by Z. A. Recht
Even Sherman was beginning to feel that something awry had happened on Stiles’ return trip. He knew the soldier was highly competent—he not only showed initiative in volunteering, but his manner bespoke of someone who was willing to do his duty, no matter the cost, and no matter how distasteful he found that duty to be.
Finally, as the sun began to find its way through the clouds and fog, a cry went up from one of the sentries Sherman had posted around their makeshift camp in the leafless woods.
“Halt!” came the challenge.
The reaction among the soldiers and refugees was immediate—they sprang up from dozing slumber, grabbing for what few weapons remained. Some of the civilians, mostly Arabs and a few Africans picked up after the disaster at Suez, had spent their time fashioning spears from tough tree branches—primitive, but much better than nothing. Sherman was glad he had a group of aware and cautious people with him. They were ready for anything.
The guard’s challenge continued.
“Identify yourself!”
A weary, exhausted-sounding voice drifted through the fog.
“Private Mark Stiles, returning from recon!”
“Advance, and be recognized!”
Sherman felt a knot in his stomach untie. It could have been a carrier—and one of their battle cries, standard reaction from them when they spotted prey—would certainly have drawn unwelcome reinforcements. The fact that Stiles had spoken had saved him from receiving a bullet from the sentry’s pistol.
“General?” came Stiles’ voice from the fog.
“I’m here, son! Come on in, grab what’s left of the grub. Hot chow, cooked over a campfire. You deserve it, whatever you found!”
“No can do, General. I’ll be staying where I am.”
Sherman frowned, then looked aside at Thomas, who was scowling. He and the Command Sergeant Major were apparently sharing the same thought.
“What is it, son?” Sherman asked, pronouncing his words softly, with comfort and a touch of apprehension.
“I’m done, sir. I fucked up. A shambler bit me on my way out. I’m not coming any closer to camp than this.”
Sherman opened his mouth as if to reply, but closed his lips. What do you say to a man who knows he’s going to die, and seems calmly resigned to his fate?
“Make him comfortable, sir,” Thomas said, grimacing. For all his bravado, no man reaches the rank of Command Sergeant Major without knowing and caring about the men under him. Not to mention it seemed as if he was once again reading Sherman’s mind.
“Stiles! Advance far enough for us to see you, at least! And we’ll send Rebecca out to take a look. We can make your time pass well—you don’t have to be alone, son.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Sherman frowned. Time for a little coercion.
“Get the hell up to the line, son. That’s an order. Even if you’ve been bitten, it’ll take a while for it to catch up to you. Let Becky check you over, give you some painkillers and a good meal, and we’ll talk over your options.”
For a full minute there was nothing but silence, and Sherman was worried Stiles had cut and run. He realized his respect level for the soldier had shot up another full notch or two—or ten. He wasn’t flying off the handle. He wasn’t despairing. He was still looking out for his brothers and sisters, even though he’d received a certainly mortal wound.
“Yes, sir,” Stiles said. “I’ll come in. Against my better judgment, sir.”
“Noted. Now get in here, soldier!”
Ahead, out of the mists, loomed a strangely-shaped figure. Most of it appeared human, but bulging packs dangled from webgear and a long, cloth-covered bundle was slung across the man’s shoulders. He limped, favoring his left leg, and was using a brightly polished rifle as a crutch. Half of Sherman wanted to run up to the man and tell him he’d be all right—and the other half, he noted with displeasure—remained professional. If Stiles had found a rifle, he must have found more. That shot up the survival chances of everyone else considerably. Stiles had not only kept cool in an otherwise hopeless situation, but he’d also completed his mission to the letter.
Thomas was already shouting for Rebecca Hall to grab her medical supplies and move up front. She’d been nearly silent since the incident with Decker and the other infected onboard the USS Ramage, as if consumed by inner ghosts, but like the rest of the survivors she was already hardened enough to know when business meant business.
