On his way out through the plastic flaps, Daytona stopped. He looked back at West and smiled. He formed his hand in the shape of a gun and before passing through the flaps he said, “See you around, Gramps.”
“Looks like someone’s got a crush on you,” Skinny joked. “Cocky-freaking-asshole, that kid.”
“Ya, what was his deal?” Freddy asked.
“I’m not sure, but that kid was giving me a bad vibe,” West replied, still staring at the dangling plastic flaps. “So what do you guys think about all of this?”
Freddy was the first to reply.
“Still seems unreal. Extinction Level Event; us twelve stopping some terrorists. To be honest, I’m just excited to get back into action. I never had a family, so this work is all I have left. And I sure as hell would never get into merc work. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to do my part and live off the reward.”
“One million cash, tax free is a damn good payout,” Skinny added, sounding enticed.
The cash reward would help,West thought.Maybe you can even see her again.
“Alright boys, I’m outta here,” Freddy said, hugging Skinny and shaking West’s hand. “Good luck and Godspeed.”
West and Skinny waved goodbye, then Skinny turned to West and said, “Well partner, looks like this is goodbye-”
“For now,” West interjected.
Skinny let out a hearty laugh. “For now. Hey! Since you’re officially retired after this, how about we go out and celebrate saving the world?”
“As long as drinks are on you,” West joked.
“I think one million bucks can pay for a few rounds,” Skinny mused. “What do you say we knock out these ops and rendezvous at The Wet Net, say, November twenty-six nineteen hundred hours?”
“So specific...”
“Hell ya specific! But it looks like you already forgot...”
“Forgot what?”
A huge grin took over Skinny’s face. “My birthday.”
“Great,” West replied in a way that Skinny pulled a fast one on him. “Looks like I’ll be buying the drinks after all.”
A Few Days Later...
“Craig! They are calling you a terrorist! They said you went rogue!”
“What are you talking about? I was on a black ops mission for this damn country!” Craig West refuted. “I'm staring at my mission orders right now! I followed my target to downtown Quebec City…”
The woman on the other end of the line cut him off.
“Craig, listen, there's more! The President is waiting to give a capture/kill order to the Colonel in charge of the operation! Please tell me you aren’t at 1946 White Dove Pass in Quigley, Massachusetts!”
“Set up,” West growled. “How’d they find me?”
“Facial recognition ID'd you coming into Maine from Canada. Wait, you said that you still have your mission orders. That’s great! What if you give yourself up willingly and tell them what you told me? You have the proof!”
“If I go in, proof or not, I'm as good as dead. You saw it yourself; they are cleaning up their tracks. I wouldn't even make it one day. Whoever is running the show is far too powerful. I'd never get a chance to testify or get anything on record…”
“Then get out now! They are on to you!” the woman hissed. “I'll call you back when I know more. Keep your head down and your eyes and ears open.”
The woman snapped her cell phone shut. She walked back into the Situation Room.
“Ms. Finley,” the President began to say, “are you okay?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Bad sushi I think, but I’m fine now, thank you,” she replied, adjusting her hearing aid. “Where are we at?”
“A military operation on national soil. This isn’t an easy decision. What do you think about all of this?”
Ms. Finley paused. Not because she was giving serious consideration to the President’s question, she was hoping to buy Craig West a few more valuable seconds.
“Mr. President,” the military general said, breaking up the silence, “I’m sorry, but we need an answer.”
“Shanna, what do you think?” The President asked again, not really adhering to the pressing question from the general. Throughout his entire career, the President trusted her the most, valued her opinion over all the other sharks, special interest groups and bullshit in Washington, D.C.
“I agree with you, Mr. President,” Shanna Finley finally said, trying her best to keep a composed face. “Send them in.”
The President swiveled his leather chair and faced the giant screen to his left. “Colonel Seaton,” he said to the man on the screen, “you have the green light. Capture if possible, kill if necessary.”
