Dobson contemplated a moment and then smiled. He lifted his radio.
“We go into their teeth,” he growled.
“Sir? That’s fucking nuts!” DJ snapped.
“If you have a better idea, DJ, I’m all for it,” Dobson retorted.
“Come on, DJ,” Fish chuckled. “The best thing about an ambush is knowing it’s an ambush.”
“That’s doesn’t make any sense!” DJ growled. “If we charge right into—”
“It’s supposed to make you feel better,” Fish replied, cutting him off.
“Well, it didn’t,” DJ grumbled.
“Alright,” Dobson said, “we are pulling out all the stops. Everything is to be used to make it through this. If the Sheriff is right, this should be our last obstacle, which would explain their focus on the canal.”
“All stops?” Fish asked in surprise.
“That’s affirmative. If anything, maybe we can scare them away.”
“Hear that, Pittman? You get to use your toy,” Fish laughed.
“Heard that, Fish,” the large man answered with a chuckle.
I wasn’t sure what Fish was talking about, but from the sound of his voice, it was glorious and destructive.
“Sheriff, move Eagle One in close. Get as much Intel as possible and relay it. We don’t have much time to come up with a plan,” Dobson said, bringing the conversation back on track.
“Roger that, Major,” the Nate replied.
“Plans are overrated, sir,” Coleman chided. “They always seem to fall apart anyways.”
Dobson brushed him off and leaned toward the driver’s console.
“Enrique, whatever you do, don’t take us into the canal. We’ll sink like a rock.”
“I do my best,” he muttered.
Over the next few minutes, Sheriff Green relayed information about the canal and bridge ahead.
“They’re busy, Major. Some are pushing vehicles around. There’s a goddam semi-trailer partially blocking the bridge. Debris along the road. And, yep, guess who has joined the party?”
“Tikel…” Dobson sighed.
“Yep. That big bastard is walking around like a boss, motivating the shit out of them with those chains of his.”
“Terrain?” Dobson asked.
“Woods to the north, farmland to the south. On a positive note, the road straightens out for about half a mile, giving us a clear view. I’d bet my badge that those woods are crawling with scabs,” Sheriff Green added.
“That could work in our favor,” Dobson noted. “DJ, stop the convoy when we reach the last bend before the bridge. Captain, keep the bus behind Big Red. We’ll pull up alongside Big Red.
“What are you planning, sir?” Fish asked.
Dobson gave an uncharacteristic smirk.
“We’re going to cut down the forest.”
CHAPTER 16
Tikel
August 16th Early Afternoon
The Stryker pulled up parallel to Big Red and stopped. The video feed from the machinegun showed a straight, two-lane road. To the north were sporadic trees with thick underbrush. To the south was open farm land.
Coleman zoomed in with the camera. The range finder meter changed as a laser danced between objects at the bridge. The image was surprisingly crisp, even at a half miles’ range.
A semi had crashed into a ditch near the farm land. Its trailer had come unhitched and was blocking our access to the bridge. There was no question we would have to somehow move that trailer out of our path.
Up ahead, scabs were dancing around, jumping from one position to another like monkeys expecting dinner. Almost all of them wielded spears or other large objects to use as melee weapons.
The scabs noticed our vehicles, but they held their ground, wailing and shaking their weapons, taunting us to go to them. The severity of our predicament sank in as their intelligence was once again displayed. They knew we had to go toward them and all they had to do was wait. We were the mammoths and they were the hunters.
“Major, I count twenty-seven out in the open,” Coleman reported dryly. “We could always turn back.”
Major Dobson shook his head.
“No. We may not understand their language, but they are communicating with the other scabs in the area. Fifty scabs or more have been left in our wake. You can bet they are coming up on our rear and they are smart enough to know they need to group together first.”
“So…we trapped?” Enrique asked.
“More or less,” Dobson conceded.
“What’s the plan, Major?” DJ asked over the intercom.
Dobson turned to the gunner video.
“Bring up the FLIR, Coleman.”
