by Key, Thomas
They were close enough that I could hear their breathing. I saw one poke his head around and look straight into my eyes. I sprang up, ramming my head straight up into his nose. I felt and heard a crack as I pushed his nose right up into his brain, causing instant death. I spun the man, so that his back was toward the other man and sure enough heard the loud shotgun discharge. The pellets peppered the big man’s back and he fell to the side. I raised my gun to fire once I had a clear view, but saw no need as Rodriguez had the muzzle of his pistol placed right up against the older man’s head. “Drop it mother fucker,” the soldier said in almost a whisper. The shotgun quickly clattered to the floor.
Chapter 33
"Let's go outside and have a chat, shall we?" the guardsman asked the captive. He nodded slowly, trying to make no sudden movements. Rodriguez moved his pistol to the man's back and followed him outside. I picked up the big man’s shotgun, checked him for ammo and other goodies before I followed the two out of the church. We walked to the older man’s beat up truck. Rodriguez had the man sit on his trucks tailgate, with his weapon still trained squarely on him. The captured man was in his mid-sixties maybe, with salt and peppered hair. His goatee was impressive as it seemed to be perfectly manicured. I subconsciously scratched at my two-week long stubble under my chin. I really should shave, I thought to myself before snapping back into the present. I guessed his weight at maybe a buck forty. Slender and tall, but still had a little bit of a gut. Which again was impressive considering most people were near starving these days. "So, why'd you come out all this way just for us?" Rodriguez asked the man. For the sake of argument, I'll call him Bob. Bob looked away, refusing to answer. The soldier beside me did not take too kindly to being ignored, and pistol whipped the man. I mean Bob. He fell from the tailgate, hitting the ground with a thud. "I for one do not appreciate you trying to kill us, not once but twice now. So, unless you want me to gut shoot you and leave you for dead, you'll tell me what I need to know," he said. Bob was now visibly bleeding, and tried to stand on shaky legs. He sat back down on the tailgate heavily, placing his hand to the side of his head. "You were in our territory," Bob near whispered. "Your territory? I sure as hell didn't see any signs," I told the man. "New Mexico is our territory, and you're in it," he said grudgingly. "I don't have the slightest clue of what you're talking about," I told him. The soldier placed his muzzle up against Bob's stomach and spoke. "How about you start from why there were people hanging up on crosses along the interstate. Is that your doing?" The man just shrugged. "It wasn’t my doing," he said. "It was their faults. You don't run from the Exiles," he said. "Here we go again." I sighed. "Tell us about the Exiles then." Bob took a deep breath and with a little more not so light nudging from the guardsman, he began to speak.
The story here was, the Exiles were originally a renegade survivalist group that had been around before the zombapoc. Once everything went to shit, they began recruiting. The group soon began branching out all over the state of New Mexico. The group turned into an outlaw army of marauders. Their favorite past times were causing mayhem and destruction with a side of raping and pillaging. They set up a base camp outside of Tucumcari, which was naturally in the direction of Cannon AFB. Anytime they found men in their territory and they were deemed unworthy to join, they were shot. Anytime they found women, they enslaved them. They had also performed hit and runs on the military personnel operating in the area. Any soldiers that they caught alive were strung up and tortured and then left in the desert to rot. I remembered to ask about the weaponry. Could this group have been responsible for the rocket that took me away from my friends? The man that we were interrogating had no recollection of the Exiles having those kinds of weapons though. Then again, he could be lying. The way that Rodriguez was working the man over though, I highly doubted it. Great, I thought. There's another group of assholes out there that tried to kill me.
