by Franks, JK
In the pre-dawn hours of the following morning, a noise overhead roused the dog awake. It was a buzzing similar to the big fat bees he sometimes chased, but much louder. It was a sound he had heard from far away several times already. He cocked his head to get a bearing, then saw the little machine hovering just over the treetops. He had seen Bartos and his friends using machines like this. He was unsure of its purpose but sensed it might be watching him. He lay at the edge of a rocky overhang. Bartos was far back under the ledge. He wanted to lead the thing away from Bartos. He leisurely rose up on all fours and stretched, then began wandering down toward the spring he’d found previously. The buzzing machine followed for several minutes before flying off to look at something else.
Bartos’ body decided at some point during the previous night not to die. He woke up mostly wishing it had. “Holy fuck,” he said…or, more accurately, attempted to say. His lips were glued shut from dried saliva and vomit. His tongue refused to move and felt like a dry hammer sitting in his mouth. His eyes remained closed despite all efforts to open them. He could tell the swelling in his face had decreased some, but at best, he could only see a tiny sliver of light creeping past his eyelids. He wanted to call for Solo, but again, his mouth refused to make any sound that might be considered a voice.
His body ached all over, both arms were numb where he had laid on them too long. One knee was screaming in pain and had a limited range of movement. He winced at the pain also coming from his shoulder which reminded him that he also apparently had broken something, probably a collarbone, leaping from the car. Jesus, he thought. You are in bad shape, friend.
He snapped a finger and patted a leg. No sound, Solo wasn’t here. He’d be back, though, of that he was sure. The thought was erased when he heard a familiar distant hum. They were using drones to find him. Would that be Rollins or the enemy, though? Moving his head to follow the sound brought a wave of pain and nausea. He’d had a concussion, that much was obvious. He lay back. Man, I am thirsty…I need some water. How long was I unconscious? His mouth was achingly dry, but he couldn’t do anything on his own.
He thought again about the drones. How could he know if they were friend or foe? Simple, really, treat them as an enemy until you know otherwise. Stay out of sight. Here, hidden under this rock, they shouldn’t be able to get anything on IR. That was good, keep it that way. Where was Solo? How had the dog found him? He drifted back to sleep.
“Damnit, dog, I’m awake, what?” the sounds more garbled whispers than words.
Solo had persistently been bumping Bartos until he had finally awoken. He petted his friend, his savior. The dog was anxious, he could tell that. Surprisingly, he also found one eye now was partially open. He had a blurry squint of the world again. His head still ached, and other signs of dehydration were starting to show.
Solo’s muzzle was dripping water. In fact, it looked like the dog had dipped his whole head under water. He leaned into Bartos, the wet fur dripping with spring water. Bartos was surprised, but understood, and gratefully licked the moisture from the dog’s hair. It wasn’t much, but it helped greatly. “Thank you, Solo,” the words clearer now. “I need more.”
Solo bumped him again arching his back into a rigid stance. Bartos knew what that meant, danger, close. “Move or fight.” The dog was already heading away as if to say, Move, you idiot. Bartos quickly gathered his pack and the rifle and headed after the dog on wobbly legs.
Solo led him to a small clear running stream where he drank his fill and refilled the water bottle. It appeared to be mid-day. The IR cameras on the drones would be nearly useless right now because of the heat. His assumptions on the drones being NSF seemed likely. If Solo was moving away from them, they damn sure weren’t friendlies. The dog kept outpacing him, but he did his best to follow.
The relationship with Solo had been the strongest of his life. While it might seem strange to many that they were so close, he didn’t care. His had been a lifestyle that didn’t include romance or family; it was one of threats and the elimination of those threats. Family would have meant weakness. He thought about Scott as he walked. To Scott, family meant completeness. Bobby, Kaylie and now, Gia. Scott needed that, and they meant more to him than his own life. Bartos could appreciate that, but only in an abstract way. Family didn’t mean the same to him. Of course, his family consisted of a dad that was an assassin, so there was that…
Fuzzy recollections and questions kept drumming around inside his battered brain. Did Todd, Jack and Scott get away? Were they successful in beating the NSF troops at the farm? So many questions and no real answers. The biggest one was, How in the hell had Skybox made that bomb? That was like the coolest thing ever. He tried to smile, but his swollen face wouldn’t manage it. Solo suddenly looked back and dropped to his belly. Bartos did the same and rolled silently into thicker brush. His eyes had opened a fraction wider now, but he couldn’t see anything behind them. Solo suddenly darted to one side and quickly was out of sight. Ten minutes later, Bartos heard sounds of movement, then he saw three soldiers in black uniforms topping a small rise about fifty yards back. He crawled under cover and quietly raked dead leaves over his camos and readied his weapon, hoping not to have to fire.
Pass on by, guys. If he or Solo killed this group, it would let all of these people know exactly where to look. His best estimate was that he was about twelve miles from the crash site. Too far for weapons fire to be heard, but there would likely be others out here as well. He caught a glimpse of Solo easing stealthily up behind the men. They were dead already and just didn’t know it.
