These Dead Lands: Immolation (56 page)

The firing range
was deserted when Bill Everson parked the van in the lot. Diana watched as the man looked around then unlocked the door and stepped out. Before his work boots met the pavement, he had an M4 in his hands. Diana thought he handled the weapon with as much authority as Hastings and his soldiers handled theirs. Even though Everson was an old guy, she could see he had been well trained.

“Okay, let’s all step outside,” he said. “Everyone bring their kit with them. We’ll get set up at one of the tables over there. Follow me, if you would.”

Once everyone had climbed out of the vehicle, he led them to one of two long wooden tables set on the patchy grass. Diana lugged a tactical harness that was too big for her and an M4 rifle. The weapon was surprisingly light, and she found she could carry it easily enough. She had to reminder herself that it was an actual instrument of death and not some kid’s toy. After few seconds, she slowed and looked around for Kenny, but he was nowhere to be found. She laughed at herself. Of course—he was back in the barracks, being looked after by Kay and her boys.
Wow, I’m becoming all motherly and shit.

“Everyone lay your weapons on the table on their right sides, left sides up, barrels pointing toward the range.” Everson’s voice was loud and booming, even though the range was almost as silent as a tomb. Diana had become used to that quality of speech—it was how Ballantine and Guerra talked to the rest of the soldiers. There was no pompous attitude in Everson’s tone. He was merely using the voice of command, another habit he’d apparently picked up during his time in the Marine Corps.

She watched the older man closely as she followed his instructions. Back in the barracks, he had been almost soft-spoken, even outright congenial. He treated Kenny and Ballantine’s boys kindly, which was a bit surprising given his rather aggressive appearance. He looked more like an older Hell’s Angel, a man who had spent years on the back of a Harley Road King, than a former Marine. But despite that, the old Marine was apparently back in the swing of things.

Everson corrected some folks who put their weapons on the wrong side or didn’t point them toward the field. Once everything was arranged the way he wanted it, he moved on the other side of the table and faced them. He held out his own M4. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the M4 carbine. Today, we’re going to spend some time getting to know it, and then, we’re going to spend some more time actually using it in a live-fire setting. Now, some of you have weapons of your own, and that’s fine. As far as I know, you’re going to keep them. But we all have to train up to a set standard, and for that training, this is the weapon we’ll use.” He looked at Diana. “I see you have a smaller version of this back at the barracks. You already know your way around the weapon?”

Diana shook her head. “Not really. We found it on the road. I mean, I know how to shoot it, but that’s about it.”

“Okay. Anyone else here have prior experience with the M4 or M16 series of weapons?” When no one responded, Everson nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”

The Marine went through some essential safety procedures—treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, never point a firearm at anything you are not willing to destroy, always be sure of your target and what is beyond it, keep your finger off the trigger until you are on target and ready to fire—how to inspect a weapon, and how to clear it. He moved on to explain the sights and how they functioned then demonstrated how they needed to be lined up on a target. He instructed them on how to load a magazine with ammunition, how to insert the loaded magazine into the magazine well, and how to charge the weapon by pulling back on the charging handle. He then pointed out and explained the rifle’s three settings—safe, semiautomatic, and full automatic. A final topic of discussion was what to do in the event of a firing failure, and Everson familiarized them with the acronym SPORTS—Slap, Pull, Observe, Release, Tap, and Shoot. He spoke with an easy familiarity and stopped occasionally to ensure everyone was keeping up with him.

When it came time to fire the weapons, he handed out foam rubber earplugs and explained how to twist one end and wind the plugs into their ears. Diana found she could still hear quite well while wearing the earplugs, and she wondered aloud if they would actually do anything.

“They’ll take the bite out of the noise so you won’t lose your hearing,” Everson said. “Obviously, if firing in an enclosed space, you’d want better protection. But for the great outdoors, they’ll be fine.”

Small sandbagged areas had been set up in the field, and Everson instructed each shooter to kneel behind the bags, so they could get used to not only shooting but seeking cover at the same time. While the chances of a zombie shooting at them would be nonexistent, the former Marine explained it still made sense to attempt to obtain as much security as possible while fighting. Everson instructed them to ensure their weapons had a fully loaded magazine inserted then to pull back on the charging handle. After that, they were to ensure their selector switches were rotated to the SAFE position. Everson explained that the M4’s firing selector couldn’t be moved to the SAFE position until the weapon was charged and ready to fire, and he emphasized that everyone needed to keep their rifles indexed.

Diana showed her weapon to Everson as he walked down the line, checking everyone’s work. A hundred yards or so out from each position stood white targets that bore human-sized silhouettes. Diana pulled the rifle’s stock into her shoulder and kept the weapon indexed and the barrel pointed toward the ground.

Everson returned to the end of the firing line. “In order to stop a zombie from closing to kill, you have to hit it in the head, specifically, above the bridge of the nose.” He indicated the position on his own face. “You have to cause traumatic injury to the brain. Hitting a man in the chest or abdomen, or even an extremity, in some cases, is very likely going to stop an attack. Hitting a zombie anywhere but the brain pan isn’t going to do a damn thing. It will just ignore the injury and keep on coming. So I want you to put your sights on the head of each target out there. Just raise the rifle barrel and look at the target through your sights. Weapons remain on safe and remain indexed. All right, sight your targets and hold.”

As they raised their rifles, Everson stepped behind them. He walked down the line and inspected each student’s stance and grip on their weapons. After making some adjustments—Walker, bully though he was, seemed to have no clue how to handle a rifle, which made Diana smile—Everson stopped at the far end of the line.

