Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

I wrapped my fingers around the grip of a Beretta M9. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. It’s got one in the hole, ready to rock.”

  Flipping the safety off, I headed for the staircase. The door was locked, but it was nothing a hard kick couldn’t handle. Hicks and I poured into the room, weapons up, him breaking left and me breaking right. The office was empty, but my gear was right where I hoped it would be.

  “Shut the door,” I said, nodding to Hicks. “Try to make it look normal.”

  He complied, working quickly and quietly. If someone took a close look, they would see it had been forced open. But from the ground level, as long as we didn’t make too much noise, someone could come in the lobby and be unaware of our presence.

  There was a washbasin and a towel under the window behind Tanner’s desk. I soaked the towel and wiped myself down as best I could, then splashed the remaining water on my face. When the worst of the congealed blood was washed away, I felt like a new man.

  “Might want to hurry,” Hicks said, peering out a window at the street below. “They might start coming back this way. Don’t know how much longer Cole and Thompson can keep the guards occupied.”

  “Cole and Thompson are here?”

  He nodded. “Sanchez too. He was the one firing the mortars. We’re supposed to meet up with him at the rendezvous point in an hour. Cole and Thompson are keeping the guards attention so I can get you out of here.”

  I had about a hundred questions, but figured it wasn’t the best time to ask. Crossing the room, I threw on my clothes, donned my MOLLE vest, and checked my weapons. They were in good working order, mags still loaded, blades in their sheaths. Once re-armed, I slipped on my pack and motioned to the door.

  “Okay, I’m ready. What’s the plan?”

  Hicks shrugged. “Honestly, I’m surprised I made it this far.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Another shrug. “I saw some guards on horseback. Maybe we could requisition ourselves some equine transportation.”

  Transportation … I slapped myself in the forehead and cursed myself for an idiot. In my defense, starvation has a way of addling one’s memory.

  “Come on, I have a better idea.”

  *****

  The trucks were exactly where I last saw them, parked behind the building.

  Unlike before, however, they were now surrounded by a ring of guards. Peering over the sill of a window, I counted eight of them. I turned to Hicks, who was crouched behind me, and explained the situation with hand signals. He acknowledged by patting his rifle, and then patting my shoulder, essentially saying, let’s do this. His hand went to a pocket on his vest and produced a frag grenade. I took it, and adjusted my rifle so I could get to it quickly once the grenade was out.

  We crept a few steps to the back door, staying low so the guards wouldn’t spot us through the windows. At the exit, I did one last check to make sure I was ready. Safety off, round in the chamber, same story with my pistol, tactical sling in the proper position. Reaching up, I tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. I turned it slowly until the door just barely began easing back from the jamb. Then I gripped the grenade, pulled the pin, counted to two, and hurled it out the door.

  Hicks and I went flat, waiting for the blast. There was a hoarse shout, and then the windows shattered, dousing us with broken glass. I felt the power of the explosion in my chest, but despite the blow, I wasted no time getting to my feet. Surprise was our only chance, and we both knew it.

  As I cleared the door and broke right, I noticed the grenade had killed two guards and wounded a third. The rest were still picking themselves up from the ground.

  Perfect.

  I took aim at the nearest one and squeezed off four rounds, center of mass. He stopped trying to get up. To my left, I heard the suppressed clanking of Hicks’ M-4, and a strangled cry that ended quickly.

  Four down.

  My running feet carried me close to the guard wounded by the grenade. His left arm was missing from the elbow down, and the only thing keeping him from screaming was the metal confetti lodged in his lungs. A double tap to the head put him out of his misery.

  A flash of movement ahead of me caught my attention. I looked up to see a man leveling his rifle, stock against his shoulder and sighting in. I zigged right, taking myself out of his line of fire as he pulled the trigger. A hail of supersonic lead zipped past me, but not by much. The gunman turned, following my movement, but it was too little too late. Firing on the run, I stitched him from groin to throat with a full-auto burst. His rifle fell from nerveless hands and he went down.

