Trackers 2: The Hunted (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Thriller)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “We were ordered to help evacuate any survivors and bring them to a refugee camp south of Denver,” Smith finally said when Dupree didn’t volunteer any information. “My unit split up about thirty miles west of here a few days ago after we were ambushed by some raiders. Bunch of skinhead fucks.”

  “Skinheads?”

  “Aryan Brotherhood types,” Smith clarified. “I’ve lost contact with two of my Humvees and a Bradley since the attack.”

  Dupree sucked in a breath. He’d fought Taliban forces during the war, but even he was wary of the Aryan Brotherhood.

  “We’re on our way back to Denver now,” Smith said. “Got more survivors suffering from radiation poisoning. Anyone out here is probably as good as dead, to be honest, and I fear my lost men are, too.”

  Dupree looked over Smith’s shoulder. The other four National Guard soldiers were checking the bluffs. If Smith and his men were trying to trick Dupree, they were doing one hell of a job.

  “How many civvies you got?” Dupree asked.

  “Six, including a couple kids.”

  “Mind if I take a look? We might be able to airlift them out of here, but I don’t have much time. We’re low on fuel.”

  Smith gestured with a gloved hand. “Be my guest, sir.”

  The distant whoosh of rotors reminded Dupree that he had a half dozen rifles on his back, but that didn’t relieve the anxiety swirling through his body. Even if these soldiers could be trusted‌—‌and his gut said they were on the level‌—‌his mission was falling apart.

  Dupree motioned for McCabe and the other Marines to follow him toward the Humvees. His men kept their rifles cradled, but Dupree knew they were all on high alert. He still hated the idea of shooting Americans, but he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the bastards that ambushed Smith’s unit. Any coward that could do that deserved a round to the skull.

  “Eagle 1 and Eagle 2, you got eyes on anything?” Dupree said into his mini-mic.

  The pilots responded with a negative. Dupree relaxed slightly but kept his weapon at the ready as he approached the Humvees. Smith opened the back door of the first vehicle and Dupree halted, half expecting someone to pop out and shoot him in the head. But no one inside the first Humvee was going to be shooting anyone.

  Two women were slumped against one another in the back seat, their skin red with rashes and shirts covered with vomit. A girl no older than nine was sobbing and clutching a doll to her chest.

  “It’s okay,” Dupree said, holding up a hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He slowly backed away and checked the other Humvee. Another woman and two men were resting in the back seat. The man was doubled over in pain, clutching his gut.

  “They’re in bad shape, and the roads ahead are going to be blocked once we get close to Denver,” Smith said. “Think you can help get ‘em somewhere safe?”

  “There’s plenty of room on our chopper.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Smith said. This time, he sounded sincere.

  “All clear down here,” Dupree reported over the comms. “Requesting evacuation for six more civvies.”

  “Copy that, sir,” replied one of the pilots.

  Dupree motioned for Sharps and Emerson to help him. McCabe stood guard while they helped the guardsman pull the survivors from the Humvees.

  “Hurry up,” Dupree ordered the pilots. The bird circled once and then lowered back toward the highway. The two women from the first Humvee were in such bad shape, Sharps and Emerson had to carry them. They moaned as the Marines picked them up and slung them over their shoulders.

  Dupree squeezed past and reached out to the girl in the back seat.

  “It’s okay, sweetie, we’re going to get you out of here.”

  She clutched the doll tighter to her chest with one hand and brushed a hank of brown hair from her face. Several strands of hair came off in her fingers. That made her sob even harder.

  Dupree reached inside the truck and grabbed her, repeating, “It’s okay, sweetie.”

  The mantra didn’t seem to calm her much. She struggled in his grip as he carried her away from the trucks.

  “Good luck!” Dupree said over his shoulder to Smith.

  Dupree didn’t like turning his back on anyone with a gun, but he was out of time. He looked skyward as the Black Hawk began to descend.

  A hot flash of panic rushed over Dupree when the pilots suddenly halted their descent, hovering overhead. The rotor drafts slammed across the road, wrinkling his suit and whipping the girl’s hair around her head like a halo.

  “Sir, we got eyes on a vehicle heading your way through the canyon. Looks like a pickup truck.”

