Authors: Keith C. Blackmore
“Nothin’.” Gus moved past the man.
“When did they move out?” Collie asked.
“Maybe an hour ago. Maybe more. Difficult to say. No one bothered looking for us.”
“Sloppy.”
“But lucky for us.”
“Can we get up the stairs?”
“It’s pretty hairy. Crawling through a window might be better.”
Collie went to the laundry room and located a boarded-up window.
“Well, if the cats are around…” She pulled the dryer away from the wall. Once it was out of the way, she produced her knife and stabbed underneath the lowest plank covering the window, working it underneath. Gus cringed at the wooden squeals. If anyone was waiting for them up there, they’d know.
Collie wrenched away three planks and studied the night through a broken window and dead weeds. A wonderful breath of late-fall air flowed into the basement.
“Wait.” She picked up a slab of wood and proceeded to clear the frame of shards. Once she was done, Wallace crawled through first and slowly stood up. Gus and Collie waited, seeing only a pair of combat boots.
“Clear,” Wallace declared in a whisper.
“You go,” Collie said to Gus.
“Okay, but don’t be staring at my ass.” He was mortified the moment he said it.
Where the hell had that come from?
Collie only smirked in the shadows.
“Honey, if I wanted your ass, I’d have already taken it.”
Gus wasn’t sure he liked that response either.
He awkwardly pulled and fed himself through the window. Collie wormed through a few moments later, and all three studied the house, which was blown to hell. The second floor had collapsed into the first, and brick and splintered wood clumped around the still-smoking foundation. Even in the dark, Gus could see pieces of destroyed furniture sticking out here and there like charred limbs begging for rescue. The nearby car parked in the driveway hadn’t escaped the destruction, for the fireplace chimney had fallen right across its roof, squashing the vehicle.
Gus understood why no one had checked on them. “Bunch of fuckin’ hillbillies,” he said.
“They took our rides,” Wallace added dourly.
“Well,” Collie said, facing the highway, “that pisses me off.”
“So what do we do?” Gus asked.
“Find them,” Collie said. “We know which direction they came from. We find them and take back our machines.”
She turned and looked him in the eye. “And then kill every last one of them bastards.”
The moon stayed hidden as if ashamed of the past few hours and let the three companions trudge along the highway in darkness. Walking felt good and generated a sweat that armored Gus against the cold. Collie led the way while Wallace brought up the rear, walking as if controlled by remote. They were nearly soundless in their march, which inspired Gus to try to emulate them. A few times, his boots scuffed the pavement, causing him to cringe, but no warning came from the operators.
Abandoned cars dotted the road, pushed off onto shoulders and left to the slow press of years. Collie inspected a few, discovering the fuel tanks long since siphoned dry.
“How far away you think they are?” Gus asked Collie’s back.
“Thirty, forty klicks, maybe. Maybe more. Don’t worry. We’ll probably see or hear them long before they do us.”
“Unless something else does,” Wallace commented from behind, breaking his silence at Gus’s lack of stealth.
“My ninja mode is a little rusty,” Gus replied.
“Your ninja mode sucks donkey cocks.”
Furrowing his brow, Gus glanced back. “Just asking in case, you know, you feel like stabbing yourself again.”
“Hey.”
“Yeah?” Gus asked.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Gus shook that one off and decided to leave the operator alone. He felt oddly naked walking in the middle of the road yet well protected with the soldiers around, even if one of them was almost a deadhead. But he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this little group had a big problem on its hands.
The kilometers marched by, and the ache in Gus’s feet worsened. Sleep called, doing subversive things to the rest of him. The night became an endless void where no sound played other than the shuffle of boots on asphalt. Gus listened, believing they were being watched at times, the sensation strong enough to spread a tracery of chills along the back of his neck, but nothing ever materialized. Nor did Collie or Wallace show any signs of alarm. Still, he could not shake the feeling that something lurked along the road, but he discerned nothing in those deep, tar-like shadows.
After what felt like hours, Collie dropped back to him, her shoulder brushing against his. “You okay?”
“No,” Gus answered honestly. “I’m shitbagged here.”
