James N. Cook's Blog

Absolute Zero: Surviving the Dead 10 – Chapter One

On a sweltering August day in the Missouri Ozarks, I heard a tier one operator from Joint Special Operations Command say two words I never thought I would hear again.

“Good dog.”

The German shepherd tugged fiercely at a knotted rope. A JSOC operator, a K-9 trainer recruited by the Phoenix Initiative, tugged back, the dog’s reward for picking up the Chimera’s trail.

It had inadvertently given us the slip in Springfield, where it had lived in peace for the last year or so, feasting on ghouls, wild animals, and when meat was scarce, whatever it could chew up and swallow.

Speaking of which, I had learned along the way that a Chimera’s digestive system is drastically different from any other creature on earth. Rather than passing through a tract, the raw material they consume goes into a stomach full of microorganisms that behave almost like nano-machines, breaking down and transporting amino acids and minerals. The creature’s respiration, rather than a heartbeat, moves the sluggish blood in its veins, allowing the nano-microbes to do their work. What little food the Chimera’s body does not use comes right back out the same hole it went in.

“They literally shit out of their mouths,” Hahn said, wrinkling her nose at the puddle of Chimera vomit at her feet. “Fucking stinks.”

“Yours doesn’t smell so great either,” Muir said, watching the dog tussle with its trainer.

Hahn gave him a daggered glare, but otherwise did not rise to the bait.

“You about done over there?” I called to the JSOC guy. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”

He glanced up at me, frowned, and gave a command for the dog to release the rope. The word was in Welsh, a language I don’t speak, and sounded like rid-dah.

A crash of vegetation alerted me to the return of my scout. I watched his horse weave through trees and step over fallen limbs as it approached. I thought of Red, the horse I bought years ago in Tennessee and later sold, and wondered what he was up to these days.

“The way ahead is clear,” the scout, Santiago, said, reining his horse to a stop. “Whatever ghouls were out there took off when the Chimera showed up.”

The kid was lean, average height, and possessed the hard, whipcord muscle of a man who lived his life on the trail. He had spent his early years working his family’s ranch in Brazil before emigrating to the States as a teenager. He could track better than anyone I knew, handled a horse like a rodeo showman, and was one of only a dozen or so Blackthorn scouts with no military or law enforcement experience.

“That dog ready to hunt?” I asked Schultz, the JSOC guy. He picked up a bundle of leaves from where the Chimera had slept and held it to the dog’s nose.

“Hela,” he said.

The dog, whose name was Taco, huffed at the leaves, rumbled low in its throat, and started sniffing the ground. After a few seconds, it set off at a trot, nose to the forest floor. Schultz untied his horse from the tree it was tethered to, swung into the saddle, and followed.

I rode after him with Hahn, Muir, and four Blackthorns in tow. The Blackthorns were from what the company called the Ranger Regiment, men who specialized in traveling long distances on horseback and living off the land. They were fighters, hunters, trackers, and reconnaissance specialists, some of them former Runners looking for steady employment, others military veterans who had learned survival the hard way after the Outbreak.

We followed Taco for what seemed like forever but was probably not more than a couple of miles. Taco stopped a few times when he lost the trail and a few more when he sniffed something he could not resist the urge to piss on. Finally, he slowed, growled, and sat down, snout pointing down a steep hillside.

Schultz dismounted, motioned for the rest of us to be quiet, and knelt next to Taco. From his tactical vest, he removed a small pair of binoculars and peered down the hill. A minute passed before he got Taco’s attention by whispering to him. The dog walked close at Schultz’s heels as he came over.

I dismounted so Schultz could keep his voice down. When I leaned close, he said, “It’s in the saddle between these hills.”

Looking down the hillside, I saw nothing but trees and brush. “Where?” I asked.

He handed me the binoculars and told me where to look. It took a few seconds, but finally I saw it lounging in a tangle of brambles and vines at the bottom of the hill. The Chimera was small by the standards of its kind, only about fourteen feet from its armored snout to the tip of its barbed tail. But saying it was small for a Chimera is like saying seven feet is small for a great white shark.

Another concern was the nature of the beast itself. The fact we were chasing it did not mean it was running from us. It was most likely pursuing some unfortunate forest critter and stopped because it had caught it, eaten it, and was now digesting. If it detected our presence, it would not hesitate to attack. Chimeras are smarter than other varieties of undead, but at the end of the day, they’re still ghouls. They fear nothing and will kill anything that looks like food. If we wanted to take it down, we were going to have to surprise it.

“We’ll draw it in,” I said, after motioning the others to dismount and gather around. “Muir, Hahn, take the claymores and go to the northern pass. Set the mines and clear out. Santiago, I want you and Beck on the fifty-cal. Set up on the eastern ridge, but stay low and quiet. If the claymores don’t take it down, or if it veers off, light it up. If you get a clean shot, disable its hind legs. Schultz, I want you to hang back with Taco and keep eyes on the Chimera. Take a LAW and keep your radio on. Earpiece only. I don’t want that thing hearing you.”

Schultz rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. This ain’t my first hunt.”

I turned my head and spoke flatly. “You think because you don’t work for me, I won’t slap the taste out of your mouth?”

He paled and sputtered, mouth working around words that wouldn’t form. I cut him some slack and said, “What did I ask you to do?”

“Take a LAW and keep eyes on the Chimera.”

“And keep Taco quiet. Last thing we need is an ill-timed bark fucking up the plan.”

He nodded, face reddening. I turned to my Blackthorns. “Reese, Finch, you two take a couple of LAWs each and set up on the western ridge.”

“Bit of a hike,” Reese said, looking westward. He was tall and lean, mid-thirties, with pale hazel eyes and dark hair. Four years with the Runners had taught him how to evade detection by both the living and the dead, and he was one of my best recon scouts. He spoke rarely, and when he did, got straight to the point.

“We’ll need to skirt wide around the Chimera,” he continued.

“We’ll give you a fifteen-minute head start before we kick things off,” I said. “That enough?”

Reese glanced at Finch, who thought a moment and nodded. Finch, for his part, was short, skinny, and peered out at the world through a mess of graying hair and a thick beard. He and Reese had been partners as Runners and had signed on with the Blackthorns as a package deal.

“Yeah. That should be good,” Finch said.

“Get to it,” I said. “Everybody else, gear up and stand by.”

“Who’s going to bait the Chimera?” Muir said, dark eyes narrowed as he stared at me.

“You’re looking at him.”

Muir shook his head. “Negative. Let me. I’ve done this before. I know how to stay ahead of it.”

I opened my mouth to refuse, but Hahn spoke up.

“He’s right,” she said. “You’re tough as nails, Garrett, but Alex is younger and faster.”

“He might be younger than me, but I’m the better horseman,” I said. Even to my own ears, the argument sounded weak.

“I’m good enough,” Muir said. “And besides, if you go down, the team will be without a leader.”

“If I go down, Lieutenant Reese takes over. He’s the ranking Blackthorn after me.”

“Boss,” Reese said, “I think you should take their advice. Muir does this for a living. Let him do his job.”

“You have a family,” Finch chimed in. “Muir doesn’t. No offense.”

“None taken,” Muir said, still watching me.

I looked from person to person and saw heads nodding slowly and expressions showing agreement. Sighing, I decided Muir had a point.

“Fine. I’ll help Hahn set up the claymores. Muir will draw out the Chimera. Reese, Finch, get a move on. The rest of you, set up your stations.”

The team began retrieving gear from the three pack mules we had brought along. Beck, a big Marine from Alabama, took down a Browning M2 while Santiago untied the machine gun’s tripod. Each man set off with his part of the gun and a box of ammo. The gun weighed over eighty pounds by itself, with each box of ammo tipping the scales at around thirty-five. The old M122 tripod added another sixteen pounds to the rig. Beck carried the M2 over one brawny shoulder while his other hand lugged the ammo, the muscles in his arms standing out like ropes beneath dark brown skin. Neither Beck nor Santiago seemed slowed by their burdens.

Oh, to be young again.

Reese removed the crate of LAWs from its harness on a mule’s back and began handing them out. I slung one across my shoulders just in case and untied a bag of claymores. The mines could be set up on trip wires or a remote detonator, but Hahn had informed me at the beginning of the mission that due to a Chimera’s bounding stride, trip wires didn’t always work. We would be better off with the remote.

I had hunted Chimeras before, but never taken one with claymores. In an ideal world, we’d report our quarry’s location to an Apache gunship and watch the pilot send a Hellfire missile up its ass, but the densely wooded Ozark terrain made that impossible. Nonetheless, if the mines failed, I was confident the fifty-cal and rocket launchers would be enough to get the job done.

I packed half the claymores and gave the rest to Hahn. We passed Santiago and Beck on the way to the northern part of the narrow valley. Beck had mounted the M2 on its tripod and Santiago sat on a short folding stool loading an ammo belt into the weapon. They were in a good position to rain hell on the Chimera if it ran north along the valley floor. ‘If’ being the operative word.

I knelt next to them before leaving and whispered, “Wait until the chase starts to chamber the first round. Copy?”

Beck nodded silently, sweat glistening on his shaved head. Santiago answered with a yes sir and a crease at the corner of his mouth. I knew I wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, but it made me feel better to say it. I did that a lot, reminding my men of things beaten into their heads a thousand times. When I did, the looks I got were mixed messages of what an asshole and good looking out, old man. I didn’t care so long as my guys didn’t do anything stupid and get themselves killed. If being an overbearing prick was the price I paid for that, so be it.

Beck and Santiago kept working slowly and carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. Hahn and I did the same as we made our way northward for half a kilometer, then began descending the hill to the valley floor. She set up her mines on the eastern side, and when hers were set, I rigged mine in a staggered pattern on the opposite edge. When the time came, I would use a sequential radio-frequency triggering system provided by the Phoenix Initiative, one remote trigger for each side. Hahn wrapped a rubber band around the handle of her detonator so I would not confuse the issue. I did not bother telling her my eidetic memory, which had not yet faded to my advancing years, made that impossible.

Each press on either device would trip the mine farthest away first, then closer with each additional trigger. As fast as Chimeras could move, I knew I would have to be quick if I wanted to disable it. We would use as much ordnance as we needed, but since this was government gear and not something purchased by BSC, I’d have to justify it on my expense report. The less we expended, the better. Not just because I hate paperwork, but because the government’s supplies were not limitless, and eight years of fighting ghouls, marauders, separatists, and even foreign invaders had put a strain on their resources. Great strides had been made restoring the manufacturing capacity of the federal war machine, but some things were still irreplaceable.

I did a comms check and found all stations in position and ready to go. Reese and Finch made it to their firing position far sooner than expected, once again raising my estimation of the duo’s capabilities. With nothing holding us up, I contacted our designated rabbit.

“Muir, Team Lead. You ready? Over.”

“Ready as I’m gonna be, Team Lead. Just say the word.”

“All stations, Team Lead. Stand by for mark. Three, two, one, mark.”

The instant the last word was out of my mouth, I heard a whooping shout as Muir and his mount charged down the hill and reached the valley floor. He had picked his path well, and his horse, a sure-footed Arabian named Percy, had no trouble navigating as it sped down the embankment and sprinted northward.

The Chimera must have been sleeping because it took a few seconds to stand up, sniff the air, and take off toward the sound of Muir’s shouting. I watched through my rifle scope, perched halfway up a hill at my end of the valley. Not for the first time, I was amazed at the speed of these things. Chimeras were not the most graceful runners, but what they lacked in coordination they compensated for with raw power.

Muir’s horse was well trained, but Arabians are known more for endurance than speed. Percy could keep going long after most other horses had collapsed, but it could not out-sprint the Chimera. That said, it didn’t need to. Muir, true to his word, had estimated precisely where he needed to be when the Chimera gave chase. He wanted to be close enough to keep the Chimera’s attention, but not so close he wouldn’t be well ahead when the bombs when off.

“Team Lead, Beck. I have a clear line of fire.”

“Beck, Team Lead. Stand by.”

“Roger that. Standing by.”

I waited a few more seconds. The Chimera closed the distance to Muir, gaining ground with each bounding stride. Muir, for his part, leaned over his horse’s neck with the reins in one hand, teeth bared, legs gripping the saddle hard. His other hand swung a riding crop in a steady rhythm, urging Percy to greater speed. When the Chimera was five strides from overtaking them, I keyed my radio.

“Beck, open fire.”

Rather than answer, Beck sent a stream of fifty-caliber hell streaking down the valley. The heavy, armor-piercing bullets tore up the hillside just behind the Chimera, bursting tree trunks and shattering fallen limbs. Beck used the tracers to find the beast’s rear legs and pummel them with a barrage that shattered the hip joint. The Chimera stumbled and fell with an angry roar, its red-eyed gaze turning up the hill as another burst raked its flank.

“Hey fucker,” Muir shouted. “I’m over here!”

The Chimera’s head snapped around and again focused on Muir. Or, more likely, the large slab of meaty flesh that was his horse. It scrambled up to its three good legs and used its tail to take up the slack for its now useless fourth. Beck opened fire again as the Chimera began running.

“Beck, Team Lead, cease fire, cease fire.”

The fifty-cal went silent. “Copy, Team Lead. Standing by.”

“Keep eyes on it, but don’t shoot. I want it to reach the claymores.”

“Roger that.”

“When the mines go off, hit it with everything you’ve got.”

“Fuckin’ A, Team Lead.”

I smiled a little despite the breach of radio discipline. A strong fighting spirit is a good thing in a soldier and not to be discouraged. Even if it bends the rules here and there.

The Chimera, now slowed by its damaged leg, was keeping up with Muir but not gaining ground. Nevertheless, it plowed doggedly onward, exhibiting the quality that made ghouls so terrifying—their limitless endurance.

Muir approached the northern pass leading out of the valley and toward a clearing beyond. The Chimera could not be allowed to reach that clearing. Here in the valley, we could keep it contained and take it down on our terms. If it reached the clearing, that would be a whole different fight, and not in our favor.

Percy’s iron-shod hooves thrummed against the ground, and I could hear his snorting breath as he pounded forward. He had sensed the danger behind him and was doing what horses did best: running for his life. Muir had stopped swinging the riding crop and now held the reins in both hands, steering Percy away from stumps, large rocks, and deep depressions in the ground. There was a twenty-yard gap between the horse and the Chimera. Not as much as I would have liked, but it was enough.

The Chimera drew level with the first claymore, its taloned feet landing almost dead in front of the mine. I hit the trigger in my left hand. The claymore detonated, a hard clap of explosive cutting the air as hundreds of steel balls ripped into the Chimera’s left flank. The blast made it stumble but did not knock it down. Another stride from the monster brought it close to the second claymore. This time, I hit the trigger in my right hand, and again, the Chimera stumbled.

Beck saw his opportunity and let loose a stream of fire, tracers arcing toward the Chimera’s front leg. The bullets slammed through the creature’s thick plating and tore into the bones holding its shoulder together. It pitched forward onto its right side and sent up a warbling, prehistoric shriek of frustration.

