by Lundy, W. J.
Gyles put his uniform shirt back on. “Yeah, I gotcha,” he said, making a mental note to look for medicine along with fuel, ammo, and food. “How are the rest of the men?”
“They are okay,” Rodriguez said. “We could use some better chow though.”
Nodding, Gyles forced a smile. “You’re doing an excellent job. Keep an eye on them, and if anything changes, let me or Weaver know.”
The medic nodded his head. He went to step away but stopped and turned back. “Sergeant, are you really going back out there?”
Gyles hardened his jaw. “We have to.”
“Has there been any word from Fort Stewart?”
The platoon sergeant shook his head, not speaking. Rodriguez frowned. “Take the pills, Sergeant; they’ll help with the headaches,” he said before lowering his head and walking away.
Gyles dressed and lifted his IOTV (Improved Outer Tactical Vest). He removed the back and side ballistic plates, only leaving the one in the front before putting the vest back on. Most of the other soldiers had already made the change after Luke and Weaver suggested it. From what they’d seen, the infected weren’t shooting back, and he remembered how cumbersome it had been fighting them in the heavy gear. Then, with his pack slung over his shoulders and rifle in hand, Gyles walked to the end of a small fenced-in quad.
Under Luke’s supervision, they’d wasted no time hardening the three cabins into a mini compound. It wasn’t fully walled, but they’d built spiked picket fences and trenches that surrounded the buildings. No need for fences that could be climbed like before—these fences were designed to impale. They’d learned their lesson the hard way at the armory. Now it was about holding the infected back so they could be killed.
The constructed defenses around the cabins looked medieval, more like a Dark Ages encampment than a modern military outpost. Sharpened stakes and picket lines with steel cables stretched between the trees had been designed to trip up runners and crowd the infected into firing lanes. If they managed to get beyond those, there were the trenches filled to slow them further. So far, they hadn’t seen or heard anything in the way of infected, and they hoped it would stay that way. Gyles weaved his way through the barricades and moved to the narrow drive.
Weaver was already with one of the armored HUMVEEs when Gyles approached it. The squad leader had picked three men to go with them, and to Gyles’s surprise, only one of them belonged to Second Platoon. Gyles stepped closer and eyed the police officer and National Guardsman standing near the front of the vehicle. He had seen them both around the camp but didn’t know them.
Weaver caught the sergeant’s apprehensive stare and moved between him and the new guys. “How are you feeling, boss?”
“Like I lost a fight with truck.”
Weaver looked him up and down and said, “You sure you’re up for this?”
Gyles laughed. “Funny, that was the same question your mom asked me last time we were together.”
“Fuck you,” Weaver said.
“Yes, she did.” He smiled.
“Yup, G-Man is back.” Weaver laughed.
Gyles pointed to the two men. “Who we got here?”
Weaver turned toward the cop in a Vines City Police Department uniform. Like Luke, he wore a bulletproof vest, but it was smaller and not emblazoned with SWAT on the front. The man was mid-thirties with short hair and a square jaw. He carried a shortened carbine with iron sights and a holstered Glock on his right hip. “This is Mike Sinclair. According to Luke, he knows the terrain better than anyone else around here, and he’s local law. Can’t hurt us—just in case we run into locals, ya know?”
Gyles nodded his agreement. “And this one?” he said, pointing to a skinny Private First Class with stubble on his face. After the attacks, Gyles didn’t push grooming standards; they were in mixed company and had lost ninety percent of their men to a ravaged mob. Shaving sort of fell off the priority list.
“Private Aaron Mathews—same deal—he’s hunted these woods; he knows the area.”
Gyles looked up at the turret and recognized Corporal Jeremy Collier already positioned there. A big man, an overfed Nebraska boy who wouldn’t look out of place on a Cornhusker defensive line, he was from Weaver’s First Squad, one of their M240 machine gunners. But now, instead of the M240, he was holding an M4 that looked comically small in the big man’s grip. “Where’s your weapon, Corporal?”
