"They shot at us," Ben said. "I can't believe they fucking shot us down!"
The hush over the group this time was complete. Only the wind whispering through the long-needled pines dared to continue its sorrowful moan.
Covering her face with her hands, Cheryl tried in vain to shut out the images that were flashing in her head: the men, women, and children that she had seen running from the fort. They hadn't just stumbled and fallen as they ran. They had been shot. There was a bitter, sickening sensation in the pit of her stomach like it was filling with bile. She'd rather face a battalion of Eaters than a group of savages that could be so heartless.
Edmond asked what she was already wondering. "If they were shooting at anyone who was trying to leave…what if they come after us up here?"
"Come after us? Oh God!" Jasmine cried.
"That's why we're staying quiet tonight," Jake said, trying to reassure her. "I can't imagine anyone risking breaking their neck trying to trek up here while it's dark, but we might not be as safe here after daylight. In the meantime, we're going to keep trying the other choppers on the radio."
Jordan fiddled with the handheld, making another attempt to make contact, but heard nothing but static in reply to his pleas.
Instead of quieting down, Jasmine broke into a wail. Her sobs seemed to increase in intensity after each blubbery inhale.
Jake gave Ben a harsh stare. "Please try to calm her down. She's not helping anyone by getting hysterical, and we need to keep quiet."
"Honey…" Ben implored. "It's going to be okay. We're going to be fine. If we can't find a way to get a hold of one of the other pilots and get him to fly us to Omaha, we'll look for a shelter that's closer. There's bound to be a house or building around here. If it comes to that, it wouldn't be all that bad. You always said you hated it in the fort anyway. You said it was too crowded, and it was too—"
"Shut up," she said, stifling her flood of tears. "You're treating me like a child."
"Then stop acting like one." He squeezed her harder after that, trying to apologize for the harsh words.
They were all so tired and banged up from the crash, the conversations about who might be behind the apocalypse trickled off as they hovered between consciousness and the haze of fatigue. Everyone huddled closer together as the air turned sharply cooler, prickling up the hairs on their bare arms. Only Kai, Jasmine, and Edmond slept. The rest of them stayed alert, ready to defend themselves against anything that moved in the shadows. Since Cheryl had given up the M-16 that she'd borrowed from Private Kelly's dead fingers, she kept a few rocks by her side to use as weapons in addition to the knife that she kept clutched in one hand.
Hours later, as soon as the first mauve light crept over the ridge of the mountain, Chip began to rouse everyone who'd managed to fall asleep and tried to goad them into forming a search party for Patrick.
When he shook Cheryl's shoulder, startling her into an upright position, it was obvious that he hadn't slept at all. His dark eyelashes were still covered with dew-like dampness from tears, and his bloodshot eyes were ringed by puffy, bruised semi-circles. She suspected that he'd made at least one foray into the woods by himself overnight to look for his friend then had gotten cold feet and come back to camp to wait until the others could accompany him.
There was little chatter as the MRE's were passed out. Everyone took what was handed to them without complaint. For breakfast they ate pouches of things like spaghetti, beans and rice, or a barbecue chicken sandwich. Then, one by one…they trotted off to relieve themselves in the brush. Cheryl found a new area to squat, far from the rotting thigh bone she'd seen earlier. Jasmine stayed closer to camp, risking indecency rather than anything more harrowing.
When they returned, Chip urged them all to pack up, so they could get on with the search. Minutes later, they began what felt like a funeral march over the rocky, uneven ground. Every dense clump of junipers or oaks made them slow down with guns pointed, until they were sure no one was hiding behind them.
They'd only gone about a hundred yards when they heard the sound of barking and stopped.
"Coyotes?" Mark asked.
"No," Jake said. "It sounds like dogs. A lot of them."
Ben turned in a circle, trying to get a fix on the origin. "I think it's lower down. The sound is carrying up the mountainside."
"It could be a wild pack," Cheryl offered. "A lot of domestics banded together after their owners died or abandoned them."
