The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel (9 page)

The first step in forming a shitpile, as they termed a large mound of permanently dead ghouls, was to drop the ones closest to the center of the horde until they formed a stack. As the flanks slowly caught up, Holland and Thompson would maintain fire on the center while the rest of the squad shifted fire farther down the flanks. The result was a gradually building wall of dead bodies at a set distance that slowed the progress of the horde to a crawl. As the bodies piled up, the walkers would naturally try to go around it rather than over it, which served to spread out the line.

Just as it was getting to the point Caleb couldn’t shoot fast enough to keep his section of the horde at standoff distance, he heard Alpha and Bravo squads open up to his left. A hail of bullets ripped into the horde from that side, preventing them from going around the rapidly building pile ahead of them. The slope of the hill compounded this difficulty, forcing the walkers to crawl up the middle. When their heads popped up over the pile, they were easy pickings.

The number of ghouls in Caleb’s sights began to rapidly diminish, which was good because he could feel the heat of his barrel radiating through the rail shroud. The smell of spent cordite was strong in the air, stinging his nostrils. He found it oddly nostalgic.

Just as the chamber latched open on the last round in Caleb’s magazine, Thompson gave the order to cease fire.

“Drop your packs, vests, and extra gear,” he said. “Hand weapons only. If you have a sidearm, bring it, but don’t use it unless absolutely necessary. If you do, maintain muzzle discipline at all times. And no fucking heroics; we fight as a team. If you get in trouble, call for help. Don your PPE now, don’t wait until we get there. Understood?”

The squad gave a round of acknowledgements. Thompson wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, but they all knew it made him feel better to say it.

“We’re to move down the hill and attack on the right flank,” Thompson went on. “Alpha will hit them on the left while Bravo circles around behind. Charlie will stay in reserve and take out any walkers who make it over the pile. Any questions?”

There were none.

“All right. Let’s get it done.”

Caleb dropped his pack to the ground, followed by his MOLLE vest and rifle. His Beretta was in a drop holster on his hip, which he kept. His scarf went around his mouth and nose, his combat goggles went over his eyes, the armored gloves went over his hands and forearms. After drawing his spear, he followed Thompson and the rest of his squad down the hill. Beside him, Eric hefted a Y-shaped stick and a rapier-like sword. “Mind if I tag along?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Caleb replied. “I usually team up with Cole and Holland.”

“Works for me. Where do you want me?”

“Let Cole take point and kill anything that approaches on his right. I’ll move left with Holland.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Cole turned to them and grinned. “And make sure you give me plenty of room to swing.”

Eric eyed the massive bar mace in the gunner’s thick hands. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

When they were in position, lined up along the horde’s right flank roughly thirty meters away, Thompson held up a hand. “Hold position and wait for my order.”

Caleb gripped his spear, hands tightening on the familiar texture of the hickory shaft. The handle was short, only three and a half feet long, tipped with a heavy ten-inch blade. The blade was triangular in shape with a narrow profile and a thick spine in the middle, making it perfect for ramming through nasal cavities and soft palates. Caleb remembered all the times his father had taken him hunting for wild pigs on horseback armed only with boar spears, and all the times they had sparred with rubber training spears. His father had always gotten the best of him until he was about fifteen and accidentally broke Caleb’s spear in a sparring match. His father kept attacking anyway, loudly reminding him that in a real fight, his opponent wouldn’t stop to let him carve a new one. To his surprise, he found he could handle the weapon much better with the shorter handle. That day marked the first time he ever beat his father in a training match.

A glint of sunlight flashed from his spear’s point, reminding him of the gleam in his father’s eye when he batted aside a thrust aimed at his chest, closed the distance, and pressed the rubber tip of his training weapon to his father’s throat. 

“Good,” the old man had said, smiling. “Very good, son.”

