“What is that?” Lindsey asked.
Colton knew right away. “A plane,” he replied.
Everyone on the streets stopped what they were doing to look at the sky as a massive airliner zoomed through the gray clouds. It was low enough that Colton could see it wasn’t one of theirs. The white aircraft had Chinese markings on the side.
The raucous sound made people put their hands over their ears. It passed overhead, low enough that some frightened citizens ran for cover. Colton held the reins tight just in case Obsidian tried to bolt. But, aside from pacing, the horse stayed put.
The plane turned sharply, moving southeast toward Denver, and vanished back into the clouds. Colton watched the sky, hoping to see supply crates parachuting toward them, but nothing came.
The rumble faded away, and the citizens all around gathered in groups to talk. Several of them shouted questions.
“What the heck was that about, Chief?” someone asked.
“Was that a Chinese plane?” another person said.
“Are we really being invaded?” came another voice.
“Everything’s fine,” Colton said.
“What’s that?” someone yelled.
Colton followed the woman’s finger down the street, to where sheets of white paper were fluttering over the road like oversized snowflakes. He gave Obsidian a nudge, and the horse took off. Willow and Lindsey followed. When they got to the center of the street, Colton dismounted. His boots hit the asphalt, and he plucked a piece of paper off the ground.
To the residents of Loveland, Estes Park, Fort Collins, Greely… the list of towns went on and on. He continued reading past the names.
The United States military and FEMA are working hard with the Chinese government to get the power back on. We estimate that this could take anywhere from one to two years in your area. Until then, please remember to tune in to the emergency broadcast channel for updates and tips on rationing food, water, and medical supplies. Good luck.
“Good luck,” Colton said, rolling up the paper into a ball and tossing it onto the ground.
Lindsey stared at the sheet of paper in her own hand. “One to two years?”
Colton kicked the balled-up flyer away and turned to look at the hundreds of people wandering away from the soup kitchen line to see what was going on. The last thing he wanted was for these people to see the timeframe.
“Help me keep ’em back,” he said to Lindsey.
“Everyone back to the soup line!” she shouted.
Colton walked toward the crowd, hands up, trying to keep his voice low. He stopped mid-stride when he saw a kid holding up one of the pieces of paper.
“I found something!” he yelled.
A man grabbed it from the kid’s hand.
“Read it,” someone said.
“What’s it say?” another person asked.
Colton cursed as the man read it aloud. Dozens of faces suddenly looked in his direction, and then came the bombardment of questions.
“Guess our luck’s run out,” Colton said to Lindsey. Two months already seemed like an eternity. He couldn’t imagine another two years without power, but, somehow, he would have to convince these people that things weren’t as dire as they seemed.
— 12 —
Raven kicked at the frozen dirt. The roar of the plane had scared off his chase—an eight-point buck he’d been tracking for the past hour. Hell, the damn thing had probably frightened every animal within a twenty-mile radius. And while he was pissed, he was also curious about the plane. The craft had vanished into the clouds before he got a good look at what model it was, but it had sounded large.
“Just my damn luck,” he whispered.
Raven slung his crossbow over his back and yanked his facemask down. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his vest and whistled for Creek. The dog came bounding around a tree a few minutes later, tail wagging.
This was their first hunt since the unsuccessful execution on Storm Mountain, and the Akita was clearly thrilled to get back on the trail. Raven could hardly keep the dog calm on the ride here earlier. But no matter how happy Creek was to be outside, his energy level was not back to normal. He wasn’t the only one; Raven was suffering from a cold, a headache, and a growling stomach.
Every step he took made him consider throwing in the towel for today’s hunt. Considering how much he had prepped for this one—the traditional cold water dips, the fasting, the prayers—he didn’t want to just give up. But his first priority was the town, and he needed to get back there if something was wrong.
He raised the radio to see what was going on. “Colton, this is Raven. Do you copy? Over.”
The crackle of the static echoed through the cold forest.
“Copy,” Colton said a few minutes later.
