by Tom Calen
* * *
They had managed to travel well into the night without encountering the Mohawk, even when low fuel once again required Matt to bring the boat in to the coast. That second search had taken longer, but there had still been no sight of the enemy ship as they departed. Before the sun had completely set behind them, Michelle had been able to see the Florida coast inching nearer.
Since they had arrived later than planned, Matt agreed that the relatively short trip south to New Cuba could not wait until the following night. The Mohawk may no longer be a threat, but that would change if they were to wait until the following night to make the crossing. Weary from both stress and physical exertion, the pair set their minds on reaching the island’s shore before sunrise.
During that all too brief year when the world seemed to resume a form of normalcy, Michelle realized she had become quite spoiled with access to certain comforts. Since leaving Havana, she had fought the daily pangs of hunger for food that was more palatable than what could be safely stored for years. As the boat motored through the darkness, she teased herself with thoughts of Tumelo Sardina’s exquisite cooking. Those thoughts, of course, only worsened the cravings.
It had been slightly shy of a month since her old friend and his wife had helped her and the others escape from New Cuba. There had been little time to ponder in the intervening weeks if the couple had suffered any ill consequence for assisting the flight from the island. And if they did? she asked herself. As much as she hated risking their safety, Michelle knew that once she reached Havana, she would be calling on the Sardinas again. I’ll have to tell them about Andrew. God, it will be like reliving it again.
Her thoughts then turned to Senora Sardina. For months Michelle had withered under the imposing woman’s scowl. All attempts to be cordial had been met with stoic indifference. Except on the night of the escape. Senora Maritza Sardina—“Itza” as she told Michelle—had been an indomitable force of strength, an iron fist in a lace glove. She could feel her own resolve returning as she considered the other woman. Having lost all her children, first to a car crash and then the virus, Itza had endured. For the first time since Andrew’s death, Michelle wondered if she too, might have the strength to mourn but not crumble.
* * *
Marking the hours by the stars’ steady procession across the night sky, Michelle and Matt took turns piloting the boat. Unfamiliar with the route and its dangers, she was relieved that Matt did not stray too far from the helm. As they crossed the sea, the two talked idly of things of little consequence, sharing stories of their respective youths and families. she could sense that they both were avoiding any topic that touched on the outbreak and all that followed it. It was in that way they were able to pass the time in good humor, as simply two friends on a night cruise. The horrors behind and before them, both in time and distance, could be forgotten, if only for those brief hours.
Approximating their location relative to New Cuba, Matt cut the boat’s lights and navigated by memory. Even travelling at nearly top speed, the eastern sky was brightening by fractional degrees. If stopped by any coastal guards, Matt hoped the fabrication of two lovers out for the night would be enough to pass a cursory questioning.
New Cuba soon became visible as the sun seemed to be racing the boat, the sky above the island rapidly increasing the red glow of morning. Checking to make sure the weapons were stowed out of sight, Michelle returned to stand beside Matt as he brought them closer to port. With a start, she now noticed that the sky in the east had not changed much. In fact it was only the air above New Cuba that was glowing. As the distance closed, the thick black clouds that blanketed the sky confirmed her worry. Havana was burning.
Unconsciously, Michelle grabbed Matt’s arm as they wordlessly stared at the endless line of buildings aflame. Sections that had not been populated since before the outbreak now gushed with billowing fire. So too, did sections she knew to be inhabited. There were no fire crews, no evidence of rescue or emergency vehicles, simply a burning torch of a city.
“What could have happened?” she said, though it was unlikely any explanation would be sufficient for the carnage before her eyes.
Except for one.
Her eyes followed the direction of Matt’s outstretched arm. Silhouetted against the flames, Michelle could see several figures scurrying to hide from the light now beaming from the boat. Their faces could not been seen at that distance, but it was not faces that provided the answer.
“The Tils are loose,” Michelle muttered, feeling both dread and anger.
Chapter Eight
“It’s too dangerous,” Derrick exclaimed once again, though the words seemed to fall short of Hicks’ selective hearing. During the last five minutes, amidst the bone-chilling keening of the Tils, he had tried to dissuade Hicks from what could only be considered a suicide mission. In truth, though, he knew the other man had the right of it. If the Tils had advanced enough to coordinate and plan, then the next logical conclusion was that the cries that split the night’s storm were signals to other infected.
“We don’t even know where they are out there,” he tried the second argument against the plan.
“If we wait much longer, we could be facing dozens, maybe hundreds, of Tils. This shed isn’t going to offer a minute of protection against a force that size. We come out now, guns blazing, and make a run for the camp. We might have a chance. I know you’re scared, kid, but—”
“I’m not scared,” Derrick snapped. Hicks’ nickname for him was one thing, but he would not accept actually being treated like one. He did wish his tone had not sounded quite so peevish when he cut the other man off.
“No? Well hell, I am,” Hicks said with a grunting laugh. “So, we doing this?”
Not seeing any alternative, at least not one with the potential for a better outcome, Derrick replied affirmatively with as much courage as he could reasonably muster. The Tils that stalked in the raging storm outside were clearly unlike any he had faced before. The feeling of being hunted and observed he likened to being tracked by a wolf pack. Predators not rushing in for a sloppy kill, but rather moving and manipulating their prey to the moment and location of the pack’s choosing. The fear in his head reminded him: Never run from a wolf.
