Bound By Honor: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

by W. J. Lundy

  With the blowing of the train’s whistle getting closer, the horses turned onto a narrow trail and skillfully descended the terrain until finding the railroad bed. Brooks guided them right and along a packed, earthen trail. The railroad tracks sloped in a lazy arc against the cut sides of the mountain, curving slowly to the right then making a sharp S-turn around the face of a top ridge. Brooks pulled up and dismounted, then removed his gear from the horse and stepped away. After the other men had done the same and were all on the ground, Shane shooed the horses away from the tracks and up the trail that led up the ridge; soon they were out of sight.

  Brooks walked along the tracks and up onto a tall, rock overhang. “Looks like a good place to drop on.”

  Sean grimaced and looked up and down the tracks, then dipped his chin. “The train will have to slow down here. The old man was right; this is the perfect spot. Okay, move us up.”

  Brad moved to the side of the ledge and watched as the others climbed the surface of the rock, then he followed Joey to the top. On the overhang, they could see the glow of the train’s light and hear the rumble of its engines. Sean and Brooks moved out to the rock face and readied their scoped rifles. “Brooks and I will drop any shooters; you three need to drop on to the train. We’ll be right behind you. Power on your headsets; they’re low on power, but they should work at close range.”

  Joey slung his rifle across his back. He pushed a green cup against his ear, then adjusted the foam microphone so that it was just over the corner of his mouth. Joey drew his side arm and tactical tomahawk and squatted at the ledge, looking down. “That’s a long way down, boss,” he said over the radio, the voice coming back metallic.

  Sean smiled. “It isn’t the fall I’m worried about,” he said before his face turned cold. “Listen, we don’t know what we’re getting into down there, so be dynamic, move fast, and kill anything trying to kill you. Wherever you land, fight your way to the front of the train and clear the cars as you move.”

  Brad drew back the bolt of his rifle and verified the chamber with the glint of brass. He crept into position behind Joey and tapped him on the shoulder to let the man know he was there. “We got this, Bro,” he heard Joey whisper.

  “We got this,” Brad answered back.

  “There it is,” Shane called from the front as the train’s light intensified from the blind corner. The locomotive came around the corner, its big diesel engine leading the way, moving slow but closing fast. It had a total of six sections: an engine on both ends, three box cars, and a passenger car at the front.

  Brad saw the flash of the SEALs’ rifles as they opened fire on the train, knocking men off the top with precise aim. Men dropped from the tops of the cars while tracers raced up at them as guards fired back. Shane stepped forward and looked back at them with false bravado. “Just like jump school,” he shouted before stepping off and dropping out of sight.

  “Get some,” Joey screamed, launching himself into the air. Brad looked down to see the man land on the back end of the first box car in a perfect parachute landing fall, rising up with the hawk swinging. With no time to be scared, Brad sprung forward and felt the momentary freefall before landing hard on the roof of the second car, enveloped in darkness, he shook the rattle from his knees. Muzzle flashes of guards firing at him lit his way as he rolled to the side and pumped the trigger, rounds tearing into the men at his front. Sean and Brooks fired down and disappeared from Brad’s sight when the train moved around a bend. Using the train’s sharp turn to his advantage, Brad got to his feet and dashed forward, the swaying train making it difficult to stay on his feet.

  He dropped to a sandbag barrier, taking fire from another set of guards ahead of him. Heavy rounds from AK-47s filled the air with automatic weapons fire from the front and back. Brad’s ears, covered with the headset, were muffled from the zipping and buzzing of near misses, noise as ferocious as a burning hornet’s nest. The sandbags burst, spitting sand and dirt into his face. Brad rolled out away from the barrier and rose with his rifle. Instead of taking cover, the guards ahead were kneeling in the open. Brad fired, hitting one, stitching the man across his chest.

  He shifted his point of aim to the second guard. Pulling the trigger, he watched as the man spun left and fell from the train. He heard Shane shouting as he moved up beside him and dove into the bags.

  “Everyone make it?” Sean asked over the radio.

