The Fall (Book 3): War of the Living (3 page)

People who had, for whatever reason, managed to avoid the perils of living with the dead. The Hunters seemed more capable in this area, but there was an unmistakable sense of difference about every group of them he had seen. They wore clothes that didn't bear the scars of constant repair from spending time in the countryside, hunting or gathering. They weren't hollow-cheeked with hunger, all reserves burned away. Just the opposite, in fact; many of them looked like they had just stepped from the old world, with its easy meals and lack of backbreaking labor.

The Hunters were more adapted to survival than other members of the UAS, but they were still different. It was that difference that gave Kell and his people their edge.

He slid into his final waiting position, and pulled out his night scope. Through the battery-powered device, the darkness was stripped away to reveal the tiny shapes of distant men perched atop a ring of vehicles. Just as advertised, the sentries were watching but not particularly alert. It was hard to tell from so far away, but the man directly in front of Kell appeared to be having a conversation with his immediate neighbor fifteen feet away. Both sentries were alert, but both glanced away as they chatted.

Their eyes were naked to the night, though both were smart enough not to look at the fire casting light upward from the center of their ring of vehicles. Kell would have shaken his head were he not trying to remain as still as possible. These guys took their job seriously, but were lulled into a false sense of security by too many quiet evenings. Wherever they came from must not be a place where fighting other living people or even zombies was much of a concern.

The hypothetical locale appealed to him for that reason if for no other.

Heads began to appear over the edge of the vehicles, men climbing from inside the ring of metal to relieve the current group of their duties. Every guard Kell could see was standing, presumably giving the brief report that all was well in the night. Several were in the act of handing over their rifles when a deafening salvo of gunfire split the night.

Kell let the scope fall on its lanyard around his neck, surging to his feet and into a dead sprint. His long legs ate up the distance faster than any of the other bodies exploding from the brush. Shouted orders echoed from the camp as the bodies fell, a mist of blood still wafting down.

Windows began to open along the ring of trucks and buses. Kell did not slow or even swerve, though he knew hidden shooters must be aiming weapons at him from behind those dark portals. More gunfire sounded from well behind Kell, the sharpshooters taking aim squarely in the center of the windows.

His heart hammered in anticipation of a bullet slamming into his body, but the plan went off perfectly, at least on his side of the camp. There was no way to know if the other runners were being covered as effectively.

Tossing his spear from right to left hand, Kell snatched a cylinder hanging from his belt. The small circle of metal attached to its end was tied to him, removing the need to pull it with his other hand. The grenade gave a soft ping as he slid to a stop and lobbed it over the vehicles in a smooth arc.

He was running again as soon as the weapon left his fingers, repeating the process with a flash-bang. This, he threw into the nearest open window. The snipers from his own side would have begun moving forward by now, their covering fire gone. That was fine with Kell. He was right up against the wall of steel, running along the outside. To fire at him, a shooter would have to hang out of the window. If one of them were stupid enough to do that, they'd deserve the length of pointy aluminum he would shove into their face.

Several more grenades later, Kell stopped and hunkered down, shoulder pressed against a school bus as he worked. This was the most dangerous part of his job, at least until he breached the makeshift wall. Running toward the camp had been a risk, but at least then he was mobile. He could have ducked, taken a rolling dive to the ground, or changed direction. Kneeling on one knee, spear laying on the dying grass, he slid the pack from his shoulder and worked quickly.

It only took him ten seconds to yank the scaling rope from his pack by the hook, but they were a very long ten seconds. As much as he disliked the killing he had to do, Kell imagined he would like being shot in the head much less.

With an easy swing, Kell tossed the heavy hook—three pieces of bent and sharpened reinforcement bar welded into a grapnel—over the edge of the bus. He couldn't hear the hook slap into the earth over the swelling gunfire, but he felt the tension go out of the line. Carefully but quickly, he pulled the rope until it caught on the edge of something. Kell leaned his weight on it until he was sure it would hold. Keeping tension with one hand, he unhooked a heavy tent spike from a belt on his leg and drove it into the ground, stomping it down before securing the rope.

