She let fly a stream of curses as I flattened her out, pulled up on her head, and slipped a forearm over her throat. Normally I felt bad about cutting off her air supply in such a manner, but today, I found myself a little less than sympathetic toward my star pupil. Just as I began to squeeze, Gabe blew the whistle.
I got off her and struggled to my feet, hands planted on my knees, hauling in deep draughts of air. Flannigan’s eyes held no sympathy as she got up and dusted herself off.
“I almost had you that time, sir,” she said, spitting the words out.
I rasped a wheezing laugh. “Flannigan, you didn’t have shit. You hurt me that last bout, but I seem to recall choking you out four times before that. Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Next time, if you have a plan to beat me, do it on the first try. Marauders do not observe the fucking tapout rule. Got it?”
She opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, then bit down on it. “Yes sir.”
I watched the anger and defiance drain from her face, a smoothing of expression that left her looking small and disappointed. I felt like a shithead for pushing her so hard, but I wouldn’t be doing her any favors by going easy on her. She needed to learn how to fight, and she needed to do it fast.
“Go on and get some water,” I said, motioning toward the others. “Get ready for the next round.” She nodded wordlessly and left.
As she went, I wondered how many other recruits she was going to try that particular trick on, assuming I was the first victim. Thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that I probably wasn’t. Flannigan likes to plan ahead and set traps for her opponents. She had probably tried it out a few times, and when it worked, decided to use it against me. The only problem I had with that strategy is that she didn’t use it at the outset of the fight.
As I had told her, marauders don’t give second chances.
Chapter 2
Whirly-Bird
The walk home from the camp was more painful than usual that morning.
Flannigan’s throw had done something unpleasant to my back, and one of my eyes had swollen nearly halfway shut. I touched the tender skin around it and wondered how that one had happened. I didn’t remember getting hit there.
Not that this was surprising. The adrenaline rush of fighting often kept damage from registering until long after it had been inflicted. Over the past six weeks, not a day had gone by that I had not noticed a bruise or a cut in the mirror and wondered where the hell it had come from. The damage was beginning to take its toll, but I figured if the recruits could take it then so could I. Youth was still on my side, at least for a few more years.
I reached the north gate and stopped at the guard shack to check in my weapons. Judging by the guards’ wide-eyed expressions and stiff posture, I must have looked even worse than I felt.
“You all right, mister?” one of them asked, a younger guy that I didn’t recognize.
“I’m okay,” I said, smiling through swollen lips. “You should see the other guy. I wrecked the shit out of his fist.”
He shook his head and motioned for me to follow him, leading the way to one of the small, hastily built shacks just inside the gate. As a safety precaution, anyone returning to town from outside the wall had to undergo a strip search to check for signs of illness or infection. Two buildings had been constructed, with sniper stations on overwatch, to allow people to do this in privacy. Brett Nolan, one of the nurses who worked at the clinic with Allison, was on duty when I came in.
“Jumping Jesus Christ, Eric,” he said, looking me over. “What happened here? You get run over by a truck?”
I let out a sigh. “Nope. Just reaping the fruits of my labor.”
“Taught those kids a little too well, did ya?” He grinned through his bushy red beard. “They kickin’ your ass now?”
I held up my arms so that he could look them over. “You know, as much as I love a little banter with another dude while I’m standing buck naked in the cold, I’ve got stuff to do. Maybe you can keep the jokes yourself and get this exam over with so I can go home?”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he said. “I’ll be done in a minute. Spread your feet.”
I grimaced and did as he asked. After shining a flashlight over my legs and nether regions he pronounced me clean of infection, snapped his gloves off into a waste bin, and left me alone to get dressed. When I stepped outside, Mike Stall was waiting for me with my weapons, a cup of shitty instant coffee, and three ibuprofen tablets. God love him.
“Tough day at the office?” he said, as I downed the pills.
“Brutal.” I managed a smile. “Thanks for the coffee.”
The caffeine and the pain meds did their jobs and, by the time I got home, I felt almost human again. I got a fire going, heated up some water, and scrubbed off the dirt and grime from the morning’s work. Checking out my injuries in the bedroom mirror, I could see that I was going to have some nasty bruises for the next few days, but that was nothing new. The swelling over my eye was an annoyance, but thanks to the anti-inflammatory effects of ibuprofen, it was already starting to go down. By tomorrow, it would be just another black and yellow stain on my face.
I had a few hours to kill before guard duty that afternoon, so I brewed some tea and sat down at the kitchen table with a hot mug and a John D. MacDonald novel. Allison was at the clinic looking after a woman who had just given birth to a healthy baby girl, so I had the house to myself.
The two of us had practically moved in together, but I still had a room at the house that Gabe and I had shared until a few weeks ago. The big guy never said anything about it, but after being cooped up together in a cabin for nearly two years, I don’t think he was sad to see me move out. He was finally getting some well-deserved peace and quiet.
I was halfway through my tea and just turning the page to chapter two of The Green Ripper when a knock echoed from foyer.
Son of a bitch, I thought. I never get a moment’s peace around here. I got up to answer the door, and when I opened it, Steve stood on the front porch wearing a mischievous grin.
