by Hoaks, C. A.
“Time to start recruiting for this man’s army.” Griggs laughed. “About time we quit running.”
“Get me a map of the area,” Bishop ordered.
Two minutes later, Griggs spread a detailed Texas map out on the table. Both men studied the roads and surrounding countryside.
Bishop pointed his finger to an intersection. “We’re here. We’re heading north and connect with 470, then west.”
Griggs nodded. “And then, sir?”
“Going to a little town called Utopia. I was through there once. It will be readily defensible we can set up a pretty sweet deal and use the people that live there. Small town folks shouldn’t be a problem when we roll in and take over.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye out for a few good men.” Griggs laughed.
Bishop scowled. “I want you to take four men plus those two dipshits and go after Hill’s squad. I want ‘em dead.” After a moment, he added, “If you have any trouble with those two, morons cut ‘em loose. Permanently.”
“Yes, sir.” Griggs gave a crisp salute.
“We roll out of here at dawn,” Bishop added. “We’ll leave one of the Strykers and a driver so you can follow if you don’t make it back in time.”
Griggs called out to the four men that would go with him. He reached in the Stryker and retrieved two radios from the unit. He tossed one to a man after setting the frequency.
“Smith, you stay here, and if I call, you bring the Stryker.” He clipped the radio to his belt. “The rest of you, gear up. We got six deserters to take care of.”
One of the two remaining men from Hill’s squad asked, “What about us?”
Griggs glared at the two men. “You’re either part of the problem or part of the solution.” He pulled rifles and ammo from the Stryker. “Two days rations. You got five minutes.” Not bothering to wait for the men scrambling to gather weapons and supplies, he headed out through the trees.
Bishop and the rest of the soldiers prepared to bed down until dawn. When Smith was left standing alone by the Stryker, he climbed inside the vehicle and closed the door. He wanted nothing to do with Griggs, but he didn’t have the nerve to sneak away like Hill and her squad. Smith made a bed of blankets in the back and pulled a magazine from his pack. He’d have to leave the vehicle when it got hot, but for now, he thumbed through the glossy pages of the magazine ignoring Bishop and his crazy shit.
The men quickly followed Griggs. He studied the gound and began walking into the forest all the while watching the ground for signs. It was easy enough to follow the six deserters where they raced into the woods. They had run single-file through the dark. It was obvious, the four men and two women had been desperate to get away from the camp and had been careless. There were broken branches and turned stones, so tracking was no problem.
The shadows cast by the ridges of the footprints grew long and stood out in the dawning light of morning. Griggs set a pace that quickly drew ragged gasps from the men following him. With a grunt of disgust, he finally slowed his pace and continued pursuit at a pace they could manage without his men falling behind.
The sun climbed higher in the sky making shadows shorten. By midday, the footsteps no longer were visible at all. Finally, Griggs called a halt. It had been a quarter mile since the last sign.
With sunrise, Griggs realized the deserters were suddenly obscuring their passing. The easy tracking had been a ruse. The fugitives had backtracked in a quarter mile circle that had passed through a creek bed then entered the shallow stream. Their tracks merged with the old tracks, and suddenly Griggs realized his mistake. All he could do was follow the creek and hope he found where they left the stream bed. He followed the stream for nearly a mile before he stopped and looked around.
Griggs reached into his pack for a bottle of water. One of the men following bent over clutching his knees breathlessly. Another man collapsed on the bank, exhausted. The remaining four took the time to hydrate but overall looked no better than the rest.
Griggs capped his bottle, then looked off in the distance. Through the trees, he could see bright rays of sun on an asphalt roadway. “Move out!” he ordered as he walked toward the road.
When the group cleared the tree line, Griggs saw a multitude of footprints alongside the road. Some of the prints in the dirt were made by shoes, while others by bare feet. He noticed several puddles of a dark oily sludge mixed in the soil at the edge of the road or on the asphalt. When he stepped closer, he caught a whiff of decay and rot. He swallowed the bile rising at the back of his throat.
