A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  “Bingo,” the other man said. “Grab this.” He passed out a bundle of rolled up material. “They use these straps for towing stuck vehicles and holding down cargo. We should be able to lower the gear down under the bridge, and I bet there will be a couple in each truck.”

  Sandy saw what Richard was getting at immediately. “We rig a harness up around one of the crates and use it like an elevator. Who hangs out at the bottom to unload?” He waited a beat, and then he and Richard chorused together. “Jason.”

  The younger man snorted and rubbed his middle finger along the side of his nose. “Both of you can bite me.”

  Sandy grinned, and Richard laughed inside the Humvee. “Let me check and see if there’s any battery life left.” He crawled forward to the front while Sandy cleared a spot on the other Humvee’s window to check it. One of the gunner’s legs hung down a bit from the turret, wrenched out of its socket. He shuddered and wondered if that had happened before or after the soldier had committed suicide. He’d never seen any evidence that the infected were carrion eaters—the main purpose of the bite instinct was to propagate the infection, but maybe the swarm, riled up by the sounds of battle, had gone into some sort of frenzy.

  As soon as he considered the possibility, he decided he never wanted to have the opportunity to find out. Some things were better left unknown.

  Richard stuck his head out and reported, “The batteries don’t have enough juice to fire up the engine, but the gauges are no problem. You guys check the other two for straps and gear and I’ll get these pulled out. We’ll haul them across and charge them up tonight.”

  “How much gas?” Sandy wondered.

  “Bit more than a quarter of a tank. We’ll bring a siphon over tomorrow with the charged batteries and see if we can get this beast to crank. One of them has to work. We figure out which one, that’s our ride.”

  Sandy grimaced at the thought of trying to start an engine before having the way clear, but he couldn’t think of any alternative. Even if they had more hands, it would take them hours to clear out the mess in front of the barricade. Maybe that was time they shouldn’t take. The longer they were out beyond the walls, and the more noise they made, the bigger the risk that the infected might stumble upon them.

  He nudged Jason and said, “Let’s get to it so we can get out of here.”

  The younger man nodded. “I’m right there with you.”

  Chapter 12

  March 12, 2026

  Forward Operating Base Hope—Southwestern Indiana

  Z-Day + 3,067

  Charlie figured he was in the right place when he walked up on the line of trucks with Marines milling about. His casual clothing stood out in contrast to the camouflage fatigues and body armor the troops wore but was no less of a uniform for the difference.

  Faced with an unknown situation on the opposite coast, Charlie had fallen back on the gear that had served him through countless salvage runs—hiking boots, heavy Carhartt work pants, and a black leather jacket. The clothing was well-worn, broken-in, and comfortable.

  The only real difference with this load-out compared to what he usually took on runs was the sheer quantity. As Pete had suggested, he’d packed plenty of spare clothes. That filled out the majority of the volume in his backpack, but the lion’s share of the weight was due to the ammunition he was hauling. He doubted that the Marines would have .44 Magnum on hand, so he’d brought every round for his Marlin lever-action that he could scrape up.

  He supposed he could have switched over to one of the Marine M4s, but he saw no reason to change now when he hadn’t done it before. Up in the Crow’s Nest, the old rifle had saved his bacon, while Pete’s rounds had bounced right off the shamblers’ heads as often as they punched through. The big lever-action was anything but quiet, but he had his Bowie knife in a hip scabbard and a Glock with a suppressor if the situation called for stealth.

  Nodding to a couple of Marines who gave him curious looks, Charlie joined the waiting throng and set his bag down on the ground.

  After he’d thrown his stuff into a bag, Charlie had made his way to the clinic. He’d agonized each step of the way over how to explain the situation to Frannie, then bounced mentally back and forth over whether or not it even mattered. It wasn’t like they were married. What was he supposed to say—thanks for the first date, I’m leaving for a couple of months? There was potential in the relationship, or at least he thought so, but that was a pretty long delay to overcome in a nascent courtship.

