River of Night

by John Ringo

  “Cease fire!” she yelled again.

  She had to repeat herself several times until the fire stopped. She eyeballed the wreck. One of the bigger SUVs had pulled up.

  Interesting.

  Behind the Gleaners some infected began to trickle in, and the shooting started again.

  * * *

  Tom watched the Durango rock to a halt. He ruthlessly suppressed his fear and anger. Even as he smashed the brake pedal to the floor, he issued directions.

  “Ralph, grab the radio,” Tom ordered. “Tell Kap we got a crash, we’re stopping. Worf, I need cover fire right away. Once I stop, organize a firing line and deny the road to anyone that shows up.”

  “Check,” Sergeant Copley said. His tone was all business.

  “O-okay,” Fat Ralph stuttered as the abused transmission clunked back into drive.

  Moments later Tom drew abreast of the crash. He ran to the ruined vehicle. The acrid scent of coolant was distinctive as the radiator fluid from a smashed radiator splashed across the hot engine.

  He could hear one of the kids crying inside and tore at the airbags that obscured his view. When he found Durante he tried to understand what he was seeing.

  * * *

  Modern passenger vehicles are engineered to be highly resistant to impact damage from front and rear collisions. The sheet metal that makes up the unibody is designed and assembled so that it crumples inwards, absorbing and dispersing the huge amounts of kinetic energy created when a fast, heavy vehicle is stopped almost instantaneously. The passenger occupied space is further protected by a special cage of thicker metal, intended to prevent a phenomenon that pre-Fall automotive collision experts antiseptically labeled a “compartment intrusion.”

  In short, modern vehicles could take enormous amounts of damage while keeping their occupants alive, if not uninjured.

  Had Dave Durante actually struck the rail squarely, the crumple design would have worked as intended, preserving the integrity of the passenger compartment. The airbag deployment would have reduced internal trauma even further. Instead, his last ditch effort to avoid the collision changed the impact aspect of the Dodge in important ways.

  First, the sudden braking made the front of the car dip slightly. This permitted the rail to impact just above the bumper, engaging the sheet metal of the hood and fender instead. Second, the last moment course correction changed the impact from a full front aspect collision to a different sort of accident, labeled by those same cheerful automotive experts as a “short overlap impact.” This denied the crumple zone geometry a chance to protect the driver and permitted the full force of the impact to focus on a single concentrated part of the SUV’s body, the driver side window pillar.

  The end result was that Dave blearily regained consciousness to find his view blocked by the white fabric of the now flaccid airbag. He reflexively attempted to swipe it aside with his left hand but his arm wouldn’t move properly. He looked down to find the dashboard in his lap and his left leg twisted into the firewall at an impossible angle. He waited for the pain, but only the throbbing in his stomach was perceptible.

  He squinted his eyes and years later opened them again. This time he saw Tom staring at him.

  “God-damn it, Gravy!” Smith said urgently. “Can you hear me? We have to get you out.”

  Smith swiftly cut away the air bag with a folding knife and then blanched at what he had revealed.

  “That bad?” said Dave, coughing. “You should see your face.”

  Blood trickled from his mouth.

  “Jesus.” Smith turned to yell over his shoulder only to bump into Kaplan who had run up, rifle in one hand and a trauma bag in the other.

  “Hey Gravy, you just fucking around or wha…” Kaplan’s comment died away. “Aw, fuck, Gravy. Jesus.”

  “Ha,” Dave tried to chuckle. “I don’t think that He’s here, just now.”

  “How do we cut him out?” asked Kaplan. “If we take the leg he’ll bleed out.”

  “No one is taking my leg!” he wheezed, squinting as the pain began to bloom up his broken arm. “Get the kids out. Gimme a rifle and go.”

  Risky appeared in Dave’s vision as she moved to help the battered passengers out.

  “Maybe we can dismount the seat from the pan…” Tom said, leaning into the back seat area, desperately trying to come up with a solution.

  Kaplan’s head jerked up as they all heard a bullet snap overhead.

  “These fuckers ain’t giving up, Tom.”

