Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End

by Cook, James N.

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Hey, you had to try.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Look,” I said, taking the opening to smooth things over. “I know what I’m asking, and I know both our asses could end up in a sling over this. But if I have to choose between that and dead bodies in the streets, I’ll take the fucking sling. How about you?”

  A few more breaths, then a tired sigh. “I hate to say it, but you’re right. Just do me a favor, okay? Minimize the collateral damage and get the hell out of there before the cops show up. I won’t be able to save you if you get caught.”

  “Understood.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “The times we live in.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Listen, I have work to do, and so do you. Get to it. Good luck.”

  “Same to you.”

  I put the phone away and looked at Eric. He nodded toward the bodies on the floor. “What do you want to do about them?”

  “Well,” I said. “There’s a hole full of infected over there, and I have a bag of Semtex.”

  Eric smiled. “I like the way you think.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hicks

  Red Barrel Tavern, Southtown

  “What’s the deal?”

  Hicks pressed a button on the satellite phone, stowed it in his vest, and tried not to shiver in the cold. He looked longingly at the fireplace in the corner and wished he could light it, but operational security precluded that. Not that it mattered. Even if he was not here on an op, there was no fuel in the room. The only furniture was a plastic table and two metal chairs, one of which was currently occupied by Alex Muir as he watched the tavern across the street. Hicks stared at the gun cases on the table for a few seconds, then walked to the window and said, “It’s bad.”

  Muir lowered his binoculars. “How bad?”

  “At least three locations, not counting this one. Garrett’s taking care of the one of them, which leaves two for us. That’s the good news.”

  “And the bad?”

  “The other locations have at least a dozen Draugr between them. And we don’t know for sure how many locations.”

  Muir blinked. “A dozen Draugr?”

  “Or more.”

  Even in the darkness, Hicks could see Muir go pale. “Son of a bitch. What are we gonna do?”

  “Put your earpiece in.”

  Muir obeyed and listened while his team leader keyed the radio. “Blue, this is Actual. How copy?”

  “Lima Charlie, Actual,” Christina Hahn replied. “Go ahead.”

  “Pretty Boy have his ears in?” Hicks said, referring to the nickname Hahn had given their fourth team member, Nathan Downs, a former Army Ranger who was decidedly not pretty. A few seconds passed, and then Downs said, “I do now.”

  “Widget, I assume you’re listening in.”

  Rohan Chopra, the team’s communications specialist, answered immediately. “I hear all, puny mortals. Did the merc come through with the goods?”

  “First of all, Widget, you better not let the merc hear you call him that. Ever.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good. I’d hate to lose you. As for the intel, that’s an affirmative, but you’re not going to like it.”

  Hahn said, “When do we ever? Lay it on us.”

  Hicks relayed the information Gabe had given him. He said it calmly, carefully, and in a matter-of-fact tone with no opinions or emotional appeals offered. Then he waited a full fifteen seconds to let the shock wear off before he keyed the radio again.

  “Anybody needs to say something, do it now.”

  Downs spoke first. “Not that I don’t appreciate the help, boss, but does Garrett’s crew know what they’re up against? I mean, they’re a bunch of guns for hire and a civilian. Won’t they just be in the way?”

  “Hey, genius,” Chopra said. “I’m a civilian.”

  “Me too,” Muir said.

  “No, you used to be civilians,” Downs said. “Now you’re something else.”

  “That’s enough,” Hicks said, and silently told himself to be patient. Downs was not being an asshole, at least no more than usual. He was just concerned for the mission.

  “Like I told you before, I’ve known that crew a long time. They fought the emergence at the Refugee District and stopped it in its tracks. Trust me, they’re solid.”

  “What about containment?” Hahn said before Downs could chime in again. “Central needs to initiate lockdown protocol.”

  “They will,” Hicks said. “But right now, we need to focus on the task at hand. We’re facing an untracked emergence in the last major city in North America. You know what the Draugr can do. The civilian population won’t be equipped to fight them if they get loose. Do I need to explain to anyone what that means?”

  Muir keyed his radio so the others, positioned in a building across the street, could hear. “We understand, boss. It’s a nightmare scenario, and we’re the first responders. Don’t worry, we got your back.”

  Hicks looked at him, saw the belief and confidence in the man’s eyes, and wondered if he actually possessed the qualities Muir saw in him.

  “Good,” he said, grateful for the authority in his voice. “Blue, what do you say?”

  “You know me,” Hahn replied. “I live for this shit.”

  Downs keyed his radio. “Yeah. What she said.”

  “Widget?”

  “Yes sir. Message received.”

  “Good. Stay alert and stand by.”

  Hicks turned off his radio. “Monitor the channel,” he said to Muir. “I need to call Jacobs.”

  “Got it.”

  Hicks took out his satellite phone and went through security protocol. A few seconds later, General Phillip Jacobs came on the line.

  “What do you have?” he said with no introduction.

  “Garrett came through. SRT was keeping Draugr at the warehouse.”

  “Did he destroy them?”

