Survivors (38 page)

Behind the Fac, across from each other in the grassy yard, sat Mark Stiles and Rebecca Hall. Rebecca had her hands clasped around her knees, drawn up tight against her chest, and Stiles lounged on his side, picking at blades of grass.

“Okay,” he said, picking his words. “What’s the best place you’ve ever been?”

“The best place?” repeated Rebecca, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “Honestly? Home. There are things about home I never really noticed until after I left. The way it smells. The routines. The sticky back door. My mother kept a little garden in the backyard. Every summer she’d make strawberry jam. I’d help her can it. We’re far enough away from everyone else that in the winter, when it snows, you can forget you’re even on earth. Everything’s perfectly still. Perfectly quiet. Yeah. Home’s the best place I’ve ever been.”

Stiles nodded. “Sounds really nice.”

“It’s probably burned down by now,” said Rebecca, her eyes downcast. “I don’t even know if my mother’s still alive.”

“Hey!” said Stiles. “That’s not how we play the game! Only happy memories, right?”

Rebecca took a moment to answer. “Right. Sorry.”

Stiles looked at the young woman a moment longer. When she didn’t reply, he spoke out: “It’s your turn to ask.”

“Right,” Rebecca said. She sat silent for a while, then looked up. “What was your best moment?”

“What do you mean?” asked Stiles. “You mean, in my whole life?”

Becky nodded.

“That’s easy,” grinned Stiles. “Running that diversion in Hyattsburg. I mean, I was sure I was dead, but what a death! Saving lives by giving my own . . . I don’t know if that kind of opportunity will ever come around again. Most of us don’t even get it once. And half the ones who do just stand there and let it pass them by. It sounds twisted, right? But we’re surrounded by senseless death, everywhere. My death was going to mean something. So, yeah. That was my best moment.”

“It’s a good best moment,” said Rebecca. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “We might not have made it out, otherwise.”

“And I couldn’t have made the run without you,” added Stiles, placing his hand on Rebecca’s arm.

Rebecca abruptly recoiled, drawing her legs back farther and tightening her grip around her knees. “That was just my job. I already told you, you don’t owe me anything.”

Before Stiles could muster a reply, Rebecca had picked herself up off the ground and dusted off the back of her pants.

“I’m sorry—really—but I should go see what Anna’s doing downstairs.”

Stiles sat in the grass a long minute after Rebecca had departed, staring at the ground.

After a while, the sound of rustling metal drew the soldier’s attention, and he looked up and across the fenced-in section of the Fac’s backyard. Just beyond the fence, partially obscured by the chain links, he spied Hal Dorne, busily picking through a toolbox. Next to the retired mechanic was the rusted-out radio shack. The older man really was making a go of it.

Stiles picked himself up from off the ground with a sigh and walked over to the fence. He hooked his fingers through the links and squinted at Hal.

Hal cast a glance over his shoulder, spotting his visitor. “Hiya, Stiles. Figured on making myself useful. It’s not in bad shape, you know,” he added, glancing once more at the soldier. “Just needed some rewiring, mainly.”

“One good windstorm will knock that sucker over,” Stiles said, eyeing the rusted metal supports.

“Oh, she’ll hold,” said Hal, patting the pockmarked struts. “She’s held this long, hasn’t she?”

“Why don’t you just build us one of those rail guns you’re always talking about?” Stiles asked, heaving a curious shrug. “You’re always on and on about them.”

“Why? Because I already built the damn thing,” muttered Hal, yanking a wire stripper from his toolbox. “Where’s the fun in building something twice? You already know what it takes to make it work. That, mister, is what took all the fun out of being a tank mechanic. Always the same goddamn problems every time. It got boring. Imagine twenty years of fixing the same shit, over and over again! No, sir. Not for me.”

“All I’m saying is we could use a quiet gun around here. Be great for keeping the perimeter clear. Wouldn’t attract any noise.”

Hal stopped in place. He dropped the wire strippers and the claw hammer he’d added to his hands on the ground next to the toolbox. He stalked over to the fence until he was a scant three feet from Stiles and fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare.

“Tell you what, pal-o-mine, you got three options right now.”

“Yeah?” asked Stiles, a grin on his face. He knew Hal well enough to know that the annoyed attitude was a facade.

“One: you can go find me some car batteries. New ones! Not some half-assed, drained, used POSes. I suppose I could rig up something useful with them—something better than a one-shot magnet gun.”

“Okay.” Stiles shrugged. “And option two?”

“You go out and get this town’s power plant back on line so I can plug into a wall outlet somewhere. You do that, and I’ll feel generous enough to work on a new rail gun for you.”

Stiles shrugged. “Okay, I get your point. There’s not enough powder in the barrel.”

Hal shrugged. “That’s a fine way of putting it, yeah. So I’m rebuilding a dispatch station instead.” With that, the older man turned away and crouched down next to his tool bag.

“Wait a second,” said Stiles, holding up his finger. “What’s the third option?”

Hal half-turned to fix Stiles with a stare. “That’s you, going to get me a length of copper wiring from that industrial shed over there, so I can get this stupid thing really ticking again.”

Stiles looked over his shoulder. He spotted the storage shed in the distance. “What? Really?”

