Hard Road: Deadly Horizon (Dark Plague Book 2)

by Bradley West

  Travis’ voice rang through the night. “Carla, don’t shoot! It’s Travis. What happened?”

  “Muller or Katerina hit us with grenades. Burns and Norris are dead. Derek, Kyle and Jaime are after them. This road climbs to a dead end at a flat-topped hill in about three hundred yards. Jaime was driving up it when a grenade knocked him off the road to the left. That’s all I know. We’ve suffered many dead and wounded.”

  Travis dispensed with the night-vision and stepped closer. Carla’s last statement conveyed more pain than he could imagine. In the dim light, he saw a ghoulish spectacle of third-degree burns and dried blood. “My God! What happened to you?” he cried.

  “Katerina’s what happened. I’ll be fine. We hit Muller once or twice more, and he might be out of it. Move your pickup so we can drive back to camp. Sal and Mona are dead. The kids are unhurt.”

  Travis turned and called behind him: “Pull the truck past on the left. Clear the road!”

  Shorty put the rig into 4WD and rumbled up alongside the blue ’Bago. He rolled the window down. “Before you go, we need a jerrycan’s worth of gas.” Tien and Tom hopped out and rummaged through the Horizon’s side storage compartments until they found a container.

  Erinn took the wheel, the headlights came on and the motorhome drove out of the killing fields. They were fifteen minutes from sanctuary, but clean sheets and disinfectant alone wouldn’t save Arkar’s life or Yonten’s arm.

  Derek had no problem identifying his goal as the pickup blazed ever brighter. The problem was that his lacerated ass didn’t work. He’d barely made it thirty yards before the laws of anatomy overcame adrenaline and eighty percent of his weight ended up on his left foot. He heard Jaime’s single shot from the hill but didn’t see the result, if any. Less than a minute later, three grenades detonated in succession up top. Muller’s still out here. Jaime could be wounded, if not dead, and he needed to hold the fort until Travis arrived. The burning truck was one hundred and fifty yards away, quite a distance at night. Despite Derek’s age, his eyes were still sharp if he could keep the blood from his head wound from running down into them. By sitting on his left butt cheek and crossing his right leg over his left knee, he could tolerate the pain and aim the rifle properly. The trouble was he didn’t have a target.

  The foxhole had saved Jaime’s life, but he’d still ended up with a hide full of scrap metal. He couldn’t get out of the four-foot-deep hole with arms and legs that didn’t obey. The best he could manage was to draw his Berretta since the M-4 was out of commission, as were the nogs. There was sufficient starlight to see anyone poking their head over the edge. If Muller came up here, Jaime would gift him a parade marcher’s ticket in the Day of the Dead celebration.

  * * * * *

  While Tien slopped most of five gallons into the Silverado’s tank, Travis updated Shorty: “Jaime, Kyle and Derek are hunting Muller and Katerina who have a grenade launcher and M-4s. I have our only night-vision device so I’ll lead. Trail me by fifty meters so a grenade can get only one of us. Tom follows you at the same interval. Tien stays here and guards the pickup at a distance. There’s a high chance of friendly fire, so don’t shoot unless you’re certain.”

  * * * * *

  A depleted Muller was thirty meters away from the bonfire, working his way back to the road where he planned to walk up the gentle incline to check on the sniper. At a minimum, he’d finish him off. If there wasn’t anyone else left to kill, he’d command the high ground, rest up and prepare to wipe out whoever else dared to challenge him.

  Derek thought he was hallucinating when he saw a man walking toward him only one hundred meters away, a black outline with flames dancing in the back. Who the hell was it? His instincts said Muller, but he didn’t want to shoot a 3Mer. With sweaty hands, he adjusted his weight on his shredded ass and waited while the backlit form advanced.

  The flames born of the Bic worked their way to Kyle’s twisted baseball cap. The wick ignited the gas vapors, which burned through the grenade’s casing and detonated its propellant and set off the gas tank. The second blast knocked Muller off his feet, and he stayed down to collect his thoughts. In the distance, a woman’s bloodcurdling screams rent the air. He tried to stand up using the stubby M320 as a crutch. From his knees, he looked back and saw nothing but a giant bonfire crackling, flames high into the sky in tribute to a fallen pagan queen. I should have taken a closer look after all. He renewed his march back to the hilltop.

