Savages (9 page)

Jacobs looked at him. “Any other incidents since he enlisted?”

“None that I am aware of, sir.”

The general looked dubious. “Just because you aren’t aware of it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, Captain. I started out as an enlisted man. Fights get covered up sometimes.”

“Sir, if he had done anything like what’s described in that file, I would have found out about it by now. It would be extremely difficult to cover up.”

Jacobs shrugged. “If you say so. Well, Mr. Garrett, Mr. Riordan, what do you think? Do you know Specialist Hicks?”

“We do,” I said. “He works for us sometimes.”

A raised eyebrow. It made the scar on Jacobs’ forehead crinkle. “Works for you?”

“Salvage work. Part time. Volunteer only. We’re picky about who we bring along.”

“Who is we?”

I waved a finger between Gabriel and me. “We’re equal partners in a salvage company. Captain Harlow allows us to employ his troops’ services on a fee basis. The Ninth TVM helps out too.”

Jacobs looked hard at the captain. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“As he said, sir, it’s volunteer only. Helping Mr. Riordan run his salvage business provides us with much needed resources without having to requisition them through Central Command. Saves us time and saves the government money, so to speak.”

“Hm. Not a bad idea.” Harlow looked relieved. Jacobs went on. “So you’ve worked with Specialist Hicks. Have you been in combat with him?”

“I took him with me earlier in the year when I went after Sebastian Tanner, AKA Blackmire,” Gabe said. “He’s solid.”

Another rustling of paper. “He’s also recovering from a wound to his leg.”

“Seems pretty recovered to me,” I said. “He looked just fine during the attack yesterday.”

“The wound wasn’t bad,” Gabe said. “I dressed it myself. A through-and-through on the outside of his thigh. Missed the femoral artery, the femur, and the common peroneal nerve. He got lucky. A couple of inches either way and he would have been in bad shape. As it is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s fully recovered by now.”

“So you’re all in agreement?” Jacobs asked. “You think he’s the one for the job?”

We all nodded. Harlow said, “Yes sir.”

“Good. Bring him in and I’ll speak with him. Just to be clear, this mission is for volunteers only. I don’t want anyone on the team who doesn’t want to be here. This mission is too important. That said, any suggestions how I could convince him?”

Harlow said, “I was planning to promote him anyway. Just tell him the promotion comes with acceptance of the mission.”

I gave Harlow a hard look. “Caleb is a friend of mine, Captain. I don’t like the idea of you using leverage against him. If you want to promote him, fine. Do it. But don’t hold the sergeant’s stripes in front of him like a carrot on a stick. He is not a fucking donkey.”

The captain went red in the face. He was not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner. But I wasn’t one of his soldiers, so fuck him. Harlow opened his mouth to retort, but the general interrupted.

“I agree,” he said. “We’ll give him the promotion before we discuss the mission.”

When Jacobs saw my expression, he said, “Look, I need good people. You ever buttered someone up before asking them for something? Even if it was dangerous?”

I let out a breath, counted backwards from ten, and said, “Yes.”

“Then don’t criticize me for doing it. Anyway, any other suggestions?”

“I don’t think you’ll have much trouble convincing him,” Gabe said. “I know the kid. He lives for shit like this. He’ll go willingly and with a smile.”

“I hope you’re right.” Jacobs closed the file and handed it back to Harlow. The captain stopped trying to kill me with his eyes long enough to take it.

“Do you have anything else you want to ask? Anything at all?”

Gabe said, “Where are we on logistics?”

“Still working out the kinks. Captain Harlow and I will wrap that up as soon as we’re finished here.”

“Timeframe?”

“Still working on it. But definitely within the next week to ten days.”

Gabe looked at me. I shook my head. He said, “Then I guess we’re done for now.”

“Do you mind staying on base for the rest of the day?”

“Define the rest of the day,” I said.

“Let’s say until 1800 hours.”

