The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade

by Demers, J. D.

  The ten or twelve other people moping around the dirt parking lot were in depressingly similar condition.

  Luke guided us to the gates. Two guards stood on the outside while another two were elevated on parapets opposite the wall. Luke motioned us toward four short, open stalls just to the side of the gate.

  “Everyone gets checked,” Luke said as the guards at the gate joined us. “Undress in the stalls. It’s…some privacy.”

  The doctor blushed and Luke gave her an apologetic look.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s procedure.”

  Doctor Tripp raised her chin.

  “I understand. No need to apologize.”

  Luke was checked by one of the guards while the other checked Dobson. After Luke’s examination, he joined the guards in checking us over.

  I quickly undressed, poorly attempting to cover my numerous scars. It was easier in the past, when all I had to worry about was concealing my shoulder and wrist. The night in the dental office, however, left plenty more marks on me from the zombies.

  Luke, my inspector, seemed to take notice but didn’t say anything. I guess since he didn’t see any blood or scabbing on my arm, it didn’t raise any red flags.

  “Those are some nasty scars,” he finally commented while I turned around. “Especially the one on your shoulder.”

  You would think he would have been less observant since he spent most of the time scrubbing his face with a towel. Tanned and weathered skin appeared as the camouflage was wiped away.

  “Yeah, old car wreck,” I lied.

  When I turned, he had a quizzical look, but again, said nothing.

  Finally, everyone was cleared. We redressed and entered through the gate.

  Inside the compound, similar faces to the ones in the motor pool greeted us. Distressed, broken, malnourished…all seemed to be suffering to one extent or another.

  A memory flashed of when we first encountered Richard Marino and his group in the West Melbourne Post Office months before. They had been starving and demoralized. The rope we offered them saved their lives and brought them out of the darkness.

  There was no rope for these people, though. Not one I could see at any rate. We were observers. Just a small group passing through. We couldn’t help them.

  The sheer number of people was overwhelming. When we left Camp Holly, we had just over a hundred residents. But we were somewhat spread out, and people trickled into our camp at a rate that was manageable. I estimated more than two hundred refugees at the storage center, though it was more likely three hundred if you included the people I couldn’t see and the ones guarding or on scavenging runs.

  The compound, though somewhat organized, seemed to be in a state of degradation. Tents were lining the gaps between the long storage buildings. Most of the garage doors on the units were open. Gear, clothing, bedding and more crowded the small units.

  People, lots of people, were doing nothing. Even if there were something to do, I doubt many would have the energy to do more than dig a hole to bury themselves in. The few children I saw sat motionless, staring off into a previous life they once had. The adults seemed to be doing mundane tasks, like boiling water and hanging clothes.

  None seemed to be eating much. Occasionally, I would see someone quickly stuff their mouths with bites so small I couldn’t discern what they were consuming.

  We walked close to one of the tents. The flap was open and a young boy was lightly snoring inside. I couldn’t help but take a look.

  There was a metal rod jammed through the floor of the tent with four loops. Each loop had a small chain running off of it. Attached to one of the chains was the little boy’s right arm.

  I was about to stop and say something until I noticed that the next tent had a similar set up. No one was sleeping, but the metal rod was there. I glanced into the open storage units and saw a man handcuffed to the wall. He was asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling with each breath.

  It was then that I understood. They feared people dying in their sleep. Death meant reanimation as a zombie.

  I shuddered, realizing what was happening and wondering why we didn’t take those precautions back at Camp Holly. How quickly would our friends fall if someone changed overnight because they were ill, or had a heart attack? I made a mental note to talk to Campbell and DJ about it.

  It was hard for me when we passed the kennel. There were three dogs lying in a caged area, though the door was left open. They were skin and bones. One had open sores around its hind legs. All three watched us without so much a whimper as we passed. They, too, seemed to be barely hanging on.

  I wondered how many people wanted to put them down and eat what little meat the canines had left. I was quite certain that these people realized the potential security that they provided. There had to be limits, though. Eat or be eaten, as the saying goes.

  There had been attempts to keep the compound clean, but apparently people had begun to give up on it. Occasionally I would see someone walking around, picking up trash as if it were an assigned duty. It was never enough, though. Most of the people we passed were huddled in their storage units or around their tents, awaiting fate to take them.

  Three hundred souls, most of which seemed to be on the verge of death.

  I stopped for a moment, temporarily overcome by sadness. These people were starving…dying… I saw no hope for them.

  Fish approached me.

  “Keep moving kid and stop staring. You’re creeping these people out.”

  Some of the refugees were glaring back at me. I could almost hear their thoughts.

  Why aren’t these newcomers starving? What do they have? Did they bring supplies?

  I didn’t blame them and was thankful that none voiced those thoughts aloud.

  “Sorry,” I shook my head and started to move on.

  We continued to march past the rows of storage buildings. Each scene was as deplorable as the next, until we rounded to the back of the compound.

  There was a second gate. Unlike the front, this area had vehicles parked inside the tattered walls.

  The Stryker we had seen on Ghost’s imagery was there, lined up next to three buses, a couple of trucks and SUVs, and four HUMVEEs.

