Bound By Honor: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

by W. J. Lundy

  “Cabins can be rebuilt; I can’t,” he said, turning away.

  With the fire blazing behind him and the cabin filling with smoke, he moved toward the door that was now shuddering with the impact of Primals. Brad leveled the shotgun and aimed toward the top section that he knew once held a window and was made up of thinner wood. He fired three times. The first round having little effect, the second creating a hole, and the third destroying a Primal face that dared look inside. He stuck the barrel through the hole and fired until the tube was empty then quickly reloaded from the shells stuffed into his jacket pocket.

  Not hearing more of the creatures, he kicked the door outward, scrambling quickly away from the door so that the burning fire would not silhouette him. Looking down at the shattered bodies, he heard the crunching behind him and spun, looking up as two of the things leapt down from the roof. He fired on the move, hitting one in the gut, the close range nearly ripping the creature in half. The second fell, crippled from the stray buckshot pellets. Brad heard their crying and the crashing of brush as more charged through the forest. He sidestepped to the corner of the cabin; the fire, now burning bright, spilled into the trees and exposed the mad faces of the Primals as they advanced.

  Brad took aim and leaned into the shotgun, once again emptying it into the charging mass, creating maximum noise and chaos, before tossing it to his front. He slipped back into the shadow, readying his suppressed M4, and duck-walked along the perimeter of the cabin before dropping into the rough vegetation that led back toward the road. As he dropped his goggles over his eyes, he could hear the enraged creatures behind him falling for the distraction. Attracted to the noise and flames of the fire, they feverishly attacked the cabin.

  He heard their screams and knew they were feasting on the dead inside. To the Primals, they were fresh meat and free for the taking. Brad pushed the thoughts aside as he moved down the incline and back to the surface of the road, then dropped into a gully and sat silently with his weapon held close to his chest. He pulled the goggles from his face and let his eyes adjust to the moonlight; snow was falling hard, causing the white surface of the road to glow, showing him the way. Brad brought the rifle up to his shoulder and cautiously checked his surroundings. The only noise came from up the hill behind him; the front appeared clear. He was sure that any of them in the vicinity would have been attracted to the virtual dinner bell in the cabin, with the tower of flame that rose up in the sky behind him.

  Brad turned and pressed hard down the road. Walking the center, he knew they would more easily see him, but wanted the early warning if they made an attack. He started out slowly at first, then increased his pace to a jog. The pack bounced and rubbed against his back and the boots burned against the soles of his feet. It was eight miles to the outpost; he’d run farther on good days, but he knew this was not one of them.

  Brooks was right about him. He had spent the last few months at the outpost mostly sulking; wasting his days either in the tavern or out on the trails hunting for game. Life at the outpost was about little more than survival, and he had lost his taste for it. He hoped he might find a brighter future back in Michigan, but after hearing rumors from travelers and hunters in the tavern, his gut told him things would be even worse at home. Brad put his hopes aside and went through the day trying to be optimistic that there was something better for him out there. He put off the trip home because he knew there was not.

  After jogging and battling with his thoughts for over an hour, he slowed to a walk. His clothing now soaked with sweat, he was breathing hard, and clouds of condensation formed with every breath. The outpost was just ahead; he stopped and knelt down on the road to drink from his canteen while he listened for movement. The road was silent, the burning cabin now miles behind him; but ahead, he could hear gunfire coming from the outpost.

  “No!” he shouted. “They can’t be here already.”

  He forced himself back to his already sore feet and pushed off. He pushed on through the fresh snow, his legs heavy and calves cramping; he trudged ahead, forcing every step. The sounds of the gunfire and Primal moans led the way over his heavy breathing and burning lungs. As he approached the final hill, he could see the glow of the outpost’s perimeter fence and the muzzle flashes of the guard’s rifles. Brad stopped to pull down his NVGs and spotted movement in his peripheral vision.

