by W. J. Lundy
Brad pushed Howard ahead of him and followed the others to the gates of Fort Sumter. Standing at the head of the walkway, two guards were high above them on the walls. Looking right, Brad could see an open area outside the fort’s walls, Crates and other bits of drift wood and garbage were piled recklessly. Farther on, a hastily built stone wall separated the fort from the sandbars. Men in civilian jackets patrolled the area with axes and rifles. As they approached the gate, Cordell yelled up at the guards and, after a brief exchange, a heavy wooden door slid open to allow them to pass. The interior of the camp was a former parade ground congested with shelters and had a narrow, muddy path leading down the center to a large, black painted building.
A heavy, musty smoke hung over the camp. The stench of open latrines and burning garbage was everywhere. The fort was ringed with high masonry walls and ancient gun positions, but was now filled with stacked and guarded supplies. Brad saw women feeding children with gaunt faces, plastic basins and pails positioned to catch rainwater, and men cooking small game over wood fires. As he looked at them, he thought back to the warehouse filled with survivors in Newfoundland. Their small refuge in the wilderness was paradise compared to the squalor he was seeing here.
Brad stopped and looked down an aisle between the roughly constructed shelters where a child was urinating into a bucket. Cordell stopped and yelled for him to keep moving. Brad looked at him.
“Excuse me, Gunnery Sergeant, what the hell is going on here? Who is in charge of this camp?” Brad said with obvious disgust, waiving his hands at the filth around him. “Why are these people living like this?”
Cordell’s face turned red as he struggled for the right words. “Like I said Sergeant, the park ranger and the state troopers are in charge,” he spit with a sarcastic tone. “Or at least they act like they are. I know what you’re thinking, this place looks like a third world refugee camp. And dammit you're right, but the sorry piece of shit in there won’t listen.”
Gunner moved in next to Brad. “That’s no excuse, Gunny. Why is a park ranger running a refugee camp?”
Cordell clenched his teeth and let out an exaggerated laugh. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, brother. This camp was up and running when the boys and I got here. We try to help out as much as we can, but as long as the troopers are backing the rangers, we can’t do shit to fix things. Not like I can walk on into his office and take over.”
Meyers’ cough interrupted them. “This is all very interesting business, but it’s also not our mission, mate. How about we keep this moving along?”
Gunner nodded and waved Cordell forward. Cordell stepped off, walking up the litter-strewn path and then to a concrete walkway that eventually led to the black building. Cordell stopped at a set of stairs and briefly spoke to a guard clad in a partial police officer’s uniform. The guard quickly stepped aside and allowed them to pass. Brad took a last look around and pushed Doctor Howard ahead of him as he took up the rear. They were led past a number of caged entrances and finally to a set of glass doors.
The room inside looked to have once been a museum. The walls were covered with broken display cases and old artifacts were piled in a corner. They walked through living areas filled with makeshift cots before coming to a closed office door. Cordell stepped forward and pounded on the door with his fist before opening it and walking in. He left the door open behind him so Gunner and the others followed him into the dimly lit office. Brad guided Howard in ahead of him then moved along the wall to the back of the office.
The room was rough and dusty. An old wooden desk with a worn leather swivel chair, some roughed in shelving, and a long leather sofa under a window greeted them. The sofa was occupied by a man wearing a state trooper’s uniform leaning back at one end of it with his hat over his eyes. Another man in a green and tan uniform sat at the wooden desk and looked up as they filed into the room. Brad noticed a number of empty liquor bottles stacked against a far wall and more in a wastebasket near the door. The man in the tan uniform lifted a cup to his mouth, then turned to look at Cordell. “These the ones from the Canadian boat?”
Cordell nodded and said, “They are all with the military, looking for transport up the river.”
The man with the hat pulled over his eyes grunted, “Why the hell would you want to go up there?”
Gunner took a deep breath and looked around the room ignoring the question. “Excuse me, who’s in charge here?”
The man in tan gave Gunner a stern look. “Well, that would be me.”
