The Valley of Shadows - eARC

by John Ringo

  However, in a contained space, the effects of gunfire are even more profound. The glass and concrete surfaces of the buildings that lined the narrow canyons of the City were nearly perfect reflectors for sound energy. The reports of all the high-velocity weapons in use by both the banking team and the renegade police were bouncing not once or twice, but dozens of times per shot, and the combatants were exchanging hundreds of rounds. Each gunshot reverberated down the narrow street, the opposing sets of buildings reflecting it back and forth multiple times until the small battle generated a cacophony that approximated a full company in close combat.

  Human speech was impossible. Rational thought was difficult, and even simple tasks became complicated. Combined with the effects of perceived time dilation, the sensation of combat was almost otherworldly for an operator like Smith. For the less experienced, it was shattering, leaving the former police at a considerable disadvantage.

  * * *

  Tom and Durante passed the friendly shooter line, and neither reacted as one of their own men folded over his belly, gut shot.

  Ahead, a stranger in NYPD patrol blues pivoted onto the sidewalk, but Tom flicked the red dot across the rogue cop’s chest even as he stroked the trigger three times, tumbling the target all the way to the ground. A head popped into view through a rear windshield and he punched rounds through that before moving on. Durante was a steady presence at his side, and Tom felt, rather than saw, his wingman pivot to add his fire to the target.

  He felt a sting on his forearm but ignored the burning sensation, and sent several rounds through the ad hoc cover of an opened car door, dropping the shooter into a limp bundle between the curb and the squad car.

  Another target, more rounds. He operated on reflex, reacting to each new input, servicing targets as fast as he could. Invisible fingers plucked at his pant leg. More movement. Target with body armor. Tom put his rounds through the neck and face. Next sight picture.

  Tom’s shooting was instinctive and rapid, the flash suppressor at the end of his gun barrel tracking precisely with every movement of his eyes.

  The incessant echoes punished Tom’s ears even more than the report of his own weapon, but even through the ferocious tinnitus that blanketed his world with a high-pitched, never-ending note, Tom heard the rate of fire begin to taper.

  Durante was still moving close to his side, and Tom used his peripheral vision to watch as his wingman pivoted and sent a deliberate pair of shots into a corner display window, then one more. One leg flopped into view and was still.

  Tom reached the end of the block and stacked on the edge of the corner building, changing his magazine and staying in concealment. Moments later Durante squeezed his shoulder and they turned simultaneously, one high and the other low. Empty, the street yawned at their theatrics.

  Behind them several bodies leaked onto the sidewalk, but Tom couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for shooting Dominguez’s men. The best he could do was think about the next block.

  There wasn’t any firing now, just the moans of the dying.

  * * *

  Frank Matricardi stared at the black asphalt that was staining his slacks. The gunfight that had raged a few blocks away while he surrendered was over. His quiet radio and the lack of rescue made the outcome there pretty clear.

  In the background, the cops exchanged comments as they policed the scene of their last firefight. Some chivvied their prisoners into a group.

  A voice called out.

  “Hey Ding, where do you want the guns?”

  “Just dump them in the truck,” the veteran cop answered. “We’ll figure it out later.”

  The surviving Cosa Nova men were cuffed into a line of kneeling, bruised captives. Frank felt more than saw another person driven to their knees beside him.

  Tradittore.

  One of NYPD’s former finest moved down the line, flex cuffing ankles and wrists. He heard hard, confident footfalls stomp up from behind.

  “Well.”

  Frank craned his head one way, and finding the sunlight blinding his view of the speaker, he tried the other direction.

  “Well.”

  Frank recognized the voice before he could discern the speaker’s features.

  Dominguez.

  “I have dreamt of this moment.”

  “Well, this isn’t exactly ho—” the Cosa Nova boss started to say but was silenced by an ungentle rifle butt to his kidney. A single shot rang out, and next to Frank, Tradittore jerked his head up in hope and fear, but it was only one of the cops dispatching an approaching infected.

