by W. J. Lundy
A light flashed in her face as a man with a scarred brow inspected her from head to toe. He grunted approval and cold hands grasped her arms and dragged her from the line. Ella resisted, not letting go until Chelsea looked down at her. “It’s okay, Ella,” she said, looking back to see Karen drawing the girl to her side. More women were grabbed and removed from the line, then led to the plank deck. Chelsea followed the others with her head down, avoiding eye contact.
She was moved along the back of the deck then turned around, facing away from the train. At the opposite side, Bones stood next to the red-bearded man. The man dismissed Bones with a wave of his hand, then leered at the group of prisoners. “Settle down, ladies, I know you’re all excited to be heading home,” he said, stepping forward. “You all can call me Gus, and as soon Mr. Carson makes his rounds, we’ll get you all boarded and on your way.” He said it as if he were a conductor.
Chelsea leaned out and looked left and right from the corners of her eyes. She’d been separated from the others along with eight to ten other women of similar build and height. Her eyes wandered, spotting men in a guard tower over the wall. More men lined the tops of the fence, all of them looking on excitedly at the spectacle below. She relaxed her arm, letting it hang close to her side, and felt the spike still tucked into the cuff of her shirt. Her legs shook and she took deep breaths, closing her eyes and forcing away the fear. Boots slapped in the mud behind her and she heard a baritone voice greeting men as he was led in Chelsea’s direction.
A tall, powerfully-built man walked along the boardwalk then stepped onto the deck. He walked close to Gus, ignoring the women on display. He exchanged a handshake, then shifted his eyes along the deck. He looked back at Gus. “Where is Carl?”
Gus kept his eyes fixed. “Sorry, sir, your son is out on patrol. We tried to persuade him to stay back, but he insisted on leading several of the patrols himself.”
“Really?” Carson said, his expression unchanged. “Carl? Leading?”
“Yes, sir,” Gus bluffed. “Carl has been a real asset.”
Carson smiled and turned to face the women, clapping his hands together. “So now, what have we got here?” he said proudly before stepping closer.
Carson pivoted on the heels of his boots and moved to the end of the line. He began asking questions that Chelsea couldn’t hear. A woman mumbled a response and the big man laughed. He shifted down a position, now two places away from Chelsea. She flexed her wrist and let the flat head of the spike drop into her palm. Her hands were sweating despite the cold, but her mind was focused; she looked straight into the darkness, focusing on the task at hand.
She was determined she wouldn’t go; she wouldn’t board the train. She would drive the spike through Carson’s neck and end all of this tonight. She blocked any internal debate about consequences and what they would do to her. What would happen to the women if she succeeded? She didn’t care. This was the man that ordered the attack against her home and killed her friends.
She heard him laugh as he asked questions of the woman to her right. He turned and took another step, stopping directly in front of her. The man was tall; her eyes rested just below his squared chin. He bent his legs mockingly, squatting to her level, and looked her in the eyes.
He smiled and licked his teeth. “Now, what’s got you so upset?”
Pyrotechnic pops from somewhere in the distance turned the man’s head. The sky above the camp was suddenly illuminated with red and white flares. Chelsea smiled, knowing that help had finally arrived. With her eyes focused on the pulsing carotid artery of the man’s neck, she swung the spike forward.
Chapter 21
Crabtree, West Virginia
Free Virginia Territories
The women picked up on the big man’s mannerisms toward Gus. They knew he was one not to be toyed with. Gus held back placing himself on the edge of the deck, giving Carson room to make his customary inspection. He took no pleasure from this exercise, but since the fall, his life had become about survival, and this was a part of it. Carson stood a little straighter and approached the line.
Gus hated this part, the transfer of people from the field to the train destined to parts unknown for resettlement. Even though he was responsible for the prisoners being there, he tried to think of it as just another job, but seeing their faces lined up like cattle reminded him of his place in all of it. This was a larger group than usual; rarely had they found so many people living successfully below the Ohio River. Most survivors had made their way to the safe zones in Michigan by now. Only fools remained in the dead lands. He watched Carson walk among them, examining them like stock, as he’d watched the man do plenty of times before.
The only way Carson got to his position in life was for others to back down. Carson knew it, and most of those close to him knew that. He made a point of forcing people into submission, and that’s what this entire display was all about. Just the sight of Carson put the women’s eyes down to the deck through intimidation. He stood close, invading their personal space to instill fear with his presence; bullying them, and assessing their level of cooperation. His eyes wandered over them, pausing several times as he asked pointed questions. Ten women had been pulled from the group; a sampling, Carson called it. He would address them, put fear and respect into their hearts, then return them to the group to spread his message.
Carson walked along the line of prisoners, stopping at the end. Speaking with them one at a time, he planted bits of poison into their minds before moving to the next in line. The women were afraid. Avoiding eye contact, their voices broke when speaking. Carson sidestepped one at a time, stopping to face each one before asking casual questions and awaiting a response.
