These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation

by Knight, Stephen

  The shit that happens when I’m asleep, he thought.

  “Eyes out, eyes out!” Robinson shouted as she threw herself against the side of the truck’s bed as she hoisted her rifle and tucked it into her shoulder.

  Ballantine hit the push-to-talk switch on his radio. “Crusader One Two, what’s the story? Over.”

  Guerra’s voice came back immediately. “Yeah, we’ve hit a wall of the dead. Drove right up into them. The Humvees, they’re decisively engaged. We’re turning out of this shit—looks to me like we need to retreat. Over.”

  “Get your vehicle to safety, Guerra,” Ballantine said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Robinson looking at him. “Fall out of formation and run full out, man.”

  “On that shit. Out here.”

  “All Crusaders, This is One Seven. Break formation and get the fuck out of here,” Ballantine said. “Hartman, Reader, you guys do whatever you need to do to protect the people with you.”

  “Ballantine!” Robinson snapped. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Saving lives,” Ballantine replied.

  “You can’t break up the column, you don’t have the authority!”

  “Yeah well, you can say that but I’m not about to let my family get turned into zombie chow, Lieutenant.”

  Robinson’s angry reply was overrun by Bellara’s voice as it came over the radio right at that moment. “All Lance, all Crusader, maneuver at will and fall back!” the captain ordered. “We’ll rendezvous west of, ah, Sac City. I say again, rally west of Sac City. Will update on final pos.”

  “Roger all Crusader,” Robinson radioed back. As she spoke, another flurry of gunfire sounded. It was all small arms rounds. Ballantine slogged his way through the disarray in the five-ton’s bed and joined the machinegunner at the cab. She had her NVGs on and was slewing the weapon around as she looked for targets.

  “Oh holy fuck,” she said as she looked directly ahead.

  Ballantine followed her gaze. Ahead, the country highway the column had been coasting down dipped slightly. Sporadic flashes on the other side of the small decline told him the gun trucks were more than danger close—they were now decisively engaged. A hail of white-hot rounds raked across the sky, rising into the darkness like a laser beam from a science fiction movie as a gunner tried to adjust his fire. The MRAPs immediately ahead of the five-tons started their turns, swinging out of the formation. As Ballantine watched, one of them bounded across the field to the left. The soldier manning the .50-caliber machine gun in the turret laid down suppressive fire as the heavy vehicle bounced up and down as it plowed across the landscape, its engine howling. Figures clung to the MRAP’s side. Reekers.

  “Crusader One Two, is that you heading back? Ah, Devil Dog, respond if One Two is held up—”

  “One Seven, Devil Dog—it’s us,” Everson shot back. “It’s a fucking cluster forward, we drove right into them. You dogfaces need to turn around right now!”

  “Devil Dog, you have reekers on you,” Ballantine said. “They’re holding onto your vehicle!”

  “Getting shooters lined up on that threat, One Seven,” Everson replied. “I’m just driving this pig, can’t do much more than that.” As the old ex-Marine transmitted, Guerra opened up with the .50-caliber in the MRAP’s cupola. At the same time, one or two of the dead fell off the truck as it bounced along. There were firing ports in the vehicle’s sides, and a couple of shooters inside the vehicle had begun putting them to good use.

  “Roger, looks like that’s happening now. Tell your guns to be careful not to strafe us as you pass by. Over.”

  Everson double-clicked his microphone in response as the MRAP rumbled past, angling back toward the road. Guerra rocked back and forth in the cupola, still spraying hate downrange. One of the reekers managed to get a good grip and climbed up beside him. Guerra slewed the weapon around and managed to knock it off with the heavy barrel. Didn’t even need to squeeze off a shot. The heavy MRAP barely bounced as it drove over the corpse.

  “LT, we need to get this thing moving,” Ballantine yelled as he pointed at the other corpses that had fallen off the MRAP. Mostly undamaged, they were already getting to their feet, their dead eyes locked onto the idling five-ton standing less than a hundred feet away. The trucks must’ve been dimly visible in the darkness, and even if they weren’t, the rumble of their damned engines were more than enough to give them away.