“Infected. Must be a couple dozen of ‘em,” Griggs announced. The corner of his mouth tilted up in a malicious grin. If they had a herd of the infected after them, this was going to be good. “Double time. We got a show to watch!”
The first shots could be heard less than ten minutes later. Griggs forced the team into double time despite the hardship being caused by the harsh pace. Heavy boots echoed on the asphalt as they chased the shimmering waves of heat. The sun glared off the blacktop, making the soldiers squint against the glare. The road made a sharp curve to the left and disappeared behind a stand of trees. The gunfire rose in volume, then fell silent. Orders were being shouted by a gravelly voice that was obviously not military.
Griggs and the team drew up short when they rounded the curve and saw a dozen men surrounded by at least two dozen of the infected. The men fighting the dead were dressed in diverse versions of motorcycle garb. Black leather, patch adorned jackets, and chains spoke volumes. They used machetes and a variety of handheld weapons to kill the infected one at a time.
“Well, well, well…” Griggs shouted. “You boys seem to be in a pickle.”
“Fuck you!” the gravelly voice cursed as he swung a tire iron at an infected man’s head. The blow was glancing and slid off the side of the dead man’s head taking a patch of scalp with it. The monster stumbled, then righted himself and reached for the man again.
“We can help you boys out, or we can just stand here and watch. Up to you,” Griggs called out over the grunts and curses.
“Come on, man. We’re out of ammo,” A man begged.
“This man’s army is looking for some new recruits,” Griggs bellowed. “You boys interested in signing up?”
The bikers were outnumbered, and the infected pressed their advantage and grabbed at one of the bikers that took a step too far from his comrades. He stumbled, and two monsters grabbed his arm. He was pulled from the group and disappeared into a clutch of flesh eaters. His screams had lasted nearly a full minute before he fell silent.
The leader shouted in rage, “Fuck! Yes, damn it. Whatever! Kill these fuckers, before I lose any more men!”
Griggs laughed and shouted above the din, “All you boys signing up?”
With a shout to the affirmative, Griggs turned to his men. “Handguns. Let’s clean house.”
Without hesitation, six men in uniform spread out behind the infected, took aim and fired. With the sound of gunfire, several of the infected took notice and turned toward the soldiers. The soldiers shot, again before they could move.
Griggs raised his hand. “No need to waste ammo, men.”
After taking a moment to realize the soldiers would not be finishing off the monsters, the bikers attacked the last three. A moment later, the leader walked to his recently deceased companion and drove a tire iron through his left eyes socket. When only bikers and soldiers remained, they spent a long minute glaring each other.
The leader stepped to the front of the riders and snorted. “This man says we’ve joined his army?”
Griggs held the handgun pointed toward the leader. “You boys wouldn’t be considering reneging on your recruitment package, now would you?”
“Hell no. You boys got ammo and probably have access to a lot more. The name’s Will Ryder,” the leader laughed. “Just know we ain’t the marching kind.”
Griggs walked up to Ryder and stuck out his hand. “Neither is this man’s army.”
Ryder laughed and slapped the back of the biker standing next to him. “My boys need a little R & R. We’ve been kicking ass and pissing on the nameless.” He walked to a black bike and opened the saddlebag. He retrieved a strip of dried beef and tore a mouthful off.
“Have you boys seen any more soldiers? We’re looking for half a dozen deserters,” Griggs asked.
Ryder looked at his men, then laughed. “If they were anywhere ahead of us, they might be walking, but they’re not alive. We ran into the main body about half a mile back.” He pointed at two of the dead, both wore remnants of military garb matching that of the men in front of him. Both were badly mangled on their faces making a visual identification impossible.
“These buddies of yours?”
Griggs walked over to the bodies and kicked the first to its back. He looked down and studied the gnarled features. Finding facial features amid the mass of torn flesh was hard. The camo t-shirt bore no name, and since no roster had been taken of the survivors at the roadside park, it was impossible to tell by just looking at the bodies.