I did the conversion in my head. 1800 was 6:00 PM. “I can do that. How about a ride home later?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” 

Jacobs stood up. “I’ll send runners if I need anything else from you. Where should they look?”

“We’ll hang out at the enlisted club,” I said. “Either there or the chow hall.” 

As Gabe and I stood up to go, Jacobs said, “Gabriel, one more question.”

Gabe looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you lose your finger?”

General Jacobs only sent one runner. He came into the mess hall where we were eating lunch with Delta Squad and asked if he could speak with me in private for a moment. We stepped outside, and he asked me how much experience I had with the AK-47 rifle platform.

“None,” I said.

He seemed surprised. I asked him if there was anything else. He shook his head, thanked me, and took off at a jog. I watched him go until he was out of sight. He was a short guy, maybe five-foot-six at the most. His arms and legs were thin but full of stringy muscle. He wore a dry-fit shirt that must have cost a small fortune, running shorts that were barely long enough to be considered masculine, and a pair of worn down zero-drop sneakers. I noticed he ran toe-to-heel instead of heel-to-toe.

I read a book once about a tribe of natives in Mexico who ran the same way. They could cover fifty miles at a go as easy me walking down my driveway. I wondered if the runner had read the same book. I also wondered how much trade he earned in an average day. When I first got to Hollow Rock, so many people wanted to work as runners the mayor started making them apply for business licenses. As time went by, the cream rose to the top, and the really good ones put the lazy and the slow out of business. It was still competitive, but a good runner could make far better trade than your average farmhand or full-time guardsman.

Then there were the Runners with a capital R. More of a tribe than an occupation. They transported goods and messages from one community to another, sticking to the wilds and supporting each other through a network of hidden campsites and safe-houses. Tough people. Slow to trust, constantly armed, and if they took a contract, they fulfilled it or died trying. Gabe had gotten in with them by saving one of their lives, and explained to me their practices. Each Runner had a name known only to other members of the community. Gabe had one, but refused to tell me what it was. Consequently, I did not feel bad about occasionally borrowing his horse without asking.

Back in the mess hall, I sat down and went back to my food. Roasted chicken, beans, squash, greens, diced cucumbers, and damn good bread. The bread was the best part, thick and crusty with plenty of bite. The vegetables were local, but the chicken was imported from Kansas. Chickens were big business out there, along with goats and a burgeoning beef trade. I hoped the beef ranchers were successful. Most of the cattle in the US had been devoured by ghouls in the years since the Outbreak. Only a few had survived, but the population was on the rebound. I liked chicken, but the thought of eating an honest to God cheeseburger was enough to make me misty eyed.

“Fuller’s memorial service is tomorrow at sunset,” Thompson said. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he had not slept much. Dark circles, beard stubble, slight tremor of the hands and voice, all the classic signs.

The mood around the table had been subdued. Only sporadic conversation, simple questions and answers with no enthusiasm. A lot of pushing food around with listless forks. The squad had lost people before, but it did not get any easier with repetition. Fuller had been one of the good ones. He would be missed.

I looked down the table at the survivors. Ethan, Cole, Cormier, Page, Hicks, Holland, and the newest addition, Smith. No more Fuller. His absence felt like a sinkhole, sudden and empty. I thought about Justin Schmidt, formerly of Delta Squad. I had met him back in North Carolina in the same abandoned textile mill where I had met Ethan Thompson. He was sufficiently tech savvy he had been selected and transferred to a mobile task group assigned to the Phoenix Initiative. In exchange for his services, his wife and three-year-old child had been transferred from Fort Bragg to Colorado Springs. I remembered the day he left. I remembered the hoarseness in his voice. I remembered everyone telling him he was doing the right thing for his family and wishing him luck. I hoped he was still alive, wherever he was.

“I’m getting tired of this shit,” Holland said. “Tired of losing my friends. We’re down to seven now.”