“Finch, Reese, weapons free,” I said over the radio. “Aim for its tail.”

Taking out its legs would have slowed it more, but hard experience had taught me a Chimera’s most deadly weapon, even more than its claws and fangs, was the lashing, razor sharp barb at the end of its tail. Rather than looking like a scorpion’s stinger, a Chimera’s barb is shaped like a jagged, saw-toothed spear. On this one, the barb was over a foot long, more than enough to eviscerate any flesh it encountered.

“All stations, firing one,” Reese said over the radio. Half a second later, a LAW rocket streaked down the hillside and struck the Chimera in the back just above the tail. From my position, watching through a scope, I saw the force of the blast sever the Chimera’s main weapon and send it flying up the hill.

“Nice shot Reese. Finch, go for the head.”

“Roger that. Firing two.”

Another rocket screamed down the valley and struck the Chimera in the shoulder, disabling the leg connected to it and blasting out a chunk of its neck the size of a boulder. The Chimera lay stunned for a moment, then tried to stand on its one remaining rear leg, which as luck would have it, was right in front of a claymore. Not wasting any time, I told the team to hold position and triggered the mine. The blast kicked up a storm of fallen leaves, dirt, and debris, and when the smoke cleared, the Chimera was a disabled torso with its head only halfway attached.

At this point, Muir brought Percy to a halt and sat at the end of the valley, watching. His hand came up and keyed his radio.

“Looks like it’s down, Team Lead.”

“Beck,” I said over comms, “turn that fucker’s head into a puddle.”

“With pleasure, Team Lead.”

“Belay that order,” Muir said.

I paused, not quite believing what I was hearing. “Muir, Team Lead. What’s the problem? Over.”

Hahn’s voice came over the radio. “You know exactly what the problem is, Gabe. Don’t kill it. The recovery team is standing by.”

“Seriously?” I said, incredulous. I had been afraid this was going to happen. “You saw what that thing did. You want to let it live?”   

Hahn stood up from behind a fallen log and walked over.

“What the fuck?” I said when she was close.

She let out a sigh. “We need it alive.”

“Bullshit,” I said, my face growing hot. “That thing wiped out an entire settlement. Fucking women and children, Hahn.”

“I know, Gabe. But we’re not here for revenge.”

“Maybe you’re not.”

A frown. “You were briefed on the mission, same as me. You know why we’re here.”

“That was before the mission. Things change.”

“Not for me, they haven’t. And not for you either.”

“Last I checked, I don’t answer to you.”

Her eyes hardened. “Do you know how many wild Chimeras the lab has studied?”

The change of tactic caught me off guard, and Hahn saw it. I stared her in the eye and felt my jaw twitch but did not answer. Not that I didn’t know the answer. I did. But being the stubborn old bastard I am, I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of hearing me say it.

“None, Gabe. Zero. Not one. We’ve never caught one alive.”

Still, I said nothing.

“We don’t know why some ghouls turn into Draugr, and some don’t. We don’t know why some Draugr turn into Chimeras, and some don’t. In the lab, they all turn eventually. Out here,” she gestured at the surrounding forest, “things are different. And the more we know about why these things do what they do, the better we can fight them.”

“We already know how to fight them.”

Hahn made a frustrated noise and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “Sure. Well-armed teams of government exterminators can kill them. But not everyone has access to the weapons and equipment we do. Most communities are low on ammo and scared shitless. The people at Barton tried to fight that thing with Molotovs and pipe bombs. It didn’t work. We need to figure out a way to kill Chimeras that doesn’t require a fortune in ordnance, and we need to do it fast. That won’t happen if unless we study one that evolved in the wild.”

Everything she was saying was true, and I knew it. At the same time, every instinct in my body was screaming at me to tell Hahn to fuck off, take the LAW off my back, and send that armored nightmare to its final rest. I closed my eyes and heaved a deep breath, counting backward from ten. When I opened my eyes again, Hahn was watching me worriedly.

I reached up and keyed my radio. “Beck, Team Lead, how copy?”

“Lima Charlie, Team Lead.”

I imagined Beck hunched over the weapon, hands poised, waiting for the order to fire. Instead of giving it, I lowered my hand and looked at the Chimera. Hahn knew if I gave the order, my Blackthorns would follow it without question. I, however, knew if I gave the order, I would be doing more harm than good. Nevertheless, the urge to end the Chimera’s existence was like a siren blaring in the back of my skull.

“Don’t do it, Gabe,” Hahn said, stepping closer until she was less than a foot away. She smelled like sweat and dirt, and I noticed there was a broken leaf stuck in her close-cropped hair. At six feet tall, she had to crane her neck upward to look me in the eye. I moved my gaze to the blue tattoo on the left side of her head, just above the ear. It depicted a skull flanked by wings with something crossed below it and a curled banner that read HELLBREAKERS.

When I didn’t answer, Hahn said, “You have tactical command, but only one of us has federal jurisdiction here, and it ain’t you. Stand down, Gabe.”

I reached up, still staring at the fallen Chimera, and tapped a finger against the radio.

“If you kill it, you’ll be in breach of your contract. You won’t get paid, and neither will your men.”

That got my attention, but not in the way Hahn expected. My lips curled back from my teeth.

“You think I care about the damn money?”

Hahn looked away, closed her eyes, and let out a breath. Looking up again, she said, “No, and I’m sorry I said that. Still, the fact remains. You kill that Chimera, and it’s going to cause you a whole world of trouble.”

Again, everything she said was true. I was letting my emotions get the best of me. There was a time when that would not have happened. I would have been cold and calculating and stuck to the mission parameters. The old Gabe, the Gabe of my youth, would have shrugged and wished Hahn good luck hauling the Chimera back to Colorado. A distant voice asked me why I was not behaving that way now, and I couldn’t come up with an answer that felt like the truth.

“Fine,” I said, and keyed the radio. “All stations, Team Lead. Stand down. I say again, stand down.”

A chorus of copy that, Team Lead paraded through my earpiece. Hahn put her hands on her hips and let out the breath she had been holding.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Good luck with that thing,” I said, pointing. “My people have fulfilled our contract. The rest is your problem.”

With that, I pushed past Hahn and began striding toward the opposite hill. On the way, I radioed Reese and Finch to rendezvous where we had left the horses. When I was done, I heard Hahn’s footsteps behind me.

“Gabe, wait.”

I said nothing and kept walking. After another twenty feet, the footsteps stopped.

“Gabe…”

No response. I climbed the hill, gathered my men, and together, we rode east.

Excerpt from The Hellbreakers 2: Emergence

The first house held nothing but bones.

The windows were broken inward, letting us know how the infected got in. There must have been a lot of them because the bodies were consumed to the point there had been nothing left to reanimate, the parts and pieces torn away. I used my axe to bust the skulls just in case. Most were empty, but one, still attached to a short section of spine, burst open like a melon, leaking red and black ichor onto the rotten floor. I stared at the mess and felt a vague sense of horror. How long had that skull been lying there with an infected, reanimated brain inside, the rest of the flesh stripped away by the elements?

“Jesus,” Elena said behind me.

“Yeah.” I wiped my axe on the dusty couch and moved on.

I felt uncharacteristically naked. My usual salvage suit, consisting of heavy rubber boots, a firefighting outfit, and a motorcycle helmet, were back in the squad’s wagon. Instead, I wore fatigues augmented with Army-issue anti-revenant armor. The armor was thick leather with strips of hard plastic riveted to it. The pieces covered my insteps and lower legs up to the knee, as well as my hands and forearms up to the elbow. On my head was a helmet with a clear plastic face shield. The armor had come in with the most recent supply drop, and all militia members were required to wear it. I’d complained at the news, but Hahn had shaken her head insistently.

“It’s a wonder you never died in that suit of yours,” she said. “In this heat, it’s a fucking death trap.”

“Death trap my ass,” I said, growing angry. “That suit kept me alive for six years.”

Hahn’s expression softened and she put a hand on my arm. “I know, Muir. And I know you’re used to doing things your own way. But the rest of us have been fighting infected with no armor for just as long, and we survived too. Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to learn to trust us.”

I let out a breath and simmered down.

Pressing her advantage, Hahn said, “That’s what keeps us alive out here, you know. We watch each other’s backs. The fact you survived on your own for so long is nothing short of a miracle. But Alex, you’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to do everything by yourself. You’re part of a team now, and it’s time you started acting like it.”

I had nothing to say to that, so I just nodded and put the armor on.

“Alex, give me a hand over here,” Cason said, breaking the memory.

I looked around and saw him standing near an open cabinet in the kitchen.

“What do you got?” I asked.

He reached inside and pulled out a large glass jar, the kind sealed with a metal clamp. “What’s this look like to you?”

There was a smile on his face. I leaned closer and smiled too.

“Sugar.”

I held the bag. There were tea towels on another shelf Cason used to wrap the jar, then gently placed it inside.

“Let’s see what else we got.” Cason said.

There was a box of kosher salt, baking soda, and a can opener. All things the squad needed. I found a Japanese kitchen knife that would have cost a couple hundred dollars before the Outbreak. Even after over six years sitting in a butcher block, it was still sharp enough to shave with. I wrapped it in a towel and claimed it as my own. In another cabinet, I found a set of high-end water stones, no doubt bought to sharpen the knife with. Those went into my assault pack as well.

We had a duffel bag for items designated for immediate use, meaning it was stuff the militia always needed, no matter how much we found. Scissors, tools, ammo, weapons, toilet paper, feminine hygiene products, dental floss, fishing line, and medical supplies, just to name a few. We found several items things on the list, bagged them, then spray painted EG CPY, 7, DELTA on the door. Eagle Company, Seventh Platoon, Delta Squad. This let the logistics teams know who to give credit for the salvage when they came by later to make their inventory. Not that they would take much away. Most would be left for the Army reclamation teams scheduled to show up later in the year. Or next year. Or whenever the hell. The date kept getting pushed back.

The next house was more of the same, minus the skeletons. The windows were still intact on this one, the inside neat and tidy, albeit caked in years of dust and sagging from changes in heat and cold. Without climate control, the insides of houses had deteriorated after the Outbreak. Most were still safe to search, but had we been in a wet climate or someplace that froze in the winter, our job would have been much more dangerous.

House number three was where things got weird.

It was a single level ranch, no garage. The windows on this one were boarded up, telling me the owner had sensed things going south and taken precautions. I wondered if we would find any skeletons inside as I tried the door. No joy. Barricaded from the inside. Cason and I walked a circle around one side while Elena and Rohan took the other.

We reached the back of the house at the same time and stopped. The back door, a sliding glass or French door judging by the size of it, had been boarded over. But on one side, the plywood had a hole in it. Not a little hole. Not a bullet hole, or one made by a sledgehammer or axe, but one big enough for a man to step through. And it looked like that was exactly what happened, at very high speed. I stepped closer and examined the outline. It looked like a very large person had thrown themselves at the plywood, which was already brittle from exposure, with such force as to simply sail right through it. The outline of the body was almost cartoonish.

“Must have been a big motherfucker,” Cason said.

“Cason, you and Chopra stay here,” Elena said. “And stay alert. Anything comes out of this house, shoot first and don’t worry about questions. Muir, bring your axe. I need you to chop open these windows so we can see inside. I’ll cover you.”

“Sounds good,” I said absently, still staring at the hole.

It took less than ten minutes to cut a hole in the exterior windows. The boards over them were dry and brittle and would have fallen off on their own soon. When finished, we cautiously peered inside, looking for threats. Nothing obvious presented itself, so we decided to make entry.

Our weapons were equipped with lights, but we used them only rarely. Batteries that still worked were a precious commodity and had to be conserved. During orientation, Hahn had explained to me that any batteries we found were to be marked for retrieval. When I asked why, she told me they probably wouldn’t work, but the Phoenix Initiative had a way to fix them. It was why the government was still able to issue batteries to combat units, including militias. My next question was what the hell was a Phoenix Initiative, which prompted an explanation that left me with more questions than answers. I said as much, and Hahn told me at that point, I knew as much as she did.

Anyway, our batteries were of the refurbished government variety, and we only had what we had until the next supply drop. But for entries like this one, Elena could justify using them. So the lights went on, and in we went.

Elena was first, followed by Chopra. They broke left, Cason and I broke right. I followed Cason inside and tried to remember everything my father, an LAPD SWAT officer, had taught me about room entry procedures. Mostly it consisted of keeping your weapon ready without pointing it at the man in front of you. That much I could do.

We cleared each room, calling out as we went. We checked closets, under beds, anywhere a ghoul or crazed human might be hiding. There was a torn-up body on the living room floor, but after establishing it wasn’t getting up, we ignored it.

After checking the last room on our side, Cason called out clear and Elena did the same. The four of us met in the living room, weapons down. The light from the holes in the windows I carved were enough to see for salvage purposes, so we turned off the flashlights. All except Elena. She walked closer to the body lying on the floor and shined her light on it.

“Holy shit,” she said softly.

The rest of us walked over. “What?” I asked.

“Guys, look at this.”

We did, studying where Elena pointed. It took me a few seconds to realize what I was looking at, and when I did, a mix of confusion and dread coiled around my stomach and grew thorns.

“What the fuck?” Cason said.

“Exactly,” Elena replied.

“It’s a ghoul,” I said.

“And it’s not dead. Not all the way,” Chopra added.

He was right. The head was still attached, but turned the wrong way, staring at us over its own back. That explained why it hadn’t moved. The eyes were still open, red and savage as any other ghoul. They swiveled back and forth in their sockets, eyelids twitching spasmodically. The only other movement was a few facial tics. If its jaw had still been attached, I imagine it would have been chomping at us.

Elena moved the flashlight over the rest of the corpse. The body was mangled, limbs broken, spine snapped in two places, ribs gaping open as though torn by the hands of some impossibly strong beast. I glanced at the humanoid plywood cutout, and then back at the wreckage below me.

Most disturbing of all, the internal organs and nearly half the flesh had been ripped away. Kneeling down, I looked closer and saw marks in the remaining muscle tissue and along the bones.

“What are you looking at?” Elena said.

“Come closer. Look here at the lower leg, and here on the femur bone.”

She did as I asked. “What am I looking at?”

“These marks. Here and here. I’ve seen marks similar to this before.”

“Where?”

“On deer carcasses. Ones that were taken down by coyotes. They’re teeth marks, I think, but not like any I’ve ever seen.”

“Teeth marks?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait,” Chopra said, “you’re saying something ate this thing?”

“I’m just telling you what I see.”

“But it’s a ghoul,” Chopra went on. “What the fuck eats a ghoul?”

I pointed toward the cartoon hole in the plywood covering the door.

“If I had to guess, I’d say whatever did that.”

*******************************************************************************************************

After a long day of searching houses, the talk should have been about what salvage we’d found, what the various squads expected to be paid for it, and how badly one group or another kept getting screwed over on AORs. There should have been bickering and teasing and people trading pilfered items and even a little casual flirtation here and there.

