Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  “Good. When Hicks and I are finished with the comms building, I’ll give the order to commence the assault. That will be phase three. If possible, Hicks and I will render assistance, but I can’t guarantee we’ll be able to get there in time. Are you three okay with handling the final assault yourselves?”

  Sanchez laughed and slapped me on the arm. “Do you even have to ask?”

  Not for the first time, I was glad he was on my side.

  *****

  Different communities survive in different ways.

  Hollow Rock is a major agricultural hub. The town survived the Outbreak much more intact than most places in not only Tennessee, but around the world. As a result, the town’s population now numbers over a thousand, including original residents and people who have drifted in over the years. With that many people, farming is not only feasible, it is highly profitable.

  Brownsville had its share of agriculture, but it was barely enough to keep the town alive. One bad winter, one poor harvest, could mean starvation. So the year after the Outbreak, the town’s leaders took a gamble and planted only the grains used in the distillation of alcohol. That winter, they brewed up a massive batch of grain liquor and sent out trade caravans to find customers.

  They sold out their inventory in a month.

  Although they were out of booze, they were flush with food. More than enough to get the entire town comfortably through the winter. Since then, they had expanded their operations to include grain purchased from other communities, scaled up their distilling operations, and were doing a cracking turn of business distributing booze.

  At least until the Crow Hunters showed up.

  Consequently, the guards were drunk.

  At least three of them were anyway, I wasn’t so sure about the other two. As I crouched behind a tree, watching them through my FLIR scope, I had to shake my head at their lack of discipline. What was the point of posting watchmen if they were wasted?

  “You ready?” I whispered to Hicks.

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  We advanced slowly, being careful of every footfall. I held my rifle loosely, falcata gripped in my left hand. There were a few infected between us and the wall, and no way to avoid them. I glanced to my right and saw Hick’s glaring white heat signature in much the same posture as mine, left hand gripping a short, heavy bladed spear—his preferred weapon for hand-to-hand combat against the undead.

  The infected were blind in the darkness, but it didn’t stop them from pinpointing us and shambling in our direction. There were six of them, moving in a tight little knot, feet crunching through the hard-packed snow. I raised the sniper carbine Sanchez had loaned me—which was really just a heavily modified M-16—balanced the barrel on the flat of my sword, and sent three rounds downrange. The only sound was the clack of the chamber as spent cartridges were ejected and new ones loaded. All three rounds found their targets, ending the pseudo-lives of an equal number of walkers. Three left.

  Hicks advanced ahead of me and speared the closest one with an upward thrust, cleaving it’s soft palate and penetrating its brain. Before it could slump to the ground, he jerked his weapon free and fell into a fighting stance. I circled left and hit the next one with a backhanded slash, sending the top half of its cranium spinning away into the night. Just as I was about to go after the last one, Hicks changed his grip on his spear and stepped into a forward thrust. The long blade crunched through the ghoul’s sinus cavity with terrific force, an inch or two of blade protruding from the back of the creature’s skull. As it fell, Hicks wrenched the blade free.

  “Nice one,” I whispered. He accepted the compliment, as usual, with a silent nod.

  There were more infected around, but none close enough to bother us. We could make it over the wall long before they were within striking distance. At the treeline, we crouched behind snow-covered brush and waited until the closest guard wandered tipsily away. I briefly considered shooting him, but decided it was too risky. Better to take the tower first, then pick them off with impunity.

  Hicks twirled a length of rope with a large knot tied in the end and let it fly. Drawing down on the rope, he wedged the knot between two large palisade stakes and went nimbly up. I waited until he was over, then followed.

  Once over the wall, I found myself on a narrow catwalk ten feet above the ground. Hicks crouched a few feet away, rifle up, scanning for hostiles. After a moment, he gave me an all clear signal and we proceeded toward the guard tower on the southeast corner of town.

