Bitter Cold Apocalypse 2 (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller)

by T. W. Connor

  “You ready?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered—just as he had on the other side of the river. “But let’s get it over with. The sooner we’re done with this, the sooner we can get back to Town Hall, where it’s warm. And where they have beer.”

  This man was quickly becoming one of the most amusing people I knew.

  I turned and started walking quietly forward, keeping an eye out for loose sticks or leaves on the snow. The good thing about the snow was that it was a natural silencer. We were avoiding all the dry detritus that you usually found on the floor of a forest.

  The bad thing was that it slowed us down until we were only moving about half as quickly as I wanted to move. I wanted to get to that camp, figure out whatever we could figure out—even if it was that we weren’t going to get any information—and then get back to town. Trudging through knee-deep snow in this forest was keeping us from that goal.

  And the more time we spent in that forest, the more time they had to randomly decide to send out scouts. The more time they had to potentially find us.

  I reached over my shoulder to touch the rifle on my back, and then slid my hand toward my hip, where I had my CZ 75. It was my favorite handgun—the one I didn’t ever take out of the safe unless I knew I was doing something dangerous. It was what I’d carried in Afghanistan whenever I had a choice, because there was less muzzle flip when you were firing quickly.

  I’d grabbed it the moment I had a free second in town. Having it at my hip now made me feel more confident. If something went down, I’d have it out in a second, and whoever was attacking us was going to be sorry.

  Henry was carrying his own hunting rifle, a Savage Arms Trophy Hunter that he’d modified with a more accurate scope. It was such a good piece that I’d suggested he keep that rather than taking any of the guns out of the armory. This was the one he was most familiar with, and if we were going into battle, I wanted him carrying something that he knew like the back of his hand.

  Yes, it would take longer for him to get it off his back and get it sighted on whatever he was trying to shoot. But that was what my CZ was for.

  Between the two of us, we were going to present one hell of a wall of bullets for anyone coming our way. I just hoped it was enough. Hell, I hoped we didn’t have to use the guns at all. I hoped we could get in and get out without anyone knowing a damn thing. I just wasn’t counting on it.

  It took another twenty minutes for us to struggle our way to the end of the forest, and the clearing where Randall and his band had decided to set up camp. By that time the sun had reached the peak of its arc and started to descend toward the horizon, and though it hadn’t gone very far—it was only one in the afternoon, after all—I still glanced up with some nervousness.

  It got dark early in the evening in this part of Michigan during the winter. I estimated that we only had until 4:30 or 5:00 at the latest, before we were looking at dusk. Given the hour it would probably take us to get back to the bridge, that meant we had two hours here—three, max—before we needed to be on our way.

  “Hope someone makes this easy for us,” I murmured, sinking to my knees behind the last tree before the clearing began and peeking around us.

  Henry came to a stop behind another tree, and we both stared out into the camp.

  We were close enough now that I could see everything without the binoculars, and I ran my gaze quickly over the camp, cataloguing everything I saw and filing it away to think about later. I was really only here to listen to someone. Everything else could wait until we were back in town—and I had Marlon at my disposal for brainstorming.

  The camp looked exactly like we had thought, from the other side of the river. Lots and lots of tents, a few outhouses (which seemed peculiar, given how quickly they’d set the place up) and those mysterious sheds, which shouldn’t have been possible. There was the three-sided shed that was housing their armory—which I would look at if we had time—and on the other side of the camp…

  Ah. Yes, it turned out that Randall was indeed still preaching over there, the group of men captivated by whatever he was saying.

  “Well that makes this easier,” I murmured.

  I scouted the route in front of us, finding the most likely road between us and that meeting—including which structures we were going to hide behind—and then looked quickly for any guards.

  “Looks like you were right about Randall not seeing the need for guards,” I told Henry. “He didn’t even try to secure his camp. Unbelievable.”

  “Told you he wasn’t smart enough to think of it,” Henry replied, the gloating in his voice unmistakable.

  I shook my head, though, confused at the lapse. Randall might not be intelligent, but he was crafty. He definitely knew how to take care of himself. And he’d known enough about how to make a nuisance of himself that Marlon had actually left his house to travel with us to Ellis Woods because he wasn’t sure he would be safe alone if Randall came for him.

  Randall had to know that we would try something. He didn’t know me well, but he’d come up against me once, and he did know Marlon. Surely he would have guessed that we’d be making a move against him—and sooner rather than later. I just didn’t trust that he wouldn’t have some trap set up on the off chance that we did get close to his camp.

  It was too obvious. Too easy. And too easy always made me nervous. It was too easy for a reason.