There was none of that.

The platoon regulars stood in clusters among the yards and cracked pavement, talking in low voices. The squad leaders and our platoon sergeant, a man inexplicably referred to as Top, all conferred together under the shade of a tilted carport. The conversations all boiled down to the same question.

What the hell happened here?

Not a single animated ghoul had been found. Not a single shot fired all day. The half-eaten ghoul my team discovered was only the first of many. And when I say many, I mean hundreds. It hadn’t stopped anyone from completing the day’s mission, but as reports continued to roll in of ghouls that had been eaten by some sort of predator post-reanimation, the sense of weirdness became an oppressive weight on everyone’s minds.

I was standing with Elena, Rohan, Cason, and a couple of guys from alpha squad. I’d spent the last five minutes listening to them ask each other the same questions over and over again, and I was tired of it. I left the conversation behind and began walking toward one of the houses.

“Where are you going?” Elena called after me.

“I want another look at those ghouls.”

I heard footsteps crunching to catch up with me. “Good. I’ll come with you.”

A faint smile creased my face. Of course she wanted another look. She used to be a cop, after all. Cops don’t like mysteries.

I stepped into one of the houses we’d searched and knelt beside the savaged ghoul in the kitchen. This one had been a Gray. That alone would have been enough to creep me out. I don’t know what it is about those things, but they give me the heebie-jeebies even worse than regular infected. This one, however, wouldn’t be bothering anyone ever again. Its head had been torn clean off, its internal organs were gone, and much of the flesh on the limbs was missing. I used some precious battery power to get a better look at a few spots, then asked Elena to follow me while I walked around the scene.

“A few things jump out at me,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“This thing wasn’t killed here. There are drag marks outside the back door leading into the kitchen.”

I pointed at the sand. “Whatever did this killed it somewhere else and brought it here to feed.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. What else do you see?”

“All these ghouls have a few things in common. One, they were disabled. Their necks were broken, skulls smashed, or they were just plain decapitated. This thing wanted to make sure its prey couldn’t put up a fight.”

“Pretty good so far, Muir. What else?”

I glanced at her. I probably wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already seen, but I went on anyway.

“Second, the teeth marks on all the corpses are the same. I don’t just mean similar, I mean the same.”

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure. Look at this.”

I pointed to an indentation in the sand.

“I’m no great tracker, but I learned a thing or two hunting over the last six years. That right there is a track.”

Elena squatted down and looked closer.

“Son of a bitch. I see it now. It looks…”

“Not human, but still kind of human.”

“Yeah. The shape is wrong to be human. Too wide, too long, and the bone structure isn’t right. And these holes in the ground. Claw marks, you think?”

“That would be my guess.”

She looked up at me. “Seen any more of these around?”

“A few. I don’t have measuring equipment, but I’d say they probably all match.”

Elena stood up and put her hands on her hips. “So you think there was only one of…whatever the hell did this?”

“I do.”

She thought about that a few seconds. “What other theories do you have?”

“I think whatever it is, it’s been treating this place like a larder. Its own private pantry. It comes here, eats a few ghouls, and takes off. Whenever it’s hungry, it comes back again. God only knows how long this has been going on.”

Another few seconds of thought. “We need more evidence to bring this to Cortez.”

“So let’s go get it.”

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Elena left at a trot back toward the platoon leadership conference at the carport. I stayed put and stared at the footprint.

What fresh hell is this?

When Elena came back, she had a digital camera, a tape measure, and a ruler.

“Let’s do this.”

My job was to find the tracks and take measurements. Elena took pictures and wrote everything down in a little notebook. I offered to do the writing, but she waved me away and muttered something about collection procedures and cataloguing. We went on like this for another two hours before I heard a whistle blow.

“Wagons are coming,” I said, standing up from the ground.

Elena looked northward. Her sweaty hair clung to her face and her eyes were bright with the intensity of focus.

“Shit. There’s still a lot to collect.”

“We examined over twenty corpses. I think we ought to have enough. All the measurements are the same for everything.”

“Still, we should look all the bodies over. Make sure. We could be missing something.”

I sighed. Elena was nothing if not thorough.

“Maybe Cortez will let us come back tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

*****

The next morning, I awoke to find Cortez squatting next to our campfire, digging the bean pot out of the ground.

“Morning, Padre,” I said.

He turned and smiled. “Good morning, Alex. You are up early.”

“Usually am,” I said. I walked over and sat down on a stool. “You pull kitchen duty again?”

A laugh. “No. I am just hungry. Would you care to help me?”

I started digging. “Don’t you have beans over there at the command tent?”

“I have heard that yours are better.”

“Somebody lied to you.”

Another laugh.

I hauled the pot out of the ground and brushed dirt off the top. A taste told me the beans were cooked, they just needed a quick fry for taste.

“Try them,” I held out the ladle. The priest poured a bite into his mouth.

“Not bad. Let us make breakfast for your squad.”

It wasn’t my day to do it, but I nodded anyway. Cortez got the frying pan warming up while I cut the potatoes. By the time I’d hung them up to cook, he was already kneading dough for bread. We took turns rolling them out and had a round frying by the time Elena, the other early riser, was out of her tent.

“Good morning, Commander,” she said.

“Good morning. Would you like some breakfast?”

“Of course.”

I made her a plate of fried beans and offered to fry her potatoes. She said she preferred them boiled. I didn’t, so I fried mine and made another batch for Cortez.

“Hey, thought I was on kitchen duty this morning,” Lowe said as he lumbered toward the fire.

“I was up first,” I said, and pointed at Cortez. “And I had help.”

Lowe noticed the priest, and to my surprise, brought his hands together and bowed his head.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning Mr. Lowe. Please, join us.”

It wasn’t long before the rest of the squad followed their nose to breakfast. The other campsites around us came to life as well, the smell of fried beans and flatbread hanging on the breeze. It was a rare overcast morning, but I could not smell rain on the air. Made sense. It was not the time of the year for rain. Autumn and winter were usually dry, the rains only coming at the height of summer, which had already passed.

When everyone was finished eating, Lowe thanked me again for cooking and took the dishes toward the water barrel. Hahn announced it was time for everyone to be about their daily duties, putting a final note on the morning’s brief fellowship. As I was getting up to leave, Cortez put a hand on my shoulder.

“Alex, I need you to come with me. It is important.”

I looked at Hahn. She was watching the conversation and gave a nod. Something told me Cortez had already spoken with her.

I looked down at him, curiosity mixing with caution. “Sure.”

“Bring some water. And your axe.”

“My axe?”

“Yes. Please hurry. I have much to do today.”

“Okay. Just a minute.”

I filled my canteen, strapped my axe across my shoulders, and followed the priest away from camp. We walked northwest toward the interstate. Around us, people bustled back and forth, some offering short greetings to Cortez, but most simply going about their business. This section of the camp was all wagons and tents and livestock pens. The smell of manure was strong, but by midmorning, scrapings would be drying on the highway’s hot pavement to be used for fuel later.

“Sort of feels like the old west, doesn’t it?” I asked.

Cortez smiled. “In some ways, yes. Technology is still available, but humanity has, for the most part, resumed a more primitive existence.”

“Is it like this in Colorado?”

He glanced at me. “In most places, yes. In the Springs, things are better.”

“I’d like to see it,” I said. “After being alone for so long, I want to know what it’s like to be in a city again.”

“God willing, this time next year, we will all be there.”

We kept walking. Cortez’s gait and body language told me I was expected to follow.

“So where are we headed?”

“The rifle platoon’s staging area. Captain Hicks would like to see you.”

“What about?”

“You will have to ask him.”

If I was curious before, I was fascinated now. I wondered if it had anything to do with the findings Elena and I had reported.

A few minutes later, we reached the rifle platoon’s section of camp. They were part of Falcon company, technically third platoon. And while most platoons numbered fifty to sixty people, the mounted riflemen were more than a hundred strong, forming the backbone of the Hellbreakers. In the old days, they would have been called light cavalry. I wondered if any of them carried sabres as an homage to the soldiers of another time.

Cortez led me to a tent near the platoon’s corral. Hicks was sitting on a stool out front writing something in a notebook. He noticed us approaching, stashed the notebook in a pack at his feet, and stood up to greet us.

“Mr. Muir.”

“Captain.”

“I will leave you to it,” Cortez said. “Good luck, Alex.”

He smiled at my confused look and strode away, leaving me alone with Hicks.

“You still interested?”

I looked back at Hicks. “What?”

“In becoming a soldier.”

“Uh…yeah. Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m going to the north side of the city to recon the Storm Road Tribe’s camp. We’ll be gone for a few days. I need a guide. You up to it?”

I blinked a couple of times. “Shouldn’t I…you know, train first?”

A grin. “What do you think this is?”

There were two packs on the ground. One I knew belonged to Hicks, the other had no obvious owner. There were two rifles, and two gunbelts as well.

“I need to get some things from camp.”

“Soldiers go in the field with what they’re issued. We’ve got everything we need.”

“I believe you, but I’d rather bring my own weapons.”

“These are good. I inspected them this morning.”

He noticed my dubious look and said, “If I’m going to train you, you’re going to have to trust me.”

It took me a long minute to make the decision. I didn’t know Hicks. Had no idea how skilled or knowledgeable he was. Had no clue if he was leading me on an adventure or walking me to my death. But in the end, I had to admit he was right. If I wanted to learn what he had to teach, I was going to have to trust him.

“Fine. When do we leave?”

“Help me saddle the horses.”

Excerpt from War Without End: Surviving the Dead Volume 9

 

 

*****

“Clear the channel,” Gabe barked. The chatter on the radio died immediately. He moved back to the bench and I resumed my spot beside the porthole.

“All stations, this is Mission Lead. Acknowledge.”

They did. I put the scope back out the window and listened as well.

“Listen very carefully. We are dealing with a new strain of infected. Repeat, we are dealing with a new strain of infected. Acknowledge.”

The acknowledgements came in slower this time, the voices hesitant.

“These things are stronger and faster than other ghouls,” Gabe went on. “They look like Grays, only much fucking bigger. They’re strong enough tear off limbs and fast enough to run at a jogging pace. They can also jump about ten to fifteen feet. Acknowledge and repeat back.”

This one took a couple of minutes. The squad leaders of the cavalry units backed off to a part of the refugee district where the crowds had vacated. I could tell by the tremulous voices I heard the news was having a hard time sinking in.

“We need to change tactics,” Gabe went on. “Do not engage these things on foot. Repeat, do not engage on foot. They’re too fast and too strong. They’ll tear you apart. Stay in your vehicles and use your heavy weapons to put them down. Squad leaders, break up your units and fight in pairs. Do not make a run at these things unless you have a clear path of escape. Use hit and run tactics. Think of these things as small tanks. Infantry is useless. You’ll have to fight armor with armor, two on one. Best bet is to shoot for the legs and disable them. If you can hit them with grenades, do it. Just make sure there are no civilians in the kill zone. And for Christ’s sake, no friendly fire. Once these things are all down, we can go back and finish them off later. Acknowledge.”

The responder at the first station took a while to get it right, but Gabe pressed him until he seemed to grasp what was expected of him. The rest of the Blackthorns evidently learned from their comrade’s mistakes and responded correctly on the first try.

Just as they were finishing, Great Hawk broke in on the radio. “All stations, Eagle Two. The Army has arrived with reinforcements. Mission Lead, how copy?”

“Lima Charlie, Eagle Two. Take over command and control. Have Rossi get on the horn with Colonel Bryant and coordinate our response.”

A pause. “Who is Colonel Bryant?”

“Quick reaction force coordinator. Works with us all the time. Rossi will know what to do.”

“Roget that. What is our plan of attack?”

“We’ll start funneling civilians out the east gate. Have the police and the Army set up a secondary perimeter. They can catch any stray ghouls that get out. Captain Starnes, take three Humvees and proceed to the east gate. Maintain standoff and put down any of these new big Grays that try to get out. We cannot let them escape the perimeter. Repeat, do not let them escape the perimeter. Stop them at all costs. Whatever happens, I’ll take the heat. Do you copy?”

“Copy, Mission Lead. Sir, how will I know which ghouls are the new ones?”

“Trust me, Captain. You’ll know.”

Gabe paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then he said, “Guys, I’m not going to lie to you. This is worse than anything I’ve ever seen. Keep your wits about you and do what you have to do. Mission Lead out.”

The big man leaned forward and touched the pilot’s shoulder. “Roark, pick a target and bring us in on an attack vector. Holland, spin up that gun and prepare to engage. Riordan, look sharp.”

I looked at him and pointed at my carbine. “You think this will work on those things?”

“One way to find out.” Gabe keyed his radio. “Roark, take us in. Eagle two, maintain altitude and figure out how many of these things we’re dealing with.”

“Roger that,” Great Hawk said.

“Thompson, Riordan, strap in. Unauthorized high-dives are frowned upon in this establishment.”

The two of us gave thumbs up and complied. The helicopter dipped about fifty feet lower and began making a slow pass near the central avenue that bisected the eastern and western halves of the refugee district. In times past, this area had been something of a town square. The central avenue was broad and flat and connected with every other street in the grid-like district. There were market stalls, restaurants, taverns, liveries, stores, and everything else one would find in a small town. Except now the stalls were knocked over and strewn across the road and everything seemed to be on fire. People ran in all directions, no one seeming to know which way to turn. I saw a small child standing in the central square clutching himself, cheeks covered in tears and soot, his face a mask of naked, screaming terror.

Lock it down. Focus.

I had both eyes open, one on the scope, and the other taking in the wider tactical picture. The trick was to shift focus from one eye to the other. The skill had taken hundreds of hours of practice to master. And it was good that I had, because if my left eye had been closed, I would never have noticed the biggest damn ghoul I had ever seen emerge around a building and make a beeline for the kid in the square.

The breath I had just taken came out slowly. My left eye closed and I tracked the ghoul’s movement. It was faster than any ghoul I had ever sighted in on, but still not fast as a human at a full run. Its gait pattern was different as well. Ghouls tend to sway when they walk, their stride erratic and off balance. This creature, however, was neither unbalanced nor uncoordinated. Sluggish, maybe, but its head stayed in a mostly straight line and it did not exhibit the drunken stagger I had grown used to seeing. On the one hand, I saw this as good. A steady target is easier to hit. On the other, the monster’s increased speed meant the kid in the square only had a few seconds before a slathering nightmare tore him apart.

The Gray’s head was low. It walked half-bent in a predatory crouch, arms held out wide, fingers curled into claws. I watched its mouth open and had a clear view of rows—fucking rows—of long, sharp teeth. Both the upper and lower jaw were elongated, the muscles at the hinges rounded and bulging. In fact, ‘round and bulging’ was a good descriptor for all of the thing’s musculature.

There was a part of me that wanted to keep watching the ghoul, to evaluate and analyze, look for weaknesses. But a far larger part of me was screaming to just hurry up and kill the fucking thing.

