by Dirk Patton
“I need the guys that work in that rail yard,” I said, pointing in the general direction. “Preferably a foreman.”
“Jim Roberts,” he said without hesitation. “He’s inside on the bucket brigade.”
“Get him,” I ordered, pushing Jackson towards the doors and turning back to look at the rail yard, my head whirling with ideas. Less than a minute later he returned and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and found myself looking at the top of the head of a skinny, balding man.
“I’m Jim Roberts. You needed something?”
“That rail yard. Lots of freight in there in those big metal shipping containers?”
“Yeah. We’re the busiest freight yard east of the Mississippi except for Chicago. Why?” He was looking at me like I was an idiot wasting his time.
“You have forklifts big enough to move them around?”
“Yeah. So what?” He was getting irritated but curious too. Jackson and Rachel were pressing in to listen and I saw realization dawn on Rachel’s face.
“Grab as many men as you need and start moving those containers to set up a wall south of town. Place the containers end to end. When you get a wall say a half a mile long you’ll need to start stacking them up. I’ve seen the infected come up against buildings and start piling on top of each other until they made it all the way to the roof. Can you do that?” He got the idea and smiled.
“Use Forrest Avenue,” Jackson interjected. “It’s four lanes wide and there’s not any residential areas south of it. It runs perfectly east and west.” I nodded and looked at the foreman.
“Hell yes I can do that!” He turned and started to run off but I stopped him for a second.
“You’ve got to work fast. That wall is our only chance to slow them down long enough to get people loaded onto the train.” I said. He looked at me for a moment to see if I was serious. Realizing I was he ran back into the building yelling names at the top of his voice. A minute later he ran back out the door with three men on his heels.
“I need some military vets,” I said to Jackson. “Preferably Army or Marine, but I’ll even take a Coast Guardsman if he has experience with an M60 machine gun.” An older, grizzled man wearing jeans and a Hank Williams, Jr. T-shirt was standing not far away and spoke up when he overheard the conversation.
“Wilbur James, USMC.” He said. “Vietnam in ’67 and ’68. Reckon I know an M60 about as good as anyone around here. What do you need?”
“I’ve got two M60s and need gunners that know how to use them.” I said. “Know anyone else?”
“Yes sir. My grandson. He served two tours in Afghanistan with the Corps.” He turned his head and shouted towards the crowd. Moments later a much younger version of him pushed through the press of bodies to stand next to Wilbur who gave him a five second version of what was going on.
The M60s and their ammo were just starting to come down the bucket brigade and I pointed the James boys at them. Wilbur assured me he had it under control and he and his grandson set off to intercept the machine guns, redirecting them to waiting hands that carried them across the parking lot to a couple of battered Chevy trucks. Meanwhile the first deuce and a half was fully loaded and started to pull off so the second could pull forward and start loading.
“I’m going to the wall. Find someone to take over here and start getting that train put together and loaded.” I said to Jackson and thumped on the door of the first truck. The driver braked and I pulled open the passenger door and waved Rachel and Dog inside. Cab full, I shut the door and climbed up onto the running board with an arm hooked through the heavy bracket that held the side mirror.
“Hang on a second.” I said to the driver who nodded.
“Hey!” I shouted out over the heads of the crowd. A few people looked my way but there were still dozens of conversations going on and I didn’t have the crowd’s attention. I looked at the driver and he leaned on the truck’s horn and held it there for 10 seconds, stopping every side conversation and drawing the crowd’s attention.
“There are thousands of infected on their way, not much more than a couple of hours away.” I deliberately understated the size of the herd that was bearing down on the town. “We’re building a wall on Forrest Avenue to slow them while we get a train loaded up to evacuate the town and we’ve got a lot of rifles we’re getting out of the Armory with no fingers to pull triggers. I need anyone with military experience first, then anyone that knows how to shoot to meet me on Forrest Avenue. We have to defend the wall. We can slow them enough to save the people in this town, but I need every able bodied person that can help. People looked at each other, some frightened, some determined. From the back of the crowd a small, young woman shouted out over everyone’s heads.
“I was in the Army in Iraq and can shoot. I’ll be there!” Everyone cranked their heads around to look at the woman, then a young man with only one arm spoke up too. Soon the whole crowd was shouting their support. I waved to them and told the driver to get us to Forrest Avenue as fast as he could.
Chapter 30
Forrest Avenue turned out to be Nathan Bedford Forrest Avenue. He is best known as being the first Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan, but was also a brilliant general for the Confederacy during the Civil War and a son of Tennessee. Despite all of that I was quite surprised to see a street named after him in the hyper politically correct times we live in…. er, lived in, I corrected myself. Not much time or place for political correctness when the people trying to kill and eat you ran the gamut of color and ethnicity and could care less if you were black, white or purple. We were all finally and truly equal. Somehow I didn’t think this was the dream Dr. King was talking about. All of this ran through my head as the truck pulled to a stop in a parking lot for a large home improvement store that sat at the intersection of Forrest Avenue and the state highway we had followed into town. People were streaming into the parking lot by the dozens and I knew I needed to get them organized. We were fast running out of time.
