“You got it.” The engineer turned back to the console, and began to slow down.
Kowalski hung out the door and raised his rifle, scanning the area. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything moving up there,” he said. “And unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, looks like there is a nice lakefront resort in our future.”
“God knows we’ve earned it,” Bretz added.
The soldiers all checked their weapons, readying themselves for one more sweep once the train stopped. Bill screeched the vehicle to a halt right in front of the three-story resort. A billboard facing the tracks boasted Hope Full Service Resort!
“I guess it would be too much to hope that the masseuses are still around?” Baker joked.
“Yeah, you’re going to have to take care of that happy ending all by yourself,” Kowalski quipped, and then raised his hand. “On that note, I call not bunking with Baker.”
Bretz and Johnson hit the ground first, doing a quick sweep of the immediate area as the rest of the soldiers leapt down, save Kowalski who carefully climbed. Bill walked to the door and sat down, letting his legs dangle over the edge.
“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” he declared. “Just make sure y’all don’t forget me once you clear the place.”
Kowalski snorted. “Don’t worry mister record holder, we won’t forget you.”
Kersey led the group across the parking lot, everyone at high alert. There was no movement anywhere, not even a single car parked there. They reached the front doors, and he motioned for Johnson to deal with the lock.
The Private knelt in front of the lock with his picking tools, and fiddled with it for a moment before stopping and leaning back on his haunches.
“What’s the problem?” Kersey asked.
He shook his head and opened the door that had been unlocked all along. “Gotta love small towns.” He held it open with a flourish, waving his teammates inside.
The front lobby was massive—a huge open concept with a hunting theme. Animal heads dotted the walls, various fur skins lining all of the furniture. The soldiers fanned out, surprised not only to find no zombies, but no signs of any struggle whatsoever.
“This is a hell of a nice place,” Mason said.
Kowalski poked a stuffed bear head with the barrel of his gun. “As long as you’re not a member of PETA.”
Johnson moved into a room off to the side and then emerged almost immediately, a huge grin on his face. “It’s clear in here, and there’s a restaurant. With a full bar!”
“Hallelujah!” Baker exclaimed.
Kersey flopped down on a cow-skin couch in the lobby and put his feet up. “Bretz, can you go get Bill? I think we’re in good shape here.”
The Corporal nodded and headed back outside to collect the engineer.
“Johnson, Baker, Mason, I want you to do a sweep of the rooms, make sure every inch of this place is zombie-free,” Kersey said, and the three soldiers nodded, heading up the stairs quickly.
The Sergeant rubbed his hand down the black and white upholstery. “Little odd for my tastes, but if it works for you, have at it,” he muttered, shaking his head. He raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Heartland base, please respond. This is Sergeant Kersey.”
There was a pause. “This is Heartland base, we read you loud and clear Sergeant Kersey.”
“I have a priority alpha message for General Stephens,” he said, and then waited while the operator informed him they would get him the General. He wrinkled his nose, more than a little creeped out by all the decapitated animal heads staring at him. He avoided the gaze of a snarling wolf.
“Sergeant, please tell me you have good news,” Stephens came through the radio.
“Yes sir, we have cleared the path through Missoula and are currently in Hope, Idaho,” Kersey explained. “Ninety miles from Spokane.”
“How much further are you going to be able to push on?” Stephens asked.
Kersey took a deep breath. “Realistically general, this is as far as we can go without significant backup,” he admitted. “We’re going to be hitting civilization soon, and we can’t risk compromising our current position. It’s a good staging area for the Spokane assault.” He paused. “How soon can we expect our reinforcements?”
“I don’t have a specific timeline for you,” the General admitted, “but three, maybe four days for the train convoy to reach you/”
The Sergeant let out a deep sigh of relief. “There’s no rush on our part,” he assured him. “We’re all beyond exhausted and could use an opportunity to rest up. Oh, and when the convoy gets going they need to contact us. There are a few things they’ll need to be aware of on their trip up.”
“I have to say, Sergeant,” Stephens began, “you have exceeded any and all expectations I had for this mission. The speed at which you completed it, and all without a single casualty among your men. You should be very proud.”
Kersey smiled. “I am, and I appreciate the compliment.”
“Kersey, I need you to be frank with me.”
The Sergeant leaned forward, brow furrowing. “Yes, sir?”
“Do you feel like you are up to the task of leading the assault on Spokane?” Stephens asked.
Kersey blinked at the mouthpiece for a moment before responding. “You want me to be in command of a thousand men?”
“Not just be in command,” the General amended, “but draw up and lead the operation.”
The Sergeant flopped back against the couch, mouth agape. “I… with all due respect, that sounds like a huge step up.”
“I’ll be blunt,” Stephens said immediately. “This virus hit our command structure hard. We’ve lost well over half of our leadership, and some of those who are still in charge aren’t equipped to deal with this new type of battle we’re waging. You have proven yourself more than capable in combating the enemy, and if you feel as though you’re up to the task, I will give you the opportunity.”
Kersey drew in a deep breath. “Yes, sir. I can handle it and won’t let you down.”
