Zombie Killers- Ambush

by J. F. Holmes

  “You heard the Sergeant Major. Let’s keep our heads on a swivel and our fingers CLOSE to the trigger.” He looked at me to see if there was anything to add, but I shook my head. The kid was doing OK so far, and as we moved further into this mission, I’d let him step up more in command.

  “You know the drill,” I said. “PCC’s and PCI’s. Make sure your gear is tight and your weapons secured. We MAY have to haul ass if the shit hits the fan. Rally Point is on click 290 degrees magnetic. From there we will try to head to the Hudson River, if you can’t find the team. Get to the river and head north till you find the nearest settled village or checkpoint and report in. Shit or piss in pairs, take ten, and then we roll out.”

  Chapter 216

  The road wound its way through the valley towards the crossroads where the “trading post” was located. Our prisoner had been very forthcoming with information about the whole area north of the trading post, which apparently they “hunted” and foraged in. That had explained the lack of undead, and people, we had come across. We had been walking through prime farmland, and I kept a professional eye out on how far back it had sunk into the wild. The fields themselves were filled with brush and saplings, but most of the buildings were in decent shape. Many of the barns had stood for more than a hundred years anyway; a few more wouldn’t matter.

  The Federal Government had established a new capital in Albany, after the second plague had been released on the world two years ago. Refugees from the rest of the country were still arriving, and the FEMA camps were getting full. A new resettlement program, concentrating on the productive lands throughout the northeast, was in full swing, and our mission was to check out local conditions, find survivors, and mark out good resettlement towns. The Harlem Valley, which ran North/South along the NY/Massachusetts/Connecticut border, fit the bill perfectly. Despite being in close proximity to the NYC metro area, it had remained mostly rural. I knew that IST-4 was scouting a similar route up and down the Bennington to Rutland area, and other teams were even further afield, in New Hampshire and Maine, even down through the Ohio valley. We may have been down, but we weren’t out. As it was, the valley ran between two major roads that were still in heavy use, Interstates 90 in the north, pulling salvage from Boston, and 84 in the south, running down to some of coastal settlements in Connecticut and the Providence Naval Base, which was the headquarters of the US Navy. The locals around here probably just kept their heads down and tried to survive, even though planes regularly passed overhead and it was two day’s travel by foot to I-84.

  Two day’s travel. I laughed to myself, thinking about how the world had grown so much larger. There were plenty of useable cars and trucks lying around. Lying around on flat, rotted tires, with dead useless batteries and spoiled gas. The Reclamation Corps was methodically stripping such vehicles for useful items, but they were a long way from here. We had even opened up a new automotive factory in Binghamton, and it was churning out simple trucks with refurbished diesel engines. Food, transportation, and ammo. The three most important goods in the post apocalyptic world. Lacking the second one, we walked. Which reminded me, I needed a new pair of boots. My trusty old favorites were getting a bit worn.

  As we crested a rise, Ski, who was now on point, dropped flat and crawled forward to a spot where he could just see over the edge of the hill, off to one side to keep from silhouetting himself. I quickly joined him, pulling out my own binoculars. Ahead was the Trading Post, right where the cannibal had marked it on the map.

  It was like many other fortress/farmsteads that had managed to survive over the last six years. A stone wall rose about ten feet or so, made out of concrete and rebar. There were raised firing platforms at each corner, and a heavy metal gate could just be seen on the side facing the road. There were several buildings in the compound, their roofs just peeking over the edge of the wall, except for one two story modern house, with shuttered windows. A heavy duty windmill was perched on top of a hill about a half mile away, within rifle shot, and surrounded by its own concrete wall. It lazily turned in the summer breeze, but I knew that it would generate substantial power at even that slow speed.

  We spent the better part of the afternoon observing the place. Each of the guys rotated through pulling security and observing, and the LT and I compared notes provided by each watcher. By three, we had built up a pretty complete picture, including the three wagons that had come and gone, two pulled by horses and one by team of eight people chained together at the neck. All of them were black, clad in rags, and I was glad LT Simmons wasn’t on watch at that time. As it was, my own knuckles whitened on the binos as I watched, and I flinched when the wagon driver cracked a whip on them as they headed south.

