The Hunted

by Val Tobin

  Rachel scanned the area for Peter, Hound Dog sticking so close to her side she bumped into him.

  “Gimme space, will you?” she said, a touch of irritation in her voice.

  “Relax. Don’t forget, you’re not immune to the grendels.”

  “Right. But you don’t have to be on top of me.”

  “Ah,” he sighed, “that’s a nice picture.”

  “Knock it off.” Her lips quirked into a tiny smile. He’d taken the edge off the fact that she couldn’t see Peter anywhere.

  “I should’ve sent you with him,” she muttered.

  “You talking to me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Never travel alone, Rachel. I won’t let you forget that.”

  “All right, then I should’ve gone with him. Or we shouldn’t have split up. I forget he’s a civilian. Wouldn’t automatically—” She spotted Peter. “Oh, thank God.”

  Hound Dog and Rachel jogged up to meet the journalist.

  “Found a vehicle?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, took some time. They’re corralled over there.” He waved a hand toward the south end of the compound. “No one’s around. There are only four. None of them are your truck, Hound Dog.” Peter sounded apologetic.

  “Never mind. If we find it on the road, we’re in luck.”

  “I still have your key in my pocket,” Peter said. “Maybe that’s why the truck’s not here.”

  “Thank goodness for lazy guards. Let’s go,” Rachel said.

  They followed Peter to the vehicles and hot-wired one of the military-type trucks. Hound Dog drove, Rachel riding shotgun. Peter had slid into the back. They drove through the gate without incident. To Rachel, it all seemed a little too easy.

  ***

  Inside the building, Stefan hid in his office while the two remaining guards from the lab hunted down the grendels his daughter had so inconveniently set loose. Lucky for her, none of the personnel in this compound had been vaccinated—something to be rectified now they’d verified this batch of the vaccine worked. Before they could go after Rachel and her friends, they’d have to neutralize the grendels.

  Stefan changed the view on the monitor to the lab. Doctor Janes huddled inside, the door shut tight to keep out the grendels. The view on the monitor changed as Stefan searched for his guards and their quarry. One corridor showed a grendel body. The guard in the guardhouse who’d been left bound and gagged had freed himself, but Stefan had ordered him to stay there. Grendels or no, he needed someone watching the gates. The monitor showed the man standing, gun in hand, flipping through the camera views. Stefan could almost smell the man’s tension through the screen.

  The whole thing was taking too long. Rachel and her posse might be long gone in the vehicle they stole—provided they made no pit stops. If they found Hound Dog’s vehicle, it would solve all Stefan’s problems, but he couldn’t count on that. He picked up the phone and made a call.

  ***

  Hound Dog kept to the centre of the muddy road and drove at a steady forty clicks.

  “Watch ahead.” Rachel scanned the path in front of them, uneasiness intensifying with each kilometre they put between themselves and her former cottage.

  “Relax. We’re away.” He braked. “And there, ladies and gentlemen, is my truck. Come ta Papa, baby.”

  “No, let’s keep going.”

  “I’m not leaving my truck.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Why’d they leave it here?”

  “They didn’t have the keys. Let’s ditch this thing and get my truck. Okay?” At first when he looked at her, he scowled and his words had been laced with annoyance. But when their gazes met, his face softened. “It’s okay. It’ll be much better driving my truck. It’s certainly in better shape than this piece of crap.” He slapped the dashboard, the thud reverberating through the vehicle.

  “I agree with Hound Dog.” Peter leaned forward so his face stuck out between the two in the front. “We can jump out. Check it out. It’ll only take a moment.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Rachel replied. “We don’t know how many people they had on-site, but they won’t want to let us go. They won’t want us to make it back alive. Not with what we know.”

  “We’re out,” Hound Dog insisted.

  Rachel stared at him, her expression bland. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “Oh, Frosty, you didn’t just say that.” He took her hand in both of his. “I don’t want to argue. I’m getting my truck and we’re leaving.”