He smiled at the memory, feeling the familiar anticipation of hand-to-hand combat building in his gut. It was a good feeling, a release of worry and doubt, a strange sort of catharsis. In battle, Caleb could forget who he was, forget all he had lost, forget the pain and regret and worry for the future, and lose himself in the red mist of the melee.

“All squads are in position,” Thompson said, pointing his rifle toward the horde. “Advance.”

Caleb’s team approached, Cole out front, the rest of the squad formed up and advancing on their right. Thompson brought up the rear, rifle in hand, the only one still armed with an M-4. As squad leader, it was Thompson’s job to hang back, direct the fight, and use his carbine to assist anyone who got in trouble. The rest of the squad—Caleb included—had to engage the enemy with hand weapons. It was not an ideal way to fight the undead, but with the Army’s resources stretched as thin as they were, conserving ammunition was critical.

He watched Cole wade into the press with his usual glee, bar mace moving in a steady figure-eight pattern, an infected skull crushed like a melon with every downswing. To Cole’s right, Eric went to work with his Y-shaped stick and long, elegant sword. The sword had no edges, just a wickedly sharp tip. Eric dispatched walkers by holding the stick under his arm like a jouster’s lance, catching a ghoul by the throat with its Y-shaped end, and stabbing it in the brain through the eye socket.

When Eric had first described his method to Caleb, he had doubted Eric’s claims of how well it worked.

Then he had seen it in action.

Eric could kill walkers twice as fast as anyone Caleb had ever met, himself included. Lieutenant Jonas had even recorded Eric’s tactics on a digital camera and sent it back to Central Command for review, recommending that the folks at AARDCOM (Army Anti-Revenant Defense Command) find a way to adapt the method for use by regular infantry.

Caleb’s thoughts were interrupted as a walker stumbled away from one of Cole’s backswings, but did not go down. He stepped forward, spear cocked back at shoulder level in a two-handed grip, and thrust forward. The needle-sharp point crunched through the ghoul’s nasal cavity and pierced its brain with such force that two inches of blade protruded from the back of its skull before Caleb yanked his weapon free.

Beside him, Holland’s twin tomahawks flashed in the sunlight as he began frenetically attacking the ghouls coming at them from the left. A second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, Holland utilized hard kicks to knock walkers to the ground, then dispatched them with precise chops to the brain stem. When his kicks failed to knock a ghoul over, he moved in and slashed at their knees and ankle tendons, then backed off to let other walkers trip over them, making for easy kills.

Caleb stayed busy, utilizing front kicks to keep walkers at distance and thrusting his arms like twin pistons, every stab claiming another ghoul. The fight raged around him, the howls of the undead mixing with battle cries and grunts of effort from his fellow soldiers. One of the men in his squad shouted for help somewhere to his right, followed by the crack of Thompson’s rifle.

A ghoul appeared in front of Caleb, mouth gaping, black tongue rolling in its putrid mouth. It moaned at him, the stench of its breath threatening to gag him through his scarf. Before he could bring his spear to bear, the corpse grabbed his shoulders and lunged at him. He caught it by the throat with one hand and pushed it away, its teeth snapping inches from his face.

Knowing his strength would not last long against the unnatural power of the ghoul, he thrust his spear into the ground next to him and drew his Beretta. After a quick glance to make sure no soldiers were in the line of fire, he pressed the barrel to its infected forehead and pulled the trigger. The pressure on his arms released immediately as the ghoul fell, but there were three more hot on its heels.

Caleb re-aimed his pistol and fired twice in rapid succession, dropping two of them. The falling ghouls tripped the third one on the way down, giving him time to holster his pistol and retrieve his spear.

“Hicks, you okay?” Thompson shouted.

“I’m good,” Caleb said through clenched teeth as he rammed the blade of his spear upward through a walker’s soft palate and then kicked it away. The fight continued a few more minutes before the press of walkers began to thin and he could see Alpha and Bravo squads fighting their way toward him. The walkers paid no heed to their impending doom, focused solely on the gnawing hunger driving them onward.

