Authors: Keith C. Blackmore
In answer, the 105 became a tower of headlights and overhead spotlights. The beams blazed through the dark like lasers fired from the face of a monstrous spider. And if Sherman or Raymond had still been alive to see the show, they would have been struck speechless once again.
For the wall of lights seemingly rose up from the ground to the height of a three-story building.
The ground-level beams fluttered as figures passed before them, crouched over like commandos.
The fight was over before it began.
No one fired any shots until people started coming out of their trailers and motor homes, and when they did, seeing the monstrous lightshow at the bottom of the hill rendered them speechless. Then the first chatter of gunfire rang out, and voices commanded everyone to drop to their knees. Three of Reilly’s people had responded with semiautomatic pistol fire, peppering the night with the hurried pop of firecrackers. One person raced toward the barn near the rear of the property, only to be cut down by a curt
sonavabitch
burst from an assault rifle. The remaining defenders died after a brief gun battle.
The rest of Reilly’s group surrendered without incident.
Camouflaged soldiers quickly rounded up the remaining people. They forced the captured souls to lay flat on the ground, facedown, their limbs spread out nice and wide under baleful spotlights. A handful of children lay on their bellies as well, mewling and sniveling and hitching in eyes-shut terror. Every now and again, a gunshot punctuated the night air, and the kids screamed.
“Shut those little shits up,” Shovel commanded in a sonorous voice, appearing almost magically from the flood of light. Times like that one were the worst, and understandably so. Those folks had been sleeping only minutes earlier, and now they were wrangled together and planted facedown in the dirt without a clue as to what was going on. Some of them might’ve even been getting around to fucking. The children sure as hell didn’t know what was happening—only that their parents, real or adopted, had burst into their rooms and hurried them out the door into a night that was positively shocking after the warmth of their beds.
Shovel had to admit it was harsh.
But then again, it was a harsh world.
A soldier moved to the wailing youngsters and made an example of a little girl, swatting her upside the head.
She shrieked.
The mother shrieked.
The father bellowed, “Leave her alone!” and got to his knees.
One of Shovel’s men stitched a killing line up the Dad’s back, smacking him facedown in the dirt. The mother truly freaked then and jumped up surprisingly fast. In another burst of light, she jigged backward while chunks punched out of her back. Cordite lingered in the air.
The kid wailed on until a woman hugged the little one close, muffling her nearly feral crying.
Shovel didn’t chastise the slayings. His men had orders to start popping anyone who sang above acceptable decibels. Once unleashed, they wouldn’t ease up until deeds were done and the law laid down.
Shovel’s job was to lay down that law.
He brooded, decked out in a winter coat and ski mask, much like the others in his little army. A compact but ugly submachine gun hung from a shoulder strap across his midsection, an old Heckler and Koch automatic. Some of his followers had full-blown soldier uniforms taken from overrun depots since people seemed to think the army was a good thing. It worked quite effectively as a ruse until—
surprise—
folks realized they weren’t soldiers at all.
In another life, the core of Shovel’s pack had been rig pigs. Roughnecks. Oil and gas workers situated in the far north, where only desolate tundra and stunted wilderness kept the apocalypse at bay.
And Shovel?
He’d lorded over them all.
His bulked-up shadow spread across the flattened prisoners like a monolithic stone threatening to topple over.
“Listen now,” Shovel began in that deep, liquid-gold voice that belonged way in the back of a cathedral choir. “Listen, because for some of you, your very lives depend on it. Listen.”
They listened.
Twenty men fenced in the prisoners lying on their bellies. They were armed with an assortment of high-tech, military-grade weapons, all trained upon the people at their feet. Balaclavas––black ski masks worn by counterterrorism operators––hid their features, dehumanizing them.
The smell of fecal matter perfumed the air. Shovel made a face. It happened every fucking time.
“The world as you know it has ended,” he continued, screwing up his face at the stink. “There are no more credit ratings. No more mortgages. No more public systems and no more online shopping. But there’s still debt. A fuckload to pay. To settle. In a new currency. Neighbor turned against neighbor. Old empires fell, and new ones struggled to rise. And the dead ate the living, as fucked up as that sounds. Listen to me. Listen. The
dead
. Ate. The
living
. And in some cases, the living…”
He let that hang for a moment.