"Yeah." Jake adjusted the bag on his shoulder. "That's probably it. Hopefully, they don't come up this way. We don't need to add wolves or wild dogs to our list of dangers."
They continued walking, and the sound of barking grew fainter. Moments later…Chip, who was in the lead, stopped in his tracks. He grabbed a scrap of tan cloth from the bark on a pinyon tree. "This is Patrick's! It's from his shirt."
No one remarked on the blood stain on one corner.
"Okay. At least we know he came through this way," Chip said, grasping for some shred of optimism.
Jordan came beside him and looked at the cloth. "He might have just been running and smacked into the tree on accident."
"Oh yeah," Chip said with a snarl. "That really explains why he didn't come back last night. He ran into a tree like a fucking idiot and just passed out."
Jordan hung his head, and they kept going.
They hadn't gone much further when they heard two explosions in the distance, almost back to back. They stopped, speculating what they were.
"The fort?" Kai asked?
"No," Jake said. "It was closer."
"The chopper?"
"Not ours."
They continued hiking, and a few minutes later they came to a ridge that overlooked the valley below. The remains of two of the other Black Hawks that had evacuated from the fort were burning in the sand. Their blades were mangled, making them look like crooked windmills resting on their sides as their charred bodies crackled with orange flames.
"That was Crowley and Shipman. They hit the air just a few seconds after us. I lost sight of them early on and wondered what happened to them.
"Gas tanks blew?" Zach said, stepping up on a rock and gazing at the carnage with awe struck eyes.
Jake shook his head. "If it happened from gunfire, it would have happened in the air, and if it happened from the impact, they'd have blown when they hit the ground. I think someone blew them up...just now."
"To make sure they were put out of commission." Mark finished.
"The dogs…" Ben wondered out loud.
Jasmine brightened. "Maybe they were searching for survivors."
Frowning, Jake countered, "Probably not for any benevolent reason."
In the distance, Cheryl could see Fort San Manuel. It looked like some tiny sand castle, and there were still plumes of smoke wafting above it and the baiting stations around it. They all stood, speechless for a few seconds, as if viewing the aftermath of a battlefield. The desolate scene emphasized their new homeless status, reinforcing the fact that they couldn't go back…and weren't sure where they were headed next.
"Let's go," Chip said, urging them on. "We're wasting time."
They continued their search, covering hundreds of yards of uneven terrain over the next hour. Complaints mounted as the rest of them tried to keep pace with Chip who remained in the lead, well ahead of them.
After climbing over a log, he stopped, looked up at the tree tops and turned around to face them. "Did you hear that?"
As they all shook their heads, the wind brought the mournful sound of moans.
"Eaters!" Cheryl gasped, panning around with alarm. The others did the same, searching for any signs of movement in the forest. When they saw none, they proceeded with more caution, trying to be quiet, but finding it impossible to silence the crunching pine needles and leaves underfoot or prevent the occasional snapping of a twig.
Eventually, they came over a ridge, and halted in their tracks.
Below them, twenty yards ahe
ad, they saw Patrick tied to a pine tree with his back against the trunk. His head hung down with his chin resting on his neck. From their distance, it was hard to tell if he was alive or dead, but there was a bloody corpse on the ground in front of him. It was a shirtless male with an emaciated torso and shreds of jeans remaining on its lower half, though there was little left above the neck with recognizable features. Somehow, Patrick had managed to kick the Eater down and smash its head with his boot.
Chip started to run downhill towards him. "Patrick!"
"Wait…" Jake said, holding him back with his hand. "I don't like this. It could be a trap."
Chip paused, heeding the warning. Then, he crept backwards, rejoining the group. They stayed in the shadows, as Patrick's head jerked up. His eyes searched frantically, but they were reddened and wet, not seeming to see them behind the camouflage of the trees.
There was movement a few yards to the rear of him. Leaves rustled and a figure emerged.
It was a woman…or something that used to be. Her gray skin was stretched thin, as cracked and flaky as tree bark. And, her eyes were so decayed, they weren't solid any more. The yellowed orbs jiggled like egg yolks, threatening to ooze out of the sockets with every step. Her blouse was torn, revealing one flaccid breast hanging like an empty sack, and her mouth opened into a black cave ringed with red tinged teeth. She moaned and held out gnarled fingers as she came towards Patrick.