  Hunched shadows darted through the trees to his left and right. Suddenly, a pair would break and run directly at the fences, attempting scale the log wall, forcing the guards at the top to scramble to cut them down. Brad heard a rumbling through the tree line and the crashing of brush. He pivoted and took a knee, bringing up his rifle. A pack of five were running at a sprint, howling as they advanced, their heads turned and focused on the outpost—they did not see Brad tucked into the shadows.

  He held his breath and raised the rifle, trying to estimate the sites through his night vision goggles. He let them get close then rapidly pulled the trigger, sweeping his point of aim as the Primals advanced. The muzzle blast washed out his night vision, the smoke from his rifle hanging heavy in the cold air. With his final shot, the screams stopped. Brad pushed forward and stood, a spotlight hit him and he raised his hands and turned toward the gate. A man in the tower cried out a challenge.

  “It’s me, Sergeant Thompson.”

  “Well, get your ass in here!” a man shouted back.

  Brad kept his hands in the air and ran for the gate. He could hear the log bracing removed from the gate. He reached the opening and turned around; facing out into the darkness, he dropped the magazine on his M4 and replaced it with a full one. The gate pressed open, an arm grabbed his sleeve and pulled him inside. As the gate shut behind him, he stumbled forward, the feeling of safety turning his legs to jelly. He took an awkward step and stumbled, but Sean was there to grab him. He steadied Brad, helping him gain his balance.

  Sean shook him and spoke into his ear, “You okay? Are you hurt?”

  Brad looked down then back up again. “I’m fine.” He reached into his pocket and handed Sean the map. “We have to get to Camp Cloud; they’re all in danger,” Brad said, his voice a whisper.

  Sean pursed his lips and nodded. “I know, brother, just rest.”

  “We need to go before it’s too late,” Brad gasped.

  Sean slung Brad’s left arm over his shoulder and turned to walk him toward the bunkhouse. Brad saw the men from the camp gathered in front of the building. He tugged away from Sean and grabbed his shirt. “It’s already happened, hasn’t it?” he snapped.

  The SEAL chief grimaced and dipped his chin. “Get some rest, Brad, we move out at first light.”

  “No, we have to go now,” Brad said, trying to stand on his own, the day’s march and the return run having taken a hard toll on his body.

  Sean turned him away and walked him to the bunkhouse. “You need rest; we all do. We’ve been on the march all day; I can’t turn them around now in this storm.”

  Brad pushed away. “I can walk on my own.” He stopped and looked at the weary men. Their heads were down, their boots and clothing still soaked from marching in the snow. Brad nodded his head and walked away toward the barracks.

  Chapter 7

  Free Virginia Territories

  Shane awoke feeling peaceful and warm between soft sheets. He wiggled his toes, but when he went to stretch his arms, he felt the searing pain in his shoulder. Reaching instinctively, he felt the gauze and bandages. He then noticed he was in cotton boxers—not visually though; the space was black as coal and he could not see a hand in front of his face.

  “Where am I? Is this heaven, or hell?”

  The last thing he remembered was being in the forest, tracking the raiding party. He was attacked. The Primals. He put a hand back to his shoulder. “But they killed me,” he whispered, recalling being wounded and laying in the brush with the dead creature pinning him to the ground, and blood seeping from his wound. He turned again and felt the pain from the shoulder wound. “So I’
m alive, but where am I?”

  He squinted and could barely make out the outline of a window covered in heavy drapes, the window itself probably covered in heavy shutters. Or maybe he was on a second floor. No way was it just glass; the Primals would have broken in ages ago if the room was unsecured. He held his breath and listened; nothing. The room was silent. In fact, the entire house was silent, not even a creak. Moving again, he noticed a plastic IV line going into his arm. He felt the end and followed it to a bag hanging over his head.

  “Was I captured? Do the raiders have me?

  “No, that’s stupid; they would have killed me.

  “Chief Rogers then; they found me. But why is the room so damn quiet? Where is everyone?”

  Shane lay back and blinked his eyes, trying to make out the room in the darkness. He was not drugged; there was no loss of pain in his body. The room was warm; a fire must be going somewhere inside, and someone had to be close by tending to it.

