You expect something else, man? he asked himself. You expect her to just take whatever happens and roll with it?
Then there was the kid, who was an even larger wild card. Ballantine felt only pity for Kenny, because he was a true victim of circumstance who had no ability to rationalize what was going on around him. That Kenny and Diana were oddly dependent on each other made things infinitely more difficult for a man like Ballantine to manage. Any decision he made about one would affect the other.
Like letting them get eaten by reekers?
Ballantine felt the hot flush of shame course through him. The incident was only a few hours old, but he knew it had changed how his troops viewed him. And more importantly, it had perhaps changed how his family saw him. While there was very little to romanticize about a soldier’s life, Ballantine had always thought he acted with decency, professionalism, and integrity. He’d wiped those out in a second by hesitating to immediately save a little boy from the zombies, and that was what weighed most heavily on him at the moment. Now that the heat was off with regard to the reekers, there were other things that he had to consider. And one of those things was himself. To his horror, he’d lost his shit...and right in front of his family and the guys. They’d all seen it. He needed both of them on his team, and he couldn’t have them questioning his motives or decisions. For sure, both Kay and Guerra could keep things going pretty much indefinitely, but he was the designated adult. He wore the chevrons and rockers of a sergeant first class. The heavy thinking had to fall on his shoulders, otherwise he was just another grunt.
And for Ballantine, being in charge of only five lightfighters was eminently preferable to being in charge of nothing at all.
So he sat there in the passenger coach as the train rocketed down the rails, rocking subtly from side to side, and joshed with his boys and gave Kay a squeeze every now and then. But he kept one eye on Diana and Kenny as they both slept, the boy cradled against her. Hastings was gone, out in the world doing real Army shit. Ballantine figured the chances of him seeing the captain again were around fifty-fifty at the very best, so that meant Diane and Kenny were his problem now. Maybe forever. He had to get himself squared away so he could do what he’d been ordered to do.
Orders have nothing to do with it. It’s what’s right, man.
Ballantine considered that for a long moment as the train hurtled down the tracks, slowly swaying from side to side.
###
The convoy had been on the road for only a few minutes before they were forced to stop again. Right down the road at a small bend in the road was the postage-sized town of Upper Mill, where 34 South split off. Charming residential houses lined the road’s left side and on the right was what looked like a medium-sized factory. Where the road forked, someone had filled the continuation to 34 South with a mix of vehicles and debris.
Well God damn …
“Jones, pull off to the right,” Hastings said. “Leave some room between us and the roadblock. I don’t want to take any chances here. Slater, get on the horn and let War Eagle know we’re stopping for a roadblock. Advise everyone to stay sharp. This could be an ambush.”
“Roger, sir.”
As Jones braked the MRAP to a halt, Hastings heard Slater on the radio. While he couldn’t hear every word the sergeant said into the handset, the exchange was longer than expected. Slater finally lowered the handset and looked up at Hastings.
“Sir, War Eagle is moving the gun trucks forward to set security before we start pushing cars out of the way,” he reported. “I’ll coordinate their placement, if that’s good by you.”
“Always good by me, Slater.”
Slater moved the gun trucks up and into overwatch positions so that the .50-cal and Minigun-equipped trucks would be able to cover them if things got ugly. Once the armed vehicles were in position, Slater pushed forward and looked out the MRAP’s passenger-side window. He and Hastings both examined the nearby factory building. Everything looked normal about the place, given that it had been mostly abandoned during the zombie outbreak. There were a few vehicles parked out front, but they looked as if they hadn’t been moved in quite some time. Hastings raised his binoculars to his eyes and studied the scene closely. Leaves and dust covered the cars, and the factory windows were streaked with grime left behind by summer rains. He saw no indications of life behind those panes of dirty glass.
“Looks deserted,” he said finally.
“I don’t know,” Slater replied. “It’s awfully close to the convoy, and we won’t know it’s really deserted unless we go inside.”
