Rise of the Huskers (The Raven Falconer Chronicles)

by Larsen, Dennis

  Near the street he lunged forward, leaving his footing and tackled the tiny brunette. His heart beat like a racehorse at the end of a triumphant race as he laid on top of her, pressing her face into the frozen sod. He smelled her hair and licked at the sweat forming on the back of her neck. The dark-skinned woman begged for her life, offering anything if he would just let her go. Few, if any of the words registered with the brute, who held her still while he ground himself against her. Cries, which began as loud, exuberant shouts, slowly melted into shallow sobs and pleadings. She was dead and she knew it.

  Suddenly Nathan flipped her over and held the sharpened edge to her throat. Their eyes met but it was more than she could endure and she snapped them shut. “Kill me! What are you waiting for? Kill me, you son of a bitch.”

  The words had no effect but he’d gotten what he had come for. “Mine,” he said, taking her by the throat in his big hand. He stood and dragged her with him. He again thrust his nose into her hair and sucked at her neck. “You . . . mine.”

  “No . . . let me go. I can’t . . . please . . . ” The outpouring of concern for herself was lost on the self-centered, hormone-driven fiend. He pawed at her briefly before forcibly moving her down the main street, headed back to the hotel. Exhausted and demoralized, she stumbled along, periodically trying unsuccessfully to break free from his grip. As they approached the west end of town, the lapping waters of the Bow River sounded loudly in the victim’s ears. He held her with his left hand outstretched in front of him while the hatchet dangled from his right, randomly banging against his knee. At the bridge she unexpectedly slowed and reached back with her right hand to rub at his groin. The action brought a low, husky growl from Nathan’s throat and he stopped but did not release her. She continued, feeling his grip slacken as her ministrations had the effect she knew they would.

  Without protest, he turned her to face him and thrust his pelvis forward. The beautiful young woman did well to hide the sense of dread and unspeakable horror from her face. However, she knew the act would be short lived: the fright too overpowering and intense. She lifted a hand to caress him and feigned difficulty lowering his zipper. In that instant, with the small axe occupying his right hand, the Husker released his grasp on her upper arm and went for his fly.

  The nimble, little woman bolted away, bounded the few meters to the bridge’s concrete rail and leapt over it. Nathan’s prize leveraged her delicate weight over the wall with both hands and vanished from sight. Although there was a meager splash it fell on near-deaf ears as Nathan hung his head over the edge and watched his ‘toy’ disappear. The Olympian considered the pointless event without a smile or tear, but simply readjusted himself within his pants and jogged away. His vengeance taken and thirst quenched, Nathan’s urges were subdued, allowing him to return to the motley crew of Huskers he deemed his own.

  Chapter 8

  On the outskirts of Banff an unusual pattern of footprints, crushed deep into the snowpack, led from the road’s asphalt to the backdoor of a rough, wood-sided home. The backdoor stood slightly ajar; a bloody handprint marked the intruder’s entrance, streaked over a glass insert and smeared around the brass doorknob. Inside, a man’s body lay prone in a narrow hallway, which stretched from the rear entrance to a small kitchen and nook. Smiling faces peered down at the unfortunate soul from framed pictures neatly arranged and lovingly hung on lemon-yellow walls; memories and moments from a happier time. Shredded and stained, the figure’s pants, just below his buttocks, opened to a ghastly wound. Nearby, a grey Mackerel tabby yawned and licked at its fur, cleaning blood from its coat and paws. Rings of black ran through the cat’s tufted hair, clearly suggesting that the animal had not been bathed or brushed in weeks. A small, silver medallion dangled from a narrow band of leather, tightly fit around the pet’s neck. Scrolled and then carefully etched into the thin piece of metal read the feline’s name, Tommy Cat.

