The Reaper: No Mercy Page 9

  "Plenty. We just raided the mother lode of supply depots, Reaper. We are full up on everything. I'll send a pallet, which will give you about forty. Is that enough?"

  "Plenty!"

  "Anything else?"

  "Standard field comm and NVGs would help." NVGs, or Night Vision Goggles, were a handy piece of field equipment, and the Reaper already had thought of uses for them.

  "Done, and already factored that in as we honestly have plenty; besides, you'll have my men. Hold on, I'm getting an estimate." A pause, then, "We are looking at real-time satellite now. Sheldon says the drop will occur tomorrow at 2300 Lima. Point to be the empty field south-southwest of your position 1500 meters out. Call sign is Blue One on frequency 134.156. Copy that?"

  "Wait one, Newaygo." The Reaper turned to see the compartment was now very crowded with everyone staring at him in disbelief. Beside him, Rodriguez breathed, "Wow, and now I know who Emma is. Who is the 9th? Surely not the 9th Special Forces out of Fort Campbell."

  "The same, Rodriguez. An understrength light battalion which joined Newaygo's forces. What about the drop location?"

  "Sir, that's right behind us. We can be there inside two minutes."

  The Reaper turned back to the transceiver. “Got it, Newaygo. We'll be there. Thanks!"

  "We're all in this together, so no thanks are necessary. We need you Reaper, so quit being the lone avenger! Newaygo out," and the carrier wave went dead.

  The Reaper turned off the communications equipment before turning to those assembled.

  "Any questions?"

  "No sir, but since we now know who Emma is, and you’d better find her a present," remarked Rodriguez. The nervous tension in the room dissolved into laughter, the Reaper taking the ribbing good-naturedly.

  *****

  Rodriguez sat down hard, his entire world turned upside down. This man, this captain who called himself the Reaper, was more than he could handle right now. If what he said, and what Dennis heard was true, they were good to go. They had quickly returned to the industrial complex and now the Reaper was looking at him. He pulled himself to attention and saluted.

  "Don't salute me indoors. Marines don't do that," commented Jason dryly.

  "I'm not a Marine, sir."

  "Point made."

  "They're really sending two teams of Special Forces here?" Rodriguez was still having trouble coming to grips with the enormity of the help they were about to receive.

  "Two twelve-man teams, yes," responded the Reaper. Special Forces had five completely separate missions. This was right up the alley of direct action.

  "Hell yes, sir!" and for the first time that day, Rodriguez smiled while hugging his Nance tightly.

  The Reaper went on. "We have work to do. I need to do a recon tonight of this cemetery and I need your best man to go with me."

  "That would be Staff Sergeant Schuster, my number two. He's former cav-scout, and was local reserves when called to active duty. He's on his way back now. I did as you asked and contacted him by field radio. He should be here shortly."

  The Reaper nodded, and then growled, "Do you have area maps, Rodriguez? If so, bring them." The Reaper was no nonsense, and Rodriguez ran to get them.

  Returning quickly, Rodriguez spread them out, then rotated the main topographic map so the Reaper would not have to view it upside down. Rodriguez was pointing with his finger, touching the heavy paper.

  "We are here sir, and over here is where the drop would be." Two spots close to each other were indicated, and the Reaper nodded as he examined the map.

  "And the marauders?"

  "Over here, sir." Another spot was indicated and the Reaper removed a grease pencil from his pocket and circled the last location.

  "Where is this Schuster?"

  "Coming now, sir, he just arrived."

  A medium-height camouflage-attired man ran up breathlessly and saluted Jason, who was no longer wearing his camouflage utility cap with its captain’s insignia, but Rodriguez was pointing at him.

  "Staff Sergeant Schuster reporting, sir." The Reaper ignored the salute and indicated a spot on the map.

  "Tonight we'll do a recon of this area. I want to start here," a point was touched on the map, "and circle around like this," a line was drawn in grease pencil, "then eventually circle their outer perimeter to the south. It will take most of the night. You up for it?" the Reaper inquired mildly as he watched the newcomer.

  "Absolutely, sir, I've been wanting to do a thorough recon since we arrived. How many men did you want to take?" It was obvious that Schuster realized why the salute was not returned and gave it no thought.

  "I was thinking just the two of us."

  "Sir, with respect, I would recommend at least two more. We'll definitely run into zombies and they move in packs these days. They're like silent feral dogs, sir. We may also need support while in the field."

  "I'm familiar with the tactics of the Godless, Schuster. Do you have two specifically in mind?"

  "Yes sir. They're good."

  "Accepted. Now let's plan the specifics."

  With that, the Reaper and Schuster went over the map in finer detail, planning out the route they would take. Partway through their meeting, Jason turned to Schuster and said, "By the way, call me Reaper."

  "Shue works for me, Reaper." Both men nodded to the other. Then Schuster continued as he pointed at the Reaper’s coat. "Since we're on first names here, I think you should swap out the carhartt for one of our spare camouflage jackets. This is a recon and that coat is not exactly invisible."

  The Reaper glanced down at his signature brown Carhartt, covered in grease and old blood stains, yet still very much an orange-brown, before sighing. "You're right. I've been meaning to get around to that."

