Skull's Shadows (Plague Wars Series)

by David VanDyke

  “Holy shit, the sucker is still alive,” said one, smiling and elbowing his buddy in the side.

  Skull raised the Glock in a perfect two-handed shooter’s grip, giving the men no more than an instant for their eyes to widen and their mouths to fall open before shooting all three, one round into each, center mass. He was already limping toward his bike before the last had flopped like a meat puppet to the ground. The corpse of the one who had spoken earned himself a belated kick in the head as Skull went by.

  It took some work to pry open the luggage carriers, which had been damaged in the crash, but he was finally able to get them loose. Pulling out his larger rucksack, he slung it over his shoulders and then put the smaller go-bag on top of that.

  Hearing more voices behind him, he turned to see two men walking down the road. They carried rifles on slings over their shoulders and had the same look and feel of the three he had just killed. They froze when they saw Skull. Their eyes flicked from his to the three bodies.

  Skull lifted his pistol to fire several shots in their direction, but too distant for accuracy and they dove to the ground. One of the men got his rifle to his shoulder and sent a round in his direction, but wide.

  He heard the squawk of a radio. “We need help! Son of a bitch is still alive and I think he killed Johnny and your two brothers! Come quick!”

  Wanting to rush the two men and finish them while they were rattled, Skull realized that wouldn’t be a good idea in his condition and with reinforcements coming. It would be best to get some distance and hide himself in the concealing woods.

  More rounds came toward him, closer this time. Limping heavily on an ankle that was already starting to swell, Skull headed north toward what looked like the densest part of the forest. He walked steadily, stopping to check his back trail often and listen for anyone moving in front to intercept him. By dusk, he started to believe he had made a clean getaway.

  Until he heard the dogs.

  He could tell by their baying that they were bloodhounds, and they had his trail.

  Crap. Don’t you shit-kicking hillbillies know to quit while you’re ahead?

  But he knew from experience they didn’t. These were insular, backward folk who would burn the entire world down in order to avenge a neighbor they didn’t even like.

  Pride and prestige and not enough fiber in the diet. You’re going to make me kill you too.

  Skull pulled on his ghillie suit and assembled his lightweight M4, slinging it. The disassembled Barrett in his ruck was not handy, and there was no need of it in the dark. Then he wove and backtracked and made figure-eights to confuse the dogs and buy him some time.

  On several occasions the dogs got close, but the multitude of legitimate scent trails saved him. At one point they came upon him unprepared and he had to climb a tree in the dark, clambering as high as he could and then settling into a thick part, unmoving. The dogs circled the area below him, confused, as the half-drunk hillbillies shone flashlights up to see what the dogs had found. His ghillie suit concealed him as it was meant to, making him seem like just a mass of leaves until those who stalked him had pulled the dogs away and onto another scent.

  Eventually, he found what he was looking for and spent his time preparing.

  In a steep-sided draw he built a campsite, pitched his tent, and lastly lit a fire after placing most of his gear nearby.

  Then he waited.

  By morning, the tired pursuers and their drained and ragged dogs came upon the campsite. Skull watched through the Barrett’s scope as they sifted through his belongings and clothes. Then he saw them pause and look around. They argued for a moment, and finally realization appeared to dawn upon them as they saw it for what it was. A trap. And there was only one way out. They had walked into a valley like bugs into a bottle.

  Skull was the cork.

  Only when he was sure they realized their predicament did he pull the trigger.

  He took his time and enjoyed himself. There was nowhere for them to go. Feeling creative, Skull tried a few trick shots, such as putting one bullet through two men, or trying to clip someone’s knee without blowing his leg clean off with the monster .50 caliber bullets his rifle spat, or skipping a round off a rock to ricochet into the target.

  He and his demons enjoyed themselves tremendously.

  After forty endless minutes all movement had ceased. Skull confirmed seven dead hillbillies through the rifle scope before packing the Barrett away again. He then walked down to his campsite where five bloodhounds with wagging tails met him. He took some time to pet them affectionately.

