Текст книги "The Darkest Place"
Автор книги: James N. Cook
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 34 страниц)
FORTY-SIX
A search of the semi found the tanks empty, so after dragging the marauders’ dead bodies out of sight, we scoured the rest of the property. The four-car garage attached to the mansion yielded diesel pickup with a full tank, which I assumed belonged to our attackers. Mike volunteered to siphon the fuel and asked me to go check on Sophia.
I found her standing on the metal steps attached to the passenger’s side of the semi, staring at her reflection in the mirror, fingers gently probing her swollen eye. “Those assholes leave us any fuel?”
“Yeah, they did.”
She stepped down and came to me, arms slipping around my waist. I held her gently, careful not to touch her face. “I can’t believe I let that son of a bitch get the drop on me,” she said.
“How did it happen?”
“I turned to look for Dad, just for a few seconds. Next thing I know my rifle is on the ground, there’s an arm around my throat, and everything went black. I woke up while he was tying my hands and tried to scream, but he hit me. That’s all I remember until I saw you shoot from the barn.”
“You remember head-butting the fucker?”
“Yeah. I remember that part. But it shouldn’t have come to that, Caleb. If I had kept my eyes on the house like you told me to, I would have seen him coming.”
Her voice began to break as she spoke, so I held her tighter and kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay now, Sophia. They’re all dead. They won’t be hurting anyone ever again.”
“I could have gotten us all killed.”
“Actually, I had a clean shot at him the whole time.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.” I put my hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Look at it this way, it’s a lesson learned. Next time, you’ll be more careful.”
She reached up and thumbed a tear out of her good eye. “Yes, I will.”
I heard footsteps approach and turned my head to see Mike rounding the corner, shoulders bent under the weight of two sloshing gerry cans. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “If there are any walkers close by they probably heard the commotion.”
Mike refueled the Humvee, climbed in the driver’s seat, and we got under way. I sat in the back with Sophia, her head in my lap, carefully stroking her soft blond hair. The stress of the last half-hour took its toll and she was soon snoring gently, a small trickle of drool expanding in a warm wet spot on my thigh. I smiled, deciding not to say anything to her about it. She’d been through enough lately.
Leaning back in my seat, I fought against the lead weights pulling down on my eyelids. Sleep had been a bit of a problem lately. Most of my downtime was spent wide-awake, mind racing, hands never far from a weapon. When I did manage to drift off, nightmares I could not remember were never long in waking me up.
I told myself I was going to relax a little while, just long enough to clear my head. The road drifted by outside the window, grassy plains reflecting pale silver under a full moon. Both front windows were down, letting a cool wind dry the sweat on my skin. I closed my eyes, head rocking back and forth as we rode over bumps in the pavement, concentrating on the steady hum of tires speeding over asphalt.
At some point while I was drifting, I heard the sound of gravel crunching and looked out my window. Mike had pulled the Humvee to the side of the road and got out. I opened my door and said, “What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. We’ll talk when you wake up.”
That sounded like the best advice ever given. I did as he suggested, closing my eyes and letting sleep claim me. Approximately four seconds later, a hand grabbed my arm and shook me.
“Caleb, wake up.” It was Sophia’s voice.
I blinked rapidly and sat up straight, eyes stinging from the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. “I was barely asleep,” I said. But even to my own ears, my voice sounded groggy.
“Kid, you’ve been out for almost two hours,” Mike said.
I rubbed my eyes and looked around blearily. “Where are we?”
“Where do you think?” Mike turned in the driver’s seat, eyes red with exhaustion but smiling nonetheless. “We made it. Welcome to Colorado Springs.”
*****
It was just after six in the morning.
From the heat of the sun on my back, I knew we were facing west. Ahead of us, a line of vehicles—mostly military by the look of them, but a few civilian ones as well—rose toward a heavily guarded checkpoint at the intersection of highways 24 and 94.
In the distance, the sawblade peaks of the Rocky Mountains soared over hazy rooftops, the city squat and puny by comparison. Smoke from hundreds of fires plumed toward the sky, forming an oblong cloud that stretched flat and gray under a southerly wind. The smell of burning wood stung my nose, along with the scent of diesel fumes and my own unwashed body.