“And just who is me?” Gunner said using the most authoritative voice he could muster.
The man in tan sat confused for a moment before he pushed away from his desk, rose to his feet, and walked around the desk to face Gunner. He was a big man, but not in a fit way. He wore a simple park ranger’s uniform, pockets undone, and the front open to reveal a yellowed T-shirt.
“Why… I’m Ranger Nevens! Head ranger here at Fort Sumter!”
The commotion caused the resting state trooper to lift his cap and survey the men in the room. The trooper, for the first time, seemed to realize that the office was filled with several frowning armed men and that the odds were not in his favor; his hand slowly drifted to his holster.
“Yeah, let’s not do that,” Gunner said as his own hand stroked the grip of his holstered 1911. “Ranger Nevens, you are relieved, this fort is now under military control and I thank you for your service.”
“Now hold up, gawd dammit! You can’t come in here and take over after everything we’ve done.”
Gunner looked him in the eyes. “Yeah, we already had the walking tour and I’ve seen what you’ve done.”
Nevens looked to the trooper, still seated, and said, “Well? Are you going to do something?”
The trooper pushed his hat down tight to his head, then yawned before getting to his feet. “Like the man said, they are in charge now.” He stood and straightened his uniform then walked out of the office, leaving the ranger alone with the men.
Gunner continued to stare Nevens down. “So, are we going to have a problem?”
Nevens, now alone, backed away from Gunner and leaned against the desk. “I welcomed you here! I sent a team to meet you when we could have ignored you. You can’t do this. Gunnery Sergeant Cordell, please escort this man back to his boat!”
Cordell smirked and ignored the ranger; he walked to the sofa and dropped into the trooper’s previous spot. “Sorry, buddy, you ain’t giving the orders anymore; time to make things right by the people out there.”
Gunner exhaled and walked to the door. Pulling it open he said, “Nevens, you can leave now.”
The ranger, red in the face, stopped to put on a heavy green jacket and tan ball cap. He gave Gunner a last angered look then walked to the door. Before stepping out, he stopped and looked back at Cordell. “I’ll be in my quarters.”
Gunner shook his head. “No, ranger, I need you to gather your things and move onto the parade field. Find a nice spot with the others. While you’re there maybe you can come up with some suggestions to make it more hospitable.”
Brad pushed to the back of the room with Howard behind him as Nevens stood in the doorway scowling. Gunner looked him in the eye, “That’s all, Ranger, move out.”
Gunner brushed Nevens off with his hand, moved to the door, and closed it.
“Bloody hell, you strayed a bit off course there, didn’t ya, mate?!” Meyers chimed in.
“I didn’t see you standing up to voice your disagreement,” Gunner laughed.
He moved around the desk and sat in the leather swivel chair, rummaged through the drawers, and stopped when he found a half pint of rum. He lifted a small glass and blew the dust out before filling it with the dark liquid.
“No reason we can’t make things better for these people while we make our next move.” Gunner paused and took a long swig of the rum, he grimaced and coughed, “That is some rot gut right there. Gunnery Sergeant Cordell, can you find this riverboat captain an
d have him brought to me?”
CHAPTER 17
The truck bounced and jerked as the front tire dropped into a deep pothole. Shane slowed his speed even more as he navigated the broken road. He looked down at the truck’s gas gauge—the needle drifting just below the E. They’d passed several buildings, most burnt or with kicked-in doors and broken windows. Nothing inviting, but with the engine about to sputter to death, he was growing nervous that they would be walking again soon.
Shane slowed the truck to steer around a downed tree. As he moved past it, another tree from the opposite side of the road forced him into a serpentine pattern. Instantly, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to buzz. He’d had the same feelings before as a turret gunner in Iraq moments before an ambush or a road side bomb. He had to make a split second decision to stop or go back. Trusting instinct, he put his foot hard to the pedal. The truck tires screeched in response as they fought the asphalt, coming out of the turn he was navigating through the downed trees. Shane heard the gunshots before he saw the shooter.
