Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  He paled a bit, smile retreating.

  “Got anything else to say?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “That’s what I thought. Keep your comments to yourself, Holland. You’ll live longer.”

  When I turned around, Thompson and Cole stood with arms crossed over their chests, trying unsuccessfully to stifle laughter behind gloved fists. The other soldiers pretended to be occupied killing the infected, but I could see their smirks. Maybe they were as tired of Holland’s mouth as I was.

  After a couple of deep breaths, the frosty air cooled my temper. The tension in my shoulders eased, the burning in my face subsided, and I felt my fists unclench. Remembering my lost weapon, I stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down. The ghoul who seized it still clutched it in one desiccated hand, waving it mindlessly over its head.

  “Fuck you, you rotten fuck,” I said, and spit on its face. Schmidt was busy re-rolling the ladder. I stopped him and took it.

  “What are you doing?” Eric asked, overhearing and walking over to stand next to me.

  “Getting my rifle back.”

  “With the ladder?”

  “Yep.”

  “How?”

  “Watch.”

  I flipped the ladder over so the big hooked end dangled at my feet and slowly began lowering it, foot by foot, careful not to let it swing too much. The wind was strong, but constant, making it easy to compensate for. When it was level with my rifle, I maneuvered the hook toward the M-4’s trigger guard trying to thread it through the small rectangle of metal. It took me a few tries, but I finally snagged it and pulled upward. The damn ghoul held on like a vise, refusing to let go.

  “There’s a cure for that,” I muttered, drawing my pistol with my free hand. Taking careful aim, I fired a single shot. A .45 caliber hollow-point slug blasted a hole in the ghoul’s forehead, splashing the corpse behind it with reddish-black gore, like hitting a melon with a baseball bat. The pressure on my rifle released immediately.

  From my pack, I pulled out a small pouch of homemade disinfecting wipes and gave the weapon a good once-over. God only knew what kinds of diseases those filthy walkers had crawling on them. Schmidt took the ladder from me and stowed it his pack.

  Behind me, Thompson and Sanchez ordered their men to cease fire. There were enough infected that trying to kill them all was a waste of ammo. The troops slung their weapons and gathered into a dejected huddle in the middle of the roof, muttering back and forth. The wind roared too loud to hear what they said, but their tone and body language spoke of worry. As I moved closer, Thompson saw me coming and waved me over.

  “I think I have a plan to get us out of here,” he said, stepping away from his men.

  “I’m all ears.”

  He pointed up the highway, due east from the pawnshop. “It looks like the horde is thinnest over there in that field. If we can bottle up the rest of the horde at this chokepoint,” he pointed at the narrow space between the pawnshop and an adjoining burned-out convenience store, “we can send one or two guys to get clear and circle back around to the transport.”

  I thought it over. The horde looked pretty thin where he indicated, but it was still damned risky. I said as much.

  “All our guys have to do is move fast and hug the buildings along the highway,” he replied. “You, Riordan, and Holland can provide overwatch until they’re out of sight. By that point, they should be clear.”

  I didn’t like it, but there was a blizzard moving in, and the horde wasn’t likely to leave any time soon. I asked Cole to check the weather and temperature information from Central Command. His big fingers moved deftly over a ruggedized touch-screen device.

  “Doesn’t look good,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. He pointed at the sky. “This storm is big as hell. ‘Sposed to dump more than three feet of snow overnight. It’s thirty-one degrees right now, but the low is only twenty-eight. You know what that means.”

  I breathed a sigh through my nose. “Yeah. It means we’re fucked.”

  Twenty-eight degrees. Two degrees warmer than the twenty-six degree temperature required to immobilize the undead. How they managed to keep moving in sub-freezing temperatures, I had no idea. But move they did. The cold slowed them down, but unless it got below twenty-six Fahrenheit, it wouldn’t stop them. And while thirty-two degrees may not have been a problem for the undead, it was more than enough to induce hypothermia in the living. We were dressed for the weather, but our tents and sleeping bags were back with the transport, not to mention our firewood. The only thing we had going for us was the couple of days’ worth of food each man carried in his go-bag. We might freeze to death, but as least we wouldn’t do it on an empty stomach.

