The Passenger (Surviving the Dead)

by James Cook

  Holland nodded and moved off without another word, silently winding through the press of foliage. Ethan was glad he and his men had taken the time to apply face paint and put on digi-cam headscarves. The additional camouflage would increase their chances of avoiding detection. Full body armor and ballistic shields would have been nice as well, but all the extra weight would have slowed them down. They hadn’t even bothered with helmets.

  He checked the riders every few feet as he worked his way over to Cole, but they didn’t give any indication of having spotted him or his men. Ethan could hear the soft clomp of hooves on the spongy ground and the creak of leather from the saddles. In just a few minutes, the riders would be in range.

  “What’s the plan?” Cole asked.

  “Hold position here, and keep those riders covered. I’m going to go out there and get their attention. If they break bad, Holland and Hicks will light ‘em up. You stay in reserve, and don’t open fire unless I tell you to. Okay?”

  Cole frowned, not liking being left out of the action. “All right, man. But just so you know, if you get in trouble I’m a’ bust these motherfuckers up. Orders or not.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Remember, you open up with that SAW and you’re going to bring every infected within five miles down on our heads. Just stay cool, all right? Don’t forget, we’re in the fucking red out here.” Ethan patted him on the arm and began working his way forward to intercept the lead rider.

  Once he was in position, he was less than forty yards away from the horsemen. Keying his radio was a risk at this range, but he had to do it. “Echo, Foxtrot, how copy? Over.”

  Jonas’ rough voice crackled in his ear. “Copy loud and clear, Foxtrot. What’s your sitrep, over.”

  “Three possible hostiles in sight, on horseback, armed, headed toward the U-trac. They’re less than forty meters in front of me, and we’ve got ‘em surrounded, over.”

  “Any chance you can take them alive? Find out who they are and where they’re headed? Over.”

  “Affirmative. Just so you know LT, if there’s three, there’s bound to be more. No way they’d come after the U-trac unless they brought friends with them. You might want to send out a few more patrols. Over.”

  “Acknowledged. Let me know how things work out. Over.”

  “If it goes bad, you’ll know soon enough. We’re less than a mile away. Over.”

  The radio went silent for a few seconds. Ethan could just picture Jonas’ face pinching down and the colorful expletives spewing forth. If there were riders less than a mile away, then the whole platoon was probably in for a fight. “Copy, Foxtrot. Watch yourself, and get those raiders back here in one piece, over.”

  “Wilco. Foxtrot out.”

  He could see the riders clearly now. The one in front was older with gray hair, a grey beard, and a lean, craggy face. He carried a big revolver on one hip and a hunting knife on the other. The edge of a black wide-brimmed Stetson concealed his eyes as he searched the ground along the same path that Hicks had been taking. Following the same tracks, maybe? But why in the other direction?

  The other two men were younger, but not boys by any stretch. Like most men since the Outbreak, they sported long, bushy beards and tied their shaggy hair back under headscarves. They both carried repeating rifles similar to their leader’s. Their clothes looked in good repair, if stained and filthy, and they stared around searchingly, clearly on the lookout for trouble.

  Something about them struck Ethan as not quite right, at least not for marauders. For starters, most raiders armed themselves with scavenged assault weapons. Why would they go after a military transport with lever action repeaters? They had to know that their weapons’ slower rate of fire would be a huge disadvantage against trained soldiers armed with automatic rifles. If that was the best they could do, it was going to be a short fight indeed. Then there was the question of why they were following the tracks. If they were after the transport, why the hell were they taking the time to follow a random trail out in the middle of nowhere? It didn’t make sense.

  When they were finally close enough, Ethan eased his rifle around a tree and called out, “Stop right there.”

  The riders sat up straight and went still, nervous hands tugging at the reins. “Don’t even think about trying to ride away. You’re surrounded. Two snipers have you in their crosshairs, and there’s a machine gun pointed at your horses. Drop your weapons, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The one in the lead lifted his head and pushed back the brim of his hat. Unlike his two companions, his face was stoic and unconcerned. “And just who the hell might you be?” he asked.

