Zombie Killers (Book 8): Bad Company

by John F. Holmes

  Another figure vaulted over me and drove a shoulder into the woman’s midsection, Shona screaming with pain as her broken arm made contact. In her other, good hand, she held her bayonet, and she drove it over and over, ten, twenty times, as fast as she could, into the woman, until it caught on a rib and stuck, Then she rolled back off her, tears in her eyes, cradling her arm.

  Around us, the crowd was silent. Shona helped me to my foot, and waited while I strapped my leg back on. She clung to me desperately, and we made our way over to where King lay in her fever.

  Ramirez got up out of his chair and drew his silver plated revolver, a little .22 like I kept for emergencies, cocking the hammer back and raising it. I stood to look him in the eye, and Shona lifted her bayonet weakly.

  “You know, I could really use a couple of fighters like you. Too ba...” he started to say.

  I interrupted him by holding up my hand. “Never talk when you can shoot, asshole. Just get it over with.” I was tired. Maybe I could have reasoned with him, but I was so tired deep down in my soul I didn’t give a shit.

  A look of anger passed over his face, and he raised the gun, said “You’re right, of course,” and fired, a quick snap shot from the waist.

  I fell backwards in shock, and Shona caught me with her good arm, dropping the knife. I had been shot before, in combat, and never even noticed it until after the fight was over. This time, I saw the little flame come out of the gun and heard the CRACK of the shot, and a burning sensation in my ribs, just under my body armor.

  “Oh, fuck …”I whispered, and that sent pain shooting up my side. I ripped at my shirt, pulling it upwards, and revealed a small black hole with blood welling out of it.

  “Oh my god Nick, hold still!” yelled Shona, but her voice seemed to come from far away as waves of lightheadedness passed over me. My vision started to darken around the edges and draw down to a tunnel. I grabbed Shona’s arm and pulled her close, even as Ramirez laughed.

  “FIND BRIT!”I tried to yell but it came out with a whisper, and I tasted blood in my mouth. A punctured lung, I thought, and I tried hard to draw a breath past the pain rocketing up through my side, my heart racing wildly.

  “HOLD!” I heard Washburn yell from across the circle. The crowd, delighted, turned to look away from Ramirez, and I turned also. The Captain stood there, a full squad of infantry with a couple of machine guns, not really pointed at anyone, but not really away, either.

  Before my vision faded, I thought I saw a redheaded woman in the crowd, with one sparkling blue eye, and I reached out for her. Then everything went black.

  Chapter 278

  I sat on the edge of the cot, trying not to breathe too deeply. Doctor Lamare sat across from me, riding in the LMTV that served as Bad Company’s mobile ambulance. King, still recovering from the surgery that removed her leg above the knee, slept through the rough ride. Beside me, shoving the twig up the makeshift cast that covered her left arm, sat Shona, scratching furiously.

  “So, the bullet chipped one of your ribs, deflected slightly, which must have been hellaciously painful, but thankfully didn’t pierce your lung.” His dark, lined face looked serious as he tried to talk over the winding of an ill maintained transmission. “The infection, well, I managed to keep that under control. Too bad I couldn’t say the same for your soldier, there.”

  “I could have sworn that I tasted blood, but I guess that was from the bit lip,” I said, running my tongue across the three stitches. “A few years ago a buddy of mine got shot through the lung, and he was out of action for a month.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Only a month? Should have been twice that.”

  “Well, he’s one tough bastard.”

  The doctor sighed, and shook his head. “Lucky, you mean. I expect you’ll be able to move without much discomfort in a week or so. Until then, keep the bandages clean.”

  It had already been two weeks; the first few days I had been pretty out of it, first from being given shots of morphine while the doctor, who was a pediatrician turned Bad Company surgeon, removed the bullet fragments and patched me up. Then had followed a week of shitting my brains out from the antibiotics the doc had given me, which I’m sure were way out of date.

  When I did come out of the haze and started to make some sense of myself, Captain Washburn came in to see me in the medical tent they had set up.

