by James Cook
“But honey—” Tom began.
“No buts.” Sarah reached up to lay a gentle hand on his face. “Sweetie, please. Don’t argue with me on this one.”
Between those big blue eyes, and that firm, gentle tone, any argument Tom might have been considering was dead in the water long before it ever made it to his lips. Hell, I felt myself melting a little bit.
“Okay,” Tom said, looking down. “Okay.”
“Mom, can’t I—” Brian said.
“No, son.” Tom interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “You do what your mother says, and that’s final.”
Gabe stood up and cast a shadow over everyone in the room. “If we’re all agreed on a course of action, then we need to go ahead and get to work. Eric and I need to get cleaned up, then we’ll meet you all topside to give you a hand.”
Tom nodded. “Sounds good. Sarah, you mind starting lunch while I get to work on the cabin?”
“Not at all. Come on Brian, you can give me a hand cooking those rabbits you got this morning.”
“Oh yeah,” the boy said, brightening up, “I forgot about that. I hope the birds didn’t get them.”
They filed up the ladder leaving Gabe and I in the still semi-darkness of the bunker. I took dibs on the shower while Gabe filled up a couple of buckets and bathed himself over the deck drain in the middle of the storage room floor. He had the drain installed when the bunker was built just in case of any large spills. In a pinch, it made a good place to clean up. We both stuffed our blood-soaked clothes in a plastic bag. Later, we would take them topside and wash them in boiling water. Powdered laundry detergent was, thankfully, something we had in abundance. It might not get all the bloodstains out, but it would make our clothes wearable again. No sense in wasting perfectly good garments over a few minor cosmetic flaws, even if it did remind us of something we’d rather not think about.
As we were about to climb out of the bunker, Gabe stopped with one booted foot resting on the bottom rung of the ladder, hesitating for a moment.
“That was good work you did, earlier.” He said. “You’re turning into a hell of a rifleman.”
I smiled and chuckled. “You gonna get all Mr. Miyagi on me, you big sap?”
Gabe scowled, and climbed up the ladder. “Last time I ever give you a compliment.” He grumbled.
I laughed, and climbed up after him.
Chapter 4
Ambush
The first grey fingers of dawn were just beginning to reach over the eastern hills. I peered through my scope to look at where Gabe had set up his hide. A thin grey fog hung low over the mountains, obscuring the hillside where he lay under a thick blanket of leaves and foliage. We’d both had ample time to set up our positions, and as usual Gabe blended in so seamlessly with the hillside that if I had not known exactly where to look, I never would have spotted him. I was equally well hidden on the other side of the broad valley, and not looking forward to another morning of watching and waiting. It had been three days since the swarm attacked us, and quite frankly, I was anxious to get the party started. We roughed up the cabin and the tool shed to make it look like the horde had torn them up, and scattered a few corpses inside the perimeter fence to make it seem as though the undead had broken through. After we staged everything, the cabin looked exactly as I would imagine it would if the dead really did overrun us.
Gabe spent two days reconnoitering the small house in an isolated hollow where the other raiders had set up shop. He confirmed that there were indeed four more of them, and they appeared well armed, if not exactly well fed. One of them seemed to have some kind of military training, and he was definitely the ringleader of the bunch. Gabe radioed back descriptions of all four of them and gave them names. The leader was Bulldog, because he was maybe five foot six in a pair of thick-soled hiking boots, powerfully built, and almost as broad through the shoulders as he was tall. Redbeard was about my size and had a thick growth of orange scruff on his face. Twig and Ben Franklin were both tall skinny guys. Twig was so painfully thin that a strong breeze would probably knock him over, and Ben Franklin’s head had a bald crown with long hair on the sides and back kind of like…well, like Benjamin Franklin. Thankfully, they didn’t have any hostages with them, but that could change at any time if they caught wind of other survivors nearby. We were determined to make sure that didn’t happen.
Gabe had notified us a few hours earlier that it looked like they had finally saddled up and decided to move. If they were disturbed by the fact that their compatriot never met up with them, they didn’t show it. Judging by the relative ease with which I dispatched him, he was likely their weakest link anyway. Probably why he was the one sent to sic the horde on us and observe the outcome; the others didn’t care if he slipped up and wound up as ghoul food. I guessed that was most likely their determination of his fate.
