Coop turned to watch them loop around. “Fuckin’ squids,” he muttered, and a couple of the other Marines laughed.
The Firestorm paralleled the coast between it and the barge, and he couldn’t help but cringe seeing how close they were to the shoreline. “Pass the word—stand ready on the fifties in case they get hung up.” If they hit any sunken debris or a sandbar and got stuck, they’d become an easy target for the approaching swarm until the tug could get in position to throw them a line.
Stahlberg came up to his side. “Sergeant Major McFarlane for you, Sergeant.”
Coop followed him over and accepted the handset. “LoPresto.”
“Zulu doesn’t seem to be advancing in the typical fashion. Thoughts?”
He scanned the shoreline with his binoculars. The horde emerging from the gaps between the buildings milled behind the retaining pond for the most part, though two lines of staggering figures were hobbling around either end of the retaining pond. McFarlane was right, though—their movements didn’t have the same single-minded intensity of purpose they displayed while on the hunt.
“Sight or sound,” Coop guessed. “Either they can’t see us, or we’re not making the right kind of noise to attract them.”
“My thinking as well. That’s going to bite us in the ass if we have the same issues when we kick things off for real.”
The FireStorm cut its speed and activated one of its bow pumps. A glittering line of gasoline arced over the shore but sprayed into the retaining pond before it could hit the huddled mass.
“Shit,” Coop said, his finger off the transmit button. This would work a hell of a lot better if not for the stupid pond. The only problem with moving elsewhere was the density of the housing—they could reach further from shore to the north, but the open area looked empty.
He thought for a moment, then transmitted. “Have the fireboat clear out for a minute. We’ll light them up with the machine guns, that should get them on the frontage road where we can soak them down. I’ve got an idea for St. Louis, but we’re going to have to do some more modifications to the barges.”
McFarlane’s amusement was evident even through the radio. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”
March 5, 2018
Outside of Ironton, Missouri
Z-Day + 138
The barest hint of chill hung in the air, but after the winter they’d been through, Molly wasn’t about to complain about a mild spring.
There’d been less snow than the norm, which had helped them continue to gather supplies. She’d worried that bitter cold would force them to hole up, and it had indeed been frigid, but the three older survivors had spent most of the winter outside. Even Hatch had joined in for simpler tasks like gathering firewood, though the amount of actual help he provided was up for debate. They hadn’t had to burn any of it, yet, but Molly assumed the impressive piles they’d accumulated wouldn’t last long when it was their sole source of warmth.
Dave’s confinement to the safe zone put much of the burden on Molly and Anne’s shoulders, but they’d managed. The cold made the things even slower, which helped, but Molly could now say that she had the confidence of experience. With Anne manning the Gator, they’d made several excursions to the outskirts of town for gasoline, canned and dry food, and other essentials.
Horse-trading with the Daytons garnered them several goats in exchange for the fruits of Molly’s missions. Dave had also shot a couple of deer. Without the benefit of a fall hunting season to cull the herd, the things were all over the safe area, plump and indifferent to the presence of man after months of safety.
Molly found she preferred venison to goat, though neither meat was to her preference.
She loaded up several sections of aluminum piping from the back of the Gator and hauled them into the greenhouse. Dave had rearranged the raised beds to create an open space in the center of the building. He stood on a ladder, cutting a hole in the ceiling. After shepherding their propane supplies over the past few months, they were well and truly out. The house had a fireplace, but the propane heater in the greenhouse was ventless and not so easily converted.
The Franklin stove they’d hauled out of the farm house’s basement had actually been original to the homestead back when Dave’s grandparents built it. The Metzes had upgraded the heating several times over the years as the family expanded and remodeled. Anne Metz still beamed whenever the subject of the old stove came up. Her husband had wanted to sell it for scrap, years ago, but she’d put her foot down until he dropped the subject. Now, it just might help keep them alive.
Dave braced himself and laid the handsaw on the tool shelf of his stepladder. “Ready with the pipes?”
“Say when,” Molly replied. She knelt and let them fall into a rough pile on the greenhouse floor. They weren’t all that heavy, but the length and multiple sections made the load awkward.
“Let me get the flange in and I’ll take the first section.” Dave’s cordless drill buzzed as he got the upper piece in place. The solar panels they’d scavenged were just enough to run the well pump. Once the pressure vessel was full, they disconnected the pump and kept their small collection of rechargeable batteries topped off. Being able to read books to Hatch by the light of an electric lantern had helped to keep the toddler and the rest of them sane during the cold winter nights.
“Done.” Dave set his drill on the shelf and reached down for a section of pipe. Molly handed it up to him and watched as he twisted it into place. The upper piece of the pipe had crimps at one end to compress it down, with the lower end flared. The excursion into town to scavenge the exhaust parts from Reeves Lumber had been the most nerve-wracking trip of all, last winter. Anne had gotten her as close to the store as she could without leaving the safe zone, then taken the vehicle far to the south. Once she’d reached a prearranged position, she’d lit off a brick of firecrackers they’d had left over from the summer before. After giving it a few minutes for the sound to draw the zombies away, Molly headed into town on foot. To keep from drawing attention to herself, she’d let Anne carry the pistol, and brought only a crowbar along for herself.