The windshield spider webbed. Ella screamed as Shane reached out with his right hand and forced her flat on the seat while he struggled to maintain control of the truck. He drove the vehicle hard through the remaining curve and into a straightway. Ahead, he could see the makeshift roadblock of old cars parked on the road at 45 degree angles. The attackers had formed the perfect bottle neck ambush. Two men stood behind the fender of the farthermost right car with weapons raised and muzzles flashing. Already committed, Shane kept his foot on the accelerator and sped for the small gap between the cars. Just before impact, he cut the wheel hard to the right and the truck collided with the car that the men were hiding behind. The crash almost bucked Shane from his seat, but the weight of the large truck and the momentum barreled them through the barricade as he regained control.
He heard the motor squeal from the fan being forced into the radiator and engine block. The truck pulled hard to the right. He could feel the resistance in the steering wheel, indicating a flat tire. More gunshots shattered the back window and a single round punctured a hole in the bench seat just above Ella’s head. Shane let the right hand pull take him off the road, gunned the engine for all it had left, and raced to the tree line. The truck bounced hard as the rubber left the steel rim, causing it to gouge into the earth. Shane kept on the engine but was losing speed.
Desperately, he cut the wheel into the direction of the flat tire and hit the parking brake. The truck stopped abruptly, barely keeping the vehicle between him and the ambushers. The gunfire increased as rounds skipped overhead and pinged into the body of the truck. Shane forced the driver’s door open with his boot. Keeping low, he grabbed Ella by her wrist, dragged her across the bench seat, and then positioned her behind the rear tire. The truck had sunk into the ground up to its floorboards. The soft earth and steel truck body now made for good cover.
Shane pulled his bag from the cab and left it on the ground. He crouched low and duck walked to Ella’s side. After making sure she was okay, he readied his rifle, then dropped low to crawl near the back bumper. He could hear the men shouting panicked instructions to each other now. One appeared to be hurt—probably when the truck crashed through the barricade. Shane caught movement from the corner of his eye. A man ran bent at the waist and headed in Shane’s direction. Shane lifted his rifle, aimed center mass, leading slightly and pulled the trigger a single time. The man took a final long step before falling face first into the mud.
Shane heard more shouting, but directed now. He held his breath and tried to listen. He could tell they were yelling to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. Shane crawled under the edge of the exposed tailgate—careful to remain concealed—and stared intently in the direction of the roadblock. One man was in a sitting position against the crushed car he’d hit. Another was standing behind the far vehicle yelling in his direction. They were still too far away for Shane to understand him and he didn’t care what they had to say; they’d shot at him, that made them his enemy. Shane turned back to Ella and told her to wait by the truck and he’d be back as soon as he could.
Shane knew he wouldn’t have long before the infected showed up; he would have to work quickly. He put his head to the ground and crawled low through the high grass, letting the bandit’s shouting guide him. As he drew closer, he could begin to make out the words. They were asking him to surrender, to come out and they wouldn’t shoot him. Shane continued moving at a slight angle away from the voice, hoping to come out of the grass in a flanking position.
The shouting stopped, but Shane was now close enough to hear the muffled conversation between the two men. He focused on their words as he slowly worked his way closer to the roadside. The wounded man argued that the truck’s occupants were dead. He wanted to leave and return to the camp before the infected showed up. The other wanted to know where his friends were, the owners of the truck. Shane lifted his head slightly; he was within fifty meters of the roadblock now. He’d come out of the grass and onto the pavement ahead of them. The seated man was mumbling now. The second asked for cover, then began slowly stalking in the direction of the truck and Ella.
Shane hid in the grass waiting for the man to walk beyond him. Once the man cleared Shane’s position, he quickly popped up to a knee with the rifle aimed at the man’s back. He called for the bandit to stop; instead, the man turned toward Shane. Two pulls of the trigger, and the bandit fell to the ground. Shane turned back to the wounded man and held his rifle on him as he patrolled forward. The man was whimpering incoherently now. Shane approached cautiously. As he neared, he could see the man’s bloodied torso and an obvious broken leg judging from the angle of his boot.
