Savages (16 page)

The third and fourth men down the line figured out what was happening and rolled over. Rifles came up to shoulders. My reticle was already on the third one. A flick of the thumb, and my carbine fired on full-auto. A six-round burst perforated his midsection. He forgot about his rifle and started screaming.

The fourth one saw my muzzle flash and shifted his aim. Before he could open fire, I sent another burst in his direction. Then another. On the third one, the chamber locked open on an empty magazine. Without coming off my point of aim, I let the empty mag fall, slapped in a new one, and released the bolt. Two head shots to the marauder still screaming, then silence. I shifted and peered through a window of the processing facility.

A man moved from one machine to another and opened fire. The rattle of his rifle was loud and distinctive—AK-47. I took in a breath, let out half of it, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet shattered glass as it punched through the window. The gunman’s head jerked to one side, dark liquid painted the machine beside him, and he slumped to the floor.

I searched the other windows, but saw no targets.

While all this was happening, I dimly noted the crack of suppressed rifles from the production building and the field beyond. Perhaps thirty shots fired, then silence. Lacking a target, I kept my eyes moving and waited.

“All clear,” Great Hawk said. “Overwatch?”

I let out a shaky breath and said, “All clear on my end. No hostiles in sight.”

“How many did you get? Over.”

“Got four of them out here, one in the building. Over.”

“Perimeter?”

“Six hostiles down,” Hicks said.

“There are seven dead in here, and one prisoner,” Great Hawk said. “I need a casualty report. All stations, call in according to protocol.”

“I’m good,” I said. Protocol required the man on overwatch to report first.

“Same here,” Gabe said.

“Fit as a fiddle,” said Hicks.

“We’re all good here.” I recognized the voice as belonging to Sergeant May. There was a pause while the Hawk evaluated Anderson’s men.

He said, “No casualties in here. Well done, gentlemen. All stations, remain in position until given clearance to approach. Watch captain out.”

I stayed in the tree, but shifted to a more comfortable sitting position. The hands began their shaky dance. The heartbeat was too quick. Breathing too shallow. I told myself to take long, deep breaths. Focus on the shoulders. Relax them. Let the muscles go slack. Now the back. The arms. Midsection. Legs. All the way down to the toes.

The adrenalin dump ran its course and the shaking stopped. I wanted to eat, have a strong drink, and fuck something pretty—in that order. We may not be cavemen anymore, but something of the old ways still lives on in the dark crevices of the human psyche.

Most people like to think they are highly-evolved creatures, but in truth, we are not far removed from our flint-knapping ancestors. Anatomically modern humans have been around for over 250,000 years, but we’ve only been out of the woods for about 10,000 of them. Put in perspective, that is 0.04% of human history. Which means the whole ‘civilization’ thing is a relatively new concept. Consequently, much like our ancient forebears, when we experience extreme stress—combat, natural disaster, the end of the world—a relay closes somewhere in our circuitry and the baser urges float to the surface: the desire to eat, to mate, to experience pleasure, all the things we have developed over countless millennia to ensure the propagation of the species.

And in my experience, there is nothing quite like a good old-fashioned firefight to remind a man that he is, whether he chooses to admit it or not, an animal. A smart animal, but an animal nonetheless. And like all animals, we have things hardwired into us that no amount of mental conditioning can erase. They have a name. They are called instincts. And right then, my instincts were telling me to feast and screw and revel in being alive. It was not the first time. I doubted it would be the last.

Despite the urgings of my lizard brain, I stayed focused on the task at hand. The IR scope was running low on power. If Great Hawk did not call me in soon, I would have to ask him to send a runner with more batteries.

A faint rustle sounded behind me. I turned to see what it was. A nimble little fox appeared, trotted over to the treeline, and tilted its curious nose upward. After sampling the air, the fox backed up a few steps, sniffed again, then turned tail and ran away.

I licked a finger and held it up. The wind was coming from the south, directly over the horde and straight toward me. I checked the distance again. Four-hundred meters and closing. The fastest ghouls outpaced their more damaged brethren, causing the horde to assume a now-familiar teardrop shape. A lightly damaged ghoul could shamble at roughly two miles an hour. Four hundred meters is a quarter of a mile. Which meant the closest of them would be on us in less than ten minutes.

“Watch captain, overwatch. The vanguard of the horde will make contact in about eight minutes. Just sayin’. Over.”

“Acknowledged. All stations, return to the processing facility.”

