Savages (15 page)

She took my face in both hands and kissed me. When she pulled away, tears ran down her cheeks.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

I grinned. “Get down on one knee and try again.”

She slapped me, but not very hard. And that was it. From then on, I had a wife.

In the here and now, I asked Gabe, “Do you want to, you know …”

Gabe flipped his NVGs back down. “Marry her? I don’t know. My instincts say yes, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

“Because she’s already married to her job. And as for me, well … I am what I am. And I always will be.”

“You willing to take a word of advice from an old friend?”

“Sure. Know any I can talk to?”

I punched him in the shoulder. I may as well have punched a cannon ball. “Fuck you, dickhead.”

“Fine. Dispense your advice, oh wise one.”

“What you and Elizabeth have is special. Sure, her job takes up most of her time. And you can’t give up the military life. Big deal. You’re both self-sacrificing human beings; it’s something you have in common. And I’m willing to bet it’s a significant part of what makes you compatible. So I think you should trust your instincts.”

“What if she says no, Eric? What then? What if I ruin what little we already have?”

“What if she says yes? And since when is what you and Elizabeth have
little
, Gabe? Listen, maybe it works out, maybe it doesn’t. That’s life. It’s the risk you take to make being alive less intolerable. And the way the world is now, you don’t exactly have a smorgasbord of eligible women to choose from. Like you said, you’re not getting any younger. So here’s the question you need to ask yourself: Will you let fear make your decision for you, and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been, or do you grow a pair and go after what you really want?”

Gabe’s steps slowed until he came to a halt. He flipped the NVGs up again and stared at his feet. I stopped as well. The gray eyes were hidden in shadow, but I knew what they looked like at times like this. They darted in tiny increments from left to right, the subtle brain behind them sorting data like a computer, the tremendous intellect skirmishing against repressed emotions. And the emotions were winning. I had seen it before. He looked up.

“You’re right. As usual.”

“Very big of you to acknowledge that.”

The rare smile appeared. It made my old friend look younger. “Wasn’t easy.”

“What’s most worth doing rarely is. Now come on, we’re supposed to be on watch.”

“Right.”

Gabe flipped down his NVGs and started walking.

Once, over drinks, my friend Ethan Thompson explained the rules of standing watch. I do not remember them all because we had just come back from a lucrative salvage run, were flush with trade, and had decided to blow some of our newly-acquired wealth on a large volume of potent adult beverages. I do, however, remember the first rule:

When the shit goes down, it will always happen at the end of your watch. Not the beginning, or the middle, but the end. Always the end.

At the one hour mark, Gabe and Hicks switched roles. The only place close by to get a good vantage point without being exposed was the forest, and sitting immobile in a tree for three hours is the definition of discomfort. Since all of us were competent snipers, we saw no reason to leave one guy on overwatch the whole time.

At the stroke of the third hour, I relieved Gabe and climbed to his roost. He took the IR goggles, gave me his NVGs, and we swapped rifles so I could have the IR scope.

And of course, with ten minutes left in our watch and me looking forward to a few hours’ sleep, I spotted a line of gun-toting bodies coming over a rise to the south. They were spread out at ten meter intervals and moving at a light jog, probably trying to outrun infected.

I keyed my radio. “All stations, this is overwatch. Possible hostiles spotted approximately five hundred meters due south, headed for our position. Over.”

“Overwatch, watch captain,” Great Hawk said. “How many? Over.”

“Watch captain, I see eighteen. Could be more behind. Might want to wake the others. Over.”

“Overwatch, are you sure they are headed toward our position? Over.”

“Looks that way. The processing plant is a good place to hide from the infected, and we know people have been here before. So we’re probably looking at marauders, and they probably use this place as a hideout. Something tells me they won’t be happy to see us. Over.”

“Overwatch, what makes you think they are marauders? Over.”

“Because other than idiots like us, no one moves around at night. Too dangerous. Decent folks seek shelter after nightfall. Marauders like to raid under cover of darkness. Oh, and they’re all carrying rifles and moving with military precision. I can’t guarantee they’re hostiles, but considering the evidence, we should err on the side of caution. If I were in your place, I’d wake the others. Over.”

A moment’s pause. “Point taken. Patrol, what is your position? Over.”

“North of your twenty,” Hicks answered. “Hundred yards out, not far from overwatch. Where you want us? Over.”

