The long stripe of white fabric — bandages, perhaps — fluttered in the breeze.
“Pete?” Gary inquired.
“Hold your fire,” Pete directed. “Keep the Brownings pointed at the sky and keep the Javelins out of sight. If we need them they’ll be our best option, anyway.” He released the transmit button, clicked his tongue in his mouth for a moment, and then pressed it again. “Stand by. I’m going to get Miles and Larry. Somebody needs to go out and talk with them. Keep the gate shut until I get there.” He lowered the walkie and gave Bruce a baleful look. After a moment, he turned and shared the look with Cara and Vinnie.
“I’m leaving the three of you up here. I don’t care how interesting that gets, you keep eyes in every other direction, get me?” He jerked a finger over his shoulder to indicate the showdown at the wall.
The three chorused that they understood. He sat there for a moment, considering, and then said, “You radio me before you shoot. You start hearing gunfire from the wall, you get the hell down that ladder as fast as you can. This observation post is a sitting duck for that cannon down there.” All three had pale faces and wide eyes.
“Yes, Captain,” Vinnie said, his voice strained. “What are you going to do?”
“What else? I’m going to walk out there and talk to them.”
Charlie and his team had finished their mission.
The rest of the houses had gone nice and easy, with no surprises or mysteries. They had, in fact, been devoid of life or unlife. The people who’d lived there had never made it home or had been somewhere else on Z-Day.
Dalton hauled a final storage tote into the school bus as Charlie and Corey took care of the fire pit. It shed ash and flakes of rust as the two men lifted it and dumped it without ceremony on a lawn. Task complete, Corey put his hands on his hips and waited. Charlie didn’t notice; his focus was on the third house on the left.
The candy bars had been gone when the sun had come up, though he hadn’t seen or heard anything more during his watch. The outcome was a disappointment, but he wasn’t surprised. Charlie had once been a man of faith, but his experiences had shaken that faith to its foundations. This was no longer a world of answered prayers if it ever had been.
Back at the settlement, one of the wall guards had been an ordained pastor before Z-Day, and he held regular church services when off duty. Many of the other survivors seemed to appreciate it and had even encouraged Charlie to attend. Those entreaties usually fell on uncaring ears. Charlie had descended into himself for a time immediately after the end. He likely would have died in his catatonic state if Larry hadn't found him and brought him back. Even after the quiet patience of Miss Val had coaxed him out of the prison of his own mind, he wasn’t one for exposing his soul.
He’d scavenged plenty of Bibles, to be sure, even a Koran for Hamid Faqir. Without so many of the distractions of modern life, and with existence rendered into the simple binary equation of survive or die, many of them had turned to any trappings of comfort they could.
Charlie didn’t know what brought him comfort. He’d never been one for deep introspection, and his difficulty speaking made using others as sounding boards harder than it had been even when he’d been more verbose. Last night, though . . .
For a while, he thought he might have found something, but this morning, that hope seemed a childish dream. For a moment, he began to doubt himself. Had he even seen anything at all?
The chocolate is gone, whispered a small, still voice in the back of his mind.
Charlie snapped into motion, unaware of Corey’s startled reaction as he went from a near-statue to a blur. He stepped up into the school bus and strode past Dalton, who cocked his head and looked puzzled.
Charlie grabbed one of the empty totes and set it on the floor. None of the filled totes had labels, so he had to open several before he started to find what he needed. Satisfied, he began to transfer items from the full totes to the one at his feet.
Half a flat of bottled water. A can opener. Cans of fruit, already-cooked fare like ravioli. Corey stepped up into the bus, loud and confused. “Dalton, what the hell is . . .” The bigger man shushed him, and Corey fell silent. Charlie paid the two no mind. He found a spiral bound notebook and he tore a single sheet out of it. He laid it on top of the stack of totes and considered what to say. Finally, in neat block print, he wrote.
I saw you last night.
We have a safe place. There are other children. Mothers and fathers.
I will come back soon by myself. Stay here. The houses are all safe right now. Hide in an attic, if you can. Watch for me.
Please.