After watching the raiders get to within a couple of miles of the cabin, Gabe left his lookout post and fell back to the fire position he had set up the day after the initial attack. He had radioed ahead to get Tom and Brian in the bunker, and for Sarah and I to take up our firing positions as well.
The raiders set out under cover of darkness, which was the only smart thing we had seen them do so far. Not that it would do them much good, we literally saw them coming from a mile away. Gabe and I were on opposing mountains on either end of the valley that encircled the cabin on three sides. Sarah had set up her hide on a piece of plywood wedged into the rafters of the tool shed. She cut out a narrow strip of planking from the inside so she could peer outward, and settled in a few feet back from it for concealment. If anyone made it past the primary line of fire Gabe and I planned to lay down, she was the last line of defense. Anybody approaching the fence from the east would fall squarely within Sarah’s crosshairs. I didn’t plan on letting them get that far.
The wind whistled over the rocks carrying the scent of death with it. Already I could see vultures circling overhead, preparing to settle down for a breakfast of long-dead ghoul carrion. The damn things had been swarming our home for the last few days, making a hell of a racket and leaving bird shit all over the place. We couldn’t chase them off though, we wanted it to look like the infected had won.
Such a feast the filthy things were having. If I never saw another buzzard or crow again, it would be too soon. At least it was still too cold for the flies, although that probably wouldn’t last much longer. I could only hope a rain shower would come soon and wash all the infected body fluids and bird crap off the hillside. None of us knew for sure if animal feces could still spread the Phage, so we took precautions just to be safe.
My earpiece crackled, and I heard Gabe’s voice come over the radio. “All stations, radio check.”
I reached up to my neck and keyed the mike. “All clear, over.”
“All clear.” Sarah said.
“Keep your eyes peeled. No telling how long this might take. Out.”
“Wonderful, just freakin’ wonderful.” I grumbled.
The earpiece connecting me to my radio was growing uncomfortable. It had been a long time since I’d needed to wear one, and I was willing to bet that things would not turn out any less bloody than the last time. Another half hour passed. I shifted slowly on my ground pad to let a little blood flow to my legs, and tried to ignore the rapidly growing pressure in my bladder. The cold was starting to seep up through the mat beneath me and bleed away my body heat, and the damp fog blowing in from the north wasn’t helping things. I had to concentrate hard not to shiver. Finally, the radio clicked again.
“Movement on Sarah’s eleven o’clock, northeastern edge of the tree line. Over.” Gabe said.
About damn time.
I shifted my aim and covered the area Gabriel indicated. Peering through countless spidery tree limbs and the bare branches of low shrubs, I could just make out four hunched figures slowly picking their way through the forest. Not very smart, sticking together like that. They would be much harder to detect if they split up
and belly crawled the last hundred yards or so to the meadow. These guys were obviously not expecting any trouble. Big mistake. They stopped a few yards from the edge of the woods and stared up the slope toward the cabin, watching the shifting multitude of vultures, crows, and other scavengers form a living black carpet as they feasted on the remains of the dead. The cabin appeared empty and lifeless in the dim morning light, its windows broken and the front door hanging open on one hinge. Outside on the fence, Gabriel had thrown open the main gate and left the remains of a broken chain lying on the ground nearby. To the men down the mountain from me, it must have looked like their plan worked. The raiders conferred with their leader for a few moments, probably wondering where all the ghouls had gotten off to and what happened to their compatriot. I could imagine what they were saying. Did he get caught by the undead? Did the people who lived here kill him? Did he run into trouble? Is he maybe just asleep in the cabin?
None of the above, little darlings. I thought. Come on out and play.