“Yes, really!” shooed Hal. “I’m retired. I don’t have time to bullshit. Come on, come on, this thing isn’t going to upgrade itself!”

Mark Stiles, unsure as to how he’d become pressed into duty as a wire-fetcher, strode off across the fenced-in courtyard, his thoughts more on a withdrawn young medic than the rusting dispatch station or its eccentric benefactor.

With a wandering mind, he passed under the grain lift and headed for the metal shed Hal had pointed out.

Above Stiles, Krueger perched on the round metal platform that sat alongside the top of the grain elevator. He’d placed rusted-out, empty metal drums along the outer edges of the space, rendering him nearly invisible from the ground.

Usually Krueger spent his downtime reading, or dozing with his rifle across his chest.

Not today. Today, Krueger was on the hunt.

“That’s right, bitches,” Krueger whispered, eyes fixed on his scope. “Sergeant Carlos Hathcock is taking aim at the enemy. It’s a long way off. Winds are off the chart. There’s no way anyone could make this shot. No one . . . but me.”

Krueger mouthed the word “Blam!” and jerked his rifle back in a passable imitation of recoil.

Half a mile away, the wooden clothesline he had been aiming at stood resolute, unaware of its brief role as target.

Krueger threw up his arms. “He’s done it! Hathcock takes down Ho Chi Minh with a single bullet! The Vietnam War is over!”

“Ahem.”

The sudden interruption brought Krueger to an immediate halt. He dropped his arms, a guilty grin crossing his face.

Juni stared at him from the top rung of the ladder. “I won’t ask.”

“Hey, come on, Carlos Hathcock happens to be one of the best snipers who ever lived, okay?” Krueger said, then sulkily added, “Besides, can’t a guy have a little fun now and then?”

“Here’s lunch,
Vasili,
” said Juni, tossing a plastic-wrapped sandwich to Krueger. The sharpshooter caught it easily, then eyed the contents.

“Do I want to know what’s in it?”

“Fried Spam.”

“I just decided I don’t want to know what’s in it,” Krueger said with a grimace. He tucked the sandwich away for later.

“Sorry. Maybe next time it’ll be roast beef,” said Juni, with a smile.

“Sure, and maybe it’ll be ant loaf.”

Juni began the slow climb down the grain elevator, and when her feet touched dirt, she headed for the Fac’s rear entrance. It was just past noon, and it was her turn on kitchen duty. The pickings might be slim, but she didn’t want to disappoint.

“Excellent,” Sawyer said into his radio. “You just make sure you hold off until you get the word. I don’t want anything ruining my surprise party for these bastards.”

Sawyer, putting the radio away with a wide grin, turned to see his second in command arrive. “Huck,” he said, motioning the lieutenant over. “Talk to me about our preparations.”

Lieutenant Finnegan didn’t quite roll his eyes, but it took every inch of military bearing he possessed.

“The advance units are all in place, sir. Our men are seeding themselves into Omaha and should be in their assigned spots by sixteen hundred. Minimal contact with infected, as was expected. I haven’t gotten a report from the team you sent to Offutt AFB—”

“I have,” Sawyer said. “They have accomplished their objective and are on hot standby. Then we get Mason and Sherman and whoever the fuck else is in there and punch their tickets. The men are clear on this point, correct? Everyone in that facility, with the sole exception of Dr. Anna Demilio, is to be exterminated on contact.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Finnegan said. “Will that be all?”

“No,” Sawyer said. “Find Lutz and his band of idiots. Make sure they’re not in position to fuck any of this up.”

He was dying, he knew that much for sure. He had to be. Why else would his life be flashing before his eyes?

It was his first day on the USS
Ramage
. This was a day that he was sure he’d remember for a long, long time. He walked up the long gangplank, keeping one hand on the handrail, feeling the ropes holding the ship’s banner tied to it. USS RAMAGE (DDG-61) it said.
Par excellence
. When he got to the top, he said, “Request permission to come aboard. Commander John Harris, reporting for duty.”

The young quarterdeck watch nearly twisted himself in half, trying to decide what to do next. He knew that they were expecting a new executive officer, and that the new XO’s name would be Harris, so he was torn between giving a quick salute and greeting to the Commander or piping him aboard over the 1MC, the general announcing system.

Luckily for him, the Officer of the Deck came to his rescue and sent one of the messengers to alert the CO that his new second in command was reporting. Then he stepped forward and greeted Harris. It was Rico, alive and well.

This is how I know I’m dying, Harris thought. Rico wasn’t the OOD. He was never the OOD.

“The captain is on board and waiting for you, sir. I assume you’re familiar with the
Arleigh Burke
class destroyer?”

“I am. Does that mean I don’t get the pre-report tour?”

“Sir, no, sir. We have everything ready for you, Commander.”

John Harris smiled then, ready to get to work. He’d put a lot of time in on other ships, and this was his next-to-last trip before a command of his own. Had it all been worth it? He’d asked himself that question many times over his long career. Time missed with family and loved ones, events that he would never get another chance at, days spent hunched over a manual, back when he was a junior officer, or overseeing a gang of blueshirts performing repairs in the engine room. So much time spent on these islands of steel.