by James Cook
Nope. Not gonna happen. Besides, I am as ugly as a baboon’s big red ass. What the hell would she want with me even if she wasn’t married? She is a heck of a lot more likely to cast her eyes toward Eric than she is to look at me. My friend is not quite the hair-gel and health club muscles pretty-boy that he used to be, but even with a thick blond beard and a mop that hasn’t seen a barber in two years, he is still a damn sight better looking than I ever was.
“Gabe, pay attention.” Brian said, as he lunged past my guard and nearly got me for the second or third time. “I told you not to let me win. How am I supposed to learn anything?”
I frowned, and tightened up my stance. I was so lost in thought that I wasn’t paying close enough attention to Brian’s attacks. The defensive movements necessary to keep his plastic training knife from touching me were so ingrained in my muscle memory that I did not even have to think about them, my hands and feet just went on autopilot and reacted. It was a little spooky, really.
“I’m sorry little buddy.” I said. “I’ll pay attention.”
Brian continued experimenting with different ways to try and touch his plastic knife to a part of my body that could result in a kill in a real fight. He got close a couple of times, but I always turned his blade aside before he could make contact. When he left himself open, I counter-attacked to point out the holes in his technique. To his credit, rather than getting flustered or frustrated, he simply listened to the corrections that I gave him and adjusted his attacks.
After a couple of hours, Brian’s technique started to falter and his arms hung heavy and low. Sweat drenched his clothes in spite of the cool air, and his breathing had grown fast and ragged. I was starting to get a little tired myself, so I called an end to the training session. Brian looked relieved, and thanked me for the lesson. We fetched more water from the creek and took turns cleaning up inside the inn. The plumbing no longer worked, but the drains in the showers connected to a septic tank, providing a convenient spot to bathe without making a mess. I washed off the sweat from the day’s exertions and dropped my dirty clothes in a pile a few feet away from the fire.
“Let me know when you’re done if you don’t mind, I want to clean this stuff up while we have the chance.” I said to Sarah, and walked back toward the trailer to fetch a clean shirt.
Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could have sworn that I saw Sarah’s eyes following me as I finished getting dressed. I don’t think she had seen me shirtless before, and I imagine she was probably a little taken aback at all the scars. My tattered hide looks like a freaking Kentucky road map. When you’ve been in as many firefights, roadside bombings, near misses with mortars and RPG’s, and back alley knife fights as I have, you collect a few scars along the way. In my case, I collected a lot.
Something was strange about the way she looked at me, though. Most women have a look that is a mixture of pity and horror when they see my scars. Sarah’s expression didn’t seem that way at all. The last time I saw a woman look at me that way was a couple of decades, and a lifetime of violence ago. Back then, I actually looked like a man and not like a piece of chewed up rawhide. I was never exactly handsome, but I am tall and I have my father’s powerful build. For some women that was all they needed.
After I got dressed, I sat down on a folding stool across the fire from Sarah, and set to work cleaning my clothes. I tossed them into the hot water with a little bit of detergent and spent a few minutes agitating them with a stick. Sarah watched me work while Brian went inside to put sheets on our beds.
“I know you’ve told me before, but what branch of the military were you in?” Sarah asked, breaking the silence.
“Marines.”
“What did you do while you were in the Marines?”
I shrugged as I stirred the water. “Lot of different things. You don’t really wear just one hat in the military. Everybody has several jobs that they’re responsible for, and there is always a lot of work to go around.”
“Did you fight in the war?”
I snorted and shot her a smile. “Which one?”
She nodded, and tucked a stray lock of auburn hair behind one delicate ear. It distracted me more than I wanted it to.
“Okay, dumb question.” She said. “You just seem to know a lot about fighting. I was wondering where you picked it up.”
I looked down and watched my clothes spin around in the big stainless steel pot. Sarah waited patiently for the minute or two it took me to respond.
“I didn’t learn everything at once, and I didn’t pick it all up in the service.” I said. “I’ve always been the kind of guy who wants to learn new things, new skills, but nothing is a substitute for real combat experience. I saw my share of that in the Marines, and elsewhere.”
“Eric told me that you were a sniper.”
I nodded. “Scout sniper, technically.”
“So that’s where you learned how to shoot?”
I shrugged. “I could shoot before I became a sniper. They just gave me a new set of skills and taught me how to apply them. Made me better at what I was already good at.”
“So other than your work with Aegis, what did you do after you got out of the Marines?”
I looked up at her and forced myself not to scowl. I hate talking about that time in my life. A bevy of old deflections and changes of subject came to mind, but as I stared at Sarah’s gorgeous blue eyes, I knew that there was no way that I could stand there and lie to her.
“I was a mercenary.” I said. “A friend of mine who left the service before me used to brag about all the money he was making doing freelance work. Gave me a few phone numbers to call if I ever left the Corps. I had trouble finding work after Uncle Sam gave me my walking papers, so I picked up the phone. Dumbest mistake I ever made. I worked for the CIA for a little while doing contract stuff, and then I took the job with Aegis.”