  “Staff Sergeant Ethan Thompson, United States Army. And from here on out, I’ll be the one asking the questions. I told you to drop your weapons. Do it now. I won’t ask you again.”

  The old man stared hard, glaring at Ethan with an unsettling, intelligent gaze. For a few tense heartbeats, Ethan thought he might try to level his weapon or spur his horse away. The men behind him looked on, clearly waiting for their leader to decide what to do. Ethan controlled his breathing, kept his aim fixed, and felt his finger begin to tighten on the trigger.

  “Do as he says.”

  Ethan let out a breath.

  The old man tossed his rifle to the ground, then his pistol and his knife. The other riders hesitated for a moment before following suit.

  “Get down from your horses, slowly. Keep your hands up. Try anything stupid and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  The men did as Ethan ordered, dismounting carefully and advancing with their hands over their heads. The leader’s stony, glacial expression never wavered.

  “That’s far enough. Get down on your knees, put hands on your head, cross your feet, and don’t fucking move.”

  Ethan gathered his legs beneath him to stand up, but before he could, Hicks emerged from the trees like an apparition. He approached the horses, let them smell his hands and nuzzle him, and then took their reins while whispering in low, comforting tones. He tethered them to a low branch, then stepped up behind the three prisoners.

  “Now listen here,” he said. “I don’t wanna kill you, and y’all don’t wanna die. So let’s do this nice and friendly-like.” Quickly and efficiently, the wiry soldier bound the riders’ hands with zip ties, lashed them together with para-cord, and motioned for Holland and Cole to exit cover.

  “You spot anybody else out there, Hicks?” Ethan asked.

  “Nope. Just these three. Don’t worry, anybody else comes around, the horses’ll let us know.”

  Ethan opened his mouth to ask him what he was talking about, hesitated, and decided to let it go. Hicks was a strange one, but he seemed to know his business. He turned his attention back to the captives.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing out here?” he asked, addressing the leader.

  “My name’s Zebulon Austin. Formerly of the US Marshals service, now sheriff of Fort Unity. The big fella here is my nephew Michael, and this man is Christopher Hedges, one of my deputies. We’re on our way to a little trading village not far from here. Folks call it Broken Bridge. Maybe you heard of it?”

  Ethan exchanged a glance with Cole and Holland. Both men shrugged, keeping their weapons pointed at the captives.

  “I’m afraid not. But then again, I haven’t been out this way in a long time.”

  “I’ll tell you a town I have heard of,” Holland chimed in. “It’s called Hamlet. Don’t suppose you know anything about that place, do you? We ran into some of its fine citizens on the way out here. On horseback, just like you guys. Seems like a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “There’s lots of folks around here got horses,” Zebulon responded defensively. “And we ain’t from Hamlet. Place is full o’ slavers and cutthroats. Folks like us don’t go there. Not unless we want to end up dead or in chains.”

  “All right, that’s enough.” Ethan cut in. “We’re wasting time. If these guys are le
git, there should be some record of their town back at Bragg. LT can radio for confirmation. If they’re lying, he’ll know what to do about it. Hicks, think you can handle those horses?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Holland, take point. Cole, you’re with me. Let’s get moving.” After helping Zebulon and his men to their feet, the group moved off north toward the U-trac and the rest of First Platoon. Along the way, Ethan radioed an update to Lieutenant Jonas. The old soldier acknowledged, and told him to get back as quickly as he could.

  Zebulon turned to Ethan. “Don’t suppose you’d mind telling me what the Army-”

  “No talking,” Ethan said, cutting him off.

  The older man’s face darkened. “Now listen here-”

  “Do you want to march the next mile with a fucking gag in your mouth? ‘Cause that can be arranged.”

  “There ain’t no call for you to be talking to him like that.” It was the man Zebulon had identified as his nephew, Michael. He stood half a head taller than Ethan, with big, wide shoulders and a deep, booming voice. Ethan called out to Holland to hold up.

