Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  But I had not refused to work for General Jacobs. I had not turned down any missions. I had not deserted the Army, nor did I intend to. On the march northward through the Cascade Mountains, I examined my reasons for this.

  The first question was why I had not left the Army. My time in service had been an unending parade of dangers and near-death experiences. So why had I stayed? I could have left at any time. I was not afraid to face the world on my own. Fear did not factor into the equation. So what was it?

  Another mile passed. The pine forest around me grew taller, the land steeper and more difficult to traverse. We were at high altitude and the air was cool, but I was still sweating from the effort of carrying my heavy gear and weapons. The others looked to be having the same difficulty. Even Gabe, with his near inexhaustible endurance, stopped occasionally to fill his lungs before continuing.

  It’s the altitude. We’re not used to it.

  We climbed a natural switchback trail along the southern face of a low mountain and then followed a ridgeline westward. Another couple of miles passed. The ground underfoot became increasingly rocky, slowing our pace. Even with NVGs to see our way in the dark, it was nearly impossible to exercise noise discipline. Any infected within half a kilometer had undoubtedly heard us and were inbound. It was bad enough we were traveling at night in an area with a high infected population, but add to this the fact we were also in enemy territory with limited ammunition and no air support, and it was a recipe for disaster. I just hoped Grabovsky knew where he was going.

  The ground leveled off and the going was easier for a while. Ahead of me, Grabovsky signaled a halt, consulted his tablet, and then indicated for us to follow him northward. Less than a hundred yards later, the forest opened up onto a narrow, back-country stretch of crumbling asphalt.

  Normally, I would not have been enthusiastic about traveling along a road. Roads are magnets for infected and marauders, and I had always made a point of staying away from them whenever possible. If I had no choice but to follow a road, I paralleled it from a safe distance. In this instance, however, since I was running on just a few hours of sleep, very little food, and facing an open-terrain march of indeterminate distance, I was willing to make an exception.

  For the first couple of kilometers, the forest rose high to my right, obscuring the country to the north. After a while, though, the road curved down a hill and the forest fell away along a steep embankment. I flipped up my NVGs and peered through the FLIR scope on my sniper rifle. Gabe covered the distance between us and stopped next to me.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “Take a look.”

  I handed him my rifle. He used it to gaze northward. A few seconds later, he grunted and handed the weapon back.

  “I believe that’s Mount Shasta up there,” he said.

  “Yep. Which means if we’re on the road I think we’re on, we’re about seven miles from I-5 and about fifteen from the 97.”

  Gabe flipped up his NVGs and raised an eyebrow at me. “‘The’ 97?”

  “Isn’t that how Californians refer to highways, prefacing numbers with ‘the’?”

  “Back in the day, yeah. How’d you know about that?”

  “Born in San Diego. Dad moved there with my mom after the Army. Got stuck in the habit, always referred to highways as ‘the’ something when most people just called them by their numbers. People thought he was from California.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  “No. Wyoming.”

  Gravel crunched to my right. I looked over my shoulder to see Grabovsky standing close by.

  “When you two are done gazing into each other’s eyes, we need to get moving.”

  I flipped down my NVGs with a middle finger and motioned for him to lead the way.

  The road curved northward again and eventually intersected with a larger, less dilapidated highway. I cast a glance behind me as we turned and regarded the old two lane we were leaving. The asphalt was breaking apart into sections large and small, potholes dotted the surface every ten feet or so, and grasses, flowers, small shrubs, and trees were pushing their way up through the cracks. Not twenty yards from where I stood, a pine sapling nearly five feet tall occupied the center of the eastbound lane. In another five years, I would have to dig under the deepening layer of dead vegetation to find asphalt.

  “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”

  Gabe was walking beside me and stopped when he heard me speak. “Nothing beside remains ‘round the decay of that colossal wreck. Boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.”

  I looked at him. “You’ve read Shelley.”

  “Just that one.”

  “Not a fan of romanticism?”

  “Not particularly. Writers from that era were long on angst and short on experience.”

  “Hell, you could say that about any poet.”

  “True.” Gabe jerked his head in Grabovsky’s direction. “Better get moving. Unless you want a lecture on noise discipline.”

  I started walking. “Why is Grabovsky in charge, anyway? Never got any orders about that.”

  “You know where we’re going?”

  “No.”

  “There’s your reason.”

  I could think of no good argument, so I kept my mouth shut.

  *****

  Dawn was near.

  Grabovsky called a stop in a clearing at the bottom of a steep valley. Two mountains rose up on either side of us, their peaks lost in the haze of morning mist above. I sat down on a boulder halfway sunk into the gravelly earth. My pack was heavy on my shoulders, and the tactical sling tethering me to my rifle had begun to chafe my neck. I adjusted it so it rested on my shoulder. Gabe sat down next to me. The boulder was just big enough for the two of us. Tyrel took off his pack and lay down with his back against it.

  Gabe looked at me. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You look preoccupied.”

  I shrugged. “I was contemplating whether or not to take off my pack. It always feels good to drop it, but putting it back on is a bastard.”

  A quiet laugh. “My advice, keep it on. Damn things get heavier every time you take ‘em off.”