  In the end, his debate was pointless. As soon as he’d walked inside wearing his salvage outfit, Frannie had known—he’d seen the worry flash across her face. That expression more than anything else had made him second-guess his promise to Pete, and the speech he’d practiced on the walk died on his lips as he moved to her side.

  “The night wasn’t that bad, was it?” Frannie said, finally.

  Charlie laughed, though there was a nervous hint to it. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it was one of the best I’ve had in a long time.”

  She looked over his equipment. “You know the rumor mill. It’s short on details, but I figured something was up when Pete came back. Can you tell me anything?”

  “California,” Charlie said simply.

  Frannie’s eyebrows went up a couple of notches. “Well, I’ll say one thing. When you take off, you take off.”

  “On the bright side, we’re not driving. So I should—” He stopped and corrected himself. “I’ll be back in a couple of months.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Charlie Maddox.”

  Surprised, he said, “It’s like that?”

  “Yeah.” She got on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “It’s like that.”

  In a crowd but alone, Charlie couldn’t help but smile at the memory of that kiss. Her acceptance and understanding were more than he felt that he deserved, and while he was still second-guessing his choice to leave, he knew that it was for a good reason, if not a good cause.

  “Silent Charlie!”

  He turned and saw the short Marine from lunch the other day. “Hey, Del Arroz,” he nodded.

  “So, you got drafted into this movable feast, huh?”

  Charlie grinned. “Worse. I volunteered.”

  “Ouch, brother! Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to volunteer for anything?”

  “I guess I missed that lesson, Sergeant.”

  The other man stuck out a hand. “Jon.” Charlie shook it, and the Marine nodded at his rifle. “Kickin’ it old school, huh?”

  Charlie winked. “I like a bullet that doesn’t bounce off, what can I say?”

  “Ouch, again.” Jon winced. “Don’t remind me.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, I’ve got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “Your new handle, not-so-silent Charlie. I hereby dub thee ‘Chuck Connors.’”

  Charlie frowned. “Is that the tennis shoe guy?”

  “Naw, man, that’s the freaking Rifleman, brother. Had a lever-action just like that.”

  He snorted in amusement, then shrugged. “What can I say? Works for me.”

  Over toward the line of trucks, he heard a voice yell, “Load up.”

  Del Arroz slapped Charlie on the shoulder. “Let’s saddle up, Chuck. Time for a sea cruise.”

  April 5, 2018

  Southwestern Illinois

  Z-Day + 169

  Richard’s joking aside, Sandy’s first MRE wasn’t too bad. If anything, it was a little surreal to open the little pouch and find all the little goodies and treats crammed inside. He’d always had a sweet tooth, and after months with processed sugar, the little package of dessert candies was almost too sweet.

  With the crew of survivors well-fed over consecutive meals for the first time in who knew how long, the group split up. Pat and Stacy corralled their children into one of the tents in hope of getting them to sleep.

  The other four survivors moved to the windowless service area at the rear of the dealership and began preparations fo
r the next stage of the plan. A small generator hummed none-too-quietly to provide power to a few portable work lights and a portable jump starter. Richard had the first battery from the Humvee connected and charging while its companion waited nearby for its own turn.

  The generator made Sandy nervous, but outside of the building it was almost inaudible. In a still world, noise carried much further, but Pat and the others who’d stayed behind had reported no sightings of infected that day while they’d been across the river.

  Did all the infected in the immediate vicinity gone into the river? Of course, when the raiders returned, they would likely have another group trailing behind, but for now, the area seemed clear—which made it as good a time as any to conduct a mission that might require them to get loud.

  While Jason and Richard cursed and tried to wrestle the outboard back onto the Ranger, Sandy worked with Kendra to strip down and assess the weapons they’d collected and brought back. He chided himself for his surprise, but she demonstrated a range of knowledge that he himself didn’t possess. This lack of familiarity was one reason why he’d only scrounged up a pistol. He’d never fired a rifle, much less one of the military-issue ones the dead Guard members used.