“Come on, Sarge. Look at the sign.” Jones took his right hand off the steering wheel to point out the sign on the side of the building. It read NO MATTER THE DAY, SAFETY IS HERE TO STAY.
“Wow, you can read?” Slater asked. “All this time, I’ve been telling everyone you’re a booger-eating moron.”
Hastings snorted as he continued his surveillance of the factory. “Slater, move two more security vehicles forward. Place them on the factory side of the road, just to be safe.”
“On that.” Slater faded back to make the request, then joined Hastings up front once again. “Sir, it looks like someone was trying to block off the roads into this place. The roadblock we ran into coming into town and now this one, on the way out. Looks like they were trying to shut it down but never finished the job. I also noticed that there weren’t a lot of reekers or even signs of life back in town. It’s like they all just left. Something doesn’t feel right about this to me.”
Hastings considered that for a long moment. “Things have been pretty quiet since we left the Naval facility. I don’t suppose everyone could have evacuated before the infection began to spread—you’d expect to see some signs of evacuation. Hell, even some bodies. I agree with you, Slater … something is definitely strange here.”
“Let’s keep all the vehicles running and everyone buttoned up except for the detail needed to clear the road. We’re not really in a good position to get into a standup fight here, sir.”
“Roger that. Let’s not stay here too long. You want to get that detail going?”
“On it now. Give me a few.”
It took less than five minutes for Slater to pull ten dismounts from the nearest MRAPs. He took four men from Hastings’s vehicle and pulled others from the next two rigs in the column. Hastings ordered the remaining troops in the MRAP to orient their weapons on the factory building. The MRAP had firing ports in the side, and even though the soldiers wouldn’t be able to maneuver their fires very effectively, they could still project hate if they needed to. Another soldier manned the .50-caliber mounted in the MRAP’s turret. He would have three-hundred-sixty-degree capability, so if the riflemen in the vehicle could hold off the initial attack, the machine-gunner would be able to tear apart any opponent … alive or dead.
Hastings kept one eye on the building and one on Slater’s detachment. They made good time, clearing away the debris that had been piled into the gaps between the cars—shopping carts, garbage bags, home furnishings, old tires—pretty much anything that could fill a void. They finally managed to move one of the vehicles out of the way and set to work getting another pushed out. If they were successful, Hastings gauged there would be enough room for the column to squeeze through.
Before they could clear away the battered old Suzuki SUV they were working on, small-arms gunfire erupted from the houses and tree line on the left side and left front of the convoy. Hastings was caught off guard; he’d been totally fixated on the factory building and its multiple stories of elevation. An experienced enemy would have used that as an attack platform …
Unless they’re really smart, or really stupid—
Slater’s dismounted detail of soldiers working the roadblock were the recipients of the fire. As Hastings snatched up his rifle and turned toward his firing port, the gun trucks on that side of the convoy wasted no time in returning fire. The sounds of booming .50-cal and buzzing Minigun bursts filled the air as
suppressive fire was directed at the rows of houses and the tree line. Small-arms fire continued to pour from the houses, and even through the MRAP’s heavy armor Hastings heard what sounded like several M249 SAWs. Whoever they were, they had at least two belt-fed machine guns, plenty of small arms and had apparently set up a textbook L-shaped ambush.
“Captain!” Jones’s voice was high pitched and frantic.
“I see it,” Hastings replied as he pushed himself out of his seat. “Shooters, shift left!”
Jones grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “The factory! The factory!” he shouted.
Hastings was already halfway out of his seat. He snapped and looked at the factory. As the work detail scrambled for cover and started returning fire, Hastings saw all the truck shipping and garage doors of the factory roll open. As soon as the doors were halfway open, waves of reekers poured out of the building. They headed for the column, a shambling mass of rot and death, drawn toward the armored vehicles and the soldiers manning them by the din of combat.
