Rise of the Huskers (The Raven Falconer Chronicles)

by Larsen, Dennis

  He reached for the knob but was distracted by a note thumbtacked into the cheap paneled door, just within the screen’s protection. Tommy Cat bounded up the last of the steps to take up a position between his feet. The feline licked at his whiskers and then paws, pausing briefly to look up and meow. Maybe he knows something I don’t, Eli thought, squinting to make out the handwritten message.

  If you’re reading this, we are gone. We held out as long as we dared but have family in Jasper that needed us. If you’re the first one here – help yourself. Firewood’s in the garage and we left the food we couldn’t carry – sorry there’s not more, but it’s all we had. Doors locked but there’s a key in a magnetic lockbox on the inside of the screen. Don’t imagine you’re reading this if you’re a Husker. Good luck to you and may God Bless!”

  It was signed ‘The Millers’.

  Eli quickly opened the noisy, metal door to find a lockbox, just as they’d indicated. The key slid smoothly into place and granted him entrance. He waited for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust, before he began to search. A wood-burning stove, sitting atop a dozen red bricks, supported a black chimney that extended through the ceiling, capable of venting the noxious fumes to the outdoors. The middle-aged man thrust back each of the heavy-lined, floral curtains that shrouded the living room and kitchen in darkness. It was not fancy but was well maintained and stench-free. The fridge had not worked in days but was empty anyway, except for an opened box of baking soda with the top cut away. Drawers were full of utensils, can openers, whisks and more, but nothing to eat. The cat milled about, smelling everything, before taking up a spot in the center of an old, red Formica table, and watched.

  “Eureka,” Falconer exclaimed, having found a stash of food above the refrigerator in a double cupboard. He pulled a metal chair away from the table and stood to reach the cache, leaving most in place and taking enough to fill him and Tommy Cat. A can of tuna roused the pet’s attention the moment the seal was broken and the scent filled the air. An incessant stream of meow’s reverberated around the small space, until the can was placed on the table for the Tabby to consume the contents. Eli was content with a can of pork and beans. The first spoonful almost brought tears to his eyes as he gulped it down. The second, he allowed to remain on his tongue a moment longer, before it vanished into his stomach. “I would never have imagined beans could taste so good. How’s the tuna?” he asked, reaching with a finger to stroke the cat’s head. The animal reacted with a quick ‘hiss’ and batted his hand away with an extended claw. “That good. Remind me to leave you alone when you’re eating.”

  The friends finished the easy meal before Eli built a fire in the stove and snuggled up on the couch. His mind wandered back to his mother, who had told him; when he was quite young, of an incident that nearly cost him his life. He was sure she had referenced purpura then, and without a doubt, he was certain that was the cause of his malady now. As a toddler he had contracted a virus, which normally would have resulted in only flu-like symptoms, but he blew up like a balloon, stretching his skin and joints, just as this virus had done. Eli thought and considered several options but it was quite clear to the survivor that the reaction had saved his brain and in essence, his life. But why? What’s different about me and what does it mean?

  He wished he had paid better attention in biology but that was so long ago he’d not likely remember it anyway. His thoughts danced from one possibility to the next, coming full circle to the realization that he was immune. And if I’m immune, he thought, I can . . . His mind quickly replayed a scene from Outbreak and it stopped him cold. The monkey! “Maybe I’m the monkey . . . maybe I’m the answer!” he shouted. His companion jumped from the couch in pursuit of a more relaxed place to sleep and curled up below the stove. Come morning I’m going to find Raven and see if Bobi has any ideas. Sleep did not take him quickly but it did eventually come, late in the afternoon, when the shadows stretched long to the east and the temperature began to drop.

  Chapter 14

  A crescent, yellow moon hung low in the night’s sky, aiding Nathan as he watched the inn’s activity from across the street. He, and two teen Huskers, lay hidden from view on the forested slope that led to Tunnel Mountain. The youngsters had tagged along, increasingly sensing the need to have Nathan close. Waiting until nightfall, the small recon unit had left the overrun hotel, thirsty for the taste of fresh meat. Melting snow and the rushing river had kept the ravenous pack alive, at least most. Some had become ill, consuming rotting, packaged meat from the hotel’s lockers and eventually falling prey to their fellow Huskers, who ripped them apart and ingested their limbs while they looked on.

