Thunder and Ashes Page 12

  “We don’t run tabs here, guy,” Eileen said, tilting her head at Brewster. “What’ve you got?”

  “What’ve I got?” Brewster asked, laughing. Suddenly a puzzled look crossed his face and he looked side to side at his companions, serious in tone. “What’ve I got?”

  “Check your pockets,” Denton said. “No, wait, actually, I’ve got the next round. Swiss Army knife.”

  Denton pulled the blade from his pocket and dropped it on the bar. Eileen inspected it, decided it was good enough for another round of brews, scooped it up and went to fetch the beer.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Brewster said. “Maybe we’ll get stuck here for a couple of weeks and—”

  The door to the bar swung open and in strode General Sherman, a very official expression on his face. Brewster, Denton, and Krueger looked over at him. The two soldiers groaned at the sight, well-used to the look of an officer who needed ‘volunteers’ for something.

  “There you are!” Sherman said, striding over to the bar. “We’ve got a small problem. Krueger, Brewster, I need both of you.”

  “I knew it,” Brewster lamented. “I knew this was too good to last.”

  Krueger sighed but nodded. “All right, sir. What can we do?”

  “Well, to start with you can come with me. Let’s take a little walk.”

  Krueger hopped off of his stool and lent a hand to Brewster, who was moving rather unsteadily on his feet. Sherman led the pair of soldiers out of the pub and into the darkening streets. A moment later, Eileen returned with three full beer mugs to find that two of her customers had flown the coop and only Denton remained. She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  Denton caught the look.

  “Leave ’em,” he said, gesturing at all three glasses. “No point in letting good beer go to waste, eh? God, my head is going to hate me in the morning.”

  1735 hrs_

  Brewster had a canteen upended in front of his face, rivulets of water running down his chin as he tried his best to chug the contents as fast as possible.

  “Come on, come on, get hydrated, already,” Thomas growled, standing in front of Brewster at parade rest, staring down the private. “Drunk on duty. Typical.”

  “Duty?” Brewster coughed up a bit of the water as he finished off the canteen. “I haven’t been on duty since Suez, sarge. Come on. Forgive me if I wanted to loosen up a little bit.”

  “Well, you loosened up, all right—now it’s time to tighten back up. We’re going to need you at one hundred percent for tonight,” Thomas said.

  “About that, Sergeant,” Krueger spoke up, sitting next to Brewster on the back of the black pickup they’d taken from the raiders. “What’s the score?”

  “Once the general gets back from the sheriff’s office he’ll explain,” Thomas said, looking off in the direction Sherman had taken.

  “Have anything to do with us getting the truck fixed?” Krueger asked.

  “Might,” Thomas answered tersely, then glanced back at Brewster. “Come on, Brewster, drink up.”

  “Aw, Thomas, I just finished an entire canteen. If I drink another I’ll puke,” Brewster protested.

  “Yup,” Thomas nodded. “Now get to it.”

  Brewster grumbled, unscrewed the top to another canteen and took a tentative sip. He grimaced. “There has got to be a better way to sober up than this. Maybe some coffee, or a Bloody Mary.”

  “Nothing beats hydration,” Thomas said. “Good old water. Mmm-mm.”

  “You know,” Krueger said, nudging Brewster with his elbow, “he’s right. You get hangovers because alcohol actually dehydrates your body, right? So water’s the best cure, really.”

  “That’s right, private,” Thomas said, nodding at Krueger. “Ah, here comes the general.”

  Sherman and Sheriff Wallace came walking toward the truck, each bearing a black tote bag over their shoulders.

  “How’d it go, sir?” Thomas asked.

  “Well,” Sherman replied, nodding in Keaton’s direction. “The sheriff was kind enough to return some of our hardware to get the job done, and even threw in a few extras just in case we need them.”

  “What kind of extras?”