  “I’m here,” Brad checked in, keeping his head down.

  “Joey is covering our rear. He won’t let anything from the front get to us. We’re holding the first and second box cars,” Shane said, turning to his side to reload his rifle. “They’re dug in good on the passenger car to the front.”

  “Keep the pressure on,” Sean said, his radio clicking dead. “Take your car and move forward.”

  Brad rose back up, looking to the distant cars at the back. The train left the tight bend and began to straighten. Entering a downward slope, the early morning sun broke the mountain and began to shine on them. He could see the SEALs engaged in a firefight with men in tiger-striped uniforms near the rear locomotive.

  “They’re on the engine,” Brad said, ducking back into cover as more guards climbed a ladder and opened up on them. Brad pulled back behind the sand bags. As he moved, his boots scraped a hinge and he spotted a locked hatch at his feet. He pointed at it. “We need to get down there,” he said, raising up to fire on the approaching guards.

  “They’ll have hostages,” Shane said. “We open this hatch and we’ll be right in the line of fire.”

  Brad grimaced, knowing he was right. “One of us will have to go down while the other pops the hatch.”

  Shane released another burst of gunfire then looked back at Brad. “There won’t be any sneaking.”

  Brad pushed forward to his elbows and fired multiple three round bursts at the guards to his front. Another hit, the target falling to the decks as another fled back off the train car. “Give me a thirty count and pop that lock!” he said, scrambling to his feet and rushing to the end of the car. Brad leapt the sandbag barriers. “Shit,” he yelled, barely keeping his balance. He lost his footing on the slick roof and, moving like an out of control ball player, he dropped and slid the last few feet before catching the edge of the car and the ladder. Hooking a gloved hand on the top rung, he swung off the back side of the boxcar.

  Dangling over the edge, he saw a man look up at him with bug eyes; the tiger-striped guard struggled to raise his rifle. Not hesitating, Brad swung outward and kicked the man in the face. Brad fell with the man, the both of them landing on a narrow platform below, lying side by side. The bug eyes rose first, struggling for a holstered side arm. Brad lunged at him, using his left hand to press the man’s weapon into the chest holster.

  Brad rolled the man, pinning him against the wall. With the distance closed and his left hand still on the holstered pistol, Brad grasped the knife on his vest. In one smooth motion, he drew the knife and drove it deep between the guard’s ribs. The guard shuddered and dropped his pistol hand, then flailed and grabbed at Brad’s knife arm. With the knife still stuck between the man’s ribs, Brad rose up and rained down a stiff blow to the man’s jaw. The guard’s grip relaxed, but he was still alive, foam and blood spitting from his mouth. Brad tucked his hands, grabbed the man by his collar, and rolled him over and off the car’s small platform.

  As the guard screamed while falling to the tracks, Brad heard the gunshots of Shane blowing the lock.

  “Hatch is open. I’m taking fire.”

  He knew he had to move or Shane would be cut in half. Brad scrambled back to his feet and pressed against a small steel door cut into the side of the car. No time to estimate his rounds, he let the partially filled magazine drop to the deck as he loaded a fresh one. A woman’s screams pierced the air from the far side of the door. No more time to wait, he grasped the handle and pushed, rolling into the opening.

  He flew in, crashing into the back of a guard that was looking at the h
atch near the center of the car. The boxcar was jammed full of people. Distracted by the open hatch, neither of the guards turned around to see him enter. Two guards standing watch at each end had their rifles up and were aiming at the hatch. Brad pressed the muzzle of his M4 between the nearest guard’s shoulder blades and pulled the trigger. The gunshot boomed in the enclosed space and the man fell forward, shocking the guard beside him. Brad spun in the close quarters and caught the next guard just below the jaw with the stock of his rifle. The guard’s neck cracked, his head flying back.

  The women in the car, seeing what was happening, pressed away from the fight. Moving in a thick pack, they lunged and overwhelmed the remaining guards, pressing them against the far wall of the car.

  “I’m in!” Brad yelled into the mic. “Clear.”