I made an adjustment to the scope on the M-110 Gabe loaned me to compensate for the breeze picking up out of the north, then slipped my finger over the trigger and sighted in again. My thoughts wandered back to the last time I ambushed a bunch of viscous miscreants, and the way my senses seemed to sharpen just before the shooting started. I began to feel the same thing again lying there on the cold wet ground. I could feel the rough texture on the trigger that I didn’t notice before. The smell of moisture, mold, rotten leaves, and the iron scent of hard granite in the ground beneath me was sharp and stinging. The tree limbs moving in the forest around me, once a soft, gentle rustle, now seem to boom and scrape like a symphony of bones in the strengthening breeze. Gabe’s voice came over the radio again, snapping me out of my strange state of hyper-awareness.
“I mark four targets. Repeat, four targets. Over.”
I keyed my mike. “Copy, four targets in my sights. Sarah, how you lookin’? Over.”
“I got ‘em, boys. They’re just inside the woods a little ways. I think they’re arguing or something, over.”
“Okay, nobody do anything yet.” Gabe said. “We want them to come out into the open. If we’re lucky, they’ll all come out together. When it comes time, Eric and I will execute a tandem snipe. Sarah, don’t let any of them get away, just like we planned. Everybody ready? Over.”
“Ready to go, over.” I said.
Sarah keyed in. “Copy, standing by, out.”
I could not help but wonder what the raiders thought would happen to them when they woke up this morning. Did it even occur to them that they might die today? Did excitement at the prospect of having a nice cozy cabin to sleep in tonight chase away their apprehension? Did they feel even the slightest bit guilty, looking out over the remains of what they thought was a ruined home and a slaughtered family? Did it bother them that they might have killed a child?
That last thought, more than any other, drove away any remaining vestiges of guilt I might have felt. These people needed to be dealt with, harshly. I began to grow impatient for the raiders to break cover.
That was not something I could allow myself to do, I needed to be calm, collected, and focused. Lives were on the line.
I eased my finger off the trigger, took a few deep breaths, and waited. A few minutes later, my patience was rewarded. The four got up from where they knelt and began to walk toward the edge of the forest. Once out in the meadow, they fanned out and brought their weapons up in front of them. They all carried rifles or shotguns, as well as pistols in holsters on their hips.
“Okay, Eric, here’s the plan.” Gabe said over the radio, “I got Twig and Redbeard, you take Bulldog and Ben Franklin. Let them get about a hundred yards from the tree line before you take aim. Over.”
I slipped my finger back over the trigger, and lined up my sights on Ben Franklin before responding.
“Ready when you are, just give the order.” I said. I would have to work fast, Ben was blocking my view of Bulldog. I would have to drop him first and then try to get the leader before he could run off.
A minute or so later, Gabe came back over the channel. “Okay, on my mark. Ready…mark.”
The M110 bucked against my shoulder, sending a military grade 168-grain 7.62-millimeter projectile toward my target at incredible speed. The suppressor eliminated the flash and most of the noise from the shot. The bullet hit the raider through his right side just below the armpit, piercing his heart and both lungs before exiting the other side of his torso in a violent red spray. He curled in on himself and crumpled to the ground, dropping his weapon and spewing blood out of his mouth. At almost the same instant, Twig’s chest exploded backwards leaving a huge gaping hole in its wake as the powerful .338 round from Gabe’s rifle ripped through him. He died before he hit the ground. Redbeard had all of about a second and a half to stare in horror at the demise of his comrade before the top half of his head disappeared in a red mist, also courtesy of Gabe’s marksmanship. Bulldog, unlike his unfortunate cronies, was not shocked into inaction and bolted for the tree line as soon as the first round hit. If he had been military once, then he probably had combat experience and knew exactly what was going on as soon as his group came under fire. He quickly serpentined back toward the woods as fast as his squat legs could carry him. I tried to track him with my rifle, but there were too many trees in the way, I couldn’t get a shot. I let go of the rifle and keyed my radio.
“Sarah, I don’t have a shot, take him out.” I said.
Nothing happened for a few seconds. Just when it looked like he was about to make it to the cover of the forest, he jerked sideways from an impact and pitched over into the dirt. He made a weak attempt to get up, but another round took him high in the back and he flopped to the ground, just like flipping off a switch.
“Nice shooting, Sarah.” I said into the radio.
Sarah keyed her mike. “Thanks. Thought the bastard was going to get away for a second there.”
