The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning (14 page)

Sampson lay in a pool of blood with his right arm twisted and all but torn off and his hand mangled beyond recognition. His left arm bent at the elbow and lay across his upper chest. In his left hand was his service weapon, a .357 Magnum. Pain contorted his blood-covered face, and Eden couldn’t look too closely.

Nearby, another Driebach lay twitching. Some morbid electrical impulse kept its limbs moving even after Sampson had killed it again. The method of the kill was clear—a six-inch-long Bowie knife embedded in its skull through one of its eyes, the same Bowie knife Sampson had taken so much shit over when he found it on his graduation hunt and decided to keep it.

“I heard a shot,” she said.

“Yeah,” Giuliani said. “Look.” He pointed to two wounds on Sampson’s right arm.

Eden looked closer and recognized them for what they were. How could she not? She’d had the same wound herself. A quick glance at the bloody mess of his face and head confirmed that a .357 round did a lot of damage to a human skull.

“Don’t blame him,” Giuliani said. “Takes less than five minutes to become one of those things. No way, no how.”

Eden saw him turn toward her and glanced his way. “He saved my life. We should—”

The slap was out of nowhere, a complete surprise. It rocked her to the side and combined with the dizziness from her blow to the head earlier to send her to the ground on one knee. She blinked back automatic tears and looked up at the swarthy, stocky Italian.

She’d heard the expression “if looks could kill” countless times, but until that moment, she’d never believed it was possible. She died a little inside from the look he gave her.

“It’s your fault he’s dead. It’s your fault, you stuck-up, half-assed, sniveling little
bitch
! If you had just fucking waited for backup instead of trying to take that other one out on your own, I would have been here to have his back. You know, like he had yours. That’s why we wait for backup in the first fucking place!” Giuliani was red-faced and shouted loud enough to bring every walker in a five-hundred-yard radius down on them. “But no, Little Miss Pretty Fucking Princess has to bring it down all by herself. Little Miss Perfect, Little Miss High and Mighty, Little Miss ‘Don’t You Fucking Know Who I Am?’” He squatted down, his rifle across his knees as he looked her in the eye.

She could only watch, dumbfounded, as he tore into her. She didn’t know which was worse, the yelling or the fact that he now got quiet. Or worst of all, that he was right—it was her fault.

“I don’t give two flying fucks who your parents are or what they can do to me. My friend is dead because of you, you piece of shit. You keep pulling this shit and getting away with it. For fuck’s sake, you can’t even
die
right! I said ‘One day she’s gonna get someone killed.’ I told ‘em.”

Giuliani stood and brushed nonexistent dirt off his pants. “Now you’ve proved me right. You got him killed. Your friend. You did this. Not the Driebach.” He paused, then pointed a thick finger at her. “If you ever come near me again, so help me God, I will cut you into little pieces and feed you to the fucking fish in the goddamned hydro tanks. I’m going to file a formal complaint and have you brought up on charges. You’ll be court-martialed faster than you can blink. You, you’re fucking done.”

With that, Giuliani walked away. She heard him call in the report, and she thought she heard Marquez shout from over where he guarded the civilians.

She didn’t remember collapsing to the ground, but there she was, unable even to bring herself to raise her head to look at her fallen comrade. Overwhelmed, she felt like a part of herself had slipped away and she was watching from a distance as her life played out. The medics lifted her up and carried her like a sack of wheat between them. She barely felt the heat from the thermite that the cleaning crew used to destroy the mess she’d made.

She barely felt anything at all.

Eatonville Town Hall

The mood was somber, yet a current of excitement ran through the group anyway. They’d taken some losses—some pretty horrific—but they’d won the day and cleared most of the town of walkers. Enough to set up some Quonset huts for temporary storage and shelter from the nasty weather the mountains sometimes brought.

Mayor Pro-Tem Gates looked at the men and women seated around her and was glad to have them. They were going over plans for the next several months while waiting to get the final results of the day’s military operation. Major Thomas Reynolds was deep in conversation on the other side of the room. Along with Captain Masters, they were debriefing a man who’d just reported in whom she hadn’t met. Reynolds nodded and dismissed the other two, coming over and taking a seat at the table. The folding piece of plastic was a bit wobbly, but it worked well enough.