Looking left and right, I saw heavy equipment and construction workers crawling like ants across the landscape, busily erecting a fence with steel I-beam posts and pre-formed slabs of concrete. I had seen a fence like it before and stared, puzzled, until memory pierced the fog of sleep.
“It’s a sound barrier,” I said.
Sophia turned her head, the swollen eye surrounded by an angry purple bruise. “What’s that?”
I pointed. “That fence they’re building. It’s just like the barriers you see along interstates and bypasses near residential neighborhoods. They work like baffles, supposed to reduce road noise.”
Sophia peered out the window. “Looks like they’re building it to keep the infected out.”
“That would be my guess too.”
We made slow progress toward the checkpoint, rolling a few feet at a time as guards in Army ACUs either waved vehicles through the gate or directed them to park in the open stretches of field lining the highway. As we drew closer, I saw there was a chain-link fence topped with razor wire stretching north to south that curved along the outskirts of town. Across the field to my right, the peaked roofs of suburban homes poked their heads over a low brick wall. To my left, signs welcomed visitors and service members to Peterson Air Force Base.
From the south, the rapid thrum of spinning rotors grew steadily louder until a Blackhawk passed lazily over the checkpoint, a minigun manned on the starboard side. Moments later, an Apache gunship armed with two canisters of Hydra 70 rockets and a chain-gun drifted by, the long barrel of the gun swiveling in tandem with the pilot’s line of sight. My heart caught in my chest as the cannon seemed to point right at me for a moment, then moved on.
“Security looks pretty tight,” Mike said, squinting through the windshield. “Guess that’s a good thing.”
I watched the helicopters float away and said nothing.
An hour later, we reached the checkpoint. A harried-looking sergeant waved us forward to a painted red line and signaled for us to stop. He approached the window, rifle slung across his chest, sweat pouring down from under his helmet. “What are you doing out of uniform?” he demanded.
Mike blinked. “Excuse me?”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “You’re not military.” A statement, not a question.
“Not for about ten years now,” Mike replied. “If you’re wondering where we got the Humvee, I have papers for it.”
The guard looked the Humvee over, noticing its modifications. “Civilian owned?”
“That’s right.”
His eyes drifted up to the turret, and for a moment, I was worried what he would think of the M-249 mounted there. But when I looked up, the gun was gone. I almost asked Mike where it was, but stopped myself when I remembered Mike pulling over by the side of the road the night before. It was not hard to put two and two together.
“Do you have any weapons?” the sergeant asked. I caught a glimpse of his nametag: Dillon, it read.
“Three carbines, three pistols, a hunting rifle, and a few boxes of ammo.”
“Anything else? Bombs, grenades, rocket launchers, nuclear warheads?”
Mike chuckled. “No, nothing like that.”
Sergeant Dillon’s comment had not been a mere passing jest. I had heard of cops using the same tactic, making a joke to see how a person reacted. If they laughed, it usually meant the person in question was nothing to worry about. If they didn’t, it meant they were nervous, which was always a bad thing during a traffic stop.
“This your first time in Colorado Springs?” Sergeant Dillon asked.
“Yes it is.”
“We’re going to have to search your vehicle.”
“Not a problem,” Mike said. “You do it here, or should I pull over somewhere?”
“Follow that young lady over there,” said Dillon. “She’ll direct you where to go.”
A private, who could not have been a day over twenty but had the eyes of a much older woman, waved us off the road and pointed to another uniformed soldier standing in a field. He motioned us closer, then had us turn left along a line of cars parked outside the fence. We drove to the end of the line where another soldier pointed us to our parking spot. The troop made a cutting motion across his throat. Mike killed the engine.
“Wait here,” the soldier said. “Stay in your vehicle until one of us tells you to get out.”
We all acknowledged politely and made ourselves comfortable.
The air warmed as the sun rose, forcing us to open the windows to stay cool. While we waited, teams of soldiers worked their way through the lines of parked cars, trucks, and SUVs, each receiving a thorough search.