Gus, standing to the rear, let his eyes move right along the line while performing his own brand of inspection. He stopped and settled on a woman in the middle. She was different from the others; small boned and of average height, her hair was pulled back and her eyes were frozen on a spot far into the distance. Unlike the others who slouched and cowered, this woman stood like a soldier at attention, her hands balled into fists. She had a look of defiance; she was dangerous.
Carson pivoted and stopped directly to the front of the strange woman. He looked her up and down and laughed, trying to break her. The woman’s head remained frozen and unmoving. Carson squatted mockingly to bring himself to her height.
Distant pops and explosions sounded, and suddenly the sky above them was lit in red glows. Gus, scanning the woman’s hands, suddenly realized the danger and acted on reflex without thinking. Instantly, a long-rusted spike appeared in the woman’s grip. She lunged forward. The spike, intended for Carson’s throat, was instead deflected by Gus’s left forearm.
His right hand came around and swatted the defiant woman to the wooden deck, the spike stuck inches deep in his arm. The other women screamed and scattered. Distracted by the exploding flares and now the low roar of the infected, many of the guards had missed the attack. Gus reached down and lifted the woman by the back of her neck. She fought against him, digging her nails into his forearms. He pulled the spike from his arm and placed the rusty tip just inches from the woman’s eye. He swung her around and locked her into a tight choke hold. She continued to kick as he looked to Carson for a response. His leader stared at the gasping woman and smiled.
Men ran to the parapets, searching for the source as more flares were launched. Ignoring the action around him, Carson straightened his jacket and stepped close, snarling and putting his face inches from the woman’s. “Get them boarded, and make sure this one is secured in my car. If you can’t get this under control,” he said, pointing to the sky, “we will be leaving,”
Gus nodded and pulled the woman away, relaying the order just as automatic gunfire erupted at the main gate of the camp. Men on the parapet and in the towers tumbled back, hit by heavy machine gun fire. Gus turned and shoved the woman at Bones. “Get them loaded. I want this attack put down,” he shouted. The red-bearded man drew his p
istol and moved to the main tower to direct the fight.
Attacked all along the front, his men were falling. He rallied fighters running from the tent city and directed them to the compound’s perimeter. The majority of his force were on the eastern wall; only a handful were manning the back gate to the west, and most of the north and south walls were completely unmanned but for a few scouts. He needed a vantage point to direct the defense. He marched directly to the tower located to the right of the east railroad gate. Once there, he reached for the ladder and pulled himself to the top.
Two guards lay dead on the tower floor; the low walls—splintered and smacked with enemy gun fire—were testimony to how they perished. Gus crawled along the floor and peeked out between cracks in the planking as bullets zipped overhead and clanged against the sheet metal roof. Looking out, the field was lit with bright strobes like lightening bugs in the summertime. Tracers arced in and were tearing his men apart. Instead of the open ground and fields of fire being an advantage to the defenders, it was now working against them. Men moved freely in the dark fields to their front, cutting his men down like fish in a barrel. This isn’t like the militias in Ohio and Indiana; this is a trained army.
Rounds ripped passed him, puncturing through the tower walls. Gus turned his back and dove for the cover of the parapet walkway below as accurate gun fire ripped apart the tower roof and walls. He had to get control of his defense, or he’d lose the compound. Crawling behind the cover of the earthen parapet, he could see that many of his own shooters were hiding the same way. Occasionally, a man would rise up to waste ammunition, firing wildly over the wall at invisible targets.
“Stop shooting, dammit!” he screamed. “Stop shooting at ghosts!”
He continued crawling, steadying his men into cover and readying them for an assault against the walls. The incoming gunfire stopped as the sounds of the infected increased. Gus rose up, daring to take a look. The enemy shooters had vanished. The field to the front now reflected back the gleaming eyes of the infected, drawn in by the gunfire and flares that were still steadily being launched overhead.
“Why aren’t the mortars firing back?” Gus yelled at men huddled behind the wall.
“They never come back! We ain’t got not mortars,” a man hollered back.
The locomotive in the yard roared to life, its whistle blowing as freight car doors were secured. Gus saw fighters in Carson’s passenger car with rifles pointed out. Other men were climbing ladders to man small sand bag positions on the roof.
Gus pointed and yelled to one of Carson’s lieutenants in a red beret and tiger striped camouflage directing the loading of the rail cars. “Get those men off the train and on the south wall, we need their help,” he shouted.
The lieutenant walked away, ignoring his order. Gus shouted again. This time, the officer turned and looked back at him with contempt. “This isn’t our fight. I suggest you get it under control before you find yourself relieved.”
The train whistle sounded again, the high pitched shrill barely covering the sound of the infected moans. Flares continued to be fired overhead before raining down from the sky. Gus sat back against the parapet. Looking up, he saw the red and yellow beacons hanging from parachutes. If this continues, every infected for ten miles is going to descend on us, and we won’t have enough people defend all the walls. He took another quick peek, seeing the infected horde pouring in from the trees. “We need to guide the infected here. We can hold them against this wall,” he said to his men near the gates.