No need to tell me twice. I slung my carbine and scrambled down from the tree. The others reached the building ahead of me and went inside. Great Hawk waited for me at the door. When I was through, he locked it.

“Give me a hand,” he said.

Together, we reinforced the door with a few old crates of scrap metal and rusty repair parts.

“Hope that holds,” I said when we finished.

“We must remain silent,” Great Hawk said.

I looked around the factory and saw several dead bodies in various poses. One of them died on his knees, face on the floor, his butt sticking comically up in the air. An ignominious way to check out.

“The ghouls will smell all this blood,” I said. “How are we going to get rid of them?”

“The standard method.”

“I’m a little tired, amigo.”

“Taylor has already volunteered. He is looking for a place to hide as we speak. When the horde arrives, he will redirect their attention.”

“What about all these dead bodies?”

The black eyes glittered in the moonlight. “What would you do with them?”

I glanced up and studied Great Hawk’s face. As usual, it was as expressive as a slab of sandstone.

“The way you keep asking me things, I feel like I’m being tested.”

No response.

I sighed. “Fine. What I would do is drag them outside, double tap them in the head, capture a few ghouls, and let them do their thing. Then kill the ghouls and hide the whole works with the ones we killed earlier. That way, if any Alliance types find them, they’ll think they were infected.”

“Will they not wonder who destroyed the horde?”

I shrugged. “Not much we can do about that. Just have to hope the forest takes care of them before anyone comes back this way.”

“We could bury them.”

I braced my hands on my hips. “You hiding a bucket loader in your underwear? Because if we try to bury all those bodies by hand, we’re going to be here for the next two days. We don’t have time for that, Lincoln.”

A nod. “There is the matter of the bones.”

“Like I said. Nothing we can do about it. Best we can do is haul ass to Carbondale, complete the mission, and get the hell out Alliance territory. If all goes well, they won’t even know we were here.”

Great Hawk headed toward the offices at the end of the building. “Then let us hope that all goes well.”

The leader may have been pretty, once. But three years of surviving in the wastelands had taken its toll.

She stared at us with hard brown eyes that held all the compassion of a starving crocodile. Her hands and feet were bound with zip ties, and she sat on a folding metal chair surrounded by Anderson’s men. I counted three guns aimed at her head.

“So tell me,” I said to Great Hawk. “What led to the shoot-out?”

“I asked this one to identify herself.” He pointed at the prisoner. “One of her men pointed a weapon in my direction. I fired a few warning shots. They took cover. She told us to leave or die. I told her there was no need for bloodshed and asked if we could talk. She did not respond. I asked again. Still nothing. McGee spotted one of them moving toward me in a flanking maneuver. I decided enough was enough. You know the rest.”

“Who the fuck are you?” the prisoner asked.

“Who we are isn’t important,” Anderson said. “What is important, to you at least, is how you answer our questions.”

The reptilian stare shifted toward the captain. “Go fuck yourself, you little shit. Do whatever you want to me. I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

Bjornson chuckled. “Don’t be too sure about that. We can be very convincing.”

Great Hawk shot him a look that wiped the smirk off his face. “Gag her,” he said. “We will search her men for clues. Then we will proceed with the interrogation.” He cast his gaze around the room, making eye contact with each man. “She is not to be harmed.”

We had less than five minutes before the horde arrived. Anderson left May and Taylor to guard the prisoner while the rest of us dragged the marauder’s bodies in from outside. The horde probably heard us, but made no sound. Not for the first time, I was grateful for the darkness.

The dead men wore sturdy clothes, some obviously homemade. They carried the usual assortment of tools and equipment common among nomadic survivors. The heavy objects like water, ammunition, crowbars, bolt cutters, and hooked rope ladders were distributed to lighten each man’s load, which spoke of possible military experience. The men’s faces and hands were dark and leathery from long days in the sun. Their weapons were standard Alliance AKs, pistols, and RGN grenades.

“Got a question,” I said to Gabe as we dragged a body through the door. “Why didn’t they use their grenades?”

“I’m guessing the grenades are too valuable. Good for trade. Probably didn’t want to waste them.”

“Yeah, but in a
firefight
…”

“I’m kidding.”

“Oh.”

“The fight happened at close range. A grenade doesn’t care who it kills. Or wounds.”

“Good point. Didn’t think of that.” I thought a moment, then asked, “How the hell do these assholes have so much ordnance?”

