Read Online These Dead Lands: Immolation by Stephen Knight, Scott Wolf - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Knight, Scott Wolf
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open and lips drawn back to expose bloody teeth. The body of an elderly woman lay next to it, the head a few inches away. The zombie had fed with such ferocity that it had torn the head right off the body.
The severed head’s mouth suddenly moved, and the rheumy eyes in the skull looked toward Hastings with silent hunger. He grunted. He had seen a few decapitated heads reanimate in New York. They called them rollers because that was the only way they could possibly pursue prey.
Hastings walked over, pulled his brain bar from his belt, and swung it like a golf club.
“Captain, we got something out here. Over.” Ballantine’s voice was somehow excited and sanguine at the same time.
“More reekers, Ballantine? Over.”
“Negative.”
A low grumble reached Hastings’s ears, like the sound a motorcycle made when the throttle was wide open. He ran outside and quickly picked his way down the debris. His men were clustered behind Stilley’s Humvee, weapons at the ready, leaving Guerra alone to guard the other side of the formation. Hastings sprinted toward them just as a blue Suzuki shot around a bend in the street and rocketed past the diner. As the bike zipped by, the helmeted rider looked in their direction. Hastings was out in the open so the biker must’ve seen him, but the sight of Tharinger sitting in the Humvee’s cupola behind the .50-caliber machine gun wasn’t very inviting. The biker just kept going.
Hastings had no doubt what the biker was speeding away from. “Okay, do we have enough fuel for the vehicles?” he asked Ballantine as he closed the distance to his men.
“Yes, sir. We have all the fuel we can carry right now,” Ballantine said. “Anything in the diner?”
“It’s a write-off. Let’s mount up. That bike’s noise is going to lead the reekers right to us.”
“Hooah.” Ballantine turned to the rest of the soldiers. “You heard the man. Let’s pull out of here!”
“Hey, that bike’s coming back,” Tharinger said, slewing the .50 around.
Hastings heard the nasal roar of the crotch rocket approaching. He stepped around the rear bumper of the second Humvee and nodded to the black soldier who knelt nearby, M4 at the ready. “Get behind the wheel, Stilley.” Over his shoulder, he said, “Hartman, get back to the other Humvee.”
The blue Suzuki came into view. He was going slower, so Hastings was able to get a better look at him. The rider was clad in black leather, and the face was invisible behind the smoked visor of the black helmet. There was a bulge inside the riding jacket just beneath the gentle swell of her chest, and a machete hung from her belt.
The Suzuki braked to a stop twenty feet away, and the rider dropped her feet to the ground. With the bike still rumbling, she pulled off the helmet. She was an Asian woman with severe features that indicated she didn’t spend a lot of time laughing. Or maybe the events of the past few months had just conspired to rob her of any humor she might have once had.
“You still the good guys?” she asked over the noisy engine.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Hastings responded.
“I’ll make it easy for you. Down that street”—she pointed in the direction she had come from on her first pass—“there are two pickups full of rednecks who set up a roadblock and trapped the family I was traveling with. They killed the father, and they’re in the process of raping the woman and the little boy. Are you going to do anything about it?”
Hastings asked, “How many men?”
“I didn’t have time to do a count, General. Five, six, maybe more.”
“How are they armed?” Ballantine asked.
“Guns. Shotguns. Nothing like that,” the woman said, inclining her head toward the .50-caliber machine gun Tharinger held on her.
“How far back are they?” Hastings motioned for Stilley to start the Humvee, and a moment later, its diesel engine clattered to life.
“A mile or so…” The woman glanced down the road, and her
The severed head’s mouth suddenly moved, and the rheumy eyes in the skull looked toward Hastings with silent hunger. He grunted. He had seen a few decapitated heads reanimate in New York. They called them rollers because that was the only way they could possibly pursue prey.
Hastings walked over, pulled his brain bar from his belt, and swung it like a golf club.
“Captain, we got something out here. Over.” Ballantine’s voice was somehow excited and sanguine at the same time.
“More reekers, Ballantine? Over.”
“Negative.”
A low grumble reached Hastings’s ears, like the sound a motorcycle made when the throttle was wide open. He ran outside and quickly picked his way down the debris. His men were clustered behind Stilley’s Humvee, weapons at the ready, leaving Guerra alone to guard the other side of the formation. Hastings sprinted toward them just as a blue Suzuki shot around a bend in the street and rocketed past the diner. As the bike zipped by, the helmeted rider looked in their direction. Hastings was out in the open so the biker must’ve seen him, but the sight of Tharinger sitting in the Humvee’s cupola behind the .50-caliber machine gun wasn’t very inviting. The biker just kept going.
Hastings had no doubt what the biker was speeding away from. “Okay, do we have enough fuel for the vehicles?” he asked Ballantine as he closed the distance to his men.
“Yes, sir. We have all the fuel we can carry right now,” Ballantine said. “Anything in the diner?”
“It’s a write-off. Let’s mount up. That bike’s noise is going to lead the reekers right to us.”
“Hooah.” Ballantine turned to the rest of the soldiers. “You heard the man. Let’s pull out of here!”
“Hey, that bike’s coming back,” Tharinger said, slewing the .50 around.
Hastings heard the nasal roar of the crotch rocket approaching. He stepped around the rear bumper of the second Humvee and nodded to the black soldier who knelt nearby, M4 at the ready. “Get behind the wheel, Stilley.” Over his shoulder, he said, “Hartman, get back to the other Humvee.”
The blue Suzuki came into view. He was going slower, so Hastings was able to get a better look at him. The rider was clad in black leather, and the face was invisible behind the smoked visor of the black helmet. There was a bulge inside the riding jacket just beneath the gentle swell of her chest, and a machete hung from her belt.
The Suzuki braked to a stop twenty feet away, and the rider dropped her feet to the ground. With the bike still rumbling, she pulled off the helmet. She was an Asian woman with severe features that indicated she didn’t spend a lot of time laughing. Or maybe the events of the past few months had just conspired to rob her of any humor she might have once had.
“You still the good guys?” she asked over the noisy engine.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Hastings responded.
“I’ll make it easy for you. Down that street”—she pointed in the direction she had come from on her first pass—“there are two pickups full of rednecks who set up a roadblock and trapped the family I was traveling with. They killed the father, and they’re in the process of raping the woman and the little boy. Are you going to do anything about it?”
Hastings asked, “How many men?”
“I didn’t have time to do a count, General. Five, six, maybe more.”
“How are they armed?” Ballantine asked.
“Guns. Shotguns. Nothing like that,” the woman said, inclining her head toward the .50-caliber machine gun Tharinger held on her.
“How far back are they?” Hastings motioned for Stilley to start the Humvee, and a moment later, its diesel engine clattered to life.
“A mile or so…” The woman glanced down the road, and her
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