  “Yes they do.”

  Grabovsky dropped his pack and sat down on it. His legs were short enough that doing so was not uncomfortable for him. I would have looked like a spider taking a dump if I’d tried the same thing. It wasn’t until then I realized how short Grabovsky was, maybe five-foot-eight in his boots. But what he lacked in height he made up for in mass. His shoulders were broad and rounded, his hands big and brutal-looking, and his legs were thick as tree trunks. He took off his helmet to wipe sweat away, revealing a shaved head and a bull neck with wider circumference than the base of his skull.

  “You hear that?”

  I looked at Tyrel. He was sitting up straight, head erect, eyes fixed to the south. I stood up and held my breath, ears straining. There was nothing at first, then a low, keening howl drifted into the valley like a tendril of fog.

  “Shit,” Gabe said. “Didn’t think they’d catch us this soon. Damn things must be getting faster.”

  “Or were close by when they heard us,” I said.

  “That too.”

  Grabovsky remained sitting. “Relax. Sound carries different here ‘cause of the mountains. Ghouls are over a mile away.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked.

  “C’mere. I’ll show you.”

  I walked over and kneeled so I could see the tablet’s screen. I had used similar tech before with the First Recon, but Grabovsky’s device was a highly ruggedized version designed for special ops use. The screen was smaller, the resolution higher, and the battery larger than the tablets used by regular infantry. I examined the screen and pointed at several blobs of green on a topographical map.

  “Infected.”

  “Yep. Four groups. Two south of us, one west, and one up north.”

  “And this
is us.” My finger tapped an icon blinking in the saddle of two mountains on the map. According to the distance scale, the closest horde was nearly two miles away. I did not find this comforting. The undead are slow, but steady. They cover ground a lot faster than people think they do.

  “We should get moving,” I said. “Don’t want them to catch up.”

  “Don’t sweat it. We’re near the objective. Dead won’t bother us there.”

  “You say that like you’ve been there before.”

  Grabovsky made a shooing motion. “Go on, kid. I got work to do.”

  I walked back over to my boulder while Grabovsky’s fingertip darted around the screen. If I had to guess, I’d say he was probably relaying our position and status back to Central. It’s what I would have been doing, anyway. The last thing we wanted was to get stranded in the open with no support. The more Central knew about our disposition, the better off we would be if things went pear-shaped.

  A few minutes later Grabovsky stashed the tablet and re-slung his pack with annoying ease. His gear was at least as heavy as mine, but he did not seem troubled by the weight. I decided if things ever came to blows between us, I would be well served to keep the squat operator at range. I doubted anything good would come of letting him get ahold of me.

  “Let’s go,” Grabovsky said. “Need to reach the objective before dawn.”

  “Where exactly is our objective?” Tyrel asked.

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  Tyrel started to say something else, and I could tell by the look on his face it was something sharp, but he bit down on it. I approved. Grabovsky would spill his secrets when he was ready and not a second before. Antagonizing him would not help.

  We marched northwest for another few miles until we came upon a low, wide mountain with a sprawling plateau at the top. The mountain’s southern face was heavily forested with tall evergreens, the ground beneath covered sparsely with scrub grass and stringy bushes.

  “We head northeast from here,” Grabovsky said, pointing. “’Bout two more klicks.”

  I welcomed the news. We had been hiking for hours, and I had not slept much the last couple of days. I needed rest, and by the looks of them, so did the others.

  The terrain we covered sloped gently upward. At the base of the high plateau we turned sharply westward and marched through increasingly dense forest. The sun had topped the horizon, but was still below the mountain peaks to the east. Long stretches of lemon colored illumination lanced between the shoulders of the Cascades, casting the treetops in stark relief. It looked like the kind of thing Miranda would want to paint. I wished she were there to see it.

  Focus on the misson.

  There was a tap on my shoulder. “Hey,” Tyrel said. “Look at that.”

  I turned and looked where he pointed. Gabe did the same. Where we stood was halfway up a steep slope leading to a plateau above. There was a clearing directly behind us, allowing a broad view of the valley beyond.

  To the south, a writing swath of dark shapes lurched and tottered around a bend in the hills we had just traveled through. The hungry wail I’d heard earlier became louder. They were less than a mile away now.

  “We’ve been spotted.” Tyrel said.

  Gabriel took a swig from his canteen. “Be after us like flies on shit.”

  “All the more reason to move your asses,” Grabovsky called over his shoulder.

  We stopped talking and moved.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Shit.”

  Grabovsky stopped walking and stared at the path ahead of us. We were on a narrow dirt cutoff winding through the dense woodland. Above us, a canopy of thick limbs provided shade from the harsh glare of the morning sun.

  “What’s wrong?” Gabe asked.

  Grabovsky pointed. “That.”

  I stepped around him and looked up the hill. The ruts of the dirt road terminated in front of a cabin nestled against the mountainside a hundred yards up. The cabin was probably attractive once, judging by the lone wall still standing. The rest of the structure, however, was covered in several hundred tons of dirt and boulders. A long gash of freshly exposed sediment marred the mountainside above.