  I had seen this before. When it all went to shit, people turned inward on their own tribe to survive. What was the Arab expression? My brother against my cousin, my cousin against my tribe, my tribe against the world. Divisions had often opened up along racial lines in places where society had completely broken down. A natural human trait, I supposed, but that didn’t make it any nicer. Blacks against whites was an old story that had gone on for quite a long time, even here in the “liberal” northeast. I knew a lot of people in Upstate NY who couldn’t stand the fact that political correctness had knocked them out of the supposed higher place in society.

  In the plague years, it had been even easier. Blacks and Hispanics fleeing the cities had exchanged freedom for food, becoming first workers, then serfs, then slaves in many cases. Not all; not even the majority. But you saw it, and you put an end to it when you did.

  I gathered the team together and laid out the plan. We were going to go in as what had become known as a “free company.” Mercenaries, basically. We all carried a mixed set of “tacticool” clothing and gear, something that ex-military might wear while looking for work. Groups of them often roamed the countryside, doing everything from hiring on as Personal Security Detachments, to zombie area clearing, to looting the odd farm here and there, if they could get away with it.

  The guys all changed quickly, rotating through security and stripping down, putting away uniforms, and bringing out various bits of K-Mart camo. Cappochi finished tying a black doo rag around her head and then knocked out a quick hundred pushups with her pack still on her back.

  “Hey Pooch,” said Bognaski, who was risking death by even calling her that, “you ever been mistaken for a man?”

  “Ninety nine, one hundred,” she grunted, then rolled onto her back and commenced doing sit ups. “No, you stupid Pollack, have you?”

  The crew laughed and we headed out down the road in an open tactical formation, looking good, but not TOO good.

  Chapter 217

  The reaction we got was none too friendly, but about what I expected.

  “HALT!” came the shout from the firing platform in front of the gate. “SPEAK YOUR BUSINESS!” I couldn’t see anything except the barrel of what looked like a light machine gun poking through a firing slit. I had no doubt that the bolt was locked back and a belt of ammo locked in the feed tray.

  “Travelers, looking to trade ammo for food,” I yelled back.

  “Come on up, one by one. Weapons slung on your backs, bolts to the rear, magazines out.”

  We did as they asked, though it felt like I was walking naked into a hornet’s nest. A counterbalanced gate was rolled back to admit us, then moved back again. We were met by a guy in overalls and tactical gear, accompanied by a squad of mismatched, but well fed, tough looking hombres, all armed with some variant of AR-15s or M-4 rifles. I held my hands up in the air while they looked us over.

  I took the chance to check the place out. We were in a sort of outer courtyard; another, heavier gate than the one we had come through. Smart thinking; the customers only got access to the front part of the, well, I guess you could call it a castle. What had been a garage with several bays had been converted into a warehouse, and a couple of people were sitting at tables, sorting through various goods. One man was arguing pre
tty vehemently with one of the trading post’s people; at least I assumed it was, because the one being argued with wore a dark green t-shirt, like all the guards I had seen so far.

  “So what’s your name, and your business, soldier,” asked the head man.

  “Well, my friends call me Nick. We’re passing through on our way to Boston. Things were getting a little too, well, civilized back in the Hudson Valley, if you know what I mean. “

  He grunted and nodded. “Getting more and more people who ain’t happy with the way the Federals have been setting up around there.” He studied me for a minute, held out his hand. “Bill Waterson. We can always use ammo, and food we got. Say, you weren’t up north of here a day or so ago? Heard a lot of gunfire, middle of the night.”

  Well, I wasn’t going to lie. “Ran into a bunch of cannibals, tried to get the jump on us.” I watched his face as he said it, but either he didn’t know about them, or he was a damn good poker player. Nothing on his lined face betrayed anything.