  Once satisfied the course tongue had done its work, the large cat lazily rose and walked over the back of the fallen man, who did not stir. The tabby stopped and dropped its rump on the stricken fellow’s shoulder, sitting, as if laying claim to a grand prize. For a minute or two the animal sat motionless, looking at the door, then back down the hallway where a litter box rested, overflowing with fecal matter. Prompted by a full belly to find a more suitable place to nap, the grey-faced cat slunk to the floor, pausing briefly to look into a pair of steel-blue eyes.

  A second later the tabby moved away, casting a shadow over the expressionless face...the pupils remained fixed, void of any neurological function or response. As the shadow passed and reflected sunlight bounced from the brightly painted walls, a tragic scene of death lay partially consumed on the cheap linoleum. Previously hidden eyes were now exposed; the lids meticulously chewed away. Sharp teeth had picked clean the cartilage in the center of the face leaving telltale pinprick holes in the rigid yellow tissue where the nose had once been. The cheeks had not been so carefully consumed but had been raked at with brutally sharp claws, ripping soft flesh away in bite-sized chunks. The corpse, now unrecognizable, was slowly but surely being consumed. The exposed flesh would be first but the clothing would only be a minor obstacle when hunger once again gnawed at the animal’s innards.

  With its black-tipped tail swinging slowly from side-to-side in a hypnotic, metronome-like fashion, the tabby sashayed down the hall, stopping to drink from one of a dozen small but fresh puddles of liquid snow. Two meters from the dead man and before reaching the kitchen area, a doorway opened into a small bedroom, partially shielded from the sun with half-pulled shades and tinfoil taped against the glass: a remnant from the long summer days and early sunlit mornings. Near the footboard, the cat suddenly bounded, first to an antique cedar chest, then onto a bed covered in an ivory, handcrafted afghan. The feline purred; the soothing vibration rumbled through its chest as it sidled up to a form, angled haphazardly across the mattress. Anxious to join the slumbering human, the cat abruptly spun itself in a cozy ball and pressed its back into the man’s side.

  The action, though benign, momentarily pulled Eli from, what felt like, a drug-induced sleep and he struggled to lift his head from the down-filled pillow. Days . . . don’t know. Where, where? The inner question yielded the same, unknowing answer. The middle-aged man, sensing defeat, dropped his head back to the pillow and closed his eyes. His mind raced. Who am I? A long pause ensued as neurons fired and synapses relayed an answer to his yearning question . . . Eli, Eli Falconer. His eyes suddenly opened and he felt for the source of the purring and warmth at his side. Twisting his head he could see the tabby, curled up and snoring lightly. He gently laid his hand on the little companion and thought . . . cat. The intellectual triumph, one that a two-year-old might celebrate, brought a tear to his eyes and a slow, but deliberate, smile to his lips.

  Feeling more awake now, but still unable to move from the bed or pull himself upright, it occurred to him that he ached; not the ache of sore muscles after a long walk but deep-down, bone centered pain in every joint. Without warning, an involuntary spasm and cough shook his frame and tore at his throat, sending a spray of blood-tainted spittle over his chest and bedspread. Eli slowly lifted his hand to wipe the discharge away, but the cat slept on. It was then, with his hand before his face, that the spots were apparent: raised, red lesions scattered over the surface of his skin. He searched for a possible cause, but the mental process was sluggish and indirect. Chicken Pox? he wondered. Damn, what . . . my head . . . everything hurts. He dropped his hand back onto the bed, his strength depleted, as he was again overcome with the battle raging throughout his entire body. Exhausted and without the capacity to respond, Eli ignored the rough, wet tongue, which lapped at the moist debris he had just wiped from his mouth. The action, in former times, would have been out of Tommy Cat’s gentle and affectionate nature but today . . . he was tasting.

  * * *

  Raven had been watching since the sun first peeked over the eastern horizon, casting long shadows to t
he west. The appearance of the RCMP cruiser, with Officer Nowicki at the wheel, had gladdened her heart and lifted her somewhat shaken spirits. He’d left several hours before when the first gunshots could be heard only a few blocks away. The roommates had tried, without success, to convince him to stay until daylight but the bullheaded, young officer could not be swayed.

