He looked the corpse over one last time. “You white people… you talk too much.”
Chapter 3
The tractor caught on another rock, heaved up by the winter frosts. I jumped down, careful to land on my good leg, and stumped over to it. The prosthetic on my right leg, a blade of carbon fiber, was good, but the stump was still raw and painful sometimes and I didn’t want to irritate it.
Joe had already brought the four-wheeler up, and I helped him lift the rock into the small trailer. It joined the others that would be dumped at the edge of the field, helping fix the rock wall built by farmers around 200 years ago. We were raising it high enough that a random zombie couldn’t tumble into the field. Three years later they were still thick on the ground in the ruins of the towns up and down this stretch of the Hudson River, despite our “clearing” trips we went on once a week. The field I was working was east of our little island fortress, and I was desperate to get some honest-to-God corn and wheat growing. Brit was doing pretty well with the garden.
“OK, Joe, let’s call it quits for the day.” He grunted in agreement, and waited until I had secured my rifle on the ATV and hopped on. He twisted the throttle, and we headed back to the bridge. Joe was an extra hand who I had hired, a guy who had had enough of the FEMA camp in Albany. Didn’t say much, worked hard, and lived in a room in the old farmhouse. He was saving his New Dollars pay so that he could homestead somewhere properly, with a new wife. Hopefully somewhere close by. He was a good man to have around.
We pulled up to the gate on the bridge, and I got down to open the heavy barrier. As I did, out of habit, I looked over to the canal, just checking to see what might have washed down river. Zombies occasionally, starting to rot once the water immersion killed the parasite. More often live ones who had just fallen in, and were still snapping and trying to climb out. Those I shot once in the head.
This time, I stopped and looked hard. Drawn up on shore, next to the ruins of our old house, was a canoe. Someone was onshore. I tapped Joe on the shoulder, and he jumped down next to me, readying his old lever action Winchester. I called quietly to Brit over the radio, keying the mike in a two tap alarm. Back at the house, her Motorola would beep twice, giving her the “come quick, be armed” signal. Not that Brit went anywhere unarmed anyway.
I sent Joe off to the left, to flank anyone who might be moving up the left side of the small island. I moved downshore, toward the canoe, first tightening the straps that held my leg in place. I approached steadily, looking over the site of my M-4, ready to fire a quick burst. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joe come around the side of the old house foundation, and he gave me a quick “all clear” sign. We moved together towards the canoe.
On the other side of it lay a figure, clad in the rags of an Army Multicam uniform. Rough bandages were around his leg and his arm, and he lay sprawled face down in the mud. I dropped my rifle in its sling and ran to him, rolling him over.
Specialist Redshirt was dirty, bloody, and chewed to hell. His ammunition pouches were empty, and his .22 pistol lay on the ground next to him, slide locked back. I checked his pulse and breathing. He was alive, but felt hot to the touch.
“Brit, this is Nick. Red is here, I found him next to a canoe on the old island. He’s wounded.” I checked his forehead; it was burning hot to the touch.
“Do you need me there?”
“Negative, we’ll bring him in on the 4 wheeler. He’s got a bad fever, looks like multiple gunshot wounds, infected bites. Get the Medkit out, antibiotics, IV, everything.”
Red’s eyes opened a little.
“Red, it’s me. It’s Nick. You’re safe.”
He whispered, and I had to lean forward to catch it. “Doc, Ziv, Ahmed, team captured.”
“It’s OK, Brother, we got you. We’ll take care of it. Just hang on.” He squeezed my hand, then fell limp in my arms. I lifted him onto the trailer, and we started back. I left Joe to close the gate.
Chapter 4
I sat looking at a map of Lake Champlain, lit by the kerosene lantern hanging in the kitchen. Brit sat across from me, cleaning her rifle. Joe was out in the tower, pulling first watch, keeping an eye open for any zombies or raiders that might be approaching under cover of the darkness. On the kitchen counter, a SINCGARS radio was tuned to the Fire Support Net at Firebase Horse, just outside Saratoga. Through long practice, I had learned to keep half an ear out for our call sign. It had been quite a while since anyone had called “Lost Boys” on the radio. I was out of the scouting business, for good, I had thought.
Red’s team, consisting of him, Master Sergeant “Doc” Hamilton, Sergeant Toshi, and couple of civilian scouts, including our old friends Ziv and Ahmed, had stopped by the farm last week on their way north. Doc had filled me in on what was happening, Army-wise. We had a satellite dish that fed us the news through the internet, and I had kept in regular touch with them on Facebook, while I recuperated from getting my foot pretty much hacked off.
“Well,” said Doc, after he had checked on my stump, “Task Force Liberty has been held up just south of Poughkeepsie, pretty much at the I-84 line. I think they’re run out of fuel and manpower, and are consolidating. The radiation from Indian Point has pretty much held off operating on the east side of the river, anyway. They took a LOT of casualties in Newburgh and Pough-town. The Marines cleared Staten Island, are turning it into a giant Jarhead/Squid base. “
Apparently the consolidation had freed up the team to go north and check out the canal links to Montreal. They had only stayed one night, pulling out in their canoes the next night under cover of darkness. Almost the same mission we had last year, except further north.
As I looked over the map, I reached down and idly scratched between Rocket’s ears. He got up, stuck his head out the small flap cut in the door, smelled the wind for zombies, then came back to sit on my foot. Brit finished assembling her rifle, snapping it shut and then doing a functions check. Then she pulled out her pistol and started breaking that down. I could tell something was bothering her, so I asked.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” she said. “Red mentioned Port Henry when he woke up before. That’s a lot of travel on that leg.”
“First off, we’re not going anywhere until Red is up for it. Give him four or five days, I think he’ll be back on his feet. The kid is tough.” She nodded in agreement, but I could see her starting to object again. I held up my hand.
“Brit, I’m not an action adventure hero. My leg is gone, and my stump hurts like a bitch sometimes. We live forty miles from the nearest medical care, and I know an infection can be the death of me. I’m not friggin’ Superman.”
“Well, you’re Superman in bed.” She placed her hands over her face and made an “OM NOM NOM” sound.
I laughed. “You’re still a pig, Honey.”
“There is a reason I won’t let you keep sheep here on the farm, Nick. I don’t want you to stray.”
I threw an oily gun rag at her.
“Seriously, though, I’m going to call in a favor. If we walked or canoed it, it would take us a week to get up there. We need that time for Red to recuperate. I’m going to call FOB Orange, and see if we can get a ride.” Last I knew, Major McHale was still commanding the Aeromedical UH-60 company at the Forward Operating Base. Hopefully he could give us a ride.
“That and we need intel. Someone in the S-2 might be able to give us some information on groups operating out of the Lake Champlain area. I know that they’ve picked up radio traffic and done overflights. It doesn’t do us any good to go in blind. Plus, we need to know if there are any zombie hordes moving around there.”