  When we were close to twenty feet away, I stopped and aimed the carbine at a man-shaped blaze of white standing with his back to me. The tower was not very high, only five feet above the palisade wall, making for an easy shot. Hicks aimed his weapon as well.

  “Ready?” I whispered.

  “Yep. On your mark.”

  “On three. Five, four, three.”

  Two muted cracks. The heavy carbine in my hands barely twitched. As the guard above me slumped to the planks under his feet, I decided I could get used to this thing.

  “Okay, Hicks.” I said. “Take off. Happy hunting.”

  “Will do. I’ll let you know when I’m in position.”

  The ladder was a bit on the rickety side, but held firmly enough for me to climb up. When my head came level with the tower’s floor, I found myself staring directly into the face of the dead guard. Even through the pale luminescence of FLIR, I could see the gaping hole in his forehead.

  Sorry pal. You picked the wrong team.

  I hauled his body upright and placed it in a corner, out of the way. That done, I took a knee and propped the carbine on a handrail, taking aim at the guard on the opposite tower to the northwest. It was the one closest to where the hostages were being held, and I didn’t want the guard there sounding the alarm if he noticed Hicks dispatching his comrades. Taking careful aim, I watched him for a minute or two, timing his movements. Like most people, he had a pattern. Probably wasn’t even aware of it.

  Walk to one side of the tower. Stop. Weight on the left foot. Count to five. Weight shifts to the right foot. Another five count. Turn, walk to the other side, repeat. Always the five seconds per foot. His posture was relaxed, but not wobbly like his intoxicated friends. Not a drinker, then. Not bored or anxious either, just sort of resigned. The look of a man who has not long ago taken the watch and made his peace with the hours of boredom that lay ahead.

  Somewhere, deep down in the suppressed part of me that hates what I have become, I felt pity for the man. He had no idea the boredom he felt would be his last emotion. Whatever ponderings drifted through his mind to pass the time, they would be his last thoughts. I hoped they were at least pleasant ones.

  After three repetitions, I had his timing down. He turned, walked to the side facing away from me. Left foot. One, two, three, four, five. Wait for the shift, let the air out, squeeze…

  -crack-

  And down he goes.

  Next target. Search the other two guard towers. Both are empty. Shift to the north wall. There, at the corner, turning around, heading back the way he came. Drunken wobble to the gait. Strained tension in his steps, feet falling a little too closely.

  I watched him take a guilty look around, then step to the edge of the palisade and begin working at the front of his pants. A moment later, a pale, thin stream of white began to flow from his groin toward the ground. He died with his dick in his hands, tumbling head first over the wall to the ground below.

  “Shit…”

  Now I had to work fast. The walkers would be on him soon, and the noise was bound to alert the last two guards.

  The south wall was clear, so I moved to the western one. Took aim. Fired twice. Watched him fall and lay still. One left. I spotted him on the east wall, walking toward me. I moved to another handrail and sighted in. He was close enough there was no question of my aim. One round did the trick, sending him over backward like a felled tree.

  My earpiece crackled. “In pos
ition,” Hicks said.

  “Copy. Engage.”

  There was silence for a few moments. Then I heard the sighing of wind through trees, the flapping and banging of unlatched shutters in the town below, the rattle of ice crystals skittering over frost-crusted rooftops. I raised my NVGs and looked upward at the night sky, blinking at the change of spectrum. Heavy clouds stretched from one horizon to the other, a half-moon shining through a narrow break in a ghostly halo of silver light. A smattering of stars broke through then vanished again, light from distant celestial furnaces that spent a billion years in transit, only to fall upon a place of slaughter.

  Sorry you wasted the trip.

  Another crackle. “Targets are down. All clear. I made contact with the hostages. The door is unlocked in case they have to run for it, but they know to stay put for now.”

  “Copy,” I replied. “Commence with phase two.”

  “Roger.”

  I climbed down from the tower, reloaded, and headed for the center of town.

