Bone Hunter: A Novelette in the Dark of Dawn Series

by Woolf, Sebastien

  Bone

  Hunter

  A NOVELETTE IN THE

  DARK OF DAWN

  SERIES

  Sebastien Woolf

  By Sebastien Woolf

  DARK OF DAWN SERIES

  4 Horsemen

  Island of the Dammed

  Evil’s Legacy

  * * *

  DARK OF DAWN NOVELETTES

  Bone Hunter

  Warrior Princess

  Shadowmen

  Goth Squad

  4th and Dead

  Dead Fare

  * * *

  DARK OF DAWN SHORT STORIES

  Fear the Dawn

  (find out how it all began - only available on subscription - www.darkofdawn.com)

  * * *

  First published 2016

  Copyright © Harem Scarem Publishing 2016

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  Cover by jimmygibbs (Fiverr)

  Artwork by opikgoo (Fiverr)

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Discover other titles by Sebastien Woolf

  www.darkofdawn.com/books

  Join the Dark of Dawn Facebook Group

  www.facebook.com/groups/948906655146831

  View the Dark of Dawn book trailer

  https://vimeo.com/151724193

  Dedicated to the aching bones of those tragic souls who helped trap the pain inside my head just long enough for it to explode into a million pieces of inspiration – a splatter of ink.

  Bone Hunter Chapters

  1. The Reaper

  2. Dawn Blood

  3. Head Start

  4. Fury’s Page

  5. Eye in the Wind

  6. Ashes in the Night

  7. The Black Crow

  8. Valhalla

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  DARK OF DAWN

  1

  The Reaper

  Late afternoon light cast a shadow across the empty street. The city was up to her old tricks again, silhouettes and shapes, illusions and visions. A brisk wind gusted across the sidewalk rustling a few discarded newspapers that lay scattered next to an abandoned newsstand. It was an icy breeze with a vicious bite to it.

  Tugging at the strap the man in the shadows pulled the goggles down from the top of his tactical helmet so they covered his eyes once again, providing him instant relief from the cold wind. He squinted down the short barrel of his handgun, gained a bead on a shuffling silhouette ahead of him and closed an eye. Allowed the small teardrop that had formed on his eyelid from the fresh breeze to slowly trickle down onto his cheek.

  The gun kicked slightly in his hand.

  A body fell to the ground.

  Like a wolf on a full moon’s night, the breeze howled wildly up the street barking at his heels muffling the sound of the gunshot. As he stared blankly at the corpse laying motionless on the sidewalk opposite a steady stream of blood ran through the cracks and over the curb into the gutter.

  Sliding the .22-Calibre Rimfire pistol into the holster at his hip he pulled the black fixed blade knife from a belted sheath hanging next to it. The ten inch long serrated blade made it the ideal hand-to-hand combat weapon, perfect too for cutting through bone and sinew, necessary when removing a head from its body.

  Vertebrate crunched as the blade cut hard, it required a bit of muscle, but eventually with a popping sound the head came clean off. The man paused for a moment eyeballing it in a Hamlet-like pose holding it out in front of him. Alas poor… soul, he recited in his head causing half a smile to curl up on one side of his mouth, it was more a smirk than anything. Allowing the dead head to roll off his open palm it fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

  Newspapers danced on the sidewalk in the breeze pirouetting and promenading gracefully. It was starting to get dark gloomy and overcast with grey rain sodden clouds building up in the distance, rumbling along on the wind. A dart of lightening and a crack of thunder in the afternoon sky announced the storm’s imminent arrival.

  Sheathing his knife the man reached for his rifle which was slung loosely over his right shoulder. He knew better than anyone in this Godforsaken city the importance of always being armed for danger lurked in every shadow and it needed no further invitation.

  He gave a loud whistle which was followed by the sound of panting.

  “Good boy,” he said, patting his companion on the top of its head. “Let’s go hunker down. It’s gunna be a wet and wild night tonight.”

  The storm front growled overhead as it bore down rapidly, menacingly on the wastelands. There was no other movement on the street aside from the flapping of paper in the wind and a few tin cans that rolled along the sidewalk, clattering loudly as they gained momentum with the aid of the breeze.

  SPAM!

  Peeling back the top of the can the man savored the aroma of the processed pork shoulder. It was far from an ideal entrée but he wolfed down as much as he could stomach before tossing several slices to his companion. He smiled as the Rhodesian Ridgeback devoured it greedily.

  The dog curled up next his master, it’s sleek glossy brown coat shimmered in the candlelight. They made fitting companions, both imposing athletic and muscular, yet incredibly loyal. The man’s rugged, calloused hand stroked the solid head of the hound as he finished cooking the evening meal.

