Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  To avoid any chance the bad guys might somehow warn each other, I decided all three strike teams should attack in tandem. Hicks got the job of coordinator, which he was not happy about, but didn’t argue. Rather, he simply glared at me, shook his head, and muttered what may or may not have been a grumbled curse. Personally, I didn’t know what he was bitching about. He got to hang out in the warm, heated confines of the transport’s cab and orchestrate a very simple snatch-and-grab operation while the rest of us froze our asses off. By the time my team reached our destination, I was starting to regret not taking the job myself.

  When we reached it, I decided the waypoint was a good choice of location: a strip club. I might have thought it was something else if not for the sign featuring a silhouette of a buxom woman sporting what appeared to be booby tassels with the words LIVE NUDE GIRLS plastered beneath. Sounded better than DEAD NUDE GIRLS, I suppose. Although, as screwed up as I’ve learned people can be, there might be a market for that somewhere.

  The club had no windows and only two entrances, one in front and one in back. Both doors were heavily reinforced steel, not the clear glass typical of more reputable establishments. It was a squat single-story structure with the beginnings of a deep snowdrift forming around the back entrance. The snow on that side had been hastily shoveled away, and I could see two distinct sets of footprints leading in both directions near the door.

  If Folsom had kept going on his way and not encountered my crew, it would not have taken him long to make it this far. Driving the transport to within a mile had taken just over half an hour, and then another twenty minutes to hike in on foot. While we waited, the transport covered the five miles to the second waypoint, and then another five miles to the third. The insurgents at all three locations were most likely settling in for a nice long break, grabbing a bite to eat, maybe a nip from a bottle of hard stuff, looking forward to a good night’s sleep. All of which worked to our advantage.

  Normally, I would have waited for nightfall and attacked then, but we only had a few sets of NVGs and it was only going to get colder. I wanted to take these people into custody as quickly as possible, and then haul ass back to Hollow Rock. Central Command needed to know what was going on out here.

  The hard part, as always, was the wait. After roughly two centuries of shivering silence—which my lying bastard watch told me was no more than an hour—Hicks finally conducted a round of terse radio checks to ensure all strike teams were in position and standing by. All affirmatives.

  “Roger that,” he said in his West Texas drawl. “All teams proceed on mission. Happy huntin’.”

  Eric and I went out ahead and set up overwatch on the north and south sides of the entrance. The others stayed out of sight behind the treeline. The two of us were less than fifty yards from the door, but we were well hidden by the thick snowfall. I had switched to my trusty SCAR 17, even though I was running low on ammo for it, and swapped out my ACOG for a 1-6x VCOG scope. Eric had done the same with his M-4, and since he had volunteered to take point, had further armed himself with a handful of M-84 stun grenades.

  Much like the breaching charge currently resting against the small of my back, and many other items in my private inventory, the flashbangs were a gift courtesy of the U.S. Army. And by gift, I mean Thompson, along with the other squad leaders in First Platoon, embellished their combat reports to not altogether truthfully emphasize the hostile and dangerous nature of marauder disposition in the immediate vicinity of Hollow Rock. Thus, Central Command approved their request for additional armor, weapons, ammo, and various explosive ordnance, a portion of which Thompson then appropriated from a recent supply drop and promptly wrote off as having been used to root out and eliminate pockets of insurgents harassing innocent traders on the highway.

  Along with a promise to use my ill-gotten gains for the purpose of protecting Hollow Rock and her citizenry, the items I requested had cost me a case of whiskey, thirty pounds of chicken eggs, and four jars of instant coffee. All to be shared with Thompson’s men, of course. Specifically his platoon sergeant and commanding officer.

  Let’s hear it for capitalism.

  While I freely acknowledge the criminal nature of purchasing black market hardware from impressionable young staff sergeants, even those who operate under the watchful approval of their direct chain of command, I also have to acknowledge—both for my own well-being and that of my men—that hunting salvage in the wastelands is a dangerous way to make a living. But such danger can be mitigated by the judicious employment of strategy, tactics, requisitioning of the proper equipment, and occasionally blowing shit up.