Caleb watched one of the last infected’s eyes as he killed it. The mindless, enraged half-light burning within winked out of existence. He let it slide from his blade and stood panting, eyes searching for the next target, but saw only other soldiers in gore-spattered uniforms. All four squad leaders pressed fingers to their ears at the same time, receiving instructions from Sgt. Ashman.

Sergeant Kelly, the most senior squad leader, was the first to speak up. “All right, we got the all clear from Sergeant Ashman. Squad leaders, form your men up and rally back at the trail. We need to decon ASAP and get back on the road.”

Caleb turned to his staff sergeant, along with the rest of the squad. “You heard him,” Thompson said. “Let’s go pick up our gear.”

There was no cheering. The men removed their armored gloves, checked each other for bites, and walked wearily back to where they had left their belongings. From their backpacks, they removed green aerosol cans with DECON AGENT stenciled on the labels. It was one of the Army’s many new innovations: a disinfectant spray that could kill just about anything. From what Caleb understood, it was essentially just a more caustic version of Lysol. While no one fully understood how the Reanimation Bacteriophage worked, it was well known that outside its host, the Phage was as vulnerable to disinfectants as any other pathogen.

The men sprayed each other down, taking care to scrape off dead tissue and soak any area of cloth that had come into contact with infected flesh or blood. When all squads were finished, and the squad leaders had reported in, Ashman gave the order to march.

“Nothing like a workout first thing in the morning, eh?” Eric said, nudging Caleb in the arm as they trudged along the path.

Caleb thought about the last ghoul he killed, and the way it seemed almost relieved as it died, and shook his head.

He was silent for the rest of the march.

*****

The situation at Fort McCray, as per usual, followed the ages-old pattern of activity known to every army since the dawn of warfare.

Hurry up and wait.

While Caleb and the rest of his platoon awaited orders in the mess hall, Eric stayed busy. His first order of business was to corral a radioman and bribe him into sending a message to the sheriff’s office. It was a coded message, the cypher of which only he and a few other people in Hollow Rock knew. The gist of the message was that something big was going down with Echo Company, and Mayor Stone needed to contact Captain Harlow at her earliest opportunity.

Next, he waited in the shade of an oak tree outside the headquarters building where he could be easily found. Less than ten minutes later, an earnest young MP approached him and politely asked if he would accompany him to Captain Harlow’s office.

The best way Eric could describe Captain Harlow would be to say he was medium. Medium height, medium build, voice a solemn tenor, black hair carefully trimmed and combed to the side, uniform immaculate, shoe shine impeccable, as neatly put together as anyone Eric had ever met.

He had a hard time picturing Captain Harlow in combat attire, rifle in hand, leading men into battle. He would have looked more at home in a suit and tie selling tax-free municipals to Florida retirees. But upon closer inspection, Eric detected a certain firmness to the set of his jaw, a clarity in the chilly gray eyes, a surprising strength in the proffered handshake, his movements brisk and efficient, his demeanor possessed of an air of assured authority that belied of his youthful appearance.

“It’s good to see you again Mr. Riordan,” Harlow said. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Eric sat in one of two folding chairs in front of Harlow’s plain metal desk.

“Mayor Stone contacted my staff a short while ago. It seems she’s concerned as to why I’ve called First Platoon to headquarters.”

Eric nodded. “And the Ninth TVM.”

“I’m sure the mayor understands why I can’t contact her by radio. Operational security. I’ll need to speak with her in person.”

“Of course. In the mayor’s message, did she appoint a representative in her absence?”

Eric detected a slight narrowing of Harlow’s eyes. “Yes. That would be you.”

“I thought as much. So, would you mind telling me exactly what’s going on?”

“You have to understand, Mr. Riordan, the nature of that information is very sensitive.”

“I understand completely.”

“Then you understand I can’t divulge information about ongoing operations to civilians simply because they drop by and ask me to.”

