by Tom Calen
Matt rested his hands on the wheel, making slight alterations in course from time to time. The shaggy locks of his chestnut hair crested out beyond him and she could see the easy smile he carried.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked her, his voice raised to compensate for the engine’s roar.
Nodding agreement, she stood silently beside him as she tucked her own windblown hair behind her ears. Her only other experiences at sea, the first to escape to New Cuba, and the second to flee from that very place, had been rushed and riddled with danger, allowing no time to truly appreciate the wonder and freedom Matt knew so well.
“Take the wheel,” he said to her, stepping aside to allow her room. Sheepishly, and slightly intimidated, Michelle placed her hands on the wheel. Matt began to explain the various controls. She could not stop a laugh—her first in weeks—when he showed her how to make tight circles with the boat. As the craft danced gracefully, her eyes once again fell on the black speck in the distance. Almost impossibly, the object was much closer than it had been before. She pointed it out to Matt, who retrieved a pair of binoculars from beneath the control console. Michelle slowed the boat as he gazed through the lenses.
“What is it?” she asked him as he slowly lowered the binoculars.
“The Mohawk.” The words chilled her more than the sea spray and wind. The Mohawk was a U.S. Coast Guard ship that was currently in the service of the National Council of New Cuba. It was that vessel that had transported Paul Jenson and his team, Lisa included, to Texas to begin a rescue operation. They also knew, however, that that mission was a false flag for Adam Duncan and his Ira Project. Its true goal was to deliver Lisa to the US, so she could collect any remaining evidence of the Ira Project from the Fort Polk facility. The crew had been given the directive to allow Lisa—and only Lisa—to return to New Cuba, and they were loyal to Duncan.
There had been some doubt regarding Lisa’s information, but with the ship now bearing down upon them, that doubt was quickly erased.
Taking the wheel from Michelle, Matt returned the boat to its previous course and steadily throttled the engine to its full capacity. She struggled with the binoculars, as the boat cut powerfully through the water.
“Can we out run it?” she shouted over her shoulder.
“For now, but they’ll gain on us once we stop to refuel.” Without a guarantee of securing fuel at the first marina at which they stopped, the Mohawk might well overtake them as they searched. “We’ll put as much distance as we can between us before we go to port.”
Though the boat supported mounted machine guns at bow and stern, the ammunition available to them was limited. Even fully stocked, Michelle doubted their small boat could withstand the firepower of the superior ship. Their only hope was to outpace it, but she could see from the worried creases on Matt’s once calm face that hope was dwindling with each minute of spent fuel.
Once the ship returned to being a small speck on the horizon, Matt steered their own boat towards the coast. Only luck would provide them with enough fuel to survive. But when has luck been on our side? Michelle thought silently.
* * *
The first marina had been wrung dry of fuel, both from the small scattering of boats and the dockside refueling station. As was the second. Finally at their third stop, Matt found a marina whose fuel tanks had not been depleted. Running a length of tubing from the boat to the tank, Matt began the process of replenishing their fuel. As he manned the action, Michelle strained to locate the ship in the distance. The marina’s location, inset into a small bay, made it difficult to see past the buildings and wildlife. Minutes passed and her anxiety rose as the Mohawk still remained beyond her view.
Indicating their tank was full, Matt hastily rolled a rusted fuel drum onto the deck and ran the hose into it. Soon she could hear the gasoline splash into the drum. Securing a reserve was wise, she knew, but the minutes lost worried her greatly. In all perhaps ten minutes had passed before Matt returned to the bridge and once again started the engine.
Wary of submerged vessels, he maintained a slow pace as they exited the marina. Out beyond the visual obstructions, gasped Michelle audibly when the hulking mass of the Mohawk came into view. Near enough now to not require binoculars, the black lettering along the ship’s side was as sinister as the devil itself. She could see the stick-like forms of members of the ship’s crew dotting the steel beast. It was the white dome on the front deck, with its massive muzzle turning slowly towards her, that drew her attention. Matt clearly recognized the threatening movement and shifted the boat into higher speed.
Buffeted by the sudden wind, Michelle clung desperately to the railing along the port side. Seconds later, the spot where the boat had been erupted into a massive funnel of water. Booming percussions sounded in the distance and further eruptions drew ever closer to the smaller boat’s stern. Tacking left and right, Matt steered the craft into a zigzag pattern. Though its target moved swiftly, the Mohawk’s weapons continued to fire in rapid succession. A heavy splash of displaced water soaked Michelle and the boat lurched dangerously as a shot struck the sea two feet from the starboard side.
With eyes still stinging from the saltwater, she fought through blurred vision as she saw two smaller shapes emerge from the smoke drifting away from the Mohawk. Two boats, dwarfed by the enormous metal ship, bounced across the waves, speeding towards their own. Instincts in command, she pulled herself towards the rear-mounted machine gun, gripped the wet metallic handles and spun the weapon on its base towards their pursuers.
The weight of the gun and the reckless crashing through the waves made it difficult to train the sight. Unsure how to operate it, Michelle moved her fingers towards what she assumed to be the trigger mechanism and fired several rounds into the distance. Falling far short of the target, she could only wait with dread until the swift boats chasing them entered range. Far outpacing the ship that launched them, the twin crafts steadily closed the distance.
