Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  Another two or three miles of searching led me up a shallow slope. The slope flattened out at the top and I saw a thin strip of head-high brush ahead of me. The trees were evenly spaced on either side of it, limbs hanging over. It was the first spot of high brush I had seen for miles. My pace picked up as I hurried to examine it.

  As I suspected, the brush had grown over a narrow dirt trail that had once seen regular vehicle traffic. The trees had been cut back to permit cars to pass, so the space allowed sunlight down into an area that otherwise would have been covered by forest canopy. Before the Outbreak, passing cars had kept the weeds from growing too high. Then civilization ended and five years went by. Hence the brush.

  Moving the grass aside, I could see the two rutted indentations dug by long-ago tires. Someone had used this road often back before the Outbreak. Grabovsky said the cabin he brought us to was the only shelter for miles. We had used a similar trail to find it. The math wasn’t difficult.

  The trail ran east to west. West led away from the mountain, so I went east, increasing my pace to a quick jog. The rifle in my hands became a hindrance, so I slung it across my back. As I’d hoped, the trail went up the mountain in a meandering switchback for about a mile and then turned southward.

  The brush grew thinner as the canopy overhead thickened and the trail flattened out. After hiking another half-mile south, the dirt road intersected with the trail Grabovsky had followed to find the cabin. Stepping onto it, I looked up the slope and examined my surroundings. The area looked familiar. Figuring there was no need to hurry, I slowed to a leisurely pace.

  When I rounded the bend leading up the last section of trail, I heard the sound of metal striking dirt. Ahead, Gabe and Grabovsky had fixed the spades on their entrenching tools and were digging furiously. Tyrel was on patrol. He spotted me immediately and waved a hand for me to approach.

  “Where the hell you been?” he asked angrily.

  I stopped and narrowed my eyes at him. “Leading the horde away. The fuck do you think?”

  “You lose your radio?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He pointed to his earpiece. “Did. You. Lose. Your. Radio.”

  My hand slowly came up and touched the spot on my vest designated for a radio. It was there. I looked down and saw the earpiece cord dangling along the outside of my magazine pouches.

  “No. No I didn’t.”

  Tyrel glanced over his shoulder. Gabe and Grabovsky had noticed us, marked my return, and gone back to work. They were out of earshot. My old friend stepped closer and lowered his voice.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” My hand was still absently holding the earpiece cord. I blinked a couple more times. How the hell could I have forgotten about my radio?

  “What happened out there? You take a shot to the head?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Tyrel looked confused. “Then why didn’t you call in?”

  I let the hand holding the cord fall to my side.

  “Would you believe I forgot?”

  “Ordinarily, no.” Tyrel looked me over with concern in his eyes. “But you look just about beat. When was the last time you ate?”

  “Same as you.”

  A nod. “Water?”

  “Been a few hours.”

  “Sleep?”

  “Again, same as you.”

  “Yeah. And I feel like hammered shit. Go get some water, son. We’ll keep this between the two of us.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked toward my rucksack, retrieved my canteen, and drained it. When I finished, I wiped my mouth and wondered precisely what the fuck was wrong with me. In all my years of training, salvaging, and soldiering, I had never once made such a boneheaded mistake. My radio had been right there the whole time, right where it was supposed to be. I had even made Grabovsky do a radio check before setting out to divert the horde. How the living hell did I forget about it?

  “Hey, sunshine,” Grabovsky called out. “When you’re done daydreaming, how about you give us a hand over here?”

  I pondered Grabovsky’s accent. He was from somewhere up north. New York? Jersey? Massachusetts? No. Not enough long vowels. Speech too clipped. Maybe one of the Midwestern cities? I glanced at him.

  “Chicago,” I said quietly. “Gotta be.”

  “What?” Grabovsky said. “I can’t hear you. You gonna help or what?”

  I looked down and noticed I was swaying.

  For fuck’s sake, Hicks. Get it together.

