The weapon was too heavy to carry given the combined weight of his other armament, so Hale dropped it into the river, and followed the well-churned road north. Unlike the pristine whiteness of the prairie, this was a dangerous way to go, since a group of Chimera could come barreling down the road at any moment, yet there was a method to Hale’s madness.
Even a Native American tracker would have found it difficult to pick his bootprints out of the muck that covered the road and Hale doubted that any of the Chimera possessed such skills. Plus, with solid cement only four or five inches under the slush, he could move faster.
And, as Hale topped a rise and followed the highway down to the point where it crossed a streambed, he had the opportunity to get off the road without leaving tracks. Which he proceeded to do.
Once in the half-frozen stream, Hale followed it west. Twenty minutes later he was within the borders of the Rocking F Ranch. But the light had started to fade, and by now the bodies of the Hybrids would have been found. If a massive search wasn’t already underway, it soon would be.
Which was why Hale forced himself to maintain a brisk pace until he spotted a four-foot-tall pine tree that lay within reach of the streambed. It took a moment to wrestle the tree out of the frozen soil and fill the hole with snow, but two minutes later Hale had what amounted to a broom.
With the tree in one hand and the shotgun in the other, he followed the creek uphill to the point where he could see the rocky hill that he and his family called Prospector’s Knob, named after the rusty tools his father had found there.
Backing out of the stream, he used the tree to obliterate his tracks, and worked his way up to the point where the windswept hillside was clear of all but a thin dusting of snow. At that point it was safe to toss the tree in a ravine and continue on until he arrived at what a ten-year-old version of himself had called the Fort. A collection of car-sized rocks that had been the scene of many an imaginary battle, and still stood guard over a boyhood secret. One which, if it remained intact, might save Hale’s life.
He entered the small clearing behind a screen of snow-frosted rocks and immediately made his way over to the base of the hill. Many years had passed since the slab of rock had been put into place, but it was still there. Having placed his pack and the Fareye off to the side, Hale lifted the slab out of the way.
That produced a jab of pain as he got down on hands and knees. A combination of dirt and loose gravel had filtered into the cavity from both sides, but once he scooped the material away, a small opening was revealed. Hale’s boyhood dog had discovered the hole and immediately scuttled in, forcing the youngster to follow. He was pretty sure he could still fit through the aperture, and was determined to give it a try.
Grabbing his pack, Hale shoved it into the cave, followed by the snowshoes and his weapons. He used the ski poles to push everything further in, then he lay down on his back and stuck his head into the blackness.
There was a slight dip that had to be negotiated before he could wiggle his way up into the main cavern. It had been a negligible obstacle when he was ten, but it represented a more significant barrier now as Hale kicked with his feet and swore when some dirt fell on his face. His shoulders scraped both sides of the hole as he reached up to push and pull on the rock face within. Progress was incremental, but after a three- or four-minute battle, Hale was inside.
It was pitch black, but Hale was ready for that. He took a flashlight out of a pocket, and as the torch came on a blob of light splashed against one of the walls. He scrambled to his feet and discovered that there was just enough room to stand.
The beam took him on a journey into the past as it roamed the walls of the cavern.
The makeshift shelving was still there, as were the supplies a younger Nathan Hale had considered to be important, including a beat-up kerosene lantern, a box of safety matches, a jar of what had once been peanut butter, a spoon borrowed from his mother’s kitchen, a stack of well-thumbed Red Ryder comic books, a box of .22 shorts, half a roll of toilet paper secured with a rubber band, a mousetrap, the bottom half of a broken shovel, and an Ovaltine decoder ring.
That brought a smile to Hale’s face, because he could remember sending for it, and running all the way down to the mailbox every day for two weeks before it finally arrived.
Life had been simple then, and in retrospect very special, because even though the Chimera had already arrived on the planet, the people of South Dakota had remained blissfully unaware of them.
If only we had known… Then again, he realized, even if they had known, it’s unlikely anything could have been done.
There were more artifacts of the past, including a blackened fire pit, the pile of desiccated wood stacked next to it, a crude likeness of a Neolithic cave painting Hale had seen in National Geographic magazine, and lots of overlapping sneaker prints left by the young explorer.
There was a narrow aperture over the fire pit that was just big enough to carry smoke up and out of the cavern. Normally, a soft whistling noise could be heard as wind crossed over the natural chimney. But now, as Hale heard a thrumming sound, he knew something mechanical was nearby.
A Chimeran drone? Yes, that was a strong possibility, and he felt his stomach muscles tighten as the noise grew louder, then softer again.
Seconds later the airborne machine was gone, causing Hale to breathe easier. Had the drone discovered him, it would still be lingering above. But there would be other hunters, some of whom would be a lot more dangerous than drones, so Hale hurried to move his belongings farther away from the entrance and rolled a rock in to block it.
What had been difficult for a ten-year-old was easier for an adult.
Then it was time to light the kerosene lamp and set up housekeeping. It was tempting to start a fire, both for additional warmth and psychological comfort, but Hale had reason to believe that at least some of the Chimeran constructs could sense heat. If so, a column of smoke and warm air would function as a beacon, and lead them right to his hiding place.