  Reaching the communications truck, I did a quick scan to make sure there were no bad guys on my side, then took cover behind the engine. I heard a burst of fire on the other side, but rather than the high clang of metal impacting metal, there was the thudding wap of bullets penetrating wood. Hick’s M-4 coughed three times, and then, as suddenly as the fight started, it was over.

  “Clear.” Hicks called out.

  I looked around again, just to be sure. “Clear.”

  Hicks met me at the driver’s door. “You might want to let me drive,” he said. “You’re lookin’ a little woozy.”

  It was only then I realized I was swaying on my feet. The adrenaline left me in a rush, and I felt my legs begin to tremble. Seven days with no food is not a good way to prepare for sudden combat.

  “Sounds like a plan. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I climbed in the passenger’s side and took a seat. Hicks bashed the lock from the ignition cover, opened it, and touched his thumb to the switch.

  “Fingers crossed…”

  He pressed down. The engine gave a few high-pitched false starts, then roared to life. I felt my face stretch into a grin. Hicks matched it with one of his own.

  “Let’s roll.”

  We rolled.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “Looks like the cavalry finally showed up,” Hicks said.

  As we hung a left around the corner of Blackmire’s office building, I craned my neck to see through Hick’s window. In the distance, backlit by the orange-yellow light of the fires raging all over town, I saw the lurching, moaning silhouettes of walkers.

  “That your handiwork?”

  The wiry Texan grinned. “Figured I’d give ‘em a taste of their own medicine.”

  I looked at him with a furrowed brow, not sure what he meant, but let it go. It was a conversation that could wait until we were out of imminent mortal danger.

  “Turn left up here,” I said, pointing. “That’ll take us straight to the main gate.”

  He scowled at me. “You sure we should do that?”

  I hooked a thumb southward. “All the fires and fighting seem to be coming from that way. The main gate is on the north side. It’ll be easier to fight our way through.”

  Hicks acknowledged with a nod and hauled on the wheel. I felt the weight of the big vehicle lean to the right as he gunned it around the corner, slinging mud and fishtailing the rear end into a ramshackle clutch of food stalls. The wooden shelters and tables flew to pieces, roofs and strips of tarp and oilcloth clinging to the antenna protruding from the bed. Hicks let off the accelerator, worked the steering wheel until he found traction again, and then stood on the pedal, driving us clear.

  “Maybe slow down a little?” I suggested as I hung on for dear life.

  Hicks eased off a bit. “Better?”

  “Better.”

  We sped through the streets past fleeing townsfolk, gun-toting guards, and ravening infected. A few walkers wandered into our path, but Hicks simply ran them down. Not far from the main gate, I saw a few guardsmen up ahead take notice of our approach and fan out into defensive positions.

  “That’s not good,” Hicks said.

  “Just hand me a grenade and keep driving.” I replied, ejecting the mostly empty mag out of my rifle and inserting a fresh one. Hicks handed over the little green pineapple. “Speed up some. When I say the word, duck, and
put it to the floor.”

  Hick’s jaw clamped down hard, knuckles going white on the steering wheel as he pressed his foot harder against the accelerator. The truck shimmied side to side in the loose mud, but stayed mostly straight.

  I opened my window, shifted so my knees were on the seat, hooked one foot under the dash, and leveled my M-6. When we were in range, I set my rifle for three-round burst and went through the ritual.

  Breath in. Let it out slow. Stop. Aim. Put the reticle just above where you want to hit. Compensate for the rock of the truck. Squeeze….

  -crack-crack-crack-

  And watch him fall. Now for the next one. He was behind a battlement constructed from thick pine logs. I switched to full auto and aimed low, then walked it up until I saw a red cloud erupt from the back of his head. I was about to pick another target when I saw muzzle flashes from the remaining guards.

  “Shit.”

  I ducked back inside just as bullets started pinging and popping against the thick ballistic glass of the windshield.

