These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation

by Knight, Stephen

  “Nothing to worry about here, ma’am,” Guerra said. “We look like hell, but we’re harmless when we’re off our weapons. If you need us to do something, just pass it down through Carl or myself and we’ll see to it.”

  Robinson nodded. “Okay. Will do, Sergeant Guerra. Thanks.”

  Bellara checked his watch. “Okay. I’ll go forward and work on that medic detail. Brenda, your stuff’s all on car four, right?”

  Robinson nodded. “Ruck’s all packed. Hopefully no one’s rat-fucking it as we speak.”

  “I’ll have the guys bring it to you when they come back. I’ll leave you here with Ballantine so he can introduce you to the rest of his troops.”

  “Actually, I’ll do that,” Guerra said. “Ballantine, it’s time for you to get some rest. Rouse Stilley and send him forward. Might as well get the bad news out of the way first.”

  “Bad news?” Robinson asked.

  “Stilley’s our village idiot,” Guerra said. “A total tool off the field, but he’s plenty dependable when the shit starts to fly. I hate to inflict him on you, ma’am, but he’s part of the package.”

  “I think I’ll be okay with him, Sergeant,” Robinson said.

  Ballantine shook his head. “That’s because you don’t know him.” He looked at Bellara and patted the MBITR on his harness. “Previous call signs still good?”

  “No changes. You might want to walk through all of that with Robinson, and give her a new call sign.”

  “Crusader One One Alpha,” Ballantine said. “If she’s taking command, might as well pair her up with Hastings’s designation.”

  “One One Alpha. Got it, will make sure that gets communicated outward,” Bellara said. “Okay. That’s all I got. Ballantine, Guerra? Anything further from you guys?”

  “Other than the medics and the lieutenant’s shit, I guess not,” Ballantine said.

  “Brenda?”

  “Good to go here, sir.”

  “All right. You’re now an honorary lightfighter. I guess I’ll have to find you some skis at some point.”

  Robinson made a face. “Skis? Sir, it’s high summer.”

  Ballantine chuckled. “You know about the skis, sir?”

  “Not my first rodeo with the Tenth Mountain, Ballantine—was attached to the unit for training a few years back.” To Robinson: “Every new junior officer in a battalion has to lug around a pair of skis. The Tenth are mountaineers, and skis are part of their old job.”

  “Oh. But I’m a first lieutenant.”

  Bellara smiled. “Junior enough for these men, Robinson. Junior enough.” With that, the captain turned and stepped out of the vestibule as he headed for the next car. Robinson turned back to Ballantine and Guerra, her eyes glittering beneath the brim of her helmet. She had a pair of night vision goggles attached to the front mount, and the vestibule’s dim light revealed the sweat that covered her dark face in a light sheen.

  “Ballantine, it’s time for you to rest?” she asked. “If so, I’d advise you to get to it. Send your other man forward.”

  Ballantine nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Stilley woke up and went back on duty without complaint, his eyelids heavy as he slowly extricated himself from his seat while murmuring apologies to Curtis who awakened as soon as he started to move. The slender soldier grabbed his SAW and handed it to Ballantine, then reclaimed it as soon as he was standing in the aisle. Ballantine put a finger to his lips; the last thing he wanted was for Stilley to start talking. He pointed him forward, and Stilley lumbered on with a dull nod. He swayed from side to side as the train rumbled down the tracks, making sure his weapon didn’t clock anyone in the head as he walked. Ballantine stayed where he was and watched until Stilley entered the vestibule. The pneumatic door closed behind him.

  Curtis got up and moved into the aisle. Ballantine put a hand on his shoulder.

  “What’s up, guy?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” he said, his voice blurred from exhaustion.

  “You need me to go with you?”

  Curtis looked offended at the suggestion. At the advanced age of seven, he knew how to go to the bathroom all by himself. “No.”

  “Okay. Wash your hands.”

  “I know that, Dad.”

