by James Cook
Sanchez stepped forward and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, jefe. Just doing our jobs. You keep getting into trouble like this, and we’re all gonna be rich.”
I thumped him on the chest. “Asshole.”
His grin widened. “I didn’t get too close with any of those mortars, did I?”
“No, but it wasn’t by much. And where the hell did you get the artillery? Don’t tell me you carried it all the way from Fort McCray.”
The fiery Mexican shook his head. “Nah. Air drop. Civilian craft. Best Central could manage with all the trouble in Hollow Rock.”
I glanced at Hicks, and then back at Sanchez. “What are you talking about? What trouble in Hollow Rock?”
Thompson’s smile evaporated as he glared at Hicks. “You didn’t tell him?”
The Texan shrugged. “I been a little preoccupied. You know, gettin’ shot at and all.”
The big staff sergeant sighed and looked down. “All right. I’ll fill you in on the way out of here. But for right now, we need to get moving. There’s no telling how long before they catch up to us.”
I called shotgun and walked around the other side of the truck. As I climbed into the passenger seat, Hicks restarted the motor and stared darkly at the console.
“Trouble?”
He tapped a finger on something and turned on his flashlight. I leaned forward and saw he was pointing at the fuel gauge. The needle hovered a millimeter or two above the big red E.
“Shit.”
“Yep.”
I turned in the seat. “We got a problem. This thing is low on fuel, and it’s only a matter of time until Blackmire gets his shit together and sends his men after us. If we’re on foot, they’ll catch us. No doubt about it. We need to have an ambush waiting when they do. Thompson, what other hardware did you bring?”
He patted his rifle. “What you see here, grenades, and a few claymores. That’s it.”
“Okay,” I replied, the first drifting images of a plan beginning to form. “Hicks, take us to Highway 19 and head toward Brownsville. There’s a settlement there, they might be willing to help.”
“With this little fuel, we ain’t gonna make it to Brownsville.”
“I know. But it’ll buy us some time. Unless of course you have a better plan?”
He pursed his lips and tipped his head side-to-side for a moment. “Mmm…sorry. I got nothin’.”
“Then let’s get moving.”
FORTY
All was not well in Hollow Rock.
As we drove, Thompson filled me in on the happenings in my absence. Two days ago, another group of ghoul wranglers attacked Hollow Rock from the south, leading a horde estimated at over two-thousand strong. They hit the wall on that side with RPGs and created a breach, killing four guards in the initial exchange. The wranglers were not content, however, to simply let the undead lay waste to the town. Instead, they went ahead of them as an advance assault force, armed with rifles and light machine guns. The attack occurred at around four in the morning when they expected all to be quiet and the townsfolk to have their guard down.
Evidently, they didn’t know much about the people of Hollow Rock.
I remember, many years ago, there was a Navy corpsman in my platoon. He had done a four-year stint on a Ticonderoga class cruiser, and he once explained to me that in much the same way every Marine is a rifleman, every sailor is a firefighter. If a fire breaks out on a ship at sea—every sailor’s worst nightmare—the crew can’t just run away and call the fire department. They are the fire department. There is an old joke in the Navy that a warship is the only place in the world where if a fire breaks out, you see people running toward the danger.
After three years of surviving the dead, fighting raiders and marauders, incursions by the Free Legion, and a host of other threats, the people of Hollow Rock had long ago learned to be prepared to fight at all times.
When the insurgents attacked, they expected chaos and confusion. They expected people to stumble blearily from their homes and be cut down like wheat. They did not expect over five-hundred men and women to leap from their beds, grab their rifles, bows, or whatever else they had on hand, and run toward the sounds of fighting.
There were twelve insurgents.
They did not last long.
The butcher’s bill on our side was six dead and three wounded, at least until the horde made it through. Eric and Sheriff Elliott organized the townsfolk into two assault forces, positioned them on the wall and on rooftops, and tasked them with piling up the dead within the breach. While they did so, Elizabeth had Lieutenant Jonas and his men meet up with the Ninth TVM by the north gate and march southward. Once there, they fanned out in a wide skirmish line and attacked the horde from behind.