Gabe gave me an amused look. “You ever been inside a Cold War era ammunition depot?”

“No.”

“I have. There are warehouses, enormous warehouses, stacked floor to ceiling with nothing but bullets. Billions of them. If the Flotilla brought over even a fraction of just
one
of those warehouses, they could have over a hundred million rounds. Not to mention what they might scavenge from the countryside.”

We dropped the body and went out to get another one. Hicks and Anderson passed us and told us they got the last one. We went back inside, locked the door, and pushed the crates back into place.

I thought about what Gabe had said. I thought about Cold War era warehouses and acres of stockpiled ammunition. I thought about my own hoard of ammunition and weapons, and remembered a few times when, in the course of salvage runs, I had stumbled across abandoned military convoys overrun during the Outbreak.

It is grim to say, considering that brave men and women died in these places defending others, but those lost convoys are treasure troves. Guns, ammo, rockets, mortars, grenade launchers, mines, helmets, body armor, MREs, clothes, boots, tactical gear, communications equipment, vehicles, … and that’s just the beginning of the list. If a lucky salvage hunter can arrange transportation and safe storage, just
one
of those convoys can set him up in a secure community for life.

However, the treaty between Hollow Rock and Central Command stipulates that any US military property found in the course of salvage operations is to be turned over to the proper authorities. In my case, that would be Captain Harlow. And my feelings toward Captain Harlow are no secret.

While I am quick to quote the treaty when it suits my purposes, I gleefully ignore it when it does not. The men who accompany me on salvage expeditions—Delta Squad and some guys from the Ninth TVM—could not care less what the treaty says. They like trade. They like what it buys. They like feeling like they are getting away with something. Most importantly, they know how to keep their mouths shut. Because each man knows if he divulges something I said not to, he will never accompany me on a salvage run again. No exceptions.

Greed. It’s a hell of a lever.

And so it was, when we found that first convoy of nearly incalculable value, we sat down and had a little chat. I told the men we did not have to bring anything back to the FOB. All we were required to do was report the convoy’s location and let Echo Company take care of the rest. But that did not mean we couldn’t charge a finder’s fee. Especially considering no one would know about it but us. Thompson asked me what I was suggesting. I told him that while the convoy was government property, we were the ones who had found it, and despite what the treaty said, I felt we were entitled to fair compensation for our efforts. After all, salvaging is dangerous work. It was hardly fair to expect us to walk away empty handed.

There was some reluctance at first. So I told them I would double their regular percentage, effectively cutting my own profit in half. They happily agreed.

We were in possession of a large cargo transport the Phoenix Initiative had loaned the city of Hollow Rock. I gave the men a list and told them to stick to it. If there was room left in the transport, we could go back for more. The items on the list filled up the cargo trailer and most of the troop carrier.

I kept the transport running while we loaded it. Every few minutes, I put it in gear and watched the console. If the load came within five-hundred pounds of the transport’s substantial towing capacity, a little red light would start blinking. When it finally came on, I told the men to unload some of the less valuable stuff so we could get up hills without having to push. On the way home, I trundled along at a sedate five miles an hour, the men following behind on foot.

At the main gate, I gave the guards their usual bribe and proceeded to my warehouse. After I had unloaded mine and Gabriel’s share, we divvied up the rest and drove it to where the men kept their private fortunes—a public storage facility owned by none other than G&R Transport and Salvage. I held a final meeting where I admonished the men not to tell anyone what we had done, and sent them on their way.

I then returned the transport to the sheriff’s office, paid the fine for being three hours late, reported the location of the convoy to the officer on duty at Fort McCray, and went back to my warehouse to rub my hands together and titter over my good fortune.

Three large shelves sagged from the weight of it. They ran four feet across and twelve feet from floor to ceiling. My share was two dozen M-4 rifles in restorable condition, thirty thousand rounds of 5.56 ammunition (ten thousand belted), two-hundred fragmentation hand grenades, five boxes of MREs, seven LAW rockets, fifty claymore mines, eight M-203 grenade launchers (along with a hundred high explosive shells), a SAW, an M-240 machine gun, five thousand belted 7.62 rounds, ten serviceable vests of body armor (several in my size), and various tactical gear and assorted equipment. After counting it again, I looked around at the vast stores in the warehouse and marveled that half of it was mine. I had been a rich man before we found the convoy, but now I was
filthy, stinking
rich. The 7.62 ammo alone was enough to keep me warm, fed, and happy for several years.