“Yeah…uh, what the hell was that plane doing up here?” Raven asked.
“Dropping info.”
Raven stopped mid-stride. “What kind of info?”
“About the power. Sounds like we’re pretty low on the totem pole in terms of getting back on.”
Raven sneered. He hated the “totem pole” cliché.
“Should I come back?” he asked.
“It can wait. Finish your hunt. Food is the most important thing right now, especially since it’s going to take…”
Static crackled from the radio and he held it into the air to get a better signal.
“What was that?” Raven asked. “Chief?”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Colton said.
“Roger that.”
Raven tucked the walkie-talkie back into his vest and filled his lungs with icy air. He had to keep focused and strong. It was the only way he was going to come back with a kill today—and from the sounds of it, that was pretty important.
He signaled for Creek to follow, and continued into the woods. Fasting the previous day hadn’t been a good idea, especially being sick, but it was Cherokee tradition to fast before a hunt. Raven reached out to put a glove on the coarse bark of a tree, his headache suddenly beating his skull so hard he squinted from the pain. It felt like someone was hitting him every other second with a mallet. The cold was worse because of another Cherokee tradition—dipping in freezing water the two nights before a hunt.
He had to be careful after everything he had been through, from gunshot and knife wounds to nearly being blown up. The last thing he wanted to take him down was a freaking runny nose. Raven could picture his tombstone now:
Sam “Raven” Spears.
Died of a cold.
Raising his crossbow, he kept pushing through the woods. Snow fluttered down around him, coating the dirt and leaves in a layer of powder. It was heavy enough to cover any recent tracks. The snow didn’t just cover tracks—it also disguised traps in the ground, places where Raven could twist an ankle or slip and fall. He picked each step carefully, knowing an injury could take him out of commission.
Creek had his muzzle down toward the ground, sniffing for a scent. Raven picked up the pace to follow. He pushed his stocking cap up above his ears and listened for prey as he moved, trying to pick up the crack of a twig or the rustle of movement. The woods were quiet for mid-afternoon. Aside from the chirp of a few birds and the whistle of the wind, he heard nothing.
Cold air carrying the scent of cedar filled his lungs. He exhaled and flexed his muscles, then relaxed them to keep the blood flowing. He wiggled his toes and fingers every ten minutes. Cramping was also a concern, although he had been drinking plenty of water. It was the one thing Estes Park had in abundance.
He ducked under the branch of an aspen tree and crouched next to the trunk of a towering ponderosa to scan a clearing. Light as a feather, Raven reminded himself. He sure felt like light, having lost over twenty pounds since the bombs.
Creek came back into view, sniffing the ground as he zigzagged up a hill. His back went rigid, and he glanced over his shoulders at Raven. The dog had a scent.
Raven nodded, and Creek took off toward the hill. In s
econds, the dog had ascended the slope and vanished over the other side. It took Raven much longer. He trekked up slowly, his muscles straining. Snow fluttered around him, and he stopped to rest and take in the view. To the west, the mountain peaks rose on the horizon like jagged, bleached teeth. A twig crunched behind Raven, and he turned to scan the fence of aspen trees.
Nothing moved in the white landscape.
He tightened his muscles again before relaxing them, willing his legs to continue up the hill. Using his calves, he pushed upward, carefully selecting each step between the trees growing out of the steep incline. Near the top, he one-handed his crossbow and used the other to grab the wide trunk of a Douglas fir. He hefted himself up to the crest and stopped to rest again.
Standing in the open allowed the gusting wind to cut into his body. Even with multiple layers, the cold found its way into his coat. He pulled his stocking cap back down over his ears, making the sounds all around him muffled. Stars floated across his vision from straining his way up the hill. He leaned on the tree and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the stars were gone but he was still light-headed. Another twig snapped in the distance, and Raven quickly brought his crossbow up. His eyes flitted left and right over the terrain, searching for whatever was making the sound. A squirrel suddenly raced up the bark of a ponderosa, snow falling off the disturbed branches.