So rather than take that chance, Hale lit a military-style fuel tab and placed a can of beans and franks over the tiny flame. Rather than bring entire C rations, Hale had pilfered components from six of the cardboard boxes prior to departing the base, taking only the items he wanted. Beans and franks being his favorite.
While dinner was cooking Hale took a few swigs from his canteen, followed by three long drags from the I-Pack before turning his attention back to the now bubbling brew. Humble though the dinner was, Hale enjoyed both it and the chocolate bar he had for dessert. That made him thirsty though, and with only half a canteen of water left, he had to limit himself to tiny sips.
Feeling refreshed, he stripped off the parka and two layers of clothing underneath, to inspect the damage the Hybrid had done earlier. His T-shirt was thick with clotted blood, but thanks to the regenerative powers of the Chimeran virus, Hale knew the puncture wounds would already be closed and would soon be healed.
It was a few degrees warmer inside the cave than outside, but it was still chilly, so he hurried to put his clothes back on. Having left his bulky sleeping bag behind, Hale planned to curl up on the floor, and not for the first time. He had slept there as a boy, though not during the winter.
But first, before Hale could take care of his own needs, there were two weapons to clean. That took the better part of forty-five minutes, but was extremely important since both had been exposed to moisture all day long.
Eventually, after completing his chores, Hale positioned his pack for use as a pillow and took the Ross-more into a lover’s embrace. The lantern remained on—which was fine, since there was sufficient fuel to get him through the night. And while it provided no real heat, the light would serve as a source of psychological comfort.
Hale could see the glow through his eyelids, as he thought about his family and the long happy days of his youth. Before he knew it he was far, far away.
The ground shook.
The vibration woke Hale immedi
ately, but he wasn’t sure why, and lay with the shotgun at the ready until a second tremor caused tiny particles of rock to rain down from above. And that was when Hale realized that something extremely large was stalking the land.
A Titan? Like the dead Chimera he’d come across earlier? Or maybe a Mauler, like the ones spotted during the recon mission.
Or perhaps a three-hundred-foot-tall Leviathan—possibly the largest creature to ever walk the surface of the planet. There were mechanical possibilities, too—including heavily armed Stalkers and Goliaths.
Whatever the case, a full minute passed before the earth-shaking footsteps faded away, leaving Hale to try and go to sleep again. That took a while, however, as memory chased memory, and the hours ticked away.
It was an urgent need to take a piss that caused Hale to awake at what his wristwatch said was 0632. His shoulder felt fine, but his rarely used snowshoeing muscles were aching, and there was a bad taste in his mouth. So he got up, urinated in a corner, and brushed his teeth. That process consumed what remained of his water.
Having rolled the barrier rock out of the way, and with empty cup in hand, Hale lay down on his back and pushed his head and shoulders out into the open. It was cold, very cold, and as the thickly falling snowflakes kissed his upturned face Hale grinned happily. Because bad weather was good weather—for him anyway—since visibility would be limited to a few feet.
Securing a mugful of snow, Hale wiggled his way back inside the cave, and went to work. Breakfast consisted of three drags of aerosolized inhibitor from the I-Pack, followed by more franks and beans, plus the mugful of snow-water in the form of some hot chocolate. Then it was time to clean up out of respect for his younger self, push his gear out into the open, and follow it into near-whiteout conditions.
Minutes later Hale had both his pack and snowshoes on. With both weapons positioned for traveling, and the ski poles in hand, he set off for home.
Thanks to his knowledge of the local terrain Hale felt confident that he could find the ranch house regardless of the weather, but was careful to check his compass every now and then just to make sure he was still on course.
He did his best to keep his head on a swivel, but the parka made that difficult, as did all the gear he was carrying. After the first half-hour or so, the endless snowfall combined with the steady swish, swish, swish of snow-shoes threatened to dull his senses and leave him open to attack.
To counter that possibility, Hale made it a habit to pause every ten minutes or so and conduct a 360-degree scan of his environment as far as he could see—which wasn’t very far. But with the exception of a forlorn steer and a briefly glimpsed white-tailed deer, he saw no signs of life until he topped a rise and spotted a line of enormous footprints that cut across his path. Each pod-print was so deep that not even the heavy snowfall had been sufficient to fill them in, although there had been enough to obscure the shape. Given the configuration, though, the vibrations he had experienced the night before must have been caused by a Chimeran battle mech, possibly a Goliath.
There were other signs of the machine’s passage as well, including shattered boulders, trampled trees, and a black scorch mark off in the distance. Something—or someone—had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The thought made him pick up the pace. He needed to get home.
His progress was generally uneventful, although a pack of feral dogs followed him for a while until eventually turning away to follow a more promising scent. He began to see familiar landmarks, like the frozen pond where both cattle and the local wildlife came to drink in the summer, and the tumbledown line shack his foster father’s father had built, and the windmill that brought deep-lying water up to fill a metal tank.
The windmill was still now, its metal blades hung with icicles, its purpose lost—along with an entire way of life.
