Timothy stopped to fire a burst, but his shots were wild. Without any night vision, he couldn’t see the shooters wherever they were. He turned and ran for the fields, not slowing even when he pushed through the tall weeds.
The rough blades scratched at his bare face, but he kept going. He couldn’t see Ruckley, but he heard her breaking through the plants behind him.
Voices yelled in the distance.
One was familiar.
It was Neeland. “Help me!” he shouted. “Please, help me!”
Had these people kidnapped the poor bastard?
The end of the field came into focus. A dense forest covered a hill not too far away but Timothy decided to crouch instead of making a run for the cover.
“Ruckley,” he said quietly.
No response.
He waited a few moments, listening for her movements.
Only the wind swayed the grass. The distant shouts had stopped too, and he didn’t hear Neeland anymore.
A chill of fear shivered through him. What if he was all alone now?
He refused to believe it. Ruckley was still out there, and he couldn’t just sit here and wait for her. Cautiously, he advanced with his rifle ready to fire at anyone on the other side of the weeds.
A moment later he reached the edge of the field and scanned for contacts through the shifting blades. He didn’t see anyone out there. Darkness had swallowed much of the landscape, and these people seemed to be expert hunters.
Suppressing his fear, he strode out of the foliage, staying low. The forest growing along the hilly terrain stretched before him. He ran low for cover.
“Timothy,” came a voice.
He froze.
“It’s me, Ruckley.”
She was crouched behind a tree, waving with her good arm. The arrow jutting out of her other arm was broken.
Timothy joined her and hunched down.
She winced as she aimed her rifle at the farmhouse and the two barns. A fire had started in a pit on the gravel drive, the glow flickering on the faded paint of the bigger barn.
Timothy zoomed in on a pole sticking out of the firepit, flames licking the sides.
He spotted movement in the glare and moved his scope to the right. A figure dressed in camo was strung up on a cross. It had to be Neeland. His legs and arms were bound, and his mouth was now taped shut.
A group of four… no… five people circled around, all holding crossbows.
“Collaborators?” he whispered.
“I don’t think so,” Ruckley said. “I’ve never seen collaborators use crossbows. These freaks must be some sort of cult.”
“We got to do something. All they got are bows. We can take them.”
He pictured how she had let that couple back in the church get slaughtered, how she was ready to give them up so they could continue their mission. Would she do the same to Neeland?
“There could be more,” Ruckley said. “They’re crazy, but they don’t seem dumb. This is probably another trap. We go down there, thinking it’s an easy shot, then they jump us from the weeds and fields.”
“We’re talking about Neeland, though,” Timothy said. “We can’t let them roast the guy.”
“I know,” she replied.
Timothy scanned for more targets but saw none. The farmland was simply too dark.
“We have to be careful,” Ruckley said, grimacing through her pain. “If we’re doing this, you take the ones on the left, I’ll take the right. Then if there are more in the fields, we’ll flush them out. Conserve your ammo, and make each shot—”
Before she finished her sentence one of the figures ripped the tape off Neeland’s mouth, then plucked a flaming stick from the firepit and tossed it into the wood under Neeland’s boots. The flames leapt up Neeland’s body.
“HELP ME!” Neeland wailed. “Oh, God! Ruckley! Help me!”
Flames devoured his clothing and flesh. An agonizing wail filled the night. Neeland shrieked the entire time, his voice erupting in an animalistic cry of agony.
“Go,” Ruckley snapped.
“What?”
“Go, I’ll catch up.”
Timothy hesitated, then started walking away.
A single gunshot rang out, and then faded.
He didn’t need to turn to know the target had been Neeland. To put him out of his misery.
Ruckley caught up a few seconds later. She breathed heavy, like she was trying to hold back tears from putting her friend and brother out of his misery.
Timothy didn’t even try to hold back his own tears. He had hardly known Neeland, but the man had deserved better. And so had his dad.
Tears ran from his eyes.
