Trackers 3: The Storm (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Thriller)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Wayne took a step back. “Jackie, tell him that shit ain’t true. I didn’t make you take any of that candy.”

  Jacqueline sat up on the couch. She rubbed at her eyes and then scratched her right arm. The track marks were in plain view.

  “What do you call those?” Albert asked, pointing.

  When he turned back to Wayne, the man had drawn a knife. He held it in a shaky hand. Albert didn’t have time to regret the fact he hadn’t patted Wayne down earlier. The man jabbed the blade at Albert’s face, slicing his cheek wide open. He cried out in pain and backed away.

  “I’ll kill you!” Wayne shouted. He thrust the knife at Albert’s chest, but Albert jumped back.

  “Stop it!” Jacqueline yelled, her voice raspy. She tried to stand up, but her legs gave out. She landed on the filthy carpet with a yelp.

  Albert planted his feet and waited, warm blood rushing down his cheek. He could tell the cut was bad and would probably require stitches. Definitely antibiotics; who knew where that knife had been? Wayne’s wild eyes locked onto Albert’s. His frail body trembled, and his face twitched.

  “Get out of here!” he yelled. “Jackie’s mine. I take care of her. She don’t want you here!”

  “Stop it, Wayne,” Jacqueline said from the floor. She struggled to push herself up.

  “Put the knife down,” Albert said calmly. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

  “Stop!” Jacqueline shouted. “Both of you, stop it.”

  Wayne looked over at her. “Shut up, whore!”

  The insult sent Albert over the edge. He lunged like his days on the football field after a snap. Wayne didn’t have time to react before Albert barreled into him and picked him off the ground. He crushed the smaller man against the wall, and the knife clanked onto the floor. Albert backed away, and Wayne’s sinewy frame crashed limply to the ground with a thud.

  “No one talks to my sister like that,” Albert said.

  Jacqueline managed to stand and walk over with tears welling in her eyes. She stared at Wayne’s prone form for a long moment before looking up at Albert.

  “You never did know how to pick ’em,” Albert said.

  THE SETTLEMENT ON Storm Mountain was even more impressive than Raven remembered. He carried Creek in his arms toward a twelve-foot cedar fence. Judging by the fresh scent, the fence was new.

  Lindsey walked next to Raven, her eyes fixed on the walls built around the mansions beyond. Several guard towers stood along the perimeter, and each was manned with more men and women.

  Through the opening gate, a bonfire burned in the middle of the street. Apparently Kirkus and his friends had been very busy since the bombs dropped. They had turned the neighborhood into a fortress.

  “Almost there, buddy,” Raven whispered to Creek.

  The Akita whimpered, and his flesh quivered beneath his fur. If Raven could have taken the dog’s pain, he would, but there wasn’t anything he could for Creek besides rush him to someone who could help.

  The massive gates continued to open, revealing several modern houses on a street ahead. John Kirkus dismounted from his horse and walked over to Raven and Lindsey.

  “I’ll take you to the doc’s house first,” he said. “Then we can talk.”

  Raven and Lindsey followed quickly after Kirkus and several other men to a white two-story house. A man in a leather coat stood on the front steps. He removed a pair of glasses and wiped them off on his shirt, then put them back on.

  “Doc Meyers, this is Sam Spears and Detective Lindsey Plymouth from Estes Park. They were on their way to meet with us but were ambushed by two officers that were apparently working with outside forces to take over Estes Park.”

  Despite his worries, Raven was impressed with how concisely Kirkus had summed up their situation.

  “I’d say I don’t believe it, but after this past month, I’ll believe about anything,” Meyers said with a huff.

  “Creek here is hurt real bad,” Kirkus said.

  Meyers nodded at Raven and Lindsey and then opened the door to his house. “Come on in.”

  Raven hurried inside, talking as he did. “He was hit in the right eye and his right shoulder. I’ve stopped some of the bleeding, but I can’t tell how bad the wounds are.”