  "Got you covered, Reaper." Shue was grinning as they turned their heads to the map again.

  *****

  Chapter 10

  "Let's go," murmured the Reaper to Staff Sergeant Brian Schuster as he led the way. Brian turned to the two men behind them, Hamilton and Barber, both PFCs, and waved for them to follow. Schuster stayed at the Reaper’s side, yet slightly behind, as they silently crept forward. The moon was up and bright, but deep down in the forest, what little light filtered down made travel treacherous. The chief threat of course, was the zombies, and what Jason would not have given for a set of NVGs (night vision goggles).

  Staff Sergeant Brian Schuster was thirty, born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri, and had joined the Army three days after his eighteenth birthday. After boot camp he had been assigned to the Infantry with the 1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment. There, he had spent years participating in various actions, while being assigned to various duty stations before transferring to the cav-scouts. Serving four tours with the scouts in the middle east had been exciting though dangerous and he had finally decided not to reenlist and instead transferred to the Active Reserves to keep the extra monthly paychecks coming. The flu epidemic and ensuing panic had caught all of them by surprise, but when called to active duty by Presidential Declaration he had reported for duty.

  Headquarters had immediately split their supply battalion into smaller units, in an attempt to cover as many major and larger cities as possible. The men had drawn their ammunition and supplies, then immediately embarked for Moberly to quell the spreading riots. He was desperately worried about his parents, older sister, and younger brother he had left behind, and had been tempted to go AWOL more than a few times to see if they were still alive. He could only thank God that he had never married and had no children.

  Then, Moberly, and the riots that were not really riots but actually zombies creating a spreading wave of panic. Their lieutenant had been one of the first to go down, and through two days of heavy fighting, while losing half their platoon, their remaining forces had managed to escape the city's boundaries with as many refugees as they could gather. Their destination was Paris, Missouri, and Schuster hoped to soon be able to take a short leave to check on his family back in
St. Louis. Sergeant Rodriguez had assured him and those others with family in St. Louis that as soon as they had enough able defenders, those who wished could lead a small scouting mission into that city. Brian knew his family's chances of survival were slim, but still he had to know, if for no better reason than to have closure, and he had the skills to get in and out unseen.

  Schuster did not know what to make of this man, this officer beside him. The commission and orders had looked official, but being told to call Captain Scott by the nickname Reaper was a bit unusual. Still, the son-of-a-bitch had some major recon skills and carried that sniper rifle as if it were an extension of his body. He could only hope the Reaper was as good with it as the signs indicated. After a brief, whispered conversation with Rodriguez, they'd decided to take the captain at his word, even though none of them had heard of the officers who'd signed the commission and orders. Still, nothing unusual, as Schuster had rarely recognized the names on many of his own orders over the years, especially those from a headquarters regiment. In the end, Rodriguez had decided to provisionally accept the captain's orders. Schuster hoped they could finally start taking an active hand now. This hiding and non-action was really getting to him, and totally against everything he had trained for.

  There, a movement up ahead, the figure of an obvious zombie lurching towards them, and instantly Schuster's mind was back in the present. Beside him, the Reaper suddenly straightened and took a step forward. A grunt sounded from the captain and then a shadowy form was thrown to the ground beside Schuster. This move had been practiced before this very evening, and already knowing what to expect, Schuster had already drawn his issue bayonet, then brought his arm downward, forcibly driving its seven-and-a-quarter-inch blade through the skull into whatever was left of the brain. A quick forward and back jerk, then wrench, and the blade pulled free. It took only a moment to wipe the gore off on rotten rags this thing had called clothing before they were moving forward again. Neither man spoke, but simply nodded at each other as they did the job they knew they had to do, and once again the four ghosted forward all senses alert.

  It had taken them over an hour to get to this point, and they were quickly approaching the northeast corner of the cemetery. Somewhere ahead in the distance they could hear hard rock music playing, and Schuster could only assume the marauders were having their usual drunken party again. He had scouted them many times, and most often they were drunk or close to it.

  Captain Scott—the Reaper—had been clear. This was to be a silent recon to gauge their strengths, defenses, and confirm the location of the captives. Secondary objectives were to identify weaknesses in those defenses and avenues of ingress. Attack remained to be seen as Schuster knew the sergeant would not completely trust this man until and unless he came through with the supplies and men. That mission was set up for tomorrow night, and Schuster knew he would be included in that one also.

  They finally reached the edge near the road, and the Reaper's arm and hand rose, fist clenched, to signal a halt; immediately Schuster and the two behind him paused, breathing shallowly. Then another quick signal and they were moving again, this time towards the front gate near the center of the cemetery while remaining hidden within the tree line.

  He saw, then felt the Reaper’s hand reach out and touch his arm, stilling his progress. He waited, then saw the captain crouch, his hand extended, and beckon. At their feet were five bodies of older adults and young children. The Reaper pointed and Brian could make out what looked like gunshot wounds and Brian nodded, seeing that none had the desiccated look of the typical zombie. This was also not the first cluster of dead they had come across, and probably would not be the last. What these marauders were doing to the remaining survivors, especially the younger children, was sickening, and resolve hardened within Schuster to see these evil bastards wiped out. He sighed quietly and continued following the Reaper, who was skirting the bodies after closing their eyes.