Hastings now knew where all the people had gone and why they had seen so few reekers in the town. Whoever was shooting at them had gathered them all here for this specific purpose.
“Rifles on the reekers!” Hastings shouted. “Fifty, stay on the houses!” He keyed the push-to-talk button on the MBITR strapped to his harness. “War Eagle, Crusader has heavy contact—fires from the left, reekers from the right! Pull Eagle One out of formation and fall back! Troops in contact!”
The dismounted soldiers all scrambled to make it back to a vehicle while shooting at reekers. While the MRAPS provided cover for them from the small-arms fire, it wasn’t enough to stop the reekers coming from the other side. Soldiers frantically banged on the MRAPs, trying to get in before the reekers could bring them down. Others continued to shoot the swarms of dead coming at them. The vehicles Slater had set up as security on that side were providing interlocking walls of Minigun fire at the factory building, but the waves of reekers proved to be too much. While dozens of them were slagged, torn apart by the multitude of rounds that separated flesh from bone, many of them made it through the firestorm and headed for those soldiers who were still trying to get into any vehicle they could. All of this had happened in a matter of seconds. Rifle rounds were pinging off the MRAP’s thick hide now, even as the soldiers in the back began blasting the advancing dead through their firing ports.
Slater’s voice came over the radio an instant later over the group frequency. “Crusader—drive, drive, DRIVE!”
Hastings smacked the driver beside him on the shoulder. “Jones, get us the fuck out of here now! Ram that shit if you have to!”
Jones wasted no time in making the MRAP move as fast it could go from a stop. The vehicle rocked slightly as it rolled over the bodies of dead reekers and debris in the road. It accelerated slowly; the MRAP’s mass was so great that its diesel engine needed time to wind up to get it moving. The way wasn’t perfectly clear and Jones had to sideswipe one of the cars as he drove through the roadblock. Threading the needle, as the concrete wall of the factory was on his right side and there were telephone poles along the left side of the road that he had to avoid. The vehicle’s sides scraped everything, it seemed like; the soldiers manning the firing ports pulled their rifles in, lest they risked their barrels being sheared off. There was literally just enough room for the MRAP to get through.
The rest of the convoy wasted no time in following Jones through the roadblock.
Hastings yelled over to Jones. “Keep driving down the road. We need to make sure the rest of the convoy has room to clear the kill zone and the roadblock!”
“Roger that, Captain!”
The convoy formed up on the lead MRAP and bolted down the road. Slater presented a car’s engine between himself and the SAW fire emanating from the tree line as he conducted a comms check with all the rest of the convoy.
“Net call! All elements, I need an ACE report ASAP. Eagle One, I need status of Eagle One Actual and Diamond. How copy? Over!”
Behind him, one of the 101st soldiers fell against the car. He’d been shot twice, and one bullet had left a furrow in his neck. Arterial blood sprayed all over Slater, despite the fact the man had a hand clamped across his injured throat. The man’s eyes were already glazing over as shock set in. To Slater, the soldier wasn’t much of a man, more of a boy. Maybe nineteen, twenty tops. Slater tore open the pack at his belly, the one that contained bandages and medications. He needed to tend to this soldier right now.
All of the vehicles with radios checked in to acknowledge Slater’s request for an update on Ammo, Casualties and Equipment. Slater needed to know the status of not only those in the convoy but of the president and First Lady as well. Whether Slater liked it or not, the president’s safety was more important than anything else at this moment. As he turned to apply curlex bandages to the wounded soldier beside him, he knew that life without the president made their chances of getting into Site R extraordinarily slim. And focusing on the bigger picture, it meant getting the United States of America back up and running would become a vague pipe dream.
“Hang in there, brother,” Slater said to the soldier as he treated him. “Stay with me long enough to get you safe, all right?”