Jumping down from the truck’s running board I turned to Rachel when she dropped to the ground next to me. “Did you see the hospital we passed about half a mile back?”
“Yes. Why?” She asked, adjusting her rifle sling to free her hair which she then whipped up into a quick braid to keep it out of her face.
“My hands are killing me. I can’t grip anything. Would you run back and see if you can find something that would numb them? Something that would be a local. No morphine or valium or anything like that.”
“On my way,” she said, turning and dashing back up the road, Dog running at her side.
I looked around at the quickly assembling throng and didn’t waste a moment detailing several men to unload the trucks and organize the weapons. I was mentally cataloging and prioritizing what else needed to be done when a loud horn sounded from behind. I turned to see the largest forklift I had ever seen approaching down the highway with a huge, steel shipping container held a few feet off the ground in its forks. Behind it were three more forklifts with similar burdens. I trotted over to meet the one in the lead, stepping up on the side of the massive vehicle that was driven by Jim Roberts.
“Where do you want it?” He shouted over the roar of the diesel engine.
“Smack in the middle of the intersection, running east and west.” I shouted back, pointing at the location and gesturing with my bandaged hand. Jumping down from the forklift I stood back and watched as Jim dropped the first container on the asphalt. The first piece of the wall, 40 feet long, 10 feet high and 10 feet deep was in place. I saw Jim raise a walkie talkie to his mouth and less than a minute later three more containers were in place and we had 160 feet of wall in place. The forklifts spun around and charged back towards the rail yard. The men were still unloading the truck and organizing the cargo and I walked over to the large crowd and raised my hand in the air. They went quiet and pressed forward to listen.
“Glad to see all of you here!” I shouted. “We have about two hours at most bef
ore the first infected start arriving and a lot to do to get ready. First, I need everyone experienced with a military rifle to move over by the deuce and a half.” I pointed at the truck and about 300 people separated themselves from the main group and moved to the area I indicated.
“OK, next we need about a thousand sand bags.” Immediately a heavy set man stepped forward from the front ranks of a large group of boys. A quick look at their jackets and I realized it was a high school football team.
“We’ve got that,” he said. “Where do you want them stacked?”
“To the right of the stacks of weapons.” I pointed, he nodded and trotted off with 80 football players at his back.
“We need ladders to get to the top of the containers.” An early middle aged woman stepped forward.
“I’m Jess. I’m the manager of the Home Depot right there. Lots of ladders. Follow me!” She turned and headed across the parking lot, a couple of dozen people falling in behind her.
“Radios. Walkie Talkies. We need at least 30, all on the same frequency.” I called out to the group.
“I own a CB and Ham radio shop. Got you covered!” An elderly man headed for his car at the far side of the parking lot and a couple of women joined him to lend a hand.
I spent another couple of minutes detailing groups to collect water and medical supplies, then the second truck arrived and the men that had just finished unloading the first one immediately set to work. Four more containers showed up a minute later and our wall doubled in length. Stepping over to the group that had served in the military I shouted out asking for NCOs – Non Commissioned Officers or Sergeants – and was rewarded with about 30 raised hands. I waved them forward to where I was standing.
“We’ve got,” I turned my head and did a quick count of crates and did the math. “Looks like 750 rifles. I want to put 500 on the wall along with our two M60s. Each of you grab 25 shooters and make sure they seem to know what they’re doing. As soon as the sand bags and ladders are here, get them a rifle and have them grab a sand bag on their way to the top of the wall.” The sand bags would be rests for the rifles and hopefully improve the shooters’ accuracy. “Doesn’t look like there’s enough bodies, so start picking people you know that can shoot to fill out the ranks. Get going!”
“You six stay with me.” I pointed at six older men who were standing closest to me. Two of them had globe and anchor tattoos on their forearms. I might crack jokes but I’d never turn down help in a fight from a Marine. The other four were from the same generation but didn’t have the look and when I asked found that two were retired Navy CPOs, one retired Air Force and the other had been in the Coast Guard.
“We need a 250 man ready reaction force,” I said and the two Marines quickly nodded understanding and agreement. A reaction force is held in reserve to swiftly move into an area of the battle where there is a risk that the front lines will be overwhelmed. It can often mean the difference between victory and defeat. “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta.” I pointed at each one of them in turn as I said the designator for their piece of the reaction force. Having made a very spur of the moment assessment I assigned Navy as Alpha and Bravo which would be the first units I called if we needed to use them. I expected them to have the least experience in a firefight and be the least effective so I’d throw them into the grinder first. My two Jar Heads were Charlie and Delta. Again the two Marines nodded their understanding of what I was doing and the four of them set off to start rounding up shooters. I was left with the AF and CG non-coms and assigned one to put together a group to load the lose ammo into magazines. I had the other oversee the filling of the sand bags, and when the football team was done with that he would conscript them to be ammo runners for the shooters, collecting empty magazines for the crew doing the loading and delivering full magazines back to the top of the wall.
