Plague of the Dead (37 page)

    “I’ll be damned if I’m sneaking halfway across this town five more times and get myself killed in the process,” he said to himself.

    It would have been best if he’d had five more people with him to haul the stuff back. He decided the best thing to do would be to take what he could and leave the rest for later. They’d have to drive back with the truck to pick up the remainder, especially the boxes of food. Stiles knew he could carry enough of the weapons and ammunition to attempt such an operation, especially since they now knew exactly where to go and what to do. It would be a lot different from the first time they came into the town-it had to be.

    Stiles took the straps off of the Ruger and one of the.30-06’s and laid them parallel on the ground. He pulled a pair of shotguns from the racks and laid them on the straps, then topped the pile off with the Ruger and a scoped hunting rifle. He tied the bundle up tight, and hefted it onto his shoulders. He looped the ends of the straps through his webgear and tied them off as well. He shifted his weight, testing his makeshift carrying device. It was a bit cumbersome and more than a little awkward, since it made his shoulder width a couple feet wider than it normally was, but it would do.

    He scooped up the Winchester and jogged back up the wooden stairs, poking his head up through the trapdoor and scanning the store in case any unwelcome visitors had made their way in. When he deemed the way safe, he rose up, but was yanked back down as the rifle barrels and stocks caught on either side of the wooden doorway.

    “
Damn it
,” Stiles cursed under his breath, sinking back down and twisting his shoulders until the weapons slipped through. He made his way back over to the bank of half-empty ammunition cases and chose a few boxes of twelve-gauge shells, some.30-06 rounds, and a few.357 magnum rounds for the revolver. Stiles looked around as if expecting someone to be watching as he shoved three full boxes of.45 rounds for his Winchester into his pack as well. He fully planned on picking up at least another three if and when they returned for the remaining gear. No use in having a beautiful weapon if there wasn’t any ammo for it.

    Before retreating to the store’s exit, he kneeled and took a moment to load up his new rifle. He worked the lever, chambering a round, and nodded in satisfaction.

    They’d be back.

    And they would be ready.

Outside Hyattsburg

0631 hrs_

    It was an abnormally cold morning, even for Oregon in late winter. Fog blanketed the countryside, reducing visibility to what seemed to be a matter of yards. But it wasn’t the cold or the oppressive, stifling fog clouds that were wearing on the survivors that had stayed behind with Sherman that were making them uneasy. It was the lack of the presence of long-overdue scout Mark Stiles. The last report they’d received from him had been around 0200, in the middle of the night, and after that-
silence
.

    Even Sherman was beginning to feel that something awry had happened on Stiles’ return trip. He knew the soldier was highly competent-he not only showed initiative in volunteering, but his manner bespoke of someone who was willing to do his duty, no matter the cost, and no matter how distasteful he found that duty to be.

    Finally, as the sun began to find its way through the clouds and fog, a cry went up from one of the sentries Sherman had posted around their makeshift camp in the leafless woods.

    “Halt!” came the challenge.

    The reaction among the soldiers and refugees was immediate-they sprang up from dozing slumber, grabbing for what few weapons remained. Some of the civilians, mostly Arabs and a few Africans picked up after the disaster at Suez, had spent their time fashioning spears from tough tree branches-primitive, but much better than nothing. Sherman was glad he had a group of aware and cautious people with him. They were ready for anything.

    The guard’s challenge continued.

    “Identify yourself!”

    A weary, exhausted-sounding voice drifted through the fog.

    “Private Mark Stiles, returning from recon!”

    “Advance, and be recognized!”

    Sherman felt a knot in his stomach untie. It could have been a carrier-and one of their battle cries, standard reaction from them when they spotted prey-would certainly have drawn unwelcome reinforcements. The fact that Stiles had spoken had saved him from receiving a bullet from the sentry’s pistol.

    “General?” came Stiles’ voice from the fog.

    “I’m here, son! Come on in, grab what’s left of the grub. Hot chow, cooked over a campfire. You deserve it, whatever you found!”

    “No can do, General. I’ll be staying where I am.”

    Sherman frowned, then looked aside at Thomas, who was scowling. He and the Command Sergeant Major were apparently sharing the same thought.

    “What is it, son?” Sherman asked, pronouncing his words softly, with comfort and a touch of apprehension.