“At this time, I’m giving you a field promotion to Captain,” Stephens declared. “In a few days time, you will have the command of a thousand troops for the assault on Spokane.”
“Thank you… thank you General,” Kersey stammered, still stunned.
“Don’t let me down, Captain,” Stephens replied.
The new Captain sat up ramrod straight and nodded. “I won’t, sir.”
He stared at the walkie-talkie in his hands long after it went silent, stock still on the hideous couch until the trio thundered back down from upstairs.
“Hey Sarge, we’re all clear here,” Johnson bellowed. “Everyone’s gonna get their own room, too!”
They approached the stunned soldier, who didn’t move or acknowledge their presence.
“Sarge?” Mason asked as Bretz returned with Bill in tow. “You okay?”
“Huh?” Kersey snapped out of his reverie and shook his head, setting down the radio. “Yeah, sorry. The General just threw me for a loop.”
Bretz approached, brow furrowed. “What’s going on, Sarge?”
“Well for starters, it’s now Captain,” Kersey said, and his men erupted into applause. He scratched the back of his head as they hooted and then put his hands up to calm them down. “It also means that I’m in charge of the assault on Spokane.”
The Corporal saluted him. “Sir, I think I speak for everyone here when I say we’re behind you. We couldn’t be happier about following you into battle.”
Another round of whoops and hoots.
“So, Captain,” Kowalski said with a grin, “what’s your first order as a newly promoted man?”
Kersey finally relaxed, leaning back and curling his hands behind his head. “I think we’ve been through enough today, and we have more than enough on our plate for tomorrow,” he said. “For tonight, my orders are to secure the building, find something in that kitchen to whip up, and unlike the last bar we were at, tonight it’s a two-drink min
imum.”
The squad blew up into even louder cheers, hauling their new Captain from the couch to hustle him into the restaurant proper. It would be a celebration for them all, a minor reprieve from the hell they’d be facing soon enough. For that night, however, they had each other and they had safety and relaxation, and they were going to make the most of it by carrying out their new Captain’s orders.
END
DEAD AMERICA: THE SECOND WEEK
BOOK 6
THE NEVADA CARAVAN
BY DEREK SLATON
© 2019
CHAPTER ONE
Day Zero +11
“How much further we have to go?” Private Ortega asked, running a hand through his dark hair and squinting out the passenger window of the big rig.
Private Hickman stared down his nose as he took in the barren wasteland that was rural Nevada. “About ten miles closer than we were the last time you asked that,” he snapped.
“No need to get bitchy,” Ortega growled. “I’m just trying to stay on top of things.
Harlan clucked his tongue, not taking his eyes off of the road. “Now now kids,” he said brightly, “if you don’t cut that out I swear I’ll turn this truck around.”
The two soldiers chuckled, tense mood evaporating, and Hickman spread out the haphazardly folded map a little more across his lap.
“Now, that being said,” Harlan continued, “are we close to a town or anything? We’re still running real low on fuel. And I don’t know about you, but I could certainly go for a room temperature energy drink right about now.”
Hickman pursed his lips and studied the map closer, tapping it with his finger. “Looks like there’s a little town called Schurz a few miles up the road here,” he said. “But god only knows if it’s going to be big enough to support a gas station.”
“Well, you boys better hope it does,” the driver replied, “cause if not, y’all are gonna be pushing this big bitch the rest of the way.”
As they rolled into town, they studied the handful of houses and single story buildings. There were a few cars strewn about, but no life (or unlife) whatsoever.
“Well, this doesn’t look promising,” Hickman muttered.
Ortega shook his head. “Looks like this town just up and vanished.”
“Or, given the size of it, this town could be in the midst of rush hour,” Hickman scoffed. “Not sure we could tell the difference.”
“There we go,” Harlan said, pointing to a large gas station sign on the horizon. “Thank fucking christ.” He pulled up alongside the lone diesel pump off to the side.
“Hang tight while we sweep the area,” Ortega instructed, readying his gun.
The truck screeched to a stop and the two soldiers hopped down from the cab, giving the immediate area a once-over. It was as clear and barren as the rest of the town.
Ortega waved for their companion to join them, and then turned to his partner. “You want to check around the back of the building for the generator? I’ll check the inside.”
“Yeah, I got you,” Hickman replied, and jogged off.
“Hey, pick me up a few of those energy drinks,” Harlan inclined his head to Ortega. “Original flavor, none of that fruity shit.”
The Private gave him a thumbs up and strode towards the convenience store. Just as he reached for the glass door, a few zombies smashed into it from the inside. He leapt back and raised his weapon, but the door held fast, locked.
“Sorry, but looks like you’re going to have to go without,” he called over his shoulder.
Harlan wrinkled his nose. “Motherfucker.”
Ortega peered in through one of the windows, taking stock of the store. There were nearly a dozen zombies inside, all very excited to see a fresh meal through the glass. Hickman came back around the corner and had a look for himself.
“Don’t worry bud, we’ve got you covered,” he waved to the driver.
Harlan grinned. “My man!”
“You really want to risk our lives for some energy drinks?” Ortega raised an eyebrow.
