Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  “Just for a couple of days.”

  “Any word from him?”

  “He’s still there.”

  Gabe scratched his chin and settled back further in his seat.

  “Good to hear.”

  FIVE

  Caleb,

  Colorado Springs,

  Mid-April, Six Weeks Earlier

  A runner found me in my room at the bachelor officer quarters (BOQ) at Peterson Army Air Base, formerly Peterson Air Force Base. The facility’s name had changed almost two years ago when the Air Force and Marines were disbanded and absorbed into the Army.

  I was not an officer yet, although General Jacobs assured me a field commission was in the works, but as a show of good faith he let me room in the same building as the brass. I got some funny looks, and was stopped in the hallway several times by officers demanding to know what I was doing there. A few flashes of the black ID card identifying me as a federal emissary—a detachment of JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) operators and federal marshals (of which I was the former) answerable only to the president and her designated appointees—quickly put those questions to rest. No one bothered me anymore.

  The runner had two envelopes for me from the Federal Refugee Intake Center. Back in the early days, the Intake Center had originally been established to process Outbreak survivors into the Colorado Springs Safe Zone. But now it did much more, one of those functions being to maintain the Missing & Deceased list, or M&D as it was commonly called.

  Another function, one which generated revenue to offset the Center’s meager federal funding, was to employ a cadre of runners to deliver messages on a fee basis. When I first arrived in the Springs, after traipsing across Missouri and Kansas, I had paid a deposit at the Intake Center and given a clerk a list of names. If any of the people on the list showed up on the M&D, dead or alive, I wanted to be notified. I also paid to have any messages addressed to me from the free community of Hollow Rock delivered in person. I got both on the same day.

  The first was an impersonal hand-written message with several spelling errors informing me that Gabriel Garrett, Elizabeth Stone, Sabrina Garrett, and Eric Riordan had arrived safely in Colorado Springs, along with their trade and livestock. They knew I would want to see them, so they gave the name of their hotel and asked if I could call upon them at my earliest convenience. I fully intended to do so.

  The second letter was a typed telegram from Hollow Rock. My hands shook as I opened it and unfolded the letter within. It read:

  Caleb,

  I can’t tell you what a relief it was to get your message. Knowing you are alive and safe in the Springs is like a weight off my chest. I was so worried. I’m sorry about what happened to the caravan, and I’m proud of you for helping those prisoners.

  I know what you’re wondering, so I won’t keep you in suspense. The answer is yes. I’ll move to Colorado to be with you.

  It was unseasonably hot that day. I was standing in my small barracks room with both the window and the door open to allow a cross breeze. I was wearing a pair of athletic shorts and nothing else. Despite the heat, I felt cold and dizzy and had to sit down on my bed and breathe deeply for a minute or two before I could read on. If anyone before that moment had told me relief could be painful, I would have laughed at them. Now I knew better.

  The letter continued:

  That being said, there are a few logistical concerns which will delay my departure. You see, Eric more or less left me in charge of G&R Transport and Salvage. Great Hawk handles the salvage work, and Johnny Greene is a big help around the store, but there’s also the farm co-op, and real estate investments, and rental properties, and tax paperwork, and the philanthropic stuff, and military contracts, and all the other things Eric has his fingers in. I don’t think there’s a business or a farm in town that isn’t in debt to him. And with just the three of us, it’s a lot to manage. We’re all working sixteen hour days, but we’re barely keeping up.

  I want to be with you more than anything in the world, but here’s the thing: Eric saved my life. He rescued me from the Free Legion, and I owe him for that. It’s a debt I can never repay. So I hope you understand when I tell you I can’t just pick up and leave. That would just leave Great Hawk and Johnny to run the business, and they can’t handle everything on their own. I asked Great Hawk to hire some new people, but he refused. He said that’s Eric’s job. Problem is, Eric isn’t here. And you know as well as I do how productive it is to argue with the Hawk. Might as well shout at a brick wall.