ATVs towing plastic carts followed each team, the carts filled with dirty bandages, bloody strips of cloth, used diapers, and a variety of other unappetizing things. It occurred to me after several carts trundled by that the contents all had something in common—bodily fluids. The guards were looking for anything that might transmit blood-borne pathogens. I also noticed the guards all wore rubber gloves and cotton masks, and made it a point not to touch their faces.
Several times, soldiers found people with illegal drugs in their possession. Rather than make arrests, they simply confiscated the drugs and warned the offenders if the police caught them holding in the city proper they would be arrested and prosecuted. I got the distinct impression it was more of an annoyance than anything else. The troops had bigger problems to deal with.
Behind us, an argument broke out between two soldiers and a middle-aged woman. The shouting was close enough I could make out what they said.
“I will not take this bandage off,” the old woman yelled, red-faced with indignation. “And you have no right to ask me to.”
“Ma’am, we have every right,” a soldier told her patiently. “This town is under martial law. We have to check everyone who shows up for signs of infection. All we need to do is examine the wound. That’s all.”
“I said no, and that’s final. Wait … what are you doing? Get your hands off me!”
The woman tried to fight, but it was no use. Her cries became panicked as two brawny young troops wrestled her to the ground and cut the bandage from her forearm. One of the troops, the one in charge I was guessing, shot the other a meaningful look.
“Ma’am, this is a bite wound,” he said, looking calmly down at the still struggling woman. “What happened? How did you get this?”
As quickly as the fight started, it ended. The woman went limp and began sobbing, begging the soldiers not to kill her. She offered no resistance as they cuffed her with zip ties and radioed for one of the transports. A short time later, a Colorado Department of Corrections truck pulled up and the soldiers loaded her inside.
“What’s going to happen to her?” Sophia asked as the truck pulled away.
I said, “What do you think?”
She was quiet for a few seconds. “That’s horrible.”
“What are they supposed to do?” Mike asked from the front seat. “If she’s infected, she’s a danger to everyone. They can’t just let her wander around until she turns.”
“I know that,” Sophia snapped. “But still, it’s an awful way to go.”
No one spoke again until a team of soldiers surrounded our Humvee and ordered us to step out. We complied, following a woman in civilian clothes carrying a medical kit, and stood waiting while they rooted through our belongings.
The woman with the medic’s kit looked us over, checking our skin for bites. She noticed Sophia’s black eye, frowned at Mike and me, and asked if she could speak to Sophia alone.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Sophia said irritably. “This is my father, and this is my boyfriend. Neither of them have ever raised a hand to me.”
“Then what happened to your face?” the medic asked.
“We stopped to siphon some gas last night. A guy came out of nowhere and hit me, tried to drag me away. These two stopped him.”
The medic gave us both a skeptical glance. “And where is this individual now, the one who attacked you?”
“Dead,” Mike said flatly.
The medic stared. “Dead?”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“So you killed him?”
Mike’s expression turned to granite. “He hit my daughter and tried to kidnap her. Of course I fucking killed him.”
The medic looked like she wanted to say more, then let out a weary sigh. “Fine. Good enough for me.” She turned and began walking away.
“That’s it?” I said before I could stop myself. Mike shot me a daggered glare as Sophia’s elbow dug into my side.
The medic stopped and turned, eyes narrow, hands out at her sides. “What the hell do you want, an investigation? Listen, we hear a hundred stories like yours every day. If we looked into every one of them, we’d never have time for anything else. Just don’t go shooting anyone in town without a reason, and you won’t have any trouble.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,” Mike said, eyeing me pointedly. I looked down and kept my mouth shut.
“See that you do.”
A minute or two later, the soldiers motioned Mike over and asked him about the Humvee and our guns. He showed them the paperwork from BWT, then handed over all three of our IDs.
“It checks out,” one of the soldiers said, a young lieutenant with the word Hammett on his nametag. “Paperwork’s not in any of their names, but it’s definitely a civilian vehicle. Which puts it squarely in the category of not my problem.” He handed Mike the stack of papers and our IDs.
“What about their weapons, sir?” a sergeant asked.
“Civvie guns,” Lieutenant Hammett replied, then turned to address us. “You can keep them, but put the safeties on before you go through the gate and make sure they stay that way.” To his team, he said, “Let’s go. We’re done here.”
