by Vohs, J. W.
Jack smiled and shook his head as Carter closed the door. “Charlotte’s got her hands full with that one. I bet you were a lot like that when you were his age.”
“I understand that he’s itchin’ fer action and adventure. Hell, his daddy died a hero, fightin’ off the infected. It’s normal that he wants payback. Now I ain’t sayin’ he’s a man grown, but he’s proved himself a good fighter, and with Curtis gone I figure it’s my job to teach the boy everythin’ I know about fightin’ and survival.”
Jack thought of his son, and even though Luke didn’t seem to need much of his father’s guidance when it came to fighting and survival skills, Jack understood exactly what Carter was feeling. “I know you’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately, and Harden’s really taken him under his wing as well. I know Charlotte really appreciates it. What she won’t appreciate is us taking him in the field, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I ain’t sure exactly what I’m thinkin’ ‘bout that yet. I know that boy is more’n ready to get the hell out of Vicksburg.” He looked at Jack with a twinkle in his eye. “And I’m just itchin’ to blow somethin’ up.”
“Yeah,” Jack said with wistful enthusiasm, “can you imagine what all that fuel will do when we blow the lines?”
“Damn right I can, buddy. Now toss on that Eskimo-coat of yers and let’s git over to the meetin’ house. I didn’t promise to be no cat-sitter; I just like watchin’ the little buggers play like the killin’ machines they is.”
After months of travelling west and engaging several dozen groups of survivors along the way, Luke’s explanation of how the former United States had fared since the collapse triggered by the outbreak was both succinct and comprehensive. The tale was also quite convincing. Luke figured that the months of cold, hungry boredom following the elimination of local infected only increased people’s desire for news. Those same factors also led to stir-craziness among the bold and adventurous living behind fortifications that seemed more like prison-walls as time passed. The first words out of Sergeant Logan’s mouth after Luke finished speaking were very similar to what the young war-leader heard every time he explained the state of the country to newly encountered survivors.
“Y’all looking for any more recruits?”
Luke managed to keep a smile from his face as he nodded. “We do have strict guidelines on who we accept, mostly concerning age, physical condition, and family-related issues. I’d also be interested in some of your artillery.” The sergeant returned the nod but didn’t say anything; Luke continued the conversation by asking, “So what’s your story here?”
“Well,” Logan began, “I might as well start from the beginning so you’ll know how this unit came to be what it is.” He took a swig from a metal flask that had been tucked away in one of his pockets. “I’m an artilleryman by M.O.S., but at the time of the outbreak I was serving as a drill instructor at Fort Sill. As the regular and reserve Army units were wiped out trying to contain the virus in the cities, Washington ordered trainees and everyone else in rear-echelon positions to be equipped with any available weapons and sent out to fight the infected. As you can imagine, they were slaughtered even faster than the regular combat forces were. By the end, the poor bastards were being sent into battle with little more than homemade spears and sledgehammers.” The first sergeant chuckled bitterly. “The irony of that was obvious when some of the soldiers using those types of weapons actually survived long enough to straggle back to Sill. That’s how I made it back to base myself.”
Logan paused long enough to take and release a deep breath as he pushed back uncomfortable memories. “Me and some of the other sergeants, and a few officers, organized the survivors; there were about five hundred of them at that point. We hid out underground while the base was overrun, living off MRE’s and anything else we could scrape up. Before all coms ceased, we learned that the whole country was infected; that’s when some of our people started to head out on their own. I don’t blame ‘em, not really; they all had family they wanted to save. None of ‘em ever came back, though, not a single damn one.”
Wyatt nodded in sympathy. “Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing—if I’d been a young man stationed somewhere far from my family. It even took some time for folks livin’ in the same place to figure out they had to stick together, work together, if they wanted to survive.”