  “I’m sorry about that, but I have a deal with Ramirez. Everyone goes through to see what kind of fighter they are. I claimed you for our part of the company. It was the best I could do. I didn’t know about the two women here, they had been caught by a patrol the day before. I take it they’re from your team?”

  I considered what to say to him, but in the end, what did anything but the truth gain me? “Captain Lowenstein is. Seaman King is from the sub I told you about; she got washed overboard also.”

  “I see. Well, since all three of you are out of commission, and we had planned to do a week long undead sweep of this area, just take it easy and recover. Stay away from the other side of the camp.”

  “What about,” I asked, “the fact that you’re running around preying on American citizens instead of protecting them?”

  “Well, Colonel, if that’s what you actually are, there are some things I can do something about, and some that I can’t. You and the US government, if it exists, I can’t do jack squat about. The local area, well, that I can. We’ll talk about it later.”

  He got up and walked out, followed by his 1SG. Since then I hadn’t seen anything of either of them. When we went to the mess tent, we were followed at all times by two guards, but we weren’t going anywhere. I spent most of that week standing or flat on my back. Breaking a rib is one of the most painful things that can happen to you, and it really hurt to breathe, but I figured it was better than a punctured lung, or worse, a gut shot.

  Ramirez came over once and stood at the end of my cot, a shit eating grin on his face, and said, “How do you feel, COLONEL?”, putting extreme sarcasm into the last word.

  “I’m going to kill you. If I don’t, Captain Lowenstein will. If she doesn’t, the rest of my team is out there, and one of them will do it. Enjoy your life while you can, because it’s effectively over.”

  “Tough talk from a cripple, with two crippled friends.”

  “Shona, you up for a game of spades?”

  She had been sitting on her cot, extremely tense. After a second of confusion, she relaxed a bit and said, “Sure! I’ll get Whitmore and Jonas, if they’re back from patrol. They owe us over five thousand dollars.” Without moving her arm, she levered herself off the bed and walked past Ramirez, ignoring him.

  I laid back on the cot and picked up a dog eared copy of a pretty good Space Opera I had been reading, “Under a Different Sun”. Ramirez stood there for a second, then kicked the cot. I ignored him, and he did it again, harder. After a third kick, I looked at him.

  “Are you still here? I thought you were dead,” and I went back to reading.

  “You’re the dead man, Colonel.” Again the sarcastic emphasis on my rank.

  “That’s only brevet, I’m actually a Sergeant Major. But I don’t let it go to my head.”

  He actually hissed at me, and left the tent, shoving past the guard outside. Since then, we had maintained a fifty percent watch, and I had managed to get my .22 automatic back and a .38 for Shona.

  Now we rode in the back of the LMTV as Bad Company moved down the road to “tax” another group of survivors. Apparently, in return for providing “security”, they were forced to provide food, ammo, whatever diesel fuel or alcohol fuel they could concoct, and sometimes recruits. From talk I had heard, the last “tax” had gone bad, and the bad part of Bad Company had looted the entire place when they tried to resist, killing many of them and raping the women. I had heard another furious argument between Captain Washburn and Ramirez, over what they wanted out of the next group.

  The doctor was a good man who, like many, traded his skills for survival.
He did his best to treat everyone, regardless of what group they were with, and had become a conduit of information for me once I had managed to sort out his thick Deep South accent.

  “Yeah, the Captain, he’s a stand up kind of guy, but he’s done made a deal with Ole’ Scratch, and its coming back to bite him the ass. This here company is a boiling kettle, and it’s going to blow. Best you stay out of the way when it does.”

  “I appreciate that, Doc, but I’ve got troops to look after.”

  He nodded, and then said, gesturing to King, “That one, you should have just cut her throat. You’re not doing her any favors.”

  I knew he was right. Once she had known that her leg was gone, far above the knee, she had sunk into a kind of semi-stupor, and did little to care for herself. It was frustrating, but if I could get her back north, they might be able to do something for her. Brit would give her work at the farm.