“One of you move west and take cover near the production house. The other, find a likely spot in the woods to the east. Between the three of you, you will have the newcomers in a cross fire. I will have three men conceal themselves in the field for fire support. The rest will set up in here. If possible, let the people approaching enter the building with us. Once they are in, we can attempt to engage without bloodshed. But be ready to fight if necessary. Overwatch, can you see through the windows? Over.”

“Sure, if you take all those blankets down. Over.”

“It will be done. All stations, prepare yourselves. Out.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Just fucking wonderful.”

The maple branch I sat on was flat and broad, easily supporting my weight. However, I had to sit sideways in order to monitor a 360 degree field of vision. The process was to turn one way, scan 180 degrees on my left, then shift to the other side and repeat. But now, with an imminent threat coming from the south, I needed to face them head on. The only way to do that was to hook my right leg over an adjacent branch and lean back, legs spread. I did not like it. The position made me feel exposed, like I was dangling my balls in the air for the whole world to shoot at. But it was the only position that allowed me to aim properly, so I clenched my jaw and told myself to stop being such a wimp.

Once settled, I dialed the IR scope down to 2x power and waited. Three of Anderson’s men exited the processing building in stacked formation, fanned out, and concealed themselves in the long, wild grass. They all wore ghillie suits, which would conceal them from the naked eye and standard NVGs. But through Gabe’s infrared scope, they stood out like candles in a dark room. No wonder Gabe loved this scope so much. The tactical advantage it afforded was tremendous.

I shifted the red-illuminated reticle back to the processing building. It ran from east to west, the windows on the north side facing me. Anderson’s men had removed the dark coverings from the windows, allowing me to see inside. The soldiers within scrambled to erase evidence of their presence by hiding the gear and carts in one of the offices, brushing dusty footprints away with hastily gathered bundles of grass, and taking cover behind dilapidated factory equipment on both ends of the facility. Not perfect, but the best they could do on short notice.

Then came the waiting. I hate waiting before a firefight. Too much time to think. Too much time to imagine all the things that can go wrong. Too much time to remember the bullet to the lower ribcage that nearly killed me, or the .380 round that tore out a chunk of my calf muscle and left a permanently puckered indentation. The old scars began to throb faintly.

Remembered pain. It exists only in the mind, but it exists nonetheless.

As the shapes in the distance grew closer, I distracted myself by turning my mind to life before the Outbreak. Sports, specifically. I wondered if anyone from the Panthers had survived. I thought about the heartbreaking year they made it to the Super Bowl only to lose to New England. The Panthers’ quarterback at the time, Jake Delhomme, never seemed the same after that.

I remembered a subsequent game against the Vikings when a Minnesota defensive player, whose name and position I could not recall, got around the Panther’s line and levelled Delhomme with a blindside tackle that, for a few moments, I was reasonably sure had killed him. It did not, but he spent the next play on the sidelines, hands on his knees, grimacing in pain.

After the hit, he always seemed a little gun shy. Too unwilling to run the ball. Too quick to throw it away if a play started to break down. Not that I blamed him. A man can only take so many bad hits before suffering permanent damage to something important and irreplaceable. Like the brain, for instance.

Thinking about brain injuries reminded me of the infected, which reminded me why I try not to think about sports very often. The National Football League did not exist anymore, nor did any other athletic organization. Which meant no more Super Bowl, no more English Premier League, no more March Madness, no more Stanley Cup playoffs, no more FIFA, no more college football Saturdays, no more NCAA national championships, no more Charlotte Checkers games, no more destroying Gabe and my old college buddies at fantasy football, and certainly no more late summer afternoons at Knights Stadium washing down hot dogs and popcorn with cold beer.

The familiar, sinking sense of unbearable loss found me again. So many things I once loved, that I once took for granted, were gone. And they were not coming back. Not tomorrow, not next year, not ever. And like most emotional pain, the feeling was not made less unpleasant by repetition. I wondered if there would ever come a day when I could think about my old life and not feel like someone had just kicked me in the stomach.

The white shapes moving through the forest ahead of me cleared the treeline, crouched low, and began working their way across the field toward the processing facility. I called it in. Great Hawk agreed there could be no further doubt as to their intentions. He told everyone to stay as low and silent as frightened animals, and to take no action until he gave the order. Everyone gave a brief affirmative. Great Hawk ordered radio silence until told otherwise. Out. There was no acknowledgement.

When the gunmen were within a hundred yards, I noticed four of them were wearing NVGs. I thought about calling it in, but decided against it. If things went south, tactical situation permitting, they would be my first targets. And since the soldiers of Task Force Falcon were undoubtedly wearing NVGs of their own, chances were good they would quickly notice the opposition’s optics and respond appropriately.

