“What are federal credits, exactly?”
“The government eventually wants to go back to using currency. They run exchanges in the safe zones where people can exchange trade for credits, and vice versa. Some of the businesses in the Springs and surrounding towns have even started accepting credits exclusively. That said, most of the country is still on the barter system. But the exchanges are stocked with just about anything you could want, and the government tends to undervalue merchandise compared to its barter value. Keeps the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”
“So you trade goods for credits and get more than what the goods are really worth. And if you pay credits to buy something, you get it at a discount compared to bartering.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t have an MBA or anything,” I said, leaving out the fact I had a bachelor’s degree in accounting, “but that sounds like a losing proposition for the exchanges.”
“It is, but it’s designed to be. The more people trade, the more federal credits flood the system, and the faster we go back to using currency instead of barter. And the people who choose to barter still have incentive to do business with the federal government, depending on what’s in stock at the exchanges. See where I’m going here?”
I nodded silently. It made sense. Deficit spending to prop up currency values was nothing new; countries all over the world had been doing it for centuries. Corporations did it with debt structuring and equity buybacks. What Cary described was simply the latest iteration of an old tactic.
“This is an effective system only in the capitol,” Cortez said. “In most of the country, barter is still the standard. And likely will be for some time to come.”
I picked up a stick and traced circles in the dust at my feet. “If a person contributes something to the militia, can they barter with it while in transit?”
“It’s not unheard of,” Cary said, “but you would have to clear it with me first. I only authorize transactions beneficial to the militia.”
After a few moments, I looked at what I had drawn in the sand. It was a diagram of the solar system, rings around Saturn and everything. To finish it, I added a little dot far out beyond the eighth planet to represent Pluto.
“So if I donate everything in the cabins to the militia, I get credit for it. Right?”
Cary’s expression remained neutral, but there was an acquisitive gleam in her eyes. “Right.”
I looked over my shoulder at the cabins. “You sent anyone to look at that military convoy yet?”
“I have a platoon doing so as we speak,” Cortez said.
I looked back at my cosmic diagram and wiped it away with my boot—except for Pluto. A wayward rock caught in a cold, dark orbit so far away from the sun its light was no more than a pale glimmer hanging in the impossible distance. My eyes drifted upward and met the priest’s.
“Where do I sign up?”
*****
I had to give credit where it was due. The Hellbreakers were well organized.
The two infantry companies were designated Falcon and Eagle. Platoons had their calls signs by company and number. Falcon Company was 1st through 4th, and Eagle was 5th through 8th. The four small support elements were simply called by their functions: Supply, Logistics, Hazmat, and Medical.
The squads in each platoon were identified alpha-numerically. Alpha Squad for First Platoon was Alpha One, Bravo Squad for Second Platoon was Bravo Two, and so on.
Lieutenant John Terrence, the man whose skull I had dinged with the back side of my axe, was the platoon leader for First Platoon, which put him in Falcon Company. In order to preserve the peace (which is to say, keep us away from each other) Commander Cortez assigned me to an empty position in Delta Seven, Eagle Company. Not that it would do much good. We were bound to run into each other sooner or later.
The influx of weapons, ammunition, and equipment from my contribution to the militia, along with the abandoned Army convoy, was a game-changer for the Hellbreakers. The attack on Phoenix had been planned for Thursday, but Cortez pushed it back to Monday to give his people time to catalogue and properly deploy the new weaponry.
I got a smile from Father Cortez when I asked him what the day’s date was. He told me. I shook my head at the realization I had lost all concept of time, save for the rise and fall of the sun and the changing of seasons.
I accompanied Cary (who asked me to call her Lieutenant Fleming, or simply ma’am, when others were listening) to her little corner of the militia’s wagon pool and filled out the required paperwork. At the end, I read and signed a waiver notifying me I could leave the militia whenever I wanted. If I left, they would give me a letter of credit, redeemable in Colorado Springs, equal to my contributions to the militia. I would, however, have to surrender my share of the militia’s collective fund. Only the people who stuck it out to the end of the deployment received that benefit. Seemed like a fair enough deal. When the paperwork was signed and sealed, she followed me back to my cabin.