“You know, I seem to remember that Aegis was involved with a couple of minor scandals. You know anything about that?”
I barked out a harsh laugh that was meaner than I wanted it to be. Sarah’s expression grew quizzical.
“You don’t know the half of what those bastards were involved in.” I said. “Those incidents in Columbia and Israel were just drops in the fucking bucket.”
“Hey, watch your language.”
I turned and saw Brian walking out of the front door of the inn. He pointed a finger at me and did a dead-on impression of his mother’s frown. I laughed at him and gestured at Sarah with my laundry stick.
“He has you perfect.”
Sarah flushed slightly as she jumped up and wrapped one arm around her son’s neck, giving him a thorough rib-tickling.
“You want to make fun of your mother, huh? Well this is what happens to you when you mess with me little man.”
Brian laughed and tried unsuccessfully to wiggle away. Finally he settled on grabbing his mother’s arm and pulling her weight across his back. Sarah squealed in surprise as her feet left the ground and Brian spun her around in the middle of the parking lot.
“Put me down!” She shouted, laughing. “I’m gonna throw up down your back!”
Brian stopped and stood up straight. They both took a few dizzy, stumbling steps and held onto each other to keep from falling.
“Okay, okay. I call a truce.” She said breathlessly, still laughing.
Brian threw an arm around Sarah’s shoulders and walked her back over to the fire. He actually looked like a kid for a change, and not like an adult trapped in a boy’s body. He was about to say something before his eyes focused behind me. All the brightness left his expression as he raised a hand to point. I dropped the stick I was holding and turned around to look.
“I hate those damn things.” I growled.
A small throng of infected was just coming over the crest of a steep hill in the direction we had driven from earlier. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. With all the noise we made driving out here, I figured it was only a matter of time before the dead show
ed up.
“Sarah, why don’t you take Brian inside, I’ll take care of these things.” I said, gesturing toward the inn. “Stay away from the windows, and try not to make any noise until I get back.”
“I can help you Gabe.” Brian said.
I almost snapped at him to just do what he was told, but the eagerness in the boy’s expression stopped me. It would be cruel to shut him down like that when all he wanted to do was help. I walked over and looked him in the eye as I knelt down in front of him.
“I know you can help, Brian.” I said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not me I’m worried about. I need you to stay with your mother. If you aren’t here, who’s gonna look out for her? I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll work a lot better if I know that the two of you are safe, okay?”
Brian didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded anyway. He knew as well as I did that Sarah was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ from behind him and reached out to take her son’s hand.
“Come on honey, let’s go inside.”
“Hang on a second.” Brian said.
He turned abruptly and ran over to the trailer. Sarah and I exchanged a confused glance and followed him. The boy dug around in our gear for a few seconds and turned to hand me a walkie-talkie.
“I charged the batteries before we left. Put it on channel one and call me if you get in trouble, okay?” He said.
He handed me one of the little radios, and I smiled at him.
“Will do. You two get on inside, now.”
Sarah reached up to give me a brief hug, and thanked me again. Because I am a well-trained combat operator, and consequently possess superb self-control, I most certainly did not break out in goose bumps when her lips brushed my ear. I watched the two of them go back into the building. Brian looked back and held up his radio, pointing first at it, then at me and giving a thumbs-up sign before closing the door behind him. I chuckled as I turned back to the trailer to get some weapons.
If I had left things up to Eric, we would not even have this little cart. We would be carrying a few bare necessities on our backs and scavenging for food along the way. That’s fine for Eric, he’s always been a bit of a minimalist, but I say to hell with that. If we have the means to improve our quality of life on the trail, then why not do it? I learned the hard way in Iraq and Afghanistan the critical role that morale plays in a long-term survival situation. Anything that makes life easier is worth having around, even if only for the positive psychological effect. Hence the extra clothes, ammo, food, and a few other amenities.
Several of those amenities were the M-6 rifles that Eric found at the gun store in Marion. Although it pained me to leave behind my beloved SCAR 16, I had to admit that it made sense for everyone to use the same rifle. Eric was willing to hang up the H&K that he’s been using for years, so I couldn’t really argue with him. Besides, I still had my SCAR 17 heavy battle rifle and my Desert Tactical .338 Lapua Magnum for anything that required a little extra firepower to put down. I gave Eric my M-110 in case we need an extra sniper, and he also brought along his Savage in .300 Win Mag. I have to admit I’m a little jealous of that one; the Savage is a nice rifle even if we don’t have a suppressor for it.
Before the Outbreak, I have to admit I was a bit of a gun nut. Guns were my stock and trade, my tools, and quite often my salvation during my soldiering years. When your job is to go into hostile and dangerous situations with armed, determined enemies arrayed against you, an accurate and reliable firearm is absolutely your best friend. Since a significant percentage of my adult life was spent either training for, or directly engaged in such situations, I naturally developed an affinity for the tools of my profession. Ergo, the extra hardware. I grabbed an M-6, my MOLLE vest, and a few extra magazines. Between all of that and my Falcata, I was as well armed as I could be.