Kell flattened against the side of the bus, crouching below the windows as he faced outward. Unwilling to trust the stake entirely, he kept one hand on the rope, pulling it taut as groups of fighters closed in on him. Several nodded as they approached, taking defensive positions and covering others as they climbed the heavy knotted rope up the side of the bus. In short order the entire group was up. Two of them grasped Kell by his wrists and hauled him to the roof.

He caught a brief flash of the nightmare inside the camp. Bodies and body parts lay just outside smoking craters. Men shot wildly at the attackers swarming over the tops of vehicles only to be mowed down almost instantly. Kell saw three of his own people fall, nearly cut in half by a swarm of bullets from a trio of gunmen fighting desperately to escape.

“Fire in the hole,” said one of the men crowding the roof of the bus.

Kell flinched as the man dropped a flash-bang through the open emergency hatch. The light didn't reach him, but the sound overwhelmed his hearing, making the gunshots seem like boys playing with cap guns.

With an inward sigh, Kell tossed his spear to a nearby fighter, crouched at the edge of the hatch, and dropped into it.

A startled, dazed man stood blinking three feet in front of him. Kell gave him no time to recover, lunging forward to snake an arm around the poor bastard's neck. The guy wasn't small, though Kell had several inches and a few dozen pounds on him. He fought Kell, thrashing against the iron grip clinching across his windpipe. Kell's left arm did the deed, his hand locked onto his right bicep. The victim calmed, and for a moment Kell thought he had lost consciousness.

Then a knife gleamed in the chaotic light filtering in through the windows of the bus, blurring in a vicious arc as the man stabbed Kell in the thigh.

He screamed as the blade bit into the meat of his leg, a primal sound, pitiless and fueled by pained rage. Kell wrenched the man, uncaring what damage the motion might cause with four inches of steel transfixing his thigh. Kell arched his back and pulled as tight as he could, shaking the enemy like a dog with a rabbit in his jaws. The world went red.

“He's dead, man,” someone said an unknown time later.

The world came into slow focus, the fury ebbing away. Kell's arms ached with the effort of strangling his opponent to death, the man's face a mottled red bordering on purple. The burning pain in his leg reminded him of exactly what had happened, though for a few short minutes the entire world had faded away. It happened that way sometimes, some random catalyst cutting the ropes he kept on his emotions, flinging away the careful logic and self-control, destroying rational thought.

Kell's partner, having dropped in as soon as he'd cleared the floor under the hatch, stood over him with a worried expression. There was concern, but also fear.

“I'm okay,” Kell rasped, pushing the body aside. A quick glance confirmed the man had been alone in the bus, probably a lookout or perhaps sleeping when the attack began. This time hadn't been as long, his blackout had been a minute or two at most, but it was bad. Kell's partner, Scotty Atkinson, had seen him lose control before, but the man had never seemed frightened of him afterward.

“I'm fine, Scotty,” Kell repeated, unsure who he was trying to convince.

Scotty knelt, put a hand on Kell's chest. “Bullshit, you're fine. You've got a goddamn knife sticking out of your leg. Sit still while I make sure you aren't going to bleed to death.”

Kell tried to stand, but Scotty met his eyes. The stare was even, without anger, but it held the silent accusation that if Kell was stupid enough to try to stop an experienced medic from tending his wound, that medic would hit Kell on the head with a heavy object until the patient relented.

Kell sat back.

Scotty worked quickly, cutting the slit in Kell's pant leg wider so he could work. In a few minutes the wound was cleaned, glued shut, and bandaged. The sounds of gunfire and small explosions rocked the night the entire time, but no bullets pierced the walls of the bus to strike them. Like most vehicles running the roads, the bus was armored. Kell chuckled to himself. The enemy's own protective measures were keeping him safe.