  “Landslide,” I said.

  “No shit.”

  Grabovsky took off at a run. The rest of us followed. Behind me, the wails of the infected grew unrelentingly louder. The squat soldier stopped at the base of the massive pile of rubble, his face a mask of frustration.

  “Fuck me running.”

  Gabe stopped next to him. “Ray, what’s the problem?”

  “It’s covered. We can’t dig it out in time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The objective. There’s a survival bunker right here. Guy that used to live here before the Outbreak put it in. Resistance has been using it for a safehouse. This is where we’re supposed to wait.”

  Gabe regarded the rubble. “Well, that ain’t happening. Got a plan B?”

  Grabovsky ripped off his helmet, wiped his face, and slung a handful of sweat to the ground. “No. Guess we gotta come up with one.”

  “We can’t stay here,” I said. “Those ghouls back there got a fix on us.”

  “Bunker’s the only safe place for miles,” Grabovsky said. “Unless you want to hide in a tree for a couple of days.”

  I looked at the pile of dirt. A few logs from the cabin poked up through the wreckage like broken matchsticks. “How long will it take to dig out the entrance?”

  “Fucking hours. We don’t got that long.”

  I dropped my pack and handed Gabe my SCAR. There was an M-4 lashed to the back of my rucksack. I untied it and began removing the mag pouches fitted for 7.62 ammo from my MOLLE vest.

  “Gabe, I need your ammo.”

  There was no arguing or hesitation. He dropped his own pack, laid my SCAR down on top of it, and began removing 5.56 pouches from his vest.

  “The fuck are you doing?” Grabovsky said.

  I thought about not answering, but remembered Grabovsky did not know how extensively Gabe and I had worked together in the past.

  “Gonna draw the infected off while you three dig.”

  I could tell by the look on his face Grabovsky did not like it. But he didn’t have a better idea, so after a few seconds, he nodded. “We’ll get out of sight,” he said.

  “Make sure the dead are far away before you start digging,” I said. “Don’t want stragglers doubling back.”

  “Ain’t my first rodeo, kid.”

  I was getting really damned tired of Grabovsky calling me ‘kid’, but let it go for the moment. The ghouls nipping at our heels were a far more pressing concern.

  “Take this,” Gabe offered me a suppressor.

  I put the cylinder over the M-4’s muzzle and cinched it in place. Next, I inserted a magazine, pulled back the charging handle, and released it. The weapon was clean and well oiled. The bolt carrier group slid forward easily and chambered a round with a satisfying clack. I handed the rifle to Gabe while I affixed mag pouches to my vest. As I worked, I saw Tyrel cast nervous glances toward the sound of approaching ghouls. I wondered how long it had been since he’d faced a horde without a platoon of Blackthorns behind him.

  When the last mag pouch was attached, I took the M-4 back from Gabe, dropped my helmet, tapped my radio, and nodded at Grabovsky. “Comms check.”

  He turned on his handset and keyed the mic a couple of times. I did the same.

  “Check, check.”

  My voice came through the speaker in Grabovsky’s hand.

  “Put your earpiece in,” I said.

  “Right.”

  I put in my own earpiece and gave my gear a last check. “Okay. Heading out. Let me know if you have to relocate.”

  “Which way you headed?” Tyrel asked.

  I looked at Grabovsky. “You know this area?”

  “Yeah. Take ‘em north. Hard climb a ways, then it levels out. There’s a dry streambed about half a klick east of here, ca
n’t miss it. Lead ‘em down that and then climb the bank on your right as you’re heading south. You’ll see a cliff in the distance. You want to be up on the bank about two hundred yards before the cliff. The dead won’t be able to climb it. Just lead ‘em to the edge and let ‘em fall off.”

  “Got it. Stay quiet for a while.”

  The others said they would. I checked to ensure my M-4’s safety was on and set out northward at a steady trot. I was hot, tired, hungry, and not in the mood for this shit. But it needed doing, and since I was the youngest and the fastest, I was the best guy for the job.

  Story of my life.

  *****

  The terrain flattened after a tough incline, and I found myself running across an open plateau. The ground was rocky and covered in fine dust, the forest having thinned out a hundred yards back. Thankfully, there was little in the way of undergrowth to trip me up. I stopped for a few seconds to get my bearings, and then headed eastward.

  The undead were a raucous din behind me. I had stopped a few times along the way to jump and wave my arms and shout for the undead to follow. It would have been better to draw my pistol and fire off a couple of rounds, but that was a no-go in enemy territory. Infected were bad enough, the last thing I wanted was to bring ROC troops down on my head.

  Ahead of me, the plateau sloped downward toward the streambed Grabovsky said I would find. The dirt at the bottom of the ravine was dry, telling me it had not rained recently. At my current elevation, it was unlikely I would run into a flash flood.

  One less problem.

  The walls of the streambed were steep and grew taller as the ravine descended the mountainside. Once I was in, the undead would be an unstoppable river of dead flesh barring the way back. The only way to get clear of them would be to climb the walls of the ravine. I would have to be careful here. If the walls got too high or too hard to climb, I would be in serious trouble.