"I've heard enough." Rodriguez said as the man wrapped up his story. "Let's go," he said. I turned and began walking back to the hummer. As I got several feet away, I heard a gunshot. I spun to see the man, Bob, now lying on the ground very obviously gut-shot and writhing in pain. Rodriguez passed me by, heading for our vehicle. "What was that for?" I asked him as I caught up to him. "He was one of them. Murdering and raping as he went. He came after us twice. We couldn't leave him alive," he said as he got into the driver seat. I, finally taking my mother's advice for once, kept my mouth shut and jumped into the passenger seat. We pulled up alongside the pickup truck and punctured a hole in the bottom of the gas tank and drained it. We also gathered the spare gas cans that were tied down in Bob’s truck bed. As we drove away, I heard the man's cries for help go unanswered in the dead abandoned town of Cuervo.
Interlude
From inside the posh interior of a bus style recreational vehicle sat a man, with tattoos covering every space available on his arms and up his neck. The darkly tanned man, nicknamed ‘Ace’ was patiently awaiting a call to come in on his private satellite phone. The phone, a gift from a black BDU clad group of men had been a welcome reprieve from the extra stress of the wasteland. His domain ranged far and wide, and any extra help to strengthen his reign was just a plus. As the leader of the Exiles, a name that he had come up with on his own, he was known for being a leader that exuberated power. He had risen to his station through the blood of previous group leaders, and had personally killed a half dozen members who had the audacity to question his authority. His power had caused many to try to get in his way and he only saw it as a chance to show just how demented he was, or so he had heard. He was certainly not known for his mercy. One time, he remembered fondly, he had caught a family of four trying to escape his territory. He handled it personally. The father was beaten within an inch of his life. The wife was shared repeatedly among his crew, and died due to unfortunate circumstances of his men being a tad bit rough on her. How unfortunate that was, she was quite the looker. The two teen children were given the choice to join his crusade to become King of this new world. For reasons Ace simply could not understand, they refused. With two quick shots to the head, those problems were taken care of. He had then returned to the father with the blood of his two sons still fresh on Ace’s shirt and slit his throat. What a glorious day that had been, he thought back to himself.
As expected, the phone rang and snapped him out of his happy memories. He answered on the first ring and held the phone up to his ear, waiting for the line to sync and become secure. The moment that it was complete, a voice came over the phone. "You have two new guests coming your way from Albuquerque. They are not welcome. Please see to it that they are removed." "Yes sir," he had responded somewhat robotically. Ace was no fan of someone telling him what to do. It was a fact that even now irked him to no end and gave him the urge to slam the phone down and take his chances on his own. However, four men in full black military outfits had snuck into his camp and had knocked out all of his personal guard. When he had received a knock on the door to his bus and opened it, expecting one of his subordinates and was met by the barrel of a rifle and a face that he did not recognize it nearly scared the shit out of him. Possibly literally. The man had spoken very curtly. "My boss has a preposition for you. If I were you, I’d have a seat and take a listen," he had told him in no uncertain terms. Like a good lap dog, he indeed did sit. The men then all came into the bus, and handed him the satellite phone. As if someone was watching, it rang in his hand. Somewhat mystified, he answered, holding it up to his ear with shaking hands. "Yes?" he had stuttered out like a weakling. "Hello Ace. Who I am is irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is who and where you are. Beside the remaining members of the United States Armed Forces, you hold the next largest group of surviving people in the southwest. I know the men and women of Cannon AFB have given you quite a lot of grief lately." Ace nodded, unbeknownst to him. "So, here is what I propose. You do what I say, when I say it. In return, I will supply you with intelligence via the phone that you hold in your hand. Realtime information
that will give you the edge over the military group giving you trouble and any other transgressors." The thought of doing what someone else told him to was nothing short of infuriating. However, the ease with which the four men had come to his home, under the radar as it were, lent credence to the voice’s ability to get things done. He had, of course agreed, if nothing else but to save his life at the time. Now, as the man on the other line began to speak, he sat up straight and listened intently for the next set of instructions.
