“There is nothing more terrifying than the unknown,” Vir thought aloud. “Even biters can seem ordinary when you’re expecting them. In the small, still moments, we create our own demons.” He drummed his fingers on the table and shrugged.
“Poetic. But I can see where you’re coming from. We’ve got a couple hundred people accustomed to their own private space, their own recreation, living in packed quarters for damn near a decade. Bound to be some friction there.”
“No turnover means they’re not particularly worried about uninvolved members of their crew picking up on anything untoward. What’s the standard process for returning salvage crews?”
Larry finished the bite he was working on and said, “Easy enough. Vehicles drive in, go to the warehouse, and unload. Haggle over their share and complain, usually.”
“Any chance Buck involved someone in the warehouse?”
“Piper’s a pain in the ass, but he’s not that type of pain if you follow me. He runs a tight ship.”
“We’re missing something,” Vir said. “I don’t have the basis of understanding. Is there anything from when you were doing runs you can think of that would be a possibility?”
“How well do you know Charlie Maddox?” Larry asked suddenly.
“Just in passing,” Vir said. “Why?”
Larry nodded across the cafeteria. “He’s eating by himself. Let’s pick his brain.”
Bemused by the proceedings, Vir followed Larry as the other man returned his used utensils and tray to the dishwashing station and moved to the table where Charlie Maddox sat. He was an average-sized man, clean-shaven with plenty of white in his otherwise dark hair. He sat hunched over his tray of food and the intensity he exuded in this relatively mundane task was striking. Vir wasn’t the only one who felt it; the table was almost entirely empty, and the people who sat there had moved as far away from Charlie as possible.
Foregoing a greeting, Larry sat down opposite Charlie. Vir paused to see if the other Deputy would introduce him. When no introduction was forthcoming, he followed suit and sat down, leaving a single seat between Larry and himself. The three men described an almost perfect equilateral triangle over the surface of the table.
Charlie lifted his eyes and glanced at Vir and Larry in turn, but kept chewing. After he swallowed, he said, “Help you?”
Vir knew at some level that many of the survivors referred to the man in front of him as Quiet Charlie. He’d always assumed it was because he preferred not to speak. When Vir heard the tortured, rasping whisper his throat produced, he understood that it was not a preference but an adherence to the reality of the situation. Vir considered the worst sore throats he’d ever experienced and imagined that they paled in comparison.
“Charlie, meet Vir. Miles recruited him in as an undercover deputy.”
Charlie’s eyes flickered over to Vir with an almost audible click, and for the first time, Vir felt that the man was looking at him. “Pleasure,” Vir said. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”
The other man grunted and took another bite of stew. He gave Larry a thoughtful look, then cocked his head to one side.
Larry must have been around him long enough to pick up on his nonverbal shorthand, because he said, “Got a bit of a situation. Maybe you’ve heard.”
Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. “Lockdown. Panic attack.” Annoyance flashed over Charlie’s features. “Needed to go somewhere.” He frowned as he looked at Larry. “What you need?”
“Information,” Larry said. “You’ve heard about the meth problem?”
Charlie shrugged. “Some.”
“We have at least part of the structure. We know who was bringing the ingredients in for the processing. What we can’t figure out is how they did it with no one noticing.”
“Who?”
“Buck and his team.”
Charlie grunted, and Vir sensed it was out of surprise more than anything else. Perhaps that makes the betrayal all the more stinging, knowing that he was so respected.
“Jim?”
“He’s clean, he runs a tight ship.” Larry’s voice turned accusatory. “You know this.”
Charlie shrugged, then grimaced. “Yeah.” He sighed and stared down at his plate. Finally, he looked back up at Larry. “Need a vehicle for half a day. No questions asked.”
“Charlie, for God’s sake, this isn’t a negotiation. I was hoping you’d give us some information out of the kindness of your heart. There are three people in the clinic right now cause of this crap. We need to put a stake in it, once and for all.”
“It’s important,” Charlie said, wincing as he put too much emphasis on his reply. “Wouldn’t ask, otherwise.”
