Stephenson shot him a glare but knew it was an order that needed to be given. “Aim for their heads!” he added reluctantly, giving a nod in Mark’s direction.
As soon as the dead entered firing range, the Gatling gun started blazing, tearing into the middle of their ranks. Everyone else tried to pick their shots more carefully, making sure the ones they aimed for wouldn’t be getting back up.
Not even the spinning barrels of the Gatling could slow the dead’s charge. They trampled the bodies of the fallen until they slammed into the defensive line without mercy. The line broke, half of the soldiers knocked to the ground under the gnashing teeth of the dead. A few tried to fight but died instantly as the dead overwhelmed them.
Grasping, eager hands yanked Mark off the car from behind the Gatling, and the old man disappeared in the sea of the dead.
Brent ran, tossing his empty rifle aside and jerking his Colt free from the holster on his belt. His feet crunched gravel as he darted down the length of the train. When he reached the fallen tree he knew there was no way in hell he could jump it. So he veered to the right and took off into the woods, with more than a dozen of dead giving chase.
Sweat rolled off his face and skin. In desperation, he hopped onto a tall tree and started to climb. Cold hands closed on his legs and ankles, and a set of yellow teeth cut through his uniform and into his thigh.
“God, forgive me,” Brent pleaded as he pressed the Colt to the side of his head. He pulled the trigger, and his limp form fell into the waiting mob below.
One
Grant looked up from the article he was composing as Edgar entered the room. He knew from the smirk on Edgar’s face whatever news the man was about to share would be bad. Though they’d worked together at Harper’s throughout the end of the Civil War, they’d never gotten along.
Edgar pulled out a chair and took a seat across from Grant without asking if he was intruding.
Grant met Edgar’s eyes as the man stared at him. “May I help you?”
“I just wanted to tell you personally you’re being reassigned. The paper needs someone out in the field to cover the new war raging in the West from the frontlines and—”
“This isn’t a war,” Grant interjected. “Men aren’t killing men. It’s a plague. They’re just quarantining off half the bloody country to contain it.”
Edgar cleared his throat. “Call it whatever you want, Grant, but to the paper and the government it’s a war. The plague that’s ravaged the frontier is working its way here, and if the army can’t stop it then God help us all.” Edgar reclined in his chair, tipping it off the floor. “Almost the entire army is stationed along the length of the Mississippi River, trying to hold the border between us and the dead. Good men are dying out there every day. To me, that’s a war too.”
“What do you want from me, Edgar? Did you just want to see how I would react when you told me I was going?”
Edgar ignored him. “The 112th regiment is about to make a push westward to see how bad things really are on the other side, and to exterminate as many of those things as they can. I want you to go with them. As I said, we need someone out there so that people here can know what’s happening in the West. You’ve been in the field before. Hell, if I recall correctly, you claim you actually fought in some of the battles you covered near the end of the last war.”
“Not by choice,” Grant muttered.
“Go home and pack your bags. You’ll be leaving first thing in the morning to meet up with the 112th and the main force of the push west. I’ll have all the papers you’ll need ready by then.”
“Yes, sir,” Grant answered coldly.
Edgar got up and vanished into the halls of Harper’s, leaving Grant in peace.
He sat still for a moment, letting his new assignment sink in. If even half of the reports over the past few months were true, he was heading into Hell itself. The dead owned the West now. Allegedly, some tribes of Indians still held out against them, but those stories were unconfirmed and off the record. The paper didn’t want people believing that savages could outlast civilized man, because without a doubt the western states were lost. The plague had swept through them like wildfire on a prairie, turning everyone who contracted it into a walking corpse intent only on devouring the living and spreading the plague.
Many people believed this was the End of Days as described in the Bible. New churches opened their doors here in the East every day, and revivals seemed a nonstop occurrence. Grant was not a religious man and the whole mess stunk of desperation, but even he had to admit this was like nothing the human race had ever faced in all of recorded history.
He pushed his chair back from his desk and walked over to collect his coat from the hook by the door. If there was any real hope left to be found, he would find it. If nothing else, his readers deserved the truth; he could at least give them that.
Five days later Grant arrived in Franklin. The 112th had beaten him there and were already well prepared for the East’s first major counteroffensive against the plague. The plan, if it could be called that, was simply to cross the Mississippi, push as far west as possible and kill everything they came across, then fall back to reinforce the border until another offensive could be launched. The military command knew the dead didn’t breed. They wanted to thin out their numbers and, step by step, expand the border westward until they reached the Pacific, making the US whole once more.
The 112th was just one of many regiments sent across the river at various points, but it was newly formed and composed of mainly green troops who’d never seen combat. Grant wondered if Edgar had assigned him to that particular regiment because they were the least likely to make it back.
He shook the dark thoughts from his head as he marched up the steps of the town’s administrative building, headed to report in to the regiment’s commanding officer, General Peter Alves. Alves had the reputation of being a hard ass who got things done, a competent leader despite his personality and lack of social skills. He’d climbed the ranks quickly, but always seemed to end up with the worst or most dangerous missions on his plate.
As soon as Grant walked in, a young man dressed in an aide’s uniform rushed to meet him. “Mr. Grant?” he asked, outstretching his hand.
“Yes.” Grant shook with him. “How did you know?”
“You were expected, sir. Besides, you sure ain’t from around here. No one here wears clothes as fancy as yours. You just had to be from New York, sir.”
Grant laughed. “I’m here to report in to General Alves.”
“I know, sir. The general’s busy though. I’m sorry. However, he did leave orders as to where you’re being accommodated.”
“Accommodated?”
“Sorry, sir. I mean as to which platoon you’ll be traveling with.”
Grant felt his stomach turn. The general was putting him off in more ways than one. “You mean I won’t be traveling with the general himself?”
“No. Let’s see… You’re being placed under the care of Sergeant Robert Hank. He’s a veteran, sir. The general said he’d be more than able to not only ensure your safety while you’re with us, but also be able to show you what it’s really like to be fighting the dead.”
“Wonderful.” Grant faked a smile. Things just kept getting better and better. “Where can I find this Sergeant Hank?”
“He and his men are in the barracks just across town. Do you want me to escort you there?”
“No,” Grant said, and he turned and walked out of the building. He was just about done being cast aside, and he was having a tough time holding his anger in check. Surely, he figured, things couldn’t get any worse.