  Still, we didn’t have a lot of time for me to sit around here trying to figure it out. We definitely didn’t have time for me to go back and forth about whether it was safe for us to move forward or not. We had to move forward, and we had to do it quickly.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” I said quietly. “We’re heading for that tent over there”—I pointed to the tent in question, which was about three tents to the right of the one straight in front of us—“and from there, we walk like there’s no problem. Like we’re just some of the guys from the camp. Like we’re definitely not there to do any spying on anyone and get back to town. No one but Randall and his cousins knows us, and even if they do, they won’t know for a fact that we’re not there to join them. If my guess is right, every man has been called to that meeting, which means there shouldn’t be anyone there to see us anyhow, but if you see anyone, you duck behind the nearest tent and get down, got it? If you need to, move around the tent you’re hiding behind and go to another one. And then another, and then another. But always keep an eye on the route we’ve been traveling, because that’s where you’ve got to get back to as soon as it’s safe. We stop at the last tent before the opening where they’re having the meeting. And then we listen like hell and hope he says something helpful quickly. Got that?”

  Henry paused, pressed his lips together, and then nodded. “What do we do if we see Randall?”

  “We won’t,” I said shortly. “He’s too busy holding that meeting so he can brag to his men about what he’s doing. If that meeting finishes while we’re still in camp—if you hear him stop talking, and the men stop cheering—then we get behind whatever tent is closest and figure out our next step.”

  Another pause, then another nod.

  I was just about to tell him to start running toward the camp when I heard the safety click on a gun and felt the muzzle come up against the back of my head.

  “Randall told me we might see you again. Have to admit that I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to try to sneak up on us. But now I see that he knew you better than I thought he did.”

  7

  MARLON

  Marlon stared at the forest to the north of the encampment, his heart in his mouth as he waited for John and Henry to appear there. They’d crossed the bridge—he’d checked his watch—forty-five minutes ago, and it was only a mile, max. Granted there’d be deeper snow in that forest. Undisturbed by wind or animals, most likely, especially that close to such a large encampment of men.

  But he was sure it shouldn’t have taken them forty-five minutes to make that journey. Even taking into acc
ount Henry’s lack of conditioning and them attempting to be careful, they should’ve made better time than that.

  Had something happened? Had there been someone hiding in the forest, just waiting for them? Or was John just being cautious? Marlon turned his binoculars back to the camp itself, wondering if there was any additional action there. Any sign of Randall gathering the troops because they’d caught a prisoner. Or a spy.

  But there was nothing. Randall was still holding his meeting, and Marlon suspected that he had called every man on deck for it. Whatever he was saying, he would have wanted every member of his tribe to hear it.

  There shouldn’t have been anyone left in the forest. No one left for John and Henry to mistakenly run into.

  But Randall also wasn’t stupid. He must have been prepared for something. He’d known that the folks in Ellis Woods had seen him. Hell, he’d been looking right at Marlon and John while they were looking at him! So there was a very good chance that he had in fact done something just in case anyone in town had made their way over there.

  The problem was that Marlon had no bloody clue what exactly what Randall was doing, in terms of either attacking the town or protecting himself.

  And if John and Henry had run into trouble, it was clear that there was nothing Marlon or anyone else could do about it. Not from where he stood in town. Though he had a man with a gun, and had one himself, Marlon had never been a sniper, and didn’t have any confidence in the man next to him to hit a target from that far away.

  The man with him, Joe, might have been a good hunter, but Marlon wasn’t entirely convinced that he was a sharpshooter—he definitely wasn’t a sniper. Even though he was probably the best the town had for this particular job, it would be ill-advised to count on him to save John’s life, if it came down to it.

  And the problem was, if Marlon or Joe took a shot, they had to be damn well sure they hit whatever they were shooting at. Shooting and missing just made it more likely that Randall and his men would end up shooting John and Henry.

  Marlon ran his fingers along the lines of his own sniper rifle, trying to remember all the training he’d ever had on shooting, but shook his head at the thought. He was many things. He could do many things. But if it came down to shooting a man who was walking right next to John, perhaps leading him…

  No, he wouldn’t take the risk. There was too great a chance that he’d miss and hit John.

  He cursed his lack of training in that skill—not for the first time in his career—and tried to let his brain relax a bit. Maybe he was just borrowing trouble. For all he knew, John was sitting in that forest, right on the edge of the clearing, waiting until he had a plan for moving into the encampment. The man was one of the smartest Marlon had ever met, and one of the best planners. The man had skills Marlon could only ever have dreamed of.

  John had proven himself time and again in Afghanistan, running missions almost on his own and protecting every man the military had assigned to him.

  Marlon had read the reports—he knew the man’s history.

  So Marlon had told himself to trust John and tried to put the worry to the side. Tried to believe that John was just pausing, waiting for the right moment to dash across that small clear spot and into the tents of the encampment.

  Then John and Henry walked out into that very clearing, with Logan Smith at their backs, firearm trained on them.

  “Dammit,” Marlon breathed, gripping the binoculars so hard they creaked.

  This definitely complicated matters. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  8

  JOHN

  My mind started moving the moment I realized he had a gun.

  It started moving even faster the moment I realized who he was. Logan. Dammit. Of all the freaking luck. The one man who was nearly as high up as Randall—and the one who I suspected actually had the brains to do damage.

