The Deadland Chronicles | Book 4 | Siege of the Dead:

by Spears, R. J.

  “Stop asking me that question,” Lassiter said. “They’ll come from whatever direction they come from.”

  “It’ll probably be the west,” Luke said. “Yeah, I bet it’s the west.”

  “Yeah,” Lassiter said and pointed westward. “Anything coming from that direction is coming from the west.”

  The fires had dwindled down and had dimmed on the far horizon to a dim glow, silhouetting the trees left standing and casting long shadows across the terrain. A few spot fires flared along the edge of a valley where trees burned like giant candles.

  “Hey, before the world went to shit, did you like Nascar?” Luke asked.

  Playing along, Lassiter said, “I’m more of a football guy.”

  “But Dale, come on,” Luke said. “Old number 3. Lucky 3. Everybody’s got to love Dale.”

  Lassiter stared out into the dark, scanning the woods for any movement, but all he saw were shadows dancing along on the ground. At times, he thought those shadows might be figures, but he knew the mind could play tricks with you. Your mind tried to fill in where there was nothing, making sense of it when there was none to be made.

  “Dale was a great driver, I guess,” Lassiter said. “But, like I said, I’m an NFL fan.”

  “Okay, whatever,” Luke said.

  They sat in silence for several long seconds as a breeze drifted in from the west, tinged with the smell of smoke and burnt wood. The night creatures which usually buzzed, chirped, or winged away were notably absent. It was as if nature itself was aware that something was going down. Something big and nasty.

  Lassiter scanned the horizon for the thousandth time. Watching the shrouded landscape in the distance was like looking into the dark night of your own soul, and he felt it working on him. Lassiter had been in situations where he had to wait for the enemy. In the rocky mountains of Afghanistan, he and a group of special forces had dropped in the aftermath of a battle to rescue a fellow soldier, only to find him dead. The chopper that delivered them got shot down just moments after dropping them. That left them in the darkness, waiting for the next pickup for hours. That also left them waiting for the enemy. It was one of the longest nights of his life, but this was that night multiplied by many factors.

  A big part of him wanted to see nothing, but he knew that would only stretch out the waiting, and that might be worse. He was panning the binoculars across the distant landscape when a flash of lightning lit up the ridge of a hill. In that instant, he spotted movement on the ridgeline far from the river’s edge.

  He had to blink back the brilliance of the lightning burst, but he locked in on the spot where he saw the movement once his eyes adjusted.

  There wasn’t anything definite in the movement. It looked as if a dark mass was filling in the gaps between the trees. He slowly let his view drift from left to right, spanning a couple of miles in both directions, and witnessed the same phenomenon.

  “Listen, I’m no science fiction nerd,” Luke said, “but which did you like better, Star Wars or Star Trek? Me, I like Star Wars. Hans Solo was so cool.”

  “Shhh,” Lassiter said, his eyes locked on the darkness filling the landscape in the distance.

  A lightning bolt cut across the sky in the west, but this one was further away. A roll of thunder rolled across the sky a few seconds later.

  “There it is,” Luke said, “I was right. You’re a Star Trek fan. Super nerd.”

  “Shut up,” Lassiter said, then to be polite, he added, “please.”

  Luke sat up a little straighter and asked, “What did you see?” Any lightness had left his tone. “Is a storm headed our way?”

  Lassiter continued to hold the binoculars to his eyes and thought you could call it that. “There’s something out on the horizon. In the dark, it’s hard to make out any details, but it's like floodwaters filling in the tree line.”

  “Holy shit, it’s them, isn’t it?”

  “I would assume so,” Lassiter replied, his voice calm and collected as if he were examining the migration of some exotic bird instead of a monster horde hellbent on wiping them out.

  Luke pushed himself off the domed roof and asked, “How many can you see?”

  “No way to tell with how dark it is, but there are a hell of a lot of them,” Lassiter said.

  “Do you want me to call it in?” Luke asked, his voice sounding a bit shaky.