  “He’s setting explosives as we speak.”

  “Good. What else?”

  Hicks took a deep breath before answering. “SRT has more Draugr positioned around the city.”

  A few seconds of silence. “Where? How many?”

  Hicks told him.

  “I’ll get teams en route. Who else knows?”

  “Stan Kaminsky. He’s on his way to the locations now.”

  Jacobs let out a curse. “Well, I suppose there was no avoiding it. Kaminsky’s too smart for his own damn good. I’ll have Colonel Bryant give him a call. Hopefully we can stop him from getting any of his people killed.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you’re on location at the tavern in Southtown?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. Sit tight and wait for backup. We need to clear the area before we engage.”

  Hicks grimaced even though he knew Jacobs could not see it. “Sir, SRT will see that coming. They have eyes everywhere.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Yes sir. We hit them now, take them by surprise. With any luck, we can eliminate the Draugr before SRT has a chance to release them.”

  “Caleb, I’m sure you see the problem with that.”

  “I do, but what choice do we have?”

  “We need to contain this thing,” Jacobs said firmly.

  “With all due respect, sir, I think it’s a little late for that. Word about what happened in the Refugee District is spreading. People know, and they’re talking. The best we can do now is keep it from happening again.”

  Hicks waited, listening to the sounds of people moving around inside the building. He heard doors opening and shutting, voices talking, pots and kettles rattling as people stoked fires in their stoves and cooked breakfast. At this hour, city guardsmen were preparing to relieve the night watch and sanitation workers were getting ready to start their shifts. In another hour or so, the army of laborers that kept the city functioning woul
d awaken as well. None of them had any idea of the danger they were in.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Jacobs said finally. There was a quaver in his voice, and Hicks could hear a rhythmic rustle in his ear. The general’s illness was getting worse, causing his hands to shake. “Is your team ready to go?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Keep the casualties to a minimum. Make sure you’re out before the cops arrive. I’ll stall them as long as I can.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Give me thirty minutes. Good luck.”

  Jacobs hung up. Hicks looked at his watch and set a timer.

  “What’s the word?” Muir asked.

  “We’re hitting the tavern,” Hicks said. “Thirty minutes. Inform the team and gear up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Heinrich

  Iron Kettle, East Gate Market, Outer Boroughs

  The restaurant was lit by a few oil lanterns that failed to fully disperse the early morning darkness. A dozen or so patrons, early risers preparing for a day of hard labor, ate quietly at wooden tables and drank from metal cups. There were no menus here, nor was there a wait staff. The owner made breakfast in a large cast-iron cauldron—the restaurant’s namesake—over a fire at one end of the dining room. His customers took bowls from a table near the door, walked to the serving line, paid in whatever currency they had, and waited while he served them with a big ladle. A teenage boy handed out loaves of dense sourdough bread to those willing to pay a little extra. The hungry laborers then went to their tables where cups, spoons, and pitchers of water had been laid out.

  Heinrich watched them a few minutes before looking out the windows at the newly paved streets. He marveled at how a once squalid slum had become a decent place to live. In a few hours, people would shuffle off to their jobs, shop at market stalls, drink together in bars, eat at restaurants, and watch their children play in newly built parks. Two years ago, none of that would have happened here. But that was two years ago. A lot had changed since then.

  Heinrich’s part in the recovery of the Outer Boroughs, as the vast circle of settlements along the perimeter wall were now called, was to send twenty hard men to bring the street gangs, pimps, and dealers to heel and organize the vice trade. They had performed admirably. Violent crime in the Boroughs was now almost non-existent. Robbery, rape, and murder were things of the past. The streets were safe to walk at night, and the good people living here had finally been able to work, build, and flourish.

  Being fair, Heinrich had to admit the politicians in the Springs had helped somewhat. When it became clear the Boroughs’ rampant violence had ceased, grifters in the city government had smelled opportunity and proposed ambitious infrastructure projects. Once approved, they gave the contracts to corrupt developers who paid generous kickbacks on the city’s dime.

  The most notable of these projects were the sewage system, water tower, treatment facility, and pipelines that brought clean water to the area. This, in turn, led to a dramatic decline in infectious diseases among the population. With disease gone and irrigation now possible, farms and ranches had sprouted like weeds in a summer garden. This prompted entrepreneurs to open restaurants, hotels, and drinking holes to serve the hundreds of laborers migrating out of the city to find work. Laundries, liveries, and general stores moved in a short time later, followed closely by carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, weavers, and a host of other skilled workers. Then came the retailers, salvage companies, warehouses, bankers, accountants, lawyers…the list went on.

  In a place where the primary exports had once been venereal disease and hopeless depression, one could trade for salt, sugar, steel, textiles, weapons, ammunition, livestock, manufactured goods, preserved food, and just about every other consumer staple, legal or otherwise. Many of the caravans that came to the region did not even bother going inside the city proper anymore. They could do all the trade they needed right here in the Boroughs. Especially if they were after flesh, opium, booze, or looking to gamble away their profits.

