The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) (9 page)

“Excellent. We move out in 20.”

In the growing light of dawn, the zealots watched the shoe store from a careful distance.

“Thoughts, Mr. Driebach?”

Arthur didn’t really expect an answer, and he wasn’t disappointed. Driebach merely spread his gloved hands and bowed his head, clearly indicating acquiescence to whatever Arthur had in mind.

“Very well. Move in. Jackson, you go with him.”

The young man’s mouth was swollen and a nasty shade of purple. His eyes narrowed at the command. Clearly, he had wanted the glory of this kill to himself.

Too bad,
thought Arthur.
I’d rather make sure they’re dead.

The zealots moved down from the barricade into the street, Driebach simply stepping off the top and landing with bent knees, then striding forward as if a fifteen-foot drop was something he did every day.

For all I know, he
does
do that shit every day. Damned if I’ll ask him about it, though.

Arthur could see the boys moving into position, surrounding the shoe store on three sides while staying clear of firing lines and sticking close to cover. The heretics weren’t firing yet, but that wasn’t surprising, given that they were surely low on ammo and had no doubt been given orders to conserve what they had.

Still, something was bugging him — something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.
Wish the reverend hadn’t decided radios were a sign of the abomination
, he thought, sighing to himself.
Guess we’ll just have to make do
.

He watched as the boys moved a bit closer, Driebach striding forward as though cover was irrelevant and being seen didn’t worry him at all. And how could you
not
see a six-four, super-skinny man dressed head-to-toe in black with a hood?

Surely, they should be firing by now
, he thought.
What are they waiting for? They can practically see the whites of their eyes by now.

Driebach had just reached the shop’s doors when Arthur saw him hesitate and look around, almost as if he were sniffing the air like a dog. Jackson took the man’s hesitation as an opportunity, and let loose with a warbling war cry. He and his minions scrambled over the debris in the street and into the shop, just as Driebach turned and ran.

Ran
fast
.

“Oh, shit,” Arthur said, causing some consternation in the priest to his right. The priest’s woes were the last thing on his mind as Arthur pulled the man down behind the cover at the top of the barricade and threw himself on top of the clergyman.

The explosion was massive, and Arthur had to clench a large fist around one of the supports to keep from being thrown off the top of the wall. Chunks of masonry and flaming shoes rained down around him as he shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. A spiked high-heel shoe landed on the priest’s back as he sat up.

Jimmy Choo
, he read on the label.
Any other day, this would be funny
.

After making sure the priest was unhurt, he looked over the barricade, keeping a hand on the rail to steady himself.

The shoe store was… well,
gone
didn’t seem to quite cover it.
Cratered
would be a better word for it. Parts of the foundation remained, and some of the steel supports. Rubble littered the street, with billions of pieces of glass from nearby storefronts sparkling amongst the wreckage. There was simply nothing else left of the shoe store.

Arthur looked for Driebach, and saw the black-clad figure moving up the barricade, not quite as gracefully as he once would have. His all-black clothing was torn and tattered, showing pale white skin in several places, and his right arm hung at an odd angle… though he continued to use it as if nothing was wrong.

Don’t ask
.
You don’t want to know,
thought Arthur.
McMillan was right; I don’t wanna know a damned thing
.

He looked back at the store once more, shaking his head. Clearly, they’d anticipated this move. Their commander must be smarter than he’d given them credit for. He turned and made his way down the barricade stairs.

“Sir?” asked the priest.

Arthur stopped and turned back. “Yes, father?”

“What about the men, sir? Mr. Kraeger and them?”

Arthur thought for a moment. “Say a prayer for them, father. They’re in a better place now.” He moved down the stairs.

“And I’m much better off without them,” he muttered.

Reynolds couldn’t help looking over at Masters, the only other soldier in sight, as the explosion went off several miles behind them. They had made good time through backyards and alleys, and were now loosely scattered and moving through what appeared to be a small forest. Masters grinned back at him.

