“Alphas, in position.”
“Wardogs, at One and Wheeless.”
“Lead Farmers, we’re here.”
“Awww,” Jones moaned, sounding stricken. “Lead Farmers? Godammit. Why didn’t I think of that? Sarge, all the good names are getting taken.”
Billings sighed. “Don’t worry, little one. We’ll find a good name.”
“Ultimate Destruction Squad.”
“No.”
“The Giant Hard Dicks.”
“No.”
“Briny Bastards!” Pickell shouted from up top.
“Oh, Christ! Shut up, Pickell!” Jones elbowed him in the leg. “You’re ruining it!”
They passed the apartment complex on the right. The one Scots’s Highlanders would be covering.
Jones took a moment of professional interest, scanning the buildings over the top of his rifle as they passed by. “No obvious movement in the complex.”
They continued on. After another few moments, the last two squads checked in behind them.
“Reapers, at One and Richmond Hill.”
“Highlanders, covering this apartment complex.”
“Roger,” Billings responded over the air. “Squad Four, we’re getting in position. Scots, go ahead and roll through that complex, see if you can’t stir anything up.”
“Copy.”
Jones shook his head. “Squad Four. So fucking lame.”
“Four’s not bad,” Sam said, looking out his window. The Humvee was positioned diagonally in the intersection, so that Sam was able to look south, where Richmond Hill continued on out of sight. “Like a four-leaf clover. A Shamrock.”
Jones blew a raspberry. “You Irish, Ryder? ‘Cause you don’t look very Irish to me.”
“Whoa.” Sam managed to sound offended. “You racist bastard. You assume because I’m dark-skinned I can’t be Irish?”
“Nah, you’re right,” Jones replied. “You probably do have some Irish in you. The Irish screwed everyone. But, on the other hand, you don’t handle your alcohol very well.”
Sam shook his head. “Jones, no one wants to drink fermented grape mix from your MREs.”
“Hey. It gets you drunk.”
“It does something. Maybe rots your brain. Exhibit A: You.”
Jones whistled. “Listen to Ryder. Gettin’ all uppity now. Hey, what’s your real name anyways?”
Sam turned and looked at Jones, not sure how he felt about this incursion. He hadn’t mentioned his real name in years. Everyone called him Private Ryder now. He’d become Sam Ryder. The old version of him seemed like an uncomfortable dream.
“I got a bet with Chris,” Jones continued, looking mischievous as he usually did when he stirred the pot.
“That’s a lie,” Chris pointed out from the front seat.
Jones continued, undaunted. “Chris bet me that your name is Mohommad-Mohommad.”
“No, I didn’t,” Chris sighed.
Jones gave Sam a shit-eating grin. “I was thinking it was Dirka-Dirka.”
“Jesus Christ, Jones,” Billings mumbled, shaking his head.
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Wow. That’s…shockingly offensive.” And yet, he found himself smiling back at Jones, knowing that no matter what came out of Jones’s mouth, he’d fight for that man’s life, and Jones would fight for his.
It was a strange feeling to Sam.
“Alright, you trailer trash honky,” Sam said, looking back out his window.
Jones snickered.
“What was your bet with Chris?”
Chris shook his head. “I didn’t have a bet, Ryder. He’s lying.”
“We bet whatever we get for our next five CKs,” Jones asserted.
Sam nodded, his eyes coursing over their environment out of habit—half his brain always searching for the next threat, even as he continued to mess with Jones. “Well, you’re both wrong.”
“Impossible,” Jones stated. “What is it?”
“Sameer Balawi,” Sam answered, feeling the name more like someone he knew as a child. He glanced over his shoulder at Jones, who appeared contemplative concerning this new development. “You owe me whatever you get for your next five CKs.”
“Ha,” Billings proclaimed from the front seat. “He got you there, Jonesey.”
Jones frowned, but then shrugged. “Alright. Deal.”
The radio crackled. “Scots to Billings, we’ve made a lap through the complex. No sign of life.”
