The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade

by Demers, J. D.

  “Hmm,” I mumbled.

  “You don’t agree?” Preacher asked.

  “Actually,” I said, turning to him, “I do. Granted, nothing like that happened in my home. My mother was Betty Crocker,” I laughed. “But my father… man, he loved my mom. I always wondered what it would be like to feel that way about someone. There was not a day that my father didn’t kiss my mother good morning, or goodbye. And every time you could almost feel how much they loved each other.”

  Motion from Boomer startled me and I turned back toward the brush. Nothing was there. No movement, no sound. I jumped when my earpiece buzzed with Fish on the other end.

  “Major, we found what the mutt was so antsy about. I’m bringing Christian and Preacher up to us. No worries, the woods are clear.”

  “Roger that, Fish. What do you have?” Dobson asked.

  “The strangest trap I’ve ever seen, sir,” Fish replied.

  Preacher, Boomer, and I made our way through the woods. Boomer was in the lead and led us right to Fish.

  A fifty-yard clearing was in the middle of the woods. Large wooden stakes formed ringed circles from the edge of the woods to almost the center of the field. Other traps, like barbed wire from cattle fencing, lined the ground as trip wires. Small holes were peppered throughout the field, like foot traps. Two piles of burned, dead bodies lay at the opposite side of the open field.

  But the odd rings of spikes and traps wasn’t the focus of Fish’s attention. In the center was a four-foot wooden post. A metal spike fixed one end of a chain to the pole, while the other end was wrapped around the neck of a dark brown horse. It lay on the patch of dirt that was clear of the traps. Surprisingly, it was still alive.

  The condition of the beast was repulsive. Its ribs pressed through its thin skin with every weak breath it took. Some patches of skin were missing over its hide, while clear bite marks could be seen on his exposed legs. Other wounds, from gashes to holes, lined the horse’s body. Some were scars, others were still healing.

  Fish quickly relayed the scene to Dobson, who seemed disinterested in what we found.

  “If there is no threat, come back to the trucks. We have a bigger problem here,” the Major said evenly.

  Fish raised an eyebrow and hit the transmit button. “Scabs or Zulus?”

  “Neither,” Dobson said. I could feel the Major’s irritation. “Truck is in worse shape than we thought.”

  “Roger that,” Fish said. “But I’m going to put this poor thing out of its misery first.”

  I glanced down at Boomer. A sad expression molded the canines face as he let out a soft whimper. I didn’t blame him. I felt sorry for the horse and was conflicted about killing it.

  “Do we have to kill it?” I asked Fish as he started to rise. “Maybe we can let it go?”

  “That horse hasn’t eaten in a week, and probably diseased, too. We’re doing it a favor.” Fish marched into the clearing and began to navigate his way around the traps.

  Fish let out a quiet whistle and Pittman rose from the brush thirty feet to our right. He took watch, scanning the trees and bushes with his rifle.

  Preacher stood as well and walked to the edge of the traps.

  Fish was over halfway to the horse when Boomer shot up from his sitting position. His ears perked and he let out a cough.

  I raised my rifle in the direction he was pointing just as a woman’s voice echoed over the field.

  “Stay away from my horse!”

  Out of the brush, near the burned zombie corpses, came a short figure holding a .22 rifle similar to Preacher’s, minus the twenty-five round magazine. Following behind her was a white horse with black spots lining its back. A leather saddle was strapped to the horse with two large satchels. Hay sprouted from the flaps of the bags.

  The woman, just barely over five feet tall, wore a floppy black hat. Red curly hair sprouted from its edges and wrapped around her pale, round face. I wasn’t quite sure what she was wearing because all of her garments were wrapped in green duct tape. I guessed she was in her forties.

  Fish didn’t raise his weapon. There was no need because Pittman already had her in his sights.

  Fish just stood still, staring down the woman.

  She handled the weapon with the skill of a huntsman as she moved closer to the ring of traps. The barrel was pointing at Fish the whole time. If Fish was nervous, I couldn’t tell.

  I stayed as concealed as I could. I didn’t know if this woman was alone or not, so I continued to scan the trees as they spoke.