  Randall was obviously the most aggressive of them all. He was certainly the man in charge. And he was also definitely the one most likely to kill you, just out of pure rage. But in my two intersections with Logan—back in that cabin in the woods—I had come to the conclusion that this man actually had brains to match his brawn. He asked the important questions.

  He was the one Randall trusted.

  So it made sense that he was the one Randall hadn’t ordered to his little pep rally. Made sense that he was the one Randall had sent into the woods—probably just to watch out for us.

  “Put your weapons down and walk,” he growled from behind me.

  I felt the muzzle of whatever gun he was using being shoved right into my back, and I put my gun down and quickly got to my feet, noticing that Henry was doing the same, backing away from his rifle. I was in the wrong position right now to argue with the man. This was the time to take orders.

  Once I got into a better position, I’d consider talking back to him. But for right now, my one goal was to make sure he didn’t think I was going to cause trouble. Because the moment he started thinking that was the moment he started thinking about shooting me in the back.

  “Toward your friend,” he muttered, using the gun to direct me toward Henry—who, having now absolutely proved his lack of military training, was staring at us with his mouth open and his eyes wide.

  “Lo-Logan,” he stuttered.

  “Henry,” Logan answered, his voice coming out in a disgusted growl. “Didn’t you get our instructions?”

  He could only be talking about the instructions to join them here at the camp. In which case he was referring to the fact that Henry had decided to go to town—literally—rather than join Randall’s gang of thugs. And this was exactly the moment we’d prepared for.

  This was exactly why I’d brought Henry along.

  We’d rehearsed what he was supposed to say right now. The story he was supposed to tell Logan—and after him, Randall—that would maybe, possibly, get us out of here alive. I was just hoping that he remembered that conversation. Because the look on his face did not make him appear to be…prepared.

  Dammit. Bad idea, counting on a man who had never had the training for this sort of thing.

  I made a face at him, practically pressing my eyes out of my head as I willed him to remember what we’d talked about. Remember the story I’d given him to use in this very situation. I made that face so hard that I was almost shaking.

  But he wasn’t looking at me as we walked toward him. He was looking at Logan. And the gun Logan was holding.

  “I…I did,” he said slowly.

  Then, finally, he turned his eyes to me. He jumped at the face I was making—which no doubt looked as though I was having a stroke—and then seemed to come suddenly back into himself. I watched his face clear, his eyes become more focused.

  And for the first time since Logan had spoken behind me, I started to breathe in relief.

  By the time we reached Henry, he looked like he was ready to play his part.

  He stood up before Logan asked him to, his hands above his head, but his expression wasn’t that of a prisoner. He didn’t look frightened. Instead, he look relieved—like someone had saved him.

  “Thank God you found us, Logan,” he started off. “I was on my way to you guys, to join your camp, just like you said, when a bunch of men came running out of town and tackled me. They put me in cuffs and dragged me into town, told me they weren’t going to let me go join you. They were claiming me as part of their team, you know? Claiming me for their side?”

  A rough snort behind me was Logan’s first reaction to that, and honestly I couldn’t blame him. The story didn’t make a whole lot of sense. It had just been the best we could come up with on short notice.

  “What the hell would they want with you?” Logan asked.

  “My weapons, I guess,” Henry said.

  I almost grinned at him, but stopped myself just in time. We would be done for if he grinned back—and I couldn’t be sure that he knew how to control his facial tics enough to stop himself.

  Lo
gan snorted. “How many weapons could you possibly have, that they would want them?”

  “I had three hunting rifles with me, as well as three handguns,” Henry answered immediately. “Plus my own expertise, I guess. And they knew I knew you. They thought I could tell them what you were doing.”

  Logan paused at that, the silence intense, and I frowned. Why would that particular aspect of the story have bothered him?

  “Walk,” he said gruffly, yanking Henry around so that his back was to Logan, and forced him forward. From behind, I was unsure if he’d grabbed both of our weapons, which had been left on the ground, but I assumed he had. Still, I didn’t turn around, sure he would pull the trigger without much hesitation.

  We marched together, side by side, until we were out of the forest and in the small open patch between the forest and the camp. I took a deep breath, and forced myself to keep my eyes on the snow in front of me.

  Don’t look at the town, don’t look at the town, I repeated to myself again and again.

  I knew Marlon was seeing what was going on right now. I knew they had guns aimed at us. And I knew that neither he nor Joe was a good enough shot to take Logan out. Well, I knew Joe wasn’t. As far as Marlon went…

  I didn’t know any such thing. I had no idea whether he’d once been a sniper, or what.

  But I also didn’t think he’d have helped me find the best sharpshooter in town if he thought he’d have had it under control on his own. Snipers didn’t exactly ask for backup. If Marlon had that sort of training, he wouldn’t have told me to find someone who might.

  Which meant that although Marlon might be able to see us right now—could almost definitely see us, since the plan had been for him to keep watch until he saw us getting out of town alive—he probably couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  So we were well and truly on our own.

  God, I hoped the story we’d cooked up for Henry worked.