Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  “How long do we have to wait here?” I asked.

  “The fuck should I know?” Grabovsky flipped the cover closed on his tablet and slipped it into his assault pack. “Get here when they get here.”

  The four of us were seated at a lone picnic table next to a trash can, and, of all things, a charcoal grill. The tiny picnic area faced a cracked, sun-bleached parking lot with crudely painted symbols designating it as a helipad. It was a mile away from the airstrip at Army Air Station Fallon, formerly Naval Air Station Fallon.

  Since there was not much left of the Navy, I doubted any of their people had complained when the Army took the place over.

  The C-130 that flew us to Nevada had touched down around 1400 hours. We exited the plane to find a major with an arm patch identifying him as part of the Army Expeditionary Corps, formerly the Marine Corps before they were disbanded and absorbed into the Army (which went over about as well as a turd in a hot tub), who ushered us into the back of a deuce-and-a-half. Our gear was loaded in afterward and someone drove us to the helipad.

  Upon arrival, another crew of soldiers was waiting to help unload our gear. Once done, they piled in the truck and retreated to a set of tents around a field barracks a few hundred yards away. As best I could tell, we were the only people around.

  I knew our next destination was FOB Winnemucca. I knew after arriving there we would wait until after nightfall, and then a Chinook would fly us and our gear to an undisclosed location near the Oregon border. This gave me a few things to consider. First was the Army’s definition of the word ‘near’. Near could mean a few feet, or it could mean fifty miles or more. My guess was we were looking at something closer to the latter. The second consideration was the Chinook itself. With the amount of gear we were bringing, I figured the bird could make it four-hundred nautical miles, maximum, before it would need to refuel. And, according to the encrypted message on Grabovsky’s tablet, we were to expect a fuel stop along the way. Bearing this in mind, I took a highway map out of my pack and began tracing it with a measuring compass.

  “Where’d you get that?” Tyrel asked.

  “Bought it,” I said.

  “From who?”

  “A guy in the Springs.”

  “The compass too?”

  “Already had that. Comes in handy, so I keep it in my pack. Don’t you have one?”

  “Well yeah, but…”

  “But what?” I looked up at Tyrel. “I’m too young and inexperienced to think ahead?”

  My old friend reddened. “That’s not what I meant, Caleb.”

  I waved a hand. “Figured since the mission was out this way, it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup map. Especially seeing as Central didn’t see fit to send any along with us.”

  “I got our maps,” Grabovsky said.

  Figured as much. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Give ‘em out when it’s time.”

  “Which means we’re not supposed to see them yet.”

  A shrug.

  I went back to my map.

  “Got something there?” Gabe asked. He turned around so he could see the map laid out on the table. His sunglasses did not let me see his eyes, but I could tell from his posture he was curious.

  “Chinook can go about four-hundred nautical miles before refueling. As the crow flies, that’s about four-hundred-fifty or so regular miles. They’re supposed to refuel, but I’m thinking that’s just to get ‘em back to Winnemucca.” I circled an area on the map in the center of Northern California, directly south of the Klamath Basin. “Which probably puts us somewhere around here in the Tulelake National Refuge. I’m guessing probably thirty or forty miles from the target area.”

  Grabovsky stared at me in silence for a few seconds. “Goddamn, kid. I thought you were regular Army.”

  “Was. Not anymore.”

  He leaned closer and touched a finger to the map. “Grunts don’t do this kind of shit. Not since the Outbreak. They go where they’re told to go and shoot what they’re told to shoot. Thinking’s not part of the job description.”

  Tyrel chuckled. “Caleb ain’t no grunt.”

  Grabovsky glanced at him, then back at me. “So who trained you?”

  I tried to give Tyrel a stern look but stopped myself. Not much point with the sunglasses on. Nevertheless, he got the message and stayed quiet. Gabe, for his part, looked on curiously. To him, this interaction was just another piece of the puzzle. He knew I used to live in the Springs, knew I’d been married, knew how I ended up in the Army, and he knew Tyrel had a hand in raising me. It was only a matter of time before he figured me out, assuming he had not already.

  “So what you’re telling me,” I said, countering Grabovsky’s question, “is I’m right.”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Come on, Grabovsky. We’re all in this together. What’s with the secrecy?”

  “Orders. That’s what.”

  I let it go. I knew what made guys like Grabovsky tick. When the president had ordered all troops to report to duty stations back during the Outbreak, I was willing to bet Grabovsky had not hesitated. I doubted the idea of deserting had ever entered his mind, even when things were falling apart and it looked like there was no hope. Grabovsky was a soldier. It was not just his job, it was his identity. Moreover, he was a Green Beret. Or Delta Force, more likely. My father had been in Delta Force. It takes a certain kind of person to do that job, and in that regard, Grabovsky was a poster boy. Which meant if his orders were to withhold information until a certain point in time, he would do so regardless of anyone’s feelings on the subject.

  I folded the map and put it away. The compass went back into its side pocket. I took off my hat, ran a hand across my forehead, flicked an inordinate amount of sweat to the ground, and replaced the hat. The band encircling my head felt warm, wet, and gritty with dust and salt. I took a pull from my canteen, swished it around, and spit it out. My mouth did not feel any better.

