These Dead Lands: Immolation (53 page)

“We’ll need some time to pull that together,” Hastings said. “For now, let’s assume you’ll just get the rifles. We’ll try and backfill with other gear as we can, but right now, I want Hartman to go to the arms room and see if he can get the basics. Hartman, go.”

“On it, sir,” Hartman said. He scurried over to his bunk, grabbed his helmet, vest, and rifle, and shot out the front door.

“Everson, you’ll be responsible for training up the others,” Hastings said. “Everyone needs to know how to shoot, move, communicate, break down their weapons, and keep them operational. Since you’ve been on post before, you probably know where the small arms ranges are, right?”

“Grid A thirty-two on the map,” Everson said. “We’ll need transportation to get there. Maybe your man Hartman can scare up a van for us from the motor pool when he comes back. No one’s using them right now, and that way we can travel as a group.” He pointed at Kenny. “We’ll have to do live-firing in two groups, because someone has to stay with the kids, and this little one here is a flight risk. We’ll have to be very careful with him around the ranges, so whatever we need to keep him distracted, we bring it with us.”

Hastings was impressed. “Sounds like you’re a resourceful guy, Mister Everson.”

“All through hard-won experience, Captain.”

“Sir, I’d like to change gears for a moment,” Slater said. “You mentioned a recce flight. I’d like to get in on that.”

“Sorry, Slater. I’ll need you north of the post, up on I-81. There’s another defensive position being erected up there, and I’d like you to oversee the emplacement. Specifically, I want you to organize active defenses—claymores, preferably mounted high and daisy-chained in a way to provide multiple firings with the projectiles coming down at head level.”

“Awesome,” Slater said, his voice neutral. “Do we have a force coming in from the north, as well?”

“Not yet, but it’s an open roadway. We squirted down it for a few miles, so if any of the reekers are up there, they’ll find their way down once the action starts.”

“Roger that.”

“Captain, how far away are these things?” Kay asked. “You said they wouldn’t get here until tomorrow?”

“That’s a guesstimate at this point. They’re coming down the interstate, but they’re only about forty miles away. We’re presuming the dead traffic will bottle them up for a while and hold them back, but we could see them as early as tonight. That’s why I’m pushing for you guys to train up and get ready to pitch in if the post is compromised.”

“We have a get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge plan yet?” Everson asked.

“No, not yet. But we have the trains and maybe enough capability to move everyone out using them, in coordination with a road movement. We’ll have to work on that.”

“Sir, has anyone heard from Rawhide over those freqs I gave you?” Slater asked.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. I haven’t followed up on that. I did deliver the frequencies to the command group, but if contact has been established, I don’t know about it.”

That didn’t seem to sit well with the Special Forces NCO. “Sir, if Bragg is still out there—”

Hastings held up a hand. “I know you’re eager to get back to Fort Bragg, Slater, but we have other fish to fry right now.”

Slater nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Hastings turned back to Everson. “Questions for me?”

Everson shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll do what has to be done. By this evening, everyone who can fire a weapon will have some range time, and I’ll see to it that people can take care of themselves.”

Hastings looked past Everson to where the tall bully, Walker, stood at the rear of the small group. “Mister Walker, I just want to impress on you that if we have any problems with you, I’m sending you out to one of the perimeter locations. We’ll see how well you get along when looking at several thousand reekers who want to tear you apart.”

Walker looked shocked. “Did I say anything? Was I doing anything wrong?”

“Not yet,” Hastings said. “I just wanted to get that out of the way.”

“Walker will be fine, sir,” Everson said. “Leave him to me. Right, guy?”

“Absolutely right!” Walker said.

Hasting checked his watch. “Okay, I’ve got to roll. Slater, you’re with me. Tharinger, hang out here and help Mister Everson get things squared away when Hartman returns. After that, head over to the motor pool and try to get one of those vans Mister Everson mentioned. Go with them to the range and make sure everything stays cool. Tell Hartman he’s to PMCS the remaining vehicles and ensure they’re roadworthy. We might be needing them soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Slater cleared his throat slightly.

