Eric dropped the radio on the seat and drew the 10mm Colt from its holster.
“Make sure you give me enough angle to shoot from,” Michelle answered as she rolled down her window, “and don’t forget we need the truck’s lights to shoot by.”
He gunned the V-8 back down the highway, cutting in to the gravel as soon as he could. Flying in a straight line past the diesel pumps took him to the narrow corridor beside the propane storage shed, and he had to lock up the brakes in order to slow enough for the sharp right turn that would take him past the boat warehouse and towards his goal.
The intense combined wattage of the truck’s lights plowed through the dark path ahead, and Eric slowed as he broke between the warehouse and Walter’s office.
“Ready?”
Michelle’s arm and shoulder were already extended out the window as Eric cut the steering wheel right—quartering the truck toward the store. The brilliant white and amber radiance lit up half of the parking lot as the truck skidded to a stop thirty feet away from a cluster of figures pounding bloody fists on the glass door. Eric threw the truck into park and pulled the door latch as Michelle opened fire. Stepping out with one foot, he thrust the Colt through the ‘V’ section between the windshield frame and open door. The large, white ‘3-dot’ sight picture lined up on the face of a man with blood red eyes, and he steadied the weapon for half a second before squeezing the trigger. The roar of the large pistol accompanied a flash of white light that exploded from the muzzle, and the target dropped like a brick. Another one crumpled to the ground outside as Michelle poured fire into the group. The remaining three walkers turned away from the store in an instant and scampered toward the truck. From the truck seat, Eric’s radio blared out garbled voices as the thunder of gunshots echoed from Michelle and the roofline.
Eric adjusted his aim toward a shirtless teenage boy with beady, red eyes visible behind gold, wire-rimmed glasses. The first shot hit low and wide, crashing into the boy’s upper left shoulder. Compensating with the recoil, he sent the next two rounds into the center of the boy’s chest. Incredibly, the bare-chested walker didn’t drop. It was now at the front corner of the pickup, barely five feet away and closing. Eric compacted his shoulders into a tight coil and tried to steady his adrenalized nerves as the ghoul snarled. Envisioning a single point on the tip of the boy’s nose, he lined up the white dot of the front sight and snapped off a shot. The 175 grain silvertip hollow point smashed through the bridge of the wire rimmed glasses and blew out the back of the teenager’s skull. The boy collapsed—bouncing off the front quarter panel on his way to the gravel. Michelle had taken down another one, and Eric turned the Colt toward the final walker—an elderly lady with stringy gray hair and bony fingers. Twin explosions boomed as Eric’s Colt and Michelle’s Glock turned the woman’s brain into a crimson mist.
“TO YOUR LEFT . . . LOOK TO YOUR LEFT!” Voices were shouting from the rooftop, penetrating through the accompanying gunshots into Eric’s half deafened ears.
With one foot on the ground, and the other still on the floorboard of his truck, Eric slammed a new magazine in the 10mm and rotated left. In the half light reflecting and diffusing from his truck, he could see another group of four walkers coming up from the boat launch area. Only they weren’t walking. Three of them were trotting with an awkward, rolling combination of stiff-legged movements. It looked deceptively slow to the eyes, but they were covering the ground quickly and gaining speed with every second. Overlapping cracks of AR-15 fire rained from the store’s roof into the trio as they approached. The fourth walker moved different. It was small—less than five feet tall—and seemed to flow like quicksilver over and around obstacles. Immediately, Mike’s story about the little girl tearing the face off of the man at the campground came to Eric’s mind.
“Get in the truck and shut your door,” Michelle said as she changed magazines.
Eric dropped back into the seat and pulled the door shut. Shifting the truck into reverse and backing away from the store at an angle flooded the boat ramp with light. The three stiff-legged walkers were down, spread in an uneven line about fifteen feet apart. Several twitches and spasms still rocked their bodies, and somebody on the roof was slow firing into their remains. Three gunshots spaced five seconds apart—the last one verified by an orange tracer—brought an end to the spasms. Of the fourth ghoul, there was no sign.
