7 Sykos

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “How many ­people does this Reedley have?” she asked.

  Al shrugged. He was handsome, with lively brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong, clean-­shaven chin. And he was built. Not her type, necessarily; she was into more cerebral guys. But she imagined he would be lots of ­people’s type. And the closer to the end of the world they got, the less picky ­people would be. “Lots. Three hundred, maybe.”

  “Not a lot compared to how many Infecteds there are.”

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. He was sitting up against the side wall, legs bent, muscular arms stretched out over his knees. “Infecteds? That what you call ’em?”

  “Yes. I mean, that’s what we think they are. Infected by a virus, some kind of pathogen.”

  “I guess. We call ’em Red-­eyes. That’s what they are, too, right?”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Anyway, yeah, there are lots more of them than there are of us. But we’re organized. Smart. Well-­armed. In most encounters, they don’t have a chance against us unless they have a big numerical advantage, like back there by the Mormon church. That’s why Ben wants to get as many good ­people—­real ­people, live ones—­on his side as he can.”

  “Ben?”

  “Ben Reedley. El Jefe. We don’t have a lot of brass—­we’re all warriors first. Ben especially. But everyone knows he’s the boss. Some guys just have it, right? That air of command. Dude’s got it in spades. He was MARSOC. Marine Corps Special Ops Command. He was a Raider, so now we all are. You don’t fuck with Ben.”

  While they talked, the convoy approached the gigantic fake lodge. The road had been narrowed to one lane, so the ATVs and trucks had to advance in single file. Guards with automatic weapons scanned every face as they passed through, and Fallon couldn’t help thinking their eyes narrowed as they caught sight of the Sykos.

  Her feelings were confirmed when the pickup bearing the Sykos stopped, and one of the guards eyed them with suspicion, checking to make sure they weren’t holding a gun on Al or the driver. “They’re with you?” he asked Al.

  “Roger that,” Al said. “I saw them in combat. They’ll be a big help.”

  “We can use every gun we can get.” He shot them a toothy smile. “Welcome.”

  “Thanks,” Fallon said. “Glad to know there’s a resistance movement.”

  “To the last ounce.”

  “To the last ounce,” Al returned.

  The truck moved through the checkpoint, toward the huge store. “Last ounce of what?” Light asked.

  Al shrugged again. “Blood. Grey matter. Take your pick.”

  If that’s a motto, Fallon thought, it’s not a very optimistic one.

  Then again, there’s not much cause for optimism, is there?

  “How much territory do you actually control?” she asked him. “Seems like a lot.”

  “Bass Pro is headquarters and armory,” Al said. He waved an arm at the store’s surroundings. “But we hold the entire commercial area, including the Walmart and a bunch of restaurants. For now, those are sources of food provisions, while the Walmart also provides tools, vehicle parts, and more guns and ammo. Those locations are closely guarded to make sure nobody decides to help himself to supplies that the Raiders need. Not that we don’t trust our own ­people, but you know, when society collapses, some folks are bound to put themselves first.”

  “Sure. What about intelligence? Do you have eyes on the rest of the city?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Can’t make informed decisions any other way,” Fallon replied, undeterred, hoping her nonchalance would be enough to keep the Ranger talking. She didn’t want to seem too eager, though she was chafing to know if they could tell her where the cartel was holed up.

  “Fair enough. To answer your last one, we’re gradually expanding that capability. Cell signals and radio frequencies are jammed, as you probably know, but we’ve got troops positioned with walkie-­talkies on a frequency that still works. They don’t have much range, so we network them together—­if somebody five miles out has a report, maybe that’ll take six or seven troops in between to get that report to us here. We’re still optimizing that, but we’re getting there. We’ve also got personnel out on motorcycles and ATVs, so they can get around the worst traffic snarls and get word to us as needed.”