  Blue flame flickered from the small gas burner on the floor in front of him heating the contents of a grey tin cup. Bubbling away was yet another scavenged meal, a stew of sorts combining tinned spaghetti, dried stale crackers and freshly picked herbs. The whole thing tasted quite foul, but nevertheless it was much needed nutrition.

  All through the night the storm raged, viciously battering the wastelands and all who remained there. An unrelenting barrage of rain and sleet pelted the pavement outside as man and beast lay sleeping.

  Dawn broke and with it the heavenly assault finally abated. Heavy cloud cover remained and with it a bitterly cold, biting wind that swirled around the abandoned city as if it were the breath of an angry God. Pulling on his Garmont lightweight boots the man laced them tight, tying them in a doubly slipped reef-knot with a half hitch – standard shoe tie. Pulled on a sweater, slipped a nylon camouflage poncho over the top then reached for his rifle.

  “C’mon boy, it’s time to go to work,” he said in a husky morning voice, patting his companion on his black muzzle. “There’s vermin out on the streets already today, I can smell them.”

  It was a cold, bleak, inhospitable morning, grey and uninviting. Wind whistled by the alcove as it roared down the street, disturbing the man’s poncho and ruffling the line of hair that ran along the dog’s back.

  Shifting cloud cast dark ominous shadows over the landscape below, seemingly giving life to everything around. Sinister shapes moved deep within the shadows, shuffling and creeping, playing hide and seek. Distinguishing what was real and what was merely a figment of one’s vast and wild imagination was an art. It was also a survival technique that was nothing short of essential out here in the Badlands.

  2

  Dawn Blood

  Amidst the sound of the wind the cough of the silencer went unnoticed as
it belched forth its death sentence. A shape shifted in the shadows, stumbled forward then fell to its knees slumping over itself in a hideously contorted pose. Dead as dead could possibly be in its absolute final form.

  The man blinked, stared and blinked again. He had been here before and had seen it time and time again. For him it was a déjà vu feeling, a strange kind of sensation that came to him at the most peculiar of times – the same creature, muffled gunshot, the finality of death, it was a scene that was on constant repeat.

  At this range his M24 sniper rifle was accurate to a within an inch capable of taking out any creature with a single shot. This was not a sideshow gallery where he was aiming to win a prize, it was a game with much greater ramifications. His aim was true on almost every occasion and he cursed himself when he was even slightly off.

  Crouching low he took a bead on another shape close to the fallen corpse, went through his four step breathing routine, mentally took the shot then depressed the trigger. Instantly the dark figure collapsed in a heap in the same way they all did into a twisted pathetic pile of reanimated human remains.

  Pulling the ten inch serrated blade from the sheath on his belt he then systematically set about dismembering the corpses. Removing the head from the body gave him definitive proof that the creature would not ever rise to kill again. This ritual of confirming the kill was one that helped keep him alive, it was part of his ‘code’.

  Mid-morning and the streets were already awash with the undead. Their numbers had swelled of late and the man had his work cut out for him today in this particular sector of the city. He took solace in the fact that he was doing his part to rid the world of this menace, culling, killing, liberating – whatever name anyone cared to give it.

  On one knee behind an abandoned Mini Cooper the man prepared for an all out assault on the undead. Checked the magazines for his rifle even though he knew they were full, another of his ‘codes’. This one was all about preparedness. He lived by simple rules each one designed to keep him and his trusted companion alive through these dark days, through this post-apocalyptic hell.

  “We’ve got company boy,” he said, rubbing the dog’s ears. “Keep your eyes out for more while I take care of this lot. Ok fella?”

  Wind howled again rustling the camouflage poncho that protected him from the cold. Light items of debris on the road swirled and danced before resettling, only to be uplifted moments later and carried off into the distance.

  Click!

  Silencer coughed again.

  One by one the creatures fell, picked off at will by this expert marksman. The man was indeed a deadly shot landing almost every bullet in the same spot in each of his long-range kills. Blood oozed from tiny holes in each victim’s forehead, gaping holes appearing at the back of their skulls as the specially designed missiles did all their damage on exit.

  Shell casings littered the ground next to him, expelled as each bullet took a life. He believed it to be a fair exchange for as far as he was concerned these creatures were the scourge of the earth, a plague that infested the wastelands of this once beautiful city. They were an evil that simply had to be stopped and he did not value the lives of these creatures highly at all.

  Judge, jury and executioner, that was how he saw himself. He was alone out here and these were his streets, this was his code and these were his rules. There was a single purpose to his daily routine unlike any other he had experienced in his rather mundane existence before the turn. He was the Reaper administering justice in his own way, sending these abominations back to the hell from whence they came.

  Holding his position he waited in the wind scouring the landscape ahead searching for signs of movement. The way ahead was all clear, nothing else moved amidst the carnage aside from the steady trickle of blood that ran from open wounds onto the dirty grey bitumen.

  A bark alerted the man.

  “What is it boy, do you hear something?”

