The Passenger (Surviving the Dead)

by James Cook

  Only a few minutes after deciding Gideon was a real threat and not just a figment of my diseased mind, he came back. Judging by the grin on his wasted face, I made the right call.

  Across his back was another rocket launcher, the tube strapped in an X with his rifle. He stood at the back of the gully, clapping his hands and urging the swarm to turn in his direction. It took a long time, but eventually the horde cleared the rise and followed Gideon down the trail.

  It was slow going. Slower, in fact, than it needed to be. Several times, the madman led us off in a different direction, forgoing the use of his gun only to check the position of the sun and lead us back near the main road. We followed the path of a drunken giant, weaving off the road and back on dozens of times. Some of the detours were only a matter of hundreds of feet, others more than half a mile.

  In the early afternoon, I found myself on the edge of the swarm, far off to the right. We were on another one of our wobbly detours, angling toward a set of railroad tracks in the distance. Gideon wasn't far ahead of the foremost ghoul, perhaps thirty feet. He was banging a pair of sticks together lightly to keep our attention, his eyes locked forward and his body twitching in anticipation of whatever horror he planned to commit.

  My body heard a noise, the creak of leather and a faint jingling, too silent for living ears but perfectly audible to my body’s enhanced hearing. My neck creaked to the right, giving me a long glance at the railroad tracks up the hill about two-hundred yards away.

  There were men there, small as mice in the distance. My body tried to react, turning toward them, but Gideon's steady beat drew its attention immediately. I let a surge of anger flow between us to reinforce the reaction, and once my body was focused again on the evil bastard ahead of us, I did the mental equivalent of sitting back in an armchair to think.

  My look at the men had only lasted a few seconds. We were already drifting back toward the main road, away from the railroad tracks, so chances were slim I'd see any of them again. Several men on horseback, but the hooves silent. Must have muffled them somehow. A few others on foot, dressed in combat fatigues, and none of them looked like pushovers.

  I didn't know what lay ahead of the swarm. There could be big thriving cities full of dangerous people armed to the teeth. But from what I'd seen of the world, and what I could remember of my old life, I doubted it. The men following the tracks hadn't seemed aimless. It made sense to assume they were heading in the same direction as the swarm.

  As the light fell, I knew the days ahead might be bloody.

  *****

  Swarms of dead people don't move very fast, and I got bored.

  Rather than slip into a mental stupor and let the time speed by, I practiced focusing my anger and moving my limbs. For hours, from failing light to risen moon, I tried to make my body do things. It was hit and miss at best, once leading to a stumbling fall. Gideon didn't notice, not that I think he'd have cared either way.

  My body stood on its own and began to walk again. Slowly I honed the mental needle to a deadly point. It wasn't great shakes; the best I could manage was crude motions. Nothing graceful or subtle. Change of direction, raising a hand, turning my head, sure. Nine times out of ten. But no small finger gestures, no picking up speed or slowing down our walk. But it was progress. It gave me hope.

  The night wore on and grew darker, but my spirits held firm. The predator I lived in moved into hunter mode, senses sharp and ready for the chase, but I didn’t despair. Because the last thing I saw before Gideon caught my attention was those men noticing the swarm.

  They saw us, and two of them slipped silently into the forest, following.

  If they managed to get ahead of us, things could become very interesting, very fast. So I kept on practicing my control, gaining proficiency bit by bit. It might amount to nothing at all, but if a chance to get my hands on Gideon presented itself, I didn’t want to miss it.

  NINETEEN

  They made good time the rest of the way Steel City, arriving shortly before nightfall.

  Hicks and Holland soon established a visual on the murderer, to whom they gave the radio designation Ragman. Cole, meanwhile, got a second wind allowing them to set a faster pace. The tracks eventually crossed a cracked stretch of two-lane highway, which they followed all the way to the fortress’s gates. When they were within sight of the main entrance Zeb and his men dismounted, leading their horses on foot.

