Thunder and Ashes Page 15

  “Come on!” Thomas said, grabbing Brewster by the collar and hoisting him to his feet. “We’re out of here! Krueger!”

  “Sergeant!” Krueger replied from the catwalk above, still firing.

  “Get down and bug out! Move back to the rendezvous—the hill where we did the scouting! Protect the women if they’re still there! Brewster, that goes for you, too.”

  “Happy to oblige, Sarge,” Brewster said, following Krueger out the rear entrance. The pair were sending rounds down the hostile corridor all the way. Thomas retreated to where he’d left Marie. The woman was kneeling, and her pistol was slightly smoking.

  “One tried to come down,” she explained. “I fired at him. I don’t think I hit him, but I—”

  “No time to talk,” Thomas growled. “See that open door across the way?”

  Thomas pointed at the kicked-in door where the trio had originally breached the facility.

  “Yes.”

  “Get out through there. Straight across from it is a hole in the fence. Go through it and meet up with the other women and my soldiers. You’ll see them.”

  “But what about—” Marie started, pointing toward the gasoline trail, but Thomas cut her off.

  “Leave it to me,” Thomas said. “Now go! Go!”

  Marie turned and bolted for the exit. Thomas watched her until she made it through the door, then turned back to the gas can. He dropped the AK-47, picked up the can, and began to backpedal towards the exit, spilling what remained of the fuel behind himself. Bullets whizzed around him from the tear-gas filled corridor, and the sounds of retching and coughing reached his ears. If it hadn’t been for the CS tear gas he’d probably already have been dead.

  The gasoline ran out about halfway through the warehouse, and Thomas threw the can aside, kneeling next to the pool of fluid.

  Kidnap women, murder travelers, steal from them—that’s not a very nice occupation, Thomas thought. You people don’t deserve a place like this.

  Thomas reached into his pocket, pulled free a tarnished old Zippo lighter, sparked it, and held it near the pool of gasoline.

  Almost immediately the fuel caught, sending a blast of hot air washing over Thomas’ face. The fire took off, following the trail left along the floor, and Thomas did likewise—only in the opposite direction. He ran straight through the warehouse, was vaguely aware of something that felt like a tug at his arm, and dove through the kicked-in door. He came up in a roll and headed for the cut fence.

  Inside the facility, the trail of fire reached the stairwell. It hesitated a moment, then jumped down the first stair, fumes catching the fuel. It jumped from step to step until it reached the bottom, and raced away once more toward the generator room.

  Outside, Thomas wriggled his way through the cut fence, aware that the entire facility had now been alerted to their presence. Searchlights sought him out. He pulled himself free and began the long sprint toward the hilltop where he hoped the rescued women and his soldiers were waiting for him. He made it ten meters before a spotlight landed directly on him.

  Shouts filled the night and were followed up immediately by the sound of rapid gunfire. Chunks of grass and dirt kicked up all around Thomas as he ran, hunched over, toward his goal.

  Inside the complex, the trail of fire met the wool fuse, caught, and slowly began to climb toward the top of the barrel.

  Outside, Thomas continued his run, knowing that sooner or later one of the dozens of rounds that were seeking him would find him, and that would end him. Ahead of him came the crack of a rifle, and the spotlight that was framing Thomas went out. That would have to have been Krueger and the night-vision scope the Sheriff had loaned him. Bullets still poured around the old sergeant, and within a moment, a second searchlight had snapped on and had framed him in a circle of illumination.

  Inside, the flame reached the top of the barrel, flickered for a moment, and then caught a fume leaking out of the top of the drum. The dozens of other drums nearby sat silently, waiting with patience for just that moment.

  The entire basement of the complex went up in a white blast of heat and light. The facility seemed to shudder, and roiling explosions of black smoke and red fire burst forth from the center of the complex, rising high into the night sky. The searchlights snapped off all at once, as did the interior lighting and security lamps outside.