One of the sergeants wrote something on a piece of paper with an official-looking seal on it and handed it to Mike. “Put that on the dashboard in plain sight,” he said, “and don’t lose it. If you do, you’ll have to come back through here and do all this shit again. What you do now is take that road there and follow the signs to the north side of town. Show this pass to the guard at the gate.”
Mike took the slip of paper and looked at it. “Then what?”
“Then you go in.”
“What about after that?”
“That’s up to you,” the soldier spoke over his shoulder as he turned to follow his lieutenant. “My suggestion? Get a job.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Over two years have passed since I left the Springs, and I know for a fact it has changed dramatically since the early days. If you go there now, the eighty-plus mile protective wall is complete, the population has increased to over two hundred thousand, volunteer militias keep the Denver hordes mostly at bay, and civilian police have taken over day-to-day peacekeeping duties. The president and her staff still spend most of their time in Cheyenne Mountain, but the majority of other political types now reside in the city proper. There are even working electrical and water utilities, albeit limited. Not a bad place to live by today’s standards.
But the day we arrived, things were much different. The wall covered the entirety of the north side of town, but only curved a few miles to the east and west. Military vehicles patrolled in the distance, the crack of faraway gunfire and artillery echoing over the plain. I looked northward through Mike’s binoculars and saw soldiers in Humvees, Bradleys, APCs, and tanks engaging thousands of infected, helicopters swooping in occasionally to drop crates I could only assume contained ammunition. The undead seemed to be getting the worst of it.
We drove toward the gate under constant scrutiny from guards in wooden towers who scanned the road diligently with binoculars. Only once did we see someone pull over to the side of the road, and they were quickly surrounded by soldiers on ATVs and motorcycles.
“What’s that about?” Sophia wondered aloud as we passed.
“Looks like they don’t want folks stopping,” Mike said.
“Why not?”
“It’s a hole in their security. People might try to smuggle in something, or someone, the Army doesn’t want getting in. I’ll bet you this place is on lockdown at night.”
We continued to the gate, which consisted of several rows of barbed wire, sandbags walls, and heavy concrete traffic barriers. The approach was arranged so that vehicles had to move in a serpentine pattern to reach the gate, ostensibly to keep anyone from trying to crash their way through.
Twelve feet of concrete and steel rose up behind the defenses with guard towers positioned at regular intervals, each tower boasting a machine gun and a sharpshooter. Between the towers, soldiers patrolled with grenade launchers mounted under their rifles, many of them also carrying LAW rockets.
A narrow gap allowed traffic to flow into town, and about a hundred yards down from us, another gate with a similarly tiny gap allowed traffic out. The intake side was much busier.
Attached to the wall itself were heavy doors on rollers welded from thick steel plates, each with a soldier standing by ready to close them. At both stations, I saw forklifts parked next to concrete traffic barriers, operators in the seats, ready to block the openings. I later learned the guards conducted random drills where they had thirty seconds to move the barriers into place, retreat inside the wall, and close the gates. I am sure the people waiting impatiently in traffic really appreciated that.
Lucky for us, they did not choose to run a drill upon our arrival. The line was much shorter here than at the highway junction, and there were no pedestrians, which meant the guards could focus on vehicle traffic rather than checking hundreds of refugees for contraband.
Ahead of us was a guard shack at the midway point of the perimeter defenses, and behind that, two Bradleys sat with their chain-guns aimed at right angles to each other. I imagined those guns spitting tungsten at the speed of sound, ripping through sheet metal and flesh like tissue paper, and felt sick to my stomach.
We wound through the defenses until it was our turn to stop at the guard shack, where a tall, brawny, well-armed private in full combat attire stopped us and coldly ordered Mike to hand over our entry pass. He did, then waited while the young man looked it over. “Thank you, sir,” the private said, handing the slip back. “Please proceed.” He turned away and waved at the car behind us.
Mike drove us the rest of the way through the perimeter, keeping his speed in check and examining the defenses. “I can’t imagine how much manpower it takes to patrol this wall,” he said. “If they plan on building this thing around the whole city, they’re going to need more people.”