“Well, Major?” Gates asked. “What’s our status?”

“Five dead, one wounded.” Wounded soldiers were even rarer since Z-Day, other than the odd accident. When fighting walkers, wounds were almost always bites, an instant death sentence. At least until the treatments began. “The core areas of town are clear, but there are a few places we still need to sweep, including the clinic.”

Gates knew clinics and other medical facilities were always problematic. That’s where folks had gone for help all those years ago, only to die and then turn. They were the most walker-ridden parts of any community. “Do you have an estimate for full containment?” she asked.

“Oh, give us a few days and your Free Zone will be secure. I’ve sent for the cyclone fencing from the bunker. We’ll have a good perimeter in twelve hours and a reinforced one soon after that. Standard patrols, that sort of thing. I expect that the activity will draw any walkers in the area to us, but we’ll stay alert, as planned.”

“Excellent. If you don’t mind my asking, who did we lose? I think I speak for all of us here when I say that we’re saddened by their loss and grateful for their sacrifice.”

“Wallis, Sampson, Demeter, Fredericks, and Kelly. Kelly was an accident—a fire escape collapsed while he was evac’ing a building. The others were KIA.”

Gates hesitated to ask her next question, but she felt that she must. “And Miss Blake?”

Reynolds scowled. “Got knocked around a bit, hit her head on a rock. She’s back at ExForce HQ.”

“She’s in shock. She looked catatonic.”

“None of us have time to be in shock,” he said. “I have duties to attend to, ma’am. Excuse me.” The conversation was over as he stood and walked out of the building.

“At least he didn’t slam the door,” Gates’s construction manager said. “I’m not sure this building could take it.”

Gates glanced up at the ceiling, rotted through in places where leaks had done their work over more than two decades. The engineers had cleared the building with some cautionary restrictions. But Gates could see the solidity of the underlying structure and knew it would hold. Long past its prime, but with a core of strength. Just like herself.

She wondered if she’d be able to hold out as long. She turned back to the group. “Okay, let’s go over that supply distribution schedule. I want to make sure that we’ve got everything accounted for.”

CHAPTER SIX

ExForce HQ
Joint Base Lewis-McChord

There was never enough coffee.

Colonel Gaines put the empty coffeepot back into the coffee maker and set his mug beside it. His weekly ration had run out, and that was that. He turned, went back to his desk, and sighed at the number of reports stacked there. What he wouldn’t give to be out with Tom seeing some action instead of stuck behind this desk. This was no place for a soldier. A knock on the door brought relief, and his reply of “Come!” might’ve been just a tad bit eager.

Sergeant Sensa opened the door and stepped inside. “Sir, Captain Reynolds reports Eatonville is contained and will be fully secured within twenty-four hours.”

“Good, good.” Gaines hesitated. “Any losses?”

Sensa nodded. “Yes, sir. Four KIA, one casualty, one wounded. I have Captain Reynolds’s report here, sir.” She handed him a piece of paper with the six names and short descriptions of the incidents.

He held it without looking for a moment. “Hey, did you ever find that local that disappeared?”

Sensa shook her head. “No, sir. Whatever he was doing here or whoever he was doing it for, he’s gone.”

“Okay, we’ll put a pin in that for now, but let me know if anything turns up.” He looked down at the report. “Damn, I liked Wallis. We lost Sampson too? What…” He paused as he scanned the part about Eden. “Where’s Blake?” he asked, his voice cold.

“Captain Reynolds had her transported here, sir. She’s… Well, sir, she’s pretty out of it. She’s messed up, sir. Do you… No, never mind.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve never seen her like that. Do you think… Do you think maybe she’s not as immune as we thought? That she’s turning after all? Maybe those Driebachs—”

Gaines sighed and wished for the fiftieth time that they hadn’t told the senior commanders about Eden’s adventure with the monster. And then, as he had the other fifty times, he rejected the idea of keeping it secret any longer. The folks out in the field needed to know, and though they’d fielded a lot of questions, it was better that everyone knew what they were facing.