Solo got into position as the men got within twenty-five yards, then fifteen. One would pass within five yards of Bartos’s left shoulder, another about ten yards to the right. The one in the center, though, was heading straight at his hiding spot.
The men had no military discipline. They were talking and looking to each other more than paying attention to the surroundings. They were close enough now, he could begin to hear what they were saying.
“So, they got nothing on IR, and yet we are still supposed to keep wandering around out here?”
“Yeah, they got a few deer, dogs, even a bear on the drone feed, but only human they saw was on a bicycle thirty miles farther south. Definitely not the escapee.”
“Ok, you two knock it off.” The third man was looking at a folded map. “Fifteen more minutes and we circle back a half mile farther west.”
The trio passed by the concealed form of Bartos. The man passing just feet away had been focused on the map. Solo was ready to pounce, but Bartos covertly held up an open palm, the signal to stand down. The men would get to live another day.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Scott rode the shorter loop of highway for four days, stopping only briefly every four hours to power the two-way radio on and listen for several minutes. The long distance was taking a toll on his bike and his body. Twice he had to fix tire punctures and was now using the filter straw to refill water bottles. It was all very time consuming; the musty tasting water was leaving him a bit nauseated as well. Each night he still saw drones in the air but fewer last night than previous nights. “Go for Biker Boi.” He also checked in with the AG several pre-planned times each day but left the radio off the remainder of the time to save the batteries.
His brother's voice came through, “How are you holding up, man, any sign of Gopher?”
Gopher was the radio handle Bartos had picked, one of the characters from the old “Love Boat” TV series. “Nothing yet. Thought I might have heard Solo during the night, so stayed close to that twenty but no sign of either. Fewer birdies in the area. They have to give up eventually.”
Bobby paused on replying, and Scott felt like Bobby was talking with someone else, “Hey, Bro, don’t assume that means anything, they may have just switched tactics. You are advised to move out to the backup position. Do you copy?”
Scott knew that was coming, he just hoped it wouldn’t be today. He felt like Bartos was
close. Moving back to the next highway would add another fifteen miles of straight-line distance that Bartos and the dog would have to cross. It also lengthened his fifty-mile bike loop to one closer to ninety. Each way on the longer route would take five or six hours. He would be lucky to pass a single spot once a day. He’d been eating little and babying the bike but still wondered how long they both could keep it up.
“BikerBoi, did you copy?”
Reluctantly, Scott said yes. He thought his brother would sign off, but he didn’t.
“Something else is going on, Bro. Our buddy has been talking to people, and they’ve been making plans.”
What buddy? What plans? Scott wondered. He could tell Bobby was trying to determine how to say something over the open airways without actually saying it.
“A little distraction, like letting the cows out while the rancher’s out hunting.”
Oh, shit…Scott knew instantly what that meant. Hot damn! He controlled his enthusiasm with a more measured response. “Roger that. Dropping to backup route now.”
Back aboard the AG, Bobby Montgomery began to sweat despite the cool air blowing from the overhead vents. He marveled at his younger brother’s willpower and stamina. While no one doubted Bartos’ ability to survive this, Scott had made it his personal mission to make sure he did. Skybox watched him closely and nodded, relieved that Scott understood. Despite the Navy’s reluctance to take direct action, Fleet Commander Garret had agreed to a coordinated joint strike force in an attempt to liberate the camp near Jackson.
The strike teams were a hodgepodge of Army, Marine, Navy and even some National Guard. The Amy presence in Mississippi had decreased significantly after the training base up north near Grenada had gone silent a few weeks earlier. Sentinel had said that base had been overrun by NSF after the president declared the commander a rogue enemy of the state. Everyone now knew what that meant. He wasn’t following her orders.
Bobby pointed a shaky finger at the huge wall map. He highlighted a stretch of road from Port Gibson to Utica. This would be the new route his brother was patrolling. The spot where Bartos had escaped was marked as well as the old National Guard camp that they now knew was the location of the NSF Internment camp.
“Skybox, any chance your greyshirt associates could go in there and help my brother find Bartos?”
Skybox didn’t answer right away, but he’d had this same conversation multiple times with others. “No, well yes, if I could reach them, but we aren’t set up that way. I only talk to command. Have no idea how to even reach another member of the Guard. It's been a long time since I heard from anyone. Last I heard, our command structure was compromised, so I, presumably like most of us, have gone dark.”
“So, you have no idea where any of your people might be?” Bobby asked confused.
Skybox was a bit unsure how to answer the man. “They are everywhere. Every base, nearly every battalion will have an embedded member. Every SOF unit will likely have multiple Praetor team members, but no way to reach them.”
Another softer voice sounded from the hall. “Can someone tell me where my future husband is?”
Doctor Gia Colton stood in the doorway to the room looking pale and angry.
“Whose bright idea was it to go after those guys?”
Gia was ready to explode. Bobby and Skybox had offered a condensed version of recent events. She was not in the mood for logic. She wanted Scott back here now. “Go get him, bring him back.”
“We can’t do that,” Skybox offered. “No one else can do what he’s doing.”
