The Dog Hunters: An Apocalyptic Ice Age Story
Page 11
He picked up the two halves of the book cover. Putting them together he saw it was from an old Army field manual, FM 21-76, Survival. On the other side someone had written in ink, This book belongs to Zachary Amaral. The name seemed vaguely familiar.
In the snow he saw some of the spent brass the shooter had used. He picked it up and knew right away it was .30-06. He pocketed it.
A blue snowmobile appeared at the mouth of the road and started down into the field. It stopped beside the disabled red snowmobile and the rider dismounted to examine it.
Raymond screamed at the others to hurry up. But the man with the snowmobile, Jim De Angelis, had left its engine running while he inspected the disabled one and he couldn’t hear the shouting.
None of the others were hurrying up the hill. They approached the crest warily. They already knew the man they’d been pursuing could shoot. Raymond was livid at their lack of speed.
“Get up here,” he yelled.
When they reached him, he pointed to the tracks left by Zach and the dog.
“He’s gone. Let’s go,” he yelled.
“We’ve got to take Peterson and Jamison back,” Ted Foy, a large, older man, countered. “And Anderson is dead.”
“No, we’ve got to get that bastard,” Raymond yelled as he started in the direction Zach had taken.
When no one followed, he stopped.
“Come on,” he screamed.
“We’ve got wounded men to get back,” Foy said.
“Let the others take them. We’ve got to get him.”
“You go get him,” Foy yelled back. “We’ve got to keep these other guys alive.”
The snowmobile finally reached them and the driver, De Angelis, got off. “Jamison bled to death,” he said without emotion.
One of the walkie-talkies came to life and a voice said, “We found Kyle…he’s dead…head shot.”
“Kyle?” Raymond yelled in alarm. “He’s just a kid. Give me the goddamned snowmobile,” he screamed as he lunged for it.
“No,” Foy yelled and blocked him. “We’ve got to keep Peterson alive. The snowmobile’s the quickest way back to the ranch.”
“Then you pussies can go,” Raymond yelled. “Who’s with me?”
“No one,” Foy yelled back. “Anderson was leading this expedition and now he’s dead. We don’t know who the hell we’re chasing and I don’t know anyone here who wants to be dead, so we’re going back.”
“LaCroix’s gonna be pissed we let this guy get away.”
“Then let LaCroix make that decision. This was bound to happen sooner or later; we’ve run into a meat grinder. How many guys do you want to get killed chasing this one guy? How do we know he isn’t meeting up with some friends? We could be going into an ambush.”
Foy turned around and yelled at De Angelis, “Go get Peterson and get him back to the compound, fast! Then come back for Anderson, Jamison, and Kyle. But get Peterson back as quick as you can.”
“What about the other snowmobile?” Raymond asked.
“It’s toast, but we can part-it-out.” De Angelis said.
“Anyone know this guy…” Raymond asked as he took the halves of book cover out of his pocket and read the name to them, “…Zachary Amaral?”
“Who’s that?” Foy asked.
Raymond was agitated. “It’s a name on a fuckin’ book cover that had a cigarette and firecracker on it,” he shouted.
“Cigarette and firecracker?”
“Yeah, that motherfucker tricked us so he could get a lead on us.” He looked around. “Anyone know the name?”
After a few seconds, Wayne Dodd, who had been silent to this point, started saying, “Amaral…Amaral…”
“You know who he is?” Raymond asked.
“Hold on…Yeah, he…ah… he married Sandra Gibbons…”
“Sandra Gibbons, the cheerleader from a few years back?”
“Yeah, I think that’s him.”
“Gibbons is Anderson’s damned cousin.”
“Second or third cousin, I think,” Foy said.
“Who is he, though? Who the hell is Zachary Amaral?”
“I hunted with him five or six years ago.” Dodd went on. “He was a survivalist-type guy; had a lot of guns and ammo. I can’t remember where he came from. But his family owned a cabin out here, somewhere. Kind of athletic. And I remember he won some kind of regional science fair, because that’s why Sandra went for him; she liked brainy guys.”
“Lotta guys had the hots for her,” Foy said.
“Well, I’ve got the hots for this Amaral, now,” Raymond said. “I want him dead. Let’s get him.”
“We’ve got wounded to take back,” Foy said steadfastly.
“No! We’re getting this guy, now.”
“You’re not taking the snowmobile,” Foy said.
“I don’t need the snowmobile. Who’s coming?”
No one volunteered.
“What about you, Wayne? You coming with me?” he asked Dodd, the weakest-willed, a “yes man” who craved acceptance.
Dodd wavered for a second. He didn’t want to go. But he didn’t want anyone to think he was scared. He was afraid if he said “No” first and others then joined…how would he look?
“What’s your decision?” Raymond demanded
Reluctantly he skied toward Raymond.
“Who else?”
No one moved. Some turned their backs to him. They’d lost the stomach to track this guy into the woods.
“Come on, Scott.”
Scott Kramer shook his head no.
“Just go part ways with me,” Raymond said.
Scott wavered.
“We’ll just follow him a little ways. If it looks dangerous, we’ll turn back.”
Scott didn’t know how to say no, either.
“Come on, you guys. We can get him. We can get him for the guys that are down.”
“I’m keeping Peterson alive,” Foy said and started skiing away. Most of the others followed him.
“Let those pussies go,” Raymond said and he started skiing along the tracks Zach and the dog had left.
“Come on,” he said to Dodd and Scott.
Reluctantly, they followed Raymond across the field, but they lagged back, afraid bullets would come out of the trees where the tracks led. Once there, they saw where Zach and the dog’s tracks disappeared down the old overgrown skid road; they stood out like signposts.
The three entered the road but their progress wasn’t as fast as Zach’s because Dodd and Scott still lagged, anticipating ambushes every foot of the way. They knew their quarry could and would shoot. Raymond chided them for their caution as they travelled, but even he was cautious and he wasn’t willing to get too far ahead of his companions.
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