  Another bark, slightly muffled by the guttural howl of the wind indicated the direction of the threat. A growl followed as the dog bared its fangs giving a vicious snarl.

  Propping himself up against the vehicle the man rocked back on his haunches before spinning around on his heels to face the danger. Two creatures, a man and a woman now close enough to see the froth of saliva bubbling from the corner of their mouths. They had gotten far too near.

  “Good boy!”

  Dropping his knife he hastily reached behind him to pull his most favored weapon out from his pack, a Mossberg 500 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. Sleek, black, shiny and beautiful he caressed it carefully with both hands. Time on the road had proven to him that a shotgun was always deadly up to twenty yards against the undead, the perfect weapon at such close range. Raising his weapon he pointed it in the direction of the incoming creatures.

  Gun powder burned the shirt of the first creature as the bullet entered its chest, shattering breastbone and rupturing vital organs. A large gaping hole appeared in its back as muscles and soft tissue were torn to shreds. Without lungs and heart functioning the creature heaved uncontrollably, blood streaming from its mouth and nose. Inconceivably the creature continued on.

  Close now, the second shot burned flesh as the bullet entered its skull ripping through cranium. In just a fraction of a second the undead male collapsed to the ground, its brain disintegrating with the powerful force of the gunshot.

  A series of barks reminded the man that there was still one more creature to go and he immediately spun around to face it. Realizing his master was in danger the muscular dog lunged forward sinking its huge jaws around the leg of the advancing creature, slowing the female form in her advance. Long bony fingers grasped at the dog in a desperate attempt to free itself from the bite, to no avail.

  Getting to his feet the man pumped the shotgun took a step closer to the creature, placed the barrel to her head and smirked. “Lights out bitch!” he said, with utter contempt. Her head simply exploded into a million pieces as the force of the shotgun pellets at point blank range completely demolished her skull and everything in it. Blood splattered everywhere.

  Sliding back down to a crouch the man ripped a piece of shirt from the dead man and wiped the blood from his weapon and face. Reaching under his poncho into his shirt pocket he removed a bag of dried dog biscuits and passed a fistful to his companion.

  “Good boy,” he said, rubbing the dog’s head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you mate, you saved my arse yet again.”

  Setting about with knife in hand the man decapitated the corpses on the road, removing any chance of resurrection. These creatures had already risen once from the dead, he would not allow them a further opportunity to live again. ‘Code’.

  Many times he had thought about taking a souvenir from each creature, a tooth, finger, piece of bone, but there were simply too many of them for him to give it serious consideration. He had no idea of his body count, possibly now well into the thousands but he really did not care much for numbers. Each kill represented one less threat on the streets, his streets and that was all that mattered to him.

  He was the Reaper!

  3

  Head Start

  Sharp blades scythed across his scalp as the man pulled the razor over his skin, shaving his head bald again. He loved the smooth feel of a hairless cranium as it was low maintenance and just so much easier to manage. Icy cold water splashed, causing him to shiver as he washed soap and remnants of whiskers away.

  It was another cold bleak night in the city, brisk wind and heavy rain lashing the empty streets. Safely tucked away in their shelter out of the reach of the worsening storm, man and companion remained warm and snug.

  Inside all was quiet, aside from the consistent patter of raindrops on the window pane. The man was at ease in silence, it comforted him, gave him time to think and time to reminisce. He chewed over his losses and his life like cud, regurgitating many deep-seated emotions, feelings and unresolved pain which cut him to the core.

  Memor
ies haunted him. Flashbacks and horrid nightmares often kept him awake at night, tormenting him at every turn. Mental montages came in waves mainly images of his family who, for all intense and purpose in his mind were still living, breathing and very much alive. He could hear their voices as the sounds of laughter echoed loudly inside his head, they were so close he felt that he could touch them.

  The nightmares always ended the same way, a blood-red color eventually tainting the visions in his dream state. Before his very eyes every loved one slowly and hideously transforming into a ghastly undead creature. The sharpness of each image burned as a vivid reminder of a past filled with hurt and a pain that had become almost unbearable to live with.

  As strong as he was the man often succumbed to his emotions, struggling with the memories of everything and everyone he had lost since the turn. With only his companion as witness to his angst not for the first time he curled up in a ball and whimpered alone in the dead of night.

  Sunlight broke through the clouds, causing the man to lift the goggles on his tactical helmet in order to see through the glare. Rubbed his eyes with his Kevlar leather gloves refocusing immediately on the road ahead.

  “Where are they boy, can you see them?”

  Panting.

  “Come on buddy, we can’t have lost the buggers.”

  They had been tracking a swarm of creatures all morning moving like a pack of lions silently hunting their prey, carefully staying downwind and out of eyesight. Advancing cautiously through abandoned vehicles so as to not make a sound they took detours when necessary in order to remain invisible.