As we cleared the wall and drove into the town proper, traffic ahead of us began picking up speed and turning off onto other roads. Sophia said, “Where to now?”
I pointed at a sign ahead of us that read: NEW ARRIVALS PROCEED SOUTH ON HWY 21 TO PETERSON AIR FORCE BASE. “Does that answer your question?”
She stared at the sign and did not reply.
I turned to Mike. “So what did you do with our grenades and machine guns?”
“Remember when we stopped last night, when I told you to get some sleep?”
“Yes.”
“There’s an electrical substation off the side of the road right where we stopped. I wrapped all the gear in trash bags and buried it a hundred yards away, due west. I’ll show you on a map soon as we get the chance.”
A flock of birds took flight at our passing, little black shapes turning and wheeling through the air, graceful and effortless, so many of them they blackened the sky. I craned my head to watch and said, “That was smart thinking. The guards probably would have confiscated that stuff at the gate.”
“Yep,” Mike replied. He stared at the birds as well. “And I doubt they would have stopped with the military gear.”
“You think they would have taken it all?”
“Likely so.”
“But that’s stealing.”
When Mike turned to look at me, there was a gentle contempt in his eyes. “Look around, Caleb.”
I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, thought a moment, and closed it. I am a lot of things, but I like to think I am not stupid. Mike nodded, satisfied he had gotten his point across, and focused on the road.
*****
We learned a lot in the next few hours.
The first indication of the city’s condition was the people we passed on the streets: threadbare clothes, parents clutching children with dirty faces, hands close to weapons, haunted eyes with thousand-yard stares, hostile gazes peering around corners and from alleyways—people did not greet one another, did not even acknowledge each other, and gave everyone they passed a wide berth.
Then there were the buildings themselves. I could have counted the number of unbroken windows I saw on one hand and had fingers left over. Anything resembling a business of any sort had been broken into and thoroughly looted. Most of the houses we passed weren’t in much better shape, occupied or otherwise, and those were the parts of town not ravaged by fire. There were entire blocks burned to the ground, ruins of blackened brick walls and incinerated roof struts jutting toward the sky, piles of refuse left to molder in the open. In some places, there were craters that could only have been caused by bombs or artillery.
I looked at Mike and said, “What the hell happened here?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it was, it was bad.”
We continued following the signs until we reached another gate at the AFB, showed our pass again, and proceeded to the parking lot of a large, empty storage building. There were about a hundred other cars already there, a few more streaming in behind us. A wooden sign at the entrance read: NEW ARRIVAL ORIENTATION: 1130, 1400, 1600.
Mike glanced at his watch. “11:15. Looks like we picked a good time.”
We locked up the Humvee and walked toward the storage building. It was beige in color, four stories tall, and made of prefabricated metal. By its domed roof, I figured it must have been a hangar once upon a time. A polite airman greeted us at the door and directed us toward several dozen rows of metal chairs arranged in front of a low stage.
As tends to happen in uncomfortable social situations, the people who arrived before us had scattered throughout the room, putting no fewer than two chairs between groups. The front three rows were empty, and there were at least twice as many seats as people. Mike walked ahead of me and picked three unoccupied chairs a few rows forward of the middle. We drew looks from a number of people on the way in, Sophia especially, but no one tried to talk to us. It was strange to be around that many human beings in complete silence.
At precisely 11:30, a door behind the stage opened and a gray-haired Air Force officer took brisk strides up to the stage. A sergeant followed him out a moment later and began checking the sound equipment. He flipped several switches and fiddled with a few plugs before giving the old man a thumbs-up. “Ready to go, sir.”
The aging officer tapped the microphone eliciting a puffing sound from the speakers. He cleared his throat and said, “Good morning.”
No one said anything. The officer looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention before continuing. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel John Sherman. Welcome to Colorado Springs.”
Another pause. More silence. He cleared his throat again. “I don’t want to keep you all in suspense, so I’ll get straight to the point. As you may have noticed on the way in, the city around us is in severe disrepair. I can only imagine what you all must have gone through getting here, and I understand if you’re a bit underwhelmed at the state of things.”
