McDaniels, Gartrell, and the rest of the Army Special Forces teams that had been sent to participate in Joint Task Force SPARTA had been stood down. The regular Army would engage the enemy. It was time for Special Forces to retreat to the shadows, where they belonged.
Now that all of the heavy lifting’s been done. Nevertheless, McDaniels didn’t argue. As a matter of fact, Fort Bragg sounded pretty damned good to him, even though it had been laid siege to by the zeds for over a month. After the concrete canyons of New York City and the flat, fried emptiness of west Texas, he viewed Bragg as pretty much an ideal destination.
“It’ll be good to be home again,” McDaniels said.
“I hope so, sir,” Gartrell replied. “I hope so.”
“We’ll find your family, Dave.”
Gartrell didn’t respond.
McDaniels let it go, and before he knew it, he had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. He didn’t awaken until the cargo plane was on its final approach into Pope.
Once the Starlifter taxied to a halt, the cargo ramp lowered, and bright sunlight entered the dark confines of the aircraft. McDaniels blinked against it as he and the rest of the troops marched down the ramp’s length and into the daylight. The North Carolina weather was warm, despite the fact it was technically winter. It was one of those fluky, odd days that happened for no good reason, and were viewed as either a blessing or a curse, depending on who you were. McDaniels considered himself to be in the first group. A nice day was a gift, period.
Signs of the siege were all around. The entire airfield was surrounded not only by CONEX containers—surprise!—but also railroad cars that had either been shorn of their wheels or the gap beneath them had been concreted over. The line of freight and passenger rail cars extended all around Pope and neighboring Fort Bragg. McDaniels was sure that, had he been awake and had a window to look out of from the C-141, he would have seen a variety of battlements and fighting positions that had been abandoned or overrun during the siege. But he had to hand it to the bubbas at Bragg and Pope; he’d never thought to use railroad cars in that fashion.
As the surviving families came forward to meet their returning soldiers, McDaniels scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. There were some black families, but none of them belonged to him.
“Colonel, I never thought I’d say this, but it was… well, almost a pleasure serving with you,” Gartrell said suddenly.
McDaniels turned to Gartrell. Both men had showered, shaved, and gotten a fresh set of BDUs so they wouldn’t terrify the hell out of the women and children when they landed. McDaniels looked at Gartrell for a long moment, and not for the first time, he took note of the man’s military bearing and almost regal carriage. Gartrell carried an edge of exhaustion, something that had weighted him down ever since he had managed to escape the gathering dead in New York City.
“Sergeant Major, it was absolutely a pleasure to serve with you,” McDaniels said finally, and he extended his hand. Gartrell shook it, and there was, perhaps, a genuine flash of warmth in his grip, and in his pale eyes.
“I gotta go,” Gartrell said.
“I should go with you,” McDaniels said. “I’m not so sure you going out alone is a good thing right now. We don’t know the area’s clear of any remaining infestations.”
Gartrell shook his head. “Nah. I’ll be fine. Besides, you have people waiting for you here.” He pointed, and McDaniels turned.
There they were—Paulette, her kind, lovely face split by the widest smile he believed he’d ever seen, and next to her, gangly and lanky, Lenny. Curiously, Lenny was the one crying, tears running down his face for all to see. Behind him, the Howies approached at a more sedate pace, but they looked happy to see him.
McDaniels turned back to Gartrell. “Well, give me a minute to—”
Gartrell was gone.
“Gartrell!” McDaniels shouted, turning in a circle until he spotted the lanky, bony body already fading into the distance toward an Air Force reception building. McDaniels called out again, but if Gartrell heard, he gave no indication.
“Dad!”
McDaniels turned back to his family, and he got a face full of Lenny as the boy wrapped his arms around him and lifted him into the air. Damn, when did he get big enough to do this?
“Dad!” Lenny said again, the tears running down his face. McDaniels wriggled out of his grasp and pulled him toward him, kissing his son’s face, wiping away the tears.