Chip bolted in front of the group and fired his gun, but his hands were shaking so much he missed. His second shot grazed the Eater's shoulder, but it failed to slow her down. She was just six feet away from Patrick when Jake felled her with a shot to the temple.
Chip ran to his friend. "You okay, man?"
Tears streamed down Patrick's cheeks. "I am now that you're here...they left me out here for bait!"
Patrick's wrists were bloodied from trying to escape from the rope. Chip tried to calm him down as he worked on cutting through the fibers. The others stood guard, watching for any sign of movement around them. "Who?" he asked as he worked. "Who did this to you?"
"I don't know. Just some rogue gang I think. There were seven or eight of them. Maybe more. It was so dark…"
"Which way did they go?"
Still encumbered, Patrick motioned with his chin. "That way," he said, motioning with a bloody hand to the east.
"Deeper into the mountains?"
"I think so. I…I don't know really. It was so dark. I think they went east."
As they all kept watch for more Eaters or members of the gang that attacked him, Patrick told them more about what had happened. "I was on my way back last night when this group popped out of the trees and surrounded me. I was outgunned, so I had to drop my weapon. They demanded to know who I was and what I was doing on the mountain. When I told them I'd come from the fort and we'd crashed here, they didn't believe me. They said I looked too clean to have been in a helicopter crash. They thought I was a spy—"
"A spy?" Chip asked. "For who?"
Patrick looked over his shoulders and craned around to look behind him before answering. Then, he whispered, "O.N.E."
Chip shrugged his shoulders and craned his neck forward. "Who?"
Mark stepped closer to them. "O.N.E. It stands for One New Earth."
Cheryl hadn’t heard the name before. Whatever Mark knew, he'd maybe told Jake and Ben, but he'd never shared it with her. "What? With all your research, you never mentioned—"
He motioned for her to pipe down. Now isn't the time…
"I've heard reports of their activity in the Tucson area and maybe further north. Phoenix. Flagstaff. But, you're saying this group wasn't part of them?"
"I don't think so," Patrick said. "They were worried that I was sent by O.N.E."
"So, that's why they tied you up?"
"They were going to let me go, but this guy, some big jerk named Diego, convinced the others that I could be a snitch. It was his idea to tie me up. He said I'd be a lure to keep Eaters them away from their camp."
"Bastards!" Edmond and Zach said at the same time, glancing at each other like they'd just jinxed each other by agreeing on something.
"So what now?" Ben asked.
Jake thought for a moment then said, "Whoever this group is, they're obviously armed and aggressive enough that we don't want to risk crossing their path. If Patrick thinks they went east then we'll head north. We'll get to Omaha eventually, even if we have to walk there."
The group exchanged weary glances, but there were no protests, presumably because no one wanted to risk going it on their own if they were kicked out of the group.
Once they'd given Patrick some water and let him rest to regain his strength, they began to hike again. They walked for hours, stopping on occasion to catch their breath from the laborious high altitude, to try to reach someone on the handheld radio, or to settle a dispute between Edmond and Zach who seemed to spend much of their time thinking of ways to literally trip each other up. Cheryl couldn't keep herself from laughing at some of their comical banter.
When Edmond whined about his sore feet, a retort was inevitable.
"Hey…Milkman…my grandma could walk farther than you. And she's ninety-two."
Later, a decrepit Eater, with faded, torn clothing and decayed flesh jumped out of the scrub and lunged at Edmond as he passed. He yelped and jumped away, nearly prancing as he scurried to hide behind the others.
"What a pussy!" Zach said, rushing up and making a show of putting the ghoul down with a rock, slamming it into his head until it burst in a red shower. When, he was done, he stood back, surveying his handiwork. "See there, chica," he said to Edmond. "You grow some balls, and you won't be so afraid to defend yourself."