  With no effort of his own, Nathan had watched a hierarchy form within the community. He, of course, reigned supreme, retaining his authority with intimidation, power and the ability to kill or maim on a whim. The more intelligent Huskers kept to themselves, until it was time to hunt, and then dozens of the inordinately vile and ferocious were anxious to follow and assist in the killing.

  The pack’s numbers were swelling; regardless of the reason or rationale, Huskers were instinctively roaming the streets at night, often converging on the old hotel before daylight. In recent days, the ex-Olympian had seen the city come alive, reducing their food supply, as people hastily packed and departed. He now saw the reason for the activity and on a deep, intrinsic level, understood . . . strength in numbers; the herd is forming.

  Lying on the cold, leaf-covered sod they observed, hoping for a chance to spring but it would not be . . . not until he’d marshaled his horde in a grand, lethal assault. The trio skulked away, crawling and then running in the shadows of the near-deserted town, Nathan’s axe slapping at his firm thigh with each stride. He grunted out encouragement for Shlomo and Elina to keep pace. “Move,” he growled, swinging his arm in a wide arc. The two did the best they could, struggling to keep up, but fatigue, cold and hunger limited their steps.

  Winded, Nathan slowed and walked the last, tree-lined kilometer, his followers in tow. The forest’s ambient sounds were somewhat lost on the group, their hearing impaired but not gone. However, other heightened senses stopped the leader and he knelt. The brother and sister hustled to crouch beside him. Faint hisses and low, almost indecipherable snarls drifted from the dense brush on the south side of the road. “Watch,” he ordered, taking the hatchet’s grip in his powerful hand. Irregular shadows covered their renewed, but much slower, walk toward their home. Sounds, now fully formed as aggressive chants filled the woods. A sense of dread retarded the sibling’s footsteps, but did not dissuade them from following their fearless leader. He loomed large before them, his head pivoting right and then left, the axe raised and ready to strike.

  Branches and twigs suddenly rustled and snapped as a cadre of bloodthirsty Huskers rushed from the darkness. A dozen men and women, overcome with need and aggression, burst upon the scene, throwing stones and yelling wildly. A well-placed rock knocked Elina off her feet and to the asphalt; blood immediately covered the ground, spilling from an open head wound. Nine of the assailants finally recognized whom they had accosted and cowered away, but three were so overcome with an unsatiated bloodlust that they carried on, even after Nathan dispatched the one leading the charge.

  Dressed in filthy jeans and a ragged, western vest, the one time cowboy went down hard, the hatchet cleaving his skull and frontal lobe with ease. The overwrought Husker leader yanked the blade from the man’s brain but not before being tackled and thrown backwards by the next raging cannibal. The man, wearing a long-rider’s coat, sunk his teeth deeply into Nathan’s jaw below his ear, the incisors striking bone. He shook his head like a wolf ripping meat away from a bone. Edwards howled, punching and clawing at the attacker to no avail, eventually dropping the axe. As he dealt with his own skirmish, a view of Shlomo, embroiled in a fight for his life, trailed past his central vision. A woman, much larger than the youth, had him pinned to the ground and was brutally strangling him. The boy’s little sister lay nearby
, bleeding and motionless.

  Anger welled up within the highly trained athlete, sending a surge of hormones through his system and strengthening him further. He raked at the biter’s face, worked a finger into his gnawing mouth and pried away. Pain, unlike anything he’d felt since being infected, rolled his eyes but did not stop the battle. The clenched mandible reluctantly gave way, taking a piece of cheek with it. The dark-eyed Husker had seen death before but never his own . . . not until now. The violent act was imminent, and radiating from Nathan’s face. Blood streamed down the leader’s neck and rage leapt from his blue eyes. Edwards handled the man like a rag doll, ignoring the errant punches and scratches meant to stop the hormone-stoked killer.

  Nathan held him down, a knee pressed into his assailant’s heaving chest. He paused briefly, long enough to see the fight leave Shlomo’s limbs. “Kill . . . now,” he screamed, using his left hand to press against the man’s forehead while clutching his throat with the right. Fingers sunk deep into banded, thick cords, wrapping around the trachea and squeezing it shut. Gasps for breath seized the would-be king killer and he flailed to free himself. Using his upper body strength and the leverage against the man’s forehead, Nathan jerked his right hand back and pulled the windpipe free. Seconds later he spit into the attacker’s dying face, and then tossed the body aside. Retrieving the hatchet, he knelt and hurled it eight meters. The weapon tumbled end-over-end, ultimately striking and lodging in the woman’s side, toppling her from off the youth.