  He’d always loved dogs.

  Skull checked the fallen and found two still alive, if barely. Torturing them seemed attractive, but he mastered himself and put each out of his misery by a quick knife thrust up under his chin through the palate to the brain.

  After repairing his tent, he tidied up the rest of the gear and built up the fire again. He searched the bodies of the seven, putting all their cash in his wallet and setting aside food, ammo and batteries. After going through all of their packs, he put some of the non-perishable food in his own rucksack, and then prepared a sumptuous meal.

  Relaxing through the day into the late afternoon, Skull had a wonderful time. He gorged himself, surrounded by grateful and well-fed dogs for companionship, under a clear sky. The hounds would warn him if anyone approached. Between meals, he propped the seven dead bodies up so that it appeared they were enjoying the fire with him.

  Now you’ve gone over the edge, he told himself. Only crazies do shit like this.

  Yet he didn’t care. He stared at the dead bodies. They were just meat and he wasn’t crazy, but he liked to be reminded of what he had done. After all, didn’t hunters take trophies? It was important to celebrate successes. He’d earned this one.

  That night, relaxing by the fire with a full belly and dogs at his feet, Skull felt as content as he had in a long time.

  His seven new buddies didn’t bother him in the least.

  Chapter 27

  While making his way back to the highway, Skull discovered signs leading him to the Appalachian Trail. The road would be quicker, but then again, he might have to deal with more asshole hillbilly ambushers. The trail seemed a safer and less troublesome bet.

  The five bloodhounds followed him as their new master and Skull admitted to himself that pleased him. He had always loved dogs, but hadn’t owned one since childhood due to his nomadic lifestyle and constant travels. On the verge of naming them, he decided against it, afraid he would get too attached. He decided if they were still with him in a week, then they would get names. Until then he called all of them hey you and dog.

  It had actually always been a lifetime dream of his to hike the entire Appalachian Trail. Before Skull had been recruited away from the Corps and into black ops, he and Zeke had agreed when they were both retired they would do it together. They would start in northern Georgia in April and finish in Maine in October before the heavy snows. Skull had always taken it for granted that this would eventually happen, but had never actually taken the time. There always seemed to be something more pressing.

  He thought about Zeke. They could have hiked the trail together, lifelong friends. With Zeke’s cheerfulness around to balance Skull’s darkness, he might have found someone to love, to have a normal life with, but scumbag contractors working for INS Inc. had ended that dream.

  What was worse, Larry Nightingale, acting on Zeke’s instructions, had saved the lives of several instead of putting them down like the dogs they were, passing on the Eden Plague. They were somewhere out there, perhaps sorry for what they had done due to the virtue effect, but that didn’t bring Zeke back.

  Immortality for assholes, death to the righteous. That’s what the Eden Plague had turned out to be.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, he thought, pushing his ruminations away. You’ve always wanted to hike the trail. Well, now you’re hiking it. Make the best of it.

  Determined to do
just that, he focused on holding a steady pace while stopping frequently to enjoy the many amazing sights and panoramic views. Often, he refilled his water bottles from the cool mountain streams and ate small cold meals. The dogs were oblivious to the sights and activities, but enjoyed the multitude of diverse scents, and they didn’t care if their food was cold or warm.

  I could live out here, he thought idly. Then more seriously, I really could live out here. I even have dogs to help. It would be nothing to build a cabin before winter, and game is plentiful. Would be a good place to hide out from the federalists until things either settle down or really come apart at the seams.

  No. You have a job to do, he told himself sternly. There will be a time to relax, but not yet. Not until the job is done.

  Skull stopped to drink from a spring trickling down the rocks and watched the sun sink below the horizon in the west. He knew he should look for a good place to camp for the night, but gazing around, he realized there really wasn’t a bad spot anywhere.