“All right,” Scotty said as he stood. “I think you're good to go. Try not to strain it...you know what? You're probably going to overdo it, so why even bother? Just go as easy as you can until we can get you sewed up.”

Kell grimaced as he came to his feet. “The fight's not quite over yet,” he said. Though judging from the fading gunfire and thinning screams, it was close. “Let's see what kind of trouble we can find.”

They crept from the bus and into the camp itself, Kell wondering who had his spear.

Though Scotty held his gun ready, Kell didn't think it was entirely necessary. One look around the tiny battlefield made it clear that their side had won once again. The black-clad bodies dotting the piles of corpses were a testament to the fact that it wasn’t a bloodless victory.

“Jesus,” Kell said. He ducked on instinct as a burst of gunfire erupted, followed by a second, then silence.

“We're losing people too fast,” Scotty said. “How many of these cells are there, do you think? Ten? Twenty? We keep going like this and we won't have enough people to fight them before we're even halfway through.”

Kell nodded as he picked his way through the dying battle. There was a lot of smoke, a few small fires, but not much movement. His people either stood guard, watching for stragglers, or knelt amid the dead to make certain they didn't rise again. It was brutal, grisly work, but it needed to be done. Kell looked away as they passed by one such worker. He didn't need to see the thin spike going in the eye or ear, maybe through the back of the mouth and up.

The smoke began to thin by the time Kell and Scotty made their way around the rough circle of vehicles to find a gap where someone had moved a truck. The chaotic rush was wearing off, the glandular samba beating inside his body finally evening out. How much time had passed? It had only seemed like a few minutes, but in the thick of it, time could be tricky. At least fifteen or twenty, from the progress he could see.

Through the gap he saw that the cleanup was well underway. A handful of fighters crouched around prone bodies, enemies who had evidently made it outside the camp. They themselves were surrounded by a ring of dogs, each silent. These weren't friendly pooches begging adorably for table scraps, though some might have been exactly that only a few years before. Every line of them was muscle, every bone and sinew tense with the controlled urge to kill. They were one of Dodger's innovations; knowing some enemies would try to run, and knowing they couldn't be allowed to contact the other Hunter groups, Dodger brought dogs from home to run them down.

Canines also had an instinctive and incredibly violent hatred for zombies, which made it easier to secure their campsites. Kell itched to study exactly why that was the case, but had to suppress the scientific curiosity. He patted one of the dogs on the head as he walked by, eliciting a strangled noise from Scotty, who eyed the dogs nervously.

The dog shifted its eyes at Kell, clearly performing a cost/benefit analysis of affection versus dereliction of duty. He made it easy for the pooch by not slowing down as he limped past the gathering, heading toward the empty field beyond. The plan was to have their vehicles set up near any opening in the camp wall, among them the small mobile clinic for treatment of injuries.

Kell sat in the grass and waited. Scotty, who had followed Kell from their previous home in North Jackson and who had proven his loyalty as a friend many times, stood nearby. He shifted his weight, glancing at Kell for a few seconds before scanning back the way they had come.

After a minute of this, Kell reached over and gave the other man a healthy slap on the calf. “You're the worst mother hen ever,” Kell said. “Go see if anyone needs a medic. I'm good here.”

Scotty opened his mouth as if to argue, but stopped. “You're just going to make me feel stupid if I argue, aren't you?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Kell replied.

“Fine,” Scotty said. “I'm supposed to anyway. You're sure you're okay?”

“Yep,” Kell said, then flopped onto his back. “I'm good.”

Scotty left. Kell figured it was best not to mention the blood running down his leg. It would just make him worry.

Kell sat up on his elbows a short time later, a commotion near the entrance to the camp growing louder. The noise was so loud at first, he thought some hidden enemy had attacked. Then Dodger came around the corner, hauling an older man along. A swarm of New Haven fighters followed close behind, laughing and cheering like they had just won the big game.