Charlie placed the note on top of the goods inside the tote and sealed it. He bent over to lift it. Is it too heavy? His thoughts had an almost frantic quality to them, and he shook his head as though to clear them away. Anyone who’d been able to survive on their own was smart enough to figure out how to move it if it was too heavy.
Turning, he walked past his teammates and stepped down out of the bus. Charlie marched to the head of the driveway and placed the tote at the edge of the long grass surrounding the pond in the center of the roundabout. He straightened and took a slow look around. The houses were still; he saw no curtains stir, and no signs of movement.
Finally, Charlie turned and walked back to the vehicle. They’d collected and stowed all their gear; the only thing keeping them from leaving was his sudden outbreak of eccentricity. He stepped inside and shut the bifold door with the handle.
He sat in the driver’s seat of the school bus and stared forward. His hand was on the key, but he didn’t turn it. Finally, Charlie raised his eyes and looked in the mirror. Dalton ran his fingers through his beard and gave him a placid look.
“Someone is here,” Charlie croaked, and then he was silent once more. After a long moment, Dalton nodded. The look that passed between the two men was enough; no more needed saying.
With a final look out at the tote, Charlie cranked the bus to life. He pulled out, eyes forward and focused on the road.
A couple of days, and then I come back and wait. And then I’ll see.
Chapter 11
Pete eschewed his prostheses while in the nest. On the rare occasions when he saw fit to come down, the ladder was downright nerve-wracking without any sensation to give him feedback. On the bright side, the assembly of the nest had required the lifting and assembly of some heavy components. To get it done, they’d installed an electric winch and bracing on one of the grain bin catwalks. An L-shaped swivel arm with pulleys shifted the lift point to open air. While it had once been useful to lift decking and I-beams, it now made a serviceable elevator for Pete’s personal use.
The drawback, of course, was that for the 30 seconds it took for the cable to unspool, his ass hung in the breeze for all to see. When his boots hit the ground and he began to unbuckle the chest harness, a human whirlwind was waiting for him.
“Word is, the military is outside the walls and you aren’t letting them in.” Norma Benedict exclaimed as she stomped up to him. “What’s going on? Shouldn’t we let them in?”
Pete ignored her and finished removing the harness. Looking up into the sky, he waved his arms above his head. After a moment, the kids up top threw a switch and reversed the winch. After the harness was out of standing reach, he waved again for them to cut it off. This left the harness high enough to not clothesline anyone walking by, but low enough that he could have it back on in short order if necessary. Finally, he turned to Norma. “Not right away, Norma.”
A vein throbbed in her temple and she began to turn a particularly interesting shade of purple. She sputtered, “Under what authority are you basing that decision?”
Pete made it a point to study the ground. “Ma’am, my grandma raised me right, so I’ll refrain from using my adult words. Last I checked, you’re standing on my property. Now, I’ve been plenty patient and let you and yours manage the counting of the beans and bandages, so long as you’v
e remembered the fact that me and mine are what stand between you and Hell on Earth. If you’re going to forget that fact or impede my duties in any way, my patience ends.” He began to stride to the east.
Gibbering in outrage, she attempted to keep up and failed. Finally, she lowered her head and surged forward. At a brisk jog, she was able to stay near his shoulder. Despite the odd gait imparted to Pete’s movement by the prostheses, he moved well on level ground. The paved section of the county road was nice and flat between the grain bins and the east border.
“I’m sorry, Mister Matthews,” she managed as she struggled to keep up with him. To her credit, she was only a little of breath. For all her faults, no one could say that Norma Benedict shirked on work, or took more food than was her fair share. “Could you please tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Absolutely,” Pete replied. “It’s one vehicle, not ‘the military.’ It could just as well be a couple of scavengers out for a joyride as it is anyone representing an official body. As such, before we let them in, we need to determine their bona fides. That’s my job.” Without slowing his stride, he glanced down at her. “And I need you to be doing your job, not getting in the way of mine.”
