Operation Z-Day (The Raven Falconer Chronicles)

by Larsen, Dennis

  “You really believe that?” Raven asked.

  “I have to, Rave. I just have to. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

  There was a moment of silence as each struggled with their most private thoughts.

  “You think I killed that guy today?” Rave questioned.

  No one immediately spoke up but each looked at their dark-haired friend and shook their heads. It was Bobi who answered her directly. “You did what you had to do. Mick’s life was in danger and you stepped up.”

  “It was the virus that killed him; plain and simple,” Hannah suggested, followed by a quick agreement by Bobi and Mick.

  “Yeah, guess so. Still harder than I thought, not so much pulling the trigger, but thinking about it now – I can tell it’s going to haunt me. I mean he looked like he could have been anybody: a teacher, politician . . . father.” Raven hung her head and fought back a torrent of tears that were brimming at her lids and ready to flow. She twirled her thumbs in her lap, drawing the courage to continue her thought. “I’m not saying I regret what I did; I’d do it again in a heartbeat but I still feel sorry. Somehow I feel really sorry.”

  Mick reached to her friend and placed a comforting hand on her knee but it was Pooch who truly helped to bind her broken heart. Something innate and beyond human understanding spoke to the dog, who sensed Raven’s grief and crawled to her, laying her big head in the Falconer girl’s lap. The animal’s large, dark eyes looked to her rescuer and begged her attention with a few quick thumps of her tail against the wooden floor. She whimpered and pushed her muzzle under Raven’s rotating thumbs.

  “You silly mutt,” Raven said, giving in to the coaxing and providing the needed loves the animal wanted. Suddenly Pooch’s ears perked up and her tail stopped tapping the floor. “What is it girl? What do ya hear?” As if prompted by an unseen power, the dog jumped to her feet and ran to the door, barking an alert.

  “Hannah, grab the shotgun and watch the backdoor. Raven and Bobi get the AK’s,” Mick ordered, as she crawled to the window near the front door. “I can see light. A car’s coming down the road.”

  “Maybe it’s Ziggy,” Bobi suggested.

  “Nope, not a police car, too light. Looks like a tan SUV, kind of like your dad’s, Raven.”

  “What?” Raven yelped. She ran to the front door and swung it open, sending Pooch onto the porch to continue her out-of-control barking. “It is! It’s my dad! It’s my dad!”

  The Lexus slowly pulled into the muddied area at the front of the cabin and came to a stop next to the Jeep. Pooch bounded down the few steps, taking up an aggressive stance at the front of the foreign vehicle. Raven was close behind but was halted when her father hollered through the open window. “Stop!”

  “Dad . . . Dad, what’s wrong?”

  The lights of the Lexus illuminated the entire area at the front of Smugs’ cabin. A distinct cough carried from the inside of the car to the women standing on the porch. “Oh no! Dad, no . . . this can’t be!” Raven cried, tears now running, unending down her face.

  “Raven, step on the porch with your friends.”

  “No Dad, I can’t. We can help,” she said, flashing an anguished look at her roommates.

  “Honey, you can’t. No one can. Step away and I’ll get out.”

  Reluctantly Raven withdrew to the waiting arms of her friends and buried her face in Mick’s shoulder. Hannah called and then restrained Pooch, when the hound jumped to the woman. The friends wept as Eli stepped from his Lexus and stood behind the opened door.

  “I had to come, sweetheart. I had to see you one last time and know you’re safe. Are you well? Are you all well?” he asked. Beads of sweat formed on his brow in the cold of the night air, his face flush with fever but he shook, as if chilled.

  “We’re good, Dad. How . . . how?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Nanna . . . ” His voice trailed off and he dropped his chin to his chest to regain his momentum.

  “No, no,” Raven moaned into Mick’s shoulder.

  “She’s gone, Rave. She loved you so much and her last words were of you: playing in her backyard when you were little, splashing in her pool and chasing her dog. She was happy and she went peacefully.”

