Dead America The Third Week (Book 6): Dead America, Mississippi Caravan Read online

  DEAD AMERICA: THE THIRD WEEK

  BOOK 6

  MISSISSIPPI CARAVAN

  BY DEREK SLATON

  © 2020

  CHAPTER ONE

  Day Zero +18

  A locomotive rolled down the tracks through rural Louisiana, sun glinting off of the sparkling exterior. The front ten cars, having been liberated from a commuter line in Kansas, made for a comfortable ride for the hundred or so troops traveling within. The remaining eight cars were jam-packed with essential goods, like bottle water, ammunition, and greenhouse building materials.

  The front commuter car was the closest to the engine, and so was by far the loudest. As a result, it was also the emptiest. A few soldiers curled up in the back seats, fighting the urge to wake up. Towards the front sat a handful of awake soldiers, staring out the window at the world whipping by.

  Private Watkins was one such soldier, brushing his sandy blonde hair back from his forehead. The tall city boy had joined the military straight out of high school a few years prior, managing to stay stateside despite the numerous flare ups around the globe. Having felt like he hadn’t done enough to help his nation and defend his country, he’d volunteered for this dangerous escort mission.

  His mood reflected what the once lush green hills had become, scarred black by bombs and fire, hundreds of corpses dotting the landscape. Thankfully, none at this juncture were moving.

  Private Jones shook his head. “Hell of a mess out there, ain’t it?” he asked, the morning sun glinting off of his dark, bald head.

  “Kind of hard to believe there were that many of those things out here that it would require a bombing campaign like that,” Watkins replied, turning to his buff friend. They’d met in basic training and had been stationed together in Kansas before the world turned to shit.

  Jones hopped across the aisle to sit across from his friend, taking in the grisly view. “Well, we’re only about fifteen miles away from Mississippi, and our friends in the Navy caused one hell of a ruckus last week.” He shrugged. “Must have drawn quite the crowd.”

  “Still can’t believe they…” Watkins shook his head. “We… cut off the entire East Coast from the rest of the country.”

  Jones leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Hey now, that wasn’t our call,” he said firmly. “People way above our pay grade thought it was best.”

  “Well, given their stellar track record in recent years,” Watkins replied with a roll of his eyes, “who am I to doubt them?”

  Jones chuckled, joined by a few of the other soldiers sitting behind them.

  “Amen, brother,” one of them declared, raising his fist into the air in solidarity.

  “And besides,” Jones continued, “we haven’t completely cut them off. If we had, then you and I wouldn’t be on this train headed to Mississippi to run goods up to survivors.”

  Watkins took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly, not meeting his friend’s gaze. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Ain’t no guessing needed!” Jones exclaimed. “We gonna be helping people out, helping them survive this shit.”

  His friend nodded jerkily. “That’s true.”

  “And, it could be a lot worse,” Jones reminded him, holding up a finger. “We could be headed up to the Northwest.”

  Watkins brow furrowed. “Northwest?”

  “Yeah, lots of people are being shipped up there,” Jones replied with a shrug. “Rumor has it there’s some sort of major offensive being planned.”

  His friend shook his head vigorously. “Can’t imagine,” he admitted. “I’d much rather be out here in the sticks than going up to Seattle or Portland.”

  “Damn right,” Jones agreed. “Lot more dangerous places to be than right here.”

  The soldier who’d raised a fist turned halfway towards them. “Like Kansas City.”

  “Shit man,” Jones blurted with a gasp, “you were at Kansas City? Heard that whole deal was FUBAR.”

  The soldier turned fully around, revealing severe burns on his face that covered his left eye. The flesh still looked raw and fresh, shining with gooey blisters. “FUBAR would be putting it lightly.”

  The duo blinked at him, swallowing hard in unison at the sight of his mangled face.

  “I’ve heard stories,” Watkins said hoarsely, trying to cover up his visible reaction to the disfigured man. “Shit that will haunt me for years, and I wasn’t even there.”

  The soldier leaned on the back of his seat. “Let’s put it this way,” he explained, “if this were the nineteen fifties, they would be making movies about Kansas City with John Wayne leading the charge into the horde like he was storming the beaches of Normandy.” He shook his head. “Of course, much like those movies, the reality was far worse than what was on screen.”

  “Did… did that…” Jones waved his hand in front of his face. “Did that happen there?”

  Watkins stared at him with wide eyes, as if to ask his friend what the fuck he was thinking asking a tactless question like that.

  “Yeah, I got this lovely parting gift there,” the soldier replied, seemingly not offended. “We were at a staging area at this truck stop a quarter mile from the front lines. Or so we thought.” He sighed. “Everybody was checking their gear and waiting for the go order. All the while we could hear the battle raging in the distance. As we sat there with our thumbs up our asses, the gunfire in the distance quickly decreased in volume. A lot of the boys were getting excited, thinking the battle was going to be over before we even got there.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “This was proven wrong just a few minutes later.”

  Jones rubbed the back of his neck. “Run… runners?”

