The Raven Falconer Chronicles (Book 2): Rise of the Huskers

by Dennis F. Larsen

  A door tucked behind the stairs granted him access with the same key he’d used above. Black and cold, the space was almost impossible to search. He used his hands, touching and exploring, as if he were blind at a Saturday morning garage sale. “Rake, ah . . . shovel. That might work,” he said, taking it from the wall. “No, wait . . . firewood, has to be an axe.” Eli’s vision had accommodated, just enough, to allow him to make out vague shapes and shadows through the lightless room. Woodpile . . . woodpile, and then he saw it, just as the Millers had described in their note. Tossing the shovel aside he felt and studied the mass of timber, finally locating a heavy-headed, double-edged axe stuck between the pile and unfinished wall.

  He lifted the axe, draped it over his shoulder but quickly lowered the steel head to the ground and dragged it to the door. “Tommy. Tommy Cat . . . where are you?” he whispered. Eli stopped at the doorway and called again, a hush to his voice. What am I doing? He renewed his calls, but with full purpose and volume. Suddenly something brushed against his ankle and stepped on his foot. “Tommy, let’s go.” Eli hefted the long-handled hatchet with both hands and scooted away from his newfound shelter, the cat in tow. A key dug into his right thigh, assuring him that he’d be able to start the pickup once he covered the short distance to where it was parked. Pain slowed each strained step, willpower and self-control pushing him forward.

  The middle-aged Falconer turned only once to see the Tabby loping along behind him, maneuvering obstacles and carrying, in his teeth, a small grey mouse. Stupid cat. The Ford was where he had left it. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he placed the axe where he could easily reach it. Tommy didn’t wait for an invitation but jumped, first to the floorboard, and then the seat next to Eli, the mouse still clutched in his tight jaws. A second later the engine sputtered to life and began to roll from the lot. Explosive, hollow echoes continued to report an awful fight was ensuing. So many, must be hundreds, he thought. The memory of his battle with Benny, and the idea that Raven would be faced with a similar fate, forced his foot down on the accelerator, as he raced to the site of the fray.

  * * *

  Officer Nowicki ran from one group of frightened survivors to the next, shouting and issuing orders. “Keep your heads down and stay behind cover. They can shoot at us all day, as long as they don’t breach the inn! Watch the doors and windows.” The onslaught of gunfire had started only minutes after Darwin and Lou had driven away. “Thirty minutes, my ass!” Ziggy had screamed, dodging the first few rounds that had whistled overhead. Raven stayed low and ran at his heels, the weight of the heavy-barreled gun almost non-existent in her hands. They dashed from one location to the next, checking the security of their perimeter and the status of their ‘troops’. Some had summoned the courage to return the occasional shot but most sat on the floor, their weapon standing between their feet. “It’ll be okay. They’re trying to rile us up so we’ll make a mistake. Stay put and ready for when they make their move,” he yelled, over and over again, hoping to build morale and silence the rising fear.

  On the roof, the defenders lashed out at native attackers with random, ill-sighted bursts of fire. Pooch barked and bounded from barrier to stairwell, anxious to see Raven rejoin her friends. “Bobi, we’ve got to keep ‘em away from the doors,” Hannah shrieked, noting that her Egyptian friend was still huddled against the supportive, perimeter wall, praying. “That rifle’s not going to fire itself,” she continued, above the sound of the incoming rounds. The dental assistant suddenly stood up above the wall’s edge and pulled the AK’s trigger three times, sending a trio of slugs into the surrounding blackness. A figure, crouching but moving quickly along the meter-high barricade, periodically stood, fired a round through his scoped-rifle and then stooped to protect himself.

  “Shoot at the muzzle flashes,” Willie hollered, before lifting and firing another single shell. A string of copper jacketed slugs stitched a trail up the outside of the façade, forcing the Daniels man back to the roof’s surface. “That was close! Keep moving, don’t shoot from the same spot twice.” His words of advice faded as he ran to the next sentries, issuing the same warning and instructions.

