Holland muttered, “I sure am glad we marched all the way down here.”
Caleb ignored him. He had long ago given up expecting life in the Army to make sense. Everything was hurry up and wait, and contradicting orders, and marching for miles to take position on a hill, wait there for days, and then get orders to march to another hill and wait a few more days for an enemy that never showed up. Hicks no longer complained. It was pointless, and changed nothing. He simply accepted.
The platoon crossed town, emerged from the north gate, and turned eastward. When the wall surrounding the town of Hollow Rock passed behind them, there was a subtle shift in the soldiers’ demeanor. Behind the wall, they had been poised and confident, marching with casual ease, hefting their weapons with the surety of long practice. Now, without the wall separating them from the wasteland of horrors their country had become, they grew tense, eyes shifting, hands tightening on weapons, helmets turning as they scanned the fields around them and the treeline in the distance. The designated marksmen in each squad raised their sniper carbines and peered through scopes, searching the landscape for walkers or signs of an ambush.
Raiders, marauders, and insurgents were fond of using hordes as a distraction while they launched an attack. The soldiers of First Platoon had long ago learned how devastating such tactics could be, so they watched, and fidgeted, and worried.
Except Hicks.
He observed his surroundings closely, dark-blue eyes constantly on the move, searching for signs of living people having disturbed the tall grass around him. He did not allow himself to worry. One of the first lessons he had been taught, so long ago the memory was dim and hazy around the edges, was to master his emotions. To not let worry and anxiety dictate his actions. A panicked man makes mistakes, his father had said. Mistakes get you killed.
Furthermore, on long marches, when faced with an unknown number of walkers and the very real possibility of an ambush, tension burned energy best used for fighting. By staying loose and relaxed, he could stave off exhaustion far longer than someone with less self-control.
Master Sergeant Ashman called the platoon to a halt at the rendezvous point, a Y-shaped intersection between Hollow Rock’s main gate and Highway 114. The men and women of the Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia were already waiting for them.
The militia was a stark contrast to the regular Army troops. Where Hicks and his fellow soldiers packed nearly sixty pounds of gear each time they ventured into the field, the militiamen carried hardly any equipment at all. Just a rifle, sidearm, melee weapon, MOLLE vest, spare ammunition, and a light assault pack. They even eschewed helmets in favor of ball caps, boonie hats, and in most cases, headscarves.
Since the other two platoons in Echo Company—2nd Battalion of the 1st Reconnaissance Expeditionary Brigade out of Fort Bragg, NC—had joined First Platoon, the Ninth TVM, who had once been the town’s primary defense force, had been repurposed as scouts and guides, working closely with the commanding officers of all three platoons to teach them the terrain, point out chokepoints and ambush sites, establish patrols along critical trade routes, and generally provide expertise and advice on how best to defend Hollow Rock and the surrounding area. The newly arrived soldiers had, at first, looked upon the militia as little more than civilians playing at being soldiers. This perception faded quickly when the militia demonstrated a level of training, discipline, and combat effectiveness rivaling that of Echo Company’s best soldiers.
Over the course of hundreds of patrols, dozens of skirmishes with marauders, and countless battles with the walking dead, the soldiers fighting side by side with the militia had found them to be tough, resourceful, stalwart allies. Gradually, the soldiers’ disdain faded to grudging respect, then acceptance as equals, and finally outright admiration.
At a gesture from Lieutenant Jonas, First Platoon broke ranks and walked out to greet their friends and allies. Sergeant Manuel Sanchez and his people made their way over to Caleb’s squad and exchanged a round of greetings.
“Man, I’m getting tired of all these attacks,” said Vincenzo, one of Sanchez’s men, as he bumped knuckles with Hicks. “It’s cutting into our salvage work.”
“It’s the weather,” Hicks replied. “The walkers trapped under ice during the winter have thawed out. With all the noise going on around here, we’re attracting them like flies to a pile of shit.”
Vincenzo looked toward the wall surrounding Hollow Rock. “Yeah, but life is loud, you know? What else are we supposed to do?”
“Aside from killing them? Nothing at all.” Hicks clapped Vincenzo on the shoulder and ambled away, casually stepping closer to the cluster of lieutenants and squad leaders near the edge of the clearing. He stopped a few yards away, back turned to them so as not to draw their attention, and listened in on their conversation.
“Where the hell is Second Platoon?” Lt. Jonas asked the Ninth TVM’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Marcus Cohen. Cohen was a former Marine infantryman who had been home on leave when the Outbreak hit. Rather than return to his unit, he had stayed in Hollow Rock to protect his family. There were a few soldiers in Echo Company who looked down on him for this decision, but they did so quietly. The last soldier to voice open criticism accepted a challenge from Cohen to disregard rank and settle things out behind the mess hall. Said soldier went to bed that night with two black eyes, bruised ribs, a missing tooth, and a broken nose. The rest of the company got the message.
“They’re on their way,” Cohen replied. “Lieutenant Chapman just radioed in. ETA five minutes.”
Jonas looked confused. “Well how the hell did you get here so fast?”
“We were already out on maneuvers,” Cohen said, grinning. “Unlike some people, my militia doesn’t hold banker’s hours.”
Jonas chuckled. “Keep it up, smart ass.”
“Sir,” Sergeant Ashman broke in. “Should I radio Lt. Chapman to catch up with us?”
There was a moment’s pause while Jonas thought it over. Ashman had a way of couching suggestions in the form of questions, a very effective technique when dealing with officers. “Yeah, go ahead,” Jonas replied. “We’ll assess the situation and instruct him where to set up.”
While Ashman got on the radio, Jonas shouted for the two platoons to shut their yaps and listen up.
“We’re moving out,” he shouted. “We’ll march south toward the railroad tracks and set up a perimeter around the southern wall. Standard crescent formation. SAW gunners and designated marksmen, grab one volunteer each and make your way to the woods past the tracks and conduct a thorough sweep. I don’t want any surprises while we’re dealing with the horde. Sergeant Kelly, turn your squad over to Sergeant Ashman. I want you to lead the recon detail. Any questions?”
Silence.
“All right then. Form up and move out.”
As they turned southward, Caleb felt Cole’s massive hand on his shoulder. “You ready to go huntin’?” the big gunner rumbled.
Hicks showed his teeth. “Always.”
The two men broke off from the platoon and headed to the edge of the woods where Sgt. Kelly was mustering the recon detail. They were joined by Holland, Fuller, and the other heavy gunners and designated marksmen from both First and Second Platoon. As for the the Ninth TVM, since they were not regular Army, it was standard procedure to remain with their federal counterparts during a walker attack.
“All right, men,” Kelly announced when everyone was assembled. “You all know the drill. Maintain five-yard intervals, radio silence, hand signals only. Move slow and quiet, and if shit gets real, stay in your lane. Questions?”