Survivors (17 page)

“Enough. Calm your people.”

Harris put his arms in front of him, palms out. “We’re calm, we’re calm. What is this?”

The Chief thumbed back the hammer on the automatic in his hand, a black matte 9mm. “My plans were upset last night. I was a man short on my raid, and—”

“There was no need to lock us—”

“Shut the fuck up!” the Chief bellowed at Harris. “I was a man short last night, and as a result, one of us died. So now we even up.”

The Chief backed to the door quickly, keeping a bead on Harris, and stepped out.

As soon as he was over the threshold, Wendell, the closest, launched himself at the door to keep it open, Hal and Allen right behind him. What Hal saw in the yard in front of the trailer made him sick, because he knew what was coming next.

Ron was on his knees in front of Gravy and another, larger man, Katie next to him, and they held each other as they looked down a pair of gun barrels.

The Chief continued to back away from the mobile home, his gun trained on the doorway. Harris and Hal looked out over the sailors and both shouted.

“You might wanna look away,” the Chief said, and passed his gun to the larger man, who turned it on Katie. “Now.”

The nine-mil and AK roared as one and Katie and Ron both jumped from their knees, slumping together to the mud. Their blood, immediately slowing to a trickle, ran from the still-smoking holes in their heads and mingled in the cold morning.

“Lock ’em back up, Stone.”

With that, the Chief turned and walked away. Gravy stood in the mud, looking down at the bodies and cradling his AK-47 as if it were his child and he was very proud of it.

He looked up into the stunned faces framed by the doorway and raised his rifle.

“Hold on,” Stone said, crossing in front of him. “The Chief said to lock them up. All right? No need to lock them up if they’re dead, right?
Right?
”

Slowly, Gravy lowered the rifle, still staring wide-eyed and crazy at the group in the doorway.

Stone walked over and closed the door.

“Be ready,” he whispered before it shut.

Wendell kicked the inside of the door.

“I cannot believe this
shit
!”

“Come on, man,” Hillyard said, approaching Wendell from behind. He reached out for him and was stopped by Stiles.

“No, he’s right. Let him get it out of his system, because we all need our heads on straight.” He turned to Harris, whose face was as ashen as Wendell’s; he never got used to losing people and he never would.

“With due respect to Clausewitz, Commander Harris, we need us a plan.”

“Yes,” Harris said, still shaken. He looked around the trailer and saw all sets of eyes on him. Stiles’s none-too-subtle reminder of his former rank worked in him. These were his people. He needed to take care of them. As his resolve hardened, so too did his face.

“Right. First off, did anyone hear what Stone said as the door closed?”

“He said, ‘Be ready,’” said Hal. “What do you think it means?”

Harris was already nodding. “I think, gentlemen, that a good man is about to shed his indifference. What do we have available?”

Allen picked his head up. “Pipes,” he said. He went to the small kitchen area and pointed. “Under here, PVC. We got a sink.” He rapped on it with his knuckles. “Stainless steel. And if the water heater is still in here . . .”

His voice trailed off as he opened panels, rummaging.

“Fuck yeah. Two feet of copper whip right here. We just need to get it loose.”

Hal stood, stretching. “Finally. I can contribute something.” He bent down and reached into his boot, removing a six-inch Crescent wrench.

“What?” he responded to the looks aimed at him. “Mechanic, remember? Let me in there.”

Two very tense hours passed as the survivors waited in the mobile home, coming to grips with their new weapons. Allen, who at one time had lived in a mobile home, had come alive, finding something for everyone to use. He and Wendell had taken turns whacking short lengths of PVC piping on the remains of the steel table to break and serrate the ends of them, making shivs. Rico then rubbed them against a piece of cinder block that had sat forgotten under the sofa, sharpening the ends and handing them back to Allen and Wendell. Stiles took a heater element out of the water heater, courtesy of Hal Dorne, and bent the metal until it snapped in the middle, making a wicked stabbing weapon.

Hal got the flexible length of copper heating coupling (as well as his short wrench) and Harris found a piece of rope that he wound around the piece of cinder block (when the shivs were done) to create a formidable monkey’s fist with an eighteen-inch handle.

“What?” he asked Hal, who looked at the monkey’s fist and then back to Harris. “Sailor, remember?” He turned and swung the monkey’s fist with all his might, smashing a panel in the kitchen.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s give these sons of bitches what for.”

A violent impact on the door of the mobile home grabbed Stiles’s attention. They all came to their feet, gripping their makeshift weapons and ready for a fight. Seconds later, the door opened and Stone came through, holding his M-16 at the ready.

“All right, it’s time to . . . Jesus. What are you, the Warriors? Follow me.”

Rico pulled the door shut, getting between it and Stone. “Follow you? Fuck you,
puto
. How do we know—”

“Rico,” Harris said, “stand down. Didn’t I tell you that Stone was one of the good guys? So what is it? Do you let us out of here and pretend that you don’t know what happened?”

Stone straightened. “No, sir. I go with you. Kind of have to, now. The Chief won’t stand for any kind of insubordination, and I think knocking out the guard and letting you folks out would get me something harsh.” He held up two sets of keys. “These are for the APC and the wrecker.”

“Thank God,” Hal Dorne said. “I call wrecker. Stiles rides shotgun with me.”

Stiles nodded. “Speaking of, where’s my Winchester?” He missed the gun.