  Shlomo lay still. Nathan went to him, ignoring the cries of the female Husker who thrashed about, a few meters away. He lifted the boy’s head and looked into his eyes. They were void of recognition, the white’s, red with small broken vessels just under the conjunctival surface. The teen’s chest rose with a shallow breath, then again, before he breathed his last, and died. Nathan released the boy and crawled the short distance to Elina, reaching out to the little girl . . . she was cold. The light had passed from her shortly after the rock spilled blood from her brain, freeing her from a Husker’s fate.

  Nathan sat on his haunches looking at the small frame. Something inside wanted him to feel, to mourn, but he was empty. The sense of loss was fleeting, expelled by rage and a passion for revenge. He lifted himself, ignoring the pain and blood coming from his face and walked to the wounded woman. She lay on her back, her hands outstretched in a defensive posture. Nathan kicked them aside and reached for his axe. He held her with his foot while he wiggled the blade from the ribs and muscle that held it firm. She grunted and cried out, looking to those that stood nearby for help. It was obvious; she was on her own.

  The Husker leader straddled, and then pinned her arms to the ground. Overwrought, he felt no sense of understanding or pity for her plight; and mercy, a word no longer needed, would not be extended to this killer of the small and weak. Nathan raised the hatchet and with his eyes fixed on hers, he swept the blade down and planted it firmly between her eyes. The hazel-highlighted orbs crossed and then rolled, exposing the white, veiny sclera. He repeated the act again and again, until a gelatinous mass quivered below him and he was covered in foul blood.

  Nathan stood, the rage quenched. The onlookers backed away, unsure what he might do next. He knew what they waited for but he would not give them the satisfaction. Without hesitation he turned on them and released his fury, lifting himself to his full height and screaming ill-defined dialogue at the top of his lungs, until he shook and tears dripped from his eyes. The group vaporized into the woods, leaving no trace of their existence, but he was not fooled . . . he knew their eyes were still upon him.

  He scooped Shlomo and Elina up, each under an arm and walked to the river. At the water’s edge he eased them into the current and watched them disappear beneath the whitecaps. The pair were the closest thing to humanity he’d known since the plague had captured his mind and sacrificed his heart. They lingered with him until he returned to the location of their demise and saw the pack consuming their cohorts.

  Control: he sensed it waning and without it he would be just another mindless Husker, living from one kill to the next. The pack must eat. Above all else he understood this one thing. He would retain his influence and power as long as he could lead them to fresh meat. Minutes later he rallied his gruesome mob, whipping them into a frenzy of hostility. Covered in gore, the promise of violence spoke to the Husker band and they moaned and grunted their approval. The horde moved out, thirsty for blood and ready for a fight. Nathan led his hundreds down the narrow road. They eagerly followed; filling their hands with anything that could be brandished as a weapon . . . the Huskers were indeed learning.

  Chapter 15

  Raven and Pooch watched Officer Nowicki refill the large, gas-driven generators, which hummed along, providing the much needed heat and electricity to the inn overhead. The dog carefully smelled and investigated every piece of equipment, her tail held high as she explored, but dropping and wagging enthusiastically when she returned to Rave’s side. “Looks like the hound’s okay with what you’re doing,” she said.

  “Who? Oh, yeah. I think it's wise if we keep these off during the day, at least when it’s warmer, like today. We'll need to conserve the gas, along with everything else.”

  “I was a little surprised by the vote this afternoon. You?” Raven asked, trying to keep her mind off the possibility of an unwanted and unwarranted attack.

  “No, not really. I think most everybody realizes it’s going to be a struggle, regardless of where we end up. I'm hoping that big boy’s threat was just that . . . a threat.”

  “He was like, gargantuan, eh? Reminded me of that guy my Uncle Smugs used to watch on the wrestling channel. Ah, Andy the Giant I believe.” The Falconer woman had pulled her hair into a ponytail and topped her head with a black ball cap she’d taken from one of the many shops lining Banff Ave. A dark-green bomber jacket, appropriated from the same store, made her look somewhat bulky but it was warm and had large pockets, which she had filled with ammunition for the rifle she held in her hands. It had been days since she’d bothered to apply makeup, and in fact, the natural beauty had not even thought about it from the time of her friend’s arrival, the event seeming so distant.