  “It’s happening,” Robinson shouted back as the trucks ahead began to turn around. The lead five-ton cranked its wheels to the left as the gun trucks reversed over the rise, their turreted weapons blazing as they fired on the mass of zombies Ballantine still hadn’t seen yet. The last of the MRAPs cut around the Humvees and jerked as it pulled onto the highway. None of the vehicles had their lights on; everything was happening under the cover of darkness, with the sole illumination coming from muzzle flashes. Apparently, the MRAP driver’s NVGs were momentarily overloaded by the great flashes of fire coming from the GAU-19s; if the operator saw the M925 five-ton pulling out in front of the MRAP, there was no indication.

  “Well, motherfuck,” Ballantine said.

  The MRAP was going a good thirty to forty miles per hour when it drove into the M925. It massed about fourteen tons, while the truck’s total weight was maybe eleven. The heavily-armored MaxxPro MRAP hit the truck right behind the cab almost full-on. The impact drove the M925 up into the air and onto its side. People and supplies went flying through the air. The MRAP kept on coming, and it contacted the stricken truck again, shoving it aside until it crashed into the second truck in the line. The M925’s bulk crushed flesh and metal beneath it as the MRAP powered on, its engine screaming. The cacophony was tremendous, but over the din of twisting metal and shrieks of agony, Ballantine clearly heard the troops in his truck release a collective litany of curses and prayers.

  The MRAP sheared off to the right then, rolling out into the field. It swayed back and forth on a partially destroyed suspension as it left a trail of crushed greenery in its wake as it meandered across the landscape. Its tall, squared-off nose was now a misshapen hunk of metal. Ballantine had no idea who aboard that vehicle might have been injured in the collision. At the very least, he figured the driver had rung his bell pretty damn good.

  The five-ton lay on its left side, wheels still spinning, its engine vomiting a plume of smoke from its stack as the driver still had his foot on the accelerator. The big machine hitched along as the tires on the left side still fought to find purchase, making the toppled truck spasm on the roadway before the driver’s foot fell away from the accelerator and the power dropped off.

  Ballantine grabbed onto the bed railing when the truck he stood in began to creep to the left. Ahead, more vehicles appeared. Humvees reversed toward the wrecked truck and MRAP, their gunners still working over the targets down the hillside. Another MRAP lumbered back and came to a halt beside the unit that had been involved in the collision. The soldiers inside dismounted and pounded on the stricken vehicle’s rear door.

  “We have to stop and assist!” Ballantine shouted at Robinson.

  “Off the truck! Two shooters stay back for support with the machinegunner!” Robinson yelled. The truck came to a halt and Ballantine climbed over the rails, followed by several other soldiers. He made his way to the truck lying on its side. Supplies that hadn’t been anchored had spilled out of it, along with several of the vehicle’s occupants. He didn’t know how long they would be able to treat any of the fallen; the weaponsfire from the gun trucks and retreating MRAPs seemed to be growing in intensity. He directed the Guardsmen coming up behind him to begin tending to the wounded, then bounded toward the truck’s cab. Its engine cackled as it finally died, and Ballantine peered in through the windshield. The driver was still conscious and moving around, though he’d lost his night vision goggles in the rollover. The soldier in the gunnery ring had fared a bit better, and he joined Ballantine at the front of the truck.

  “We’re going to have to get these guys
out through the windshield,” Ballantine told him.

  “Roger that,” the soldier said. “Hey Verlander, we have to pop the windshield!”

  “You guys got this?” Ballantine shouted over the gunfire. “I need to check the enemy advance!”

  “Yeah, yeah! Go ahead!”

  Ballantine stepped away and pulled his rifle to his shoulder. He peered around the truck’s hood as a Humvee slowly rolled past. The GAU-19 in the turret released a pulsating flame as the gunner released three long bursts, sending .50-caliber cartridges tumbling to the roadway. Ballantine was shocked to see reekers trudging up the small rise. Not a dozen, not fifty, not a hundred. But over a thousand.