  Ergo, my current situation.

  I turned and motioned to my team. They had fanned out behind me at ten-yard intervals, eyes watching all approaches. The plan was simple: Eric and I would breach the door and execute a dynamic entry with Fuller backing us up. Cole would move around front and cover the other entrance with his SAW. If anyone tried to escape, it was his job to make sure they didn’t get far. The rest of us would deploy the flashbangs, move in, and cuff-and-stuff the bad guys. Folsom had told us there would only be two of them, but we weren’t taking any chances. If it came down to a question of us or them, my orders were to shoot to kill. Apprehending the insurgents was the main goal, but it was not more important than getting home alive.

  Each strike team only had one man with a radio—me, in my team’s case. I had only requisitioned five long-range handhelds from the Militia’s armory and was now sorely regretting not grabbing a few more. The worsening weather was making hand signals difficult as the heavy snowfall had reduced visibility to just shy of ten yards. Folsom, Riordan and I would be fine, but Cole would be too far away to see us once the action started.

  At my signal, the big man slowly worked his way down the hill to speak with me. When he was close enough, I motioned him near.

  “When you hear the breaching charge, that’s your cue,” I said. “Riordan and Fuller know not to come out the front door if they can help it, but you never know what might happen in these situations. We may not have a choice. You follow?”

  He smiled, white teeth standing out against dark brown skin. “Don’t worry ‘bout a thang, I got this. Ain’t gonna be no friendly fire today. Just do what you gotta do, bossman.”

  I clapped him on the shoulder and sent him off to his firing position. It was something close to a hundred meters away, so figuring his pace at a meter every four seconds, I waited until seven minutes had passed before signaling the others to advance.

  We proceeded carefully, stopping often to wait and scan for movement. Nothing. Just the wind in the trees, and the sand-like rattling of snow over ice. No tripwires. No jury-rigged alarm system. No booby traps. No sign whatsoever of a properly established perimeter. Just obvious footprints in the snow.

  Either this was an exceptionally clever trap, or the insurgents inside the strip club were not expecting company.

  Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe they have good reason not to set up a perimeter or hide their tracks. Or maybe they’re just tired, and didn’t feel like making the effort. You’ve seen people do dumber things. But never assume, Gabriel. Never assume.

  The only course of action was to proceed with the breach, so onward we went. The three of us stacked up on the entry side of the door. Eric gripped the handle and turned it slowly, only applying pressure to the latch in case there was a pressure-triggered bomb on the other side, or a weapon rigged to shoot.

  “Locked,” he said.

  We switched positions and I reached back for the breaching charge, peeled the cover off the adhesive strips, pressed it over the bolt, and activated it. Riordan and Fuller had already fallen back and covered their ears. I followed them, and two seconds later, the charge detonated.

  The explosion was brief, sharp, and powerful. It traveled through the wall and thumped me in the back. The door rattled open with a shudder, bashing loudly against the cinder-block wall on the other side. Eric was already moving into th
e opening, two flashbangs in hand. He stopped just shy of the corner, pulled the pins, and let them fly.

  “Flashbangs out!”

  Almost immediately, we heard the twin CRACK-CRACK of the grenades bursting, impossibly loud in the small space, and then two brilliant flashes of light. If there was anyone within twenty feet of the entrance, they weren’t happy. I didn’t hear any screams. Eric used his tactical light to quickly scan the door for wires, then signaled he was moving in.

  I broke left while Riordan and Fuller broke right, weapons up, eyes scanning for movement, searching for traps and anything resembling the outline of a human body. The interior of the strip club was pitch black where it wasn’t illuminated by our tac-lights. I smelled dust and wood rot. The ground felt gritty and slick under my feet. Gray-coated tables and chairs occupied the floor in scattered disarray in front of an equally dusty stage adorned with several tarnished stripper poles. A chest-high bar dominated the entire wall furthest from the back entrance. There was an open space near the front door that extended between the two main bodies of tables and ran parallel to the stage. I kept my rifle trained on the bar, moving back and forth. Eric and Fuller split up to search the tables.

