Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End

by Cook, James N.

  Gabriel,

  Outskirts of Southtown

  Schule and Hastings Ironworks sat on the southern fringe of the city, only a hundred yards or so from the perimeter wall. It had been in business for less than a year, the equipment necessary to operate the facility having been imported from the far corners of the country. The ironworks was a joint venture between the federal government and numerous private investors, of which both Centurion National and BSC were a part. The factory had its own power plant fueled by coal being dug out of Kentucky and sent west aboard trains. The steel produced was sourced from abundant supplies of scrap metal that could be found anywhere in the country.

  The air surrounding the plant was smoky and smelled of scorched iron. To one side was a scrapyard with great heaps of old cars, reclaimed steel girders, cables, heavy equipment, and ragged heaps of broken materials too shredded to recognize what they once were. To the other side lay a neat staging area with rolls of metal sheeting, stacks of steel bar stock, finished I-beams, and huge coils of braided cable. Beyond that lay a warehouse with enormous roll-up doors and a small fleet of forklifts carrying pallets in and out of the building.

  Caleb turned the horses down a service road leading to the main entrance. The wagon’s bucking and rattling subsided as it rolled over smooth concrete laid down only a year ago. Great Hawk, sitting across from me in the back of the wagon, stared at the foundry with a slight frown.

  “Something bothering you?” I asked.

  “It is only a matter of time,” Great Hawk said.

  “Until what?”

  “Until places like that,” he pointed a finger at the smoking ironworks, “choke the air and poison the water in all corners of this land.”

  I looked toward the smokestacks. “I know it’s ugly, Lincoln, but for the time being, it’s necessary.”

  “Is it?” Great Hawk turned his thoughtful eyes toward me. “People lived here for more than ten thousand years before they knew of metal. They lived a clean existence, untainted by the poisons created from abusing the land. They could do so again.”

  “If they were so inclined, yes. But they’re not. And they’re facing an enemy those ancient people you’re referring to never had to contend with.”

  Great Hawk looked back at the factory. “That is true. But when the infected are gone, when they are cleansed from the world, what then? Do we go back to the way things were before?”

  I shook my head, not feeling particularly philosophical. “I don’t know. Whatever the world looks like down the line, I’m willing to bet it’ll be a lot different from what it once was.”

  Great Hawk did not respond. Hicks heard us talking and spoke over his shoulder. “Gabe, you mind telling me what we’re doing here?”

  “Following up on a lead,” I replied.

  “No shit. I was hoping you could be more specific.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  He started to say something else, but Eric tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Stop. We’re here.”

  Hicks turned around and reined in the horses. We slowed to a halt, and I heard Thompson doing the same for the wagon following us. When the brakes on both wagons were set, we all climbed down and looked toward the ironworks. There was a concrete barrier barring entry to a chain link fence surrounding the factory’s perimeter. A bored looking security guard stared at us from inside a shack but made no move to come out to meet us.

  Eric and I approached with Hicks following close behind. Thompson, Cole, Great Hawk, and Holland brought up the rear. The security guard finally stepped out of his shack.

  “Good morning,” he said, not smiling. “What can I do for you?”

  He was a young guy, maybe twenty-five at most. His reddish beard was neatly trimmed, his uniform was hand-stitched and carefully pressed, and his face was honest. He had probably been a teenager when the Outbreak hit, and like a lucky few, had spent most of the years since in federal safe zones, separated from the worst of the violence. Despite his unassuming outward appearance, however, the heavy-caliber revolver on his hip told me he was here for more than just show.

  “My name is Gabriel Garrett, and this is my business partner Eric Riordan,” I said. “The rest of these men are my security detail. We’re here to see Bill Hastings.”

  The guard looked us over nervously. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. But trust me, he’ll want to see us.”

  A silence. The kid eyed us suspiciously, then walked toward the guard shack and spoke into a radio. Less than ten seconds passed before he walked back.

  “Mr. Hastings is busy right now,” he said. “He asked if you could make an appointment and come back next week.”

  I glanced at Eric. “Care to handle the negotiations?”

  “Listen to me,” Eric said to the guard. “You go back to that shed, pick up your radio, and tell Hastings that if he doesn’t open that goddamn gate and see me right now, Mr. Garrett and I are going to sell our shares of this company for five cents on the dollar to Clarke Shelby. You got that? Clarke Shelby.”

  The kid looked confused. Clarke Shelby was a competitor of Hastings’s who was working to consolidate all the machine shops, metal fabricators, and blacksmith forges into a single union with the intent of absorbing the ironworkers as well. Doing so would give him the leverage he needed to take over Schule and Hastings Ironworks in everything but name. The problem Shelby had at present, however, was working capital. He did not have enough. But if Eric and I sold our rather lucrative shares of the company to him at a ninety-five percent discount, he could flip the shares and have all the money he needed to leave Hastings out in the cold.

  “Trust me,” Eric went on. “Just tell him what I said.”

  The kid sighed tiredly and walked back to the shack. After another minute on the radio, he stepped outside and unlocked the gate. We waited while he rolled it aside and then walked through.

