The door came open with a rush, blasting him with the faded, sickly-sweet stench of rotting meat. He grimaced but didn’t waste time considering the smell. He took up the Easton and moved back, waiting for any occupants of the RV to step out into the light.
The interior was still and silent. He gave it a minute that felt closer to an eternity, then decided the coast was clear. Sandy scooped up his backpack and scrambled into the RV. With the door closed behind him and the drop bar back in place, he felt as secure as he had since he’d left the lab.
Between the drapes on the side windows, and the scum covering the windshield, he couldn’t make out his hand in front of his face. Since the outbreak, the only thing he collected more obsessively than food and water were flashlights. He had no less than a half-dozen stashed away in pockets or in his backpack. Sandy drew one out, clicked it on, and froze.
The area of the RV next to the side access door was set up as a small kitchenette. Cabinets, a sink, and cooking utensils lined the wall nearest the door. The opposite wall supported a folding table, benches, and a body.
The interior of the RV was secure enough that the vermin hadn’t gotten to the corpse, but it had been inside long enough to rot and dry out.
The body had been there long enough to make any guess about age or gender impossible. From the jeans, plaid shirt, and hiking boots, Sandy assumed that it had been a man. The bone-white crew cut just confirmed that guess though, for some reason, he didn’t get the sense he’d been as old as the hair might otherwise indicate.
Faded brown streaks cascaded down the legs of the corpse’s jeans and joined a broad circle on the carpet beneath where he sat. Sandy panned the beam of the flashlight up onto his face. The skin had drawn in, highlighting the shape of his skull. The jaw hung open, and as shadow played over white teeth, he imagined the cheery greeting he might have once offered.
“Thanks for the hospitality, friend,” Sandy murmured. “Just need a place to crash for the night.”
No worries, bro! Mi casa es su casa! The skull grinned in the dim light.
He wasn’t really talking, of course. Sandy wasn’t that far around the bend. His more clinical side noted that it was a coping mechanism. He hadn’t seen an uninfected person in over a month, and even that guy had been too skittish to do more than flinch and run away.
He was walking through a countryside populated with living dead that wanted to feast on his flesh. Imaginary conversations with inanimate objects seemed reasonable, considering. “I’m not painting faces on volleyballs, at least,” he confided to his quiet friend.
Sandy unzipped the top of his backpack and drew out a battered camp lantern. He didn’t use it much. It was too bright, and depended on a loud wind-up mechanism rather than replaceable batteries. The interior of the RV was perfect for it, though. He cranked for a bit and set it on the table in front of his new friend.
With the extra light, he was able to make out the stained bullet holes on the lower hem of the body’s plaid shirt. “They got you good, huh, bud? Buddy,” he added, with a crooked grin.
That’s what I get for skipping that toll booth, huh?
“You’re a smart ass, Buddy.” Sandy panned the flashlight around the interior and found a vent window in the ceiling. He reached up and popped it open. Without any electricity to drive any fans it would take a while to air the place out, but it would be better than nothing. “And no offense, but you smell.”
Guessing it’s been a while since your last shower, too, chief.
“You’ve got me there.” Sandy stepped over to the cabinets and opened one up. “Jackpot.” Neat rows of canned goods filled the cabinet. As he went through the others, he found varieties and quantities far beyond what he would be able to carry.
Help yourself.
“Appreciate it.” Sandy started pulling cans down and checking the labels as he went. He’d prioritize the protein-heavy stuff like chili and corned beef hash and leave most of the vegetables. Canned fruit was a nice treat, though, so he made another stack on the counter. He had a few jars of multi-vitamins, but every little bit helped.
He sat down across from Buddy with a can of pineapple rings and opened up a creased road atlas. He found the US 54 crossing and grunted in thought as he pulled the tab on the can of fruit. “You never realize how big this country is until you have to walk across it.” Sandy took a swig of pineapple juice. It was lukewarm, but it was still the best thing he’d tasted in days. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and sighed. “I had a bike, but I had to ditch it. Easier on foot. I’ve been avoiding the major population centers, but there are plenty of roamers out and about.” Sandy drew a line with his finger. “My plan was, stay away from the big cities, make it to the Great Plains, and head north. Montana or Wyoming maybe.”