  The fire from the raiders halted almost immediately as they cast about in confusion for what had caused the sudden catastrophe. An entire section of their compound had been reduced to flaming debris in an instant. One or two of them shouted about warplanes and another said something about terrorists.

  In the meantime, Thomas made it to the hilltop. He was gratified to see that not only had both Krueger and Brewster survived their escape, but so had Marie and most of the other women.

  “Most?” Thomas asked Marie when she had told him not all of her friends were present.

  “Some were taken again before they got out of the facility,” Marie said, her voice stone cold. “But most of us made it. That’s something.”

  “And no carriers to speak of,” Krueger threw in, scanning the horizon through his night-vision scope. “Two approached the gates, but they haven’t noticed us.”

  Thomas nodded, hands on his hips. He turned to survey the distribution facility. Black smoke, visible even in the night, rose up in a solid plume. He judged his handiwork acceptable.

  “Damn fine job keeping the back door open, soldiers,” Thomas said, glancing over his shoulder at Krueger and Thomas.

  “Thanks, Thomas,” Krueger said, then narrowed his eyes. “Sergeant, your arm. You’re bleeding.”

  Thomas looked down at his right arm to find that he’d been hit in the crossfire. Dark red blood coated the sleeve of his shirt, and as he became conscious of the wound and the adrenaline of the firefight wore down, he began to feel pain. He pushed the sensation to the back of his mind and forced himself to shrug.

  “It’s not bad,” he said. “Not bleeding too much. I’ll get it fixed up later.”

  “Uh, Sarge?” Brewster asked, raising a hand. “Two questions now that we’re out of here.”

  Thomas only grunted by way of reply.

  “Firstly, what about these women? We didn’t come out here with a vehicle because we thought the raiders would hear it. We walking them all the way back?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Secondly, Sarge, I know this was a slapdash plan and all, and I can appreciate that, given the circumstances—but what about Sherman? Shouldn’t we check and make sure he can make it back?”

  Aw, shit, Thomas thought. And this was Sherman’s plan to begin with. Leave it to him to forget himself in all his planning.

  “Damn it,” Thomas said out loud. “All right, new plan. Marie, you can handle yourself. Do you know the town of Abraham?”

  The woman walked over to Thomas and nodded. “I’ve only ever visited, never lived there.”

  “Any of you other women know Abraham?”

  Three of the remaining women raised their hands.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Thomas said. “Those of you who know it, lead the way. Get all of yourselves there in one piece. When you get to the main gates, tell ‘em Thomas sent you and that you’re from the raider’s base. Got it? They’ll take care of you.”

  The women nodded slowly, looking back and forth at one another.

  “Krueger, Brewster, on me,” Thomas said. “We’re going to go get the general.”

  Over a quarter of a mile away, Francis Sherman felt as if his time was running out. The flares hadn’t brought any of the raiders running, but they had certainly attracted the infected. He’d been worried about as much and was glad he’d taken the time to climb up into the tall pine in which he sat. So far, his theory about the infected not being able to climb was holding out.

  The problem was they had no compunctions about using the bodies of their own comrades as a kind of macabre ladder.

  The first few had shown up
just a brace of minutes after he’d fired the first of the flares. They were sprinters, looking every which way as they tore through the forest trying to locate their prey. When Sherman had fired another flare, they had zeroed in on him and within moments were scratching and pawing at the trunk of the tree he was in, growling up at him with a look of unabashed hatred in their bloodshot eyes.

  Sherman had fired one more flare, then drew his pistol and dispatched the infected. The shots had been easy: the infected were directly below him. The bullets had entered the top of the infected skulls, exited through the bottom, and sent the carriers slumping to the ground against the tree trunk, silenced forever.

  Then more had begun to show up.

  They came as singles, or in small groups of two or three, always seeming to prefer to stick together when possible. Most were sprinters. The shamblers just couldn’t cover the distance from wherever they had been lurking to the source of the flares as fast as their living cousins. When Sherman had exhausted his supply of flares, there were nearly twenty of them gathered around the base of the tree. Sherman had killed as many as he could with his first magazine, then stopped to reload and consider his situation.