“Leonard, what’s with this?” he asked, smiling.
Lenny wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Sorry, Dad. I just thought I’d never see you again.”
“Do you really think so little of my martial prowess, young man?” McDaniels hugged him again, then turned to Paulette. Her soft brown eyes were dry, but the emotion they held was perhaps even more powerful than his son’s tears had been.
“Well, look who finally showed up,” she said.
“Sorry I’m late, hon.”
“You were saving the world. I’d say that’s an okay excuse.”
***
The house seemed to have been left unmolested. All the things were in their proper place, and while it appeared zeds had been on the property, they’d had no interest in a vacant home. Gartrell let himself in and went directly to the gun safe in the garage. He removed a Remington twelve-gauge shotgun, loaded it, then ensured the house was indeed as empty as he thought it was.
Gartrell had always been a bit of a survivalist nut, and he saw his wife and daughters had taken the gear he had pre-packed in the event of an emergency. Laurie had a good head on her shoulders, and she’d understood how important it was to know how to survive in case the world went mad. Emily and Alexandra weren’t as easily entreated into that kind of lifestyle, but Gartrell had schooled them long and hard enough to be reasonably confident they could handle themselves in an emergency. Of course, teaching them the ins and outs of counter-zombie tactics hadn’t exactly been on the syllabus, but he was certain they could adapt.
His beat-up Polaris ATV was still in the shed in back. He gassed it up and wheeled it around the house to the driveway, keeping the shotgun on him at all times. He then pulled open the garage door and backed out his pride and joy, a 1978 GMC four-by-four pickup he had lovingly restored. Letting the truck warm up in the driveway, he opened the tailgate and lowered it all the way, then drove the ATV up a pair of planks and into the truck’s bed. He tied it down, tossed the planks inside, and slammed the tailgate. He tossed a full survival pack into the truck’s cab, along with the rest of his weapons and ammunition.
He then turned and took one long look at his neighborhood street. It was a typical middle-class neighborhood—nice homes on smallish plots of property, clean streets, lawns that were normally manicured. Several homes had broken windows, and one house had burned to the ground. The zeds had been there, and the old bloodstains on the sidewalk proved it.
Gartrell hopped into the truck and took off.
***
The cabin was remote by intention, and even though the ATV was top of the line, it could only get him so far after he had to abandon the truck. He made it to the flat level area where they usually parked the ATVs, and he found the others under the camouflage netting, which in turn was covered by a ton of dead leaves. Gartrell hid his ATV quickly, even though he was certain there was no one around to covet it.
He hiked up the winding trail that led to the cabin. Even though he was in good shape, the hike was a tough one, and he found himself sweating in the cool mountain air. All around him, he heard only the normal sounds of the terrain: wind, birds, the rustle of pine tree branches. No moans, no screams, no bombs.
Gartrell hoped.
The sight of the cabin surrounded by a dozen dead stenches killed that hope.
He approached with the shotgun in his hands and his head on a swivel. Laurie had done what he had told her to do and sandbagged the door and lower windows, but something had happened. The pile of sandbags in front of the door had been pushed
in, and the thick door had been torn off its hinges. Gartrell stepped toward the cabin, moving as quickly as he could. The closer he got to it, the faster he moved. At the end, he was running across the clearing, not giving a damn who or what saw him.
The living room was another battlezone. Furniture had been piled at the bottom of the stairs, but the stenches had gotten through that. Three of them lay on the steps, each serviced by a shotgun blast to the head. Another two slumped on the landing upstairs, where the mattresses had been piled. Shotgun shells and brass .380 cartridges lay on the polished wooden floor. At the end of the hall, by the cabin’s small master bedroom, another stench lay facedown in a dried puddle of black ichor. Gartrell stepped over it and walked into the room. Empty. He checked the closets, the small bathroom. All empty.