Collier looked at Weaver, who answered for him. “Not worth taking it along. We have under three hundred 7.62 rounds for our remaining machine guns. Doesn’t make sense to split the ammo. If we run into something, we can button up. Here, though, they might need it.”
Pointing to the Humvee, Gyles said, “Well, you’ve covered the bases. Let’s mount up and see what we can find.”
They opened the doors and stuffed their gear inside before piling in. Officer Sinclair sat behind the wheel, with Mathews behind him while Gyles climbed into the front passenger seat, in front of Weaver.
Sinclair had the Hummer up and was navigating them down the road and into the tree-covered forest. “Where you are taking us today, Mike?” Gyles asked.
The man kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. “There is a small gas station and market at the edge of the forest. It doesn’t have a name, and it’s not on the map, but we’ve both been there.”
Gyles leaned forward and twisted to look at the private behind him. “What’s ‘there’?”
Mathews raised his eyebrows as he thought. “It’s like a little town,” he said. “Market and some houses. Old man that runs the shop lives there. He makes good jerky.”
“More details?” Gyles said.
“Jerky, yeah—like deer, turkey, beef—”
“No,” Gyles interrupted. “What else is in the area? You ever been on a recon before, kid? Is there shit there were looking at?”
Laughing, Mike answered for the boy. “Well, there is a gas station,” Mike added. “I don’t know about diesel, but they have kerosene for sure.”
Gyles turned his head and smiled. “That’s smart thinking; the Hummers and Raps can run on Kerosene.”
“They can?” Mathews asked.
“Yup, don’t go telling the motor pool sergeant about it, but kero will get us where we need to go.”
Mike slowed and made a turn off the narrow road they were on, maneuvering onto a wide, two-lane gravel road. The trees were far from the shoulder here, and the elevation of the road let them see far into the distance. Most of the horizon was a green line of forest but looking to the east, they could see the thin fingers of black smoke reaching up.
“Is there a town over there?” Gyles asked.
Mike turned his head and shook it no. “That’s the interstate. Burning vehicles, most likely. There are some homes and farms that way too.”
“Zoomies are bombing the shit out of them,” Weaver said from the back. “You hear all the airstrikes last night?”
“There could be survivors out there,” Gyles mumbled. “They are dropping bombs on survivors.”
Weaver frowned. “It is what it is.”
Gyles nodded and looked away, knowing his friend was right; there was nothing they could do about it. “It is what it is.”
They held their thoughts the rest of the way down the road. Gyles kept his eyes to the window, watching the trees and signs that marked hiking trails or picnic areas pass by. Occasionally, he would look back to the horizon at the pillars of smoke and wonder what was at the bottom of them—were there battles raging beyond the trees? Were there people out there who needed help? Should he be trying to contact his command instead of hiding in the woods? He shook his head, unable to fight off the thoughts.
He grabbed at the SINCGARS military radio handset in the radio rack and powered it up. The vehicle also had an older version of Blue Force Tracker mounted in a steel rack, a system that uses GPS to track vehicles on a map in real time. He fumbled with the side buttons but couldn’t power it on. Weaver leaned between the sea
ts and shouted at him. “National Guard, brother, don’t bother. That shit is ancient, and the radio doesn’t even have the proper crypto. Don’t even waste your time trying to hit civilian bands with that box.”
Gyles sighed, frustrated, and tossed the handset back to the console. The vehicle slowed quickly, and Gyles put a hand on the dash to catch himself. He looked to Mike and then to the road ahead. In the center of the gravel path was a red pickup truck sitting motionless, the cab appearing empty. “Go ahead and stop us here,” Gyles said. “Don’t get any closer.”
He leaned back in the seat and looked up. “What do you see, Collier?” he shouted to his man in the turret.
