The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade

by Demers, J. D.

  Captain Campbell waved his hand. “Never assume, Christian. Be that as it may, we should still check it out. I cannot deny that having more than one immune person benefits everyone.”

  “Agreed, sir,” Fish nodded. “I’ll get a fireteam together.”

  “Fireteam my ass!” I barked. “My father was in the military. If we go in there like it’s a raid, he is going to shoot first.”

  “It’s an expression, kid,” Fish sighed. “Besides, I thought you said your dad was Air Force?”

  Even after the apocalypse, the old rivalry between services could still rear its ugly head.

  “Still,” I pressed, ignoring the insult, “I should go in first.”

  Campbell shook his head.

  “Sorry Christian, that is out of the question.”

  I was tired of being pushed around. Tired of some phantom military rank removing me from the decision making, and tired of my immunity holding me back.

  “I’m not asking,” I said with determination. “My family. My parent’s house. My call.”

  Fish and Campbell exchanged looks again.

  “Sir, Pittman, Enrique, me and the boy wonder here will take the Stryker. We’ll make that call as the situation unfolds.” Fish said, then he added reassuringly, “I got this, sir.”

  I could see the frustration on the Captain’s face.

  “Okay, Fish. I’ll be keeping an eye out.” Campbell turned to me. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

  Fish chuckled. “You’re asking a lot of him.”

  Thirty minutes later, I was giving Enrique directions to my parents’ house. We took a few wrong turns, but eventually I figured out where we were going.

  Pittman was on the 50-cal, scanning the area with the camera in FLIR mode. We had yet to see anything living. Zombies, it seemed, barely registered on the thermal imager. Unlike corpses, their bodies still registered some heat, either from the virus pumping through their newly created vascular systems or simply from friction. That meant we had to be pretty close to see them.

  The numbers of zombies we saw was disturbing. When we entered the county from the north, we hadn’t seen many, now we were seeing scores in the woods. Most were sticking to the woodline and only a few headed our way as we passed. With the humidity and blazing sun, I don’t think the zombies were much in the mood to chase us. Crestview wasn’t a large town, and the rural area we were in had even less people. Where did all the deadheads come from? I wasn’t sure. Fish guessed that maybe there was a refugee camp near here that went belly up like the one in Lake City. Pittman thought that maybe everyone from the main part of town took to the rural areas.

  Thankfully, we didn’t catch any large heat blooms that would have revealed a scab or human. It would have been great to find other friendly survivors, but we had no way of telling how friendly they would have been.

  There were no paved roads as we maneuvered around the woods. The dirt roads were well constructed, though, save for the numerous divots caused by the recent storm. The Stryker bounced and wobbled as we plodded forward.

  The Stryker came to a halt when we made it to my parent’s driveway. It was about forty yards long and cut through the woods on their property.

  “Any Zulus in the trees?” Fish asked.

  “Not that I can see. Think I found a dead horse, though.”

  I glanced over at the screen.

  Pittman had zoomed in on a fenced in area on my parent’s property and switched from FLIR to normal on the display. There were still plenty of trees and brush around, but further in was the clearing my father had made for the horses. Near a constructed covered feeding area was the body of Luke, one of my parents’ horses. Most of him had been eaten away, the hair and bones were piled near one of the stalls. Luke’s elongated skull was facing us, his eyes either eaten or rotted out.

  “That was my father’s horse,” I whispered.

  “They only have one?” Fish asked.

  “No, my mom had Kenobi and my sister had Anakin.”

  “Is your whole family made up of nerds?” Fish scoffed.

  “We were diehard Star Wars fans…what can I say.”

  Pittman glanced over his shoulder. “No horse for you?”

  “My parents bought this land after I joined the military. No need for me to have one. I wasn’t much of a cowboy anyways.”

  Fish grinned snidely. “If you did, I’m sure its name would have been Leia.”

  “Actually,” I smiled, “that was their new dog’s name. Their old dog was Chewy.”

