These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation

by Knight, Stephen

  “Uncomfortable? Guy, being lusted after by the village idiot isn’t something that makes me uncomfortable, it’s just that in the past most of them have been drunk or high. That guy’s just rock-solid stupid.”

  Both men laughed again. “Yeah, I guess you called that right,” Guerra said.

  The door to the forward coach opened, and Ballantine pushed his bulk through the narrow doorway. The big NCO’s helmet came perilously close to scraping across the overhead when he straightened up. He stopped short when he saw Diana.

  “What’s the problem?” he said, more the Guerra and Hartman than her.

  “Do I have to do this again?” Diana asked, looking at Guerra.

  “Do what again?” Ballantine looked at the two soldiers, eyes narrowed.

  Guerra waved him down. “Don’t get bent, Carl. She’s just talking with us. Nothing’s going sideways.”

  Ballantine didn’t buy that. “Oh, really? And what were you guys talking about, exactly?”

  “Aside from Stilley, Hector and AP and me were just getting around to introductions.” She extended her hand toward Ballantine. “Hi, Carl. I’m Diana. We’re in this together, so we might as well be pals.”

  Ballantine looked at her hand, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

  “You know how to shake hands, right?” When Ballantine didn’t move, she raised her hand and showed him her palm. “Look, it’s been washed and everything. No joy buzzer or anything like that, I promise.”

  Ballantine narrowed his eyes again, then gave her a quirky, I’m-too-busy-for-this smile. “Joy buzzer... there’s something I haven’t thought about in a million years.”

  “Then shake, bro,” Diana said.

  Ballantine sighed and shook her hand gently. “Okay. Done.” He released her hand then looked at Hartman. “Hartman, go forward and join Reader and Tharinger. With those two guys standing security unsupervised, this train’s going to be designated the knucklehead express.”

  “Hooah,” Hartman said, pushing off the bulkhead he’d been leaning against. “Any chance we might be able to sit down sometime soon?”

  “Yeah, when you take a shit or when you’re dead,” Ballantine said. “Go on, man.”

  “I’m going.” With that, Hartman squared up his ruck sack, ensured his rifle was secure, and stepped through the door leading to the next coach. Ballantine turned to Guerra, then looked down at Diana.

  “So everything’s cool?” he asked.

  “I’m cool. You cool?” Diana replied.

  “Totally,” Ballantine said.

  Diana looked up at him for a long speculative moment. The big NCO had been kind of hinky ever since she’d met him, but he’d obviously been wrapped around the axle trying to get his family squared away. That was understandable; if their roles had been reversed, and if Diana had somehow been born with a more nurturing soul, she was certain she’d be the same way. Actually, maybe even worse. She kind of suspected she’d be a little more on the bat shit crazy side of the spectrum than Ballantine was if she had to worry about a family in the middle of all of this, so maybe the big guy was holding it together pretty well.

  She remembered Kenny suddenly, and even though she had no doubt Everson would be able to stand watch over him, the boy wasn’t really his responsibility. She needed to get back.

  “Hector, you cool?” she asked.

  “Born that way, Diana,” Guerra said. “You need more lady supplies, I’m your man.”

  Ballantine frowned. “What?”

  “Just an in joke between us,” Diana said. “Don’t sweat it, big guy. All right, I can see you two have soldier shit to discuss, so I’ll leave you to it.” She pulled the Sig’s strap tight around her shoulder, ensuring the little short-barreled rifle was secure. “If you hear gunfire, it’s because Stilley forgot to be polite.”

  Ballantine started to say something, but Guerra held up his hand. “It’s being handled,” he said.

  “Attaboy,” Diana said, before returning to the coach.

  “What the fuck was that about?” Ballantine asked.

  “Yeah, I can see how it might’ve looked like some crazy shit was going down, but she was really cool, actually,” Guerra said. “She just wanted to get to know us a bit. Thanked us for putting ourselves on the line for her and the kid.”

  “Oh.” Ballantine shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Also wants us to call her Diana, not ma’am or anything like that.”

  “Shit, she gonna enlist?”

