Ragnarok Rising: The Crossing (The Ragnarok Rising Saga) (51 page)

The sun was getting low in the sky and I was beginning to smell rain when we saw the house on top of the bluff. Not only did it look to be intact, but the windows were boarded up. Someone had already fortified the place. If there were any survivors left there, we could find shelter and maybe allies against the dead. Right now, we desperately needed both.

The storm was getting closer and I realized just how dark it was beneath the oncoming clouds. I could feel the moisture in the air and smell it in the wind that had picked up in the last few minutes. The storm was coming and I couldn't help but wonder, was it dark enough under the clouds to bring out the
Stalkers
? If it was, we had bigger problems. The clock was ticking.

We moored the boat and started grabbing our gear. We couldn't leave anything behind,
just in case. There was a road that led up to the house on the bluff from an area that looked like it had been a garden. It would be a steep climb carrying all that equipment. We would be cutting it close, if we made it at all.

"Grab everything and let's move!" I snapped, shouldering a bag and grabbing the handle of a second.

Everyone grabbed their share of the load and we headed out. Only Cal Sanders didn't look overloaded, despite the fact that he was carrying more weight than any of the rest of us. Heather was having trouble walking with all the gear she was carrying. Gunny noticed her struggling and took one of her bags, slinging it across his chest. McDonald and Ramirez were watching our flanks, keeping their hands free to use weapons.

Thunder rumbled through the sky as we crossed the open area next to the garden. It struck me that the garden was well-tended, with healthy rows of vegetables and recently weeded paths. There was definitely someone alive in that house on top of the bluff. I just hoped that they were friendly.

By the time we reached the bottom of the bluff, the wind was picking up drastically. The leaves in the treetops were turning and I knew it was about to rain. We were almost out of time. We still had to climb the hill and reach the house before we would be safe. I just hoped that I was wrong about the dead coming with the storm.

"Move it, people!" I barked. "We're running out of time!"

I could see the strain was already showing on everyone's faces. Sweat was pouring in rivers down my neck and into my armor. The cool wind felt good on my skin, but it only served as a reminder of how little time we had left before the storm hit. I could only hope that the dead weren't coming with it.

As if to answer me, thunder r
umbled over us and I could see the flash from the lightning. The rumble indicated that it had been very close. I heard the soft patter of sprinkles hitting the leaves of the surrounding trees. The sky was growing rapidly darker by the minute and the storm was nearly upon us.

"Come on!" I shouted. "Move it!"

I could feel the urgency boiling in my veins and the air on my skin felt electric. I grabbed Heather by the backpack and pushed her faster up the hill. We were pushing as hard as we could, but the steep hill along with the loose gravel made it a painfully slow climb.

"Movement near the river," hissed Ramirez. "Looks like two
Stalkers
coming out of the trees on the far side of the water."

"Have they seen us?" I asked, not pausing to turn around.

"Not yet," said Ramirez. "Looks like they're chasing a deer."

"Keep moving," I snapped to the group, my breath starting to burn in my chest.

Spec-4 turned around to check on the group and stepped on a large rock, twisting her ankle and knocking her to the ground. She cried out sharply as she fell, but didn't drop her weapon. She did grab her ankle with her free hand.

"I've got her," I snapped, leaning down to check on her. "Keep going!"

Everyone kept moving as I stopped to assess the situation.

"Can you walk?" I asked, grabbing her by the arm.

"Do I have a choice?" she replied, grabbing my shoulder.

"Yeah," I replied, helping her to her feet. "Move or feed the zombies."

"Some choice," she said, slipping her arm across my shoulders. "I think I'll just go with you."

"Good call," I answered, accepting her weight and slipping my arm around her waist.

"Let's move it!" called Sanders.

McDonald moved up beside us and let his weapon fall across his chest. Then he took Spec-4's other arm and slipped it around his neck. I nodded my appreciation and we started after the others. Spec-4 winced in pain every time she tried to put weight on her foot. Reluctantly, she lifted it and just put weight on her good foot. If the situation hadn't been so
critical, it would have been funny. In the midst of all this death, it was a sprained ankle that might do us in.

The others reached the top of the bluff before we did and we lost sight of them. To our right, I could see a
Stalker
approaching from the darkness of the trees. It was beginning to rain and we were still twenty yards from the top of the hill. It would be on us before we reached the top.

Since I couldn't use my rifle accurately with only one hand, I let it drop to hang around my neck. Then I did the only thing I could with
just my right hand free. I reached down and drew the old Colt, cocking it as I brought it up. It wasn't silenced, but our shot at stealth was gone. Now it was reach the house or die trying.

The
Stalker
had closed to within ten yards before I got a clear shot. Raising the old pistol, I sighted in rapidly and gently squeezed the trigger. The thunderous boom echoed around the valley as the big .45 round slammed into the forehead of the creature before us. The impact blew the creature's skull apart and kicked it over backwards, to roll down the embankment.