  “Figures…” Fish mumbled.

  “I don’t see the others,” Pittman said, ignoring our conversation. He turned on the FLIR mode and scanned the rest of the pen.

  “That could be good or bad,” Fish noted.

  The speaker came to life with Campbell’s voice.

  “What’s the situation, Fish?”

  Fish grabbed the mic and hit the transmit button.

  “One dead horse and two missing. Possible victims of the Empire,” he said sarcastically. “We’re proceeding with caution,” he reported.

  “Go?” Enrique asked.

  “Yeah,” Fish nodded. “Turn the boat around before we disembark, Pablo. I want to be able to evac quickly if necessary.”

  “Esta bien,” Enrique acknowledged and began driving us down the single lane dirt driveway.

  The trees thinned out and soon we were in the clearing in front of the house. The two cars and truck were neatly parked, though all of their tires were flat.

  Enrique slowly began to turn the Stryker around, having to reverse a couple of times to avoid hitting my family’s vehicles.

  “Anything?” Fish asked Pittman.

  “Nope,” the big man replied.

  Fish hit the transmit button. “Sir, you see anything?”

  “No movement in your general vicinity. There is a platoon-sized group of Zulus approximately two hundred meters west of you, but they’re stationary. I would guess there are more in the trees, but I can’t see them.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Fish responded and turned to me. “Alright. The kid and I are going to breach the house. Radio’s up and keep your eyes peeled. Let us know if you see so much as a leaf fall.”

  Pittman nodded and turned back to the gunner console.

  Boomer, who had been crouched near the door and uncomfortable the entire trip, stood up excitedly as Fish and I prepared to exit.

  “You ready?” Fish asked as he plugged his radio earpiece in.

  I nodded.

  Fish hit the release on the back and the hatch of the Stryker swung open.

  The two of us, led by Boomer, exited the vehicle and rounded toward the house. The 50-cal buzzed as Pittman rotated the turret.

  “Side or front door?” Fish whispered to me as we approached the house.

  “Side,” I told him. “It leads through the entire house. We won’t have to split up as we clear.”

  Fish nodded.

  I guided Boomer, who was sniffing the ground anxiously.

  My father had built a patio on the side of the house, rather than the front. It was as long as the building and extended twenty feet out. A grill, patio furniture, and a few barrel planters lined the rails. Boomer leapt up the steps and went straight to the door, panting and sniffing excitedly.

  “Someone’s inside,” I told Fish in a low, excited voice as we joined the canine.

  “Living, dead, or scab?” he shot back.

  “Living…I think,” I added with a shrug.

  He grimaced and hit his radio.

  “Pittman, keep the FLIR on the windows. Let me know if you see anything.”

  “Roger that,” Pittman’s deep voice rumbled in my earbud.

  The 50-cal let out a low whine as Pittman moved the turret to scan the house.

  I wasn’t sure how well the thermal imaging worked. We had seen heat blooms behind bushes where the scabs were concerned, but not heavy foliage. It was clear the optics couldn’t see through the insulation of th
e house, but I had a feeling they could catch someone who might be behind the curtains.

  “Standard entry?” Fish asked with a raised eyebrow.

  I shook my head.

  Standard entry was to open a door and let Boomer do his thing. That normally consisted of the German Shepherd rushing in and tracking down any zombies or any other threat in the building we were breaching.

  “I don’t want Boomer running in blind,” I said in a low voice. “He may spook my dad or sister or whoever is in there and they may shoot him.”

  “Look, kid, whoever is in there already knows we’re here.”

  “Exactly,” I replied. “We—”

  Boom!

  A fist-sized hole exploded through the side door, spraying wooden splinters over the patio.

  Fish and I took cover on opposite sides of the doorway. Boomer backed up a few paces and began to growl.

  “Get away!” a hoarse voice barked from inside.

  “What the hell is going on down there?” Campbell asked. “That pack of Zulus just did an about face and are heading your way!”