  She capitulated. If it were hers, she’d want it back too, and everything seemed fine. “All right. I’ll go with you. Peter can wait in the vehicle we know works.”

  Hound Dog gave her a funny look. “What do you think … never mind. Let’s get this done.”

  She hopped onto the road. Daylight was fading fast, and she wanted to be on the highway soon. Her ears tuned in to the forest sounds: crickets, a crow’s caw, and the breeze wafting through the trees. Birch trees had a distinctive, almost musical sound when the wind blew through them. Water trickled somewhere—a tiny stream she knew flowed nearby.

  If anyone or anything else moved through the forest, she couldn’t hear it. She allowed herself to release tension she held inside with a deep breath in and a drop of her shoulders.

  Hound Dog crept up to the vehicle. Both of them had weapons ready. Dog carried a handgun, and Rachel bore a rifle. Peter had handed over the key to Hound Dog and switched to the driver’s seat of the stolen vehicle without Rachel asking him. In the fading light, Hound Dog opened the driver’s door of the truck and peered in.

  He poked his head back out and signalled to Rachel all was well. She stepped forward and opened the front passenger door, waving at Peter to join them. The Jeep’s door opened, and Peter’s footsteps alerted her to his approach.

  Hound Dog climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. It clicked but didn’t start. Rachel’s heart went cold. Before she could say anything, Hound Dog tried again to start the vehicle. She heard another click as the engine started.

  Jumping from the vehicle, she screamed, “Get out. Bomb.”

  She sensed more than saw Hound Dog leap from the truck. As she ran, she grabbed Peter by the arm and dragged him after her. They had to get at least two hundred fifty metres from the truck. Up ahead the road had a culvert on either side for the stream to pass underneath. She raced to it and dragged Peter down with her just as the truck blew.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Debris rained down around them. Twilight grew daylight bright as fire consumed the truck.

  “Oh, God, Hound Dog. I don’t know if he made it.” Rachel’s voice choked. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She raised her head to see past the fire’s fury.

  “Stay down.” Peter pressed a hand to the top of her head.

  She complied, ducking and covering her head with her arms as pieces of truck and burning detritus peppered the area. The crackle of fire drowned out the forest sounds, and gas fumes, smoke, and an aroma of burning leaves assaulted her nostrils. At least it had rained all day. Even so, she feared this would cause a forest fire.

  “We’ve got to find Jack.” Her breath hitched as she spoke. “I won’t leave him, Peter.” She was close to tears, close to hysteria. Hound Dog would need her to stay calm and think things through. If he’d survived the blast, he’d be on the other side of the road.

  But evening’s darkness deepened with each passing minute. They needed to get away from the fire, and if grendels lurked, they’d come after her. At least Peter and Hound Dog were safe as far as the creatures went.

  She rested her forehead on her hands for a moment and let the despair take her. When she raised her head, her eyes were dry and her jaw set.

  “You hurt?” she asked Peter.

  “I’m okay. You?”

  “Fine. My ears are ringing.” She took a quick inventory. “My arm hurts. I wrenched it when we landed in the ditch. I can walk, though.” The
y were both soaked and muddy, too, but that wasn’t worth mentioning.

  She stood and he did the same. They climbed from the culvert and tried to figure out where everything had landed. The Jeep they’d stolen had flipped onto its side and lay engulfed in flames. Hound Dog’s truck, of course, was blown apart. The fire continued to burn, which at least gave them some light to see by, and it didn’t seem to be spreading.

  But they needed to get more distance from it before the Jeep’s tank blew. Part of her hoped the fire would take off and burn down her father’s torture compound with him inside.

  “What were the odds of us getting out of there?” she asked, but she talked more to herself than to Peter.

  He replied anyway. “Pretty small, I guess.”

  “It seemed too easy.” She shook her head. “Not getting past the guards and away from the grendels—that was fucking hard and took everything we had. But leaving the place. No one was in the lounge. One guard manned the station, and he didn’t even know we’d escaped.” She fell silent.

