Trackers 4: The Damned (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Raven placed another bolt in the weapon and followed them, waiting for his next opportunity. When he got to the fallen Nazi, he used his knife to finish the job, jamming it into the squirming man’s temple.

  One down, twenty to go.

  He started for the fence of trees, seeing two of his chases had vanished from view. The third man stopped behind a tree, his body partially hidden by the bark. Raven aimed at the exposed part of the soldier’s head and fired an arrow into it. The commando stumbled a few feet. By the time he hit the ground, Raven had already dropped the crossbow and pulled out both hatchets.

  He stalked the next two Nazis, moving in the shadows while they walked unknowingly down a path. The amateurs didn’t look over their shoulders, and neither of the men had stopped to see where their buddies were.

  Big mistake, buckos.

  In just over two minutes, Raven made it within throwing range of the final pair of chases. But then he made his own mistake‌—‌crunching a stick under his boot. The sound gave away his position, but by the time the first Nazi turned, a hatchet was in the air.

  The blade planted itself in the man’s forehead with a crack. As he slumped, Raven ran toward the fourth soldier, holding his other hatchet in his knife hand. He got all the way behind him without being seen, and brought the edge down on the back of the commando’s skull with a dull ringing noise that echoed through the night.

  Creek had taken down a fifth soldier on patrol that Raven hadn’t seen earlier, and Raven ran over to help finish the man off. The dog’s jaws were latched on to the man’s throat, and Creek had already torn out his vocal cords. Raven brought the hatchet down on the soldier’s nose so hard it got stuck.

  Grunting, Raven pulled it out and fell on his back. He quickly got back up. Covered in steaming blood, he gestured for Creek to follow. They hurried back to the mortar crew, stopping only to pluck his other hatchet out of the corpse and grab his crossbow.

  He loaded a bolt when he saw the edge of the mortar firing area. The men were continuing to load rounds in an organized manner, listening to the spotters who were yelling down from the concrete tramway platform.

  The chatter of the M240s continued in the distance, the sound drowning out the crunch Raven’s boots made over the snow. The guns were firing from the same platform where Raven had killed Brown Feather nearly two months prior. His decayed corpse actually wasn’t far from here.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Raven. Prospect Mountain was cursed with evil by Nazis, Water Cannibals, and a half-Cherokee, half-Sioux Indian that had committed more sins than he could count. Raven shook away the chilling thoughts and continued toward the field area, where six soldiers manned the mortar tubes. Another four stood sentry. The other soldiers they had seen earlier were out of sight, aside from one spotter.

  Raven still didn’t like the odds, but they were better than before. But that was assuming Dale took down five of the other men.

  Where the hell are you, Dale?

  Creek nudged up next to Raven, keeping watch while Raven searched for his partner. The gunfire and explosions in the distance rose into a crescendo, and Raven grew more impatient by the second, knowing each one that passed meant another dead civilian. He aimed his bow at the closest Nazi. He couldn’t hold here much longer‌—‌he had to stop them.

  Raven finally spotted Dale moving between two trees. In his right hand he gripped a long, saw-toothed bowie knife glistening with blood, and in his left hand he held the butterfly knife Raven had given Sarah. They had found it on the roadblock earlier when they were looking for the girl.

  Dale waved the bowie knife at Raven and then pointed toward the pickup trucks on the road. Raven brought up his crossbow scope and zoomed in on a small figure in the front seat. It had to be Sarah. He confirmed it by zooming in with the scope on his bow. Then he changed weapons, unslinging his M4. Dale did the same thing, but Raven changed his mind when he saw the pile of mortar rounds next to the firing area.

  Maybe there’s a better way...

  Raven balled his hand at Dale and then lowered his rifle. Instead, he grabbed the grenade they had taken off the dead soldier back at Lily Lake. He pointed with his bow at the pile of munitions. Dale nodded back and pulled out his own grenade.

  They both pulled the pins and lobbed them like baseballs toward the mortar rounds. The grenades rolled right between the launchers and the soldiers manning them.