As they neared, she could see each carried five men, garbed in black clothing with smooth helmets, all well-armed. Positioning the heavy gun, Michelle hoped the range was close enough as she launched a steady volley of gunfire. Sweeping to either side of her aim, the two rugged inflatables easily avoided the measure, and continued to draw nearer.
Over the din of the engine, and the crashing waves, she could hear Matt shouting, but his words were lost in the noise. The massive shots bombarding them from the Mohawk had ceased now that the two intercepting boats were in close pursuit. The immediate threat from the ship was removed, and he cut sharply towards the coast. Turning the machine gun to the right, Michelle again opened fire. The second barrage had come closer to her target, but had still failed to slow the advance.
Wet strands of hair whipped at her face as she spared a seconds-long glance over her shoulder. Matt was steering the boat closer to shore and she could see an endless series of docks reaching out into the gulf. Even in the brief time of distraction, the lightweight crafts had drawn incredibly close. With blinding desperation, Michelle again engaged the gun in a wild slice across the water’s surface. Confusion gripped her briefly as she watched the nearest boat break high across the waves. The vessel turned bow over stern as its occupants were thrown without care into the churning waters. She offered a hurried sigh of relief before redirecting the weapon at the remaining inflatable.
A sharp whistle of wind snapped through the air and she realized that the men giving chase were now within range to fire their own hand-held weapons. Pressing her body lower against the machine gun, Michelle watched several sparks flare and vanish as bullets struck the metal of the gun’s cradle. She set her jaw tight and leveled a responding volley that failed to hit the mark. Before she could adjust her aim, Matt again swung the boat sharply and she saw several abandoned boats of varying sizes fill the open spaces off either side of the boat. Steering them through the obstacles, he guided the craft seamlessly as the pursing inflatable struggled to follow.
With her
target slipping from view, Michelle scanned the area in hopes to determine Matt’s plan. Watercraft on all sides tugged on their moorings as the propeller-driven waves crashed along. Several of the vessels had capsized over time, while others stood proudly, boasting their survival amidst the wreckage. Closer in size to the immense ports of Havana, Michelle estimated over a hundred boats and ships now provided temporary cover.
Far slower now than before, Matt allowed their own boat to coast gently, turning nearly soundlessly among the other crafts. Their enemy still followed, detectable now only by the roar of their motor.
Michelle tried to study the waters around them in hopes to see the tell-tale wake of the other boat. The engine was the only sound, yet it seemed to spread across the water and reach her from all sides. Silently calming herself, she stretched her fingers, knuckles cracking, before resuming her hold of the machine gun. She knew she had to be sure of her target when she fired, or she’d risk giving away their position. Perhaps realizing their error, the sound of the motor abruptly cut off and was replaced by a dreadful silence.
Chapter Four
The morning slid by at a glacially slow pace as two men continued their trek across the barren landscape. Shortly before noon, Hicks had identified a distinct set of tracks that led beyond the camp’s secure perimeter. Derrick had enough experience to recognize the haphazard shuffling steps of an infected. For the most part the two had operated in silence, whether out of mutual indifference to each other or engrossment in their task, he could not tell. He welcomed the absence of conversation, having grown accustomed to the peace of solitude since the loss of his girlfriend, Jenni Caliente. It had been with great reluctance that he had surrendered to his curiosity and joined the Horde. Even then, he had cloistered himself almost to the point of recluse, avoiding as much interaction as possible as he studied the group.
His memory of Hicks from their time in the mountain camp was of a man quite like himself. Isolated, distant, and haunted. Not much had changed with him, by Derrick’s estimation, as they crossed the wide flats of the terrain. Declaring a brief stop to eat and rest was the first time Hicks had spoken since they set out at dawn.
Over a shared meal of nearly stale bread and smoked meat, he almost jumped when Hicks commented on his choice of weapons.
“You a samurai now?” the former mercenary asked, nodding his head towards the thin katana sword strapped to Derrick’s back. He had found the blade among a collection of swords and knives, most of which were display models and not sharpened, inside of an abandoned home that had offered shelter from a late spring downpour. His fascination had immediately piqued when his eyes had fallen upon the sleek steel with its red-cord handle and Asian dragon etched into the metal above the guard. Unlike the majority of the weapons of the home’s collection, the edge on the katana was deadly sharp and had drawn blood when he had carelessly ran his finger along it. Though he doubted its practical purpose against the ferocity of the Tils, Derrick had taken the sword with him, and had since kept it near at hand. In the months in his possession, the katana had proved invaluable.
“It’s good for close encounters,” he replied through a mouthful of bread. “Better to take one down with it quietly, than use a gun and draw more Tils.”
Hicks only offered a shallow nod and brief smile. Unreadable as always, Derrick took the gesture as agreement, though it could easily have been mockery. “It helps to wear the helmet,” he added, to tamper the latter. Tapping the black dome at his feet, another acquisition from his travels, he found himself seeking the other man’s respect.