She came jogging up alongside Sherman as he approached the wounded soldier. Stiles saluted, and in return Sherman snapped off one of the neatest salutes he’d given since he received his commission.
“Welcome back, soldier.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Report?”
Stiles nodded, unslinging his heavy gear and ALICE pack and slumping to the ground, utterly exhausted after his all-night foray. Rebecca held up a finger to silence both of them.
“One moment. Bitten in the leg?” she asked, spying blood seeping through Stile’s BDU pants.
“Yeah. Some laundromat freak named Don. I killed him, but was a little too hasty in getting out. Forgot the bastard would come back as a shambler. He crawled out and grabbed me without me even noticing him coming. Got in one good bite before I offed him. Sorry I’m so late, too, sir—when I fired on him, I had to spend a few hours evading the other infected that came out to see what the hubbub was about.”
“Not a problem, Stiles,” Sherman said as Rebecca used a pair of sharp scissors to cut the legging of Stiles’ pants free, exposing the wound. Sure enough, a neat bite mark scored the soldier’s skin. It hadn’t ripped any flesh, but teeth had punctured in a few places.
Rebecca sighed and got to work, dropping iodine into the wound to sterilize it. Stiles gasped and gritted his teeth against the sting.
“Well, sir, here’s the lowdown—and I think you’ll like it,” Stiles said, watching Rebecca work. “The main floor in the store was looted damn near clean except for ammunition. I got us enough nine-mil to last a good while. I thought that’s all there was, but I found something.”
Sherman nodded. “I remember the broadcast you sent. ‘Going to need a bigger backpack,’ I think it was.”
“Yes, sir. And we do. Several backpacks, I think. I found a storeroom in the basement that looked like it doubled as the owner’s private collection of firearms and surplus gear. I know the guns are important, but there’s also a full shelf of T-rations down there. With all of us, it’s about a full week’s supply if we eat three squares a day—we can stretch it to three weeks if we need to.”
“And the weapons? If they’re all as beautiful as that, we should be in for a treat,” Sherman said, nodding at Stiles’ antique Winchester.
Stiles chucked somberly, picking up the rifle. “Ain’t it a crime. I finally get one of the rifles I’ve always wanted, and I get bit two minutes later on my way out.”
“It’s yours, soldier, even in death, if I have my way. You’ve certainly earned a few perks. Speaking of which . . . Rebecca?”
“Already on it, Frank,” Rebecca said, glancing up at Sherman. “Morphine, anyone?”
“Oh, God, yes, please!” Stiles answered, managing a genuine grin. “If I’m going to go nuts, might as well go comfortably, right?”
“What else did you find?”
Stiles didn’t answer vocally. Instead he reached over as Rebecca stuck a syringe full of morphine into his thigh and picked up the cloth-wrapped bundle. He untied one of the leather straps and let the rifles he’d brought spill out. Sherman whistled under his breath, then reached down and picked up one of the 12-gauge shotguns. He hefted it in his hands and smiled.
“You did real good, trooper,” Sherman said, still grinning. “Real good.”
“And there’s more where those come from, sir,” Stiles added, laying back against a tree trunk and half-closing his eyes as the morphine began to take effect. “There’s about a dozen more, assorted calibers, mostly .30-06 and 12-gauge.”
“Uh, sir?” Stiles said, shock on his face. “Your new runner? I’m your runner, still.”
“No, you relax, Stiles—you’ve done all of us a great service.”
“With all due respect, sir, blow it out your ass,” Stiles said. Sherman was taken aback a moment, but realized the remark was not meant to be offensive. Stiles elaborated, “Look—I’m dead anyway, and I can still run like mad if Becky here gives me another shot of that painkiller before we head out. If I get killed—so what? I’m a dead man either way. The way I see it—I might have been your best choice before, but now I’m the perfect choice.”
Sherman raised his eyebrows, then slowly nodded. Once again Stiles proved to be a sound thinker.
“Very well, Stiles. May I say something?” Sherman asked. Stiles nodded, eyes still half-closed.
