Zombie Killers: AMBUSH: Irregular Scout Team One Book Six (Zombie Killer Blues 6) (3 page)

Chapter 215

The next ten miles passed in a comfortable patrol, down the middle of Rt. 22 this time. I felt, and Red agreed with me, that we had probably destroyed the only real threat to us in the area last night, and I didn’t want to go stumbling into a stray Z like I had a few nights earlier.

Jimmy Bognaski walked along side of me for a bit, busting my balls about whatever he could think of. He had always been like that, a wise ass joker, from the moment Red and I had saved his life outside of Troy. A Regular Army infantryman, Ski had spent the last six years fighting up and down the continent, but had finally hung up his spurs after getting wounded in a battle out in the Midwest.* Although he was still a Staff Sergeant in the Reserves, and I had been pushing him to go to OCS, Ski contented himself with running trade up and down the Hudson River. He had come along on this scout with me because he was between cargos for a week or two.

“You seem to be a bit more, I dunno, chill about wasting people, Nick. How’s your head?”

I looked at him a bit sideways. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how’s your head?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“Cause two years ago, you almost tried to eat your pistol. Now you’re on a joyride through the countryside, killing Z’s and hanging cannibals, and it doesn’t seem to have bothered you in the slightest.”

I shrugged and said “I always hated cannibals, and deserters even worse.”

We kept walking along, and as we did I slowly spun in a three sixty circle, making sure everyone was paying attention to their surroundings. Just because we had apparently taken out the local bad guys, didn’t mean we needed to drop our guard.

“Jimmy, I just don’t care anymore. I know Brit and the kids will be fine without me for a bit, and I really don’t give a shit about what happens to the rest of humanity, except my friends.”

He spat some chew onto the ground, then asked, “So why are you out here?”

Ahead of us, Lisa’s hand came up, and we all dropped down to one knee, scanning our sectors. After a few seconds, she waved us on and we continued walking.

“Honestly, I missed it. You know how absolutely goddamned exciting a firefight is? I mean, I’m not looking to get killed, but we’re patrolling an area that sits between two major highways that are used by the Army and the Reclamation Corps. You know there’s no hordes waiting for us, air recon told us that. “

“I know that some random bullet might take the top of your head off.”

I nodded and smiled. “That’s true. But I was getting bored as hell with no Netflix.”

Calling a halt, I pulled out my battered New York State atlas, conferring with the LT as to our position. Then I told him to go ahead and brief everyone. He took off his helmet and sat down on the rusted hood of a burned out car.

“Listen up, everyone.” People’s ears were turned towards him, but no one broke security. Damn I loved working with professionals.  “About two miles ahead of here, from what we learned from the prisoner we took, is a sort of trading post slash inn. It’s run by a woman called ‘Large Marge’.”

“And she looked like THIS!” I exclaimed. Only Lisa, who was in her late thirties, laughed. “It’s from a movie,” I said. “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure!”

“Right, Chief,” said Jackson. “Old bastard” I heard him add under his breath.

“ANYWAY,” said the LT “we’re NOT going to go in there guns blazing. I want to know what’s going on around here, and just like Sergeant Major Agostine’s place up in Stillwater, someone running a trading post is going to know a lot about everything.”

“What I want to know,” asked Red “is how she survived when this here cannibal group we waxed last night was running around?”

I spoke up. “The prisoner told us that they traded with her for vitamins, fruit, stuff like that in exchange for looted jewelry, loose ammo, anything of value they could scrounge. Still, I’m not going to trust her as far as I can throw her.”

“You heard the Sergeant Major. Let’s keep our heads on a swivel and our fingers CLOSE to the trigger.” He looked at me to see if there was anything to add, but I shook my head. The kid was doing OK so far, and as we moved further into this mission, I’d let him step up more in command.

“You know the drill,” I said. “PCC’s and PCI’s. Make sure your gear is tight and your weapons secured. We MAY have to haul ass if the shit hits the fan. Rally Point is on click 290 degrees magnetic. From there we will try to head to the Hudson River, if you can’t find the team. Get to the river and head north till you find the nearest settled village or checkpoint and report in. Shit or piss in pairs, take ten, and then we roll out.”  
*See Zombie Killers: Endgame, available on Amazon.

Chapter 216

The road wound its way through the valley towards the cross roads where the “trading post” was located. Our prisoner had been very forthcoming with information about the whole area north of the trading post, which apparently they “hunted” and foraged in. That had explained the lack of undead, and people, we had come across. We had been walking through prime farmland, and I kept a professional eye out on how far back it had sunk into the wild. The fields themselves were filled with brush and saplings, but most of the buildings were in decent shape. Many of the barns had stood for more than a hundred years anyway; a few more wouldn’t matter.