The wounded man was young, mid-twenties maybe, but his condition and nappy beard made him look older. He was slender with a pale face and gray, bloodshot eyes. His flannel shirt was ripped and soiled, his denim pants covered in grime and dirt.
“Get your arms out and to your sides! Open your hands, show me your palms!” Shane yelled.
The man whimpered, but slowly stretched his arms. Shane moved closer and quickly searched him for a weapon. Finding a 9mm pistol with the slide locked back, Shane kicked the handgun away. He then grabbed the man by the shoulder and dragged him screaming farther onto the road. Keeping his weapon on the wounded man, Shane hastily searched the remaining vehicle. He found keys and a large red duffle bag of food on the back seat. Shane returned to the wounded man as he visually scanned the tree line for the infected.
Shane walked back to his prisoner and stood over him. “Where is your camp? How many there?”
The injured man grunted and attempted a roll to his side. Shane lifted his boot and stepped on the man’s broken leg, producing a scream in agony.
“You need to stop with all of that noise. I’m surprised the infected aren’t already on us.”
The man stopped screaming. He held a blood-covered arm to his lips and breathed heavily into the sleeve.
“Now I’m going to ask again, where is your camp and how many?”
The wounded man grunted and rolled to his back, looking up at Shane with sunken eyes. “How many? You already killed us all man!” he cried. “David over there and Taylor, that was all of us.”
“You brought this on yourselves when you shot at me.”
The man’s mouth frothed with bloody foam. He gritted his teeth and said, “We shot because you have Earl’s truck.”
“Oh, gotcha… I’d say Earl let me borrow it, but that’d be a lie; Earl’s dead—and his buddy. Now last time, where’s the camp?” Shane lifted his boot and pushed the toe of it against the man’s outward bent leg. The man flinched and pulled away.
“Okay, okay, but you got to bring me with you. I’ll show you,” he gurgled.
Shane began to hear the faint moans of the infected in the distance. They were calling to each other with the baying sounds they used when they were on the hunt, probably tracking him from his last encounter with Earl. Shane wal
ked to the still intact newer model Chevy sedan, pushed a button on the key fob, and the trunk popped open. Shane reached inside the trunk and used his knife to cut away the escape release wire. Quickly, he turned back and grabbed the wounded man. He rolled him to his belly and forced his arms behind his back. The man screamed and struggled with protests that Shane ignored. After being hogtied with the wire, he pulled off the man’s belt and tightly tied it around his ankles. Shane dragged the man screaming across the pavement to the car and forced his body into the trunk.
He whistled a familiar call and saw Ella appear near the back of the disabled pickup. He circled his arm in the air and watched as she slowly moved in his direction. As Shane ran toward her, he told her to get into the car. Then he continued to the truck and retrieved his rucksack. On the return trip, he saw the first of the infected move out of the trees near the roadblock. Shane spotted the man he’d shot earlier; dead on the ground and still holding a SKS rifle. Shane slung his M4 and retrieved the dead man’s rifle as he jogged back to the car. He raised the weapon and took aimed shots at the nearest infected.
He knocked the first of them to the ground with several hits to the chest. Shane continued firing into the approaching infected as he moved to the open door of the sedan. When he saw they were running directly at him now, Shane fired rapidly until the SKS was dry, then turned and tossed the empty weapon into the back seat. Shane dropped into the car and pulled the door shut just as one of them launched its body onto the hood. He put the key in the ignition and could hear the car respond with dinging that he could barely make out over the screaming of the infected and the terrified yelling of the man in the trunk.
The key turned and the engine started. Shane put the car in reverse and backed away from the roadblock as more infected impacted the car. He did a three point turn then gunned the engine, causing the infected to fall off of the vehicle. Shane had the car going straight down the center of the blacktop road. He looked over at Ella next to him; she was sitting with her seatbelt on staring straight ahead. Shane reached across the seat and patted her leg.