Captain Harlow, of course, did not buy for a second that I had not taken anything. He showed up at my place of business and asked if he could inspect my warehouse and the storage units rented by his men. Just a precaution, you understand. I told him he was welcome to tour my warehouse and storage facility just as soon as he obtained a warrant. He said he had probable cause, and could go to the sheriff. I smiled and said, “Good luck with that. And by the way, you’re welcome.”

Harlow’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“Finding the convoy.”

“I think I’ll go pay the sheriff a visit.”

So he tried to get a warrant. The sheriff told Captain Harlow it was not going to happen. Not because he likes me—he despises me, actually, and I have no idea why—but because he would have to get approval from Mayor Stone. And without hard evidence of wrongdoing, she would never agree to allow military personnel to search civilian property.

This put Harlow in a bad spot. He was under orders to stay in the good graces of the civilian populace. He needed my salvage to keep his men happy. Without it, morale would deteriorate quickly. And he knew if he leaned on Delta Squad or the Ninth TVM, I would cease doing business with him. Further, even though his men were enlisted, he could not force them to open their storage units because they were not located on government property. Any attempt to do so would be met with armed, stone-faced guardsmen explaining to the good captain he was overstepping his legal authority.

It bears mentioning that every watch tower in Hollow Rock has a hot plate, a kettle, and a jar of instant coffee, all donated by G&R Transport and Salvage. The guardsmen love it, and they tend to be protective of their generous benefactors. Unlike Harlow, I never underestimate the power of goodwill.

Compounding the situation, unbeknownst to Captain Harlow, the mayor is a close personal friend of mine. She does not trust Captain Harlow any farther than she can throw him, and would want to see conclusive evidence of a violation before she would allow the sheriff to issue a warrant. The fact that Gabe and I give her whatever she needs, whenever she needs it, does not hurt.

And, lest I forget to mention, Gabe and Elizabeth have been romantically involved for over a year. Any damage done to our business would be damage done to him. Mayor Stone takes good care of her town, but she is not above favoritism toward those she deems deserving.

So I stood near the doorway and thought about green boxes with smaller cardboard boxes inside, each one containing twenty rounds of 65 grain 5.56 cartridges. I thought about how many I owned, and how much they could buy me if I ever had occasion to spend them. I thought about Mayor Stone walking through the warehouse, eyes wide, saying we had enough heat stockpiled to outfit a small army. I tried to imagine my impressive armory in scale against what the Flotilla might have landed with at Humboldt Bay.

It felt like holding a firecracker up to a nuclear warhead.

Central Command is generous with weapons and ammunition to loyalist communities, but only to the extent needed for survival. The Alliance, from what I had seen thus far, put guns, bullets, and explosives in the hands of any yahoo with a grudge against the federal government. And they did not care how that ordnance was used. The Union military could hold its own against the best the Alliance had to offer. But what about civilians? The Alliance was already successfully displacing border communities. What would happen if they launched an all-out, scorched-earth offensive?

The thought made my stomach hurt.

*****

I do not like looking at dead bodies. They make me think of how many people I have killed since the Outbreak. I do not know the exact number, but I know not all of them deserved it. That said, when someone points a gun at me and pulls the trigger in earnest, all moral considerations become irrelevant. In combat, what someone deserves, or does not deserve, has no bearing on the equation. There is only one variable—you or me. And it ain’t gonna be me.

Looking at the seventeen dead men lying in a row, I wondered which ones I had killed. When I shot them, I had been looking at them through an IR scope. They had been faceless shapes with no discerning details. But five of the bodies lined up on the floor were my doing.

A mental calculation told me I had done twenty-nine percent of the day’s killing. What would Anderson’s men think of that? Would they be jealous?

I looked at my hands. They were steady. Something was not right. The fluid shifts under the waking mind that bend and distort the tectonic plates of awareness should have been boiling like magma. The tremors should have started by now. I waited for the symptoms. The dull ache in the stomach, the weakness in the legs, the hollowness in the chest. But they did not come. There was only the ice that had begun spreading through me in my living room two days ago in Hollow Rock, and was still spreading. I felt no regret. I felt nothing at all.

Anderson’s men had arranged the bodies in as dignified a manner as possible. The effect struck me as disingenuous, like a flirtatious smile on a prostitute. Dignity tends to depart a body along with its former owner, and what we leave at the crossing is a heavy, awkward meat-sack.