Logan grimaced. “Eventually we were down to two hundred or so, but they were soldiers with nowhere to go, and nothing to lose. Plus, they all wanted payback against the flesh-eaters. Problem was, we didn’t have much to fight with until one of the guys suggested using big guns. Fort Sill is where the Army trained its artillery personnel, and they stored a lot of weapons on that base. Of course, there was hardly a shell to be found anywhere on post, and as far as we knew, nobody was making or shipping any more ammo.”
“Finally, a supply-sergeant, of all people, told us that he knew how to make black powder. Still didn’t make any sense, you can’t use an ancient propellant with modern shells; just can’t get the power you need. But, turns out you can turn modern gun barrels into giant shotguns if you just use a little imagination and a lot of skilled machining.”
He shared a satisfied smile with Luke and Wyatt. “Within a month, we had fifty M198 howitzer tubes mounted on trailers. Now, normally, the recoil on those tubes would destroy the trailer the first time they were fired; probably kill anyone standing nearby, too. But we modified ‘em and just turned ‘em into black powder shotguns.”
The mention of shotguns gave Luke goosebumps. “Can you explain that to me a little more?”
“Sure. A rifled shell requires a lot more explosive power to propel it through the gun tube, and that’s a problem to be solved even before you address how far you want that shell to fly. Bottom line is that a modern artillery round has one hell of a lot more power behind it than, say, a shell fired by a Civil War era smoothbore.” Logan took another swig from his flask.
“I’m following you so far . . .” Luke encouraged, anxious for the sergeant to continue.
“Anyway, flinging canister with black powder through these tubes doesn’t exactly stress the barrels much. Once everything settled down, a few months after the outbreak, we were able to come out of hiding and work on the guns; Fort Sill has plenty of shops and tools to make the kind of modifications we were interested in. We cut off the muzzle brakes and machined out breech blocks, then we just had to experiment with loads and charges.”
Luke was impressed with the soldiers’ ingenuity and determination. “This canister-ammo you mentioned, is that what I think it is?”
“If you’re thinking that it’s a bag full of shrapnel, yeah, it’s what you think it is.”
Luke whistled appreciatively. “I haven’t seen anything like that in all my travels; don’t you have trouble keeping enough powder and shot on hand?”
“Naw, we haven’t had much to do since we built the fortifications and cleared the killing zones; we have over three thousand rounds stored up.”
Luke quickly calculated the numbers in his head, almost immediately determining that the soldiers from Fort Sill had at least sixty rounds available for each gun. Obviously, more could be made if those weren’t enough. He asked a final question. “Did you guys come this way on purpose?”
“Yep. One of my squad leaders grew up here in Preston, and he didn’t have to work hard to convince us that we needed to find a peninsula of some type to fortify and defend. Things have worked out well here, but most of us are bored as hell; winter’s been a real drag.”
Luke completely agreed about the frigid season. “Utah still has a functioning weather service office; we knew that a bad winter was coming last fall. According to their scientists, all the fires around the world during the outbreak sent enough ash into the atmosphere to drop global temperatures for a year or two.”
“Or two?” Logan scowled.
“Nobody has much experience with this sort of thing. A guy from Utah told
me they’re using data from past volcanic eruptions to try to predict the impact of a very different type of ash floating up into the air. Hopefully the weather will normalize before next winter, but we should be prepared for another cold one just in case.”
“Makes sense, I suppose, but keeping an oversized company of soldiers cooped up in a tiny space like this is difficult enough without a long winter to deal with.”
Luke offered a knowing grin. “I’ve got a solution for you.”
Jack and Carter found Captain Harden sitting near a roaring stove with two men they’d never met. One of the strangers looked to be somewhere in his fifties, while the other might have been half that age. Both men were greedily slurping from mugs of steaming hot coffee that was becoming more difficult to locate near Vicksburg. That Harden was sharing java from his private stock was the only clue Jack and Carter needed to tell them that these two guys had important information to share.