  “Buy me time,” Smith ordered, his voice harsh. “Okay Gravy, what we’re going to do is—”

  “Tom, just give me a rifle and go,” Dave said, wearily cutting him off. “I’m hit bad. My leg was gone before I piled this shitheap up. Losing blood. That’s why I dumped it. No point. Just let me do my thing and buy you time.”

  “What?” Smith stopped trying to muscle the seat from behind and turned to look more closely and the bullet wound. Underneath Durante blood was pooling in the ruined seat. “Shit, how bad?”

  “Gut shot,” Dave stated, his voice beginning to fade a little. “Maybe some splinters in the spine. No feeling in the leg.”

  Smith rummaged urgently in the trauma kit, plastic wrapping and gauze flying haphazardly. He popped the fasteners on the body armor and opened Dave’s shirt. Locating the messy exit wound, he immediately packed it with a blood clotting bandage, drawing a pained grunt from Durante.

  “The damage is inside, Tom,” Dave heard Risky as she handed tape to Smith, one piece at time. “The bleeding will continue, we don’t know how bad.”

  “She’s right,” the wounded man said, looking up at his friends. “Give me a weapon.”

  “Gravy, I can’t—” Smith began, but Risky leaned back into Durante’s field of view, handing another open package of blot clot to Smith.

  Behind her, he could hear a rifle popping rounds too quickly to be accurate. There was a pause and Gravy distantly heard Kaplan correcting Fat Ralph’s shooting.

  “Tom, we can’t stay,” Risky said gently. “We must go. Let him have what he wants.” She looked at Dave. “Dave, I’m so sorry.”

  She leaned over Durante and kissed his forehead.

  “Godspeed, Horatius.”

  Dave smiled. “I got the first kiss after all.”

  It wasn’t a bad way to go. This was all right. He looked towards Smith in time to see his friend’s face change.

  Smith had looked up from the wounds in Dave’s abdomen and turned to face Risky, his face terrible, angry.

  “You,” Smith said, packing pain and anger into a single syllable. “You and that girl.”

  “Smith. Smith. TOM!” The unexpected strength in Dave’s voice cut through Smith’s anger.

  Smith looked back at Dave.

  “Stop it,” the trapped man said, his voice husky with pain. “She’s right. I woulda done the same thing if I had the balls. Saving little girls is what we’re supposed to do, Tom.”

  He began to cough, hacking sounds wracking his chest.

  “Save the rest, leave me,” he said, spitting blood on the airbag, making a crimson splash on the white fabric. “It’s the right call. You know it is.”

  Dave exchanged a look with his friend for a long moment. Two friendly rifles were barking now, their cadence growing in urgency. Another round snapped overhead.

  “See you, Risky,” Dave offered. Straightening, she looked at him again, her violet eyes sad. Then she turned and trotted away.

  “You too, Tom,” Dave added.

  A long moment passed. The sharp metallic impact of a round striking one of their vehicles prompted a short heartfelt monosyllable from Fat Ralph, unseen behind them.

  “Everyone back in the trucks,” Smith ordered, keeping his eyes on Gravy’s.

  Letting his own AR hang by the sling, he reached for Dave’s weapon. He automatically performed a chamber and safety check to confirm that it was loaded, ensured that the optics were intact and then laid the pistol grip in Durante’s r
ight hand.

  “See you in hell, Boss,” Dave said. “Can’t be worse than here.”

  “Save me a spot,” Smith answered, and looked at his friend’s face for a long final moment. “I’ll be along presently.”

  Then Smith straightened, blinked twice and turned to jog back to the remaining vehicles.

  By touch, Dave flicked the safety on his AR off safe. Then he looked up at the ceiling of his SUV, and took slow measured breaths, willing energy into his good arm.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Tell me again,” Harlan Green said patiently. “How many people did you see, exactly?”

  “I only saw a few!” stuttered Freddo. His strategy of staying firmly in the middle of the Gleaner pack had been intended to keep him from being noticed too often. During their disastrous fight earlier in the day that strategy had only ensured that he survived to be interrogated by Green, which was terrifying all by itself. “Maybe five people with guns? Three cars, one crashed.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that already,” replied Harlan patiently. “Did you talk to the survivor in the crashed car?”