“Understood, sir,” Colonel Seaton replied with haste. “You should now be receiving a live feed.”
Shanna’s almond skinned hands met in a prayer like fashion, covering up her mouth. To everyone else in the room, it appeared as though she was anticipating the capture of one of the most dangerous terrorists ever. Inside, she was praying that her friend would escape.
Please, Craig. Get out of there...
Chapter 1
Providence State Beach
November 25, 2009 (present day)
0745 hours
Located in northwestern Washington State, Providence State Beach was comparatively smaller than the surrounding ones. The coarse sand ran for roughly a half mile and both the northern and southern sides were enclosed by a rocky shoreline. The public beach area and adjacent parking lot had been fenced up and temporarily closed due to a violent storm a year and a half before. The beach’s natural borders and ample surroundings made it an ideal choice for a small group of people who were surviving through the deadliest viral outbreak in human history.
Protection was paramount. Since the outbreak, the site had been continually fortified to ensure defense. Extra fencing was added to the beachfront and reinforced with whatever solid, heavy objects the survivors could find; abandoned vehicles worked the best and were in the greatest supply. With the natural borders and supplied fencing, the state beach offered a protective compound the survivors had collectively come to call “Camp.”
At the center of Camp, located fifty feet inland, was a two-year-old Park Ranger station. The one story building included the standard amenities found in most law enforcement facilities: administrative offices, holding cells, a communication center, kitchen, bathroom, showers, and a workout facility for the deputies. The offices had long since been cleared out of everything deemed unessential, as to make room and expand the sleeping areas. Inside the communications center, or COM-room, was the latest radio broadcasting equipment used for anything from coordinated search and rescue efforts to guiding local aircraft.
One hundred feet northeast of the station was a helipad. Unfortunately for the group, the helicopter that was dedicated to the Providence Ranger station had crashed during the rise of the infection. Still, the survivors utilized the space for storage, water collection, and additional sleeping quarters.
Directly west of the helipad was a wooden dock that protruded seventy-five feet into the ocean. Only two vessels remained, though: a skiff that was used regularly to catch fish, crab, and other seafood, and a seventy foot luxury sailing yacht, which brought two of the groups' most recent survivors to Providence.
The lush environment was home to a myriad of wild animals that ran rampant around Camp. Until recent months, hunting proved bountiful, but that food supply was becoming scarce. One steady resource utilized by the survivors was a nearby fresh water river that contained an abundance of salmon and trout. It also provided them with a stable source of potable water.
Two weeks after abandoning The Eye, a castle situated on the northern coast of California, Collin, Steve, Alex, Travis, Sarah, Jenny, Josue, Diane, Matty, and a married couple named Betty and Micky Galliger, found a new home at Providence State Beach. As they traveled northbound along the California coast, they spent days cycling through their RV's radio receiver. One day, out of
sheer luck, Collin Jacobs, the leader of the lone group of eleven, tuned in to a broadcast originating from the Ranger station at Providence.
At specified times, the Ranger in charge, Nick Stronghead, had been using the station's long-range communications equipment to send out a rescue broadcast. Initially, Nick had hoped for state or government support, but as time passed, the signal became more of a beacon for other survivors searching for refuge.
As the beach colony continued to grow, so did its demand for resources. Their food supplies were now reaching low levels. So, two of Camp’s survivors were up well before sunrise to do their part.
To the right of a large, moss-ridden tree, Alex Forest dropped quietly to a knee and raised his right fist.
The older man behind him, Nick Stronghead, knew exactly what the message meant,stop. After all, he taught Alex how to track. He taught him how to use every one of his senses to piece a scene together. How to read broken branches, faint trails, and prints. How to put himself in the mind of his prey. Even if he wanted to say something, he wouldn’t. This wasn’t a routine exercise. This was Alex’s test. His final exam.
