“Damn,” Victor commented. “We’re just shy of tapped out on pseudo and the customers have been getting antsy wanting to know when we’ll have more for them. What’s our move? Do you think Buck and the boys had time to get it out before it hit the bricks?”
Dantzler shrugged. “No way to tell until we check. In the meantime, I think this calls for a tweak in our timetable. How much diesel do we have stored?” Most of their ‘customers’ pilfered anything that wasn’t nailed down to get their fix, but Dantzler had a standing arrangement with Buck to cut some of his fuel allotment off of the top. They traded diesel and precursors in exchange for some of the finished product and a percentage of what the customers paid. You wouldn’t think that someone on a salvage crew would have much of a need for anything else, given the free pass they got on a lot of what they brought in. Then again, Dantzler had never seen a man exhibit such raw avarice as Buck Buckner. Well, had exhibited. Vaya con Dios, buddy.
“Just shy of ten gallons. It should be enough, but it doesn’t leave much of a safety margin,” Lloyd noted. About five miles south, in a garage already salvaged and marked as empty — courtesy of Buckner’s crew — sat a diesel Chevy Suburban. Victor and Dantzler had spent several long nights going over the truck with a fine-toothed comb and transferring supplies. The Suburban was in as good running order as they could make it, but it needed fuel.
The germ of Dantzler’s bug-out plan began when one of their customers made an interesting offer in the form of payment. He offered a bright-yellow float on a ring of keys and asked if they’d take a boat in trade. The owner had parked his boat a week before Z-Day at a marina seventy miles south, on the Ohio River. It was debatable whether it would still be there after all this time. He’d spent many a night kicking himself for jumping at such a forlorn hope. Despite that, there was a little itch in the back of his mind that whispered that this deal might just pay out. The arrival of the Marines had only affirmed to him that it was time to get steppin’.
In theory, they’d be able to get the Suburban down to the dock on five gallons. This left the other half to get the boat started and down the river until they could get the sails up. It was, as Lloyd noted, a thin margin.
“We’re not using more than five gallons in the Suburban,” Dantzler announced. “We’ll bring the bikes and kiddie trailers. If we come up short, Lloyd and I can ferry the supplies to the boat while you get the engine up, Victor. Ben can cover your back.” They had a pair of Trek mountain bikes with trailers tucked into the culvert. They’d need no more than two trips to empty the Suburban if they came up short, Dantzler judged.
Both men blanched. He could tell they didn’t like the idea, but they’d been with him long enough that they knew Dantzler’s first rule. If you didn’t like the way he ran the show, you were free to leave. That departure wouldn’t be on your own terms, nor would it include walking, but it was always an option.
“Penny for your thoughts, Lloyd?” The man looked particularly doubtful about the plan.
“Just thinking, boss. Now that the Marines are here, doesn’t that make things more stable? Couldn’t we stay, instead?”
Dantzler could fly off the handle. Hell, I’m intending to cut Lloyd loose as it is. But he was also astute enough to know that he couldn’t just do it front of Victor. It had to be organic, deniable. Acting like a tyrant showed a lack of confidence in self. He needed to save those times for when he truly needed them.
“Lloyd,” Ivan said, with exaggerated patience. “They’re already putting undercover cops on salvage crews to try and track us down. That’s when no one has gotten hurt. What happens when one of those overdose cases dies? Do you think that will make them more or less inclined to go easy on us if they find out what we’ve been doing? Besides, laying out on deck and fishing sounds a heck of a lot better than being drafted, to me. How about you?” Dantzler could see the wheels working in the other man’s head, but after a long pause, Lloyd nodded.
“I’m with you, boss.”
“All right,” Victor said, drawing out the sound in the silence. “What do you want to do in the meantime, boss?”
Dantzler thought about it for a moment, then said, “I’ll see if I can’t finagle some more diesel. If nothing else, that’s more range on the boat or more distance we can take the Suburban if the roads are too hairy. When it gets dark, I’ll cross my fingers and hope Buck got his job done before he got munched. We’ll have Ben make up one last batch with what we got left, see if we can’t round out our provisions a tad. Either way, we’re out of here after sundown, the day after tomorrow.”