  The infected he’d killed were trod upon by their brethren as if they were nothing more than cobblestones. Each body added a few inches of height to the pile, and by the time he’d racked a round into the chamber of his weapon for a second go, the infected could reach the lowest ring of branches.

  One grabbed hold of a branch and nearly managed to pull itself up, making Sherman hold his breath for a moment. If they figured out how to climb, he was royally screwed. Luckily for him, the sprinter lost its balance and tumbled off the other side of the branch, crashing to the ground below. He breathed a mental sigh of relief.

  The sprinters were growling and jostling one another, and every now and then they would let up a wailing, bone-chilling howl, all staring at Sherman with those piercing, bloody eyes.

  Sherman had grown very familiar with that howl over the past several months. Every time he’d heard it, another group of infected hadn’t been far behind. The survivors referred to it simply as “The Growl.” It was an alarm, a beacon, a signal for every infected in the area that here was prey—come and get it. Sherman cursed himself for not taking more time to properly plan the assault—even if the men attacking the raiders’ base got out without a hitch, he was stuck in a tree and surrounded by infected.

  One of the infected took a running start and launched itself up the tree trunk toward Sherman. The infected’s hand came close enough to brush the general’s boot. Sherman felt a look of disgust cross his face as he fired, sending the sprinter tumbling back down the tree to land in a jumble on top of the pile at the base.

  Sherman checked his supply situation and found it grim. He had two full magazines and four rounds left in his current one. That wasn’t a lot. He had no armor of any kind and no way out of the tree.

  He had just begun to work through possible plans to get himself out of the tight situation when gunfire erupted from across the darkened forest meadow. Below him, the sprinters jerked and spasmed as rounds passed through them, spattering blood on the tree trunk and remaining carriers. After the thunder of the first barrage faded, leaving a slight ringing in Sherman’s ears, only five of the sprinters remained on their feet. All five had shifted their attention from Sherman to whomever it was doing the firing.

  They looked out into the darkness, growled deep in their throats, let fly with the loudest roar Sherman had heard so far that night, and charged across the meadow.

  They made it less than halfway before being cut down.

  In the ensuing silence, Sherman sat in his crook in the tree, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He kept silent. His rescuers might be raiders, after all, and he still didn’t feel right giving up his position until he heard a familiar voice.

  “General! The way is clear!”

  It was Thomas.

  “Thomas! Holy hell, am I glad to hear you!” Sherman shouted back. He holstered his pistol and swiftly descended the tree, carefully avoiding any smears of infected blood he came across. He dropped to the pine-needle coated ground and ran toward the source of Thomas’ voice. He came upon Brewster, Krueger, and Thomas, all looking on edge and scanning the darkness with their weapons for further threats.

  “Good to see you three,” Sherman said, breathing heavily after the run. He glanced over the group, taking in their state. “Thomas, you’ve got red on you.”

  Thomas held up his wounded arm, shrugged, and went back to scanning the darkness.

  “How did the mission go?” Sherman asked.

  “With all due respect, sir, I think we should save that for when we’re safe back in town,” Thomas said.

  As if to enunciate his point, the thrashing sound of vegetation being trampled reached the group’s ears, and a moment later Krueger fired a shot into the darkness. A heavy thud followed a moment later, signaling a hit.

  “They’ll be coming from all angles,” Brewster said, sounding anxious. “We should move. We should move now. They’ll be coming!”

  “Keep it calm, private,” Thomas said. “All right, doubletime, back to Abraham—can’t be more than a few miles. We can make it.”

  The group moved off at a dogtrot. Krueger brought up the rear, constantly scanning the darkness with his night-vision scope for any hostiles. Occasionally he would halt, kneel, fire, and then run to catch back up with the group.

  It was nearly pitch-black in the forest, and though the group knew which way to go, it was hard to make out their surroundings.