  “Just a sec,” I said. “Let me get my shovel.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Around nightfall we finally dug out the entrance to the bunker. When we were done, Grabovsky searched the bases of a few trees until he found a rock that turned out to be a key hider. From it, he took a small red pennant with cord around it and tied it to a tree.

  “What’s that for?” Tyrel asked. He had stayed on patrol the entire time and was standing nearby.

  “Lets the Resistance know we’re here.”

  “Might also let someone else know we’re here,” I said. I was rapidly losing patience with the sloppy way this mission was being conducted. “As if that horde out there and the big hole we just dug weren’t enough.”

  Grabovsky shook his head wearily. “No ROC patrols out here. They know better.”

  The squat man weaved a little as he approached the bunker. I wanted to argue further, but seeing his weariness reminded me of my own. I stood aside, shovel in hand, and breathed hard while sweat ran down my back. Grabovsky worked the combination dial to open the hatch. After what seemed like hours the lock finally clicked.

  “In we go,” Grabovsky said.

  “Want to leave someone up on overwatch?” Gabe said.

  “Not necessary. Told you. No patrols out here.”

  Gabe and I looked at each other. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing—we weren’t willing to bet our lives on Grabovsky’s assessment.

  “It’s all right, Ray. I don’t mind.” Gabe said.

  “No. Trust me, Gabe. You don’t want to be up here when the Resistance arrives. Safer if you’re down below.”

  Gabe didn’t like it, but he went along. I was too tired to argue anymore, so I went too. Tyrel followed last.

  Inside the bunker the air was stale. Sunlight coming through the hatch provided the only illumination. What I could see of the place looked pretty typical of other bunkers I had seen throughout the wastelands. The interior had a rounded ceiling and walls, suggesting cylindrical construction. We stood in a small foyer with rubber flooring, beyond which a wide doorway led to a large room with four bunks in it. Past that I could see a galley-style kitchen and another doorway, this one closed. The details of the room were lost in shadow.

  “Keep the hatch open a second,” Grabovsky said, tromping inside. He disappeared beyond the far doorway, grunted to himself a few times, and with no warning, a bank of hidden lights came on in the ceiling. Clear white light bathed the room, reflecting off the stainless steel in the kitchen and eggshell colored walls throughout.

  “Okay. You can close it now. Turn the wheel all the way to the right to lock it. You’ll hear it click.”

  Tyrel did as instructed. The door locked with a clear metallic whack.

  “Pick a bunk, fellas.”

  We dragged our rucksacks down with us. Grabovsky thumped his down beside one of the bunks and took a seat. I noticed the bunks had sheets, pillows, and blankets. Hello, lover.

  The walls, rather than being covered in finished sheetrock, were overlaid with some kind of thin plastic. There were 120 volt outlets with USB ports. The kitchen was pre-Outbreak modern with stainless steel appliances and faux granite countertops. The floor beyond the foyer was carpeted in gray.

  “This place have a bathroom?” I asked.

  Grabovsky pointed with a thumb. “Through that door on your left. Composting toilet. Turn the handle when you’re done.”

  “Will do.” I start
ed toward the door.

  “Place has running water,” Grabovsky said. “Use it sparingly.”

  “How’s that work?” Gabe asked.

  “Cistern up the mountain feeds into it. Not sure how full it is right now.”

  “Where’s the juice coming from?” Tyrel pointed at the lights.

  “Solar panels around the same place. Resistance comes by and cleans them once in a while. They use this place to charge batteries and stuff.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Tyrel said, throwing his ruck on the bunk over Grabovsky. Gabe took the opposite bottom bunk leaving me to sleep above him. Fine by me. The less I saw of Grabovsky the better.

  *****

  I got a good night’s sleep, a couple of meals, and plenty of water. It always amazes me, no matter how weary I am, how much better those simple things make me feel.

  The next morning, with nothing to do, I inventoried my gear. First order of business was to clean the M-4. The AR platform is a solid performer so long as the weapon is well maintained. Direct gas impingement, the operating system used by AR pattern rifles, makes for lightweight, accurate weapons. It also makes for lots of gunk and carbon fouling in the chamber. Which is not to say M-4s cannot take a beating—they can. But if you have the time and the resources to give your weapon a thorough cleaning, it is always a good idea to do so.