  So for the time being, I have to stay here. When Eric gets back and hires some more people to help out, I’ll tender my resignation and send word to you. I’m not sure how I’m going to get out there, so I’m hoping you can help me out with that when the time comes.

  The thought of starting a new life with you in Colorado is exciting beyond anything I can describe. I love you Caleb. More than I have ever loved anyone. You are my soldier, my heart, my warrior-poet. I will count the days until we can be together again.

  Love always,

  Miranda

  P.S.—Maybe you could talk to Eric the next time you see him? Maybe explain things, kind of smooth the road for me? I would really appreciate it. In fact, I know you will do it so I’ll go ahead and say thank you and I love you and tell Eric to get his ass home. His wife worries for him, and his son is growing like an adorable little weed.

  I miss you. Be careful.

  The telegram fit neatly back into its envelope. Getting Miranda out here would not be a problem. All it would take would be a satellite phone call to Captain Harlow at Fort McCray, and she would be on her way to FOB Tecumseh in Missouri via Chinook within 24 hours. From there, another Chinook could take her to the Wichita Safe Zone with perhaps one or two stops for fuel. The WSZ had its own airstrip with transport planes coming and going regularly. Getting her on a direct flight to Peterson AAB would be no trouble at all. Would it be an abuse of my authority? Yes. Did I care? Not in the least. I lay back on my bed and put the letter on my chest and smiled as a gentle breeze stirred the thin white curtain bordering the window.

  *****

  Later that evening the sun relented and the weather cooled. I was off duty, so I dressed in civilian clothes, threw a few things in a small backpack, armed myself with a combat knife and a Beretta 9mm in a drop holster, and left the base on foot. Across the street from the main gate there was a line of people clustered around all manner of vehicles clamoring to give me a ride. An orange line painted on the sidewalk was their admonition to stay on their side of the street, a rule enthusiastically enforced by the guards on duty.

  I scanned the crowd. There were bicycle taxis, donkeys, mules, horses, small carriages drawn by a variety of livestock, and even a few gas-powered vehicles that looked like the automotive equivalent of Frankenstein’s monster, pieced together with whatever parts the operators could scrounge to keep them running. I did not waste time scanning the cars. They were too expensive; the cost of gasoline alone ensured that. The government had gotten a few refineries online, but supplies were still limited. If I’d been in a hurry and had a long way to go, I might have considered renting a car. But I was in no hurry, so I didn’t. Instead, I motioned to an old man sitting in a small open-top carriage powered by a healthy looking ox.

  “Where you headed?” he asked as I approached.

  “Mountain View Hotel. Know where it is?”

  “Sure. Climb on up.”

  “What’ll it cost me?”

  He told me. I didn’t have the trade he wanted, but I did have some spare ammo of various calibers and a few mini-bottles of pre-Outbreak hooch. He said he would take a mini of rum. I told him that was a lot for a ride across town. He agreed and wrote me a receipt with credit for two more rides, redeemable at any time, so long as my destination was inside the safety perimeter surrounding the city.

  The old man, like most people in his hardscrabble trade, was outside the gate to the Army base pretty much every day. I had sold m
y horse a few months ago, so it would not be long before I needed another ride somewhere. I figured it was a fair deal and climbed aboard.

  The Mountain View Hotel was posh by post-Outbreak standards. Solar panels and windmills on the roof provided enough electricity to power a few overhead lights in the lobby and no more than one lamp per room, per the sign on the front desk. The hotel had a working ice machine, indoor bathing facilities, a barber on duty from 8:00 am to 6:00 pm, a restaurant in the east wing, and laundry service. Use of these services cost extra, of course, but at least they were available.

  I told the pretty receptionist who I was looking for and gave her a room number. She quite surprised me by picking up a phone handset and dialing a number.

  Don’t see that much anymore.

  “Hello, sir, this is the front desk,” she said when she got an answer. “A Mr. Caleb Hicks is here to see you. Yes, of course. You’re welcome, sir.”

  She regarded me with wide brown eyes. “Mr. Riordan will be down to see you shortly. Please make yourself at home.”