  The soldier nodded. “Hundreds of them,” he confirmed. “They came running over the hill like a swarm of army ants. Panic quickly set in, with random firing by some, and fleeing by most. We had almost no protection from them, just a handful of sandbag barricades that were maybe knee-high to a preschooler. It caused them to stumble when they got to it, but not much else.”

  Watkins gaped at him. “How did you manage to get out alive?” he asked.

  “Quick thinking and a nasty smoking habit,” the soldier replied.

  The duo shared a confused look, and then turned back to him expectantly.

  “A buddy of mine flipped on the gas and started spraying it liberally,” the soldier continued. “He kept doing it even as he got overwhelmed by those things. Only thing I could do at that point was flick my lighter, toss it, and run. Before I could even get out of the parking lot, the fire was raging like it was a northern California forest.”

  Jones blinked at him. “So you saved the day?”

  “No,” the soldier replied, shaking his head, “there was no saving that day. It slowed a lot of them down, but turned most of them into running torches. Got tackled by one who got a little too close.” He motioned to his face. “Which is why I’m so pretty now.”

  The duo cracked a small smile at his joke, hanging on his every word.

  “Don’t know how many soldiers we lost that day, but if that operation is a preview to what they’re doing in the Northwest…” He trailed off for a beat, and then shook his head again. “We’re a lot better off right here.”

  Watkins ran his hands through his hair. “That’s horrific, man.” He let out a deep whoosh of breath.

  “Yeah, I mean, why in the world aren’t you in a med bay somewhere recuperating?” Jones piped up. “Or at least getting some shore leave?”

  The soldier shrugged. “Our enemy isn’t resting,” he said, “f
igured I shouldn’t either.”

  The train began to squeal, signaling the braking procedure. The soldiers looked out the window, gazing over the Mississippi river. On the south side stood the ruins of the commuter bridge a couple hundred yards away, obliterated by cruise missiles.

  Jones swallowed hard. “Navy ain’t fucking around.”

  The burned soldier stood up and pulled a bag from underneath his seat. He flung it over his shoulder and headed for the back door to the other train cars. “You boys be safe out there,” he called back to them. “Keep your heads about you, stay vigilant, and you’ll come through this okay.”

  The duo nodded thoughtfully, and then shared a tense look before staring out the window again. The train lurched to a stop outside of a large rest area.

  “Here we go,” Jones said, and they got to their feet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The soldiers disembarked from the train, roaming around the large grassy field, several making a beeline to the restrooms across the way. Watkins and Jones stood in the grass and stretched, enjoying the fresh air as they worked their sore muscles from being trapped on the train for what felt like a long few days.

  “So now what?” Jones asked, adjusting his weapons and equipment bags that were securely strapped to him.

  Watkins pointed past him, noticing a strip of food trucks lined up next to the rest stop, lines of soldiers at the windows. “How about some breakfast?”

  “Fuck yeah, dude!” Jones exclaimed as he surveyed the trucks. “Let’s get it!”

  They walked over, seeing several options for food. One station had breakfast tacos, others with burgers, one of them was making fancy fajitas with tzatziki sauce.

  Jones quickly fell into the burger line.

  Watkins raised an eyebrow. “A burger for breakfast?”

  “Man, when is the last time you had a fresh cheeseburger?” Jones replied wistfully, rubbing his hands together. “Who cares about what time it is?”

  A soldier who had picked up his order walked down the line, burger in hand. He took a bite and grimaced, prompting Jones to reach out and touch his arm.

  “Yo, you all right, dude?” he asked, cocking his head at the food.

  The soldier nodded. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing with a wince. “I just wasn't expecting a frozen turkey burger.”

  Jones blinked at him and then took a big step to the side, joining his friend in the breakfast taco line. “You know, some eggs and sausage sound good right about now.”

  Watkins chuckled, shaking his head.

  A megaphone squealed, and they turned towards a figure at the top of the hill. “Okay, everybody, listen up!” the figure barked. “Welcome to the front lines of this shitshow! I know you all have had a long journey, so take ten, get some chow, and enjoy this little bit of sunshine before the clouds come rolling in. When you got what you need, start heading north to the casino. It’s about a mile up on the river, and we’re meeting in the hotel lobby in thirty.”

  The duo turned back to the food truck, with only a few soldiers left in line in front of them.

  “Breakfast and a hike,” Jones said with a sigh. “This day’s already shaping up to be a doozy.”

  They reached the window, and the guy behind the counter slid them each a foil-wrapped taco before yelling, “NEXT!”

  The soldiers grabbed their spoils and moved out of the way, unwrapping their tacos as they walked. They bit into their delicious wraps as they headed towards the front of the train to cross the tracks.

  There was a small army of workers in pickup trucks backed up against the transport cars of the train, unloading the goods from within by hand.

  “That seems a bit inefficient,” Jones mumbled through a mouthful of egg.

  Watkins shrugged. “Well, if you happen to know of a nearby train yard they can unload in, I’m sure they’d love to know about it,” he retorted.

  His friend nodded without answering, and shoved the butt end of his taco in his mouth, chewing for a while to draw out the flavors. They crossed the tracks and headed north towards the casino.