  * * * * *

  In the distance, Travis, Shorty, Tom and Tien heard the explosion and then, a beat later, a much larger boom. Flames shot fifty feet into the air.

  “What in the hell?” Shorty exclaimed as he abandoned his slow walk and broke into a run.

  From behind, Derek heard someone coming up the road. He twisted his head and shoulders and saw nothing. That had to be one of the good guys, right? Stuck in the middle . . . Who was the enemy? The odds tilted heavily in favor of Bad Guys in front and Good Guys behind, but he couldn’t live with himself if he shot an innocent.

  Travis turned his head ninety degrees and powered up his nogs. So long as he kept the fiery pickup out of his peripheral vision, he would be fine. In short order, he picked out a man seated behind a stump with a weapon pointed toward the pickup. One of us. He kept scanning but couldn’t see any farther left because of the fire’s ambient light.

  Muller rested before undertaking the short, steep hike up to the logging road. He was less than sixty meters from the summit and already thinking about the joy he’d take in carving up that fucking sniper. His keen ears picked out footfalls from down the road and felt certain it was the alpha dog, the great Travis.

  Muller’s iron will overcame his debilitating wounds. All he needed to do was bounce a grenade at the man’s feet and hunt for souvenirs—an ear would be nice, but he’d settle for a finger. Muller raised the M320 to his shoulder and caressed the trigger.

  Travis continued to run blind, sacrificing stealth for position. In seconds, he expected to be far enough up the road to see a much broader field behind him and to the right.

  Derek was more confused than ever at the sight of the specter’s right turn. Was that Kyle, maybe injured and confused? Or Muller looking to retake the high ground? Derek had the scope to his eye but couldn’t tell friend from foe. Oh, sweet Jesus, don’t let this be a 3Mer.

  The dark figure stopped, raised a stumpy weapon and all doubts evaporated. Derek sensed a terrible act was imminent, placed the scope’s crosshairs dead center on the black mass and squeezed off a shot with shaking arms.

  The bullet struck the M320’s breech, ruining the launcher and sending fragments into Muller’s legs. He dropped the useless weapon and drew his Walther as he pivoted to face a new threat.

  Derek fired a second time. The shadow dropped to its knees and then onto its face.

  Muller was aware of a crushing blow to his chest, but no longer felt pain. What a fucking pity to die so close to victory.

  CHAPTER forty

  A Hard Road

  Tuesday, July 21, and Wednesday, July 22, 2020: near Ruby Ridge, Idaho, late night into early morning; Salmo, British Columbia, morning

  Travis was ready to administer the coup de grâce to Muller, but Derek had killed him cleanly. The well-ventilated torso featured an impressive display of gunshot wounds and blood. The man had died with a sneer on his face and his finger on the trigger, lethal till the end.

  Derek shouted that he couldn’t walk, and Tom and Shorty helped him to the road. The ferry pilot could scarcely believe he’d felled their mythic enemy with a shot through the heart. Travis was less sentimental and sent Shorty back for Tien and the Silverado, cautioning him that it was possible Katerina was still around.

  Travis hiked up the road to the plateau, calling out for Jaime. His friend at the bottom of a hole looked like he’d taken a shotgun blast at long range. Travis fired into the air three times, and Tien had the Silverado up top in a hurry.

  Jaime was conscious and pl
eased to see them, particularly when Travis’ first words were “Muller’s dead. What about the woman?”

  “From the sounds, the fire after the explosions finished her,” Jaime said. “Kyle went back down there to save Sal and Muller killed him. My guess is Sal played possum, torched the truck and Katerina killed him just after. I hit her dead center and I’m ninety-nine percent that was her screaming in the fire. I couldn’t confirm it because Muller dropped three eggs on my head. How’s everyone else?”

  “Muller’s grenade targeting the RV killed the new lady doctor, wounded Derek in the ass and head, and peppered Carla and Erinn. Everyone else is as you left them. Arkar’s in the worst shape, but he’s a tough SOB. While the boys load you up, I’ll take a quick look down there.”