  The ironworks was a tall structure of brick and steel-reinforced concrete. There were high windows set near the roof and several large stacks bellowing smoke that coalesced into a single pillar of blackness rising against the clear blue sky. The air smelled of fire and spilled chemicals. Where the ground was not covered in snow, it had a sickly gray pallor to it, like the skin of someone dying from a long and painful disease.

  In the old days, the Environmental Protection Agency would have shut the facility down. But times were different now, and the burgeoning remnants of the Union needed steel. So, the government downplayed the severity of the pollution pouring out of the place and looked the other way. I wondered if the people who worked here were aware of the long-term health consequences their chosen profession boded for them. Not that I was in any position to criticize. I had invested in the place, after all.

  We walked across a wide concrete lot toward the main entrance. When we got there, another guard met us at the door. This one was older, harder, and more openly hostile than his co-worker.

  “Mr. Hastings is waiting for you in his office,” the man said unhappily. “I’ll escort you in.”

  “Fine,” I said and moved toward the door. The guard held up a hand.

  “Just you and Mr. Riordan. The others wait out here.”

  “They can wait inside,” I said flatly. “It’s cold out here.”

  The guard glanced behind me. “Alright, fine. They can wait in the lobby.”

  “I’ll need to see Mr. Hastings as well,” Hicks said.

  Eric and I both turned to look at him. “What for?” I asked.

  Hicks turned to the guard. “Give us a moment, would you?”

  The guard gave us a scalding look before walking a few steps away. Hicks stepped closer so he could talk to Eric and me in private.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I didn’t come here for the fun of it,” Hicks said. “I’m working a case.”

  “What case?”

  Hicks reached a hand into his coat and took out a small black ID wallet. He f
lipped it open to reveal a government issued card with a charcoal gray background and bright white lettering. I look at the ID, then at him.

  “They let you keep your black card?”

  Hicks spoke quietly. “I’m a federal emissary with the Department of Homeland Security. That’s as much as I can tell you.”

  “Figures,” Eric said.

  Hicks stared at him.

  “How much do you know?” I asked.

  “I know the FBI investigated the sites where the bombs went off. I know they found underground holding pens built sturdy enough to cage a rhino, and I know the steel used to make them came from this factory. What I don’t know is the names of everyone this factory has sold half-inch steel sheeting to for the last ten months. But I aim to find out.”

  I looked at Eric. He shrugged.

  “I assume you want to do that quietly,” I said.

  Hicks nodded.

  “And tagging along with us gives you plausible deniability.”

  Hicks did not reply.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Eric said. “Come along if you want, Caleb, but don’t interfere. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Gabriel,

  Schule and Hastings Ironworks, Southtown

  I let Eric take the lead while Hicks and I hung back and assessed the people in the facility. There were men and women of varying ages, some barely adults, others old enough they should have been retired, and everything between. Looking around, I saw curiosity on the faces of some, and apathy on others. The level of interest people showed in our presence seemed to be inversely proportional to their age. Regardless, no one deviated from their work for very long as the grumpy security guard led us across the factory floor.

  We arrived at a staircase leading up to a broad catwalk that surrounded the factory on all four sides. The catwalk was lined with offices and storerooms and I could see mostly men and a few women walking around in white hardhats. Some of them talked to each other, some of them hustled briskly about their business, and some simply stood leaning against the railing and staring down at the various production lines with concerned looks on their faces.

  “Up the stairs,” the guard said. “Second door to the left.”

  “Thanks,” Eric said, and started climbing. Hicks and I followed. The guard came up after us but kept a respectful distance. The second door on the left had a brass plaque that read: William Hastings, Chairman and CEO. Eric did not bother knocking.

  “Hey, what the hell?” the man behind the desk shouted.

  Eric ignored him, strode casually into the room, and took a seat in one of the chairs facing the desk. Hicks and I remained standing.

  “Don, what the fuck is this?” Hastings said, looking at the security guard. I turned and saw the guard in the doorway blocked by Hicks’s considerable bulk.

  “We’re good here,” Hicks said.

  “Get out of the way,” Don said angrily.

  “No.” The word came out cold and flat.

  Don put a hand on Hicks’s chest to move him, and an instant later, that hand was turned at an unnatural angle. Don collapsed to one knee and made a twisted face, little gasps of pain straining out of his throat.

  “I said we’re good here. You can wait outside. I’m going to let go of your hand, and when I do, if you’re thinking about reaching for that gun…”

  Hicks leaned close to the guard’s face. “Don’t.”

  He let the wheezing man go. Don clutched his wrist and stayed on one knee for a few seconds, eyes staring pleadingly at his boss. The boss looked at Hicks, then me, and finally at Eric.

  “It’s alright, Don. Wait outside.”

  The guard stood up and Hicks put a hand on his shoulder, friendly-like. “I better not hear your little feet pitter-pattin’ down that catwalk, you hear? You stay right outside the door, nice and close. Understand?”

  The guard nodded quickly.

  A gentle pat on the arm. “Good.”

  Hicks shut the door and came over to stand beside me. The three of us stared coldly at Bill Hastings.