Chapter 34
Kenneth awoke with a start. He was gasping for air, shaking. The bright lights above felt like they were burning his retinas. His shaking began to subside as he realized that he wasn't in a dream or nightmare for that matter. He did notice though, that he couldn't move his arms or legs. He looked from side to side, and slowly came to the realization that he was in a hospital room. The clean walls, bright lights and yep, he was definitely restrained. The door to his room opened and a tall skinny nurse walked in. Not skinny like rail thin, but athletic for sure. Black haired with a look that had ‘competitive personality’ written all over her face. "Hi," she said simply as she set down a glass of water on a small end table near the head of the bed. Her name tag said Ashmore. "You probably have a bunch of questions," she said as she pulled a pen light and checked Ken's eyes. "Yes, I do," he said in a croak. "You were shot during an incident outside of the gate. The woman who shot you was killed. We were able to get you in and get you fixed up. If the bullet had hit a little more to the left then it would have hit one of your arteries. As it was, it skimmed the right side of your leg." Ken tried to sit up and look, but the restraints held him steadfast, and gave him a withering look that felt like she was daring him to keep moving. "Is this really necessary?" Ken asked, pointedly looking at the restraints that he could see. "Since you were shot outside of the gate, we were concerned about accidental infection but it appears you are just fine." She approached the bed and he heard the sound of the Velcro straps being pulled apart. His right arm, then right leg came loose, then his left side. "Thank you." He paused for a moment. "Isn’t all infection accidental?" he questioned. "No one likes a smart ass," she said. "And no, we’ve actually seen several cases of people willingly becoming infected." She visibly shuttered and he decided he sure as shit didn't want to hear that story. He sat up slowly, grabbing the glass of water and taking a large sip. "How long have I been out?" he asked the nurse as she was reading his chart. "About a day. They had you pretty well sedated," she said. He glanced at his leg which was under the paper-thin hospital blanket. He lifted it lightly and saw a snugly wrapped bandage around his leg. He gently placed the blanket back down. "When can I leave?" he asked her and she glanced up at him. "A day or two. You need to rest," she said as she placed the clipboard back down. With that, Kenneth laid back onto the bed. The nurse finished checking everything and left the room shortly thereafter.
He began to get lost in his thoughts, thinking about the events of the past 48 hours. Just when he thought he had reached his breaking point, he was brought down another layer into the dark abyss. Obviously though, he always seemed to land on the next floor down, without breaking. By breaking of course, he meant breaking down completely or just going flat out bonkers. This new world was, unfortunately, full of people who just couldn't take the mental stress. He hated to compare himself to others but he felt that he'd been through an abnormal amount of shit. Not just any shit, but stinky, smelly, evil, stuck to your boots and won't rub off no matter what you do type of shit. Nowhere to go but up though, right?
At that moment, a black hawk helicopter carrying a team of six took off from Cannon AFB. Aboard the vehicle were two pilots, a crew chief and three others dressed in desert camo. One of the passengers, with a name tape adhered to the front of her vest was Rachel. She was assigned to a scouting mission last minute, and she ran with it. As the bird lifted over the base and began to head North East, the hot wind from the open doors felt great as her hair flew about her face. As they flew along the route given to them, she once again began to wonder about Shepherd. They hadn't heard a thing about him since the crash. The helicopter flew at a steady 180 miles an hour. Once they hit their first checkpoint, they would turn and move around their base in a circle, checking for any more major hordes within their area of operation. Shortly after reaching their first checkpoint, she heard an alarm begin to blare from the cockpit. The two pilots began to speak in louder and louder tones. She put her helmet on and listened to the conversation from the in-vehicle radio. "We're losing oil pressure." She heard one of them say. The bird began to vibrate more than normal and the smell of smoke began to filter into her nose. "We need to put her down," the co-pilot said. He pointed to what appeared to be a wide open, flat and even area just south of a small settlement. "Mayday…..Mayday," the pilot said into his headset as the black hawk began to auto rotate towards the ground. "Why the hell do these things keep crashing?" she spoke into her own headset as they held on for dear life. "It shouldn't be happening at all," the crew boss told her as he strapped down beside her. They braced themselves for the inevitable crash landing. She had a thought as she held on for dear life. Not once did any of her life pass before her eyes on the way down. Time certainly didn't slow down for reflection. Moments before hitting the dirt, she glanced outside and saw a sign welcoming them to Tucumcari, New Mexico. The very next second, the world went black as they hit the hot New Mexican sand.
