Survivors (5 page)

It didn’t take Harris’s binoculars to make out the figures on the guard towers staring at the ragtag group upon its approach. That caused hackles to rise, but when no rifles came out, Harris and the others did their best to relax and remain placid, not making any threatening movements. As they drew nearer, they could make out more details.

The town’s defenses were still under construction, Hal noted. Or, perhaps, they were being repaired. He couldn’t tell. Either way, it was impressive. They’d found a use for their now-useless cars, adding them to the barriers flanking the main gates. On the roofs of these cars stood riflemen, though each with his weapon shouldered. The men in the guard towers were similarly armed, but inactive. The threat was implicit, however; one hostile move, and the new arrivals would come under a hail of fire.

“Afternoon,” Hal said, stepping past Harris and waving up at the guard towers, ignoring the annoyed look Harris shot at him. “My friends and I were heading east and noticed you were having a little trouble with fire. Anything we can do?”

“Not unless you brought a fire engine and some hoses with you,” said one of the men in the guard tower. He had a strong look about him, and wore, half-hidden under an open button-down shirt, a bronze badge of office. “We’ve got it under control. Just a little excitement at the town clinic. Look, if you folks are after food or shelter, we’ll do what we can, but we can’t afford to be too trusting these days. You understand.”

“Well, we are running a little low on vittles ourselves,” said Hal, thumbing his hat back to get a better look up at the man. “We’d be willing to trade for ’em, of course. Wouldn’t be asking for freebies. Though I
have
to get a discount. I’m a retired serviceman, see. Some things shouldn’t change, plague or no plague,” Hal said, flashing a grin.

The man in the guard tower chuckled. “Name’s Keaton. Sheriff of Abraham.”

“I’m Hal Dorne. Retired mechanic, professional ne’er-do-well, and sort of between careers at the moment,” Hal said, nodding. “I should be sitting on an island getting drunk and sunburned right now, but it looks like things got a little twisted.”

“Well, Hal, like I said, we’re open to doing what we can for folks, but we’ve learned a few tough lessons about trust—so if I let you in, you’ll have to surrender your weapons at the police station,” Keaton said.

The man in the tower next to Keaton leaned over and whispered something frantically.

“I know that, but it doesn’t mean they’ll be anything like Sherman, does it?” Keaton said back, at normal volume.

Hal caught Sherman’s name, but brushed it off, certain he’d misheard the Sheriff, or thinking perhaps that he was referring to another individual.

Harris spoke up, drawing the group’s attention.

“How about it, men? It’s a risk. If we give up our weapons, we’re all theirs,” Harris said.

“Nah,” said Rico, shaking his head. “Nah, man. Nah, check it out—if these boys were going to wreck on us, they would have done it by now. I think we can trust them, man.”

Allen and the deckhands nodded in agreement.

“Yeah,” nodded Stiles, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I say we trust them.”

Harris pursed his lips, sighed, and turned to the guard towers. “All right. We agree! We’ll surrender our weapons.”

“Good to hear it!” Keaton shouted down. He turned, speaking to someone out of sight behind the barricades. “Wes, get the gates open! We’ve got visitors!” Keaton turned back to the road-weary men. “Welcome to Abraham. Enjoy your stay.”

The gates opened outward with a series of mighty creaks, so heavy was their construction that no amount of grease could ever really ease them up. One civilian appeared behind each gate, ratcheting them outward until they stood wide. They were latched open, and the civilians retreated inside their town. Hal noted the mechanism they’d installed on the gate, which only allowed it to swing one way without a release on the inside being held in.

Hal and Stiles approached warily as the gate swung shut behind them, closing with a clang. Keaton had climbed down from the guard tower and met them with another man; this one was shorter, thinner, with a long, hooked nose and the appearance of a sharp-eyed hawk.

“Gentlemen, this is my deputy, Wes,” Keaton said, introducing the newcomer.

“True pleasure, gents,” said Hal, shaking both men’s hands. “These are my friends—I guess you could call most of them that—right here. This is Harris. Rico, Hillyard, and Allen and the four behind them are Navy working men—not like Harris, the pencil-pusher,” said Hal, earning an eye-roll from Harris, “and this is Mark Stiles, formerly of the Army.”

Keaton and Wes exchanged unreadable glances.

“What was that for?” asked Allen, picking up on the civilians’ brief exchange. “You got something to say about the Navy?”

“Or the Army?” chimed in Stiles, grinning.