  “Under fire, sir!” Fish growled as he readied his M4 rifle.

  “Fish!” I hissed. “Stay back!”

  He glared at me and was about to rise and return fire.

  “No!” I cried and dove on top of him.

  Slivers of wood peppered my vest as another shot rang out from inside. Thankfully, the buckshot missed me.

  As I crashed into Fish. He pivoted and judo-style threw me off the patio.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he growled.

  “That’s my father!” I replied as I pulled myself up.

  Boomer, confused, stayed on the far side of the deck, hunched.

  Fish narrowed his eyes, glaring at me as I stood back up.

  “Then tell him to stop shooting at us!”

  I ran up the short stairs shouting.

  “Dad!” I called. “It’s me, Christian. Stop shooting!”

  “Go away! Get off my land!” he replied.

  Fish grabbed my vest.

  “I don’t think your dad can hear you,” he grumbled. “Happens when people are stressed. Keep calling out to him.”

  Fish ducked and ran around the back of the house.

  I turned my attention back to the door.

  “Dad! It’s Christian. Your son! Stop shooting!”

  “Go away!” he cried in return.

  I sucked in a deep breath. He would have to recognize me if I showed my face.

  I turned to Boomer. “Stay!”

  “Dad!” I said loudly and turned the knob on the door.

  “I said go away!” he screamed, but did not fire.

  I peeked inside.

  The doorway led to a small kitchenette, beyond that was an open dining room and connected living room. My father was in the hallway just past the couch, ducking behind a chair that wouldn’t have stopped Preacher’s feeble .22 rifle.

  He was pointing a shotgun at the door. He had a thick beard and long, unkempt hair which was caked together with dirt and grease.

  If I didn’t know his voice, I may have needed a second look to know it was him. What little face I could see was smudged and blistered with sores.

  He raised the gun again and I ducked back out of the doorway.

  “Dad! It’s me… Your son, Christian. Please, lower your gun.”

  “W-What?” he croaked.

  “It’s me,” I repeated as I slowly showed my face again.

  He squinted at me then his eyes snapped wide open.

  “Christian!” He stood, letting the rifle hang limply at his side.

  “It’s me,” I said as I walked through the doorway with my hands raised.

  “I-I…” he stammered, unable to speak.

  Moving along the shadows in the hallway, Fish crept silently from one of the empty rooms. He had snuck in through a broken window in one in of the spare bedrooms. I tried to ward him off with a nod, but my father noticed.

  My dad spun around, but before he could lift his rifle, Fish kicked it out of his hand and butt stroked him in the sternum. My father, gripping his chest in pain, fell back over the chair.

  I darted forward, calling out to my father.

  “Dad!” I cried, but wasn’t close enough to stop the melee.

  Fish dropped a knee into my father’s stomach, then rolled him to his side. Without much effort, Fish tangled my father’s arms together with one hand and searched him for more weapons with the other. He grabbed a knife from my dad’s belt and tossed it across the living room.

  “Get off him!” I barked and pushed Fish to the side.

  Fish held up a 9mm pistol he had retrieved from my father’s waistband.

  “I’m keeping you alive, dumbass!”

  “It’s my dad, asshole! He recognized me!”

  “I don’t care if it’s Jesus Christ,” he growled as he stood, stuffing the pistol into his cargo pocket. “He shot at us. We don’t take chances.”

  My father lay on his back, his wide eyes flicked back and forth between Fish and me.

  “Christian…? Who…” he mumbled.

  His eyes seemed to dance around uncontrollably. I recognized him through his beard, the grime and grease. Yet, at the same time, I didn’t. Something was…different.

  He reached up to me. Fish tensed, pointing his rifle at my father. I waved him off and stepped between them. My father reached out to me, his hand extending from the torn, dirty flannel shirt.

  On my father’s wrist was a half-moon scar, clearly the outline of an old bite wound.

  “Dad…” I murmured and grabbed his hand.