Raven forced air out of his stuffy nose, but that just made his sinuses burn. He got out the binoculars and turned to look over the valley carved through the forest below. A stream meandered through a field on the east side of woods. The elk came here to drink, but today he didn’t see a single one of the beasts. Most of them had retreated deeper into Rocky Mountain National Park, and hunting parties were being forced to trek farther and farther to find food. Predatory animals were starving from their food source being killed off, driving them to desperation. Several dogs in town had been dragged off by coyotes. Raven wasn’t too worried about Creek, but anyone with one of those yippy little dogs was keeping them inside, just to be safe.
He saw movement along the edge of the forest, where the trees met the meadows, and spotted his Akita. Creek was still following the scent. Now that was a real dog. You shouldn’t be able to put a dog in a handbag.
“Good, boy,” Raven said. He raised the binos and glassed the valley, dividing it into thirds and scanning the canvas by looking left to right, and then back again.
A flash of white moved near the stream. He held the binos steady. But what he saw wasn’t the eight-point buck he was looking for, or even an elk. Instead, a pair of translucent figures was standing at the edge of the trees.
Raven closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, the apparitions were still there. His heart pounded at the sight, even though he knew they weren’t real. They couldn’t be.
He vividly remembered the dream of Jistu the trickster rabbit, the Thunderer storm spirit, and the humanoid children with faces of adults called Yunwi Tsunsdi’. But the two men standing below weren’t Yunwi Tsunsdi’, and Raven wasn’t dreaming. He finally recognized them as Nunnehi warriors—spirit hunters. The two men stood there watching Raven, bows at their sides, draped in skins and furs.
You’ve really lost it now, Sam.
He whistled, and Creek halted in the meadow below, glancing up at Raven with a rabbit in his maw. At least the dog had caught his chase. The Nunnehi warriors were walking along the river now, paying no attention to the dog. Normally the spirit race was invisible, but they showed themselves to humans they liked, and would show up to help during a hunt.
So why the hell were they raising bows at him?
Raven remained frozen, staring. They were just a figment of his imagination, a product of his pounding headache. But he couldn’t help but flinch when they fired translucent arrows that curved overhead.
Something slammed into Raven from behind a beat later, knocking his crossbow from his hands. He hit the ground hard, the air bursting from his lungs. As soon as he sucked in a gasp, a blade slashed his leg. The air came right back out in an animalistic holler of pain.
A growl replied.
Raven rolled onto his back and looked up into the majestic face of a mountain lion. The elusive creatures normally avoided humans, but men like Raven had taken so many elk that the beast was starving. Yellow eyes locked onto his neck, and black lips parted to reveal yellow, dagger-like teeth as the beast went for his jugular vein.
Everything seemed to freeze in that moment. He could see the saliva dripping from the creature’s maw as it bent down, and watched the fur stretch as the beast flexed its muscles.
He grabbed the creature by the neck and pushed as hard as he could, screaming in a war cry. Hot breath hit Raven’s face as the mountain lion fought him, its head just inches from his own.
Raven caught a glimpse of the translucent arrows sticking out of the tree behind the beast. It was then he realized the Nunnehi hadn’t been aiming for him. They were warning him of the mountain lion. Raven hadn’t been the hunter—he had been the mountain lion’s chase all along.
“Creek!” Raven shouted. He pushed harder at the creature’s neck, and then used his left hand to hit it in the side of the head. The beast growled, and he screamed back, doing his best to show the mountain lion he wasn’t going out without a fight.
Raven bit at the creature’s leg and tore out a hunk of flesh and fur. The beast let out a roar of its own and then swiped Raven’s stocking cap off with a paw. He reached for his buck knife, pulled it from the sheath, and slashed at the big cat’s white muzzle.
The creature let out another roar, hot blood peppering Raven’s face. It reared back, giving Raven an opportunity. He went to jam the knife into the exposed chest, but a paw hit him in the face, slicing his cheek.
