Summer of Zombie blog tour

Excerpt from the upcoming novel The Passenger,
by James N. Cook and Joshua Guess.




The trouble
started, as it usually did, with the crack of a rifle.

A
high-powered one by the sound of it, Ethan thought. The bullet smashed into
the operator’s compartment on the u-trac, and if not for the four inches of
ballistic glass between Gus and the rest of the world, his head would have
burst like a melon. As it was, the grizzled engineer barely flinched.

“Looks like we
got company.”

Ethan looked at
Jones to find him grinning broadly. The handsome man’s smile faltered, however,
when more rifles fired and nearly a dozen rounds broke themselves against the
armor of their passenger car. Ethan snatched up his rifle and leapt to his
feet.

“Backs to the
wall!” he shouted.

Delta squad
surged up from the bench and fanned out against the two-inch thick steel walls
standing between them and whoever it was firing on the u-trac. Ethan peered out
the narrow window and looked across the tall grass separating the tracks from
the treeline less than a hundred yards away. As he watched, the branches parted
and swirled, and over a dozen horsemen broke cover and began driving their
mounts hard toward the slow-moving transport. The riders stood up in their
saddles, knees bent with boots locked into stirrups, leveled their mismatched
rifles, and began firing.

“Goddamn, how’d
they know we were coming?”

Ethan turned
his head to look at Jones who stood pressed against the wall beside him. “You
see they have horses, right? Probably a patrol spotted us and then rode back to
get his friends. This shit-heap we’re riding only goes about ten miles an
hour.”

Jones nodded
understanding just as another volley of gunfire peppered the wall.

“Fuck,” Ethan
swore. It was only a matter of time until one of those rounds found its way
through a firing port, and when that happened, the ricochet would rip them to
pieces. Gotta make these assholes back off.

“Jones, get
that SAW up the ladder,” Ethan said. “Schmidt, Holland, Cormier, lay down cover
fire until he can get the hatch open. Fuller, Page, Hicks, cover the other
side. Shoot anything that fucking moves. Smith, make sure Jones doesn’t run out
of ammo.”

Private Smith
stood ashen-faced against the wall, sweating bullets in spite of the cold and
clutching his rifle with trembling hands. Looking at him, Ethan remembered his
own first taste of combat. The lurching in his stomach, the pounding of his
heart, the rasp of his own rapid, panicky breath grating in his ears. There was
only one cure for that ailment, and that was to get into the fight.

“Smith, you
fucking deaf?”

He jerked and
looked at Ethan, the whites of his eyes round and bulging. “Yeah. I mean no. I
mean … I hear you.” He shuffled over to dull metal case mounted against the
wall, flipped the latch, opened it, and took out a green box of belted 5.56mm
NATO ammunition. As he did so, Jones hefted his M-240 Squad Automatic Weapon—or
just SAW, as it was more commonly known—and stepped up the short ladder that
lead to the roof of the passenger car. He turned the handle to unlock it, but
stayed bent beneath the hatch.

“All right,
open fire!” Ethan shouted. He leveled his rifle through the narrow firing port
and began squeezing off rounds. The riders were approaching fast and firing as
quickly as they could. Try as he might, Ethan couldn’t get a good shot at any
of them. Behind him, he heard Justin, Cormier, and Holland open fire as well.

“Got one!”
Holland shouted. As Ethan watched, one of their pursuers slumped over and fell
from his saddle. His boot got caught in the stirrup, and his horse continued to
gallop along, dragging his limp, flailing body along with it. The riders behind
the dead man saw what happened to him, and began to back off. The ones in
front, oblivious to their cohort’s fate, continued their pursuit. One of them
came level with the rear car, reached into a saddlebag behind him, and produced
some kind of improvised explosive. A very large one. Where the hell did he
get that? Ethan couldn’t get the man in his sights, so he shifted his aim
lower and squeezed off a short burst. The man’s mount screamed as several
rounds tore into its lower chest and the thick muscles of its legs. The animal
pitched forward, rolling and thrashing and crushing his hapless rider. As he
fell, the explosive went flying through the air and detonated several yards
behind the u-trac’s rear wheels.

“They’ve got
some kind of fucking grenades!” Ethan shouted. “Isaac, time to earn your
paycheck!”

Jones’ teeth
stood out sharp and white as he smiled. “Hell to the yeah, baby.”

He pushed the
hatch open with one meaty hand, surged up through the opening, and leveled his
SAW.

“WHOOOOO YEAH
MOTHERFUCKER!”

Short, staccato
bursts of fire poured from the heavy weapon, tearing into the approaching
riders and sending them tumbling to the ground in screaming, bloody heaps. Some
of the rounds went low and caught the horses, but there wasn’t much Jones could
do about that. The SAW wasn’t the most accurate weapon in the world.