Most of the marauders—and my instincts screamed at me that was what they were—stayed in the grass while the guys with NVGs walked a circle around the processing facility. Same for the production building. Hicks was over there, but they did not see him.

I could tell by the marauders body language and hushed conversation they noticed the flattening of grass where we had dragged the ghouls into the treeline. They also noticed the blood, chunks of skull and brain, and probably a few tracks as well. Two of them followed the trails into the trees, stopped to stare at the infected laid out in disorderly rows, and quickly hurried back.

All four of them knelt. They brought their heads close together and talked. Three seemed agitated, their heads bobbing with harshly spoken words, hands gesticulating, while the fourth remained calm. Everyone was talking to the fourth one, which meant I was probably looking at the leader. I took careful note of the marauder’s outline, and after a few seconds, realized it was a woman. No matter. Marauders are marauders, male or female.

Keep them in line, lady. You don’t, you all die.

It occurred to me Hicks was in a position to shoot all four of them. If I had been in charge, I would have been sorely tempted to give the order while the soldiers positioned in the field—who had also avoided detection—took out the rest. From my perch, I would have a clear shot at any marauder the soldiers missed. None would survive. But I was not in charge, and despite my well-honed paranoia, I could not fire on them until they turned hostile.

More waiting. The four-person conference broke up and rejoined their comrades. I hoped they would decide the risk was too great and seek other accommodations. While they were talking, I took the chance to scan the horizon behind them. And sure enough, I saw dark, bluish gray blobs stumbling through the scope’s infrared image. A lot of them.

Time to risk the wrath of Great Hawk. “Hawk, overwatch. Horde incoming at five hundred meters.”

A few seconds, then a whisper, “Roger. Size? Over.”

“Not sure. Big. Possibly more than a hundred. Over.”

“Copy. Disposition on the intruders? Over.”

“They know someone has been here. Found the infected and the tracks. Four have NVGs. I believe the leader is female. Currently talking among themselves. Over.”

“Copy. Advise when they are on approach. Everyone else, maintain radio silence. Out.”

I let out a small breath of relief. I had broken protocol by calling in, but thankfully, the Hawk agreed it was warranted. A sensible man, that inscrutable Apache.

My hope the marauders would leave died when the sole female of the group began pointing her fingers in a decidedly authoritarian manner. Men broke off in twos and threes, heading where she ordered them to go. Four of them moved into position less than thirty yards in front of me, bellies on the ground. I smiled.

Proverbial sitting ducks
.

That left fourteen. Six set up firing positions in the field across the building from me, ostensibly to cover the entrance. Unbeknownst to them, they were at the center of a three-way crossfire between Hicks, Gabe, and the three Green Berets to the south. More sitting ducks.

The remaining eight stacked up on both sides of the door and tried the handle. They found it unlocked, which was smart thinking on Great Hawk’s part. An unlocked door might put the marauders at ease, and since they did not have to break it down, we could still lock it when the infected showed up after the fight. My esteem for the former SEAL went up a notch.

I called in what I saw using the briefest language possible. Great Hawk keyed his mike twice to let me know he heard me. Below my roost in the big maple tree, one of the four nearby marauders raised his head and whispered, “Did you guys hear something?”

Sharp ears on that one. I whispered as low as I could, but he still picked it up.

None of his fellows had a chance to answer. The eight marauders stacked by the door, including the leader, pushed through the entrance and filed inside.
Not bad
, I thought.
I’ve seen better, but they’re not complete idiots.

I watched intently through the windows, careful to make no sound. Glimpses of the marauders fanning out and working to clear the building flashed in the glass spaces between spans of cinder-block wall. The soldiers stayed hidden at the far ends, but it was only a matter of time before the marauders found them. Great Hawk elected to act first.

There were a few flashes, barely audible cracks, and the marauders dove for cover. Seconds ticked by. Ten. Twenty. Nothing else happened. Then my radio buzzed and Great Hawk’s voice whispered, “Prepare to engage.”

Figures.

I loosed a spare magazine, held it in my left hand, and shifted the reticle back to the group of marauders lying on the ground closest to me. More flashes and dull cracks sounded from the processing facility. Rather than wait for the order to open fire, I angled for a head shot and pulled the trigger twice. The marauder on the far right released his rifle and went limp. Two more cracks, two more splashes from a ventilated skull, and another death-shudder before limp fingers released a Kalashnikov.