“How long have you been on deployment?” I asked Cary along the way.
“About a year now.”
“And how much time left?”
“Eighteen months. We have a satellite uplink to Central Command in Colorado. They’re the ones who tell us where to hit next.”
I gave her a flat look. “That’s not terribly reassuring.”
“It’s the only deal we have. Take it or leave it.”
I didn’t reply. My eyes stared straight ahead as I walked. Cary started to speak, stopped, and finally gave me a squeeze on the arm. Her touch sent tingling sparks up my shoulder.
“Nobody’s coming to collect anything from the cabins for a while,” she told me. “Do you have a backpack?”
“Yes. I, uh…I don’t get to keep my bike and trailer, do I?”
A shake of the head. “Sorry. Medical needs it. But you can use it to haul your gear out to the interstate.”
“What’s Medical going to do with my bike?”
“They’ll modify the trailer and convert it into an ambulance. Something to ferry the injured around on.”
“Oh. Well, then, I guess they probably need it more than I do.”
“How big is your backpack?”
“Pretty big. I found it with the Army convoy. MOLLE rig.”
“Anything in it?”
“Yeah. Supplies and stuff in case I have to leave in a hurry.”
“How much does it weigh, do you think?”
“About thirty pounds. More if I add ammo and water.”
“Do this. Take out everything you don’t need. Bring a few changes of clothes, socks, underwear, soap, toiletry kit, sleeping bag, tent, first aid kit, and a poncho. I saw you have a duffel bag as well. Fill that with blankets, a camp stool, mess kit, and winter clothing. If you have spare boots, pack ‘em. Whatever weapons and ammo you want to bring along, pack those up too. The rest will go to supply. Your platoon will have carts to store your heavy items in. Do you have an assault pack?”
“A what?”
“Like this,” she showed me a smallish rucksack strapped to her back.
“Actually, yeah. I do. There’s a bunch of them in the cabins.”
“Grab one. Fill the water bladder. Also, see if you can find a load-bearing harness or a MOLLE vest. Keep your med-kit on it, canteens, a pistol, spare ammo, and whatever else you want quick access to. Make sure you bring a good combat knife as well.”
“I can do that.”
“If you mount the knife on your vest or harness, make sure the handle is facing up, not down.”
I glanced at her curiously. “Why?”
“A few towns back, I got jumped by a guy hiding out in what I thought was an abandoned house. Saw him coming and shoulder tossed him, landed sitting on his chest. Guy tried to grab my knife, so I broke two of his fingers and bashed him in the face with the butt of my pistol. Kept him down until my squad-mates got him zip-tied.”
I looked at her. “Jesus.”
�
��The knife,” she patted a Marine Corps Ka-bar looped onto her belt, “was attached facing handle-up on my vest. Made it easy to push his hand away. That’s why he couldn’t get it loose. If it had been facing down, I’d probably be dead.”
“In that case, I will gladly follow your advice.”
Cary left to go tend to her duties. I spent my last few hours rooting around and packing my things. When I was done, I had all the items Cary had recommended divided between my ruck, duffel bag, and assault pack.
Pondering what else to bring brought to mind one of the many lessons the end of civilization had taught me—a lesson that boils down to three simple words:
Weapons. Are. Essential.
As I saw it, the Rule of Three—three weeks without food, three days without water, three minutes without air—had taken on a new addition: three hours without a weapon.
I took what I trusted. The AR-15 was on its tactical sling around my shoulders, the Mossberg was lashed to my pack, and the Ruger and its spare mags were in an outer pocket of the assault pack. It did not take much searching to find a MOLLE vest that fit with minimal adjustment, complete with web belt and a drop holster. The drop rig had room for the Glock and two spare magazines.
