by M. D. Massey
Just was I was expecting to feel its teeth rending the flesh of my arm, I heard a thwap-hiss-thunk and the thing fell away from me in a limp heap. As I completed the spin, I nearly stumbled over it, catching myself in time to see what had happened. Glancing down at the corpse, I saw a short, feathered shaft poking out of its right temple, pinning a trucker cap that said FRESH in seventies-style iron-on lettering to its head.
I looked up to see a kid of maybe ten or eleven years old balancing a pistol crossbow on the railing of the trailer's front porch. Knowing how inaccurate those things could be, I was grateful that he’d taken the time to brace it before firing. As the kid raised the crossbow and began reloading it, I corrected my initial assumption. This wasn’t a he; rather, my “savee” turned savior was a she.
The kid was probably Hispanic, Native American, or perhaps East Indian, taking me in with brown eyes that glittered with intelligence under a black watch cap and tufts of dark-brown hair that jutted out from beneath. She studied me cautiously, and I could see that she was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. Understandable, considering that she was just a kid and on her own in the Outlands. I could be a punter, or any manner of psycho. She was taking a risk by saving my hide, that was for sure. Not many people would have done it, in her shoes.
She looked like she’d been on the move for a while, as her clothing was not in the best of shape, and her cheeks were hollowed in the way that only an extended lack of sufficient calories can produce. She was wearing a long-sleeve hunter’s camo shirt that was at least a couple of sizes too big over a dark T-shirt, along with a pair of faded, filthy jeans and running shoes that’d seen better days. I noticed an old Ka-Bar combat knife at her hip, as well as a Ruger Mark II pistol in a handmade holster.
I nodded at her and motioned for her to follow, which she did silently and without question after retrieving the crossbow bolt from the zombie she’d just dropped. I led her back through the trees opposite the way I’d come at an oblique angle to the road, hoping to make some distance between us and the rest of that zombie herd.
She followed along silently, ten meters to my right and behind me. Obviously, someone had taught her rudimentary squad-level movement tactics at some point. When I paused, she paused, and when I crouched down, she copied me. Whoever had been watching over her before, I had to hand it to them, they’d trained her well.
Once we’d put a few miles between us and the trailer, and I was certain we weren’t being followed, I paused under a large live oak and handed her a water bottle. She snatched it from my hand and immediately began sucking down water in large gulps. After a few swallows she seemed to catch herself, and brought the bottle away from her mouth. She looked down at it as if to determine whether or not it would be her last for a while, then capped it and started to hand it back to me. I raised my hand to decline, gesturing for her to keep it.
I whispered just loud enough for her to hear, “We’re about five miles from a safe house, so we’ll stop to eat once we get there. Now, let’s move.” She nodded, placed the water bottle in the worn and patched canvas messenger bag she had slung over one shoulder, and followed without saying a word. Based on her silence, I decided that she was either traumatized or an apprentice hunter used to practicing noise discipline. Based on the way she’d handled herself at the trailer I strongly suspected the latter; I’d find out more once we reached that safe house.
The safe house was supposed to be just ahead, a mile off the road at an old abandoned winery. Before the Great War, this entire area was a tourist hotspot popular among the well-heeled from Austin, San Antonio, and Dallas. However, these days it was nothing but abandoned ranches and farms, with the occasional ghost town along the way. Few people would care to live out here, and the only people you were likely to meet in these parts were scavengers, caravaneers, and punters.
I decided to take us away from the road and approach the safe house from the opposite side for safety. Most hunters, scavengers, and caravaneers had their own safe houses set up in the Outlands, keeping the locations a secret from their rivals. However, it wasn’t uncommon for safe house locations to become common knowledge, as scavengers and caravaneers were known to move from crew to crew based on opportunity and what sort of action they might see. Most tried to avoid action whenever possible, but there were also those crews that took riskier runs in the expectation of greater payoffs. Most of those ended up dead or missing, which was the same thing in that line of work.