Billings reached over and keyed the handset. “Roger that. Billings to all squads, let’s start rolling in, nice and slow. Don’t be shy with the horns. Call ‘em when you see ‘em.”
Chris let off the brake, and their Humvee began to crawl forward onto Lumpkin Road. On the other end of that road, Squad One would be doing the same.
Chris put his palm to the center of the steering wheel and began honking a couple of short bleats every hundred yards or so.
Sam already knew that the horn on a Humvee sounded ridiculous coming from such a storied fighting vehicle—it sounded more like a tiny imported sedan. Somehow, it never ceased to surprise Sam when he heard it.
But it was still loud. And that was all that mattered.
Through his open window, Sam heard the distant sound of the other horns. Altogether, it sounded to Sam like a flock of geese calling out to each other. Which was a somewhat silly thing to picture for a bunch of squads of fighting men styling themselves as Wardogs and Reapers and Lead Farmers and such.
To the left, a series of abandoned businesses passed by the muzzle of Sam’s rifle.
A seafood shack.
An oriental market.
Then a church. In the wide parking lot, the vestiges of some sort of aid station sat in tatters. The remnants of white tents. Perhaps a gathering point for evacuees, during the collapse, when FEMA was still trying to stem the tide of the plague.
It felt odd to be reminded that the world hadn’t always been the way it was now.
Then more trees.
Everything was typically overgrown.
The radio remained quiet as they made their slow, plodding progress onward. Chris never accelerated past ten or fifteen miles per hour. No reports of contact came in.
Sam shifted in his seat. Somehow, the lack of contact only made him more nervous.
He would have preferred that the primals had just come out at them. It would be terrifying, but it would be better than this sick tension, growing greasy and black in Sam’s stomach.
A few houses drifted by. Some of them burned down.
Broken windows. Trees growing out of them.
Dark doorways, hanging open like raided tombs.
No movement, though.
Up ahead, a long, wide driveway. A large sign at the front of it: Augusta Technical College. Some ivy had overtaken half of the sign, but Sam could still read the bold white letters.
They drew abreast of the long drive heading down to the college. Sam’s eyes strayed down it, peering through the crowding overhang of trees, to a cluster of college buildings about a quarter mile away.
A figure stood there in the distance.
Sam’s heart skipped a beat, adrenaline flushing through him.
They passed by, taking the figure out of his sight.
“Wait,” Sam blurted.
Chris stomped on the brakes.
“Left side,” Billings called up to Pickell, then twisted in his seat. “You got contact, Ryder?”
Pickell whipped around to face left.
“Back up,” Sam said, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the figure again, if that’s what he’d actually seen. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe his eyes had played tricks on him. The view down the drive had been so fleeting.
Chris put it into reverse and eased them backwards.
The drive down to the college came back into view.
“Stop,” Sam said, clutching his rifle and pulling it tight into his chest.
The college buildings.
The brush grown u
p around everything.
But no figure.
“What’d you see, Ryder?” Billings pressed.
“I’m not sure,” Sam answered honestly. “Possible contact. One figure, down at the end of that drive.”
“Was it moving?” Billings asked.
That would be the expected thing. With all these vehicles rolling around, honking their horns, the primals would come to investigate. That’s what they’d always done.
“No,” Sam said. “It was just standing there.”
“Primal?”
“Can’t say.”
“Was it wearing clothes?” Billings queried, sounding a little irritated at the lack of information.
“I can’t say for sure,” Sam admitted. “I don’t think it was.”
“Alright,” Billings grumbled. “Chris, hold here. Pickell, keep coverage down that drive and scan the woods.” Billings grabbed the radio again. “Billings to all squads, we have a possible contact down on Lumpkin Road, right at the college. We’re holding position here. Continue your routes. We’ll keep you advised.”
“Sarge,” Chris said.
Sam glanced forward, and saw that Chris pointed out the windshield, where Squad One’s MATV rolled towards them.