“
Ate
the living. As fucked up as
that
sounds.”
He paused then, allowing that sentiment to sink in and percolate.
“Because of our isolated location,” Shovel went on, his voice hypnotic, “me and the group around you missed out on most of what happened.
Lucky you
, you might think. Well, we had our own troubles. Our own desperate times. But we overcame them. And once we overcame them, we rallied together and descended upon the warmer lands, riding hard from our northern hell. We descended upon the insane and the refuse and the warlords and the petty men of might, and we struck them down. It was a bloody time. A chaotic time. But we prevailed. By the way, did you know that the prime minister even attempted to reestablish order in his kingdom? He did—if you can believe it. Hiding away in a bunker, he actually sent out teams of soldiers––
special
soldiers, mind you––to help the surviving populace. To tell them to group together for safety until matters settled down. How do I know this?”
Shovel paused, hearing the muffled sniveling of the children. Some of his followers flexed trigger fingers. None of it was lost upon Shovel. He made it his business not to miss a single detail. Details could kill a person.
“We
found
these special soldiers,” Shovel stated with a trace of smugness, “or rather, what was left of them. Holed up in a courthouse, of all places, surrounded by an undead army that might have been the entire population. The dead had been piled up around that stone-and-brick bastion like an ocean of bodies and limbs and teeth. Whatever weapons those soldiers brought with them, whatever tactics and strategies, they used them. They
unleashed
with a wrath I daresay was spectacular. But to no avail. In the end, they exhausted their ammunition and killed the undead with broken-off broomsticks, chair and table legs. Eventually, bare hands and combat boots. It was the Battle of Thermopylae all over. If it wasn’t for us, well, they would’ve certainly perished. As it was, we rescued the sole survivor of a team of twelve. He had a choice, as you do. He could join us in the greater purpose of ridding the country of the scourge that devoured it whole. And once that was done, he could help us establish law and order. Our kind of law. Of order. His choice? Well, he refused. In reality, he talked like politicians when asked a straight yes-or-no question.”
Shovel smiled grimly at the memory of the battle, which had turned into a savage shouting match. Sick stepped across one of the beams of light, interrupting Shovel’s train of thought, and stopped inside the dark, more at ease there.
“That same choice I’ll offer to you,” Shovel resumed. “We need people. We need your skills. We
especially
… need your children. Come with us as we search the country for like-minded souls. I’m not offering a return to the old ways, the old systems. I’m offering citizenship in a new world.”
Shovel paused for effect. “But first. The kids. They come with us. Don’t say a word and don’t resist. If you do, not only will you be shot, but the two people on either side of you will be executed as well.”
Soldiers moved among the captives and took six children away from the carpet of prisoners. The kids exchanged frightened expressions with their parents but nothing more.
Shovel was impressed.
The soldiers herded the youngsters away and out of sight. The boys and girls ranged from five to ten. A tall boy was pushed back down. Shovel had deemed teenagers would be treated as adults.
“Now,” Shovel continued. “Any miners among, you? Hm? Any doctors?”
Nothing.
“You’re sure of that?”
Again, none of the prisoners moved. It didn’t really surprise him, but he had to ask. Skilled professionals and tradespeople were like two-legged slabs of gold in the new world.
“All right. Now, then, know that the children’ll be well taken care of, and that in time, this night will be forgotten.
You
will be forgotten. Unless you join us.”
One of the men facedown in the dirt held a hand in the air. A soldier walked over and placed the squared-off barrel of a compact machine gun behind the man’s ear, nuzzling it.
“Speak,” Shovel commanded.
“Are you
crazy
? After––after all of
this
?”