  “When I lost my wife, it was a warning,” the tall police officer continued, ignoring the interruption, “that I had taken the wrong path. She left a message for me and I failed to heed it.”

  Matricardi heard the steps pace around him, slowly. Step. Step. Step.

  “I stayed with the moneyed man, with the power-grasping bureaucrat, with you. Filth. Scum. Criminal.”

  Step. Step and turn.

  Around the line of kneeling gangsters, a half moon of police gathered. They were breathing hard, almost panting.

  “And I paid again. You left me a message. I found it, a perfect white flower in a field of red. Red blood. Blood of our children.”

  One of the vigilantes used his sniper rifle to muzzle-punch the last captive in the row.

  “Our fucking kids, you motherfuckers!”

  “Stop,” Dominguez snapped. “Not yet.”

  Matricardi could hear his second muttering next to him, softly repeating a single syllable over and over.

  “You represent the poison of this city.” The top cop resumed his litany. “I couldn’t save my family. I didn’t save my city—I destroyed it, with your help and your promises. So, you are going to watch us execute each of your animals, Frank Matricardi. And your last view will be of their pile of bodies. The wreckage of your evil, corrupt life. Then, I’ll close your eyes forever on this island that you helped make into God damned hell.”

  Frank turned his head upwards, feeling the sun on his face for the last time.

  “I didn’t kill your family,” he said, softly and calmly. “What kind of a fucking idiot would leave a fucking calling card for something like that, huh, porco? But you know what? I could give a shit, coglione!” He spat the words. “Your porca dio means nothing to me—so enough with your self-righteous monologue. Get this done. I don’t got all day.”

  Sicilian wasn’t Spanish, but Dominguez got the message. His face contorted in a silent snarl and he raised his pistol to the gangster’s head.

  “In a hurry, Frank? Then you can go first.”

  A shot rang out.

  * * *

  Tom recognized Dominguez even as the latter extended his pistol to shoot the kneeling man, but there was no time for a warning. Tom followed his first aimed shot with several more, keeping his rifle on the center of the form as it crumpled all the way to the ground.

  Behind him, the others delivered rapid aimed fire. Caught looking the wrong way, the cops dropped in twos and threes from the unexpected fusillade. One put a burst of fire into the two closest gangsters before rounds from Copley and Durante scissored across his body.

  A few cops, farther away, broke and ran.

  Astroga and Kaplan jogged a short distance to get a firing angle on the fleeing figures, but Tom raised his hand to halt them. He chopped his hand at the far end of the gangsters, some starting to squirm to a seated position.

  “Risky, Sergeant, let these guys loose. Kapman, Gravy, police the area and then get me a guns and ammo count. See what we can salvage. Astroga, check if that truck will start.”

  Tom walked up on Dominguez’s still, facedown figure. If shooting the other cops left him somewhat remorseful, shooting Dominguez had left him empty. The cop hadn’t been all bad though, it wasn’t…

  “What are you gonna do, close his fucking eyes?” Matricardi asked, squinting at Tom. “Very sweet. How about a little help, first?” He wiggled a bit, tried to get to his
feet, then twitched his bound wrists. “Cut this off wouldja? I can’t talk for shit with my hands cuffed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The combined party of survivors was forted up in the lee of the least damaged Suburban. Tradittore was cooperating with Oldryskya and Copley as they triaged and provided first aid to the injured Cosa Nova team. The hale Jersey-ites and the remainder of Tom’s little band pulled security.

  Matricardi and Tom had begun to talk when Kaplan and Durante returned, seeking decisions on which salvage Tom wanted to retain.

  “What do we got?” Tom asked his two partners in crime.

  “We lost seven on the roof and in the building, four after we bugged out,” Durante said with a sigh. “Apart from that, no wounds that are disabling. Well, for our people. The wops have two that are hurt pretty bad and two more that are pretty dinged up.”

  Smith looked down for a moment, then back up at the second man.