Larry stared at him for a long moment then sighed. “Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”
Charlie seemed satisfied with the answer. “Hidden lockers. All trucks got ‘em.” He shrugged. “Extra space, at first. Jim got pushy on salvage cut. Start hiding best stuff.” He took a long drink. “Show you?”
Larry’s voice was furious. “You bet your ass you’re showing me.”
It took him a moment of searching with his cheek pressed up against the fender, but Charlie found it.
He pulled away from the truck and let the concealed panel fall via gravity. The knobby, off-road tire interrupted the short arc of its travel. Larry didn’t quite shove him aside as he moved in to look, but he was none to gentle about it, either.
On a general level, Charlie got it. All the salvage teams had sort of a Three Musketeer credo. They did what they did for the good of the community. But in a world without paychecks or Christmas bonuses, sometimes a man needed a little more motivation to get up and get going in the morning than three hots and a cot.
When it came to his own crew, Charlie was actually quite strict about the whole thing. If they found a nice bottle of scotch, for example, it didn’t go in their compartment unless it was already open. Intact seals were for the community. And while he had a strict ‘no guns’ policy, he didn’t care much if his guys topped off their own personal supplies of ammunition while searching. Hell, they’d most likely be drawing them out of stores, anyway, so it wasn’t shorting the community. When it came to guns, though? Firepower was too narrow a line to cross. Despite what they’d scrounged over the years and what Larry and Pete had seeded the community with, there’d never been enough to go around. Springs and firing pins broke, pieces wore out, and — although rare — things were even lost from time to time. New acquisitions provided spare parts or even full replacements for weaponry that was wearing out without the benefit of a robust, modern supply chain. Maybe that’s something the return of the Army will alleviate in the future. For now, though, the point was moot. They made do with what they had or could find.
Charlie backed away from the truck and pulled a green canvas duffel bag with him. He cocked an eyebrow and handed it to Larry.
The bag clanked and rattled as he set it on the ground beside the truck. “Anyone take an interest in what we’re doing, yet?”
Vir had his back to the entire proceedings, keeping a look out. He turned. “None that I can see,” he replied. “You should be good if you make it quick.”
Larry unzipped the bag and threw it wide. A broad assortment of goods filled the bag, all in high demand.
Vir made an amused sound in his throat. “They must have raided the house we holed up in while I was upstairs doing recon. Ballsy of the buggers. Surprised they didn’t nick Grandma’s bloody silverware.”
Charlie grunted his own laugh and studied the contents of the duffel. There were a few full — and sealed — bottles of Jack Daniels, a carton of cigarettes, lighters, a shiny revolver of some sort with requisite boxes of ammo, and an odd-looking black monstrosity that Larry teased out of the bag with a low whistle. “Damn,” he said in admiration.
Charlie frowned as he studied the gun. It was bigger than a pistol, with a short barrel that just jutted past the short, black hand guard rail that surrounded it. A massive, curved magaz
ine jutted from the receiver, while a collapsed stock lay against one side of the weapon’s frame. Charlie revised his estimation of the weapon’s size as he mentally added the stock to its length and saw its evident mass as Larry turned it over in his hands and gave it a quick inspection. The bore of the barrel, he noted, was bigger around than his thumb.
“What in the bloody hell is that?” Vir exclaimed.
“This, my friend, is a VEPR-12, but it looks like somebody had some nice work done before Z-Day and had the barrel shortened a tad. It’s a design off of the AK platform, but it’s chambered in 12-gauge instead of the regular Russian calibers.” Larry dug through the duffel a bit more and came up with several more magazines. “Twelve shells per mag, semi-auto.” He grinned. “Kind of wanted one of these since I ordered one for a guy back when I had my shop. Shame I have to turn it into the warehouse.”
“You shouldn’t do that at all,” Vir mused.
Larry turned and gave Vir a confused glance. “Why is that, exactly?”
“The moment we turn any of this into the warehouse, you know the rumor mill is going to go into overload. Our dealers will hear about it and realize that you found their hidden stash. They’ll be in the wind.”
“Maybe.”
“This calls for some sort of stakeout, right? As far as they know, Buck and his boys filled a supply order before things went to hell.”