  “If that were you out there would you want me to respond?” he’d yelled, as he gathered his gear together and bolted out the door.

  It was a question, for which none of the girls had a reasonable argument, so they simply watched him go. Raven was the last to leave the porch, waving and offering a whispered, “Be careful.” For the remainder of the early morning hours, the fledgling author had tried to collect her thoughts, alternating between sitting near the front window, and writing. In recent days her reflections had been pulled in so many directions she needed a way to bring them together and mend her troubled heart. Writing had helped before when her mother had passed and she hoped it would help again. She’d begun, as she had a few weeks before, with a title written across the top of the first page . . . Operation Z-Day, but this time in parentheses she added ‘The True Story’. Words leapt from her pen, filling pages with feelings, impressions and almost near-indescribable horrors. When the emotions were too much and tears flowed more freely than ink, she retreated to the window and prayed for her new friend’s safe return. By the time she saw him roll to a stop, she’d written the chronicle of her days from the infection’s onset to her father’s visit. The speculation of his demise blunted her pen but not her thoughts.

  “He’s back,” she called to the others, who had managed to get a few hours sleep while he was away. Raven ran from the station but was taken aback when she saw Ziggy covered in blood. “You’re hurt! What happened?” She debated rushing to him but the origin of the unknown gore halted her steps.

  Zygmunt lifted his arms and looked down at his attire. It was the first thought he’d given to his appearance for hours. “Not mine,” he stammered. “Dead . . . it’s from the dead.” He stood his ground, finally realizing what a gruesome sight he was, literally covered in fresh, red plasma from chest to knees. He’d held back the emotion of finding the young people slaughtered in such a ferocious way, until now, with a living, breathing woman so near. The weight of the night’s events finally pressed him to the earth and he wept. The display of raw grief drove the Falconer woman from the porch and to his side.

  “What did you find? For heaven’s sake, what happened?” she inquired, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. The roommates quickly joined the pair and waited for the reply.

  “Kids really . . . younger than us, all gone,” he said, trying to control his sadness.

  “Who? Where? Why?” Burst forth from the friends, each anxious to find out what had happened.

  “I couldn’t think of anything else to do with their bodies but . . . ” Sorrow overtook him again, binding his tongue and seizing his words.

  “Take your time. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Raven asked, while rubbing his back and squeezing the clenched cords of his neck.

  “Fine. I’ve just never seen anything like it, not even overseas. I . . . I threw them in the river.”

  “What? Why?” Bobi asked.

  He looked up at her through red, tear-filled eyes and replied, “Because I didn’t want them to be their next meal. Okay? I couldn’t think of anything else to do but burn them and I couldn’t bring myself to do that.” He paused briefly but there was no response from the circle of women. “I carried them to a truck they had there and . . . ” The officer bowed his head but did not continue.

  “I think we get the picture, Zygmunt,” Mick said, stepping forward to run her hand through his matted hair. “Come inside, you need something to eat and some rest.”

  “Thanks, I sure do, but first I need to know where you ladies stand.”

  Hannah was the first to say what they all were thinking. “Stand? Where we stand on what?”

  “Huskers. I need to know if I can count on you to back me up,” he continued.

  With a puzzled look on her face, Raven tried to clarify the officer’s question. “Of course we’ll back you up, but what are you talking about? What are you going to do?”

  “It’s clear to me now. I don’t think we have a choice,” Ziggy replied, welcoming back his strength as he stood to face his new friends.

  “There are always choices, Officer Nowicki,” Mick reminded him, suspecting she already knew what he was about to say.

  “I appreciate that, Mick, and under different circumstances I’d agree but today, as we stand here, I don’t think there are many options. It comes down to this . . . we hunt or we are hunted.”

  Finally someone had said what the girls had been thinking for days and the sound of it vocalized didn’t make it sit any easier with the roommates. They were teachers, healthcare workers, students and friends. They were certainly not stalkers and slayers of hellish beings, but that’s what Ziggy was asking and he was dead serious.

