Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  Once satisfied with the setup, Heinrich switched on the radio. The digital wattage readout on the inverter spiked for a moment, then stabilized. Heinrich keyed the handset.

  “Mudman, Eagle. How copy?”

  Rourke’s raspy voice grated through the headset. “Lima Charlie, Eagle.”

  “We’re done here. Button up and head home.”

  “Affirmative, Eagle.”

  “And make it quick. No dicking around. We need to get going. I want you and Big Red here in thirty mikes.”

  “Wilco, Eagle.” Rourke sounded disappointed.

  “Don’t worry, Mudman,” Heinrich said. “We’ll go hunting soon enough.”

  “Copy. Mudman out.”

  There was a click as Rourke switched off his radio. Heinrich did the same and put away his radio equipment. According to the inverter readout, the entire exchange had used less than one percent of the battery’s charge.

  Good. Gonna need it over the next couple of weeks.

  By the time Rourke and Ferguson returned, the tribe was ready to get on the road. Heinrich saw them coming and waved them over. The two men climbed onto Heinrich’s wagon.

  “You take care of ‘em?”

  “Yep,” Ferguson said, tapping the base of his skull. “Blades. Quick and clean, no mess.”

  “And the bodies?”

  “Dumped ‘em in the outhouse pit. Doubt they’ll be found for at least a few days.”

  “Good,” Heinrich said. “Let’s move out.”

  The tribe’s convoy passed through the streets unhurriedly, the steady pace of people facing a long journey and not looking forward to it. Heinrich stayed alert, his sidearm positioned for a quick draw if need be. His wagon passed cops and laborers and bums and soldiers, and seemed to garner only perfunctory notice. Caravans coming into town were exciting. The bars, brothels, theatres, and restaurants regarded them as a source of income. Thieves and strong-arm robbers viewed them as potential victims. Gambling houses dusted off their tables and restocked their liquor shelves. But caravans leaving town were of no interest. They had nothing to offer but a trail of animal dung and more ruts in the muddy streets.

  The Storm Road Tribe passed through the gates of The Holdout and once more ventured into the wastelands. Checking his watch, Heinrich realized they were leaving at about the same hour they had arrived a few days before. He also noticed there were only three guards on duty out front instead of four. The lead guard was nowhere to be seen. Heinrich turned to the red-bearded giant sitting next to him.

  “Ferguson.”

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  Heinrich pointed at the guards with his chin. “Your handiwork?”

  A shrug. “Guy was an asshole.”

  “What’d you do to him?”

  Ferguson smiled, and Heinrich felt the hair on his arms prickle.

  “He was alive when I left him. But he ain’t happy. Not one little bit.”

  Heinrich thought back to what Ferguson had said when they first arrived, how he was going to skin the pilfering gate guard alive.

  “I think I might have an idea.”

  “Yeah?” Ferguson said.

  “I’ve never known you to be a man of idle threats.”

  The giant laughed quietly, leaned back on the bench, and clasped his hands over his waist. Looking closely, Heinrich saw bloodstains etched into the creases of the man’s thick fingers.

  “That’s why I like you, Chief. You’re observant.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Caleb,

  Southern Oregon

  After introductions were made, General Jacobs informed us we would all get a full briefing in the morning. In the meantime, we would be shown to our quarters and meals would be provided. Living spaces had limited electricity and climate control, but ample access to fresh water. The hot water tank servicing the bunker was full, but we were admonished to use it sparingly. Once it was empty, it would take several hours to refill. I wanted to ask where the generators powering the bunker were so I could take a look at them, but refrained. Questions about the facility could wait. For the moment, I wanted nothing more than food and a place to rest.

  When Jacobs dismissed the meeting, he, Mike, and Romero left through a door at the end of the room. Mike cast me a look over his shoulder on the way out. We had only exchanged a few words thus far, but I knew a longer discussion was in my very near future.

  A few soldiers in the same nondescript fatigues I wore approached my group. Like the four of us, they wore no insignia, so it was hard to tell if we were dealing with officers or enlisted.

  “Which one of you is Gabriel Garrett?” one of the soldiers asked. He looked to be in his late twenties, a little taller than Grabovsky, obviously fit, with his hair and beard grown out in a way that told me he was no infantry grunt. Grooming standards did not generally apply to special operations types. His eyes and demeanor spoke of hard experience and an extremely low tolerance for bullshit.

  “That’d be me,” Gabe said.

  The soldier gave him a brief nod and looked at a clipboard in his hand. “Captain Grabovsky?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Tyrel Jennings?”

  “Right here.”

  The soldier looked at me. “You must be Captain Hicks.”

  I nodded once. His gaze stayed on me a few seconds longer than the others before he looked away. I figured he was either staring at my facial scars, wondering how a guy my age was already a captain, or both. My money was on the last option.

  “Follow me please,” he said and began walking.