Coleman flicked a switch on the console.
The crisp image turned hazy as it changed to thermal imaging. The scabs on the screen morphed into ethereal ghost-like figures. The heat emanating from their bodies was intense, causing them to glow like light bulbs against a grey landscape. Their weapons, in contrast, transformed into obsidian.
“Scan the woods.”
Coleman zoomed the camera out and panned to the right.
He exhaled. “Jesus, sir.”
The screen lit up with small glowing figures. They were hunkered down around trees and bushes.
“Get a count,” Dobson ordered Coleman.
“Sir,” Fish called, “we don’t have a lot of time.”
“Roger that, Fish,” Dobson said, finally picking up the radio to respond.
“I count twenty-one in the woods,” Coleman reported. “Probably more that I can’t see.”
Dobson keyed the mic.
“The woods are infested with scabs. We count over twenty. Add the thirty in front of us and we’re looking at a damn mess.”
“Fun-fun,” Fish mocked, and then continued impatiently. “Sir, are we going to dance or what?”
Dobson scanned the video feed, the wheels in his head turning fast.
“Roger, Fish. Here’s the plan.”
Dobson began to quickly bark out orders.
The Stryker was going to light up the forest with the 50-caliber. Fish, who was positioned in the turret on the back of Big Red, would use the less powerful M240 machinegun to suppress the scabs on the roadway and hopefully take a few of them out in the process.
As we got closer, DJ would position Big Red to knock or push the semi’s trailer off the road, clearing the bridge so all of our vehicles could cross.
The CDC bus would follow behind the Stryker and Big Red, with Reggie bringing up the rear in the F350. Dobson wanted Jenna sitting in the bed of the truck so she could snipe any scab that got too close to the Stryker and Big Red. He didn’t want her to stay there long, however, fearing that when the F350 got too close to the scabs, she would be a vulnerable target.
“Keep your truck at least a hundred feet behind us, Reggie. That should keep you out of their throwing range. Jenna, eliminate any targets of opportunity.”
“You got it, Major,” Jenna replied.
The idea of Jenna being out in the open made my skin crawl, but I knew that next to Fish, Jenna was the best shot in our group.
“What if that trailer is loaded? DJ may be trying to push a house,” Sheriff Green asked.
Dobson stared at the screen. The FLIR imagery was clear enough to show the trailer, even at the zoomed-out distance.
“Pittman, hit that trailer with your new toy. If it is full, it should cut the weight in half. If not, no harm done.”
“My pleasure, sir,” Pittman replied. His ‘new toy’ was an AT4 anti-tank missile scavenged from the Lake City refugee camp.
“Clock’s ticking, sir,” Fish grumbled. “Won’t be long until the ones behind us are up our asses.”
The Major picked up his M4 and loaded a round in the chamber. I took the hint and did the same for my rifle and pistol.
“Are you guys ready?” Dobson asked us.
“Si,” Enrique answered.
“Ready to trim the trees, sir,” Coleman respo
nded.
“Ready,” I joined in.
“Daniel?” Dobson asked.
Daniel picked up his pistol, checked the chamber, and nodded.
Major Dobson clicked the transmit button.
“All vehicles, move out!”
The Stryker roared as the large diesel engine came to life.
The FLIR image showed the heat of the scabs as they moved around, anticipating our arrival.
“Focus on the woodline,” Dobson ordered Coleman.
“Roger,” he replied.
“Fire!”
Coleman’s only response was pressing the fire trigger on the console.
The 50-cal came to life, thumping in spurts. White hot tracers raced into the woods, ripping trees into toothpicks. The ground itself would illuminate and stay hot each time a round impacted. The crosshairs on the monitor led the scabs, anticipating their direction as they fled the fury of death reigning down around them.
The stability of the 50-cal was impressive, rarely affecting the targeting system as the Stryker moved forward.
I could faintly hear the M240 machinegun on Big Red between the bursts of our own gun. Unlike Coleman, Fish did not have thermal imaging, though I doubted he needed it to take on the scabs out on the open road.