  “Let’s take him into the kitchen,” Meyers said. He led them through a beautifully-decorated living room with vaulted ceilings. On the second floor, two kids and a woman looked over a balcony as Raven passed below. He entered a hallway and then a kitchen lit by oil lanterns and candles. Meyers pointed at a granite tabletop where Raven carefully set Creek down.

  “Easy, boy,” Raven said soothingly. “You’re going to be feeling better really soon, I promise.”

  The dog slowly moved his head toward the doctor, then to Lindsey, and then back at Raven. His tail thumped once against the table.

  Meyers grabbed a box of supplies from a cupboard and walked back over to Creek’s side.

  “Hold him down,” Meyers said.

  Raven and Lindsey both carefully restrained Creek while Meyers checked his eye. A low growl came from Creek’s throat, but Raven calmed his dog by whispering in his ear.

  “You’re with friends, buddy. Be good and I’ll give you a treat. Nice, tasty elk jerky. Maybe a rabbit, too.”

  Creek’s muscles relaxed, responding to the tone of Raven’s voice more than the words, allowing Meyers to pull back the bloody fur covering his right eye. Raven glimpsed the wound for the first time in the light and felt his gut sink. It was destroyed.

  “I’m going to need to perform surgery, but I can already tell you that I won’t be able to save his eye.”

  Raven choked out a response. “Whatever it takes, Doc. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  Lindsey put a hand on Raven’s shoulder. Creek’s left eye flitted from face to face, and he let out a low whine that broke Raven’s already shattered heart.

  “I’ll sedate him first,” Meyers said. “Don’t worry, he won’t feel a thing. He’s going to be okay.”

  “Thank you,” Raven said. He bent down and kissed Creek on the forehead. “I love you, boy. Be brave.”

  Raven and Lindsey stepped back outside, where John Kirkus had gathered with several of his men.

  “How’s the dog?” Kirkus asked.

  “Doctor Meyers says he’ll pull through, but he’s going to lose his eye,” Lindsey replied when Raven didn’t answer.

  Kirkus dipped his cowboy hat. “Doc’s good. He’ll fix your hound up in no time.”

  “Thank you,” Raven said.

  “So tell me again what happened on that bluff,” he said. “Then we can talk about our other business.”

  Raven let Lindsey tell the story, everything from Don working out a deal with Nile Redford that ended with the burning of the Stanley to sending Colton to Fort Collins to meet with Sheriff Thompson.

  “He ain’t no sheriff,” Kirkus replied with a shake of his head. He looked at Lindsey. “With Colton gone and Captain Englewood and Sergeant Aragon dead, you may have just gotten a promotion, Detective.”

  “What do you mean he isn’t a sheriff?” Raven asked.

  “Thompson?” Kirkus said. He gestured toward the fence surrounding the mountain community. “That son of a bitch is the reason we built these walls.”

  It was still dark in Fort Collins, and the moon rode high in the night sky. Colton sat in the passenger seat of Raven’s Jeep with the same guy that had captured him back on the road. His name was Jango, and he was irritatingly cheerful about having Colton along for the ride. The engine hummed as they idled outside the sheriff’s station.

  “Where are we going?” Colton asked.

  Jango massaged his handlebar mustache, running his fingers along the top and all the way down the sides. Two passes later, he said, “Wait till you see it.”

  Colton raised a brow. “See what?”

  “What the government has done,” Jango replied.

  The side doors to the building opened, disgorging
Thompson and a dozen other men, all armed to the teeth.

  Jesus, they look like they are going to war, Colton mused.

  “Here we go,” Jango said. He patted the steering wheel. “Nice Jeep, by the way. We can always use‌—‌”

  The three trucks ahead pulled away, and the sound of engines drowned out Jango’s voice. Colton had a feeling he knew what he was going to say, but he didn’t respond. If they wanted to commandeer his ride, there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. For now, he was playing it cool until he knew exactly what the hell was happening in Fort Collins and the FEMA camp. Not that he had a choice. The men had taken every single one of his weapons, even his damn pocket knife.

  The lead truck, an old Toyota, turned right. Jango followed the other two trucks down a road to the left. For several minutes they drove silently through the empty streets. No one was out, which struck Colton as odd. Back in Estes people would walk around at all hours, but Fort Collins looked like a ghost town. There must be a curfew here.