The bigger combat vehicle came to a stop on their passenger’s side. Squad One’s team leader—Sergeant Ron Paige—had his arm and rifle out his window.
“Whatcha got, Billings?” Paige asked.
“Private Ryder got a possible contact, down at the college.”
“A pack?”
“No, just one.”
“Was it running?”
Billings shook his head. “Just standing there, he said.”
Paige ducked his head, glancing into the Humvee at Sam, as though he could determine the veracity of Sam’s sighting by inspecting him personally. Then his eyes went forward, and he nodded down the road. “Here comes Scots.”
Billings took the radio again. “Scots, come up here with us. I want you to hold position here and wait for the other squads to finish their rounds.” To Paige, Billings said, “You wanna come check it out?”
The team leader shrugged. “Might as well. No one else has shit.” He peered down the long drive. “Not a fan of that narrow road. Woods on either side. Ambush alley.”
Billings nodded. “We’ll roll slow. If the map’s right, there’s another exit out of the college that’ll take us out to Highway One. If we hit anything spicy, we’ll punch through and rendezvous on the highway.”
“Roger that.”
“Alright Chris,” Billings said, taking a deep breath. “Take us in there.”
FIFTEEN
─▬▬▬─
SURVIVOR
Chris eased their Humvee down the drive.
There were two lanes, bisected by a median that had grown up almost as tall as the woods to either side. Across their lane, a pine tree had fallen during some windstorm years ago, and was now half-rotted.
It crumbled under their tires and brush guard as Chris nudged the Humvee over it.
Sam tried to keep his focus out of his window—watch your lane—but he kept wanting to look forward, towards the buildings where he’d seen…whatever it was that he’d seen.
Definitely a primal, he thought. That was his gut reaction. But he’d learned not to put too much weight behind your gut until it was provable. Sometimes your gut would betray you and leave you looking like an ass.
Sam forced himself to look back to the woods on their left.
Pickell had the turret facing forward, plus Chris and Billings were facing that way. If anything popped up, they’d see it. He just had to trust.
“Contact,” Billings announced. “Dead ahead.”
Sam found himself pressing against Pickell’s legs to get a view out the front of the vehicle. “Where?” he demanded, needing to see what it was, and if it looked like the same thing he’d already seen.
Billings leaned forward in his seat, one hand on the dashboard, his other holding his rifle in the window. “It’s gone now. Just a flash. Between those two buildings.” He shook his head. “Not a fan of this shit. Everybody, windows up.” He keyed his radio as Sam and Jones slid their windows closed. “Hey Alphas, there’s definitely movement down here. Recommend windows up.”
“Ya scared, Billings?” came the reply.
Billings frowned at the radio. “What a prick.” He didn’t bother answering. Just closed his own window. To his own team he grumbled, “If he’d seen Loudermouth’s crew get ripped out of their vehicle he wouldn’t be talking shit.”
Chris watched the MATV in the sideview mirrors. He snickered. “They just put their windows up, Sarge.”
“Of course they did,” Billings remarked.
“Fancy-ass fuckers,” Jones commented under his breath. “In their fancy-ass MATV.”
The road split, and they stayed to the right. Ahead, several large, square, brick buildings loomed. Their road intersected with another, and here, Chris slowed them to a crawl.
Billings gestured to the left. “Bring us up on that side of the building, towards that parking lot right there.”
Chris cut them in a tight left hand turn, their driver’s side tires bumping the curb, then settling back onto the street. Behind them, Alpha Squad’s MATV followed.
Sam kept looking through the windshield, then back out his own window with a flush of anticipation, as though every time he looked in one direction, the threat would come from the other.
Watch your lane.
They headed toward a large parking lot, the big square building to their right.
“There!” Jones yelped with excitement. “Did you see it? It just ducked into the building!”
“I saw it,” Pickell called from the turret.
“Was it a primal?” Billings demanded.
