Текст книги "The Darkest Place"
Автор книги: James N. Cook
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 34 страниц)
“Direct-fire fragmentation round. Nasty shit. Just watch.”
The horde was less than a hundred meters from the Howitzer. The soldier manning the .50 caliber machine gun held up a hand and counted down three, two, one…
BOOM.
The backwash from the blast slapped Hicks in the chest like a giant, invisible hand. A cloud of white smoke obscured the horde, then quickly dissipated. The shot cut a swath through the infected, reducing more than half their number to a maroon-colored mist. Hicks listened to the artillery crew shout back and forth while they reloaded, and then, when the horde recovered and resumed its previous teardrop-shaped approach, the Howitzer thundered again, leaving only a few dozen walkers in its wake.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Vincenzo whispered. “Why didn’t they just do that to begin with?”
Hicks laughed. “Why does the Army do anything?”
“Good point.”
Sergeant Ashman stood up and turned to his men. “All right, fellas.” He raised his sword and pointed it at the few remaining infected. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a bite to eat. Let’s mop up and get the hell out of here.”
Hicks took up his spear and went to work.
THREE
The rest of the day was routine.
First Platoon returned to their barracks and cleaned their weapons. A short time later, the civilian contractors showed up and cooked them breakfast. Then came PT—led by Sergeant Ashman—followed by an equipment inspection carried out by the platoon’s squad leaders. After inspection came the filling out of requisition forms to replace anything worn beyond usefulness.
These events preceded a patrol of the town’s perimeter, which was really just an excuse for Ashman to lead his men on an eight-mile road march in full combat gear. Consequently, when they returned at 1300 hours for lunch, they were ravenous.
The afternoon consisted of cleaning their barracks, digging new latrines, and expending a portion of the company’s training ammunition in the urban combat facility just outside Fort McCray. Then they cleaned their weapons again, marched back to the barracks, and ate their evening meal. At 1800 hours, Lt. Jonas told his men to check the watch bill and keep their ears open for alarm bells, but otherwise, the rest of the day was theirs.
Hicks wasn’t worried about having to stand watch. He had drawn the mid-watch the night before, and he knew Ashman was a sensible sergeant who knew better than to wear his men out with unnecessary sleep deprivation. Still, he checked the bill just to be sure. He wasn’t on it.
As Hicks was stowing his gear and preparing to leave, Holland sat down on the bunk across from him. “Going to see Miranda?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll never understand how you landed her. Half the platoon tried and failed. Even Cole struck out, and that guy is a bona fide pussy magnet.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“Everybody’s in love with her, you know. We all hate you because she picked you over the rest of us. I’ll never understand why. You barely talk, you’re not intelligent or charming, and your face looks like a bowl of smashed assholes. I don’t get it. What does she see in you?”
“Must be my southern charm.”
Holland began unlacing his boots. “You must be hung like a horse. That’s gotta be it. How big is your dick? Eight, ten, eleven inches? It’s the only explanation.”
Hicks found himself laughing. “Tell you what, Derrick. You enjoy spending the rest of the evening pondering the dimensions of my penis. I’m gonna go see my girlfriend.”
“I hate you, Caleb. I’m gonna kill you in your sleep and steal your girlfriend.”
“Stay out of trouble, amigo.”
“Never in life. You coming by Stall’s for drinks tonight?”
“Probably not.”
“Can’t say I blame you. All right, man, have fun.”
“Adios.”
*****
The Hollow Rock General Store was a short walk from the VFW hall, which was one of the many reasons Hicks was grateful his platoon was garrisoned in town and not with the rest of Echo Company at Fort McCray.
The afternoon was warm, the springtime sun still well above the horizon, leaving a few more hours of daylight before nightfall. It was a welcome reprieve from what had been a long, dark winter. As he walked, Hicks thought to himself that given the choice between another winter like the one just passed, and dealing with marauders and infected on a daily basis, he would take the extra combat action any day of the week.
Besides, he liked combat. Being close to death made him feel more alive, although he would never admit it out loud. Especially not to Miranda.
The CLOSED sign hung in the window when he reached the general store. Undeterred, he went around back and knocked three times, paused, knocked twice more, paused again, and knocked three more times. There was a shuffling sound, the clicks of locks disengaging, and the door opened.
And there she was.