“If we were still technically in the Army, I’d see to it you got the Medal of Honor for this. I mean that.”
“Hell, sir, I’d settle for a discharge and partial pension,” chuckled Stiles. Even lately-morose Rebecca cracked a smile at that. “Is there anything else, sir? Getting pretty tired . . .”
“One last question. You said there were more weapons in that store?”
“Yes, sir . . . trapdoor behind the counter . . . gotta pry it up . . . guy down there . . . he’s dead, don’t mind him . . . get the food and more ammunition . . . especially food . . .” Stiles voiced drifted off and his head lolled to the side in sleep. The morphine and exhaustion had caught up to him.
Sherman reached out a hand and clasped the sleeping soldier’s shoulder. “You did real good, son. Real good.”
Then he stood, Rebecca still kneeling and collecting her supplies, and yelled to the survivors.
“Group! School circle! We’ve got a new plan to work out!”
With the exception of the sentries posted around the main makeshift camp, all the men and women grouped around Sherman, Thomas, and Rebecca, who took a few steps back, not wanting any real attention to fall upon her.
“Alright, listen up!” Thomas declared, looking directly at the soldiers and skipping his eyes over the civilians, who he still felt he served and wouldn’t presume to order about. “There’s been a minor change in our rescue attempt. We’ve acquired a pair of long-range, high-powered rifles. What we need now are two of you—civilian or soldier—who has exceptional marksmanship skills. Their new job will be to cover our runner, Stiles, as he tries to drive the carriers away from the siege at the theater. Be warned—your shots will draw attention. Be ready to break and run if you find you’ve got unwelcome company. Despite that, we’re also assigning our sniper volunteers a rifleman with our new Mini-14 to cover them at close range. That leaves us a handful of pistols, a revolver, and a shotgun for our main defense and rescue crew—and just for your information, that’s every last one of you who isn’t assigned to drive or snipe. If you’re without a firearm, you’ll still be sticking to plan one—hang back and wait to withdraw when the rescue squads are leaving the city.”
Sherman stepped forward to add his piece: “It also seems the sporting goods store we scouted last night holds a few more items we can use. First and foremost—we’ll be eating tinned foods for the next couple weeks—old T-rations.”
“Better than nothing, sir, and a damn sight better than the scraps we’ve been getting,” sang out a soldier. The rest chorused in with a muted, but still morale-boosting, ‘Hoo-ah!’
“Second—and just as important—Stiles has reported there are at least another half-dozen to dozen rifles left in the store that he couldn’t hump back with. We’ll be adjusting our escape plan. Our runner, snipers, and covering-fire rifleman will not have vehicle support to evac them once they’re clear of the city. You’ll all be running. I’m sorry to whoever else has to join Stiles, but we need to get that gear or risk starving to death—and I want every possible person armed. Once again, this is not the kind of decision I like to make, but I feel it is in the best interests of the group at large. Mark Stiles has already gone above and beyond, and despite being wounded, he’s still up for being the runner. I suggest all of you do your best to imitate the ideals he has selflessly set for himself.”
“Oi, General, I heard he was bit. That true?” asked one of the refugees, an Australian welder named Jack—he refused to give his last name. “Should we be letting him hang around?”
“Yes, for the time being,” Sherman said. “A bite that small means he’s got five, maybe up to ten or twelve days before he turns. He knows he’s a dead man. I expect all of you to show him proper respect for the manner in which he’s handling this. Is that clear?”
“Don’t have to tell me twice, sir,” said Thomas. His eyes, sweeping the crowd, addressed once again the soldiers that remained. “Kid reminds me of me at that age—only then getting wounded meant stepping on a scatter mine, not being bitten in the leg—and you at least had a chance to survive the mine.”
“So what’ll we do once we re-raid that store?” asked a soldier, raising his hand.