She gritted her teeth but said nothing. After a moment of her silence, Pete offered, “Look, we need to get everyone back into the shelter, just in case. I don’t want any noncombatants anywhere near the wall if it comes to that. Can you do that for me?” After a moment, he added, “Councilwoman?”
The term of authority seemed to mollify her somewhat, and she drew to a stop. “Yes, yes, of course, you’re exactly right,” she said. “I’ll get right on it. Do carry on, Mr. Matthews. But please — keep the council in the loop?”
Pete resisted the urge to shake his head. “Ma’am, you’re going to be in the loop right quick with or without me telling you.”
Gary West had been a tall and skinny man before Z-Day. The hard physical labor over the years had added a layer of lean muscle mass to his frame, but he was still a bony conglomeration of parts that seemed to move just out of rhythm with one another, like an ill-operated marionette. Despite his tendency toward awkwardness, he moved with care as he carried the olive drab Pelican case out of one of the bunkers flanking the gate.
No matter how many times Pete and Larry had assured him that the contents were safe, it just felt wrong to jostle an anti-tank missile launcher.
The Javelins had been in a cache of National Guard supplies they’d come upon after Z-Day. Why they’d deployed them to the roadblocks enforcing the quarantine zones was anyone’s guess. It wasn’t like the infected drove armored vehicles.
When the roadblocks fell, the missiles remained, along with an enormous amount of useful material. The Guardsmen had gone down hard, but not hard enough. It was impossible to tell what sort of odds they’d faced, but in the end, their jury-rigged fortifications and firepower hadn’t been enough.
Most people assumed that Gary stayed on the wall out of a possessive sort of pride, having been the main driving force behind its construction. He didn’t make any attempt to change those assumptions, but for Gary, the reason was far simpler. He remembered the lesson of those fallen Guardsmen, and had no desire to repeat it. To his mind, being a little OCD about the wall was reasonable given the multitude of mental disorders in their current environment.
Gary set the Pelican case on the ground in front of Dave Wesley. Dave led the community’s Christian services on Sunday mornings when he wasn’t standing watch. “Like Pete said, Pastor Dave — get it up and ready, but keep it out of sight unless we need it.”
“You got it, Gary,” the other man responded. He knelt in front of the case, opened it, and began to inspect its contents. They’d gotten some familiarization with them from the veterans in the community, but there’d never been a need to use the things. Gary groused mentally, kicking himself for the oversight. Finally, he gave a half-hearted shrug and stepped back up onto the ladder leading to the roof of the bunker.
“How we looking, Burke?”
The other man’s voice was tight. He was kneeling behind a Browning machine gun. Other than that scant protection, he was in full view of the armored vehicle. They’d built their defenses on the assumption they’d be facing hordes of infected or raiders with guns. They’d never expected tanks. Another oversight. Gary hoped that they wouldn’t prove to be fatal mistakes.
“They ain’t moving, and I ain’t moving, either,” Graham Burke said, then gave a weak chuckle. “If my nose starts itching I may need a hand.”
“Stay cool, bud, we’re getting things together down here. Call out if you need relief and we’ll switch off.” The visitors had been considerate enough to turn the main gun turret of the armored vehicle to one side. Keeping the barrels of the Brownings up was going to get tiring, fast. Damn it, where’s the cavalry?
“Gary!” a voice shouted behind him. He resisted the urge to sigh in relief as he turned. Pete was hobbling toward the bunker along the paved road. Almost as though they’d coordinated it, Larry and Miles were approaching from the southern side of the community. He stepped off of the ladder and went to intercept them. They formed a loose circle and stared at each other. Up until that moment, Gary hadn’t considered how much their world had changed. For years now he hadn’t thought much, if ever, about seeing any sort of civilization that they hadn’t created on their own. It had been so long since anyone alive had shown up that the realization that they might not be alone was at once terrifying and thrilling.
Miles broke the ice. “Did I hear right on the radio? It’s an armored transport?”
“Looks to be that way,” Pete acknowledged.
Gary pushed his faded International Harvester baseball cap back and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t like it, fellas. Not one bit. Been a long damn time without even a peep of the military; how do we know that these guys are legit, and not just some scavengers looking for an easy way in?”
