“Roger.” Ballantine held up his hand, signaling Bellara. Bellara was listening to his own radio, and he returned Ballantine’s signal with a thumbs up.
“Not a major engagement,” Bellara said. “Train is secure.”
Ballantine nodded and went back to scanning to terrain. The rest of the soldiers in the squad got a little more serious. Some of them dropped their NVGs over their eyes. Ballantine thought it was still too bright for that, but it couldn’t hurt to have some of the troops configured for a change in condition. Overhead, dark clouds scudded past and vague starlight peeked past them.
“Lieutenant, how much time you need?” he asked, looking in the direction of the headlights he had seen earlier. The road was completely lost in shadow now, invisible behind the inky blackness amidst the trees.
“Hey LT, how long until you guys are finished up over there? We don’t want to be dicking around with this stuff in full-on night,” Ballantine asked.
“We’re done. I’m going to ask the train to pull forward,” Munn replied. “If the first engine makes it across, we’re good to go.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Bellara asked, which Ballantine thought was a reasonable enough question.
“We’ve got three other engines in the consist. We’ll be able to back it off,” Munn said. He sounded annoyed by the query, but Ballantine figured it was more a case of the heebie-jeebies being out on the ground when there were reekers closing in.
From the rear of the train, more gunfire sounded. Yeah, maybe the Lieutenant’s got a point.
Munn spoke into another radio as he crossed over the tracks. Scotch stayed where he was, and Munn motioned for some of the soldiers to stay with him. They turned to Bellara for final permission, and he nodded before crossing over the tracks himself.
“Ballantine, we’ll form two elements on either side for security,” he said. “I’m taking some guys with me, the rest are going to form up on you.”
“Hooah,” Ballantine said. “We’ll lose line of sight of each other when the train pulls up. If something goes down I’ll report it, but I’m not going to waste any time maneuvering.”
“Roger that, same here,” Bellara said.
In the growing gloom, the train’s diesel engines picked up pitch. Ballantine finally lowered his NVGs on their helmet mount, and they powered on automatically. He was able to see in great clarity the entirety of the train as it slowly eased forward, clacking slightly as it advanced down the track at a slow crawl. It would take minutes for it to cover the hundred or so meters needed to get to Ballantine’s position. While he understood that the train would have to move slowly—if nothing else, the sheer weight to hundreds of tons of rail cars behind the engines would delay any real buildup in speed—it also had to be able to stop if there was an incident. He turned his head as if it was on a swivel, looking left and right. Munn walked past him, holding a handheld radio in his left hand while motioning the train forward with his right. He also wore night vision goggles now, and he wondered if his brother-in-law the train engineer could see him in the inky blackness.
It seemed to take forever for the train to advance to the switching area. The troops that had been standing on top of the engines had to retreat, it wasn’t safe for them to maintain their overwatch positions while the gigantic consist was in motion. That meant Ballantine and his men were probably the only tripwire operational, though he did see a multitude of other soldiers advancing alongside the train as it slowly progressed forward. That provided him with some measure of relief; it meant he and Bellara’s men wouldn’t be alone for all that much longer.
Light suddenly flared in Ballantine’s NVGs as the fat engineer across the tracks switched on a flashlight. He directed the beam at the tracks beside him as he conducted another visual inspection prior to the first engine’s arrival. It was the only artificial light this far out in the darkness.
“Sir!” Ballantine said. “Sir!”
“Scotch, you can’t use your flashlight!” Munn shouted over both Ballantine and the growing roar of the diesel engines.
“So how the fuck am I to see if the wheel flanges are making contact or not? By feel as the engine rolls over my fingers?” Scotch shot back. “Pull your head out of your ass, Munn—we’re here with a fucking train, man. The zombies already have a big fucking clue as to where we are!”
“He does have a point,” Bellara said. “Let’s just get this done. Ballantine, keep shit squared away on your side! Eyes out! Eyes out!”