  “I think she’s just realized the whole bitch on wheels routine wasn’t working out for her, and she’s making the necessary attitudinal adjustments appropriate for the situation,” Guerra said. “Whatever it is, I’m good with it. I was thinking I might have to rip the bags out of her chest and beat her to death with them.”

  Ballantine grunted. “What’s this about the loudmouth?”

  “I have to yank his coattails a bit. He’s doing the leering bit.”

  “What, at her? What the fuck does she expect, she’s a fucking stripper,” Ballantine said.

  Guerra looked up at Ballantine and let out a long sigh. “Yeah, well. Not that it matters. You trying to tell me you never had a stripper girlfriend, Carl?”

  Ballantine glared down at him. “No, Hector. I never did.”

  “Huh. Okay. So what’s the op? Everything cool with the train?”

  Ballantine nodded. “Yeah. So far, everything’s running like it should. Train’s strong, no problems. I watched the thing roll over like twenty dead, didn’t even feel a thing.”

  “Okay. So where’s the gotcha?”

  “Lots of unknowns out there. Switching problems. Rail problems. Other train problems. Shit we can’t control.”

  “But for now, we’re good to go, right?” Guerra asked.

  “Yeah.” Ballantine looked toward the rear coach. “Yeah, for now.”

  “Carl... man, I got to talk to you about something.”

  Ballantine looked down at him. “What’s the problem?”

  “You, man. You’re the problem,” Guerra said.

  Ballantine cocked his head to one side. “Don’t get you, Hector.”

  Guerra cleared his throat. He thought Ballantine knew exactly what he was trying to get at, but wasn’t going to play ball and make it easy. Which meant Guerra had to nut up and tell one of the toughest soldiers he knew that he’d been acting like a fucking pussy.

  “Your family’s safe, man. They got you right here, and the rest of us, too. No one’s going to let anything happen to them. But you seriously need to get your head back in the game.”

  “Guerra, just what the fuck are you talking about?” Ballantine asked, and his voice was hard and brittle.

  Guerra steeled himself. No turning back now. “Okay, I’ll lay it all out. You were just gonna stand there and watch the reekers tear apart that kid and the girl. You got as far as climbing out of the truck, but it wasn’t until Hastings went all Rambo and actually had to call you out that you engaged.”

  Ballantine’s eyes grew wide, but his voice didn’t change. “Just what is it you’re trying to say, Guerra?”

  “I’m saying that’s not what we want to see, Ballantine. The entire Tenth Mountain is gone, man. We’re it, we’re all that’s left. We want to see the remaining senior NCO get balls deep fighting the dead, no matter what. We’re fucking light infantry, man. It’s what we do, close and destroy. We don’t let little American kids die, or women either, even if they are just fucking strippers.”

  “So you’re saying I’m a coward?” Ballantine took a step toward Guerra, getting right into his personal space. Most men would have taken a step back—Ballantine was a good six foot four and built to match. Guerra was five-ten on a good day, but he was quick and strong and in great shape. If Ballantine thought he could intimidate him that way, Guerra would at least give it back as good as could.

  “I’m saying,” Guerra said, keeping a reasonable tone to his voice, “that we all know you’re worried shitless about
what happens to your family. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to let you get away with allowing a little autistic kid to get killed, just because you’re suddenly averse to taking a risk.”

  Ballantine snorted. “You got balls, dude. I’ll give you that.”

  “Brass ones,” Guerra agreed.

  Ballantine glared down at Guerra for a long moment, his eyes filling with brewing fury. Despite his unwillingness to show weakness in the confrontation, Guerra felt sweat slowly rolling down his back. If Ballantine was going to take it all the way, it was going to hurt both of them.

  The anger receded in Ballantine’s eyes, and he stepped back after a moment. He continued to stare down at Guerra, but he slowly nodded.

  “All right. I hear you, Hector. I’ll do my part. You don’t have to worry about me turning into a Nancy boy. I’m still in the fight.”

