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.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” Ben said aloud. “I really didn’t. It ain’t right.”
“Ain’t nothing right about the dead gettin’ up and tryin’ to eat ya. Pull it together, boy,” Sam warned. “The shit ain’t even started for us yet. Last night was nothing. Wait till you see a herd of those things, over a hundred or more strong, come tearin’ at ya. Then you’ll have a memory that’ll really haunt ya.”
“We’re gonna kill those bastards and send ‘em back to Hell where they belong. All of them,” Clint promised, gritting his teeth as he cleaned his rifle.
“This town, Canton,” Grant cut in. “Do you know anything about it, Sam?”
“Not much. Think a couple hundred folk called it home. It’s one of those towns that just sprang up in the rush west. The odds of us getting in and out of there alive ain’t too great, but like I said: at least there we’ll have somewhere to fortify and make a stand.” Sam sipped at his coffee. “You boys should be getting some rest. Our watch is over and I bet we’ll all be pressin’ it hard again tomorrow.”
The night passed with no sign of the dead, and just as Sam had predicted, the next day was filled with a rigorous march. As the squad drew nearer to Canton, their expectations of another attack rose, but none came.
Wayne himself was on point as the group entered the town. The place stank of rotting flesh and death. There was no question that the dead were lying in wait, and quite likely a large number of them.
Wayne surveyed the closest buildings and picked the one that looked the most secure. “Clint, Ben: go check out the jail. I want it secured as fast as possible. Everybody else, hold your positions and be ready to move in on their signal.”
Clint and Ben darted for the building and disappeared behind its door, which swung in the breeze.
Hank tapped Grant on the shoulder as they waited. “See that?” he asked, directing the journalist’s attention to the eastern side of town.
“I’ll be damned,” Grant muttered. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
“Wish I could,” Hank said, frowning. “It’s an orphanage all right. A big one from the looks of the thing.”
“You don’t think…” Grant couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
“I sure do. The plague doesn’t give a crap how old you are.”
A gunshot echoed inside the jail. Five more rang out in its wake. Wayne was on the verge of ordering more men into the building, but Ben popped into the doorway and gave the all-clear sign. Almost en masse the squad sprinted for the cover of the building. Grant and Hank entered last, pushing the door closed behind them.
Hank spotted a heavy looking desk. “Gimme a hand!” he ordered. Grant and two other men helped shove the desk in front of the door, wedging it as tightly shut as they could. “That should at least give us some warning,” Hank said, satisfied.
Ben fought through the gathered men toward Wayne. “The place is clear, sir. We only found one of the dead in here, and it was locked up in one of the cells.”
“What were all the shots then?” Wayne asked.
“Ben panicked,” Clint replied, emerging from the rear of the building. “And we had a hell of time hitting the thing in its head, what with it slinging itself against the bars, trying to get at us.”
“What’s the plan?” Hank asked Wayne as he walked up.
The dead stirred in the streets outside. Their howls seemed to come from everywhere at once. The gunfire undoubtedly had alerted them.
Wayne stood in front of his men. “We have to hold this place if we want to stay alive. I want that door and the rear entrance better secured. Use anything you can find. Get them barricaded off!” After a brief pause, he said, “In the meantime, I want men on the roof. We should have a clear view of the surrounding area from up there and should be able to pick off the dead without actually engaging them face to face.”
Hank snapped into action, directing the men and making it happen. Only Grant stayed with Wayne, not taking part in the bustle of activity.
“That’s a good plan,” Grant said.
“No one asked your opinion.”
“I’d just like to point out the dead are going to swarm around this jail like flies. We may not have a way out of here when the time comes.”
“There’s always a way out,” Wayne said curtly.
Hank was the first to make it to the roof. He rushed to the edge and peered down at the streets below. The dead were coming out of the woodwork. He counted over a hundred before he gave up in frustration. “Get your asses up here now!” he shouted at the other men he’d assigned to the roof. Then he dropped to one knee into a firing position and splattered the brains of a former clergyman racing towards the jail’s main door. The other men joined him and soon the roof was a cloud of gun smoke, but the howls of the dead only grew louder and more numerous as shell casings showered the rooftop like rain.
Something thudded into the door of the jail so hard it shook the desk braced against it.
“They’re here!” a soldier shouted in warning.
The door began to shake as the things hammered on it from outside.
“Get the ladder to the roof taken down!” Wayne yelled. “Those men up there need as much time as we can give them! Be prepared to retreat into the holding cells. We can back ourselves in where they can’t reach us, but we’ll still be able to blow their asses to Hell. And damn well make sure someone thinks to get the keys!” he added.
Dead fists punched through the door with the sound of splintering wood, and the heavy desk was easily pushed aside under the weight of the mob. The men opened fire as the dead started to pour in, bottlenecked by the doorway; the soldiers didn’t even wait for Wayne’s command.
Grant scurried up to the roof and then kicked the ladder to the floor. There was no way in Hell he was going to lock himself away, surrounded by those things straining to get at him. Hank and the others were far too busy blasting the dead in the streets to notice him. Grant choked on the acrid clouds of gun smoke, which hung in the air all over the roof. “Ammo!” he heard someone yell.