He went through the rest of the house systematically, trying to stay calm. It didn’t take long to determine that his family was not in the cabin. Which meant one of two things: they had escaped, or they had been consumed.
Oh God, fuck you…
Gartrell stumbled outside, his eyes blurring with unshed tears. He had one last hope—the small shed at the northeast edge of the property. Gartrell bolted for it, running hard and fast, stomping on the bodies of the dead if they lay in his path. He reached the shed’s wooden door and threw it open.
Nothing. Only tools, shovels, rakes, a Toro lawn mower.
The tears came then, and Gartrell felt his knees go weak. He turned back to the cabin.
Then he saw them: one woman holding a smaller girl. Beside her was a taller girl, one with long, limber limbs. The wind coming off the mountain ruffled their hair, and they stood with their backs toward him, looking at something in the valley.
Gartrell ran toward them. “Laurie? Emily! Alex!”
Alex raised her head and looked past her mother’s shoulders.
With cold, dead eyes.
Gartrell’s pace faltered, and he sobbed loudly. Laurie turned, as did Emily. They’d been dead for over a month, at the very least. Laurie held Alex in her arms, and Gartrell was horrified to see how his youngest daughter had died. Something had chewed off her left arm, leaving only a ragged stump. Emily had a bite on her cheek and another on her arm. Laurie’s neck had been torn open, and the pale structures of her crushed larynx peered out at Gartrell through the shredded flesh.
Laurie dropped Alex as she and Emily ran toward Gartrell with their arms wide, shrieking. Behind them, Alexandra struggled to keep up, losing her balance because of her missing arm.
Gartrell sank to his knees, sobbing. As the tears coursed down his face, he pulled the shotgun close and waited for his family to join him.
AFTERWORD
The Gathering Dead wasn’t meant to spawn a series. I’d written it on a lark after watching the remake of Dawn of the Dead one fall night in 2010, and had thought that nothing would ever come of it. Boy, was I wrong.
Some people need to be recognized for helping The Rising Horde make its way into the world:
Long-suffering primary beta reader and fellow author Derek Paterson. When it comes to making text sing, this is the guy.
Joe LeBert, for his “every man” opinions on the story, what worked, what didn’t, and what kind of beer goes great while reading it. Thanks, Joe.
Evan Roy down in The Big D for his rather blazing-fast read and his opinions.
Fred Anderson, who finally put down his farmer’s hoe at the last moment and pointed out some fantastic finds. Thanks, man!
First proofreader Diana Cox for getting what was a very, very messy manuscript into shape. Your efforts made everyone else’s job that much easier, and I thank you for that!
Editor Lynn O’Dell for taking the books to the next level. While we occasionally disagree on things, she is a master at what she does.
Jared Rackler for not one, but two really amazing covers!
Major R. Todd Webster, U.S. Army, for his invaluable input, especially with regards to shaping the battlespace and intelligence operations.
Staff Sergeant Gary Homuth, U.S. Air Force, for his remarkable bonanza of information regarding protecting installations and building up defenses. When in doubt, I guess it’s always safe to ask the real internal security guy, even if he is a zoomie.
Grant Reinhard and his long-suffering wife, Aileen Savell, for helping me get things squared away for the future. It’s going to be a bright one!
Despite all the efforts of the above-named folks, all errors/omissions/stupidity you might find in these pages are my responsibility.
And last but by no means least, the biggest thanks goes to you, the reader.
---
Stephen Knight is the author of the bestselling zombie apocalypse novel, The Gathering Dead, and its follow-on novella, Left With The Dead. Knight lives in the New York City area.
Stephen Knight on the web:
http://knightslanding.wordpress.com/
Did you like this story? Did you hate it? Compliments and/or complaints should go to:
[email protected]
Cover Art Copyright © by Jared Rackler
http://bookworld.editme.com/JaredRackler
The Rising Horde, Volume Two Page 29
