The Reckoning - 02 (2 page)

             
“Slow down, boy,” I said, grinning through a mouthful of stew.
“You’ll enjoy it more.”

             
I opened another can for him and poured it into his bowl.
Then I grabbed a few bottles of water, poured them into another bowl and sat it beside Odin.
He looked up long enough to give my hand a wet slurp and resumed eating.
I scratched his ears before opening my own bottle of water and drinking it in one long pull. Odin ate four cans to my two before we were both content.
Then I opened the first aid kit and washed down a handful of ibuprofen with another bottle of water.

             
Next came the part I’d been dreading, I stripped naked and did a wound check.
First, I cleaned all of them with alcohol. I couldn’t help myself and let out a string of obscenities that would make a deep-water sailor blush with shame. Alcohol on fresh wounds hurts like hell.
Then I cleaned them all again with hydrogen peroxide. Once I recovered, I slathered the wounds with antibiotic ointment and put on fresh bandages.

             
Afterwards, I did my best to get the gunk off of my clothes with water and hand-soap from the galley.
Digging out my sewing kit, I stitched up the worst of the tears.
It wasn’t a pretty job, but it would work for now.
After all, they were the only clothes I had.
I hung them on the railing to dry and turned to the next task.

             
My shotgun and rifle were gone, but I still had four pistols.
I had two Berretta 9mm’s, one Smith and Wesson .357 revolver and the old Army Colt.
The ammo count was disappointingly low.
I had two boxes of 9mm ammo and eight full magazines for the pistols.
That totaled about 220 rounds.
The S&W revolver held 8 rounds and that’s all I had for it.
The rest of the .357 ammo had been in the Humvee.
The Long Colt had six in the cylinder and another thirty eight rounds in the box.
That gave me 44 rounds for the Colt.

             
I ran my hand lovingly over the old Colt. Just having it with me was somehow reassuring. I knew how much it had meant to Sheriff Hawkins and I understood why. It was a real beauty of a pistol and it was dead-on accurate. Although it held less than half the ammo of the automatics, it was still a great weapon to have. Its accuracy made up for the low ammo count. I rarely missed with it, but I was going to have to work on my reloading speed.

             
As if to mock me, I had nearly two hundred rounds of the Winchester Supreme Elite 12 gauge ammo and another 300 rounds in 5.56mm.
With no shotgun or assault rifle, it was all but useless.
I also had four 40mm fragmentation rounds left for the M-203.
I might still be able to use them without the launcher, but it would be tricky. Those might be useful for setting traps, but I doubted they would be good for anything else. After all, I really didn't want to blow my hand off or anything.

             
I had one combat knife and a multi-tool in my pack.
My interceptor vest was in good shape, but my backpack was ruined.
It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing and it would have to do for now.
If I was going to make it all the way back to the jail, I was going to have to do some serious scavenging.
I’d need more ammo and a long gun of some sort.
I’d also need transportation.
This was a rural area with a lot of hunters, so my chances of finding weapons were good.
I also had the keys to my wife’s blazer, assuming it had any gas left in it.

             
My body was one massive bruise from all of the punishment I’d put it through over the last few days.
That was a testament to how much damage I had been taking, since I don’t bruise easily. The vest had stopped the worst of it but even with a trauma plate, bullets leave bruises.
I felt like about ten miles of bad road.
I was mobile, but not anywhere near the top of my game.
I needed to rest for a while before I pressed my luck any further. I was already walking the ragged edge of exhaustion.

             
I could see flashes of memory each time I touched a bruise. The memory of how I got them was indelibly etched into my brain. One was from the biker in the strip club, two from the assholes at the Golden Corral. The big one in the middle of my back was from the ambush behind the supercenter. Each one hurt and only served as a reminder that I was still in this fight. When it didn't hurt anymore, I could face the All-father with my head held high.

             
I opened two more cans of stew for Odin and opened a big can of ravioli for myself.
I ate it slowly as I sat in the cabin and pondered my next move.
Then inspiration hit me.
I headed for the Captain’s cabin and opened the cabinet above the bed.
Inside was a gift set that had been given to me by the soldiers in my unit when I’d left the Army.
I’d been saving it for a very special occasion but since the world was ending, I decided that surviving was special enough.

             
Inside the wooden gift box was a crystal decanter of Bushmills and two glasses.
I was going to use it to toast my twentieth anniversary with Karen, but I wasn’t holding my breath about living that long.
It was only a year away, but I wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic.
The box also contained an engraved silver hip flask with the emblem of a fist holding a lightning bolt.

             
It said, “W.E. “Wylie” Grant.
Best of luck, asshole” on one side and “I am the King of Battle, and the eyes of Death! I am a Fister!” on the other side.

             
I had to laugh at the memories that evoked.
I’d been really close to those guys.
Of the ten of us, two had transferred to the Rangers and died later that same year in Mogadishu during the
Blackhawk Down Incident.
One had died in the line of duty as a cop in Dallas, Texas in 2002.
Three more died in an ambush in Afghanistan in 2007.
Two died in ‘08 in Iraq when their Humvee hit an I.E.D.
The last one died in Lavonia, Michigan in 2010 when a sixteen-year-old kid shot him for seventeen dollars in his wallet.
I was the only one left.
I decided the best thing to do was to drink a toast to them.
I poured myself a generous glass of the aged Bushmills and leaned back on my bed.