“Can that shit right fucking now. She is one hundred percent immune. She’s just freaked out. She’s only seventeen, fercrissake. Who knows what’s going through her head.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “But we have work to do. What’s the status on the clearing teams?”

“Ready to go, sir, when you give the order.”

Gaines grunted as he stood up and walked to the side of his desk. He grabbed his tactical gear from its peg on the wall and zipped up the vest. “We leave in five.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Sensa said. “But regulations state—”

“Sergeant Sensa, are you about to quote regulations at me?” Gaines stared at her.

She shook her head. “Not now, sir.”

“Good. Because if I don’t get out from behind this damn desk, I’m going to go nutso. Three fries short of a Happy Meal.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Damn, you remember McDonald’s?” Gaines smacked his lips. “What I’d give for a Big Mac right now…”

“Only just, sir. I was five on Z-Day.”

Gaines sighed. “Of course you were. All right, let’s get this road on the show.”

“Isn’t it—”

“Don’t correct me, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was raining on the southwest side of the base. Cold, fat drops that soaked everything they touched. They fell just fast enough to make him miserable but not enough to affect his view. Gaines pulled the poncho he wore closer around his chest so it wouldn’t flap in the wind and raised the binocs to his eyes.

The area they were clearing had once been single-family homes for soldiers. A few scattered and small service-oriented military buildings were here and there. A laundry, a bowling alley, or a grocery store broke up the monotony of government housing at its finest. Only the concrete and steel structures had managed to stay standing, and some of those looked like they were about to give up, judging from their current state. Not that it mattered.

The engine noise of the heavy construction equipment to his left and right was much louder than he’d anticipated. This was going to be a problem, since no one had done much walker maintenance here. He could see all the way to the Nisqually reservation, and every so often, he would spot some movement indicating a walker. No runners yet, but they were probably there as well. He just hoped they wouldn’t run into any Driebachs.

“All right, Sergeant, send out the teams.”

“All teams, move out!” said his second-in-command for the op, Sergeant Sensa.

Six Humvees broke from the group of vehicles, rolling forward at a walking pace. He’d considered holding back one of the Strykers for this mission, but it was a case of pure numbers. Aerial surveys by their recon teams had shown that Eatonville had more zombies, so the Strykers both went there. If needed, Gaines and his men could always fall back to the safety of the base.

He began to hear the crack of rifles as his men approached the crumbling buildings. Reports were coming in to the sergeant, but Sensa knew he didn’t need to hear about absolutely everything.

“Approaching the first row of homes, sir,” she said, confirming what he could already see through the binoculars. “Multiple walkers down, no runners reported yet.”

Gaines grunted in response and continued watching. He could see men moving into the one-story, two-bedroom homes and could hear the rifles cracking. Soon, all the teams were clear of their designated structures and had moved to the other side of the street.

“First row clear, sir. Should I send the tractors?”

“Go ahead.”

“All demo teams, you are clear to proceed.”

The demo teams had heavy construction equipment that had waited in the bunker for more than twenty years. Drained of all their fluids and carefully preserved, the machines were almost new. Backhoes, bulldozers, two dump trucks, and some front-loaders. They’d used the facilities and supplies in the bunker to make some new diesel gas for them, and they were ready to get to work. All the great machines marched forward, one soldier each riding aboard when possible, just in case the sweeper teams had missed a walker.

As they moved over the open ground toward the houses, Gaines heard the first of the screamers go off. It was half a mile away, beyond the sweep teams.

“Scout One reports active, sir,” Sensa said. “Multiple walkers and one runner down.”

“Have Foxtrot standing by for support if necessary.”

“Yes, sir. Foxtrot, move up and prepare for support of Scout One.”

One of the teams sweeping through the houses piled back into their Humvee and moved out of Gaines’s line of sight. He noticed a quick flash of movement off to the south, behind the line of sweepers. Sensa had already seen it.

“Foxtrot team, contact,” she said. “Driebach, south of your position.”

“Roger that,” the Foxtrot team leader said. “No visual.”