by Stu Jones
The men smiled, giving nervous nods of acknowledgment as Courtland turned back toward the slope. “Now ready yourselves,” he said, picking up his curved ebony blades. “Forward we go, into the fray.”
“Courtland,” came Dagen’s voice through the earpiece, “if you’re going to do this, you’ve got to do it now—right now.”
“I understand,” the big man whispered. “We’re moving.”
In the musky gypsy tent, Susan Lorusso thought she might die of anticipation. She tried to keep her hands from trembling as she tightened her grip on the crude, sharpened spike of deer antler clenched in her right fist. She’d been ready to make her move for hours, ever since the radio broadcast. She forced herself to wait for the right moment, but that moment hadn’t come. Garrett hadn’t gone to sleep like he usually did. Instead, he’d been in and out of the tent all night, moving back and forth among other hushed voices. No doubt he was preparing for first contact with her husband, and it wasn’t a welcoming committee. She had to move soon, or her chances of doing anything to help Kane or herself would be completely lost.
She would have to move at the next available opportunity, the next time Garrett came into the tent and came close enough. In the early-morning darkness, she strained, twisting her wrists and pulling them through the steel shackles with the tiniest jingle. She froze, as even the slight sound seemed amplified by her paranoia. Still there was no response. Susan breathed a sigh of relief and furrowed her brow.
In the hellish, frantic nature of the situation, she hadn’t stopped to consider what would happen if the plan actually worked—If she and her husband and children were to be reunited again. The sheer joy of the thought caused a swell of hope to grow inside her. But as soon as the feeling came, it immediately began to dwindle. The realization of what she had become hit her like a punch in the gut. She had become another man’s concubine in order to save herself and her children. She had been forced to do unspeakable things. Kane could never truly love or cherish or respect what she had become.
As the hope for the future of her family began to fail, her lip quivered. She hardened her heart to such things, thoughts that wouldn’t help her now. She sniffed and wiped away the last dirty tear she would allow. All that mattered was the children, that they made it safely back to their father. She would do anything, and sacrifice anyone, to make that happen.
The thin woman closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer, her words fading into the humid night as she gripped the bone tightly, waiting for the man who would soon be forced to remember her as more than just woman.
“The stuff is right here.” Jacob motioned at the open truck door as he backed away. “No need for the weapons. I’ve got what you asked for right here in the truck. Now let me see my family.”
“Stop backing away!” one of the men called out. “Stop and raise your hands higher.”
The teen pretended not to hear as he continued to take shallow steps backward toward the bed. “It’s alight. I’ve got the stuff right here. Come on. Check it out. Then you can get my family.”
“Stop backing away!” the man shouted, as several rifle bolts made the sound of rounds being chambered.
Jacob stopped backing up and took a large step to his right, behind the bed of the truck.
“I mean it!” the man screamed. He and the others in Garrett’s security group were now about twenty yards from the front of the truck.
Jacob opened the truck bed and let it drop open, the blued metal of an AK-47 assault rifle loaded with a thirty-round magazine just within his reach. He eyed the rifle then raised his hands farther above his head.
“Move again and you’re dead!”
Jacob complied and allowed the security force from the camp to come closer. He watched as they stopped about ten yards in front of the truck and fanned out into a semicircle facing him. Lights snapped to life, and he squinted as they pointed the glaring beams at him.
“There’s no need for this. It’s fine,” Jacob continued. “I’ve got what you wanted right here. I just want to see my family first.” He shifted his weight, nervous.
“Did you come alone?”
“Yeah, man, yeah. I just want to see my family.”
“Your family?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you a little young? That’s not your family. What are you doing here, boy? You screw with us and we’ll kill them.”
“Okay, you got me. They’re not my family,” he said, lowering his hands and touching the rifle.
“You little shit. What are you trying to pull?” the man hissed.
“I’m not trying to pull anything, jack wagon—I am pulling it,” Jacob drawled, grabbing the rifle from the bed and dropping into a low squat behind the truck. Diving out, he slid under the rear axle of the truck, screaming at the top of his lungs to his unseen comrades. “Now!”
The security group glanced about anxiously as Jacob disappeared from sight. Two shadows rose from their positions among the shallow hills, approximately thirty yards away from either side of the truck. The barren ground beneath the shadows bloomed to life as Arrice and Shana fired on the unsuspecting group. Under the truck, bullets pinged and zinged as Jacob cursed. He took careful, well-placed shots at the feet, ankles, and knees of the security force, the bullets finding their marks and causing their targets to fall. Once they were down, he could take a final, fatal shot.
One guard ran toward the truck, desperate to find cover. “I don’t think so,” Jacob muttered, as he rolled onto his side and fired, striking the figure in the foot. The guard screamed in pain as the bullet blew fragments of toes from a gaping hole in the shoe. The figure dropped right next to the truck. Jacob immediately fired two rounds into the shadowed chest.
The unsuspecting security force tried to return fire, but they were cut down, thrashing about in the open like goldfish released from a shattered fishbowl. The last one finally fell, crying and clutching at his chest.