I looked back and forth between Enrique’s driver screen and Coleman’s targeting screen. We were getting closer to the bridge. Half a dozen scabs were either dead or dragging themselves off the road, attempting to escape Fish’s assault from Big Red.
“I’m out!” Coleman called.
Dobson popped the hatch above and reached outside the Stryker. After a moment, one hand came back down.
“Christian, ammo!” he ordered.
I heaved the hundred round, 50-caliber box of ammo up to Dobson and returned to my position behind Coleman. His screen showed numerous fires in the brush. Some trees had been decapitated at chest height. Warm bodies littered the ground, but the ones who were still alive laid in wait for our arrival. We were getting close to their attack envelope and whatever they had planned was going to happen soon.
Dobson closed the hatch and Coleman opened fire again.
“Fish, report!” Dobson shouted into the radio.
“Killing scabs, sir!” Fish retorted “Hitting a lot, but not sure how many are down. They’re taking cover.”
Dobson peered at Enrique’s screen, measuring our distance. We were within fifty meters of the trailer blocking the bridge.
“Pittman, do your worst.”
I joined Dobson, staring at the driver’s console.
There was a loud ‘whooshing’ sound as Pittman fired the anti-tank missile from Big Red. The flight time was less than a second. The explosion from the missile as it hit the side of the trailer caused the Stryker to vibrate.
The actual heat bloom was small. The force of the explosion, however, was devastating. The missile treated the flimsy sides of the trailer like paper, shredding nearly the entire enclosure. Little was left except the frame and the axles.
Nearby scabs had been blown to the ground and many were unmoving. Shrapnel, mostly from the trailer, had skewered any scab within twenty meters. Those that survived were out of the fight for now.
The rattling from the 50-cal continued as we neared the bridge.
Big Red pulled ahead, trudging forward. There were only a few scab traps on the road, and the fire engine easily cleared them. Metal and wooden spikes broke and shattered under Big Red’s shovel.
“Making my move now!” DJ’s voice came over the airwaves.
Dobson grabbed his radio.
“Jenna, report!”
Jenna’s voice was strained as she replied.
“I have taken down three scabs. There’s too much smoke coming from the woods and I can’t see anything!”
The woods, lacking any recent rainfall, had dried. The molten hot rounds of the 50-caliber started small brush fires with almost every impact. FLIR saw right through the smoke, but small flares of fires were growing more numerous each time Coleman shot the 50-cal.
Big Red lumbered forward into the pull off lane, side swiping a sedan and pushing it into the farmland. DJ adjusted his trajectory in order to push the smoldering trailer away from the bridge.
“Major!” Sheriff Green called. “I flew the drone north. We have scabs running down the canal. Puts them about twenty minutes out. There are at least another forty!”
“Jesus…” Daniel whispered.
Dobson grimaced and replied. “Roger that, Sheriff. Bring Eagle One back and scan across the bridge. We don’t need to run into another trap!”
“Will do.” he replied.
Big Red rumbled toward the bridge. The remnants of the trailer were smoldering and billowing smoke. Most of the flimsy metal encasing the trailer had been ripped and blown away. Only partial broken ribs of the frame remained.
“Jenna, load up,” Dobson ordered.
“Already moving!” came a swift reply.
On the screen, Big Red slowed right before the bridge and cut toward the burning roadblock. The fire engine smacked the trailer, only nudging it a few feet back.
Big Red’s wheels spun as DJ hit the gas, inching the trailer out of the way.
The Stryker slowed as we came upon the scene.
Dobson began to bark out orders.
“Captain, move the bus between us and Big Red. Reggie, bring the pickup truck alongside us.”
The 50-cal ran dry again, causing Coleman to curse.
We had enough ammo to rearm it. The question was, did we risk opening the hatch now that we were within striking distance of the scabs.
I stole a glance at Coleman’s screen as it slowly spun from the woods to the street.