Ballantine waved acknowledgement and turned to the six troops under his command. He altered their formation and arranged them so they were standing with their backs to the rails. With Bellara’s team securing the other side, there was no need for three hundred and sixty degree scans, they could focus on their half of the pie. Voice communication became difficult as the train neared, and once it was almost upon them, even communicating over the radio was tough. Ballantine cleared all the troops to fire on anything that came out them. There wouldn’t be time for polite notifications if shit boiled over.
The train moved ever closer at a dead crawl, the thrum of its engines pounding at Ballantine’s eardrums even through his radio ear phones. Aside from ensuring he was clear and well away from the tracks, he paid the towering machine no mind. Munn stepped toward the rails and squatted beside them, doubtless monitoring the engine’s progress as it hit the switch. Scotch must have been doing the same thing, because Ballantine’s NVGs read the additional illumination from his flashlight. The light made shadows rise and fall amidst the grass before him and the rest of the troops.
From down the line, more rifle fire crackled. Guerra didn’t report a change in the team’s status, so Ballantine figured there was nothing major to worry about. Shooting reekers was pretty much old hat by now, part of the professional landscape. You could almost set your watch by it these days.
He turned when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Lieutenant Munn.
“Switch is good! I’m going to send the train on, dead slow!” he shouted.
“What do you want from us?” Ballantine yelled back.
“Hold your pos until the coaches come into view, then climb aboard. Unless your captain wants you to do otherwise.”
Dude, my captain’s on his way to Fort Bragg. “Roger that, sir.”
Munn jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the idling train. “I’m going aboard the engine now. Any questions?”
“Negative, we’re good to go here.”
Munn clapped him on the shoulder and turned to the slowly moving train. He jogged toward the lead engine while Ballantine turned back to monitoring his sector. He keyed his microphone button. “Lance One Six, Crusader One Seven.”
“Send it, Crusader,” Bellara responded, his voice barely audible over the racket of the train.
“Munn says the train is clear and we should mount up once the coaches pass through. Train will be moving on dead slow. Over.”
“Roger, that’s a plan.”
Ballantine was about to radio Guerra for an update when one of the Guardsmen to his right shouldered his rifle and fired. Ballantine took a step back and raised his own rifle as the grass parted before him. A horde of screamers—zombified kids—charged out of the field’s overgrowth and surged toward his element like a rancid mudslide racing down a hillside. Some of the screamers were slow, hobbled by the injuries that had killed them or damage they had incurred after months on the hunt. Others were still in great shape; they could run, and as they squirted toward Ballantine and the rest of the men, he was reminded just how fast they could move when they wanted to get their meal on.
He fired at the fast ones first, his rifle barking out three shots in succession. Three small bodies collapsed to the field, their souls released to journey on to whatever destination awaited. Two of them slipped past him, tracking off to his left. Ballantine pivoted with them. They sprinted after Munn, who was still hurrying toward the slowly-moving train. He apparently didn’t hear the gunfire, nor did he h
ear Ballantine’s shouts. Ballantine shot one ghoul right before it reached the lieutenant, and Munn must’ve heard something then, for he slowed and turned. That gave the second zombie the opportunity to strike. Ballantine shot at it, but the round only grazed the monstrosity’s shoulder before continuing on to ricochet off the side of the locomotive engine in a halo of sparks. Munn threw up a hand to ward off the creature, but it seized onto him and bit down. Munn wrestled with the ghoul, but couldn’t get free. The dead boy’s jaws were locked on the sleeve of his uniform, and it thrashed back and forth like a rabid guard dog trying to bring down a target.
Ballantine ran forward and kicked the reeker in the side with all his might. The blow had to shatter several ribs, but there was no indication the zombie even noticed the damage. He couldn’t line up for a headshot and not run the risk of killing Munn as man and zombie danced back and forth in the night. Behind him, his NVGs dutifully intensified the muzzle flashes that parted the darkness with strobe-like flares as the rest of the Guardsmen serviced other targets. Ballantine kicked the ghoul again, this time in the legs. The ghoul fell to the ground, but its jaws were still clamped on Munn’s sleeve. The lieutenant started to go over as well, but Ballantine grabbed him with his left hand and held him upright. With his right, he lowered his rifle until the M4’s barrel was almost resting against the screamer’s forehead. With one pull of the trigger, the zombie ceased to be a problem as its skull exploded. Ropy strands of fetid brain matter splashed across the grass.