Jacob slid out from under the truck and jumped to his feet. “Let’s go!” he yelled, as Arrice and Shana made their way toward the vehicle. Jacob took two steps then called out in fright as a hand grabbed his ankle. He swung, turning his rifle on the form below him, and stopped, his eyes wide with horror. At his feet a teenage girl stared up at him, her eyes pleading for help, her mouth forming soundless words as foam bubbled from her blood-soaked lips. She was the guard Jacob had shot next to the truck just moments earlier. She wasn’t any older than him.
“Jacob, get in the truck!” Arrice shouted.
Jacob blinked hard and pulled his leg from the girl’s grip. He shook his head and whispered, “Oh, God. I’m…I’m sorry.”
“Leave her and get in the truck,” came Shana’s voice from behind, her tone revealing stress and tension as she grabbed Jacob’s shirt and hauled him into the bed of the pickup. Arrice jumped into the driver’s seat, and with the sound of tires spinning against the dirt, the truck was off, barreling toward the front of the camp.
“I…I didn’t mean to—”
“Get a hold of yourself, kid,” Shana spat. “People die. It happens.”
“Get up, woman. My people are headed out to retrieve your hubby,” Garrett growled, as he stepped into the tent and approached Susan.
Susan remained motionless, surveying Garrett’s movements through partially closed eyes. She squeezed the bone spike in her fist and prepared to strike.
“I said, get up,” said Garrett, reaching toward her. He stopped short as the sound of nearby gunfire caught his interest. He turned toward the sound, gritting his teeth. “What the fuck? I told them not to kill anyone yet!”
Now!
Susan lashed out with the bone spike and felt it strike true as it sank through the meat of Garrett’s calf muscle. She twisted it and tore it back out, certain the spike had at least severed the muscle and tendon. Garrett screamed in pain and fell toward her, reaching as his wounded leg failed to support him. With a furious scream, Susan rose with a scream, thrusting the spike
again, this time causing a deep gash down his forehead and nose, then across the flesh of his cheek. A bright crimson plume sprayed down Garrett’s forehead, obscuring his vision. He grabbed at her blindly, and together they fell across the bedroll in a frenzied struggle. Screaming, groaning in the darkness, Garrett grabbed Susan’s arm and banged the back of her fist against the ground, knocking the weapon from her hand.
“I’ll kill you, woman!” he screamed, as he pulled himself over her.
“My name is Susan!” she snarled back, as she thrust her knee up hard into his groin. She sank the nails of her free hand into the flesh near his ribs and twisted.
Garrett groaned as she forced him off her and scrambled to her feet. As he tried to recover, she lunged forward and kicked him as hard as she could in the face, the blow whipping his head so far backward that she thought it might have snapped his neck. Without a sound, he fell, her crude and merciless tormentor now crumpled at her feet.
Susan nodded in satisfaction. “Forget my name now, you sick son of a bitch,” she quipped, as she tried to catch her breath. Garrett wasn’t moving. He could be dead. Susan took a second to catch her breath, realizing for the first time how great she felt and that she couldn’t care less if he was dead or not. He’d made his bed.
She moved quick, grabbing the two items she knew she would need—Garrett’s Zippo lighter and a handle of salvaged Southern Comfort, his prized possession. Exiting the tent, she looked toward the front of the camp, where the sounds of sporadic gunfire could still be heard.
In a few paces, she arrived at a pile of dead brush and logs that had been used as a walkway partition. She dumped the entire bottle of Southern Comfort, flicked the Zippo, and tossed it onto the pile. A rush of flame stretched to the sky, big enough to alert the children. The time had come for them—all of them—to be free.
TWENTY-SIX
Courtland ran up the hill and past the first few mud huts as he entered the Sicks’ lair. Though he was only jogging, his enormous stride and impressive endurance allowed him to move faster than what should have been humanly possible. Behind him the rest of the men ran and stumbled, trying to keep up, fighting to keep the terror from consuming them.
Glancing over his shoulder as he ran, he weaved his way through the huts toward the center of the camp. The men were falling behind, but he couldn’t slow down. He had to accomplish the mission or it would all be for nothing.
“Courtland,” came Dagen’s tinny voice like a house fly in his ear. “You’ve got one moving in on you from the right. Don’t check up. I’ve got him.”
As soon as the transmission ended, Courtland heard the creature huffing like an angry wild boar.
Come on, Dagen. Be the guy you say you are.
The mutant flew into sight on Courtland’s right, leaping toward him, flashing its jaws as it came. Just as the creature was almost upon him, the crown of its head opened like a rotten, gray pumpkin, the contents erupting into the air with a splash of black blood and brain. The lingering crack of a rifle followed.
“Cut it a little of close, didn’t ya?” Courtland breathed into his microphone.
“I said, I’ve got you.”
“How about the other guys?”
“They’re trailing you a good bit. I’ll do my best to keep them clear.”
“Okay.”
As the big man ran, his heavy boots pounding holes in the muck beneath, he heard the camp stir to life. The hoots, screams, and growls of the residents filled his ears, growing to a frenzy. The report of the high-powered rifle and the screams of the dying Sick assured that the stealth element of this mission was now in the bag.
