“Hi, Mom” I said.
Her smile broadened. I saw my father just beyond her. A gentle shadow of a smile appeared on his long face.
“Miss you,” I said.
She frowned; a hurt came into her eyes. My father’s mouth opened as if he might speak—
The room trembled. My parents turned to each other as a blistering white light detonated—
Uncle Ray shook me by the shoulder.
I sprang into a sitting position.
“Whoa! Calm down!” Uncle Ray firmly held my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Bad dream . . .” I said and cleared my throat. “Just . . . I’m okay.”
The lantern on the coffee table burned brightly. A pungent kerosene odor filled the room.
“Let’s get going,” my uncle said. “I’ll take your pack out to the truck.”
“Yeah.” I blinked, squeezing my eyelids shut. I stretched, and since I’d slept in my clothes, I simply slipped my boots on. I puzzled over the dream as I tied the laces. A sense of reliving the event, the bomb blast, slowed me for a moment, but when Uncle Ray came back inside, I moved faster. I tugged on a sweater, the green one from my mother, and I put on my jacket.
We gathered up the last few things such as stocking caps and gloves. I belted on my revolver and pocketed all the remaining cartridges. I grabbed my bow and quiver.
Uncle Ray took his rifle from over the mantel, adjusted the walkie-talkie holstered on his belt, and said, “Let’s go.”
***
A heavy cloud cover blotted out the stars and the moon leaving an inky darkness. Between the cold and the fuel mixture, the truck rumbled more than usual which concerned Uncle Ray. He said he didn’t want to be the one to screw up the element of surprise. He was also trying to drive to a house he’d never seen before. The trip turned into a long one as he negotiated his way in the dark and down roads which hadn’t seen traffic in almost a year. The truck headlights pushed back the dark.
“Maybe we should’ve left earlier,” I said. “Maybe we should’ve gone with Mr. Sample in the first place.”
“It’s a little late for that,” Uncle Ray said. “So, don’t think about it.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, but that didn’t make me worry any less. Also heading home weighed just as heavily, even more. Going east had its own unknown dangers.
I crossed my arms tightly, because the truck’s heater wasn’t giving off much warmth. The walkie-talkie, resting on the seat between us, crackled with random noise. I glanced at it, and then out the passenger door window. The early morning dark would provide good cover, but if only it wasn’t so frigid, especially with the inch of snow blanketing the ground.
The cold calculated plan of lying out on the snowy earth, waiting patiently to kill people struck me as utterly foreign, even frightening, which was even stranger, because I had killed before. I had been defending myself, but now, for the first time, I would act first. I swallowed hard. Inside my gloves, perspiration dampened my palms.
“I don’t think we’re going to make it there before dawn,” Uncle Ray said.
A thin reddish band of light flickered through gaps in the black line of trees.
“Damn it,” he murmured.
Everything, every man was to be positioned before the raiders made any effort to head out that morning. Uncle Ray considered whether we should even try to make it to the ambush site. He eased off the accelerator and the momentum of the truck slowed.
Voices sputtered from the walkie-talkie.
With a quick glance at the portable device, Uncle Ray said, “Sounds like Dan.”
The familiar voice of Mr. Hansel crackled.
“Maggie’s with him?” I asked.
“Yeah, and Ken Wheeler, he was with Dan when I talked to him about the attack. When Ken learned what was going on, I couldn’t keep him from going.” My uncle shook his head.
The radio traffic continued. A rapid flow of low chatter traveled back and forth. Mr. Sample’s voice came across, giving a few instructions.
“Sounds like they got the house surrounded,” I said.
“And it looks like they’re going to take the raiders down without us.” Uncle didn’t sound disappointed, but relieved.
I glanced out the window to the east. Dawn approached but darkness still dominated the landscape.
A harried conversation issued from the radio.
“Something’s happening,” Uncle Ray said. “Oh no, something’s gone wrong.”
A voice I didn’t recognize came over the walkie-talkie, followed by an explosive blast of static and gunfire.