“Nah,” said Wes, “we’ve just been getting more soldiers through these parts than we’re used to, that’s all. Before Morningstar, all we ever got were farmers. Now we’ve got sailors and mechanics and generals—”

“Generals?” asked Hal and Harris simultaneously. Stiles perked up as well, looking intently at the Sheriff’s deputy.

“What do you mean, generals?” pressed Harris, speaking quickly. “Who’d you see?”

“Whoa, it’s nothing,” said Wes, backing up a few steps, misreading Harris’s sudden curiosity as hostility. “It’s just that we had a few guys come through here a while back. One of them said he was a general, that’s all.”

“What did he say his name was?” asked Hal.

“Uh, Sherman. General Sherman,” Wes said.

The little group of survivors let up a whoop. “They’re alive!” Hal said. “I can’t believe they made it this far! Hell, they pulled it off!”

The exclamations were forthcoming for several long moments, with speculation about the well-being of Sherman’s group flying back and forth. When the excited chatter began to die down, Keaton seized a chance and spoke up.

“How do you fellows know Sherman? He didn’t mention he had anyone on the way behind him,” Keaton said.

“Oh, he wouldn’t have known we were coming,” Hal said, waving it off as he unholstered his sidearm and passed it to Wes, who had warily begun the collection of firearms from the newcomers. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ll have to hear it,” said Keaton, “but now that you’re in and we’re sure you’re not here for trouble, I have to go make sure the clinic gets taken care of. Most of the fire’s out, but it’s still smoldering in parts.”

“Someone knock a lantern over?” asked Allen, ducking the sling of his MP-5 as he handed it to Wes.

“No, someone left a few common household cleaning supplies near one smart asshole, who seized the opportunity,” Keaton shrugged. “Just like you, it’s a long story. Anyway, I’ll catch up with you later. You mentioned you needed food. The only place we have that does that kind of bartering is Eileen’s. It’s a pub just down the street, on the right, before you get to the town green. They have some stock up for trade.”

“A pub? Does it have beer?” Rico called out to Keaton’s swiftly retreating back.

“It sure does—if you want to call it that,” replied Keaton, speaking over his shoulder.

“What about pussy?” Allen sang out to no response. Wendell slapped the back of his head.

But that decided matters for the survivors. The sailors quickly volunteered to go and barter for food—and whatever passed for beer in Abraham. Harris followed behind them, muttering about keeping them in line. The truth of the matter was that he likely didn’t mind the idea of a brew himself.

This left Hal and Stiles standing with Wes near Abraham’s main gate. The poor deputy looked half-buried under confiscated firearms. He stumbled over to a nearby lawn cart and carefully dumped the weapons into the rear end, tucking the barrel of an errant rifle into the compartment.

Wes turned with a slowly reddening face and, looking at Stiles, stumbled over his words.

“Uh, I kind of need to—ah, your rifle—I need to bring it to the station,” he managed, pointing at the Winchester that Stiles was using for a crutch.

Stiles looked down at it, blinked, and stared back at the deputy. “I kind of depend on it. Got something else I can use in the meantime?”

“Well, not on me. But wait,” Wes said, snapping his fingers. “We’ll get you an actual crutch at the clinic. I was going to go by there after I took care of the weapons anyway. You can ride with me in the cart until then.”

“Works for me,” Stiles said, limping over to the cart. He slid into the passenger seat and tucked his rifle in with the other weapons, giving it a tender pat as he did so. He had become quite attached to it over the past several weeks—almost literally.

“Don’t think you’re leaving me here,” Hal said, pushing Stiles over. “Make room—I’m coming, too.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always bitching about how you should be lounging around and drinking?” Stiles pointed out. “I would have thought you’d be the first to run off to the pub. Never know when we’ll see another one.”

“Oh, I can, and I will, I assure you,” Hal said with an easy grin. “But I’d kind of like to see this operation Abraham’s running first. Seems like a good opportunity for a tour.”

Wes took the driver’s seat. The cart was slow but ran with a quiet electric whine, moving efficiently along the mostly deserted streets. The citizens, it seemed, were congregated near the other end of town, distracted by or helping with the clinic fire.

“So,” said Wes, glancing at Stiles, “if you don’t mind my asking, how’d you hurt your leg? Get shot?”

Stiles had been attacked in Hyattsburg by a carrier of Morningstar, and had been badly bitten. The wound never seemed to heal up properly, but Stiles never became ill. He was a true rarity: a human being with a natural immunity to the Morningstar strain.