  “Shouldn’t waste water,” Grabovsky said. “We’re in the desert.”

  I took another sip, swished it around, and spit again. Grabovsky got up, grabbed his pack, and walked toward the field barracks.

  “You don’t like him much,” Gabe said when Grabovsky was out of earshot.

  I took a drink. “What’s to like?”

  “You don’t know him. I do. He helped me train the Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia a few years ago. We fought together against the Free Legion. He’s a good man.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “My word isn’t enough?”

  “I’m sure he’s tough as nails and brave as a mongoose. But the fact you like him doesn’t stop him from having his own agenda.”

  Tyrel adjusted his sunglasses. “Gotta say I’m with Caleb on this one.”

  Gabe stared out at the desert. “Point taken.”

  *****

  Winnemucca was depressing.

  I was not sure what to expect when we landed there. I knew the Army had come through two years ago and set up an FOB in the remote town. I knew they had cleared out the infected and opened the place up for settlement. A few hardy folks had even registered claims and gave it an honest try.

  They’d come with supplies, tools, wagons, plows, seeds, building materials, everything needed to run a successful farm co-op. The aquifer and irrigation network that had kept the town alive before the Outbreak was still intact. Clean water for drinking and irrigation was not a problem. In fact, it was downright plentiful. There were settlements in far gentler lands to the east that could not say the same.

  As for undead, the FOB sent out regular patrols, but rarely encountered anything. The area had been sparsely populated before the Outbreak, and federal extermination efforts had been thorough. Northern Nevada was the closest thing to a ghoul-free zone one was likely to find. But as it turns out, living in a desert climate during the summer without air conditioning is an exercise in abject misery.

  The settlers came in early autumn. By late summer the
following year, they had all left.

  The news hacks on civilian radio made a big deal out of the failed settlement for a while. Federal inefficiency and all that, as if a bunch of civilians biting off more than they could chew was somehow the government’s fault. Then some crisis or another came along and everyone forgot. Everyone except stodgy dorks like me, that is. I thought the story was fascinating when I first heard it, but being here made it all too real. The heat, the dust, the empty sky, the unrelenting sun, the feeling of lifelessness about the place; I could only imagine the settlers dismay when the temperate winter faded and the harsh reality of this hellish land made itself evident. I would have fled too.

  The troops stationed in the area seemed to share the ill-fated settlers’ sentiments, but were forced by circumstance to remain. I found myself re-examining my own service in the Army and the hardships thereof. There had been a time when I thought I had it pretty rough. A sweltering day in the harsh glare of the merciless Nevada sun was enough to disabuse me of this notion. My fate could have been much worse. I could have been stationed in Winnemucca.

  After the Chinook dropped us off outside the FOB, an open top truck and a few troops met us and helped us load our gear. When we finished, the troops climbed into the truck with us for the ride back to base. Tyrel tried to strike up a conversation with a young sergeant, but got only a grunt and a sour look. We made a brief stop at the gate where a surly contingent of officers and senior NCOs looked us over and checked our IDs. If my black card impressed them, they gave no sign. When the captain in charge was satisfied we were not enemy troops, he ordered the guards to let us through.

  As near as I could tell, the troops were all men. No women. That by itself would have been enough to challenge my sanity, but it got worse. The town itself was deserted. What hadn’t been burned down had been thoroughly looted. All that remained were scorched lots, cracked and broken streets, empty businesses, and houses waiting to collapse. No civilians meant no restaurants, no bars, no taverns, no festivals, no farmer’s market, no music, no culture, and certainly no entertainment. There wasn’t even a brothel. I pointed this fact out to Tyrel.

  “How bad’s a place gotta be even whores won’t go there?” he said.

  “Pretty damn bad. You’d think this place would be a hooker’s paradise. No competition, no regulations, no cops, Army base full of swinging dicks with nothing better to do. It’s a goddamn gold mine.”

  “Ain’t enough, apparently.”

  I looked around again. “Even the weeds look miserable.”

  The FOB was pretty standard. Four long walls, watchtowers, tents, Quonset huts, and a few cinder-block buildings with metal roofs. The perimeter walls were chain-link fences topped with concertina wire and reinforced with earth-filled HESCO bastions. Beyond the fence was a tall earthen berm and a deep trench where the ground had been dug up. The surrounding area was flat and open, providing an excellent field of fire. No one would be sneaking up on FOB Winnemucca anytime soon.

  The driver cruised toward the north side of the base, pulled around behind a building that smelled of food cooking, and stopped.

  “Chow’s being served,” the driver said as we disembarked. He was already walking away. I thought about reminding him to say ‘sir’, but decided it wasn’t worth it.

  “Friendly place,” Gabe noted dryly.

  “May as well get a bite to eat,” Tyrel said. “No telling when we’ll get another hot meal.”