  That done, I checked the SCAR. I hadn’t used it yet on this mission, so it was good to go. I checked the other things in my pack, rearranged them a couple of times, and wound up putting everything back the way it was to begin with. There was a hand operated washing machine in the bunker, so I washed my clothes from the day before, spun the excess water from them in a little rotating basket operated by a foot pedal, and hung them up to dry. I bathed in the tiny bathroom with a bucket, a washcloth, and a small bar of soap I’d brought along. I dug rocks out of my boot treads with the tip of a 5.56 round. I cleaned my pistol even though it did not need it. I unloaded and reloaded my magazines to make sure they had the correct number of rounds in them. I sharpened my fighting knife. I wished I had my spear so I could sharpen it too, but I had left it behind in Colorado. I wished I hadn’t done that. Gabe had his falcata and bowie knife, and Tyrel and Grabovsky had those government-issue MK 9 ghoul choppers that look like Chinese war swords. All I had for a hand weapon was my Ka-bar.

  By mid-afternoon my clothes were dry. I was already dressed, so I folded them and stowed them in my ruck. It was the last productive task I could come up with.

  “Think somebody ought to go up on patrol?” I asked Grabovsky.

  “Nope,” he said. He was lying on his bunk with his eyes closed. Gabe and Tyrel were playing cards at a small table in the kitchen. I don’t much care for cards, but if I got any more bored, I was going to have to reconsider that option.

  “Right.” I lay back on my bed. At least it was comfortable. If I was lucky, I might grow drowsy and pass a few hours in this claustrophobic little coffin that way. I thought about submarines and the sailors who manned them. From what General Jacobs had said, there were still a couple in service. It boggled my mind the kind of person who could stay submerged in an oversized beer can for months on end. I’d been doing it for less than twenty-four hours and I was ready to kill something. I’m a country mouse. I need open spaces and fresh air.

  I closed my eyes and focused on keeping my mind blank. Thoughts of Miranda kept trying to intrude, but I shoved them away. Homesickness and sexual fantasies were the last things I needed. Eventually, I dozed.

  “Hey, wake up.”

  I startled and sat up in my bunk. “What is it?”

  “Somebody’s here,” Tyrel said.

  From somewhere above the bunker, I heard a rumbling, crunching sound. “Are those vehicles?”

  “Sounds like.”

  “Trucks probably,” Grabovsky said. He was sitting up on his bunk tying his boots. I hopped down and began doing the same.

  “About damn time,” I muttered.

  “It’s probably our guys,” Grabovsky said, picking up his weapon. “But all the same, let’s be careful.”

  I hefted my M-4. Gabe drew his sidearm. Tyrel had an old Marine Corps M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle, or IAR. The IAR looks similar to an M-16, but operates on a gas piston and can fire from the open bolt, which allows it to fire more rapidly than a closed-bolt M-4. Which means, essentially, the IAR is a light squad automatic weapon that can use standard magazines just like a regular service rifle. Except Tyrel did not have a standard magazine. He had a specially made dual-drum magazine loaded with a hundred rounds. Knowing how well he could shoot, I did not want to be downrange of him if he ever had occasion to fire that thing.

  Gabe put in a pair of earplugs. I did the same, and the others followed suit. We all hoped to walk away from this situation without violence, but if kindness failed, I didn’t want to go deaf when the shooting started. Not that we were likely to survive such an encounter, considering our tactical position. If the troops above us were with the ROC, all they had to do was blow the hatch and toss down a handful of grenades, and we were done for.

  “Everybody stay cool,” Grabovsky said. “Let me do the talking. I know these guys.”

  “I’m cool.” I looked at Tyrel. “You cool?”

  He grinned. “Yeah. I’m cool.”

  I looked at Gabe. “You cool?”

  “Brother, I was born cool.”

