These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation

by Knight, Stephen

  “That’s not what I’m getting at. If shit goes sideways again, are you good to man the fifty?” Everson asked. At some point he had tied a bandana around his head, and his long hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. If he’d looked eighty percent biker before, he was pushing a hundred percent now.

  “Of course I am,” Guerra said, offended at the question. “A kid could do that!”

  “Great, let’s have Kenny give that a try,” Diana said from the rear. Kenny continued to fuss and squirm, despite receiving a motherlode of attention from Kay and her boys.

  “Crusader, this is Hatchet. There are open fields about five minutes out. We’ll call a halt there, give people some opportunity to stretch their legs and inspect the vehicles. Six hopes that’s good enough for you. Over.” The voice on the other side of the radio link sounded a little put out. Guerra figured it was likely Jarmusch’s man Gaylord. While Guerra hadn’t spent a considerable amount of time in the man’s company, he could tell right away that Gaylord was the officious type. The kind of major who couldn’t wait to make it to lieutenant colonel. After all, no one wanted to retire as an O-4.

  He looked over at Martin who shot him a thumbs-up and a nod. Guerra nodded back and pressed the push-to-talk button on his radio. “Roger, Hatchet. That’ll do it for us. Sorry for the inconvenience and all. Over.”

  “Are we going to be able to go outside?” Josh asked, and there was more than a hint of youthful exuberance in his voice.

  “Don’t get too excited, young sir,” Everson said, turning toward him. “You might be able to take a pee or something, but that’s about it. Everyone needs to stay together.”

  “We are not going outside,” Kay said to her boys.

  “Hey, Hector. You want me to drive?” Diana asked.

  “What?” Guerra hadn’t even considered it.

  “Sure. You hang out here back with Kenny.”

  “Heh. No.”

  Diana muttered something Guerra couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded suspiciously like fucking pussy. He snorted at the thought. The truth was, she was right. Guerra knew he wasn’t the kind of guy Kenny would ever take a shining to.

  “Hang tough for a bit longer, bro,” he said to Martin.

  “I’m in it to win it,” Martin replied.

  Guerra gave him a sideways look. “What, you vote for Hillary?”

  “I left that to you, man. I mean, you being a minority and all.”

  Guerra laughed at that as Everson stood up again and manned the .50-caliber. Martin wiped the sweat from his face with his left hand and continued driving, eyes rooted on the rear of the Humvee in front of him.

  Once the trees that screened the right side of the road petered out and gave way to more overgrown cornfields, the column slowly rolled to a halt. Ballantine and the rest of the troops in the lead five-ton truck got to their feet, weapons at the ready. The sun had finally broken through the patchy cloud cover, and the day was heating up. A mild breeze gusted across the convoy, making tall cornstalks bob and weave. While the air felt good, Ballantine would have preferred it was still. A clutch of reekers could be picking their way toward the column, and with all the vegetation in motion it would be that much harder to detect any attackers.

  Robinson took charge immediately, and had several soldiers dismount for security. She replaced the female gunner manning the M249 with another soldier and ordered him to stay eyes out and keep the weapon oriented to the truck’s right. She didn’t consult with Ballantine, nor did she need to. Her eyes were sharp, her voice was clear, and her movements were sure. She wasn’t going to be a problem.

  “Ma’am, we should probably take the opportunity to check if any of the vehicles need fuel,” he said.

  “We should be all good, Ballantine—they were fully fueled before we left the Gap. But we’ll take a few minutes to check them out.” Robinson checked her watch. “Okay. I’m going to release you to go forward and check on your family and soldiers. Get back here in less than ten mikes. Good with that?”

  Ballantine was surprised. He had been angling to ask for that anyway, and here Robinson was just giving it away. She was still young, in her late twenties or very early thirties, but she knew when it was time to cut the troops some slack every now and then.

  “Hooah. Back in five,” he said. He pointed at Robinson and then the female soldier who was in the process of transitioning control of the machine gun to another soldier. “You ladies should get together and find a secure place to tend to yourselves. Might be easier than trying to hit a sanitation bag, know what I mean?”