  “Wait,” Lassiter said as he panned his view across the horde as he tried to take in their measure. He had traveled the roads of the surrounding area many, many times, looking for refugees and chasing off the road bandits. From what he could barely make out, the horde had been funneled down to the main state highway heading into the city. He had never had to estimate the size of a group in the dark of night and at such a distance. Stil, Lassiter had an analytical mind well suited for numbers. His C.O. had always relied on him to gather numbers, collect data, and synthesize it.

  “Give me the walkie,” Lassiter said, lowering the binoculars and sticking out a hand in Luke’s direction.

  “I can call it in,” Luke said. “You just have to tell me what to say.”

  “Give me the walkie-talkie,” Lassiter said, and there was a metal to his tone that compelled Luke to surrender the walkie-talkie without hesitation. He slapped it into Lassiter’s hand.

  Lassiter didn’t waste any time and made the call. “Lookout to Sanctum. Lookout to Sanctum. Get me Eli on the line.”

  A voice came back ten seconds later and said, “Hold on. We’ll have to wake him.”

  “There’s no rush,” Lassiter said, but he thought, there’s just a few thousand zombies heading our way.

  Less than a minute later, Eli’s somewhat groggy voice asked, “What do you see?”

  Lassiter replied, “They are a few miles out and coming in on 50 just like we thought. The fires have funneled them down.”

  “How many do you see?” Eli asked.

  “In the dark, it’s hard to tell, but between two and three thousand,” Lassiter said. He qualified his estimate by adding, “If there aren’t more coming in from another direction.”

  “I’d bet that they are all massed together,” Eli said.

  Lassiter thought, I hope so, too.

  “How much time do we have?” Eli asked.

  Lassiter raised his wrist and took a look at his watch. “They’ll be at the edge of town by dawn, maybe a little earlier, maybe a little later.”

  “We’ll rouse the troops,” Eli said. “We’ll be ready for them.”

  “There’s something else,” Lassiter said.

  Eli audibly groaned from the other side of the connection. “What?”

  “There’s a storm in the west,” Lassiter said. “It seems far out, but it could mean trouble.”

  “You mean with the forest fires?” Eli asked, his voice cold.

  “Yeah,” Lassiter said. “But the storm could cut south.” There wasn’t much conviction in his tone because both men knew they were counting on the forest fires and smoke to help disrupt the horde or even divert it away from the city.

  Eli let out a long sigh and said, “There’s nothing to be done about that. We’ll take them, whatever their numbers are.”

  “I sure hope so,” Lassiter said and clicked off the walkie-talkie. “Let’s get down from here.”

  “I’m all for that,” Luke said. “Yes, indeedy.”

  Luke was the first one to the access hatch on the roof. Lassiter was right behind him, and just as Luke made his first step to descend the ladder, Lassiter said, “Star Trek.”

  Luke paused and looked up at Lassiter and asked, “What?”

  “I’m a Star Trek fan,” Lassiter said. “Star Wars is for children. Star Trek is for men. Now, get moving.”

  For a moment, it looked as if Luke might protest, but he directed his attention to navigating down the ladder into the depth of the convention center. Once they hit the streets outside, Lassiter could feel rain in the air.

  Chapter 20

  Battle Plans<
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  No matter how hard he tried, Sergeant Jones could not go fully to sleep. There were too many things that could go wrong on top of the fact that thousands of zombies were heading their way. There were too many questions, and the answers coming back to him were just plain frightening.

  It didn’t help that he could hear the rumble of distant thunder coming from the west. If a storm put out the forest fires, there could be trouble. Big trouble.

  These thoughts were crowded out, though, with other more immediate and practical matters.

  There was only so much fuel for the choppers. They had no mechanics for them either, so he had no idea the last time they had been inspected and whether they would stay aloft. Garver was a hell of a pilot, but Jones barely knew the other pilot. He was just a kid with only a little bit of experience in the air and almost none of it in combat.

  And that’s what this would be - a battle.