  The headlights swept over several houses that were burned to charcoal. Half the city seemed to have burned over the past month, and the fire to the east continued raging.

  “What is that?” Colton asked, pointing to the blaze.

  “That? Oh, that’s a very unfortunate situation.”

  Colton strained to get a better look as the convoy moved closer to the fire. Soon he glimpsed the stone façade of an old church. The burning steeple reached toward the moon like a flaming spear. Smoldering lumps littered the front lawn beneath a shattered stained-glass window. Colton tried to process the information his eyes were feeding his brain, but it couldn’t be real...

  The Jeep turned slightly, and the headlights hit the double doors of the church. A chain and padlock had been looped around the handles, securing the entrance. That’s when Colton understood. The trapped people had clawed their way out the shattered windows, but had perished from the flames anyway.

  “What the hell happened here?” Colton asked.

  “Like I said, it’s an unfortunate situation.”

  The convoy passed the front lawn, and Colton saw one of the smoldering bodies was still moving, crawling across the ground and reaching up with a burned hand.

  Is this what Thompson wanted Colton to see?

  The lead truck continued driving right past, the driver not even slowing at the sight of the dying person that was so badly burned Colton couldn’t even tell the gender. He managed his breathing the best he could, but the horrendous sight made his heart kick. For the next thirty minutes he sat in silence. He considered opening the door and jumping out, but where the hell would he run?

  The distant glow on the horizon continued to brighten, and Colton finally realized where the convoy was heading. Normally this would be the point where Colton would palm a magazine into his rifle. Weaponless, he felt almost naked. His thoughts shifted from Kelly and Risa to Raven and Lindsey and the rest of Estes Park. What the hell was Don up to, sending him out here to meet with Thompson on false pretenses? Was something happening back in the town?

  Not only did he feel naked, he felt helpless, unable to defend his people. He’d come out here to build an alliance, but it seemed he’d left his friends and family in more danger.

  The scent of charred wood and burning rubber filled the Jeep as they drove farther away from Fort Collins. The lead truck slowed on the next hill and shut off the headlights. Jango followed suit. The vehicles parked side by side on the crest of the hill. Doors opened and men jumped out of the beds onto the concrete, fanning out across the pavement.

  Jango jerked his chin. “Let’s go, Chief.”

  The first thing Colton did when he stepped out was scan the area just in case he was going to have to make a run for it, but there wasn’t anywhere to go. Surrounded by rocky fields and rolling hills, the drab landscape provided little cover. The air was thick and heavy from the distant smoke, and the other men pulled up scarves and bandanas over their faces.

  Thompson strode through the group and gestured for Colton. Jango followed them to the top of the hill, where Thompson put a muscular arm around Colton’s shoulders. Colton was too busy staring at the view to pay much attention to the odd gesture.

  Dozens of poles had been constructed on the shoulder of the highway, and a body was hanging from each of them. Several of the silhouetted figures seemed to be writhing, but Colton couldn’t be sure they were still alive until a voice pleaded for help.

  “You wanted to see the FEMA camp,” Thompson said, pointing at a field of charred tents, trailers, and small buildings about a mile past the poles. Fires continued to eat the structures, filling the sky with smoke.

  Colton tried to speak, but nothing came out. The refugees were right; the FEMA camp was hell on earth.

  “We had a good deal with Captain Moraine. The camp was supposed to give us a shipment of supplies every few days, but Sherriff Gerrard screwed things up. He found out what we were doing and tried to stop me.”

  He raised his right hand and waved it back and forth. “Bullets started flying, and one thing led to another. Next thing you know, the entire place is burning.”

  Jango chuckled behind them. “Serves ’em right.”

  “Come on,” Thompson said after lowering his hand. “I want to show you something else.”

  Colton followed Thompson and Jango down the hill toward the first of the poles. A darkened body hung from the wood about six feet down. The clothes were completely burned away, leaving behind raw flesh and bone.

  The man had been dead for a while, judging by the scent. Colton brought his sleeve up to cover his nose.

