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

resided in the skulls of neutralized infected. The crossbows had proven invaluable on the long trek from Kansas to Northern Arkansas. Heinrich’s men knew how to travel quietly, but one gunshot could draw every infected for miles. Consequently, they only used firearms against living assailants, or if there were too many infected to deal with by other means. Luckily, they had run into no resistance from the living, federal or otherwise, and had made minimal contact with the undead. The trick, as Heinrich once explained to Carter, was to stick to high ground.
    “To people in our line of work, this might sound counterintuitive”, he had said. “But remember, ghouls tend to follow the path of least resistance. They stick to valleys and hollows and low-lying areas. They’ll climb a mountain to get to your ass if they hear you, but otherwise, they’re lazy.”
    “What about feds?” Carter asked. “Skyline yourself, makes it easy to spot you.”
    “So? You ever seen a caravan take the low road? Hell no. They use the same methods I do. That’s why we do our damnedest to look like traders when we travel. Don’t give them an excuse, the feds leave you alone. You think they like fighting? Shit. I know how soldiers think. They’re even lazier than the ghouls.”
    Heinrich raised his hand as they came within a hundred yards of the lift. The area around the wall was bare of trees and littered with the bones of infected left to rot where they were killed. The last fifty yards approaching the berm was a maze of ghoul-trippers fashioned from sticks, vines, logs, cables, and anything else the people behind the wall could find to do the job. The scattering of bones grew much thicker closer to the perimeter. Some of the corpses were still fresh.
    Heinrich resisted the instinct to wrinkle his nose. The constant reek of death in the air was something for which Parabellum was well known. Most outlaws who frequented the place thought the fierce people encamped within were merely too lazy to clean up their own mess, but Heinrich knew better. They left the corpses in the field because nothing sends a clearer message than the smell of rotting flesh. And that message was simple:
    Leave. Get you gone.
    Heinrich did not leave. He urged his horse forward. Carter, Maru, and a few other men followed. They rode single file along a narrow path through the ghoul-trippers leading to the lift. When they were within twenty yards—point-blank range for a capable marksman—an armored head appeared over the wall and aimed an RPK machine gun at Heinrich’s party.
    “The hell you want?”
    “Name’s Heinrich, chief of the Storm Road Tribe. I’m known here.”
    “Good for you. Answer the question.”
    “I’m here to trade. Ask the Khan. He’ll vouch for me.”
    A silence. “Stay where you are. Gotta check you out.”
    The head and the RPK did not move, but Heinrich knew a runner was being sent to the registry. He sat patiently on his horse, breathing in the miasma of stinking meat and thinking how enjoyable it would be to throw the leader of this place into a pit of flaming ghouls. A few minutes passed before the armored head yelled again.
    “Okay, we’re sending down the lift. Tell your men to advance along the path.”
    Heinrich nodded to Maru, who turned his mount and headed back where the others waited. The cracking of whips split the air, followed by horses snorting and nickering in protest. Gears turned and thick ropes moved through pulleys as the two cranes supporting the platform creaked and groaned and the large wooden rectangle made its slow way to ground level.
    The platform was large enough to accommodate six loaded wagons. Heinrich knew this because he had seen it happen. He also knew the mechanism operating it was capable of lifting far more than just wagons and livestock. One needed look no further than the hijacked military vehicles within the encampment for proof of that. Heinrich waited until the screeching and rattling of the