If he could have seen through Miranda’s eyes, he would have beheld a subtle shift in his features. A brightening of the eyes, a slight curving of his lips, a gentle gaze that held Miranda’s and said much without saying anything at all. Caleb was not a terribly expressive young man, but Miranda had learned to read him. She stood in the doorway for a moment, hand on outthrust hip, head slightly tilted, smiling sweetly, and let him take her in. She had lived in her own skin long enough to know what men saw when they looked at her, and in most cases, she hated being stared at. But with Caleb, it was different. She liked it when he looked at her. And touched her.
Among other things.
“Mind if I come in, pretty lady?” Hicks asked.
She reached up, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was only when she stood close to him that she realized how tall and broad he was. He had a slouching, lazy, head-lowered manner that made him look slender, narrow, and a little awkward. It was deceptive until you looked at the thickness of his forearms, the breadth of his shoulders, or the understated springiness in the way he moved. He looked thin and light, but in truth, he was six-foot-two, two-hundred-ten pounds, and very good at concealing his physical prowess. And she loved every inch of him. Scars and all.
“How was work?” she asked.
Hicks shrugged. “Dug a latrine. Cleaned my gun. Shot some infected. Captured a few insurgents. Same old, same old.”
Miranda shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“It’s part of my mystique.”
The heel of her palm rebounded gently against his forehead. “Get in here, soldier boy.”
Hicks stepped into the back room of the store and looked around. Several rows of metal shelves dominated the space, bearing inventory stacked to the roof. Sunlight filtered in through a window near the ceiling, highlighting dust motes floating in the air. Hicks reached up and passed his hand through a golden ray, sending the little white flecks swirling. He watched them turn and shift while Miranda shut the door and locked it.
“I just have a few things to finish up. Why don’t you have a seat?” she said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He took a seat on a stool under the window and watched her work. She had tied her light blonde hair back in a loose ponytail, a few errant strands framing her pale, oval face. She wore no makeup. Her clothes were loose, designed for comfort, and durable. Her boots had steel toes.
Hicks couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He remembered the first time, at her invitation, he had gone to visit her at her trailer. She had answered the door with her hair styled in loose curls, slender body clad in a skimpy little red thing, scarlet high heels on her feet, flowery perfume making his head swim. He stopped breathing. His hands shook when Miranda laughed at him and led him inside. He smiled at the memory. No one had made him feel that way since-
No. Don’t go there.
He closed his eyes and willed the memory away, took a few deep breaths, and pictured an empty black void in his mind, deep in the shadows where the demons live, where no light ever shines. The emptiness swelled and stretched and cast aside the pain of loss and regret. In a moment, he was warm, and quiet, and in control again.
A hand touched his face and he jumped.
“Are you all right, Caleb?”
“Yeah, sorry. Think I might have dozed off. You startled me.”
Miranda cupped his chin in her hand and ran a thumb over the mess of scars on his left cheek. “At least you didn’t come up swinging. I heard Thompson does that sometimes.”
Hicks nodded. “That he does. Caught me on the temple one time. Damn near knocked me out.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“You weren’t mad at him?”
He shrugged. “Five second rule. He’s a big guy, strong as hell, seen a lot of combat. I shouldn’t have been standing so close.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s the world we live in.”
The hand fell away. “Come on. Enough sad talk. How about you buy a girl a drink?”
Hicks stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “Sounds good to me.”
`
*****
The good thing about the enlisted club at Fort McCray was they accepted federal credits, the currency by which soldiers were paid.
The bad thing about the enlisted club was it was full of grunts.
They had taken a booth in the back, out of sight of the bar. Nevertheless, people still kept finding excuses to wander close to their table and stare. Hicks was not quick to anger, but the attention was beginning to wear on his nerves. When soldiers wandered too close, he shot them a look that informed them in no uncertain terms they were not welcome. A few weeks ago, it would not have done any good. But now, in the wake of what Miranda had termed The Wilson Incident, Hicks had a reputation among the men of Echo Company.
“We are not going to have another Wilson Incident, Caleb,” Miranda said, as if reading his mind.
He looked down and spun his glass, remembering.
*****
Private Randall Wilson was a giant, standing six-foot-ten and just shy of three hundred solid pounds. Hicks knew his story the same as everyone in Echo Company. He had played inside linebacker for Alabama, and after a stellar, record-setting junior year, was expected to go early in the draft.
Then the Outbreak happened.
He fled the University of Alabama when the National Guard showed up to evacuate the campus. The convoy he traveled with made it all the way to Colorado, only losing a few dozen people along the way. Not long after arriving, with his only job prospects being to hunt salvage or join a federally run farming or construction corps, he opted to join the Army.
By then, Fort Bragg had been secured, and after basic training in Colorado, he and many other newly minted soldiers were flown to Bragg for advanced infantry training. Shortly thereafter, he had been assigned to Second Platoon of Echo Company.