  “This thing ain’t gonna last long.” Hicks said.

  He was right. Already, the windshield was covered in a network of spider-web fractures. Time to put them on their heels.

  I estimated the truck was going about thirty miles an hour, which meant both me and the grenade in my hand were traveling at the same speed. For this to work, I would have to hurl the grenade with sufficient force to overcome the hard wind resistance it was going to encounter when I leaned out the door. The one advantage I had was the grenade was small, heavy, and round, which would mitigate the effects of wind drag, but not by much.

  It’s either this, or they kill you. Not much of a choice now, is it?

  “No choice at all,” I whispered, then pulled the pin, opened the door, leaned out, and with a shout of effort, winged the little explosive with everything I had. The guards at the gate had just enough time to watch it arc through the air, land in the center of their defensive position, and detonate. The blast was bright against the darkness of the night, causing a green spot to appear in my vision. When the smoke cleared, several guards were down with varying degrees of shrapnel wounds. The ones still alive decided the fight wasn’t worth it and disappeared into the darkness.

  I jumped back in the cab and slammed the door. “All right. Floor it and get down.”

  The engine roared as the truck hurtled toward the thick wooden planks and tree trunk pillars comprising the main gate. I ground my teeth in anticipation, half expecting the truck to collapse on impact and crush us to death. Instead, there was a tremendous CRACK, the clattering of wood over the windshield and along the roof and doors, and the cab reared upward as we drove over the small earthen berm just in front of the gate. When I sat back up, we were bouncing along the dirt two-track leading from Blackmire all the way to Watkins Road. Hicks sat up and gripped the wheel, cranking it to the right to avoid a stand of trees. When we were clear, he picked up speed, flipped on the headlights, and sped off into the forest.

  “Nicely done,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Hicks replied. “Hope you don’t mind if I take a little side trip.”

  I reached into the back and rooted through my rucksack, looking for food. “Where are we headed?”

  In response, he unplugged an earpiece from a radio on his belt, lifted it, and keyed the mike. “Bravo, Alpha. How copy? Over.”

  I recognized Cole’s distinctive baritone. “Lima Charlie, Alpha. Over.”

  “How about a sitrep? Over.”

  “En route to the rendezvous. We busted ‘em up good; don’t think they followin’ us. Too busy putting out fires and fighting the dead. How about you? Over.”

  “Cat is in the bag. I even managed to arrange us some motorized transportation. Don’t suppose you’d be interested in catching a ride? Over.”

  “Shit yeah. Catch you at the fallback point? Over.”

  “Works for me. Charlie, you get all that? Over.”

  “Affirmative.” Sanchez this time. “En route. Charlie out.”

  Hicks put the radio on the console between us and concentrated on the trail ahead. I rolled down my window and adjusted the mirror to reflect the orange glow coming over Blackmire’s outer wall.

  “Think they’ll come after us?” Hicks asked.

  I shot him a glance and chuckled. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  He nodded grimly and drove on.

  *****

  Seven-year-old corned beef hash never tasted so good.

  From the corner of his eye, Hicks watched me wolf down a second packet generously donated from his supply of MRE’s. Already, I could feel my strength returning. “You got any more of this stuff?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. You should probably slow down, you know. How long has it been since you ate last?”

  “About a week, I think.” I shoved the last spoonful in my mouth and tossed the packet in the back floorboard, then took a long pull from Hicks’ canteen. We were parked on the side of the road near the intersection of Watkins and Barr Road waiting for Cole, Thompson, and Sanchez to show up.

  “Not to sound ungrateful, but how the hell did you find me?” I asked.

  Only one side of his face was visible in the gloom, but I could see the corner of his eye crinkle. “You can thank Eric for that one.”

  I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “He slipped a GPS tracker in your backpack.”

  My mind shot back to the cold confines of my warehouse in Hollow Rock, the armory within, and Eric standing by my rucksack, loading it up with the things I would need to survive.

  “That sneaky little bastard.”