  One delicate hand pointed at a few chairs and couches behind me. The lobby was not large, but it looked comfortable. I sat down and realized it had been a long time since I had planted my ass in a padded armchair. It was a feeling I could quickly get re-accustomed to.

  Within a minute, I heard feet pounding down the stairs. Eric Riordan appeared at the bottom of the staircase. He was a little shorter than me, longish blonde hair, lean and wiry, little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, deep parenthetical lines around his mouth that emphasized a strong chin and jawline, and a pair of dark blue eyes that stood out in contrast to the sun-darkened skin of his face. He shook my hand with a surprisingly strong grip, smiled broadly, and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Well look what the cat dragged in. How the hell are you?”

  “Can’t complain. You?”

  “I could complain a lot. Last couple of weeks have been pure shit.”

  “I heard a rumor about that. Some kind of trouble in Dodge City?”

  He shook his head. “A story best told over drinks, and lots of them. Short version, stay the hell out of Dodge. No pun intended. Now come on, the girls want to see you.”

  Elizabeth was as beautiful and graceful as ever, and Sabrina even gave me a hug before she called me an asshole for not coming to see them sooner. I explained I had duties that required my attention.

  “Fuck your excuses,” she said, demonstrating her usual eloquence. “We were worried about you. You should have sent a goddamn runner or something.”

  “You’re right. I should have. Sorry about that.”

  A punch on the arm. “Try using a couple of fucking brain cells next time.”

  “I will so endeavor.”

  Eric rescued me by grabbing a bottle of moonshine and a bucket of ice. Three ice cubes went into each of four tumblers, along with a generous measure of hooch and a squeeze of freshly cut lemon.

  One of the glasses went to Sabrina. Before the Outbreak, I would have been put off by the sight of a girl on the cusp of her fifteenth year drinking hundred-proof booze. But I had seen Sabrina drink enough times to know she could hold her liquor. Besides, in the post-Outbreak world, if you could reach over the counter, you were old enough to drink.

  I rattled the ice in my glass and sniffed at the lemon. “Living the high life are we?”

  “Hey,” Eric said. “In these dark times, you take pleasure where you can find it.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  We all sat down, the girls cross-legged on the room’s two beds, and Eric and I in a pair of chairs by the window. I asked where Gabe was, and Elizabeth told me he had taken a job with the Blackthorn Security Company and was attending orientation. I raised an eyebrow at this, but upon reflection, did not find it surprising.

  “Expect him back soon?”

  “Probably in the next hour or so,” Eric said.

  I gave a short nod. “So what have the rest of you been up to?”

  “I took a job with the Department of Justice,” Elizabeth said. “Apparently they’re hurting for US attorneys. Doesn’t pay much, but it keeps me busy.”

  I sipped my hooch. It wasn’t bad. The lemon added a nice flavor. “I heard the attorney general is kind of a prick.”

  “He is,” Elizabeth said. “But he sort of has to be. With the president and the new congress rewriting the Constitution, everything’s sort of in limbo right now. We’re sticking with the old laws until something else gets passed, and there’s a lot of people not too happy about that. And most of them have the word ‘representative’ or ‘senator’ in front of their names.”

  I shook my head. “Politics.”

  “The economy here is growing,” Eric said. “And the politicians are fighting to be first in line to graft the shit out of it. The AG and a few senators who actually give a rat’s ass about regular people are trying to keep them from fleecing the public too badly.”

  “Good luck to ‘em,” I said.

  Elizabeth sipped her moonshine. “Yeah. They’re gonna need it.”

  The conversation went on for another hour or so. I didn’t say much. I usually don’t. But it was nice to hear my friends’ voices again, to catch up on their lives and be in good company with people I trusted.