As we approached the back of the winery, the trees abruptly ended at a dilapidated fence line bordering an overgrown vineyard. I briefly entertained the thought that there might be a few bottles of wine to be scavenged here, and then quickly abandoned the idea, knowing that Sam or his boys would’ve raided whatever was left here long ago. We stopped and observed the field for fifteen minutes or so, and after ensuring that nothing was out of place we proceeded through a gap in the fence line toward the safe house.
As we approached the main buildings, I could see an old farmhouse that had once been used as a storefront for the operation, as well as several outbuildings that included a barn and some cottages that were probably rented at one point to couples driving in from the city for a romantic getaway. Everything was overgrown by weeds and brush, although the house still looked like it had a solid roof on it. However, that wasn’t where we were headed. According to Sam’s notes, the safe house was a secure tornado shelter back behind the barn.
Again, we remained hidden for several minutes to observe the area, making certain we wouldn’t get any surprises. Nothing appeared to be out of place, so I led the way behind the barn and found the door hidden beneath some old sheet-metal roofing material, just like Sam’s notes said I would. Whoever had set this place up had cleverly attached the sheet metal together with some scrap wood and barbed wire, hinging it crudely so it could be lifted away to access the door and then dropped back over the entrance once you were inside. The door itself was secured with a combination lock, not likely to keep out anyone who might find the place, but enough to deter the weakest and stupidest of the undead from getting in and making this their bolt hole. I spun the lock, took one last look around to make sure no one saw us go in, then motioned the kid in and closed the door behind us.
Once inside, I lit a small LED flashlight so we could find our way around. One of my most prized possessions, the light was rechargeable and worked on a small crank or sunlight. Such technologies were more valuable than gold or silver in the postwar world and I rarely showed it to anyone, as owning it would make me a target for thieves and bandits. If I wanted I could easily trade it for a gross of bullets, a few head of cattle, or in the less reputable settlements, for three or four slaves.
I secured the door with a steel bar that was left just for that purpose, and looked quickly around the small cellar. My eyes soon adjusted to the low light, and I found an oil lamp that I lit with a flint and steel. Lighting even something as flammable as an oil-saturated wick is harder than it sounds, and it took me a good five minutes to get it started. When I was done, I looked up and found the kid marveling at my flashlight from a few feet away.
“You’ve never seen one before.” I said it as a statement of fact, not as a question.
“No. My tío told me stories about them. He used to tell me about how the cities were lit up at night with electrical lights. I think that must’ve been before I was born, because I don’t remember it.” Her voice was lightly accented with the Spanish lilt I recognized from my youth before the War. It reminded me of my own family, most of whom were lost when the bombs fell.
“He’s gone then. Your uncle.” I looked up after adjusting the wick. She was still studying the light. She nodded silently, fascinated by it. “You can pick it up if you like—just be careful. It’s the only one I have.” That actually wasn’t true. I had two more just like it stored in hidden caches near my cabin. Not even Kara knew about those caches, and I intended to keep it that way.
She reached out for the
light, then pulled her hand back as she got close to touching it. “It’s not hot,” she said with a hint of surprise in her voice.
“No, LED lights don’t get hot. They were just starting to become popular, before the Great War. They don’t use as much electricity, and they don’t put off heat. Supposed to be better for the environment.” She looked at me quizzically. “Before the War, people were concerned that we were messing up the planet with chemicals and whatnot that were floating off into the atmosphere—the air—from the fuels we burned to make electricity and to power our cars. People were worried we were ruining the planet.”
She shook her head. “I’ll never understand people before the War. Dropping bombs all over is a funny way to save the planet.”
I chuckled and nodded. “Well, it certainly solved our greenhouse problem. You hungry?”
That perked her up considerably, but only for a moment. Then her eyes hardened, and she looked at me with more than a bit of distrust. I saw her hand edge toward the small .22 pistol at her hip, ever so slightly and slowly. “I don’t have anything to trade, mister. And I don’t do what those kids do in the punter camps, so don’t even think about it.”