The trick worked, because Molly had the town to herself the whole way in. The return trip was a little hairier. She’d loaded the pipes, screws, and other items Dave had painstakingly listed into a shopping cart and tried to jog the entire way. She’d stopped twice to fight and run away more times than she could count. The worst part about the wobbling figures homing in on her wasn’t the fact that she recognized many of them, but rather that the fall and winter weather had washed away most signs of their original wounds. For the few that were barely injured, she might have been able to convince herself that they were alive up until the point they revealed slate-gray eyes and reached out with questing fingers.
Her shakes had carried on well after the time she returned home and warmed up. By some unspoken agreement, that was the last time they’d gone into town.
The buzz of the drill died as Dave got the last screw into place and set it down. “Next—” he started, then cocked his head, looking confused.
At first, Molly wasn’t sure what brought about his reaction, but then she heard it. “Is that …?”
Dave scrambled down the ladder and headed toward the exit. “Engines,” he said. “By God, it’s engines.”
Heart leaping in her chest, she followed Dave out the door into the backyard. Anne and Hatcher must have heard it as well, for both of them had come out onto the back deck. The volume swelled—the vehicles were coming closer. Molly broke out into a near-sprint, right at Dave’s heels as he hustled around the farmhouse in time for the lead vehicle in a convoy of three to pull to a stop in front of the farmhouse.
“Oh, no,” Dave whispered.
The big, boxy trucks were of a type she’d seen on new stories about American soldiers. Hummers, she thought they were called—only these were flat black instead of the desert tan she’d seen on television. A big man stepped out from the seat behind the driver and ma
de a show of studying the property.
The four of them stopped and stared as the other two vehicles stopped and more men—six in total—stepped out of each. They all wore similar clothing—khakis, boots, and short-sleeved or cut-off shirts under load-bearing vests. Clothing, equipment, and trucks all came only in shades of black. The only color in the entire tableau was the logo on the driver’s door of each Hummer—a yellow clenched fist over the letters CSC.
The first man to step out was the only unarmed individual in the group. He removed his sunglasses, tucked them into the collar of his shirt, and waved. “Howdy! Everyone have a good winter?”
There was an awkward silence, then Dave answered, “Hard to complain, considering.”
The other man folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “I’m Ben Connelly, and this is my crew—Connelly Security Consultants. We’re a private military contractor. We were, ah, up on the mountain, doing a security job, when it all happened.”
“I see,” Dave said. “Dave Metz.” Connelly’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t seem surprised at that.”
Molly’s mouth went dry. Oh, shit.
Dave’s tone was even as he shrugged. “We saw lights, figured someone had to be up there.”
“Didn’t feel like making a visit?”
“Trying to conserve gas. Building up our supplies took the bulk of what we had. Didn’t leave much for sightseeing.”
Connelly nodded again, his eyes flickering from building to building. “You’ve got a good setup, here. You farm before, or just live here?”
“Corn and soybeans, mostly, in the big fields. Greenhouses for the farmer’s market.”
The contractor’s eyes moved from Dave to Molly, then past the pair of them to where Anne and Hatch stood. She’d never had anyone look at her at like that before—there was no interest, no appraisal. She felt as though she’d been weighed and found wanting somehow. Despite that, the other five men remained on high alert. They kept the barrels of the rifles strapped to their chests pointed at the ground, but she had the very real sense that could change in an instant.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Connelly said, inspection complete. “As you can guess, we’re pretty well set on supplies. One thing we don’t have is usable farm ground.” He paused and cocked his head to one side, assessing Dave’s reaction.
“Soil on top of the mountain ain’t so great,” he agreed. Molly’s knees had begun to tremble, and every fiber of her being screamed at her to run and hide. The only thing that kept her from doing so was the fear of the reaction the contractors might have, and the chance that they would hurt the Metzes, or worse.
“We’ve got bags of seed potatoes and sweet corn. We’d like you to grow them for us. I figure a 90-10 split of the harvest is reasonable.”
“We’re pretty well set for supplies,” Dave said. “Not sure I’m interested. Got plenty to keep us busy.”
Connelly bared white teeth and turned to his compatriots. “You believe the stones on this fucker, boys?” He turned back, and he lowered his voice into a harsher tone. “You’re in no position to negotiate, old-timer. Camby, Stevenson—drop the pallet on the road. Girl—get over there and get this other bag. You and your grandparents can move the heavier stuff when we leave.”
She wanted to glance at Dave, but the contractor’s eyes bored into her own, and Molly knew that if she looked away, she might escalate things even further. A hand reached out and squeezed her shoulder—Dave, reassuring her.
“That’s right, it’s going to be fine. Keep your hands where I can see them, Pops. I don’t like the look in your eye. You a ‘nam vet?”
“I am.”
Two of the men had the tailgate of the middle Hummer open. As Molly approached, they heaved a wooden pallet out and tossed it onto the road. They’d left several brown sacks labeled ‘certified seed potatoes’ strapped to the top, though one of the plastic bands popped when the entire assembly hit the ground. Behind her, Connelly spoke.