But still, a part of Ballantine’s preprogrammed humanity remained. I just shot a kid...
“Lieutenant, you bitten?” Ballantine yelled. He pushed Munn toward the train without waiting for an answer as more reekers came through the field. The rest of the troops on the train had tripped wise to what was going on, and a gigantic fusillade of fire erupted from the train’s left side. Every Joe with a weapon was opening up, sending everything they had ripping through the field.
“It just got my sleeve!” Munn shouted jubilantly. “I’m not bitten!”
“Then get your ass on the damn train, sir!” Ballantine shouted back without turning. He zeroed in on one zombie that was tottering this way as it was hit by multiple—but nonlethal—rounds. He fired a single shot through its right eye, blowing back the corpse’s dirty blond hair with a stream of gore as the 5.56-millimeter bullet ripped through its skull. The corpse collapsed to the ground and lay still.
“Headshots!” he yelled to the rest of the troops. “Headshots, damn it! Like this!”
He moved forward into the field, capping off reekers as he advanced. The screamers and runners had already met their fate—now he was just taking down shamblers and walkers. Just the same, it was stressful. Advancing upon an enemy that knew no fear and would never back down took a pair of brass ones, and knowing his family was only a few hundred feet away made that even harder. But he’d disgraced himself when he’d hesitated to jump in and save Kenny. So here in the darkness of night, where no one who wasn’t wearing night vision goggles would notice, Sergeant First Class Carl Ballantine set about making himself whole again.
He advanced into the field, shouting for the rest of the soldiers to follow him. Communication was difficult with all the noise, but he quickly checked over his shoulder to ensure they were complying with his commands. They came, but tentatively, their heads moving as if on swivels. More reekers emerged from the grass, mouths open, moans he could not hear. Ballantine leaned into his weapon and fired, methodically zeroing every ghoul as it presented itself. There weren’t really that many, and their advance was mostly slow and clumsy. One or two soldiers could have handled them once the screamers and runners were down. Just the same, Ballantine organized the Guardsmen into a straight line. The train was moving so slowly along the tracks that it was conceivable the zombies could board it, and if even one of them clambered aboard a passenger coach, the results would be disastrous. So he and the Guardsman stood out in the dark field and popped off the enemy as they approached in singletons or duos, drilling them in their heads with a ruthless efficiency. Occasionally, a long screamer or runner would appear, rushing through the grass right toward them, arms outstretched, jaws spread wide. They never go close enough to be a real threat, despite their speed.
As the locomotive engines moved downrange, Ballantine became aware of voices speaking into his ears. Both Bellara and Guerra, seeking updates from his position.
“Crusader One Seven, still up,” Ballantine radioed back.
“Crusader, we’re cut off from you by the train. What do you need? Over,” Bellara asked.
“Lance, Crusader’s good. We’re all in one piece.” As he spoke, Ballantine took his eyes off the field and turned his head, sweeping his NVGs over the file of soldiers who stood with him. He hadn’t lied. All the troops were present, and no one had been injured.
“Crusader, you need more guns? How many combatants on your line? Over!”
“Lance, I say again, Crusader One Seven is good. We’ve taken out all enemy forces for the moment. Let’s just get the train out of here. Over.”
“On that, One Seven. When your coaches appear, climb aboard.”
“Roger, will do,” Ballantine said. “Break. Crusader One Two, give me a SITREP.”
“Crusader One Two. All good. We’re pacing the train.”
“One Two, you’re good to get aboard when you feel it’s right. Don’t get hung up on me, you have dependents to look after. Over.”
“All over that, One Seven. Again, we’re good. No contacts at our pos. Sure you don’t need us to advance to your position?”