“How could they not? With the rumor mill around here, it would surprise me if your miraculous tale of survival isn’t the highlight of the day.” Larry snorted.
“I haven’t told anyone other than Miles and yourself the complete story of what went down. No one knows that Donnie and Buck didn’t load any pseudo-ephedrine into the truck before they met their fate. I shouldn’t know anything about it, anyway, so why would I even be talking about it?” Charlie studied Vir; the man was almost bouncing in place with the thought of his nascent plan. He turned to Larry. The other man was frowning, but there was a thoughtful cast to it.
“Vir’s right,” Charlie added, and the other two men both turned to look at him with evident surprise. He shrugged. “Buck makes us look bad. I’ll help.”
“Just the three of us, then, eh, Larry? Keep everything hush, hush. Find a few convenient places to hide after it turns dark, and see who shows up.”
Larry nodded, finally. “All right.” He lifted the shotgun, then patted it on the side with a grin. “But I’m keeping this. I’m not keen on having it turned on me.”
Chapter 22
After the exhausting trip back to the survivors’ compound, Hanratty debated long and hard on how he wanted to spend his evening. Rolling out his bedroll and curling up on the grass under the LAV was mighty tempting, but it didn’t coincide with his orders regarding diplomacy and relationship building with the civilian survivors. So, once they parked the LAV, he made a demonstrative display of trust and ordered Patterson and Rivas to accompany him to the dining facility. As he led his small procession away from the wall, he winked at one of the guards and said, “No joyriding, now. I know every scratch on her.”
The guard laughed and flashed him a thumbs-up. Poor reactions last night to the contrary, some of the population seemed to be coming around. If they weren’t friendly they at least held an air of acceptance. He’d take that over outright hostility any day of the week.
The meal was simple, but filling, another variation on meat and vegetables, but well-made. Perhaps it got old for the people here, but to Hanratty, it was haute cuisine. Meal, Ready to Eat was three lies for the price of one.
He sprung it on the enlisted toward the end of the meal. As close as he was, he had no real excuse to bow out of his meeting with Pete, and he didn’t see the need to drag either of them along. In a lull in the conversation, he glanced at Rivas and Patterson and said, “Take the night. I hear there’s a halfway decent pub here.”
Rivas smirked, and Patterson blinked in surprise. “You sure, sir?”
Hanratty halfway shrugged. “It’s a secure area, Corporal. Don’t go crazy, and don’t start any trouble with the locals.” He favored them with a wicked grin. “I may consider calling for PT in the morning, mind you, so don’t overindulge.”
Rivas plucked at Patterson’s sleeve. “This is where you say ‘thank you, sir’ and stand up to leave. Thank you, sir. If I may?”
“Have at it,” Hanratty confirmed with a wave of his hand.
Neither needed him to tell them again; they collected their trays and made their way out of the building. He smiled as he watched them go. He had the sense that neither would have to figure out a way to pay for their own drinks this evening. He also felt confident that neither would be paying for it in the morning. Lack of self-control was a decided disadvantage these days. The harsh truth of the new world had eliminated that trait from the surviving remnants of the military in short order. That wasn’t to say that there hadn’t been opportunities for extracurricular shenanigans over the years. It was also more restrained than what he’d once feared based on the horror stories the instructors at the Academy had regaled the midshipmen with. Patterson would keep a lid on Rivas. I hope. There was a reason she was only a PFC, though she’d been on good behavior for the last couple of years. She only seemed to lose her marbles after she got bumped up to E3 — Hanratty had heard some of the other Marines refer to her as ‘Terminal Lance.’ If this weren’t the end of the world, she’d have been urged to move on after her first handful of non-judicial punishments.
He decided he’d eaten his fill, and rose and cleared his own utensils. Between handshakes and intermittent greetings, it took him ten minutes to make his way outside. Once he was out, his progress toward the observation post smoothed, and he clambered up the ladder and onto the platform.
Pete glanced over as he stepped up and nodded in his direction. “How was your day, Captain?” He hesitated and corrected himself, “Adam.”
“Long,” Hanratty said. “My ass hurts. Somebody’s been slacking on road repairs for the last decade or so.”