Timothy wanted to think there would be justice for Neeland and his father, but he knew in this new world filled with monsters and war, nothing was fair. Justice was nearly as extinct as good people.
***
Dohi crouched at the edge of a hiking trail covered in long weeds, sweeping the path ahead with his night vision goggles. Behind him, he heard the crunch of Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds’ boots over twigs and dry grass. After escaping the enemy vessel, their advance to the evac site ten miles from the C-130 was painfully slow, in part due to the Wolfhounds.
The damaged freighter had sunk, but one of the birds had escaped. Dohi knew it was searching for them.
That’s why he had selected a straightaway section of I-280 outside Redwood City for their evac.
They were only a few miles away now, just north of what had once been El Corte de Madera Creek Reserve, surrounded by massive trees.
Almost there, Dohi thought. Keep pushing.
They had given Jackson, Hopkins, and Lawrence their first round of antibiotics. But the medicine didn’t work instantaneously, and they needed real medical professionals.
Lawrence managed a steady gait, cradling his wounded arm. Dohi admired his fortitude. Martin was the only Wolfhound who had survived both the cannibals’ and Chimera attack unscathed. Now he helped Hopkins, who was missing one foot below the ankle.
Despite Hopkins protests, Rico carried the man, occasionally letting him lean on her shoulder as he walked with his remaining leg.
Jackson remained unconscious, the stumps at both ankles still smelling slightly with necrosis. He was now on Ace’s back, who walked with sweat trickling down his head.
The occasional distant screeches of Variants haunted them with every step. Somewhere amid the hilly, forested landscape, the beasts lurked. It wasn’t just the monsters Dohi was worried about. There was no guarantee more Chimeras from the freighter weren’t trawling the woods. And for that matter, the settlement of cannibals they had discovered in the National Accelerator Laboratory might not have been the only one.
Another howl pierced the night. This one was closer.
Dohi signaled for everyone to get down. Fitz came over to him and took a knee while Rico and Mendez held security.
“How many do you think are out there?” he whispered.
“Sounds like a pack,” Dohi replied. “Judging by the frequency of their calls, they’re hunting us.”
He studied the trees and the undergrowth of the forest. He didn’t see any trampled vegetation. No claw marks. Nothing to indicate any Variants had been here recently, which meant to him these beasts hadn’t randomly showed up to this park.
They had Team Ghost’s scent.
He took a deep breath, peering through his NVGs at the green and black landscape. The team was relying on him to guide them safely through this unknown land to the rendezvous point. He couldn’t mess up like he had at the National Accelerator Lab.
Dohi gave the advance signal into the dark woods, cautiously approaching every gurgling stream and patch of bushes under the redwoods. Jackson’s groaning got worse, and his breathing was ragged.
“He ain’t going to make it much further,” Ace whispered, his voice strained. “We need to put him down and change these bandages.”
Ace was right. Dohi could smell Jacks
on’s festering wounds. If he could smell it, that meant the Variants could, too.
Dohi checked his watch. They still had a couple hours before evac. More than enough time to change Jackson’s bandages, but they couldn’t do it here.
He surveyed the road ahead. Abandoned cars littered the cracked asphalt. A couple were nothing but charred husks, but it gave him idea. This place had once been a campground, too.
“Look,” Dohi said, pointing up the road. “This place has an RV park. We might find some shelter there.”
Fitz gave a nod.
The group marched along the road. Another Variant shrieked, and a second beast answered the call. Dohi thought they sounded closer, but maybe it was just the acoustics of the open road now.
The faster they took care of Jackson, the sooner they could get out of here. And if all went well, changing Jackson’s bandages would cover the scent better, but they had to be fast.
He increased his pace, seeing a sign with paint peeling away in big flakes.
A short driveway led to an open space filled with wild grass. Nearly a dozen hookup spots for power, water, and sewer lines sprouted from the field. Of course none would work, but Dohi had hoped to see a few RVs and trailers here, abandoned during the first war.