  Only one of the sentries seemed to notice. He walked over and tilted his head like a curious dog. Raven reached back for his own dog, and shielded Creek with his body, pushing the Akita against the snow.

  A moment later, the explosions boomed through the night. The ground rumbled beneath Raven as the mortar rounds went off in a massive blast. He could feel hunks of trees sailing overhead. Dirt and small chunks of shrapnel rained down on his body as the explosions rocked the field.

  Creek squirmed under Raven, but he held the dog down, waiting until the final blasts. The boisterous noise faded into an echo, and Raven slowly got up, his ears ringing. He picked up his M4 and directed it at the smoke swirling across the devastation.

  A crater was all that remained in the center of the mortar firing area. The soldiers were gone, their body parts littering the snow all around Raven. Two boots remained where a soldier had stood moments earlier, the ankles still sticking out, but the legs and rest of the body were missing.

  The smoke cleared, and the ringing subsided in Raven’s ears. That’s when he heard Creek’s growl. Four commandos had moved onto the platform above, looking over at what was left of their comrades. Dale fired his M4 at the men, and Raven brought his barrel up, but froze when he saw more soldiers move up to the railing.

  Not just four.

  There were a dozen men.

  The squad trained their fire on Dale and painted the area with bullets, several of which hit the big man. He moved behind a tree, fell to his butt, then pushed himself back up against the bark.

  Raven sprayed the platform with rounds, hitting three men. One of them fell over the ledge. Then Raven dove for cover and crawled behind a tree.

  Dale peered around his tree and squeezed off several shots, killing another two soldiers and bringing their numbers down to six or seven. But the survivors were fanning out and firing at both Raven and Dale.

  They were pinned down on the slope, and the SOL commandos had the perfect vantage point.

  We have to flank them.

  Raven knew that was going to be next to impossible for Dale. The big man was hurt, and hurt bad. He shouted over at Raven, “You have to take out the big guns and then get Sarah!”

  Raven held his position against the tree.

  “Go, Sam. I’ll distract them!”

  Dale stared back with his NVGs still over his features. Raven closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled, and then did what any soldier would do. He took off to finish his mission.

  _____

  The mortar fire had stopped after a massive explosion, but Colton’s people were being cut down by the M240s on the aerial tramway. Unless someone pulled off a miracle shot, they didn’t have much of a chance of taking the gunners down.

  He cursed himself again for leaving the Crow’s Nest undefended. The two sentries must not have seen the attack coming.

  It didn’t matter now. The mistake was his, and it had cost them dearly.

  Every team he had pulled off the other roadblocks had been cut down on their way up the mountain. And he wasn’t going to risk pulling anyone away from the high school. There were just twenty survivors of the original sixty militia soldiers on Highway 36 now. Most everyone had some sort of injury, from sprained ankles to gunshot wounds. And the enemy was closing in from all sides.

  To the east was Thompson’s small army, all of them hellbent on getting to the roadblock to kill those responsible for burning and shooting their comrades. To the west, the Sons of Liberty were using M240s to spit rounds from the top of Prospect Mountain.

  One of them streaked by Colton’s hea
d and slammed into the door of the van he was crouched behind. The pickup truck to his left had been taking the brunt of the gunfire, but a few rounds punched through the truck and hit the van he was up against.

  He got down to his belly and snuck a glance under the vehicle to see that Thompson’s trucks were now free of the flaming first barrier. Several veered off into the town.

  He’d lost control of the situation.

  You never had control!

  An explosion suddenly rocked the barriers about twenty feet from the van, blowing the three militia people stationed there into chunks of gore. Colton shielded his face from the heat with his arm, and Lindsey screamed out in pain. He pulled his hand away to see her gripping her wrist, a shard of metal sticking out like an arrow.

  “I’m okay,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

  Colton gritted his teeth, trying to keep his rage in check. He wanted to get up and squeeze off his magazine, but instead, he pulled out his radio and reported the vehicles to Officer Matthew, who was now the last hope at stopping them.