  There was a lot of hope that the fires may have decreased the horde’s size, but who really knew. Sure, they had seen that the far edges of the throng headed their way and it had seemed to be losing zombies, but they had no idea if they had rejoined the main herd.

  Then there were the walls. While Jones hadn’t inspected every inch of them, he knew there were weak spots. Eli assured him they would hold, but Jones hated trusting anyone. People let you down. Even people you knew and trusted.

  For years, Jones had served under Colonel Kilgore, a man he had come to revere almost like a second father. Without Kilgore’s calm and decisive leadership, Jones was almost certain he would not be alive today, along with all the men that Jones had served with. But something got inside Kilgore and twisted him from the inside out, turning him into a perverted version of himself, one bent on an unholy obsession. It wasn’t a direction that Jones could accept. In fact, it was something he had to actively stand up against, but that opposition cost him. It cost him dearly, and he felt as if he would continue to pay that price for the rest of his life.

  He knew he couldn’t live in the past and that he needed to focus on the here and now, but the mind wanders. Throughout the restless night, his ex-wife’s face came to him. The woman he still loved, but who left him because his true devotion was to the military. He could never truly leave the battlefield behind, she always said.

  Her face haunted him because of what could have been.

  He was thinking of her when the door to the room where he was staying slowly opened, and Private Berry’s face slipped into view. His overly round head was immediately recognizable.

  Berry didn’t wait for Jones to say anything. “They’ve been spotted in the distance.”

  Jones sat up on the dormitory bed, thanking God for being in a place that did have beds. He had slept on sand and rocky mountain sides in his military career, so resting on something soft was nice for a change.

  “Could they tell how many there are?” Jones asked as he rubbed at his eyes.

  “No estimate we can really trust,” Berry said, “Just a shit ton of them.” He stepped fully into the room but looked as tired as Jones felt.

  “Is Garver ready to fly?” Jones asked.

  “I already got him up,” Berry said. “Him and Bradbury. That kid looks like he doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

  “He’s the best we have behind Garver,” Jones said, but both men knew the gap was a large one. Bradbury had been a green pilot when the Outbreak happened and had gotten very little experience since then. Although, he handled the attack on the zombies outside the dormitory just days before quite well, so maybe there was some hope.

  “I have the rest of the men up and ready,” Berry said.

  Jones looked at Berry directly and said, “You know if things were normal, I just might recommend you for a promotion.”

  “Would that come with a corresponding pay increase?” Berry asked.

  “I’ll triple what I’m making,” Jones said.

  “And fuck you very much, Sergeant,” Berry said, but there was no rancor in his tone as both men smiled.

  Jones reached for his crutches and pushed himself to his feet in two easy steps.

  “You know, I’m getting pretty good on these things,” Jones said,

  “How is the leg?” Berry asked.

  “Getting better every day,” Jones replied. “In a pinch, I could probably limp like a hundred-year-old man.” He adjusted his shirt and pants, then said, “Your job is to tell Clayton to get the ground troops ready and then get a couple of gunners for each chopper.”

  Berry just nodded.

  Jones said, “Let’s get out there.”

  A light but constant rain fell from the sky, more a drizzle than a downpour, as Jones and Berry stood between the two attack helicopters. They watched Garver force the younger pilot, Bradbury, to go through a flight check. From what Jones was seeing, it wasn’t a pleasant experience for Bradbury.

  “You don’t treat your bird right, or else she’ll take you down,” Garver chastised Bradbury.

  Jones asked, “When can you get in the air?”

  Garver turned and fixed Jones in a scowl. “We’ll get up when the birds are ready.”

  Jones rested on his crutches and crossed his arms and waited, rain dripping down his shaved head, knowing that they did have time. Not a lot, but some.

  Garver circled both choppers with Bradbury in tow. The rainfall didn’t seem to bother Garver at all, but Bradbury looked like a wet puppy. Garver only stopped twice to chide the young pilot on a couple of details. When Garver was finally satisfied, he looked Jones’ way and gave him a thumbs up.

