searching for any sign of human life.
“There’s no one left in there,” Hastings said. “Half of the reekers down there are in uniform, troops that were taken down and reanimated.”
“I know,” Ballantine said in a small voice. “There weren’t enough troops left up here to keep the fort secure, anyway. Most of the Tenth was down in the city.”
“So what are we going to do now?” If Guerra felt anything, it wasn’t reflected in his voice. “We have to figure out what we’re going to do.”
Hastings wrestled with the question. He continued to peer through his binoculars so the rest of the soldiers wouldn’t see just how emotionally unhinged he was. Even though all of them must have felt that the rug had been yanked right out from under their feet, he was the one who was supposed to keep his head. Calm, cool, and collected. There aren’t any things like that in the zombie apocalypse .
“We could try for Bragg,” Reader said. “Follow that crazy fucker Slater—”
“Man, what the fuck makes you think that Bragg is going to be in any better shape than Drum?” Hartman’s voice was high and tight as he stood guard nearby, his M4 shouldered and ready. “The entire Eighty-Second Airborne was sent to Washington , man! There isn’t anyone at Bragg to defend the place!”
Stilley was manning the .50 caliber in the other Humvee, and for once, he didn’t seem to have much to say.
“What about Denver, then?” Tharinger asked. He stood guard near the first Humvee’s front fender, M4 also at the ready. “If what the master sergeant said was true, then it sounds like the mountain states are where we need to go.”
“Yeah, that’s only about a thousand-plus miles from here,” Guerra said. “We can do that, easy.”
“Captain, can I borrow one of the Humvees?” Ballantine asked.
Hastings lowered his binoculars and looked at the older NCO. He was shocked by the haunted, desperate expression on the man’s face. Is that how I look? How will the men follow me if I look like that? He checked out the rest of the soldiers. They all wore similar expressions, a blend of equal parts fear, grief, mourning, and defeat.
“Why do you need a Humvee, Sergeant?” Hastings asked.
“My family was holed up in a cabin on the Black River,” Ballantine said. “A small place off of Woodard Hill, down towards Watertown.” When Hastings only stared at him, he pressed on quickly, looking over his shoulder at the rest of the soldiers, as if seeking support. “They’re smart, you know. Kay and the boys, they know to keep quiet. And they had guns, in case something went wrong. Supplies, too. If they kept to the cellar, none of those stinking stiffs would know—”
“Do you really think your family is still alive, Ballantine?” Hastings asked as gently as he could.
“Yes, sir, I do. I’ll ask you again. Can I borrow one of the Humvees?” Ballantine let his field glasses hang around his neck by the strap. His right hand closed on the pistol grip of his rifle, and his left slowly curled around the weapon’s foregrip.
“Going to shoot me if I say no, Sergeant Ballantine?”
“Yes, sir. I will.” Ballantine’s voice held no emotion, nothing in his eyes other than fear and worry. To Ballantine, Hastings was just another obstacle.
“Let’s do that,” Stilley blurted.
“What?” Hastings asked. He kept his eyes on Ballantine, who hadn’t moved. Yet.
“Let’s go see if the sergeant’s people are still alive,” Stilley said. “We gotta do something, and we can’t stay here. Reekers are starting to take notice. They’re heading our way, guys.”
“Roger that,” Guerra said. “He’s right, Captain. We’d better take the debate on the road. Drum’s wasted, and if we don’t want to end up the same way, we need to beat feet.”
Hastings nodded slowly. “All right. All right, Ballantine, we’ll see if we can locate your family. But if we can’t, what do you want to do?”
“If they’re
M. R. James, Darryl Jones