  Her father had done this. He’d ordered them to booby trap the truck. Why?

  “You think they let us go figuring we’d go for the truck?” Peter asked.

  “Maybe they intended to dispose of our bodies in it after they finished with us. If we’d blown up with it, it would destroy all the evidence. We’re physical, living proof of what he’s doing, especially you and Hound Dog. Traces of whatever they injected you with will be in your blood. Who knows what it’s done to your cells or DNA or whatever.”

  “Oh, great, thanks. I hadn’t considered any of that.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “We’d better book before they send out a party to verify we’re dead.”

  They picked their way over the rubble and through burning patches. As they went, they stamped out what flames they could. The main conflagration would be too much for them to put out, and they couldn’t risk going near the burning Jeep.

  Rachel guided Peter around and behind the remnants of their means of escape, and they began the search for Hound Dog—or his body. The prospect of finding him dead almost paralyzed her, but it would be better to know. If he was dead, she needed to see it for herself. She wouldn’t leave the woods without finding him. If he was injured, she refused to leave him behind.

  Even if the grendels left him alone, her father’s people would hunt down any survivors in the woods. Hound Dog would be a precious find for them, especially wounded and unable to fight back.

  Worry and building panic made her speed up her pace. They started as close to the driver’s side of the truck as the fire would allow them to get. Each metre out gave her hope he was alive even if injured.

  She tried to hurry. Every moment they stayed here increased the odds they’d be recaptured. Even so, she scoured the area carefully, checking behind every bush, around every tree, in each ditch and depression.

  Peter spotted him first.

  “Over here!”

  Her heart flew into her throat at his words, and fear sent a wave of numbness through her body. She ran to where Peter crouched and dropped beside Hound Dog, who lay face down in the mud. A finger to his throat verified he had a pulse.

  His shoulders and head had taken the worst of the blast. He’d made it a safe enough distance from the primary blast, but he’d sustained secondary blast injuries from flying junk. While it helped he’d been dressed for a cold fall day, which had afforded him padding, it hadn’t shielded him from all the shrapnel. Blood covered the back of his head, and a piece of metal lodged in his left shoulder.

  “We need to remove this piece of metal. Hopefully, it’s not too deep. First, I want to bandage his head.” Rachel removed her jacket and stripped off her turtleneck. She tore it into strips and bandaged Hound Dog’s head.

  Peter watched her, helping where he could. “What do you want me to do next?” he asked once she’d tied off the makeshift bandage. “How will we pull the metal piece out without killing him?”

  “It’s embedded in the muscle, but it doesn’t look too deep. I hope, anyway. We’ll find out. We need to find a silver birch tree with fungus growing on it.” She looked Peter in the eyes. “I’ll have to do it. You stay with him.”

  “Rachel,” he said, his tone a warning.

  “I have to. You don’t know what to look for.” She stood, unable to waste more time arguing. “I have a handgun.” She scanned Peter up and down. “You left yours behind?” She kept accusation out of her voice. It wasn’t his fault. For her, for Hound Dog, keeping a weapon handy was second nature. Not so for Peter.

  She removed the gun from Hound Dog’s holster and handed it to Peter.

  “Take this. Keep it ready, and don’t set it down for any reason. If you see a grendel or a person who isn’t me, shoot first and ask questions later. They’ll search for us soon.” She considered. “Hopefully not until daybreak. They’d have heard the blast and assumed we’d gone up in it. They won’t want to come out at night and risk getting caught by any creatures in the woods. Grendels are most active at night.” That was both a blessing and a curse for them—for her, anyway. Peter and Hound Dog were okay as long as the vaccine remained potent, but as always, she didn’t want to assume anything.

  Rachel pressed strips of her shirt around the wound in Hound Dog’s shoulder. He never stirred as she worked, which worried her. The head wound could be fatal if he didn’t get help soon. She put her jacket back on and searched the trees, jogging from one to the next, focusing on the birches. After a while, she found one that had the fungus growing from it.