Sounds cold.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “but the further north you go, the lower the population density. Less infected. I hope. And they aren’t as frisky in the winter.” He hooked a piece of pineapple out of the can and into his mouth. “Where were you headed, Buddy?”
You know, I can’t quite remember.
Sandy rolled his eyes. “I’m betting you were thinking something the same. But you got shot, and by the time you got here, the bridge was out.”
Buddy grinned. The lantern was starting to dim, so Sandy picked it up and cranked on it for a bit. As he did, he glanced at the bench seat next to the corpse.
“You’re packing some heat, friend.”
He put the lantern back and grabbed the shotgun off the bench. He wasn’t much of a gun guy, but he’d seen his fair share of movies. The weapon didn’t have a shoulder stock, just a pistol grip. He fiddled with the pump-action, frowning when it refused to move. The safety catch was simple enough, but—ah! He found a small tab on the side, near where his thumb rested. He pressed it, and the slide released. He ejected a fresh shell onto the table. Careful to keep his finger away from the trigger, he flipped the shotgun over and found the slot where fresh shells went and loaded it back in.
Be careful with that, bro.
“I will,” Sandy promised. “You got any other goodies stashed away?”
Chapter 3
March 11, 2026
Camp Perry, Ohio
Z-Day + 3,066
Civilization lay on the ash heap of history. Meetings had somehow endured.
General Dennis Vincent, USMC, considered the irony of that aspect of his life as he settled into his chair and studied the two men standing on the other side of his desk.
“Damn fine work in Cincy, boys.” He slouched a bit and let the corners of his mouth draw down. “I’m truly sorry about Janacek. He was a fine young man and he’ll be impossible to replace.” Humanity itself stood on the brink of extinction. Navy SEALs had been rare before the outbreak wave.
The two surviving members of Team 8 thanked the general in a subdued chorus. The time for tears had passed, but the loss was still raw.
“Please sit, sit,” the General said. Chief Petty Officer Gus Foraker and Lieutenant Michael Ross took the indicated chairs. Neither man looked comfortable—the hulking chief due to the chair complaining under his mass, Ross because of the unexpected casualness of the debrief.
For a moment, General Vincent sat in thought, considering the two men in front of him, and what they represented. Before the outbreak, the staffing levels of the various Naval Special Warfare teams had numbered a bit over 8,000 men. Eight years later, there were less than a hundred, spread across several island outposts and their first base of operations in the continental United States. The outbreak had hit the special operations elements of the Marine Corps just as hard, but by virtue of their larger size—while admittedly being not quite as elite—more of them had made it to this point.
If there was a bright side to the casualties from almost a decade of constant fighting, it was that the experience had polished the rough edges smooth on all the troops whether they be Army, Navy, or Marine.
“You and I both know you gu
ys could use some R&R. I’d love to be able to give it to you, but I can’t. I’ve got too many irons in the fire and I need our best out there to make sure we don’t crash and burn. Despite that, I also know that we need replacements, badly. Now that we’re starting to establish a stateside foothold, we can actually free up some excess manpower to build rather than maintain. Which is why Admiral Kanapkey and I would like the two of you to conduct a candidate search for purposes of training up a new generation of SEALs.”
“It makes sense, sir,” Ross agreed after a moment of consideration. “If we’re going to keep moving forward, at some point, we need to replenish the ranks. Your Marines have been doing it for some time.”
“Correct. And I know there may be issues, but the admiral and I have both discussed allowing Marines to test for transfer. Put together a list of suggestions for an instructor group and we’ll open it up to applications. We want to be able to backfill the openings in the ground force with new civilian volunteers. At the very least, we shouldn’t have to teach them how to fight if they’ve survived this long.”