  “This is your horse?” Fish grumbled.

  “Yeah,” she cocked her head. “What do you think you’re doing to it?”

  Fish ensured his rifle was being held in a non-threatening manner, yet ready to snap to use if the need arose.

  “I was going to put it down,” Fish replied stoically. “Takes a pretty sick person to leave a creature chained up like that to starve to death.”

  “We all have to make sacrifices,” she shot back, stopping at the edge of the ring.

  “Hmph,” Fish smirked. “I don’t see you chained up to the post. Maybe you should try it for a week and then—”

  “Tell your friend to lower his weapon, or I’ll—”

  “Ain’t happening, little lady,” Pittman said before she could finish.

  She tightened up and her pale face started to redden.

  “Now everyone, let’s just calm down,” Preacher said, laying his rifle on the ground in front of him and holding his hands out so she could see they were empty.

  “Stay out of this, Preacher,” Fish barked, keeping his eyes on the woman.

  “Hold on, Fish,” Preacher said in a smooth, country drawl. I was surprised. Preacher was from Mississippi, but had lost most of his accent while in college and from living many years in southern Florida.

  “Fish is right, Preacher,” Pittman said, tensing up himself.

  Preacher took a step forward, keeping the light twang in his voice as he spoke. “Ma’am, we were just checking this out. We don’t want any trouble. The horse is sick, ya know?”

  “I know,” she replied. “But it has to be this way. You ain’t from Bogdon, are you?” It was a general question to all of them.

  “Bogdon?” Preacher pondered. “Is this area called Bogdon?”

  “You definitely ain’t from Bogdon,” she chuckled. “So, where you from?”

  Even from a distance, I could see Fish’s jaw clench in irritation.

  “We’re just traveling, ma’am,” Preacher replied. “Heading away from everything. Things are bad.”

  “They’re worse here,” she said, more to herself than to us. “You all best be gettin’ on your way. The Bogdons come, the three of you are dead.”

  “Alright, lady, now you’re just confusing us. I thought we were in Bogdon,” Fish sneered.

  She laughed. “Bogdon ain’t this county, dip shit, it’s a mill. The boys up there don’t put up with no one coming in their area. Especially people like you. You government troops, right? Army? Police?”

  “Ma’am,” Preacher said before Fish could answer, “we’re just trying to survive. Had some trouble back on the road.”

  Fish rolled his head. “Dammit, Preacher!”

  “What kinda trouble?” the woman asked, ignoring Fish. “We ain’t seen a zombie or a freak in over a week.”

  “You mean this area is clear of the dead?” Preacher asked.

  Her eyes darted over to Pittman and then back to Preacher. “Yep. Been that way for a while now. See one here and there that wander our way, but for the most part, yeah, we’re clear.”

  Fish, for the first time, took his eyes off the woman and glanced around the large, trapped area.

  “How many of these Zulu catchers do you have around here?” he asked, waving his arm around the area.

  “Enough,” she said, evidently perceiving what a Zulu was.

  I then understood. The horse was bait, set in the middle of these traps to draw the dead in. The zombies
would get snagged or caught on the obstacles, though from the looks of the horse, the occasional Zulu would make it through. The lady must come by once in a while to put them down and burn their bodies.

  There was a moment of silence, which Pittman broke with a deep chuckle. “Damn genius if you ask me.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” the lady said, a look of seriousness dominating her face. “You government?”

  “Some of us, yes,” Preacher said, taking the reins on the conversation again. “Trying to link up with friends north of here.”

  “Can you not tell this woman every damn thing?” Fish cursed.

  “It’s okay,” she said, loosening her shoulders and then jabbed the rifle toward Fish. “You a soldier?”

  “Depends, are you going to shoot me if I am?” he asked sarcastically, already feeling like he had lost the edge due to Preacher’s ‘negotiations’.

  She frowned, deep in thought.

  The lady lowered the rifle. A part of me expected Pittman to open fire immediately, but the shots never came.

  “Fish?” Pittman said.

  Fish grimaced. “Weapon down, Pittman.”