“You know what today is?” he asked.
I blinked. “Uh. … Saturday?”
“Yes. But more importantly, it’s market day.”
“Okay, and what does that have to do with anything?”
Steve’s smile widened. “I have a surprise for you. Come on, you’re gonna love this.”
I stood there staring at him for a moment, noticing that his uniform was different than usual. Normally, he wears Army ACUs with no insignia, something to do with him being a Special Ops guy. Today, however, he had on a more traditional-looking uniform. He was wearing his beret, which he never wore, claiming it didn’t breathe worth a damn and felt like wearing a wet sock on top of his head. The captain’s bars on his collar were self-explanatory, as were the nametag and the ‘Special Forces’ rocker on his shoulder, but the rest of the ribbons and shiny metal things pinned to his chest were a mystery to me.
“What’s with the fancy duds?” I said, pointing.
“That’s part of the surprise. Come on, we’re wasting time.”
I sighed. It was a mile out of Steve’s way to swing by my house, so I figured there was no way I was getting out of this one.
“Let me grab my coat.”
I walked with Steve toward the corner of Mill Street and Duncan, where the local farmers and tradesmen sold their wares every Saturday morning. Money was a distant memory, but the barter system was still alive and well.
Bullets, toilet paper, soap, hygiene products, and any kind of alcoholic drink had become valuable enough to be a form of currency, but just about anything was fair game if you could find someone willing to trade for it. Most of the trading on market day was just the locals selling food in exchange for valuable items, or more commonly, hours of labor.
Although trade goods might have been scarce, something everyone around town had plenty of was free time. ‘Will work for food’ no longer held a negat
ive connotation. The local farms were productive enough to feed the entire community and then some, but they lacked personnel. Without gasoline to power their machinery, the farmers had to do everything by hand. And with the massive amount of work that goes into tending crops and raising animals, there was no shortage of openings in the fields.
Since most of the local farms were outside of the twelve-foot protective wall encompassing the central part of town, security was a major concern. Wandering ghouls were bad enough, but raiders from a rogue militant group calling themselves the Free Legion had been harassing those brave souls who provided their community with its livelihood.
In response, Walter Elliott, the local sheriff and one tough old son of a bitch, had recruited people to provide security for the farms in exchange for a percentage of everything they produced. Part of it went to the municipal emergency supply, and the rest was used to compensate the guards. Although it cost them a chunk of their harvest, the farmers had gritted their teeth and taken the deal. Unless they wanted to end up captured or killed, or have their livestock stolen and their fields burned by the Legion, they had no choice but to accept.
Even with the extra security, the Legion’s raiders were still doing a fine job of making themselves a pain in the ass. Recently, they had begun a campaign of hit-and-run attacks on farms in broad daylight and had started taking potshots at guards along the wall. Usually, they fired off a few shots and then melted back into the trees before we could go after them, but on one occasion they made the mistake of shooting at a certain Marine Corps scout sniper of my acquaintance.
Gabriel often volunteered his services to the night watch in the hopes of catching the troublemakers in the act, and always brought along his .338 Lapua magnum sniper rifle. Capable of taking a man’s head off at over a thousand yards, the powerful weapon was the stuff of nightmares—especially in the hands of one of the most highly trained snipers in the world.
On the night in question, Gabe had taken position on the westernmost guard tower and was watching the hills in that direction, just under the setting sun. He knew the raiders liked to use that time of day to attack because, with the sunset in the guards’ eyes, it was when they would be the hardest to see. Gabriel had used the same technique himself many times.
He didn’t catch any movement—they were too far away for that—but when they started firing, Gabe got a lock on their position. They were shooting unsuppressed rifles and, even from that distance, Gabe could make out the muzzle flashes. He estimated the range at about five hundred yards, made a quick scope adjustment, and sent three rounds downrange as fast as he could work the bolt.
They were dead before they knew what hit them.
When a team went out to retrieve the corpses, two of the gunmen were nearly headless. Afterward, I asked Gabe to remind me never to piss him off.
Other than that incident, the town’s security forces, such as they were, had not made any headway against the Legion. They had enough people to man the wall and keep the farms safe, but going after the Legion in the hinterlands simply stretched them too thin. This meant that the Legion could operate with impunity as long as its members kept their distance, giving them control of the caravan routes between Hollow Rock and the Mississippi River. This had caused trade—the life’s blood of Hollow Rock—to grind to a halt.
Obviously, something had to be done.
Determined to take the fight to the Legion, the mayor of Hollow Rock had asked Gabe to help build a small but well-trained expeditionary force to reopen the trade routes and eliminate anyone that got in their way.
Well ... to say that she asked him to do this may not be entirely accurate. My presence in this town was precipitated by a skirmish with the Free Legion and a rather nasty bullet wound in my side. I was unconscious by the time my friends hauled me through the northern gate and put me on an operating table. My girlfriend, Allison, who also happens to be the town’s only medical doctor, operated on me while I was in a near coma and saved my life. Save for a big ugly scar on my side, I made a full recovery.