  “I loved . . . ”

  When she was unable to complete her thought, her father assured her with his ever-calming voice. “I know you did and her death doesn’t change that. Listen girls, it’s bad out there. Worse than you can imagine. That’s one of the reasons I had to come. Took me a full day to run every dirt road and cross-country trail to avoid the native blockades. You’re better where you’re at. Stay put as long as you can or until the military shows up. They’re stretched thin . . . ” He coughed and spat a great yellow ball of phlegm to the ground.

  “Dad, stay here, we can take care of you . . . please.”

  “Raven, I’ve had a good life. You know how much I’ve missed your mom. I’m okay with it, really I am. You need to know how much both your mom and I love you and in the coming days when I hold her again, I’ll let her known that you’ve fulfilled all her dreams.”

  Raven sobbed uncontrollably, unable to run to his arms and hold him close one last time. “Where will you go?’ she whaled.

  “Someplace quiet and beautiful. You won’t need to worry about me. I’ll soon be going home.”

  “Mick, you watch out for this motley crew. You hear me?”

  “Yes sir, I’ll do my best.”

  “Rave, you endure this. All of you, get through this. There has to be a better world . . . ” He expelled another glob of sputum from his throat before he could go on. “Hang tough, Smugs will come when he can.”

  “Okay, Dad – I’ll try, I’ll try to be strong. You know I will.”

  “I know dear. I had no doubts. Promise me that you won’t follow me.” There was no reply as Raven contemplated doing just that. “Rave, promise me.”

  “Fine. Dad, I won’t . . . ”

  “I need to go. I’ve already put you all at risk by just being here. Do everything you can to survive and be careful who you trust. I’m so grateful that you have each other. Raven, there’s nothing more I can say other than I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. Please remember that.”

  “I know, I know . . . I will miss you so much. I love you, Dad.”

  “We’ll take care of her, Mr. Falconer. You can count on us,” Hannah called out.

  “Thank you girls, good luck. May God be with you.”

  Eli slipped behind the wheel of his SUV and waved to the women as the window electronically rolled up and sealed him in. The Lexus slowly backed from the obscure drive and into the road. Tears streamed down his face, a relentless tide of sadness; not for himself, but rather, for his daughter and her friends and the unbearable hardships he knew they would have to endure. “She’ll be strong,” he whispered under his breath, as he moved his hand to rest on the handgun sitting on the seat next to him.

  Steel-blue eyes watched from the shadows, the young husker recognizing, at least on some level, the degree of danger that awaited him should he expose himself. Like a lioness with a full belly, he patiently observed the gathering, content to examine and avoid. The display of grief, although apparent, was foreign to the boy, who lifted his hand to his cheek, mimicking the crying women. He felt no moisture, no pain and no loss, as the girls did in bidding their loved one goodbye. His skin was cold to the touch, but the sensation of his fingertips raking crudely down his face sparked a distant memory, a flash of someone or something had touched him in the same manner before. A flicker of memory and smell suddenly encompassed him and for the first time in days, he felt. The fleeting sensation was gone as quickly as it had come and he gave it no further thought.

  Benny continued his surveillance of the scene until the SUV backed from the drive and proceeded down the road. He chased alongside the vehicle, concealed by thick brush and trees. Given the right opportunity, hunting and taking one human would be easier than confronting four. Toni
ght he sensed no overwhelming compulsion, but a simmering aggression stewed just below his psyche’s present calm. If his twilight hunt was unsuccessful he could always fall back on the slowly deteriorating bear carcass, which he’d violently convinced a skinny coyote to abandon earlier in the day. Driven, he leapt over fallen logs, slipping and struggling to keep up with the moving vehicle. Without warning the SUV slowed, lights swinging as it cautiously maneuvered a tight curve in the mountain road. The youth clutched a hand-sized rock and prepared.

  Moments later, as the young women settled back into the comfort of the blankets, a muffled, echoing shot reverberated through the cold night air, striking their hearts.