  Guerra nodded back. “That’s all I’m asking for, man. Nothing more. We know you got your family to think about, because they’re right here in the shit with the rest of us. I know it’s gotta drive you crazy, but listen—my people are in California, and I have no idea what’s going on with them. So I have to stay operational, otherwise I’ll go stir. You might want to keep that in mind. You have your problems, but we have ours, too.”

  “I’m with you, Hector. I’m with you.”

  “Okay, man. Cool,” Guerra said. “Why don’t you check in with the fam. And send that jerk-off Stilley back here. He’s next on my hit parade.”

  Ballantine smiled thinly. “You gonna bust him up?”

  “Nah. Just have a talk with him.”

  “Use small words.”

  “Trust me. He’ll understand where I’m coming from.”

  ###

  The convoy continued down Holly Pike Road toward the town of Mount Holly Springs. It rolled by small subdivisions on the outskirts of the town, then passed a school. The sign out front read WG Rice Elementary School, and the parking lots looked to be pretty full with cars and buses parked where one might logically expect. But there were also several other vehicles that looked as if they’d just pulled up and been abandoned, with many of them on the grassy median separating the school’s parking lots from the road. Trash littered the area, and Hastings felt the school had been a staging area for the local population to gather and await assistance from state and federal authorities. Just the same, the area around the school was deserted. It was as if the people had just disappeared. Hastings wondered what the inside of the school looked like. He was sure he didn’t want to know, even though he had a pretty good idea what was in there.

  The column maintained its slow advance. Slater radioed the rest of the convoy to inform them they were entering the town itself and to look sharp. Along Holly Pike, trees and individual homes lined the left side of the road while the right side of the thoroughfare was faced by an open strip of small fields and power lines. On the other side of the fields another subdivision of houses lay in the distance. As the road dipped downward, the column passed a building the sign declared as M&T Bank. Off to the right side of the road, a decorative “Welcome to Holly Springs” sign was painted up in eye-catching colors. Hastings ignored it and looked farther down the road; he saw what looked like a train track overpass. That wasn’t the problem. That there was something blocking the road ahead was infinitely more concerning.

  “Hey, Jones. Slow down and bring us to halt right before the intersection. All right?”

  “Got it, sir.” The driver took his foot off the accelerator, and the MRAP immediately began winding down.

  “Something up?” Slater asked from the rear.

  “Yeah. Let the rest of the column know there’s a potential roadblock ahead,” Hastings instructed him. “We might have to call a halt to clear it away.”

  Jones braked the MRAP to a stop just before the intersection of Holly Pike and Watts Road. Down the street, the train overpass loomed. Scores of vehicles blocked the approach, packed tightly together to plug up the opening as effectively as possible. More cars and trucks were actually positioned on the rails on either side of the overpass as well. Hastings looked from left to right. To the MRAP’s left was a small cluster of apartment buildings. To the right were warehouses and what looked like a body shop. Someone had obviously wanted to form a barrier here.

  “Sir, I don’t think we’re going to be able to push our way through that,” Jones said.

  Hastings grunted in agreement and looked down at his map. Down Watts Road there was another avenue that crossed over the train tracks. If they could make it down that road, it would allow them to parallel Holly Pike on the other side of the tracks and avoid the blockage in front of them.

  Hastings turned in his seat and made eye contact with Slater in the rear. “Slater, let War Eagle know that we’re going to break off and scout this road one block to the west. Have them pull the vehicles into a tactical stop and wait for us to return. This should only take ten minutes tops, but all vehicles should stay buttoned up and engines running.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  Hastings faced forward and pointed to the road to the right. “Jones, turn down here. Let’s see what it buys us.”

  Jones horsed the MRAP into a right turn and rolled down Watts Road, passing the J&J Automotive building. A few hundred feet down was another intersection. This street was named Chestnut, and it turned back to the south. Hastings leaned forward and visually ensured the road wasn’t just clear but that it also went over the train tracks. It did, and on the other side of the crossing was what appeared to be a silent residential neighborhood.

  “It looks good to go, sir. Should we keep going to see where it comes out?” Jones asked.

  Hastings nodded. “Yeah, let’s cross the tracks and see if we can work our way back to the main road.”