“Okay, with your thumb, rotate the firing selector switch to the semiautomatic setting,” he said. “Remember, you’ll hear and feel the switch move into a slight detent and stop.”

Diana did as instructed and heard a small
click
as the safety switch snapped into place beneath her thumb.

“Aim for the head, folks. If you think you have a good sight picture, start firing.”

Diana pulled the M4’s trigger, and the weapon barked once. The recoil was light and more than manageable, even though she was the smallest person on the field. A hole appeared in the white space right above her target silhouette’s head. She adjusted her aim and fired again. Another hole appeared in the target, well within the black, right in the center of the forehead.
Beauty shot!

She lined up for another shot. Fired. Hit. Again. Again. Again. Each round landed more or less where she wanted it to go, right in the silhouette’s head. She picked up the pace and fired more rapidly. Her accuracy began to diminish from the light but insistent recoil that forced her aim off. A few millimeters of drift by the barrel translated to inches at the target, and she worked to correct for it, trying to find the rhythm between firing and aiming. Before she knew it, she had fired all thirty rounds in her weapon’s magazine.

“Reload if you need to!” Everson shouted over the din of firing.

Diana looked up and saw that he wasn’t turned in her direction but watching a man farther down the line. The man hit the magazine release on his weapon, and the empty dropped out of the rifle. Diana hit the release on hers and pulled the mag out when it failed to eject. She dropped it, pulled a fresh magazine from her vest, and slapped it into the mag well. When she hit the bolt release on the left side of the rifle’s receiver, she was rewarded with a slight
snick
as the bolt snapped forward. She brought the weapon up to her shoulder.

The first shot from her second magazine hit the silhouette right between the eyes.

*

Hastings worked with
the rest of the troops until nightfall, when two more companies arrived from the Gap to relieve them. He could tell that Vogler and his men were more than happy to return to the post for a meal and some rest. It had been a long day for them, almost sixteen hours straight.

But Hastings felt a stir of unease. Leaving the position meant that others would have to take on the mission of oversight. He had been tasked to transition the mission to Gilstrap, another captain from the 101st. Hastings knew nothing about the bald, portly man with the sparse mustache, but it wasn’t a job interview. He briefed the newcomer and his senior staff on what additional preparations had to be made, going over everything in as much detail as he could. While Hastings briefed in the new arrivals, Vogler kind of hung in the background, sighing and clearing his throat and, on more than one occasion, yawning. The officer’s new primary mission seemed to be getting back to the Gap for a hot and a cot. Hastings found visions of himself punching Vogler’s lights out dancing through his mind, but he quelled the impulse.

Ballantine was eager to get back as well, which Hastings understood. The NCO had family waiting, and having them out of arm’s reach was taxing. But Ballantine hung in there until Hastings was finished with the knowledge transfer, even after Hastings gave him the opportunity to be cut loose.

“I’m good here, sir,” Ballantine had said. Hastings understood why. Ballantine knew what the stakes were, and he knew what was headed their way. Leaving the site without making sure the newcomers knew exactly what to do and how to do it wasn’t going to help anyone.

Captain Gilstrap caught on and repeated his tasks to Hastings. He had captured everything completely, and Hastings slapped him on the shoulder tiredly.

“Okay, you got it. Your guys are up, Gilstrap. Catch you in the a.m.”

“Roger that, Hastings. Have a good one.”

Hastings and Ballantine caught a ride in the back of a five-ton headed to the Gap. They rode in silence, listening to the muted conversations around them that could barely be heard above the truck’s diesel engine and whirring tires. Hastings’s eyes burned furiously, and he wiped at them constantly.

The exhaustion’s killing me,
he thought, though that was probably a lie. It was the grief that was doing him in, keeping him up at night, blurring night and day so that he could barely tell them apart. All he wanted to do was sleep, and if not that, then to work. He had offered to come up with an OPLAN for abandoning Fort Indiantown Gap, but Victor had declined. It seemed that Victor had finally awakened from his stupor, and he was dedicated to rejuvenating his staff and getting them back into the fight. A little late, Hastings thought, but better late than never.

The Gap was as active as an angry hornet’s nest when the column of trucks and Humvees arrived at its main gate. CONEXes were being positioned atop tall earthen berms. The soil had come from several entrenching operations, as earth movers gouged great chunks of earth from the ground in a bid to surround the post with a series of trenches that would slow the reeker advance. Reekers, drawn by the sounds and the lights, were gunned down in the distance or, if they managed to close, were taken down by one of the hulking excavator mulchers that had been put on station at the main gate. Hastings shook his head. The mulcher was just too much. Who knew that a piece of excavation equipment could be so useful against the dead?

The barracks building was fully occupied by the time he and Ballantine trudged inside. The big NCO made a beeline for his family. Hastings nodded to Tharinger and Hartman then headed toward Everson.

The long-haired former Marine rose to his feet, hitching up his jeans. “Captain.”

“Mister Everson. How did things go today?” Hastings asked.

“Very well, sir. No slackers, that’s for sure. Some folks still have to find their way around the M4, but everyone caught the basics pretty quickly. Live firing was mostly a success.”

Hastings frowned. “Define ‘mostly,’ if you would.”

“Some folks were regular dead eyes. Others couldn’t hit the side of the Empire State Building. I still need to do some dialing in. And we have to go over maintenance again. Some people are all thumbs when it comes to breaking down a rifle and handling the parts, like the bolt carrier group.” Everson shrugged. “Overall, everyone demonstrated more or less borderline proficiency. They’ll get better over the next couple of days. I’m sure of it.”

“They might not have the next couple of days,” Hastings said. “We’re expecting first contact tomorrow afternoon.”