  I turned a smile at Grabovsky. “Looks like the only one ain’t cool is you.”

  He tried to glare at me, but couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

  All laughter died when three booming strikes hit the hatch. There was a pause, and then four more.

  “That’s the signal,” Grabovsky said. “Keep your weapons down. I’m gonna open the hatch.”

  He laid his rifle down and climbed the ladder. The hatch opened and he looked up.

  “Well you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

  “Come on out,” said a voice above. “You got friends with you?”

  “Yeah, three of ‘em.”

  Grabovsky motioned for us to put our weapons down. We did and followed him out of the bunker.

  It was late afternoon outside, the sun beginning its slide behind the mountains. There was a strong breeze, and the air was cool after the stuffiness of the bunker. I took a deep breath and enjoyed it for a scant moment before turning my attention to our new associates.

  At a quick count, there were sixteen of them. They had arrived in four trucks, all Toyotas outfitted for off-road use. Most of the men had full beards, some were long-haired, and they all wore what looked like old surplus Army fatigues. Most of the men carried the same loadout: M-4 rifle, Berretta M-9 pistol, frag grenades, and a vest with spare ammo and other gear. Three of the men carried M-249 squad automatic weapons, or SAWs, and three men had M-203 grenade launchers fixed under their carbines.

  Looking at the trucks, two of them had M-240 machine guns mounted to them, and one had a MK-19 automatic grenade launcher. The last truck had an RPG launcher and a duffel bag full of RPGs. I figured the US ordnance had been donated by the Army, while the RPGs were probably seized from ROC troops no longer among the living.

  “Damn good to see you alive, Romero,” Grabovsky said, shaking hands with a man who appeared to be in charge.

  “Same to you. How are things in Colorado?”

  “Better than out here, that’s for sure.”

  Romero smiled. “And yet you keep coming back.”

  “I’m a glutton for punishment. Let me introduce you to some people.”

  Grabovsky pointed to Gabe. “This is Gabriel Garrett, Marines. Scout sniper. We worked together in Tennessee putting a militia together. I can vouch for him.”

  Romero shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Gabe said.

  “And this is Tyrel Jennings, former Navy SEAL, JSOC operator, and founder of the Blackthorn Security Company.”

  “So you’re the famous Tyrel Jennings,�
�� Romero said. “I thought you’d be taller.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Tyrel said, “till they see me with my clothes off.”

  Romero’s men gave a low roar of amusement.

  “And this is Captain Caleb Hicks,” Grabovsky said. “Works for General Jacobs. Black card type. Other than that, I don’t know shit about him. But Gabe and Jennings know him.”

  Romero stepped in front of me and looked me over. I did the same to him. He was black, a little taller than me, beard streaked with gray, long hair tied in a multitude of braids held back under a brown headscarf. He was possessed of a lean, strong build, and there was something distinctly feline about the way he carried himself.

  “So what’s your story?” Romero asked. “You look too young to be doing this shit.”

  “Got lost on the way the college,” I said.

  Romero stared blankly for a moment, then humor creased his face. “Seriously. I need to know who I’m working with.”

  “Used to be with the First Reconnaissance Expeditionary. Won some medals, impressed some people, got headhunted by General Jacobs. Now I work for him directly.”

  “Ever done any covert work before?”

  “Not officially.”

  A smile. “Good answer.”

  Romero looked at Grabovsky. “Got any gear to bring along?”

  “Yeah, a little bit. You know if Sullivan ever picked up those supplies I left for him? ‘Bout ten miles south of here.”

  “Yeah, he got ‘em.”

  “Good,” Grabovsky waved toward Gabe, Tyrel, and me. “Come on, fellas. We need to go.”

  We went back down in the bunker long enough to retrieve our gear. Each of us picked a truck, tossed in our belongings, and hopped in the back. A couple of Romero’s men covered up the bunker hatch and did their best to make it look like no one had been there. They did not do a bad job, although there was no hiding the tire tracks.

  At a signal from Romero, the four vehicles turned around and headed down the mountain.