  At that thought, I felt my heart sink again. Was she alive? The woman I thought I had seen, just before I passed out, had been a delusion, not there at all. I had given up hope that she was still alive, but maybe, well, maybe I might live to see my kids. And I had my soldiers, the team, still to think of.

  Shona had told me that they had made their way south along the beach, the horde drawn off by my grenades and firing, and, when it became clear that King Monahan was becoming a liability, she had ordered the three men to go ahead and return to the cache, re-arm, and come back with some antibiotics for her, and a collapsible stretcher. They had been gone three hours when gunfire erupted to the south, and Shona had dragged the smaller woman into the pine trees. They had spent days evading patrols, with the sailor’s fever rising higher, and her infection growing. Even now, she was still flushed.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the far off crack of a shot, and the yell of “SNIPER!” The truck slammed to a halt, and three of us hit the floor. I dragged King Monahan down and covered her with my body as a thunderous fusillade erupted from the front of the column, where the gang bangers were, with immediate yells of “CEASE FIRE!” and “DOC!” while someone screamed.

  Sergeant Whitmore stuck his head up under the canvas flap and cursed. “Stupid assholes don’t even know what they’re shooting at. Doc, come on and bring your kit.”

  The Doc climbed down and left Shona and me sitting the gloom, with King still out of it, both of us wondering what the hell was going on. Then a thought occurred to me, and I smiled.

  “What’s so funny, Nick?” she asked.

  “That was a couple hundred rounds that some sneaky bastard just caused them to use up. Now what sneaky bastards do we know running around Florida? And might want them to burn through ammo, so maybe later they fall short when they really need it?”

  She actually laughed out loud, a bright, musical laugh, leaned over and, kissed me. She tasted like alligator meat and honey. More surprised than anything, I didn’t react, and when she stopped and hugged me with her head on my chest, I didn’t know what to do.

  Chapter 279

  It was dark the night before we were to approach the next town and collect ‘taxes’, the kind of dark that reminds you that the light of civilization has gone out. I lay on the stretcher in the back of the truck, awake and very conscious of Captain Lowenstein lying next to me. During the night, she had slid over next to me, maybe even as she slept, and rolled until her body was pressed against mine. It felt good; in fact, it felt very good. Too good.

  My thoughts wandered as I tried to gently disengage myself from her, but she grunted and threw her arm over my chest. I was acutely aware of her breasts pressed against me through the thin t-shirt she wore, and I lay there in the darkness, trying not to think of Brit, and feeling like a shitbag.

  Outside a faint light suddenly flared, a cigarette being lit by one of our guards, and a muttered conversation in Spanish continued, a low key argument that seemed to have been going on forever. Being careful not to disturb her broken arm, I gently moved Shona aside and, somewhat regretfully, stretched over and lifted a bit of the tent flap, looking for familiar stars and their position on the horizon, to get an idea what time it was. Early morning, around three, I guessed.

  The conversation outside was interrupted by a squishing sound, and a simultaneous THUMP of something striking the body of the truck. A split second later, I heard a strangled choking, and shook Shona awake, just as the back flap of the canvas was thrown open. She sat up, instantly awake, and I put a finger to her lips.

  “Let’s go!” whispered Boz’s lazy Texas accent, and we both jumped up and headed to the back of the truck.

  “Careful!” I said to the ex-Green Beret, “her arm is broken.” I helped her over the gate using her good arm, and Boz lowered her to the ground. I could barely see the camouflaged form of Ziv, scanning for targets around the side of the truck. On the ground lay one guard, throat slashed, and the second was headless from a sniper round.

  Turning back for King Monahan , I felt through the darkness to where she had been lying on the opposite side the truck. My hand felt her leg, and I shook it, but there was no response, and I shook it harder. Then I felt it, wet and bloody. I took a flashlight from my pocket and, keeping one eye closed to preserve my night vision, I cupped my hand over it and turned it on to make a faint glow. She lay there, wrist slashed open with a razor, three long vertical slashes.