  Ethan quickly surmised where Steel City had gotten its name: The outer wall, comprised entirely of steel shipping containers stacked three high, formed a rough circle that squatted grimly in the midst of a massive concrete lot. Battlements of welded steel plates ringed the top of the wall, varying in height from three to six feet, dotted frequently with firing slits. Men and women armed with a variety of weapons patrolled the perimeter, keeping vigilant watch over goings on both inside and outside the wall.

  Glancing around as they approached, Ethan guessed the concrete lot Steel City occupied must have spanned nearly an entire square mile. The town itself only covered about a third of the lot, while neatly arranged shipping containers—enough to double the town’s outer wall—occupied another large corner. On the northeast section, the flattened remains of an enormous warehouse distribution center lay slowly crumbling, surrounded by the burned out husks of dozens of tractor-trailers. Looking at it, Ethan remembered a story his friend Steve McCray had told him, and suddenly made a connection.

  Six months after the Outbreak—about three months after Ethan joined the Army—a group of insurgents led by a militant, pseudo-Christian lunatic set up shop in a massive warehouse and declared themselves a sovereign nation. The Sons of New Zion, or some such idiocy. Once established, they had set about burning, looting, and pillaging everything in sight, not to mention harassing military forces in the region.

  It wasn’t long before Fort Bragg and Pope AFB got their shit together, killed off the majority of infected surrounding them, and started mounting reclamation efforts. To that end, they made dealing with the Sons of New Zion their first order of business. A team of Special Forces operators led by Lieutenant McCray, who was subsequently promoted to captain, located the warehouse, reconnoitered it for a few days, and then watched from a good safe distance while a pair of F-16s dropped JDAM missiles on the insurgents’ heads.

  Problem solved.

  And now, it seemed, the Sons of New Zion compound had been replaced by Steel City. From what Zeb had told them on the way in, the people living here had a reputation for decency and fairness, so long as visitors to their community followed the rules. Steel City was a place of trade and commerce, and the town’s leadership had enacted a set of fair, but strictly enforced laws. These laws prohibited slavery, thievery, violence, and most forms of vice, including prostitution. Alcohol and marijuana were tolerated, but drunkenness and disorderly conduct were not. Other than that, as long as you minded your own business, conducted your trades in good faith, and didn’t start any trouble, life in Steel City was good. But step out of line, and you were likely to learn what a week in the stocks or the business end of a cat-o’-nine-tails felt like.

  As they drew close, Ethan saw the large main gate was partially open to allow carts and wagons through, as well as a smaller door for foot traffic. A contingent of guards stopped everyone seeking entry, looked them over, and checked their cargo for contraband. Anyone showing signs of illness was turned away. Everyone else was allowed to proceed inside. Ethan noticed that the guards, and the people who seemed to be permanent residents, all wore metal pins on their outer garments with the letters SC etched in black on a painted red background.

  “What’s with the pins?” Ethan asked, stepping closer to Zeb.

  “Identifies the town’s citizens. Takes a long time to earn one. You have to get at least three citizens in good standing to vouch for you, and then you have to be sworn in by the governor. The sheriff and anyone on the city council can veto a citizenship application, but they have to give a reason for doing so. A m
ajority vote of the city council can override a veto, but that’s never happened.”

  “Why not?”

  “Folks around here are willin’ to live and let live, but they ain’t very trusting. Like I said, it takes a long time to earn your citizenship around here. If you do, it ain’t likely anybody’s gonna object to you joining up.”

  Cole spoke up from behind them, “What’s stopping someone from just making a fake pin and blending in?”

  Zeb chuckled. “Son, I would strongly recommend against trying that. There’s only a few hundred citizens here, and they all know each other by name. If any one of them spotted an unfamiliar face with a citizenship pin, well…let’s just say they don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

  The big gunner nodded. “Duly noted.”

  “All right now fellas,” Zeb said, pushing back the brim of his hat. “Y’all stay quiet and follow my lead.” He handed his horse’s reins to Hedges and set off toward the gate. Michael’s mouth flattened into a thin line as he watched his uncle walk away, one hand drifting toward the pistol under his coat.