  Pittman seemed relieved when he lowered his rifle. He wiped the sweat from his face, but did not leave his position and his rifle was a half a second away from being on target again.

  “I’m Susie,” the red-headed woman said. “Mind if I feed my horse now? It ain’t much, but I’d like to keep him alive as long as possible.”

  Preacher, too, seemed relieved as he approached Susie and Fish.

  “Go ahead,” Fish said. “Still, it’s pretty messed up.”

  “Not my choice,” she replied bitterly as she pulled the sacks full of hay off of the horse she brought with her.

  She quickly made her way past the traps, evidently having memorized the placement of each one.

  Fish backed up to the woodline. I decided to stay hidden, just in case.

  “Whose choice is it?” Preacher asked.

  She raised an eyebrow. “The Bogdon’s.”

  “Whoever they are,” Fish grumbled.

  “You guys really in a pickle?” Susie asked as she laid the hay in front of the horse. The steed began to slowly chomp, as if each bite hurt him.

  Preacher nodded. “Sorta. One of our trucks—”

  “Preacher, God dammit,” Fish began, but Susie jumped in.

  “It’s okay, just wondering. Maybe we can help.”

  “You mean the Bogdons?” Fish sneered.

  She gave a look of disgust. “We ain’t part of them. Just…under them, I guess.”

  “How can you help us?” Preacher asked, ignoring Fish who was standing with his hand on his hip, glaring at Preacher.

  “Don’t know, unless I know the problem. We got a lot of equipment back at the farm. My husband fixes all of our trucks and tractors,” she paused, staring at Fish. “Don’t worry, soldier boy, this ain’t no trap, unless you’re scared of a little lady with a .22. More of, a trade…”

  “Trade?” Fish laughed.

  “Yeah, a trade,” she mocked. “You got medicine?”

  “What type of medicine?” Pittman asked.

  “Antibiotics. My husband… he’s sick.”

  “Sick as in ‘wanting to eat people’ sick?” Fish taunted.

  Susie seemed to get angry, but took a breath and let it go.

  “No, like an infection in his arm. He… he lost part of it. I’ve done what I could, but we ain’t got no medicine left.”

  “Fish,” Preacher motioned to the sniper, “why don’t you contact the Major. See what’s wrong?”

  Fish licked his lips and clenched his jaw. He lost control of the whole situation and I had a feeling Preacher would be dealing with hell as soon as Fish could get him alone.

  “Major!” Fish barked into the radio. “What’s the status on the truck?”

  “DJ says it’s fubar. Barbed wire wrapped around the front axle and transmission. He thinks it will be hours before he can get it working. We’re thinking of setting up camp here for the night. Said he needs to find a way to jack the whole truck up to cut it away.” Of course, Susie didn’t hear that response, being that it was broadcast through our ear pieces.

  “Roger that, sir. We…may have a solution,” Fish said dejectedly.

  “Come again?”

  Fish sighed. “Sir, we’re on our way back,” he said, hesitated, and then added, “plus one.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Taylors

  August 7th, Afternoon

  Susie was surprised to see Boomer and I come out of the brush. At that point, she didn’t know how many were in our group.

  Fish gave Preacher the stink eye for most of the trip back. He didn’t like the situation one bit.

  She guided us out of the woods, towing her horse behind her. Boomer was skittish around the large beast, which ignored the dog.

  Dobson wasn’t happy that we had brought a guest, but after talking with her and DJ, they decided to make a trade.

  Susie’s husband had a small barn dedicated to fixing vehicles, car lift included, and even had a tow truck that we could use, as long as we replaced the gas. DJ liked the sound of that. Dobson, of course, questioned even keeping the truck, saying that we could just grab another one. DJ, however, dismissed the notion, noting how much work went into preparing our vehicles for the long journey.

  In the end, Dobson agreed to the exchange. Susie would let us use their small barn to fix the truck and Dobson would have Daniel and Pittman look her husband over and give him antibiotics to stave off his infection.

  Fish, Dobson, along with Daniel and Pittman, went back to Susie’s farm in the CDC bus. Dobson returned an hour later with Susie in the tow truck, apparently leaving Daniel and Pittman to examine her husband. An hour after that, we were pulling into the Taylor farm.