  The Stryker was immobile. It was something our drone had missed. One of the four tires on the driver’s side was missing and the turret on top didn’t have a weapon like the one we saw on the bridge. Instead, there was twisted metal clawing up from where the 50-caliber should have been.

  The last building in the complex had fewer, but significantly larger storage units. There were also more guards here, walking the walls on hastily built ramparts. Others seemed to be guarding one of the closed storage units, undoubtedly where they kept food or other important items that needed to be protected.

  Near the eastern edge of the wall, I saw their pumping station. Giant fifty gallon drums were lined up on push carts. Men and women were waiting in line as someone with an AK47 slung across his back operated the pump, filling each container in turn.

  Long power cords stretched from the pumping station to the storage unit we were walking towards. The garage was closed, but there was an open side door where the cords snaked their way inside.

  Standing at the door was Sheriff Green, along with three other armed men and a frightened woman.

  The woman was young, probably my age, and filthy like the rest. Tears created dark streaks through the grime on her face. One of the men was holding her arm as the Sheriff was speaking to her.

  “Not again,” Sheriff Green sighed.

  “Sheriff,” she croaked, “please. Let me do this. My son—”

  “Your son will have a mother tomorrow!” he hissed.

  Her eyes moved to the ground in shame.

  The Sheriff motioned to the man holding her arm.

  “Ted, take her and lock her up. Keep your eyes on her,” he ordered.

  The man named Ted nodded and escorted her away.

  Sheriff Green turned to the man
on his right.

  “Where was she this time, Coleman?” he asked, annoyed.

  “Trying to climb the south wall,” Coleman said dryly. “Found this with her son.”

  Coleman produced a small piece of paper. Sheriff Green took it.

  “This shit has to stop,” he said, after glancing at the paper.

  “Ms. Richards try to kill herself again?” Luke asked as we approached.

  The Sheriff slouched.

  “Yeah, wanted her son to get her rations,” he flicked the paper at Luke. “We have to figure something out fast.”

  Luke nodded, then motioned to us.

  “Is the General ready?”

  “Yeah, take them in.” Sheriff Green motioned to the door behind him and then turned to Coleman. “Wanna join us?”

  “Sure,” Coleman smiled.

  Despite the apocalyptic conditions of the compound, his teeth were as white as ivory. His grin, which never wavered as he turned to us, revealed permanent laugh lines in the dark complexion of his handsome, yet dirty, face.

  “Greetings, from the deprived and destitute,” he said with a slight bow.

  CHAPTER 10

  The General

  August 13th Morning

  Luke led the way into the storage unit, while Sheriff Green and Coleman followed behind.

  The unit had electric lighting. It wasn’t surprising, considering the extension cords that led inside. I was sure there wasn’t power going to too many other units, though.

  The room was about the size of a two-car garage. Standing in front of a table in the middle was a man and a woman. Behind them, near the wall, was another man. He was the first person I had seen in a complete military uniform.

  The man near the table was tall, lean, and elderly. I guessed him to be around seventy years old. He had deep hazel eyes and his hair was a distinguished silver instead of grey. He wore beige cargo pants and a dark brown flannel shirt. I immediately guessed he was the “General”. No stars were needed on his collar. His take-charge composure said it all.

  Next to him was a short woman with cropped brown hair. She was middle-aged, skinny, and wore a pair of glasses. She was in the process of showing the General something on paper when we walked in. Quickly, she lowered it and glanced up at us curiously.

  The man in full ACUs recovered from his leaning position and adjusted an American Flag ball cap with a tightly cocked brim. He was about my height, had a reddish-brown beard as thick as DJs, and an icy glare. An M4 was slung in front of him and reflexively he moved his hand toward the pistol grip, only to pause and relax…sort of.

  The silver haired man turned to us.

  “You must be Major Dobson,” he grunted and gestured to the seats opposite the table.

  “Yes…General, is it? I’m Major Travis Dobson, US Air Force.”

  “Yeah, well, I use to be. People here keep forgetting that I am retired,” he muttered.

  We filed in and took our seats.

  I looked around the room as I nestled into the fold out chair next to where Fish was sitting.

  Numerous dry boards lined the left wall. Charts with names, duty shifts, and supply lists filled the surfaces. I only took a glance, but from what I saw, supplies were limited.

  On the back of the storage unit was a giant mosaic of UTM military maps. They were pieced together to form most of the State of Florida, only leaving out the area south of Orlando. Numerous zones around the storage compound were shaded red, or had flags or pins stabbed through specific points.

  A road map, like the ones we were using to navigate our journey, was displayed on top of the table. It was covered with a layer of plastic, allowing for notations that could be easily erased.

  “I am General Norris Bolduc, retired, of course,” he said after we were seated, and then motioned to his right. “This is former Duval County Commissioner Jodi Leeds, from Jacksonville.”

  Jodi gave a weak smile as she took her seat. The General followed suit.

  “Behind me is Staff Sergeant Burghardt out of Fort Bragg and more recently, Jacksonville and Lake city.”

  He eyed us as if there was some significance to those places, but soon brushed it off since we didn’t have a reaction.