  FORTY-THREE

  I had seen the pile of bodies the night before, but it had been from a distance. Just a large, slowly cooling jumble of white, the outlines and creases only vaguely definable as human beings. I didn’t look at them long, then, just catalogued the information and moved on. But now, standing less than thirty feet away, the effect was far more visceral. There may have been as many as a hundred bodies, some large and clearly identifiable as adults, others smaller.

  Much smaller.

  Rather than the white and gray infrared signatures I had seen last night, they were now bathed in an eerie green glow, and in greater resolution. After finishing my bloody work on the tower, I had switched from FLIR to standard night vision, which is better for the close quarters fighting I expected in the comms building. But now, knowing what lay before me would be indelibly burned into my memory, I wished I hadn’t.

  “Sons of bitches,” Hicks muttered, voice dripping with uncharacteristic venom. It was the most emotion I had ever seen him display.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s keep moving.”

  As we darted from building to building, I heard brief chatter between Cole, Thompson, and Sanchez. After Hicks let them in through the west gate, they proceeded according to plan and set up firing positions around the Crow Hunters’ bunkhouses. Between their grenades, Cole’s SAW, three LAW rockets, and their rifles, if things got ugly, it would not go well for the enemy troops.

  Hicks and I rounded a corner and found ourselves standing a block away from the comms building. I switched back to FLIR briefly and spotted two guards, one posted at each entrance. After a few hand signals to Hicks, we split up and approached from opposite sides. I found a good spot to take my shot from, switched back to night vision, and crouched down, waiting. A few seconds later, I heard the click of a mike being keyed.

  “In position. Ready to engage.”

  “Copy. Three count, then fire.”

  As soon as I released the mike button, I counted three, two, one, then fired three shots. Being as close as I was, headshots were no trouble at all. The bullets transferred a large section of the guard’s upper cranium to the wall behind him just before he stiffened and fell flat on what was left of his face. I heard a faint clacking coming from Hicks’ side, then, “Target down.”

  “Copy,” I replied. “Move in.”

  I tried the door on my side and found it locked. Hicks’ voice buzzed in my ear and reported the same on his side.

  “Gotta be a key,” I replied. After searching the body thoroughly, I came up empty. “Any luck?” I asked.

  “No joy,” Hicks radioed back.

  I cursed, then said, “Don’t suppose you brought your lock picks, did you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  I crossed over to his side of the building, sticking to the back alley, and waited while he worked on the door. Although I am no stranger to lock picking, I had stupidly neglected to bring my own set along.

  Won’t be making that mistake again.

  The lock clicked. Hicks nodded to me and we stacked up beside the door, one on each side. He pointed to himself and held up a finger, indicating he wanted to take point. I nodded, trusting his abilities would carry him through if someone was waiting on the other side. He held up three fingers and counted down—three, two, one, and we moved.

  We entered a small lobby, unoccupied. A quick sweep, check behind the desk, all clear. Two doors in the back and a staircase. I stacked up at the door on my right, tried the handle, found it unlocked. A quick push, and we were in a small bathroom, the kind with just a toilet and a sink. As I shut the door, I noticed the little woman in a skirt, a straight line, then the stick man. Unisex.

  The next door led to a short hallway that wound around the bathroom and emerged into a wide open room. Desks to my left and right, support columns down the middle. No sign of anyone. The door at the other side of the room turned out to be the emergency exit. The first floor was clear. Now for the stairway.

  On the way up I heard a voice drift down, bleary, groggy, just emerged from sleep. “The fuck is going on down there. That you, Tony?”

  On a hunch, I asked. “Hey is Powell up there?”

  Sound of feet on steps, thumping downward, coming closer to the landing, still out of sight. “That’s Captain Powell to you, shitbird. Fuck that up again and I’ll take you up to see him personally. Now what do you-”

  The next words never made it out of his mouth. His eyes flashed wide as he rounded the corner and saw two armed men in night vision goggles waiting for him on the stairs. Our rifles cracked four times each, all hitting center of mass. A mess of red blossoms appeared on the front of his shirt. I caught him as he fell, eyes already going blank, and eased him to the ground.