  Brad looked back to the front and watched Shane drop through the hatch and into the group of women, who now had the guard’s rifles. The disarmed men’s heads were pressed against the front wall of the car with the muzzles against the backs of their necks. Brad pushed his way through, guiding the women behind him. With the women clearing a path, the two soldiers took control of the guards and ordered the armed women to cover the rear.

  “Second car is clear,” Brad said over the radio. The sounds of gunfire still echoed from the front of the train.

  “Third car is clear,” they heard Brooks respond. “How you doing up front, Joey?”

  “I’m lying on the first car; hatch is open. They got some people inside, but only a couple shooters. I got this passenger car to my front pinned but not for long, I could use some help, fellas,” Joey answered.

  “We’re coming to you on the high road,” Sean said.

  He clenched his fist. Brad looked across at Shane and saw him nod his head. “We’ll take the low road,” Brad called out.

  The prisoners stood with their arms up at the front end of the boxcar at either side of another door cut into the end. This door, unlike the last, was held shut with a large bolt. Brad let his rifle hang from the sling and drew his pistol. He shoved the prisoner nearest him back and spun the man to face the wall, then pressed his face against it.

  Tunnel vision now closing in on the single hatch to his front, he moved in and pressed the pistol’s barrel against the prisoner’s temple. Brad’s left hand grabbing a fist full of fabric from the back of the man’s shirt, he pulled him away from the wall. Shane pulled the second prisoner away from the wall and shoved him at the door. Turning back, he told the women to take cover by the sides of the car. “Open the door,” Brad said, looking at the second guard.

  The prisoner’s shaky hand grabbed at the bolt lock and drew it back. Before the hatch could fully open, automatic gunfire sparked along the door frame. With the second prisoner cut down, Brad rushed forward, using the other as a shield. The door blew in, revealing a shooter firing a small rifle from the hip. Brad extended his arm and fired as he ran the man ahead, feeling the man shudder as rounds impacted with his body. Shoving the dead shield forward, Brad fired at the men across from him until his weapon was empty. From above, he saw the SEALs leap over his head to the first boxcar.

  “Dropping into car one,” Brooks yelled over the radio.

  Brad, outside and alone now, stepped away from the door. Shane quickly moved out onto the boxcar deck beside him and assessed the opening of the first car. Flashes of light coming from inside let them know someone was in there. Brad felt a burning at his face and touched a gash on his check where a round had creased his skin. He sucked in dirty air and jumped to the next car, hitting the entrance in a sprint.

  The small space was lit only by a swinging lamp. He stood solemnly, his mind clouded, searching the confused gazes of the survivors lining the walls of the boxcar. Brad could still hear Joey’s rifle above pinning the men on the passenger car. The interior of first boxcar was filled with smoke. Sean and Brooks were in the center, standing over dead guards. Brad stepped forward and saw a hostage’s body at his feet. “Oh my god,” he said with a gasp and flinching back.

  Looking down at the wood decking, he saw bodies covered the floor—civilian bodies. Sean dropped his head. “They started shooting, killing them, and we had to go in blind.”

  Brad turned and watched Shane step into the boxcar. The young soldier peered into the dark, his gaze surveying the dimly lit space. A girl emerged from the shapeless figures against the wall; she ran and leapt into his arms. Shane lifted her to his chest and held her tight. “Ella, thank god. Are you okay?” he asked. The girl didn’t respond, burying her face against his shoulder.

  Joey looked into the open hatch. “They just put something between the cars. I think they’re going to try and blow the coupler.”

  Sean nodded looked behind him at the bolted door leading forward. “Get everyone to the back of the train. We need to get out of here. We’ll hunt Carson after we get these people to safety.”

  “No,” Ella shouted. “Chelsea is in the front!”

  Chapter 25

  Crabtree, West Virginia

  Free Virginia Territories

  Rapid gunfire from behind and drawing closer solidified his reasoning to flee. Crabtree was overrun. Gus pulled through the window and dropped into the high drifted snow behind the store building. A staccato of rifle shots urged him to duck his head and get low. He crawled forward, pulling himself into the tall grass. Moans of the infected and the screams of his men increased his fear. He hugged the ground and crawled forward. Men with rifles let loose long bursts of automatic weapons fire. The chatter of M4s mingled with the howls of the infected and the screams of victims.