             
“To you, assholes,” I whispered, closing my eyes. “Maybe you're the lucky ones.”

             
I drained my glass and closed my eyes.
I thought of them all, one by one.
I saw their smiles and heard them laugh.
Soon other faces joined theirs.
There was Alex Parker, Amy Gillespie, Erin Campbell, Mike Prescott, Mike Andrews and Jake Haggard.
All of them were officers from my crew that had fallen to the dead.
Then there were the three Fairgrove officers we lost in the ambush at the restaurant.
I dreamed about them all, that night.
They were the honored dead, one and all.
I hoped that I’d see them all again, one day.
In whatever place we ended up.

11 April

             
I awoke just before dawn.
There was just enough light to see by as I sat up.
I felt better than I figured I would.
In fact, I felt damned good.
I headed back through the main cabin and out onto the deck.
Odin was fast asleep on one of the couches and didn’t stir as I passed.
He was on his back with his feet in the air, snoring contentedly.
I noticed that the stew was all gone. Odin rarely met a meal he didn’t like.

             
The chill of the morning air was refreshing and woke me up better than any cup of coffee ever had.
I stood at the rail and watched the glowing line on the horizon that promised the sunrise.
It looked to be a beautiful one.
The orange disk began to crest the horizon and was almost blinding to look at. It was a morning worthy of song. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back and extended both of my arms out to my sides. I let the cool are embrace me as I greeted the new day. For good or for ill, I was ready to meet it.

             
Then I checked my clothes.
They were cold but dry, and I quickly got dressed.
They smelled faintly of soap, but I didn’t mind.
I’m sure they smelled better than I did.
With my boots back on and my pants properly bloused, I felt like a new man.
After a quick weapons check, I holstered my pistols. Like me, they were battered but not broken.

             
I rummaged briefly through the little refrigerator and found what I was looking for, a small can of coffee.
I lit the propane stove and sat the little metal coffee pot on the counter.
It took four water bottles to fill the pot.
Then I scooped coffee grounds into the strainer and sat it on the burner.
It was an old-style percolator pot, but it made good coffee.
I’d had it for years and taken it camping hundreds of times.
The base of it was scorched black from years of campfires.

             
While the coffee percolated, I decided to try to patch my backpack.
I didn’t have a replacement for it, so I had to find a way to fix it.
I started by sewing shut the gaping hole left by the chunk of shrapnel, and then applied a generous layer of super glue to the stitches on both sides of the cut.
Once that was dry, I applied several strips of black duct tape to the site.
It wasn’t pretty, but it would hold long enough for me to find a replacement. Well, hopefully it would.

             
I set it aside and reached for the coffee pot.
I poured a cup of the dark black liquid into a ceramic mug and sat the pot back on the burner.
It was foul tasting and strong, but it did the trick.
I’ve never quite got the hang of making a
good
cup of coffee.
That was fine with me. Just being alive to drink it was a victory in itself. It would give me energy and keep me alert. That was good enough.

             
After my second cup, I took out my binoculars and headed out onto the deck.
There was enough light in the sky to see clearly now, so I began scanning the shoreline in both directions.
The dock where
Caitríona
was usually tied up was clear of zombies, so far as I could see.
The shoreline looked clear, as well. A plan began to form in my mind. With any luck, I would be able to sneak ashore and scavenge for supplies. I might even make it back to the boat without being seen. Yeah, sure.

             
“They must have all followed the explosion,” I mumbled. “Let’s hope they stay there.”

             
Odin just cocked his head to the side and sat down next to me.
I knew he couldn’t really understand me or answer me for that matter, but I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. It kept me sane, for the most part. Unless you count the nagging part of my brain that kept telling me he actually understood me. Then sane might not be the right choice of words.

             
“Looks like we’re going ashore, buddy.”

             
His ears perked up and he wagged his tail a few times, thumping solidly against the wooden deck.
I scratched his ears and started formulating my plan. I knew we’d have to be extremely careful.
There was no back-up to be had out here.
That meant that we were completely on our own.
I had to be cautious about starting the engine on the pontoon boat, because the noise would certainly attract the zombies.
I really didn’t want that.

Stealth was going to be our best weapon for this little foray into the danger zone.
That meant that I couldn’t use the engines and rowing a pontoon boat was probably out of the question.
My options were quickly running out. The thought of swimming was quickly dismissed when I remembered the zombies I had seen on the debris beneath the pontoon boat. I knew that there would be zombies concealed in the murky water. It would also be impossible to swim while carrying equipment. That only left the life raft I kept in
Caitríona’s
emergency locker.

             
It was big enough to hold eight people without difficulty. It was rated to hold a considerable amount of weight, but I really didn't want to push it too far.
I bought it online a few years ago, just in case
Caitríona
were to sink.
It was U.S. Navy surplus and in solid condition. It was the same type of inflatable raft that the US Navy SEALS used. What I wouldn't give for a team of those, right then.