  Ballantine patted him on the shoulder and watched him creep toward the car’s single restroom. He unslung his rifle and eased himself into the seat Stilley had just vacated, moving as carefully as he could in a bid not to wake Kay or Josh. If they were aware of him folding his big frame into the available space, they didn’t show it. They remained ensconced in a heavy, deep sleep. That suited Ballantine fine. He propped his rifle against the rail car’s sidewall, barrel down and ensured the safety was engaged. The vinyl seat was fairly comfortable, and the air conditioning felt good. He sat there, eyes burning from fatigue as he waited for Curtis to return. A few minutes later he did, and he sat down beside his father and leaned against him.

  “Everything okay?” Ballantine whispered.

  “Yes. Dad, will we ever be able to go home again?”

  “Sure,” Ballantine replied, even though he knew that would likely never happen. Upstate New York wasn’t a place he was keen to return to, not after the dead had sacked Fort Drum and the surrounding communities. There just wasn’t anything to return to, nor was their cabin likely to ever be seen again. “But maybe you should give Colorado a chance, right?”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “You remember when we went to Montana last year?” After returning from another tour in Afghanistan, he and Kay had rented an RV and taken the kids camping last summer, and they’d spent a couple of weeks hiking around Pictograph Cave State Park and tried their hand at fishing in the Yellowstone River.

  “Yeah.”

  “You liked it there, right? Colorado’s kind of the same. Little warmer in the summer, maybe.”

  “But my friends are in New York,” Curtis replied.

  Ballantine didn’t know how to explain to him that most of his friends—probably all of them—were dead. Or worse. There were just some things a man couldn’t explain to his young son, especially how the dead had come back to life as carnivorous ghouls, and that those ghouls had either eaten his friends or infected them. Several of them could be existing as screamers now, prowling through upstate New York looking for warm flesh to eat.

  “You’ll make new ones,” he whispered, drawing his son close. “I promise.”

  Curtis made a small sound as he rested his head against his father’s chest. He whispered something unintelligible, then fell asleep. Ballantine stroked his hair. It was lank with dried sweat, but he didn’t care. Curtis was his boy, and he loved him hard.

  For a moment, he felt overwhelmed. He had his family with him, which was what he wanted. But he couldn’t reasonably protect them. Their continued existence was a fragile thing, and all it would take to tip the apple cart was a prod here, a push there.

  With that sobering thought in mind, Ballantine leaned his head back and let the world go black.

  The world tilted.

  Ballantine was jerked awake by screams of fear and cries of pain as the railcar suddenly lurched to the right. Everything in the overhead racks went flying, rocketing across the coach’s interior like bombs dropped from a B-52 in a carpet run. He felt himself being pulled over Curtis, and there was precious little to stop his massive body from crushing his son to death as a grating roar filled the air. He flung his arm across the seat back and tried to brace himself that way, but it wasn’t enough. Curtis let out a cry as Ballantine slid into him and crushed him against the metal armrest. Ballantine grabbed the armrest with his right hand, and it was solid enough to hold his weight. He pushed against it savagely, levering himself off his youngest son by brute force alone, resisting the pull of gravity and centrifugal force. The railcar suddenly hitched back in the other direction, flinging him back into the sidewall with enough force to send his helmeted head slamming against the window. The impact left the gla
ss cracked and crazed. Josh and Kay were thrown over him and Curtis an instant later as the coach suddenly decelerated, bumping and grinding as it angled along the tracks. The lights snapped out, plunging the coach’s interior into complete darkness save for the explosions of sparks that strobed outside the windows as the car slid down the tracks on its belly. Flickering emergency illumination clicked on an instant later as the car heaved to an abrupt halt. Outside, more noise sounded. Ballantine realized that was the railcars behind the coach coming off the tracks and tearing through the landscape.

  Fucking derail—

  He pushed Kay and Josh off him and Curtis. “Get back in your seats!” he shouted. “Are you hurt?”

  “Dad, I’m fine!” Josh said, eyes wide and wild in the flickering glow of the battery-powered lights. Above the cries of the wounded, Ballantine heard Kenny screaming at the top of his lungs. He ignored it and turned to Curtis beside him.

  “Curty! Curty, you okay?”