  “Ah, why does this shit always happens to me?” He keyed his radio. “Crusader, Lance, this is Crusader One Seven. In contact, enemy force is over a thousand in number. We need to scoop up our wounded and get the hell out of here!” He lifted his rifle and started firing. While the triple-barreled .50-caliber did much more damage, his rifle was able to kill individual targets with great effectiveness. The horde’s leading edge was less than three hundred meters away, and the majority of the approaching ghouls were shamblers. That didn’t make them any less dangerous; as he watched, one of the Humvees positioned closer to the horde’s leading edge suddenly had to fall back as the mass of dead threatened to envelop it. While the Humvees were hardy vehicles, they didn’t mass nearly as much as an MRAP or a five-ton truck. Enough reekers could conceivably immobilize it, which would be a deadly circumstance for the vehicle’s occupants.

  “Crusader One Seven, Crusader One Three Alpha. We’re headed your way!” he heard Stilley broadcast over the radio.

  As soon as the broadcast ended, Ballantine heard the growing roar of a diesel engine. He continued firing until he had to swap out magazines, and only then did he look up. One of the tankers had pulled up, and Stilley climbed down from the front passenger seat. As soon as his boots were on the deck, the HEMT tanker accelerated forward. Reader was behind the wheel. The big vehicle rolled past the Humvee to Ballantine’s left, and the gunner raised his weapon suddenly. A moment later, the HEMT cut in front of the Humvee as Reader cranked it into a hard right turn, the diesel engine bellowing.

  What is this idiot doing—

  The reekers never knew what hit them. The tanker still carried over a thousand gallons of fuel, and the weight of that plus its own mass made it virtually unstoppable. The zombies were crushed by its bumper and sloped nose as the tanker hurtled through the dead’s ranks, sending bodies flying through the air. In its wake, the HEMT left a multitude of shattered bodies. Those broken figures still moved and tried to continue their advance, but it would take them much longer to reach the damaged truck. In addition to that, the reekers coming up from behind the trail of demolished bodies had to pick their way across the line of carnage. This slowed their advance as well.

  Then Stilley pounded up and shouldered his SAW. He opened up on the advancing dead, but aimed low. Shooting them in the legs. More bodies toppled to the roadway and the surrounding fields on either side.

  “Crusader One Seven, this is One Two Bravo. You want me to make another pass?” Reader broadcast over the radio. He sounded sufficiently animated, to no doubt amped up over his run’s apparent success.

  “Negative, One Two Bravo. I want you to get that tanker out of here, we need it!” Ballantine responded. “Head for the rally point. Form up on Crusader One Two.”

  “Hey, don’t be mad at him, Sergeant B!” Stilley shouted over the gunfire. For once, Ballantine had a tough time hearing him over the snarling .50-caliber on the nearby Humvee, not to mention Stilley’s own weapon.

  “Was this your idea, Stilley?” Ballantine yelled back as he got back on his rifle.

  “Oh no, not mine. His!” Stilley paused for a moment. “But I wish I had thought of it—it worked great!”

  Ballantine had to grudgingly agree. He cast a glance over his right shoulder and saw the driver and passenger in the truck had crawled out through one of the now-opened windows—this truck didn’t have a gunnery ring, only a pintle-mounted machinegun on the front of the bed. The gunner was in the process of removing his weapon while the driver helped the soldier who had been riding in the cab hobble away toward Ballantine’s waiting truck. Another truck pulled up, and the soldiers in its bed climbed down and began loading up those wounded who could be safely moved. Others were still being tended to. At the rollover’s tail, more rifles cracked as soldiers began lining up to open up on the dead.

  Robinson joined Ballantine and Stilley. “Ballantine, how long do you think we can hold this line?”

  “Five minutes, maybe less. Depends on if they try to envelop us. Once they see us, they’ll come right for us. We recover all the vehicles?” As he spoke, Ballantine continued squeezing off aimed shots while Stilley raked the dead low, shattering kneecaps and ankles. The vehicle gunners were orienting out to the sides now, hitting the edges of the dead’s formation with grazing fire.

  “Not all,” Robinson said. “Aside from these two, we’ve lost a couple of the thin skins. Who was that maniac who took the tanker around?”

  “Yeah, that was one of my guys,” Ballantine said.

  “Ballsy move,” Robinson replied.