All that was left was a single camper-trailer with broken windows. The door was crumpled on the ground. Silver scars marred the paint, showing where Variants had clawed their way inside.
Fitz gestured for Dohi and Mendez to clear it while the others waited at the entrance to the RV park. The two operators flitted through the grass, then paused in front of the open door.
Dohi listened for breathing or the snap of Variant joints.
With a nod, he entered. Mendez fell in behind him. Broken glass covered a built-in table and bench. Mold had crept over the kitchenette, and ragged curtains flapped at the back of the trailer where the bed was. Atop that bed was a skeleton, leathery flesh hanging off in ribbons, bite marks covering the bone.
“I’ll take care of Jackson,” Dohi said.
“I can help,” Hopkins said.
“Yeah, put us to work,” Lawrence added, gesturing with his good arm. “We’re happy to do something.”
“Right now, just focus on getting those bandages changed,” Dohi said. “The smell of those things are going to attract every damn Variant around.”
“Ace, Rico, you’re on security,” Fitz said. “Mendez, get Hopkins and Lawrence comfortable on that bench.”
Fitz dug into his pack and tossed them a first aid kit. “Replace their bandages. Martin, take Jackson to that bed with me and Dohi. We need to clean him up fast before the Variants are drawn to the scent.”
Ace carried Jackson to the back and waited to unload him onto the bed.
“Hurry,” he grumbled.
Dohi removed the skeleton and took the bony remains outside, but he didn’t have time to worry about honoring the dead with a burial when it was the living that he needed to take care of.
He went back inside, and Fitz took out more of the medical supplies they’d scavenged from the freighter to help Jackson.
Dohi examined the soiled bandages. Martin looked over his shoulder, muttering a prayer that was cut short by a Variant howl in the distance.
Dohi tried to ignore the sounds, but having Martin hovering over him and muttering in his ear wasn’t helping matters.
“Be careful,” Martin said.
“I know what I’m doing,” Dohi said.
Jackson was unconscious, but his face contorted in pain when Dohi began unwrapping the bandages. They pulled away with a slurp from the bloodied stumps, tearing some of the diseased tissue.
Dohi unraveled the last bandage. The odor of death filled the trailer. Pus and blood leaked out of cracked, blackened flesh.
Martin retched and bolted outside to vomit.
Fighting his own instinct to recoil, Dohi examined the wound. The cannibals had screwed up when they had tried to cauterize the flesh.
Between the survival techniques his grandfather had taught him and the first aid skills he’d honed as an operator, Dohi knew this wasn’t going to be an easy fix.
“I need to debride this wound, clean it, then reapply the bandage,” he said quietly. “This necrotic tissue is going to get worse if we leave it, and the smell is going to keep those Variants on us until we take care of it.”
“Do what you have to,” Fitz said.
Martin walked back inside, wiping off his mouth.
“You good?” Dohi said.
A nod from Martin.
“Good, because I need your help. Put a cloth between Jackson’s teeth. This is going to be painful, and he needs something to bite down on.”
“And try to keep him quiet,” Fitz said.
Martin tore a piece of old sheet from the bed and stuffed it between Jackson’s teeth.
“Here we go,” Dohi said.
He took out his utility knife and scraped at the dead tissue, periodically washing it with fresh water. The dead flaking skin peeled away to reveal raw, red infected tissue.
Jackson groaned louder.
“Oh, shit, what’s going on?” Martin asked.
Blood started to spray from the wound, soaking into the bed like a dark shadow.
“Shit,” Dohi said. “I think he had a nicked artery or something. The cauterized tissue was helping block it, but…”
Fitz dug through the first-aid kit for clotting gel, a hemostat, and sutures, handing the supplies over.
Dohi cleaned away as much of the blood and dead tissue blocking their access to the artery, then tried dousing the wound with the clotting gel. The bleeding didn’t stop, and the artery had retracted deeper into Jackson’s leg.