Hastings told Tharinger, “And on your way back from the motor pool, stop by the TOC and find out if anyone’s heard anything from Fort Bragg.” He jerked a thumb toward Slater. “Papa Zero Three’s getting impatient.”

“Thanks, sir,” Slater said.

“No sweat. Get your stuff, Sergeant. You’re with me.”

Slater turned and headed toward his bunk. Everson shepherded the civilians away, describing what he thought the rest of the day would look like. Kay picked up the MBITR and headed toward her boys.

“Get yourself squared away, Tharinger,” Hastings said. “That does not include working on your shower body-surfing technique.”

Tharinger gave him an embarrassed smile. “Yes, sir.”

As the private turned away and headed toward his bunk, Hastings went over and sat down heavily beside Kenny and Diana. “Well, this is going to be a peach of a day.”

“Did you expect things to be any different, General?” Diana asked. She rummaged through a backpack on the floor and pulled out a package of jalapeño cheese and crackers. She spread some cheese on a cracker and handed it over to Kenny. The boy accepted it immediately and began chowing down.

“You good on the crackers?” Hastings asked.

“We’ve got a couple hundred packages now. Good through at least next Saturday,” Diana said. “Turns out he also likes the mocha dessert bar and this shit… what’s it called? RipIt?”

“Never underestimate the power of RipIt,” Hastings said. “Take it easy on that stuff. It’s packed with all sorts of go-juice to keep a troop running around all day. He has enough trouble sleeping as it is. And same for the mocha bar, it has real coffee in it.”

Diana shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to faze him all that much. If he likes something, it goes down the hatch. I remember his mother telling me he likes chocolate milk, too. That’s not in any of these MREs, is it?”

Hastings shook his head. “No. Only from the dining facility. You know where it is?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you can take him for a walk over there. He’s got to be getting a little nutty, hanging around here all the time,” Hastings said, watching as Kenny ate a cracker with one hand while fooling around with a food wrapper with the other. He made smacking noises as he ate.

Diana smirked. “Sure, I’ll be happy to take him on a walking tour of the base in between visits to the gun range.”

Slater walked up, wearing all his gear. “Ready here, sir.” Hastings noticed his vest was stuffed full of spare magazines for his rifle. No one believed in traveling light anymore.

Diana regarded him with a closed expression. Was she scared? Nervous? She should have been, but she had a knack for hiding behind a hard shell. Hastings envied that. Impulsively, he bent over and kissed the top of Kenny’s head, and for a brief instant, Kenny leaned into him before starting in on a second cracker. For Kenny, that was the equivalent of a bear hug.

“Take care of the kid,” he said, getting to his feet. “And if you need a break, palm him off onto someone else for a while. He needs to figure out how to get along with other people.”

“Even if it means crying and screaming?”

Hastings nodded. “Even if it means that, yeah.”

“You thinking I might not be around forever, General?” Diana asked.

“No one is,” Hastings said. He turned to Slater. “Let’s move out, Sergeant.”

*

Working with the
rest of the troops to set up an expansive barrier of razor and tanglefoot wire along the Swatara’s muddy bank, Guerra noticed a heavily fortified house on the other side, set back from the road. The building and yard was surrounded by what looked to be a hastily erected stockade fence. Two corpses lay just outside the fence, presumably former zombies. Guerra kept an eye on the house. After what had happened on the road to the rail yard, he no longer trusted civilians not to go to guns on him and the men.

One of the National Guard soldiers noticed Guerra’s frequent glances across the creek. “What’s the problem, Sergeant?”

Guerra nodded toward the house. “Just keeping an eye out. Came under fire twice yesterday by armed civilians in fortified structures.”

The Guardsman laughed. “I don’t think you have a lot to worry about, Sergeant. That’s Amish over there.”

“Amish? Like in that movie
Witness
?”