  The sheriff set his tote bag on the tailgate of the truck and unzipped it, revealing a small cache of weapons. “Mostly small arms. I noticed you all were using different calibers and makes, and I figured a little standardization wouldn’t hurt, so I pulled a few pistols from our armory. They’re nine-millimeters. We’re too small of a town to have a S.W.A.T. team so I’m afraid I couldn’t get you anything with more punch, but we’ve got a couple of surprises up our sleeves.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Brewster interrupted, still sipping on his canteen and rubbing his temples. “I still don’t even know what we got yanked out of the pub for. Anyone mind filling me in?”

  “Sherman?” Keaton asked, yielding the floor to the General.

  “Well, boys, as you know, the little firefight we had earlier today damaged our utility truck. We could tow it the rest of the way to Omaha if we had to, but that would put us in a bit of a pickle, having only two reliable vehicles instead of three—not to mention the extra strain it would put on the working truck, having to tow all that weight behind it.”

  “Following so far, sir,” Krueger said.

  “Well, we got lucky when we came across this town, and the people have been more than helpful—all except for one. That one happens to be the only qualified mechanic,” Sherman went on.

  “Sounds like our luck,” Brewster commented.

  “He wants us to do him a favor before he’ll do one for us,” Sherman said. “And that’s where these weapons come in.”

  “What’re we, mercenaries now?” Krueger asked. “Who does he want us to kill?”

  “Remember those raiders we ran into?”

  Brewster held up his bandaged hand and pointed to the cut on his face by way of reply. “Sure do, General.”

  “That’s who he wants us to kill.”

  “Whoa, hey, now,” Krueger said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m counting five of us here. More raiders than that bugged out of our little encounter earlier today, and I’m betting there’s three times as many wherever they’re holed up. Are we going to go basically commit suicide just to get a truck fixed? I vote we just tow the sucker.”

  A loud report echoed across the street and the four gathered soldiers instinctively ducked their heads down just a little. Only Keaton remained at ease.

  “Relax,” he told them. “That’s just one of our border patrols taking out a carrier that wandered a bit too close. Happens a few times a day.”

  “And that’s another thing,” Brewster chimed in, “What about the infected?”

  “That could be a problem,” Sherman admitted. “We’ll be doing this at night, when they’re more active, so we’ll have to keep our eyes open. Now, how about the rest of those surprises you were mentioning, Sheriff?”

  “Right,” Keaton said, digging through his tote. “The raiders are holed up in a distribution center. It has a fence and guard posts running around it, just like we have here in Abraham. It’s about ten miles away, but getting in could be a problem. I thought maybe these would be handy.”

  Keaton produced a pair of wire cutters from the bag.

  “You can cut your way through the fence with these. Since you’ll be facing superior numbers, I thought you might also find these to be useful. We got hold of a few after 9/11. You have pork-barrel funding to thank for ‘em.”

  Keaton dug out a few gas masks, followed by a pair of cylindrical canisters marked with blue paint. Krueger’s eyes widened a bit.

  “Tear gas,” he said, picking up one of the canisters and studying it. “Could come in handy.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Keaton said. “If you’re discovered, put on the masks and toss the grenades. It might give you enough cover to get back out without being shot.”

  “Which is always a good thing,” Brewster quip
ped. “Sarge, can I stop drinking this water now?”

  “Just as soon as you stop the goddamn slurring,” Thomas growled.

  “One other thing,” Sherman said, and the other three soldiers turned to face him. “The mechanic said his daughter was taken by the raiders earlier on in the pandemic. We’re not sure if she’s alive or not, or what condition we might find her in, but if we do, our objective is to rescue her.”

  “I’m confused,” Krueger said. “Are we killing raiders or rescuing damsels in distress?”

  “Either-or,” Sherman said. “If we can’t find her, we drop however many raiders we can and get out. If we do find her, we shift from a hunt-and-kill to a rescue mission. Hoo-ah?”

  “Hoo-ah,” Krueger echoed.

  Brewster raised his canteen in a salute, then took another tentative gulp. Thomas simply nodded and fell back into parade rest.

  “We leave in half an hour,” Sherman said. “Get geared up.”