She looked at the map, noting the highlighted route. “Give me a car, give me Scott’s Jeep—I’ll go.”
Both men shook their heads, “Gia, if we knew you were coming back we would have…” Bobby didn’t finish the sentence as the woman was bent over retching into a trashcan.
Oh shit, something clicked in Bobby’s brain. The pieces all dropped into place, and he knew why she was desperate to get Scott back safely. He looked at Skybox who looked alarmed. After all, the woman worked with dangerous viruses all the time. Bobby knew what the soldier was thinking. He smiled and shook his head. “Sky, we really do have to get Scott.” He handed Gia a damp rag and a bottle of water. “How far along?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
He was comfortable in the wilderness but felt most at home in the rivers and swamps. Wetlands provided a unique environment for someone like him. The woodlands he found himself in now felt oppressive, hot and devoid of easy food. Bartos was losing strength, he’d not regained enough of his vision to hunt. The few roots and plants he ate offered little in the way of calories.
Solo seemed to sense his condition and had brought a dead rabbit for him the night before. Bartos had never eaten summer rabbits. He’d learned the hard way the diseases and parasites they carried, including tularemia. He thanked the dog but shook his head. Getting sick out here would be the end. The big dog seemed reluctant to consume it, but eventually did. Bartos knew Solo probably was as desperate for food as he was.
Sometime the previous night, he had heard a dog bark. It could have been Solo, but he wasn’t sure if he was out patrolling or lying beside him. An ever-present headache and dizziness combined with the damaged knee made sleep nearly impossible. He found himself questioning what was real, what was simply ghost. Awaking each morning and putting on the pack was also an agonizing chore. The straps tugged at the shoulder where a huge knot had formed over his broken collarbone. That arm was utterly useless as well. He had fashioned a sling for it but wondered how he would be able to fight or shoot if it came down to that.
“This day five, or six?”
Solo just looked at him. “Yep, it is definitely the day before who gives a fuck.”
His hand searched the pack for anything to eat. All that remained was half of a dry protein bar. “This is it friend, all we have left.” The whole bar would offer only a fraction of the calories he needed for the day. The fact he was at a deficit already didn’t escape him. While in theory, you could survive weeks without eating, that didn’t mean you could do much else. He wasn’t lying in a hospital bed; he was running for his life. Okay, he was gimpily hobbling for his life, but it still took energy. He knew his body had shifted gears, literally beginning to eat itself to make fuel. First would go the fat, of which he had little. Then, the muscles themselves would be used to keep his body alive. Long before that, he would lose the energy to continue. He had to get away, get clear of the woods and the patrols.
“Solo, you’re looking pretty thin, too, that tiny rabbit wasn’t much, was it?” The beautiful dog thumped its tail several times. Bartos broke the granola bar into several pieces and lay them in front of the dog. “Eat, my friend.”
The dog’s head pulled back, and he looked at the meager food, then at Bartos. He nosed the food back toward the man and lay his head down facing away.
“I love you, too, you stubborn bastard. Look, one of us has to live.”
Bartos gave in eventually and ate the crumbled food, it mattered little to his stomach. He was still starving, but Solo seemed pleased. Painfully, he slipped the pack and rifle over his good shoulder and the duo began their southward trek.
“Someone is out there. Solo, you hear ‘em?”
Bartos kept walking, stumbling, fleeing from something unseen. Night had fallen, but he hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t even noticed, it seemed. Solo kept bumping his leg to no avail. No one was there, the dog would have known. As much noise as he was making, had anyone been there, they could have homed in on him and killed him easily.
Solo could tell his friend was not himself, he was still nearly blind and starving. Instincts were taking over. The dog’s senses told him to stop the foolish dash through the dark woods. He posted his body in front of the short man who tripped over him. Bartos crashed to the ground with an agonizing thud. Solo licked his face, but his friend wasn’t responding. Air still passed out of his nose though. He lived.
Solo needed water and food,
too, and used the time to go hunt. He marked the area well to warn others away and to help him find it again. The man had thought someone else was out there. He might as well check and see. He found water in the hollowed trunk of a fallen tree. It was black and full of insects, but it filled his needs. Lifting his muzzle higher, he took in small gulps of air. He tasted the scents on the evening breeze, his ancient brain processing the information. A faint smell like burnt fuel was evident. That meant a road somewhere ahead and…something else. Something not familiar.
Two hours later Solo crouched in the tall grass. The wood line behind him had given way to open pasture. Somewhere ahead was the source of the smells. The road, he had already identified. The other was a man, not a friend, but a threat. He wanted to go back to check on Bartos, but they would be heading in this direction tomorrow. Someone had stopped pursuing them and had laid a trap that they were about to walk right into. Bartos had been right after all.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Archangel studied the animal in the night scope. Up in the old deer stand, the dog didn’t concern him, but its behavior seemed oddly preternatural. It had emerged from the woods as if it already sensed danger ahead. Now, it had lain there for twenty minutes unmoving. He knew he was running out of time to capture his prey. The teams searching the forest were not looking for the man. Their job was to flush him out right here. He clicked a mil-stop on the scope to adjust for the light wind.