  He nodded to the other men in the room.

  “You have already met Sheriff Green of Dixie County and Luke, the dumb bastard who dragged my carcass here from Tampa. And that is Captain Coleman of the Florida Air National Guard,” he said, pointing to the man that entered with us.

  Dobson gestured to each of us in turn.

  “Thank you, General. With me is Captain Campbell, Doctor Julia Tripp of the CDC, Master Sergeant Fischer, and Specialist Hunt. We’ve traveled a long way, and have a lot longer to go.”

  “Yes,” General Bolduc massaged his sandpapered chin, “Nate, the Sheriff I mean, told me you wanted to head west.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dobson nodded. “He seems to think that isn’t plausible.”

  “Well, it ain’t,” the Sheriff muttered.

  “What the good Sheriff means to say,” the General glared at the peace officer, “is that no one can go. The area just to the west is infested with scabs.”

  “Infested?” Campbell asked.

  “Yeah, as in, three or four hundred of the bastards,” Sheriff Green acknowledged.

  Before any more questions could be asked, the General tapped the table with his fingertip.

  “Did you say she is with the CDC?”

  Dobson nodded, “Yes, sir. That is why it is imperative that we head west.”

  “Go west to where?” Jodi asked, pushing her glasses up. “Liberty Base fell a few months ago.”

  Dobson cleared his throat. “Remnants of the CDC, FEMA, and the military have fortified Hoover Dam. Doctor Tripp is an expert on the virus. Our mission is to get her there so they can develop a vaccine. They have the equipment and manpower to make it happen. We are carrying the knowledge.”

  “We’ve already traveled across a quarter of the world, General,” Doctor Tripp noted.

  General Bolduc raised an eyebrow.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “It’s a long story,” Dobson said. “I will try and be brief.”

  Dobson told a short version of his trip from the UK to the country of Georgia to rescue Doctor Tripp, their trek across the inland Mediterranean countries to Israel, and how they were stranded out at sea. Doctor Tripp informed them of the M Virus, the cause, results, and why the dead are walking.

  All eyes were on the Doctor as she explained the contagion and why she believed the Awakening happened. They asked their fair share of questions and she answered the best she could.

  Jodi, the former County Commissioner, asked why she couldn’t make a vaccine on her own. Doctor Tripp explained the complexity and how it sometimes took an army of scientists, doctors, and microbiologists to come up with vaccines.

  My story, of course, had been left out.

  “When we made it to the Florida coastline,” Dobson said in conclusion, “Captain Campbell and his group rescued us. We took volunteers and began the journey to Hoover Dam. We have already been on the road two weeks. It’s slow going, but it seems to be the only safe way to travel.”

  “I’m sorry to say, travel west of here is all but impossible,” General Bolduc sighed.

  “How’s that?” Dobson asked.

  Sheriff Green leaned forward.

  “Well, it starts in Scab Country.”

  “What do you mean?” Campbell asked, confused.

  Sheriff Green chewed his inner cheek for a moment, and then guided his finger on the map in front of them.

  “The river is a nice border here to the east. To the west, we have a few canals. All in all, it almost makes this place an island, except a few small bridges and culverts. Past that,” he moved his finger further west and made a large circle, “is Scab Country.”

  The area he circled had a black box drawn around it.

  “You said a few hundred…” Campbell whispered.
“Where did that many come from? This area doesn’t seem like it could create a scab population that size.”

  “It couldn’t,” Sheriff Green grumbled.

  “Nate, why don’t you tell them what happened,” General Bolduc offered.

  Sheriff Green nodded.

  “Alright, well, when this ‘Awakening’, as you called it, happened, refugees from Tallahassee started to pour into our county. First day, it was only a couple hundred, but by the end of week one, we had well over a two thousand. It was a blessing in the beginning. We had reserve and military units show up, along with some law enforcement, veterans, and good ole boys, which allowed us to clean up virtually all the Zeds and scabs in the area.”

  “Why all the way here?” Campbell inquired, and pointed at a town further west. “The town of Perry is much closer. Pretty far drive or walk from Tallahassee.”

  “Perry burned to the ground in the first twenty-four hours,” the Sheriff said. “Spread the Zeds there like they did in Chicago.”

  None of us knew what had happened in Chicago, but we didn’t interrupt.

  “Anywho,” he continued, “We took them in and at that point, the military had control. The Captain that took charge organized us here at the Cross City Airport. Later, we established another camp next door at the county jail and another here at the school.” He moved his finger, showing each spot respectively.

  “With approximately thirteen hundred people, supplies began to dwindle pretty fast. We were able to secure a couple granaries, a warehouse, and even a cow pasture with over sixty head. Had enough food to make it until winter. Unfortunately, shit happens.”

  The Sheriff leaned back in his chair as he spoke.

  “As near as I can figure it, an old lady passed away in her sleep. She was in an RV with a few surviving family members. By morning, all had turned into Zeds. A man name Tikel, who had joined our defense force, began to quell the situation. Between him and a few others, they put the lady and her family down. What we didn’t know, was Tikel was bitten or infected somehow. By late afternoon, the asshole had disappeared.”