  Fallon looked at the big store’s immediate vicinity. Instead of high walls and bulwarks, there were acres of open space all around; the store’s vast parking lot, then cleared dirt or gravel areas surrounded by wide, empty streets. Defenders in the Bass Pro Shops building would be able to see anybody coming a long way off, and there would be nothing to shield attackers from the Raiders’ weaponry. Closer to the structure, vehicles had been positioned nose to tail, forming a wall that looked to stretch all the way around it, with the only visible gap the one they had driven through. Inside the ring were dozens of SUVs, trucks, motorcycles, and ATVs. A few big tanker trucks, Al pointed out, stored water pumped from the nearby canal. Fallon was still learning the ins and outs of combat strategy, but the layout made sense to her.

  “I have to say, it’s impressive,” Fallon admitted. Noticing numerous gas cans standing around, she added, “What’s with the cans?”

  “They’re in case Red-­eyes need to be burned, to keep their disease from spreading. You all look healthy,” he said, though his eyes lingered on Sansome. “Are you?”

  “So far,” Fallon replied.

  “That’s good. One of our missions is to seek out and execute the sick before they have a chance to turn completely. Where’d the uniforms come from?”

  Fallon had been anticipating the question. “We hit a surplus store. There were only a few of us, so we figured urban camo would be a good idea.”

  “Gotcha,” Al said.

  The truck came to a halt outside the store’s truly enormous front entrance. The Ranger grinned at her. “Last stop.” He stood and vaulted over the side, in one smooth motion, landing on the balls of his feet. Fallon climbed down more cautiously. Two trucks back, Light, Lilith, and Pybus were getting off theirs, too.

  If the outside of the building was striking in an overblown, artificial fashion, the inside took those qualities as a starting point and multiplied them. Taxidermy animals were everywhere—­bears, wolves, deer, eagles, and more. A waterfall tumbled down rocks near the center of the store, feeding a little creek stocked with live fish. The décor tried to bring the outdoors in—­or at least, an imaginary version of the outdoors, with all the good parts, but no stinging insects, no burning sun, no buffeting wind or punishing rains. It was all climate-­controlled and just a little too perfect.

  “This,” Light said as they entered, “is awesome.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” Warga added.

  Lilith, for once, was struck speechless. She regarded her surroundings with eyes wide, jaw hanging open. Even Pybus was grinning.

  “Kind of fake,” Sansome said.

  “Yes, Joe,” Fallon replied. “Real fake. But in a fun way. It’s like an amusement park for hunters and fishers.”

  “Like Disneyland?”

  “Sure, that works.”

  “I went to Disneyland once. It didn’t look nothing like this.”

  Fallon opened her mouth to respond, then realized she didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, she just let it lie there, and Sansome nodded his ravaged head, a self-­satisfied smile turning up the corners of his mouth and narrowing his eyes. She caught herself wondering if that was the last thing his victims saw right before he started in on their necks with his bow saw.

  Al’s ­people filed inside, skirting the Sykos as if they were boulders in a river that the Raiders flowed around. The Ranger and a ­couple of others had stepped to one side for a quick, hushed conversation with ­people at what had once been a customer-­ser­vice stand of som
e kind. Now he returned. “Fallon,” he said. “Reedley wants to meet you.”

  “Already?”

  “Somebody reported in about how you guys took on the Red-­eyes. He’s been waiting for you.”

  “Shouldn’t we . . . I don’t know, freshen up, or something?”

  Al snorted a laugh. “The new world order is a little short on showers. He doesn’t give a flying fuck how you smell or look, he just wants to know if he can count on you to kick Red-­eye ass.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, then. Where is he?”

  “Follow me,” Al said, and he started toward the waterfall.

  Ben Reedley waited in what had been a classroom, upstairs near the firearms department. Rows of tables had been shoved to the side, some with their legs folded under and stacked on top of one another. At the back of the room, enormous elephant tusks flanked a big, stone fireplace, curving inward like the blades of twin scimitars.