  “On it, sir,” Matthew replied. “I’ve got another team moving into position to take out those M240s. We’ve got a few snipers left.”

  “Hurry, and do not let them get to the high school,” Colton said, his voice cracking. He tried to contact Raven again, but he didn’t answer. Finally, he decided to try the channel to the Secretary of Defense. Gunfire continued around the barrier, his people still putting up a fight while he tried to save them with a final plea.

  “Secretary Montgomery, this is Police Chief Marcus Colton. We’re being slaughtered by the Sons of Liberty and Sheriff Thompson. Please, if you get this, send help!”

  He put the radio away and then pressed the gauze back onto the gunshot wound. The blood loss was starting to make him feel queasy. Kirkus scrambled over and put his back next to the van. He was in bad shape too, after taking two rounds, one to his right bicep and the other to his hip. Feagen was still alive, somehow; he was resting with his back to the van a few feet away. Rex was to his left, firing shots off to the east.

  “Can you fight?” Colton asked, looking at Kirkus and then over to Lindsey. They both nodded grimly.

  The torrential downpour of 7.62 mm rounds from the aerial tramway suddenly ceased. Colton slowly rose to look over the pickup truck riddled with bullet holes to see that the muzzle flashes had stopped. It was too dark and too far away to see movement, but the M240 had stopped. Now he could hear the sound of rifles on the other side of the mountain. Finally, his people had made it to the top.

  “Everyone up!” Colton shouted. He pushed the barrel of his AR-15 through the broken van window to fire, but what he saw took his breath.

  The trucks and cars had all made it through the barrier, and had moved into position. Over forty men were standing behind the parked vehicles, their rifles aimed at the roadblock.

  “Drop your weapons!” someone shouted.

  Colton looked for the source of the voice, and saw Sheriff Thompson standing behind one of the trucks, his muscular arms folded across his chest.

  “I just want Chief Colton,” Thompson said. “The rest of you, lay your weapons down and I’ll let you live.”

  “Don’t do it,” Lindsey said. “He will kill us all.”

  “That you, Plymouth?” Thompson said. “I’ve got special plans for you.”

  “Fuck you!” Lindsey looked like she wanted to charge the barrier, but Colton grabbed her by the arm. He looked over at Kirkus, who was struggling to stand.

  Kirkus said, “Let me handle this. Bastard killed my brother and my son.”

  Colton could tell by the sad resignation in his eyes that Kirkus had given up on life. And, judging by his condition, he didn’t have much time unless they got him to a doctor.

  “We’re all ready to die here, Thompson,” Colton shouted. “If you want to take this town you are going to have to take‌—‌”

  “What are you doing!” Lindsey shouted, silencing Colton.

  He looked to his left to see she was talking to Feagen, who was pointing a pistol at Colton.

  “Do us all a favor and turn yourself in.” Feagen wagged the barrel of the revolver. “Go, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Lindsey said. “Thompson will not let the rest of us go.”

  Colton stared at the heavy-set former town administrator in shock, but then he realized he shouldn’t be shocked at all. Even after Colton had saved Feagen’s ass earlier, the man was only thinking about himself.

  “You got one minute before we open fire,” Thompson yelled.

  Feagen pulled back the hammer on the revolver, and Colton could see by the crazed look in his eyes he was ready to kill him right here and right now.

  “Don’t, Chief,” Lindsey said.

  Colton locked eyes with her. In that moment, they came to an understanding on what had to happen next.

  “Time’s almost up!” Thompson yelled.

  Feagen followed him with the barrel as Colton began to walk around the van. He halted at the bumper to pull his Colt .45 out and slip it into the wide sleeve of his coat. He crossed his arm over his chest and put his hand on his bloody shoulder to hide the lump in his sleeve and appear he was gripping his wound.