  Sound became their worst enemy, moreso than any of the infected. Sprinters and shamblers from all parts had responded to the rattle of gunfire and the brightness of the flares, and many, especially the shamblers, were wandering aimlessly through the underbrush, looking for their prey. Sounds of snapping twigs, thrashing shrubs, and the rustle of leaves left all four feeling frazzled and nervous before they’d gone half a mile.

  A crashing noise off to their left drew Brewster’s attention, and he swung his weapon—a purloined carbine he’d picked up from one of the dead raiders—and fired three shots in rapid succession. His timing had been perfect.

  Out of the darkness loomed a sprinter, jaws wide and arms outstretched, no more than ten feet from the group. At least one of Brewster’s rounds struck home. Blood blossomed out of the infected’s back and it fell, skidding to a halt nearly at Brewster’s feet. The soldier stepped back from the body, put a second round through the infected’s skull, and spat on the remains.

  “Missed me, fucker,” Brewster taunted.

  Behind him, Krueger knelt and fired again. “I hate to rush things, but we’re getting more and more company on our tails.”

  “All right, keep a move on! Let’s go!” Sherman said, waving on the small group. They continued in more or less the same fashion, moving as fast as they dared while still trying to keep an eye on all four angles of approach. Three more times a carrier loomed up out of the night to attack, only to be gunned down before it could reach them.

  The group reached the bottom of a small hill that Sherman remembered.

  “This is it,” he said, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He was in great shape for a man of his age, but a multi-mile run in the dark, with full gear and while under attack was enough to exhaust anyone. “I remember this hill.”

  “Tell me the town’s on the other side,” Brewster gasped, leaning on the butt of his carbine.

  “Not quite,” Sherman huffed, “but it opens up into a field—then we get to the town.”

  “Better than . . . all these trees,” Krueger said, also out of breath. “Can’t see . . . the fuckers coming.”

  A loud snapping drew their attention, and Krueger brought up his rifle again, scanning the undergrowth. After a moment, he lowered the weapon. “Nothing. Let’s keep moving.”

  The four began to climb the hill, which was rocky and supported dozens of thick vines th
at curled up and around the trash trees that had managed to take root there. About halfway up, Krueger snagged his foot on the root of a vine and sprawled flat on his face with an oomph of pain. His rifle clattered to the rocks.

  “Come on, pal, come on,” Brewster said, turning to help Krueger up. He froze, staring down the hill.

  At the bottom of the rise were three shamblers. They’d come out of the brush at an angle Krueger hadn’t scrutinized, and were now working their way up the hill toward them, foot by foot. One of the shamblers leaned its head back and moaned, a loud, mournful tone. In the distance, they could hear the howls of sprinters responding to the call. They would have even more company soon. Brewster redoubled his efforts to get Krueger up.

  “Come on!” Brewster shouted. “We’re out of time!”

  “My fucking foot is stuck!” Krueger said, pulling at his leg. His foot had lodged in the roots of the vine and become mired. “Help!”

  Thomas and Sherman had nearly reached the top of the hill when they heard Brewster and Krueger’s exchange. They stopped, turned, and made their way back down to where the soldier lay stuck.

  Sherman opened fire on the shamblers. His first shot struck one in the side of the chest. The creature recoiled, but remained on its feet. Slowly, it righted itself, staring at Sherman with its decaying mouth pulled back in a rictus of a grin, almost taunting him.

  Sherman’s second shot took the thing right between the eyes.

  The first of the sprinters caught up with the group, bursting through the foliage at the base of the hill and snarling. Its head looked up, saw the four on the hillside, and it widened its eyes. It growled, showing teeth, and began to charge up the hill. Thomas dropped Krueger’s arm and grabbed for his pistol. He managed to pull it and fire as the thing approached, dropping it with a pair of shots to the chest. It would be up again as a shambler, but not before the survivors made it out of there.

  “Come on, pull it out!” Brewster said, grabbing at Krueger’s foot.