  “No,” Freddo twisted his hands together. “He was already hurt. When he started shooting again, everyone just shot the car until he was mostly in pieces. Even so, he killed Hank! Hank was my friend!”

  Harlan regarded the nervous man quietly.

  “Mr. Green, I think that Fred here will immediately tell us if he remembers anything else,” Eva said, interceding in a respectful tone. “Right, Freddo?”

  “Right!” stammered the terrified man. “Anything I think of, it’s yours!”

  “Of course it is,” agreed Harlan. “Mr. Loki, perhaps you could show Mr. Fred the parlor. Once we’re done, you might walk him over to the rec hall. He seems to be in need of some reassurance.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t…” Fred said, but subsided as Loki stood and opened the office door, holding a hand out to indicate that the smaller man should go.

  With a quick look around the room, Freddo scuttled out. Stooping slightly under the average height ceiling, Loki carefully closed the door and returned to the table.

  The dim light filtering from outside was considerably augmented by two LED camp lanterns. They cast a bright white light. Batteries were not yet in short supply, but eventually they would run out.

  “Miss Eva, one moment while I make a note,” Harlan spoke sideways as he located the bulleted list of prioritized salvage.

  “Here we go,” he thoughtfully checked an existing entry. “Tri-fuel lanterns and stoves. Seventeen in inventory. Excellent.”

  He turned to face his subordinates squarely.

  “I’m very sorry about Biggs, Mr. Green,” Khorbish said, beginning his own apology, but Harlan shook his head.

  “Mr. Biggs was no great personal loss,” he said, waving away the man’s first concern. “On the other hand, he was a symbol of my authority. He was representing me. Us. The organization. And we were beaten. Publicly.”

  “I don’t think that the group that got away is going to challenge your authority,” Eva said carefully. “And we held the town afterwards.”

  “The girl,” Loki rumbled. “They took the gleanings. Our people saw them do it.”

  Khorbish winced.

  “Just so,” Harlan replied, with an approving glance at the much larger man. “And we lost significant strength and commensurate group confidence. That can’t be allowed to stand. What else can you tell me?”

  “The group we hit is pretty organized,” Khorbish offered. “They could shoot, they moved faster than expected and when one vehicle wrecked the others came back to rescue them. Well, all but the first headshot at the intersection and the other guy that got trapped in the wreck.”

  Green looked thoughtful as he digested this.

  “Did you get anything else from the wreckage?” he asked.

  “What wasn’t crushed or shot up, sure,” Eva said. “Clothes, some food and cooking gear, an intact fuel can. Some good body armor, a couple pistols and a rifle that we took off the dead guy. Some maps.”

  “The weapons?” the mastermind asked, raising an eyebrow towards the former prison guard.

  “They had armory tags for something called BotA BERT,” the big man answered. He unslung a rifle and handed it to his boss. “Made by Daniel Defense—expensive, not just a generic carbine with some aftermarket upgrades. Above average optics. I’ll add it and the other useful stuff to inventory.”

  “BotA. I see,” Harlan stood the rifle against his desk and returned his attention to the woman. “And the maps? Show me.”

  Eva produced a canvas case and unfolded the bloodstained cover. Harlan took it from her and closely examined the map, unfolding it further. Carrying it over to the wall, he spread it against the map already pinned there, comparing the two.

  “Hmm,” Harlan maintained his study for some minutes, then transferred some markings to the larger map. “Well. Isn’t that interesting.” Returning to the table, he rapidly wrote on a yellow pad of stick-on notes while they watched.

  “What didja find?” Khorbish blurted, unable to wait any longer.

  Green noted Ms. Eva’s annoyed glance at her compatriot.

  He then turned to Khorbish, regarding him levelly, and gestured to the large map that he had previously taped to the wall of the office. Additional yellow notes were sprinkled liberally across its surface, highlighting points of special interest.

  “We’re continuing to clear our way west and north,” he said, standing with his hands on his hips, looking at the map. “There are extended clear driving lanes, double lanes in places, to the south and back the way we came. What else do you see?”