  Before he could react, a crack sounded. Locust, who’d been on the heavy gun aboard the chopper, grabbed his gut before plummeting out the open door of the troop hold. He crashed to the concrete ten feet in front of Dupree, screaming all the way down. His bones shattered with a sound like the boom of a shotgun.

  “AMBUSH!” McCabe shouted.

  Dupree ducked down with the girl as a bullet whizzed past his helmet. He set her gently on the ground and turned to fire his M4 at the guard soldiers. Damn it all to hell. He’d believed they were all right. What the fuck was this country coming to when one soldier couldn’t even trust another?

  Just as Dupree centered the muzzle on Smith, the man’s visor exploded outward. The exit wound formed a crater where his nose had been, making it look like he had two mouths. He crashed to the ground in front of the Humvee.

  A few feet away, Emerson fell to his knees, gripping his neck. Blood streamed through his fingers and sheeted down his CBRN suit.

  All around Dupree, Colorado National Guard soldiers and Marines scrambled for cover. Two of the guardsmen fired M16s at the bluffs.

  Smith’s men weren’t con artists leading the ambush after all, Dupree realized. They were caught right in the middle of it, just like the Marines.

  Dupree snapped into action. “McCabe, Sharps, covering fire!” He pulled the girl back to the relative safety of the Humvees. “Someone, get on the M240!”

  The bark of 7.62 mm rounds sounded a few seconds later, and Dupree caught a glimpse of Snider manning the big gun in the sky. The tracer rounds lanced into the bluffs. Whoever the bastards were, they were dug in. Dupree couldn’t see a single hostile from his position.

  He shielded the girl with his body and reached for his rifle. It lay on the ground a foot away. A round ripped through his hand, and he pulled it back like a kid that had touched a hot stove. Blood gushed out of a hole in the center of his knife hand.

  Dupree reached for the Beretta M9 on his holster instead. He pulled the pistol with his left hand. The pain in his right was severe, but it was already turning numb. He peeked around the bumper for a target just as the other two guardsmen collapsed to the ground, their bodies riddled with bullet holes.

  It was just Dupree, McCabe, and Sharps now. The other two Marines hid behind the Humvee to his right. Sharps was gripping his right shoulder where he had taken a round. Three of the civilians were there, too, eyes all wide with terror.

  “Give us covering fire!” Dupree shouted over the comm.

  Snider, Runge, and Rodriguez were firing from the open door of the Black Hawk, but it wasn’t enough to deter their attackers. Automatic gunfire replied from the bluffs. Dupree still couldn’t see any of them.

  “It’s too hot to land, sir!” yelled one of the pilots.

  The other pilot yelled back. “We can’t leave them down there!”

  A hard pause passed over the channel that felt like an hour. Dupree raised his M9 and searched for a target. Rounds punched into the concrete, pushing him back.

  “Dupree, you got fifteen seconds to get to the troop hold,” one of the pilots said.

  Fifteen seconds, Dupree thought. Fifteen seconds stood between life and death. He looked down at the girl. She was staring blankly at nothing, catatonic.

  “McCabe, grab this kid and get her to the chopper. Sharps, you and I are going to lay down cov
ering fire.” He pointed his bleeding hand at the other civilians. “You three, run as soon as we start shooting!”

  Sharps met his eyes. There was fear in his gaze, but Dupree could see he was prepared to give his life in this moment. Dupree spared a precious second to nod at the young Marine.

  “Ooh rah!” Sharps shouted.

  Dupree yelled back, “Give these bastards hell!”

  The moment Dupree stood to fire, he was hit by a round in the side. The bullet seized the air from his lungs. He grabbed the wound with his bleeding hand. Stars floated before his vision from the intense wave of pain.

  Dupree looked up to a rocky outcropping and spotted the shooter. He lifted his M9 in his shaky left hand while the man who’d shot him pulled a magazine from his rifle. He tried to duck down, but there wasn’t cover.

  In the stolen moment, Dupree squeezed off three erratic shots. The first streaked into the sky, the second hit the rock in front of the man, and the third hit the tree to his right. Overwhelmed by pain, Dupree fell to one knee and dropped his pistol.