  The people of the Boroughs were well-aware of the Storm Road Tribe’s activities, but they tolerated it because the tribe operated under two iron-clad rules. The first and most important of which was to leave civilians alone. No extortion, no robbery, no loan sharking, and no poaching the local populace for sex workers. Selling drugs was allowed, but only in the opium dens. Same for gambling and prostitution. If people wanted to forget their troubles for a while, they had to do so in designated areas. Prostitutes did not loiter on street corners, gambling was forbidden outside the card and dice rooms, and drug dealers were not allowed to sell people opium to take home with them. If you wanted it, you had to do it onsite. No exceptions.

  This rule had not prevented people from becoming addicts, but at least it let everyone know who the addicts were. It was not an ideal arrangement for the locals, but everyone seemed to understand that if people wanted to get high, they were going to high, and a certain number of them were going to become addicts whether they were allowed to or not. Heinrich’s regulations kept the problem from spiraling out of control, which everyone knew was the best they could hope for.

  The second rule was to play nice with the cops. In the post-Outbreak world, law enforcement was an entrepreneurial pursuit. In the Boroughs, this meant if you left the good people alone and gave the cops a cut of the action, they would turn a blind eye. Thus, in order to sustain the continued forbearance of the constabulary, anyone who broke Heinrich’s rules met with a painful and violent end.

  Even a few of Heinrich’s own men, who had been under the mistaken impression the rules did not apply to them, had found out the hard way just how serious their chief was about maintaining order. The rules applied to everyone, and Heinrich made sure the people of the Boroughs knew it.

  To an outsider, it would seem strange the people here allowed a violent crime syndicate to exist among them. But the locals, despite the problems the vice trade caused, had come to accept the tribe as part of their community. No one thought they were good people, but at least they could be reasoned with. More importantly, no one wanted to go back to the way things had been before—the days of violence, poverty, and disease.

  Another benefit to the community was how adept the tribe was at keeping the grifters and opportunists at bay. When a developer threatened to burn down people’s homes so he could build luxury apartments, his wife disappeared. He received a letter with instructions, and a warning that if the instructions were not followed, he would witness the horror of his wife’s death shortly before he himself died. When that happened, the developer found other properties to acquire. When a wealthy rancher did not manage his land properly and began contaminating the water supply, his horses and cattle were systematically killed until he mended his ways. When caravan drivers complained about marauders on the road, they found the bodies hung from trees on their way back home. Over time, these actions in defense of the locals caused the tribe to attain a kind of folk hero status.

  There were complaints from newcomers, of course. People talked. Stories were shared. Would-be tycoons whined to the feds about a shadowy syndicate that made it impossible to properly exploit the opportunities offered by the newly affluent Boroughs. So, naturally, when word reached the politicians and city officials profiting from said exploitation, they sent agents to investigate. Those investigations, however, went nowhere because the agents in question ran headlong into an impenetrable wall of hostile silence. Not only did the locals not cooperate, but they had questions of their own. Uncomfortable questions.

  What has city hall ever done for the Boroughs?

  Why doesn’t the mayor ever come out here?

  Why doesn’t the city give us any medical supplies or funding for schools?

  Why did the feds only start caring about the Boroughs when rich people started losing money?

  The agents had no answers for those questions.

  Then leave, they were told. Go back behind your wall and stay there. No one here is goin
g to help you.

  Heinrich smiled a little as he thought this. To these people, he was a protector, a shield against the cruelty and exploitation of the moneyed few. They believed he hated the wealthy interlopers from the city and that he sympathized with the poor and the downtrodden, maybe had been one of them once.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  The difference between reality and what people chose to believe never ceased to amaze Heinrich. He was not an upstanding protector of the community. He was not a kindred spirit. He was no one’s hero, despite what some might believe. In truth, he cared nothing for these people. He helped them because it benefitted him to do so. Operating in the Boroughs gave him a base of operations far away from the prying eyes of government inspectors, which gave him unfettered access to the caravans that brought him his opium. If at any point Heinrich believed he could gain something by burning the place to the ground, he would set the fire himself.

  He would never admit any of this, of course. Not to the locals. He needed their admiration, their respect, and most importantly, their silence. So, he threw them a bone here and there, and like any dog that had been kicked too many times, they took it as love. But at the end of the day, Heinrich was the only thing that mattered to Heinrich.

  A stir of muttering rippled through the restaurant, causing him to look up from his plate. His lieutenant in charge of the Boroughs stepped through the thin curtains that served as a front door. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust as he scanned the patrons for his chief. Heinrich made a small gesture, to which the man raised his chin and began walking over.

  “Ferguson,” Heinrich said by way of greeting as his lieutenant sat down. The chair creaked loudly under his weight. He was a tower of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall and weighing close to four hundred pounds. He was the only person Heinrich had ever met who was bigger and more intimidating than Maru.

  “Mornin’, Chief.”

  “It certainly is,” Heinrich said, rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn. He really needed to get some rest. “What’s got you up so early?”