“Sam . . . Eric . . . are you guys OK down there?” It was Walter.
Michelle picked up her radio and answered, “Eric and I are OK. Amy, is everybody all right in the store?”
“We have no . . . physical . . . injuries at the store. A few very frazzled nerves, however.”
“We’re all in one piece up on the roof. Getting’ low on five-five-six ammo though,” Thompson’s deep voice resonated, “and we’re out for the shotgun. The big light’s out of juice too. We still got our flashlights though.”
“Ask them if they saw where the other one went,” Eric said as he scanned the parking lot.
“Thompson, do any of you have eyes on the fourth one—the little, fast one?
After a moment he replied, “Ahhh, wait a sec’ . . .” Three flashlight beams shifted back and forth from the corner of the roof as Thompson continued, “negative, we don’t know where it went.”
“Keep looking.”
Michelle turned to Eric, “Remember Pickle Barrel?”
“That’s what I was just thinking.” Eric’s memory drifted back a dozen years or so. He’d been invited to go on a boar hunt in Florida by Michelle’s father, and the three of them, along with several other of her dad’s friends stayed for a weekend at a hunting cabin located in the swampy forest of a private game preserve close to the Everglades—and as it turned out—apparently also positioned next to the world’s foremost mosquito breeding facility.
The first night they were there, the owner of the cabin—a gray-stubbled, shifty-eyed Cajun transplant—proceeded to fill them with the legend of a huge, silverback monster hog that was rumored to haunt the local swamps. His coarse voice crackled over the smoke from a charcoal-fired, cast iron hibachi, and he pointed a gnarled finger in their direction as he spoke.
‘Five hun’ert pounds ifn’ it’s n’ ounz,’ en’ as big ‘round as uh pikkl’ burrl’ at ‘is shulders,’ ‘Itz dun ben’ imp-la-kated in ‘bout a duzen’ mur-durs round har’, but ain’t nobody been abl’ ta kill it. M’be yous yungin’s gonna git yur’ chance come mornin’ . . . jes’ you ‘amember ta’ aim fer’ his ‘ed, cuz’ yur bullits jus gonna bounce offa ‘is hide.’
Michelle and Eric had both looked at the corner of the rickety shack that served as base camp. Leaning against the wall on top of their sleeping bags were two compound bows. The old man followed their eyes to the corner, and then slowly lowered his chin and shook his head. ‘Ya ain’t a-plannin’ ta go out wit’ ‘dem toad-stikkers af’er ol Pikkl’ Burrl, is ya?’ They had, but the look that Michelle and Eric exchanged upon hearing the grizzled man’s words said that they were both having second thoughts. When they didn’t answer, he got up out of his creaky, cypress-peg rocking chair and stepped out the door onto the porch, returning a moment later carrying an old, weather and sun bleached shovel.
‘I rekken’ I ought ta’ start a-diggin’ yur graves ta’night, so as I ’ont havta’ do it in the’ mornin.’
The cabin had exploded with laughter at the open-mouthed expressions on their faces, and that probably would have been the end of it, except it wasn’t. The next day, Eric had been positioned in a low tree stand located at the busy intersection between warring mosquito clans, and after spending all day drenched in sweat with nothing to show for it other than a few million welts, he was ready to pack it in. That’s when the thick brush to his right began to shake and part with the approach of a snuffling, grunting shadow. Memories of the old-timer’s story, multiplied and magnified throughout the hot day in Eric’s own mind, jumped to the surface as he drew back on the bow. His shaking arm had held full draw for wh
at seemed like hours before the beast stepped out barely fifteen yards ahead of him. He was fully expecting the broadhead-tipped shaft to ricochet off the monster as he let it fly, but instead, it had hit too low and too far back—sinking in to the boar’s belly. The animal had squealed and torn off into the dense underbrush alongside an alligator infested canal, and Eric had waited another thirty minutes before descending from the stand. The whole time, not so distant sounds of rending and tearing vegetation had intermixed with spine tingling grunting and squealing. It was almost dark when Eric made it back to the cabin. After telling his story to the gathered group, the old man took down a well worn, double barrel shotgun from its resting place atop two moth-eaten, wall-mounted deer heads, and after breaking it open, reached into the pocket of his faded canvas vest and removed a pair of high brass, 12 gauge rifle slugs.