Alex didn’t look back; didn’t say a word. He dragged his left hand over the surface of the moist dirt, feeling a faint imprint. His eyes scanned the green forest in front of him before closing. He diverted all of his attention to his ears, trying to focus on the sounds he heard. Next, he took a deep breath of air through his nose and exhaled quietly through his mouth. Then, his raised fist changed to a bladed hand signaling east.
Nick smiled. He knew exactly what Alex was thinking. Deer, like all other animals, needed water. The stream wasn't much further.
The two men continued their trek through the relatively quiet forest located two miles south of Camp. They both continually checked and rechecked their weapons' slings. If there was extra slack, their rifles could smack against their backs, potentially giving away their position.
Alex bear-crawled as low as possible to a collapsed Western White pine tree. Nick may have been sixty-five years old, but he moved like his agile companion.
Quietly, Alex took the rifle off his back and used the fallen trunk to steady his weapon. His bare hands were cold but showed no ache or strain. He lined up his shot and was ready to take it.
Next to him, Ranger Nick stared through binoculars.
The deer was peacefully sipping the stream water, unaware that its life would soon come to an end.
But before Alex could take the shot, the deer’s head popped up, spooked. It’s ears shifted, then it stared upriver before darting off into the trees.
“Damn,” Alex sighed. He turned around and rested his back against the log. He removed his Angels baseball hat and ran a frustrated hand through his lengthy brown hair. “The first deer we've seen in a week and it’s gone. There goes dinner. I don't get it, we didn't make a sound.”
“That's because it wasn't us who spooked the deer,” Ranger Nick replied. “I'm guessing you didn't smell that?”
“Smell what?”
“That,” Nick said, handing Alex the binoculars. He pointed up the stream.
Alex followed Nick's directions and saw what Nick had smelled. Walking around in a sporadic and uncoordinated fashion was a burly man, Alex guessed to be around forty-five years old. He still couldn't "smell" what Nick did, but he knew what Nick had meant.
The man's body and face were decomposing and bits of exposed flesh were infested with bacteria and other diseases. The man was dead.
“Remember, Alex, the skills that I'm teaching you should never stop. You have to always be thinking about and observing your surroundings. Pay attention to every detail…”
“Even the smallest one,” Alex finished. He had heard the speech a hundred times before.
Nick smiled. His Native American face showed the rugged lines of aging.
Alex positioned his rifle intent on shooting something, anything. And if it couldn't be the deer, he was equally satisfied taking out another infected. Killing one more of thosethingsthat murdered all but two members of his family. Thosethingsthat were responsible for his most recent loss, his best friend and cousin, Billy.
Immediately, Nick put a hand on top of Alex’s rifle to stop him.
“No, we can't waste the ammunition,” Nick said softly. He pointed to two additional undead who shuffled alongside the river roughly seventy-five feet upstream. “Besides, you only passed the first test...”
“Thank you, sensei,” Alex joked, “but seriously, what's the second test?”
“You don't think we've been practicing hand to hand combat for fun, do you?”
“Is it too late to say yes?”
Nick patted Alex on the shoulder. For the last few months, the two men had surpassed a normal friendship. Their student-teacher bond had grown into a father-son relationship.
“Follow me,” Nick said, cryptically.
The two hunters left their bags and guns at the fallen pine tree and prepared themselves for a fight. Nick positioned himself in plain sight, between the shoreline of the stream and a massive tree- all 6' 5" of him towered like a tree. He removed his favorite and most trusted weapon from his belt, an old hatchet.
Alex unsheathed a 14" machete and waited behind the tree to the right.
Nick signaled a thumbs up to Alex; his sign making sure that Alex was ready to execute the plan.
After a moment, Alex returned the signal, then Nick blew out an ear piercing whistle.
The burley, undead man whipped his head around backwards and found Nick. Immediately, he released a gargled howl and limp-sprinted toward the Ranger. The other two infected heard the howl and began searching the area for their undead companion.
Nick stood nonchalantly out in the open. While he waited for the man to get closer, he shifted his body into a relaxed fighting stance. Just as the burly man passed the tree intent on lunging, Alex swung a heavy, lethal blow.