At the same
time, the squads riding in the other passenger cars finally got it together and
began adding their rifles to the fray. Whatever the raiders had been expecting
when they set out to pursue the u-trac, it hadn’t been hardened soldiers
cutting them to ribbons with a withering hail of hot lead. Panicked, the ones
still alive veered their mounts around and pounded away back toward the cover
of the trees.

“Aw, come on
now. Get back here bitches, you know you LOOOOOVE this shit!”

The big gunner
fired a final burst at the retreating marauders before stepping down and
closing the hatch behind him. Jones’ face glowed with excitement. Ethan shook
his head.

“Nice work,
gentlemen. You too, Smith.”

The young
private was still standing by the ladder clutching his box of ammo. “Me? I
didn’t even do anything.”

Ethan stepped
forward and clapped him on the arm. “Sure you did. I gave you an order and you
followed it. You didn’t freeze up, or panic.” He leaned forward with a
conspiratorial whisper. “You didn’t shit yourself, did you?”

Smith let out a
nervous laugh. “No, I didn’t.”

Ethan stood up
straight and grinned at the younger man. “Then you did just fine. Maybe next
time I’ll even let you do some of the fighting.”

Smith’s smile
grew sickly, then disappeared altogether.

The door at the
far end of the car opened, and Lieutenant Jonas stepped through the narrow
opening, careful not to step into the short length of empty space separating
the command car from Delta’s passenger carriage. “Everyone all right in here?
Anybody hurt?”

“No sir,” Ethan
replied. “We’re all good.” He turned to Smith. “Check the other cars for me,
private. Find out if there are any casualties.”

Smith nodded.
“I’m on it.”

As the private
hustled to the next adjoining car, Jonas stepped closer to Ethan. “Did my eyes
deceive me, or were those raiders on horseback?”

“Yes sir, they
were.”

The lieutenant
ran a hand over the back of his neck, his mouth forming a thin, hard line.
“Well ain’t that just fucking wonderful. How much you want to bet those sons of
bitches are from Hamlet?”

“I’m not a
betting man sir, but I’d say your odds are pretty good.”

“And now they
have bombs.” Jonas shuffled over to a window and planted a hand against the
wall as he stared out. “We’re the first u-trac to come out this way, Thompson.
And now they’ve seen us. I guaran-damn-tee you that by tomorrow these tracks
are going to be lousy with IED’s. Fucking Hamlet. Place is a goddamn den of
thieves, and slavers, and insurgent scum. I’ve got half a mind to radio for
permission to go root those fuckers out.”

Ethan watched
the older man move to the bench and sit down, back straight. He looked
incongruous with just a single bar on his collar. Most of the officers his age
had oak leaves or eagles with wings spread wide. It was easy to forget that
Jonas had spent most of his career in the Army as an enlisted man, working his
way up the through the ranks the hard way. He’d seen more than his share of
combat, and wasn’t afraid to take up arms and get in the thick of things when
the situation required it. Because of this, and his deep understanding of the
needs and concerns of his soldiers—he had been where they were, after all—the
trust and respect he got from his men was absolute. Nevertheless, the idea of
walking blindly into hostile territory, and going off-mission to do it, struck
Ethan as not being the best of ideas.

“What about
Pope? Maybe they could send out a drone to recon the place, find out what we’re
up against. I’m not afraid of a fight sir, but I don’t like the idea of going
in blind. Not if we can help it, at least. There’s no sense in getting
ourselves killed needlessly.”

A less
experienced officer may have bristled at Ethan’s suggestion, if not his tone. Jonas,
however, nodded calmly. He knew good advice when he heard it, and he wasn’t
arrogant enough to think that his experience precluded him from making
mistakes. The Army had NCO’s for a reason, after all.

“You’re right
sergeant, as usual. Still, knowing those fuckers are out there…”

Holland spoke
up, “If you want LT, I can take a couple of guys and go scout it out. See what
I can find. Maybe make some trouble for ‘em.”

Jonas thought
about it for a moment, but shook his head. “No. I appreciate your courage
Holland, but I can’t spare you. Besides, we’re behind schedule as it is, we
can’t afford the delay.”

The door to the
car opened, and Private Smith stepped back through. “No casualties, sir.
Everybody’s okay.”

Jonas stood up.
“Good, good. Any fight you survive is a good one, right men?”

Delta Squad
nodded in agreement, their faces grim as they remembered fights that not all of
them had walked away from. Fights where they had lost friends, men who were so
familiar, who had shared so much terror and hardship, that they were like
family. Brothers, all of them. Private Smith shuffled his feet and remained
silent. He had been assigned to Delta after his predecessor was killed in the
line of duty. He didn’t know the circumstances of the man’s death, but he knew
the other soldiers of First Platoon had taken the loss hard. And none harder
than the men around him.