  He heard the slam of a door and heavy boots stomping somewhere below him, followed by the scuffing of furniture. The sounds were far away, but definitely below him; he was on a second floor. The only two-story home in the area was the Cloud main house, and he knew he was not there. There would be no reason to cover the window at the Cloud home. He heard a floorboard squeak and feet walking up stairs. The footfalls were growing closer. Shane lay back and closed his eyes, not ready to meet whomever had brought him here.

  There was a rattle of floorboards, a clunking of a lock, and then the squeak of the door opening. A soft glow hit his closed eyelids. The boots echoed now that they were in the room. He heard the sounds of china placed on a table, then recognized the smell of stew.

  “I know you ain’t asleep,” a gruff voice said.

  Shane squeezed his hands, gripping the sheets, and opened his eyes.

  An elderly man was standing over him. Short and stocky, he was dressed in a blue sweatshirt and wool cap. His face was leathery with deep crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. The man checked the IV and nodded before turning away. He moved across the small room and sat in a wooden chair. Shane pulled himself back and attempted to sit up. The man grinned then moved back toward Shane, who flinched. The man chuckled as he repositioned the pillows behind Shane’s back.

  “If’in I wanted ya hurt, I’da left you out in the woods.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Shane said with a hoarse voice.

  The old man grinned and poured Shane a glass of water from a stone pitcher. He reached out and Shane took the glass. Drinking quickly, he emptied it and passed the glass back. The old man refilled it and placed it next to the white china bowl.

  “Curiosity, I guess. You looked good as dead when I found you. You have plenty of old wounds and scars, boy; you been around the block a few times. I seen the bite. That thing bit into you good, but I cut away your wound, and you ain’t turned. No sign of the infection neither.”

  “I’ve been vaccinated,” Shane said.

  “Aye, I figured as much. I reckon you must be a soldier then; probably one of Gunny Cloud’s boys down the mountain.”

  Shane nodded. “You know Dan?

  “Yeah, I know Dan; he’s good people. Heard he had a group livin’ wit’ him down there. I seen some of ya out huntin’ on the mountain a time or two.”

  “Does he know you’re here, mister…? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  The old man smiled. “I reckon he does. We old guys are harder to kill than you might think. We traded house plans over pints back when he was building his homestead. My friends call me Henry, and I know your name is Shane.”

  “How?” he asked.

  Henry smiled again and pointed to a laundry basket in the corner where Shane’s clothes sat neatly folded inside. “It was sewn into the back of yer jacket.”

  Shane dipped his chin and eyed the stew. Henry caught his gaze and stood, helping the soldier take the bowl. He moved a tray table across his lap and again adjusted the pillows. Shane hungrily gulped away at the food, hardly breathing between bites.

  “So, what were you doing out there? I saw the buck—what was left of it, anyway. It’s a bit far for a hunt, isn’t it?”

  Shane’s thoughts of Chelsea and Ella flashed back into his head. He nearly dropped the spoon; his mouth hanging wide open, his faced turned white.

  “I’m sorry, son; I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Shane shook his head. “We were attacked—our camp was—they killed our guards and took our people, our families. I was the only one left, and I was trying to track them. I thought maybe if I could mark the trail and find out where they were going, well, then maybe—”

  “You thought you could get 'em back?” Henry said.

  Shane shrugged, grimacing from the pain in his shoulder. “We have more soldiers. I hoped I could lead them; show them the way.”

  Henry made a face and showed a nervous smile. “I’m sure you did the best you could, son. I saw the things you took down, and nobody could fault you for trying.”

  Shane changed the subject by pushing the bowl away from him. Again, he struggled to sit. “I have to get back out there; I can’t let the trail go cold.”

  Henry nodded, showing his concern. “You need to rest, boy, get those fluids into you, then I’ll go back out with you myself.”

  “No, I can’t ask you to do that,” Shane said, meeting the old man’s tired gaze.