While Hicks’ platoon wintered in Hollow Rock, the rest of Echo Company had traveled to Kansas to assist with revenant extermination efforts. Due to Kansas’ proximity to Colorado, its wealth of good farmland, and the overcrowding in Colorado Springs, the President had proposed a bill to help settlers relocate to the mostly abandoned state and begin growing crops to support the burgeoning population. The idea was met with great support and enthusiasm, but faced a serious problem.
The infected. Over two million of them.
So the President, facing the end of his term in office and concerned with his legacy, did the only thing he could. He called his generals and staff into a meeting, explained what he wanted, and told them to find a way to make it happen. A month later, they had a plan drawn up and were mobilizing troops and assets to carry it out.
At the beginning of the offensive—dubbed Operation Relentless Force—General Phillip Jacobs, head of Army Special Operations Command, wrote a brief, now-famous speech that he sent to all commanding officers at the company level. From there, every platoon CO in the Army read it to their soldiers in an effort to motivate them and mitigate their fears.
“I won’t mince words,” General Jacobs wrote. “You all have a tough job ahead of you. There are roughly 2.8 million infected in the state of Kansas, and only 100,000 brave men and women being sent to kill them. Which, when expressed in those terms, may seem like an insurmountable task. But I assure you, it is not. To prove this assertion, let us do the math. As I pointed out earlier, there are 100,000 troops being deployed. Therefore, in order to exterminate every infected in Kansas, each of you needs to rack up a body count of no more than 28. Put that way, it doesn’t seem quite so difficult, now does it? So before you head out, I want you to check the magazine in your rifle and make sure you have at least 28 rounds in it. You should have several more magazines also loaded with at least 28 rounds on your person. If you don’t, talk to your supply sergeant. Then grab your gear, lace up your boots, and go kick some ass. Your country is counting on you.”
Despite the general’s encouragement, it was a long, brutal winter marked by hardship, hunger, constant danger, and the loss of many comrades. The battles of Wichita and Topeka were especially bloody. But the Army and their accompanying volunteer militias got the job done, and thousands of settlers had applied for land grants.
After leaving the front and arriving at their new forward operating base (FOB) at Fort McCray, Second and Third Platoon had initially treated First Platoon with disdain. Their impression was that while the rest of the company had spent the winter half-frozen, half-starved, and up to their eyeballs in walkers, First Platoon had been fat and happy and snuggled next to a warm fire banging hot civilian chicks. First Platoon was quick to inform them that while they had not fought as many walkers, they had faced more than their share of trouble from insurgents and marauders, and had taken casualties.
Upon hearing the stories, most of the soldiers of Second and Third Platoon eventually accepted that First Platoon had not spent the winter in quite as much luxury as originally thought. And while Second and Third Platoon had killed thousands of walkers, they had run into very little trouble from the living. It only took a few encounters with marauders after the spring thaw for them to realize just how tough life had been for First Platoon. Consequently, for most of Echo Company, the subject had ceased to be grounds for argument.
Except for Private Randall Wilson.
For whatever reason, he never got over his animosity and tried to start trouble with First Platoon at every given opportunity. Eventually, Sergeant Isaac Cole finally grew tired of his mouth and invited him to disregard rank and settle the matter behind the mess hall. Wilson agreed, and promptly found himself on the wrong end of a very thorough, very one-sided beating. After the fight, under scrutiny from his squad mates over his fighting ability, Cole reluctantly admitted he had been a heavyweight Golden Gloves champion back in his teenage years. Hicks had the feeling it was a sore subject, and while curious as to why, he respected his friend enough not to ask.
Most people who witnessed the fight agreed it would be enough to shut Wilson’s mouth.
They were wrong.
Wilson steered clear of Cole, but anyone else was fair game.
Including Hicks.
Hicks avoided trouble by simply staying out of Wilson’s way when he could, and ignoring him when he couldn’t. In most cases, all it took was a few stern words from Cole and Wilson backed off. There was one night, however, when Cole wasn’t around and Hicks had brought Miranda to the enlisted club to hang out with some of the guys from Delta Squad.
It was supposed to be a quiet, fun evening of knocking back drinks, sharing old stories, and relaxing after a long, strenuous day. When it was Miranda’s turn to buy a round, she kissed Hicks on the cheek and walked around the corner to the bar. Hicks didn’t like the idea of her doing this by herself, but knew Miranda valued her independence and remained in his seat. A minute went by. Then two. Three.