  The soldier led us away from the conference room, took us halfway across the warehouse floor, and then hung a sharp right between two racks of shelves loaded with multi-fuel generators. The salvager in me couldn’t help but stare longingly at the profusion of valuable machines. The generators were a type used extensively by the Army since the Outbreak and the emergence of the Phoenix Initiative. They could be configured to run on ethanol, gasoline, diesel, kerosene, and even jet fuel. I had once personally watched my platoon sergeant pour several bottles of cheap grain liquor into one set up for ethanol, and it ran just fine.

  “Through here,” the soldier said, pointing to one of two doors set close together in the wall ahead. He opened it and went through. The four of us followed.

  The hallway we entered was dimly lit like the one leading from the hidden stairwell down to the bunker. Only instead of unmarked cement, there were doors on either side of the hallway every twenty feet. The soldier stood aside and pulled a set of card keys from a cargo pocket. Each one was small, roughly the size of a credit card, and aside from a black magnetic strip running across the back, marked only with a plain black number printed on both sides. He handed the first key to Gabe.

  “You’re number one.” The next key went to Grabovsky, then Tyrel, and finally me.

  “If you lose your card, pick up the orange phone on the wall and dial zero.” He pointed at the aforementioned device halfway down the hall. “The phone might ring for a while, but stay on the line. Someone will get to you.”

  “Where’s everybody else?” Tyrel asked.

  “This is the officer’s quarters,” the soldier said. “Major Romero, Colonel Holden, and General Jacobs will be staying nearby as well, so you’d be wise to keep the noise down. As for the others, the door next to this one,” he pointed at the entrance we’d just come through, “leads to the enlisted barracks. If you need to talk to somebody there, use the orange phone. Somebody will come and let you in.”

  “Fair enough,” Grabovsky said.

  “You have toilets in your rooms, but the showers are down the hall behind the green door. Try not to use up all the hot water.”

  As the soldier turned away, Gabriel said, “Didn’t catch your name.”

  The soldier stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Staff Sergeant John Hathaway.”

  “Army?”

  A shake of the head. “Marines, regardless of what they call us now.”

 
; Gabe nodded sympathetically. “Oorah.”

  “I read your file. Scout sniper, right? Did some time in Force Recon.”

  “Yep.”

  Hathaway pointed at his chest. “Phase five when the Outbreak hit. Visiting my folks in Augusta. Word came down for all military and law enforcement to head for Atlanta, so I drove down there and got picked up by the Georgia National Guard. Kicked around with the Army for three years before I wound up back in a Recon unit, just in time for the sons of bitches in the Springs to disband the Corps.”

  Gabe shook his head. “Black day, that one.”

  Hathaway was quiet a few seconds. “Anyway, you fellas need anything, you know what to do.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Gabe said.

  “No problem.”

  Sergeant Hathaway left.

  “Catch you fellas in the morning,” Tyrel said with a yawn. “I’m beat.”

  “Same here,” Gabe said, and walked toward his room. I went toward mine. Grabovsky walked behind me to my door. I turned before swiping the key through the reader and stared at him.

  “Need to talk to you,” he said. No preamble, no small talk, no attempt at insincere pleasantries. Just a simple statement of intent. I approved.

  “Fine.”

  I opened the door and went in. The room was dark, but a brief search revealed a light switch next to the door. I flipped it and a few LEDs came on overhead. The room was spacious by military standards, about twenty by thirty feet. The floor was covered in the kind of thin blue carpeting I used to see in office buildings before the Outbreak. The walls were plain, smooth concrete with no decorations. There were two beds on the far wall at the end of the room, both twins, separated by two low chests of drawers. In the space between the beds and the walls were two wardrobes, each one more than large enough for all of my uniforms and kit back in the Springs, much less the minimum loadout I had brought with me.

  Beyond an open door there was a small bathroom with only a sink and toilet. To my right was a kitchenette with a small refrigerator, hotplate, toaster oven, sink, and cabinets. The countertops were off-white vinyl and the cabinets were the ugly yellowish color of plastic veneer attempting to pass for wood, and failing. The refrigerator did not hum, telling me it either had no power or was unplugged. Not that it mattered; I wouldn’t need it.

  I had been carrying my heavy rucksack in one hand since leaving the conference room. My arm was tired, my back was tired, and my legs felt like they were made of green sticks and rubber. I walked to one of the beds and set my ruck down against a wardrobe, then began removing my MOLLE vest and other gear. Grabovsky shut the door behind him and laid his pack against it.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  He walked over to the small table in the kitchen, sat down, and pointed at the other chair. “Have a seat.”

  I thought about telling him to fuck off. This was my room, after all, and we were the same rank. He had no business ordering me around at this point. But the more reasonable part of my mind told me arguing with Grabovsky would run counter to him going the hell away, so I complied.

  “You don’t like me much,” he said when I was seated.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Can’t say I like you either.”

  “Glad we shared our feelings. Anything else?”

  His gaze narrowed. “Got a few questions for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You gonna answer ‘em?”

  “Maybe.”

