Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line Read online

  The Blackthorns on watch turned in the direction of the shooting and began returning fire. Unlike the panicked traders, they stayed low to the ground, presented the smallest target profile possible, and aimed for muzzle flashes. Heinrich saw two of his men fall in the first few seconds of the exchange.

  Back to work.

  He trained the IR scope on a Blackthorn edging toward cover. The first shot went wide, but the second did not. The mercenary was not dead, but he soon would be. Heinrich shifted his aim toward the throaty roar of a heavy machine gun. A trader had thrown back the cover on a tripod-mounted M-240 bolted to the deck of an open wagon, and was strafing Heinrich’s men to the west. The raiders returned fire, to no avail. Bullets impacted the low wall of the wagon but did not penetrate.

  Armored wagon, Heinrich thought. These bastards are getting smarter.

  Meanwhile, the hail of automatic fire had forced Heinrich’s raiders to keep their heads down. With their enemy unable to advance on the western flank, the Blackthorns organized the traders into a skirmish line and began advancing northward, laying down suppressing fire as they went. If they reached the firing line, Heinrich’s men would be outnumbered two to one. Heinrich was tempted to let the fight play out to see how they would fare, and would have if it was just the traders, but it wasn’t. Each Blackthorn was worth three men in a stand-up fight.

  Heinrich’s raiders were no good to him dead.

  A quick assessment told Heinrich what he had to do. For a few seconds, just long enough to allow the Blackthorns to close to within a few meters of the northern flank, he let the machine gunner live. Then, when the two lines of defenders were sufficiently far apart, he fired three rounds and dropped the gunner where he stood.

  A roar sounded from the western flank. Above it, he hard Maru ordering his men to charge. Heinrich’s lips pulled back from his teeth.

  Now for the fun part.

  The raiders fell upon the caravan defenders left behind by the Blackthorns before they had time to form a proper line. Bellowing, frothing madmen clad in outlandish armor smashed into them, burying blades into bodies and firing at point blank range with pistols. One defender managed to avoid a slash from Slim, countered with a vicious kick that snapped one of the big brute’s knees, and followed up with a bullet to Slim’s head. The trader turned to look for another opponent and ran face first into Maru’s machete. The force of the blow opened the defender’s head like a flip-top lid, his severed cranium bouncing off his back as he fell.

  Now Maru’s path to the machine gun was clear. The Maori warrior leapt into the cart, checked the weapon, and swung it northward.

  Heinrich keyed his radio. “Carter, fall back and hug the dirt. Maru got himself a chatterbox.”

  “Copy.”

  As much as Heinrich was enjoying the show, the fight was not yet over. He returned his attention northward, where the Blackthorns and their men were still advancing. The reticle of his scope found the leg of a man in the Blackthorn’s distinctive uniform and fired. The round passed through the man’s calf muscle and shattered his shin bone on the way out. He fell screaming to the ground. Less than a second after he went down, Maru opened up with the M-240, cutting the Blackthorn’s line like a scythe through wheat. He kept his aim high, keenly aware that he was firing over the heads of Carter and his people.

  It was over in seconds. Heinrich keyed his radio. “Carter, move in. Kill any men you find and bag up the women and children. Be advised, there’s a wounded Blackthorn in front of you. He’s gimpy, but still dangerous. Watch yourself.”

  “Right. On it, boss.”

  Heinrich stood, stretched, and began making his way toward the camp.

  *****

  The Blackthorn’s screams echoed long into the night.

  Heinrich watched dispassionately as Carter worked, firelight flickering malevolently over his ugly, vicious face. The big raider grinned with sadistic pleasure as he slowly peeled skin from the doomed mercenary’s back.

  “So what’s the tally?”

  “Most of the dead are men,” Maru said. “Got six women and four kids alive. Put up a bit of a fight.”

  “How are the women?”

  “Five are useful enough. One’s too old.”

  “Never stopped these animals before.”

  “True enough.”

  “And the kids?”

  “Two girls, two boys. One of the boys is a bit defiant.”

  Heinrich laughed quietly. “That won’t last long.”

  “It’ll hurt his price.”

  “Not if we break him nice and docile before we get to Parabellum. Put Rourke on it. He’s into that kind of shit.”

  Maru grimaced. “Right, Chief.”

  Heinrich walked away from the fire and the ring of raiders laughing and taunting the Blackthorn as he died slowly. His steps carried him past the ten trussed-up prisoners, some plainly terrified, others glaring at him with naked hatred. He did not care. They were cargo, nothing more. He would take first pick of the women and let the men have the others. The good old days of the Midwest Alliance were gone, but slaves were still valuable in the hell-pits where raiders, marauders, and other assorted outlaws gathered to do business. And, quite often, fight amongst themselves.

  He stopped at one of the wagons, threw aside a canvas cover, and stepped up onto the tailgate. Sixteen steel barrels roughly the size of beer kegs stood in orderly rows, held securely with hemp rope and padded from one another with compressed hay. A good configuration. Keep them still, keep them from rattling. It was hard enough to keep the infected away under the best of circumstances, much less with giant steel cans clanging against each other.