“Eric, keep the hostiles covered,” Gabe interrupted, “I’m going in to make sure they’re all down for good, over.”
“Copy.” I said, and settled down to wait for Gabriel to show up.
I was once again amazed at how quickly it all happens. You spend hours planning, you worry, you lose sleep, you have moments of guilt, doubt, and fear, and you second-guess every little tactic that you decide to employ. You prepare your weapons, and your hiding spot. You wait in the freezing cold for hours, impatient, tired, and hungry. You try to ignore how bad you have to take a leak, and the chill, annoying water that is seeping up through your ground mat in spite of the fact that it is supposed to be waterproof. Finally, the time comes to deliver the ordnance downrange and all of it, the entire fight, is over in less than ten seconds. For the men at the bottom of the meadow, this is the last place they will ever see, the last morning they will ever wake up, and for the ones who did not die first, their last thoughts in this world were frantic and terrified. In that moment, I could not help but wonder if some day I might be on the receiving end of a sniper ambush. The thought was not a pleasant one.
A few minutes went by while I waited for Gabriel to appear. A few hundred yards distant, just beyond the edge of the tree line, I spotted him walking toward the kill zone. From my perch, he looked like a moving speck against the dark brown of the dead meadow grass. I shifted my rifle to get a better look. Slashes of face paint crossed his face in brown and green smears. His ghillie suit hung from his lower back, lashed to his web gear with a couple of nylon straps. The barrel of his rifle pointed toward the sky over his left shoulder with the stock jutting out past his hip on the other side. He had his .45 pistol in one hand as he approached the bodies of the raiders lying prone on the ground. They stood out like splashes of color on a black canvas against the backdrop of the other long dead corpses. It took Gabe about five minutes to reach the clearing and check the bodies of the marauders. Once satisfied that they were well and truly dead, he relieved them of their weapons and reached up to
key the mike on his radio.
“All clear, folks. Repeat, all clear, you can come on down now.”
I stood up and stretched, relishing the chance to let some of the tension out of my cramped muscles. After folding up the ground mat, stripping off my ghillie suit, and stuffing them both into a duffel bag, I slung the M110 over my shoulder and made my way down the mountain. Before breaking the cover of the tree line, I took a moment to stop and relieve myself on a birch tree. It is amazing how much better something as simple as a good stretch and an empty bladder can make you feel.
On the way down, it occurred to me that a couple of years ago the prospect of killing people in cold blood would have been sickening. Thinking back to the person I was before the Outbreak, I had to shake my head. Was I really the same guy? Hard to believe, considering how much I had been through. It was as if the memories of the life I had once lived happened to someone else, a strange sort of psychological disconnect that I didn’t know how to quantify.
The sun rose higher over the eastern horizon as I walked, but the fog and cloud cover clung stubbornly to the peaks, refusing to burn away under the mid-morning light. The wind over the rocks was biting and cold. Mud clung to my boots as I trudged down the mountain, making the terrain slippery and difficult to traverse. Save for the lower peaks, the mountains around me were indistinguishable from the Scottish Highlands where I had gone on vacation with some friends of mine one summer in college. In the dim light of that morning, the Appalachians looked every bit as gray and forbidding as those cold, craggy mountains and sharp cliffs that dominated the Scottish high country.
Sarah beat me down the meadow to the hillside with her husband and her son in tow. They brought polarized ski goggles to protect our eyes from splashes of infected fluids, and scarves to tie around our mouths. Tom wrapped the marauders weapons in a makeshift haversack while Brian regarded their corpses with a mixture of contempt and pity etched into his young face. It pained me to see it; no twelve-year old boy should ever wear an expression like that. The rest of the day saw us hauling dead bodies to the edge of the cliff on tarps and sending them tumbling down into the hollow at the bottom. Even with Gabe’s immense strength on our side, it was still backbreaking work moving all that dead weight up the slope of the mountain. We got it done, but by the time we were finished my back felt like someone had planted meat hooks in it. The carrion birds that had plagued us the last few days followed their bounty of corpses over the cliff’s edge and down to the rocks below. It took an effort of will not to get my shotgun and blast a few of the little shits out of spite for making my life so damn miserable over the last few days.