  Above, the man stood and aimed his rifle.

  So this is it. This is your last moment.

  He was never going to see his boys or his ex-wife again. The extra salt on the wound was not knowing if she would even care. He had been a bad husband and a lousy dad, but he had to hope she still loved him to some degree.

  To the side of his blurred vision, he saw Sharps running and screaming. The former basketball player was zigzagging like he was about to put up a layup. The fancy moves drew the attention of the man aiming his M4 at Dupree. He shifted the muzzle just as Sharps shouldered his rifle and fired a burst into the man’s chest.

  Sharps turned to run again, but he took a round from another shooter on the other side of the bluff. The bullets knocked him to the ground. He pushed himself up, but a second bullet ripped through his back, forcing him to the pavement. Lying flat, he looked over at Dupree wearing a mask of terror. The sniper finished the job with a shot to Sharps’ forehead.

  Dupree tried to shout, but all that came out was a muffled grunt. He picked up his pistol, stood, and staggered out into the street to distract the remaining snipers. There were two left that Dupree could see.

  “Snider, two o’clock,” he gasped into the comm.

  Snider directed the M240 fire on a short man perched on a rock to the north of the road. The rounds took off his arm.

  Dupree turned slowly, looking for other targets. As he spun, he saw the carnage on the road. Sharps and Emerson were both lying in puddles of blood. The guardsmen were all sprawled out and leaking red. Three of the civilians were also down.

  But some of them had escaped.

  McCabe carried the little girl to the chopper as the pilots lowered to the ground. Two of the women had managed to limp away under the covering fire from Snider, Rodriguez, and Runge.

  “Hurry, sir!” McCabe shouted.

  Dupree tried to move toward the Black Hawk, but he only made it one step before he crashed to the ground, his legs giving out.

  Over the crack of gunfire, Dupree made out what sounded like an engine. A pickup truck was racing toward the bridge. The men standing in the bed were already firing at the chopper.

  “Get out of here,” Dupree said.

  “Sir!” McCabe shouted back. “I’m coming, just hold on.”

  “No!” Dupree yelled, his voice cracking. “Get Alex and those civilians to safety...”

  “We can still‌—‌”

  “And tell my wife...tell my ex-wife I love her and the boys.”

  The chirp and crack of gunfire sounded all around him. A round bit into the ground to his right. He lifted his head to watch the chopper pull away before collapsing to his stomach. Ribbons of red swarmed his vision. Dupree closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Sharps.

  At least some of them got away, he thought. Dupree found he was okay with dying, knowing that he’d done his best.

  He opened his eyes to watch the Black Hawk traverse the skyline. He took in a breath of air that crackled in his chest. Blurred shapes flickered across his vision.

  “Which one of you idiots shot this Humvee?” snarled a voice.

  Dupree gripped his pistol and tried to lift it as a pair of boots stopped right in front of him.

  The man kicked the gun from Dupree’s grip, then bent down close enough that Dupree could see a squiggly scar on his forehead.

  “You killed several of my men...” he said in a smooth, deep voice. He flicked the tag on Dupree’s chest. “Lieutenant Dupree.”

  “Who are you?” Dupree managed to whisper.

  “Who am I?” The man pointed at his chest and looked back at his men. “Who am I, boys?” He laughed and leaned back down.

  “The General of the Sons of Liberty!” The men behind him raised their fists into the air.

  “That’s right,” the man said. “I’m General motherfucking Fenix. I’ve been waiting years for something like this to happen. Ever since I got back from that sand trap shithole in the Middle East.” He spread his arms out to point at his men. “We’ve been waiting.”

  He licked his lips, leaving them glistening. “The government has failed us. From one soldier to another, you already know that the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. I will lead the Sons of Liberty to take back what’s ours.”

  “Fuck you,” Dupree snorted. “Don’t quote a Founding Father, you psychotic piece of shit.”

  “Man,” Fenix said, his smile widening. “I was going to give you a swift death, but you just pissed me off. Let’s go, boys. I want to get these vehicles and weapons back to the Castle before dark.”