I didn't have time to celebrate, as two more emerged from the trees and headed for us.
I shot the second one before it closed within twenty yards but the third one started weaving as it came towards us, making it difficult to hit. I managed to hit it once in the shoulder, but it didn't even seem to slow it down.

I shot it in the face at a range of less than three yards as it leapt at us. It's momentum carried it onto its back and it skidded to a stop right at our feet. It was also my last round in the Colt. I couldn't reload one handed, so I put the old girl back into her holster and we kept moving. I could hear movement in the trees around us, but we could only keep moving and hope we made it.

We finally reached the top and headed for the house. The others were already on the porch and knocking furiously on the door. Cal Sanders and Ramirez were standing at the back with their weapons up, covering us as we headed for them as quickly as we could.

Inch by painful inch, we pushed ourselves to reach the house. Sanders and Ramirez started engaging targets and I didn't want to know how close they were behind us. If they were shooting right past us, that meant they were too damned close for comfort. Sanders let his empty M-4 drop to his chest and grabbed his M-249. The SAW roared to life as the big infantryman engaged targets behind me with a fully-automatic burst from his weapon.

Just as we reached the steps of the porch, the door opened to reveal an elderly man who looked to be in his eighties, with wrinkled skin and snow-white hair. He was wearing bib overalls and holding a double barrel shotgun. From his features, I guessed that he was Native American.

"Get inside!" he said, motioning for everyone to come in.

Sanders' SAW fell silent as we all crowded our way into the house. Sanders was the last one through the door and the old man immediately started dropping heavy wooden bars into place to lock the door. Although it was dark inside, there was a dim light coming from the kitchen area. It looked like a small dynamo-powered lantern.

Once the last of the heavy bars w
as in place, we glanced around to check the group. We had all made it. We were all breathing heavily and sweat glistened off of our faces and exposed skin. We all began to shrug out of our packs and set down bags, relieving our loads. McDonald and I helped Spec-4 into a nearby chair.

All eyes were on Gunny as he struggled to catch his breath and had his right hand pressed tightly to his chest. I went to him and eased him into another chair. His eyes were wide as he fought for a breath like a landed fish. His pulse was racing and all color had drained out of his face.

"Gunny?" I said, shining my flashlight into his eyes.

"I'm…," he stammered, struggling for a breath.

"It's alright," I said, gently. "Just breathe. We made it."

"I'm…," he persisted, wheezing.

His eyes were locked on mine and I could see that they were starting to lose focus.

"I'm too old for this shit," he managed to hiss as he took one last deep, shuddering breath.

Then he was still. His eyes rolled back into their sockets and he went completely limp. Quickly, I put my fingers to his neck to find his pulse, but there wasn't one.

"No, goddamnit!" I snapped, and pulled him onto the floor so I could begin chest compressions.

Heather dropped to his side, across from me and began opening his armor. Once we had cleared everything down to his t-shirt, I began CPR.

"Come on
, you son-of-a-bitch," I choked. "You can't die on me."

I continued the compression series and paused as Heather gave him a breath. I watched his chest rise and fall, but there was still no response. I resumed the compressions while Ramirez fumbled
through his pack for his first-aid kit.

"I've got nothing," shouted Ramirez. "Nothing for a heart attack."

Outside, I could hear the storm raging as a torrential downpour unleashed its fury against the roof and walls of the house. Time seemed to slow down as each second seemed to stretch out in my perception. I could hear a mournful howling that I thought was the wind, or maybe the calling of the
Stalkers.

When Spec-4 pulled my face against her shoulder, I realized that it was me. I was shrieking to the heavens. The full fury of the storm couldn't hold a candle to the pain inside my heart and the raging grief that flowed through my veins. Before me, on the ground was the body of someone I respected more than anyone else in the world. There was nothing more I could do for him. The realization was breaking my heart.

Gunnery Sergeant (Ret.) Myron Thaddeus Graves, USMC, was gone.

"Wit thou well that I will not live long after thy days."

- Sir
Thomas Malory

The storm raged outside the house, but I was barely aware of it. I was lost in my misery, holding the head of an old friend. Gunny was gone. It was ironic that he didn't fall to the dead that walked all around us. At least that was a small comfort. It meant that I wouldn't have to shoot a friend.

After a long period of silence, I left Gunny and joined the others in the living room. I noticed that all of the windows in the house were covered over with heavy boards. It was a strong enough job that the
Stalkers
couldn't pry them loose. The living room was lit with the eerie blue light of a dynamo-powered lantern.

Everyone was sitting in silence, listening intently at the storm. The old man that had let us into his home was seated in an old rocking chair with the shotgun laying across his knees. He held up one knobby finger and held it to his lips, indicating that I should remain quiet. I froze in place and listened to the noise coming from outside. Very faintly, I could hear the soft footfalls of someone or some
thing
moving on the deck.