I let out a breath, estimated the range, put the reticle slightly forward of its head to compensate for the movement of the chopper, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked, and an instant later, the ghoul’s head snapped to the side. The creature collapsed immediately, sliding to a halt on the concrete. The kid heard the shot and looked behind him, saw the ghoul, and took off running. I relaxed slightly and watched to make sure the creature was down for good.

It wasn’t.

A sick, hollow feeling pulled at my stomach as the ghoul began struggling to its knees. I could see my shot had hit its target, but evidently had not caused enough damage to kill the thing. I aimed again, held my breath, and fired. Another crack, and this time, the ghoul stayed down.

Tough motherfucker.

I started scanning the streets again, but my view swirled and moved skyward. The helicopter banked hard left, gained a little altitude, and circled toward the eastern side of the district. For just an instant, I saw the other helicopter high overhead and Great Hawk’s head looking downward from the port side door.

“All stations, Mission Lead,” the headset squawked. “Three targets spotted in area designated Victor. Squads Bravo and Charlie, converge on Victor. Eagle One will pop smoke on the target area. Maintain standoff at one hundred meters. Eagle One will provide fire support. Bravo, Charlie, take down any infected that come your way.”

“Roger, Mission lead. Bravo en route.”

“Mission Lead, Charlie. En route to Victor.”

I had a glimpse of four Humvees changing direction, and then they were out of sight.

“Roark, find us a field of fire. Thompson, you got smoke?”

“Affirmative.”

Gabe motioned him over and pointed out the door. “You see that row of white shipping containers?”

Thompson nodded.

“Put a marker right in the middle of them.”

Gabe moved away and let Thompson take his spot. The ex-soldier removed a 40mm shell from his tactical vest, opened the breach on the M-203 mounted to his M-4 carbine, loaded the shell, and took aim. Two seconds later, the weapon’s recoil thumped him backward. The roar of the Blackhawk’s engines swallowed the noise from the shot. I could not see where it landed.

Thompson keyed his mic and said, “Smoke on target.”

“Bravo, Charlie, Mission Lead. Confirm visual on smoke.”

The two squad leaders responded they had visual and were on the way. Thompson backed away from the door and returned to the bench.

“Holland,” Gabe said. “Talk to me.”

“I got eyes on ‘em, but there’s civilians in my line of fire. Your call.”

Gabe’s expression registered an internal struggle. I’m no mind reader, but in this case, I didn’t have to be. My friend was weighing the cost of giving the order to fire, which would no doubt cause civilian casualties, against risking the safety of his comrades in order to give Holland a better shot. In the end, his lifelong devotion to protecting the innocent won out.

“Roark,” he said, “find a clearing and bring us down.”

The pilot banked left and circled, bringing us lower. I moved closer to the port side door.

“Roark, get us close to the deck but don’t land. Riordan, Thompson, get down there and draw those big Grays away from the crowd. As soon as they’re down, find a rooftop. We’ll come get you.”

I slapped Gabe once on the shoulder to acknowledge. Thompson did the same. The scope on my carbine was at its highest setting, so I dialed it down to one-power and did a tactical reload.

A not-so-small subconscious voice was howling this was a terrible idea. That going down there into that swirl of death and mayhem was the worst decision of my life. I ignored the voice and focused on taking in the battlefield picture. The beginnings of a plan emerged, but any measure of success was going to be contingent on a lot of things going right. And I knew from hard experience that Mr. Murphy tended to make his presence known in these situations.

Too late for second guessing. Just get it done.

The skids were four feet off the ground. I looked at Thompson. He looked back and nodded, indicating with his hand he would follow my lead.

“Let’s go!” Gabe shouted.

I scooted forward, ducked my head, and pushed off the side of the chopper. The moment I hit the ground, I moved to my left. Behind me, I heard a grunt and Thompson appeared at my side. The roar of rotor wash was too loud for speech, so I motioned for Thompson toward a space between two shipping containers where no one appeared to be. The chopper’s engines sang a louder tune as the pilot throttled up to gain altitude. I watched for a moment to see which way they would turn.

And then the whole world went sideways.

There was a moment of pure disorientation. My left shoulder hurt and a weight on my side was making it hard to breath. Then the weight moved off me, grabbed the pull handle on the back of my vest, and yanked me upright.

“What the hell?”

Thompson pointed. “Look!”

A big gray monster, standing as tall as Gabe and equally as heavy-looking, spared us a glance as it trotted past and leapt for the helicopter’s retreating skid.

No way. It’s too high.

I struggled to catch my breath, slowly realizing Thompson had just saved me from the roaring monstrosity currently flying through the air. The two of us watched its leap in horrified fascination, mouths agape, unable to believe what we were seeing. The creature seemed to hang in the air an impossibly long time, its clawed hands outstretched toward the Blackhawk’s skids. The helicopter was moving away, but not quickly enough. The hands hit the skids and clamped on. The creature swung until its legs were under the belly of the aircraft. I saw Holland dive backward and Gabe clutching at the door as the Blackhawk dipped to port under the sudden weight. The pilot quickly righted the ship and regained altitude.

“Contact right!”

I brought my attention back to the ground and saw a group of six infected coming toward us. The rifle came up on its own, took aim, and fired. A head snapped back and the ghoul went down. Opening my left eye, I acquired another target and fired. The shot dropped it, but there was no more time to aim. Thompson started running backward, one hand waving at me to do the same. I let my rifle hang by its sling—the infected were too close to use it now—drew my Glock, and sprinted to gain distance over the approaching ghouls.

The situation was deteriorating quickly. All thoughts of the chopper and home and my family and everything that didn’t involve running and shooting fell away. I had the presence of mind to snap my helmet’s face shield down an instant before everything became a stir of motion and noise.

Faces appeared in my vision, snarling and howling. I put the front sight of my pistol between their eyes and fired again and again. The faces went down, giving me a little space. Thompson broke hard right, and I went along with him. The next thing I knew we had circled around behind the last two infected pursuing us. A gun went off beside me and a short, skinny woman with a ragged hole where her throat used to be collapsed. I aimed at a little boy with half his left arm missing and pulled the trigger. He took two more steps before falling face down, the top half of his delicate skull blown apart.

And then the movement stopped. I checked my flanks. Saw Thompson doing the same. Nothing inbound. We stood in a small eye at the center of a swirling maelstrom of chaos.

The chopper.

Looking up, I found the Blackhawk. The big Gray had levered itself up and gripped the chopper’s deck with one hand. It was hard to tell from where I stood, but I could have sworn the thing’s fingers had actually punched through the metal floor.

Gabe’s head appeared, and then his hands. He was clutching his Sig Sauer and aiming at the ghoul’s head. There was a flash, and the thing’s head snapped back. I expected it to fall, but to my surprise, it held on, still trying to haul itself upward. Gabe shifted, found his balance, and fired twice more. The ghoul went limp but did not fall, somehow still clinging to the Blackhawk. Gabe holstered his pistol, drew his falcata, and chopped at the hand still holding on to the helicopter. The ghoul finally tumbled free.

In that instant, it occurred to me my assessment had been correct. The fucking thing’s fingers had punched through the helicopter’s skin deep enough to use it as a handhold. I tried to imagine that same hand gripping a human throat and found myself recoiling from the thought.

“Did you see that?”

“Yeah, I saw it.” I looked around again. A few infected had noticed us and were turning our way. They looked like normal ghouls.

Except…

“Shit. Ethan, look.”

He turned to where I pointed. Another knot of a dozen or so infected were headed toward us. But these did not exhibit the swaying, lurching shamble we were used to seeing. Rather, they were steady on their feet, approaching at a jogging pace. Faster than a walk, but not as fast as a run. And there was none of the usual stumbling or tottering, no twitching spasms or jerking limbs. It reminded me of the way the big Grays moved, which led me to a deductive connection that brought me no comfort at all.

“What the fuck?” Thompson said, his voice high and anxious. “That last bunch was the same way.”

“You mean faster?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t notice. Too busy trying not to die.”

Thompson glanced behind us. “More coming from the west. We need to move.”

I ran after him toward a cluster of shipping containers. At the same moment, the air shifted and swirl of dust and black smoke down from the north, obscuring my view of the streets. The cold, biting air sliced through every layer of clothing and armor I wore. My eyes watered and stung, but I kept moving, coughing and blinking the whole way, hoping against hope I was not mired in quite as deep a cluster-fuck as it seemed.

Something, however, told me I was about to be disappointed.

Excerpt from Quick Killer and the Iceman

Excerpt from the upcoming Surviving the Dead short story: Quick Killer and the Iceman

 

ONE

Arguments are common in the barter business.

Which meant when I heard a raised voice from the front of the store, I didn’t think much of it at first. Great Hawk was working the counter, and if anyone on earth knows how to calm down a belligerent customer, it’s the big Apache.

Then came the sound of glass crashing to the floor.

Christ’s sake, I thought. Can’t just one damn day go by without bloodshed?

I was sitting at my desk in the storeroom reading over a quarterly balance sheet. And I was feeling good about it. All the rows of numbers added up exactly the way they were supposed to. Having been a financial analyst in my previous life, I knew more than the average bear about accounting. There was a sense of satisfaction when I deducted my expenses against revenues and saw a tidy profit. It was how I knew I was running a thriving business. It made me happy.

What did not make me happy was the sound of heavy footsteps on wooden planks.

When you run a general store as long as I have, and you’ve spent countless hours in the warmth of its four walls, you build a sense of familiarity with your surroundings. The smells, the sounds, the way the walls creak, the varying tones each window makes when the wind blows against them. Even the skitter of leaves falling on the roof in late autumn has a distinctive resonance.

Which meant as I sat and listened to heavy boots treading over pine boards, I could tell both their origin and direction of travel. By the sound of it, Lincoln Great Hawk was coming around from behind the counter.

I got out of my chair and made as much noise as I could walking into the shop, hoping the presence of another person would diffuse whatever fracas was about to occur. My hopes, sadly, were not to be realized.

“What, am I supposed to be scared now?” the customer said loudly.

He was big—bigger than the Hawk even, which is saying something. I recognized the man. His name was Alan White. He was a laborer, and built like one. Broad shoulders, thick forearms, hands full of scars and callouses, jaded eyes, and a weather-beaten face aged prematurely by the sun, wind, and bite of long winters spent working outside. Men like him are common in Hollow Rock, and not to be taken lightly. Alone, they are formidable, if not especially skilled. A good fighter could take them down one-on-one. Problem is, with guys like White, you never fight just one. In this town, the people at the bottom of the working class, regardless of whether or not they actually like each other, stick together. It’s an unspoken rule, but a strictly obeyed one.

Not that any of this worried Great Hawk.

“I do not indent to hurt you,” the Hawk said. “But I will not tolerate you damaging my property. It is time for you to leave.”

White didn’t leave. His jaw clenched, his muscles tensed, and his fists curled into tight bunches the size of large stones.

“And what if I don’t, chief? You gonna throw me out?”

I let out a sigh. First of all, calling the Hawk ‘chief’ is a colossally bad idea. Kind of like calling a black man ‘boy’. Second, trying to intimidate him is like trying to intimidate a mountainous desert. It just stares back impassively and ponders all the ways it’s going to kill you.

“You will leave,” the Hawk said. “Now.”

The man took a step forward, putting himself in Great Hawk’s personal space. I imagine he was expecting a staring contest, maybe try to use his size to back the Hawk down. What he got instead was a hard, open-handed smack to the jaw that spun him around until he lost his footing and had to catch himself against the counter. I winced. The sound was like a baseball bat hitting a slab of meat.

“Alan,” I said, “settle down. Hawk, that’s enough. You two are not doing this here. If you want to fight, take it outside.”

A few seconds later, when he had regained enough of his equilibrium, White stood up straight and squared off with the Hawk. He may as well have squared off with an oak tree. The black eyes were impassive, the mahogany face unmoved, the relaxed stance exuding a coiled, focused lethality. When he spoke, the Hawk’s voice held all the warmth of an arctic winter.

“I will not say it again.”

White took a few steps back and rubbed at the bright red splotch on his jaw. By its color, I could tell it would be an angry shade of purple by tomorrow morning.

He looked at me beseechingly. “Come on, Riordan. Can’t you reason with this guy?”

I looked down at the mess on the floor. What had once been a shiny jar of pickled eggs was now a ruin of sharp glass and scattered pink oblongs. But it wasn’t the wasted protein that bothered me. Eggs were cheap. In fact, the ones in the jar had not even been for sale. They were goodwill gifts for old-timers, kids, and regular customers. Little tokens of appreciation meant for people like the Glover family, the workers at the farm co-ops, sheriff’s deputies, and the volunteers at the clinic. In fact, if Alan had been more agreeable, I probably would have offered him one, too. But that sure as hell was not going to happen now.

“Let me see if I understand you, Alan. You’re asking me to reason with him?” I pointed at the Hawk, and then at the floor. “Was he the one that made this mess?”

White looked away and didn’t reply.

I turned to the Hawk. “What the hell happened here?”

“He offered to sell a quiver of hand-made arrows,” Great Hawk said, his eyes fixed on White. “In return, he wanted salted beef. I told him the arrows were poorly made and would not fetch much of a price. I could not give him beef, but I was willing to offer a pound of goat jerky.”

“That’s horseshit.” White said petulantly.

I looked at him. “Which part?”

“There’s nothing wrong with those arrows. Look at ‘em.”

Great Hawk picked up a hand-made quiver from the counter and handed it to me. I took out a couple of the wooden missiles and examined them. The fletching was too loose, the shafts were slightly warped, and the heads were too heavy. They would shoot okay out to maybe ten yards, but any farther than that and they would fly erratically. I explained this to White. He came over as I pointed out the flaws.

“See what I’m saying?” I said when I was finished. “I imagine the guys in the ghoul towers might use these, but they won’t pay much. Not when they can make better ones on their own.”

“Fine,” White said. “I guess I’ll take the goat meat then.”

I gave him a flat stare. “No, you won’t.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because you broke my pickle jar and threatened my employee, you fucking idiot. You’re lucky I don’t have Great Hawk drag you out of here by your face.” I thrust the quiver into his chest. “Now get lost. And don’t come back until you can make a proper goddamn arrow.”

White took the quiver, glared at us both, and left without another word. The door swung shut behind him and silence filled the empty shop. Great Hawk walked over and stood by my shoulder.

“He will not let this go.”

I let out a long breath. “I know. And next time, he’ll bring friends.”

 

TWO

As it turned out, we did not have to wait long.

It was dark by the time Great Hawk and I closed the store and left for the evening. We decided to stop by our mutual favorite restaurant, Mijo Diego, for a bite to eat before heading home.

Normally I would have eaten dinner with my wife, but Allison was working the late shift at the clinic, and Jennifer, our nanny, would take care of my son until I returned from work.