  “I’d thought the same thing, Sergeant. Thanks for the consideration.”

  “I’ll pull some guys to stand watch from a respectable distance.”

  “I’ll tend to that, Ballantine. Go square away your people.”

  Ballantine gave her a quick salute before he climbed over the tailgate and dropped to the ground. Other soldiers were already on the deck, taking up defensive positions. As he jogged forward, he reviewed their formations critically. No one was fucking around. They were all on their weapons and ready to engage in an instant’s notice. No one was a cherry waiting to be popped. The Guardsmen and the few regular Army guys among them were locked and loaded; they knew their pal Mr. Reeker could be right around the bend, and they were ready to give him a warm welcome.

  Ballantine darted past the column of MRAPs until he approached the one at the head of the formation. He saw the driver’s door was opened. Guerra and Everson were there, helping Martin out of the driver’s compartment. He heard footsteps behind him, and he turned toward the noise while leading with his M4. Reader, Tharinger, and Hartman were right there, with Stilley and his SAW bringing up the rear. Reader drew up short suddenly, holding up his hands.

  “Easy there,” he said. “Let’s not have any accidents, okay?”

  “We’re all good,” Ballantine replied. “Why are you guys here?”

  Reader looked puzzled by the question. “Well … we saw you running up here and thought our peeps were in trouble, so …”

  Our peeps. Ballantine felt laid low by the remark. “You guys pull security, okay? Either side of the vehicle. I need to have a face-to-face with Guerra.”

  “Hooah.” Reader looked back at Hartman, who immediately motioned Tharinger and Stilley to the other side of the MRAP. Once they were in motion, Reader and Hartman stepped off and moved toward the rows of corn, weapons held at low ready. Ballantine continued on toward the MRAP’s opened driver’s door where Guerra and Everson were in the process of extricating Martin from the vehicle. Their movements were slow and purposeful, but both men kept glancing over their shoulders, trying to stay in concert with their environment.

  “Guys, you’re good,” Ballantine said as he ran up to them and hauled in his weapon. There was nothing to shoot at other than waving cornstalks. “Hector, how’s your leg?”

  “It’s my ankle, you big gorilla, and it’s fine,” Guerra responded.

  “Okay. Tell you what, standoff and let me do this. All right?”

  Guerra held up a hand and flipped it insouciantly. “Whatever floats your boat, man.”

  He moved off and Ballantine released his rifle so he could help Everson with Martin. When he saw the cavalry NCO’s face, he knew the younger man was in no shortage of pain.

  “Martin, you okay?” he asked.

  “Let me break your leg and you tell me,” Martin said.

  “But man, you told me you were good to drive!”

  “Yeah, well, what the fuck you want me to say, Sergeant? I was, now I’m not. Okay? Besides, I was a little worried you lightfighter pukes might leave me behind. Can’t even carry my own weight and shit, right?”

  Ballantine was scandalized, and he exchanged righteous looks with Everson. The old man looked infuriated by the comment himself. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No.” Martin stared right at Ballantine as he and Everson lowered him to the ground. “I’m absolutely dead ass serious with you, Ball
antine.”

  “What the fuck,” Everson spat.

  “You crippled a civilian and left him to die,” Martin said to him. “You think I should expect preferential treatment?”

  “That fucker left all of us to die! He wasn’t like you, he was a”—Everson struggled to find the right words for a moment—“a fucking entitled dependent!”

  “Bill.” Ballantine kept his voice even and calm. “No one’s accusing you of anything here. Things are a little fucked up right now, and Martin is just voicing some reasonable concern for his own personal safety. All of his guys are with Colonel Gavas heading to Bragg, so he’s kind of alone here. There’s no one to look out for him. Get what I’m saying?”

  Everson’s face was all lines and furrows as he frowned, his brow beetled in consternation. “Yes, I get it, Ballantine. I got it long before you said it. And for your information, I’m the only Marine riding with you Army pukes, and no one’s looking out for me either!”

  “I am, you old fart,” Guerra said from inside the MRAP.

  Everson glared up at him. “At least say ‘aye-aye, old fart’ when you speak to me, lightfighter!”