Cole patted him on the shoulder. He did not offer words of comfort. They were not necessary. Everyone knew what everyone else was thinking and feeling. No use wasting his breath on the obvious.

“He didn’t leave a will,” Thompson went on, “so LT asked me if he ever said how he wanted his remains handled. Buried, cremated, whatever. Anybody know?”

“Cremated,” Cormier said. “We talked about it once over drinks.”

I looked at Cormier. He was my age, in his very early thirties, one of those who enlisted after the Outbreak. He was five-foot-ten, which put him at two inches shorter than me. Dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin, the strong build of a former football player. He did not talk much, but he fought well and pulled his weight.

“Okay,” Thompson said. “Good enough for me.”

We finished eating and went our separate ways. At 1800, Gabe and I made our way back to the headquarters building. Wally had arranged for transport back to Hollow Rock in another Bradley. There were infected along the way, but not as many as before. Starve them out long enough, and they set off for fleshier pastures. The guardsmen on horseback conducting regular extermination raids didn’t hurt either.

Allison was not home when I got there. Neither were Art or his kids. A note stuck to the corkboard in the dining room said they had decided to stay with a family on the west side of town. A lot of small-time farmers over there. Probably signed on as laborers. There were worse jobs.

I bathed, ate some dried chicken and cold flatbread that was just next door to stale, and went to bed.

*****

After Fuller’s memorial service, I spent the next few days seeing Allison in small doses and running my business. Caleb Hicks, as expected, leapt at the opportunity to join us on the mission. The guys in Delta Squad threw him a muted celebration for making sergeant, which I attended. After everyone finished their last drink and went back to the VFW hall for the night, Caleb asked if he could come over to my place and talk. I agreed, and off we went.

Allison was still at the clinic, so I poured us a couple of nips of the increasingly rare pre-Outbreak stuff. We sat down in the living room, the dead television staring at us, its blank black screen reflecting the light from a pair of oil lanterns. Why I had not yet removed the TV I did not know. Laziness, maybe. Or maybe I still had enough pre-Outbreak sensibility the living room would feel empty without it.

“Miranda’s going to be pissed,” Caleb said as we sat down. I took the recliner, and he sat down on the sofa. “She gets me back, thinks I’m not going anywhere, and now I’m leaving after all.”

“Start with the promotion,” I said. “It’ll soften the blow.”

“She’s gonna be pissed at you too, you know. Gabe as well. Leaving her to run the store by herself ain’t gonna go over too good.”

I downed a bit of Kentucky’s finest. “Yeah. The thought occurred.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“We’ll have to hire somebody. Been meaning to anyway. I ask too much of Miranda and I’m starting to develop a conscience about it.”

“You have a conscience?”

“Allegedly. Christ, man, I have no idea who to hire. Maybe I should post a help wanted sign in the window.”

“You’d have half the town at your doorstep.”

“I know. Can’t think of anything else, though.”

“I might know somebody.”

My ears started to grow little points. “Who?”

“Guy named Johnny Green. Served in Third Platoon. Supply. Got discharged last month, been working as a guardsman and general laborer ever since.”

“No place to go back to? Family?”

“None of the above. Lost it all in the Outbreak. He deserted for a while, went home to some little town in Ohio, and found his family had all been infected. Had to put them down.”

“Jesus. Tough break.”

Caleb sipped his bourbon. “Lot of that going around these days. Anyway, he came back to the Army when the last president announced the amnesty period. Served out his enlistment and took his walking papers.”

“Can you vouch for the guy? I mean, if I hire him and he steals from me, or if he’s a screw-up, I’m blaming you.”

“He’s the only supply weenie that never tried to extort anything out of anyone. Doesn’t seem to care too much about trade as long as he can keep his belly full and shoes on his feet.”

“Okay. Can you get in touch with him and send him by the store tomorrow?”

“Sure. Any particular time?”

“I’ll be there until six.”

“Can do.”