  I followed the others into the chow hall. It looked like every other post-Outbreak chow hall I had seen. Low ceiling, exposed rafters, corrugated metal roof and walls, long wooden tables and benches, food served buffet style at one end of the building, big window for dirty dishes and flatware at the other end. I got a plate and walked the chow line. Peas, beans, rehydrated chicken, dried fruit, flatbread, and not a scrap of flavor to be found. The beverage of the day was water. Something told me that particular menu item never changed. I fervently hoped in the near future a few enterprising souls from somewhere tea and coffee could be grown once again found their way to American shores.

  We took our plates to an unoccupied corner and ate quietly. The chow hall was hushed and oppressive. Only a few people engaged in muttered conversation, the words loud enough for the parties involved to hear and no more. The atmosphere made me uneasy, and by the looks on their faces, the others in my group felt it as well. This was not right. A chow hall was a place to relax, a place to enjoy a meal with friends and tell jokes and laugh loudly and forget about the drudgery of military life for a little while. Here, there was no such respite. It left me to wonder what relief these men had from the daily indignities and frustrations all soldiers suffered. These men needed an outlet, and from what I could tell, they had none available.

  I did not know what the time-on-station requirements were, but I hoped they were short. FOB Winnemucca felt like a powder keg. And when it went up, I hoped I was far away.

  SEVENTEEN

  Heinrich,

  The Wastelands

  After leaving Arkansas, Heinrich and what remained of the Storm Road Tribe trekked westward for over a week until they reached Highway 59 in Oklahoma. It was a difficult and costly journey, the infected dogging their trail the entire way and claiming eighteen of Heinrich’s men. The terrain was rough and hilly with few places to rest. Several times they were forced to march through the night on narrow back-country roads in order to avoid being overrun. Worse, they could not use firearms to fend off the infected due to low ammunition and the fact that if they did, the noise would attract far larger hordes. The only strategy left to them was to utilize humanity’s greatest advantage over the undead—speed.

  Those who lacked the endurance to keep up were left behind. Heinrich paid lip service to the sad necessity of their loss, but inwardly, he did not care. He detested weakness, and there were always men willing to take up with a successful tribe. What was lost could be replaced.

  Upon reaching Highway 59, Heinrich urged his men onward until they topped a hill and saw the waters of Lake Eucha beneath them. A long bridge spanned the narrow waterway leading to yet more rugged hill country to the north. This was good. The hills bordering the north and south shores of the lake would act as a natural barrier against the undead. The lake itself would protect them to the east and west, and the bridge was easily defensible with the resources on hand. Once there, it was a simple matter to fell trees and build a makeshift fort where the tribe could rest a few days.

  During this time, Heinrich took stock of his situation. Excluding himself, he was down to a hundred men. He liked that. 100 was a nice round number. A good place to start. The thought made him smile. Less than two weeks before, he’d been cursing his luck at being chased out of Parabellum. Now, he was enjoying himself. It was an enlightening moment. For so long, Heinrich had thought his future lay in securing a stronghold and lording over it. But now that he was back on the road, he realized how much he had missed nomadic life.

  That aside, there was still the matter of the tribe’s morale to consider. While Heinrich may have been taking things in stride, his men were not. They were tired, sore, and nearly beaten. The rest was good, but they needed something more, something to energize them, get their minds off what they had lost. For Heinrich, the answer was not hard to come by. Supplies were low, enough for two or three days at most even with careful rationing. This, at least, was a problem the men could do something about.

  Heinrich divided the tribe into two groups. One was tasked with searching the immediate area for anything useful: guns, ammo, game trails, wild edibles, fishing tackle, boats, etc. The other group he tasked with hunting for meat. He did not particularly care what kind.

  As it turned out, there was a game refuge to the west accessible by the lake. Heinrich’s men found several canoes and small fishing boats, as well as a plentitude of fishing tackle in nearby abandoned houses. They went to work hunting and fishing, and within a few days, the bridge was covered with small fires and wooden racks
of drying meat.

  The tribe remained on the bridge for twelve days. While they rested, some of the men came to Maru and quietly suggested maybe the valley wasn’t such a bad place to settle down. Maru brought the idea up to Heinrich, but he would not hear of it. Why work and hunt when there were plenty of victims out there to do it for them? All the tribe had to do was find them and take what they wanted. Farming was for sheep. The tribe were wolves.

  The idea, however, was gaining momentum. Faced with this new challenge, Heinrich reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out two of the oldest motivators known to man: greed and fear.

  He told the men the area was not sufficient to sustain them long term. Furthermore, there were no women, no booze, and no crops. Eventually, they would hunt the area out, overfish the lake, and suffer malnutrition from a lack of fruits and vegetables. People could not survive solely on meat, after all. The lake was a good place to rest and resupply, but soon they would have to move on. And besides, did none of them ever want to fuck a woman again?

  It was enough to compel the tribe into action.

  When they had stocked enough supplies to last a couple of weeks, Heinrich announced it was time pack up and move out. A few scouting parties rounded up what materials could be found and constructed crude carts to load the food onto. It was an unwieldy way to travel, but the only other option was to starve. So the men bent their backs to it and made it work.