  * * *

  Amber moonlight cast off from snow-covered rooftops angled through the museum's windows. The stray light cut dully through the glassed exhibits, ultimately casting a ghostly halo over Nathan's sleeping form. Hours had passed since he'd dropped into the chair, weary and restless. He grudgingly opened his eyes, the blackness of the room divided by moonbeams, sharply delineated and projected at odd angles. Straightening his back against the padded cushion he rubbed his eyes, clearing the crystalline matter away. As he withdrew his hands, something wispy and featherlike caught his attention. "What?" he grunted, standing and taking two stiff strides to the window. It was then that he noted the body and vaguely remembered the tussle with the red-haired demon. Holding his right hand outstretched to be bathed in the streaming glow; he twisted and rotated the appendage, fascinated by the way the few long, red strands clung to his flesh and glistened against the light. Nathan brought his left hand to join the slow-motion display; it was equally red but not entwined with the same fibers.

  Minutes passed as disjointed thoughts bounced about in his diminished brain. Ideas moved in and out of focus like a telescope in the hands of a meth addict without a fix. They would form, teasing and just beyond his reach, then vanish only to reappear and be gone again. Nathan closed his eyes, channeling his limited faculties and narrowing his neurological resources. He suddenly opened his eyes, reached for the severed head that was long since cold, and wound his fingers through the wiry tresses, lifting it to his side. "More . . . more," he slurred, the utterance louder in his head than through his ears. He descended the narrow staircase, the head bouncing and banging against his leg, leaving traces of blood in a grisly trail as he left the museum and wandered down the street. He'd seen it, for a moment he'd envisioned his destiny . . . survival of the fittest, kill or be killed. He would thrive . . . become king of his domain.

  The faint hum of random generators buzzed in his head, distracting but meaningless. Periodically, light burst from a home’s window only to be extinguished seconds later. Nathan walked northeast, stopping to peer through narrow gaps in the plywood that covered storefronts and windows. Nothing stirred for a time, the night tranquil and eerily quiet. To his left, waters of the Bow River flowed, rushing to crash down the falls just a few kilometers away. Reaching Wolf Street he hesitated at the curb, distracted by a cluster of dark shadows that moved oddly through his central vision before dropping from view, obliterated by his peripheral vision loss.

  The former athlete swung his head to keep up with the creeping horde, catching random shapes, shifting and undulating in the landscape. He felt at his waist for the well-used weapon and unsheathed it, gripping it tightly while still dangling the head near his thigh. Nathan watched and waited, following at a distance, content to observe. There appeared to be six individuals, a mix of men and women, silent but for the occasional grunt that breached the night’s hush. The group crossed a small park, some stumbling to maintain their footing in the fresh mud and melting snow.

  They were following someone or something; the pursuit becoming more obvious as the Huskers picked up their pace. Perhaps the need to satiate their hunger or anticipation of fresh meat heightened their ability to hunt, but in either case Nathan had to surge forward, matching them stride for stride. It was then, as they neared the river’s edge, that he spotted their prey. Two small shapes, hardly visible against the black of the water, bobbed and weaved between the trees and shrubs desperate to avoid detection. The game of cat and mouse continued until the frantic stalkers pinned and surrounded two adolescents in a park’s gazebo.

  Nathan watched from the shelter of a bricked public washroom, obscurely hearing but not recognizing the shouts emanating from the encircled structure. The youth, a Jewish boy named Shlomo and a smaller girl, stood defensively on an elevated deck, their backs together with what appeared to be makeshift weapons in their hands. The gazebo’s platform was ringed with a reticulated wooden railing, painted to enhance the park’s appearance and invite vacationers to enjoy festival performances in a more subdued time. Two staircases of four steps each led to the children, who were in their early teens. The pair, both tertiary cases, were brother and sister and had left their home in search of food when their parents had succumbed to the virus and lapsed into comma. The children’s parents had done their best to care for the infected, then recuperating siblings, before they contracted the infection and were unable to cope.