  There was a line of people waiting to get in, laden with heavy packs and carts full of trade items, but Zeb ignored them and walked straight up to the guards at the pedestrian entrance. A chorus of shouting and complaints went up in his wake.

  “Hey you, stop right there!” the guard closest to the doorway shouted, drawing a pistol. Zeb held up his hands.

  “Come on now, Dale. Don’t tell me it’s been so long you don’t recognize me.”

  The guard lowered his weapon and squinted. “Sheriff Austin? That you?”

  Zeb smiled. “The one and only.”

  The guard holstered his weapon and motioned him forward. “Just you,” he said. “Your men have to wait.”

  Zeb turned. “You mind, fellas?”

  “Not at all,” Ethan replied, “We’ll be right here.”

  Zeb exchanged a few low sentences with Dale and two of the other guards. After a few moments, he stabbed a finger behind him and made a series of impassioned gestures. The guards’ faces went pale. Dale leaned over and whispered something to one of them, who turned on his heel and sprinted through the gate. A few more words went back and forth before Zeb shook hands with the remaining guards and returned to brief the others.

  “I told ‘em what’s happening, the short version anyway. They’re rounding up an escort to take us straight to the governor’s office.”

  “You must have some serious pull around here,” Cole remarked. “Looks like these people trust you.”

  “Fort Unity does a lot of business with this place, and I don’t just mean bartering. When marauders, or big hordes, or whatever else shows up, we send troops to help each other out. Sort of an alliance, you see.”

  Ethan nodded. “Which is why you think they’ll help us with the swarm.”

  “Exactly.”

  Cole pointed over Zeb’s shoulder. “Looks like we’re about to find out.”

  Six men approached them, all armed to the teeth, and at their head was a stocky, middle-aged man of medium height with a bald head, broad shoulders, and a pair of hard, intelligent green eyes. He stopped in front of Ethan and Cole, subjected them to a brief, intense scrutiny, then turned to address Zeb.

  “I appreciate you coming to warn us, Sheriff Austin.”

  “It’s the least I could do. This is Staff Sergeant Ethan Thompson, and this is Sergeant Isaac Cole, both out of Fort Bragg. I ran into them back near Hamlet and told them about the trouble we’ve been having. They agreed to help me investigate Broken Bridge. I’m sure you remember Chris and Mike.”

  Davis shook hands and exchanged a quick greeting with them, then turned his attention back to the soldiers. “I’m Rory Davis, sheriff of Steel City.”

  Ethan spoke up, “Pleased to meet you sir.”

  “Are you here on behalf of yourself, or the Army?”

  “Both, actually. I volunteered for this mission, but I still take orders from Central Command.”

  Davis gazed at him for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away. “The governor will need to speak with you. I’ll escort you to her office.”

  He turned and walked back toward the gate while his men spread out on either side of Ethan and Cole. Zeb noticed the soldiers’ tension at being surrounded.

  “Take it easy fellas, they don’t mean any harm. There’s a lot of folks around here with ill feelings towards the military. This is for your protection.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Ethan said, although he wasn’t sure at all. Cole shot him a glare and shook his head, but didn’t argue.

  Sheriff Davis’ men were impassive as they led the soldiers through the gate.

  *****

  The first thing Ethan saw was the secondary wall.

  Constructed much the same as the first one, it was simply another ring of cargo containers—only one unit high this time—about thirty feet from the outer ring. Machine gun nests, sniper stations, and guard towers populated the top of the inner perimeter, which also boasted welded steel bulwarks for defenders to take cover behind. There was another gate, smaller than the one outside, but this one had been opened wide to allow access to the main gate. It was through here that Davis’ men led Ethan, and as they passed, he noticed that the sides of the containers bulged out a bit, as though under pressure from something inside them.

  “Dirt,” Zeb said, noticing where Ethan was looking. “They’re all full of dirt. And rocks, and bricks, and concrete blocks, and anything else that might slow down a bullet. The containers themselves ain’t bulletproof, you know.”

