been a hell of a hunter.”

“Yes sir. He was.”

Jonas hadn’t bothered him about it since, but if Ashman’s prediction of his forthcoming promotion was correct, Caleb figured it was only a matter of time.

Nothing I can do about it right now. Worry about it when it happens, not before.

Caleb kept firing until his magazine ran out, reloaded, and began firing again. Despite the toll his squad’s rifles were taking, the bulk of the horde was still making progress up the hill. The walkers had bunched into a single mass, attracted by the cacophony of noise echoing above them—exactly what Delta Squad wanted them to do. The ones with fewer mechanical injuries outpaced their more tattered brethren, causing the horde to coalesce into the now-familiar teardrop shape. Caleb aimed his fire along their left flank, causing ripples in the horde where ghouls stepped over the bodies of their fellow undead. In his peripheral vision, he saw Thompson had stopped firing and was squinting into the eyepiece of a handheld rangefinder.

“All right,” he shouted over the noise. “They reached standoff range. Start piling ‘em up.” He then said a few quick words into his radio, stashed the rangefinder on his vest, and began firing again.