Locked between the hammer of the soldiers and militiamen, and the anvil of hundreds of people fighting to defend their homes and children, the walkers had nowhere to go. The horde was reduced by half, then half again, and when they were down to just a few hundred, Lieutenant Jonas called a cease fire and had his men move in with hand weapons.
It was over in less than an hour.
All told, we lost nine people. Six civilians in the initial assault, two soldiers who got bit fighting the horde, and one woman who slipped off a rooftop and landed on her head. All tragic losses to be sure, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.
I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. There is no substitute for readiness and competent leadership.
As soon as the bodies were cleared away, Elizabeth gathered volunteers and put them to work repairing the breach in the wall. Thompson heard radio chatter earlier in the day that the repairs were complete and Elizabeth had beefed up the patrols, sending them out farther afield.
“Needless to say, Central is pissed,” Thompson concluded.
“What are they planning to do about it?”
He shrugged. “Not sure at this point. With all the insurgents dead, there’s no way to know who they were working for. The Alliance has already denounced the attack and denied involvement.”
“That’s their story and they’re sticking to it, huh?”
“Something like that.”
I ran a hand through my hair and breathed a heated sigh. “I tell you, the Alliance is about to get on my last motherfucking nerve.”
“You’re telling me.”
As he said it, the engine—which had been sputtering and hesitating for the last couple of miles—finally gave out with a sickly wheeze. Hicks applied the brakes and rolled us to a gentle stop.
“End of the line, amigos.”
We piled out and distributed the gear. Thompson, Cole, and I took the heavy stuff while Hicks and Sanchez loaded up with the food and lighter equipment. That done, I retrieved my NVGs from my pack, replaced the batteries, climbed atop the truck, and looked around. The only heat signatures I caught were from a small herd of deer about a mile away, headed away from us. There were no walkers in sight, but it was only a matter of time before they showed up. As much noise as the truck made, they would definitely be coming.
The area surrounding the stretch of road we were on consisted mostly of flat, snow-blanketed fields. The ground rose steadily upward to the east, topping out at a sloping ridge about three hundred yards away. At the crest of the ridge, winding southward and terminating at the highway, was a long stretch of pine trees. Lots of places to set up a sniper hide in there.
To my left, an intermittent fence of thin young trees lined a shallow ditch, stretching as far as I could see. The field beyond was visible, but obscured, leading to another treeline. I ranged it with my scope, figuring it at about two-hundred forty yards. Sanchez could set up over there, and we would have them in a crossfire.
To my right, there was an abandoned house set back far from the road, roof sagging under the weight of heavy snow. A cluster of farm buildings were spread out over a several acres beyond. I spotted old tractors, attachments, a Chevy pickup, and a variety of equipment I couldn’t i
dentify. Beyond them were a couple of squat aluminum grain silos. Plenty of places for Cole to set up his SAW.
As for Thompson and Hicks, there was an abundance of places within a hundred yards of the truck where they could dig in and conceal themselves. It would be hard work in the frozen ground, but it could be done. All in all, not a bad spot to set up an ambush. Higher ground would have been nice, but one works with the tools they are given.
Climbing down, I motioned to the others to gather round. “Okay, here’s how we’re gonna do it…”
I laid out the plan, making sure everyone knew their place and what signals to wait for. When everyone was up to speed, Hicks and Thompson picked their spots and started digging. There weren’t enough entrenching tools to go around, so Sanchez and I searched the shed behind the farmhouse and requisitioned two shovels and a mattock. Once the foxholes were dug and properly camouflaged, Sanchez volunteered to head down the road and watch for approaching riders.
“How’s the battery on your radio?” I asked.
He squinted at me and tilted his head. “I charged the batteries for all the radios in the truck, Gabe. You watched me hook them up to the dash outlets.”