  The old man smiled hesitantly as he stood and again checked Shane’s IV bag, then retrieved the empty bowl from the nightstand. “I have to go. I know where they went…”

  Chapter 8

  On the road to Camp Cloud

  Free Virginia Territories

  The convoy bounced over the unmaintained logging trail as the stench of biodiesel exhaust leaked through rust holes in the deteriorating truck bed. Brad leaned over the side rail, gasping for fresh air. Between jolts, he looked out into the predawn forest to clear his head and let his thoughts catch up to the last twenty-four hours of activity. After months of downtime, he’d gotten lazy; not physically, but mentally. Days of routine tasks and the lack of adrenaline had changed him; now with things racing in all directions, he was struggling to focus, and he hoped the others wouldn’t notice.

  "We really should do something about this road,” Brooks said with a grunt, his back bumping against the cab of the truck.

  Brad turned, looking at his friend, crunched up and packed in with the others from the outpost. He nodded. “Priorities, I guess.”

  They were traveling as part of a four-vehicle convoy headed south toward Camp Cloud. Every able-bodied man from the Outpost, including Sean’s original team, had volunteered to join them on the hunt. It wasn’t entirely selfless; all the men having family and friends at Cloud made the mission an easy sell. Brad focused on the passing trees, wondering where the Primals were. Out in the open in a noisy truck, he expected to spot one or two. Usually, they would move out of the shadows toward the trails to see moving vehicles; it was one of the reasons they rarely used them for travel these days.

  “Battle at Cloud stirred them up. Probably looking for these guys, same as us,” Brooks said, reading his mind.

  “All of them?” Brad asked.

  Brooks grimaced with another bounce of the truck. “Most activity we’ve had around here in a while. Joe said the camp popped all of their flares. I imagine it brought everything in. Any of them living within eye shot of those flares would’a come running. I don’t think they can help it… Damn things love flares.” Brooks chuckled. “Don’t worry; if I’m right, we’re going to see more than our fill once we start tracking.”

  Brad shook his head and turned back. “How could so many from this faction have gotten this close to us without us noticing?”

  “We’ve gotten soft, brother; stopped the daily patrols.” Brooks paused to stuff a hunk of jerky into his cheek. “We started thinking we were secure out here.”

  “The men I put down at the safe house?” Brad said. “I don’t t
hink they were all together; they might not have even really known each other.”

  Brooks looked thoughtfully down at his boots, then turned back to Brad. “Sean figures the group that fired on him yesterday may have used some of the holdouts. You know… the prepper families still doing their own thing up on the mountain. He thinks they may be using those remote cabins to stage. They’d be well stocked and—”

  A bright flash and thunderous boom from ahead shook through the convoy. The truck they were riding in slammed to a stop as debris and smoke rained over them. Gunfire erupted from farther up the trail, the loud call of an M60 machine gun. “Out! Out! Everyone out!” someone screamed. Brad hesitated, still stunned by the blast, then pulled his rifle to his chest. A man behind him leapt forward and caught rounds to his chest, screaming as he fell.

  Brad took a deep breath and, finding the pause in firing, rose up, then dropped over the edge of the vehicle’s bed, falling the way a scuba diver would leave a boat. He hit the ground hard and awkward just moments before another salvo of rounds sparked and pierced the sides of the truck’s body. Brad forced his chest into the cold snow and mud, then leopard crawled forward until his face was against the embankment and the narrow rise in the earth provided cover. The sounds of the machine gun were now being joined by the return fire of men on the convoy.

  By that time Brooks had managed to circle around the truck, he was calling out directions with a knife hand, screaming for the men to rally and push into the ambush. “Move up! We gotta suppress or we’ll lose everyone.” Brad crept over the lip of the embankment and looked into the distant muzzle flashes, then fired an entire magazine in their direction before dropping back into cover.

  A whistle and cracking of the overhead tree limbs was followed by an explosion behind him. “These fuckers have mortars?!” Brad yelled in disbelief. Finishing his reload, he climbed up to his knees. Brooks moved up alongside him, still calling out targets with his rifle as he fired into the direction of the enemy machine gun’s fire. Brad looked down the column of shattered vehicles and could see that the men ahead were effectively pinned down, trapped in the kill box. More explosions thumped in from behind them and were getting closer as the enemy mortar men zeroed in on their location.