  The growth looked like a large, white platter. Using the Swiss army knife from inside her belt, she cut the chunk from the tree. She considered searching for another one as a backup but decided against it. This would have to do. She raced back to where she’d left Peter and Hound Dog. Dog stirred and opened his eyes when she dropped next to him and gently removed the wad of cloth she’d left on his wound.

  Damn. This part would hurt. She’d have preferred it if he’d been unconscious. She’d also have preferred having bottles of water with them, but she’d have to make do with what she had here. In other words, almost nothing.

  “Peter.” She waited for him to raise his head and meet her gaze. “You’ll have to pull out the metal piece.”

  When he blanched, she said, “You have to. I’ve got to patch the wound. Before we do this, I’ll prepare the fungus. In the meantime, I’ll need your shirt. Tear it into strips. It’ll have to wrap around his shoulder.” She indicated with her index finger the direction they’d wind the bandage around the shoulder and tie it on.

  “All right.” He set his gun down and did as she’d asked while Rachel trimmed the fungus using the knife. This wouldn’t be the most sanitary dressing, but they’d have to live with it until they could get Hound Dog to a doctor. He moaned just as Rachel finished her job on the fungus.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” she whispered in his ear. “Can you hear me, Jack?”

  “Rachel?” He croaked out the word and fell quiet.

  “Jack? I’m here. Can you hear me?” She waited for him to speak again. When he didn’t respond, she pressed her finger to his throat to check his pulse. To her relief, it felt strong and steady.

  She looked up at Peter. “Time to pull this thing out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They did it on the count of three, Rachel counting and Peter gripping the top of the metal shard. When she hit “three,” he yanked it out, and Rachel pressed the prepped piece of fungus over the wound. Together, they wrapped the strips of shirt over and around the shoulder to hold the fungus in place.

  “Fuck.” The curse came from Hound Dog.

  Tears of relief dripped from Rachel’s eyes, and she brushed them aside.

  “Dog, you okay?”

  “No, I’m fucking dying. What happened?” His voice was stronger than when he’d first awoken, and she wanted to shout out the victory. Instead, she stroked his cheek with her finger.

  �
�We had to fix your shoulder.” She leaned in close to his face. “I hate to do this to you, but you need to get up and moving.”

  He groaned in response. “Leave me here.”

  “You know I won’t.” She’d sounded irritated and mentally kicked herself for letting him hear it.

  “Don’t worry, Frosty. I’m kidding. I’ll be ready to go when you say. Jump right up and run after you. We’ll hike to the highway. Catch a lift.”

  “Is he delirious?” Peter asked, frowning with concern.

  She shook her head. “He’s being Hound Dog.” Another couple of tears slid down her face. “We’ve got you, Jack. We’re not letting you lounge around any longer, you lazy ass.” She stood and Peter followed suit, picking his handgun up as he rose.

  “You take the right side; I’ll take the left,” she said.

  Peter’s brows pulled together again, his lips turning down. “This’ll hurt.”

  “We can’t help that.” Annoyed he pointed out the obvious when they had no alternative, she bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. “On three. We do this together. He’s got to be awake to help us. We won’t get far if we have to drag him the whole way.”

  Subdued, Peter said, “Understood.”

  Grateful he said nothing else to raise her ire, Rachel counted and together they eased Hound Dog to his feet. He let out a roar as he tried to straighten up, and he collapsed on them, nearly dragging them all back to the ground.

  “Quiet!” Peter said in a loud whisper.

  “Sorry,” Hound Dog replied through gritted teeth. “My shoulder’s on fire. My head’s on fire. And it felt like you guys just poured kerosene on them both.” He let out a string of curses that made Peter flush in the glow of the nearby blaze.

  The fire had died down a little, but it would continue to burn for a while. It hadn’t spread beyond the vehicles on the road. Since no trees grew close to the road—her father had his crews keep the roads relatively grendel-free by cutting the foliage back on either side—it was more difficult for the fire to spread.