  “Bobi, for hell’s sake, suck it up and help me,” Hannah cried, moving to her left, three shuffled paces, before she lifted and fired a pair of rounds. Bobi wished she could match the courage of her roommate, but fear, a weight, heavier than her resolve, held her down. She looked at Hannah, tears blurring her vision as she knelt and tried to stand. “You can do it,” Hannah encouraged, popping up again to fire. The taller woman was suddenly thrown back, the Russian-patterned machine gun flung from her hands, clattering to a stop on the roof.

  “Hannah . . . no!” Bobi howled, tossing her weapon aside and crawling quickly to her downed friend. “Hannah, Hannah, you okay?” Pooch beat her there, nuzzling Hannah and licking her mercilessly.

  “Ah, I don’t know. My head hurts.” She rolled onto her side, then sat, feeling over the surface of her face and neck with a shaking hand.

  “I don’t see any blood. Where are you hurt?” Bobi, nearly hysterical, shifted around her roommate, searching for a sign of trauma. “Hey, hold on,” she said, sticking her finger through a single hole in the hood of Hannah’s coat. “You’re okay. You’re not hit! Must’ve smacked your head when you fell down.” For a minute all sounds were dulled by their elation, the friends nearly forgetting where they were and what danger still persisted all around them.

  “Good. How lucky was that?” Hannah shouted, realizing how loud the firefight had grown.

  “From the looks of things, damn lucky,” Raven yelled in response. “What happened?”

  Hannah explained the near fatal incident, and then described what was happening from their vantage point. “It’s hard to get a feel for what they’re doing down there. We only get a chance to shoot a couple of shells before we have to duck back down to avoid getting shot.” She emphasized her point by sticking an index finger through the bullet hole in the coat.

  “I see what you mean,” Raven confirmed. “We need to keep pouring it to them, come on you guys.”

  The three roommates scurried back to the wall, separated themselves by a meter or two and prepared to rise and fire. “You ready?” Raven asked, standing in the middle of the other two. Hannah offered a quick confirmation but Bobi remained silent. “Bobi, you ready?” Their eyes met, a wrinkled brow and quivering lip delivered a message to Raven, which was understandable, but still hard to accept. “Bobi, Mick is down there with a room full of kids, praying we’re able to keep the bastards out of here.” She knew there was much more to be said but hoped that would be enough . . . it was.

  “I can do this . . . I can do this, Rave.”

  “Okay, on three,” Raven said, watching the other women prepare to stand. “One . . . two . . . three!”

  On three, the roommates lifted their rifles above the lip of the barrier and pulled the trigger, seeking out bright flashes where their shots might count. Hannah snapped off two quick rounds, Raven doing the same, but to her right – only silence. Back on their haunches, Raven glared at Bobi. “I thought you could help us?”

  “I can and I will. Gun was on safety – sorry.”

  “Okay, we do it again,” Raven ordered, ejecting the spent cartridge from the rifle’s chamber and smoothly sliding the next casing into place.

  “Scoot down, Willie doesn’t want us shooting from the same place.” Hannah was the one reminding them, physically pushing them further down the wall. “Where’s Ziggy? Thought you two would be arm-in-arm.”

  “He went to check on Mick and the children, but he should be here by now,” the Falconer woman answered. A couple of meters down the berm, they repeated their performance but with the addition of Bobi’s AK-47 also lighting up the night. The gun’s barrel jerked and kicked, knocking her almost off her feet before she crouched back behind the wall.

  “I didn’t hit crap,” Bobi shouted, disappointed with the way she’d handled the powerful assault rifle
.

  “Lean into it, Bobi. You’ve got to hold the front end down.” Hannah’s words of encouragement gave hope and inspired a touch of confidence in the dark skinned woman.

  The battle raged for what seemed like hours, but in reality, only minutes had passed. The balance of time was somehow strangely warped when the possibility of a quick death was at play. In those first few minutes of the battle for Banff, a stalemate existed; men and women of both sides, unwilling to expose themselves to unwarranted risk. However, as is the nature of an armed standoff, neither force advanced their position, achieved their objective or proclaimed themselves victorious. All around them windows shattered, slugs slammed into trees and walls, with few, if any, casualties falling as a result of the intense gunfire. The fact was not lost on Chief Gladue, who watched from a safe distance; unhappy with the way his Braves were carrying out his orders, and determined to see them succeed.