Moving through the darkness, which was broken less frequently by lightning than when the storm first moved in, he joined Hicks by the shed’s thin metal doors. Breathing deeply failed to still his racing pulse, but the pistol in his left hand provided a small gain in confidence. Easing his thumb along the power button on the flashlight in his right hand, Derrick whispered his readiness to the mercenary at his side.
“Remember keep the light to a minimum, and run like hell.”
Derrick had hoped for words slightly more encouraging from the more experienced man, though he knew Hicks was a man of practicality, not inspiration.
“3…2…1.” When Hicks finished the countdown, both men raised a leg, though one would have sufficed, and smashed open the doors. In less than a heartbeat, the pair was racing east through the heavy rain. Just as quickly the inhuman shouts of the Tils changed in pitch and tone to something more panicked, more immediate.
The chase begins, Derrick thought as he ran.
Through flickers of their flashlights, they pounded across the land. Nature seemed against them as the rain bit at their vision and the muddied ground clung and sucked at their boots in an attempt to force a stumble. After the Tils had sounded their alarm, they once again resumed a deathly silence. Derrick did not doubt the infected were in pursuit, he could only hope to outrun them.
Flashing a bar of light ahead briefly, he saw a blur of movement to his right. Swinging his arm across his chest, he fired several rounds into the distance, knowing only luck would guide the bullets to his target. The echoing shots were answered by a vicious chorus of bestial howls. Though unseen, he knew that well more than three Tils trailed behind. Cracks of lightning split the sky in front of him, and he used the momentary light to chec
k his flanks as he ran. Fast moving shapes were cutting a parallel course on either side. Once the rolls of thunder ceased, he could only hear the drumming rhythm of the footfalls and breathing of himself and Hicks.
Again using the flashlight, the pair had to veer quickly as a storm-cloaked tree obstructed the path. Rain and wind lashed at his face, but they caused no lessening of the fiery adrenaline that coursed thought his veins. In the few moments of illumination, Derrick scanned desperately for some type of shelter, yet he knew they were committed to their current action. Stopping now would only allow the Tils to surround them and attack. Running, out-running, was the only option now. He had had impressive times running the forty on his high school football team, but he feared the outcome of a long distance race. Especially one in near total darkness.
His legs turned in painful locomotion as he felt the beginnings of fatigue steal into his calves. Screaming thoughts of perseverance to his limbs, Derrick could feel hope slipping. Thumbing the flashlight on again, he had little time to dodge the creature hurtling towards him. The impact sent both gun and flashlight careening from his hands, the latter smashing into a tree with a loud pop of light before extinguishing.
Rolling across the wet earth, he pulled his knees up to kick the Til off of him. Once free of the infected, his right hand shot to his upper back and pulled the katana from its sheath. Relying on what little night vision remained to him, Derrick swung the sword in several cascading arcs until blade met bone. The angry squeal of the Til as its arm parted from its body allowed him more accuracy. The infected’s incensed cry ended when Derrick slashed in a downward diagonal, beheading it.
Disoriented, the twenty-five year old immediately set off in the direction of the thunder which was his only method of establishing a compass to follow. Only a few yards ahead, five gunshots blared in rapid succession. From the angle of the muzzle flashes, Derrick could see that Hicks was down. Breaking his silence, he called out to the other man as he sprinted in approach.
Reaching his fallen comrade, Derrick shouted over Hicks’ continuing firing. “What happened?”
“Busted leg,” Hicks replied. The pain was evident in the man’s voice. Grabbing the riot shotgun from Hicks’ side, Derrick unloaded two shells blindly into the night. Before he could fire again, lightning, further east now, lit the area with a pale blue glow. Among the few trees were scores, if not hundreds of Tils, mouths agape in howls, eyes burning with hunger and hatred. They were steadily, but cautiously closing in.
“Son of a bitch!” Hicks exclaimed, clearly catching the same glimpse of the true horde that approached.
“Come on,” Derrick ordered as he swung down to bring Hicks to his feet. Taking the older man’s arm across his shoulder, he grunted as his stance adjusted to the extra weight.
“Flashlight’s to your right,” Hicks informed him. Wishing the injured man had told him sooner, he bent his knees as his hand reached out, feeling for the cool metal cylinder. Within seconds, he found the object and passed it to Hicks as the two set off in a wobbling, three-legged trot. No longer worrying about risking lights, Hicks directed the beam ahead. Wounded as Hicks was, Derrick concluded that the option of running was no longer available to them. Searching his mind as he ran, he tried to recall any structure, natural or man-made, they had passed that day from which they could make a stand, or at least hole up until a search team was deployed.
“Kid, over there,” Hicks’ voice exploded. Derrick could see a small drop in the landscape left of their current position. Quickly stumbling over to it, he lowered Hicks to the ground, then spun the flashlight behind them. The Tils were still following, though they had gained little ground. Which means they know they don’t need to catch us… we’re gonna drop soon, he thought with dejection.