Barking sounded in the distance. Creek was coming.
The mountain lion looked up, blood dripping from its maw and yellow eyes focusing on the Akita. It leapt off Raven and bolted toward Creek.
You have to get up, Sam.
Red swarmed Raven’s vision as he pushed at the ground, bringing himself to his knees just as Creek and the mountain lion slammed into one another.
Creek was badass, but he was no match for the beast, especially with just one eye and wounds that still weren’t fully healed. Raven searched the ground for his knife, but saw his crossbow instead. He crawled over and grabbed the crossbow, bringing it up and trying to focus on a target. But all he saw was a mass of white and tawny fur.
“Creek, watch out!” he yelled.
His vision cleared just long enough to see that the mountain lion had Creek on his back. Raven pulled the trigger.
A yelp sounded.
Raven blinked over and over, his heart pounding like an automatic rifle. He dropped the crossbow and scrambled over the ground on all fours, his hand finding his knife as he moved. He picked up the blade and then pushed himself up, stumbling over to see a massive lump of fur and twisted limbs.
An arrow stuck out of the center of the mass.
“Creek!” Raven shouted. He bent down and saw that the arrow was embedded in the mountain lion’s back. It had collapsed onto Creek, pinning the dog to the snow.
Raven pushed the beast off his best friend, and Creek slowly got up on all fours. He wagged his tail and licked at Raven’s hand.
“Thank God you’re okay, boy.”
He wiped the blood from his face and then crouched down to examine Creek’s wounds. They weren’t bad at first glance, just a slash on his back. That was good, but he was afraid to look at his own injuries. His leg hurt, and his back felt numb, which was a very bad sign.
But they were alive, and that was all that mattered. They weren’t coming back empty-handed either. Raven looked at the dead mountain lion and the rabbit lying a few feet away, wondering how they would taste in stew.
“What do you think, Creek? Cat-rabbit stew for dinner?” He chuckled, although his words weren’t particularly funny. Raven’s head swam, and his vi
sion blurred once more.
His legs suddenly felt numb too, and he fell to his knees. A moment later Raven collapsed to the ground, his face hitting the cold snow.
“Oh shit,” he muttered when he saw the Nunnehi warriors at the top of the hill. And they were talking now, too.
“My name is Snake, and this is Badger,” said the man on the left. “You have to get up, Raven. You can’t give up, or you will die here.”
Creek whined, clearly concerned for his handler.
“Go get help, boy,” Raven managed to whisper before the world started spinning.
***
Fenix pulled the cigar out of his mouth and moved over to the rocky edge of the bluff, where he took a knee next to his second in command. The highway in the valley below was covered in a fresh layer of snow that coated the abandoned cars like vanilla frosting. Nothing stirred in the still landscape.
But that was all about to change.
Two miles to the west, an American and Chinese convoy of highway clearers steamrolled down the road. They were right on time.
Fenix raised his M4 scope to his eye and centered it on a pair of trucks at the front. Mounted blades slammed vehicles into the ditches, clearing a path for a convoy containing industrial equipment and supplies for the survival centers. He counted three tan Humvees behind the lead trucks, and three white Chinese pickups packed full of soldiers following the Humvees. Behind those were four semi-trailers carrying supplies to the survival center outside of Denver. Another two American Humvees followed the trailers.
“Pretty light,” Fenix whispered. That was good. It drastically reduced the chance of losing a soldier on this raid.
Over the past month, the Sons of Liberty had rebuilt their small army after losing so many of their brothers, first at the Castle, and then the camp where Fenix had been in hiding. Sergeant Horton’s divisions, especially their squads of special ops soldiers, had been key in making this comeback.
Fenix turned to look at those men. They called themselves the Brandenburger Commandos, an homage to the elite Nazi soldiers. There were twelve of them up here on the bluff, all wearing camouflaged clothing and carrying automatic rifles.
Trackers Omnibus [Books 1-4] Page 89