  * * *

  “Lou, what are they waiting for?” Darwin shouted, stomping back and forth in front of the dark Suburban. The rhetorical question went unanswered but not unheard. Louis looked on, stone-faced and attentive to the battle taking place a short distance from where they stood. In a very wishful, and secretly gratifying way, he was enjoying Trevor’s falter and lack of expediency. He did not relish in the sight or thought of his tribe’s people falling but he was a believer; a believer in a vision that Chief Gladue had seen, packaged, and sold to his faithful followers. This battle and the resultant rewards would be bought and paid for with the crimson blood of those who truly believed, or others, too weak to object and flee. The security man knew what the chief had not been able to admit, or yet fathom; there were more of the weak among his flock than the truly converted. A faction who might one day be a problem, that is, if they survived the night.

  “Take a message to GAW. I want them to storm the inn. Tell them to use cover-and-fire techniques to protect themselves but we’re not going to take anything if they waste their ammo shooting at ghosts.” After issuing the order, Gladue watched the SUV roar down the street, leaving him to pace in the open road.

  The clash’s intensity amplified significantly, forcing the Suburban to a halt not far from the inn. A bullet ricocheted off the hood, narrowly missing the oversized man, as he fetched his SLR and ran for the cover of a nearby building. A young woman, with black makeup covering most of her face, pressed her back against a wall and dared not move. Lou scowled at her but did not push her to action. “Where’s Trevor?” His voice boomed, rattling the girl, who could not bring herself to speak. She merely pointed over her shoulder to a stairway that led to the entrance of a second floor condo unit, where the door had been kicked in.

  Before he left, he lowered his face to hers and issued an obvious threat. “I don’t want you here when I get back.” The frightened woman closed her eyes and pushed herself, even more firmly, against the building, summoning the courage to plunge into the fight. It would not come, not now, and no second chance would be given as she ran west, through brush and cover to emerge on the opposite side of the conflict.

  At the top of the stairs, Louis entered a small apartment, the muzzle of his rifle leading the way. Two men, Trevor and Ponyrider, were positioned behind a toppled couch and were periodically firing at the inn across the street. The sound of the big man spun Arcand around, with his AR-15 ready to fire. “Put that toy away before you hurt somebody, Trevor,” the giant grunted, his rifle aimed, and he, being fully prepared to pull the trigger.

  “What you doing here? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?” the GAW leader shouted, ducking well below the window’s sill. Ponyrider ignored the two, hoping he might not get dragged into the verbal conflict. He periodically peeked over the furniture but may no attempt to fire his weapon.

  “The chief wants you to attack,” Lou said, a telltale grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

  “What does he think we’re doing?” The huge man didn’t answer but the grin broadened to a wide smile, telling the smaller native all he needed to know. “He’s kidding, right?” Trevor petitioned, his plea not changing Lou’s countenance. “Great, and where is Darwin?” he asked, sarcastically.

  “Careful, Arcand. It’s not going to take much convincing to just drill you right here, right now.”

  “Hey, hey . . . settle down. He wants us to charge their location? That about it?” Ponyrider asked, glaring at Trevor with a look that said, shut up. “Okay, we,” he said, glancing over at his friend, “can handle this side but who’ll lead those behind the inn?”

  “Yeah, somebody’ll have to run back there and coordinate the attack,” the skinny, dark-eyed man countered.

  “Listen, you two idiots, in five minutes move out, cover and fire, until you get inside the inn. Bust out a few windows to gain access. They won’t have enough to cover all the rooms and once you’re inside . . . raise hell.”

  The two younger men nodded their understanding and watched Louis pivot to leave.

  “Louis, hold up,” Ponyrider shouted. “What about prisoners?”

  “What prisoners?” he bellowed, as he careened down the steps, taking them two or three at a time. A moment later, the seven-foot Goliath lumbered across Banff Ave and swung around to attack the inn from the north, totally unprepared for what would befall him and his warriors.