  That had occurred to Ethan, but he hadn’t bothered mentioning it. “Looks like a pretty solid place. Easy to defend, tough to attack. They’ve got some salvaged military hardware as well.” He pointed at a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted in a tower above them.

  “That a problem, Sergeant?”

  “Not at all. If anything, the Army will trade them ammo for food. We’ve got plenty of ordnance, it’s chow we’re always short on.”

  “Hm. You might want to mention that to the governor when you talk to her.”

  “I might do that.”

  The buildings, homes, and businesses were, much like the outer wall, made of shipping containers. Most of them were single units with windows and doorways cut out of the sides, but some were more creatively constructed. To Ethan’s left, he saw two containers stacked on top of each other with a third intersecting them in an L shape. The two containers on ground level held shelves and display stands stocked with vegetables, fish, live chickens, eggs, and still-bleeding cuts of wild hog, among which over a dozen people had gathered to peruse the goods and haggle with a pair of harried-looking clerks. The container stacked above the grocery stalls appeared to be living quarters, as evidenced by clothes hanging from lines on the roof and a pair of crudely wired solar panels next to a large antenna.

  As they moved deeper into Steel City, Ethan realized the town was laid out in a series of concentric circles except for the wide, triangular market plaza near the main gate. The smells and noise of the market faded behind him, transitioning into a calmer, more peaceful residential section. The container-houses were numerous enough to form streets and alleys, and Ethan quickly became lost as Davis’ men led him through a winding set of twists and turns.

  Finally, they arrived at a wooden building, which stood out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of metal surrounding it, where they were ordered to halt and surrender their weapons. They handed them over nervously, then followed Davis and his men inside. The building was small, only a little larger than a house, with a large, open lobby ringed by desks behind which city employees scribbled diligently and shuffled papers. Staircases ran up both of the far walls, leading to a line of offices on the upper floor fronted by a narrow balcony. As Ethan and the others entered, the people behind the desks—old women, for the most part—barely spared them a glance.

  Ethan noticed they kept only one hand on their desks, with the ot
her below the tabletop, out of sight. He also noticed the desks were arranged such that if the clerks were to start shooting, they were out of each other’s line of fire. Never underestimate old women with guns.

  Davis motioned for everyone to follow him up the stairs, and just as Ethan’s foot was about to hit the first step, his radio crackled in his ear.

  “Echo Lead, Echo One. How copy?” Hicks’ voice was pitched low, almost a whisper.

  Ethan stopped and held up a hand. “Hang on just a second. I’m getting a call from my scouts.” He keyed the mike. “Copy loud and clear, Echo One. What’s your sitrep? Over.”

  “We’re about four miles or so south of Steel City. I think the Ragman’s plannin’ to stop for a little while. He led his horde off the road and stopped ‘em under a cliff on the sheer side of a hill.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Right now, nothin’. He’s up on top of the cliff just sittin’ and starin’. Sumbitch looks about half dead hisself.”

  “Copy. Keep eyes on him, but stay out of sight. Keep me updated. Over.”

  “Will do, boss. Echo One out.”

  Davis raised an eyebrow. “News?”

  “My scouts are following the man responsible for what happened in Broken Bridge. He seems to have stopped for the moment.”

  “Good. The governor needs to hear this. Let’s go.”

  He led them to a door near the center of the walkway and knocked gently. A female voice spoke from inside. “Come on in Sheriff.”

  Davis opened the door and motioned to Ethan and Zeb. “Just you two. The rest of you wait here.”

  Cole and Ethan exchanged a short glance. The big gunner gave his squad leader a slight nod, then stepped back and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Don’t worry. I ain’t going nowhere.”

  By his expression and his tone, Cole made it clear he was being polite for the moment. But if he heard anything in the governor’s office he didn’t like, things were going to get ugly. The guards detected the big man’s hostility, and backed off just a bit, hands close to their weapons. Michael and Hedges read the situation, and decided to go wait in the lobby.