  “I’m only going to say this one more time.” He stepped in front of the captives and gave them his hardest stare. “No. Fucking. Talking. Open your yaps again and I’ll wrap your faces with duct tape. Now move.”

  The men remained silent as they forged on, but their anger was palpable. Ethan felt a twinge of regret at his harsh words, but he couldn’t afford to let sentiment affect his decisions. If these men were who they said they were, he could always apologize later. If not, well … it wouldn’t much matter what they thought of him.

  When they were about a quarter-mile away from where the U-trac had stopped, Ethan’s radio came to life.

  “Foxtrot, Echo. Be advised, we have incoming. Repeat, we have incoming, over.”

  Ethan felt his heart lurch. “Copy, Echo. Living or dead? Over.”

  “Dead. Very fucking dead, and lots of them. Coming at us from the east. You’d best circle around north and approach from that vector, but do it fast. If you’re not here in ten minutes, stand off and find shelter for the night. Over.”

  “That many? Over.”

  “More’n enough to moat us in. Over.”

  “Copy, Echo. Foxtrot en route. Out.”

  “Trouble?” Cole asked.

  “Infected. Big horde of them closing in on the U-trac. Holland, come on back here.” Ethan gestured at Hicks. “Think you can get these men back to camp on horseback?”

  Hicks responded by stepping up and swinging easily into the saddle like he’d done it a thousand times. For all Ethan knew, maybe he had. Zebulon frowned; Hicks was sitting on his horse. Ethan let out a breath. “Okay then. Up you go.”

  He and Cole helped the captives back into the saddle, two of them riding double on a big dappled mare and the last on a feisty looking Arabian. Ethan motioned for Holland to hop on behind the third hostage.

  “Why me?”

  “Because I’m not making Hicks lead the horses and watch the prisoners,” Ethan replied. “Your job is the latter.”

  Holland frowned and muttered under his breath, but did as ordered. Once seated, he unsheathed his K-Bar and let the captive in front of him see it. “Just so you know, if you try anything…”

  The man set his jaw angrily. “Understood.”

  “Good.” Holland grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “You and me are gonna get along just fine.”

  Ethan turned to Hicks. “Head northeast to get around the horde, then circle back to the U-trac. We’ll get there as fast as we can.”

  Hicks nodded once, then flicked the reins and turned his mount. The horse set off at a slow gallop, the others following behind on their tethers. Soon, they were out of sight, the sound of hooves beating against dirt fading into the darkening forest.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me again, Isaac.”

  The big man grinned and switched weapons, sliding the M-4 around to his back and giving his SAW a quick, practiced check. “Just like Singletary Lake.”

  Ethan grimaced. “Don’t fucking remind me. Let’s get moving.”

  The two soldiers set off at a quick jog. They hadn’t gone ten steps when a sudden, staccato cracking sound filled the air. They glanced at each other and quickened their pace.

  Gunshots.

  Never a good thing.

  NINE

  After the first few minutes of chasing that car, I couldn't help but feel some solidarity with the many dogs of the world. My body set out after the fleeing vehicle with as much enthusiasm as your average mutt, albeit slower. But much like the endeavors of our canine friends, the pursuit was doomed to failure.

  The morning was clear and sunny, the kind of day your average person wouldn't mind taking a walk in. I would have been right there with them if the horde hadn’t come upon a town. For most of my time as a dead guy, I'd been walking in the woods, or at least rural areas. But a few hours after dawn, my swarm came to a little hamlet. Or maybe it was a village. Possibly both.

  I joke because thinking about it too seriously only makes the whole thing worse. In the dead of night, it's easy to forget just how far we've fallen. The cloak of darkness softens all the hard edges and makes the world a place that might have just run down on its own, so long as you don't stare at it for too long. In the harsh light of day, however, the facts were impossible to ignore.