“There’s a pickup here. Big interior without the suicide doors. We’ll stop for a bit.”
Gus barely heard her and realized he was dozing on his feet. He’d completely missed the dreamlike bulk of the vehicle on the highway.
“Great,” he mumbled and let Collie guide him to an open door. The interior didn’t smell of anything, which was a huge bonus—a four-wheel-drive rest stop with unspoiled leather seats. Gus climbed into the back and lay down, throwing an arm over his eyes.
“Just a few minutes.” He breathed, relaxing so quickly he felt as if a dial had been flicked from ten to zero. “’Sall I need.”
But then he was falling.
He didn’t even register the door closing.
A hand rustled Gus’s boot, and he woke, thrashing, striking out all at once, to a soft clatter of Collie’s wind-chime laughter.
“Holy shit,” she observed. “You’re a human bear trap. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone swing everywhere all at once.”
Gus collapsed back on the seat and took a breath. “Ain’t funny if I shit myself.”
“It’s
always
funny when someone else shits himself. Good sleep?”
He regarded Collie hunched over in the doorway, dreary daylight beyond her, making him miss true sunshine.
“Yeah.” He rubbed his face. “What time is it?”
“I’d say a little after seven. The sky’s just lighting up.”
“You guys sleep?”
“I catnapped. Wallace, well, I don’t think he ever sleeps now.”
“Where is he?”
“Not far.”
On cue, Wallace walked past her, muttering, “Get that lazy sack of shit up, Collie, before I grab him by the nutsack and haul his ass out.”
Collie smiled at the slackening of Gus’s face. “He’s getting comfortable around you.”
“Uncomfortable was better.”
Moving his elbows and grunting, Gus worked himself out of the truck. Collie stood back and studied the land. Thick forest lay on either side of the highway. A thick quilt of clouds stopped the sun from showing its face.
“What’s for breakfast?” Gus asked, breathing the cold air.
“Not this morning,” Collie replied. The dark circles under her eyes spoke of very little sleep the night before. “Today we march. And find those little shits that stole our property.”
“They could be anywhere.”
“Yeah? We’ll see.”
As it turned out,
anywhere
was only three kilometers away. Collie pulled Gus off the highway while Wallace followed into the cover of nearby fir trees. They stopped on a hill and looked down upon a sloping plain where a small town rose up on either side of a river. The waterway ran east-west through the middle of the community, while a twenty-meter-or-so arch bridge spanned the slow-moving current. Timberland surrounded the town, the tree line marked by a few huge piles of wrecked debris that might once have been houses. Someone had built a service station with gas pumps on the far side of the river. A small grocery was on the other side of the road. A scattering of smaller buildings encircled the main attention grabber: a two-story motel with the name Cozzzy Inn set on the roof in large red letters.
Two familiar RVs had been parked out front, dwarfing a parking lot full of smaller vehicles.
“Way out in buttfuck nowhere,” Gus observed sourly.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Collie said, pulling her gun from her hip holster and screwing on a sound suppressor. “We’ll move down the hill here, get closer to the town. I’ll go in alone. You’d just draw their attention. It’s still early, and if we’re lucky, I’ll catch them sleeping.”
“Who, huh, wha’?” Gus blurted. “Why can’t Dead Nuts go with you?”
Wallace cast a skeletal grimace in Gus’s direction.
“Ollie can’t move like he used to,” Collie said, pulling her balaclava over her face, covering it ninja style. “I’m up, so stay back and wait for my smoke.”
“But––”
But Collie was already moving, hunched over and slipping between trees, toward her objective below. Gus watched until he lost her in the bush.
He regarded Wallace and rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised at you.”
“Me?” Wallace asked.
“Yeah, you, y’fuckin’ meatsicle. You let her go alone.”
“I let her go alone?” Wallace repeated, amusement lacing his tone. “Don’t you worry about that one.”
Gus’s eyes narrowed at the man.