  “What is this?” Hastings said nervously. “What do you want?”

  Eric smiled. “What, no introductions?”

  “What?”

  “As you might have guessed, I’m Eric Riordan, CEO of Centurion National. The big guy is Gabriel Garrett, an executive with the Blackthorn Security Company. And the rather gloomy young man beside him is Captain Caleb Hicks, formerly of the US Army.”

  Bill’s eyes did a shifting dance between the three of us. He was a lean, middle-aged man with a bald head and watery blue eyes. I had expected to find him wearing a tie and slacks, but instead found him in a pair of dark blue coveralls covered with patches and oil stains. His hands were strong-looking and calloused from years of hard work. Not at all what I was expecting.

  “What the hell do you want? Where do you get off barging in here and hurting my employees? The three of you better have damn good lawyers, because the cops are going to hear about this.”

  Eric’s smile widened. It was not a pleasant smile. It was all sharp teeth and glittering eyes and an unblinking stare. “Go ahead. Your security guard assaulted my friend here. I saw it. Put his hand on his chest and tried to move him. Captain Hicks acted in self-defense.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Eric shrugged. “We could argue about it, but I’m a bit pressed for time. Truth is, Bill, I’m not really interested in you. I’m interested in obtaining information, and you are going to provide me with that information.”

  “What information?”

  “Your sales records for the last ten months. Not all of them, just your sales of half-inch sheet steel. And we’ll need a room where we can review those records in private.”

  Hastings stared a few seconds, then sat back in his chair and laughed gently. “You must be out of your goddamn mind. No way in hell is that happening, slick.”

  “Oh, I think it will.”

  “Yeah? And why is that?”

  “Clarke Shelby.”

  The amusement disappeared from Hastings’s face. “Yeah, you made that threat already. Thing is, I don’t believe it. You got a lot of money tied up in this place, Riordan. And for that matter, how do I know you even are who you say you are?”

  “I’ll vouch for him,” I said. Hastings and I had met the day I invested in the company.

  “What’s your interest in this, Garrett?” Hastings’s gaze grew sharp, and I could see the calculating mind behind the working-man veneer. “Since when did the Blackthorns start strong-arming honest businesses? I’m sure my friends on the Senate Judiciary Committee would be interested to know.”

  “I’m sure they would,” Eric answered. “But you’re not going to tell them.”

  “Really? And why not?”

  “Clarke Shelby.”

  Hastings stared and said nothing.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Eric leaned forward and stopped smiling. “Why would I sell my shares to one of your enemies at a steep discount just to get some sales records? Right?”

  “The thought did occur.”

  “There’s only one reason a man like me would do that, Bill. And that reason is…” Eric held out a hand.

  “It’s personal.”

  “Yes, it is. Now, as I said, I’m pressed for time. Are you going to give me the sales records, or am I going to send one of my guys to round up Mr. Shelby?”

  Hastings stared a long few seconds, more curious than angry. “Is it really that important to you?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  A sigh. “Fine. If it’ll get rid of you, then okay. Don, come in here please.”

  The door opened and the security guard hovered in the entrance. “Yes, Mr. Hastings?”

  “Take these gentlemen over to accounting. Have Anna give them whatever they need. They can use conference room two.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you three,” Hastings pointed a gnarled finger at us. “I don’t ever want
to see your faces around here again. If I do, I’ll call the police and worry about the consequences later. Do I make myself clear?”

  Eric stood up and adjusted his coat. “Don’t make empty threats, Bill. It’s not becoming.”

  Again, Hastings stared and said nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Gabriel,

  Schule and Hastings Ironworks, Southtown

  “I have to give credit where it’s due,” Hicks said. “Hastings runs a tight ship.”

  “I hope so,” Eric replied. “He stomped on a lot of necks to make this place happen. The least he can do is manage it properly.”

  I shuffled through a few pages and scanned an invoice sheet. “I think this is it.”

  The other two dropped their sheaves of paper and looked over my shoulder. “What did you find?” Eric said.

  “Invoice dated eight months ago, billed to HeathCo Industries. One-hundred and sixty sheets of four-foot-square by half-inch steel.”

  “HeathCo,” Eric said. “That’s the front company Stan told us about.”

  “Yep.”

  “Does it list any names?”

  “No. But it does list three delivery addresses.”

  “Where?”

  I read the first one. Hicks leaned closer to the table. “I know that address. Give you one guess where it is.”

  I laid the invoice on the table. “The Refugee District.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And the others?” Eric said.

  “One is a tavern called the Red Barrel here in Southtown. Real dive of a place in a shitty neighborhood. Known gathering spot for small-time crooks.”

  “Or maybe not so small-time,” Eric said.

  Hicks nodded. “The last one is a warehouse just west of Bricktown, not far from the wall. Not much out that way, mostly old industrial buildings and abandoned offices. Lots of homeless people, squatters, addicts, you name it.”

  “Then this confirms it,” Eric said, “SRT used the steel from this factory to build cages for the big Grays in the Refugee District. And since there’s two more delivery addresses…”

  Hicks finished the thought. “There are more of those things out there.”