Very few people lived in this part of the country before the Outbreak. Consequently, the number of infected we attracted with the all-terrain vehicle was relatively small, maybe less than a hundred. I could easily handle that many with a firearm, but my better judgment told me not to expend the ammo necessary to do it. The walker’s front rank was wide and sparse, and it would make for easy pickings with the axe. I angled toward the far side of the road on my right and briefly broke into a sprint before banking hard left and passing within a few feet of a walker. I whirled the axe overhead and broke its skull open with a backswing on the way by. As it hit the dirt, I slowed down and switched to a two-handed grip. The next part would require a little finesse.
Many people think that big equals clumsy and slow. I can’t speak for everyone, but in my case nothing could be further from the truth. I am far quicker and more agile than my stature would suggest. As I passed by the next few infected, I alternated between running to cover the distance between them, and executing a spin move reminiscent of a dancer’s pirouette. The axe blade flashed crimson and black in the afternoon sun, and with each turn, I ventilated the brain of another ghoul. It took less than twenty seconds to destroy the vanguard of the horde and take off into the woods beyond the edge of the road. I slowed to a brisk walk once I put some space between us, and started belting out a bawdy little drinking song I learned many years ago from a British royal marine. Unlike Eric, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I have a deep voice, and I can be very loud when I want to be.
I kept up my pace and sang as loud as I could until I reached the crest of the tall hill. The slope was steep, and I have to admit to being a little winded by the time I reached the top. I make an effort to stay in shape, but I ain’t nineteen anymore. I leaned down and put my hands on my knees, taking a few moments to catch my breath while watching the infected stumble and grope their way up the hill. What they lacked in grace they more than made up for with determination. The undead simply do not get tired.
The infected were only approaching up one side of the mountain, and I probably could have just run back and forth making them trip over themselves while picking them off one by one. I could have, but I didn’t. Sometimes I am a lazy man, and the weight of my rifle hanging from my back was just too tempting. I propped the axe up against a tree, turned the M-6 around on its tactical sling, and leveled it at the closest walker. It had been a young woman once, and judging by what was left of her face and body, she had even been attractive. Now she was just another withered, ravaged corpse cursed with an insatiable, eternal hunger. I didn’t feel bad about pulling the trigger and spraying her brain on the tree behind her. The way I saw it, I was doing her a kindness. I sure hope that someone does the same for me if I ever turn.
I let off twenty shots at one-second intervals, and left twenty twitching corpses for the crows. The rest of them started to close in, so I shouldered my weapon, picked up my axe, and set off down the hill at a jog. Now I had to be careful. One wrong step, one turned ankle or sprained knee, and I was as good as dead. I ignored the sounds of the infected behind me so that I could concentrate on where I put my feet. Loose stones riddled the hillside, and deeply carved furrows left behind by centuries of rain made the going difficult. I distanced myself a few dozen yards from the undead before stopping to reassess my situation.
Looking behind me, I saw that I had thinned the horde a bit, but there were still more than enough undead to ruin my day. I cursed under my breath and tried to come up with an idea for how to deal with them. Where I was standing, I was in the trough of a saddle between two broad mountains with tall, steep slopes rising up in every direction. No matter which way I turned, I had a long exhausting climb ahead of me. I could easily outpace the undead, but I was not sure if I could get far enough ahead to double back behind them without being noticed. I’m in good shape for a guy pushing forty, but I am not even close to the distance runner that I used to be. Usually, I leave this kind of work up to Eric.
As I looked up the incline, I saw the walkers following me trip over the same rough terrain that I had just carefully traversed. I would like to sa
y that it slowed them down and gave me time to think, but such was not the case. Tumbling ass-over-head down the mountain actually speeded the rotten things up. Heavy corpses flopped into the basin around me like a foul smelling avalanche.
I hefted the axe in one hand and drew my Falcata with the other. A ghoul was trying to get back on its feet barely ten feet away. I trotted over to it and split its skull with the axe. An overhand slash of my short-sword greeted another one standing up nearby, splitting its head in half down to the neck. The blade lodged in the creatures jaw, and I had to kick it in the gut to break free. Making a mental note not to swing so damn hard next time, I approached the next corpse and slammed my axe into its brain.
I worked my up and down the bottom of the hill a few times whirling my weapons in a figure eight pattern. Ghouls died in my wake as in a constant whirlwind of sharpened steel. Unfocusing my mind allowed my instincts to take over. My eyes coordinated with my feet to avoid stumbling on the rocky slope, and my ribcage expanded around deep rapid breaths that fed oxygen to the muscles in my arms and shoulders. Without really intending to, I kept mental count of the number of dead I put down. Right about the time I got to twenty-four I realized that the ghouls were tumbling down the slope faster than I could keep up, and that if I didn’t create some breathing room soon I was going to be surrounded.
