“Bring everyone with an M16 and give them boxes to load on the way. Use the flatbed and the semi. Get them to the dam. I’ll get a second unit to load the .22,” Wanikiya orders. “Sanchez!” he hollers at the Private.
Private Combeth follows Sanchez as she hops to her feet, wrapping gauze around her burnt fingers. He completes the bandage on the jog to Acheron’s second in command.
“What needs to be done, Sir?” Sanchez snaps to attention, her brown eyes glancing up at the giant Native American. His height terrifies her more than the Sioux war paint covering his face.
“You got everyone back from your hay cutting detail safe?” Wanikiya inquires.
“All the people. The tractors are still out there.” Her limited time in the military gives her the clarity to know a reprimand will occur for this infraction. Punishment in this camp means being sent to bed without dinner. “I’ll get a crew and recover them,” Sanchez volunteers.
“We’ll recover more tractors once the biters stop showing up at our front door wanting to eat us. The saving of our people takes priority over machines. Good job, Private.”
She releases a breath. “Thank you, Sir.”
Booming thunder echoes over the cloudless skyline.
“They fired the tank,” Sanchez says.
“It would attract more biters than it would eliminate,” Combeth says.
“They don’t have the numbers at the dam to repel the undead,” Wanikiya says. “We’re low on ammo. I need numbers here to clear the fence. The biters already scaled it; another wave and they will be inside.”
“FUBARed all the way around, Sir, “Combeth says.
“We lose the dam—” Simon says.
“I volunteer, Sir,” Sanchez says.
“Take a truck. And a team. Give me an accurate assessment of the danger at the dam. I’ll send reinforcements as soon as they are locked and loaded.” Wanikiya hands her a radio. “Once we clear our gate, I’ll send all they need.”
“Yes, Sir.” She grabs the two boxes of ammo Simon offers.
“Combeth?”
“I’m in, unless a better assignment comes along.”
Simon hands him two boxes.
She grabs the two closest men. “Brent. Wade. We got a mission.”
WADE AND COMBETH jump in the back of the pickup without question.
Brent fires up the truck. “Where to, Sanchez?”
“The dam.” She loads each magazine until she has no more loose rounds. She clasps the front of her shirt at the top of her cleavage. The golden cross under the cloth fumbles between her fingers. God. Please protect Ethan. He lies in the path of evil and we need our protector. He is our glue. Please, Lord. She recites the Lord’s prayer in her head.
“How long?”
Brent mashes his foot down on the accelerator. “It’s only a few miles.”
“Slow down, cowboy. Fast but safe.”
He backs the needle to fifty-five. “I don’t think I’ve been up to speed since before.”
“I jog this road. The curves are sharp. Keep your eyes on the road. Irony would be dying in a car accident after there are no more speeding laws.”
“You got it, Sir.” Brent smiles.
“Don’t sir me. I do work for a living. Privates salute everybody.” She taps the back glass before leaning out the window. “Make sure you’re loaded for bear. We’re hunting.”
Combeth leans over the bed. “As long as you recall what you asked me to do when this trip’s complete.”
She smiles. Once the dam biters fall, I’ll bed Combeth.
Before they reach the bridge extending over a section of Mark Twain Lake she spots smoke wafting from the mortar shell.
“There can’t be as many as the front gate?” Brent says.
“The explosion will have drawn them back, but the aftershocks will pull them toward the south,” Sanchez says.
The drone of moan-howls fill the cab.
“Doesn’t sound as bad as at the main gate,” Brent assures himself.
“It’s worse.” Sanchez slams the truck door before Brent finds park. “We have less ammo now.”
Biters grow in numbers along the fence.
Sanchez marches to the tank. “Give me a SITREP?”
“What?” Zeke pulls out an earplug, not losing his confusion.
“She wants a situation report, dumb nut,” Jada snaps.
Fuck. I keep failing to impress her. “We’re being overrun,” Zeke says.