‘You’s gonna need dis.’ Watch out fur’ dem gators . . . dey be drawn’ ta the smell o’ blood en’ whatnot. Now you’s only got two shots, so as if’n the firs’ one don’t do it, I’d might ad-vize ya ta’ save that there secon’ one for youself.’
Eric had looked around the room at the amused faces of the men as they waited for him to chicken out, and more than one set of eyebrows went up when he grabbed the shotgun and shells from the old man.
‘If’n I’z you, ahd be takkin’ sombod’ wit me out der inna the ol’ by-yoo. Leas-wise dey cun’ tell us war’ yur body be layin.’’
“I’ll go,” Michelle had said.
Forty-five minutes later, Eric and Michelle had been transported via four wheeler to the area where he’d shot the boar. Several of the other men, including the crusty Cajun but not Michelle’s father, had also tagged along, ‘just in case.’ The old man had fired up an ancient carbide lantern and handed it to Michelle with some words of advice.
‘You-all go real slo’ . . . en’ be wachin’ fur dat devl’ pig wit’ each step, ya hear. En’ the gaters too, dey be feedn’ ‘bout now . . . en’ all da ‘nakes be jes ichn’ ta bite som’ dat Nort’ Deekota blood frem ya too. Uder den thet’, I ‘magin you’s got no wurrees.’
“Yes sir.” Eric had responded with much more bravado in his voice then he felt in his gut.
‘You wants’ dat I shud’ go in der wit’ ya? Er m’be you’s want me n’ sum da’ boys ta go afer’ ol Pikkl’ Burrl ‘sted of you?
“No, it was my bad shot that wounded him; it’s my job to finish it.”
The Cajun had formed a tobacco-stained, jack-o-lantern smile with all the speed of an August sunset as he digested Eric’s words.
‘Mmm-hmm, I rekn’ it tis’ at dat.’ He took two half limping steps closer and leaned toward Eric. ‘You got em’ made a’ brass, boy. Jes be curfl’ en’ lissn’ ta the’ sounds of theh swamp, caz dat ol’ pig gonna lay all qui-eht ‘till yeh gets right up on im,’ but ifn’ ya’ gots good ears, ya can a-hear him huffn’ jus’ e’nuff ta’ git som warnin’ afore he eats’ ya.’
Then, much to Eric and Michelle’s surprise, the old man had leaned even closer and whispered in a chewing tobacco scented breath, ‘Boy, you be careful out there. I’ll be right up here if you need me. Follow the blood, but don’t keep your nose pointed at the ground. One step at a time, and remember what I told you—use your ears. You can sometimes hear these big old porkers breathing from ten yards away. When you see it, even if it looks like it’s dead, you put another slug into it. You got it?’
Eric’s wide-eyed surprise at the sudden loss of the Cajun’s accent lasted only a moment before Michelle tapped him on the shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“I guess, what about you?”
“Let’s go before I change my mind or come to my senses.”
What had followed was a thirty minute, ‘pucker factor ten’ stalk through the dense underbrush following a blood trail that could barely be seen. Every step forward seemed to cost them a few years of their life, and enough adrenaline was coursing through Eric’s veins that the mosquitoes probably exploded soon after biting him. After forty yards, they had found an area of shredded vegetation and trampled earth. At the center of the torn up area was a huge spray of blood mixed with clumps of bristly black hair. The arc-white light cast by the lantern threw fingers of shadows into the already eerie clearing, and the oppressive, humid silence seemed to squeeze them from all directions . . .