One of the soldiers stepped up to Grigg’s side and pointed to the second body. “This one could be Bailey. It’s about the right size, but the face is so chewed up…. Dog tags are gone so can’t be sure.”
Griggs turned to the man. “Hicks, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Hicks answered.
“You better be right.” Griggs grinned. He pulled the radio from his belt and spoke into the device, then turned to Ryder. “You and your men clear the road. We’ll be resting here while we wait for our ride.”
Griggs walked back from the pile of bodies, to a stand of trees. He dropped his pack from his back and settled on a fallen tree amid the new growth. His men followed suit.
Hicks sat down a few feet from Griggs. “You think they’ll come?”
Griggs shrugged. “They’re out of ammo. No skin off my nose, either way. It was worth it knowing Hall’s team is dead bait.” He laughed. “Only regret, I didn’t get a piece of ass off that bitch.”
Ryder and his men stood amid the bodies and watched the soldiers walk away.
“So what’s the plan?” one of the men whispered. “Kill ém?”
Chapter 9
Windfall
Southwest Storage provided a trailer that was not specifically for container transport but would do, with a little bit of redneck ingenuity, according to PFC Dreschel. Matt accepted his assurances. He could make it work. Now the caravan of Humvee, crane truck and two big rigs with trailers made their way toward the abandoned train.
Matt’s hands were shaking as he dodged the Humvee around half a dozen infected at the intersection. He needed a drink. He reached between the seats and spun the cap from a glass bottle. He grabbed the bottleneck, brought it to his lips, and took a long pull at the amber liquid. He recapped the bottle and slid it back between the cushions. He relished the warmth reaching his belly. He wanted more, but he needed to keep a clear head, and that was the only thing that held him back.
He glanced up at the rearview mirror and saw Dreschel go out of his way to roll over a walking corpse stumbling down the roadway.
“Damned kid acts like it’s a game,” Matt mumbled to himself.
The trip to the train took nearly an hour where a five-mile stretch of road ran parallel to the track. Matt saw a tractor and trailer had jackknifed, blocking both lanes of the narrow road. He could see the end of the train in the distance, but the wreck was in the way. Can’t any of this shit ever be easy? He picked up the mic. “There’s a road block ahead,” Matt announced.
“That wasn’t there the last time I was out here,” Jake’s voice answered.
Matt ordered, “Don’t anyone move. I’m gonna check it out.”
He drove closer to the trailer and stopped the Humvee. Opening the door, he stepped out of the vehicle with a quick glance down at the bottle. Ignoring the JD with a sigh, he reached across the seat to grab his rifle before settling a boony hat on his head. He clipped the radio to his waist, then pressed the transmit button and ordered, “Stay put until I can figure out what’s going on.”
Matt stepped away from the vehicle and made a quick scan of the area. To the left, the train track rose above the roadbed, the expanse between covered with a tangle of briars and vines. He looked to the right and noticed an old tangle of barbed wire fencing separating the roadside from the woods beyond. There wouldn’t be any surprises running from the woods. He walked toward the big rig studying the mishap. As he got closer, he could see a fuel spill from a ruptured gas tank, skid marks, and twisted metal. The smell of gasoline hung heavy in the air. He scanned the area looking for the drivers but saw no movement. He walked to the trailer and checked the door, the seal was still intact. He wondered what was inside, but decided against opening a locked door right away. He stepped around the end of the trailer and saw a second tractor wedged into the apex of the jack-knifed tractor and trailer. He looked in the cab of the jackknifed tractor and saw a body slumped against the windshield. He turned to walk away when there was a slap on the glass windshield. He turned back and saw a bloody handprint of the shattered glass. Matt stepped closer. The windshield was a spider web of lines. Matt leaned toward the fractured glass and tried to look into the cab, but could see nothing inside. He tapped the glass, and a bloodied hand slid down the inside of the glass. The hand fell back leaving a bloody hand print. Matt jumped back, stumbling against the hood. “What the fuck?” he cursed. He pulled the radio from his belt and pressed a button on the side of the unit. “There’s a second rig in front of the tractor and trailer. Got movement inside.”