The Federal Government had established a new capital in Albany, after the second plague had been released on the world two years ago. Refugees from the rest of the country were still arriving, and the FEMA camps were getting full. A new resettlement program, concentrating on the productive lands throughout the northeast, was in full swing, and our mission was to check out local conditions, find survivors, and mark out good resettlement towns. The Harlem Valley, which ran North / South along the NY / Massachusetts / Connecticut border, fit the bill perfectly. Despite being in close proximity to the NYC metro area, it had remained mostly rural. I knew that IST -4 was scouting a similar route up and down the Bennington to Rutland area, and other teams were even further afield, in New Hampshire and Maine, even down through the Ohio valley. We may have been down, but we weren’t out. As it was, the valley ran between two major roads that were still in heavy use, Interstates 90 in the north, pulling salvage from Boston, and 84 in the south, running down to some of coastal settlements in Connecticut and the Providence Naval Base, which was the headquarters of the US Navy. The locals around here probably just kept their heads down and tried to survive, even though planes regularly passed overhead and it was two days’ travel by foot to I-84.

Two days travel. I laughed to myself, thinking about how the world had grown so much larger. There were plenty of useable cars and trucks lying around. Lying around on flat, rotted tires, with dead useless batteries and spoiled gas. The Reclamation Corps was methodically stripping such vehicles for useful items, but they were a long way from here. We had even opened up a new automotive factory in Binghamton, and it was churning out simple trucks with refurbished diesel engines.  Food, transportation, and ammo. The three most important goods in the post apocalypse world. Lacking the second one, we walked. Which reminded me, I need a new pair of boots. My trusty old favorites were getting a bit worn.

As we crested a rise, Ski, who was now on point, dropped flat and crawled forward to a spot where he could just see over the edge of the hill, off to one side to keep from silhouetting himself. I quickly joined him, pulling out my own binoculars. Ahead was the Trading Post, right where the cannibal had marked it on the map.

It was like many other fortress / farmsteads that had managed to survive over the last six years.  A stone wall rose about ten feet or so, made out of concrete and rebar. There were raised firing platforms at each corner, and a heavy metal gate could just be seen on the side facing the road. There were several buildings in the compound, their roofs just peeking over the edge of the wall, except for one two story modern house, with shuttered windows. A heavy duty windmill was perched on top of a hill about a half mile away, within rifle shot, and surrounded by its own concrete wall. It lazily turned in the summer breeze, but I knew that it would generate substantial power at even that slow speed.

We spent the better part of the afternoon observing the place. Each of the guys rotated through pulling security and observing, and the LT and I compared notes provided by each watcher. By three, we had built up a pretty complete picture, including the three wagons that had come and gone, two pulled by horses and one by team of eight people chained together at the neck. All of them were black, clad in rags, and I was glad Lt. Simmons wasn’t on watch at that time. As it was, my own knuckles whitened on the binos as I watched, and I flinched when the wagon driver cracked a whip on them as they headed south.

I had seen this before. When it all went to shit, people turned inward on their own tribe to survive. What was the Arab expression? My brother against my cousin, my cousin against my tribe, my tribe against the world. Divisions had often opened up among racial lines in places where society had completely broken down.  A natural human trait, I supposed, but that didn’t make it any nicer. Blacks against whites was an old story that had gone on for quite a long time, even here in the “liberal” northeast. I knew a lot of people in Upstate NY who couldn’t stand the fact that political correctness had knocked them out of the supposed higher place in society.

In the plague years, it had been even easier. Blacks and Hispanics fleeing the cities had exchanged freedom for food, becoming first workers, then serfs, then slaves in many cases. Not all; not even the majority. But you saw it, and you put an end to it when you did.

I gathered the team together and laid out the plan. We were going to go in as what had become known as a “free company”. Mercenaries, basically. We all carried a mixed set of “tacticool” clothing and gear, something that ex-military might wear while looking for work.  Groups of them often roamed the countryside, doing everything from hiring on as Personal Security Detachments, to zombie area clearing, to looting the odd farm here and there, if they could get away with it.  

The guys all changed quickly, rotating through security and stripping down, putting away uniforms, and bringing out various bits of K-mart camo. Cappochi finished tying a black doo rag around her head and then knocked out a quick hundred pushups with her pack still on her back.

“Hey Pooch,” said Bognaski, who was risking death by even calling her that “you ever been mistaken for a man?”
“Ninety nine, one hundred,” she grunted, then rolled onto her back and commenced doing sit ups. “No, you stupid Pollack, have you?”

The crew laughed and we headed out down the road in an open tactical formation, looking good, but not TOO good.
 

Chapter 217

The reaction we got was none too friendly, but about what I expected.

“HALT!” came the shout from the firing platform in front of the gate.  “SPEAK YOUR BUSINESS!” I couldn’t see anything except the barrel of what looked like a light machine gun poking thought a firing slit. I had no doubt that the bolt was locked back and a belt of ammo locked in the feed tray.

“Travelers, looking to trade ammo for food,” I yelled back.

“Come on up, one by one. Weapons slung on your backs, bolts to the rear, magazines out.”

We did as they asked, though it felt like I was walking naked into a hornet’s nest. A counter balanced gate was rolled back to admit us, then moved back again. We were met by a guy in overalls and tactical gear, accompanied by a squad of mismatched, but well fed, tough looking hombres, all armed with some variant of AR-15’s or M-4 rifles. I held my hands up in the air while they looked us over.