  Ziggy finished the last of one five-gallon can and reached for another, taking a second to answer his friend and smile at her pretty face. As much as he felt compelled to keep their relationship strictly professional, he was finding it more and more difficult to restrain the attraction, pulling at his heartstrings. She is beautiful, he thought, trying not to let the impression bleed to his face and give his feelings away. It was too late; she had seen it and felt it. “You mean Andre the Giant. Yeah, that native guy, Lou, I think they called him, is massive. I generally don’t get very uptight in confrontational situations but he was intimidating, to say the least,” the young officer replied.

  “Zig, I’ve not told the girls this, but I’m scared. Not wet-my-pants scared, but scared for the people we’ve brought together. What will happen to them if we’re attacked? I mean; I’m feeling kind of responsible for them. Is that crazy?” She knelt, laid the rifle on the ground, rubbing both sides of Pooch’s face and kissing her black, wet nose.

  “I know. I’m feeling it too, but there has to be strength in numbers. That bull he tried to feed us about there being thousands of them is as bogus as the crap I was telling him. This place isn’t a fortress, by any stretch, but we’ve got some good ol’ boys here, who know how to shoot. I’m hoping if they do come at us they’ll suffer a few casualties and crawl away to lick their wounds.”

  “Sounds pretty optimistic to me, Ziggy. How many do we have to lose before we do the same thing . . . 5, 10, 20?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, Rave. Who’s to say if we do get some people hurt, or even killed, and we surrender that they wouldn’t just kill the rest of us, or worse?”

  “Worse? What do you mean? What could be worse than getting killed?”

  “Oh believe me, there’s a lot of things that could be
worse than a quick death. Torture, rape, slavery . . . there’s no law anymore, they could do as they pleased, for who knows how long, with virtually no repercussions.”

  “Don’t let that happen to me, okay?”

  “You have my word. You want it between the eyes or in the heart?” he asked, jokingly, reaching for his sidearm.

  “Very funny. I’m not joking. You have to promise me you won’t let them get their hands on me.” As she spoke, she stood, grasped his arm and looked into his eyes, conveying her message with utmost sincerity.

  “You’re serious,” he said, being a bit taken back. “I couldn’t do that, Rave. I just . . . I just can’t see myself hurting you for any reason.” Her request, and the mere thought, choked him up and the words came haltingly. With her hand still holding him, she looked at his mouth and then back to his eyes, as he spoke. Unconsciously, her tongue darted out and slid across her pink lips. “Please don’t make me,” Ziggy started to say, but watching her lips glisten with a trace of moisture brought his mind and his speech to an abrupt stop. He looked into her eyes, they pleaded for assurance and an answer. Setting the gas can aside, he put his left hand on her waist and pulled her a few inches closer. She did not resist. “You can’t ask me to do that,” he said, cupping her jaw with his right palm. Her skin, so smooth, sent a sensation of warmth through him that he’d not felt in years.

  Raven Falconer tilted her head to accept his gentle touch, never taking her eyes from his. She opened her mouth to protest his denial but he hushed her with an index finger placed softly against her lips. She lowered her gaze over his stiff, angular nose, bringing her eyes to rest on his mouth . . . and then, almost unperceptively, she lightly kissed his finger. A shiver, marginally less than being hit with a stun gun, bolted through his system and he smiled. “You . . . ” he started to say, but then thought otherwise, and abandoned all pretense of bridling his desires. He trailed his finger away from her mouth and down the zipper of her coat, resting it on her left hip. He squeezed and pulled her close, chest to chest with their hungry mouths separated by a few centimeters. The smitten officer took what information he needed from her eyes, and then, tipping his head, he kissed her very tenderly, withdrawing slightly to once again appreciate her delicate features. Her eyes were closed, and he felt her weight sag against him, begging for his embrace. Nowicki did not disappoint, wrapping his arms around her and enfolding her in his strength. Their mouths eagerly explored the rush of emotion that was overwhelming them both. He clutched and lifted her from the ground; not wanting to ever let her go, as he kissed her deeply.