As I listened, I could hear the occasional light scrape of the creatures claws on one of the boards. They were out there in the storm. I couldn't tell how many there were, but there had to be several from the different locations that I heard the sounds. For whatever reason, they weren't in a frenzy trying to smash their way inside.

Spec-4 got slowly to her feet and came towards me, careful to not make any sound as she crossed the floor. She leaned over and placed her lips against my ear, whispering very softly. Her warm breath on my skin sent chills down my back.

"They don't know we're in here," she whispered. "
As long as we stay quiet, they can't find us."

I was beginning to find the chink in the
Stalkers
' armor. They were nocturnal and they tracked by sound. Maybe their vision wasn't any better than ours. Or maybe they only used sight and sound to hunt. I needed more information, but I was beginning to piece together a better way to defend ourselves from these things.

"There is coffee in the thermos on the table," she added, keeping her voice barely audible.
"All we can do is wait until the sun comes up."

I nodded and found a seat next to the fireplace. Spec-4 sat beside me on the hearth and put her hand on mine.

"I'm sorry about Gunny," she said, quietly.

I just nodded solemnly and didn't reply. The luminous dial on my watch indicated that it was almost midnight. After all the stress of the day, I was beginning to feel fatigue seep into my bones. We were all exhausted. I could tell by the looks on everyone's faces. They were only still awake because of the dead outside. We weren't sure what was going to happen next.

Getting everyone's attention by waving my hand, I motioned towards all of us and mimed laying down my head and sleeping. That drew a round of reluctant nods. So, as quietly as we could, we all gathered our sleeping bags and picked a section of floor to call our own. The old man nodded at us and headed for one of the bedrooms. I considered posting a guard, but I figured it was a waste of time. The
Stalkers
weren't going to sneak inside. If they found an opening, they would come through snarling and growling.

By unspoken agreement, we all placed our sleeping bags with the heads near each other and our feet facing a different spot. This way, each person could keep an eye on a door or window, just by opening his or her eyes. It struck me how much like the old poem
Beowulf
this all seemed. The warriors laying in a rough circle, cradling their weapons while outside, the flesh eating creatures circled the building. Yeah, the irony wasn't lost on any of us.

"How
13th Warrior
of us," whispered Snake, laying the big war-hammer within easy reach.

I just nodded and quietly removed my armor and boots. Laying my weapons within easy reach, I suddenly remembered I hadn't reloaded the old Colt. Gently, I removed it from the holster and opened the cylinder. One by one, I removed the expended brass and placed them into a pouch on my rucksack. Then, I quietly replaced them with live rounds. I wanted to give the old weapon a good cleaning, but didn't think this was the best time. I'd probably make too much noise.

Just as I started to replace the pistol in the holster, I felt the loose handle begin to come off in my hand. I'd been meaning to fix it for a while, but kept forgetting about it. Laying it in my lap, I removed a small flashlight from my pack and clicked it on. The brass screw that was holding it in place had finally come loose. I found it on the floor next to me.

Opening my pack, I took out a small tool kit and prepared to put the handle back on. When I started to replace the handle, I noticed that there was an old piece of paper folded inside the grip of the gun. I gently removed it and began to carefully unfold it. It was brittle and yellow with age, but in good enough shape that I could read it. I was astounded by the script on the paper. It read:

"Virgil, treat her right and she will never let you down. Wyatt."

I was stunned at the name on the paper. It was true. This pistol really had belonged to Virgil Earp. Not only that, it was a gift from his brother, Wyatt. There was a note inside to prove it. I wasn't sure if the inscription meant a woman or the gun, but I was holding in my hands something that had been written by Wyatt Earp. I was at a loss.

Nudging Spec-4 with my knee, she leaned over and glanced at the note I was holding out to her. At first it didn't register, but when it did her eyes flew open wide. It was sad that with humanity nearly at an end, I was sitting here holding an authentic piece of our heritage. Well, if we survived the Ragnarok of the Dead, then this gun would be a piece of
our
history. A tangible link to the world that we lost.

Reverently,
I re-folded the yellowed piece of paper and placed it back inside the handle of the gun. Then I replaced the handle and put a drop of locktite on the threads before putting the brass screw back in. With it twisted down tight, I gently wiped the gun down with a clean rag before replacing it in the holster.

Quietly, I replaced everything in my rucksack and clicked off my flashlight. Using my body armor as a pillow, I lay down in my sleeping bag and closed my eyes.
I suddenly felt more alone than ever as I found myself thinking that I couldn't wait to tell Gunny about the note in the gun. I wanted to let my emotions go and cry, but this was not the time. There would be a time for mourning, later.