  Guerra held up his hands and shrugged. “Hey, I can only respond as my branch of service tells me to respond.”

  Everson raised his right hand and shot Guerra the finger. “Here’s me saluting you, dirtbag.”

  Guerra feigned a look of utter indignation. “Such a gesture from such an accomplished gyrene. I’m so upset. Don’t tell me, that’s the number of friends you have—right?”

  Everson held up both hands, fingers spread. “And this is the number of dicks you sucked. Today.”

  “All right, all right. Knock off the shit,” Ballantine said. “Bill, let’s get this man out of here. Where are we taking him?”

  “Passenger seat,” Everson responded.

  “All right. Let’s get him over.” Ballantine looked at Martin. “You ready here, Sergeant?”

  “Hooah,” Martin replied, though there wasn’t a ton of energy in his response.

  Ballantine smiled at that. “Okay. Grab your weapon. Let Everson and me do the work—you’re just along for the ride.”

  “Don’t drop my lame white ass,” Martin said.

  “Not a chance, cavalryman.” To Everson: “Ready?”

  “Oo-rah.”

  Together, the two men literally carried Martin around the MRAP to the passenger side. With Guerra’s help, they loaded him into the right seat and strapped him in. Guerra gently pulled Martin’s broken leg up onto his lap, saying something about elevation and swelling. This left the cavalryman twisting to his left in the seat, but once Ballantine closed the door, he seemed comfortable enough.

  “I’ll be driving this pig from now on,” Everson told Ballantine. “Tell your Army buddies in front of me that if they drive less than thirty miles an hour, they’re going to get an ass full of MRAP.”

  “What, you only drive thirty miles per hour?” Ballantine asked.

  “I do sixty,” Everson responded, hitching up his evil-looking rifle. “But in deference to a weaker sister service, I’m willing to halve my normal rate of advance due to leadership’s lack of testosterone.”

  Ballantine laughed. “I’ll pass that on.”

  Everson nodded past Ballantine. “Looks like you’re going to get your chance. Have fun.”

  Ballantine turned in the direction Everson had indicated as the older man hauled himself into the idling MRAP and pulled the heavy door closed after him. Several soldiers were advancing toward his position from the waiting Humvees, the soles of their boots beating a cadence on the concrete roadway. Ballantine recognized Captain Chan immediately, thanks to his brassard MP insignia. For the first time, he realized Chan wasn’t your typical Chinese American. The guy had bulk, probably from spending a shit-ton of time in the gym. He was still a bit on the short side, but he was wide and cut an impressive figure even when wearing a baggy combat uniform. A moment later, Ballantine realized he had eyes on Colonel Jarmusch, who was outfitted in full battle rattle and carried a rifle.

  “Sergeant Ballantine,” the colonel said as he strode up to him. “What do you think of my final plan?”

  “Uh … sir?”

  Jarmusch cocked his head to one side, his tanned face bland and devoid of emotion. “You pressed me to come up with a plan for when the rail consist shit the bed. This is where we are. Any comments?”

  Ballantine was intrigued. “Why should my opinion matter, sir?”

  Jarmusch looked at him directly. “Because you lightfighters have a habit of always reaching out and shaking my shoulder right as I start to nod off.”

  “Sir?”

  “First Hastings, with his grim picture of what the Gap was in for. Then you, with your rather, ah, prescient notion that the train was going to go tits up. I wonder what’s next from you guys? ‘Hey sir, watch out for the zombies with nuclear mortars’?”

  Ballantine cleared his throat and looked over as Guerra shuffled over from the other side of the MRAP. Hartman and Reader closed in from behind. Their faces were blank masks.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel. Don’t get it,” Ballantine said.

  Jarmusch pointed down the column. “We have ninety-six shooters. A hundred fourteen civilians. That’s all we could constitute before the dead started rolling in. You know how many were on the train, Ballantine?”

  “No, sir. I do not.”

  “Four hundred three military. Eight hundred sixteen civilian. Twelve hundred souls, all told. And this”—Jarmusch waved at the column again—“is all we were able to save. Less than fifteen percent.”

  “Sir … are you blaming me for this?”