  1801 hrs_

  Rebecca had broken off from the rest of the group to wander the town on her own. It was a marvel to her that the place had escaped the total destruction they’d seen in countless other towns and cities on their way toward Omaha. They had passed within a hundred miles of Denver, but it had been close enough to see the smoke hanging in a pall over the mountaintops, and they guessed the city had been leveled.

  “Probably firebombs,” Sherman had figured. “Burn out the infection. Burn the city to the ground in the process, too, but if that’s the price that has to be paid to get rid of the infected, I suppose it’s worth it.”

  Now, here in Abraham, Kansas, Rebecca felt as far removed from the destruction as she ever had. The place was still full of life. She wandered into a small, half-acre park near the town’s center and sank onto a bench, crossing her legs and leaning back with a sigh. Across the street, townsfolk were still busy hoeing troughs in the dirt for a crop of vegetables. They were all dressed in simple clothes, wearing simple shoes and speaking of simple things. It was quite a change from the way they would have been behaving months earlier, before the pandemic.

  Rebecca closed her eyes and imagined the town before the plague. In her mind’s eye, the freshly plowed field filled in and grew over with grass and wildflowers. Streetlights lit up the evening. Cars tooled up and down the main street, honking at acquaintences on the sidewalk. Mothers and children filtered in an out of the storefronts, bringing with them bags for their purchases and all looking forward to a nice, home-cooked dinner.

  She snapped her eyes open and looked out at reality. The streetlights were dark, the field was once more dug up and prepared for planting, and no cars rolled down the streets, no horns broke the quiet and stillness. The only sounds were those of distant conversation among the gardeners, cursing about weeds and stones.

  Behind her, a pair of children played on a set of see-saws, looking vaguely bored. She could empathize. These were the children of the videogame generation, the television toddlers. Deprived of their usual entertainment, they were still adapting to their new way of life.

  “Hello,” came a familiar voice from over Rebecca’s shoulder. She turned to see Mbutu grinning down at her, hands in his pockets.

  She smiled back, but didn’t say anything.

  “May I join you?” he asked, gesturing at the bench. Rebecca nodded, and the tall man slid into the seat next to her, surveying the landscape in front of him. “It is truly remarkable what people can accomplish when they work together.”

  “I was just thinking that,” Rebecca said, smiling grimly. “I just wish more towns had survived.”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Mbutu began, “about the past few weeks.”

  “What about them?”

  “You have seemed more and more . . . what is the word? Reserved,” Mbutu said, nodding to himself. “We are becoming worried about you. We think you need to cheer up.”

  “I’m as cheery as I can be, given the circumstances,” she snapped, then caught herself and shook her head. “Sorry. I know what you mean. I’m just having a tough time adapting, I suppose.”

  “How are you sleeping?” Mbutu asked, an innocent expression on his face.

  “Sleeping?” Rebecca repeated. “Fine.”

  “Please,” Mbutu said. “You can confide in me. You’ve been having dreams. We all have. It is a natural response to what we have seen recently.”

  “How did you know?” Rebecca asked, eyeing the man with a furrowed brow.

  “You talk in your sleep,” Mbutu replied with a grin.

  Rebecca flushed. She hadn’t been aware of that. “I do? So everyone knows? What have I been doing, waking everyone up every night? Why didn’t someone say something to me—”

  “Relax,” Mbutu said. “I think I may be the only one who paid any attention. Brewster snores. He is surely waking up more people than you every night we sleep in the same room.”

  Rebecca chuckled despite herself. “Well, at least I’m not the only one who’s putting undue pressure on the group.”

  “The only pressure you’re putting is on yourself,” Mbutu said with a slow nod. “My mother used to tell me that nightmares are our mind’s way of telling us what not to do in life, or how to avoid a bad situation. Other times, nightmares force us to relive moments we are not proud of, so that we may better confront and understand them.”

  Rebecca thought back to the moment on the Ramage when she’d been forced to shoot Decker. It had been necessary, and he had been a carrier of Morningstar, but she’d been carrying the burden of guilt ever since. She had felt a bit like a murderer. Then again, none of her dreams since had featured the dead sergeant or that defining moment.