  Travis grabbed a flashlight out of the truck and spent ten minutes searching around the smoldering pickup. Up top, Tom and Shorty stood lookout as Travis puffed back up. “There are two burned corpses by the truck, one flat out and one in the fetal position. Those will be Sal’s and Katerina’s. Kyle’s body is farther away and unburned. He was shot in the back point-blank. We’ll come back tomorrow to collect them, make certain no one else is lurking and salvage whatever’s usable.” Travis realized that he’d just walked past ammo boxes and weapons just now at the top of the slope leading up from the burned-out pickup. He sent Shorty and Tom over to collect unlucky Kyle’s collection.

  As Travis climbed into the cab, Derek rode shotgun in an awkward position to keep his weight on his left side. Jaime lay flat in the back seat while Shorty, Tom and Tien squatted in the bed, clinging to the side rails as they shuddered with every rut and pothole. Travis balanced the need for speed with the desire not to bounce anyone out of the truck.

  The pickup’s map app guided them to the 3M without incident. Travis pulled into the campsite to see the blue and green ’Bagos united once again, the white whale upright, and three unfamiliar vehicles—an ambulance and two cars. No one reacted as they pulled in. The lack of security irked Travis until his nogs spotted a lookout up the hill behind the SAW. Travis gave a wave and a thumbs-up as other 3Mers noticed the Silverado’s presence and hurried over.

  Carla ran to the pickup. “Are they dead?” Her head was bandaged and someone had wiped the dried blood off her face. All that did was accentuate the grotesqueness of the half-dozen cigarette burns smeared in salve.

  Travis didn’t care—he was in love with the person, not the pinup. “They’re all dead. Jaime shot Katerina, and Derek took out Muller.”

  An ecstatic Carla beamed. “That’s great. I told everyone you wouldn’t come back without Muller’s head as a hood ornament.”

  Travis smiled at the bravado. He climbed out of the cab and stood on the running boards as he honked the horn. “Jaime and Derek are wounded and need help,” he shouted. “Did that ambulance come with a stretcher?” Shorty, Tom and Tien placed their injured comrades into Erinn’s care.

  “Are there any others, maybe hiding out or someplace else?” Carla asked.

  “We got the leaders and every biker we saw in Spice Land,” Travis said. “I don’t think there were new guns or they’d have been there to boost their numbers. I’ll go back at sunrise and make certain. You look like you had a rough day.”

  Carla burst into tears and hugged him. “You don’t know the half of it. I tried to shoot Muller when Sal fought to stop him from executing the children. I shot Sal instead. I killed him!”

  Travis pushed her away enough to make eye contact. “Sal was the one who lit the pickup on fire and stopped Muller from dropping grenades on your head. He was on his feet fighting to the very end. Jaime said he saved everyone’s life on that road before Katerina killed him.”

  Carla buried her burned face in his shoulder and cried all the harder. Travis gently patted her back as big sobs shook her body. A few tears of his own surprised him. Sal would have made a fine frogman.

  Derek lay on a gurney outside the green ’Bago, an IV bag dangling from a rack that his demonstrative gestures threatened to topple. He was in good spirits since Tom was uninjured and Erinn was doing fine despite bandages adorning her head, left biceps and thigh. She had her triage clipboard out. Once Arkar was out of surgery, Yonten’s arm would take precedence over Jaime’s shrapnel. Johnny sat in a director’s chair, an ice bag to his forehead.

  An unfamiliar Asian man in full scrubs and double-masked came to the door of the green ’Bago. “The Indian fellow with the facial, neck and arm wounds and two chest holes is in recovery. He’ll survive. Who’s next?”

  Zarni cried tears of relief at the good news. The two EMTs guided Yonten and held the bag of transfusing blood over his head as he walked up the steps under his own steam. Erinn put out a call for anyone unwounded who could donate blood to see Pat and Tien, who were in charge of blood-typing and vampire duties.

  Steph and Greg stood off to the side marveling at Tyson’s improved alertness while Steph wiped her eyes and blew her nose, lamenting the dead and wounded, starting with her father.