  “We’re about to hit a river up north,” Eva said as she moved to stand next to Khorbish. “A couple of towns and a big city. Not huge, but still bigger than we’ve hit so far. Figure, lots more zombies.”

  “What do we find on rivers?” Harlan Green tapped the winding blue ribbon of the Tennessee River. “What were they used for?”

  Both lieutenants leaned closer, looking at the newest pen marks on the map.

  “What’s a Thunder Blast?” Eva asked, annoying him.

  “Not that,” said Harlan curtly. “Underneath.”

  “Aaah,” said Khorbish, exhaling slowly. “Interesting.”

  “Just so,” Harlan regarded him approvingly. “And someone else appears to think it’s interesting too.”

  He turned to Eva this time.

  “Miss Eva, you brought back what, two dozen effectives from your little adventure?”

  “Sixteen worth keeping,” Eva said, turning from the map. “Five dead. Seven seriously injured. Twelve more that aren’t good for anything but simple guarding or basic labor.”

  “Not bad,” Harlan replied. “I’ll call a general meeting, but after Mr. Loki reviews your assessment the two of you may pick the most useful of remaining crew from Mr. Biggs’s group. Ms. Eva, you will prepare for a reconnaissance to the northeast. Mr. Khorbish, your group will evaluate the river crossings to the northwest. Before departure, both of you will conduct local sweeps by way of shaking down your groups. But after that, you’ll help me learn just what this map’s former owners thought to be so interesting.”

  * * *

  Loki closed the door behind the exiting duo. His eyes lingered for a moment on the woman’s backside…but no. He understood Green’s rules very well. Miss Eva might become one of his lieutenants, off limits.

  If she continued to deliver.

  Green himself continued to look at the map.

  “Those two are gonna fight,” Loki stated flatly.

  “Almost like I’m planning it that way,” Green replied, without turning around. “If they each survive long enough.”

  “The little man, Khorbish, he’s clever, but a weasel,” Loki said before adding, “But like you said before, we need smart people, people that we can trust.”

  “I need the right leaders to fill my Guards,” Green said, turning to look u
p at his trusted subordinate. “And I’ve only one of you. The markings on that rifle that you evaluated was owned by something called a Biological Emergency Response Team—apparently one from a New York–based bank. They aren’t here by accident and if they lived this long they aren’t stupid.”

  “Eva’s smart,” Loki said. “At least as smart as I am. Quick, too. She can handle the men. Even money says Eva is going to kill the weasel while they compete for Biggs’s spot.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not, Mr. Loki,” Green replied. “It’s time for Officer Young to step up. Assign him to Eva’s team. She can evaluate how he shapes in the field and if he’s going to be an asset. And I think that while Khorbish and our Miss Eva compete to prove their worth to take Biggs’s share, you and I will prepare for a little wanderjahr about the territory. I think that we’ll profit by not leaving the most important job to someone else.”

  Loki continued to watch as Green studied the map and traced several roads eastward. After a bit Green spoke over his shoulder.

  “Now, be a good man and pick us out one for after dessert,” Green said, his eyes never leaving the object of his study. “Maybe the one with the lovely eyes. Drug your choice well. I don’t feel like wrestling.”

  Loki grinned at his boss’s shoulders.

  The job did have some satisfying perks.

  * * *

  Reaching for the easily visible carrion floating just out of reach, the zombie lost its footing on the steep rock-covered shore along the dammed reservoir and tumbled into the water.

  “Back in the day, I never thought that I’d get sick of the view across the river,” said Mike Stantz. “But I have to say, I’ve had just about enough.”

  The days of dressing sharply were well behind the senior Tennessee Valley Authority officer. His jeans were stained, his work shirt wrinkled and his boots were muddy.

  The few remaining TVA staff were secure inside the fenceline at the hydroelectric facility or ensconced in neighboring Spring City.

  The dark green Tennessee River lapped gently along the inside face of the dam. Bodies bobbed along the dam wall, herded by the consistent breeze and riding buoyantly as an inevitable result of decomposition. Downstream, migratory seabirds wheeled and dipped, white plumage flashing as they fed on bait fish that were stunned by the impellers that powered the mighty generators.