“Gary, you got a better look at it than I did, but it doesn’t look too messed up. If somebody salvaged it, they did one heck of a job making it look presentable.” Pete shrugged. “That may not mean anything, but there really is only one proper way to sound them out.”
“I’d ask what, but I have an inkling as to what you’ll say,” Larry remarked.
“We talk to them, of course, Top,” Pete said shortly. “The LAV is, or was, Marine issue. If they’re legit, you and I will know.” He thought about that for a second. “Well, hopefully. I’m sure the composition of any remaining forces is going to be a bit murky by now.”
Miles shook his head and barked, “No way. This isn’t Star Trek, Pete, and you aren’t Captain Kirk.” Larry gave a short bark of laughter.
Pete wheeled on his nephew. “Now wait just one damn . . .” He began, but Gary interrupted.
“Kid’s right, Pete. Right or wrong, you’re too important in a number of ways to risk.” The big man jerked his chin in the direction of the silos. “It’s hard enough getting the council to support the manpower requirements of the wall now, with you backing me. What if something happens to you?”
“If something happens to me you’ll have bigger problems to worry about,” Pete snapped, waving his hand at the wall. “Like that LAV blowing holes in our security.”
“They won’t get too many shots off,” Larry muttered. “Javelins are up, right?” Gary nodded. “Well, there you go, Captain. Anything happens to the greeting party, our visitors are not long for this world.”
“Larry and I will do it,” Miles said. “Should be my job, anyway.”
“No,” Pete said. “I can think of a dozen arguments against it, not the least of which is the fact that you’ve got a little girl that needs a father.”
“Oh, gee, thanks,” Gary barked. “And here I thought I was in charge of security. You decide to come down from your tower and now you’re running the show, Pete?”
“Come on, come on,” Patterson whispered. “What’s taking so damn long?” The Corporal’s head
was on a swivel, panning to the sides of the LAV and then back out the front. “They talk long enough, every infected in twenty miles will be coming over to see what the fuss is.”
“Easy, son,” Hanratty said. “Just take it easy.” He had his own eyes glued to the men standing station on the heavy machine guns. Each of them looked about as nervous as the Corporal, and they made frequent adjustments to the position of their arms to ease the strain of holding the barrels vertical. A military-issue mount would have had no problem in balancing in that position. Examining the turrets the guns were sitting on, Hanratty decided they’d made their own. After a moment, he realized why. A standard mount allowed the barrel of the weapon to rise, for anti-aircraft and plunging, indirect fire. The survivors had rigged these mounts to allow the gunners to depress the barrels of the guns. This allowed them direct fire on the ground in front of the palisade. It was a hybrid of medieval fortifications with WWII-era firepower. In modern combat against an armed, living foe, dirt was life, and had been a soldier’s best friend ever since artillery was first used in battle. Against the infected, though . . . Hanratty shuddered. He’d seen some terrible things in the last eight years, but nothing that would have called for fortifications like this. His estimation of the danger they faced rose a bit, but at the same time, so did his respect. These people had survived and even thrived. They were the exception to the rule. “Rivas,” he murmured. “Do not fire if those barrels drop. They look like they’re about ready to pass out from holding them up, and I don’t want to start an incident over a slip-up.”
“Aye, sir, check fire until I hear it pinging off the armor. Just like the Sandbox, sir.” The PFC’s voice held just a touch of snark. Other officers might have jumped on her with both boots, but Hanratty just grinned. He glanced back past Rivas at the SEALs. They looked placid, maybe even a little bored. Corporal Dylan Baxter, his own personal Voice of America reporter, was wide awake and looked curious. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Ross jerked an elbow into Baxter’s side, and the skinny Marine just grunted. Hanratty turned back before he let himself smile this time. They all understood the brass’s reasoning behind sending Baxter — it wasn’t like they had a plethora of good news. Morale was frayed, and while it might be weird to milk a community of survivors for stories, it would give the troops something to think about other than the mission and their own lost families.
A Place Outside The Wild Page 17