  Then he walked around the van and set off through the barriers, his stomach churning at the sight of his people. Colin and Tim, both insurance agents, were slumped over their concrete barrier, orange-sized holes in their backs from the 7.62 mm rounds. Sally and her brother, Jeff, were face down next to a sedan, their bodies torn apart by the weapons. Then there was the area where Mike and Thomas had been hunkered down. There wasn’t much left of either of them but limbs after the RPG had ripped them to charred pieces.

  Colton focused on the man responsible. The fire still blazing in the ditches behind the parked vehicles illuminated the crazed smile on Sheriff Thompson’s face.

  “There he is!” Thompson yelled. He moved from behind the truck and looked over Colton’s shoulder.

  “I said put down your weapons,” Thompson shouted. His eyes flitted to Colton. “Tell your people.”

  “You said you’d let them go,” Colton said.

  Thompson shrugged.

  “I’m not telling them to do that until you give me a guarantee.”

  The grin on Thompson’s face widened. “Remember what I told you?” he asked.

  Colton snorted, and Thompson let out a laugh. He turned to look over his shoulder, and Colton seized the opportunity.

  “NOW, Lindsey!” he yelled as he pulled the Colt .45 from his sleeve. By the time Thompson turned, Colton had the barrel pointed at the sheriff’s head.

  “You said to make sure I shot you in the face next time,” Colton said.

  He waited a split second for Thompson to take in his words, and then pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into the sheriff’s broken nose, and exited out the back of his head in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter.

  The gunfire that followed came so fast Colton didn’t even have a chance to dive for cover. A round hit him in the left arm. The impact jerked his entire body and threw off his next shot. Another round hit him in the right leg, bringing him to one knee, and a third hit him in the upper right of his ballistic vest, knocking him on his back.

  He rolled over to his stomach and searched for cover. The first thing he saw was Feagen’s dead body under the van they had been hiding behind. Lindsey must have shot him in the head before turning her rifle on Thompson’s men.

  “Colton, stay down!” she screamed

  Next, he saw Kirkus limping toward him, but the man was quickly cut down with three rounds to the chest. The leader of the prepper community fell to both knees. He pushed himself up using his rifle as a crutch, and locked eyes with Colton just as a bullet hit him in the head.

  Colton let out a shout of rage and aimed his Colt .45 at the men behind the vehicles. There were dozens of them, all firing at his people. He picked a bearded man with glasse
s and shot him in the neck.

  Another bullet hit Colton in the shoulder, and a second shot him in the left leg. He screamed out in agony and tried to raise his gun at the shooter. The man lowered his rifle to change the magazine, giving Colton a moment to take aim.

  He squeezed off a shot that went wide. The second shot also missed. The gun clicked. He reached for more rounds, his entire body numb and on fire at the same time.

  The man with the ski mask brought his rifle back up to shoot Colton, but went down from a headshot before he could pull the trigger.

  “Hold on!” Lindsey shouted again.

  Colton fumbled for more bullets, dropping several onto the ground in the process. He bent down to grab them, and caught sight of his ruined body in the process. His legs were both bleeding out, and he could feel the heat from the blood gushing on his shoulder and arm.

  There was no coming back from this. Even if they could get him off the road, he was losing too much blood.

  I’m sorry, Kelly. I’m sorry, Risa. God, I love you both so much.

  He flipped the break open and put in several more rounds.

  “You won’t hurt my family. You won’t take this town!” he shouted as he squeezed off more shots. In the respite of gunfire came the squawk of the radio in his vest.

  “Chief Colton, this is Colonel Raymond. Do you copy? We have fighter jets on their way to Estes Park. ETA five minutes. Please advise as to where SOL is located, over.”

  Colton lowered his pistol and reached for the radio. Another shot hit him in the left leg. He screamed in pain and dropped the radio. Gritting his teeth, he reached over and grabbed it again.

  “Colton!” Lindsey shouted. “Colton, hang on. I’m coming!”

  Gunfire lanced all around him.

  “Stay put, Captain!” he managed to yell.

  He lay there bleeding out, gasping for air, knowing he only had a few more seconds of consciousness. But he couldn’t die yet. He still had one final mission. Bringing the radio up to his lips, he choked out his response.