“Blood spray,” Hicks said. Swallowing the last of his meal and taking a long drink of water from his canteen, he concluded the conversation simply. “Smart.”
Derrick was surprised at how deeply the words affected him. From the moment of Jenni’s infection, he had felt the shift in perception from the others in the camp. He had been painfully aware how caring for her, the near constant attention she required, had forced him to abandon his role in the group. For months he had wilted beneath Mike Allard’s guilt-ridden and empathetic gaze. Blinded by his love for Jenni, consumed with rage for her condition, he had been unable to see past his own emotions and understand how much he had truly lost that day.
Only when Mike ended the turmoil in the only way possible—a responsibility Derrick now knew he himself had failed in—did the veil of anger and sorrow begin to lift. He had departed the camp that night not in fury, but rather with the torturous realization that his actions had placed him beyond the respect and trust of those once so dear to him. It was that same realization that had required him to save Mike and deliver him to the waiting ship. It was an act of attrition, a marginal penance in what he believed a self-inflicted road of redemption. Hicks’ short praise sparked a flicker of hope that one day he might atone for the mistakes of the past.
Rising to join Hicks, Derrick made a cursory examination of his gear, retrieved the motorcycle helmet from the ground and began to pace alongside the older man as the two resumed their hunt. Only a few strides in, he felt a shiver pass through him as the hair on his body rose in alarm. Pivoting seamlessly on his right heel, his hands reflexively drew katana and firearm. Hicks immediately took a defensive posture of his own, weapons at the ready, and their eyes scoured the surrounding scenery.
“What d’ya got?” Hicks breathed in little more than a whisper.
“I don’t know, just felt something. Like we’re being watched.”
The terrain stretched in relative flatness in all directions, with minimal trees to obstruct sight. Save for the slight shifting of tree branches in the breeze, the landscape was devoid of motion.
Tense seconds passed, but Derrick was unable to locate anything to justify his alarm.
“You sure, kid?” Hicks asked. “I don’t see anything moving out there.”
Feeling the fool, Derrick muttered, “I guess not. It’s just that I…” He struggled to define the sensation that had precipitated his concern. Abashed, he eventually returned the blade to its sheath and shook his head. “I guess it was nothing.”
Already having relaxed his tension, Hicks holstered his guns as he said, “It happens. When you’re out here on your own, your mind plays tricks on you. Don’t let yourself get spooked, kid. We have a lot more ground to cover before we have to head back.”
Resigned to accept Hicks’ explanation, Derrick fell in beside him and continued to follow the tracks. So much for earning his respect, he thought with anger. I’m jumping at the wind. As they walked though, he continued to glance back over the ground they covered, unable to shake the prickling cold sensation of hidden eyes.
* * *
Crouched low, almost pressed into the ground, the creature stared at its prey. Too distant to attack, it simply waited until the indistinct shapes resumed their walking. An almost inaudible growl expressed its condemnation to the two others from the pack. They had drawn too close and thus the prey had been alerted. Second only to the pack’s Alpha, it knew the two others, lesser males in the hierarchy, would obey its warning. The same hunger that burned within them, fought to control its own mind. But, the Alpha’s instructions had been clear. The pack needed to eat.
* * *
“There’s at least seven different sets,” Hicks said in his usual grumble as he moved about the clearing in a hunch. It was nearing the time at which the two had planned to turn back when Hicks discovered the new sets of tracks. The footprints varied enough in size to account for several distinct Tils. Not far from the convergence of tracks, freshly deposited urine and feces attested to the recent presence of the tracks’ owners.
Glancing at his watch, and also the late-afternoon sun, Derrick asked, “Do we follow them? Paul gave us twenty-four hours before sending a search party.” Personally, he was inclined to pursue the prints, if only to rid the world of a handful of Tils, possibly even the Til that had managed to penetrate the Horde’s defenses.
As he rose from the ground, Hicks turned to him an
d spoke with a sincerity that took Derrick aback. “Your call, kid. You know the area better than me.”
Derrick unconsciously chewed the inside of his bottom lip as he weighed the risks. “Well, we’ve come this far,” he said finally. With silent agreement, Hicks shouldered his pack and returned to their steady pursuit of the Tils.
Over the next hours of walking, the sky grew increasingly dark, both from the waning of the day as well as a mass of thick gray clouds that were quickly filling the air above them. Though the heart of the storm was still perhaps some miles off, Derrick could hear the thundering booms in the distance. A stomach-turning pang of regret settled over him as it became clear that the pair would not only been spending the night’s passage in Til territory, but that those hours would pass under a cloud of rain.
Starting as a light mist, the rain that eventually overtook them soon turned to a hissing downpour that limited distant sight. The tracks they were following were quickly becoming little more than pockets of mud. So are ours, he thought sourly. Any search party looking for us won’t find our trail come morning. Pulling the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck, Derrick set his jaw and trudged along beside Hicks.
The other man, either more resilient or more practiced, seemed to ignore the storm entirely. Derrick could note, however, the increasingly coarse language tinting Hicks’ grumbles. Eventually the man pulled up short and scanned what little could be seen in the driving rain.