I could see the cooling bodies of scabs, bright areas where Jenna reported fires, and broken trees everywhere. As the camera came into view of the road, the CDC bus pulled in front of us.
Big Red had pushed the trailer partially off the road, but the trailer hitch had snagged on the guard rail leading onto the bridge.
“The trailer is stuck!” DJ said, following up with a slew of curse words.
“Try ramming it,” Dobson suggested.
DJ threw it in reverse, pulled back, and hit the trailer again. It rocked, but didn’t move.
“Keep trying!” Dobson ordered.
With our momentum at a standstill, scabs began their assault, jumping out of their hiding spaces and charging Big Red and the CDC bus.
Two scabs jumped on the back of the fire engine and climbed up onto the spine.
Fish pulled his rifle and shot the closest scab in the head. Another monster jumped toward him, but DJ hit the gas and the creature flew off the vehicle.
Big Red’s impact broke the trailer’s hitch, pushing it back. All we needed now was Big Red out of the way so we could proceed across the bridge.
DJ tried to throw it into reverse, but the front end was wedged into the frame of the trailer. The tires spun ferociously, but to no avail.
“The shovel is stuck onto the damn trailer,” DJ reported.
More scabs were coming into the area. At least ten were slinking out of the woods and up the embankment of the canal.
“We’re getting surrounded,” Reggie reported from the F350.
“I have an idea,” DJ yelled over the comms. “Reggie, bring the F350 up. Ram us right where we’re connected to the trailer.”
“Sure that’s a good idea?” I asked Dobson.
“Better than us getting encircled,” he replied dryly.
My stomach turned to knots. Jenna and Reggie ramming two large vehicles was risky, but with two dozen scabs charging our convoy there was no way someone could attempt to disconnect the fire engine and the trailer by hand. This was the only option.
“Go, Reggie,” Dobson commanded.
Fish grabbed the M240 and began to mow down scabs coming from the canal.
The F350 spun out and passed us, heading directly for Big Red.
The F350 lurched as it
rammed into the trailer. Reggie threw it into reverse and the cow catcher on the front of Jenna’s truck snapped and fell off.
“Didn’t work,” DJ grumbled.
“We’ll try again,” Reggie said, stopping the truck after it backed up fifty yards, falling back well behind the CDC bus and Stryker. Jenna took the opportunity to take two shots at a scab climbing up the side of the CDC bus as they passed. The side of its head exploded as one of the shots hit the base of its skull. The scab tumbled to the ground, lifeless.
I noticed movement coming from the farmland to the south as scabs came out of the long grass with balls of twisted, spiked metal. Those were the traps Sheriff Green warned us about. The same ones that had caught their old Stryker and ripped the tire off the axle.
Reggie gunned it just as I snatched Dobson’s radio from his hand.
The scabs hurled the ball-like traps in the path of the F350 before I could warn Reggie and Jenna.
Fish noticed the scabs and lit up the ground around them with a rain of fire from the M240 machinegun. The scabs were riddled with holes, but the traps had already been deployed.
The first spiked, metal ball fell short, but the second rolled straight into the path of the F350. It fulfilled its devastating mission by shredding a front tire.
The pickup truck lurched forward and flipped onto the passenger side. Sparks trailed the F350 as it slid to a halt next to the CDC bus.
“Reggie’s truck is down!” Campbell reported.
“Jenna!” I screamed.
Daniel, who had been huddled in the back of the Stryker, jumped up and leaned over me.
“Major!” the medic shouted. “We have to—”
“Quiet!” Dobson commanded as he pushed the two of us aside to get a better view of the display. He grabbed the radio from my hand.
“Jenna. Reggie. Report!” he called.
There was no response from the truck. Fish had been forced to dodge inside the turret on Big Red as spears were thrown in his direction. Without his covering fire, the scabs were free to surround the F350.
“Sir, I’m going to try and push the trailer completely off the road. Maybe gravity will disconnect us when it starts to roll down the embankment toward the canal,” DJ said.
The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade Page 27