  The bloodhounds caught his attention. While they were always sniffing at the ground, it was normally a haphazard affair that was more curiosity than organized. This time, the dogs had a focused purpose about them that seemed different. Their tails were up and they circled around the spring before the first headed off the marked trail and down a wooded slope. One by one the others followed.

  “Where you damn dogs off to?” he mumbled after them.

  They didn’t answer.

  Skull shrugged his shoulders, unslung his M4 and followed along behind, mentally marking a high rocky promontory overhead as a landmark in case he had trouble finding the trail again.

  After a few minutes the dogs outdistanced him. His sprained ankle was still sore; in his forties, he didn’t heal as fast as he once had. He wasn’t going to risk a fall down the steep hill just to chase after curious bloodhounds.

  Smelling a cooking fire ahead, Skull froze and sank to the ground. Cocking his head, he could faintly hear muffled voices.

  Creeping forward, he peered down into a large natural bowl in the terrain with trees along the edges. The interior of the hollow contained a fire in the middle with tents around the edges. He saw about two dozen men and women along with half that many children. The kids clustered around the five bloodhounds, happily wagging their tails, but the men peered here and there, alerted.

  A man armed with a rifle sat at each end of the bowl, one to the right and one to the left of Skull. They hadn’t seen Skull and he could undoubtedly get away, but despite himself he decided he’d like to know who these people were. Also, once he’d gone, the bloodhounds might come looking for him, picking up his trail with men following behind. He didn’t intend to become the hunted again.

  Slinging his M4, Skull climbed slowly over into the bowl and walked down to the base near one of the tents to sit calmly on a fresh fallen log. Everyone was so intent on the dogs and the excitement they were causing that it took several minutes for someone to notice him.

  “Are these your dogs?” one of the little girls finally asked after seeing him watching.

  “Sort of,” he responded with a smile.

  All the adults stopped and looked at him, and then each other, nervously. The two sentries shifted their rifles to cover him, but seemed perplexed by his demeanor and did not lift them to aim.

  After a pregnant moment, a powerfully built man walked up to look down at Skull. “Welcome. My name is Derrick.”

  “I’m Zach,” Skull answered, smiling as friendly as he could. “This is quite some campout.”

  Derrick looked around behind him, waving a hand to his nervous sentries. “Joe, Frank, keep your eyes on the woods. You already let one in.”

  The two men turn away, ashamed.

  Skull could see a Colt .45 in the back of Derrick’s waistband, but the man seemed at ease. “Best place to get away from the craziness,” he said, turning back to Skull. “Things are a little...strained down there right now if you know what I mean.”

  “I do indeed,” Skull responded. He looked pointedly at the armed men and then back at Derrick. “Those two are pogues, but you’re not. Let me guess. Greenie beanie?”

  Derrick nodded and grinned at the nickname for Green Berets, Special Forces. “Let me guess. Jarhead?”

  “Yeah. Recon.”

  “Should have figured by your easy infil. You mean us any harm?”

  “Not if you don’t mean me any,” Skull answered. “If I’d wanted to…” he gestured at the two ineffective sentries and formed a symbolic gun with his hand. “Pop. Pop.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for that.” Derrick shook his head. “Makin’ do with what I got.”

  One of the dogs barked happily, chasing a small child.

  “What about those dogs? I don’t see a Recon Marine raising a pack of bloodhounds. I suspect they belonged to someone tracking you. Is anyone tracking you now?”

  “Not anymore,” Skull answered, showing his teeth in an expression only distantly related to a smile.

  Derrick stared at Skull’s face for a long moment before answering. “Good enough. Come on down. We’re just getting ready for some food.” Then he turned to the group and said loudly, “Everyone, this is Zach. He’s a guest of ours. Please make him feel welcome.”

  Skull walked forward, receiving several smiles and howdys.

  “Why are their ears so long and floppy?” a little boy asked him, rubbing one of the hound’s heads.

  He looked down at the open face staring up at him. “Well, they’ve been bred that way. They track through dense thorny brush, and the floppiness keeps them from getting hung up or cut, and protects their hearing.”