Hicks knew she should have been back by then. So he stood up and walked over to the bar and saw Wilson standing with his back to him. Miranda’s blonde head poked around his side as she tried to step around him, but Wilson cut her off. Hicks tapped the much bigger man on his shoulder.
“Fuck off, dipshit,” Wilson said over his shoulder, barely sparing Hicks a glance.
“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking to. Step away. Now.”
The former college football player turned, a joyfully vicious grin on his face. “Your girlfriend? No way. First Platoon is all fags. Go jerk off with your boyfriends over there.”
Hicks set his feet. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Wilson reached out and seized Hicks by the front of his shirt, obviously not expecting trouble from the smaller man. But half a second later, Hicks was behind him, one hand on his wrist and the other on his shoulder, twisting Wilson’s arm until it was barely an inch from ripping out of socket. He buckled the bigger man’s knees and dropped him to the ground.
“You motherfucker-”
Wilson’s voice cut off with a squeak as Hicks cranked up the pressure on his arm. “I’m done messing around with you. I’ve been putting up with your bullshit for weeks, and I’m sick of it. Now here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to let you up, and you are going to do the smart thing and walk away. If you choose not to, I’m going to beat you within an inch of your life. Do I make myself clear?”
“Okay, okay. Jesus, man, I was just messing with you.”
Hicks knew what was coming before he let go. He could feel the tension building in Wilson, waiting to be unleashed. The big man sprang up amazingly fast for someone his size and swung a backward elbow at Hicks’ head. The young soldier ducked it easily, hooked a foot behind Wilson’s ankles, and shoulder-checked him in the chest.
It would have been just as easy to rupture Wilson’s testicles, stomp his knee in the wrong direction, or break his teeth with an upward elbow strike, but Hicks only wanted to teach him a lesson, not maim him for life. So when Wilson crashed to the ground, instead of stomping on his neck, he delivered a sharp kick to the big soldier’s kidney. Wilson writhed in agony, a hissing cry erupting from his throat. While he was stunned, Hicks grabbed him by the front of his shirt and started hitting him.
He knew punching someone in the face full-force was a good way to end up with a broken hand. But long training had toughened his knuckles, and he knew exactly how hard he could hit someone without risking more than a few bruises to himself. He let Wilson have six of them, then bashed the back of his head on the concrete floor hard enough to make his eyes roll up.
The room went silent.
Hicks let him lie groaning on the floor a few seconds, then grabbed the nearest drink and dumped it on his face. Wilson came back to himself, sputtering and coughing.
“Had enough, or do I need to bust you up some more?” Hicks asked.
Wilson said nothing. He simply struggled to his feet and began stumbling and weaving his way to the door.
“Hey,” Hicks called.
Wilson stopped, blood dripping from his face.
“You’re done talking shit to my platoon. I took it easy on you tonight. Next time, I won’t be so nice.”
After that night, First Platoon had no further trouble from Private Randall Wilson. Or anyone else, for that matter.
In the wake of the incident, Hicks fully expected to find himself standing at attention in front of his company commander, Captain Harlow. Fighting was grounds for an Article 15, which could result in reduction of rank, forfeiture of half a month’s pay for up to two months, and 45 days restriction and extra duty. But days went by and nothing happened. Finally, a week after the incident, Lieutenant Jonas approached him just after dismissing the platoon for the evening.
“Specialist Hicks, a word with you,” he said quietly. Staff Sergeant Thompson looked on but said nothing.
“Yes sir.” Hicks dropped his equipment and followed his lieutenant.
“I heard about what happened,” Jonas said when they were out of earshot of the rest of the platoon.
Hicks nodded. “Yes sir.”
“I’ll tell you I’m not happy about it. I know Wilson is a royal pain in the ass, but you are well aware the rules, Specialist.”
“Yes sir.”
“I talked to Lieutenant Chapman. He’s willing to let the matter slide, but there are to be no more altercations between the two of you. Any further incidents will be punished harshly. And just so you know, Wilson is getting the same speech from his CO you’re getting right now. The message to both of you is that these hostilities are to cease and fucking desist. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Lieutenant Jonas straightened. “You’re a good soldier, Hicks, and that’s why I’m cutting you some slack this time. But in the future, I expect better from you. Disappoint me at your very great peril. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Now I need you to answer me a question.”
“Sir?”
“How in the hell did you beat that big son of a bitch? I mean, the thing with Cole doesn’t surprise me. He’s huge. But Wilson must outweigh you by at least eighty pounds and none of it fat.”