I blinked a few times, and did indeed remember him connecting the chargers to a multipronged adapter, then slipping the radios’ blocky little batteries into them. “Tienes Razón, amigo. I’m not on top of my game today.”
“You look like shit, esé,” he said flatly. “It’s going to be a while before those putos get here. You should try to get some rest.”
To my dismay, I noticed I was swaying on my feet again, and at the mention of sleep, my legs went shaky. “That’s not such a bad idea. Hicks, do you mind helping me clear that house?”
“Not at all.”
The house was empty save for a family of birds in a broken patch of drywall in the living room. I informed them if they left me alone, I would extend the same courtesy. The biggest one chirped and ruffled its wings at me, then settled down and closed its eyes. I took that as a yes.
After looking over my M-110, cleaning my .338, and donning my ghillie suit, I laid out my bedroll and settled my head against my pack. Approximately four seconds later, a hand on my shoulder shook me awake. I opened my eyes and saw Hicks squatting next to me, a shaft of early morning sun highlighting his dark blue irises like iridescent glass.
“Sanchez called in,” he said. “They’re coming.”
*****
One of these days, I’m going to search through the hard drive and tally up how many hours of my life I have spent lying on the ground peering through a scope. I’m willing to bet it is a depressing number.
The riders came into view less than five minutes after Sanchez hustled to his hide. I counted twelve, the familiar bearded visage of Marco leading the way. They rode in carefully, spread out on both sides of the road, hooves kicking up snow in their wake, faint jingle of weapons, creak of leather in the cold dry air, each man with one hand on the reins, the other gripping a rifle. They approached the truck with wary eyes and nervous mounts, the perceptive horses picking up on their riders’ tension. If they saw any sign of us, they gave no indication. The wind had done the job of covering our tracks, but the twin grooves carved by the truck’s tires were still plainly visible. Further working in our favor, with the exception of Hicks and Sanchez, the sun was at our backs.
I keyed my radio. “Hold tight, everyone. Let’s wait for them to bunch up. Cole, how’s your line of sight?”
“Good to go,” he said. “Sanchez, if they get on your side of the truck, they’re all yours.”
“Roger.”
I scanned where Sanchez was waiting, but couldn’t pick him out. He had done a fine job of concealing himself. Cole was off to my right, lying in the bed of a pickup truck under a snow-covered tarp. A section of the tarp was folded over against the cab, allowing him to see the road without being spotted. His SAW lay next to him, bipod deployed, ready to bring to bear at a moment’s notice.
Marco rode a circle around the truck, keeping several yards between his mount and the vehicle, shining a flashlight around, probably searching for traps. I could have told him he was wasting his time, but that would have defeated the purpose. Satisfied nothing was going to blow up, he motioned one of his men closer. The man was leading a pack mule with four gerry cans strapped to its harness and a large funnel dangling near its neck. Grinning, I keyed my radio. “You boys seeing what I’m seeing?”
Cole answered first. “You talking about the soon-to-be-dead bitches, or the diesel strapped to that donkey?”
“It’s a mule, actually. And yes, that’s what I’m talking about. Careful what you shoot at—I want that fuel.”
“What’s the difference?” Cole replied.
“What?”
“You said it’s a mule, not a donkey. What’s the difference?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and laughed silently. Here we were, about to do murder, and Cole wants a primer on the finer points of the animal husbandry. “It’s the sterile offspring of a male donkey and a female horse.”
A moment of silence, then, “That’s kind of specific, ain’t it? Why’s it got to be a male donkey and a female horse?”
I clenched my teeth, suppressing the urge to growl. “It’s genetics, Cole. Now in case you didn’t notice, we’re about to start a firefight. Can we focus on the task at hand? Pretty please, with a fucking cherry on top?”
“Hey man, you brought it up.”
“Cole…”
“All right, man, chill out. I got this.”
“Thank you.”