In the darkness, I felt Spec-4's hand as it searched around for mine. When our hands met, she laced her fingers through mine.
It was more reassuring to me than she would ever know. I suddenly remembered how I had held her on the first night we met, when she felt alone. I guess it was her turn to comfort me. Fate just loves irony, I suppose.

I lay there for a long time, listening to the gentle sounds of the others breathing. I'm not sure why this occurred to me, but the hiss of the rain reminded me of the sound of frying bacon. Only the occasional rumble of thunder or the scrape of a
Stalker's
claws on the wood disturbed the peace of the moment. The warmth of Spec-4's hand made me feel safe, despite the danger. Eventually, I slept.

**********

I fell asleep to the sound of frying bacon and awoke to the smell of it. The doors were open, letting light flood the room. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining bright in the sky. From the direction of the sun, I could tell it was still early morning. The old man was in the kitchen, frying bacon and actual eggs. Not powdered eggs, real fresh eggs. My stomach rumbled out it's greedy intentions.

"Good morning, sunshine," said Spec-4, handing me a cup of coffee.

I gratefully accepted it and inhaled the aroma as I brought the cup to my lips. It was strong and rich with a bitter taste to it. I recognized the bitterness. It was chicory. The old man was cutting real coffee with chicory to make it last longer. It was the same trick that Civil War soldiers used when they started running low on real coffee.

Despite the bitterness, I really enjoyed the flavor. I wasn't expecting this level of hospitality from the old man, since he didn't have any reason to help us or to trust us. It was refreshing to see
that someone still acted like a person in this world. It was also dangerous for him to do it, since it opened him up to the possibility of us not being equally as good to him.

"Good morning," said the old man. "Now that everyone is awake, we can formally introduce ourselves. My name is Jay
Matoskah. My mother was a Sioux and my father was Cherokee. Matoskah means White Bear."

"It's good to meet you, sir," I replied. "Thank you for opening your home to us. My name is
Wylie Grant."

One by one, the others introduced themselves. White Bear seemed to take it all in, nodding at each person as they spoke. When everyone had finished, he smiled a warm smile and calmly returned to cooking breakfast for
all of us.

"I think I made enough food," he said. "I hope you are all hungry."

"It smells delicious," added Spec-4.

"
Everyone grab a plate," said White Bear, putting eggs and bacon into platters.

We
did as instructed and started helping ourselves. Once we'd filled our plates and found seats, White Bear motioned to get everyone's attention. We looked up and waited for him to speak.

"It is only right that we give thanks for this meal," he said, softly. "The Great Spirit has provided for us all and we should be appreciative. Sheriff Grant, would you offer the prayer?"

"Uh…yeah, sure," I stammered, surprised. "I don't pray to the Great Spirit, though. I pray to the Gods of my ancestors."

"As do I," he replied, smiling gently. "Each of us prays to our own
Gods, in our own way. We worship in different ways, but we each pay respect to the divine beings who created us. If you choose to call him Odin, God or the Great Spirit, it is still the creator of all things. We each see him in a different way."

His wisdom was profound. If only the world had embraced his wisdom, many of our problems would not have occurred. Wars had been fought over differences in religion. White Bear's words rang true to the very core of my beliefs. The All-father would
be pleased.

"
Lord Odin and Lady Freya," I began, softly. "We offer our thanks to thee for this meal set before us. Blessings upon our host and his generosity, and guide us on our journey. Give us your protection and grant us victory so that we may bring peace to our kindred. Watch over our fallen friend. Grant him a warriors rest."

"Amen," said First Sergeant Gregory.

With that, we all began to eat. Other than the clinking of silverware on plates, the room was silent. After a long moment, White Bear broke the silence.

"What are your plans fo
r your fallen friend?" he asked, a note of sadness in his voice.

"Gunny wasn't a follower of my beliefs," I said, smiling. "He always wanted to be buried with full military honors. I thought we'd do our best to grant that to him."

"I know the perfect spot to bury him," said White Bear. "It's where I go to speak to the Great Spirit."

"Thank you," I said, smiling sadly. "I really appreciate it."

After we had all eaten and the dishes were put away, we set about the task of preparing Gunny for burial. We couldn’t put him in his Marine Dress Blues, so we had to improvise. We would bury him in ACU’s. I’m sure that Gunny would make some kind of remark about them being
Army
ACU’s, but it was the best we could do.

When we went to the spot to dig the grave, I was amazed by the beauty of the place. It was a section of land on top of the bluff that had an awe inspiring view of the
Niangua River Valley. You could see for miles, up and down river. I could tell that last night’s rain had brought the river up even farther, but not enough to cause significantly more flooding.

I knew that it would be creeping into the park, back at
Bennett Springs. Another rain storm like that one and it would completely flood the park. We needed to take out that spillway before the next big storm. If we didn’t, we could lose all of the work we’d done to make the park defensible. At the very least, it would set us back by weeks.