I also had the three forty caliber mags and conversion barrels. After a brief inner debate, I decided against leaving them behind. They went into the assault pack along with their associated ammunition. As my father used to tell me, better to have and not need, than need and not have.
The MOLLE vest had three mag pouches designed for two thirty-round M-4 magazines each. I left the Speer ammo in the bandolier, filled seven magazines from the stockpile with ammo labeled 5.56x45 NATO M855, stowed six on my vest and one in my rifle, and added six more to the assault pack. A Ka-bar just like Cary’s found a home on my upper chest where I could access it with my left hand. Before departing, I strapped my prized possession, my axe, to the side of the assault pack opposite the Mossberg.
Just for kicks, when I dropped my ruck into the bike trailer, I found a Kevlar helmet that fit me, then put a set of heavy body armor, including a neck guard and protectors for shoulders, biceps, and groin, over top of it. Last I stowed my firefighting gear and motorcycle helmet near the opening of the duffel bag where I could get to them quickly.
After a few minutes’ standing in the shade, staring at my gear and wondering what I was forgetting, I decided I had packed everything Cary had told me to and then some. My bags were heavy with the weight of spare ammo, water, and food. There was nothing left to do. I said goodbye to the little cabin, picked up my remaining gear, loaded it into the bike trailer, and pedaled toward the militia.
Oddly, despite the load I was hauling, I felt as though a weight had been lifted. No one would ever accuse me of being heavy on introspection, but I could not shake the feeling that deep down, I had wanted something like this to happen; something to come along and shake me loose from my stasis and give me a reason to rejoin the world, ugly as it may have become.
Or maybe I just wanted to spend more time with Cary.
Either way, it was time to move on.
FIFTEEN
Halfway to the militia’s camp, I saw movement to my left and stopped the bike.
A cloud of dust much larger than the one left by the Hellbreakers’ approach bloomed along the Phoenix skyline. It did not take a great deal of imagination to guess what was headed my way. I stood and pedaled as hard as I could, eyes fixed on the hundreds of armed fighters in the distance.
One of the M-4 toting guards saw me approaching and waved me to a halt. I stopped and waited while he trotted over.
“Who are you?” he demanded, rifle in both hands, ready to come up in an instant.
“I’m Alex. I-”
“Wait, you’re the water guy, right?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s me.”
“You joining up?”
“Already did.”
A short nod. His eyes flicked away, then locked back onto me. “What unit?”
“Delta Seven, Eagle Company.”
The guard seemed satisfied with the answer. “Come on,” he said, and set off at a jog. I pedaled after him.
We stopped below a platform with three men standing atop it. One of them was Cortez. The other two I didn’t recognize.
“LT!” the guard shouted, enunciating each letter. “Got a new guy. Hasn’t been through training yet. Where do you want me to take him?”
A man I did not recognize looked down at me. He stood next to Commander Cortez, who was gazing intently through a large pair of binoculars. The priest brought the glasses down, spared me a glance, and said something I could not hear. The binoculars came back up, dismissing me from his attention.
“You ready to fight?” the man called LT asked me.
“Always.”
His teeth flashed a fierce grin. “Ever killed a ghoul before?”
“Only about an army’s worth.”
The grin widened. “Outstanding. You any good with that piece?”
I glanced down at the AR-15 in the bike trailer. “Out to two hundred yards, yeah. Not so great past that.”
“Two hundred is plenty. You see those red flags out there?” LT pointed toward the dust cloud. I squinted my eyes and saw tall, swaying poles with red pennants whipping in the strong breeze.
“Yes sir, I see them.”
“They’re set at twenty-five, fifty, a hundred, and two-hundred yards. Got it?”
“Yes sir.”
LT shifted his gaze. “Morris, head over to the marksman’s stand. Trade your rifle out for a sniper carbine. Take this guy with you.”