  Pulling my coat tighter around me, I trudged wordlessly to the side of the roof and faced the highway. U.S. Route 79, State Route 76, a two-lane stretch of blacktop cutting through the flat, desolate emptiness of Western Tennessee approximately sixteen miles from Hollow Rock. Snow had piled up six inches thick already, obscuring the faded paint on the crumbling asphalt, making the road a flat little stretch of white between drainage ditches. The footprints left by the infected were already filling back up.

  I turned my head to the north and saw nothing but snow and walking corpses. To the south, the picture wasn’t any better. The wind shifted again, directly into my face this time, forcing me to shut my eyes and look away. Behind me, approaching footsteps crunched softly over old layers of ice. By their heavy tread—and simple logic—I knew it was Thompson.

  “Listen, Gabe, this is our best shot. You know it as well as I do. We don’t have time to mess around. We need ditch this horde and find shelter.”

  The fact that he was right didn’t move me. In these situations, time permitting, I always like to take an extra moment, a few more seconds of analysis. Cover the options, puzzle out the permutations, try to find anything I may have overlooked, anything I forgot. A solution that minimizes risk to human life, but still accomplishes the mission.

  In this case, nothing sprang to mind. I hated asking good men to do something that might get them killed, but given our current predicament, there wasn’t much choice. There was a world of danger between our current location and our only hope of escape, and if no one braved it, we might all be dead before the next sunrise. In that light, the rationalization was easier.

  Back before the Outbreak, I didn’t watch much television, but I did watch a little. One of the very few shows I liked was Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe. Rowe was a master of deadpan humor, and could rattle off one-liners better than Rodney Dangerfield. He had the unique ability to find the funny side of situations that would make most people retch. Poop splashing in his mouth in a San Francisco sewer tunnel, for instance.

  Among his many memorable quips, the one I always thought cleverest was a bit called ‘Safety Third’. Pre-Outbreak, anyone who ever worked anywhere encountered the legally required OSHA regulations conspicuously posted on corkboards—which in my experience were universally ignored—and had heard the ubiquitous phrase, repeated ad nauseam until it became so hackneyed and cliché it’s utterance flowed swiftly into one ear and promptly out the other: Safety First.

  Mike Rowe disagreed.

  Safety First makes no sense. If you always put safety above everything else, you will never endeavor anything dangerous to begin with. Which is bad, because many a worthwhile task involves a tremendous amount of risk. Raiding supplies in an abandoned town rumored to be infested with the walking dead, for instance. Furthermore, if you always put safety first, you grow complacent in thinking someone else is always looking out for you. But in truth, the only person looking for you is you. Each person, each individual, owns responsibility for his or her life and safety.

  The soldiers who had agreed to obey my orders in exchange for accompanying me on my supply raids knew the risks when they signed on. If they wanted safety, they could have just stayed home or, you know, not joined the freaking Army. Which meant, by definition, safety was n
ot their paramount concern.

  Their first concern was boredom. There wasn’t much to do in Hollow Rock in the dead of winter except eat, drink, and fornicate. The first two they did with gusto, but a scarcity of willing partners made the third activity difficult to accomplish. Well, difficult for everyone except Cole, anyway.

  Second, they were broke. The Army paid its soldiers in federal credits, which were only redeemable at military facilities. Out in the rest of the world—or ‘the shit’ as they called it—those credits were worthless.

  Elizabeth Stone, the mayor of Hollow Rock and my current significant other, had agreed to provide shelter and food for the troops stationed with us for the winter, but anything else was on them. They couldn’t trade their weapons or ammo because they needed them, and there wasn’t much work to be had, at least until the spring planting season. Which left scavenging as their only way to obtain the items necessary to purchase sundries such as alcohol, coffee, sugar, bacon, and toilet paper, just to name a few.