Foraker grinned. “I know that I would enjoy showing some Marines the ropes, General.”
Vincent favored the SEALs with a crooked smile. “Well, along those lines, I do have a mission for you gentlemen before we get into the training. Plus it will give you an opportunity to assess some of the more experienced Marines.” He opened a desk drawer and drew out a plain manila folder stuffed with a sheaf of papers. In the old days, he mused, he’d have restricted such an op plan to secure areas, taped up with classification warnings. Now, there was no point. Although, if the infected continued to evolve, they might have to go back to that philosophy. Happy thought, Dennis. He handed the folder over. “Take the rest of the evening to look it over. Lieutenant, I’d like your notes and suggestions on my desk by 0900 tomorrow.”
Ross cocked his head to one side and seemed to stare off into space. “If I may, sir,” the SEAL mused. “It might be better if I was not in overall command of the mission, particularly if most of the personnel are Marines.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Well, sir, I know we’re light on officers, but I heard you’ve added a new one to the fold. He has quite a bit of both pre-outbreak combat experience and post-outbreak survival skills.”
“You’re talking about Matthews.”
“I am, General. We weren’t there for the battle, but scuttlebutt goes that he pretty much led the entire effort himself.”
“It has some merit,” Vincent admitted. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll feel him out, Lieutenant. If he’s game, he can assume operational command with you attached to the team. I’m sure he’ll lean on you. And not being responsible for leading the mission should free up some opportunities for you to make some candidate assessments.”
“Yes, sir.” Ross and Foraker stood and saluted. “I’ll have those op notes on your desk bright and early, General.”
“Dismissed, gentlemen.”
April 4, 2018
Southwestern Illinois
Z-Day + 168
The next morning, Sandy came awake at a slow, relaxed pace that he’d become unaccustomed to in the past few months. Snatches of sleep caught here and there while being on guard for ravening infected was hardly prescriptive for good rest. He’d needed it—his watch and the angle of the sun proclaimed that it was a bit shy of noon. He’d slept for almost sixteen hours straight.
Before he’d turned in for the night he’d made a quiet but thorough search of the RV. It had turned out to be a veritable treasure trove, and all the while he’d been half-wondering just what it was Buddy had done before the outbreak. Sandy hadn’t found drugs or anything overtly illegal, but the shotguns, multiple boxes of ammunition, Tasers, and other equipment he couldn’t immediately identify alluded to something above and beyond the average camper.
Whatever the case, it was far more than Sandy could carry. He’d stocked up on a single shotgun and plenty of shells. The plethora of food allowed him to pick and choose. There was still plenty left, and he left the cabinets empty and stashed the rest under the bed. If he had to come back this way, at least he’d have some cached supplies and a secure place to rest.
Munching on a granola bar, Sandy folded a creased road atlas to center on his current location and considered his options. He was a decent swimmer, and any office pudge he’d carried before the outbreak was long gone. But no way was he going to try and swim the Mississippi. The smaller creeks and rivers he’d crossed on the way had been bad enough, and the one thing he hadn’t found in the RV were trash bags that he could have used to waterproof some of his gear.
In the end, it came down to population density. St. Louis was south. There were towns to the north, but there wasn’t anything quite as big for a while. Big populations meant more infected. Sandy thought about the lab and shuddered. He’d barely made it out of…
“Over and done, over and done.” He muttered. “Just gotta keep movin’ on.” He looked up. “Need to leave you here. Sorry, Buddy.”
The corpse wasn’t quite as talkative in the daytime.
“Yeah, well, thanks for the hospitality,” Sandy said. He zipped up his coat and hoisted his backpack up onto his shoulders. The sudden weight of a newly-full pack came as a surprise, and it took his balance a moment to adjust.
Despite the newfound-shotgun, his softball bat was still his weapon of choice. He’d shoved the firearm down one pouch of the backpack and closed the zippers around it. It would hold the gun steady, but if it came to it, he needed only to reach up and draw it out.