The guard gave a curt affirmative, waved a hand, and said, “Let’s go.”
I rode behind him to a row of platforms roughly twenty yards in front of the stands with spears stacked on them. As I watched, people were filling those platforms and snatching up spears as they did so.
“This way,” Morris said, and stopped next to a wagon with several fiberglass crates open in the back. He handed over his M-4 and received a long-barreled, scoped rifle in return. The man at the wagon removed the magazine from the M-4 and handed it to Morris.
“Happy hunting,” he said.
“Grab your weapon,” Morris said, turning to me. “And bring up as much ammo as you can carry.”
I snatched up my rifle, the MOLLE vest, bandolier, and assault pack. In less than a minute I donned the vest, slung the rifle and bandolier across my chest, and clenched the top handle of the assault pack in my teeth. Then I climbed the ladder to the top of the platform.
Morris put a steadying hand under my arm as I topped the ladder before grabbing the assault pack. “Let go, I’ll hold it for you.”
I unclenched my jaws and unslung the rifle. Morris handed me the assault pack. “Stay on me,” he said. “Do what I say, when I say, and how I say to do it. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I scanned around and saw the edge of the platform lined with tables topped with sandbags. At each stack of sandbags there was a short, foldable camp stool. All but four of them were occupied with men and women brandishing scoped rifles identical to the one Morris had been issued. Green ammo cans and large stacks of magazines occupied the tables, with more being loaded by support personnel.
“Have a seat,” Morris said as he gingerly laid his rifle on the table and eased down onto a stool. I took the stool next to him and put my rifle on the table just as he had.
“You know how to follow suit,” Morris said approvingly as he looked over his weapon. “Didn’t even have to tell you. That’s good.”
I stayed quiet.
“You’d be surprised how many people don’t have that instinct,” Morris went on. “Some people, it’s like they want detailed diagrams and written instructions just to tie their shoes.”
The guard picked up his rifle and peered through the scope, leaned back, made an adjustment to the magnification, and peered through it again.
“This is a one-to-eight power,” he sai
d. “What’s yours?”
“One to six.”
“Good enough. What’s your zero?”
“Fifty yards.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Measured the distance with a yard stick.”
One side of Morris’s mouth angled upward. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He returned his attention to his scope. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”
I looked ahead at the slowly emerging shape of the horde. “How far away do you think?”
“Still about half a klick. Don’t worry. LT will be up here in a minute. He’ll get everybody on the same page.”
I picked up my rifle, dialed up the magnification to six power, settled the handguard onto the sandbag, nestled the stock against my shoulder, and peered at the approaching ghouls.
“Jesus,” I said. “How many are there?”
“Can’t be sure,” Morris replied. “Few thousand at least. Party’s starting early.”
I glanced behind me. Work continued on the unfinished platforms, the builders moving with a renewed sense of urgency. People no longer walked from one place to another—they ran. But it was a controlled sort of chaos. Men and women who I assumed were leaders within the militia roved about, keeping everyone on task and eliminating confusion where it sprang up.
Something rattled the catwalk beneath my feet. I looked over my shoulder to see LT hauling himself over the ladder. “Where we at, Sergeant?”
“Still waiting on Vick and Hop,” Morris replied. “Horde’s about five hundred yards out. We’re good on ammo, thanks to this guy.” Morris tilted his head in my direction.
LT gave me a hard-eyed scan. “So you’re him, huh? The giant slayer.”
He was baiting me, and he knew that I knew it. Rather than let him get a rise out of me, I kept my eyes on the horde and shrugged.
“Didn’t slay anyone, Lieutenant. Just knocked him around a little.”
A chuckle. “Yeah, well, he had it coming.” A shadow fell over me. I looked and saw a hand extended in my direction. “Lieutenant Nathan Downs, Falcon Three.”
Surviving the Dead (Novel): The Hellbreakers Page 8