  Reedley himself was hardly less impressive. He stood well over six feet tall and ramrod straight, and his shoulders looked broad enough to carry the rest of the elephant. The arms hanging at his sides were long, roped with muscle and vein and leather straps he wore from his wrists to just below his elbows. Since leaving the Marines, he had let his hair grow past his shoulders and grown out a thick, brushy black beard. The hair softened his face a little, but nothing could disguise those eyes; narrow, with crinkles at the corners, as blue as a springtime sky, and so piercing Fallon felt punctured when he turned his gaze on her, like there was no point in trying to keep secrets because he could see more than an MRI. He was wearing a black leather vest over a brown tank-­top style shirt, cut low enough to display the tops of his massive pectorals. His gut was probably more prominent than it had been in his MARSOC days, but that didn’t lessen the sense of danger surrounding him. His booted feet were spaced well apart, his jeans worn and tight against bulging thigh muscles.

  He tried on a smile when Al ushered the Sykos in. He shouldn’t have. It looked like something he did maybe once or twice a year, then discovered he was no good at it and hid it away until the next time he was forced to use it.

  “Welcome to Raider Country,” he said. His voice was thin, almost shrill. Fallon suspected that when he was shouting orders or facing enemies, it took on a more menacing aspect. “I’m Ben.” Three other men were in the room, sitting in chairs, but compared to Reedley, they seemed almost invisible. Afterthoughts. Nobody introduced them, and Fallon didn’t ask.

  Instead, she strode up to Reedley, radiating confidence of her own. Some ­people would have been anxious, even intimidated, she knew. Even she might have been a few days ago, although meeting new ­people had never been a problem for her. Now, her gaze was steady, and the handshake she gave was as firm as the one she got. “Fallon,” she said. She cocked her head to the side. “My crew.”

  “You’re the boss lady?”

  “That’s right.

  “You must be badass.”

  “I do okay.”

  “I heard what you did against the Red-­eyes. I was impressed.”

  “Not our first rodeo.”

  “You Army? National Guard?”

  “We’re civilians,” Fallon said. She repeated her lie about the uniforms. He seemed to buy it, nodding. Those eyes never cut away from her.

  “You just out killing Red-­eyes, or you got something else going on?”

  “Is there anything else? If you don’t kill, you get killed.”

  “Way it is,” he agreed. “It’s not boring.”

  “Hardly that.”

  “There must be something else to it, though. You all in uniforms. Those guns. That hard-­line attitude against the Red-­eyes. Most ­people go into hiding. Not you.”

  Fallon could stall him all day long, but he wasn’t going to give up. She saw that now, in his relaxed posture, hands big enough to palm a basketball hanging loosely at his sides. He could wait her out. She had to give him something that would satisfy, while still keeping the nature of their mission private.

  “It’s not just killing them. That’s a good fringe benefit, but I’m looking for someone who stole something from me. Something important.” She felt the others shift behind her and knew she’d have some ’splaining to do.

  “That’s vague,” Reedley said.

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “You might have to give it up,” he said. “It’s hard to find anybody these days. And survival is a hell of a lot of work. It has to take priority over revenge or anything resembling justice.”

  “Nothing says we can’t hope for both.”

  “Hope? Sure, you can do that. It doesn’t come cheap anymore, but you can try it. In the meantime, you’re welcome to join the Raiders, if you want. The task before us is a big one, and we can use all the human beings we can get. Especially ones who know how to fight. I think we’ll win—­I’m talking straight here, so I hope you can see that. The Red-­eyes have to live long enough to spread the disease. Finding them fast and killing them early is the best way to stop its transmission.

  “But that requires constant forays. I’ve got multiple teams on patrol at all times. Law enforcement and medical professionals were among the first to go, so they’re not an option. We can’t rely on anyone but ourselves. As more civilians join us, we’re getting stronger and stronger, but we need more personnel. If the ­people don’t stand up, society’s done for. And if it spreads outside of Phoenix, then we’re all in the shit.”