“Definitely-maybe,” Jones answered.
Billings grumbled a curse, glued to his window, staring at the building. “Why aren’t they coming at us?”
“Maybe it’s just that one. Maybe it got separated from its pack.”
“When’s the last time you saw a solo primal?” Billings asked.
No one answered.
“Stop,” he commanded. “Pickell, when I tell you, I want you to send a couple test rounds into the building and see if we can’t scare up a response, you copy?”
“Roger ‘at, Sarge,” Pickell said. His voice remained light and cheerful as it always did. Consistently devoid of the tension that the rest of them felt.
Billings keyed his radio. “Hey Alpha squad, we got definite contact, but it seems to be avoiding us. My gunner’s gonna hit that building with a few rounds to see what happens.”
“Alright,” Paige said, sounding bored. “Go ahead.”
“Send it, Pickell.”
CHUG-CHUG-CHUG
The M2 blasted out three rounds, smashing the side of the building.
Most of the windows were busted out, particularly along the ground floor. A few more were added to the casualty list.
Then they sat there.
The silence seemed to hum after the shocking blast of the rounds.
No response came from the building. No primals pouring out of nooks and crannies like they usually did. Everything was dead still.
Pickell fidgeted in the turret. “Hey, Sarge, you hearing that?”
“What?”
“Drop your window and listen.”
Billings swore, but dropped his window.
Sam looked back out his own window, but the woods to the left were motionless.
With Billings’s window open, though, Sam started to hear something.
“That sounds like screaming,” Billings said.
“Yes, sir,” Pickell answered. “Is it primals?”
“That don’t sound like primals to me,” Billings responded.
Sam looked back over his shoulder towards the driver’s side. Billings pressed his head out of his window, listening to the sound.
“That’s a person
,” Billings said, his voice ratcheting up. “Someone’s in there.”
Sam heard it now, too, but couldn’t tell what they said. It definitely was not the hoot and howl of primals. This was human.
Billings came to a rapid decision. “Fuck this. We’re gonna dismount.”
“Aw, hell,” Jones said.
Billings kicked his door open, grabbing the vehicle radio as he did. “All units, we have a possible human contact at this building. I want you guys to start converging down here at the Augusta Technical College. Squads Four and One are going to dismount. You’ll see where we’re parked. See if you can’t get a perimeter around this building we’re at.”
Then Billings stepped out.
Jones and Sam followed.
“You want me to come with?” Pickell asked.
“No,” Billings snapped. “You and Chris stay here. Chris, be ready to tear out, and Pickell be ready to give us some support fire.”
“Got it,” Pickell replied.
Sam ran to the other side of the vehicle, facing the structure. He heard the screaming clearer now. Hoarse and dry and desperate.
“It sounds like they’re screaming for help,” Sam said, his voice tight.
“Yeah, I’m hearing it,” Billings nodded.
“Yo, Billings!” Paige stood outside his MATV, his leg still in the door. “What the hell is this?”
Billings glared over at him. “Ya scared?”
“I don’t wanna dismount,” he shot back.
“Well, then stay here,” Billings said, then started moving for the building.
Sam and Jones fell in behind him, rifles up, scanning every window and door, fingers tense outside their trigger guards.
Sam heard the MATV’s doors opening and closing and assumed that Alpha Squad was getting their asses in gear.
There was a wide area of what had once been a lawn, leading up a slight hill to the building. The weeds were now waist-high, a few saplings standing thin, about the height of a man.
Anything could be hiding in those weeds.
Billings snapped the fingers of his support hand and then waved, calling Sam and Jones up to him.
They hustled up to his side.
Billings moved up the hill towards the building at a controlled but determined walk. “We’re gonna hit this corner of the building,” he said, replacing his support hand on the foregrip of his rifle. “We’re gonna peep in these busted windows. Stay back and don’t let anything grab you from inside, you hear?”
Lee Harden Series (Book 3): Primal [The Remaining Universe] Page 16