“A wise guy, eh,” Pete chuckled and wheeled over to the cot in the center of the observation post. He pulled a battered and faded .50-cal ammo can from underneath and rummaged through it for a moment. With a cry of discovery, he turned around with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black label and a pair of chipped glass tumblers. “Here, you’re going to need a snootful before you take a look at what I need you to see.”
Hanratty raised an eyebrow in surprise. In all honesty, he should decline. Someone on the crew needed to be ready to stand watch. Hell. One drink can’t hurt, right?
He pulled up a folding chair and had a seat after accepting one of the tumblers. Pete poured a generous splash into Hanratty’s glass and a similar amount into his own. He raised it and intoned, “Here’s health to you and to our Corps.” He tossed back the whiskey in one gulp.
“The Corps,” Hanratty echoed, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and tossed back his drink in the same manner. And that’s it, buddy.
Pete reached over with the bottle, but Hanratty capped his fingers over the top of the glass. “I just unleashed two Marines on your local pub; I don’t know if the only officer should be partaking as well.”
“Fair enough. I can drink yours just as well as I drink mine.”
“So, you had something you needed to tell me about?”
Pete eyed the sky and replied, “We’ve got a bit, yet. You need to see to understand, and that won’t work until it’s a bit darker. I’m guessing your drop-off was smooth. Your man Baxter has been making his rounds.”
Hanratty made a show of glancing around. “What, you have this thing wired for sound?”
Pete laughed and topped off his drink. “Nope. Just a couple of smart kids who know how to listen and fill in an old man with nothing better to do than listen to gossip and worry.”
“I hope he’s not overstepping his bounds.”
Pete shrugged. “The ones who’ll talk to him are fine with what’s done and gone or else they wouldn’t
be able to talk to him. The ones it really hit wouldn’t even notice him standing there.”
Hanratty thought back to the meal the other night and winced. “I guess I met someone like that the other night.”
“Yeah, I guess you did. Betty should be fine, for her own values of fine, of course. She had it worse than most.”
“What happened?”
Pete shrugged. “Don’t know. What I do know is, if we had let her, I believe she would have just, I don’t know, sacrificed herself. She was the only person I ever rescued who fought more to get away from us than she did the zombies.”
“Damn,” Hanratty managed. He shook his head. “So you go with ‘zombies’, too, huh?”
Pete laughed. “I blame Miles for that. I know we watched enough of those dumb movies when he was a kid. Seems like the only thing that fits, though I know I’m not the majority opinion, there.” He offered the bottle again, and Hanratty shook his head. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Troops are the same way, I guess. Brass insists on ‘infected.’”
Pete chuckled. “Brass is as brass does. Infected implies that there’s some sort of possible fix for the ailment. That ain’t happening. It’s a dumb word, but zombie is accurate. There’s not enough left to heal. It’s just dried out meat.”
“You spent a lot of time with Miles, then, growing up? I mean, he’s your nephew, not your son, correct?”
Pete nodded slowly and glanced toward the south edge of the observation platform. “Adopted him when he was eight years old or so and raised him pretty much alone.” He winked at Hanratty. “I’m a whiz with the ladies, don’t get me wrong. Just never found one that had any interest in a disabled vet with a kid.”
Hanratty raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t mean to touch on a sore point. We can talk about something else.”
“Might as well talk about it, it’s not like it’s any big secret or something. Miles didn’t have the best father, growing up. His daddy was a Marine as well. A middling one, to be sure, but my sister loved him. Thought she could fix him, I suppose.” Pete took a slow sip of his drink. He’d made a decided dent in the Johnny Walker, but there was no trace of a slur in his words. Should have taken him up on that drink. My luck, he’ll finish off the bottle and pass out before he tells me what’s got him so fired up. “He was in supply and not a combat unit like mine; I don’t know how well he’d have done on deployment. Anyway, I was home on leave, and my sister talked me into a double date one night. Long story short, my brother-in-law had a few too many and ran his car into a utility pole. I was the only one that made it, although,” he rapped his knuckles on a prosthetic. “I was not entirely unscathed.”
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