  The troops spread out along the road, leaving a few lanes open on the left for the trucks to pass them by. The sun shone on their backs, creating an unseasonably warm day, but the trees lining the road provided comfortable shade.

  Light murmurs of chatter rippled through the men, but Jones and Watkins stayed silent, enjoying the moment of peace as they strolled towards what was sure to be a hectic day.

  As the casino came into view, they stared at their destination. The parking lot was filled with dozens of tractor trailers, a hive of activity buzzing around the area. The trucks that had been whizzing by them pulled up to the backs of the trailers, unloading goods rapidly. Supervisors stood on the backs of a few of the trucks, rolling around and barking out orders, waving frantically for workers to move and drive and lift in perfect synchronicity.

  “Man, that is a whole lot of trucks,” Watkins murmured as they walked.

  Jones nodded. “Makes you wonder just how many survivors are in this neck of the woods,” he added.

  “Well, we essentially have to service the entire southern portion of the country,” Watkins pointed out. “Not too many bridges left over the river.”

  The thought made his friend clench his jaw as the realization set in that they were to be the only lifeline to god knew how many survivors. “This shit just gets crazier by the hour,” he muttered.

  They stayed away from the loading zone, skirting the parking lot to get to the front entrance of the casino. They stepped inside to see the hive was just as active on the inside as the outside. The one difference was the cool blast of air conditioner smacking them in the face at the door.

  “Damn, that feels fantastic,” Watkins moaned happily, closing his eyes as they entered.

  Jones sighed in agreement. “If the power’s on, there must be a higher up here,” he mused. “Can’t have ranked officers sweltering with the enlisted, after all.”

  Soldiers and civilians wound their way through the lobby, most carrying goods while others rearranged furniture, making more room. Some were at the windows, working to reinforce them in case of an attack, undead or alive. As the newcomers milled about, looking around, a woman wearing a hotel uniform appeared from a side hallway.

  She held up her hand, waving and speaking loudly, “Show of hands, who just arrived on the train?” she asked, her voice carrying above the noise without being a yell.

  Watkins and Jones raised their hands, along with a smattering of soldiers hanging around.

  The woman looked down at her clipboard and scribbled as she counted. “Okay, thank you very much!” she said, and pointed behind them. “If you will all head down the hallway to the first conference room on the left, Captain Holt will be with you shortly.”

  The soldiers headed along, Watkins and Jones in the middle, following the young woman’s orders. The conference room was a huge space filled with chairs and a projector screen lighting up the far wall. A trio of men in civilian clothes sat to the side.

  Watkins and Jones took a seat in the front row, looking around as their brethren filtered in, filling the room. When it seemed as if the stream of soldiers had finished, a short stocky balding man that looked to be in his late forties entered, closing the doors behind him.

  “All right everybody, get situated so we can get this show on the road,” he barked, striding around the perimeter to the front of the room. He stopped and pointed at a cluster of soldiers in the back who were still standing. “Sit your fucking ass down and shut the fuck up before I strap you to one of those semis out there and ride you right into the middle of a fucking horde!” he yelled.

  The room went completely silent, and the soldiers all dropped to their seats.

  The man took a deep breath, smoothing down his shirt, and straightened his shoulders. “First of all, welcome to the front lines of what is the single largest rescue and aid operation in the history of this country,” he said, voice professional an
d smooth, a far cry from just moments ago. “I’m Captain Holt, and I’m running this show. I don’t know how much you were told before volunteering or being assigned to his outpost. So I’m going to go over the basics.” He waved his hand, and somebody turned off the lights.

  He flicked the switch on the side of the projector, stepping to the side as the wall lit up. The first slide on was a map of the southern states on the east side of the Mississippi River. There were several hundred small red dots on it, some as far away as the southern tip of Florida.

  “America is known for a lot of things,” the Captain said. “Baseball, apple pie, and the most strip clubs per capita of any nation in the free world.” He paused as laughter rippled through the soldiers, tentatively but welcome to break the tension. “And, an abundance of resiliency,” Holt continued. “It’s that last point that has led to each and every one of these red dots on the map. What you see here, are groups of survivors that the boys in D.C. have been able to identify via satellite and radio communications.” He motioned to the map. “It’s our mission to resupply these civilians and make sure they can ride out this storm.”

  He hit the button and a new image popped up, with a bullet point list of goods. The Captain stepped aside, taking a moment for the soldiers to read the items, like food, water, and different kinds of weapons.

  “This is what you’re going to be carrying across the land,” he continued. “Food, so that they can get through the short term. Supplies to help them set up gardens so they can survive long term. And a healthy amount of guns, because, well, this is America, dammit, and everybody needs at least one in the apocalypse.” He held up his hands at another ripple of laughter, motioning for them to quiet down. “In all seriousness, the supplies you will be in charge of should be treated like they’re worth their weight in gold, because they are. The vast majority of supply lines have been severed in this country, which means almost nothing new is being produced. This thing hit so quickly that there isn’t a stockpile we can pull from.” He raised his chin, and took a deep breath. “Lives were lost to get these.”