  As we drove up to the long, dirt driveway leading to the main house, I took notice of the barbed wire fence lining their fifty-acre property. Instead of the normal three-line barbed fence, they had added six more strands horizontally and zigzagged more barbed wire the entire length. Probably not too effective against scabs, but zombies would have a hell of a time getting past it.

  There were three barns on their property. One was right next to the house. It was fairly large and well kept. A smaller one was just beyond that and was the destination of the tow truck. A couple of hundred yards to the south was an older, run down barn. Almost as large as the one next to the house, it didn’t appear to be used for much anymore.

  A large chicken coup was behind the house, and a wooden fenced area with pigs was connected to the side of the barn. Another fence contained a few cows and a larger area behind the barn was fenced off, where we could see Susie’s horse snacking on a bale of hay.

  The main house itself was an old but well-kept two-story Colonial with a wraparound porch.

  Susie exited the tow truck and walked over to where we parked the CDC bus and Big Red.

  “Might wanna move your trucks into the barns,” she said as she approached.

  “Why’s that, ma’am?” Dobson asked as he dismounted Big Red.

  “Bogdons,” she replied.

  “You’re going to have to elaborate on these Bogdon people,” Fish said irritably.

  “Tell you about them over dinner,” Susie said, spinning around. “I should have a stew ready in less than an hour. Now, go on. Move your trucks.”

  Jenna chuckled, obviously admiring the woman for treating the big, bad military folks like children.

  “Go on, boys, move the trucks,” Jenna smirked.

  DJ was backing the broken-down truck into the small barn with Preacher’s help. Dobson ordered Enrique to move Big Red to the old barn while he and Campbell took the CDC bus and parked it inside the newer barn near the house.

  I met up with Jenna and Karina. The three of us walked to where DJ was parking the F350, with Boomer close on our heels. He seemed intrigued by the fenced-in animals on the farm, and soon trotted
over to the pig pen.

  Daniel and Pittman exited the house and sat down on an old bench near the front door. Daniel was staring at us, specifically Jenna, as she poked me in my side.

  “Think they’ll let us stay in the house?” she asked. “I’m tired of sleeping in my truck.”

  “And as much as I love Boomer, I could use a night without him sleeping on my feet,” Karina added.

  I didn’t look away from Daniel as the two girls spoke. He didn’t seem angry, but there was definite hurt in his eyes. The medic moved his gaze to the deck of the porch, and then responded to something Pittman was asking. I saw blood on Daniel’s sleeve, and Pittman was drying his hands.

  “Guess they were operating on Susie’s husband,” I said offhandedly, only partially paying attention to them.

  Jenna glanced over her shoulder.

  “I guess,” she said, then pulled my arm to hurry me toward the small shack.

  “Does he know?” I whispered to Jenna, hoping Karina didn’t hear. The teenager obviously heard me, tilting her head to listen in closer. She carried a slight smirk on her face.

  “Everyone knows,” she said lowly, “it’s okay, though. I talked to him while you were walking Boomer in the field. He’ll be okay.”

  I stole another glance at Daniel, doubting her assumption.

  DJ and Preacher were operating a hand crank, pulling the truck onto two wheel ramps.

  “Get over here and help, Christian,” DJ bellowed.

  “Coming,” I called back.

  For the next hour, we worked to secure our vehicles. Dobson wanted to make sure we were hidden well. He said something bugged him about these mysterious Bogdons. He posted Enrique and Karina on the second level of the two barns to keep an eye on the surrounding area while we ate.

  I felt bad for the two, but Dobson had Preacher bring them both hot food before we sat down around Susie’s dinner table. Boomer stayed with Karina in the barn with the bus, though he chose to stay on the first level.

  The Taylor’s home was quaint. Most of the furniture seemed handmade, as did the curtains and even the dishes we ate from. Family pictures lined the hallways, and I quickly realized there was a son and daughter Taylor. I wasn’t sure if they died from the outbreak, and didn’t want to bring it up to Susie.