“The whole camp is surrounded. We’re far from overrun. And we won’t be allowing the biters inside,” Sanchez says.
“We don’t have enough ammo to drive them off,” Jada says. “We fired the cannon to draw some of them back. Then we thinned those who decided we were more interesting. We’re going to need more people to defend this gate. The road bottlenecks here. They’ll be more attacking a smaller section of the fence, unlike the main gate where they’re able to spread out.”
Sanchez climbs on the tank. The column of undead stretch back along the road as far as her vision allows. “Your tank trick was brilliant.”
“It won’t work again. Too many undead now,” Jada says. “You my reinforcements?”
“Assessment team,” Sanchez says.
Undead shamble from the trees and along the road. There are too many to count, and the cadence of their moan-howls creates a nightmarish hum.
Amie clicks the radio mic. “Wanikiya, over.”
“Report Sanchez, over.”
“Chief?” She questions the voice.
“We’ve got a third wave knocking. Wanikiya says hold the gate at all cost, over.”
She lowers the mic. “Fuck me.”
Nothing but undead cover the ground between the fence and tree line. Bony fingers lace the chain-link and tug. Whatever bit of lizard brain animating the once people remembers enough to shake the fence. The creepy rattle shivers Sanchez’s spine.
“You’re on your own, Private. I’ll get people there as soon as we can, over.” Simon’s radio crackles off.
Jada interprets the final message as “this military woman has command” and thanks God she’s not responsible.
“I’m totally open for suggestions.” Sanchez glances at the gauze covering her burn. The adrenaline keeps away the pain. The moan-howls overwhelm her like the first time she heard them. Pounding throbs in her ears as her heart races. My choice. My decision means life and death for all of us.
“What do you want to do, Private?” Combeth asks.
Sanchez makes no pause in her answer. “Let them in.”
All eyes focus on her.
“Never,” Jada says.
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Sanchez says.
“What part of letting them inside is not insane?” Jada demands.
“Back the tank up and block the dam road. Then activate the floodgate warning alarms drawing them down the access road to the area next to the base of the dam.
“You want to open the floodgates?” Jada speculates.
“Fucken aye,” Combeth says.
“Let the water do our work for us,” Sanchez says.
“Wanikiya won’t approve it,” Zeke says.
“I’m not asking. Move the fucking tank! Bring up two more semi-trucks and fill in the gaps. They don’t get on the dam. They’ll have to go down the road to the floodplain. The only way to save the sally port is to open,” Sanchez says.
“She’s right. We lose this fence and it won’t matter,” Combeth says.
BECKY SLAMS THE cabinet door. “We should’ve gone with Ethan.” She opens the cupboards in the kitchen. Some have dishes and pots, but not a single food item.
“Noise,” Chad warns.
“Fuck you, and the undead. We let Ethan go off on his own, so we could protect some unknown family.”
“He wants the baby to be safe,” Chad says.
“Then he should have stayed and sent us to Memphis. The safest place in the world is right next to him. Besides, you sat in the sa
me meeting when he strongly suggested no children.” Becky stomps from the kitchen.
On the living room couch, the older man rocks the crying baby.
Blaming them for their Ethan separation was accurate. The dead baby-mommy placed them in this situation.
“Sometimes babies cry. I’ve fed, changed and fed again. I don’t think she’s sick. You banging doors doesn’t help. Small noises.” Great Grandpa rocks the baby.
In her anger, Becky didn’t hear the old man follow them inside the house. She knows he pretends not to have heard her rant. He and the baby-daddy have guns, but they won’t last with a newborn screaming. Not when they don’t have milk to give at a moment’s notice to mute the kid. Becky cups her chest. She scarcely has the equipment, and no milk.
“She needs her mother,” Chad says.
“That’s not going to happen. And we can’t travel with a noise machine,” the old man says in a soft quiet tone. “We’ve got two strong men with shotguns guarding outside. Let her cry for now.”