As for what the Hawk typically did after work, I had no idea. I knew he had bought a house in the Annex, a newly walled off section of land outside the original fortified area of town, but his personal life was a mystery. There were rumors he was cutting a swath through the town’s small army of single women, but that was as much as I had heard. And my taciturn friend was not exactly forthcoming with additional information.

As we walked, I looked at the new construction around me—the shops, liveries, restaurants, taverns, and residences—and marveled at how much Hollow Rock had changed over the years. We shared the street with hundreds of other people, most of whom had moved here after the Outbreak.

So when Great Hawk nudged me and informed me we were being followed, I couldn’t blame myself too much for not noticing. It’s easy to hide in a crowd, after all.

“How many?” I asked.

The Hawk stared straight ahead. “Six.”

I glanced around, trying not to be too obvious. On my left, two men in threadbare clothes and homemade boots were angling through the crowd in our direction, eyes bright with intent.

“I see two on my side,” I said. “Where are the others?”

“Two to my right,” Great Hawk said. “And two more following behind.”

“See any up ahead?”

“No. They waited for us at the intersection and let us pass.”

I ground my teeth and cursed myself for not being more alert. A few years ago, I would have spotted them instantly. City living was making me soft.

“There’s an alley up ahead between Grant’s Livery and the farm equipment warehouse,” I said.

“I see it. We will lead them there.”

“You armed?”

“Yes. Knife and axe. You?”

I took a deep, self-recriminating breath. “Just a pocket knife.”

He glanced at me. “Really?”

“I stopped carrying a few months ago. Didn’t figure I needed it anymore.”

“That was not a wise decision.”

I tried not to bristle too much. “Come on, man. This town is well protected. Crime is low. And I didn’t figure White would try anything at rush hour with a thousand people walking around. It’s quitting time, for Christ’s sake. Everybody’s either on their way home, or going out for a drink.”

The Hawk said nothing.

“I guess I should’ve grabbed my Glock from the office, just in case. That would have been the careful thing to do.”

“Yes, it would have.”

“Well, chalk it up to a lesson learned.”

“If we survive.”

“You know, we could just stop and confront them here. I doubt they’ll try anything with all these witnesses.”

The Hawk nodded. We were getting close to the alley. “That is true. But it would only delay the inevitable.”

“In other words, if they don’t get us today, they’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“And right now, they’re running ad hoc, hastily organized, which gives us better odds. If we don’t take them down now, they’ll have more time to get their act together, and our chances will be worse when they come at us again.”

“Correct.”

“I also think it’s safe to assume they’re not out to kill us. Just lay down a beating. Teach us not to disrespect the working man, or whatever.”

“Possibly, but one can never be sure.”

I looked up at the big Apache. “Hawk, let’s try not to make this a bloodbath, okay?”

“I will try. But I will also do what is necessary. So should you.”

We reached the alley and I followed Great Hawk as he turned into it.

“Yeah. I guess I should.”

 

THREE

We stopped halfway down the alley.

The street we had left was the central artery through town, and foot traffic was heavy. But at this time of day, with the sun down and minimal lighting from the town’s meager electrical grid, no one was looking into the dark places between street lamps. Everyone had their eyes straight ahead, intentions fixed firmly on destinations. The street on the other side of the alley was mostly empty, so whatever happened next, it was unlikely there would be witnesses.

The six of them converged and walked confidently in our direction. We stood and waited. After a few seconds, when their eyes had adjusted to the dim light, the men realized we weren’t running away and their pace slowed.

“Not what you were expecting, right?” I said.

They stopped.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t see you assholes coming a mile away?”

Five of the men shuffled and looked to the one in the middle. By the shape and bulk, I could tell it was Alan White. Probably still smarting from the clip on the jaw Great Hawk had given him.

“Let me guess. Alan is all butt-hurt because he got smacked in the mouth, so now he wants the five of you to do what he couldn’t do for himself. Seems like kind of a cowardly thing to do, don’t you think?”

My voice sounded confident when it came out, which was good. If I played this right, we might all walk away unscathed. My hope was to make Alan White’s gaggle of roughnecks realize how stupid it was to risk injury because their idiot friend stepped up to the wrong guy.

“That was a sucker punch,” Alan said angrily. “Your prairie-nigger caught me off guard.”

I felt my face go cold. A stillness started in my hands and chest and spread all the way down to my feet. People can insult me all they want. I have thick skin. I can take it. But throwing racist slurs at my friends is crossing the line.

“Tell you what, Alan. How about we go at it? Just you and me. You’re a tough guy, right? I shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

White turned to his buddies. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just scared. Come on, let’s teach these rich assholes a lesson.”

I laughed out loud. “Teach us a lesson? Christ, you sound like a twelve year old bully on a playground. Come on, tough guy. Show your friends here how much of a badass you are. You don’t need all five of them to take on little old me, do you?”

One of the five was getting the idea. “Go on, Alan,” he said. “Look at him. He’s half your size. Just go kick his ass and let’s get out of here.”

Great Hawk took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak, but I put a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” I said firmly. “Let me do this.”

The obsidian eyes gave a death stare. “I do not need you to fight my battles for me.”

“I’m not doing this for you,” I said. It was a lie, but I put a lot of vehemence behind it. After a long few seconds, the Hawk stepped back.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “But if the others move, I will break them in half.”

“Fair enough.” I looked back at White. “So what’s it going to be, tough guy? You scared of a fair fight?”

White was stiff with rage, but the gambit had worked. The five amigos were smiling cruelly and giving him little shoves and telling him to go kick that little fucker’s ass. I started walking toward them, shrugging off my coat as I went.

“Come on, White. Let’s do this.”

He finally gave in to the pressure and stepped forward. I could tell by the way he moved he didn’t really know his business. A real fighter would have been relaxed, hands hanging loose, taking deep breaths to oxygenate his muscles. Kind of like what I was doing. Instead, White was tense, his head down like an angry bull. Still, he was a big man. If I didn’t end this quickly, there was a strong possibility of taking damage I did not want to take.

After a few steps, we were in range. I could have attacked right away—he was definitely not prepared for it—but the idea wasn’t just to put him down. I needed to do it in a way that discouraged his friends.

I held my hands out at my sides. “You’re move, asshole.”

For a few seconds, he just stood there, face pinched, eyes glaring, nostrils flared. Then he took off his coat and said, “Fine.”

The coat came flying at my face. It was an old street brawler’s trick, and not a bad one. But I was ready for it. I ducked to the side, and when White threw a kick at my groin, I twisted my hips out of the way, grabbed his leg, and lifted it while pushing forward at the same time. When the leg was as high as I could get it, I kicked White’s other leg out from under him and let him land on his ass.

At this point, a more merciful person might have backed off and given him a chance to stand up. Unfortunately for White, I am not a merciful person. At least not to someone who asks five of his friends to beat me up and then tries to kick me in the balls.

As soon as he was down, I stepped forward and swung the toe of my boot into the side of his face. It made a meaty thwack and snapped White’s head backward. He went limp for a second, then started trying to stand up.

I let him get as far as pushing up onto his hands and then delivered another kick, this time to his liver. The liver is a bad place to get hit. The Vagus nerve runs behind it, and if it takes a good whack, the pain is as bad as a gunshot wound.

White’s breath left him in a rush, and for a moment, all he could do was stare white-faced into the distance. Then he let out an agonized groan, clutched the right side of his body, and curled into the fetal position.

I took a few steps back and looked at his friends. “Anyone else?”

At this, Great Hawk stepped up behind me. In one hand he held a knife, and in the other his ancient tomahawk. I had seen him use both weapons in the past, and for the sake of the men arrayed against us, I hoped I would not have to see it again today.

“You’re buddy here fucked up,” I said. “He picked a fight with the wrong guy and he got smacked down for it. Then he picked a fight with another wrong guy, and, well, you see the result.”

I waved a hand at White. He was still in the fetal position, trying to breathe.

“So that’s twice today he screwed up. Are you going to make the same mistake?

The men shuffled backward, their eyes shifting back and forth between my face and the weapons in Great Hawk’s hands. I could imagine what they were seeing—a lean guy who didn’t look like much, but had just dismantled a man they considered intimidating, and a nightmare of an Apache warrior with cold steel in his hands and death in his eyes. One of them spoke up and made the wise choice.

“Fuck this,” the man said. “Sorry, Alan, but I didn’t sign up for this shit. Come on, guys.”

And with that, the five of them left.

Excerpt from The Hellbreakers: A Surviving the Dead Novel

ONE

 

 

I woke up to the sound of feet scraping on dry dirt.

My heart pounded as I sat up and shook my head to clear the fog of bad dreams. The thin sheet covering me fell away and I felt a chill in the air on my bare skin. The axe was in my hand before I realized I had reached for it. I raised it to port arms, gripped the smooth wooden handle, and sat and waited, listening.

The noise continued. Step, scrape. Step, scrape. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Step, scrape. Step, scrape. Just one set of feet. Didn’t mean there weren’t more nearby. Best to do this quietly.

I stood and crept on my toes to the door of the small cabin. The floor was vinyl over concrete, so there were no boards to creak. At the door, I put my ear to the wood and listened. Nothing. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. I stepped outside into the desert night.

A dark, star-flecked sky hung overhead, the purple and white of the Milky Way standing out in stark contrast to the blackness of the universe. All was quiet except for the stepping and scraping coming from the back of the cabin. There were other cabins nearby, campground vacation rentals until a few years ago, but now they stood empty, slowly succumbing to the weight of time, neglect, and the searing heat of the Arizona sun.

If I moved, the creature would hear the crunch of dirt and rocks underfoot, so I waited and listened. The step-scrape was moving westward.

Do this quick.

Circling around the cabin only took a few seconds at a run. At the back corner, I saw the source of the footsteps. A figure walked ahead of me, man-shaped and tall. There were no shoes on the feet, and what was left of the clothing would not have covered a child. No question about what it was. I caught up to it just as it turned around and swung the axe before it could moan. The ghoul’s skull split like cordwood and a splatter of reddish black gore hit the cabin wall.

Have to clean that up in the morning.

The axe hit at a good angle, so it slid free easily when the creature fell. I turned and looked around. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and there was a half-moon out. Nothing moved. No sound. A breeze picked up and gently rustled the sage and creosote in the surrounding emptiness.

I was alone. I let the axe hang from one hand and took a deep breath of dry air. It had been a long while since any infected had come around. I wondered what had brought it out this way.

Probably chasing a rabbit or something.

It was surprising there weren’t more. They usually traveled in hordes. Not that I was complaining.

The handle of the water pump twenty feet from my cabin was still warm from the heat of the day. I had not been asleep for long; it was still early evening. I pumped the handle and washed the gore from my axe. That done, I wiped the steel head with rubbing alcohol, put the square of cloth in trash bin next to the door, and went back to bed.

No more ghouls bothered me that night.

 

 

TWO

 

 

The axe was unlike any other I had seen.

Damascus steel blade, profile pattern like a scaled-up pipe tomahawk, lightweight, strong, and sharp as a serpent’s tooth. A stubby, rectangular hammer jutted from the back end and connected to a collar fitted around the haft. The haft itself is some kind of hardwood, ash or hickory maybe, treated with mineral oil and stained dark brown like walnut. I had found it mounted above the fireplace in a house in eastern Arizona. It has been with me ever since. Rare is the instance I let it out of arm’s reach.

I sat outside in the early morning on a section of log that served as a stool and looked over the cleaning job I’d done the night before. Just to be safe, I wiped the axe head with bleach, putting special emphasis on the cutting edge. The last thing I needed was to nick myself and contract a disease that turns living people into walking nightmares.

That done, I slung the axe on a harness made from thin nylon rope. The head hung down near my hips, the haft jutting over my shoulder. I could have it in hand in less than a second; long practice had made sure of that.

Glancing through the door, I let my eyes rest on the rifle I had found in the same house as the axe. It was an AR-15 of custom design. My knowledge of guns is not encyclopedic, but I knew enough to identify that much. A bandolier sat next to it that held six spare magazines, all fully loaded.

I didn’t fire the weapon very often. It was there for emergencies and to bring down the occasional javelina or antelope. Other than that, I had little use for it. Too heavy, too bulky, and too loud. Loud is bad. Loud attracts ghouls. I don’t like ghouls. They force me to reevaluate which particular rung of the food chain I occupy, and the conclusions I draw thereof are not comforting. Consequently, I prefer a good blade any day of the week. Blades are good. Blades are quiet. I like blades.

With the axe clean, I washed my hands under the water pump and went back inside. The cabin was a small rectangular affair with boarded-over windows. The floor space consisted of perhaps two hundred square feet. There was enough room for a bed, table, chair, and a composting toilet. The kitchen appliances I’d found when I had moved in were useless without electricity, so I ripped them out and built shelves in their place. It was from one of these shelves I took a few strips of dried meat and a can of peaches.

While I ate, I stared at the supplies. If I was careful, I had maybe a week’s worth remaining. I did not like being that low on food.

Motion caught my eye. I stopped chewing and glanced out the door. The motion turned out to be a tumbleweed. I let out a breath and took another bite.

Need to go into town.

I didn’t like it, but I knew it was true. A man has to eat, and there was only one source of food for miles.

Time for a trip to Phoenix.

 

*****

 

Unlike most cities during the Outbreak, Phoenix actually heeded the call to evacuate. Not completely, but the majority of people living in the city at the time had left, headed for various safe zones. Not long after, almost all of those so-called safe zones were overrun.

Despite its relative isolation, the Outbreak had not spared Phoenix its wrath. The undead found the desert city the same as they found everywhere else. At present, there were at least a couple of hundred thousand ravening abominations populating an area that had once been home to over one and a half million people.

And I was about to walk right in.

First I checked the mountain bike. The tires and rims were in good repair, the spokes and gears and brakes all in fine working condition. A little input from the tire pump and it was ready for the journey.

Next I gathered my equipment. I traveled light whenever I went to Phoenix. The axe stayed on my back, along with a water pack with two liters in it. Everything else went into the bicycle trailer. There was an empty duffel bag, six canteens of water, first aid kit, spare wheel for the bike, crowbar, bolt cutters, duct tape, emergency blanket, two trash bags, firefighting suit, motorcycle helmet, rubber boots, and a roll of toilet paper. Last was the rifle and extra ammo. I did not like bringing them along—the extra weight was cumbersome—but if things went bad I wanted the option to shoot my way out.

Before I left, after a final equipment check, I opened a drawer and removed a .22 caliber Ruger pistol. I had found it a couple of years ago in a house in Phoenix. It had occupied a shoebox, along with two small boxes containing a thousand rounds of ammo between them. The shoebox also held two spare magazines and a sound suppressor.

I loaded a magazine into the Ruger, chambered a round, and screwed on the suppressor. The axe was my first line of defense, but if I faced more than one ghoul in close quarters, I wanted the Ruger close at hand.

Okay. Time to move.

I mounted the bike and started pedaling.