It was trickier getting the bar back on from the outside, but he managed it, then tucked the bent antenna behind one of the RV’s wheels. Maybe someone would come along behind him and find the supplies, and maybe not, but either way, he had a good place to hole up in if he had to make a run for it.
The river had no beach to speak of on the eastern side. North of the marina, the trees went right down to the waterline. Leery to force himself into close quarters and limit his line of sight, Sandy stepped back to the main road and backtracked for a bit. The first street heading north ended up curving into a private boat ramp north of the marina, but there was a rough dirt and gravel road that continued north after the turn-off. The rough going forced Sandy to slow his walk down to a leisurely stroll, but he didn’t mind. The air was still and the midday sun beat down hard enough that sweat began to drip down his face.
Need to track down a hat or something, he mused. Something rustled in the trees to his left, and he froze, taking up the Easton in both hands. After a moment, the rustle repeated itself, but faster, and moving away. A raccoon or something, he judged. Infected moved a lot slower and never, ever ran away.
The sudden boom of gunfire made Sandy gasp, and he bolted for the trees. He almost stumbled in the underbrush, but he got among the trees and hit the ground.
Gunfire boomed again, and he realized that it wasn’t directed at him. With a frown, he eased up off the ground and peered in the direction of the noise. He saw the glint on window glass, and he heard the vague sound of shouting.
Despite himself, Sandy crept forward on his hands and knees. The trees thinned out and gave him a better view, but it also meant that he was more visible. His bright red windbreaker was hardly effective camouflage. He spotted a fallen tree close to the road and crawled behind it. Peering over the top, he was able to see a grouping of vehicles clustered around a glass-walled building. He wasn’t able to make out the entire building, though—there was a strange white blur surrounding the glass. With the sudden lack of gunfire, he heard vague shouts.
“…have anything!”
“Come in and see…”
“…you!”
“…next time!”
Doors slammed and engines turned over. The noise rose, and Sandy ducked back down behind the tree. He had the vague sense of tan and olive drab vehicles whipping by until the sound of their passage faded into the distance.
; He lay there and tried to figure his next move. With that much noise, any infected in the area were bound to home in. So, he needed to get to cover. Heading back to Buddy’s RV seemed like a bad idea. Who knew how far the vehicles were going. With the good luck he’d had last night, it was bound to turn at some point. Better not push it. He looked over the log again at the glass windows.
Sandy swallowed and took a deep breath. Whether it was the months without human contact or the need to know, he stood in a convulsive fashion and shucked out of his backpack. He didn’t know what sort of resources these people had, but it seemed prudent to him to not appear to be too well-off.
He pulled a rolled-up duffel bag out of his backpack and took a few minutes to shift his supplies of canned food and a few other bits of gear inside. He left himself a couple of odds and ends that an ordinary traveler on the road might have—best not seem too ill-prepared lest he been as a beggar. The shotgun might be too much, though, he judged after a moment of consideration. He secured the weapon inside and wedged the duffel bag sideways underneath the fallen tree after zipping it shut. He collected some loose greenery and tore down a few branches to serve as temporary camouflage, making note of the location in his head.
He considered leaving the pistol behind but decided against it. He didn’t want to seem too defenseless. The bat, he kept. At this point, it was practically a lucky charm. If they forced him to submit to a search, he’d have little more than some extra clothes to lose.
Sandy could have picked his way north through the trees, but he didn’t want to spook the people up ahead more than they already were liable to be. He stepped back into the center of the road and resumed his slow stroll up the lane. The sun glittered off the windows of the elevated building. It seemed a strange, out-of-the-way place to put an office, but as he got closer he realized the strange white lumps surrounding the structure were the hulls of boats. The raised plot pitched at a high grade, putting the building a good six feet above the floodplain. With their hulls up, the lines of upside-down boats added a few more feet of slick surface to that barrier.
A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2) Page 3