“I want her safe, but quiet,” Becky backtracks. “Maybe if her father…”
“He lost his wife. He needs time before he takes up the mantle of father. If the world was normal, I wouldn’t allow him anywhere near a shotgun right now.”
“He has to step up. It’s all about that baby now.” Becky doesn’t remember the old man’s name or the other two men with him. Ethan left so fast after he delivered the pregnant woman’s baby. Decent of him, since she stole their truck and the boat needed to cross the Mississippi River. All for a scientist. No, she knows how false her logic is. All for a family member. He did all he could to bring family into Acheron. Damn it, he built a family.
The older man hands the squiggling baby toward her. “Try.”
“I’m no mom,” Becky protests.
“I’m not asking you to give her a tit, just hold her.”
Becky forces herself to calm down. After a few last huffs through her nose, she settles as she accepts the tiny baby. “She’s so small. Not like on TV.” She adjusts her arm, not sure how to make the crying child comfortable.
“They can’t use newborns as actors, so the babies are weeks older.” The old man adjusts her arms and helps to tuck the baby in close to her chest, so its ear is near Becky’s now racing heart.
“What if I drop her?”
“Rock her.” He never wavers from his soft tone.
Becky jostles the baby a bit before finding a swaying rhythm. “She is beautiful.” Her own voice drops to a lower octave.
“Babies detect your energy, and your anger prevents her from calming.”
“What are you, some kind of hippy?” Becky asks over the crying child.
“Right age, but I did my duty. Didn’t think of it as duty back then, but I couldn’t be a draft dodger. No matter how unacceptable it is to hate, those who fled to Canada were cowards in my book.”
“None of that matters now.”
“No. Only this little angel. Your home really safe?”
If the quake didn’t crack the dam. “Ethan has built a strong community, and nothing undead gets inside. Follow his main rule. Work or you don’t eat.”
The old man nods. “Should have had that rule before the end of the world. Why are you so far from this safe home?”
Becky hesitates. “Rescuing a family member of one of our group. It’s what Ethan does.” She wishes she knew his name. Grandpa will work in a pinch, but she should have listened. Ethan, why didn’t you stay? Becky works her body into a soothing rock. Minutes pass, and the cries have remained constant. “What can we do for her?”
“Thimble full of whisky to help her sleep, because I know of nothing else,” the old man says.
“You can’t give the baby liquor,” Becky snaps. She instinctively jerks her upper body away as if to protect the child.
“Besides, we don’t have any,” Chad says.
“We’re all so tense. She might detect it. None of us are calm,” the old man says.
How can any of us be calm? God. This baby’s cries will attract death. No matter how soft I speak I can’t hide my concern.
“What about the dad?” Chad asks.
“Let him stand watch. He’s not doing well over Sandra’s death. He’s not maternal—better protector. He’s more overwhelmed than we are.” The old man spells it out.
Not possible. Becky perches on the arm of the couch. The baby grabs her index finger with a hand so tiny. She draws the finger to her mouth and suckles. Becky sighs, enjoying the quiet.
The ground trimmer shakes the house enough to jar a framed picture from the wall.
The baby spits out the finger in a wail.
Becky’s glance at the old man screams, “I’m never having kids.”
Searching for answers, he suggests, “She may not like the formula. I don’t think she’s colicky.”
“Maybe she knows,” Chad says.
“Knows what?”
“Her mother’s gone.”
Becky’s eyes dart to him with a “we’re never having sex again” stare.
He raises his arms in surrender.
“We can’t travel with her crying. Not on foot. Could we try and find another vehicle? Is there anything else we can do for her?” Becky asks.
“Different pacifier brand. Other formula. Whisky.” Before Becky protests again, the old man adds, “It’s a last resort, but we do what we have to to survive getting this baby to—”
“North,” Becky snaps before Chad draws a map to Acheron. Not that Acheron is on a map. “To Acheron.”
“The river of woe,” the old man says.
“What?”
“In ancient Greece, Acheron was one of the rivers that flowed into the underworld. You had to pay the ferryman to cross it to get to Hades. Don’t they instruct you children in mythology in school anymore?”