Harden stood up and met his fellow fighters in the middle of the room, where he quietly explained. “I’ve vetted these men as best I can under the circumstances. Both of ‘em are relatively new additions to the community—came in since the battle here. The older guy’s been workin’ with long-distance salvage crews, and his boss says he’s a good worker. The young one’s been runnin’ the river lookin’ for lost family in the New Orleans area; he hasn’t found his people, but he’s brought back a lot of refugees. Between you and me, that says a lot about his character.”
Jack nodded in approval as he eyed the two strangers. “So the kid’s seen some things down around Norco?”
“Yep,” Harden whispered.
“What’s the older guy got?” Carter pressed.
Harden shrugged with one shoulder. “He claims that he worked in a refinery near Norco for over twenty years; he knows the place.”
Jack was impatient. “Let’s get on with it.”
Captain Harden led them to the chairs arranged near the stove and introduced the men. “General Smith, Colonel Jones, meet Orvil Brandes and J.J. Brett.”
The new guys stood up and shook hands with the legendary fighters before them; there was more than a little awe on J.J.’s face. Jack started the conversation. “Nice to meet you both, and unless you’re working in a military capacity, call me Jack.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
“So, J.J., let’s start with you. What have you seen, related to the refinery, on your trips to New Orleans?”
“There’s a pretty big complex there that has electric power; place is lit up like a Christmas tree at night.”
“What ‘bout river traffic around there?” Carter asked.
“Uh, I’ve seen a few small boats, but they always avoid me.”
“I’m referrin’ to tankers, the ships big enough to carry fuel out in the gulf.”
“Well, there are two huge ships docked along the shore where the electric power is working. They’ve only been there a couple of weeks.”
Jack cut in. “When did you last see those ships?”
“Three, no wait, four days ago.”
Jack liked the sound of that. “Did you see any sign that those ships were getting ready to leave?”
“Uh, like what kinda signs?”
Jack knew next to nothing about river-shipping, so he looked to Orvil for help. “Orvil, what would be some signs that those tankers were getting’ ready to head out?”
“Sorry, sir, but somebody out on the river wouldn’t know if those tankers were getting’ ready to move.”
Carter frowned. “Could ya tell from shore?”
“I think so, Colonel. Anyway, most of the transfer of fuel from the refinery to the ships would be controlled by automated processes. Maybe if you could see the shore-side of the tankers you might notice the lines being disengaged or somethin’ like that. But even then you couldn’t know if the crew had the ship ready to go. Hell, they might even need tugs to get out into the channel . . .”
“You notice any tugs nearby,” Jack asked J.J.
“There’re abandoned ships everywhere along the shores down around New Orleans—hard to tell if any of the tugs tied up to piers are operational. There weren’t any tugs near the tankers.”
Jack shared a look with Carter before turning to Harden. “Can I borrow these two for a few days?”
Harden leaned back. “Of course.” He paused for half a beat. “So can I borrow John and Tina for the mission to the Red River Depot? I’d like to revert back to our original plan—extracting the resources from that place is a huge and complicated task, but I think we’re all in agreement about what a gold mine that depot is. John and Tina have the background and experience we need for the job.”
“They might even prefer settin’ up camp at the depot,” Carter suggested. “Luke said he almost felt like a kid in a candy store with all them military vehicles and supplies, plus they’ll have a roof over their heads. I think Gracie said there was even functionin’ showers.”
“You know those two, they’ll want to be where the action is, or where they can make the most difference,” Jack replied. He locked eyes with Captain Harden. “You’re right about the depot, and you’re right about John and Tina. We can’t be putting all our eggs in one basket; I can’t guarantee that the refinery is what we think it is.”
Carter looked concerned. “Whatever it is, I’ll still git to blow somthin’ up, right?”
Harden grinned devilishly. “No doubt about that—our friends in Monroe wanted to make a contribution. They sent a couple hundred pounds of various explosives and said they figured you and Jack would know what to do with ‘em.
