After a moment, she let go, and just as I was drawing a breath to speak, she pushed me over onto my back and straddled me. Her lips met mine with frantic urgency while her hands tugged at my shirt. She leaned up for a moment to struggle out of her sweater, her firm breasts spilling out, and anything I was about to say suddenly didn’t seem all that important anymore.
Chapter 4
The Journal of Gabriel Garrett:
Burdens
I was sitting at the kitchen table again, brooding. For some reason, this cramped little room had become my favorite place to do that. Maybe it was the window that overlooked the back yard, or the proximity to the warm stove, or maybe it was the smell of wood polish that had been worked into the floors for God knows how many years. Whatever the reason, it was a good place to think.
While I was sitting there, it occurred to me that there is a distinct difference between thinking and brooding. The kitchen was a place for thinking, being that it was indoors and protected from the worst of the elements. It was quiet, with a minimum of distractions. Brooding, however, is best done outside in the fresh air, where a man can see the sky and feel the smallness of his existence. Maybe there would be clouds. Clouds are conducive to brooding.
Eric left his bottle of whiskey sitting on the kitchen table, which I took as an invitation and carried it outside to the front porch. I sat down in a rocking chair like the old man I was slowly becoming and poured myself a tall one. Crickets chirped in the woods while marlins chased mosquitos under a bruised purple sky. It was a good environment for brooding, I decided. And also for self-medication. The bottle of Knob Creek was probably the last of Eric’s stash, but that was okay. I’d give him a bottle from mine if he made an issue of it.
The whiskey warmed me up as I stared out into the darkening night. My thoughts began to wander, as they often did, back across all the long years to the war, and everything after. The demons were getting restless again. Time and distance had made them weaker, but they were still there. Waiting. I tossed back another drink.
If I had to point out one decision, one single instant of time that had caused my life to go so horribly wrong, I would have to say it was when I decided to leave the military. That was when the trouble started.
After leaving the Marines, I swore to myself I’d live a life of peace. I’d get a job, settle down, start a family, and enjoy all the things I had risked my life to defend. I even met a nice girl and got married, maybe a bit too quickly in retrospect. I thought I could turn away from the war and do something good with my life, decide for myself what kind of person I wanted to be. But instead, my marriage fell apart in less than a year, my wife kicked me out of the house and, stupid bastard that I was, I fell right back into my old habits again.
I remember sitting in a shitty fleabag motel room, staring back and forth between a piece of paper with a few numbers scribbled on it and the telephone. I had just gotten laid off from my third shit-paying job in six months, and I only had enough cash in my pocket to keep a roof over my head for two more days. After that, I’d be out on my ass.
I didn’t know where to turn, so I called my old friend Rocco. He and I had worked together as a sniper team in Fallujah. He was good. Ruthless, efficient, and utterly lethal. Just like me.
He had sent me an e-mail not long after I left the Corps telling me about the contract work he was doing for the intelligence community. He’d told me if I ever wanted to get back in the shit, and make some serious money doing it, then I should give him a call. I didn’t relish the idea, but at the time it was either that or wind up homeless.
I thought about all those poor old bastards with greasy, scraggly beards who populated street corners with bottles of cheap booze in brown bags and grimy ball caps proclaiming them veterans. I thought about all the oblivious people that walked right by them every day without ever bothering to look down. I thought about how most of those people didn’t possess the faintest concept of what those veterans had been through and what they had given up for their country. A country that treated them like trash. I thought about how short of a distance it was to that place, and how quickly my seemingly solid life had fallen apart.
A choice between destitution and getting back on my feet was no choice at all. I picked up the phone.
“You got skills, bro,” Rocco told me, the crappy phone connection buzzing in my ear. There was laughter in his voice, like he’d known all along that I’d be calling sooner or later.
“A badass like you, you can write your own ticket, man. I can put in a good word and have an interview set up for you by the end of the week. Can you get down to D.C. by then?”
I told him I could. He gave me an address. I did a quick count of the precious few bills left in my wallet, and determined that I could indeed afford the bus fare. I packed up a bag, left my key on the front desk, and never looked back.
There were missions in Beirut, Tehran, Bali, and Bogota. A couple of surveillance jobs in London and Munich, and finally a six-week stay in a hospital after a botched rescue operation outside of Baghdad. That had been a bad one, the closest I had ever come to punching out. Shrapnel from an RPG cut a gash in my abdomen big enough for me to see my own guts. I still have nightmares about it.
Rocco came to visit me at Bethesda. He was pissed that the CIA had sent me into that snake pit on nothing more that the shit intel their man on the inside had provided.
“That fucker was probably a double agent, you realize that, right?” He bounced his leg rapidly as he spoke, his pupils narrow as pinpoints from the cocaine he’d just snorted in the bathroom. I remember looking at that big Italian nose and wondering how long it would be before his mucous membranes wore thin and he started getting chronic nosebleeds.