“You sound like Ethan,” Chad says.
“No, they’re too busy teaching useful things like how to diagram a sentence and the Pythagorean Theorem,” Becky says.
“If we’re going to travel, we’ll need more baby supplies. The road we’re taking won’t have many stores along the way,” Chad says.
These people laid a trap and waited for supplies to come to them. “We’ll scavenge. We’re more experienced at it,” Becky says.
“Send Noah.”
Becky hopes Noah isn’t the father’s name. “I’ll go find whatever you think will work, even whisky—if it’s the last viable option.” She hands off the crying baby.
“Get everything. New pacifiers, formula, diapers, maybe cloth. Try some new clothes. Maybe these are washed in something that bothers her. Babies are sensitive at first. They do make a colic remedy—out of ginger, I think. I haven’t had a baby in a long time. If all else fails, get whisky.”
“Why didn’t you gather more baby gear?” Becky shifts a hand to her holstered pistol.
“By the time Sandra discovered she was pregnant, the world was shit. We did set a trap for those traveling through, but most days it was the infected. And no one carried diapers. Shitty, but we did what we did to survive. Not everyone had a safe camp or a leader like Ethan.”
Becky refrains from yelling and considers what Ethan instructed. “The baby’s our concern now.”
“Everything now is about her,” the old man says.
“We agree on that,” Becky says. She fights to keep a calm voice.
“How about a car seat,” Chad suggests. “If we can’t get her to shut up, we’re going to have to drive in order to avoid drawing biters.”
“There was a larger town. We never attempted to go because there seemed to be too many undead. Now, with the quake, they have to have moved on.”
“Most will have. But don’t allow that thinking to lower your guard. There’s always one fucker not behaving like the rest.” Becky dumps her pack to make room for more supplies. “Take care of my gear. Chad and I’ll be back. Then we head north.”
“I don’t want to be a Negative Nancy, but
what happens if you don’t come back?”
“Once you reach Missouri, you take Highway 19 north. You take it all the way to the Iowa state line if you have to. It will sort itself out.” Becky hands him Ethan’s folded map.
The old man nods.
With her toes stretched on the bottom metal shelf, flashlight held in her teeth, Becky searches the bottles on the top shelf. She hops down, snatching the light to read the pill bottle. “Nothing for baby coughs.”
Chad stuffs Becky’s pack with clothes. “Baby shoes?”
“Shoes are a waste of space. Babies can’t use their feet. I never understood how people could spend a hundred dollars on baby Nikes. Get the cloth diapers.” She freezes, her hand snapping a closed fist to signal quiet like the way she witnessed the military guys do.
Chad brings his weapon up, finger on the safety. He nods to confirm he heard the same noise.
Becky slides toward the door. The tip of her shoelaces clink on the tile. The echo thunders in the abandoned shop. Chad reaches one hand for the pack. He never heard her footsteps, only the roar of a truck engine.
She eases past a rack of toddler clothes, flipping the snap on her gun’s protective holster strap. As she reaches the window, her hand sweats around the weapon’s handle.
Three trucks park in the center of the street. One cocked to the left of the center and the right vehicle angled to move quick if they need to. Not quite a military maneuver, but the work of some strategically preparing for retreat.
Armed men leap from the three trucks. They don’t move with the trained care Ethan’s scavenging teams do, but they have been facing the undead for a while and don’t run wildly into the buildings. None of them approach any place where an undead could be hidden without sweeping the area first.
It gives Becky a second to prepare.
Chad whispers, “Are they heavily armed?” With a free hand, he jams some cloth into the bag.
“They’ve got more than shotguns. And they haven’t scavenged much. Their trucks have no supplies.” She notes the license plates. Why would anyone go so far for trucks?
“If we sneak out the back...” Chad suggests.
“No.” Becky eases around a shelf to get a better view of the scavengers. “The back exit is a fire door with an alarm.”
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 3