Silent, they watched. They waited.
The Flesh had barricaded themselves behind walls where They could not reach. Sometimes those walls opened, and the machines of the Flesh left, but still They waited. Propagation was their primary driving directive, but as They had become more aware of their world They had also become more patient. Someday, the Flesh would be quiet, and satisfy the directive. There was no emotional attachment to this notion; it was the way of things. It would be so.
The terrain outside where so many of the Flesh had gathered was not conducive to stealth, and the Flesh were watchful. Every so often They would send less-capable or damaged members of Their society forward, to gauge the response of the Flesh.
Many of their number had gathered inside of the forest, concealing themselves away from where the Flesh might be able to see them. Some watched, and some waited, but some also prepared. Alone, with only hands for defense, the Flesh were weak, but the Flesh that remained almost never had empty hands. They could not match the tools of the Flesh, and They did not have the intellect to master those tools themselves, but there were other, simpler tools which They might use.
They had no real concept of linear time, but somehow They knew that an opportunity would soon come. Once it did, the Flesh would be one with Them. They would satisfy the directive.
Until then, They watched. They waited.
Chapter 17
They’d argued last night, and even as she’d stated her case she’d known that the fight was one she wasn’t going to win. This wasn’t a night out with the boys or missing an in-law holiday. If ever there could be a legitimate excuse for what Miles had to do, he had it here, in spades, and she felt small and a not little guilty for her fear and selfishness. Reason didn’t enter into it; this was pure emotion. Why does it have to be my family that risks everything? Haven’t we done enough already?
She’d never say those things out loud, but of course Miles understood. More than likely, he felt the same way. The measure of a person’s worth wasn’t their emotional reaction to hardship, it was their actual reaction. Any number of other people in the community would have wilted in the face of this challenge. Miles just shrugged and said, “I have to.”
It wouldn’t have been so bad if that meddling twit Norma hadn’t come sniffing around their house after the meetings died down. She’d gotten wind of what the SEALs needed, and despite assurances that future support wasn’t predicated on Miles’ assistance, she made her expectations clear.
Miles’ polite refusals to speak with her on the topic had left Norma red-faced. In a way, it was a good thing he’d intercepted the councilwoman at the door before Tish had been able to speak with her. I was ready to strangle the conniving twit just overhearing what she had to say.
Now, after a restless night, Tish didn’t know what to feel, or how to act. She settled for silence punctuated with calm looks as she watched her husband dress to venture outside the wall.
It was nothing she hadn’t seen before, of course. Before he’d become Marshal, Miles and her father had been on a scavenging team, in between other tasks such as marksmanship and self-defense training. Hell, they’d been the first team, and they’d figured out the best techniques to stay safe — much of which had been, ironically, provided by Miles’ now nonexistent passion for zombie movies — and passed those skills along to men like Charlie and Buck. They were the men who took over the reins
so that her family could be safe. So that her husband didn’t have to go out into the Wild.
The hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach was like an old friend that visited when you had plans to relax or clean house, and least desired company.
Miles pulled on an often-mended load bearing vest. He tugged at the straps in an attempt to adjust the fit and hissed in frustration at their recalcitrance. After a moment, Tish sighed and stood. She crossed the room and whispered, “Let me.”
“Thanks,” he said, his tone subdued. She straightened the straps with quick, efficient tugs until the vest lay properly across the shoulders of the long-sleeved BDU shirt he wore beneath it. He nodded in satisfaction at the fit and began securing a pair of pouches to the vest using the MOLLE straps. Tish hadn’t spent as much time in her dad’s store as Miles had, but she recognized it and knew the terminology. It was hard not to; there’d been times when overflow inventory had collected in their living room. Miles’ upper body was outfitted in gear that could have — and most likely had — occupied the shelves of her father’s store. Miles wore a pair of heavy Carhartt carpenter pants and a pair of high-ankle Merrill hiking boots. He noticed her study and winked. “If I had too much surplus gear on I’d feel like a poser.”