I took the chance to check the place out. We were in a sort of outer courtyard; another, heavier gate then the one we had come through. Smart thinking; the customers only got access to the front part of the, well, I guess you could call it a castle.  What had been a garage with several bays had been converted into a warehouse, and a couple of people were sitting at tables, sorting through various goods. One man was arguing pretty vehemently with one of the trading post’s people; at least I assumed it was, because the one being argued with wore a dark green t-shirt, like all the guards I had seen so far.

“So what’s your name, and your business, soldier,” asked the head man.

“Well, my friends call me Nick. We’re passing through on our way to Boston. Things were getting a little too, well, civilized back in the Hudson Valley, if you know what I mean. “

He grunted and nodded. “Getting more and more people who ain’t happy with the way the Federals have been setting up around there.” He studied me for a minute, held out his hand. “Bill Waterson. We can always use ammo, and food we got. Say, you weren’t up north of here a day or so ago? Heard a lot of gunfire, middle of the night.”

Well, I wasn’t going to lie. “Ran into a bunch of cannibals, tried to get the jump on us.” I watched his face as he said it, but either he didn’t know about them, or he was a damn good poker player. Nothing on his lined face betrayed anything.

“Well, maybe you did us a favor then. Can’t stand them, but I thought the last group was cleared out of the valley three years ago.  Thanks, then.” He paused, said, “If you have any information of what’s going on in the outside world, our boss lady would sure like to hear it.”

I detailed Red, Ski and Lisa to do some “trading”, and took Lt. Simmons and Jackson with me. We entered into the inner compound through  a side door set in the concrete wall. I noted that four of the guards and Waterson escorted us with a wary eye, not relaxing at all. I made a point trying to not notice and get a full count of their defenses. We were taken in through a doorway in the main house, and into an office. Behind the desk sat a woman who was, in all essences, Large Marge.

I’m not sure I ever had ever seen a more revolting example of “MERIKA” in my life. She sat behind a desk, using, of all things, a laptop, watching security cameras on a split screen. She was wearing some serious makeup slopped on, looking like some kind of Salvador Dali painting, and her breath could have knocked my socks off. Frizzy red hair and a wisp of a mustache competed for my attention with the god-awful giant bosom that spilled from her wife beater t-shirt. She stood up and came around the desk, grabbing my hand with a sweaty palm and shaking it profusely.

“Sure am pleased to meet you!” she said in a high pitched voice with a grating New York City accent. I unobtrusively wiped my hand on my pants and sat down at the overstuffed chairs in front of her desk. Simmons took a seat and Jackson stood, which was, in my opinion, a mistake. Jackson, as the older guy, should have sat, while the younger one stood as a body guard. I let it pass though, and spoke directly to her.

“Thanks for letting us in, Ms…”

“Murdock. Margaret Murdock.”

“Well, yeah,” I said, trying to sound as rough and uneducated as possible. “We’re just passing through, kinda got in a little trouble with the Feds in Albany.”

Her painted on eyebrow shot up, and she said “We’ve heard the government was cracking down on freelancers. Would you be interested in some work?”

“Not really, uh, ma’am. We’re just passing through on our way east. Maybe set ourselves up somewhere in Western Mass, loot, I mean, salvage some towns.”

She gave me a shrewd look. She may have looked like a joke, but anyone who survived both plagues AND ran a trading post was no idiot. I hoped my rough guy act was working on her, and it seemed like it. She turned away from me and looked at Simmons.

“You know, we don’t get many of your people through here. Not since those rats from the City tried to overrun us, getting away from the zombie plague.” 

“My people?” he asked, unsure of what she was getting at.

She laughed, but the look on her face could have soured milk. “You know. Blacks. African Americans.”

Simmons was taken aback. He had lived the last six years in Portland, and really didn’t know what a lot of the country was like. I quickly jumped in before he could say anything. “This one’s Ok with us, Marge. He’s good in a fight, and someone has to clean up the dishes!” I laughed, hating myself, and she laughed with me.

She dismissed Simmons from her mind, and we made small talk for a while, mostly us filling her in what the state of the world was outside her part of New York. Her enthusiasm had waned when she realized we really couldn’t tell her anything new. I watched in fascination as a bit of drool ran down her chin, and finished telling my story.

“So, after the crazy President let loose the second plague, Vice President Epson took over and moved whatever military and civilians he could back to New York. We were working up by the Canadian border, doing some Z hunting for the bounty, but shit got way too crowded for us by the beginning of this summer. So we took a hike.”

“I see,” she said, pounding her fat fingers on the keyboard, idly scratching her armpit and moving a floppy breast out of the way when it slipped onto the keyboard. “I run a tight place here, and I expect no fooling around. This isn’t a hotel; do your trading and be gone in an hour. So, where are you heading from here?”

Simmons, who I could tell was irritated by her attitude when referring to his skin color, burst out with “South, sooner we can get away from racist assholes, the better. “

She said nothing, merely glared at him. Turning to me, she said “You better keep your pet nigger in check, there, Nick. There ain’t no NAACP to protect his ass anymore. It’s a changed world.”

“No problem,” I said, standing up, but leaning back so that I didn’t catch any of her foul breath. We made our way out, and I unconsciously wiped my hand on my pants again. The sooner we were out of there, the better.