Neither of us spoke and no voices came from the walkie-talkie, the tension spiking in the silence.
The truck picked up speed. Uncle Ray leaned into the steering wheel, almost touching it with his chest, as if he could will the vehicle to go faster. He glanced at me. “No sense in taking our time now.”
The black shapes of leafless trees flashed by faster, then slower as the truck maneuvered around fallen branches and an abandoned car. Both the driver and passenger doors still open, waiting for people who’d never come back. A random snowflake dropped out of the darkness, flashing into the beams of the headlights before crashing against the window shield.
“Here we go,” Uncle Ray said and with a sweeping one-handed turn of the steering wheel, he brought the truck into a sharp left turn, onto a road that rose steeply.
A frantic series of dialogue came from the walkie-talkie.
More gunfire followed, but this time, I heard the sound of the fighting coming from outside the truck as dim, guttural blasts and high pitched snapping sounds.
Another voice sounded from the radio. It was Mr. Sample talking, “To the right—the right! Some are breaking for the trees!”
“Something really went wrong,” I said.
The truck rumbled up the road, the engine coughed and backfired. To the left was a housing development with homes in various stages of construction, the wood frame looking like skeletons in the predawn darkness.
“Fire,” I said, but Uncle Ray couldn’t miss the pulsing glow rising up above the hill.
The truck crested the top, and on the other side, off to the right of the road at the bottom of the hill, a house burned.
“What the hell happened—” Uncle Ray began.
The passenger side window shattered. An instant later spidery-concentric rings appeared in the left corner of the windshield where the bullet exited. Glass fragments hit the right side of my face. I turned and ducked.
The truck swerved and slid to a halt on the left side of the road, burying the left front fender in a high thick cluster of bushes. A cold wind blew through the shattered passenger window bringing in an acid odor of burning wood.
“You okay?” Uncle Ray ducked down and grabbed my shoulder.
“Yeah!” I said. “Yeah!” My heart thumped in my throat, and dampness dappled the side of my face. I touched my face looked at my hand and saw the dark smear of blood. I pulled the revolver from my holster, swung back up into a sitting position, and peered out the window.
Across the road, in the flexing shadows created by the growing house fire, a figure rose up out of the woods and started toward the truck.
I fired, pulling the trigger once, paused and then fired again. A streak of flame shot from the barrel.
“Who are you shooting at?” Uncle Ray peered and ducked again.
“The guy who shot at us.” The question caused me to panic for a second. “None of our people would shoot at us, right? Not at the truck, right?” I didn’t wait for an answer, but I hoped I was right. I pulled the door handle and leaped from the truck into a crouch.
Light flared up from the house. Sporadic gunfire rolled up the hill from the direction of the fire, which weaved and groped as the cold wind blew hard, fanning the flames.
Someone lay slumped on the other side of the road, about twenty feet away. I charged over and kicked at the body with the toe of a boot. The man, dressed in jeans and a blac
k thermal coat, lay on his back. Blood dampened the center of his coat. His eyes partly open, the light from the house fire glinted yellow in the dead man’s gaze. But from the scruffy, thinness of the beard and mustache, the man couldn’t have been more than twenty. His mouth hung partly open as if he might speak.
“He’s not one of ours,” Uncle Ray said. He knelt next to me, rifle in hand.
I took the automatic pistol from the dead man’s limp hand. Glancing from the corpse to the tree line in front of us, I quickly searched the body and pocketed for a number of clips for the automatic.
“There.” Uncle Ray pointed with the rifle barrel.
A plume of mist came from my mouth as I peered into the trees, which were backlit in a red-orange light by the coming dawn.
Sixty feet into the woods a dark figure retreated, dodging from tree to tree.
The walkie-talkie, which now hung from Uncle Ray’s belt, crackled as Mr. Sample said, “Regroup near the house. On the east side.”
I wanted to go after the person fleeing into the woods. “Let’s get him,” I said.
Uncle Ray put a restraining hand on my shoulder. “No. Everyone’s too excited. It’s chaotic right now, and we don’t what to shoot the wrong people now. Or get shot . . . not now.” And looking at the side of my face, he added, “You should have that looked at.”