He got a few nodding heads. It was at this point I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the tired stoop to his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, and I wondered how much of that gray hair had occurred during the last few months.
“Before you judge the place too harshly,” the colonel went on, “you need to understand that things were much worse up until a couple of weeks ago. You see, despite the best efforts of this city’s law enforcement agencies and emergency response services, as well as intervention on the part of the Armed Forces, the infection found its way into Colorado Springs.”
He stopped again to let his statement sink in. A low murmur of alarm rippled through the scattered audience. “Now let me assure you,” the colonel held up a hand, “at this point, we have the problem firmly under control. We removed the last of the infected four days ago. But as I’m sure you have noticed, the battle to take the city back from the infected was a bad one. Nearly two-thirds of the population died in the fighting, and much of the city was rendered uninhabitable. That’s the bad news.”
He waited, letting anticipation build. “The good news,” he said, “is we are better prepared now to deal with any further incursions from the un– … from the infected. You no doubt saw the wall on the way in, as well as the large number of troops providing security. There are, at this time, more than fifty-thousand troops stationed in the city, as well as armored cavalry and air support. We have infantry, artillery, and a host of support troops, vehicles, and equipment. We have enough fuel to last us several months, and access to vast strategic reserves. This includes ammunition, medical supplies, food, clean water, and the materials to build new shelters for you and any other refugees who may arrive.”
There was a collective sigh of relief. I felt tension release from my shoulders and let out a breath I did not realize I was holding. Sophia and I smiled at each other and reached out to hold hands.
“Now before we go into all that,” Sherman went on, “there are some things you need to know about life here in the Springs. You’ll find out most of this for yourselves in due course, but I want to give you a heads-up so you know what to expect.”
He spoke for another hour, stopping occasionally to answer questions, but the gist of his speech was as follows:
The first thing all of us would be doing upon leaving orientation was driving to The Citadel Mall, part of which had been repurposed into the Colorado Springs Federal Refugee Intake Center, where we would present our entry passes and apply for housing assignments. After that, those who wished to do so could apply for a job with the city, speak to an Army recruiter, or submit an application for a business license. Skilled tradespeople such as carpenters, masons, welders, mechanics, medical professionals, electricians, and plumbers were in high demand, as were engineers, doctors, scientists of all stripes, and anyone with military or law enforcement experience.
The colonel warned us that water and sewer services as well as electrical utilities were extremely limited. The city’s residential areas were divided into small districts, each one assigned a manager who oversaw health and safety duties such as distributing fresh water and ensuring proper waste disposal. We would be briefed on our responsibilities in this regard upon arrival at our housing districts, and we would all be required to do our part to keep our area livable. Additionally, if we had any questions regarding the location of medical facilities, law enforcement, fire, or other services, we were to direct them to our district manager.
Toward the end of the speech, Sherman explained that while weapons were allowed in the city proper, we were expected to conduct ourselves responsibly. Any violence perpetrated for reasons other than self-defense and defense of others would be punished to the full extent of the law. Additionally, he warned us if any infected found their way into the city, or if there was an outbreak, we should report to the nearest military personnel as soon as possible. We were not to engage the infected unless we had no other choice. Any person killed on suspicion of being infected would be tested by medical personnel, and if the victim was not infected, whoever killed them would be charged with murder.
Thinking it over, I understood why the military did not want civilians killing walkers. If they allowed it without restriction, anyone involved in a dispute could simply shoot their antagonist in the head and claim they were infected. Not the kind of thing that contributes to a peaceful society.
Last, he explained the rules and regulations all refugees were expected to follow, which boiled down to treating each other with respect, avoiding violence, not robbing, raping, or defrauding one another, and staying the hell out of the military’s way. All things I intended to do anyway.
Finished, he bid us good luck and retreated through the same door he had entered.
“Maybe it’s not as bad as we thought,” Sophia said, the light of hope in her eyes.
“Don’t say that,” Mike intoned. “You’ll jinx us. Bad luck is the last thing we need.”
I have never been superstitious, but in light of everything that happened after, I cannot help but wonder if Mike’s fear of bad luck had been well placed.