  Jones looked past the helicopters and saw Berry leading a small troop of soldiers toward the helicopters. Something in his gut turned, and he felt a cold shiver go up his spine, knowing he was sending these men into battle, and some or all of them might never return.

  A crack of thunder sounded in the distance, and when Jones looked in that direction, he thought he saw more lightning. In the flashes, he saw heavy thunderheads in the west, and it filled him with a primal sense of dread. He conceded that there was nothing to be done about it but to control the things he could. That was getting the men ready.

  Berry had two men with him pushing a cart filled with ammunition and a .50 caliber machine gun along with a modification kit for the helicopter’s door. One was Private Decker, and the other one was named Yarborough. He claimed to be related to a famous farmer that no one knew about. Yarborough had that farm boy look, tousled blond hair, and a freckled face.

  Clayton followed behind them with a kid named Martinez. Jones suspected that he would be the gunner for the other ship. Martinez was big and broad, with biceps as big as Jones’ thigh. Whereas it took two men to push the other cart with the .50 caliber gun and ammo, Martinez piloted his along on his own. And it looked like he did it with very little effort.

  Berry directed his contingent toward Bradbury’s helicopter while Clayton came to Garver’s chopper.

  “You know, I don’t like these kinds of changes to my bird,” Garver said. “It sets the weight balance off.”

  “Like a few extra men don’t?” Jones said, but it wasn’t a challenge. “You’ll manage it. You always do.”

  Garver waved a dismissive hand in Jones' direction and headed toward the pilot’s side of the aircraft.

  When Clayton got close to Jones, he said, “I’m going up with you, right?”

  “You hate flying,” Jones said.

  “I can handle a short flight,” Clayton said

  “I’d love to leave you on the ground. I know I’m not popular with all the soldiers,” Jones said. “There are still too many of them that don’t like me very much for turning against Kilgore.”

  “But there are more that respect you for doing it,” Clayton said, then he added, “You’ve got to let that go. We have bigger fish to kill.”

  “To fry,” Jones said as he watched Martinez bull the heavy cart up to the passenger door on Garver’s helicopter.

  “What?” Clayton said
.

  “Forget it,” Jones said.

  “He’s a biggin’, ain’t he?” Clayton asked, watching the focus of Jones’ attention, which happened to be Martinez as he muscled the full cart along.

  “He is, but can he handle the .50 cal while it’s dangling out the window of a helicopter flying along at God knows how fast?”

  “I think he can,” Clayton said. “Or he says he can.”

  Jones looked at Clayton with raised eyebrows.

  “You got what you got,” Clayton said, shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head. He dropped his shoulders and asked, “You know where a guy can get a cigarette around here?”

  “Karen Gray doesn’t seem to like unhealthy things like that around in the Sanctum,” Jones said. “She said they will kill you.”

  “Really?” Clayton said. “Like a few thousand zombies won’t do that?”

  “You’ll just have to defend us against those zombies with clear lungs and fresh breath,” Jones replied with a smile.

  “You think this whole plan is going to work?” Clayton asked.

  Once again, Jones was quiet for a few seconds. He let out a long breath and said, “It’s got to, or else we are all dead.”

  A second later, he thought he felt a heavy drop of rain land on his cheek, and the dread he had been pushing down forced its way back up.

  Chapter 21

  Breakthrough?

  “Be careful,” Doc Wilson said, “you mess up with that canister, and we will all be dead.”

  “Please, doctor,” Holloway said, “I’m very much aware of that. This is not,” the scientist paused, then continued, “our first rodeo with these nerve toxins.”

  Holloway held a small canister with a wide spray nozzle on the end and pushed it toward the smart zombie’s face. He stood beside Doc Wilson, and both men wore light, protective gear. It didn’t meet biohazard standards, but it was the best they could do. Their masks could filter out a certain degree of particulate, but both knew if something went horribly wrong, those masks would most likely be useless.

  They stood beside the gurney, where the smart zombie was securely strapped down. Large mesh straps crisscrossed the creature’s body, leaving almost no give for movement.