  “It also prevents ear infections,” Derrick said helpfully.

  Skull made a there-you-go gesture and took off his ruck to sit in one of the camp chairs near the fire. His weight pulled him over onto his bad ankle, and he winced as he nearly fell. This seemed to startle the people around him more than his sudden arrival. Many of the smiles vanished.

  “Got you a hurt leg there?” Derrick asked.

  “Nothing but a sprain,” Skull answered.

  “We’ll have food soon enough,” Derrick said. “You hungry?”

  Skull gazed around at the happy group: no injuries, no conflict, everyone looking to be under thirty despite a couple teenagers among the kids. “I am, but no, I’m not an Eden.” He spread his hands.

  Derrick nodded.

  “But all of you are,” Skull said.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” the man asked.

  “Nope,” Skull answered. “Even less than you might think.”

  “Aren’t you afraid we might infect you?”

  Skull smiled. “I don’t plan on kissing anyone while I’m here.”

  “Don’t be so hasty,” Derrick deadpanned. “I’ve been told I’m an amazing kisser.”

  “The first thing I thought when I saw you,” Skull replied in kind.

  Derrick laughed. “You seem more relaxed than the average citizen about the Eden virus.”

  “Let’s just say I have a little…firsthand knowledge.”

  “So you don’t believe all the lies and propaganda?” Derrick asked, sitting beside Skull. Men and women began placing skewers of venison across the fire.

  “Not at all,” answered Skull. “I know the truth.”

  Derrick remained quiet for a moment. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Long as it don’t involve kissing.”

  Derrick chuckled. “Well, knowing what you know about the Eden virus and the benefits, why haven’t you taken it?”

  That question again, Skull thought, stifling a roll of his eyes. “Maybe I just want to keep all my options open. Doesn’t mean I can’t take it later.”

  “I see,” Derrick answered lightly. “You’re one of those types who doesn’t like to commit. Bet you never married.”

  That barb struck home and Skull’s jaw tightened and his eyes darkened even more than usual with pain and loss.


  “Didn’t mean anything,” Derrick said apologetically, “just trying to be funny. It’s been called an acquired taste.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Skull said. “There was someone a long time ago, but she’s gone now.” He paused, and then changed the subject. “How long you been here?”

  “About a month,” Derrick answered. “My family and two others were run out of our gated community once they realized we were Edens. We lived on the run for a while, collecting more like us until Teddy over there,” he pointed to a small, thin man with a long, oddly gray pony tail, “brought up this idea. Seemed like a good one.”

  By the look of him, the little guy knew his way around a cannabis patch, a not-uncommon thing out in these woods. “I would tend to agree,” Skull answered Derrick. “You got everything you need out here now...but I suspect the winter’s going to be tough.”

  Derrick nodded. “We’re working on getting ready for that. Might have to go lower to get away from the worst of the snow, but then we run the risk of more attention. Stocking up on food too. It’s not too bad, as long as we don’t exercise much or get anyone hurt.”

  Skull nodded, seeing a tough time ahead for the group.

  “Whatever we have to endure,” Derrick said, noticing Skull’s look, “it’s a damn sight better than how we were living down there. I’m not going to see my family end up in one of those camps. You heard of them?”

  “Seen a couple up close,” Skull answered, his eyes narrowing.

  “Then you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Derrick, don’t take this wrong, but even you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bad?”

  “All were bad. One was no worse than jail. All were ugly. One was…one was Auschwitz in America.”

  “God damn.”

  “No doubt, He will.”

  “Then I’m glad we ran away.”

  “Why not try to get away to one of the sanctuaries?” Skull asked.

  “You mean one of the Free Communities down south?”

  “And other places.”

  Derrick snorted. “I’d love to, but we’re nervous about going into town for supplies. Can you imagine us trying to board a plane or get on a ship? They’d probably test us and then we’d be locked up and…like you said. I thought about it a lot, but believe me, this is the best place for us right now.”