  The warm camaraderie got me thinking about my buddies in my old unit, the First Reconnaissance Expeditionary. Specifically First Platoon, Delta Squad. I wondered how Ethan Thompson, Isaac Cole, Holland, Page, Cormier, and Smith were doing. I thought about Fuller, his sense of humor and wit, and how he used to keep us entertained on long marches and cold nights in the wastelands. He was gone now, but at least he’d died a soldier’s death. And then there was Justin Schmidt, who had left us to join the Phoenix Initiative. I wondered how he was doing. I wondered if I would ever see the guys from my old squad again. The ache in my chest when I thought about them surprised me. I had not joined the Army voluntarily, and from the beginning had told myself I was not there to make friends. The plan was to serve my time, keep my head down, and stay alive. But despite my best efforts, friendships happened anyway. And now my brothers-in-arms were in Tennessee, I was here, and I doubted anyone had told them yet that I would not be coming back.

  There was a knock at the door. Sabrina yelled to come on in. The door opened and Gabriel Garrett stepped into the room. At six foot five, he had to duck a little not to hit his head as he entered. He noticed me sitting by the window and a rare smile creased his face.

  “Hicks. The hell you doin’ here?”

  I stood up and shook his hand. “Gave Jacobs the slip. Figured I’d stop by and make sure y’all weren’t making trouble for yourselves.”

  The smile left Gabe’s face. “Jacobs? General Jacobs?”

  “The same.”

  He was quiet a moment, then said, “We’ll talk later.”

  I gave a single nod. “You cut quite a figure in that uniform.”

  “Looks good on me, doesn’t it?” Gabe said, taking the change of subject in stride. He held his arms out and looked down at the distinctive dark tactical fatigues of the Blackthorn Security Company.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Eric said, pouring Gabe a drink. “Guy’s been strutting around like a damn peacock all week.”

  “I think he looks very handsome.” Elizabeth stood up and gave Gabe a peck on the cheek. “You have to admit, it’s very stylish.”

  “So were the uniforms for the SS,” Eric said.

  I glanced between Eric and Gabe, sensing tension there. Gabe did not seem perturbed.

  “Eric doesn’t like that I’m a security contractor again.”

  “Security contractor.” Eric’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he handed Gabe his drink. “Pretty phrase, that. But let’s face the facts, Gabe. You’re a mercenary. Again. How’d that work out for you last time?”

  “Apples and oranges, Eric. The Blackthorns aren’t Aegis. They don’t do that kind of work.”

  “Not yet.”

  Gab
e frowned at him. “This coming from the guy looking to start his own security outfit.”

  “Yes, so I can provide protection to caravans at prices that don’t cut their profits down to zero. Unlike your employer.”

  “We charge a lot because we’re the best.”

  “Sure you are. That’s why Spike and all his people are dead and the trade you brought from Hollow Rock is currently in the hands of a bunch of marauders. Because the Blackthorns are so damned good. There were two Blackthorns in that caravan, if you recall. You warned both of them about the ambush, and neither did a damn thing about it.”

  “Because Spike told them not to.” Gabe’s voice was growing heated. “He was the client. His contract insisted he be in charge. They couldn’t override his orders. And even if they’d tried, Spike’s people wouldn’t have listened. The only person they took orders from was Spike. And besides that, you saw how many raiders were in that ambush. They would have taken down a convoy of Marines, much less a bunch of civilians.”

  “Gabe, you just made my case for me,” Eric said. “Is that how you want to end up? Dead because some dumbshit caravan leader was too stupid to listen to the experts?”

  “In case you forgot, Eric, the only reason any of us survived that ambush is because of me. And as I recall, you were one of the people telling me I was being paranoid, that there was nothing to worry about. So no, I don’t think I’m going to end up dead because of someone like Spike not listening to my advice. I’ll quit the company before I let that happen.”

  Eric sat back down. He seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for the argument. I had the feeling this was not the first time the two old friends had quarreled over the subject.

  “Don’t let Hadrian Flint or Tyrel Jennings hear you say that,” Eric said. “They’ll throw you out on your ass.”

  The mention of Tyrel’s name sent a jolt through my stomach. I had known him since I was a little boy. He was a good friend of my father’s, the two of them having worked together back in my old life in Houston. Tyrel had had almost as much of a hand in raising me as my father, along with Mike Holden and Blake Smith.