“You got it. Horse-drawn carriages and all.” The Guardsman carefully unspooled more razor wire. The end was attached to a ground stake by an aluminum tie wrap.

“Anyone ever talk to them?” Guerra asked.

“Yeah, I think we’ve contacted them a couple of times. They just want to be left alone.”

“Maybe someone should try again.”

“Yeah, maybe.” The Guardsman focused on his work, running a length of wire to another ground stake. “You want to help me tie this length of wire off?”

“Yeah, sure.” Guerra secured the wire to the stake with a tie wrap then worked with the Guardsman to set up the next run. Even though he wore heavy gloves, he still handled the razor wire gingerly, as if it was an angry snake that could strike at any moment.

Mosquitoes buzzed all around, and it took a great deal of self-control on Guerra’s part not to lose his shit and start screaming like a prissy schoolgirl. The Guardsmen didn’t seem bothered by the winged pests, so he sucked it up and acted as much like John Wayne as he could, even though he knew the slow-moving creek must’ve been a virtual mosquito hatchery.

Movement in the house across the way made him stop. Guerra eyed the house suspiciously.

The Guardsman looked up at him with a frown. “What’s up, Sergeant?”

“Scope it out,” Guerra said, nodding toward the house. He shot a glance over his shoulder, where Reader and Stilley were working with another crew. “Reader!”

Reader raised his head. “’S’up, Sergeant G?”

“You and Stilley, get on your weapons. Movement at the house across the creek.”

Guerra pulled off his heavy work gloves and put on his tactical gloves.

The Guardsman looked irritated. “Hey, Sergeant. We got a job to do here. Security’s in place. Don’t worry about anything.”

Guerra shook his head. “Security’s looking for reekers, not dudes with thirty-ought-sixes or whatever the Amish might have.”

“Fuck. They’re not gonna shoot us.” The Guardsman turned and waved over one of the officers standing on the low hillside above them, near the foot of the bridge where the container was being set up.

“You just stay where you are, guy.” As he spoke, Guerra pulled his rifle into his hands. “I’m going to go talk to those people and see what’s up. Keep working. I’ll be back in a bit.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Reader and Stilley move closer to the creek, looking at the house, their weapons held at low ready.

“Got movement,” Reader announced.

“Keep cool,” Guerra said. “If they’re alive, give ’em a chance.”

“Well, what if they
ain’t
alive?” Stilley asked.

“What the fuck do you think? They attack, you shoot.” Guerra stepped over the coiled wire and picked his way through the tanglefoot wire stretched out across the ground. It hadn’t been fully placed yet, so he could still cut a path through it, as long as he was careful.

“Soldier, where are you going?” a Guard lieutenant asked as he climbed down the hill.

“Movement at the house across the creek,” Guerra said.

“Don’t waste your time. They’re Amish. Get back to work!”

Guerra ignored the man as he cleared the tanglefoot and hurried to the creek’s edge. “Where did you see movement?” he asked Reader.

“Second-story window. Someone looked out. They were trying to be subtle about it, but I saw a face. I think it might be a kid.”

“Alive?”

Reader shrugged. “Well, the reekers don’t exactly get any prizes for being crafty, Sergeant G.”

A man suddenly popped up above the fence. He wore a black hat and had a long gray beard that actually flapped a bit in the tepid breeze. Unless he was twelve feet tall, he must have been standing on a ladder or something, because his entire upper body was exposed to mid-sternum. Stilley started to raise his rifle but checked himself before Guerra could say anything.
All we need is for the retard to start a firefight with the Amish
.

The bearded man stared at them with eyes shaded by a particularly thick brow then glanced over at the activity occurring up at the bridge. “What are you doing?” he yelled. His English was clear and unaccented.

“Sure he’s Amish?” Reader asked Guerra. “I thought they talked like people from North Dakota or something.”

“We’re building a barricade to hold back the dead,” Guerra shouted back, ignoring Reader’s comment. “Hey, you mind if we come over?”