Eric sat forward in his seat, not caring for Harlow’s tone. “You do realize you’re talking to the guy who infiltrated the Free Legion, right?”

“Yes, I am aware of that. And I certainly appreciate everything you’ve done for your country, but-”

“And you do realize that General Phillip Jacobs, head of Army Special Operations Command, is a good friend of mine, right?”

Harlow stared, but said nothing.

“Furthermore, the treaty between the free community of Hollow Rock and Central Command stipulates that the mayor’s office is to be briefed on any military operations which might affect the safety of the community’s citizenry. Were you aware of that?”

A few seconds ticked by. “I’m afraid I haven’t read the treaty yet, Mr. Riordan.”

“Well, you should. It’s a bit dry, but once you get past the boilerplate there’s some important information there.”

Harlow steepled his fingers under his chin. “Tell me, Mr. Riordan. What did you do before the Outbreak? I’m guessing … lawyer.”

“Financial analyst, actually. Now let me ask you a question, Captain. Is there a possibility these ongoing operations you referred to could adversely affect the people of Hollow Rock in any way?”

A muscle in Harlow’s jaw twitched a few times before he answered. “Yes. That is a possibility. Which is exactly why we have to keep a tight lid on what’s going on.”

Eric sat back in his seat. “I’m listening.”

Harlow let out a slow breath and placed his hands flat on the desk. Eric had the distinct impression the young captain would have liked nothing better at that moment than to gut him with a rusty machete. When he spoke, his tone was frosty.

“You understand any information I share with you is classified, and is to be shared only with Mayor Stone, correct?”

“Of course.”

“And you are aware of the penalties for leaking this information, correct?”

“Correct. And I am duly intimidated. Now can we get on with it?”

Harlow scowled. “I’m sure you’ve kept up to date on the trouble we’ve been having with the Midwest Alliance.”

Eric nodded. “Allow me to summarize: What was once a loose affiliation of independent city states came together nearly a year ago under a centralized government and declared their independence from the Union. While the federal government has not officially recognized their independence, they haven’t attempted to bring them to heel either. In the interim, the Alliance has been fighting a shadow war against the Union and its interests, including but not limited to supplying arms and personnel to anti-Union militant groups. There is also evidence to suggest the Alliance is in cahoots with the Republic of California, which is really just a puppet government under the control of foreign forces who have invaded and subdued a large section of Northern California, Oregon, and Washington. Did I touch on all the major points, Captain?”

“Yes, you did. Are you also aware of the problems we’ve been having with marauders harassing border communities in Kentucky and Kansas?”

“I’ve heard a rumor or two. Some people think the Alliance is behind it.”

Harlow nodded. “A few months ago, a special operations task group was deployed to the border to assess the severity of the problem and determine if the Alliance was indeed involved. Long story short, the answer is yes, although we can’t prove it beyond plausible deniability on the Alliance’s part. However, the problem is much worse than we thought.”

“How so?”

“What they’re doing goes far beyond simple harassment. It’s a land grab. They’re trying to get the people living in these border communities to flee south and abandon their territory.”

“And how are they doing that?”

“I’ll give you an example. What used to be the town of Kevil, Kentucky is now known as Fort Carter. Like many towns that survived the Outbreak, it’s population has grown significantly in recent years as survivors from nearby areas have filtered in. Fort Carter is surrounded by fertile farmland, grows enough crops to feed its population and then some, and until recently, the town’s principle export was livestock. Goats and chickens, mostly.”

“So what happened?”

“These so-called marauders happened. They showed up with a horde of about two-thousand revenants and unleashed them on the town. While the town’s defenders were busy trying to keep the undead from beating down their walls, the marauders went to work on the fields and livestock. They didn’t destroy everything, but the damage was pretty severe. Fort Carter will need federal assistance to make it through the winter this year. And that’s just one example; this is happening to towns all along the border.”