  * * *

  Firefly-like flashes of light, followed by the reverberation of sound waves rebounding off Nathan’s Huskers, first stopped, and then energized the band. They grunted and marched down the middle of Banff’s main street, hundreds of virally manipulated adults, hungry and thirsting for the satisfaction of the hunt and kill. The Husker leader sensed there would be no stopping his ravenous band, not tonight, not after he’d seen them assault and kill the siblings. The savage lot would be edgy and uncontrollable until violence had quenched their aggression and they’d gorged themselves on fresh meat.

  The horde walked on, unafraid, the sights and noise awakening within them the need for a murderous rampage, the way sultry music heightens lust and desire. Two blocks from the source of the display, the Huskers saw dozens of people run from the south side of the road. The movement stimulated a predator-prey response among the cannibalistic clan, launching them forward at a dead-run, anxious to overtake their quarry.

  Nathan swung the small hatchet over his head and shouted, “Move . . . move . . . move,” as the tide of living-dead washed passed him. He surveyed the spectacle, also driven to act, but alert enough to pick the circumstance under which he’d secure a victim. Out of nowhere, the roar of an engine caught his attention and turned his head. A red and white pickup blasted down the narrow street to his left, racing into the ruckus. Something about the movement and acceleration engaged the Husker leader, compelling him to sprint across a small park and into the roadway behind the speeding truck. The axe pumped up and down with each stride of his powerful legs until two red lights shimmered through the darkness and the vehicle skidded to a stop. Edwards knelt and watched, biding his time, blocking out everything but the man seated behind the wheel.

  * * *

  Officer Nowicki joined his troops on the rooftop, just in time to see Lou dodge his way across the road and disappear from sight, beyond the next building over. “They’re up to something. They wouldn’t have that gorilla . . . ” Zygmunt suddenly realized what was coming and issued his orders. “Rave, get downstairs. They’re going to rush the inn! They’ll soon be inside if we can’t stop them. Make sure everybody’s ready.” She stared at him, a quizzical look in her eye. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you. Now go!” He shifted to Willie Daniels and pointed to the north side of the building. “Get over there and reinforce that wall. That giant will try to punch through back there. Hannah, you and Bobi have got to use those AK’s to slow ‘em down.”

  “We’ve got it,” Hannah replied, never moving away from her position on the wall.

  “Good, I’m counting on you. Put a fresh mag in now – and let ‘em have it.”
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br />   The volume of gunfire suddenly escalated, rounds ripping into the berm that was protecting the rooftop defenders. “That’d be their calling card. Duck and fire, girls,” Ziggy screamed, as he dashed to the stairs, his carbine swinging freely in his fist. The definitive concussion of the AK-47’s assured him the roommates were sending a hail of lead into the charging native ranks but it was the out-of-place yelp of the little Egyptian that stopped him in his tracks. “Huskers!” she cried. “Hundreds of them!”

  Chapter 17

  Nowicki hurried to the barrier and looked to the west. Sure enough, Huskers – too many to hold off. The rooftop defenders continued to rain down spinning lead on Darwin’s charging force, killing some and scattering others to the north and south of the inn. However, many made it and were smashing windows and trying to gain access, when the rolling sea of insatiable Huskers swarmed them. Their attention and gunfire was immediately wheeled away from the inn and to the accursed horde. All thoughts of a grand plan, and the realization of a vision for their people vanished, as the true battle for Banff’s control ensued on the streets surrounding the fortified structure.

  Trevor Arcand, Ponyrider and a handful of GAW Braves pressed to gain entrance at the main doors but they found themselves surrounded: Nowicki and his crew just beyond their reach inside the inn, Huskers blocking all avenues of escape to their rear, and Darwin, likely watching and ready to extract a price for failure. Firing pointblank at the locked door, the black-faced assailants stepped inside and sealed themselves away from the bloodthirsty Huskers, but only temporarily, as sentries shot and shattered windows and doors over the intruder’s heads. Trevor and his friends fired in every possible direction to free themselves from the predicament. Reloading, they blasted through magazines in seconds, emptying their weapons to create a limited buffer zone where they could plot an exit strategy.