  Curtis turned to him, and all Ballantine could see was blood. The boy was crying, and blood streamed from his nose. Kay made a startled noise and she reached for him, but Ballantine pushed her back as he ran his hands over his youngest boy’s body, searching for broken bones. He found none; aside from a bloody nose, Curtis was fine.

  “Curty, hold your nose closed! Don’t tilt your head back, just pinch your nose. Okay?”

  Curtis, still bawling, did as his father instructed. Ballantine looked at Josh and saw he was fine. His right cheek was red and swollen. Apparently he’d been hit by flying debris, maybe someone’s suitcase or something, but he seemed to be okay. He reached out to his younger brother and hugged him as Curtis continued crying, sobs wracking his body.

  “Babe?” Ballantine looked at Kay. She was bleeding from a cut on her forehead, and he was shocked to see her hair was wet with blood. Her eyes were wild and glazed.

  “I’m okay,” she said, but her voice was soft and lilting.

  “Sit back.” Ballantine pushed her back into her seat and got to his feet, reaching for the overhead rack and his rucksack. Of course it wasn’t there, it was lying on the other side of the train along with Guerra’s sniper rifle, still in its soft case. It had landed on a woman with substantial force, all hundred ten pounds of it. The woman was badly injured, and the other lady sitting next to her hadn’t gotten away without damage either. Both appeared unconscious, and the window next to them had been shattered. Ballantine stepped out into the aisle and right onto another person. People were lying everywhere, he saw then. Many had been thrown from their seats and lay scattered around the coach, in various stages of injury. A few rows back, he saw Diana get to her feet after tossing a suitcase off her. She still had her little SIG rifle slung at her side, and she met his eyes for a moment before turning back to Kenny.

  “Next time, steal a fucking 747!” she snapped.

  Ballantine reached across the aisle and pulled his ruck off the woman it lay across. She jerked when he removed the object, then suddenly vomited a torrent of blood all over herself before succumbing to a series of seizures. Curtis started wailing then, horrified by the sight. Ballantine returned to his seat and pulled open one of the pockets on his ruck. He found the first aid kit there and pulled several bandages from it. He ripped one of the packets open and pressed the white bandage against Kay’s head.

  “Babe, hold that there! Just keep applying pressure!” he yelled, raising his voice over the growing crescendo of cries from the wounded.

  Someone pounded down the aisle, leaping over the people who lay there. It was Lieutenant Robinson, and she paused beside his seating area. “Sergeant Ballantine, get on your feet! Execute your mission!”

  “I’m with my family here, LT!” Ballantine lashed back.

  “Don’t give a fuck,” Robinson said, leaning in toward him. “Medics are here—if your people aren’t badly injured, follow me to the far exit!” She accompanied the command with a knife hand to the rear of the passenger coach before taking off in the direction she had indicated.

  Fuck! “Kay, keep pressure on that wound! Curtis, keep your nose closed until the bleeding stops, all right?” Ballantine looked at Josh. “Joshua, I need you to stay here with your mother and brother, all right? I have to go get us some vehicles. Make sure your mom keeps pressure on that cut. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Josh said, still holding Curtis. “But Dad, what about the other people?”

  Ballantine twisted in his seat and looked to the front of the car. Guerra and Stilley were coming toward him, creeping down the aisle trying to avoid the writhing wounded who lay in it. Guerra seemed to be limping; Stilley was wild-eyed but otherwise unhurt. Behind them, more soldiers appeared. They began tending to the wounded, triaging them as they went.

  “Those two men there?” Ballantine pointed them out to Josh. “They’re medics. When they get here, point out your mom’s cut to them, all right? They can help her out. I’ve got to go, big man. Do you have this?”

  “Yes,” Josh repeated. “Are the … the zombies going to find us?”

  “Buddy boy, by the time the reekers get here we’ll be driving away at fifty miles an hour. Trust me on that one, okay?” Ballantine bent forward and kissed his forehead, then kissed Curtis and Kay. He pushed her hand down on the blood-stained bandage. “Pressure, Kay … pressure,” he reiterated.

  “Heard you the first time. Is Kenny all right?” she asked. Her voice was stronger now. She was overcoming the shock of the derailment.