After the first inclination to rush ahead, Hale forced himself to slow down again. Because if his parents had left, and the ranch house still stood, it could serve as a haven for almost anything. Chimera included.
With that in mind Hale took cover in a cluster of trees. He removed both his pack and snowshoes, and stuffed everything under some low-hanging branches. Then, carrying only the I-Pack plus weapons and ammunition, Hale worked his way forward.
The house had been built in a hollow where it and the outbuildings were sheltered from the prairie winds, so it wouldn’t be visible until he was practically on top of it. He traveled the last few feet of the journey on his belly with the Fareye at the ready and the Rossmore slung across his back.
As his head inched up over the top of the rise his heart beat faster.
The house was intact!
The snow fell like a lacy curtain around the two-story structure. It looked as it always had, and could have been featured on a Christmas card. It was so quiet that the sudden pistol-shot sound caused Hale to jump.
A quick scan of the terrain revealed that an overloaded branch had snapped under the weight of the snow.
Having slowed his breathing, Hale turned his attention back to the house. He knew better than to rush in, and made use of the Fareye’s scope to examine every inch of the structure’s facade. That was when he saw details that caused his spirits to plummet.
There wasn’t any glass left in most of the windows, the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the front door was ajar.
There was no sign of life, so Hale made the decision to trade weapons, knowing that if he was forced to fight inside the house the Rossmore would be the better weapon. Then he rose, and began to advance.
Snow crunched under his boots and deep drifts made it necessary to lift his feet high as he angled down the slope. Once on flat ground he took momentary cover behind the ranch’s snow-encrusted propane tank before dashing across the parking area to crouch by the pump house, where he paused to eyeball his surroundings.
Then, as certain as he could be that there weren’t any nasty surprises waiting for him, Hale left the shelter of the pump house and made his way up the snow-drifted walkway. His boots made a hollow thumping sound as he climbed the front steps to the wraparound porch. The screen door had been holed, and hinges squeaked as Hale pulled it open.
A nudge from the Rossmore was sufficient to push the wooden front door out of the way to reveal a devastated living room. Hale’s heart sank as he stepped inside. A .30-30 Winchester casing rattled away as a snow-encrusted boot hit the brass cylinder and sent it skittering across the wooden floor. Photos from the Farley family album, bloodied bandages, and broken crockery lay everywhere.
As Hale looked around he saw that the walls were riddled with bullet holes and blast marks. Pictures hung askew, the world map over the couch had been half-obliterated by an Auger blast, and blood splatter could be seen on the floor. Based on the medical paraphernalia that sat on the sideboard, it looked as if the wounded had been laid out on the dining room table. Hale could imagine his mother bent over a bloodied ranch hand, doing what she could to prolong his life for another few minutes, as the battle raged around her.
Judging from the hundreds of empty .30-30, .45, and even .22 casings that littered the floor, plus the red, green, and yellow shotgun shells scattered around the house, it appeared that the Farleys and their employees had put up one helluva fight. It had been a losing battle however, or that’s the way things appeared. But where were the bodies? Had the Chimera taken them away? Or was there some other explanation?
Although it was only mid-afternoon, little sunlight pierced the clouds and the snow, so the room was dark and gloomy. Hale removed the flashlight from his pocket and began to play the beam across the walls and floor in an effort to find some clue as to what had taken place after the battle. That was when he spotted the familiar scrawl on the living room wall.
To friends and family,
Farleys don’t run. That’s what dad said. So we stayed. They came the day before yesterday… And I’m proud to say that we killed every damned one of the bastards!
But Sam went down, and Red, and Pete. Then mom died, followed by dad, and I should have been next. But it didn’t turn out that way. So I scooped out a grave with the tractor and buried them out back. Right next to mom’s garden.
I’m heading south with Ruff. Pray for me.
Susan
Ruff was the family’s mastiff—and Susan was Hale’s sister. Not his real sister, but she might as well have been, because the two of them were as close as any blood relatives had ever been. Susan was one of the few people who could shoot a rifle as well as Hale could, and given her knowledge of the outdoors, she might have been able to escape Chimera-occupied territory alive. That possibility made Hale feel a little better as he passed from the dining room and badly ravaged kitchen to leave the house through the back door.
The snowfall slowed by then, making it a little easier as he took a look around. The barn stood off to his left, the tractor she had mentioned was straight ahead, and the garden was off to the right. A wonderful sight in the spring and summer, but fallow now, and buried under the snow.
And something new had been added, a mound that could only be the mass grave Susan had referred to, adjacent to the garden.
Each footstep made a dry crunching sound as Hale made his way over to the mound and stood with his chin on his chest. Tears trickled down his stubble-covered cheeks as he thought about the battle that had been fought, and how hard the burial must have been for Susan. These were the people who had raised him—not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
Frank and Mary Farley had been good people, who, like so many others, had been killed by the stinking invaders.
As Hale’s head came up he felt stronger, more determined than ever to eradicate the alien menace, no matter what the effort might cost him.
That was when Hale heard metal clang on metal, he brought the Rossmore up, and swiveled toward his left. Someone or something was moving around in the barn.
CHAPTER FIVE
Resistance: The Gathering Storm r-1 Page 7