The prisoner wore handcuffs, his silver hair matted with dried blood. His face was scraped, the first dark circles of bruises blooming on his cheeks and around his mouth. Older he might be, but the man hadn't given up without a hell of a fight.

Dodger spotted Kell sitting in the grass and swerved toward him. The herd of fighters kept pace, and Kell noted with a small jolt of happiness that one of them carried his spear. It was bloody from tip to butt, and Kell found himself both jealous someone else had used it and thankful it had come in handy.

“K,” Dodger said as he pulled in close. “Mind if I leave this guy here with a couple guards? We're not quite done checking all the hiding places. I want him out of the line of fire.”

“No problem,” Kell said with a shrug. “Who is he? I thought we weren't worrying about prisoners this trip.”

Dodger gave a fierce smile. “He's their commander. Caught him myself. He's going to tell us where rest of the Hunters are deployed.”

“The fuck I am,” the prisoner said, speaking for the first time. “You'll have to kill me.” The words were solid, certain, and his voice had the unmistakable ring of a man who Does Not Fuck Around. Even so, his eyes darted and moved, the crow's feet at their corners deep with concern as he scanned for any avenue of escape. Kell met those eyes, the dim moonlight glinting from them, and in that brief moment the prisoner's face lost all trace of fear.

It was traded for astonishment.

Kell's heart began to hammer.

“Anyway,” Dodger said, ignoring the prisoner's protest. “I'll leave a few guys here.”

“Uh, actually,” Kell said, thinking quickly, “you might just send Scotty back out here. My leg is hurt and the glue must have broken open. I think we can watch one old guy between the two of us.”

Thankfully, Dodger didn't seem to sense the tension in Kell, though it felt like every line of his body was screaming his fear at a hundred decibels.

“Sure, no problem,” Dodger said. He motioned for the group to disperse, but waved over the man holding Kell's spear. “Give that back to K and hang out here until Scotty shows up.” The man nodded and did as he was told, standing fifteen feet away as Kell sat up and leveled the spear at the prisoner, who had been roughly pushed to the ground nearby.

“It's you,” the older man said, his voice pitched low. “I can't believe it. They showed all the group leaders pictures of you, told us who you were, but we all thought you were dead. Jesus.”

Kell glanced at the guard, who stood with a pistol in hand but was staring toward the camp with obvious impatience.

“No idea what you're talking about,” Kell replied in the same low voice.

The old man smirked. “Yeah, that's why you're whispering. You're him. That scientist. They told us to capture you alive at all costs if we ran across you. Went through a lot of trouble on some of the raids, too, having to hold up while we checked to make sure some other huge black guy wasn't you.”

He might have been lazily discussing the weather instead of the targeted destruction of survivor communities. Kell heard no malice in his voice; the commander spoke in the plain manner of all soldiers who had seen and done enough to make the act of killing commonplace, even normal.

Kell ran across the attitude depressingly often, even in New Haven.
Especially
in New Haven.

Biting back further comment, Kell waited. The prisoner said no more, but Kell felt the old man's eyes on him.

Crunching footsteps announced Scotty's arrival. The guard nodded respectfully as he approached, then dashed off. Scotty glanced back at the retreating figure, his expression bemused. The humor drained from his face when he turned back and took stock.

“What's going on?” he asked.

Kell, crouching with his spear held ready, teeth clenched, locked his eyes on the prisoner. “He knows who I am.”

“What?” Scotty said, followed after a brief pause by, “Oh. Oh, crap.”

Kell could almost hear the gears turning in his friend's head, the immediate problem and its possible repercussions and solutions all ticking away at once, just as they had for Kell. Really, the commander would have been smarter to keep his mouth shut, but even the best soldiers can be taken by surprise.

“Not much choice, is there?” Scotty said. His voice was sad, resigned in the way a person taking their family member off life support can be.