  “Clear,” Eric shouted.

  “Clear,” Fuller answered.

  “Eyes on the bar!” I ordered. “Eric, hit it now!”

  That was when things went sideways.

  As Eric’s hand went to his vest to grab another flashbang, the barrel of a Kalashnikov appeared over the bar. The hand holding it, and the person attached to it, remained behind cover. As the rifle opened up, firing randomly around on semi-auto, Eric and I dropped to the ground.

  Fuller wasn’t quite as fast.

  The rifle was pointed almost straight at him when it appeared. The first two shots went wide right, but the next two staggered the young soldier back a step. He shouted in pain, took a knee, and squeezed off a burst from his M-4 at the wood paneling directly below the rifle. His rounds stitched a line all the way to the floor. A shout of pain rewarded his efforts

  As Fuller demonstrated, there is a big difference between concealment and cover. Concealment simply hides you from your enemies, but doesn’t necessarily offer any protection if you are discovered. Cover is something that can actually stop a bullet. The latter is, in many cases, much more difficult to find than the former.

  The three of us had neither.

  If the bad guys were standing up, I would have seen them. Which meant they were either crouching or lying down. My guess was lying down. We probably caught them while they were asleep, woke them up with the breaching charge, and then scared the shit out of them with the flashbangs. Any other time, I might have ordered them to surrender. But I had nowhere to hide if they opened fire through the bar’s flimsy wood, and they had just shot one of my guys.

  Although equipped with a suppressor, the SCAR was loud in the confines of the building. I fired on semi-auto, rapidly placing powerful 7.62mm NATO rounds at two-foot intervals through the bar. Fuller kept firing at the spot below the Kalashnikov where the scream had emanated from, while Eric began stitching rounds through the bar in my direction, obviously intent on meeting me in the middle. I emptied an entire twenty round magazine, reloaded, and emptied another one. Eric did the same. The chamber of Fuller’s rifle latched open after expending the last round in his P-mag. Rather than reloading, he slumped over on his side with an agonized groan. My first instinct was to render aid, but it would be useless to do so until I knew the building was secure. Getting myself killed wouldn’t do Fuller a damn bit of good. There was a chance Cole had heard the commotion and was on his way, but I couldn’t count on that. I just hoped Fuller could hold on a little while longer.

  There was just enough light for Eric to see me without having to swivel his rifle. I called out to him and signaled to flank right. He nodded, and we rose to our feet at the same time, moving at the same speed toward the bar. Words were no longer necessary. We had fought side by side so many times each of us knew instinctively what the other would do.

  When both of us were in position, Eric drew a flashbang, pulled the pin, and tossed it over the bar. I turned my back to it and closed my eyes, hands over my ears. Eric did the same. The bar absorbed most of the blast, but it still made my ears ring and put spots in my vision.

  As soon as the shock dissipated, we went over the bar and hit the ground simultaneously, rifles up, alert for danger. Ten feet in front of me, a bullet riddled body lay on its side. It was male, medium build, short, dressed in heavy clothes, big nasty exit wounds on the neck and upper back. Bullet holes and bits of flesh speckled the wall behind him. Blood had spread in a rectangular pool, confined by the narrow space. Arterial spray on the shelves and cabinets, and a few smears on the floor around his shoulders. He had squirmed a bit before expiring, and he was definitely, undeniably dead. There is a certain stillness that settles in when the lights go out for good. No slight tremor of heartbeat or respiration, no tension in the muscles and nerves, no blood pumping from open wounds. Just a slow, sluggish spill.

  The air was thick with the stench of evacuated bowels. I raised my rifle and put a round through his head, just to be extra sure. When you have trained as hard as I have, old habits die hard. Eric watched dispassionately.

  “I thought there were supposed to be two?” he said.

  “That’s what Folsom told me. The other one might not be in the building. I’ll get Fuller patched up. You and Cole go conduct a perimeter sweep.”

