“It’s better than killing the living,” Grant assured him.
Ben looked at him, his mouth dangling open in shock. “You fought in the Civil War?”
“I did. I just wasn’t a soldier. The problem with battles is that they pull everyone into them, whether you’re a non-combatant or not, doesn’t matter. No one takes the time to ask or care.”
Grant gestured at Ben’s weapon. “That’s one of the new Golden Boys isn’t it?”
Ben handed him the rifle. “Winchester 1866. Tube magazine, fifteen shots before reloading, sharper accuracy, and much less likely to misfire than a musket.”
Grant whistled as he examined the rifle. “If we had these a few years ago, the war would’ve been over a whole lot sooner.”
Ben smiled and reached to take the rifle as Grant gave it back. “You’re not carrying a weapon?”
“No. If things get bad enough for me to need one, I expect there will be plenty lying around for me to use.”
A rifle cracked on the other side of the camp. Both Ben and Grant hopped to their feet. The lingering rays of the dying sun, combined with the firelight, lit the clearing well enough to show what was happening at the edge of the camp. A pack of dead men and women, numbering in the dozens, had emerged from the woods and were darting towards the camp perimeter, howling like starved animals in a rage. The sentries and several other men were already letting them have it. Rifles blazed, their chambers spitting casings onto the grass. The dead weren’t even slowing; in fact, they seemed to be gaining speed, as if spurred on by resistance.
“Aim for their heads!” Wayne was roaring from behind the hastily assembled firing line. Hank shoved the shouting officer aside and aimed his Winchester at the dead. His shot blew open the skull of a middle-aged man at the head of the pack, spraying blood and bone into the air. The man fell, trampled under the feet of the dead behind him.
Hank’s action snapped the other soldiers out of their panic by showing them the dead could die. It happened too late though. Only around ten of the things took hits to the head before the pack collided with the firing line. Men screamed as cold, rotting hands dug into their flesh. A couple of them were knocked to the ground and fed upon while the rest tried to retreat.
Wayne drew his sidearm and dispatched an elderly woman chewing on the cheek of a private. “Fall back!” he urged as a man missing an eye leapt at him.
Hank stepped between Wayne and his attacker at the last second, batting the thing aside with the butt of his rifle. As he fell on top of the creature, he tore a knife from a sheath in the top of his boot and, with all his weight, drove the blade to its hilt into the thing’s skull.
Grant turned to check on Ben, but the boy was gone. He’d raced forward to join the melee. Grant cursed. So much for his plan of just picking a weapon off the dead. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He knew he was too, and he had to do something—anything. He couldn’t just stand here in the open. To hell with it, he thought, and he charged into battle.
Not far from him, a dead woman had pinned a soldier to the ground and was trying to get a clean bite at his throat. Grant tore her off the man and shoved her away. She was on her feet faster than he could believe.
Only the private’s quick recovery saved Grant’s life. By luck more than skill, the soldier managed to put a bullet into her left eye as she threw herself at Grant, and just like that the camp was quiet once more.
Grant took a deep breath, recollecting himself as he appraised the situation. Nine soldiers in the platoon had died in the attack. Another fifteen or more received bites or wounds and were just as dead. It was only a matter of time. Grant saw Wayne and Hank, already off by themselves, having a heated discussion. Grant headed straight for them.
Both of the officers fell silent and glared at him.
“Gentlemen, surely you were given orders on what to do with the wounded, considering the nature of the plague,” Grant said. “This should not be a topic open to debate.”
“You know he’s right, sir,” Hank said, seeming a tad less angry after hearing what the journalist had to say.
Wayne scowled. “What would you have me do? Do you think any sane, armed man is going to stand there and let me shoot him?”
“It has to be done. The sooner the better,” Hank said. “If one of them turns, who knows how many more of us he’ll take with him.”
The rest of the platoon had already clearly divided itself: those who weren’t injured wanted to be far away from those who were.
“Good Lord,” Grant said, exasperated. “Did they not give you a plan on how to deal with this?”
Neither Wayne nor Hank answered him.
Grant ripped the revolver from Wayne’s hand and started over to the wounded. “You men are all dead. You know it. The question is, are you going to die with honor in the service of your country, or fight what must be done at the cost of those who will carry on with this mission?”
Grant’s answer came in the form of a rifle crack and a bullet whizzing by him; instinctively he dove for the ground.
A new battle erupted in the camp between the living and the dying. Men fell on both sides. Dalton, the tracker, was one of the bitten. He turned on the other wounded near him and rammed a knife into the spine of the closest soldier. As the man collapsed, Dalton took his handgun from his hip and, his hand and trigger finger moving like lightning, emptied the weapon into his companions.
It was over quickly. As the smoke cleared, Grant stood over Dalton’s body with Wayne’s gun and personally made sure the corpse did not rise. It was the least he could do for a man so honorable, even in the face of death. Grant tossed the gun at Wayne. “It’s done now, sir,” he said coldly.
He walked away without another word, leaving Wayne and the others to deal with the bodies.
Three
At the break of dawn, the remaining eighteen men headed west once more. No one spoke. There was nothing to be said that anyone wanted to hear out loud. They ate their midday meal without stopping, and only as the sun was beginning to set did the tired, beaten men pause to rest.
This time only one small fire was lit, and everyone did their best to stay near its light. The night watch was set up so that ten men were awake and combat-ready at all times. Grant volunteered for the first shift. He carried a rifle as well as a sidearm now, unwilling to put his life in the hands of someone else. If another full pack of the dead attacked them, there would be no survivors this time. They would be overwhelmed and there wouldn’t be a damn thing any of them could do about it.
Grant found himself sitting with Clint, Ben, and another soldier he didn’t know by name, listening to them talk.
“We made good time today, didn’t we, Sam?” Clint asked.
Sam nodded. “I figure we should reach Canton before nightfall tomorrow.”
“Sam, is it?” Grant asked, extending his hand over the fire to the leather-skinned man. “You look like you’ve been through this before.”
“Reckon I have. I was stationed in the West when the plague broke out.” Sam reached for the coffee brewing on the fire and filled his tin cup. “I’m one of the few who made it across the river before things got too bad and the quarantine line was put in place.”
“You’ve fought these things before then?” Grant pressed, his reporter’s instinct getting the better of him.
Sam stared at him with the eyes of a veteran. “We’ll be better off when we reach Canton. Fightin’ the dead in the open is suicide. The bastards are too hard to kill. Guess no one told that to the folks at home when they was puttin’ this mess of an operation together.”