“The Carhartts are a bit harder to bite through than BDUs,” she commented and cocked an eyebrow.
“That, too,” Miles admitted. He opened an ammo box filled with loaded rifle magazines and began transferring them into the pouches. He took a moment to examine each and remove the dust covers before sliding them home.
Once he’d filled up with rifle magazines, he retrieved another, smaller pouch and slid loaded pistol magazines into it. He centered that one on his chest, between the first two.
“It’s a lot,” Tish said. He rewarded her with a faint smile, and for a moment she saw a flash of the gangly-limbed boy she’d played with when they still lived on base. Outside of the service their friendship would have been even more unlikely. Her father had often said, with quiet pride, that the only color that Marines saw was green. That attitude had extended, for the most part, to the families in the on-base housing. Black girl and white boy; in the end, all that mattered was that their daddies were fighting together Somewhere Else. Her father had always called it the Sandbox. To a kid, a sandbox was a pretty fine thing. Miles, Tish, and the other Lejeune children had always called it something else. “You’re going Away.”
He looked at her and his face fell. “Oh, babe,” he whispered. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
“Miles, I worried and worried every time you and dad went out the gates, but this . . . This is different. We’ve been on our own for so long, but the military comes back into our life and we start jumping on cue, again?”
“I know. I do. They weren’t here when we needed them most, so what do we owe them, really?” He shrugged. “If it were for any other reason I’d turn them down, believe me, I would. This is a game changer, though.”
“I know. But I’ve been unselfish for over eight years. Give me a pass on this one.”
Miles grinned. “Hey, this is a lot better than I was expecting.”
He snaked his way into a lightweight leather jacket that had been hanging in his closet for years. Despite the layers beneath it, Tish noted that it was actually a bit baggy. “Our daughter’s sitting on the floor outside the door. I think how bad it gets is still up in the air.”
He grimaced and pulled on the pouches one last time to ensure they weren’t loose. “Well,” he said with a sigh. He picked up his rucksack and threw one of the straps over a shoulder. “I guess it’s time to find out, isn’t it?”
The last time he’d walked outside of the walls, his daughter was too young to know the difference. As he opened the bedroom door, Miles reflected that the weight of her awareness was heavier than the equipment he carried.
Trina’s bedroom was across the hall from the master, and his daughter sat cross-legged in her own open doorway. Her head hung low, following her fingers as they traced patterns in the carpet. He came down on both knees in front of her, but she didn’t look up.
Miles put a gentle finger under her chin and raised her face up so he could look into her eyes. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she sniffled as she saw his clothing.
“Alex says it’s dangerous out there,” she whispered.
“He’s right,” Miles agreed. “But only if you’re not ready for it. Look.” He grabbed hold of his pants at the thigh and tugged on the fabric. “Nice and thick. Can’t bite through it. Same for my jacket.”
“But your hands,” she said, and the plea in her voice almost broke him, right there.
He reached into the pockets of his jacket and pulled out the motorcycle gloves. If they’d had these in the beginning, maybe a few more people who’d succumbed to bites would still be around. The stock from Larry’s store had given them a leg up in so many ways, but it had been lacking in others. But those were things that his daughter didn’t need to hear, so he put one of the gloves in her hands and showed it to her.
“See these? These are Kevlar-reinforced; that means they’re bulletproof, what are some piddly old teeth going to do to me? And see how the knuckles have armor? I can punch one of them right across the face — pow! — and I won’t feel a thing. I went outside all the time when it was a lot more dangerous than it is now.” He ruffled her hair, and she ducked away instinctively. “Where do you think Mr. Bunny came from, goofball?”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Serious?”
“Scout’s honor. Ask your grandpa if you don’t believe me, he was with me.” He thought back and added, “It’s not a fun story, but it’s a true one. Maybe one day when you’re older I’ll tell you about it. Your friend Cole? It’s a story about his daddy.”