“Negative, One Two. We’re secure at the moment. Stay with the dependents.”
“Roger that.”
The train continued rumbling past. The engine noise began to fade as the locomotives themselves rolled downrange, leaving behind only the slow clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk of the steel wheels as they have the switch’s toe and were shunted to the new track. For a moment, Ballantine wondered if they shouldn’t head up to Minnesota. Zombies couldn’t fight in the dead of winter, they’d freeze solid ... right?
“Hey One Seven, we have you in sight,” Guerra broadcast a few minutes later. “We’re rolling up on your pos.”
Ballantine turned his head and glanced over his shoulder, the first time he’d taken his eyes off the killing field for some time. The train was mostly blacked out, but it still generated enough illumination for his NVGs to augment. Sure enough, the passenger coaches were on their way up the line. He could easily distinguish the one that Jarmusch and the rest of the command group had taken over. The light from all the laptop screens was as bright as day through his goggles.
“Roger that, Guerra. You guys aboard?”
“Crusader is aboard the train. Over.”
“Stand by.” To the Guardsmen standing in the field with him: “All right, mount up as soon as you can! Passenger cars are coming up. Let’s retrograde and get out of this hellhole!” As he spoke, he took one last scan of the immediate area. There were no reekers in the backfield, ready to make a final end run as the soldiers fell back. There were only fifteen to twenty motionless corpses, a great many of them little kids that had all been shot in the head by the men and women who had taken an oath to protect them.
Maybe we’ll do better in the next life, he thought to himself as the Guardsmen began to fade back toward the train. Ballantine held his position, providing them a measure of overwatch before he too stepped toward the slowly-moving train. It wasn’t a problem to climb aboard, and he mounted the steps leading to the aft vestibule of the coach his family was in. Even though all the lights had been switched off, the door was open and his NVGs revealed the vestibule’s interior with enough clarity for him to see where to place his feet.
“Got you, Sergeant.” Stilley was there, and he reached out with one hand and grabbed onto Ballantine’s harness. His SAW was slung across his chest, and he wore his own NVGs.
“Thanks.” Ballantine stepped into the vestibule
and looked around. Reader was there, but it was only him and Stilley. Then another figure emerged from the gloom. Everson, holding his own rifle and a NVG monocle over his right eye.
“Well. You’re here too, Gunny?”
Everson swung his monocle toward Ballantine. “Someone had to be on station to provide suppressive fires when you Army pukes cut and ran.”
Ballantine chucked and nodded to Stilley. “And you chose to buddy up with him?”
“Marines do whatever’s necessary, son. Even if it means hanging out with the village idiot whose whisper is closer to a shout.”
“Hey, I was being quiet,” Stilley said.
“And the truly deaf never heard you,” Everson replied. “And guy, why the fuck are you always going on about yogurt?”
“Oh, that’s—”
“A story for another time,” Ballantine said. “Stilley, where are the other troops?”
Stilley motioned forward. “In the other waiting area.”
“You get your rest cycle yet?”
“No, Sergeant. Not yet.” Stilley sniffed. “Tharinger got interrupted by the switching. I guess I owe him some time.”
“Go forward and send him down to finish his rest,” Ballantine said. “You good to go, lightfighter? Your ass dragging?”
“Well ... yeah?”
Ballantine sighed. “Stilley, can you man your SAW for a little longer without shooting off your pecker?”
Stilley looked indignant, even through the low-resolution world of night vision goggles. “Damn, I’d never do that!”
“Too small?” Everson asked. “Need a larger caliber to ensure you service the target?”
Stilley was indignant. “Mr. Everson, I’m not a white dude. I’m a black man. My dick’s only two inches ... from the floor.”
Everson chuckled and turned back to Ballantine. “Yeah, he’s good to go.”
“Get out of here, Stilley,” Ballantine said. “Try not to frighten the civilians.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Stilley. Don’t try and make sense out of the order ... just execute. All right?”
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 20