 

THREE

 

 

Even though it was only nine in the morning, the temperature was already over ninety degrees.

At least it’s a dry heat, I told myself. It did not help.

A pair of wraparound sunglasses, a Foreign Legion cap with a neck flap, and a long-sleeve white shirt kept the worst of the sun off my skin. I pedaled eastward on Interstate 10, dodging the wrecks and abandoned vehicles and pointedly ignoring the remnants of a military convoy half a kilometer to the south.

I had explored the convoy the first time I saw it. Several of the soldiers had been turned, but were in hibernation, awakening when they heard me coming. The axe couldn’t crack their Kevlar helmets, so I’d been forced to dispatch them with my rifle. A search of their vehicles had revealed numerous boxes of MRE’s, weapons of all sorts, and more ammo than I would likely ever need.

I’d transported everything of value back to the campsite and stored it in the empty cabins. It had sat there ever since, trade items I would, in all likelihood, never get to trade.

After a few miles I reached Sun Valley Parkway, which ran parallel to the Skyline and White Tank Mountain Regional Park. I turned left and began following the road northward. This was the really long section of the journey. After a straight shot to the north, Sun Valley Parkway would turn east again and run all the way into the Surprise/Sun City West section of the Phoenix metro area. That was my destination. I had been raiding there for most of five years and had barely made a dent in the housing developments.

I set an easy pace, not wanting to wear myself out. My endurance was good, always had been, but I knew better than to push too hard. The desert sun can be a real bastard if one becomes dehydrated.

Something close to three hours after leaving the campsite, I came within sight of western Phoenix. I was still perhaps a mile and a half away from the city. Time for a break.

I kept my eyes to the right and eventually found what I was looking for—a ramshackle structure comprised of wooden struts with corrugated aluminum for a roof and walls. It looked like something out of a Tijuana slum, but it served its purpose.

I stopped the bike in front and put down the kickstand. From the trailer I retrieved a canteen of water, some dried meat, and a can of spaghetti and meatballs that I would not have fed to a dog before the Outbreak. Today, however, I knew the contents of the can had sodium and carbs, two nutrients I would need badly in the next few hours.

I ate my fill of the meat and spaghetti and drank the entire canteen of water. After that, I sat under the shade of the shack’s roof for an hour to let my meal digest and the water absorb into my tissues. Afterward, I drank more water from another canteen and then donned what I called my ‘foraging uniform’.

The thing about the collapse of civilization and mass evacuations is that everything not essential to survival tends to get left behind. Such was the case with a firefighting suit I’d found inside a volunteer fire department not long after the Outbreak. Its previous owner had evidently been about my size because it fit very well. As did the tough, heavy boots that came with it. The uniform was thick, durable, and, most importantly, impervious to ghoul bites.

I knew.

I had been bitten many times wearing it. Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but I was still alive.

I put on the suit, boots, and the motorcycle helmet. Last was a pair of thick leather firefighting gloves. Fully suited and pouring out sweat in the blazing heat, I climbed back on the bicycle and pedaled the rest of the way into town.

 

*****

 

The first time I came to Phoenix was for a fight.

My career started in my hometown of Los Angeles, but after college I spent a few years in Albuquerque training at one of the premier fight camps in the world. The head instructors there, two of the most respected names in mixed martial arts, said I was championship material. So, on their encouragement, I started competing in local circuits all over the country. Most of my fights were on the west coast, but I did a few up north and back east as well.

It did not take me long to make my mark on the scene. After eleven straight wins, all by submission, knockout, or TKO, my manager finally got a call from the Big Show. They wanted me on their undercard for an event in Phoenix. The pay wasn’t great, but I could not turn down the opportunity.

It was harder than I expected. I was used to fighting in front of crowds, but there is a difference between a few hundred people packed into a small event center and competing in a major sports arena. For starters, the lights are bright as hell. If you’re on your back, they burn into your eyes making it difficult to focus on your opponent. Second, the audience is loud. Really loud, to the point it’s hard to hear your corner shouting instructions.

Then there is the pressure. I never got nervous for any of my small fights while I was an up and comer. Back then, I was simply working toward a goal. But that night in Phoenix was the goal, and living up to it turned out to be far tougher than expected.

The guy I fought was a veteran. Close to a title shot once, but went on a losing streak and got relegated to the prelims. One more loss and he was looking at being ousted from the organization.

The fucker fought dirty. He poked me in the eye twice and kneed me in the balls every chance he got. The referee took a point from him after repeated warnings.

And that was just the first round.

“Okay,” my corner man, Vincent, told me during the sixty-second rest between the first and second rounds. “You got that round. Ref took a point, so at worst we’re even.”

“My balls are killing me,” I replied.

“Ignore it. How’s the eye?”

“I can see okay.”

“Good. Now listen, he’s already tired. His whole career he’s had problems with conditioning. He barely made weight for this fight, so you can bet he’s feeling the cut. When he gets tired, he tends to hold his hands low. That’s your opening. Attack low for the first couple of minutes, stuff the takedown, and get him focused on his legs. I’ll tell you when to attack the head. Use that big left kick of yours. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Remember, attack the legs, wait ‘til my order to go after the head.”

“I said I got it.”

The ref came over and ordered my corner men out of the ring. The second round was about to start.

“No reason you can’t finish this guy right here,” Vinny said as he gathered the stool and spit bucket. “Make it happen.”

I took a final sip of water before putting in my mouthpiece. Biting down on it, I looked across the cage at my opponent. He was taking big, deep breaths and trying to act like he wasn’t tired. I was not fooled. I had been fighting a good while by then, and I could tell by his body language that his conditioning was failing. I, on the other hand, had broken a nice sweat and felt loose.

Push the pace. Make him work.

The first round I’d tried backpedaling and counter-punching and, consequently, had spent most of the fight with my back against the cage fending off takedown attempts. This time I came out aggressive.

My first attack was a flurry of straight punches. My opponent wisely backed off and circled out. I moved to my left, cutting off the cage and getting right back in his face. He saw what I was doing and tried to rush forward, but I caught him coming in with a vicious inside leg kick. The kick threw him off balance and rendered him wide open for the right cross I sent straight down the pipe. It caught him flush in the nose, bloodying it and sending him stumbling back into the cage. As he bounced off the fence, I fired a left kick that nailed him in the liver. Liver shots are bad news. The Vagus nerve travels through the liver, and when it gets hit hard, the signals it sends are disrupted, causing loss of breath and a sensation of paralysis—kind of like hitting the ulnar nerve in the elbow, or ‘funny bone’, but on a body-wide scale. My opponent circled away after I kicked him, but I could tell by the clenched jaw and blood draining from his face that he was hurt.

The crowd was loving it. They came to their feet and roared for blood. I had every intention of giving it to them.

My opponent kept circling and trying to put his lead foot outside mine so he could have the superior angle. It was a common mistake people made against me. I let him have the angle, and, when he moved in, switched stances, sidestepped, and went at him with a flurry of punches and elbows. Now I had the better angle and he had no choice but to eat a few blows as he backed off and circled again.

Now I had his timing down. It was no longer a question of if, but when. I kept up the barrage, going back and forth between punch combinations and low kicks. The kicks seemed to be doing the most damage. He had welts and bruises on both legs and was beginning limp slightly. Leg kicks may not look like much to the untrained observer, but fighters know better. They take a toll.

He began to wilt under the pressure. His mouth hung open, lungs struggling to take in enough oxygen. He’d given up all pretense of aggression and had gone into survival mode, counter-punching when he could and covering up when he couldn’t. I began focusing my attacks to the right, causing him to duck left when I threw hooks and overhands at him.

“Now, Alex!” Vincent shouted. “Go now!”

On command, I threw another overhand right. When my opponent ducked, I switched my hips and sent up a high-kick with everything I had. My left shin impacted his head with a sound like a baseball bat hitting a tree. The force of it made him stand up straight for just a moment before toppling backwards. He bounced a little when he hit the ground, limbs loose and uncontrolled. I took a step toward him, but the referee did his job. In an instant, he was kneeling over the downed man, arms waving in the air.

“Stop, Alex, that’s it! Fight’s over!”

The crowd went ballistic. Vinny and my corner men started jumping up and down and screaming. I held up my arms, grinned around my mouthpiece, and felt more alive than I ever had before.

And now, as I stopped the bicycle and raised my visor, I looked at the city of Phoenix and thought about the cyclical nature of things. The first time I came here, I was ready for a fight. That much, at least, had not changed.

The axe was across my back. I took it in hand and put the Ruger in a jacket pocket. Last, I grabbed the empty duffel bag and stuffed the crowbar and bolt cutters into it. I thought about bringing the rifle, but decided against it. I was not going very far into town, and I can run pretty fast when I want to. Besides, I had the Ruger and the axe. If they weren’t enough, then I would have to rely on mobility and endurance. Before setting out, I checked my kit one more time to make sure I had everything I needed.

Then I began walking.

 

 

First Chapter of Storm of Ghosts: Surviving the Dead Volume 8

ONE

Caleb

 

At around 0300 on a Saturday morning in the first week of June, I found myself lying on a hillside in Northern Arkansas. I had been lying there since sundown, and was losing hope I would move my legs again before dawn. So when my earpiece crackled and my old friend Tyrel Jennings spoke, I was grateful.

“All stations, Sierra Lead. Confirm targets acquired. Over.”

There were eight other snipers positioned around the walls of the small community nestled in a natural hollow roughly two-hundred yards below. From where I lay, I could smell the smoke of cook fires preparing breakfast for the marauders who ruled the town. Orange lights glowed from glassless windows, mostly candles and oil lanterns. Only a few buildings boasted electricity. What power was available was provided by a large generator near the central plaza.

The buildings connected to the limited grid belonged exclusively to the Storm Road Tribe. There was no infrastructure in place to provide power to the rest of the town, even though doing so would not have been difficult. A twenty-man work crew and a halfway knowledgeable electrician could have done the job in a week, provided they had the necessary resources, which the Storm Road Tribe most certainly had. However, in the three weeks the Blackthorn Security Company had been surveilling the area, the town’s leader had made no effort to improve his town’s infrastructure. Nor did it appear likely he would. Perhaps it was his way of establishing a sense of privilege among his men while simultaneously reminding the peasants of their place in the pecking order.

“Sierra One, target acquired.”

“Sierra Two, target acquired…”

On it went until Gabriel Garret’s rumbling baritone informed Sierra Lead, AKA Tyrel Jennings, that Sierra Eight had acquired his target.

I keyed my radio. “Sierra Nine, target acquired.”

“All stations, Sierra Lead, acknowledged. Stand by.”

My right eye peered through the reticle of a night vision scope. The crosshairs followed a man walking the catwalk on the southern wall of the compound. He was one of twelve guards on the outer perimeter, eight on the catwalks and four in the towers. The roving patrol on the south wall and the southwest tower were my responsibility.

The rover I was watching stopped by the guard tower, pulled something from his belt, took a drink from it, replaced the container, and stood staring southward for a few seconds. Then he turned and began walking toward the other tower. I shifted aim toward the southwest tower, positioned the crosshairs center of mass on the tower guard, and began counting backward from sixty-two.

Over the last couple of hours, sixty-two seconds was the average time it had taken the rover to walk from one end of the south wall to the other and turn around. If Tyrel gave the order to fire during that time, the tower guard would die first, then the rover. If the order came down after sixty-two seconds, I would take out my targets in reverse order. The second option was not my favorite. It meant there was a chance the tower guard would see the rover go down and sound the alarm. There would be less chance of that happening in the next minute while the rover had his back turned.

“All stations, Sierra Lead. Coordinate fire on my mark.”

“’Bout damn time,” I muttered.

“Three, two, one, mark.”

I squeezed the trigger and felt the rifle thump against my shoulder. A sound suppressor on the end of the converted SCAR 17’s barrel dulled the report to a muted crack. Through the NV scope, my target stiffened, but did not fall. I fired twice more and watched him twitch with each impact. He collapsed.

The tower guard must have made some noise because when I switched aim to the rover, he had stopped, turned around, and was peering through the darkness at the watchtower. He put his hands around his mouth to call out, but the words never made it. I fired twice. The shots took the marauder in the chest at a diagonal, sending two gouts of dark liquid behind his shoulder. He stumbled backwards, fell on his ass, and brought his hands to his chest. Before he died, he looked at his hands, no doubt seeing them covered in blood. I had a moment to wonder what he was thinking in his last few seconds before the radio crackled again.

“Sierra One, tango delta.”

‘Tango delta’ was the call sign for ‘target down’, meaning Sierra One had killed his bad guys without incident. If he had said ‘tango Charlie’, meaning ‘target compromised’, things would have gotten hectic. Thankfully, the rest of the confirmations came quickly, including mine, all stations reporting tango delta.

I let out a slow breath and willed my heart rate to decrease. There is a wire in the human psyche that warns us about killing each other, about violence of any sort. When we activate that protocol, adrenalin flows. It is unavoidable. The brain gives us an extra shot of energy in case things go tits-up and we have to fight for our lives. Some people enjoy this feeling. I am one of them, though I am not proud of it. I felt it then, and I had no doubt the other snipers were feeling it as well. Everyone I had ever spoken to who had peered through gunsights and fired on human beings and watched them fall had reported similar feelings.

I took a few big breaths and let them out. The adrenalin faded quickly. This time, I did not get the shakes. My hands were steady.

I was seventeen the first time I killed someone. Two someones, actually. Afterward, I had shaken badly enough the paramedics had wanted to take me in for observation, which I had refused. In the years since, my reaction to fighting and killing had gradually diminished. I likened it to the Doppler Effect, the noise of a loud object passing close by at first, then diminishing like the drone of an engine fading in the distance. It had been over five years since those first killings, and the noise was dim now. I wondered how long it would be, how many more bodies would pile up, how many more faces I would see in the dark when sleep refused to come, before I would hear it not at all.

 

*****

 

Tyrel’s decision to attack at three in the morning was not random. At that hour, most people in the settlement were asleep. The townsfolk, lacking electricity and therefore unable to light their homes without the risk of burning them down, had mostly turned in after sunset. The marauders stayed up later, but not excessively so. Even criminal scum need to rest before a late watch. The pattern had been the same the last three weeks. Tonight was no exception.

So when the ladders went up and nine squads of highly-trained Blackthorn operators scaled the walls of Parabellum, it seemed there was no one around to observe them. All the marauders on the wall were dead, and the others were still in their barracks with the lights out.

Someone, however, must have been awake because the assault teams had no sooner reached the ground and set out for the center of town when, from near the east wall, a bell started ringing.

My earpiece crackled. “Bravo Lead, Sierra Lead, all teams proceed on mission. Acknowledge, over.”

“Acknowledged, Sierra Lead. Proceeding on mission. Over.”

“Sierra Two, who the fuck is ringing that bell? Over.”

“Got him, Sierra Lead. Wait one.”

A moment later the ringing stopped.

“Sierra Lead, Sierra One. Tango delta.”