  The Huskers worked the potentially violent encounter like a pack of wolves; the more aggressive and larger members moving into position to mount an assault while the others hounded and faint-charged the youngsters. Husky, throaty grunts mixed with inaudible screams filled the air as Nathan closed the distance and prepared to act. The boy, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt with Banff scrawled across the front, bared his teeth and lashed out with the branch he’d secured as a weapon. The girl, dark haired and likely pretty, did the same, shrieking indistinguishable words at the top of her lungs as the intruders advanced.

  As the circle of villains collapsed and a blood-encrusted brute mounted the stairs, Nathan burst into action, running the twenty yards that separated him from the melee, swinging the head to clear a path to the young Huskers. A woman was taken by surprise, the bowling ball-sized head catching her in the jaw and sending her to the ground. Another stepped in his way but was easily discharged with a dipped shoulder landing firmly in his face, breaking his nose and sending teeth flying. At the top of the stairs, the larger and supposed pack leader held his ground, waiting for the rushing Nathan.

  Sensing an opportunity for escape, Shlomo and his sister, Elina, dashed for the opposing steps but were cut off by two men, still salivating over their potential dinner. The Jewish duo halted their mad attempt and cowered against the railing, Shlomo pushing his sister behind him. An innate voice drove his actions, loud and unrelenting, pushing him to keep the girl safe from harm.

  Though unexplainable, a bond existed between the siblings, linking their roles and future. Not unlike the Huskers that sought to kill and consume them, the two were the only survivors of their own pack, willing to stalk and kill but having an intrinsic affection for one another. This would ensure their survival until game was scarce and hunger drove their behavior, forcing the strong to devour the weak. A pathetic form of natural selection was at play, pitting the carnally driven huskers against their morally bound brothers and sisters, in a war that neither side had a chance of winning.

  At the gazebo, Nathan acted as a stampeding battering ram, meeting the Husker’s leader on the top step, slamming their meaty hulks together in a bone-cracking thud. They rolled, and then disengaged, standing ten feet apart with Nathan’s frame overshadowing the little ones. Huskers suddenly appeared, ascending the steps and reforming their pack. Fortified, the leader, dressed in flannel shirt and coveralls, lunged at Nathan, his bare hands outstretched and clawing at the air. The Olympian swung the woman’s severed head in an upward arc, catching the attacker in the chin and snapping his head back. His feet continued where his head could not, resulting in his body going prone three feet off the ground before he returned to the platform in a loud, painful clatter. Undeterred, the Husker rolled, then scrambled to his feet, shaken but not submissive.

  Before another charge, Nathan lifted the grotesque trophy and dangled it before the pack
of Huskers. He shouted, squaring his chest and swinging the blade, “Stop . . . No!” Additional words formed then vanished, hanging on the tip of his tongue but he had said enough. Something animalistic touched at the very fabric of the group, who retreated a step or two, before their flannel-clad leader bolted forward to take down the newcomer. Nathan instinctually anticipated the move and threw the head into the man’s arms. As the husker’s hands naturally folded around the gruesome object, Nathan lifted the small axe high above his head and then, with all the strength he could muster, pounded the metal object into the assailant’s skull. The brute dropped like a concrete block searching for the bottom of a lake. The once proud Olympian pulled, wrenching, and finally yanking the blade from his victim’s cranium, opening a fissure and exposing the man’s steaming brain matter.

  The champion turned and looked at the siblings, unharmed but still sensing a degree of dread. He then directed his attention to the now quiet but unsure mob and spread his hands wide, blood and tissue still dripping from the weapon. “More?” he roared. There were no takers, each of the Huskers understanding their place in the new order and willing to accept the barbaric leader. Nathan slowly returned the hatchet to its sheath and motioned for the children to join the others. It took some coaxing with a firm hand but all stood before him now, shaded from the moonlight in the shelter of the gazebo.

  The sensation of pleasure was unattainable for the man but something stroked his ego and fulfilled his rapacious needs. In a hoarse, almost rasping voice he commanded his followers, “Come . . . hunt.”

  To be continued . . .