  Travis kept searching the crowd for familiar faces, catching himself looking for Sal, Melvin and even Kyle. They had died along with too many other good men and women. It had been a war of extermination and the 3M had triumphed. But who were these medical people and where did they come from?

  Greg followed Steph to check on their battered friend. The straitlaced lawyer was in a good enough mood that he tried to joke: “I guess you’re jealous of all those people with fresh wounds getting fussed over.”

  Travis could only shake his head and smile. “How’s Tyson?”

  “Much better,” Stephanie replied. “The swelling’s down and he’s feeding ravenously. Fingers crossed.”

  “Can you tell me who the new medics are?” Travis asked.

  “After we spoke on the shortwave, I knew we’d need medical help,” Greg said. “I drove over to our Canada guide’s house nearby. I told a white lie that we had a cure for Covid and would trade shots for a surgeon. It turned out that Jeff’s wife worked in the local clinic before it shut, and she was packing to leave for a new post at a Federal refugee camp. She introduced us to her colleagues, a Dr. Lee and two EMTs. We lucked out because they don’t have to be at the refugee camp until noon tomorrow. The EMTs introduced another doctor, this one a lot younger. That’s the five of them.

  “You can imagine how relieved I was when Carla said that the other scientist’s Dark Cure doses would work. She watched Katerina’s every step as that awful person worked, and Katerina did it right. Maybe some good will come out of that evil woman’s life after all.”

  Greg continued. “The medical team was skeptical until Carla explained her role at Livermore and assured them that the shots both treated and prevented Covid-20. Dr. Lee said he’d take it on faith and they set up a MASH unit in the green ’Bago. They’re using their equipment and meds to treat our people. All we supply is power and muscle. It’s a dream come true.”

  Travis wasn’t so certain. “Tell me more about where they’re headed.”

  “FEMA is setting up camps all over the country where uninfected people and Covid survivors can shelter. Demand for vaccines obviously outstrips supply, but FEMA promises that the stations have enough food, shelter and clean water for months until the vaccines arrive. The shortage of medical professionals is a big drawback. Apparently, they’re paying Dr. Lee and the other doctor—”

  “Dr. Tommy Thomson,” Steph said. “He reeks of alcohol and his eyes are bloodshot.”

  “Thirty thousand dollars each per week, plus food and fuel for their families, and offered them priority vaccinations once shots become available,” Greg continued. “They don’t know when the vaccines will arrive, so our offer of Dark Cure jabs was timely.”

  Travis turned to Carla. “This sounds like BS. What do you think?”

  Carla pursed her lips. “As of ten days ago, there were only enough chemicals in the entire U.S. to make ten thousand vaccines. Maybe they have a different formulation, or maybe not. The 3M nee
ded a surgeon, and we were lucky to find this man and his colleagues. I say we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “Agreed,” Travis said and let it drop. He wanted to meet the machine gunner and put a more familiar face behind the weapon to de-risk their present environment. The 3M was far from out of danger.

  Travis sought out Shorty and suggested he shuttle Tom and Tien to where they’d abandoned the Harleys, gas them up and drive back to camp. Motorcycles were handy to have around.

  * * * * *

  The medical team worked nonstop until almost three a.m.; the last ninety minutes spent plucking shrapnel, suturing wounds and applying ointments. Some bowls of canned soup, hot coffee and five injections later, the medical mercenaries were on their way.

  Travis watched in silence. As soon as the strangers were out of sight, he assembled the able-bodied. “It’s three hours until first light, and we need to get the hell out of here by then. Tom, Greg, and I will tell Jeff we’re crossing into Canada tonight. We won’t let him out of our sight either. Sal already paid him in full and he’s supposed to be on call, plus there are more doses in it for him if we make it across the border in a hurry.”

  “The doctor said not to move Arkar for at least forty-eight hours,” Shorty said. “He has major internal injuries and received four pints of blood. The others were less severe but Carla and Johnny are concussed, Jaime has a week’s bed rest prescribed and—”

  “Shorty, I appreciate the input but Carla’s our leader. I discussed this with her earlier and she agreed that supplying her proper name and job description to those people puts us at an unacceptable risk. It’s a long story, but she’s AWOL from a top-secret job and the feds want her back to do their dirty work. We have to hit the road ASAP.”