“Take what’s left of the weapons. Load up all the food. Grab any gear that might be useful once we’re into the countryside. I don’t want to go into any more towns unless we can clearly see they’re uninfected, or if we’re so low on supplies that we have no choice.”
“Sounds like a damn fine idea, sir,” growled Thomas. “I can deal with a banzai charge, but those infected get me all uneasy. Too quiet. Too . . . inhuman. I, for one, wouldn’t mind never seeing a city again after this and Sharm el-Sheikh.”
“They’re deathtraps,” chimed Rebecca, speaking for the first time since treating Stiles. “They build up in there, relax when there’s no more prey, then jump out when they see you walking in.”
“Seemed an awful lot like an ambush to me,” Sherman agreed. “They all struck at once.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about it,” Rebecca said, moving forward again to the center of the circle of people, standing next to Frank. “I don’t think it was really an ambush. I think it was . . . instinctive. You could say that, like, those dinosaurs—velociraptors—might have been pretty smart. They lull you into thinking you’re safe, then while you’re focused on one of them, a buddy strikes from the side. I remember that from Jurassic Park—the book, not the movie. The movie sucked. Anyway, these guys don’t have any tactics. They’re just dormant . . . then they hear you, and they all come rushing at once. I think it’s the growl.”
“The growl?” chuckled one soldier. He earned a glare from Rebecca so icy that he shut his mouth, pursed his lips, and looked down at the pothole-filled road.
“Their cry. Haven’t you noticed it? When they see you—the living ones, anyway—they scream at you and then run at you. I think the scream draws all the others in the area. Back there in town, the first one that came out gave that growl, and suddenly they were all around us. They’re not smart, they’re just . . . pack hunters. Yes, that’s it. That’s what I was trying to remember. They work together—I don’t know if they know what they’re doing or if it’s just coincidence. But get spotted by one, and let it get that growl out, and you’re swamped.”
“She’s right,” came a weak, shaky voice. It was Stiles, re-awakened by the discussion, looking over at the group with glazed eyes. “Only one of those bastards came to look for the gunshot I had to use, but right after he saw me they were pouring out all over the place. They’re instinctive. Single-minded. We’ve all got at least a hundred IQ points on these pus-bags—if they’re even self-aware. But the apple pie was good.”
With that, he drifted back into a semi-slumber, shivering slightly in the morning cold.
“That was interesting,” said Jack, the welder. “Think that was the drugs talking?”
“The apple pie comment was the morphine,
” Rebecca said. “I didn’t give him enough to make him go sideways on us. Just a babble dose. Nah, I think he’s right.”
“So do I,” Sherman began, “But until you gave your opinion, Becky, I was starting to think they were actually coordinating ambushes. Now I’m starting to really wonder. But one thing’s non-debatable: go into a city, get one little piece of bad luck, and you’ve got a thousand carriers on your six. Thomas!”
“Yes, sir!” bellowed Thomas, snapping to attention. The other soldiers were slipping back into semi-civilian attitudes, but for Thomas, the Army was his life.
“You will not be part of the rescue mission. I have a much more important task I need taken care of.”
Thomas scowled, but quickly wiped the expression from his face and straightened back up. “I’m ready, sir.”
“Go on foot. Take one man, and a pistol for both of you. Find a gas station on the outskirts. You have two objectives: first, see if there’s any fuel left for our truck. Second, find us batteries for our radios and—this is the big one—a road Atlas of the West and Midwest. When you get back here to the rendezvous, start plotting routes that’ll take us to our destination and keep us out of any big towns. Hamlets, villages—those I can risk, or go around. But nowhere—nowhere—that brings us close to a large-population area.”
Thomas smiled. This wasn’t such a bad assignment after all. He loved recon in his younger days.
“Yes, sir. Krueger! On line!”
Krueger, the sharp-shooting shortie who had gone with Denton and Brewster when they first approached Hyattsburg, trotted up and fell back into parade rest. Like Thomas, he was still clinging to military tradition.
“Sergeant Major?” Krueger asked.