  He undid a clasp and opened one of the barrels. Inside was a coarse white powder. Heinrich reached in, lifted out a handful, and let it sift through his fingers. Afterward, he touched his tongue to his palm.

  Salt. Holy of holies.

  Heinrich now understood why the caravan had hired eight Blackthorns. With this much salt, they could have hired a hundred and still turned an enormous profit. But that kind of display would have told people like him what they were hauling was worth forming alliances with other tribes for, assuming they did not immediately try to murder one another after they seized the shipment. Which happened more often than not.

  The scarred raider picked up another handful and let it fall. He could not believe his luck. Just one barrel of this stuff would be enough to keep a man warm, fed, safe, and awash in as much hired flesh as he could indulge in for several months. But here, firmly in his possession, were eight carts carrying sixteen barrels each. Not to mention the food, guns, ammo, livestock, slaves, and other trade he had just seized.

  He would announce the shares in the morning after his troops buried their dead. Each man would receive three barrels of salt and a full share of the lesser trade. They would like that. It was more than any of them had possessed since the Outbreak. Enough to last them for years if they were careful, which they would not be.

  Heinrich sat down atop a barrel, glanced toward his raiders as they enjoyed the evening’s entertainment, and wondered what to do with his newfound wealth. He had never made a score like this one; 128 barrels of salt was a kingly fortune. He might even have to kill a few of his own men to keep them from insisting on a higher share. This simply would not do. Heinrich was the chief, and the chief decided the shares. It was one of the unspoken laws of being a raider. If a man didn’t like it, he could leave. Or if that was not an option, challenge for leadership. Heinrich was not worried. There was not a single scumbag under his command who could defeat him in a duel, and they all knew it.

  What to do, what to do, he pondered. First thing would be to hire more troops. If word got out what he was worth, he would be fending off attacks from all sides. Yes, more troops. Good ones, preferably with combat experience. He would also need to set up his own base of operations now that he could afford to build one. He looked down at the salt. With this much trade, he could build a fort to rival Parabel
lum. Hell, maybe he could even take Parabellum for himself.

  Yes. That seemed like the easier option. But first, he needed troops.

  TWO

  The blue-eyed soldier with the scarred face said examinations were mandatory for all visitors. Sabrina pointed to her clothes and asked if she looked like she had been bitten.

  “No,” the young man said. “But it’s not my call to make. You want in, you have to go through the exam. No exceptions.”

  A moment of silence. “Do I get my stuff back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weapons too?”

  “Yes.”

  Huh, Sabrina thought. That’s unusual.

  “Okay. Whatever it takes.”

  She was then led to a small wooden building just inside the gate. There was another, similar building across the street, and a pair of manned guard towers overlooking both structures. Smart. Maybe these people aren’t as useless as they look.

  The woman who came into the little wooden room with her was older, possibly as old as sixty. She was tall and severe looking, but with an understated compassion in her eyes. She pulled a green curtain across where Sabrina sat and said, “Please disrobe. Let me know when you’re finished.”

  Sabrina looked around. There were windows in the little building, but they were high on the walls and covered with thick white blinds. Enough to let light in, but still opaque from the outside. The door was closed and bolted.

  Fuck it. If she wants to smell me, let her.

  As she took her clothes off, Sabrina wrinkled her nose at a wave of pungent body odor. She did not usually mind her own stink, but when she was ripe enough to offend even herself, she knew it was time for a bath.

  She stood her rifle up in a corner followed by her ammo belt. The four-hundred or so rounds of .22 caliber cartridges rattled as they settled to the floor. She found the noise comforting.

  Her first layer of clothing hid two karambit knives in her coat pockets. The karambits were deadly little things, easy to conceal, constructed of a slim, wickedly curved blade designed to be wielded underhand, a steel finger loop to keep the knife from slipping when wet, and a narrow wooden handle with finger grooves. She had been forced to use them many times over the years, each instance resulting in a kill before her attackers had even known she was armed.

  She placed the karambits on the bench, pressed her hands together, and bowed over them. It was less a gesture to her knives than to the man who had taught her how to use them.

  Always respect your weapons, she remembered Manny saying in his thick Filipino accent. They don’t care who they kill, so never let your opponent know you have them. The first indication they should have that you are armed is when they feel your knife cut into them. By then, it will be too late.

  She missed Manny. He had been one of the good ones. And, true to her word, she had not let him become one of the infected. He would have done the same for her.

  Next came the second layer of clothes, the nine-millimeter pistol recovered from a dead soldier, the .38 revolver taken from a would-be rapist she had killed, a two-shot .22 caliber Derringer-style pistol she kept up her left sleeve, and most of her trade goods. She had made the clothes in this layer herself, and had included plenty of pockets, some visible, some hidden. The pockets held ammo of various calibers, sugar packets, little bags of instant coffee, wads of toilet paper and paper towels, tampons, cotton balls, small bricks of homemade soap, baking yeast, pre-Outbreak painkillers, half an ounce of marijuana, a pouch of baking soda, petroleum jelly, and a few other light, easily portable trade items.