The prisoner's eyes narrowed. He rolled to a crouch, cuffed hands held in the best fighting stance he could manage. Kell noticed in his usual detached way that a man his age—surely in his sixties—should have had a harder time getting up so quickly. Even with the exercise living in this world forced on him, it should have been harder. Chimera might make this more of a fight than it should be.

It usually did.

“What the hell do you—”

Kell cut the old man off, launching himself forward with only the barest flicker of a glance at Scotty. The web of pain in his leg spread into a wide net of agony in an instant, but that couldn't be helped. There was little space between them to start with, and in half a second there was none.

The spear did not find its target, which was the eye of the enemy commander. Instead Kell found himself wrenched to the side, tumbling over his own weapon as it was used to throw him.

Out here in the dark, away from the eyes of the busy soldiers doing the last bit of cleanup, no one would see him die. No one but Scotty.

Kell tried to continue the roll, using his momentum to escape the death he felt hovering over him like an old friend, but the dew-slick grass betrayed him. His ankle went sideways, all his weight going into the roll, which then became a fall.

A hollow snap came from his right collarbone as he and the earth said hello. Momentum carried him over just enough to put him on his back, the weak light of the moon peeking out from behind a bank of clouds. Thin as the light was, there was more than enough to gather on the shaft of his spear, across the links and bracelets of the captive hands which held it.

He should have used that quarter second to flex, to roll, to do anything to escape the slim spire of metal descending toward him. He would have, but the pain of the broken bone rolled over Kell when he landed on his back, driving out all thought and turning the danger in front of him into an abstract.

This is where it would end. One of the last two men alive capable of curing the plague, gone. If there was something past this, at least he would be with his family again.

Except that he imagined his own sins would send him somewhere much warmer.

Kell McDonald possessed a remarkable mind, a mind capable of working in directions and at a capacity that put him in a rare class of intellect. Chimera added to this, smoothing neurological function even as it copied the wondrous organic operating system that was his brain. Those two factors worked together, clearing his head just enough to recognize his impending death.

Regret and relief had just begun to flow through him in an even mix when Scotty shot the prisoner in the head.

The sound brought people running within seconds. Kell had just begun wiping the bits of brain and shattered skull from his face when sets of hands gripped him, a babble of voices echoing across the field. There was blood in his eyes, and it was not his own.

“I'm fine,” he mumbled. Someone slipped a hand under his arms and pulled, moving faster than he could protest. He screamed and was promptly dropped.

The pain left him in a partial haze, just aware enough to enjoy watching Scotty, still holding his pistol, dress down the handful of men who had sprinted to help. The rest of him was trying not to move, cradling his right elbow as he lay on the ground.

Kell shook his head, focusing on Scotty's voice.

“...the guy went for the spear. He knew what he was doing, too. Flipped K onto his head. I think he broke something. The guy was getting ready to stab K, so I shot him...”

The lie worked because, except for the very relevant fact that Kell had started the fight, it was all true. Which was a blessing for Scotty. The guy was a decent fighter, one hell of a field medic, and as good a man as you could find nowadays, but a terrible liar. Mama Atkinson raised him right, but for the wrong world.

“We should have had someone else here,” one of the soldiers said.

“No,” Kell croaked from the ground. “One handcuffed old guy? He didn't look all that scary. Shit happens. We're both...well, alive, at any rate. I could use some pain meds if anyone has some. Think my collarbone is busted.”

Scotty took over the scene, the firefighter in him coming to the fore. Kell was thankful for it, and for the lack of suspicion on the part of the surrounding men. Guilt burned in him, making it seem as though one of them would turn on him at any moment and accuse him of murder, but he pushed the thought down. Of course they had no idea. The guy had been a prisoner, a valuable one. Soldiers tried to escape capture all the time, and with Kell injured and Scotty carrying minimal weaponry, it would have seemed a perfect opportunity.

And the honest assessment was that once the guy realized who Kell was, he probably would have tried to escape for real. This way no one else found out Kell's identity.