  “Well, maybe you did us a favor then. Can’t stand them, but I thought the last group was cleared out of the valley three years ago. Thanks, then.” He paused, said, “If you have any information of what’s going on in the outside world, our boss lady would sure like to hear it.”

  I detailed Red, Ski and Lisa to do some “trading," and took LT Simmons and Jackson with me. We entered into the inner compound through a side door set in the concrete wall. I noted that four of the guards and Waterson escorted us with a wary eye, not relaxing at all. I made a point trying to not notice and get a full count of their defenses. We were taken in through a doorway in the main house, and into an office. Behind the desk sat a woman who was, in all essences, Large Marge.

  I’m not sure I ever had ever seen a more revolting example of “MERIKA” in my life. She sat behind a desk, using, of all things, a laptop, watching security cameras on a split screen. She was wearing some serious makeup slopped on, looking like some kind of Salvador Dali painting, and her breath could have knocked my socks off. Frizzy red hair and a wisp of a mustache competed for my attention with the god-awful giant bosom that spilled from her wife beater t-shirt. She stood up and came around the desk, grabbing my hand with a sweaty palm and shaking it profusely.

  “Sure am pleased to meet you!” she said in a high pitched voice with a grating New York City accent. I unobtrusively wiped my hand on my pants and sat down at the overstuffed chairs in front of her desk. Simmons took a seat and Jackson stood, which was, in my opinion, a mistake. Jackson, as the older guy, should have sat, while the younger one stood as a bodyguard. I let it pass though, and spoke directly to her.

  “Thanks for letting us in, Ms…”

  “Murdock. Margaret Murdock.”

  “Well, yeah,” I said, trying to sound as rough and uneducated as possible. “We’re just passing through, kinda got in a little trouble with the Feds in Albany.”

  Her painted on eyebrow shot up, and she said, “We’ve heard the government was cracking down on freelancers. Would you be interested in some work?”

  “Not really, uh, ma’am. We’re just passing through on our way east. Maybe set ourselves up somewhere in Western Mass, loot, I mean, salvage some towns.”

  She gave me a shrewd look. She may have looked like a joke, but anyone who survived both plagues AND ran a trading post was no idiot. I hoped my rough guy act was working on her, and it seemed like it. She turned away from me and looked at Simmons.

  “You know, we don’t get many of your people through here. Not since those rats from the City tried to overrun us, getting away from the zombie plague.”

  “My people?” he asked, unsure of what she was getting at.

  She laughed, but the look on her face could have soured milk. “You know. Blacks. African Americans.”

  Simmons was taken aback. He had lived the last six years in Portland, and really didn’t know what a lot of the country was like. I quickly jumped in before he could say anything. “This one’s Ok with us, Marge. He’s good in a fight, and someone has to clean up the dishes!” I laughed, hating myself, and she laughed with me.

  She dismissed Simmons from her mind, and we made small talk for a while, mostly us filling her in on what the state of the world was outside her part of New York. Her enthusiasm had waned when she realized we really couldn’t tell her anything new. I watched in fascination as a bit of drool ran down her chin, and finished telling my story.

  “So, after the crazy President let loose the second plague, Vice President Epson took over and moved whatever military and civilians he could back to New York. We were working up by the Canadian border, doing some Z hunting for the bounty, but shit got way too crowded for us by the beginning of this summer. So we took a hike.”

  “I see,” she said, pounding her fat fingers on the keyboard, idly scratching her armpit and moving a floppy breast out of the way when it slipped onto the keyboard. “I run a tight place here, and I expect no fooling around. This isn’t a hotel; do your trading and be gone in an hour. So, where are you heading from here?”

  Simmons, who I could tell was irritated by her attitude when referring to his skin color, burst out with, “South, sooner we can get away from racist assholes, the better. “

  She said nothing, merely glared at him. Turning to me, she said, “You better keep your pet nigger in check, there, Nick. There ain’t no NAACP to protect his ass anymore. It’s a changed world.”