  “You came here to see if the Feds would help you, right?” Jango said, stopping right next to the body. He pulled out a knife and prodded the dead man on the pole. He’d been burned so badly that his skin looked like jerky.

  “Sorry to break it to you, but Captain Moraine here won’t be providing you much help at all, nor will Sheriff Gerrard.” Thompson pointed the knife at the next pole, where a second body had been burned to a crisp.

  After shrugging his muscular shoulders, Thompson sheathed his knife and jerked his chin back toward the trucks. He patted Colton on the back as they walked.

  “I thought I’d give you the opportunity to see what happens to those that don’t follow the laws, Colton, since you seem to have broken one already,” Thompson said. He halted and moved in front of Colton so they were facing one another. “You do know what I mean, right?”

  Colton waited for Thompson to explain, stony faced and sick to his stomach.

  “That’s disappointing, Chief. You don’t remember capturing one of my men? You told me about it earlier.”

  “Shit,” Colton muttered.

  “There you go. You remember,” Thompson said, slapping Colton harder on the shoulder. “Anyways, I’d like Jason Cole back. Once that happens, I’ll see if you and I can work out some sort of ‘alliance’ between Estes Park and Fort Collins. I’ve heard a rumor that you’ve got a nice cache of supplies to trade. Otherwise, I’ll ship you back home in several small boxes.”

  Fenix awoke sometime in the middle of the night inside the cold jail cell. The bastards had only given him a shitty blanket and no pillow. He shivered on the hard floor, mind racing. Would Redford really give him a chance to take Estes Park? In a few hours, he would find out. In the morning Redford and his men would either lop off his nuts and hand his mutilated body over to the Feds or they would set out together to destroy a mutual enemy.

  At some point Fenix finally drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by a loud banging. The door to his cell creaked open, and Hacker stood there holding a lantern, illuminating the tools hanging from his duty belt.

  “Get up, you pig fucker,” Hacker said.

  Fenix slowly rose to his feet. Half asleep and furious, he considered throwing a double fisted punch, but Hacker didn’t give him the chance. He reached out and grabbed Fenix by his shirt to drag him from the cell.

  “Let�
�s go,” he said. “Redford wants to see you.”

  Hands still cuffed, there wasn’t much Fenix could do but follow. The lantern rocked back and forth as Hacker walked down the hall, shedding light on several other empty rooms. Fenix wasn’t sure where the man was leading him, but he followed like a good sheep, biding his time and hoping he wasn’t being led to slaughter.

  A sour sensation worked its way through his gut, partly from the shit dinner they had fed him and partly from anxiety. He calmed his nerves by imagining all the ways he could kill Hacker. His favorite involved gouging out the man’s eyeballs and filling up the sockets with burning lamp oil.

  Hacker led them down a concrete staircase several floors beneath the ground. A radiation sign hung over a steel door at the bottom.

  “Where you taking me?” Fenix asked.

  Hacker grabbed the door and pulled it open to reveal a wide room lit by more lanterns and candles. Several hard looking men sat around a poker table in the middle of the room. They looked up from their cards, their smiles all folding into frowns when they saw Fenix.

  “What the fuck is this racist sewer rat doing here?” said a guy with a red bandana tied around his head.

  Fenix almost laughed at the stereotypical Rambo wannabe, but he kept his mouth shut and scrutinized the other men. Two of them appeared to be American Indians. They wore necklaces with feathers and bracelets made of bone. There were dozens of poker tables, roulette tables, and blackjack tables set up in the small underground casino.

  Redford sat at the bar along one wall, still dressed in a colorful blue suit with a red pocket square. He turned and looked at Fenix, then said, “Finish your game later, boys.”

  The men got up and started walking, their eyes all on Fenix.

  “He doesn’t belong here,” said the guy with the bandana.

  Fenix ignored them and crossed the room with Hacker at his back.

  “In there,” Redford said when they got to the bar. He gestured at a red door on the adjacent wall. Hacker opened it and ushered them inside toward a desk stacked with radio equipment that looked older than dirt. The man sitting in front of the equipment pulled off headphones.