  “Well?” he finally asked, breaking the uneasy silence.

  “Is there no other way?” Raven asked.

  “Why can’t we just drive someplace where nobody can find us?” Bobi offered.

  “Where? Where can we go and still have the supplies we need to survive? The natives have got us hemmed in and Banff’s the only town with shelter and food,” Nowicki confirmed.

  “What if we loaded up everything we could find and searched for another cabin, like Smugs’?” the little lab tech suggested.

  “Yeah, that might work but it could also turn out just like yesterday with a horde of Huskers coming to call in the middle of the night,” Rave said, opting in her two cents’ worth. “I’m inclined to agree with Zig. These . . . things, these Huskers are just going to keep killing and eating everybody in sight if we don’t put an end to them.”

  “Listen to yourself for a minute, Raven. You’re asking us to go out, hunt these things down and just kill them. They’re people. They’re just sick people,” Bobi said, really struggling with the idea of becoming a vigilante.

  “I know it’s hard,” the officer interjected. “I’ve spent the past few years protecting these people and learning to love them and now I’m asking you to help me kill them. How do you think that sits with me? I’ll tell you. It’s eating me up but I don’t see any other way. Those young people were butchered, not by someone but by some thing; something animalistic and hungry. They are not human. As much as we want to humanize them and think of them as sick, we can’t. They are dead to this world and are feeding on the good people of this community, who are just trying to survive. I think those kids had it right. We find where they’re hiding and we take the battle to them.”

  A long pause ensued, the girls afraid to voice their opinions should their own words condemn them. Glances passed between friends, but still, no one dared speak up.

  “I can’t do it alone. We’ll find others along the way but I need your help to get started. Do I have it?” he asked again.

  “You have mine,” Raven volunteered, scooting a few inches closer to his side.

  “And mine,” Hannah agreed.

  “Me too, I guess,” Mick confirmed. “Bobi, what about you? You want to see your family again? There may not be any other way. It’ll just be a matter of time before these creatures try to do the same thing to us that they did to those people last night.”

  Bobi hummed and hawed for a few more minutes, battling with the idea, before she came to a consensus with herself. “I’ll help. Ask me to do anything but I don’t know if I can pull a trigger on another human being. In theory, if my back is against the wall, I think I can, but I just can’t be sure. I hope you guys can understand.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Ziggy exclaimed, taking Bobi in a bear hug and lifting her from the ground.

  “Gross dude, you’re covered in blood. I could use the hug but shower before you try that again.”

  Chapt
er 9

  Chief Darwin Gladue sat alone at the end of a long, oak conference table, his leather boots resting comfortably on the edge. He leaned back, his bulky frame easily filling the large leather chair, which he’d pulled close to the table. A timid knock sounded on the thick, frosted glass door that separated the conference room from a spacious hallway. Through the murky haze Darwin recognized the immense shadow of his security man, Louis.

  “Yeah,” he shouted, not taking the time to get up from his relaxed position.

  The door swung open a few inches and the face of a giant appeared in the narrow gap, almost seven feet off the floor. “You said to let you know when the GAW guys were here . . . they are. What do you want me to do?” The oversized security guard looked a little confused when his boss did not immediately reply. Louis, or Lou as he was commonly known, was not an intellectual, by any stretch of the word, but he was exactly what Darwin wanted . . . he was loyal. The two had been friends from their childhood, fighting their first battles together, drinking their first beers and kissing their first girls. As Darwin had risen to prominence in the tribe, leveraging his understanding of spiritual matters to serve on the governing council, Lou had stayed in the shadows, helping his friend in ways not seen but felt throughout the community. His hulk-like presence often dissuaded conflict before it could build steam, and now, as head of security, Chief Gladue knew he had a man he could count on.

  “Chief?”

  “I heard ya . . . just thinkin’. Make them wait ten minutes than bring them in.”

  “But . . . you busy?” Lou questioned, looking about the empty space.

  “No, not really, but I want them to stew for a few minutes before I talk with them.”