They came to a clearing in the trees, and Reynolds signaled for everyone to regroup as he looked over the situation. A couple hundred yards ahead of them was a barbed wire fence and a small farmhouse, with a barn out back. In the driveway sat the sort of truck that seemed to come with farmhouses — a two-seater with a large bed and a truck box in the back. Just what they needed.

The light shining out of the upstairs windows of the house and the telephone line leading to a nearby pole was almost too much good news all at once, and he shook his head. Masters noticed, and crooked an eyebrow in the dim light of early morning.

“Mysterious ways, lieutenant,” Reynolds sub-vocalized, the throat mic he wore picking up the subtle vibrations and transmitting it to the group. Masters nodded, waiting patiently as Reynolds sized up the situation.

“Armstrong,” Reynolds said, pointing to one of the marines, “take Barrents and head around to the barn. Montero and Masters, take the back. Techman, you’re with me.”

“Sir? How we gonna play this?” asked Montero.

“I’m gonna knock on the door, marine.”

“Sir?”

“You have your orders. Move out.”

“Yes, sir.” The team dispersed like ghosts in their ACU camouflage. As the others moved around to take their assigned positions, Reynolds and Techman stopped at the front of the truck, on the side opposite the farmhouse, waiting for the signal from the rest of the team.

“All teams hold position until my signal,” said Reynolds. “Techman, stay here.”

Techman nodded, resting his rifle on the hood of the truck. Reynolds quietly and carefully moved up the front steps, staying to one side of the glass-paned front door, out of the line of fire. He put his back to the wall, and rang the doorbell.

The shotgun blast nearly took off the doorframe, booming out into the early morning and scaring away birds resting in the front yard trees.

“Come on, you dead bastards, come and get some!” It was an older voice.

Since when do walkers ring doorbells?

Reynolds fought hard to keep from laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation. “Hold your positions,” he muttered into his mic, knowing that Masters would be moving toward the house at the sound.

“United States Army!” said Reynolds, in an authoritative tone. “Lower your weapons!”

There was a pause. “Army? Well, you can just step right around the door there and prove it. At least I know you’re not one of them zombies. But I ain’t lowerin’ my weapon!”

Discretion is the better part of valor, I guess
, Reynolds thought, and slung his rifle. Extending his empty hands across the edge of the doorframe into clear view, he gradually stepped into the light from the house.

The older gentleman inside was holding a brand-new, still-smoking Mossberg shotgun. He wore a wife-beater and boxers; clearly, he’d just gotten out of bed. Tattoos covered his arms.

“Captain Thomas Reynolds, United States Air Force, on loan to the Army, sir. And you are?”

Reynolds had never been scrutinized so closely in his life. He felt as if he’d been completely weighed and measured in the blink of an eye. Then the old man lowered the weapon and saluted as perfectly as Tom had ever seen.
This man could teach a class on the perfect salute
.

“Gunnery Sergeant Milford P. Rains, USMC, retired. At your service, sir.”

Reynolds returned the salute, doing his best to get it perfect. “At ease, gunny.”

He looked over the older man’s shoulder and shook his head at Masters, who had disobeyed orders and come up from the rear. Before he could even speak, Milford P. Rains, USMC — retired — whipped around and had the shotgun up, almost faster than Masters could dodge it.

“Damn, boy. You are too damned quiet,” said Rains as he lowered the weapon again. “Sorry, son, old habits and all that.”

Masters grinned. “No problem at all, sir. Hope I’m half that fast when I’m your age, sir.”

Rains snorted. “If you live that long. If any of us do.” He turned back to Reynolds. “Now what can I do for you boys?”

Reynolds lowered his hands and stepped inside, one hand to his throat. “All teams move inside.” He glanced back at the destroyed door and shook his head.

“Gunny, we need your phone and your truck. And you need to pack.”

“Yes, sir. Keys are on the rack by the door, the phone’s in the kitchen. The missus and I will be ready to go in five minutes.” He laid the shotgun on the table and started up the stairs.

“One sec, gunny,” Reynolds said, marveling at the old man.

“Sir?”

“Don’t you wanna know what’s going on?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure you’ll tell me when the time is right, sir.”