Passing the beam to Hicks’ leg, he felt all hope escape as his eyes fell on the bones that had ripped through flesh and fabric. How the man was even still conscious Derrick could not fathom. Even in the unaccented glow of the flashlight, he could see the injury was significant and that Hicks had already lost much blood.
“Give me your spare guns.”
“What?” Derrick asked.
“Sorry, kid, but you’re on your own now. Give me your spare guns and I can hold them off to buy you time,” Hicks explained, with as much emotion as one asking of the weather.
“I’m not leaving y—” Derrick began, but was cut off as Hicks grabbed at his belt and pulled him close.
“It’s not about you and me,” the former gun-for-hire growled with a power in body and voice Derrick was shocked to see, given the injury. “You have to warn the camp. Now give me some guns, dammit, and get the hell out of here!”
Shocked to find himself complying with the request, Derrick pulled two sidearms from his pack as well as a handful of loaded magazines. Though his mouth moved as his mind searched for the words to argue, or thank, or impart, he found none, and simply placed the items beside Hicks.
“Stay low. The flashlight should blind ‘em enough until you’re out of sight,” Hicks said as he released his hold. For a heartbeat, Derrick met the other man’s eyes. “You did good, kid. In the mountains, and now. Now go warn Paul.”
Crouching low, Derrick, struck mute by the pace of the chaos around him, turned back once as he watched Hicks pull himself into position then slashing the flashlight left and right. Running towards the storm, he heard the first of the gunshots only a minute after he left.
Either the battle had ended, or he had outrun it, but sometime later he realized that the only sounds in the darkness were his own, and that of the sky above.
* * *
He gave the kid credit. Many would have argued against the inevitable, but then Derrick had already lived through one refusal to see the obvious. He watched the boy disappear into the darkness, then grunted in pain as he pulled himself closer to the ridge. Long years of survival, both in war and in solitude, had taught him to compartmentalize physical weakness in order to focus on the task at hand. That training was being pushed to the limit as he tried to close off the pain of his shattered leg. Swinging the flashlight from one end of the Tils’ advancing column to the other, he felt no anger watching their hesitant faces. Anger makes you sloppy. It was that very motto that had brought him through every hell he had faced. Anger, fear, sadness—and especially love—were distractions that his type of solider could not afford.
There was only one emotion that led to survival. Respect. Respect for your superiors. Respect for your comrades-in-arms. And respect for your enemies. On several missions before the outbreak, he had partnered, by necessity of mission, with fellow private contractors. All were cut from the same dry, stiff cloth that had made him. But it was in the mountain camp, under the leadership of Mike Allard, Paul Jenson, and their group that he was surprised how much he had come to respect them, civilians as they were. Driven equally by emotion as much as calculation, Hicks had doubted the group’s survival.
“Damn lucky fools,” he said through an almost smile. As the Tils neared, he retrieved one of the four weapons at his side. Sliding his hand around the Berretta, he hefted it so that it rested atop the elevated ground. Knowing full well he lacked the rounds required to eliminate the threat, he hoped that these more cautious Tils would shy away from his bullets long enough for Derrick to get away.
There was clear irony that he, a trained and battle-hardened warrior, would be outlived by a group of ill-prepared civilians. That he was about to sacrifice his life for one of them only added to the many bizarre twists of his fate. As thoughts turned memories in his mind, his body systematically unloaded and reloaded each weapon. It had been a good life, he believed. Too short, yet longer than should have been allowed, given the risks of his past employment. His life had been one of solitude; no marriage, no kids, no family. The ideal recruit for black-ops wet work, one of the men he had trained with had said. No phone calls for the brass to make when you get your head blown off.
His time in the mountains had been the l
ongest stretch of his life remaining with a set group of people. Hicks never understood how friendship was defined, how high a level of trust was needed to call one a friend. And while Paul and the rest probably did not see it the same, they had become the first people in his life he thought had reached that point. As he reached for another weapon, the last available to him, he said a silent curse for breaking his rule of detachment. Letting people in came with a cost, and Hicks understood he was now to pay the price.
Round after round exploded from the handgun, fewer finding a killing shot as his body lagged with the loss of blood. With one bullet remaining, Hicks let himself slide down from the raised lip of earth. The Tils would be upon him shortly, once they realized he no longer posed a threat. Raising the gun to his temple, his mind went to Derrick and hoped the sacrifice had bought the boy an escape.
“Damn lucky fools,” he spoke again as the sounds of the Tils inched over him. A final gun shot rang through the night. If the infected had left any remains, and if his body had been found by any who knew him, they would have been surprised to see that Austin James Hicks had died with a smile on his face.
Chapter Nine
“How many?” Paul asked again, with more than a little trepidation. He could see the exhaustion deepen each time he had Derrick retell the previous night’s events. Shortly after sunrise, when the storm had passed and left behind a ground-soaked reminder, word reached him that the scouting team had returned with Derrick. The man’s physical injuries were minor, mostly scratches and bruises from his headlong sprint through the night. His expression, however, was far more troubling. A visage of horror and sadness, he had detailed the discovery of the Tilian hunting party, his eventual escape, and Hicks’ sacrifice.