  The plague came suddenly, that I remember with perfect clarity. There wasn't a lot of space between the beginning of the violence and the total dissolution of modern society. You'd think it would have been a slower process in the sleepier parts of the world, but that was exactly the problem. When it became obvious some major-league shit was tumbling down, everyone had the same thought: Go to the little places. Find somewhere out of the way. Everyone knew of some one-horse town they'd been to as a kid, or where they rented a room at a bed and breakfast.

  The thing about the metropolitan majority is there were a whole fucking lot of us. Between us, we knew of virtually every place most city dwellers only rarely ventured to. The result was the rapid and cataclysmic destruction of small-town America. It happened faster than even the large cities. People had flooded places like the little town I was walking through, a sea of humanity that would have been an impossible burden even in the best of times, which these definitely were not. Everywhere I looked, bodies lay in piles.

  Even though I was dead, with little movement of air through my sinuses, the stench still reached me. The image you might get is of neatly heaped corpses, just like living people, but unmoving.

  No. Not that. These were old and decaying, shredded and more rot than good flesh. Bones stuck out where animals and ghouls had worried the skin and muscle away. They were steaming piles of putrid meat, liquefying in a stew that only got worse over time. Not just a few of them either. They lay in numbers beyond counting. One particularly towering example had a snowplow parked halfway through it. Some survivor had scraped the dead off the street, leaving what became a dark brown streak of blood and shit and spinal fluid and God knows what else behind.

  Cars were everywhere, like old pictures of Woodstock where traffic was backed up for a dozen miles. Many of them were wrecked, the dents and crumpled metal already browning to rust. The buildings were either vandalized or unkempt, not yet as decayed as the people or even the vehicles, but still on their way to a state that could only be thought of as post-civilization.

  The grass was high, weeds invading every crack and crevice. I began to realize how much effort it took for human beings to impose their will on the world now that the gears had stopped turning. Nature, the other hand, was equally (if not more) determined to have her way. Green things crept across what appeared to have been a quaint little town, reclaiming it for the earth.

  If there was any better proof the world had ended, I couldn't think of it. As my swarm walked through the town, the overwhelming evidence of human suffering and tragedy reached a critical mass, like listening to music so loud that
increasing the volume stops making a difference. At a certain point, the saturation reaches its maximum and you arrive at a state of rough balance. My mind couldn't turn away from what I was seeing, and forget about trying to get my body to do it for me. There was no escape.

  It hurt, that walk. There is no better way to put it. I've never been the type to cry over ads on television begging me to feed the children, or adopt an abused animal. Like many, I built a careful little wall around myself that insulated me from the terrible facts of the world. Sad when you think about it, and worse when the practical application becomes clear: I was not in any way prepared for the drastic fall of humanity. There were no emotional calluses to protect me from the heat of experiencing it firsthand.

  Then again, what could prepare anyone for what I was seeing? Maybe genocidal wars in far-off places, but short of that, my mind went blank at finding a comparison. I would have cried if it had been possible, or turned way. But my body, ever focused on its next dining experience, had no soft points. No emotional reaction. Just a vague disdain for the wasted food around it and the implacable urge to feed.

  I tried not to think about the loss each of those wasting bodies represented. Which of them might have been the next Einstein or Lincoln? Was the child whose spine my body stepped on meant to create great art? Write the quintessential American novel as so many people have tried to do? And even if none of the poor rotting souls close by had high destinies before them, so what? Each of them was a mother, father, brother, sister, son, or daughter. From the brightest practitioner of the most arcane sciences right down to the guy who worked the grill at my local burger joint, they were all human beings. Dreams and hopes and plans all wrapped up in a fragile body with infinite potential before them.

  How huge a tragedy was it that so many people died like animals in the street? Pretty fucking enormous, to me at least.

  Walking through the dead streets of a dead town that was only a slim fraction of a dead county in a dead state that comprised one fiftieth of a dead country in a dead world, I was hit with the realization that it was well and truly over for civilization.