Hicks shrugged. “If you want, I can show you sometime. The techniques are simple. Wilson’s problem is he relies too much on strength. All things being equal, in most cases, the bigger guy is gonna win. But if one fighter has better technique, and he’s big and strong enough not to be overwhelmed, it’s possible to beat the bigger guy. Wilson’s big, but I’m not so small myself, and I know how to fight. He doesn’t.”
Jonas gave him a long, measuring look. “You know, Specialist, I get the feeling there’s a hell of a lot more to you than meets the eye.”
Hicks looked away and said nothing.
*****
“Earth to Caleb,” Miranda said, tapping a finger against the back of his hand.
He looked up. “Sorry.”
“You went away for a minute there.”
“Yeah. I do that sometimes.”
“I noticed. Where did you go?”
He shook his head. “Nowhere good.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You were thinking about the fight with Wilson.”
Hicks said nothing.
“I was afraid for you. He was enormous. I thought he would snap you like a twig.”
“He’s an idiot. All brute strength. Doesn’t know the first thing about fighting. If he had, I might have been in trouble.”
“When I saw what you did to him I was surprised, and kind of turned on.”
Hicks raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
Miranda smiled. “Then I got to thinking, where did he learn how to do that?”
Hicks lowered his eyes again, suddenly finding the rippling surface of his drink interesting.
“Don’t do that,” Miranda said.
“What?”
“Shut me out.”
“I’m not shutting you out.”
“I asked a question. Are you going to answer it?”
Hicks spun his glass and sighed. “What difference does it make, Miranda? Can’t we just be who we are now and leave it at that?”
“The other day when we were walking along the wall,” she said, “I looked at you in the afternoon light, and the sun cut through your eyes from the side, and they looked like stained glass floating in water, and I loved you so much I thought my heart would burst. Then you smiled at me with your mysterious little smile, and leaned over and kissed me, and that love rose through me like a fire and burned me up inside, and I wished in that moment I had all the world to give you. If I could have, I would have reached up and given you the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and heaven, and Earth, and everything in between. Then we walked again, and I held your hand, and I thought about your hands, how big and strong and gentle they are, how your lightest touch can send me trembling like a schoolgirl with her first crush, and how I watched you use those same hands to beat a three-hundred pound ex-football player senseless. I realized, then, that I want to know you. Not just who you are now, but all of you, and everything you were before. I’m in love with this handsome, quiet, sincere man who treats me with so much kindness, and dignity, and gentleness, and love, and he’s the most dangerous man I know.”
Hicks remained silent.
Miranda reached out and took his hand away from the glass. “What’s going on in there, Caleb? How are things supposed to work between us if you won’t open up?”
Hicks pulled his hand away, suddenly angry. “Do I ask you about your life before the Outbreak? Do I grill you about your time with the Free Legion?”
He regretted it even as he said it. Miranda’s expression grew brittle, sapphire eyes shimmering against her porcelain face. Her hands trembled as she clasped them together in her lap and dropped her gaze. “No,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, M. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’re right. I have no right to pry.”
Hicks closed his eyes, rested his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands, frustrated.
On one hand, he was in the right. Since the Outbreak, it was an unspoken rule you didn’t talk about life pre-Outbreak. You didn’t ask people what they did, or if they had families, or who they lost. If someone wanted to volunteer that information, that was fine, but it was impolite in the extreme to ask. The kind of thing that could easily start a fight. It reminded Hicks of how prison inmates weren’t supposed to ask each other what they were in for, or how war veterans hated talking about the war. He thought about the three million or so Americans who survived the Outbreak and how most of them suffered from PTSD in one form or another. An entire nation of prisoners and war veterans and victims.
A nation in mourning.
On the other hand, Miranda had just spoken one of the most heartfelt declarations of love he had ever heard, and he had thanked her with a proverbial slap in the face.
I am a son of a bitch, he thought.
“Miranda, I didn’t mean that. You have every right to ask. I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it yet.”
“You’re wrong, Caleb. I didn’t have the right to ask. Because if you asked me about my family, or how I survived the Outbreak, or what the Legion did to me, I’d tell you it’s none of your damn business. It was selfish of me to pry. Hypocritical. How can I expect you to talk about your past if I’m not willing open up about mine?”
“Give me your hand, M.”
She did.
“Maybe someday we’ll be healed enough to talk about our past. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t. I don’t know. What I do know is we’re both here now, we’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Everything else is just picking up the pieces.”
Miranda looked up with a sad half-smile, and Hicks felt a vise clamp around his heart. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s both say we’re sorry and leave it at that.”
“Agreed.”
They finished their drinks in silence.