  “Well, you already know what we brought to the party,” Kaplan continued. “We’re nearly out of subsonic rounds for the suppressed stuff. I scavenged thirty or so cop ARs and maybe a hundred magazines for them. Another couple of crates of five-five-six in the back of that Atlas that I haven’t finished looting. A dozen subguns, all in nine mil, not much ammo for those. A lot of pistols, mostly Glocks and all of them are in nine mil too. Several bolt guns, varying calibers and limited ammo for those. Then there are these babies.”

  Kaplan gestured to the collection of fully automatic weapons. Tom looked the pile over. He recognized two military spec M60 variants, a Belgian designed SAW and four Russian pattern RPKs which could accept AK magazines, extended magazines or even drums. At the end of the line was the MK19, which still had a few blood smears on the feed tray cover.

  “Ammo for the 19?” he asked.

  “Not much,” Kaplan answered. “Two cans of thirty-two rounds each. We got a bunch of radios, batteries and some car chargers. Also, some decent trauma gear from one of their big trucks. Are these things running?” He gestured to the Suburbans.

  None of the vehicles were in ideal running condition. Matricardi’s two SUVs had been riddled by police bullets, and the police vehicles had damage ranging from been blown apart by grenades to multiple flats and broken glass.

  Tom’s musing was interrupted.

  “This is your plan?” Matricardi emphasized his words by poking the air in front of Tom’s chest. “I thought that you college boys would have something better than let’s haul ass out of the city and figure it out as we go.”

  The banker looked over.

  “Last time I checked, you were still breathing despite the best effort of NYPD’s finest.”

  There was a rattle of fire nearby and both men looked over as a couple members of the party spotted a trio of infected. Their fresh kills bled out in the street.

  “But to answer your question, yeah, we have a plan. We take your trucks, we get to Battery Park and we get out in my boats.”

  Matricardi was incredulous.

  “You want to motorboat all the way to the refuge?”

  “Not particularly.” Tom regarded him steadily as Tradittore walked up behind his boss. “You made it possible for us to break out, so I returned the favor. If you want to come, great. If you don’t…”

  Tom gestured broadly, taking in all of New York City.

  “Mr. Matricardi, a moment?” Tradittore interrupted.

  Matricardi eyed Smith, and then turned to his aide. Tradittore waited until the banker walked away.

  “Close call, Boss.” His voice didn’t quite shake, but his hands trembled as he removed his sunglasses.

  The older man looked at Joey, noting the tone and the hands. Kid was shook.

  Matricardi grunted and shrugged one shoulder.

  “We all got problems. So, what?” went unspoken.

  “This deal is getting pretty thin,” Tradittore continued. “We’re right at the limit. We lose more men, we can’t flip this thing. We get to Smith’s base where we are outnumbered, we can’t flip this thing. Any more people, we can’t all fit. We just lost Stevie and Big Sam isn’t gonna last. Any guesses on who dies next? More of our people.”

  More rifle fire interrupted their conversation. Then still more. The infected presence was getting distinctly heavier.

  * * *

  The new specialist was uncomfortably squeezed into a corner of the third-row bench seat. Despite that, she was writing on her ranger notepad.

  “Number two hundred and twenty-one: must not remind scaredy-cat bankers that jet fuel does in fact melt steel I-beams when we are standing inside New York City burning building. Number two hundred and twenty-two: ass slaps for encouragement still count as sexual harassment. Number two hundred and twenty-three: even in combat. Number two hundr—”

  Astroga glanced up after an especially heavy thump shook the lead Suburban and made her pencil slide across the page.

  “Are you intentionally aiming for the biggest groups of zombies, Kap?”

  * * *

  Outside the little convoy, dozens of zombies were in view, partially clogging the street, but by maintaining a steady twenty-five miles per hour, Kaplan had successfully maintained headway while preventing catastrophic damage to their vehicle from the repeated impacts. The zombies showed only modest interest in personal survival, running at the car and bouncing off. Most caromed off the fenders to land in the street before fighting to their feet again. A few left bloody red smears on the windows. Those that fell under the bumpers as often as not were serving as impromptu buffets for their fellows, who fed on still living, struggling flesh.

  Despite zombie fratricide, the trucks still pulled a growing comet tail of infected.