  Jones drove the MRAP to the other side of the tracks and slowed, looking around for any threats. The vehicle was on the outskirts of the residential neighborhood now, and had a clear shot down the street as far as the eye could see. A few cars were parked along the road; nothing blocked it. Old, yellowed newspapers drifted down the street, riding the light breeze.

  Hastings motioned forward with a knife hand. “Let’s keep going down Chestnut, Jones. Nice and slow.”

  Jones drove the MRAP down the street at twenty miles per hour. Quaint two-story houses with covered porches lined the road on either side, so close to the thoroughfare that their porches almost sat right on the sidewalks. It wasn’t until the MRAP was about halfway down Chestnut Street that they saw any reekers. Only three or four of them and they were several hundred meters off to the west, near what looked like another school. The zombies faced the opposite direction, shuffling along another mostly empty street. As the MRAP progressed on, Hastings noticed a few more reekers loitering around some of the houses they passed. Their empty eyes followed the vehicle and they immediately shuffled after it. Even at the vehicle’s fairly low rate of speed, the reekers didn’t have a chance of catching up to it.

  At the end of the street, Hastings pointed to the empty parking lot around a post office at the corner. “Okay, pull over and stop in that lot there. Park at the far end so I can look up and down this cross street here.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  The MRAP pulled into the lot and rolled to its far end. Jones braked to a halt and put the rig in park. Hastings took a good look in both directions. West Pine Street did in fact lead back to the main road, 34 South, which was to the idling vehicle’s left. That was where the column would need to resume its advance. He took a moment to study the maps, then did another visual reconnaissance of the immediate area.

  “All right, this is the route we’ll take. Go ahead and pull out, then shoot back up Chestnut. We need to get back to the convoy.” As Jones pulled the MRAP out of the lot, Hastings called back over his shoulder. “Slater, let the convoy know we’re headed back and the alternate route is clear. Pass on they should be prepared to roll as soon as we show up.”

  “On it,” Slater r
eplied as he keyed the handset’s transmit button and started giving orders to the rest of the convoy.

  The column had just about made it to the post office when gunfire broke out from the rear of the element.

  “What’s going on, Slater?” Hastings asked. His rifle was propped against the door by his right knee. He would have it tucked against his shoulder in less than two seconds.

  “Nothing to worry about yet, sir. A few reekers were getting too close to the convoy back around the school. It’s over, no further contact reported.”

  Hastings nodded, but reached out and touched his rifle anyway. “Good copy. Jones, keep us moving. Turn left onto West Pine and get us back on 34 South.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The road opened up when the column made it past the edge of town. Just beyond the town limits sat a large, two-story log cabin. A large parking area spread out on both sides of the road. The sign in front of the large building declared it was closed for renovations, and to Hastings it appeared the building had been closed for some time and those renovations never came to pass. Still, the outside of the building looked pretty impressive as far as log cabins went. The parking lots were big enough to hold the whole convoy and provided plenty of open space from the road to the tree line. They’d have good fields of fire.

  “All right, Jones. Pull forward to the edge of the far parking area so we can get everyone in this spot.” Hastings indicated where he wanted the driver to park the MRAP.

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “Hey, Slater. Let the convoy know we’re taking a break. Tactical formation, both sides of the road. Eagle One is to stay on the black top in front of the cabin so we can build the perimeter around him.”

  “Roger. How long we gonna be here, sir?”

  “Take fifteen minutes to do a general vehicle inspection and take bio breaks. Then we button back up. Make sure you notify War Eagle and Eagle One too, all right?”

  “Roger that.” Slater keyed the mic and informed the convoy leaders. “Take fifteen, smoke ’em if you got ’em. Make sure everyone knows it’s not admin—half in the rigs, half on piss break, someone in the turrets at all times, engines running. Stay within visual of the trucks and take weapons and a buddy if anyone has to drop deuce. How copy? Over.” The convoy leaders all confirmed one at a time with Slater as the MRAP slowed and turned into the parking lot, swaying back and forth is it trundled across uneven pavement. He then switched frequencies on the radio to the Eagle net and keyed the mic. “War Eagle, this is Papa Zero Three. Over.”