I turned away, ignoring her reaction with my body language while watching her with my peripheral vision to make sure she didn’t try to shoot me and steal my food. “I’m not asking for anything in return. You look like you haven’t eaten in a while, and I know how that feels. I have enough to share.”
Since she didn’t make a move, I reached into my pack and pulled out some jerky and some flatbread I made from ground pecans, acorns, and cattail flour. It didn’t taste like much, but it was filling, and the ingredients were easy to find in these parts. I handed a few pieces of each over to her, and she snatched them away hesitantly.
“Eat slowly. I’d nibble on the bread first, let your stomach get used to it, otherwise you’ll be throwing it back up.”
She nodded and did as I instructed, but I noticed that she took a good hunk of the jerky in her mouth as well, chewing slowly and savoring the sensation of having food in her mouth. One of the tricks you learn when food is scarce is to chew everything slowly and thoroughly. For one, it helps break down your food completely, so your body can get as much nutrition from it as possible. Second, it helps so that you begin feeling full while you’re still eating. That way you don’t squander your rations on just a few meals.
“I’m Aidan. Some folks call me Sully.”
“I know who you are—at least, I was pretty sure before you said so. Not many Mexican hunters out here that talk like a gringo, and the axe sort of gave it away. My tío used to talk about you. He said you were the best hunter around, and a little crazy.”
I laughed. “Well, to be honest I sort of try to make people think I’m a little crazy. Reputation is everything in this business, and if people think you’re both crazy and dangerous, they’re less likely to try to put a knife or bullet in your back when you’re not looking.” I waited for a moment, but she didn’t seem inclined to reply. Not wanting to push or pry, I left her to her meal in silence. Truth be told, I was starting to like this kid. Most kids you couldn’t shut up, and I liked the quiet. Not to mention that being quiet was a survival skill. You can’t listen when you’re talking all the time, makes it easy to miss what’s going on around you.
I studied the map Sam had given me for a moment, then waited for the girl to finish eating. After she was done, I laid out my bedroll and tucked my rifle back on the other side of me against the wall. After the kid got settled in, I turned out the lamp, reclining with one of the Glocks on my chest.
A couple of minutes later, she spoke up again. “My name is Gabby.”
“Short for Gabriella?”
“Yeah, but I go by Gabby.”
“Gabriella is a beautiful name. Gabriel was the messenger of God in the Bible. It’s a good name.” I could hear her quiet breathing in the dark, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I’m not going to hurt you, Gabby. I hunt monsters, not people. Now, get some sleep.”
I only dozed off after hearing her breathing slow into the steady cadence of deep sleep that comes from knowing you’re safe. I expected it had been a while since she felt completely safe from whatever things, man or creature, had been hunting her since she lost her uncle. Poor kid. I’d have to figure out what to do with her in the morning.
7
Foul
I woke before Gabby did, and waited to hear her stir to see what she’d do. After getting dressed in the dark, she waited without a sound for me to wake. Truth be told, I’d wanted to get a move on earlier, but I hated to wake the kid, figuring this was the first good rest she’d had in a while. Plus, I needed to see if she’d try to bolt with any of my stuff. Trust was a hard thing to come by out here, and even though she’d saved my hide yesterday, I wasn’t going to assume any deep loyalties from her.
“I’m already up, Gabby,” I said as I turned my flashlight on. I’d already gotten my gear together in the dark while she was sleeping, and was ready go to before she awoke. She was covering her eyes from the sudden glare as I looked over at her. She appeared ready to go, another indication that she’d been living the hunter’s life for a while.
Curious, I decided to find out more. “Your uncle—how long had he been a hunter?”
She shrugged. “As long as I can remember. My parents died in the War, so he raised me. He—wasn’t a very nice man before the War, at least that’s what he told me. He was good at killing Them, and I think that’s why, because of what he did before. He taught me how to be a hunter, too.”