  Thompson was the one who first approached me, showing up during one of my private drinking binges at the newly opened Stall’s Tavern, a cold glass of grain liquor in one hand, no doubt encouraged by our mutual friend Eric Riordan. The deal was simple: he would provide strong backs and extra rifles in exchange for a cut of everything we found. I told him there was only room for ten men at the most, being that Sanchez and his squad were my regular crew. He said that was fine since he only had eight men under his command anyway. Then I told him there were certain items the town needed which he couldn’t skim from. He frowned, but nodded.

  Thompson wasn’t really in much of a position to bargain, which made me seriously consider pushing for more favorable terms. However, the frown on Eric’s face notified me that doing so would incite his wrath. My skinny blond friend is a much more formidable man than he used to be, so in the end, I capitulated.

  For the last six weeks, Delta Squad—one of four squads in First Platoon, Echo Company, 2nd Battalion of the 1st Reconnaissance Expeditionary Brigade out of Fort Bragg, NC—had accompanied my crew on our regular supply raids. Although I was initially skeptical of their competence, they quickly proved themselves a valuable addition. My little salvage operation’s profits had more than doubled since bringing them onboard.

  Which brought me back to the problem at hand, and the risk our men would be taking fighting their way back to the transport. This wasn’t the first tough situation we had been in, nor was it the first time we had had to fight for our lives. Hell, it wasn’t the second, third, fourth, or fifth time. But these men kept coming back for more, the stubborn bastards. They kept showing up for work.

  And that was the most important thing, their first priority: having work. They needed something to do, and anything beat sitting around the barracks waiting for another turn at guard duty. Having an occupation gave them a sense of worth, of dignity. And when you’ve got nothing else going for you, nothing to hang on to, dignity means a hell of a lot.

  Their next priority was profit. You can’t buy much with earnestness and smiles. If you want to purchase the little luxuries that make life enjoyable, you damn well better find something worth bartering for. I brought these men out here to make them rich, not babysit them. I gave them an opportunity, but made no promises and expected them to look after themselves. If they wanted to get home alive, it was up to them to make it happen.

  Ergo, Safety Third.

  “Ask for volunteers,” I said, letting out a sigh.

  Thompson nodded and walked away. The wind blew over the trees in the distance, and the clouds grew darker. I tied the severed ends of my tactical sling in a knot, loosening the strap a bit to compensate. My magazine was nearly empty, so I dropped it, stowed it, and slapped in a new one. Worked the charging handle. Checked the chamber. Made sure the safety was off. Kept my finger off the trigger.

  Habits. Old habits. I wondered how long the good ones would keep me alive, and how long it would take the bad ones to get me killed.

  TWO

  Hicks volunteered first, like he always does.

  A couple of other guys tried to go with him, but I vetoed them. Thompson looked at me like I was crazy.

  “Gabe, we need you up here on overwatch. You’re our only real sniper,” he said.

  “Eric is as good as shot as me, if not better, and Sanchez is coming along. Between those two and Holland, you’ll have all the marksmen you need.”

  He stepped closer. “Look Gabe, I don’t mean any disrespect, but these guys are half your age. They’re smart, they’re fast, and they’re trained for this. Let them do their jobs.”

  “I’m well aware of my age, Thompson. I’m not the decrepit old goat you seem to think I am, and I have ten times as much training as any one of these guys. Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Gabe.”

  “I know what you meant, Sergeant. Here’s what you’re not considering—I have more combat experience than any five of your men combined. Which means I know how valuable close fire support can be, especially in the form of a sniper. I can do more than just hide in the grass and bushwhack people, you know.”

  “I know, but-”

  “Which one of us is in charge here, Sergeant?”

  His stare turned cold. “You are.”

  “Exactly. Try not to forget it.”

  “I’m not questioning you, I just-”

  “You have your own ideas about things, and that’s fine. I’ll listen to your input, but I’m the one who gets the final say. That was the deal, remember?”