    “I’m done, sir. I fucked up. A shambler bit me on my way out. I’m not coming any closer to camp than this.”

    Sherman opened his mouth as if to reply, but closed his lips. What do you say to a man who knows he’s going to die, and seems calmly resigned to his fate?

    “Make him comfortable, sir,” Thomas said, grimacing. For all his bravado, no man reaches the rank of Command Sergeant Major without knowing and caring about the men under him. Not to mention it seemed as if he was once again reading Sherman’s mind.

    “Stiles! Advance far enough for us to see you, at least! And we’ll send Rebecca out to take a look. We can make your time pass well-you don’t have to be alone, son.”

    “I don’t know, sir.”

    Sherman frowned. Time for a little coercion.

    “Get the hell up to the line, son. That’s an order. Even if you’ve been bitten, it’ll take a while for it to catch up to you. Let Becky check you over, give you some painkillers and a good meal, and we’ll talk over your options.”

    For a full minute there was nothing but silence, and Sherman was worried Stiles had cut and run. He realized his respect level for the soldier had shot up another full notch or two-or ten. He wasn’t flying off the handle. He wasn’t despairing. He was still looking out for his brothers and sisters, even though he’d received a certainly mortal wound.

    “Yes, sir,” Stiles said. “I’ll come in. Against my better judgment, sir.”

    “Noted. Now get in here, soldier!”

    Ahead, out of the mists, loomed a strangely-shaped figure. Most of it appeared human, but bulging packs dangled from webgear and a long, cloth-covered bundle was slung across the man’s shoulders. He limped, favoring his left leg, and was using a brightly polished rifle as a crutch. Half of Sherman wanted to run up to the man and tell him he’d be all right-and the other half, he noted with displeasure-remained professional. If Stiles had found a rifle, he must have found more. That shot up the survival chances of everyone else considerably. Stiles had not only kept cool in an otherwise hopeless situation, but he’d also completed his mission to the letter.

    Thomas was already shouting for Rebecca Hall to grab her medical supplies and move up front. She’d been nearly silent since the incident with Decker and the other infected onboard the USS
Ramage,
as if consumed by inner ghosts, but like the rest of the survivors she was already hardened enough to know when business meant business.

    She came jogging up alongside Sherman as he approached the wounded soldier. Stiles saluted, and in return Sherman snapped off one of the neatest salutes he’d given since he received his commission.

    “Welcome back, soldier.”

    “Thank you, sir.”

    “Report?”

    Stiles nodded, unslinging his heavy gear and ALICE pack and slumping to the ground, utterly exhausted after his all-night foray. Rebecca held up a finger to silence both of them.

    “One moment. Bitten in the leg?” she asked, spying blood seeping through Stile’s BDU pants.

    “Yeah. Some laundromat freak named Don. I killed him, but was a little too hasty in getting out. Forgot the bastard would come back as a shambler. He crawled out and grabbed me without me even noticing him coming. Got in one good bite before I offed him. Sorry I’m so late, too, sir-when I fired on him, I had to spend a few hours evading the other infected that came out to see what the hubbub was about.”

    “Not a problem, Stiles,” Sherman said as Rebecca used a pair of sharp scissors to cut the legging of Stiles’ pants free, exposing the wound. Sure enough, a neat bite mark scored the soldier’s skin. It hadn’t ripped any flesh, but teeth had punctured in a few places.

    Rebecca sighed and got to work, dropping iodine into the wound to sterilize it. Stiles gasped and gritted his teeth against the sting.

    “Well, sir, here’s the lowdown-and I think you’ll like it,” Stiles said, watching Rebecca work. “The main floor in the store was looted damn near clean except for ammunition. I got us enough nine-mil to last a good while. I thought that’s all there was, but I found something.”

    Sherman nodded. “I remember the broadcast you sent. ‘
Going to need a bigger backpack
,’ I think it was.”

    “Yes, sir. And we do. Several backpacks, I think. I found a storeroom in the basement that looked like it doubled as the owner’s private collection of firearms and surplus gear. I know the guns are important, but there’s also a full shelf of T-rations down there. With all of us, it’s about a full week’s supply if we eat three squares a day-we can stretch it to three weeks if we need to.”