“Same as you, Sergeant. Pickup dead in the road. It’s a Toyota, so nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Okay, smartass—just keep scanning. You see anything, call out. We’re going for a walk.” He turned and looked at Weaver. “Let’s have a closer look. Mike, you stay buttoned up. Regardless of what happens to us, you make it back to the camp. Mathews, you’re going to unass and keep an eye on our six.”
“What?” the kid said, his eyes getting big.
“Just make sure nothing sneaks up behind us,” Gyles barked.
Mathews nodded and placed a hand on the door latch, waiting for the others to move. The team dismounted together with Gyles moving in a single motion, his barrel sweeping the space to the right of the vehicle then wrapping around the front and pointing at the pickup truck. He held, waiting for Weaver to move up to the front left of the Hummer and cover his blind spots.
Collier said in a bass-filled tone, “Got you covered.” He tried speaking low but everything Collier said was at a shout. Normally a good trait for a machine gunner, but not at all appreciated today.
“Okay, we’re moving,” Gyles called out. He didn’t turn to look at Weaver but could see in his peripheral that the man was making a same half-circle path, arcing out then back toward the truck. As Gyles moved closer, he could see that the back window of the pickup was missing, and there were gunshots in the driver’s door.
“Battle damage on this side, boss,” Weaver called out, not halting his movements.
“Same over here,” Gyles said. He moved in and stopped just in front of the bumper on the right side. He rose up and aimed at the cab. Sidestepping, he moved around to the driver’s door and quickly pulled back. A man was lying over the bench seat, the back of his white T-shirt red with coagulated blood. Gyles stepped back and leaned out to see into the bed of the truck. The inside held a pair of backpacks and what could have been a bundled-up tent, possibly a pair of sleeping bags. He flinched when he heard the passenger door creak open. Weaver pointed his barrel inside, moving the man’s arm. He then reached in and pulled out a small handgun and placed it on the cab roof.
Weaver pointed at the console. “The ignition is on. Truck probably ran itself out of gas.” He leaned in then pointed at the floor. “I’d say from the amount of stains on the carpet, this guy bled out. But who the hell shot him?” Both men backed away and spun out, searching the terrain again.
“You think the shooter is still here?” Gyles asked.
“All the gear is here so it wasn’t a robbery, or not one that worked.” Weaver scratched at his head. “I don’t know, but we have to assume the infected aren’t the only bad guys up ahead.”
Gyles nodded his agreement. “Let’s get this thing off the road.” He moved back to the cab and leaned in, cranking the wheel and putting the truck in neutral. He then pointed to the HUMVEE and directed Mike forward. Moving slowly, the Hummer pushed the truck off the road, the body still inside.
“What about the gear?” Weaver asked.
Gyles shrugged. “We know where it’s at—if we get that desperate on the return trip, we’ll grab it. For now, let’s leave it.”
He moved around to the HUMVEE and climbed back inside, looking at Mike. “How far are we from this place you were talking about?”
“Just over the next rise.”
Gyles scratched his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “The way that guy was heading, he must have come from there.”
“Most likely,” Weaver added from the back. “That hole in his back—it couldn’t have been far.”
Exhaling deeply, Gyles sighed. “Okay, stay alert. Let’s see what’s waiting for us.”
Chapter Fourteen
Day of Infection Plus Ten, 1130 Hours
GW National Forest, Virginia.
It wasn’t a town by any standards. With just four aging structures scattered along a patch of road, Gyles wouldn’t even consider it a community. Beyond it was an intersection where the gravel road they were traveling east on crossed a paved road that went north and south. There was no blinking light, not even a four-way stop sign.
At the intersection was a gas station on the southwest corner, across from it on the northeast side, a small gift shop. In the intersection was a vehicle collision, a mess of twisted still-smoking wreckage. The two vehicles had burned so it was impossible to tell who or what caused the mess, or even if there was anyone inside.
The men were stopped at the crest of a hill looking down at the buildings. The trees ended just behind them and turned to tall grass and pasture. They were leaving the edge of the national forest and moving onto a county road. “All right, Mike, bring us up nice and easy,” Gyles said. “Mathews, I am starting to question your upbringing; how in the hell you going to call a pack of shacks a town?”