  “He sounds pretty upset.” Looking down the coach, he saw the young man Jacob fussing over his laptop as he stood up. Everson was next to him, and he pushed past him to strike out for Diana and Kenny’s seats. He still had his big rifle. Aside from his glasses appearing askew on his nose, the old Marine was still operational.

  “Carl, we good here?” It was Guerra, who had made it to their position.

  “Everyone’s alive. Are you good to go?” Ballantine nodded toward Guerra’s legs. “You’re limping, man.”

  “Twisted my leg up some, but I’m good,” Guerra said.

  “Anyone check on Martin?”

  “He’s good, too. I mean, still with a busted leg, but nothing new.”

  Ballantine looked at Stilley. “How’re you?”

  “Why, I’m just fine, Sergeant B. How are you?”

  Ballantine shook his head, irritated. “Stilley, are you fucking injured?”

  “Well, no … I’m good, Sergeant!”

  “Both of you follow me.” Ballantine shrugged into his rucksack, then pulled his rifle from between the seat and the coach’s sidewall. He stepped into the aisle after looking down at his family one last time and set off. He stepped over the people in the aisle and put a hand on Everson’s shoulder as he slipped past.

  “Bill, we’re securing transportation. Make sure that my family, Diana, Kenny, and Trevor Martin are ready to go when we pull up. Going to try and get an MRAP for you guys.”

  “Roger that,” Everson said. “Are they complicated to drive? Automatic trannies, right?”

  “Totally automatic,” Ballantine said. “It’s not like the old trucks you’re probably used to back in the Corps. They’re idiot proof, man.”

  “Probably how they wound up in Army inventory. Listen, pick up young Jacob with you and take him to the C-RAM, all right? We need that unit operational, providing it survived the derailment.”

  “On that.” Ballantine clapped the old man on the shoulder and pushed past him. He picked up Jacob and pulled him into the formation between him and Guerra as he headed for the rear of the coach.

  “Hey man, what the hell happened?” Jacob asked.

  “Our train ride has come to an end,” Ballantine said. “Everson asked me to get you to the C-RAM. It’s behind us, right?”

  “Yeah, two cars back.”

  “Follow me.”

  Ballantine pushed on, taking care not to step on anyone who might lie in his path. He ignored those who requested help, other than to tell them the me
dics were right behind him.

  Outside, rifle fire cracked. A couple of shots, then a full-on volley.

  “Our man Mr. Reeker has arrived,” Guerra said behind him.

  Ballantine made it to the rear vestibule. The pneumatic door there was already open, and he stepped into the boarding area. Robinson had already shattered the thin glass over the emergency handle, and she looked back at him through her night vision goggles.

  “Took you long enough, Ballantine. Your family’s good?” she asked.

  “As good as they can be, LT.” Through the window in the door, Ballantine could see flames in the far distance. “Any idea where we are?”

  “Just outside Chicago. Looks like we hit a bad patch of rail. We ready to step off here? Who’s this civilian?”

  “We need him to get the C-RAM operational,” Ballantine said. “It’s on the way. I’ll drop him off and then we’ll continue on to the objective.”

  “Sir, do you have night vision gear?” Robinson asked.

  Jacob was surprised by the question. “Uh … what?”

  Robinson shook her head in disgust. “I want you to grab onto Sergeant Ballantine’s pack and hold on. He will lead you where you need to go. Do not let go of his pack. Do you understand these directions?”

  “Well, yeah …”

  “Then grab his fucking pack, guy!”

  Ballantine felt a tug on his rucksack. “Got it,” Jacob reported.

  “Hold on tight, we might have to move fast,” Ballantine advised over his shoulder.

  “Troops ready?” Robinson asked.

  Guerra and Stilley responded with hooahs. Ballantine echoed the sentiment. Robinson reached for the door release pull handle and yanked on it. The door popped open halfway, and Robinson shoved it aside with her left hand while bringing up her M4 with her right. She was out the door an instant later, and Ballantine pushed himself after her. Jacob was hesitant to move, but Guerra pushed him roughly from behind. The act almost dumped Ballantine out the door, and he grabbed the steel hand grip to prevent from doing a face-plant.