  Tracers arced over his head, forcing it down. Men were firing at anything that moved. They were in a panic and looking for a way out. Gus peeked above the grass. He saw two fighters approaching him. Too dark and impossible to tell friend from foe, he shouldered his rifle and fired at them. The first man was hit with a three-round burst to the chest. The second dropped his rifle in an attempt to surrender. Gus rose to his feet and fired again, knocking the surrendering man to the ground. More rounds raced in at him as someone opened up with a machine gun. He dove back to the ground and crawled away, under the reach of the gunfire.

  When the machine gun shifted fire away from him and toward other targets, Gus dashed forward. He raced to the safety of the wall before hearing a noise behind him. He thought he heard trucks before more automatic weapons fire flashed from the direction of the main gate. Rounds slapped and ricocheted off the store building now far behind him.

  He froze, hearing the swishing of grass, a steady drum beat of footfalls, and the gurgled growl of the infected. He spun back, tucking his rifle as he moved. Trying to focus in the darkness, he peered ahead and saw the silhouettes of four infected men running directly at him. He fired two hasty shots, then ducked low as the first leapt, tossing it over his back. Squaring up back to the front, he gut shot the next one, then deflected another with a hard bash from a thrown shoulder. Two more attackers cut in from his flank. They bore down on him and he raised rifle again, only to find the bolt locked back on an empty chamber. Gus flinched back, anticipating the creatures’ bite.

  Two loud gunshots rang out from his blind spot. The attacking Primals crashed to the ground, one taking out Gus’s legs and knocking him to the field as it fell. A sturdy man stepped over him, reached down, and pulled him to his feet. Gus used a sleeve to wipe his face of blood and gore. He looked up into the face of the old bounty hunter.

  “Henry, thank god you’re here. Where are the others?” he said.

  “Waiting for us. I came back to get you,” the old man said, still holding his lever action rifle and looking off at the fighting within the compound. Infected attackers were back lit by the fires of the burning camp. “You going somewhere?”

  Gus nodded eagerly. “Yeah, getting the hell out of here.” Adjusting his grip on the rifle, he searched his kit for another magazine. Not finding one, he looked up at Henry and said, “You have any more ammo?”

  The
old man grinned and shook his head as he nodded to the lever action rifle. “Nothing for that.”

  “Dammit,” Gus grunted, tossing the empty M4 into the grass. He turned and stepped toward the wall. “Where’d you say the boys were?”

  Henry stood his ground, still facing the fight in the compound. “You’re going to leave 'em?”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.” Gus moved on, leaving the old man to follow along behind him. He stepped heavily through the tall wet grass, the fires from the compound lighting his way. He debated in his mind what he would do when they reached the wall. They would be okay; they had the horses, and five men would do fine out here. He could follow the tracks back north, regroup with Carson, and start over. But what if Carson turns me away? That was a possibility after his failure there. Screw it then, he’d skip Carson and set off on his own to rebuild. There was plenty of land and opportunities to the west.

  Chris and Clyde knew his value and would follow him anywhere. The two new men were experienced and, with his leadership, they could go anywhere. He approached the wall and walked along the tall, earth embankment, searching for a ladder that would bring him to the top. He turned back and looked at Henry, who was following some distance behind. He watched as the intensity of the gunfire diminished; it would take him some time to build another army of this size. None of that mattered though; this wasn’t about victories for him, it was about survival. Henry drew close and stopped just feet away, cradling the rifle in his arms.

  “Where did you cross the wall?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

  Henry pointed with the barrel of his rifle. “Just ahead there at the low point.”

  “Why didn’t the cousins come across with you?”

  Henry let out a long breath and slung the rifle over his shoulder. From his pocket, he fished out his pipe and began filling it with tobacco. “I wonder how many families are without a husband or a father because of what you’ve done here.”