“Okay. Fine.” I nodded. Still, fighting the urge to charge ahead.
In a crouch, we moved back to the truck, the engine still running. I swept fragments of window glass from the passenger seat and hopped in.
Uncle Ray put the rifle on the rear seat of the extended cab and slammed his door shut. He took his automatic from his inside coat pocket and laid it in his lap. He made contact with Mr. Sample on the walkie-talkie, and drove the rest of the way down the hill.
I kept an eye out the window in the direction of the escaping raider. I wanted to get him, and I was going to.
***
Mr. Sample sat under a maple tree, having a gunshot wound looked at by Maggie. His coat and shirt were pulled off, leaving only his arm and shoulder exposed. A bullet had struck him in the shoulder, near the armpit and had gone all the way through.
Joey crouched by his father, a hand on his shoulder, gazing intensely as Maggie inspected, cleaned and dressed the wound. He looked up at me and nodded, and I did the same.
“You’re fortunate the artery wasn’t severed,” Maggie said. “And the cold hasn’t harmed you either,” she said. “It slowed the bleeding.”
“You’re going to be okay,” Mr. Hansel said, crouching next to him.
“Yeah, I’m gonna be okay . . .” Mr. Sample grimaced and shook his head.
The attack hadn’t gone off as planned because the raiders started to move while it was dark instead of at dawn as expected. Though Mr. Sample’s people had captured the horses, which had been tied up in the woods behind the house, the raiders still had weapons and weren’t shy about using them.
“And they fought hard,” Mr. Wheeler said. He leaned against the tree. “We’ve got a few more wounded and one killed.”
One of Mr. Sample’s men was shot and killed after he’d thrown a Molotov cocktail, which consisted of a rag, a beer bottle, and corn liquor. The firebomb was thrown when it became clear that the raiders had decided to make a stand from inside the house. After tossing the firebomb, he was hit while retreating to safety. His body was moved to the edge of the road following the fight.
I stood, listening to the conversation, and watched the house, a large two story building, burn to the ground. The vinyl siding melted, fluffing off like so much dead skin as flames and black smoke swirled into a lightening sky. The sun cast a yellow-pink glow over the snowy countryside.
Many of the raiders, who hadn’t been able to make good on their escape, either burned with the house or were shot. Nearly two dozen corpses lay in several rows in the front yard. A number of the townspeople had formed small search parties, and were heading into the woods looking for raiders that had slipped past.
I went to the truck and grabbed my pack, bow and quiver.
Uncle Ray had followed me. “So, what are you doing?”
“I’m going after that one we spotted at the top of the hill. He went that way.” I pointed in the direction of the rising sun. “I want to get him.”
Uncle Ray got his rifle and pack, and we returned to where Mr. Sample was just now getting to his feet, a coat was draped over his injured shoulder.
“Here,” Uncle Ray handed Mr. Sample the keys. “Use my truck.”
“Thank you.” Pain caused him to wince.
“We spotted one of them getting away,” I said. “We’re going to find him . . .” I wanted to say, “Finish him off,” but there was no need to.
Mr. Sample nodded.
“Okay then, let’s go,” Mr. Wheeler said. “Lead the way.”
“I’ll go, too,” Mr. Hansel said, standing and shouldering his rifle.
Maggie Waite rested a hand against Mr. Hansel’s left breast and said, “You be careful.”
“I will.” He smiled and gave her a quick kiss.
That moment between them was strange for me. I hadn’t considered Mr. Hansel the automatic mechanic and Maggie Waite the nurse growing that close. But again, with no cars to be repaired and no hospital to work at difficult times, horrible times made it possible for new things to happen.
Sara’s face flashed in my mind. In that other world, that other time, before bombs and plagues, I never would have met her. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, seating the pack more comfortably on my back.
“What’s the pack for?” Mr. Wheeler asked.
“Just being prepared,” I said.