  Dupree tried to raise himself up. He’d made his peace with dying, but he wasn’t going to do it at the feet of some White Supremacist jack-off with delusions of grandeur.

  Fenix watched him with an amused smile still plastered on his face. After a moment, Dupree collapsed back to the pavement, his strength gone. He reached out in vain for his pistol, which lay several yards away, his fingers raking through the mess of ash and blood.

  The man mimed a gun with his thumb and forefinger, like a kid playing cops and robbers. “Bang, bang,” Fenix said, chuckling to himself, before walking away.

  “YOU’RE LUCKY HE didn’t shoot you in the head,” said Sandra Spears.

  Cindy Todd sat on the hospital bed in front of Sandra, both hands cuffed to the rails. The bullet had grazed her right shoulder. From what Sandra could see, the damage appeared to be limited to the epidermis and outer dermis.

  The wound wasn’t nearly as bad as the other gunshot victim, Martha. The woman Colton and Don had brought in from Highway 7 was lucky to be alive. It was remarkable, really. She should have been dead after the exposure to radiation, dehydration, and blood loss.

  Some people are survivors, Sandra mused. And some just get lucky, whether they deserve it or not.

  She continued cleaning Cindy’s wound to prepare it for Doctor Duffy. When she had finished, he began stitching up the skin. That task became increasingly difficult every time Cindy opened her mouth. Sandra wanted to slap her‌—‌or worse‌—‌and Duffy didn’t seem much more enthusiastic about treating their latest patient.

  “The pig killed Eric. That piece of shit killed him!” Cindy said. She yelped in pain as Duffy yanked on a knot. “C’mon, at least gimme something. This fucking hurts.”

  Sandra reached for the nearby cart for a topical anesthetic, but hesitated when Duffy shook his head.

  “Chief Colton said no pain meds.”

  “What? That’s barbaric!” Cindy protested. “I need them. Those pigs shot me!”

  “My brother shot you,” Sandra said. “He’s not a police officer.”

  Cindy looked away from the wound to meet Sandra’s gaze. Sweat dribbled down Cindy’s forehead and snot dripped from her nose‌—‌signs that she was suffering from opiate withdrawal. Sandra had seen this hundreds of times in patients. She had also seen
it in both her ex-husband and Brown Feather. There was nothing like first-hand experience to identify an addict.

  Without the opiates, Cindy would continue to crash until she was debilitated from a fever and terrible pain. It was like having the worst cold imaginable for weeks straight. Normally Sandra would have shown empathy, but she felt none for this woman. She was glad they weren’t wasting medicine to treat her. Part of her wished Raven had finished the job.

  No, you’re both better than that.

  Thoughts of Officer Rick Nelson and his family filled her mind as she waited for Doctor Duffy to finish stitching up the woman’s shoulder. Did Cindy have any idea what she had done? Could she comprehend how her actions had ruined lives?

  “You’re lucky you didn’t hurt my brother,” Sandra said, unable to hold back her anger.

  “Whatever, bitch,” Cindy said.

  Duffy shot Sandra a glare that told her to back off. She took a step away from the bed and watched as he continued to stitch up the wound. Cindy wiggled and squirmed against her restraints.

  “Hold still,” Duffy said. He paused and waited for Cindy to relax, then continued with the stitches.

  A knock on the door interrupted him on the last loop. Sergeant Aragon stepped inside the emergency room. He fixated on Cindy, his nostrils flared like an enraged animal. It seemed Sandra wasn’t the only one who wanted to give Cindy a good dressing down.

  “Miss Spears,” Don said, his gaze shifting to her. “Your brother is outside in the parking lot and needs to talk to you.”

  “About what?” Sandra asked.

  Don shrugged. “Didn’t say.” Sandra shook her head. If Raven was in trouble again, so help her...

  “I’ll finish up here,” Duffy said.

  Sandra didn’t bother saying anything else to Cindy on her way out. Nothing she could say would have an impact on a delusional, addicted mind.

  Sandra tossed her gloves into a wastebasket and reached for the hand sanitizer in her pocket as she followed Don into the hallway. He pushed open the double doors that led to the intensive care unit, where the smell of bleach filled her nose. White partitions separated beds from one another in the open space.