  Fish seemed about to stop me until I twisted my dad’s wrist and showed him the scar.

  “Well, ain’t that something,” he grumbled. “Now there’s two of you.”

  “Fish!” It was Pittman on the radio. “We have Zulus coming out of the woods. I count one-seven, but there has to be more behind them and who knows how many in the back yard.”

  “Roger that,” Fish sighed. “Prepare to move out, plus one.”

  “I’ll get him,” I told Fish who began moving toward the side door. Boomer galloped over to me from the entryway, taking a wide berth around my father as he stood at my side.

  “Hurry up, kid!” Fish barked as he walked out of the house and onto the patio. The clanking of his suppressed M4 began to fill the air.

  I turned to my father.

  “Dad, we have to go!” I urged, pulling him to his feet.

  “Who is that…guy?” he asked, looking around the room.

  “A friend. We have more with us. I’m going to take you to them.”

  “No!” he shook his head violently. “You…you can’t trust them. Trust anyone. Come with me, son!” he turned and began to march toward the back door.

  “Dad,” I hissed and pulled on his shirt. He stopped and glared at me with wide and crazy eyes.

  “You don’t know!” he cried.

  “Then tell me!” I shouted too loudly.

  “Kid! Get your ass moving!” Fish barked over the transmitter. More suppressed gunfire rang outside, with the added moans and groans of the dead.

  I shook my head, frustrated.

  “Christian,” my father whispered, “our family…we’re cursed. You can’t…can’t trust those…people! You can’t trust anyone!”

  “Dad…where’s mom? Where’s Trinity,” I asked, gripping his flannel shirt, trying to pull him toward the back door.

  “Trinity…” he trailed off. “Trinity is lost. You’re mom, though… I can… I can take you to her!”

  I shook my head, confused.

  “What do you mean, ‘lost’? Is she dead? How?”

  “We have to go!” my father cried, feeling his own sense of urgency. “Come!”

  He yanked on my vest, drawing me toward the back door. Boomer began to bark and growl at my father.

  I pulled back, gripping his shirt tightly.

  “Come with us,” I said. “W
e can go get mom together!”

  My father twisted and pulled away from me. His decaying shirt easily tore, leaving large pieces draped over him like rags.

  His bare, hairy chest revealed scars. Lots of scars. Most were bite marks but some areas had been completely stripped of flesh, leaving hairless, milky white patches of new skin.

  Shaken, I let go of his shirt.

  “What happened—”

  “Kid, let’s go!” Fish all but screamed through my earpiece.

  I back peddled to the bay window in the living room. It took a moment, but I was able to pull my eyes off my father’s mangled chest and peek into the front yard.

  Zombies were exiting the tree line. One fell with each report of Fish’s rifle.

  Boomer barked and I spun around. My father was gone. He had left the back door hanging open in his quick retreat.

  I froze. If my father got away now, we may never find him again. The fact that he was immune made little difference to me. I had found my father and I wasn’t going to lose him again.

  I ran to the back door, hitting the transmit button as I did so.

  “Captain, my father is on the run. He just ran out the back door. Do you have eyes on him?”

  I didn’t wait for him to answer. The back door had a small staircase leading into the back yard and I cleared it with a jump.

  Boomer followed and I scanned the area with my rifle. A dozen zombies were coming out of the trees, heading directly for the house. Thankfully, they were scattered and not grouped up.

  I peered through the woods and saw my father’s outline dodge a zombie as he ran through the trees.

  “Negative, Christian,” Campbell reported. “I see you and Zulus in the back yard. That’s it.”

  “Christian, get back here!” Fish ordered.

  “Sorry,” I said as I shot two zombies that were in my path. “We need my dad.”

  “Christian!” Fish barked. There wasn’t time to argue with him or to wait for him to join me, so I ignored his call.

  I ran through the gap of zombies that I created and darted into the woods.

  Fish continued to harass me and soon, Campbell joined in. The Captain had lost sight of me in the dense canopy of the woods.