I paused and waited. It was the most I’d heard out of her since we’d saved each other’s bacon, and I needed to hear more before I decided what to do with her. Without any prodding, she continued. “I guess my uncle had been a soldier before the War, for the Mexican army. He did things that were against the law when he got out of the army, working for people who sold drugs. He found me in one of the camps after the bombs fell and my parents were killed. When the camps started getting overrun, he took me away to live outside of the cities.”
She paused and took a sip of water, then continued. “About three weeks ago, we were hunting a revenant for a small settlement about thirty miles north and east of here. They were living pretty close to the Corridor, which my tío said was stupid, but we needed the work.”
“You helped him hunt?”
“Yeah, but mostly just during the day. He’d leave me in safe houses or in the settlements at night when he was out.” She wiped something out of her eye and turned away from me, rustling around in her bag as a pretense for hiding her face. “This time, he just never came back.”
“The men in the settlement—did they hurt you, Gabby?”
She took a moment before answering. “No, I didn’t let them. When it was clear that my tío wasn’t coming back, I split when they weren’t paying attention and went out to look for him. All I found was some of his gear, and some big footprints, like a dog almost. I got scared and ran.”
I handed her a little jerky and bread, and let her eat for a minute or two. “Gabby, I know this is probably a lot to ask, but do you think you can take me to where your uncle disappeared?”
She looked up at me with fear and uncertainty in her eyes. Then something snapped into place within her, like the bolt sliding forward on an assault rifle to feed a new round. I could see on her face that she wanted to find her uncle, dead or alive. She nodded once, and continued eating. Tough kid.
I took a little sustenance myself, and then topped off our water bottles and canteens from the stores in the safe house. The water smelled stale and flat, but it would be clean, and it was tough disinfecting water in the Outlands. Not a good idea to stand still out in the open while boiling water, but sometimes you just couldn’t avoid it. I had a supply of pool disinfectant tucked away at the cabin that would last me a good long while, but I used the tried and true boiling method whenever I could in order to preserve my chems. Still, I carried some
with me whenever I went out on a hunt, so if we had to we could use any relatively clean source of water to replenish our supplies.
It was past time to head out, but before we left the safe house I wanted to be sure that we were in the clear. I waited on the steps for a good long while to listen. After a few minutes, I could faintly hear voices in the distance getting closer. It was another few minutes before we could make out what they were saying. I counted three voices, and maybe five or six sets of footsteps. Obviously, a group of punters looking for some easy prey.
I heard a high-pitched, whiny voice call out from just outside the exit. “Where’d they go?”
Another voice, this one lower and further away, responded. “I don’t know—their tracks end here at this place, and then nothing.”
The entire winery compound was connected by concrete sidewalks and flagstone footpaths, and I was glad we’d stuck to them in our approach from the vineyard to the safe house. I placed a finger on my lips to motion at Gabby for silence, needlessly, I was sure, but it never hurt to be careful. She nodded in response, and sat still with her hand close to her pistol.
Most people assume that a .22-caliber bullet is relatively harmless, but nothing could be further from the truth. Prior to the War, more people were killed each year with .22-caliber weapons than with any other round. Fired from a rifle, the small caliber round was highly accurate, and could easily wound enough to hinder movement, pierce internal organs, and generally mess up your day.
But from close up, a small .22 pistol like Gabby’s could be deadly. At close range the .22-caliber round could easily penetrate the brain pan where it would bounce around for a while, turning the brain matter within to mush. Plus, when silenced they were the closest thing to quiet you could get in a round. Silenced weapons still made a lot of noise, but the smaller the round, the less noise they made. I had a sneaking suspicion that Gabby’s uncle had given her that weapon, and that it once had mated with a silencer as well. The Mark II pistol was often used as an assassin’s weapon, and while not the best choice for close combat, it would do in a pinch.