“About fucking time. All right Sierra stations, the ball is up, but the plan hasn’t changed. Stay focused, provide fire support where you can, and make sure you don’t shoot anyone dressed like a Blackthorn.”

We didn’t bother with acknowledgments. There was no time. I hunched down over my rifle and searched the area of town I could see. A few people came out into the streets, none of them armed. I held my fire. From the east part of town the unmistakable rattle of an AK-47 tore into the night. It was answered by several M-4s. The AK went silent. I scanned the streets again. Still no gunmen, and no sign of the assault teams.

I shifted focus to the center of town. A few dozen marauders had exited their barracks and formed into fire teams, each one moving to a different street accessing the central plaza. One of them had taken position directly in my line of sight. I put the scope on the guy who looked like he was in charge, let out half a breath, and squeezed the trigger. The shot took him high in the back, likely hitting a major artery. Dead or not, he was out of the fight.

There was a moment of panic as the rest of his fire team saw him go down. One moment he was standing there giving orders, the next he had a hole in his chest and was spitting up blood. The delay gave me enough time to line up another shot and take it. Another marauder went down. The last two broke and ran. I tried to sight in on one of them, but he went around a corner and out of visual.

At other points around the central plaza, panic was taking hold. Shots poured in from all sides, their source invisible to the men on the receiving end. All they knew was they had been awakened and now stood in the darkness taking heavy fire. But they couldn’t hear any reports or see any muzzle flashes. It was useless to return fire because they could not tell where the shots were coming from. They were more likely to hit each other than the enemy.

After a few more seconds, the defenders broke. Panicked men left their posts and fled down streets and alleyways and ducked into buildings. I shifted focus to the largest building in town. The marauder’s leader lived there. He had been seen going in and out of the building numerous times over the last few weeks. At night, he went in and stayed. I checked the windows and doorways. No one. The balconies were deserted as well. To all appearances, the place was abandoned. No lights, no movement, nothing.

Strange.

Back to the southern part of town. What few people had been in the streets before had now sought shelter indoors. Smart. It was not a good time to be outside. Too much chance of getting shot.

Since I had nothing else to do, I switched comm channels and listened to the assault teams’ radio chatter. They moved with speed and efficiency, keeping conversation to a minimum. Several teams met small pockets of resistance and crushed them without mercy. None of our guys had been hit so far.

Less than five minutes from the time their boots had hit Parabellum soil, the teams reached the central plaza. A few of them advanced on the barracks while the rest stormed the leader’s mansion. They met no resistance. In fact, they met no one at all. The building was empty.

The assault teams reassembled and began to sweep the town building by building. At each doorway, they announced themselves and gave the inhabitants a chance to come out. Most did. A few houses contained people too sick or injured to stand up. The assault teams entered and cleared, but did so carefully.

Our rules of engagement were very firm on one particular point: we were to minimize civilian casualties. The mission was to liberate these people, not kill them. The teams took their time and did things right.

A few houses turned up marauders trying to hide out from the assault teams. Most of them went quietly, but one took a hostage and started shooting. The teams did the smart thing: they waited until he was out of ammo and then moved in. Within seconds of the first dry trigger pull, the marauder was face down on the ground, pinned by about five-hundred pounds of armored whoop-ass. His hog-tied form being dragged into the central plaza marked the last gasp of resistance from the Storm Road Tribe.

The radio emitted static and Tyrel started talking again, but he abruptly stopped when several thumps reverberated through the ground. I was confused for a moment, then realization dawned and I felt my heart sink.

Explosives.

The radio was loud for a while until it was determined no one was hurt. The explosions had come from underground. I keyed my radio.

“Sierra Lead, Sierra Nine. Looks like Sierra Eight’s theory was correct.”

Tyrel ignored me. “Bravo Lead, can you confirm if those blasts came from tunnels?”

“Affirmative. Just found the entrance to one in the mansion. Nothing but a pile of rubble now.”

“Any chance we can get our guys in there and give chase?”

“Negative. We’d need an excavator. Place is a fucking mess.”

A few seconds passed. I could just imagine Tyrel scraping a hand over his close cropped hair and cursing in frustration.

“Bravo Lead, can you confirm the town is secure?”

“Affirmative. Last team just reported in.”

“Good. I’m calling in air support. Those raiders have to come out somewhere. Maybe the helo can find them. All sierra stations, maintain posture. Report contact, but do not engage. Wait for backup. Bravo Lead, keep everyone on the clock. This might not be over.”

“Copy, Sierra Lead.”

I sat up, put my back to a tree, and took a long pull from my canteen.

“Tunnels,” I muttered to myself. “Sneaky bastards.”

Excerpt from Surviving the Dead Volume 6: Savages

*****

“That was nice back there.”
I looked at Hicks. We were on our way to the town’s central square and the residence of one Bailey Sandoval. “What?”
“Flirting with the vice president of an enemy country.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“She seemed to have a different idea. I think she was sweet on you.”
“Sweet on me? Who says shit like that? What are you, an old west cattle rancher? Did I put a hitch in her giddyup?”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
I sighed. “It was not my intention to flirt with her. I was trying to get information. I can’t help it if the ladies love me.”
Hicks snorted. “They love you back in your Coke-bottle glasses days?”
“Especially then. I was so hot they couldn’t stand to talk to me. Just walked away or asked me to leave them alone. I didn’t hold it against them. There’s only so much chiseled manliness a woman can handle.”
“I’m beginning to wish I brought my entrenching tool.”
“For what?”
“To shovel my way out of your bullshit.”
There was movement a few blocks ahead. Dark shapes ghosted through the shadows in a walking crouch. I saw hand signals pass back and forth, and the figures were clearly armed. I stopped and grabbed Hicks’ shoulder.
“Stop.”
“What?” Hicks froze and peered into the darkness. He had long ago learned to trust my eyesight. “You see something?”
“Yeah. Let’s get off this street.”
We moved to an alley two blocks over and waited next to an overflowing dumpster. “What did you see?” Hicks asked.
“North Korean special forces, unless I miss my guess.”
“Shit. What are they doing out here?”
I shook my head.
We stayed still and quiet. Every second that ticked by grated against my nerves. We did not have all night.
“Okay,” I whispered. “You take that end of the alley, I’ll take this one. Use your night vision scope. Look for movement. You see hostiles, take them out.”
Hicks checked his suppressor was firmly attached, made sure his scope was activated, and tapped me on the shoulder. He was gone in an instant, no noise, no wasted movement. I stared after him and wondered what secrets his past held. No infantry grunt I'd ever met had half his abilities.
Questions for another day.
I crept to the edge of the building and peeked around the bricks. The black shapes were still moving toward me, closer now. My instincts told me to step back, but the corner where I hid was dark. The short, fatigue-sporting soldiers seemed not to notice me. So I stayed, and watched, and whispered into my radio.
“Incoming on my side.”
The radio crackled, and Gabe spoke up. “Everything all right?”
“Tell you in a minute. Stay off the net.”
“Copy.” Gabe’s voice was strained, but he understood the necessity. Hicks chimed in. “Clear on my side.”
“You sure?”
“Affirmative.”
“Get back over here.”
I did not hear him approach. One second I was alone, and the next I felt a tap on my shoulder. 
“Stacked up behind you.”
“Stand by. I’m going to leapfrog the alley. Be ready to engage.”
“Roger that.” 
Not for the first time, I detected a note of excitement in his voice. I looked back.
“You like this shit, don’t you?”
A grin. “I do. I really do.”
“Sometimes I worry about you, Caleb.”
“Worry about crossing the alley.”
“Right. Okay, here goes.”
There is nothing a man can do to prepare for the maneuver I executed. You just go as fast as you can and hope for the best. In my case, it worked out. I flung myself from cover, stayed low, ran on the edges of my boots to minimize noise, and stacked up at the corner of the next alley over. No shots fired. No shouts. No explosions. I keyed my radio.
“Hicks, see anything?”
He had pied out the corner with his night vision scope. I checked mine, found it dark, and activated it.
“They don’t seem agitated, but they’re still moving in our direction.”
“Tactical movement?”
“I suppose so. Their version of it, anyway.”
“Prepare to engage. Leave no survivors.”
“You sure about this? Maybe we ought to slip out of here.”
I stuck my scope around a narrow sliver of corner. “No time. They’re almost on us. On my mark.”
“Standing by.”
I called to mind everything Gabe and Captain Steve McCray taught me about close quarters combat. Accuracy. Speed. Violence of movement. Silence.
The shapes grew closer. Thirty meters. Twenty. Ten.
“Three, two, one, mark.”
I slipped enough of my torso from cover to aim from a stable shooting platform. By the time I lined up on my first target, Caleb had already loosed three rounds. A dark black head snapped back, and the figure attached to it collapsed without a sound. In the same instant as I mentally praised Caleb for his marksmanship, my finger squeezed down on the trigger. Another head snapped back. I made a follow up shot and resisted the urge for a third one. I was firing 6.8 SPC after all, not standard 5.56 NATO rounds. Which meant I did not have to shoot a man five times to make sure he was dead. Twice to the head was enough.
As often happens in combat, my training took over and I was firing again before I knew what was happening. Another dark shape dropped. Caleb’s rifle coughed twice and a fourth man died. Only two left now.
The one closest to me noticed something amiss, or maybe caught a dim muzzle flash, and started to shout something. He got out half a syllable before two rounds from my rifle tore his throat to shreds. Blood flew from his lips as I ended his misery with a third shot between the eyes. He went stiff, shuddered, and toppled like a felled tree.
Caleb let loose a final salvo of four shots. Two hit center of mass, and two blew holes in the diminutive commando’s upper sinus cavity. He died without a sound. Caleb and I looked at each other, nodded, and waited. No more sounds. No movement. I let a minute go by. It appeared the high-quality suppressors had done their job.
Static. “All clear.”
I gave Caleb a thumbs up by way of acknowledgement. Then I remembered Gabe was listening in and keyed my radio. “All clear. Let’s move out.”
“How many tangos?” Gabe asked over the net.
“Six. All down.”
“You compromised?”
“No. Proceeding on mission.”
“Roger.” Gabe sounded relieved. Hicks gave a ‘move forward’ hand signal, to which I nodded, hid my rifle beneath my bush jacket, and followed.
I spotted another patrol shortly before arriving near the town square. They were not North Koreans, but were nonetheless heavily armed. One even carried an RPK light machine gun with a bipod and drum magazine. I grabbed Hicks’ arm and led him down a side street. We stopped under an awning and stood in near total darkness. One of the guards carried a small oil lamp that let us see their outline as they passed.
“These fellas ain’t messin’ around,” Caleb said. “Think they know something’s up?”
“Could be. Doesn’t change anything. Let’s go.”
We approached the building from the rear. It had once been a hotel, but had been repurposed to house government officials. Sandoval’s residence took up three rooms, all connected by open doorways. He was on the second floor at the easternmost corner. There were two entrances, both manned by a pair of armed guards. If Lena Grimsdottir’s intel was correct, there would be four more guards posted inside, also heavily armed.
“Mission lead, alpha team,” Hicks told his radio. “We are in position, standing by.”
“Roger alpha team. Stand by, will advise when it’s time to start the party.”
“Roger. Alpha out.”
I checked my weapons for the tenth or eleventh time. Good to go. “So now we wait.”
“I’ll move to the corner of that building over there.” Hicks pointed. “Have a better shot at the guards on that side.”
“All right.”
Hicks moved. I waited. And waited. Ten minutes passed. I saw no patrols, no citizens conducting late night business, no voices, no music from the bars or taverns, no sign at all anyone was alive in Carbondale. The streets that were so busy earlier were now empty and silent.
I thought once again about the pervasive silence of the post-Outbreak world, and how it was so hard to get used to. No drone of planes overhead, no Doppler hum of cars on the highways, no news or traffic helicopters, no buzz of air conditioners or power lines or street lights. Over three years had passed since the Outbreak, and it still bothered me. I was beginning to think it always would.
Static. “Mission lead, Bravo team in position.”
“Copy. Stand by.”
“Roger. Bravo out.”
More time passed. Charlie team checked in. Gabe and Great Hawk’s group were still en route to the president’s mansion. I closed my eyes and visualized a map of Carbondale in my head. I traced imaginary lines from where I was to the east gate. There were several possible routes I could take. Hicks and I planned to split up and proceed separately. That way, if one of us was caught or pinned down, the other could attempt rescue. Failing that, it minimized the risk we would both be caught. Better for the Union to lose one operator than two.
The radio stayed silent. I thought about the target, visualized his face. There had been several photos in his dossier. He was tall, approximately six foot four, bald head, goatee, narrow features, a casual arrogance in the eyes that screamed ‘hatchet-faced prick’.
It would have been a lie to say I was entirely comfortable with the idea of carrying out an assassination. I had killed before, but always in self-defense or defense of others. Reminding myself of the danger this man posed to untold thousands if he lived lessened the dread, but only marginally.
All the other times I had killed—the Free Legion, raiders and marauders, Alliance insurgents, etc.—I had made it a point not to look the enemy in the eye. Better to focus on hitting center of mass, or make a quick head shot. I rarely dialed a scope to more than four power and that only at very long range. I did not like it when I could discern a man’s facial features, his expression, and watch the shock and disbelief and pain overwhelm him in the moment before he died. The few faces I had observed in those final seconds still visited me in the quiet hours of the night when sleep refused to come. And when I finally did sleep, I saw them in my dreams—bloody, angry, eyes accusing.
On the nights when they woke me from slumber, I disconnected my mp3 player from the solar charger, put in the earbuds, and poured myself a drink. Al Green, Jimmy Cliff, Buddy Guy, and Johann Sebastian Bach usually did a pretty good job of keeping the demons at bay. Mike Stall’s finest moonshine didn’t hurt either.
The earpiece crackled, and Gabe said, “All stations are in position. Everybody ready to go?”
The teams responded in order, Hicks speaking up for the two of us. All stations were as ready as they were going to be.
“Very well. Good luck and Godspeed, gentlemen. If it all goes south, it’s been an honor. Engage on my mark.”
I eased out from cover and peered around the corner. Raised my rifle. Sighted in. The guard in my crosshairs looked bored. They’re not expecting trouble.
Static. “For freedom. For the Union. For our nation’s future. Take ‘em out.”
The coldness inside me rose to a burning crescendo as icy heat coursed through my blood. The fire lent strength to my limbs, firmed my resolve, and burned away the last tremblings of fear. I went still inside. My hands were sure and steady. My mind, and my conscience, were clear.

I let out half a breath and fired. 