The buoyancy I had felt at surviving my first foray into the world of gunshot wounds was tragically short-lived. It turned out that the mayor charged a fee for any non-resident taking advantage of the town’s services, like visits to the doctor. One might call it a visitor’s tax. Once I was on the mend, the mayor had called Gabe to a meeting and laid out our payment options. Either we could give the town a third of our medical supplies, which were considerable, or we could stay and help defend the place until the threat posed by the Legion had been eliminated.
I should take a moment to mention here that Elizabeth Stone, the duly elected mayor, just so happens to be a pretty, doe-eyed brunette who is single and close to Gabe’s age. I should further mention that Gabe has not gotten laid in a really long time.
Like, years.
Not surprisingly, he chose the second option.
“Looks like they’re already here,” Steve said, bringing me back to the present.
I looked up. “Who is?”
He pointed ahead to the square at the center of the market. Mayor Stone and Sheriff Elliott were mingling with some of the farmers at their wagons, smiling and doling out handshakes. A small platform had been erected at the intersection where the largest stalls met, visible to everyone in the market. Someone had even pinned a few red, white, and blue banners to it like the ones people used to hang from balconies and windows on Independence Day.
“What’s going on with that?” I said, gesturing to the podium.
“All part of the surprise my friend, all part of the surprise.”
I glanced over at him, and his grin had simmered down into a little self-satisfied smirk. Smug bastard.
The sheriff saw us coming and motioned us over. He was a tall man, well into his sixties but still hale and strong. He cut quite an impressive figure with his wide-brimmed hat, uniform, and pearl-handled Colt Python in a polished leather holster.
“Glad you could join us, Captain,” he said, reaching out to shake hands with Steve. “How are things at Central Command?”
“As of about nine this morning, everything was running on schedule,” Steve said. “Bird is inbound. Should be popping up over the horizon any time now.”
“I’m sorry … bird? What are you talking about?” I asked.
Elliott jerked his head in my direction. “There any particular reason you decided to bring him along?” He didn’t bother looking at me.
“Eric here has been helping Mr. Garrett train the new militia,” Steve said. “I thought it would be a good idea to have one of the instructors on hand for the supply drop.”
The sheriff eyed me up and down, clearly not liking what he saw. “All right, fair enough. Mayor’s gettin’ ready to make her speech. You might want to go ahead on up there.”
“Will do.” Steve turned and clapped me on the shoulder. “Hang out here for a few minutes. It’s gonna be a hell of a show.”
As he walked off toward the podium, Elliott continued to stare silently at me. From his expression, one would think that I had just pissed on his children. I turned and stared back.
“Something on your mind, sheriff?” I said, letting irritation bleed into my voice.
I had been putting up with the sheriff treating me like something he’d scraped off his boot for nearly two months now, and his condescending, dickhead attitude was starting to wear on my last nerve. He glared wordlessly for another moment, then turned on his heel and stalked away.
“Always a pleasure, Walt,” I called out to his back. He kept walking, not bothering with a backward glance.
Prick.
I wandered over to a stall not far from the podium. A guy that I had seen before, but whose name escaped me, was selling baskets of eggs and live chickens in wire cages.
“Nice mornin’, eh?” the farmer said cheerfully. I nodded, feigning interest.
“You have any idea what that’s all about?” I said, making a vague gesture toward the podium.
>
He pushed back his straw hat and squinted at the mayor. “Not sure. Mayor said she had some kinda important announcement to make today. I reckon it has something to do with that treaty we voted on.”
A brief squawk of feedback sounded from the stage. Mayor Stone was testing the microphone on a PA system connected to a car battery. She was wearing a sleeveless white dress with an intricate blue pattern swirling down the sides that clung to her figure and emphasized her ample curves. Her arms were covered by a light blue cardigan, and tastefully applied makeup brought out the warm darkness of her eyes. It struck me how much of a contrast she was to Allison.
Allison is a petite little thing with small, delicate hands and a cute pixie face. The mayor was tall and athletic, her shoulders broad for a woman, and she had a generous curve to her hips. Not fat at all, just bigger than average. Carefully curled hair cascaded down her shoulders and framed her face, all high cheekbones and a broad smile. Looking at her, she could have been in her late twenties, but in truth, she was actually pushing forty. Whatever she was doing to take care of herself, it was working.
“Can everybody hear me okay? All the way in the back?” she said.
A scattered round of acknowledgments sounded from the tents as throngs of people wandering among the carts stopped to listen.
“All right, fantastic,” she went on. “Now folks, I don’t know how long the juice on this thing is going to last, so I’ll have to make this quick.”
She paused for a moment, allowing the crowds to go silent. I noticed that the mayor was letting a little bit more of her Southern accent creep through than she normally did. Curious.
“As y’all know, we’ve been requesting federal aid from Colorado Springs for a number of weeks now. Captain McCray here has been working diligently to obtain supplies, equipment, and reinforcements to help in our ongoing efforts to protect our community. It’s been slow going, and I know things haven’t been easy, but today I’m happy to announce that our patience has been rewarded, and that help is on the way.”
Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within Page 2