“Live or dead?” Jake asked. “Want me to come up?”
“Stay put. I’ve got it,” Matt answered. “We’re gonna have to do something to get the rigs and trailer off the road to get to the track.”
“I can move them out of the way with the crane,” Dreschel announced.
“Give me a minute,” Matt responded. “Let me check it out first.”
“Make it quick, or I’m heading up there,” Jake called out.
Matt walked to the front of the bright orange cab and noticed a spray of bullet holes across the front of the grill including the front tires causing the accident. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the glint of shell casings spread across the asphalt. It looked like two or three dozen casings. Someone had sprayed the front of both rigs with bullets. The shredded front tires had caused the driver of the orange rig to lose control.
The second truck must have been moving fast when the driver slammed on the breaks and jack-knifed wrapping itself around the first. Matt looked at the bullet-riddled, windshield and blood-splattered interior with the body hanging through the shattered glass and knew no help was needed there.
Matt looked through the orange truck’s windshield and saw a Mossberg he could scavenge and decided to take a chance. He propped his rifle against the hood of the rig then used the brush guard to climb up to the side of the cab and make his way across the hood to the door. Once balanced on the door, he looked through the closed window for movement inside the darkened cab. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and pointed the beam into the gloom. He saw a pile of bedding including a foam mattress resting on the passenger door. He tapped on the window.
The pile of debris moved, and a bloodied hand slid from under the clutter. A hoarse whisper called out, “Don’t shoot….”
“Hang on. We’re gonna help you.” Matt pocketed the penlight and clicked the radio. “Got a survivor! Jake, come give me a hand.”
A moment later, Jake climbed to the side of the cab. Matt pulled at the door handle, but it was locked. Jake used a tire iron to the shatter the window. He reached inside and released the lock, then pulled the door open.
“How do you know it’s not a deader?” Jake asked.
“He's talking,” Matt answered as he lowered his legs into the cab. He stepped on the center console, then reached down to pull the foam mat from the pile resting on the door.
The response made Matt wonder about the wisdom of crawling into such a tight enclosure and not knowing if the person was dying or not.
“You need to talk to me, so I know you won’t eat my face, dude,” Matt commented.
The weak voice came back, “I don’t kiss on the first date.”
“It’s a fucking woman!” Matt blurted out as he shoved debris back into the void of the big rig’s sleeper. He got his first glimpse of the person crumpled at the bottom.
“Glad you’re smart enough to know the difference,” the voice whispered hoarsely.
Jake roared with laughter from above. “At least this time.”
With the last of the cab’s contents moved, Matt could see the woman’s head with short spiked dark brown hair with orange tips. A dried streak of blood from a gash in her forehead mingled with clumps of hair was plastered to her forehead.
The woman reached out, and Matt pulled her to her feet. When standing she was nearly as tall as him. She leaned against the dash, clutching the steering wheel overhead to steady herself. Matt got a better look at the white wife-beater undershirt that displayed a trim and well-muscled body. With her arm extended overhead, he got his first glimpse of a tattoo on her shoulder.
“Well, soldier, are you going to help me up there or are you just going to stand there gawking at my tits?” The woman asked with more than a hint of annoyance.
“Sorry.” He stepped back to allow her to step up on the console, then pushed her up toward the opened door overhead into Jakes waiting arms.
Jake pulled her through the opening and Matt watched through the shattered windshield, as Jake helped her to the ground. When her shirt pulled up, he could see the tattoo continued down her back and trailed down her left arm with a brightly colored vine of tropical flowers. At her shoulder, green eyes of black cat glowered at Matt.