“You all did
well today,” Jonas said. “That was a good, fast response. Especially you,
Jones, you’re a goddamn nightmare with that SAW.”

The gunner
grinned. “You know what they say, sir. Do what you love and you’ll never work a
day in your life.”

Jonas barked a
short laugh. “Damn right. All right then, looks like we’re squared away.” He
gestured at Ethan. “Staff sergeant, round up the other squad leaders and get
reports from them. Command is going to want to know what we just expended
valuable ammunition on.”

“Yes sir.”

“The rest of
you keep your eyes peeled for trouble. Holland, put that scope of yours to use
and watch our back trail. Those raiders might find their spines and decide to
pay us another visit. If they do, I want warning well ahead of time.”

Holland nodded.
“Want me to get the other DM’s to do the same, sir?”

“No, just you
and Sergeant Kelly for now. Rotate out with the other two in a couple of
hours.”

“Will do.”

Ethan watched
the Lieutenant open the door and step back into the command car. He caught a
glimpse of the cot along the wall, and the chair bolted to the floor in front
of a small desk. Mean accommodations under other circumstances, but standing
there in the bare passenger car, he felt like some character from a Dickens
novel wandering through the cold and staring through a window at Christmas
dinner. The door shut, and the room was lost to his view. He sighed, his
shoulders slumping.

Time to round
up the other squad leaders. Time to write a report.

Goddamn I
hate paperwork.

*****

Hamlet passed
by to the north of the u-trac much the same as any other town.

Ethan watched
the outlines of buildings in the distance as they slowly drifted from left to
right, little more than grey and brown husks against the blue morning haze.
Even from this far away, he could see the empty, yawning holes staring out from
behind shattered windows, the black scorch marks left behind by long ago fires,
and the sharp, stabbing fingers of I-beams, support struts, and shattered
concrete pillars where office complexes and government buildings had once stood
— all collapsed now. All reduced to great, mountainous heaps of forgotten
rubble.

Across the
depressing expanse between the town and the tracks, littered like forgotten
corpses, lay houses, businesses, long-dead industrial facilities, and sagging
structures that seemed to have no identifiable purpose at all. Every visible
wall was crowded with vines and creepers that swarmed over rooftops in choking,
skeletal tangles. Autumn’s chill had turned everything brown and dead, and
blanketed the landscape in an ocean of endless beige beneath a cloudy,
pewter-colored sky. All seemed still out there. Abandoned. Quiet.

Ethan knew
better.

There were eyes
out there. Many eyes, and none of them friendly. They watched the tracks, he
knew. They watched, and they would remember. He would not have been surprised
if word of the brief, bloody firefight had already reached the ears of the
other marauders holed up in that shattered ruin of a town. Nor would it have
surprised him to learn that their plans for retaliation were already in motion.
That was what they did, these marauder bands. They fought. They killed. They
took from others. And if they were attacked, their response was never
proportional, never just an eye for an eye. They were vicious, savage people,
with no regard for anyone’s lives other than their own. Often, they even fought
amongst each other, robbing, raping and stealing.

It was a
well-known fact in the Army that you didn’t go after marauders with half
measures. You didn’t just hit them and hope they would learn their lesson. These
were people who didn’t back down from a fight. Didn’t run away. Didn’t get
intimidated by the occasional strafing run or mortar bombardment. If a platoon
was sent to take down known marauders, it wasn’t just a police action. It
wasn’t just an effort to bring them to heel.

It was total
annihilation.

Kill them all,
root and branch, or die in the attempt. And dying wasn’t outside the realm of
possibility. More than once, entire platoons had limped back to Fort Bragg
decimated and in shambles, most of their men dead or dying of wounds or
infection. Contrary to what all the strategists had predicted, the marauders
were becoming increasingly well-armed. Unexplainably, alarmingly so. They were
determined, these insurgents and raiders, and they were getting better at their
craft. And out there, across that cracked veneer of dead civilization, was an
unknown number of them.

Waiting.
Plotting. 

Ethan stood
near the wall, his face close to the chill, gently blowing air outside, and
stared out the narrow window as the u-trac slowly rattled along. He searched
rooftops for movement, eyes narrowed, jaw constantly working. He searched the
tall grass for the telltale streaks of lighter brown that would indicate
someone having passed through recently. He breathed in deeply through his nose,
trying to catch the acrid odor of wood smoke born on the wind. He listened for
the crack of distant rifles echoing across the low, gently rolling hills. But
mostly he simply watched, gaze unfocused, never letting his eyes rest on one
spot for too long, determined to spot trouble if it was out there. He rested
his head against one thick forearm, and for long into the morning, he watched.



He watched, and
he worried.