“You got to stop working for those goddamn spooks, man,” he went on. “You should let me put in a good word for you at this new outfit I signed up with a few months ago. They’re down in Atlanta, call themselves Aegis. You’d love it man. No more of that go-where-we-tell-you-to-and-don’t-ask-questions bullshit. With these guys, you get to pick your missions, they pay you up front, and if shit goes tits-up, you can always bail and give them their money back. It’s a fucking sweet deal man.”
After talking my ear off for another half-hour, he finally got up and left a card on the table beside my bed. I stared at it, and ignored the bad news on the television until it was time for my next dose of morphine.
A month later, I was healthy again, and a week after that I was on the payroll. Like most of the colossal fuck-ups I’ve made in my life, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. My phone hadn’t rang in a while, and I had a nagging suspicion after what happened in Baghdad that it wasn’t going to. I had some cash saved up, but it wouldn’t last forever, and it’s not like there was a lot of demand in the private sector for professional murderers. Like a fool, I took the easy way out. And like a fool, I lived to regret it.
Not that it mattered anymore. The CIA, the NSA, Aegis, and maybe even Rocco were all gone, swept aside under the tide of undead that now dominated the world.
And here I was again, sitting out in the cold trying to drink the memories away. I looked up the hill toward Doc Laroux’s place. Eric was no doubt at home enjoying a quiet domestic evening with his new girlfriend. I was happy for him, but I also had to admit to being a bit jealous. They had a good thing going, those two. My love life, meanwhile, had taken a bit of a strange turn.
Whiskey number four had just gone down the hatch when I heard tires humming on pavement. I looked up and saw a bicycle slowing down to turn into my overgrown driveway. The figure riding it was too dark to make out in the gloom, but if I had to guess, I would say it was a woman. I set my empty tumbler on the table beside me and stepped down off the front porch.
The figure came to a halt just a few feet away from me. I took a few steps forward to see who it was.
“Hello, Gabriel. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”
I was about to say something exactly to that
effect when she shook out her hair and hit me with that scalding smile of hers. The words died on my lips.
“Mind if I come in?” She brushed past me and ran a lingering hand over my arm. The graceful sway of her hips beckoned as she stepped through the front door.
“Liz, I have to be at the camp early tomorrow morning,” I said, stepping in after her. “It’s already late. I don’t know if this is the best time.”
She placed her helmet on the coffee table and sauntered across the room, that smile pinning me in place the whole way. She pressed herself against me, her hands sliding up my chest. Slender fingers curled around the back of my neck.
“You say that every time I come to see you, yet somehow you always manage to perform your duties the next day. It’s a testament to your endurance.”
Her voice was low and husky, her pupils wide as the moon. Those full lips were so close to mine, right there for the taking. I wanted them against my skin so bad I could taste it.
Elizabeth nibbled at my lower lip, and the last vestiges of my resolve crumbled. A whimper escaped her throat as I bruised her lips with a ferocious kiss, lifting her up and pressing her against me. Nails dug into the back of my neck and legs wrapped around me as I carried her toward the bedroom. My lips traced down to her tender, graceful neck and I sank my teeth in, biting hard. She moaned and clutched at me.
“Oh my God...”
I reached the bedroom and released her neck. She tried to kiss me again, but I threw her roughly onto the bed.
“Turn around.” I growled. She complied, rolling over on her stomach and crossing her arms behind her back.
I ripped off my belt and kicked the bedroom door shut behind me.
*****
As always, when I woke up the next morning, she was gone. I rolled over onto my back and felt the sting of the bloody marks she’d cut into me with her long, sharp nails. It was always like this, both of us tender and bruised the next day. Elizabeth did a good job of covering it up, but rumors were beginning to fly nonetheless. No one had made the connection between me and the mayor’s mystery lover yet, but it was only a matter of time. When I thought about it, I decided that it wasn’t worth worrying about. It was her problem, not mine. Small-town gossip could kiss my ass. I had work to do.
It was still dark outside, and cold, when I set out for the camp. It was early, even by my standards. Training wasn’t scheduled to begin for another hour, but I had nothing better to do.
The walk to the north gate helped me clear my head. On the way, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to ask Elizabeth about Eric, and her insane plan to use him as a spy to infiltrate the Legion. Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was just my own mindless libido, but the subject had slipped my mind completely. I would have to remedy that, and soon.
The guards greeted me when I reached the gate. I had been leaving at about the same time every morning for weeks, and I had gotten to know most of the guys who worked the graveyard shift. Mike Stall, a guy who lives down the street from me and occasionally kicks my ass at poker, came down from his guard tower with a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. He was wearing his usual cowboy hat and snakeskin boots, with a big-bore revolver slung low on one hip. In the crook of his elbow, he carried a .357 Henry repeater that he’d won from Eric in a card game. Between that and the thick mustache, the tall, lean man looked like something out of a Zane Grey western.
“The hell you doin’ here at this ungodly hour, Gabe?” he called out. “Your alarm clock broke?”
“I get here early every day.”
“Yeah, but this is early even for you.”
He stopped next to me at the guard shack and handed me a coffee. I sniffed at it. “This the instant stuff?”