  “We’re here,” Fallon said. She felt no hesitation about speaking for the team. “We’re with you.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Reedley said. “If you need new weapons, ammo for what you’ve got, anything like that, just let us know, and we’ll take care of it. We’re pretty well stocked here. We hit all the gun dealers we could, while also taking over this shop and the ones nearby.”

  “Good plan.”

  “I do me—­”

  A loud Klaxon drowned out the rest of his sentence. “What’s that?” Fallon shouted.

  “Alarm!” Reedley replied. “Red-­eyes have breached the perimeter! Let’s get you guys outfitted! You ready to fight?”

  “We were born ready!” Fallon called back. Mentally, she added, Or not quite—­but we were born predisposed, anyway. She allowed herself a quick smile as she followed Reedley from the room and into the chaos outside.

  CHAPTER 38

  19 hours

  Light wasn’t as sure about joining up with these Raiders as Fallon seemed to be, but he assumed it was only a temporary thing—­mostly because it was T minus twenty hours until they nuked paradise and made it a parking lot. And he was sure about killing Infecteds. It wasn’t the same as giving an old lady on her deathbed a little nudge to help her cross over, but they were sick, and he was putting them out of their misery. With the government’s permission and their weapons, even. Being an angel of death was turning into a pretty plum gig.

  So when he heard the alarm, he was as gung ho to man the place’s defenses as any of the Raiders whose home it actually was. The Sykos hadn’t been issued any gear yet, so once they were back downstairs, he grabbed a clip for his M249 off the long buffet table before the woman checking out weapons could do anything more than shout doubts about his paternity after him. Then he ran after Fallon and Lilith, who’d been “ladies first”ed and already had new ammo.

  The Infecteds were attacking at the same entrance the Sykos had been brought in through. Even before he got there, though, Light could tell something was wrong. Instead of the calm confidence and efficiency that had marked the gate crew when the Sykos arrived, ­people were rushing around, seemingly aimlessly, their faces tight with worry.

  “What’s going on?” he asked a blond man who was running back toward the building, maybe to get reinforcements, maybe to tell Reedley something they didn’t want broadcast over the regular channels.


  “Red-­eyes. With clubs, using cover. We need snipers.”

  Well, that left him out. None of the Sykos were that good with a rifle, except for Antonetti, and Light sincerely doubted hell would give the Italian a furlough just to come back up here and kick some Infected ass.

  Still, if it was moving, he could shoot and kill it. Might take a few shots, but it almost always did with Infecteds, so lack of skill wasn’t really a problem.

  While Fallon and Lilith stopped to talk to one of Reedley’s lieutenants, Light found an unmanned spot at the wall of vehicles. He loaded the new magazine into place, then surveyed the landscape.

  There was a mob of Infecteds coming toward the gate, but they weren’t moving en masse. The larger force held back—­out of the range of most of the guns the defenders had, hence the need for snipers—­but small groups moved forward, using almost anything for cover. Parked and abandoned cars, trees, saguaros, even low bushes. The Infecteds didn’t really seem to get the concept, though. They were like the kid who closes his eyes and thinks you can’t see him, or stands behind a flagpole and thinks the fact that the pole is between you and him means he’s hidden.

  But they’d already demonstrated an ability to evolve, or learn, or something. They were loosely coordinated now, in a way they hadn’t been that first day in the ER. Methodically searching buildings, executing pincer maneuvers, using cover and tools.

  And now weapons. Crude ones, to be sure—­heavy tree branches, broken broom handles, a baseball bat. One even had a short flagpole, the black POW/MIA flag still attached. He was the first one Light took aim at.

  His first shot went wide—­through the white head on the flag, nowhere near the head he’d actually been aiming for. He corrected, and the next shot hit the roof of the car the flag bearer’s group of Infecteds was hiding behind. One more correction—­and then another, because the Infected moved—­and then he fired.

  Neck shot. He fired again, took off the Infected’s left ear. The third shot was a direct hit, and for an instant, the POW/MIA flag was black, white, and red. And then it and the Infected disappeared behind the car and didn’t reappear.