Stone shook his head. “No can do. Your weapons, all of them, are inside the museum. Gravy’s brother is there with them, cataloging them into our collection.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

“It’s too dangerous,” Stone said. “Say we don’t get past him quietly? He sounds an alarm, the entire compound will be down on our heads.”

“It’s what we talked about, men,” Harris said. “Except now we don’t have to try hot-wiring anything. Is there gas in those vehicles?”

“Yes,” Stone said. “I filled them up earlier. We have to go. Shift change is in an hour and a half, so half of us . . . half of
them
are still asleep. The engines will wake them, but we should be able to make it out of here before they can dress and try to stop us.”

The group looked around at each other. Finally, Rico said, “Fine,” and the other sailors nodded.

“Well let’s go, then.”

Stone opened the door and looked out, scanning the yard for wandering ex-compatriots. Seeing none, he stepped nimbly down and over the unconscious guard, Simon, whom he’d knocked out with the butt of his rifle. Stone’s face betrayed a slight twinge. Stiles knew Stone had possibly signed this man’s death order for letting them escape on his watch.

The group of survivors filed out after him and headed for the vehicles. All except for Stiles, who began to limp determinedly toward the museum.

“What are you doing?” asked Stone.

“I’m going to get my rifle. All due respect, but I didn’t come through undead hell with the Winchester all this time to just give it up.”

A slow smile spread across Allen’s face. “Oh, I like him.” He started after Stiles, and Wendell followed after. Rico, after a moment’s deliberation, followed as well. Stone looked from them to Harris, who was also smiling.

“Boys and their toys. Come on, Hal.”

Stiles turned back, seeing the Commander walk after his men, hurrying to catch up, with Hal jogging after.

Cursing, Stone kicked at a rock, looking after the group.

“Well, Stone?” Harris asked over his shoulder. “In for a penny.”

Stone heaved a sigh and ran to catch up with Stiles.

“Fine,” he said, “but let me get us in. I want to put off dying as long as I can, thank you very much.”

Stone opened the door and went in, scanning the immediate area for men. Seeing none, he waved the survivors in and stalked forward, leading them to the weapons cache. “It’s right before shift change. There shouldn’t be anybody around. The Chief is still sour, and he tends to operate on a line-of-sight style of management when he’s in a mood, so everybody’s going to stay away.”

Before long, they came to the room where Gravy’s brother stood, cataloging the weapons and ammo they’d stripped from the survivors. He went shirtless under a black leather jacket over jeans. Stiles stole a glance through the rectangular window and spun away quickly.

“Good God,” he said. “He’s bigger than his brother.”

“Tiny,” Stone said. “His name is Bronson, but we call him Tiny. Him and Gravy used to be professional wrestlers. Did you see your rifle?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Right behind him. He’s one of the guys from this morning, isn’t he?”

“He is. Go get him,” Stone said, opening the door.

Stiles gripped his metal stab and limped into the room. Tiny looked up, his face full of confusion.

“Hey! You’re supposed to be locked up!”

Lurching, Stiles ran at the bigger man, screaming as his weight came down on his bad leg, and then he was there, stabbing at Tiny with his piece of heater. The first jab met flesh and Tiny bellowed, lashing out. The back of his fist caught Stiles in the rib cage, lifting him from his feet and moving his entire body to the side. Stiles lost his grip on the suddenly blood-slicked heater element and swung his empty hands at Tiny.

The bigger man took the hits on his forearms and shoulders, bulling in to grab Stiles around the waist. He lifted up, squeezing and crushing the military man. Stiles kicked at the length of metal sticking out from the man’s side, but that wasn’t enough to make him let go.

“Fuck this,” Allen said, and he ran into the room, stabbing his broken and sharpened PVC at the big man’s unprotected side, but it failed to penetrate the leather of the jacket.

“Move!” Harris said, hefting the monkey’s fist as he stepped into the room. Allen cleared away and Harris swung the flail, catching Tiny in the side of the head, right behind his ear. He faltered, his grip on Stiles weakening.

Wendell and Rico forced their way in, stabbing down at Tiny’s thighs, the PVC pipe making short work of the jean material there. The big man grunted and went down to his knees, letting Stiles go, who fell back onto the table.

“Grab the guns,” he said to Hal, who stood in the hallway with Stone.

Rico, Allen, and Wendell punched and stabbed down at Tiny until his large form stopped moving. Hillyard made his way around to stomp on the large head. Harris stood over the man, his face hardening again as he looked down at Katie’s executioner. He bent over and snatched the metal heating element out of the man’s side. He waved the quartet of sailors away.

“You had no right,” he said, and stabbed it with a twisting motion into the man’s inner thigh. A bright red jet of blood shot out of the wound, Tiny’s life pulsing out onto the floor. They stood there for about a minute, watching the large man go pale as the pulses out of his leg got slower, less forceful.

“You had no right,” Harris repeated, and turned to go.

“Everybody strapped?” Rico said. “There’s more in there.”

“More than we need,” Allen said, and Stiles laughed. “What?”

“The world is over. There will never be more bullets than we need. But maybe there’s more than we can carry.”

“We should go,” Stone said from the hallway. “Gravy will be along presently, and he won’t like this.”

“Fuck what he likes,” Allen said, checking his MP-5. “We’re armed and dangerous now.”

“Come on.”

Stone led the group back out, fully armed and ready for action.

When they hit the yard, there were two men standing over the still form of the sentry. One of them looked up at Stone as the survivors filed out behind him. He hit his partner and pointed, yelling something.