  Tom looked ahead and considered the problem, then he tapped Kaplan.

  “We’re going to need some space in order to get to the boats before our noisy hungry friends gather in numbers. Need you to beat them there by a bit more.”

  Kaplan scanned the street, judging the partial roadblocks of abandoned vehicles.

  “Gotcha.”

  He put his foot down and accelerated. Despite his efforts to avoid infected, the thumps and crashes against the trucks mounted in frequency and violence. That was all right, the truck only had to last another klick or two.

  As long as the boats were there.

  The truck shuddered again, shouldering aside an especially dense clot of infected.

  Next to Copley, Astroga groused.

  “Great. Now I can’t write anything at all. Ouch!”

  * * *

  In the very back of the trail car, one of Matricardi’s men banged his head on the roof liner as the heavy SUV rolled over infected knocked down by the first truck.

  “Ouch!” He added some Sicilian phrases, probably for his boss’s benefit.

  The basic bitch thug wasn’t even Sicilian born and his idiom was a little…poseur quality. Oldryskya wasn’t fluent, but she had been around Matricardi enough to know the difference. She could see her erstwhile boss’s face. He didn’t need to speak for his eye roll to be understood.

  Kids these days.

  She saw the Cosa Nova leader tighten his grip on the chicken handle built into the SUV’s dash as the truck rolled over another clot of bodies. She listened in on his next question to Durante.

  “Why are we speeding up?”

  “Tom figured out that we need to get gain some distance from the mob behind us if we are going to do this safely,” Durante answered without lifting his eyes from the road. “Well, safe-ish. The RHIBs are in a boathouse that looks like a shitty floating tool barge. We’re gonna need a few minutes to embark.”

  Oldryskya was in the middle of the second bench seat, keeping pressure on a bandage she had put on one of the Cosa Nova shooters. Their body armor kept the second-row passengers from feeling the tight quarters as much as they would have otherwise. On her other side, Tradittore’s leg unavoidably pressed against her bare thigh. Although he didn’t seem to be paying attention to her, she
still worked at not shuddering and kept her rifle propped between her legs, muzzle down.

  She focused on Durante’s words.

  “Once we stop, we have to unload people and gear, unlock and prep the boats and meanwhile hold off dozens and eventually hundreds of zombies until we get underway,” the contractor explained. “I bet the boss has some of us jock up in the zombie gear from the CEO rescue, if there is time. There is a steel fence at the head of the docks, but enough bodies can push it over. We want to be gone by then.”

  Risky craned her head, imitating Matricardi as he looked forward while they traversed Battery Park. Landscaping crunched and scratched at the bodywork as they motored towards the gate. Once they left the trucks, they were committed, since the vehicles would soon be overrun. The group could shoot their way through, for a while, if they didn’t mind using up ammunition. Risky knew that Matricardi wasn’t a soldier, but logistics was his business.

  Judging from his expression, this business looked bad, but they ought to make it.

  Then some civilians dodged across their path and Durante swore as he jerked the wheel and then fought to keep the heavy truck upright as it threatened to roll.

  * * *

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody fucking HELLFIRE!” Tom said, finally at long last losing his patience with the situation. “JUST BLOODY FOOKING ONCE COULD ONE FOOKING THING WORK WITHOUT A FOOKING COMPLICATION?”

  The civilians were a group of students in school uniforms, mixed boys and girls, probably middle school at a guess, with a couple of equally terrified adults. The cluster was making a beeline for whatever looked like safety while being chased by a pack of rabid infected.

  They were also blocking the locked gates to the boatshed.

  “DEPLOY!” he screamed, yanking open the vehicle’s passenger door. “Just fucking once…”

  * * *

  Wedged into a triangular patch of water between the Staten Island Ferry and the Battery Maritime building was a single narrow pier that the bank had leased. Formerly owned by a tour operator, it had come available on the cheap, following a profound post-Plague drop-off in midsummer tourist custom. A large but decrepit tool barge floated alongside with some sort of machinery covered by a stained tarp.