  “Good thinking.”

  As we were turning to hop back over the bar, a squawk of metal on metal screeched behind Eric, the sound of rusty hinges protesting sudden motion after prolonged disuse. In the small window framed by Eric’s knees, I saw the lid of a hatch spring upward from the floor. I hadn’t noticed it there with Eric in the way, and he had walked right over it without realizing what it was.

  “Look out!” I shouted.

  Another person might have turned around. If they had, it would have been their last mistake. Eric wasn’t that stupid. Without hesitation, he bunched his legs and launched himself over the bar, arms and legs tucked to reduce his target profile, leading with his shoulders so he could roll when he hit the ground. As he went over, I caught a brief glimpse of the insurgent behind him—a swarthy, bearded man, surging up through the opening with pistol in his hand, aimed at Eric. I leveled my rifle and drew a bead on his forehead. He beat me to the punch and got off two shots rapid fire. Eric screamed. I stayed focused and squeezed the trigger. There was a low WAP of the bullet passing through flesh, bone, and wood paneling. Faster than my eyes could follow, the top of the insurgent’s skull disintegrated in a crimson burst. There one second, gone the next, most of it splashed against the underside of the hatch behind his shoulders. He slid silently back down into the darkness. The lid fell and clattered shut.

  On the other side of the bar, Eric lay on his back clutching at his lower right leg. Even in the dim light, I could see inky dark blood pouring out between his fingers. Both he and Fuller had been reduced to writhing, moaning agony.

  “Riordan, how bad is it?” I said, rifle trained on the hidden trapdoor.

  “Got my calf muscle. Hurts like a bitch. I need help, man.”

  “Any bones broken?”

  He prodded gingerly at his tibia, then gently squeezed the muscle tissue above his fibula. A hiss of pain escaped him, but no scream. “I don’t think so. It would hurt a lot worse if one of them was broken, right?”

  “Yes. If you can squeeze your leg like that without screaming, the bones are fine.”

  A pounding of boots on frozen ground echoed from the back entrance. The door was still thrown wide on warped hinges, allowing grey winter light and swirls of snow to gust through the opening. I snapped my rifle in that direction, finger on the trigger. Then I remembered Cole was still out there, and took it off. The footsteps stopped. Cole’s powerful bass thundered into the room.

  “Mockingbird!” A pre-arranged verbal identifie
r.

  “Blackhawk,” I responded. It was the all clear signal, although technically I wasn’t entirely sure if we were clear. The other pre-arranged response, red bird, would have meant I was under duress, and would have elicited a much different reaction from the big gunner. As it was, he stepped through the doorway, took in the situation with a quick visual sweep, and immediately went to Fuller’s side.

  “You gonna be all right, man. Tell me where you hit at.”

  Fuller moved his hands and gestured at the left side of his chest. “Took two rounds right here. I’m not sure if they got through my body armor. Goddamn this hurts.”

  Cole put his first-aid kit on the ground next to him and went to work. I peeled mine from my vest and tossed it next to Eric. “See if you can get the bleeding stopped. I’m going to make sure we don’t have any more company, and then I’ll be right back to help you. Think you can hold out until then?”

  Eric reached for the kit and began unzipping it, speaking through clenched teeth. “I’ll be all right. Just don’t be all day about it.”

  “Right.”

  I approached the trapdoor and realized why neither of us had seen it. Latticed rubber matting lay over top of it, the kind with lots of holes and channels to keep bartenders from slipping on spilled drinks. After kicking the mats out of the way, I saw the hatch lay flush with the ground, no handle visible, caked with a thick layer of dust. My knife barely fit into the crease between the panel and the surrounding floor, but once in, the lid lifted easily.

  Shining my tac-light into the hole, I spotted the swarthy man who shot Eric. He had landed on his buttocks, sitting upright, ruined head listing over to one side, limp hands lying palms up on the floor. I put another round straight down into his chest. The body shook a little with the impact, but made no other reaction.