“I said it was kind of like a town,” Mathews protested.
Mike let his foot off the brake and the vehicle rolled ahead, gravity pulling it down the hill. The diesel engine hummed at just above an idle. Gyles surveyed the four homes less than a hundred yards ahead of them. All of them were of similar construction, painted white with flat roofs. They were all in bad shape; it was hard to tell if anyone had lived in them at all.
Reading his mind, Mathews leaned forward. “The store owner lives in that place, there on the end. The big one.” He pointed to the home furthest away on the left side of the road. “The rest aren’t really houses. This place used to be one big farm, then the old man turned the other buildings in cabins that he would rent out to travelers. He stopped doing that a couple years ago.”
Gyles thought of asking him why he stopped renting the cabins but realized he didn’t care; his focus was on the gas station and its market ahead of them. The vehicle rolled past the buildings and stopped just short of the intersection, with the gas station quickly coming up on their right. There was a small blue sedan parked at one of the pumps. The front windshield was pockmarked from obvious gunfire—three impacts just above the steering wheel.
“I got a couple bodies over here, Sergeant. Your nine o’clock,” Collier said from the turret, the echo from his loud voice causing Gyles to cringe.
Gyles turned to the left and could see the bare feet of a man lying in the grass. He sat up higher in the seat and saw the second body just beyond it. “Cut the engine,” he said to Mike.
The rumbling of the diesel stopped and they sat in silence, listening. Gyles lifted his rifle and looked through the magnification of the optics, surveying the burnt-out vehicles. Even close, it was impossible to tell if anyone was in them. He opened the door and stepped onto the street. He waited, listening to the other men doing the same. His ears tuned into the surroundings for any sounds of activity, his eyes dialed in for movement; he was focused.
“You want me in the turret or out there, Sergeant—” Collier’s voice boomed.
Gyles flinched, his jaw clenched. “What the fuck?” Gyles snapped back. “Seriously, bro? I know we are outside, but let’s use this time to practice our inside voices.”
“Aww… shit,” he said just below a shout, a hand slapping over his mouth. He removed it and in a hoarse hurricane whisper said, “My bad, Sergeant. You know shooting the two-forty always gets me talking loud.”
Tossing a thumbs up, Gyles nodded to him. “It’s fine, just stay with the vehicle… oh, and try not
telling the entire county what we are doing.”
Gyles leaned over the hood of the vehicle and signaled for the other two men to approach the bodies. Weaver moved toward them, walking heel-to-toe, rifle up. Mike stood back, his rifle aiming off to the left, covering the blind spots. It impressed Gyles that the lawman had tactical awareness. It didn’t surprise him, but he was pleased nonetheless. Weaver looked down at the bodies and shook his head before moving back, keeping his rifle up toward the distant buildings.
He returned to the cluster of men near the Hummer. “Man and a woman. Both have been there at least overnight.” Weaver stopped. “Fuck, they are just kids, man, and both are blistered with gunshots.”
“Infected?” Gyles asked, already knowing it was a stupid question.
Shrugging, Weaver looked back toward the pair, his eyebrow raised. He then looked back to Gyles. “Hell if I know. Da fuck does an infected look like when they are dead?”
“Contact!” Collier bellowed from the turret. He was standing, leaning out with his rifle pointed toward the gas station. In the search of the bodies, Gyles had taken his eyes off his sector, and a man had wandered through an open doorway. He cursed himself for becoming distracted. Simple mistakes can get you killed on a patrol.
The man was stumbling forward, his abdomen bloodied, his hands outstretched to the sides in a crucifix.
“Hold your fire! He’s not armed,” Gyles said, moving away from the vehicle, toward the bullet-scarred car at the gas pumps between him and the station’s door. For the first time he noticed a slumped body in the driver’s seat of the car lying over the center console. Dammit, he hadn’t cleared it. Another mistake. He needed to slow down.