“Back when we were doing black ops,” Wallace said, “back when the world was chugging along, that one you’re so concerned about was terror incarnate on two legs. Still is. Don’t get fooled by the fact she’s a woman or by her playing with you. That’s a mistake. Old-school military believed women couldn’t handle the physical hardships that come with being a top-tier soldier. Believed their bodies just weren’t as capable as men’s. They even thought––wrongly––that the women couldn’t handle the psychological side of a mission, that they weren’t mentally tough enough. All horseshit, of course––which is one reason why JTF recruited her. Many old schoolers still don’t believe in hard-core female operators. Don’t expect them. Certainly not one with her level of training.”
Despite mixed feelings on Collie’s leaving, Gus was intrigued. “Yeah? What level is that?”
“Most of her opponents didn’t know she was a woman,” Wallace answered slyly. “And those that found out still died. She was born into martial arts. I’m saying she came out of the womb with black belts in multiple disciplines. A natural sharpshooter, taken beyond Olympic level. If she had only one bullet and three targets, she’d still shoot them all dead. Unmatched with hand weapons and an expert with explosives. Endured torture at the hands of some very dedicated senior operatives for forty-eight hours straight before they passed her into JTF. She outwitted and tagged US Navy Seals in some not-so-friendly exchange exercises. Taught the SAS a thing or two about evade-and-capture hunts. Her face is a historical canvas of pain and survival, of combats won. You only have to roll with her once to realize, thankfully, she’s on our side. Then there’s the brain powering it all. Masters in psychology, sociology, and biology. She’s probably outsmarted and killed more bad guys than you have zombies. Collie’s a primal, damn near supernatural, true-to-life tit twister, shit kicker, ball
breaker
if there ever was one. And if you aren’t impressed yet, I’d suggest you establish and maintain a healthy sense of
holy fuck
when talking to her. Don’t let that lovely exterior fool you. She’s a killer.”
All that rendered Gus speechless.
The visor of Wallace’s helmet did not waver. “Listen good. Only gonna say this once. The grim reaper… is a bitch. And whoever it is down there in that motel, they’re already dead.”
*
She covered the distance in under three minutes, slowing down to control her breathing as she neared the first houses on the outskirts. The residences appeared savagely sacked, their windows smashed and charred around the sills, as if someone had taken to using them as huge ovens. The smell of shit percolated around the properties. Cars sat in driveways with their tires sliced, their bodies wrecked with sledgehammer blows. A mountain bike lay twisted on its side, both tires warped, the bare bar—where a seat would have been—covered in an unsettling maroon. Gravel pathways had been transformed into dried-mud footpaths tattooed with bootprints. Collie slipped through the little rural jungle, pausing at corners before peeking around, watching for dogs and other, two-legged, strays. She scanned her intended paths for tripwires or sentries before moving. She kept to the shadows when they were available, stayed on pavement, and kept her sidearm lowered in front of her.
In some of their lengthier deployments, the enemy had given the operators of Joint Task Force Two nicknames. The Taliban had called them Death Bringers. Columbian ELN hit squads had cursed them as Green Ghosts. Collie had forgotten how many men and women she’d killed over the years, never stopping to dwell on their faces or their history before they took up arms and made life miserable for ordinary people, private companies, or interests and investments of the Canadian government abroad. On rescue missions or just straight-out “removals” of terrorist elements, she never questioned her orders, only executed. They all did, with a professional pride that they were among the best at what they were trained to do, and supremely confident in their lethal skills.
When the apocalypse came, she had been transferred to Whitecap with the other JTF-2 teams, along with other armed-force segments, to protect the bunker. While the world died on a scale shown only in movies and books, she experienced guilt on a level never before experienced. They were warriors, protectors of the people, yet there she was, posted deep in the earth, waiting for it all to be over.
That inactivity, that inability to serve—along with her leader’s detached, aloof belief that all was well since
they
would survive—bothered her. She wondered what would become of those still outside of Whitecap after the world had ceased its death throes. When would they reach out and attempt to establish order? Or make the effort to help the survivors? She had no family to speak of, with the exception of her husband Wallace, whom she’d married while in the depths of Whitecap. The bureaucrats wisely decided to ensure all active JTF-2 staff transported their families to the covert installation. Not all had managed to reach their loved ones, however, and that quietly festered with some operators.
She sympathized but secretly felt as if it were punishment for turning their backs.