“I thought as much. Which unit?”
“3/187.”
Connelly whistled. “Damn, son. You’ve been in the shit, ain’t you?”
Dave’s reply was so noncommittal that she couldn’t make it out. One of the two men—short and swarthy with a full beard and heavily-muscled arms—shoved a duffel bag into her arms. She staggered, adjusting for the sudden weight, and then she saw the scar.
Molly froze. The wound on the man’s arm was long-healed, but the shape was unmistakable. He had a bite scar—was he in the same boat as Dave? The contractor noticed her stare, reached out, and shoved her to the ground. The bag landed on top of her, driving the air from her lungs. “What are you staring at, kid?”
“Hey!” Dave shouted. He rushed toward Molly but the other contractors swung their rifles up and around, fixing him in place.
“Easy,” Connelly said, stepping between Dave and his men. “Weapons down, boys.” He extended a hand to Molly. She hesitated, then took it, and he hauled her back to her feet. “No harm, no foul, huh?”
“Sure,” Molly said, trying not to look back at the scarred man. “I’m fine.” She moved away, far too aware she’d just turned her back on no less than five rifles, and stopped next to Dave.
“Boys are a little stir crazy, what can I say?” Connelly grinned, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Let’s make a deal—Dave, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“You like the safe zone? You’re welcome. You fuck with us, we turn it off, and you can deal with the biters yourself. All things considered, doing a little extra farming doesn’t sound so bad, huh?”
“Sure,” Dave said. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m glad we could come to an arrangement.” The big man plucked his sunglasses from his vest and put them back on. “Have a nice day, huh? We’ll see you in six months.”
Chapter Fifteen
May 21, 2026
En route to Frederiksted, US Virgin Islands
Z-Day + 3,137
With little else to do after Pete booted them from the interrogation, Miles and Sandy wandered back down to the open common area. By way of unspoken mutual agreement, the two men stood and watched as Tish and the corpsmen treated the islanders’ various maladies.
It was, Miles decided, a very surreal experience. He’d become accustomed to the presence of children, both in Hope as well as on Kellys Island. Hell, there were a ton of kids on St. Croix. Here, not so much. The youngest children were old enough to have been born before Z-Day, which seemed incongruous to Miles. One of the first aspects of modern life to fall away was effective birth control. Who knew how close the nearest pharmacy was—so why weren’t there any toddlers running around? The rhythm method wasn’t that effective. In the end, there was only one conclusion he could draw—that the islanders had made certain that they wouldn’t have to worry about unplanned pregnancies. One way or another.
Which says a lot for how fervently they’ve bought into their belief system, but hell, how were they planning on running things after their population reduction played out without children?
Just as strange was the sense of deja vu he got, seeing older versions of people he used to see a few times a week in the office, only in a completely different context. It had been long enough that most of the names escaped him—and being frank, it wasn’t like the IT department rubbed elbows with other divisions of the company. He’d gone to a few company picnics and kick-off parties, but he’d spent most of that time with his fellow computer geeks. And none of his old team seemed to have gotten the same ‘get out of apocalypse free’ card as the rest of the islanders. He supposed that was a good thing. Miles didn’t know how he’d react if one of his old friends popped up.
He looked sideways at Sandy. The other man’s face was blank and his eyes were miles away. “Pretty damn weird, huh?”
Sandy flinched, then looked at Miles. “I’m sorry?”
He waved a hand at the crowd of people, all of them doing their level best to ign
ore the two of them. “You used to work with these people. I mean, I saw them every once in a while, on tickets, but some of them were in your department, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, I suppose so. Honestly, I was so focused on my work most of the time that a bomb could have gone off in one of the other labs and I might not have noticed.” He frowned. “Maybe if I’d gotten my head out of my ass, I’d have noticed what was going on.”
Miles took another look at the crowd of former GenPharm people and shook his head. “Nah. Don’t put that on yourself, Doc. You’re lucky you didn’t notice anything.”
“Why’s that?”
“Look at them. They should be cowering. Yeah, we don’t have much in the way of guns, but they know what we represent. If the fleet decided to turn this island into a crater tomorrow, it’d happen, and there’s not a damn thing they could do about it. Most people, that sort of knowledge would take them down a peg, you know? They’d be respectful, maybe even suck up a little.”
“There’s more than a little megalomania here,” Sandy agreed. “I see your point.”
“These people completed a task that killed billions of people, and no one in the outside world ever figured it out. If one person got cold feet and said the wrong thing to the wrong person, kiss Z-Day goodbye. So that tells you that they’re so bought into the mission that the thought never crossed their mind—and anyone who did have second thoughts never had the chance to spill the beans. You ever have any coworkers who left with no explanation? Died strangely?”
Sandy blanched. “You think they’d have killed … well. Of course, they would have. What’s one or two deaths compared to the full extent of what they did?”
“Drops in the ocean,” Miles agreed. “Keeping your head down might have saved your life.” He slapped Sandy on the shoulder. “Now you need to put your head down again and figure out a way to stop this thing.”
Z-Day (Book 3): A Place For War Page 17