The infected man didn't have a second to react. Alex swung with such force that his blade became stuck in the man’s skull, and when the monster fell, it took the machete with him.
If Alex had been in this scenario six months ago, he would have tried to dislodge the blade. He might have even panicked. But now, with the training he had been receiving, he reacted on instinct. The culmination of everything he had been learning from Nick was coming out in full force. He abandoned the blade and took out his backup weapon, a sawed off wooden baseball bat.
“Nice choice,” Nick said calmly. He pointed at the two infected shambling down the river.
“Which one do you want?” Alex asked, adrenaline pumping as he squeezed the handle in a metronomic rhythm.
“I would say age before beauty, but I think I win on both accounts,” Nick answered, smiling.
Alex knew the Ranger's joke had no merit. Nick's leathery face had seen its share of stress for six and a half decades.
“Seriously, what's it going to be?” Alex pressed.
The two infected were now twenty feet out and closing in fast.
Alex's question was answered in less than a second.
As fast as a lightning strike, Nick raised the hatchet over his shoulder and flung it toward the man on the right. The rounded blade embedded itself in between the infected man’s nose and left eye socket. His head snapped back and then its body collapsed over itself.
“Show off,” Alex said, sprinting toward the last remaining threat.
Both Alex and the infected woman looked as though they were going to collide, but at the last second Alex sidestepped and swung simultaneously at the woman's right knee. Her leg buckled and she collapsed to her left knee. Alex continued to spin around her, this time aiming a second swing behind her left kneecap.
Immediately, she collapsed to all fours. Despite the broken bones, she attempted to stand, but before she could, before she could even turn around, Alex swung again, cracking her skull.
“And you call me the show off?” Nick asked, walking calmly past Alex to the corpse that was hol
ding on to his hatchet.
Alex chuckled as he walked back to retrieve his machete. He wiped the blood off the blade and slid it back into the sheath on his right thigh.
“Hey, Nick, I was thinking,” Alex started to say, “I know you said after the war, you went back home to Pick-a-chu Falls-”
“Pich-A’ Laght-Hoo Falls,” the Native American corrected.
“Right, that place,” Alex said, not even trying to pronounce the Sioux word again. “Then you got a job in search and rescue in Yellowstone, right?”
Nick nodded, washing off his hatchet in the riverbed.
“Then after fifteen years, you up and leave to take a cushy desk job here. What’d you call it? Ranger in charge of Outdoor Operations for Willop County here in upstate Washington?”
“I’m waiting for a question,” Nick replied, drying the blade before securing it back on his belt.
“I guess, I’m just wondering...why? Why leave your home in Wyoming, your supposedly kick ass job, in the outdoors I might add, to push some paper here in shitty, rainy, cloudy, and cold Washington State?” Alex asked, venting the frustration and dislike of any climate north of Los Angeles, California.
Alex expected one of Nick’s textbook smiles but didn’t get one.
The aged man lowered his head and turned slightly away from Alex. Nick’s demeanor shifted for a split second as he relieved a painful moment from his past.
“Let's grab our gear, check the snares, and then head back,” Nick replied, opting not to answer.
Alex decided it best not to press the issue. But he did have one thing left on his mind. “Aren't you forgetting something?”
Nick looked at him confused; he hoped Alex wasn’t going to pry anymore into that memory. “Forget about what?”
“Did I pass?”
Nick smiled and started walking back to the fallen pine tree. “Maybe.”
0845 hours
Back at Camp, the colony was up and buzzing like a hive of honey bees. Rarely was there a day the thirty survivors slept in past eight in the morning. They utilized all that nature had to offer, from the much needed hours of sunlight, to the precious rain that helped maintain their supply of drinking water. Relaxation was a luxury that was rarely afforded. Everyone participated in the countless chores that needed to be completed on a daily basis.
The Longest Road (Book 2): The Change Page 3