  “These pins here and here are spring-loaded,” Kendra explained as she indicated the pertinent points. “Pop them out to the stop, and then the upper and lower receivers will split.”

  She opened the first rifle and waved the part with the grip and stock. “This is your lower assembly. Not many moving parts in here, so most of these should be good if they’re not bent.” She nodded toward one weapon in the stack that must have served as a bludgeon—the metal tube that supported the collapsing shoulder stock was bent thirty degrees out of true.

  Sandy shuddered at the thought. They’d found plenty of ammunition. If the situation had forced one of the soldiers to go hand-to-hand, it must have been dire, indeed.

  They’d recovered seventeen rifles in all. Some of them could have walked away on the backs of reanimated owners, or perhaps some of the men hadn’t carried them, but the math was simple—most likely, two dozen or fewer soldiers held the crossing in the face of unfathomable odds.

  It had been a lifetime ago, in more ways than one, but the anti-war protests that had consumed the latter years of his college life leaped to the forefront of his mind. He’d marched and screamed about wars and the men and women such as the ones who’d stood and died on the bridge. His reasons had been pure, more often than not, but he felt a great sense of shame in how he’d misjudged the honor of the soldier archetype. Sandy and his contemporaries had envisioned a force of cowards, blindly following orders for little more than a paycheck.

  If it was all about a paycheck, would the troops on the bridge have held?

  Could he have? Faced with the fully-realized terror that lay decaying, would he have been able to stand, or would he have turned and run? He’d felt safer on the bridge in the knowledge that there was always the water. How far would the assault have progressed before his hypothetical self would have decided to go for a swim?

  He pushed the thought aside. Sandy felt certain that he’d not like the answer to that question.

  A pair of fingers snapping near his ear brought him out of his trance. “You still with me, Doc?”

  He jerked his head around and smiled, though it felt strained. “Yeah, sorry. Woolgathering. And it’s Sandy, please.”

  “You got it, Sandy. As I was saying, the lowers should be good for the most part. Let’s go ahead and break everything down, then we’ll take a careful look at the uppers.” She shrugged. “No use getting our hopes up. Some of these things look pretty rough.”

  “Works for me.” He grabbed the next rifle on the stack, popped out the pins, and separated the two assemblies. He held them up with a raised eyebrow for Kendra’s approval, and she gave him a thumbs-up. “Where’d you learn all this stuff, anyway? Military, like Richard?”

  “No, I graduated from college a couple of years ago. My dad is big into target shooting. He used to take Jason and me to the range when we were kids. Start of high school, I got interested in three-gun.” He gave her a quizzical look, and she laughed. “Sorry, forgot you were a neophyte. That’s a competition shooting course using a pistol, shotgun, and rifle. I’ve been building AR-platform rifles with my dad for six, seven years now.” She got a wistful look on her face. “Most of my stuff was at my parents’ house. Been kicking myself since October. I started working here as a favor to Pat after graduation. The plan was to find something in Colorado near my folks, but Jason moved in with me when he started school at SLU. The years kind of slip by, you know?”

  Sandy thought about the path of his own life and nodded in agreement. “That they do.”

  Kendra shone a flashlight beam down the barrel of the first upper receiver and grimaced. “Here, look at this.”

  It took him a minute, but he figured out the proper angle to shine the light inside while looking to make out the interior of the barrel. He started to ask what he was looking for, but then he saw it. A distortion on one side bulged out into a crack. “Wow. What does that?”

  “Fire long enough and the barrel starts getting hot. Keep firing, and the heat builds. The metal becomes soft, sags out of true. I bet that was a pretty exciting failure. The bullet blew out the side of the barrel there.”

  Sandy handed it back along with the flashlight. “It’s no good, then?”