  The Reaper was moving slower now, carefully removing small branches out of his path, and brushing aside leaves that might crunch under his booted feet. He suddenly paused, then reached out, fanned the air before him. Schuster watched as the Reaper's hands moved from side to side, then the man was reaching out, pulling him close.

  "Booby trap, wire, and something on this tree." The whisper was but a breath, faintly heard even from inches away. Schuster leaned forward as the Reaper pointed out a thin wire which lay before him, stretched tight, about a foot off the ground. On one side, the wire was tied around a small tree bole, and on the other, after carefully removing leaves from a small pile, he saw the Reaper uncover a surprise: an M67 fragmentation grenade, duct taped to the tree, the wire attached to its pin with the safely clip removed. Schuster knew from experience this explosive device had a four-second delay and a fifteen-meter blast radius, and just where in hell had the marauders gotten grenades? He watched as the Reaper removed a small tool from his belt, then cut both ends of the wire. Working quickly, he fashioned a new safety clip out of a piece of wire, inserted it, then handed the grenade to Schuster. The Reaper then turned and signed them to retreat.

  Silently they backed off thirty feet from the road before the Reaper stopped, then pulled them close to issue instructions. They were to wait here and the Reaper would scout ahead. Using hand signals, he instructed them not to move or make any other sound. They nodded and watched as he drifted away through the barely seen undergrowth.

  Twenty minutes later, the Reaper was back, and this time addressing them in whispers.

  "I found four more of the same up ahead. I kept them, so here you go, Shue," and suddenly four more grenades were handed over which Schuster placed with the others he had pocketed, after first verifying a newly fashioned clip had been inserted.

  "Good idea, Reaper. I hate leaving surprises on my back door."

  "Let's head along the north edge and verify the location of the captives." Schuster and the others nodded, then followed; they were making good progress, when suddenly they heard tiny cries for help.

  *****

  Tony was a psychopath, and he was having the time of his life. Born Tony Maurice Levinstein, he had spent his entire childhood and adult years rotating from one mental institution to another, while remaining somewhat in the care of his parents. The doctors had diagnosed him with several disorders which he no longer remembered the names of, nor did he care what they were called anymore. All he knew was that from a very early age, he had loved to hurt things and he was good at it. He had started with baby birds, just dropping them from their nests, then kicking their broken forms after he’d climbed down. From there, he had gone on to play with puppies and kittens, and especially loved watching them drown. Soon after, he had graduated to hurting children younger than he was, those too young to fight back, and he had enjoyed it tremendously.

  Then everything was turned upside down. People were rioting and weird-looking motherfuckers were attacking people while trying to eat them. It made him realize there were others more insane than he was. He was happy. His father, the brutal cocksucker, had quickly locked their house down, barricading it against those attacking everyone in sight. Tony hated that, for he hated everything his father did. He hated his mother also, for she was a stern bitch. Fuck them; he was glad he’d killed both of them the first chance he could, escaping the house once the outside was clear. He had taken what few weapons his father owned, and some supplies, then left. He wanted to hurt, and after all, he was good at it. Two weeks later, he had hooked up with Ringo and his gang outside the Sam's warehouse in Moberly. Ringo's crew did not care what he did as long as he obeyed them. Tony had witnessed them killing others who were attempting access to the food inside the warehouse, and felt an affinity for them. He had called out as he moved into view and said he wanted to be part of their group. Distrust followed, but after a simple test involving Tony killing one of the captives, Ringo had granted him acceptance. The rest was history.

  Now he had all he could drink, and all he could fuck. H
e especially liked fucking the younger ones because they screamed in pain while crying out for help. Or they screamed for their mommies. The best thing was ... there were plenty of young captives.

  Tony quickly stilled the crazy grin on his face as he approached where the captives were kept. He had to maintain. Keep his cool. Last week he had accidently killed one of the young ones, and Ringo had not been happy about it. In fact, the deed had earned Tony an ass kicking of epic proportions that he would not forget for a very long time; he could still feel the bruises after all.

  The prisoners were being kept underground. Someone had called it the catacombs in Tony's presence, and he sort of knew what that meant, but there were no dead bodies down there, unless one of the prisoners had died recently. Just a lot of empty space and side rooms carved out of the rock.

  "Hey bro! Got something for ya," he called out as he approached, and eagerly presented the full bottle of tequila he had grabbed from their supplies. There were four men guarding the front entrance, all standing around a steel barrel of burning refuse, and he knew he wouldn't be able to do what he desperately needed to do without them allowing him to remove one of the prisoners ... one of the younger prisoners!

  "Tony! Fucktard. Gimme that," and the bottle was snatched from his hand, the cap ripped off, and a tenth of the contents swallowed in a single gulp by one of the four. Then came the recriminations that Tony expected. "You can take one, but Ringo's orders are clear. If you kill another, we will shoot you down like a diseased dog. Can you keep it together this time?"