SurvivorZ: Grave Harbor

56

GRAVES

Graves was no slouch when it came to undercover work for Mr. DiMarco, but he had to admit; traveling in an actual military convoy was a first for him. He looked out the back window of their lead Humvee at the rows of troop carriers following behind them. They had trucks full of armed soldiers, a few APCs, and even a couple of tanks. If he had this much firepower at his disposal, he would've wiped Manconi's compound in Needham off the map.

From his place across the center divider, Sergeant Roy – now clad in jeans and a padded jacket over his flak vest - narrowed his eyes at him. "Something wrong?" he inquired.

Graves shook his head and turned around in his seat, catching Denise's curious stare in the mirror. "Nah," he replied. "I'm just not used to bringing a marching band along when I go on a stealth mission."

"Real fucking comedian, this one," Corporal Martinez muttered from the shotgun seat.

"This op goes sideways, you'll be glad that marching band is around to haul your ass out," Denise rumbled.

"From the size of the army behind us, I'd say your colonel doesn't have much faith in his negotiating skills," he said. "How's that sitting with you, Saint Denise? You ready to wash your hands in the blood of civilians?"

"Keep talking, asshole, and you'll find out the hard way."

Graves chuckled and turned his gaze out the window. Below them, the water under the Revere Beach Parkway Bridge was scummy with thick, green algae. A graffiti-covered, cement gatehouse flew by, obscuring his view. Then, he saw it. Over the tops of the multicolored trees lining the east bank, beyond the curved face of the Encore Boston Harbor hotel, a tall smokestack stood out against the skyline. That was their destination. The Mystic Generating Station.

"Why does he keep calling you Saint Denise?" Martinez wondered.

Since the sergeant couldn't answer through the scowl on her face, Carl responded for her. "Because she's under the impression that her kills are more righteous than mine."

"I don't gun down innocents," Denise snarled.

"Neither do I. Usually," Graves retorted. He twisted his features in a taunting leer and added, "The day's still young. Maybe we'll both get our chance."

She silently glared at him in the mirror. Her dark expression was priceless. Graves snickered. Had he known his ride would prove so entertaining, he would have thanked Officer Mike for "volunteering" him.

To avoid any potential lookouts posted in the commercial district next door to the industrial park, Denise led the convoy off the southern lane skirting the neighborhood. She turned at the first set of lights, cutting across the road to follow a more roundabout approach along the northern trail, behind the cover of trees.

They skirted past Everett's residential community. The only traffic on the neighborhoods' otherwise empty streets now came from scores of undead wandering aimlessly. Most of them perked up at the noise of the passing trucks and started their languid march south to investigate.

The procession circled around Broadway and headed on a direct course for their target. It wasn't hard to tell when they were getting close. The zombie barricade Mystic erected was a dead giveaway.

A ten-foot high wall of scrap metal and abandoned cars ran across all four lanes of Broadway's divided highway. Its builders angled the barricade so it would shunt the dead down adjoining Bow Street.

Running next door to this one-way street was a chain link fence bordering an expanse of oil tanks. Graves figured the refinery stood at the northernmost tip of the land acquired by Emerson's crew. Manconi's operation was big, but not so spread out that his men couldn't keep watch on all sides. Mystic's vast, unguarded territory almost seemed like a deserted wasteland in comparison.