Everyone was scurrying around and I was surprised how quickly all the people had jumped in to help. Of course they’d all had a couple of weeks of the apocalypse to get used to the idea that everyone needed to pitch in if anyone wanted to survive. Besides, there was a reason Tennessee was called the Volunteer state. More containers arrived and were quickly placed. The forklift drivers showed their skills, maneuvering the large containers into place with an apparent ease that I knew only came from years of experience. The wall was quickly spreading out and I was starting to feel a tiny little glimmer of hope, but reminded myself that the containers were only 10 feet high and we still had a lot of work to do and almost no time to do it in.
Ladders started arriving and were put in place to give access to the tops of the containers. Grabbing one of the men that was heading back to get another ladder I told him to find as many cans of white spray paint as he could get his hands on, then sent him running. My plan was to have 500 shooters spread along the top of the wall, each shooter needing about five feet of space, so I needed 2,500 feet of wall completed before the infected arrived. I did a quick count and came up with 16 containers, or 640 feet. Wanting a look I strode to the closest ladder and climbed, grimacing at the pain as I gripped the rungs. As I reached the top of the ladder and stepped onto the roof of the container a rumble of thunder sounded behind me. I turned and while I couldn’t see the clouds in the dark sky I could see the play of lightning through the clouds. Shit. All we needed right now was a storm. I turned back to the south and looked down the highway. No infected were in sight, but I knew that wouldn’t last long.
Chapter 31
I spent a couple of minutes on top of the container, watching Wilbur James and his grandson carry the two M60 machine guns up a ladder. They set them up to bracket the highway, each one settling in about 75 yards on either side of me. I nodded my approval and as each of them started working with a couple of teenagers they’d brought along to act as gun crews I turned to look back to the north. Four more containers were arriving and the forklifts split when they reached the wall, two going to the right and two to the left. Another four containers. Another 160 feet. Two vehicles with red and blue flashing lights were fast approaching and I climbed down the ladder to meet them as another rumble of thunder, closer this time, rolled over the town. The air felt heavy and charged with energy and I expected we were in for a hell of a storm.
When I reached the ground an ambulance led by Sergeant Jackson pulled to a stop. The driver side door of the ambulance opened, activating the dome light, and I could see Rachel and Dog climb down out of the vehicle. A large pickup truck that I hadn’t noticed pulled in next to the ambulance and the driver, one of Jackson’s officers stepped out and waved me over. Curious I went to the back of the vehicle where he was standing and couldn’t suppress a big grin. In the bed of the truck was a crated 60 MM mortar and half a dozen crates of mortar bombs. The officer was smiling too and used his night stick to break off the lid on one of the crates of bombs. The crate held 20 HE – high explosive – bombs nestled into wooden cut outs and padded with shredded cardboard.
“Thought you’d like this,” he said, looking at the grin on my face.
“You have no idea,” I said, pointing at a spot 100 feet behind the wall and in the center of the highway. “Can you put it all right there?”
“You got it,” he said and jumped back into the truck to move the weapon to the middle of the street.
Dog had trotted over and was nudging my hip with his head. I absently scratched his ears and turned as the man with the cans of spray paint came running up, pushing a rattling shopping cart half full of spray cans.
“Where?” He shouted to me without breaking stride.
“By the ammo supply.” I pointed. “Grab someone to be ready to help you and stand by. We need a few more containers first.” He nodded and ran to where I had indicated, pushing the cart to rest against the tall tires of the truck, then looked around for someone who wasn’t doing anything.
A screech of tires sounded in the parking lot and an aging Buick came to a stop. The man that owned the radio shop waved from behind the windshield the
n he and the women who had gone with him jumped out and started loading up their arms with stacks of walkie talkies from the trunk. He walked over to me and I picked two of them, handing one to Rachel.
“Sorry it took so long. We put batteries in each one and set them all to the same frequency. They’re ready to go.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Hammond!” I shouted to the Coast Guard NCO who was making sure the football team was stacking the sand bags neatly as they were filled. He trotted over and I pointed at the radios and told him to make sure each NCO received one. He nodded, grabbed one for himself and waved for them to follow as he set off to get our communications distributed.
“Alright, in the ambulance.” Rachel said, grabbing my left arm and pulling me towards the vehicle. She led me to the back and opened the doors, climbing up inside and sitting on a padded bench that ran the length of the wall. I joined her and Dog jumped up as well, giving Rachel a look when she kicked him out and made him wait on the ground just outside. Rachel opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of medical scissors that she used to cut the bandages off each hand. Thunder rumbled louder while she worked.
“I’d better do something to waterproof these when I re-bandage,” she said without pausing in her work. “Sounds like we’re about to get soaked.”
Bandages off she examined my wounds under the bright lights in the back of the ambulance and nodded to herself. From another drawer she produced more antibiotic ointment which was liberally smeared onto my wounds. Standing up she dug through her pocket for a key she used to open a couple of locked drawers. Leaving the key in the lock she picked through and pulled out two different syringes wrapped in paper and a couple of different vials of liquid, one clear and one cloudy and yellow. While she was getting what she needed Sergeant Jackson walked up to the back of the ambulance and stood next to Dog.