  He shook his head. “First, how did you end up as Jacobs’ personal bag man? Second, how did you get a goddamn black card? Third, how does an infantry grunt go from sergeant to fucking captain, and a federal emissary to boot? You guys in the First Recon are tough, I’m not gonna question that. But you ain’t SF, and you sure as hell ain’t Delta. Who trained you?”

  “As to the first three questions, all I can say is ask General Jacobs.”

  “You expect me to believe he didn’t tell you?”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what you believe, Grabovsky. You asked, and I answered. As for who trained me, I’m afraid you’ll have to file that one under none of your damn business.”

  He stared for several long seconds. A cord twitched in his jaw and the cable-like muscles in his forearms moved like snakes in shallow water. I kept my breathing steady and shifted my feet so I could stand and dive away if I had to. Finally, Grabovsky stood up, walked to the door, grabbed his rucksack, and left without a word.

  To his credit, he did not slam the door.

  *****

  I turned off the lights and lay down in the pitch darkness of the room. Unlike the cramped survival bunker back in California, this subterranean environment was surprisingly pleasant. A cozy silence enveloped me, broken only by a faint hum of ventilation. The air was cool and not at all stuffy. I could feel the walls around me and the earth overhead, thick and solid and impenetrable. My belly was full of tasteless but otherwise satisfying food. The bed was clean and comfortable and smelled of cheap detergent. My pillow was firm and unflattened, as if it had never been used. And, strangest of all, I was enjoying it. No nervousness, no jumping at sounds, no dread of sleep lest something come for me in the night. At first, I couldn’t understand why I was so relaxed. But after a while, it came to me.

  I felt safe.

  It was an unfamiliar feeling, like a distant, fond memory of a place resurfacing after being away for a long time and coming back to visit. A smile crossed my face. The only thing that could have made the moment better was Miranda lying next to me. I rolled over on my side and got comfortable and let my eyes close. In a few short minutes, distorted fragments of dreams began to pull me down into the silky warmth of unconsciousness.

  And then somebody knocked on the door.

  Goddammit.

  There was a small lamp on the table next to my bed. I turned it on, got out of bed, and threw on an undershirt and a pair of pants. My jaw creaked from yawning and my feet tried to break the concrete on the way to the entrance. I stopped at the door, let out a long breath, counseled myself to be patient, and turned the handle.

  “Hey, son,” Mike Holden said. “Sorry to wake you up.”

  The anger blew away like smoke on the wind. “Uh…no, no, it’s fine.” I wiped sleep from my eyes and blinked at the harsh light in the hallway. “What’s going on? Is there trouble?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was just wondering if you had a few minutes to talk. I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to bother you, but…” he lifted his hands and shrugged. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. I’ve missed you.”

  I stood and stared. Five years ago, Mike would never have been so frank. There was none of the old bluster and red-faced boisterousness I remembered from the Mike who had once entrusted me with his daughter’s safety. This Mike had care-worn eyes that bespoke a man too worn down by life to engage in bravado or insincerity. It was hard to reconcile this lean, wolfish specter with the rollicking soul I’d known since my childhood.

  “I’ve missed you too, Mike.”

  It wasn’t my intention to speak; the words came out on their own. Mike gave a saddened smile.

  “Maybe we could talk a while?” he said.

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  I opened the door wider to allow him in, but he tilted his head down the hallway. “How about you come on over to my room? I got some decent hooch. Maybe we can have a drink if it ain’t too late for you.”

  A drink sounded wonderful. A drink was a fantastic idea. Several drinks sounded even better. Maybe they would keep my hands from shaking when Mike finally asked what I knew he had been waiting years to ask.

  “Let me get my shoes.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “I’m starting to understand the difference between junior and senior officers,” I said.

  The sides of Mike’s mouth tilted up a little. “Not bad, is it?”

  I looked around the room. It was roughly the same dimensions as mine, but much better appo
inted. Mike had his own shower, the carpet was thick and well padded, there were impressionist prints on the walls—blurred landscapes of France and Tuscany mostly—and the furniture and cabinetry were of vastly superior quality to mine.

  Instead of two beds there was one twin with a thickly padded mattress and sheets with a thread count in the five digits. Where the second bed was in my room, Mike had a low wooden table flanked by two plush, leather-upholstered chairs. I sat down in one, and it was the most comfortable place I had parked my ass since the Outbreak.

  Mike took the other chair. There was a lamp with a gold-colored shade and a bottle of Bushmills on the table. There were also two tumblers and a bucket of ice. I stared at the ice bucket with unashamed avarice. Like many things, ice is a pre-Outbreak luxury whose absence makes me appreciate how good things used to be, and probably never will be again. Bittersweet is the word that comes to mind, but somehow it doesn’t seem to encompass the scale of pain and longing the sight of ice engenders in me.

  “They treat me pretty good around here,” Mike said as he placed a few cubes in both tumblers and poured three fingers of whiskey into each one.

  “The hooch part of the deal?”

  A chuckle. “I wish. Took this off a KPA patrol back in October. Found it in one of their rucksacks.”