Radio traffic continued to come in as the convoy moved down the road. Eagle One was the first to call in. The president and First Lady were both safe and had made it through the kill zone without any issues thanks to the MRAP’s armor. War Eagle reported in as well; the command staff was also safe. The only losses suffered were three members of the work detail who had been on the road when the gunfire started. It was confirmed that two soldiers had been shot dead as soon as the ambush started. The third soldier was seen being pulled down by reekers as he tried to make it back to a vehicle. The gunner on the turret who witnessed it made it quick by unloading a heavy volley of .50-cal into the reekers and the fallen soldier. It was an unspoken rule among the troops that if things went bad they would put each other down instead of allowing someone to be eaten and become a reeker. No one wanted to imagine the pain of being eaten alive by zombies to only later become one. Everyone agreed, a bullet was a quicker and better way out.
Slater continued treating the stricken soldier beside him until the life left his eyes and he pissed himself. His body slowly relaxed, and as Slater continued to press the curlex against his wounds, the soldier—the boy—drifted away into the arms of whatever embrace awaited him.
Motherfuckers. Slater glared at the line of neat houses and trees across the roadway even as reekers cast about, looking for meat. Motherfuckers …
“Crusader. Papa Zero Three.”
Hastings’s voice came back over Slater’s headset immediately. “Zero Three, SITREP.”
“Do me a favor and pull over, Crusader. I’d kind of like to catch up to the column before it gets too far.” The reekers poured into the street, and several of them moved in his direction. They’d see Slater before long, and now that the kid soldier was dead, there was no need for him and the remainders of the detachment to wait around. The last of the convoy vehicles were surging past him now, hauling ass at forty miles per hour. The gunfire that had been unleashed on the unit was slackening. The attackers had failed to capture their quarry, and to Slater’s eternal shame he would have to retreat and give them the opportunity to try it all again one day. Next time, they probably wouldn’t be facing down an organized military unit; they’d likely be hitting up civilian refugees who were just trying to survive one more day.
“Three hundred meters down and on the shoulder, guy. Get here,” Hastings replied over the radio. “We’ll wait.”
###
Later, the train braked to an eventual halt. Jarmusch had been notified of the halt ahead of time, as there were several switching stations ahead which needed to be checked in order to ensure the train could continue. Lieutenant Munn, the Guard officer with train experience, explained the intricacies of what had to happen. He didn’t sugarcoat it.
The train would have to stop routinely in order to not only check signal settings, but to inspect rails in high-traffic areas. A derail condition was a legitimate threat, and Munn informed Jarmusch and the rest of the command group that the effect of breaking off the rails with a consist as long and as heavy as theirs would be nothing short of catastrophic even at low speed.
“How long will we be stopped?” was all Jarmusch really wanted to know. While it was in motion, the train was a juggernaut. Even a hundred thousand zombies couldn’t stop it. But when it came to a halt, the collection of engines, flatbed cars, and passenger coaches was a target. Though Jarmusch had no small amount of firepower at his disposal, his best weapon was mobility. A stopped train was of little use to him.
“Depends, sir. An hour at least. We do need to scout out the signals and the rails ahead,” Munn said. “It would be better if we could offload some vehicles. We could move faster rolling on rubber wheels as opposed to boots.”
“Any particular mix of vehicles?”
“I like the MRAPs and a few uparmored Humvees, sir.”
Jarmusch nodded to Major Gaylord. “Gaylord, I’ll need you to see to that.”
Gaylord nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Munn, how long until we come to a stop?”
“Less than fifteen minutes, sir.”
“All right. That’s enough time for us to get spooled up.”
Command Sergeant Major Willis Headley looked up from the maps that were spread out across the folding table that separated him from Jarmusch. He was a short but extraordinarily broad-shouldered NCO who originally hailed from Trinidad, and when he spoke his voice was still redolent with the island accent. “Sir, looks like there’s a town near where we’ll likely stop. We might want to send a team that way to put eyes on target. If it’s hostile, we’ll need to know. And if it’s not, the residents might be able to give us some intel on the current circumstances.”
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 6