  Jarmusch stared at Ballantine for a long moment. “I am not blaming you,” he said after a pause. “Apparently, I have a complacency problem. It occurs to me I could have had every vehicle manned and ready for departure before the train went off the rails, so that way we could have responded more effectively to the situation and managed to evacuate more people than we did. The only person on the blame line is me, Sergeant.”

  “The past few days have been pretty tough, sir,” Ballantine said. “You can’t be vigilant a hundred percent of the time, twenty-four seven.”

  “Really. Even in the zombie apocalypse?” Jarmusch studied Ballantine’s face intently.

  “Colonel, don’t know what you want from me,” Ballantine said. “We did what we could. You did what you could. That’s pretty much it. Right?”

  “Your people get out, Ballantine?”

  “Yes, sir. We have all of them.”

  Jarmusch digested that for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”

  “Sir, do you want to continue with the inspection?” Major Gaylord stood beside Jarmusch, a pad and pen in hand. He looked nervous, and his head was on a swivel. Ballantine knew where he was coming from.

  Ballantine pointed to the Humvees. “It was good of you to get the gun trucks, sir. They’ll be more mobile than what we have back here. They all uparmored?”

  “Most of them,” Jarmusch said. “The dead, they don’t pose a major ballistic threat. It’s not like we’re fighting al-Qaeda or Saddam’s fedayeen here. But yes, the majority of the Humvees are uparmored. You think that’s significant?”

  “No, sir. A standard Humvee will be faster than one that’s uparmored, but really, it doesn’t matter. Reekers usually don’t move faster than three or four miles an hour, so we should be golden all around.”

  “Well, unless they’re runners,” Guerra added.

  “Yes, thank you, Sergeant. I know what runners are,” Jarmusch said, subjecting Guerra to a withering glare for a long moment before turning his gaze back to Ballantine. “Ballantine, you came to me and offered your guidance. I took that to heart and did what I could. It appears that some of my men preempted me, and that does not bother me one damn bit—it seems uncanny that you and your troops were able to offload vehicles without some interaction with the Guard forces on the train. Is my summary correct?”

/>   “You are correct in that assessment, sir,” Ballantine replied. “We looked ahead and innovated. We didn’t hear any command group guidance, so we came up with something independently.”

  “I imagine Captain Bellara was in on this,” Jarmusch said.

  Ballantine shrugged. There was no use in trying to hide the fact. “My troops and myself had already sketched the preliminary plan together, sir. Captain Bellara and his people came in afterward. If there’s any heartburn to this, you should concentrate your energy on me.”

  Guerra moved closer. “Why would there be any blowback over saving people?”

  Chan turned to him. “Take it easy, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, from a spic to chink? Blow me hard,” Guerra said.

  Chan snorted after a moment. “Guerra … bro, I like your style,” he said.

  Jarmusch held up a hand. “Vulgarities aren’t going to help us in any way here, guys. Dial it back.” He refocused his attention on Ballantine. “There is no heartburn. I want you to keep doing what you’re doing. Loop me in where you can. If circumstances don’t allow for that, you have free range to do whatever you can to keep people safe. I’ve been slow, and I’ve been stupid. As a counterpoint, you’ve been leaning forward in the foxhole. If you see me overlooking something, you have full ability to slap me upside the head and educate me to the error of my ways.” Jarmusch pointed at one of Ballantine’s hands after a moment. “Though seeing the size of those lunch grabbers, maybe you could slap Major Gaylord instead?”

  “Hey now,” Gaylord said. He hovered just off Jarmusch’s right shoulder. Like all the other soldiers, he carried a rifle, radio, and full battle rattle, including a CamelBak hydration system.

  “Sir, is there a reason for this conversation?” Ballantine asked. He looked away from Jarmusch to scan the fields to the MRAP’s left. The cornstalks swayed in the wind, and he eyed them critically. Waiting for the reeker horde to emerge. He pulled his rifle in a bit closer.

  “No specific reason,” Jarmusch said. “I didn’t even know you were here. I’m just … just paying my respects, Sergeant.”

  “And taking a moment to inspect the column,” Gaylord added.