“And that’s when the screech owl shrieked right above us,” Michelle vocalized his thought from the truck seat next to him.
Eric couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know who jumped higher—me when the owl screeched, or you when I fired off both barrels from the air.”
When the dust had settled and their hearts had stopped racing, they’d found the pig crumpled in the brush just outside of the clearing. It was dead. Eric’s broadhead had struck further forward then he’d thought and clipped a major artery near the pig’s heart. It also wasn’t the legendary ‘Pickle Barrel’ of the Cajun’s story, but instead a rather diminutive old sow that barely topped one hundred pounds—before being field dressed.
Their chuckling died away as they scanned through the windows. After another moment of contemplation, Eric picked up the radio and spoke, “OK, everybody listen up please. Sam, give me a round count for the AR’s.”
Scott’s voice came back, “Thompson says he has two full magazines, thirty rounders, with a tracer every five, and Sam has one full magazine, and one with about eight shots left—thirty rounders also, he’s telling me.”
“OK, hold on . . . Walter, what kind of shotgun ammo is loaded in the weapons at the store?”
“They’ve each got eight rounds of number four buckshot.”
“Any reloads?”
“No.”
“OK, everybody hold on a moment.”
Turning to Michelle, Eric said, “What do you think? On one hand there may be more of them still coming from that direction,” he leaned his head toward the campground, “in which case staying right here and providing light for Sam and Thompson to shoot by sounds pretty good to me. On the other hand, I really don’t like the idea of that fast one being out there and unaccounted for.”
Michelle thought quietly as her eyes continued to scan the surroundings. After a moment she answered, “Let’s sit here for another few minutes. If nothing comes out, let’s drive around the lot in the truck and see if we can find our missing . . . friend.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to sleep very soundly if one of those ferals are loose around here, so I guess it will be ‘Pickle Barrel’ round two.”
“Can I carry the light this time?” Eric teased.
“Nope, you be gettin’ dat ol skattergun’ ‘till you’s gets it right,” Michelle offered up a bad imitation of the old Cajun, and after a moment both of them burst out laughing.
When they settled down a few minutes later, the area was still quiet.
“OK, um . . . everybody. We’ve seen zero additional movement so far, but we know there’s at least one more of those things out there. We think it’s a feral. Michelle and I are going to circle the lot a few times in the truck to see if we can find it. Sam, I’d like either you or Thompson to follow our progress from the rooftop as best as you can. The other one needs to keep watching toward the lake and road for any stragglers. If we can’t find it after a few laps, we’re going to have to regroup and hunt it down. Any questions?”
There weren’t, so after another glance in each direction, Eric shifted the Dodge into drive and slowly circled back towards Walter’s office.
They had barely gone five feet when Walter’s voice broke through, “Um . . . hey, hold up a minute.” Eric tapped the brake and waited as the sound of shuffling papers came across. “Ah, Amy, can you ensure your radio stays on channel one for a moment?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Eric and Sam, can you . . . ah . . . 10-61 to channel . . . um, how about channel seven?”
Michelle punched in the code and switched her radio to channel
seven. A few seconds later Thompson’s voice confirmed he was onboard as well.
“OK,” Walter said, “just something I should have mentioned before. My bad, sorry. Anyhow, watch your fields of fire. Especially towards that small building closest to the diesel pumps. We don’t want anything to go boom that’s not supposed to, OK?”
“Understood,” Michelle and Thompson both replied.
“Switching back to channel one now.”
“10-4”
Michelle keyed her radio, “Amy, we’re getting ready to start circling. Keep your eyes on the door. There shouldn’t be anybody at ground level outside, so if you see something, it’s not one of us.”
“Got it, anything that moves outside is not friendly. If I see something, I’ll call on the radio. Do you want us to stay flat on the floor?”
“Yes, at least until we circle few times—maybe longer—we’ll let you know.”
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 14
