“Which way?” Hollis asked.
“Right through that small stand of bush. Between those two large pines.”
The driver pulled ahead and plunged through the brush. Hatcher pointed to the trail that was little more than a worn path climbing up the mountain and the driver made for it. He glanced in the rearview mirror and watched as the wide Humvee following them emerged from the dark growth like a large metal dinosaur. He felt a certain amount of satisfaction they had reinforcements for this journey.
The large, lumbering truck bit and clawed its way up the mountain, sending small rocks and debris flying as the large wheels tried to find purchase in the loose rock and sand. All eyes were on the tree line, praying that those who held them at bay last night had disappeared deeper into the woods and wouldn’t make an appearance.
Hatcher thought about their behavior and shook his head. “Have you ever heard of a Zulu not attacking before?”
Hollis shrugged. “My interaction with them is rather limited.”
“What about before? You know, when this whole thing first started.” Hatcher turned to look at him.
Hollis shook his head. “I was on a mission at the time. I really didn’t see much action against the Zeds.”
Hatcher gave him a confused look. “Zed?”
“Military jargon for ‘Z’. You know…zombie.”
“Ah. Yeah, that’s why we call them Zulus.”
Hollis nodded, not really paying attention. “I assumed as much.”
The driver looked to Hatcher. “Aren’t real zombies supposed to be dead, though? Why call the infected a zombie?”
Hatcher shrugged. “I didn’t start it. Somebody else did.” He stretched his neck and continued to watch the trees. “What else would you call them? I’ve seen some zombie movies where the infected were called zombies.”
“I’d just call them infected. I mean, they aren’t dead, so—”
“Mind your duties, soldier,” Hollis barked. “You can discuss proper labels once the mission is complete.”
The young soldier nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Hatcher gave Hollis a dirty look. “No need to bark at the boy. We were just making conversation.”
Hollis pointed forward through the windshield just as the driver slowed the truck. “Tell me that wasn’t there last night.”
Hatcher spun around and felt his stomach tighten. Two more large trees laid across the path, blocking them from ascending any farther.
“No. They weren’t.”
The truck eased to a stop and Hollis stepped out, weapon ready. “Eyes on the tree line, boys. Let’s get those logs moved and do what needs doing so we can go home.”
Hatcher leveled his rifle on the trees and began making a slow broad sweep of the area. His sleep-deprived mind kept forming moving shapes in the shadows. He tried to force himself to be more alert and almost wished he had more of that powdered coffee.
“Contact!” one of the men shouted behind Hatcher.
“Don’t shoot!” the lone figure shouted.
Hatcher froze in place, his eyes wide as a dirty and haggard appearing figure stepped from the trees, a long stick in one hand.
He stood slowly and took a step toward the filthy man. “Do I know you?”
The figure nodded slowly. “It’s been a little while, but yeah.”
Hatcher stepped forward and one of the soldiers tried to reach for him. “Sir! I wouldn’t do that.”
Hatcher shook him off. “He’s obviously not infected.” He took another step toward the figure. “But how?”
“That’s a long story, Ranger.” The figure stepped closer and Hatcher could make out his features.
“I do remember you. You were that kid…the one that Skeeter was with.”
Buck Jennings stiffened at the name. “Tell me she’s okay.”
“Yeah, kid.” Hatcher broke into a wide grin. “She’s just fine.”
“Who’s your friend, Hatcher?” Hollis asked, his rifle still trained on Buck.
“This is Buck.” Hatcher turned and held his hands up, urging the others to lower their weapons. “He’s no threat.”
Buck stepped alongside Hatcher and lowered his voice. “Oh, I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
Squirrel stepped into the lobby and found his remaining crew standing just outside the door. They turned and faced him as he stepped into the early morning air. “We still scrounging through convenience stores today, boss?”
Squirrel shook his head. “Last night I spotted smoke. To the south.” He pointed in the general direction. “It could be nothing. But it could be something. Today we ride south and see what we can find.”
The men nodded and mounted their motorcycles. None offered to bury Slug, and few even thought of the man other than the smell that was starting to permeate the lobby.
“It couldn’t have been too far.” Squirrel added as he fired the Indian to life. “Unless it was a huge fire, or somebody decided to burn tires to keep warm, it couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen miles.”
The five motorcycles pulled out of town and he pointed to the road sign directing them toward Bernalillo, Corrales, and Rio Rancho. He pulled to a stop and pointed to the first two. “You two check out Bernalillo. You two check Corrales. I’ll go ahead to Rio Rancho. No raiding, no searching for supplies. Just look for signs of that fire and then radio me. Whoever finds it first, we’ll all meet up with them and check it out together. Got it?”
They all nodded or gave a thumbs up. Squirrel kicked the Indian into gear and accelerated back onto the road. He took the lead and opened the Indian up. It didn’t matter if he pulled away from the others. He had farther to go and was doing his part alone. He almost hoped that the others would discover the source of the smoke and it would be something stupid. A lightning strike or some lone survivor who burned a house full of ragers…something that didn’t warrant bringing in Simon. Something that precluded laying siege