Marco’s men began gathering closer as the truck was refueled. There was a slackening in their posture, hands loosening on weapons, small conversations picking up, the easy energy of men beginning to relax. If someone was going to attack they would have done it by now, right? Those Union assholes are probably scared shitless. I bet they’re running with their tails between their legs. There’s only five of them, after all, and one of them is probably too starved to fight. They would have to be crazy to take us on. I bet they’re miles away by now.
“All right, Cole. Get ready.”
“Copy.”
I pressed my cheek against the cold stock of my M-110, slipped a finger over the trigger, and sighted in. Marco would be first. Cut off the beast’s head, and the body dies. I estimated him at about six feet tall, taking up just shy of eight mils on the reticle. So figure it at 7.8 mils, and apply the formula. Two yards times a thousand equals two thousand. Divide that by the number of mils, and you get 256.41 yards. Adjust for error and call it two-fifty—better to hit him low than high. Make a slight windage adjustment, settle in, let the breath ease from the lungs, and squeeze.
The recoil was hard, but oddly comfortable. The report was immensely loud, as I had forgone the use of a suppressor. I wanted that shock factor, that moment of panic when men suddenly realize someone is shooting at them with malicious intent, and they are exposed.
Marco doubled over as the round took him low in the chest, face going rigid with shock, disbelief in his eyes as he slumped to the ground, the look of a man who has seen others die but lived with the fervent conviction he was invincible. Other people died, not him. Not Marco. But then there is the noise, and the impact, and the burning pain, and the blood, and the heat in the face, and the panicked, racing thoughts. No, no, no, this isn’t happening. Wait! Just wait! Maybe it’s not that bad. I need help. I need to get to my horse, get back to Blackmire, find a doctor…
And then all is darkness.
I shifted aim to the guy pouring diesel. The men around him had the same reaction I have seen hundreds of times—the surprise, the moment of rigidity, the heads swiveling in the direction of the reverberating kill-crash. Then my second shot split the air, and another of their number hit the ground with a burst red melon where his upper cranium used to be. A bit showy on my part, but nothing inspires panic like the sight of a comrade’s shredded cerebrum.
In the seconds it
took me to kill the first two men, Cole threw aside the tarp covering him, leveled his saw, and opened fire. He did it properly, firing in six-to-nine round bursts, aiming through an ACOG scope, spraying bullets into the stunned enemy with lethal accuracy. Aided by the 4x optical sight, the weapon’s high rate of fire, and the big gunner’s steady hands, he killed three of them before the rest could break for cover.
All but one of the remaining riders abandoned their horses and scurried around the other side of the truck. I shifted my point of aim and caught one of them as he rounded the corner, the bullet punching dead-center between his shoulder blades. He pitched forward onto his face and did not move again.
The one who didn’t run tried to use his horse as cover and return fire at Cole. Just as he was aiming his rifle, the sheet of plywood covering Thompson’s foxhole lifted a few inches and the barrel of his M-4 poked out. He took a moment to aim before firing a full-auto burst. The gunman died before he had a chance to pull the trigger.
On the other side of the truck, I heard panicked shouting as Sanchez’s rifle began taking its toll. At the same time, Hicks popped up from his foxhole—cleverly dug just beyond the other side of the trees lining the road—and fired two quick bursts. Releasing his rifle with one hand, he keyed his radio. “Cease fire, cease fire. Looks like they’re surrendering.”
The clatter of rifles died immediately. “How many left?” I asked.
“Three.”
“All stations, move in.”
Hicks kept the prisoners covered while Thompson and Cole approached. The two soldiers spent a few moments firing headshots into the fallen guardsmen to ensure they were well and truly dead, then searched the survivors and bound their hands with zip ties. By the time Sanchez and I arrived, the prisoners were kneeling by the side of the road.
One of them was older, maybe early fifties, dark hair, beard streaked with gray. He kept his eyes down, mouth pinched in anger. The other two were young, barely more than kids. They looked remarkably similar, and I realized they must be related. Brothers, probably. I put one at twenty, and the other at maybe seventeen.