Joe Logan didn’t need much convincing before agreeing to consider joining Luke’s army, especially when he learned that Wyatt planned to smuggle out his incarcerated soldier when the troops headed west. The First Sergeant wanted to check with the inhabitants of Preston, but he didn’t expect any real opposition given the recent conflict over one of his soldiers, plus the fact that his troops had become increasingly sullen and unpleasant to be around since the last large pack of hunters had been destroyed months earlier. Luke made it clear that he only wanted willing volunteers, and Logan laughed out loud. “I’ll be surprised if even a dozen of my men will want to stay behind, which is good since I’ll want five person crews for each of the guns.” In less than an hour, the agreement was in place, pending one last detail: Logan wanted to bring some soldiers and train with Luke for a few days before making a final commitment.
Both Wyatt and Luke were in good spirits as they ventured back to Denison. They talked about artillery modifications, the advantages and disadvantages of firearms in a fight with the infected, the history of the long bow, and Jack’s pre-outbreak hobby making historically accurate edged weapons for people who liked to reenact medieval battles. They were a couple miles from the edge of town when Luke saw a slow moving figure shuffling through a field ahead of them. There was an edge to his voice when he said, “Stop here, Wyatt. I think we have a situation to take care of.”
The Ranger didn’t immediately see what Luke was referring to, and he was annoyed that Luke jumped out of the Jeep before it had rolled to a complete stop. “What the—?” He closed his mouth and drew his weapon when he saw what Luke was running toward—the lurching gait was a dead giveaway. Wyatt immediately knew that they had found one of the Merrill brothers.
Luke was so fast that Wyatt didn’t have a chance to provide back-up. He briefly made eye contact with the zombie from beside the vehicle before Luke swept the monster’s legs from beneath it with a lightning fast kick. A second later he had the flesh-eater pinned faced down with a knee in its back. Wyatt hadn’t seen Luke pull a blade, but a wicked-looking dagger was already pointed into the soft spot at the base of the unfortunate creature’s skull. Luke gazed at Wyatt with an expression that didn’t reflect the fact that he was in the midst of a combat-situation: he looked sad. Wyatt held the teen’s gaze for several seconds before nodding once as he lowered his eyes. The plunging steel ended the
unfortunate victim’s hungry thrashing.
By the time Wyatt crossed the twenty meters to Luke’s side, little rivulets of black blood were starting to soak into the frozen ground. “Jesus, you run faster than any man I’ve ever seen,” Wyatt panted while trying to catch his breath. He looked at the body and then turned away. “That’s Brock.”
“I figured it had to be your missing man.” Luke knew he had to keep his anger in check, but his connection to the hunters added new layers to the emotions that fueled his crusading spirit. Barnes and his virus continued to steal the lives of people such as Wyatt’s friend, and that was horrible enough, but the pain and the horror didn’t stop there. Luke snarled as he thought of Barnes, and Wyatt backed away from him.
Luke wasn’t sure what to say when he saw the fear in Wyatt’s eyes. “I get angry when I think about Barnes. You don’t have anything to fear from me.”
The older man chuckled nervously. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” He stepped back up next to Luke and gazed at the corpse before them. “We won’t be returnin’ Brock to his family; the infected ain’t allowed in the city—livin’ or dead.”
“So what do you want to do?” Luke was certain that Wyatt wasn’t going to just leave him to rot in the field.
“I’ll send a team back to bury him, and tell ‘em to keep an eye out for his brother.”
Lying in bed with Gracie that night, Luke was having trouble concentrating on his reading. His thoughts kept returning to Brock Merrill. He finally set the book aside and noticed Gracie watching him. “I thought you were asleep,” he said.
“You were fidgety,” she offered. “And you’re distractingly cute when you’re trying to concentrate.” She sat up and gently kissed his cheek. “We all had a pretty productive day—the recruitment and training is going really well, and you’ve managed not only to increase our troops but get us big-boy artillery too. What am I missing?”