  The next layer was mostly buckskin. It was hot, heavy, and uncomfortable, but it did a damn good job of stopping ghoul bites when reinforced with normal fabric. Last was her undergarments, which she had also made herself. They smelled worse than she did, which was not surprising considering she had been wearing them for nearly a month.

  Each layer of clothes was folded carefully and placed in small piles. She put her pack down beside them, and said, “Okay. I’m naked.”

  The old woman opened the curtain, made a face, and took a step back.

  “Good lord, sweetie.”

  Sabrina couldn’t help but grin. “Hey, you asked for it.”

  A nod. Donning of a surgical mask. Nurse, maybe?

  “Been on the road a while?”

  “Yes.”

  The old woman began looking her over, eyes roving, hands moving Sabrina’s arms and hair aside. “How long?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  The woman met her eyes and saw the suspicion there. “You’re a Traveler?”

  “Yes.”

  Back to the exam. “That explains a lot.”

  The nurse, as Sabrina assumed she was, finished looking her over. She asked no further questions. At the end, the nurse said, “You can get dressed now. I would suggest you hire a laundry service to clean your clothes if you’re going to be in town for any length of time. Or burn them and buy new ones.”

  With that, the nurse left.

  Sabrina looked at her clothes and realized she did not want to put them back on. It had been over six months since she had been in a town with laundry service and she fully intended to take advantage. She dug in her pack, removed a brown pullover and a long linen skirt, and put them on. They were the nicest clothes she owned. In the past, she had found they helped her blend in among townies.

  Next was her jacket, in which she hid her knives and the .38 revolver. Last, she put on her only clean pair of socks, her boots, and the elastic armband that concealed the Derringer. Her pack was not big enough to hold all her remaining possessions, so she settled for making a haversack out of her blanket and tying it across her chest. She left out the shirt with all her trade items and put it in the front pocket of her small rucksack. Her hair felt tangled, but she did not have a comb. Sabrina spent a few minutes working the knots out with her fingers and smoothing it down as best she could. At least she had straight hair. She could not imagine how much worse untangling it would be if it was curly.

  Finished, she stepped outside into the bright morning. The exam room had been dim, and the light hurt her eyes. She stood blinking for a few seconds to let her vision adjust. When the burning stopped, she looked around and assessed her situation.

  The nurse must have given the guards some kind of signal because they no longer seemed interested in her. Judging by the multitude of human and animal prints on the ground, she guessed the gate to her right was subject to heavy traffic, which meant this town was on a trade route. Sabrina smiled. She needed to resupply. If her suspicions were correct, this would be a good place to do it.

  A guard from one of the towers called down to her, “Need directions?”

  “Yes,” she replied, looking up. “There a market around here?”

  The guard pointed down the road. “One block that way. Most places don’t open until nine in the morning, but a food stall or two should be up and running. You can also try the general store.”

  “Where’s that?”

  The guard gave her directions. The town was laid out in a grid, so she figured the store would be easy enough to find. Sabrina thanked the guard and headed toward the market. She smelled it before she reached it, her stomach growling at the scent of cooked meat, roasting vegetables, and pork fat. She quickened her pace.

  Past the guard shacks and newly-built caravan registration booths, the street widened out into a broad plaza. There was a brick building ahead that could only be the local city hall, and in the space between, hand-built stalls lined both sides of the road. Most of them had their shutters closed, but two were open. One advertised meat for sale, the day’s cuts listed on a blackboard out front. Goat legs, whole chickens, eggs, pork belly, loin, heads, feet, and smoked ham. Quantities limited. First come, first served. Federal credits not accepted. No refunds.

  The second stall was the source of the smell. Sabrina walked over to it and stood for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of fresh food.
She had eaten only road food for the last six weeks, and nothing at all for the last three days. She could have stopped to hunt or fish, but had not wanted to waste time. Finding her father was too important. She did not want to miss him because she had taken too long getting here. But now that she was here, and she knew her father was in town, she saw no harm in taking a moment to fill her empty belly.

  As she approached the stall, a blond girl behind the counter smiled at her. “Mornin’,” she said, her Southern accent very thick. She looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, curvy and overfed like most townies, but still very pretty. “I’m Kari. What can I do for you?”

  “I need something to eat.”

  The smile broadened. “Well, you come to the right place. What’ll it be?”

  Sabrina leaned forward and peered over the counter. “What do you have?”

  “You never been here before, have you?”

  “No.”

  “New in town?”

  Sabrina hesitated. She did not like answering questions from strangers. But then again, in a town this small, everyone probably knew everyone else. She decided the question was less an inquiry than a confirmation. No harm in answering.

  “Yes.”

  “Figured. You a Traveler?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a caravan?”

  Sabrina frowned. “What do you serve?”

  An embarrassed pause. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I was just wonderin’ is all. Things get busy when caravans come through. I might need to send for more supplies.”

  Sabrina sensed no deception, so she said, “I’m alone.”

  “Oh, Lord. All by yourself? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Sabrina rolled her eyes. “Listen, I haven’t eaten in a while.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Of course. Sorry. We have eggs, roast chicken, barley soup, flatbread, lettuce, tomato, grilled squash, pickled cucumber, and fresh venison.”

  “Got any bacon?”