Chapter 35
With a thunderous sound of crashing metal impacting the ground, Rachel had blacked out from the sheer force of the crash. The fact that she was even still alive was a testament to how well the designers of the aircraft planned for every type of eventuality. Rachel awoke several minutes later in excruciating pain. Her harness straps had done their job well, keeping her firmly in her seat but it felt as every bone from her hips down were broken or bruised. As she came out of unconsciousness, she let out a small scream, feeling the intense pain wash over her. After several minutes of deep breaths, she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. The crew chief's straps apparently did not hold and she spotted him outside of the helicopter face down in the dirt, un-moving. They had landed on the aircraft's belly, which was now tilted to one side. One of her companions began to stir, and she took several more deep breaths and began to remove her safety straps. Once they were undone, she moved to the solder. The name 'Burns' was on his name tape. He was a young Caucasian man, maybe in his mid-twenties. The young man was thin, wearing his BDUs loosely as if they had run out of uniforms his size so they gave him the next size up. The start of a 5 o'clock shadow was on his face. She saw his eyes begin to flutter and finally open as she stared at him. He too screamed out in pain as he finally began to wake up. She stood shakily, letting him get it out of his system. She was still carrying her rifle which had stayed strapped to her chest during the landing. She unbuckled it and checked the rifle for damage. The man, Burns, began to quiet down and look around. "How did we survive?" he asked her as he unbuckled himself. "Luck, I suppose. That and good old-fashioned American craftsmanship," she said as she turned back to face him. He walked slowly over to the pilots and checked for pulses. He looked back at her and gently shook his head. The font tip of the aircraft had taken the brunt of the initial impact, crushing the pilots between the hard earth and the steel cage that surrounded them. "Fuck," she said quietly. “We should see what we’ve got to work with,” she told the soldier as the two of them gathered what gear that they could. They were able to retrieve most of the rifles and ammunition from the deceased crew members, along with their own packs. “What do we do now?” the young man asked Rachel. As much as she wanted to issue a completely sarcastic response, she figured this kid was fresh in the field and cut him a break. “We need to get back to the base.” He nodded quickly in response. “Okay,” he whispered, filling every pocket that he could with whatever he could find. It was then that they both heard the squeal of brakes of multiple cars just outside of their destroyed aircraft. They both
grabbed their rifles and headed for the open side door.
"Hello?" Burns yelled out to the unknown people outside. "Hello!" someone yelled back. He turned to Rachel. "That's a good sign, right?" he asked her, his eyes begging for reassurance. She nodded. "Are y'all alright? Do you need a doctor?" the voice from outside yelled to them. "Yes, we do," Burns yelled out. "How many of you are there?" the man asked back. "Just the two of us left I think," Burns replied. "Go ahead and come out, real slow. We wouldn't want anyone to get hurt," he said. The soldier looked at her. "It doesn't feel right," she told him quietly. She slowly peaked her head out of the door and saw two pickup trucks with a total of around 6 men huddled around them, taking cover. "Is that a woman?" she heard one of the men ask another as she quickly pulled her head back in. "I think so," one of the men replied. "Jackpot," another said with a small chuckle. "Oh shit," Burns said, adjusting his rifle’s selected from safe to semi-automatic. Rachel did the same. "How many rounds do you have?" she asked him. "Two magazines. You?" "I can only find the one in my rifle. I didn't expect to be in a fire fight today," she said calmly. "Are you two alright? Go ahead and come out. If we have to come in there and get you, it won't be pretty," the spokesman said. "I think we're good right here," Rachel yelled out. "We're just going to wait for our friends. Thank you for the offer though."