  We proceeded up the rest of the way, turning the corner into a long hallway with two rooms to the left, three to the right. Management offices, looked like. The big wigs up here, and the worker bees down below. According to the dilapidated sign over the building’s front entrance, this had been an accountant’s office once upon a time. The layout supported that claim.

  As we crept down the hallway, I heard footsteps coming from a room ahead. The door was open. A voice preceded a pair of hands clutching an AK-47. “Sergeant, what’s going on out there?”

  The voice had an air of authority, the kind that asks a question and expects a prompt response, accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them. Shifting my point of aim, I tilted the sniper carbine sideways, aimed through BUIS mounted at a forty-five degree angle from the scope, and fired two rounds. Both hit the rifle’s foregrip just inches from the gunman’s hands. With a yelp, he dropped the gun, and darted backward. Hicks and I were across the hallway in a heartbeat. I arrived first, weapon leveled. Three men on the ground and one standing, still shaking his hands, all emerging from various states of sleep and reaching for weapons. I took a knee so Hicks could fire over my head. Four seconds later, our mags were empty, and it was just me, Hicks, and the man whose rifle I had shot. He held up his hands.

  “Wait, okay? Just wait.”

  “Are you Powell?”

  He hesitated, unsure how to answer. I kept the gun trained on him, not moving an inch. After a few more seconds he nodded. “Yes.”

  “If you’re lying, we’ll know soon enough. Now where are the hostages?”

  He sputtered for a moment, then finally raised a shaky hand and pointed at the room across the hall. “Over there. They’re still alive, I didn’t-”

  “Shut up. Not another word until I tell you to speak. Hicks, keep him covered. If he tries anything, kill him.”

  The man swallowed hard, acquiring an acute case of the shakes. Staring down the barrel of a rifle whilst surrounded by dead comrades tends to have that effect on people.

  I crossed the hall and opened the door cautiously. The room was empty save for an old-fashioned steam radiator on the opposite wall, and two people chained to the pipes on either side. They were bound and
gagged, staring wide-eyed in the darkness, a mixture of fear and hope on their faces. I borrowed Hicks’ bolt cutters and cut their chains, then parted their restraints with my Ka-bar.

  “Are you with the government?” one of them asked. An older man, early fifties, bald, thick gray beard, stink of body odor and fear. The other was a woman with close cropped hair, early forties, lean and weathered face. As she stood up, I realized she was over six feet tall and built like a distance runner. There was a gold sheriff’s star embroidered on her tan shirt.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Are you all right?”

  “We’re fine,” the old man said as I helped him to his feet. “What about the others? Have you seen them?”

  “The ones still alive are safe for now.”

  “How did you find out what happened here?” the woman asked. “We never even got a chance to send out a distress call.”

  “I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to get you out of here. You’re Joseph Steinman, right? You’re in charge around here.”

  The old man looked surprised. “That’s right. How did you know? Have we met?”

  “And you’re Sheriff Ann Tucker, correct?”

  It was her turn to look surprised. “Yes. How…”

  “The name’s Garrett. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

  Her eyes widened further. “Gabriel Garrett? The salvage man over in Hollow Rock?”

  A grin. “I haven’t always been in the salvage business. Hicks, gag and cuff that fucker and let’s move.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Less than a minute later, we emerged back onto the street. Checked both sides. All clear. I drew my pistol and held it out to Steinman, motioning for Hicks to loan his to Sheriff Tucker. She immediately flipped the safety off and pointed it at Powell’s face.

  “You son of a bitch.”

  He whimpered and went to the ground, eyes squeezed shut, terrified incoherence emitting from behind his gag. Only Hicks’ iron grip on his zip-tied wrists kept him from bolting. I put a hand under the gun and lifted it skyward, earning an angry glare from Sheriff Tucker.