A man near the vehicle gate stood and looked out at the approaching mass. He readied a fire bomb, preparing to drop it to lure in the infected. With the Molotov cocktail lit, he readied the overhand toss. Before he could release it, a single shot rang out, the sniper’s bullet hitting the man in the chest. The fire bomb dropped to the edge of the wall, setting the man and several others on fire. Gus watched in horror as the man fell over the wall to his death and the others danced in flames, screaming, until they were put down by shooters on the ground.
When Gus went to look again, a sniper’s round hit the top of the wall, just missing his head. He ducked back into cover. The infected hit the gate, the momentum of their charge causing it to bow in. “Burn them, but stay in cover!” Gus shouted.
A defender lit another cocktail and let it sail over the wall away from the gate. Others picked up on the move, and more cocktails sailed away, luring the infected away from the gates. Thick, black and grey smoke boiled into the sky. Gus rose up cautiously under the cover of the smoke and looked down at hundreds of gnarled faces screaming back at him.
“Kill them. Kill them all,” he said, his men all standing and raining fire down into the mob below.
Chapter 22
Outside of Crabtree, West Virginia
Free Virginia Territories
Brad stood in the shadows, watching the scene play out. He, like most of the others, were now dressed in clean uniforms borrowed from Monty’s supplies. He wore an electronic headset, and his chest rig was loaded with full magazines. They’d rested and eaten, trying to prepare for their next move against Crabtree. Just before dark, they had heard the distant train whistle. Hassan had moved out to scout and reported back that a passenger train had entered Crabtree and there were bright lights on inside the walls. Time was running out, and Sean was growing desperate for a plan. Henry claimed to know the prisoner and said he could make him talk.
The prisoner was bound and gagged. Tied to a post in the back of Monty’s garage. Henry sat in a chair to Clyde’s front, visible under the only light source. The team was gathered around inside but stayed back, hidden in the shadows. The prisoner knew they were there, but he couldn’t see their faces. Brad had no misconceptions about torture, and he wasn’t even sure if that’s what this was. Most of the team was in the dark over the old man’s plan, or what he intended to do.
Only two men remained in the main house, held back to monitor the cameras and care for the horses. The old man was holding the curved-blade knife he’d removed from Monty’s hand. The handle was black and white, the blade polished steel with jagged teeth, and the entire thing formed into a karambit. Henry carved away at a piece of wood, looking into the wide eyes of the bound man. Henry knew that the man had information, and they needed something to act on.
Brooks walked behind the prisoner and loosened the man’s gag. He dropped his hands to Clyde’s shoulders and squeezed them, then leaned down and whispered into his ear, “Cooperate, and this will be a lot easier for you.” He then walked away, joining the others in the shadows of the room.
Clyde’s head swiveled left and right before he focused on Henry, who’d yet to speak. “What the hell do you want from me?” Clyde asked.
Henry continued to whittle at the wood, ignoring his outburst. Taking slow, methodical strokes, he demonstrated the sharpness of the blade. Clyde’s head remained still as his eyes shifted, searching the room. The veins on his thick neck had become swollen. Henry stopped his whittling and dropped the scrap of wood at Clyde’s feet. “Do you know what this is?” Henry asked, displaying the karambit, twirling it in his hands.
Clyde’s lower lip began to tremble. “I’m not the one you want.”
“I asked if you knew what this is. I think it’s important that you know,” Henry repeated.
“I told him we couldn’t trust you. We should have shot you dead the day you arrived.”
“Answer the damn question,” Henry shouted, his voice suddenly hard.
“No, I don’t know what the hell it is.”
“I didn’t think you would.” The old man nodded and leaned forward. He let the razor sharp blade nip at the stubble on the man’s chin. Clyde froze, holding perfectly still, the blade scraping until Henry pulled away. “This belonged to a friend of mine. It was custom made for him. He carried it everywhere.”
Clyde didn’t speak; his neck muscles pulsed.
“Do you know where I found this?” Henry asked.
Clyde shook h
is head.
“I found it in my friend’s dead hand. He died right through that door there. Do you know why?”
“Are you going to kill me?” Clyde asked.
“I asked, do you know why?”
“I’m not the one you want. I didn’t send the people out here who did this.”
“Don’t toy with me. I know all about Gus and your bounties. I know he would have asked you to send a team. I want to know the rest. I want to know where the women and children are, I want to know how many, and I want to know when they are leaving.”
“You won’t kill me; you’re the good guys.” Clyde said.
Henry locked his eyes on the man across from him. He slowly shook his head. “Oh no, we’re not the good guys.” Henry looked down at the knife. “And I’m most definitely going to kill you; that decision has already been made. But the thing is, you’ll get to decide how fast you die.”
Clyde froze in his seat, his back stiff and his jaw quivering. He began blubbering, and mumbling his words. Henry leaned in again and let the blade poke in and slice at the flesh above the man’s eye. “Tell me about the train,” Henry demanded through gritted teeth.
Clyde shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, trying to blink away a steady stream of blood. “Carson is on the train. He’ll bring more men and supplies, then leave with the survivors. They’ll pay for me... I have value to them.”
“How many survivors?” Henry asked.
“Gus knows me. I can help you; just let me try.”
Henry reached forward and nicked a gash above the prisoner’s other eye. Clyde shook his head, his voice screeching.