Excerpt from Savages: A Surviving the Dead Novel

ONE



Things would have been a lot worse if not for the helicopters.
To the north, the steady phoom, phoom, phoom, of artillery thundered through the morning air, while to the south, shells exploded in flashes of fire and black smoke. Hollow Rock—my town, my home—was in flames. I was too far away to hear the screams and shouted orders and desperate calls of people yelling for loved ones. Too far away to hear the cries of the dying, of parents trying to find their children, of those same children sobbing in fearful, choked voices.
I wish I could say it was for them I wept, but it was not. It was for Allison, my wife, the mother of my unborn child, the only woman I had ever loved. She was down there somewhere, probably running for her life the same as everyone else.
If she’s not already dead.
I tried to surge up from the ground, but Hicks grabbed me across the shoulders.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll just get yourself killed.”
Ignoring him, I struggled to get my feet underneath me. Hicks rose up and snaked an arm through one of mine in a wrestler’s wrist tie-up. Unable to use the arm he controlled, I tried to sit through and twist out with my unencumbered arm. He stopped me by putting his full weight across my back. Hicks weighed much more than his lanky appearance suggested; he probably had me by thirty pounds.
“Stop, Eric,” he said into my ear. “You can’t do anything for her right now.”
Still, I struggled. If I’d had my wits about me, I could have gotten out from underneath him. Even pinned as I was there were still techniques I could have used to wrestle my way free. But I was not thinking straight. So instead I bucked and thrashed and called Hicks names I knew I would later regret. All the while, he kept talking to me, telling me help was on the way, it was going to be all right, Allison would get to safety. Finally, he grabbed me by the hair, jerked my head up so I was looking him in the eye, and said, “Listen!”
I stopped fighting. Hicks pointed to my old friend, Staff Sergeant Ethan Thompson. Above the din of explosions and the increasing volume of rotors spinning overhead, I heard Ethan speaking into his radio.
“Copy,” he said, “Apache engaging, maintain position and stand by for orders.” He turned his head toward his squad. 
“Did you hear that? For now, we hold position. Be ready to move.”
“Let the chopper do its job,” Hicks said.
I went limp and nodded. “Okay, okay. Get off me.”
His weight left my back and I could breathe easier.
I lay with my face close to the dirt, pine needles shifting beneath me, pulse thumping in my ears. The Apache flew directly overhead, gaining altitude and banking northward until it went out of sight.
A few moments later, Thompson said something I did not quite hear as the hiss-BANG of a Hellfire missile sounded from less than half a mile away. Seconds later, the chatter of a 30mm cannon reached my ears, firing in bursts. After the eighth or ninth burst, the cannon stopped and the Apache flew back in our direction. The artillery was silent.
“Roger that,” Thompson said into his radio. “Will approach from the south and spread out to envelope the target area. Second Platoon will approach from the east and advise when in position. Over.” He turned his head and said to his squad, “Check your weapons and follow me.”
Out of habit, I looked to my carbine. Tugged back on the charging handle. Round in the chamber, magazine seated firmly, safety off, trigger finger pointing straight down the lower receiver. I pulled my Kel-Tec from its holster and checked it as well. Ready to go.
Thompson led the way as Delta Squad emerged from the treeline. The other three squads from First Platoon emerged at other points, one north of us, two others to the south. We had split up when fleeing our transport truck to make ourselves a harder target in case the enemy artillery had zeroed our position. Evidently, they had not. I would ordinarily have considered this a good thing, except all the rounds they fired had hit Hollow Rock. A glance over my shoulder showed me a breach in the north gate wide enough to drive a tank through. Black smoke rose from the buildings behind. I hoped none of them was the clinic. Or my house.
Shoving thoughts of Allison aside for the moment, I followed Thompson as we met up with the rest of First Platoon.
*****
There was not much for us to do.
Burned bodies lay in death poses near three smallish artillery cannons twenty yards apart. To my left, less than twenty feet away, a charred corpse lay on its back, the skin and clothing burned so badly as to be unrecognizable. Its legs were crossed as though it were lounging on a bed, one hand reaching skyward, the arm bent at the elbow. I wondered if it would fall off if I went over and kicked it.
The cannon in the middle lay on its side, burned and blackened and misshapen from the impact of the Hellfire. Made sense. As close together as the cannons were, hitting the middle gun would do the most damage to the men operating them. An artillery piece is just a big ugly paperweight with no one to shoot it.
The 30mm cannon on the Apache Longbow had taken care of the enemy troops, save for a handful who ran away. The recon team from First Platoon, along with a few scouts from the Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia, had gone after them. Hicks and Holland went along.
After reporting to Echo Company’s commanding officer, Captain Harlow, we searched the bodies for identification. As expected, we found none. Chinese AK-47s, side arms I did not recognize, and Russian hand grenades. No hand weapons. Plain black uniforms with no body armor, black tactical vests with no manufacturers tag, flashlights, spare ammo, and an array of tools common to Outbreak survivors. Bolt cutters, crowbars, flat pry-bars, machetes, entrenching tools, that sort of thing. No food, though. Must have cached it nearby.
The bodies recognizable as human all shared the same ethnicity: Asian. They were short, wiry, and save for the fact they were dead, in supreme physical condition.
“What do you think?” Sergeant Isaac Cole said standing next to me. “KPA?”
“Could be,” I replied. “Although technically we should call them ROC.”
Cole snorted. He sounded like an angry bull and stood almost as big as one. “Call ‘em whatever you want, they North Korean. Buncha brainwashed-ass motherfuckers.”
“Goddamn suicide troops,” Private Fuller said behind me. “Gotta be. No other explanation. They couldn’t have expected to get out of here alive.”
I said, “Tell that to the ones who ran away.”
For a while, nothing happened. My eyes strayed anxiously toward home while I stood with the rest of Delta Squad waiting for Ethan Thompson to tell us what to do. On a salvage run, it would have been the other way around. But this was official military high-up muckety-muck business, so I deferred to the federal types. Ethan looked relieved when his earpiece finally buzzed to life. He pressed two fingers to his right ear and listened. A moment passed before he clicked transmit and muttered, “Roger that.”
Turning our way, he said “We’re moving out. Walkers closing in from the north and east. We’re moving east to intercept. Second will maneuver north. Let’s move.”
“What about the rest of First?” Cole asked. He was the second most senior man in Delta Squad, so the question begged an answer.
“They’ll catch up. Captain Harlow still has Charlie and Alpha patrolling the perimeter. Not sure where Bravo is.”
“Right here,” Staff Sergeant Kelly called out behind us. His squad followed behind him. Once again, Thompson looked relieved. Kelly had more experience than almost everyone else in First Platoon, and was next in line to be platoon sergeant. Like him, his squad mates were all seasoned veterans. Good men to have around in a fight.
“You with us?” Thompson asked.
“Yup,” Kelly replied. “Horde’s moving in fast. We need to get going.”
“You heard him,” Thompson called. “Double-time.”
It was nearly a mile to where the Chinook’s spotters directed us to intercept the incoming horde. At the top of the rise, I could see there was not just one, but three hordes coming in. One directly in front of us to the east, one descending from the north, and another closing in southward. Both the eastern and southern walls were still standing, but the north gate was a wreck. I watched the Chinook and the Apache turn in that direction to render air support.
“Okay, men,” Kelly said. “Let them pack in against the wall, then we surround in standard crescent formation from behind. Stay low and quiet. The last thing we want is to lure them toward us before we’re ready.”
The soldiers nodded, most holding their arms above their heads to catch their breath. They were in good physical condition, but running a mile in full combat gear is a strain. Kelly gave them ninety seconds to rest, and to their credit, all were fresh and ready to go when he gave the order to move out.
As they departed, I took a moment to dial my VCOG scope up to its highest magnification and look over the horde. Watching them, I got the sense something was not right. I had seen hundreds, maybe even over a thousand hordes of varying sizes over the years, and something about the way this one moved puzzled me. So I perched my rifle on my Y-stand to steady the image and slowly scanned the mass of walking dead.
And nearly had a heart attack.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
In a low scramble, I scurried up to Ethan, stage whispering the whole way for him to stop. When he finally heard me, he radioed up to Kelly to halt the column and waited for me.
“What is it?” he asked irritably.
I handed him my rifle. “Look carefully,” I said. “Pay close attention to their midsections.”
He did as I asked. His brow furrowed as he looked through the scope, then a moment later he paled and pulled the rifle away.
“Holy shit.” He keyed his radio, voice shaky. “Kelly, we got a problem. Those walkers are rigged with explosives.”
A moment of silence. Thompson’s earpiece was loud enough I could hear Kelly’s reply. “You’re shitting me.”
“Afraid not. You want to call it in?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
While we waited, I said, “Those bombs must be on remote detonators. No way a timer would work, the infected’s movements are too unpredictable.”
“Yeah, I figured that.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
Thompson looked at me sternly. “Wait for orders.”
I hissed in frustration and sat down, checked my rifle for the fifth or sixth time, made sure my grenades were securely in their pouches (the deadly little things had always made me nervous), and verified all my P-mags were in the proper position for combat reloads. Same for my pistol. All ready to go.
Just as I was about to say to hell with it and volunteer to lead the horde away, Kelly’s voice sounded in Thompson’s earpiece. I stood up and leaned in to listen.
“Good news and bad news. Bad news, all three hordes are rigged. Looks like every ninth or tenth walker has dynamite or something strapped to it. Probably on remote detonators. If they reach those walls, they’re coming down.”
“Perfect,” Thompson replied. “What’s the good news?”
“Howitzer en route to our position. Bradleys and Abrams deploying north and south respectively.”
“Any chance the Chinook can air drop some mortars?”
“No time. Right now, we’re to flank the horde, whittle their numbers, and try to lead them away from the wall. Have all designated marksmen concentrate fire on the Rot rigged with bombs and have SAW gunners aim for the legs. And tell your grenadier not to be shy with the ordnance. We wanna disable as many of these things as possible. We can always pick off the survivors later.”
“What about the detonators? There have to be spotters watching from somewhere.”   
“Recon team and the Chinook are searching for them. They’ll have to be somewhere relatively close. There’s no cell connectivity around here, so they’re probably using a portable RF transmitter to send the detonation signal. But right now, that’s not our concern. Our concern is diverting that horde and killing as many as we can.”

“Roger, wilco.” Thompson turned and explained the orders to Delta Squad. After a brief conference among fire teams, we followed Kelly’s squad in the direction of the horde. 
On the way, Cole said, “Ghouls rigged with IEDs, man. What will these assholes think up next?” 

New Release!!!

The origin of The Darkest Place is a strange one.  
Sometimes I write a supporting character, and I think his or her story is compelling enough to warrant its own novel. Caleb Hicks is just such a character. He appeared in two of my previous novels, The Passengerand Fire in Winter, in the latter of which he played a major role.  
Now, this is going to seem non sequitur, but stick with me. During my tenure on a VBSS team (Visit, Board, Search and Seizure) in the Navy, I had occasion to do a couple of training exercises with the Navy SEALS. The first thing that struck me about them was how young they were. Most of them did not even look old enough to buy a drink legally. The second thing that struck me was how well trained they were. And unless I miss my guess, the initial training a SEAL undergoes after BUDS is somewhere around a year and a half to two years. (I could be wrong about the timeframe there, and if I am, I apologize.)  
But think about that for a moment. In roughly two years, the Navy can take an ordinary civilian, and if that civilian is properly motivated, turn them into one of the world’s elite warriors. I remember the question occurring to me, What if these guys started training when they were very young, like, five years old? What would they be capable of? 
In Caleb Hicks’ character, I get to explore that possibility. And that is about all I can say about him without giving away any spoilers.  
As for the novel itself, let me be clear on an important point: This is not Surviving the Dead Volume Five. The Darkest Place is a standalone novel set in the Surviving the Dead universe, much like The Passenger, although I wrote this one on my own. 
Eric Riordan, however, does feature in the novel, and his actions are important to the next volume in the series: Savages.  
So I guess it would be fair to call The Darkest Place Surviving the Dead 4.5. Or you could call it a companion novel to Savages. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it. The Darkest Place was supposed to be a short novel, no more than 60,000 words (about 200 pages), but it took on a life of its own, and even if it is not well received, I am proud of it. I think it is a good book. At 165,000 words (over 500 pages) it is a long read. It was written during the most difficult time in my life, and I think that will be plainly obvious to anyone who reads it.  
I wish you all the best, my friends, and as always, thank you.  
Jim.
 
 

Recovery

Hello all. 
Just a quick update. Don't want to take up too much of your time. 
First things first, I am doing much better. It's been a week since my last post (in which I revealed I am a raging booze-monster), and I can't believe the difference in how I feel. For the last few years, I have been either drunk, hungover, or suffering from withdrawal symptoms. I can't remember the last time I actually felt good. I am not completely over the withdrawal yet, but I am more clearheaded and have more energy than I have had in years. And it has only been a week. 
Which is not to say it has been easy. It has not. The first three days, I felt like a shit pancake smothered in misery sauce. Shakes, heart beating in my chest a mile a minute, anxiety, cold sweats, headaches, nausea, the works. Then on day four, horrible things stopped pouring out of me and I began to feel better. By day five, I could eat a full meal without losing it. The shakes stopped. I even went to my son's t-ball game. 
The last couple of days, I actually got out of the house and ran errands. Who am I? 
I'm going to take it easy the rest of the week, eat regularly, drink lots of water, and spend time with the family. On Monday, I'll get back to writing.  
Before I go, I want to take a moment to thank all of you who took the time to offer your support and encouragement. Honestly, I expected to get some nasty comments and deal with a heavy dose of trolling. But so far, that hasn't happened. Your responses have been overwhelmingly supportive, and I can't tell you all how much it means to me to read your kind comments. Many of you have shared your own stories of addiction and recovery, and it gives me hope. If others can do it, so can I. 
With everything I have and with everything I am, thank you. 
The last few days have served not only to redeem my faith in humanity and demonstrate just how many people out there are concerned about me, but also to reveal the challenge that lies ahead. Anyone who has ever been an addict knows what I'm talking about, but for you sensible, careful souls who have wisely avoided such things, let me explain what being an alcoholic in today's society is like. 
Just for a moment, imagine you are a cocaine addict. You realize your problem, you go to rehab, and you get clean. Then you come home, and everywhere you look, you see cocaine. When you watch a football game, every other commercial is advertising cocaine. They depict fit, attractive people dancing and snorting blow up their noses and having an awesome time doing it. 
You walk into a restaurant and half the people around you are snorting cocaine from little mirrors as they eat their meals. Bottles of cocaine line the walls. The waiter comes over and hands you a menu listing their exceptional cocaine selection. She offers to pour you a little sample of the house Colombian White. 
You go to the grocery store and there is a massive cocaine section, an endless variety, every kind of blow you could possibly desire. You go to the convenience store to buy a bottle of water and have to walk by the cocaine cooler to do so. It is everywhere, all around you, tempting you, you can't ever get away from it, and it will always, always, be this way. 
That's what it's like to be an alcoholic. 
But you know what? I don't care. I'm tired of booze. I feel better than I've felt in years, and I'd like to stay that way. I don't want to go back. I don't want to fall into that trap again. I've been down that road, and I know where it leads. 

It's nice to reside in normal town again. I think I'll stay here.