  Mbutu took her silence as a sign she was considering his words and pressed on.

  “Would you like to tell me about them?” he asked. “Your dreams, I mean. Sometimes, getting another opinion can be a key to sorting out what they mean.”

  “If they mean anything,” Rebecca scoffed. “More likely, they’re just products of an overactive imagination.”

  “Perhaps,” Mbutu said. “Perhaps not.”

  A long moment of silence passed between the pair. Finally, Rebecca couldn’t stand it any longer. She sighed and turned to the man, her lips pressed tightly together and look of embarrasment on her face.

  “All right,” she said. “This is how it goes:

  “Usually the dream starts normally. I’m with the group and everything’s just fine. But then something goes wrong. Everyone dies, everyone except for me and one other person. Whoever it is that doesn’t die changes from dream to dream—last time it was Brewster but it’s also been Sherman and you and Thomas and just about everyone else.

  “Anyway, in the dream I’m looking for a weapon, but I can’t find one. And then I find the other survivor, only they aren’t alive anymore, they’re a shambler and they’re coming for me. I can’t get away, no matter how hard I try, and I can never find anything to fight back with. The dream always ends with me being bitten, and then I wake up.”

  Mbutu leaned back on the bench, sighed, and considered Rebecca’s words. Rebecca sat patiently next to him, waiting to hear his thoughts. When the moment dragged on into minutes, she began to get impatient, and finally spoke up.

  “Well?” she asked. “What’s it mean, Mr. Mystic?”

  “There are several possibilities,” Mbutu said, shrugging. “One way of looking at it is that you fear the loss of your friends. Another way of looking at it is that you fear the possibility of becoming infected with Morningstar. Both of those are dreams that every one of us has had since this began, I assure you.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “I have one other idea,” Mbutu admitted. “You said in your dream you couldn’t find any weapons, and you couldn’t escape. Your mind may be telling you that no matter how badly you want to destroy the infected in your dream, you can’t bear the thought of having to shoot a friend.”

  But I’ve already shot one, Rebecca thought, flashing back to D
ecker once more.

  “You’re right,” she admitted after a moment. “I don’t know if I could. I joined the Red Cross so I could help people. I never thought I’d have to kill them. It wasn’t in me. I don’t like it.”

  “No one truly does,” Mbutu said, clasping her shoulder. “Some of us can accept it, others cannot, but none of us enjoy it. Your dreams are just preparing you for the possibility, so that if the time does come, you will be able to accept it.”

  Rebecca smiled up at him, nodding her head slowly. “I suppose that makes sense. Thanks, Mbutu.”

  “I am glad I could be of assistance,” he said, rising to his feet. “Now, the rest of the group has gone to the pub to join Denton. Would you like to come?”

  Rebecca looked out across the street to where the gardeners were wrapping up their evening chores.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I think I’d like to just sit a while longer.”

  “As you wish,” Mbutu said, turning and heading in the direction of the pub. He waved a hand over his shoulder. “You know where to find us.”

  “Always,” Rebecca murmured, eyes still fixed on the townsfolk across the way.

  Ten miles north of Abraham, Kansas

  March 07, 2007

  2100 hrs_

  BREWSTER, KRUEGER, AND THOMAS crawled on their stomachs to the top of a gently rolling hill overlooking a sprawling distribution complex. The place was simply massive, with multiple storehouses and dozens of bays for tractor-trailers to load and unload their cargo. Apparently, the residents of the complex had a generator set up, because spotlights lit the exterior of the buildings in a warm yellow light. The three soldiers were still a good two hundred yards from the outer perimeter, well out of view of the guards that roamed the fenceline.

  “All right, boys, we’re on recon now,” Thomas said, nodding in the direction of the complex. “Keep an eye on any guards you see and get me a good, solid count. I don’t want any surprises when we go in there.”

  Krueger fished around on his webgear for a small pair of binoculars and held them up to his face.