  “No problem,” I said, standing up, but leaning back so that I didn’t catch any of her foul breath. We made our way out, and I unconsciously wiped my hand on my pants again. The sooner we were out of there, the better.

  Chapter 217

  Waterson and his crew escorted us back outside , where we found the rest of the team packing some food and a couple articles of clothing that they had traded for into their packs. We didn’t really need it, but we had to keep up appearances. While we packed, I asked the trading post’s security chief about his boss’s attitude.

  “Where did you spend the first plague, Nick?” he asked, keeping a watchful eye on the team.

  “Hiding out up by Stillwater. About six months. Then I did two years working for the Army as a scout before I decided to make my own fortune. Why?”

  He looked at Simmons, then away. “Then you don’t know what it was like, this close to the City. They poured over us like a horde. The people from the suburbs just passed through, heading for Vermont or God knows where before they ran out of gas, but we’re within a few days walking distance of the Bronx, and by the time the thousands of blacks and Hispanics made it this far, they were hungry. There wasn’t anything civilized left in them.”

  I grunted, rather than agree with him. He could take it any way he wanted.

  “Marge there, don’t let her appearance fool you. She drove up here, stopped and warned us what was going on. We owe her our lives, and, truth be told, more than a few people around here were closet racists anyway. No bother when the nig… I mean, blacks, stayed down in the City, but when the crowds started showing up here, eating everything that wasn’t nailed down, well, you can see how it might be opinion forming.”

  Thing was, I could see it. I was Irish Italian, and pretty fair minded. Being in the military, in combat, has a way of making you forget color lines, but I had seen it often enough, especially in older people. Hell, my own grandmother referred to blacks in language that used to confuse the hell out of me, and I knew plenty of guys, even in the service, who would make excuses for the minority guy sitting next to him, “He’s OK for a spic!” but then turn around and condemn the rest of the race.

  “Well,” I said, trying to keep to my role as a mercenary team leader, “Buck here pulls his weight. As long as he knows his place, I can use him in a fight.”

  Waterson shrugged and turned away, saying over his shoulder, “You know your business, I suppose. Best be on your way.”

  We did just that. I had wanted to ask him some more questions about the situation south of here; any intel
is better than none, but I didn’t want to push our luck. Instead, we walked down the road with that creepy feeling of knowing armed, possibly hostiles have their guns trained at your backs. I didn’t relax until we had passed a bend in the road and then put several miles between us and the trading post, then I called Simmons over, telling the rest of the team to get tactical.

  “OK, Sir, that was a pretty boneheaded thing you did back there.” I walked next to him and waited for him to argue with me, but he didn’t get a chance to answer. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, as our point man, Cappochi, stopped in her tracks.

  The ambush had been laid with precision, and we didn’t have a chance. Lisa, on point, was hurled backward at the same time I heard the bark of a heavy caliber hunting rifle. The next second, something smashed into my prosthetic, sending me spinning onto the ground. I landed face up, and quickly rolled to my side and fired off a whole magazine in the direction I thought the rifle shot had come from. Bullets started to whine and spark off the broken pavement in front of me, and my asshole tried to crawl up into my helmet. Return gunfire barked loudly in my ear, quickly deafening me.

  Taking a second to assess the situation, I looked around. So far Lisa had been the only one hit; she lay either lifeless or stunned about twenty meters in front of me. The rest of the team were returning fire in several directions. Most of the rounds were going over our heads in a withering crossfire. Typical amateurs, shooting high.

  “GRENADES!” I yelled as loud as I could, and hurled a smoke canister, hard as I could, just as a round WHANGED off my helmet. The next instant, a searing, red hot poker of pain ripped through my shoulder, a ragged piece of hot steel from one of our own grenades ripping through my skin. I looked over to see a chunk of meat gone from the muscle, and stared dumbfounded at it for a full second. Then several frag grenades went off simultaneously, and a pair of boots went running past me in the direction of the incoming fire.