“This?” Shovel answered with a slow, disdainful shake of his head. “This is nothing. You were all dead, really. Dead. You just didn’t know it. This place. This farm. If it wasn’t us, it would’ve been a clan far, far worse. You know we actually discovered you a week and a half ago? You had no idea we were watching you. None. We had this whole place under surveillance. Watched your patterns. Your routines. We know who goes to the row of shithouses out back at what time of the day. What time your lookouts changed shifts. Regular, just like clockwork. We have a pretty good idea of who’s cheating on who behind the barn over there. For
days
, we observed you, and you had no fucking idea despite all your precautions, all your… defenses. Oh, they’re fine against the dead, but the dead are all gone. What’s left are scavengers. The gangs. Raiders. Tribes of road savages who roam the land looking only to butcher, rape, and consume. Highway killers bent on drinking down whatever’s left in the world, preying on the weak.”
Shovel paused again.
“That’s you,” he clarified.
“From your viewpoint, we’re the same. In some ways we are, I’ll admit. But we’re stronger. Better organized. We have a greater goal in mind rather than just day-to-day survival. In this day and age, only the strong’s going to get by. And you? Obviously, you just weren’t strong enough. Sooner or later, someone was going to find you and slaughter you like little piggies.”
“You could have asked,” said the man.
“Asked?” Shovel chuckled. “And if you said no, would you expect us to just leave you? Just like that? Leave you––more specifically the skill sets you might possess for someone
else
to come along and take? To utilize? To use your numbers against our own?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ah”—Shovel shook his head—“like I said. You’re all dead. Just didn’t know it. Still thinking in old-world ways.”
“So we just join up?” the man asked.
Shovel smiled wryly. “Whoa, partner. Slow down. We’ll see after a test. We don’t just take
anyone
. Like I said, the world as you know it is over. Only a special breed is going to make it, and I suppose it’s time to see who’s got balls and who doesn’t. No disrespect to the ladies. Half the people with guns on you now are ladies. All the padding and body armor kinda makes us all look the same. I’m told it’s a… psychological thing.”
Sick, wearing his own menacing ski mask and standing a little taller than Shovel’s five-foot-eleven frame, stopped beside his leader and held out a toolbox.
Shovel nodded in approval. “So, who wants to become part of the solution?”
“This is
bullshit
. You’ll kill whoever doesn’t sign up,” said the man eating dirt.
“Well, you’re partially right. People
are
going to die here.”
“Then we all join.”
Shovel sincerely doubted that but decided he had to start somewhere. “What’s your name?”
“Reilly.”
“Reilly, you speak on behalf of your people?”
“Yeah.”
“Then, I thank you for joining first. Stand up. Just you.”
The soldier with the gun at Reilly’s ear backed off. A cautious Reilly got to his feet. Filth dusted his jeans and red flannel shirt. A thick beard hung off his face, and Shovel didn’t appreciate the murderous glower. He recognized trouble right away. Always the way with the leaders.
“Stay right there and pick. Screwdriver or hammer?” Shovel asked as Sick set the toolbox on the ground and pulled out the pair of tools.
“Huh?”
“Screwdriver or hammer. Pick one.”
“What for?”
“
Pick one, goddamnit
,” Shovel barked.
Reilly jumped. The fire in the bearded man’s eyes diminished with uncertainty, which was more to Shovel’s liking.
“Hammer,” Reilly muttered.
Sick tossed him the tool.
“Now,” Shovel said, “who else wants to join?”
A show of hands.
“That one.” Shovel pointed to a short but stocky individual, another beard grower. It was the style of the times. “You get the screwdriver.”
It landed at the man’s feet.
“Now, as I’ve said,” Shovel explained, “only the strong survive. And we only want the strong. But also, we want a special breed of survivor. A
survivor’s
survivor, you see. You two––step over there, away from the crowd. And don’t run. Don’t you dare run. Not if you value the lives of your friends still on the ground. Either of you run, we light up the works.”
A glaring but understanding Reilly and his companion meandered over to the indicated spot. Shovel saw the leader sensed trouble. The farm boy wasn’t stupid.
“Now,” Shovel declared when the pair was clear of the others. “Time for the hardcore. You got your weapons. Now you fight. Right there. To the death. We’ll take the one who kills the other.”