Stiles began to explain. “Well, actually, I was—”

Hal shoved Stiles hard on the shoulder. “Yeah . . . he was shot. Friendly fire. Went out to take a piss one night and Rico drilled him by accident.”

Stiles looked confused for the barest of moments, then took the hint, nodding and laughing. “It was my own fault. I should’ve stayed inside the perimeter.”

“Ouch.” Wes chuckled and turned the cart into the parking lot of a small, single-story brick building. The landscaping had gone to pot and was overgrown, but the lot itself was still holding up strong, a pool of black in a cradle of green. The deputy pulled the cart to a stop in front of the entrance, and began to pull weapons out of the rear compartment.

Hal took the opportunity to lean in close to Stiles. He lowered his voice. “Look, I know this is the first time we’ve been around anybody, and for all we know they’ll understand you’re lucky enough to be immune. But until we know for sure, don’t let a damn soul know you’ve been bitten. They’d kill you the second they figured it out, no matter if you haven’t turned.
I
would. Hell, we almost
did
kill you. In fact, if we get to this clinic and they want to look at your wound, don’t show it to them. Tell them you’re fine, it’s just sore. Stick to the bullet wound story. I’ll let Rico and the others in on it.”

“I get you,” whispered Stiles. “No problem. It’s probably better if we kept this to ourselves.”

“Yeah,” breathed Hal.

Wes had vanished, laden with weapons, into the building, which Hal and Stiles saw now was marked as the Sheriff’s office by a bronze-and-concrete plaque half-hidden in the tall grass.

“At least there’s still a little law and order here,” said Stiles, nodding toward the plaque.

“Yep. A little bit of civilization goes a long way these days,” agreed Hal. “Not that I’ve ever been a fan of it. That’s why I left it in the first place.”

Wes reappeared, kicking open the swinging doors to the Sheriff’s office, arms empty. “All right, gentlemen, your gear is secured. Don’t worry,” he added, “we put them in the evidence locker. No one but Keaton and I have the keys to get in there. Your things are safe and sound.”

“Good,” said Stiles, nodding slightly. “If there’s a single ding on my Winchester, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I was meaning to ask you about that,” Wes said, taking over the driver’s seat and sending the cart whirring along on its way. “One hell of a piece you got there. Where’d you find it?”

“Some gun nut’s private storeroom back in Oregon,” Stiles said. “It’s an original. An antique.”

“I could have guessed as much,” said Wes. “I’m something of a weapons enthusiast myself. You don’t find pieces like that anymore—or if you do, they’re way out of my price range. At least, they used to be when money was an issue.”

“Yeah. I almost regret having to use it as a crutch, but I don’t really have a choice.”

Wes banked the cart around a corner. The smoke from the smoldering clinic was growing closer. “Don’t worry. I stuck it in a locker by itself. A piece like that needs some tender loving care.”

“Thanks,” said Stiles, holding on to the rollbars as the cart made the turn. “That weapon and I have saved each other’s lives a dozen times over.”

The electric cart turned a second corner, and the burning clinic came into full view.

It wasn’t completely destroyed. A corner had burned out and collapsed, but the bucket brigades had managed to keep the flames from spreading to the rest of the building. Sheriff Keaton was on the scene, running around, making sure that everything was going smoothly, directing application of water like an experienced fire chief. Wes leapt out of the cart to join him, and Hal followed suit. Stiles remained seated in the cart, nursing his wounded leg.

“What’s it look like, Sheriff?” Wes asked.

“The worst’s over, Wes,” replied the Sheriff. “We’re down to ashes and an occasional flare-up. Gonna have to overhaul the insulation in the walls, make sure all the smoldering is out. God damn that idiot who left those cleaning supplies by Herman.”

“Herman?” asked Hal, managing to bite back a laugh. “The guy who did this is named
Herman
?”

“Don’t laugh,” Keaton said, narrowing his eyes. “Herman Lutz is a complete sociopath, and a goddamn smart one, too. Sherman helped us bring him down, but we got him alive and were keeping him here, at the clinic. He was pretty badly hurt, but he was improving. As far as we can tell, he got a hold of some chemicals and built himself a bomb. Blew the goddamned wall right off the back end of the clinic. His bed’s empty. All in all, he managed a great escape. We tracked him a little. Looks like he headed east.”