Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line by James N. Cook

stood for Federal Trade Insurance Commission, a public-private venture established to keep trade, the lifeblood of the new barter economy, flowing. Any trade going in or out of Colorado Springs and the surrounding communities had to be insured. If it was not, caravan operators faced steep tariffs that were usually more than the FTIC’s insurance premiums. The commission hired agents in most of the large settlements in the new Union—including Hollow Rock—which allowed contracts to be purchased by just about anyone. In the event of a loss, the commission paid out in the various commodities the government always seemed to have in ample quantities—fuel, bullets, and medical supplies.
    “Won’t get back what I spent on security,” Spike went on, “but I don’t really care about that. I lost some good people, Gabe. People with families. There were women and children in that caravan. We never found the bodies. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”
    I would have liked to tell Spike it meant there was still hope, but we both knew better. Even if they survived the attack, the captured traders faced a fate worse than death. Few people rescued from marauders lasted very long. Most committed suicide. And those who had the strength to go on had to live with the memories of what happened while in captivity every day of their lives. I stared at my hands and breathed out slowly.
    “Any clue who did it?”
    “Yeah. Guy in my outfit, ex-Army fella, recognized the symbol the raiders drew on their weapons. Skull with crossed lightning bolts beneath. Said they call themselves the Storm Road Tribe. If I ever find them, they’ll be the fucking Storm Road Corpses.”
    “You report it?”
    Spike nodded. “When I went looking for them, I had to bring along a rep from the FTIC. Bastards wanted verification. Tried telling the rep my people wouldn’t have hijacked me, not with the Blackthorns around. Guy said I wasn’t the first person to say that. Shit world we live in, huh?”
    “Most of it, yeah.”
    I finished my tea and let Spike brood quietly for a while. The little refrigerator hummed comfortably in the corner, reminding me of better days when life seemed bright and shining and hopeful. Sometimes I would come in the back room after closing the shop and sit with my eyes closed and listen to the refrigerator hum and imagine I was back in the house my father built, dozing on the couch and waiting for dad’s truck to crunch the gravel in the driveway. Time was, I found the hum of appliances annoying. Now it sounds like home.
    “Well, guess we better get down to business.” Spike pushed his cup away.
    “Yeah. Your crew through the gate yet?”
    “Going through inspection. Be a few hours.”
    “In that case, I’ll meet you at the caravan district tomorrow morning.”
    Spike raised an eyebrow. “You can’t take possession today? Costs trade to stay overnight, and I got customers in other towns waiting on me.”
    “Take the expense out of my shipment.”
    Spike dipped his head. “Fair enough.” He stood up and yawned expansively, arms stretched behind him, leather armor creaking from the strain. “Christ, if I’m honest, a hot meal, a few drinks, and a night behind a well-guarded wall sounds like just what the fucking doctor ordered.”
    He started to walk toward the door, then stopped and snapped his fingers. “Shit, almost forgot. I got something for you.”
    “What?”
    He stepped closer, reached under the armor on his right forearm, and removed a small plastic tube. “Letter from Mr. Hadrian Flint, director of operations for the Blackthorn Security Company. I can vouch for its authenticity.”
    I reached for it. “He deliver it in person?”
    “Yep. Said it’s for your eyes only.”
    “You didn’t read it?”
    “Check the seal.”
    I did. It was intact, the signet of the Blackthorn Company pressed into red wax. No way Spike could have opened it and resealed it, not without a signet ring. And the