Green showed up at two in the afternoon. 1400 hours in military parlance. He had a fresh shave and haircut and wore clothes that before the Outbreak would have been considered business casual. Now, it was practically formal wear. He was about my height, slender, mid-to-late twenties, dark tan on the face and hands, light brown hair thinning on top. He would be bald by the time he was thirty.

I stood up from my stool behind the counter. “What can I do for you today?”

“My name is Johnathan Green. Caleb Hicks said you might have some work for me.”

“He called you Johnny.”

“Yeah, I usually go by Johnny.”

“Works for me.”

I hung a sign in the window with a drawing of a clock numbered in ten-minute increments. Above the clock, the sign read: BE BACK IN…

I put the little red hand at thirty minutes and locked the door.

“Come on back,” I said. “We’ll sit down and talk business.”

We sat down at the little table in the storage room where Gabe, Miranda, and I eat our meals when we mind the shop. I offered Johnny some water and he accepted. I explained my business. I explained we were busy and needed help. I explained that running a general store on the barter system is a lot like running a pawn shop used to be. You have to know what is valuable and what is not, and how to make a fair trade while still turning a profit. I explained we did not accept federal credits, the monetary system by which soldiers were paid. If they wanted to spend credits, they could buy something at the PX at Fort McCray and trade that. Otherwise, they were out of luck. He said he could handle that.

“Okay then,” I said. “Time for a little test. Let’s say I come in with a dozen eggs, a dead chicken, and a basket of tomatoes. How much do you offer me?”

“Depends on a few things,” he said.

“Such as?”

“First I have to inspect the goods. How fresh are the eggs? Are any of them cracked? How long has the chicken been dead? Are the tomatoes ripe? Are they in good shape, or have bugs been chewing on them? Also, what is the customer asking for in exchange?”

He was doing well so far. “In this scenario, assume you know the customer wants ammunition for his hunting rifle. How do you evaluate his goods?”

He went through a list of things to look for and hit all the important points. I gave him a single nod of approval and presented him with a few more scenarios. In each one, he knew how to make the trade. His only fault was he was a bit too honest. He wasn’t used to pushing to turn the trade in his favor. I explained this to him, and we tried a few more times. I pretended I was the customer, and told him to get a little more out of me than he was getting. In all but one negotiation, he came out ahead. We could work on that.

“I have four hard and fast rules,” I said near the end of the interview. “One: Miranda Grove is off limits. You can be friends, but that’s as far as it goes. You make a pass at her, and I’ll throw you out on your ass. And I mean that literally. We clear?”

A nod. “Crystal.”

“Two: you steal from me and I’ll fucking kill you.”

He almost laughed, then realized I was serious. “Mr. Riordan, I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. Not since I was a little kid, anyway. My dad caught me putting a pack of gum in my pocket and whipped my ass something fierce. I was too young to even realize what I was doing was wrong, but I never did it again.”

“Keep that attitude. Okay. Rule number three: be nice to the customers, even when they’re being assholes to you. This job requires a thick skin. People are going to get mad at you, call you names, curse at you, all kinds of shit. Smile and take it and make the trade. If someone tries to put their hands on you, you have a right to defend yourself. Anyone attempts something like that, you tell me and I’ll ban them for life. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

“Last, but definitely not least, rule number four: Be. On. Time. When you show up late, I miss out on trades. That costs me. This is a business, not a pastime. The purpose is to turn a profit. Don’t interfere with my ability to do that.”

“I learned all about punctuality in the Army,” Johnny said. “It won’t be a problem.”

We worked out a few more details. His work schedule, the half hour he had for lunch, and lastly, his pay. We decided to negotiate his compensation on a weekly basis based on how productive he was. I told him I paid my employees well, but expected them to earn it. He said he was okay with that. Finally, we stood up and shook hands.

“Mr. Green, I think you’ll do. Come by tomorrow morning at six and Miranda will show you how the inventory system works. Keeping the books will become part of your job eventually, but we have to get you trained up first.”