“This is going to hurt bad,” Dohi said, pausing. “A lot. Martin, hold him down. Fitz, I need your help.”
Martin’s dark skin seemed a shade lighter, a quiet terror evident in his face. Fitz came over with Martin to hold Jackson down.
There was no way around this. Blood pumped from the wound. Jackson would be dead in minutes, and the smell of this blood would be worse than Jackson’s wounds at attracting the monsters.
Dohi quickly probed through the infected tissue, pushing past the fat and skin.
Jackson snapped awake, eyes bulging from their sockets. He was fully conscious now. He screamed into the cloth, and Martin held the guy’s head, trying to reassure him.
But even with the cloth between his teeth, Jackson’s scream was loud.
“Hurry, Dohi,” Fitz said.
“I’m working as fast as I can.”
Dohi’s heart thundered in his ears. He tried to ignore Jackson’s screams and Martin’s reassurances, the din filling the trailer. They might as well hang a flashing sign outside that advertised Variant food here.
“I got it!” he said, catching the artery with two fingers and snapping the hemostat on it. “Sutures, now!”
He tied off the vessel, blood pouring over his hand. Jackson still screamed in pain, writhing. Fitz and Martin struggled to hold him in place.
And then it was finished.
Dohi poured more clean water over the wound. No more blood gushed out.
Jackson sobbed, muscular chest heaving in gasps, before passing out again.
The bed and floor were soaked with blood. The guy had lost so much.
Dohi started wrapping Jackson’s legs with fresh bandages.
A chorus of Variant shrieks came from outside. This time there was no mistaking their proximity. They knew Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds were here.
Rico came into the bedroom and said in a low voice, “We got multiple contacts.”
“We’re almost finished,” Fitz said.
Jackson’s unconscious moaning faded into a rattling sigh as Dohi finished the last bandage. The man was quiet now. Too quiet.
Dohi checked his wrist. His stomach plummeted through the floor. “He doesn’t have a pulse.”
“What? No, come on, Jackson,” Martin said. He bent down to
pump on the soldier’s chest with his skinny arms.
Another howl screamed outside. This one sounded closer. Two more inhuman voices answered it.
“Movement at our six, and ten, and…” Ace said. “Shit, they’re coming from all directions.”
The shrieks grew louder even though Jackson had gone silent. The blood-soaked room had brought all the ravenous monsters to their position.
Dohi looked at the lifeless man.
All this effort, all this risk for nothing. Jackson was dead, and now they were trapped in a trailer, surrounded by beasts being drawn to his corpse like hyenas around a wounded gazelle.
— 11 —
The wails of the injured and dying punctured the crackle of the flames dancing over City Hall Park. A tree buckled as flames devoured it. Ash and embers swirled in a harsh wind coursing down Broadway, carrying the stink of charred flesh and the rotten odor of dead Variants.
Fischer stood in the vibroseis truck near the courthouse with his engineer, Brian Meyer.
The engineer touched the blood-soaked bandage on his cheek. He needed stitches, but for now the bandage would have to suffice.
Frankly, he was lucky to be alive. So was Fischer. Tran and Chase had saved them from a pair of Variants that had managed to break through the other defenses and get to the truck.
After the first wave of beasts, they had lost too many men in Bogardus Garden to hold the position. They had been forced to move and consolidate their defenses around City Hall.
“How’s it looking?” Fischer asked Meyer.
The engineer studied the geophone readings across his monitor. “So far, no activity to indicate new tunnels.”
“Let’s pray it stays that way. Shout if you see anything, even if it’s so much as an earthworm coughing down there.”
Fischer got down from the truck and joined Massey. Chase and Tran shadowed him, each looking nervously around the carnage.
“The vibroseis truck is ready for the next wave,” Fischer said.
Massey nodded and let out a long exhale. “We lost nearly a third of our men in that last attack. Even if the Variants are weaker, it’s going to be hell.”
Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 3): Extinction Ashes Page 12