“We’ve got to get in there and finish this, now!” Courtland yelled to the men behind him as they scrambled desperately to keep up. He heard them firing, followed by the resounding echo of Dagen’s rifle.
“Go, Courtland!” Kris yelled from behind, as he fired his pump shotgun into the growing masses that had begun to surround them. “Go and finish it!”
Courtland stopped just long enough to see Kris and the others, their weapons roaring as the rabid mutants swarmed them. The giant knew he could either help these men or see the mission through. He couldn’t do both. With a wince of anguish, he turned and ran toward the leader’s hut, which quickly came into view at the center of camp. Behind him, Kris and the others began to scream—the sounds of men who knew their deaths were at hand.
“Dagen?” Courtland said, breathless concern in his voice.
“Keep moving, Courtland,” Dagen said with a tone of finality. “No one can help them now.”
From the top of the rise, Dagen fired a round and watched as it dropped short of its intended target, a disgusting freak that was making its way toward Courtland. Dagen shifted his position and gave the elevation knob on the scope several clicks up, adjusting for the change in target distance. He looked again and keyed his microphone. “Courtland, you’ve got a few coming for you on your left. I can’t get the shot.”
“I see them.”
Looking through the scope, Dagen watched Courtland crush his attackers with a single swipe of the blades. The power the big man could exert was nothing short of astonishing.
Dagen held the rifle snug to his shoulder and grabbed his right bicep with his left hand to create a solid shooting platform. Breathing deep, he watched as Courtland neared the open area in the muddy center of the camp. Drawing a bead on a few stray attackers, Dagen exhaled slightly and paused his breath as the trigger yielded with an easy pull. With a resounding crack, a creature’s head split open and its bony frame fell to the earth. Two more shots in succession brought down two more mutants. Dagen aimed to destroy another, further clearing the big man’s path. He keyed his microphone again.
“You’ve got about twenty-five yards to—” A snarl from behind froze Dagen’s blood to ice. As Dagen rolled hard to the side, the Sick’s claws just missed connecting with flesh as they tore a gaping hole in the back of his jacket. Then it was upon him, its claws flailing, its jaws snapping as it came down upon him like a wild animal.
“Gahhh!” Dagen groaned as he wrestled with the creature, his broken legs twisting in useless movements beneath it. The thing had absolute control of him, and he knew with certainty that without the use of his legs he would soon be killed. Through his thick military jacket, he felt the creature’s claws digging into his skin. It snarled in his face, its breath laced with the stench of rotting flesh.
“Dagen, come in,” came Courtland over his earpiece, which had popped out and dangled like an ornament on his collar. Dagen had one shot at this. The longer their struggle went on, the higher the likelihood that this encounter wouldn’t end well for him. In a lightning-fast movement born of struggle and hardwired military training, Dagen caught the creature around the back of the neck and pulled it in with his left hand while simultaneously yanking a combat knife from his vest. Driving the knife straight up, he sank the blade through the hypoglossal nerve under the monster’s chin, causing the creature to spasm and thrash. As the mutant bucked to the side to get away, Dagen rolled with it, riding it over, while working the knife back and forth into its cranial cavity.
“Die already, you ugly mother,” Dagen groaned, pressing all his weight on the knife.
With a savage gurgle, the creature finally stopped moving. Dagen released a deep sigh and withdrew his knife. He rolled off and crawled back to his rifle, his lungs laboring.
“Courtland,” Dagen huffed, as he examined the busted scope on his rifle, “you’re on your own. My weapon system is down.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m…yeah. One of them ambushed me, but I took care of it. The rifle is down, though. I’ll try to get it back up.”
“Copy. I’m here at the hut. If you can read me, I’m going in.”
Dagen wiped the blood from his face and nodded as he keyed up his microphone. “I copy. Go get ’em.”
In a mad dash to reach her children, Susan flew across the gypsy camp, her slender
form fast and unseen against the backdrop of ramshackle tents. She ran heedless of the danger, with a determination born of fear, anxiety, and hope. Gunfire continued to erupt around the camp, and her mind spun with the possibilities. Had Kane really arrived? Had Garrett’s thugs ambushed them, or had Kane hit them first? Or was it something else— some other group attacking them?
Susan wasn’t about to stop to find out. First she would secure the children. Then and only then would she exit the camp and try to find her husband. With bullets zinging overhead, the last thing they needed was to stay one fraction of a second longer than necessary.
With an unexpected twang, Susan’s foot snagged on a taut length of cord lashed to one of the tent pegs. With a yelp she tumbled and crashed through the side of a canvas tent. Her world spun, and in a moment of terror, she thrashed about in the collapsed canvas tarp. She felt sure she had been discovered. Her heart raced, and her mind reeled. She forced herself to be still for a moment, to allow her senses to rejoin her body. The tent was empty. Its owner likely had left to investigate the cause of the gunfire at the front of camp.
Taking a few deep breaths, Susan reassured herself and worked her way through the pile of canvas and junk, crawling toward a small opening in the front. There she gasped as she heard footsteps that sounded as though they were rapidly approaching. Several wild-looking men ran right in front of the tent, their rifles raised, their faces red with fury. One swore, grumbling something about a kid and loading another magazine. She’d had seen these men before.