“Being prepared?” He shook his head. “I’m starting to wonder if there is such a thing.”
The rising sun showed through the trees and colored the snow-covered ground orange. Mr. Hansel shouldered a bolt-action hunting rifle mounted with a telescopic sight. Mr. Wheeler slung a pump-action shotgun. The four of us trudged up the slope behind the house to where the road crested the hill, where my uncle and I spotted that lone figure disappearing among the trees.
A breeze swept up the hill bringing a cloud of snow, which rolled passed us as we reached the top. We search along the roadside and then deeper into the woods.
“Here,” Mr. Hansel called. “Tracks in the snow. And some blood.”
Uncle Ray pointed at the thick tread of the boot tracks and how the prints trailed from tree to tree, moving further away from the road. “The tracks . . . they’re heading east.”
I thought, the direction of home.
Chapter 22
Snow started falling again in a sporadic flurry of big flakes, but not heavy enough to cover the raider’s tracks. A sharp cold wind blew and I pulled my black stocking cap over the top of my ears.
“Now, how far do we have to go . . . or want to go?” Mr. Wheeler asked no one in particular.
We’d fanned out in a line, putting about thirty feet between us, because Mr. Hansel didn’t care for the idea of us being bunched together or strung too far apart. He followed the tracks. Uncle Ray was to the left of him. I was to the right of Mr. Hansel, with Mr. Wheeler off to my right.
Well over an hour had passed since, we’d begun the search. The boot prints went on, first widely spaced as the person ran, and then closer together as the raider’s pace slowed. Blood stains continued to spot the snow.
“He did have a good head start,” I said, wanting to keep going, even though the cold intensified.
Mr. Wheeler nodded.
We’d tracked the raider for a number of miles, through the woods, not a road or house in sight for some time. We moved at a slow pace, being wary of the danger that our quarry might double back on us.
“We’re not lost are we, Dan?” Mr. Wheeler looked at Mr. Hansel.
Dan Hansel chuckled and shook his head. “No, Ken, but if I knew you were going to complain so much, I would’ve left you back there.” He waved a thumb ov
er his shoulder. The raider’s trail led up a steep grade. We slowed our descent up the low ridge. Not being able to see beyond the rise, Mr. Hansel wanted a cautious approach.
I gripped the butt of my revolver, which hung snug in its holster. I had the automatic from the dead raider tucked in my right outside jacket pocket. I didn’t want to be caught by someone spying down on us from higher ground. I was prepared.
Nearer the top of the rise, Mr. Hansel said, “Houses. The tracks seemed to lead right to them.”
A hundred yards further on, beyond the woods stood a cluster of homes, no more than four or five. The approach was from the back. A swing set, a plastic playhouse, which resembled a cabin made with red logs and a yellow roof, stood in the backyard of the nearest house. The two red seats of the swing set swayed in the breeze. A gazebo stood in the yard of the neighboring house. A layer of snow covered everything.
“Everyone, be careful now,” Mr. Hansel said in a hushed voice, and slipped his rifle from his shoulder.
Up over the crest we went, continuing to stalk our prey, and that’s how I’d come to think of the raider as prey . . . deadly prey. That was what life was now, a deadly game of cat and mouse, of hunt and kill.
We grow corn, and you try to steal what we’ve made and kill us. I had no sympathy for this prey, this enemy.
A gust of wind whistled through the trees, shaking the snow covered branches. The dead leaves beneath the thin covering of snow crunched with every footstep.
“Watch the windows,” Uncle Ray said.
No one talked as we cautiously followed the scuffed trail of footprints out of the shadows of the trees and into the backyard of the nearest house.
Moving swiftly through the open space of the yard, Mr. Hansel headed right to the back of the house, leaning against the rear wall, keeping out of sight of the neighboring houses.
I did the same, standing next to him.
“Okay,” he said. “The tracks go right around the corner.” With his back against the wall, he tilted his head in the direction of the tracks. “I’ll follow the tracks and Ken, why don’t you come with me, okay?”
Dark Land: An Apocalyptic Novel Page 15