  Damn.

  “Come on, gimp!” whispered Boz, motioning for me to jump down. Leaving King’s corpse. I straddled the tailgate, mindful of my leg, and then stopped.

  “Go, King’s dead, but I’ve got something to do here. I’m staying.”

  Ziv turned and looked at me, muttered something about me being a “stupid fucking idiot” and raised his weapon, letting one round cycle with a click-clack of the bolt and a soft PUTT. “They are reacting. We must leave, now.”

  “Colonel, no offense, but we gotta go. And they’ll kill you for this.”

  “No. Go, and I’ll try to get away tomorrow.”

  At that moment, another man turned the opposite corner and ran straight into Boz. The older man spun, rifle up, but before he could strike, the guard was thrown backwards as if yanked by a string, and collapsed on the ground. Elam was providing overwatch with his rifle.

  “GO!” I hissed, and climbed back in the truck as all three disappeared into the night.

  Another guard showed, cautiously, a few minutes later. I had thrown back the canvas flap, and sat on the end of the bench, one leg hanging out of the truck. He saw the bodies of his comrades, yelled, and disappeared. I just sat there and waited.

  Less than a minute later, a bright flashlight was shone in my face, blinding me, accompanied by harsh yells in Spanish, and some shouts in English. Rough hands grabbed me and pulled me off the truck, slamming me to the ground. I curled up in a ball as several rifle butts and some boots thudded into me, trying to protect my head and my still healing ribs at the same time.

  The beating quickly stopped, but only because there was a fierce argument raging above me. It got more and more heated, until finally a shot rang out, and a man fell dead in front of me, one of the gang members.

  “NOW BACK THE FUCK OFF!” yelled Captain Washburn, and rough hands grabbed me, lifting me up and hustling me off to the other side of the camp. I was dropped down into a fighting position that served as the Command Post for the night, and a lantern was lit.

  Washburn and his First Sergeant sat in the hole with me. Both were flushed with anger and exertion, and the NCO kept his pistol trained on me. I said nothing while Washburn rubbed his hand across his face, obviously trying to calm down.

  After a minute he asked, “What the fuck happened out there?”

  I had to play this really carefully, so I answered, “Some friends of mine came to get me.”

  “Members of your team?” he guessed.

  “Yes. They’re the ones who have been sniping at the gangbangers the last few days.”

  The NCO grunted and said, “Damn fine shooting, if you ask me.�
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  Washburn shot him a look, and then asked me, “Why the hell didn’t you run?”

  “Because,” I answered, “I’m the senior military officer present, and as such, this is MY unit. So I’m not going anywhere, Captain.”

  Chapter 280

  “You really are a Colonel in the Army?” asked the Captain.

  “Sir…” the First Sergeant started to say, but Washburn waved him off.

  “I am.” I answered. “Brevet, permanent rank of Sergeant Major, like I told you.”

  He sat back and turned down the lantern. I could the exhaustion in his own, and he seemed at a loss.

  “I hoped, we waited for so damn long … we saw the planes, you know, the flyers they dropped. Sometimes the ships off the shore, but no one came, and they stopped two years ago.”

  “The second plague,” I told him. “Long story. Shit was going OK, until the government turned into something like a South American dictatorship. The military revolted, and the acting President set loose a more virulent version of the undead infection.”

  “So what happened? How do you know all this?” asked the NCO.

  “I was there, along with a lot of other Scouts. We raided the acting President’s compound. He was killed in the fight, along with a lot of my friends.”

  Both sat silently, taking it in, and bugs started swarming around the lantern, so I reached over and shut it off. We were all used to living in the dark now.

  “How do things stand now? Obviously, there has to be SOME kind of government if you’re down here.”

  “There is,” I answered. “We escaped the second plague in New York, along with about a division’s worth of troops, and a couple hundred thousand civilians. Refugees and scattered military units have been straggling in over the last two years. We’re up to almost three million now. Maybe you heard about our fight with the so called ‘Mountain Republic’?”