“Only adults call him Cole, daddy,” Trina said with an exasperated look on her face. “His name is Twigs,” she corrected him. Miles couldn’t help but grin. For a moment, she’d looked like a miniature version of her mother.
“You’re right, and maybe we should call him Twigs, but it reminds us — me, especially — of his dad. And that still hurts a little. You’ll understand someday.”
“All right,” she said on a down note, and then perked up. “So will you bring me something this time?”
Miles forced himself not to give her a visible reaction. It wasn’t like there were going to be shopping opportunities. “I’ll see what I can come up with, you little con artist.” He gave her another ruffle of the hair, and this time, she didn’t duck it.
He got to his feet with a grunt; there was a tendency to forget how heavy all the stuff was when you weren’t carrying it every day. For the most part, he was running light compared to what he’d carried back in the early scavenging days, but it was still an adjustment. Miles gave himself one final mental once-over to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything, then turned to walk out of the house.
It won’t be the last time.
When he opened the door and led his family out onto the porch, someone he’d never have expected was waiting for them. His uncle had come down from the observation post to see him off, and in an even bigger shock, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Miles. “Stay safe, boy,” Pete whispered in his ear and clutched him for a long moment. “Your parents would be proud as hell to see what kind of man you’ve become.”
Miles was so overcome by the uncharacteristic show of emotion that he didn’t know what to say. Pete’s style of parenting had ranged from unamused grunts to middling heaps of praise. Finally, he managed, “You all right, you old coot?”
“Shaddup,” Pete said and shoved him away with a joking slap to the chest. “I may be old but I can still take down your scrawny ass.”
Miles grinned. This was more like it. “Keep an eye on them for me,” he said. “Larry’s liable to have his hands full while I’m gone.”
Pete nodded. “Course.” He glanced over at Tish and Trina and sighed. “Keep your head on a swivel. Don’t take anythi
ng for granted, you hear me?” He looked Miles hard in the eyes until he nodded, then said, “Good. When you get back, we need to talk. Maybe should have said something earlier, but there’s no time now. I . . .”
“Tish!” someone shouted from down the road, and the group turned to see. Frannie Ferguson was sprinting down the highway and waving both arms over her head. “Medical supplies are here!”
“Sh . . . crap,” Tish corrected herself. “I need to get down there and help sort. Trina, why don’t you hang out with your uncle for a while?”
Miles handed off his rifle to Pete and knelt before his daughter. “I’ll be back before you know it, kiddo,” he promised and hugged her one last time.
“Daddy, you’re squeezing me too hard,” she complained. He relaxed his grip and pulled back. He hoped she didn’t see the beginnings of the tears welling up in his eyes.
“Sorry. Be good, all right?” He ruffled her hair as he stood and she ducked away with a grin. Miles took his rifle back from Pete, gave his uncle a final nod, and then turned to his wife. “I’m walking that way. Want some company?”
“You bet,” she said, and they began to cut across the lawn in the direction of the highway. “What’s Pete talking about, you think?”
“I have no idea,” Miles confessed. “But I figure anything pressing enough to make him come down off of his perch is worth listening to.”
“Can you trust them? The soldiers, I mean.”
Miles shrugged. “Don’t know. They seem to be all right guys, but who knows? The military going off the reservation is a time-honored cliché in apocalypse films.” He chuckled. “Which, if anything, makes me tend to trust them. God knows the movies got it wrong more than they got it right.”
“Until, you know, zombies started walking around and trying to eat people,” Tish offered.
“Right. Of course, you could look at that as a chicken versus egg scenario.” He glanced over at her, noted the frown, and explained, “None of them came out and said it, but I got the strong sense that they have a pretty good idea where this epidemic came from, and that it wasn’t natural. Comments they walked back, or corrected themselves. Starting to say things like ‘the people who did this’ — then realizing who they’re talking to. I don’t think they’re used to having to keep that so close to the vest. I think it’s common knowledge in their circle so they’re having a hard time getting back to the concept of ‘need to know.’”
A Place Outside The Wild Page 24