“There any other kind these days?” He took a sip and grimaced. “Christ, this shit tastes like hot vinegar. I’d give a kidney for a cup of good old Folgers.”
I blew steam from the top of mine to cool it down. “It ain’t Starbucks, but it gets the job done. It’s better than nothing.”
Mike leaned against the wall while I signed out on the register and inclined his head in the direction of the camp. “You got something special planned this morning?
“Not really. Just figured I’d play a little cowboys and Indians. See if I can count coup against the perimeter guards.”
He chuckled. “You still giving those kids live ammo for them toy rifles they got?”
Mike was old school. If a gun wasn’t made of hardwood and steel, as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t fit for use.
“They need something to protect themselves out there,” I said. “Last I checked, the walkers aren’t deterred by harsh language.”
Mike nodded, slowly. “Yeah, I guess so. Well, you be careful, amigo. Don’t spook them greenhorns too much. The last thing we need is to lose a good man to friendly fire.” He clapped me on the shoulder and turned to walk back to the tower.
“We still on for poker next week?”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Yep, same time as usual. Got a fresh batch of hooch out in the still just beggin’ for somebody to drink it. Should be a good time. Oh, and invite your friend Eric again. Tell him I need some ammo for my new rifle.” He bounced the Henry on his shoulder twice and grinned.
I laughed and pointed. “You know, it damn near broke his heart when you won that hand. I don’t think he’s forgiven you for it yet.”
Mike started walking again. “He’ll get over it. He can always try winning it back.”
I chuckled, shook my head, and waved at the other guards. “See you fellas tomorrow morning.”
A chorus of ‘later Gabe’ and ‘we’ll see ya’ followed me out to the gravel path that led to the camp. The door shut behind me, and I heard the heavy thump of the steel reinforcement bar sliding home. A short time later, I reached the tree line and stepped off the path, melting into the woods.
*****
Due to being located outside the wall, the camp was under constant threat from Legion raiders and wandering infected. The town’s security patrols did a good job of keeping threats to the camp mostly at bay, but every once in a while something managed to slip through. Usually the infected.
Fearless and fearsome, the creatures felt no pain and were undeterrable once they had detected prey. Always wandering in groups, they infested the countryside searching for food. Being as remote as it was, Hollow Rock didn’t usually see the kinds of massive hordes that plagued other parts of the country, but we still had to deal with our share. As a result, the carbines that the recruits carried on watch were loaded with live ammunition, adding an element of danger to sneaking around camp in the middle of the night. Any recruit with an overactive imagination and an itchy trigger finger stood the potential to ruin my day. If it meant keeping my recruits safe, however, it was a risk that I was willing to take. Especially considering what happened to a guy named Joseph Harrigan a couple of weeks ago.
Harrigan was a regular on the sheriff’s security detail. Everyone who knew him said he was a decent, responsible man. Which made it all the more inexplicable when one day he came back through the gate with a carefully hidden bite wound on his side. Rather than report it, he went home and acted as though nothing had happened.
The deputy in charge of the watch had reported hearing gunshots from where Harrigan was patrolling but dismissed it as nothing out of the ordinary; the guards put down at least a dozen infected every day. Most of the time they used axes or bludgeons to save ammo, but the sheriff had always admonished them never to hesitate to use their firearms if the situation required it. No one had any reason to question him when he reported back for shift change and said it was no big deal, just a couple of walkers that got too close for comfort.
He was hiding in his basement when he finally turned. He often stayed down there late at night working on small carpentry projects, so his family didn’t think anything of it. They went to bed at sundown just like they always did, not knowing they were sharing a house with a ti
cking time bomb.
How a man could so idiotically endanger the lives of his family, I’ll never understand. Did he think he was somehow immune? That if he ignored the bite long enough it would go away? Stupid. Just plain stupid.
One of his neighbors heard the screaming and rushed over with a shotgun, but by the time he got there, it was too late. Harrigan had already slaughtered his wife and his twin girls. The neighbor did what needed to be done.
Three days later, after a little ceremony at which the mayor gave him a plaque to commemorate his quick thinking and bravery, the neighbor went into his bedroom, sat down on his bed, propped his shotgun under his chin, and painted the ceiling with his brain.
His name was Michael Crenshaw. He was twenty-six.
In the aftermath of the tragedy, Sheriff Elliott began requiring that all personnel returning from security patrol had to undergo a strip search before they returned to town. He pressed a couple of nurses and other townspeople with medical experience into service on a rotating basis to carry out the searches. It was not a popular rule, but the mayor backed it, and even the dumbest people in town could understand the necessity.
It was incidents like these that compelled me to punish breaches in security as harshly as I did. All it takes is one lapse, one person not doing their duty, one failure to follow protocol, and good people end up dead. One way or another, my recruits were going to learn to take that concept seriously.
I pushed the door to the barracks open slowly. It slid quietly on well-oiled hinges, not making a sound. The sentries outside hadn’t spotted me yet, even though I had passed within a few yards of them. I got through the door and turned around, easing it closed.
“Don’t move.”
I froze. The voice was low, barely above a whisper, behind me and to my left.
Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within Page 5
