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

Blackthorns guarded them jealously.
    “Thanks.”
    “I’ll consider the tea my tip.”
    He left through the back door. I locked it behind him, sat down, and opened the tube. The letter was brief and to the point. It could not have come at a better time.
    I rolled the letter up, put it back in its tube, and stuffed it in a cargo pocket. I thought about the salt I had purchased, how it was one of the best ways to collapse a large amount of wealth into a small, portable volume of trade. I thought about how salt was once less than a dollar a pound, and how that same pound today was the equivalent of half a month’s wage for a farm worker. I thought about the trade routes between Hollow Rock and Colorado Springs, and the upcoming election, and how nice it would be to have Elizabeth in my bed every night and wake up next to her every morning and finally have the family I thought God or fate or whatever turns the gears of the universe had seen fit to deny me.
    My eyes closed, the fridge hummed, and I decided to close the shop early.

 
SEVEN
     
     
    Eric was exactly where I expected to find him—picking a fight. Or a sparring match to be more accurate.
    The Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia has its own training facilities at Fort McCray just outside of town. I rode my horse there, left him in the public livery, and proceeded to the militia’s corner of the base.
    The gymnasium is a far cry from the empty field where Eric and I once held unarmed combat training for the men and women who risk their lives serving their town. The facility has mat space, punching bags, free weights, and an honest to God boxing ring. Where the guys who built the place found the ring, I have no idea. But I don’t mind using it from time to time. Neither does Eric.
    I climbed the corner, leaned on a turnbuckle, and said, “Keep your hands up, Riordan.”
    Eric looked my way for a bare instant and caught a right hook from Manuel Sanchez. He managed to slip the follow-up overhand left and circle out.
    “You’re an asshole, Gabe.”
    I laughed quietly while the two men finished their round. Sanchez was winning, as usual, but that did not surprise me. Prior to the Outbreak, he was a top-ten ranked welterweight about two or three fights from a title shot. Eric has fast hands, and is the bigger man, but Sanchez is a pro. And there no substitute for pro. My old friend looked relieved when the guy keeping time called for a break.
    “If you want to watch me get beat up, strap on some gloves,” Eric said as he walked over to my corner.
    “I don’t know. You’re getting pretty good these days.”
    He eyed me to see if I was kidding him. I wasn’t.
    “Yeah, well, Sanchez is a good boxing coach.”
    The Pride of Hermosillo looked over his shoulder. “I heard that.”
    “You’re also a dick. You hear that too?”
    “Smartass.”
    I flicked a finger at Sanchez. “You in a nutshell.”
    Eric stripped off his gloves and squirted water into his mouth with a white squeeze bottle. His longish hair dripped with sweat and his shirt was soaked through. “You here for a reason, or you just like busting my balls?”
    “Got plans this afternoon?”
    “You’re looking at them.”
    “Sarah’s putting together a volunteer sweep. Still not too late to sign up. Figured with all the time you’ve been spending at home you could use a little recreation.”
    Eric looked over his shoulder at Sanchez. “You know, I do feel like shooting something.”
    “Good. Clean up. I’ll wait outside.”
    “Right.”
     
    *****
     
    “Christ’s sake, Eric. You stink.”
    He sat up straight in the saddle, tilted his head at what he thought was a rakish angle, and said, “I smell like a sporting man possessed of good health and vigor.”
    “Really? I didn’t realize sporting men of good health and vigor smelled like sweaty butthole cheese.”
    “Oh, quit your bitching. Everybody stinks these days. No such thing as deodorant anymore. You’re not exactly a spring