Reynolds laughed. “You know, Mr. Rains, you are the best thing to happen to us in quite some time.”

“Yes, sir,” Rains said, smiling. He moved upstairs and as Reynolds walked to the kitchen, he could swear he heard the man ordering ‘the missus’ to pack her shit. In those words.

“Masters, secure a perimeter. Get Montero and Barrents to see what they can scavenge from the house and barn, and get that truck loaded. I want us moving out in ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reynolds picked up the old-style wall phone as he entered the kitchen, and nearly whooped when he got a dial tone. Punching a number in from memory, he crossed his fingers until it started ringing.

The truck moved slowly through the streets of the city, avoiding the piles of rubble, debris and the occasional dead-dead corpse. “You’re sure this is the way, Mr. Driebach?” asked Arthur, glancing at the man standing beside him in the bed of the truck.

Driebach nodded, and for the first time, he made a noise. He growled.

Arthur chose not to ask how Driebach had replaced his torn garments, or mended his arm, so quickly after the explosion. He had also chosen not to ask how Driebach had managed to track the heretical soldiers without glancing at the street. He ignored the fact that it appeared that Driebach was scenting the men out the same way a bloodhound would.

Don’t ask. You don’t wanna know
.

“Can we go any faster? They’re obviously headed out of the city,” Arthur said.

Driebach turned to look at him, and Arthur Beoshane, the hard-hearted Man of Christ, who was scared of nothing, silently offered up a prayer to God, certain that he was going to meet him in the next few moments. Then Driebach turned back to the street, and sniffed the air again, and Arthur couldn’t help but breathe out heavily.

It seemed he’d earned a reprieve, even if it did mean he had to be more patient in his pursuit.

For heretics, I can wait
, he thought.
We all come to the light of Heaven or the flame of Hell sooner or later. Even you, Mr. Driebach
.

“Listen to me, you little shit! I don’t care who your commanding officer is or what sort of instructions you were given, or what you’ve heard! I am Captain Thomas Joseph Reynolds, and you will put me through to Major Kimberly Barnes right fucking now!”

Masters poked his head into the kitchen through the swinging door. “Everything alright, sir?”

Reynolds laughed ironically. “They think we’re dead. This asshole won’t put me through. Keeps putting me on hold.”

Masters came all the way into the room, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Well, no doubt we were reported dead, sir.”

Reynolds took a deep breath, and then another, trying to calm himself down. Just then, the bunker came back on the line.

“I see. She’s not taking any calls, is she? You’ll have her get back to me. Ah.”

Masters signaled for the captain to pass him the phone, and Reynolds nodded. “One second, son. There’s someone else here who wants to talk to you.”

Masters cleared his throat and spoke into the phone. “What’s your name, private? Tucker. I see. Well, Private Tucker, what we have here is a failure to communicate.”

Reynolds choked, trying not to laugh, and Masters tried not to grin as he went on.

“You see, Private Tucker, here’s what’s going to happen now. We’re going to leave this cozy little farmhouse we’ve found, and we’re going to drive up to see you folks in AEGIS Bunker One. And when we get there, we’re going to be immediately cleared through the retinal and voice-print scans, and welcomed back with open arms.”

It was Reynolds’ turn to crook an eyebrow as Masters’ voice took on a distinctly ominous tone.

“Then comes the fun part. Once we’re all settled in and have had a good meal and a hot shower, I’m going to come find you, Private Tucker, and I’m going to personally introduce you to my friend Captain Reynolds. He and I are going to have a nice little chat with you, away from the worrying eyes and ears of the base’s monitors.

“And here’s the
really
fun part, Tucker. Major Barnes is going to come down and say hello, too. She just
loves
it when privates like you decide who she can and can’t talk to… I see. Well, I’ll put you back on with Captain Reynolds, then. You too, Private Tucker.”

Reynolds took the phone back from Masters, trying not to chuckle.

“Yes, this is Captain Reynolds. Good, good. I’ll hold.” He whispered to Masters, his hand over the mouthpiece, “I owe you a beer when we get there.”