“No, but if we want the gas, we’re going to have to get inside,” Hickman explained, “because the generator switch is in there.”
Ortega sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course it is.” He stepped back from the window. “So, how do you want to play this?”
“If we both start shooting from here it could cause a rush and overwhelm us,” Hickman replied, stroking his square chin.
His companion cocked his head. “Wanna do a little yo-yo?”
“Uh, sure?” Hickman replied, pursing his lips in confusion.
“We yo-yo them,” Ortega repeated, holding up his hands. “You get around to the other side, fire off some rounds and take a few out, then when they get to your side, I do the same. While I’m shooting, you come around to this side, and we have plenty of time to finish them off.”
Hickman nodded thoughtfully. “All right, I can dig it,” he said. “You keep ‘em occupied while I get in position.”
They shared a fist bump and split up.
Ortega stood in front of the glass door, waving and pounding on the glass. “Yeah, you fuckers want to turn me into tacos, don’t ya? Well that ain’t on the menu today!” He peered past the significantly more excited zombies and saw Hickman through the other side in position. At a thumbs up, Ortega ducked behind the brick, out of the way of the glass.
His partner took aim from the other side of the store, firing into the window in front of him. The glass shattered, and a zombie’s head exploded like an M80 stuffed inside a cantaloupe. The mini-horde turned their attention towards the shooter, grunting their delight at the broken barrier between them and a fresh meal. Hickman took the opportunity to fire several more rounds, easily dropping half of them onto the now blood-soaked floor.
As they reached the halfway point, he yelled for his companion, and Ortega leapt out from behind the wall. He took aim at the back of the group and pulled the trigger, destroying the window on his side and taking out his enemy’s head. He lined up another shot and another, taking out two more, while Hickman fired again into the confused group of corpses.
After ten seconds of sustained shooting the store fell silent, a pile of rotted flesh seeping goo across the linoleum tiles.
“Yo-yoing, huh?” Hickman commended as he strolled around to his partner’s side. “You need to patent that shit and sell it back to the military. That needs to be in the new field manual.”
Ortega snorted. “With my luck, they’d think it was a great idea and want to drop me into every godforsaken place to implement it.”
“Because that would be a huge change from our current predicament.” Hickman rolled his eyes.
His partner couldn’t help but laugh. “True fuckin’ story, bro.”
“I’ll check behind the counter for the switch, if you want to get our chauffeur his energy drinks,” Hickman said, motioning with his thumb.
“I heard that!” Harlan barked. “And just a fair warnin’, you call me chauffeur again and I’m gonna start callin’ you Miss Daisy!”
The soldiers chuckled.
Hickman cocked his head. “Fearless leader, then?” he asked.
The driver put a hand to his chin in mock thought, and then raised his hands in the air. “I humbly accept your designation.”
The duo stepped through the broken bay window and into the store proper. Ortega danced around the thick blood creeping across the floor to scan the long-dormant coolers on the far end.
“You want anything?” he asked.
Hickman stepped over a corpse behind the counter. “I’ll take some water, and some nacho chips if there are any left,” he replied, and felt around under the register for some kind of switch. He knelt down and found it, labelled clearly, and flipped it. A low rumbling started up on the other side of the far wall, signifying success.
Ortega emerged from the window, arms full of snacks and drinks, and furrowed his brow at the sight of Harlan struggling with the pu
mp.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Fuckin’ thing ain’t workin’,” the driver replied brusquely. “I’m squeezin’ the handle and it’s comin’ out dryer than an eighty-year-old’s cumshot.”
Ortega winced. “There’s a visual I could have done without,” he muttered, and then popped his head back inside. “Hey, the pump ain’t working.”
“Well it’s on,” Hickman replied with a shrug.
“See if there’s a secondary generator,” his partner suggested. “Or maybe the pump isn’t turned on?”
Hickman ducked back behind the counter again, searching for more switches. He found the board for the pumps, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. He pulled a post-it note off of the board and walked over to his companion, sticking it to his chest and walking right on by without another word.
Ortega tilted his head and stared down at the note, reading First diesel delivery on Friday!
The Private sighed. “Fucking hell.”
Harlan cocked his head as the soldiers sauntered over to him, and dropped the nozzle at the sight of their forlorn faces. “We fucked?”
“Yup,” Hickman replied, and pulled out his map, holding it up against the grill of the truck. “Okay. We’re here, and it’s just a straight shot up the highway to Yerington.” He pointed to the paper.
Harlan nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what, twenty, twenty-five miles?”
“It’s a good a guess as any,” Hickman replied. “The high school is on the north end of town, so right as we come in. According to our intel, that’s where the survivors are.”
Ortega cracked open the beverages and handed them around, taking a long swig of his water as he studied the map. “We going to have enough fuel to make it?”
“We’ve been ridin’ on empty for a while now,” Harlan said. “There might be enough fumes in there to get us to town. Only thing I can guarantee is that we ain’t goin’ much further than that.”
Hickman took a deep breath and folded the map. “This is such a well thought out operation.”
“Hey, I’m doing the best I can, here.” Harlan bristled.
Dead America: The Second Week Box Set [Books 1-6] Page 35