Edmond rolled his eyes. "Nietzsche once said, 'The secret of enjoying life is to live dangerously.' I beg to differ…"
They walked and walked as complaints from the entire group mounted. When the late afternoon sun finally began to sink in the sky, it created a palette of soft oranges and purples above the tree tops, and black shadows all around them. They started to think about setting up camp for the night. As they searched for a clearing, they came to a wide dirt path. Jake pointed out the fresh tire tracks on it and looked nervously in both directions.
"Someone's been through here recently. It looks like—"
He was cut off by a man's voice, shouting from some unknown location on the other side of the road.
"Hola, amigos! Put down your guns, and we'll let you pass."
"That's him!" Patrick whispered. "I know the voice. He's the one that tied me up!"
Ignoring him, Zach stepped into the road. "Que te jodan! Show yourself, and we won't shoot."
"Sorry, amigo," the man said, stepping out of the shadows. Standing well over six feet, he dwarfed Zach by several inches. His sun-bleached hair was a wild nest of tangles; he wore a tan leather vest over his bare, muscular chest, and stained, torn jeans that mostly hid the pointed toes of his boots. He pointed a rifle at Zach's head. "You're outnumbered."
"Los cojones!" Zach said. "You're only one man."
The man sneered. "Really?" He raised one arm then drew it down, signaling to someone.
Bright lights, like tiny moons, appeared between the trees behind him, hovering several feet off the ground behind him. Cheryl shielded her eyes, squinting as she recognized them as the headlights of motorcycles.
Figures emerged in front of the lights—a lot of them. They joined the man on the road, lining up beside him with an impressive array of guns at their side in a show of force. It was a ragtag crew mostly made up of men. They were unshaven, with scruffy chins and faces covered in dirt and blood that looked like they hadn't been washed in months. Their clothing was in similar condition; their leather jackets, sleeveless shirts, and vests were ragged and filthy.
There was weariness in their eyes, but it didn't diminish the coldness behind them. This looked like a barbarian tribe who'd been through hell…and survived it…again and again.
As Cheryl scanned their faces, she was surprised that some of them looked familiar, though a lot more haggard than they'd looked when she'd encountered them months ago. Her eyes continued to scan until they focused on the man in the center. He wore a black cloth patch over one eye while the other emerald green eye fixed on her with an unblinking stare.
Aidan.
PART II
Chapter 10
There was a full beard covering Aidan's chin, and his dark brown hair had grown three inches longer. It was in a braid now, cascading down his back. With that and his sun-darkened skin, he looked like a Native American warrior. It had been five months since he'd left Fort San Manuel. While he had been rugged and capable back then, there was something about him now that looked fierce.
The other familiar faces were those she'd encountered at Black Todd's, the bar she and Aidan had happened upon in the middle of the Arizona desert on their way down to Tucson. There was Jade, the bald bartender with a wispy beard and a lightning bolt tattooed over one ear, Earl, the whippet thin doorman with the handlebar mustache (who still wore a shop shirt with a nametag that read, "Kevin"), and the nameless bleached blonde floozy that hadn't left her barstool or her never-empty glass until the devastating attack. Cheryl's eyes automatically scanned the rest of them, worried that somehow Roach had been resurrected and was with them. After she was satisfied that there was no trace of that corpulent pig (who should be nothing but a mangled piece of rawhide by now), she relaxed.
"Easy boys," Aidan said, holding up a hand to hold the gang back.
"Aidan!" Cheryl yelled,
"Is that Cheryl Malone? My God…"
Ignoring the guns pointing from both sides, she stepped forward. She took another step…then she ran towards him. He held his arms open wide, and they fell together in a tight bear hug.
"I can't believe you're alive," she said breathlessly, her lips tasting his salty neck as she spoke.
"What are you doing out here? Why would you leave the fort?" He pulled away from her. "Oh no. Don't—"
"It fell. It was overcome…" She stopped, as she became aware of Mark's eyes boring into her back and heard his disgruntled voice in her head. "Um…we have a lot to catch up on. First, I need to…"
Eaters (Book 2): The Resistance Page 11