    “And the weapons? If they’re all as beautiful as that, we should be in for a treat,” Sherman said, nodding at Stiles’ antique Winchester.

    Stiles chucked somberly, picking up the rifle. “Ain’t it a crime. I finally get one of the rifles I’ve always wanted, and I get bit two minutes later on my way out.”

    “It’s yours, soldier, even in death, if I have my way. You’ve certainly earned a few perks. Speaking of which… Rebecca?”

    “Already on it, Frank,” Rebecca said, glancing up at Sherman. “Morphine, anyone?”

    “Oh, God, yes, please!” Stiles answered, managing a genuine grin. “If I’m going to go nuts, might as well go comfortably, right?”

    “What else did you find?”

    Stiles didn’t answer vocally. Instead he reached over as Rebecca stuck a syringe full of morphine into his thigh and picked up the cloth-wrapped bundle. He untied one of the leather straps and let the rifles he’d brought spill out. Sherman whistled under his breath, then reached down and picked up one of the 12-gauge shotguns. He hefted it in his hands and smiled.

    “You did real good, trooper,” Sherman said, still grinning. “Real good.”

    “And there’s more where those come from, sir,” Stiles added, laying back against a tree trunk and half-closing his eyes as the morphine began to take effect. “There’s about a dozen more, assorted calibers, mostly.30-06 and 12-gauge.”

    “Ruger Mini-14,” Sherman said, looking over the weapons. “And a Winchester model 70. Beautiful! These rifles even have scopes mounted-there’s our long-range supporting fire. That gives our new runner an even better chance.”

    “Uh, sir?” Stiles said, shock on his face. “Your
new
runner? I’m your runner, still.”

    “No, you relax, Stiles-you’ve done all of us a great service.”

    “With all due respect, sir, blow it out your ass,” Stiles said. Sherman was taken aback a moment, but realized the remark was not meant to be offensive. Stiles elaborated, “Look-I’m dead anyway, and I can still run like mad if Becky here gives me another shot of that painkiller before we head out. If I get killed-so what? I’m a dead man either way. The way I see it-I might have been your best choice before, but now I’m the perfect choice.”

    Sherman raised his eyebrows, then slowly nodded. Once again Stiles proved to be a sound thinker.

    “Very well, Stiles. May I say something?” Sherman asked. Stiles nodded, eyes still half-closed.

    “If we were still technically in the Army, I’d see to it you got the Medal of Honor for this. I mean that.”

    “Hell, sir, I’d settle for a discharge and partial pension,” chuckled Stiles. Even lately-morose Rebecca cracked a smile at that. “Is there anything else, sir? Getting pretty tired…”

    “One last question. You said there were more weapons in that store?”

    “Yes, sir… trapdoor behind the counter… gotta pry it up… guy down there… he’s dead, don’t mind him… get the food and more ammunition… especially food…” Stiles voiced drifted off and his head lolled to the side in sleep. The morphine and exhaustion had caught up to him.

    Sherman reached out a hand and clasped the sleeping soldier’s shoulder. “You did real good, son. Real good.”

    Then he stood, Rebecca still kneeling and collecting her supplies, and yelled to the survivors.

    “Group! School circle! We’ve got a new plan to work out!”

    With the exception of the sentries posted around the main makeshift camp, all the men and women grouped around Sherman, Thomas, and Rebecca, who took a few steps back, not wanting any real attention to fall upon her.

    “Alright, listen up!” Thomas declared, looking directly at the soldiers and skipping his eyes over the civilians, who he still felt he served and wouldn’t presume to order about. “There’s been a minor change in our rescue attempt. We’ve acquired a pair of long-range, high-powered rifles. What we need now are two of you-civilian or soldier-who has exceptional marksmanship skills. Their new job will be to cover our runner, Stiles, as he tries to drive the carriers away from the siege at the theater. Be warned-your shots will draw attention. Be ready to break and run if you find you’ve got unwelcome company. Despite that, we’re also assigning our sniper volunteers a rifleman with our new Mini-14 to cover them at close range. That leaves us a handful of pistols, a revolver, and a shotgun for our main defense and rescue crew-and just for your information, that’s every last one of you who isn’t assigned to drive or snipe. If you’re without a firearm, you’ll still be sticking to plan one-hang back and wait to withdraw when the rescue squads are leaving the city.”