  “I’ll pass that on.”

  “Crusader One Seven, this is One Two. Over.” Guerra’s voice was its normal gruff self. Just another day on the job for him, soldiering through the zombie apocalypse.

  “One Two, send it.”

  “One Seven, we’re about five hundred meters downrange. We’re all good, providing overwatch for the trucks. Let us know if you need some units to displace forward for support.”

  Ballantine exhausted another mag and took a step back to survey what was happening behind him. The wounded were all in the process of being loaded up on the two trucks, and the Humvees were providing area security along with the dismounts. The zombies were getting closer, but they were having a tough time getting through the withering fields of fire. That situation was temporary; ammunition would need to be replenished, and there wasn’t enough manpower to hold the area for very long.

  “One Seven, hold your pos. We’re buttoning up now.”

  “Roger, One Seven.”

  By the time the wounded were fully loaded up, the dead had closed to within fifty meters. The soldiers had killed well over a hundred of them, and several hundred more were substantially degraded. Just the same, they were still outnumbered and weapons were running dry. Bellara called for the dismounts to fall back and ordered the Humvees to cover their retreat. Robinson shouted for the defenders to grab whatever they could, and hit the waiting trucks. The soldiers fell back as the Humvees drifted closer, using their machineguns and grenade launchers to keep dead at bay for another couple of minutes. Once the soldiers had begun their retreat, there was less firepower holding the reekers back. They surged forward, slipping and stumbling in the darkness as they slid across the gore-encrusted earth. By the time they reached the overturned truck, the Humvees fell back, following the fully-loaded five-tons as they headed for the rally point.

  When the trucks arrived at the rally point, medics swept in and took over tending the wounded. One soldier was dead, having succumbed to a skull fracture when he’d been hurled out of the truck. Another was in critical condition with presumed internal injuries. The rest were a mixture of sprains, broken bones, and contusions. Ballantine assisted where he could, which entailed him essentially helping other soldiers move their wounded comrades from one truck to another.

  “Ballantine!”

  Bellara waved him over to a battered Humvee, and Ballantine hurried over as soon as he had finished his current task. Bellara stood with a map spread out on the vehicle’s hood, along with Colonel Jarmusch, Major Gaylord, and the sergeant major. They were already at work on a route deviation.

  “Yes, sir,” Ballantine said.

  “How long until those things close on this position? An hour?” Bellara asked.

  “At
least, sir. Maybe a little longer. But we shouldn’t be working off the reeker’s time clock,” Ballantine said. “For all we know, there may be another horde in the vicinity. For sure, everything that’s in earshot is probably heading into the area. Lord knows we made a hell of a racket.”

  “We’re not going to be here that long,” Jarmusch said. “Right now, we need to tend to the injured and plan our advance out of here. We drove past our planned alternate, but if need be, we can backtrack and head north.”

  “Sir, I’d rather maneuver north from here,” Bellara said. “Highway 20 is my choice. Parallels 175, and we can potentially get back on our preferred route in about ten miles. These deadheads have to be from Souix City. If we hook down 31”—Bellara tapped the map with his finger and traced the road—“we’ll likely be pulling away from them while they’re still walking toward us here.”

  Jarmusch looked from Gaylord to his sergeant major. “Well, he is the designated ground force commander. Any issues?”

  “None, sir,” Gaylord said.

  Headley nodded to Bellara. “I’m good with it here, sir.”

  “Thanks, Sarmajor,” Bellara said. “Then if we’re in agreement, let’s kick off in fifteen minutes?” He looked at Ballantine. “You’re the voice of experience and reason here, Sergeant. Think we can hold pos for that long?”

  Ballantine nodded. “Yes, sir. So long as we have enough Joes pulling security, we’ll be fine. Just the same, we should start briefing all the drivers on where we’re headed and plot the next phase line.”

  Bellara wrote up the orders quickly and handed them off to subordinates to disseminate. As the soldiers broke up, he looked over at Ballantine in the darkness.

  “Longer road to Colorado now,” he said. He wasn’t smiling beneath his NVGs.

  “It was never going to be easy, sir,” Ballantine said.