  “Well, the barrel’s toast, for sure. But there are a few other things we can take a look at. She slid a solid chunk of metal out of the back end of the upper. She removed a cotter pin with a pair of needle-nose pliers and deftly pulled the chunk of metal apart into several pieces. “This is the bolt carrier group. Couple of pretty critical pieces in here—firing pin, extractor, gas key. We’re lucky,” she observed as she wiped the pieces down with a rag, “it’s all in good shape.” She put the pieces back together and slid the pin back in. She set the assembled component on top of the rag and slid it over to his side of the workbench they were using. “Now it’s your turn. Take it apart and put it back together.”

  “Wait, what?”

  Kendra winked at him. “I know, I know. You’ve survived this long on your own. But how much easier would life have been if you had something a bit longer-ranged than a pistol or a softball bat?”

  “There is that,” Sandy admitted. He picked up the pliers and studied the bolt carrier group. “Pin first?”

  “Pin first,” she confirmed. She propped her chin on her hands and leaned her elbows on the table. “Don’t disappoint me, Doctor Big-Brain.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Sandy grinned.

  Chapter 13

  March 12, 2026

  Camp Perry, Ohio

  Z-Day + 3,067

  Ross greeted Pete with a salute and a smile as he hopped down from the MRAP. His butt was singing a tale of woe after spending most of the day bouncing over crumbling roads, but the look-forward to some sack time made up for the dull throb.

  “What’s the good word, Captain?”

  “Major, we’ve got a mission package set up and ready to go.” He handed over a folder. “Our ride will be here at 0700 hours.”

  Pete tabbed the folder open and ran his finger down the list. He cocked an eyebrow at the Navy SEAL and said, “My, my, my. It looks like my last ten Christmas lists.”

  Ross smiled. “Well, Major, the ship will have arms and ammunition we can draw on as well, but I’ve always been a firm believer of having it and not needing it over the alternative.”

  “Roger that.” Pete turned and scanned the crowd of Marines. He picked Master Sergeant McFarlane out of the crowd and waved him over. “Sergeant McFarlane, our ride will be ready at 0700. Captain Ross and Colonel Ellis have got the gear figured out. What do you and your men need from us to get ready?”

  “Sir, give us a few hours for weapons prep and detail, and we’ll be ready to rock.”

  “Fair enough. Once we’re on the ship, we’ll need to figure ou
t some sort of training regimen to stay fresh. Looks like it’s a three-week sail to California. I want the team rested, but I don’t want them to lose their edge.” Pete hoped that McFarlane took the comment as intended and not personally. He still couldn’t read the guy. His face was as stony and expressionless as a sphinx.

  “Aye-aye, sir. We know how we’re getting there, Major?”

  Pete turned to Ross, curious himself. “Who’s playing taxi, Captain?”

  “We’re hitching a ride on the USS Detroit to the Atlantic to hook up with a sub to-be-determined. After that, we shift over to the USS Jack Lucas.”

  Pete raised an eyebrow and McFarlane barked an abbreviated laugh. “Well,” Pete said finally. “I’m the last person you can call superstitious, but a ship named after a Marine is something I would call a damn good sign. How about you, McFarlane?”

  This time, Pete had no trouble reading the other Marine’s expression. His wide grin said it all. “Without a doubt, Major. Without a doubt.”

  April 6, 2018

  On the Mississippi River

  Z-Day + 170

  Sandy caught Kendra looking over her shoulder as Jason guided the Ranger north along the river. After yesterday’s glacial pace, it felt as though they were flying. The outboard motor didn’t even sound all that loud, though he supposed that they were leaving most of the noise behind them. He followed Kendra’s look and said, “They’ll be fine.”

  She turned and met his eyes. He could see that she knew he wasn’t as certain as his words would have indicated. Pat was in no condition to spend a few hours moving bones around under the hot sun, and the kids were too little—too vital a resource, Sandy added mentally—to put to work. Richard had muttered under his breath that Stacy was the twenty-first century version of June Cleaver. And if something happened to Pat, the kids couldn’t handle it on their own, so the four of them were really the best choice to make the crossing. It wasn’t the most comforting solution, but it was the only logical one.