  Hicks chuckled. “You don’t want to know where he got it from.”

  I climbed into the back and began rummaging through my gear. Sure enough, stuffed in a plastic container of dried peas was a small disc about the size of a quarter. It was clever of him to put it in the peas; he knows I hate the things and would eat them last. The tracker was the same one that had been implanted in Eric when he infiltrated the Free Legion. He must have had it removed and kept it. I remembered it was powered by movement, kind of like an expensive watch, which explained how it was still working.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “How did you pick up the signal? It’s encrypted.”

  He shrugged. “Lieutenant Jonas called in a favor with Central and got the authorization codes. We’ve been tracking you on a ruggedized tablet.”

  My heart sank at the mention of Lieutenant Jonas. He was a good man, but he never did anything for free. I wondered how much of a hit G&R Salvage’s quarterly profit margin was about to take. Then I remembered Hicks and his team probably weren’t here out of the kindness of their hearts, either.

  “How much did he pay you?”

  Hicks leaned forward and peered out the driver’s side window, eyes searching the treeline. “Fifty rounds of nine-millimeter, a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 20 year, and this thing.” His hand went to his chest rig and produced a suppressor-equipped Beretta M-9. I groaned and climbed into the front seat.

  “What about the other three?”

  “Not sure. You’d have to ask them.”

  It may have been my imagination, but my pockets suddenly felt lighter. “I’m gonna kill him. He better hope I don’t make it back because if I do, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

  A flicker of red light blinked to life in the treeline on Hicks side. He held up his own flash light and answered. “You do realize if he hadn’t arranged all this, you’d still be trussed up in that stinky little room back there.”

  The glare I gave him was daggered, but the points were blunt. In all fairness, he was right. I probably never would have made it out of Blackmire alive. “Touché. So how long have you been following me?”

  “Since about two days after you left Hollow Rock. It took Eric that long to line everything up. You were already taken prisoner by the time we caught up with you.”

  “How did you find out?”

 
“When we got there, I disguised myself as a raider and went into town. Tracked you to that building, the Tribune’s office or whatever. I figured if you were there, and not in one of the taverns, something must have gone wrong. So I took a seat at a busy place and kept my ears open. Overhead a bartender talking about it; I think his name was Slim or something like that.” He turned his head to look at me. “That name ring a bell?”

  I nodded, thinking about how much I would like to ring Slim’s bell. “Yeah, it does. If I ever see him again, he’s a fucking dead man. What did he say about me?”

  “He was bragging to some fella about what he was gonna do with the bounty he got from turning you in. I guess everybody in town had your description and was on the lookout.”

  I grimaced. “Yeah. That’s how they got me.”

  Hicks opened his door and started to get out. “Looks like the others are here.”

  Cole, Thompson, and Sanchez emerged from the treeline, NVGs flipped back on their helmets. Sanchez was in his ghillie suit, hands wrapped around one of the Militia’s sniper carbines. Cole carried his customary SAW, while Thompson hefted a suppressed M-4 with an attached grenade launcher. Over the shoulder of all three men protruded the distinctive, round canisters of LAW rockets, complemented by grenades on heavily-laden vests. Their faces were smeared with black paint, along with the exposed skin of their hands and wrists. I noticed there was a muzzle brake protruding from Cole’s shoulder next to his LAW canister, and my heart leapt in my chest as I realized what it was.

  “Is that mine?” I said, pointing. Cole unslung it and held it out to me.

  “Eric said you might want it.”

  I felt a grin spread across my face as I hefted my customized Desert Tactical SRS .338 Lapua magnum sniper rifle. “He send any ammo along?”

  “Twenty rounds. Bought it from Lieutenant Jonas. It’s in my pack.”

  “Outstanding.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Gabe,” Thompson broke in. “Looks like you landed yourself in a spot of trouble.”

  The four of them had a chuckle at my expense. But they deserved it, so I kept my mouth shut and nodded, chagrin showing on my face. “Thanks for busting me out.”