  He sighed, defeated. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Good.”

  I turned around and shouted for the other soldiers to listen up. They gathered close, huddled together against the wind.

  “Here’s how it’s going down. The first thing we have to do is cut off that end of the alley.” I pointed toward the pawnshop entrance. “Sanchez, that’s your job. Start dropping walkers in a straight line between the front wall here and the convenience store. Pile ‘em up high. We have to make sure the horde can’t get through on that side. Think you can handle that?”

  He gave a thumbs-up. “No problema, jefe.”

  “Good. Cole, I want you, Cormier, and Smith to wait until the pile is chest high and then clear the alley so me and Hicks can climb down without being overwhelmed. You’ll have to work fast. Got it?”

  Cole unslung his SAW and gave it a quick check. “Easy-peasy, baby.”

  Last, I turned to Delta Squad’s grenadier. “Fuller, as soon as Cole and his guys clear enough space, I want you to put two HE rounds just past the back of the store. You see that car out there?”

  He looked and nodded.

  “I want those grenades between there and the back wall of the convenience store. That’ll buy me and Hicks enough time to get clear. Got it?”

  “You were a marine, right?”

  I blinked. “Yes. Why?”

  “The target area is barely forty meters away.”

  “About forty-five, actually, which is well outside an HE round’s minimum arming range. Blast radius is only five meters. We’ll be fine.”

  He looked skeptical. “Are you familiar with the term, ‘danger close’?”

  “More than you know. Listen, we’re wasting time here. If you can’t handle it, Private, just give me your piece and I’ll do it myself.”

  His eyes narrowed a bit. He was a tall kid, with a bland face, dark hair, and inscrutable black eyes. But when roused to anger, his innocuous, affable veneer peeled away and the hardened soldier beneath glared out. “I can handle it, Gabe. Just keep everybody back, there might be shrapnel.”

  “Duly noted. All right everybody, keep your ears open and move when I tell you to. Any questions?”

  No one spoke.

  “Good. Take your positions. Sanchez, wait for my order.”

  “You got it.”

  In seconds, everyone was ready to go. Sanchez and four of his riflemen took position on t
he edge of the roof while Cole and his team trained their weapons in the narrow alley.

  “Everybody ready?”

  A round of affirmatives.

  “Open fire!”

  The pile didn’t take long to form. The undead packed the short alley, making it a simple thing to stack them up. The ones still moving stumbled and crawled over their dead comrades in a vain attempt to get closer to the meal perched teasingly above their heads. Quick shots from Sanchez’s men put them down, accelerating the process. When the heap reached halfway up the wall, I ordered Sanchez’s men to cease fire and back off. As soon as they were clear, Cole’s team went to work.

  There is something incredibly nostalgic about the throaty rat-tat-tat-tat of an M-249. When you turn a corner and come face to face with several dozen insurgent troops armed with AK-47s and RPGs, there is nothing more comforting than the staccato rattle of a light machine gun. Except the panicked screams it elicits from your enemies, that is.

  Cole fired his weapon from the shoulder, a difficult feat considering the SAW, with its hundred-round box of 5.56mm ammo attached, weighed well over twenty pounds. He maneuvered it easily, shuffling his feet and engaging targets with short, controlled bursts, blasting infected skulls apart like windblown confetti. The men helping him did the same with their smaller, lighter M-4s. I monitored their progress, and when it looked like most of the walkers were down, I tapped Cole on the shoulder.

  “Nice work, gunner. Now fall back. The rest of you too, let’s go.”

  Cole’s team followed him back to the far side of the roof as Fuller stepped up and loaded his grenade launcher.

  “Everybody clear?” he called over his shoulder.

  “All clear.” I said, and covered my ears.

  “Fire in the hole!”

  The launcher made its characteristic metallic phump, and a second later, a ball of fire exploded just beyond the infected Cole’s team had put down. Arms, legs, torsos, and other bits of walking corpses flew spinning through the air, some landing next to us on the roof.