by Franks, JK
What if the man was a Praetor commander? The thought had pestered him for days. Why would a member of the Guard be working with terrorist fighters? The guerilla warfare tactics were a standard, but all he could determine was someone had chosen allies poorly. He scoped the tree line once more, but no other heat signatures were present. He switched the unique optics to night vision. This amplified the visible light to an incredible sharpness. These were the top of the line battle gear before the CME hit. He could see that it was a large, light-colored dog. It seemed to be looking directly at him.
He felt something crawling up his arm, and when he went to brush it away, it bit into his skin. Fuck. Goddamn fire ants. They were probably all over him now. He slowly brushed them away and resisted the temptation to give voice to the pain or move anything but his hand. His training, like all Spec Op soldiers, had included pain resistance conditioning. The weeks they had spent in sniper training down in Fort Benning had been some of the worst. Lying under a hot ghillie suit in the extreme Georgia heat waiting for a target to appear. It wasn’t unusual for the trainers to dump canisters of ants, roaches or even bees over them as they were forced to remain hidden and silent.
Mentally, he put a barrier up against the pain and any other distractions and returned his eye to the scope. The dog was gone. He swept it in all direction but saw nothing. Flipping the switch, he went through various levels of IR but still, nothing. He settled himself and went back to watching the tree line. It was just a dog anyway, but covertly surveilling it had been good practice for the real enemy. For some reason, though, it unnerved him; maybe it was the way the dog seemed to know he was there, but no…the fact that he lost it. That was what bugged him. He was Archangel, best of the best. Eighty-nine missions, eighty-eight kills. He would have had a perfect record, but the man had a heart attack and died before he even arrived on-site.
Vincent hated this part of the job. His days of being a foot soldier were too many years in the rear-view mirror. As a P-9 on permanent reassignment to Ms. Levy and the Memphis camp, he got out into the field rarely. Why had she made him accompany Archangel to this shitty little patch of nothing? Keeping an eye on the man was the likely reason. Levy was as distrustful of her allies as her enemies and with good reason. More than once he had stopped an attack on the woman. Still, he couldn’t understand why a lost shipment and a potentially missing prisoner were so important to her.
He had one squad deployed to the north, but Archangel seemed convinced the target was moving south. If the poor bastard did go that way, he would regret it. Multiple fire teams were stationed on the southern front. Pursuit teams had now been brought in, and they and their tracking dogs would have the forest swept clear in twenty-four hours. The GPS map he was holding was updated in real time. The teams had already cleared the most eastern and western sectors. These guys were good, not like the NSF idiots.
“All teams, listen up. Target is to be taken alive at all costs. This bastard is useless to us dead. Shoot to wound only.” Vincent wasn’t sure if they would listen, but then again, he wasn’t convinced the man was even out there. He sat the GPS unit down and motioned for another man to come over. Even in the darkened command tent, he could see the soldier’s pale features. This man was one of the two remaining drone operators still on station. “Harris, any other sign of the man on the bike today?”
“Negative, sir, whatever the person was doing, he or she has moved on or could be holed up somewhere.”
The glimpses of the biker had been a curiosity. No one alive exercised for fun anymore, yet this person had ridden hundreds of miles in the past week all along the same stretch of road. It was a loose end, something that didn’t fit. Even if it wasn’t connected to the escapee, it bothered him. Particularly so, now as that road was the southern front where Archangel and the other fireteams were located. How had the cyclist known to stop, or had he?
“Harris, tomorrow morning orbit several of the birds farther south.”
“Yes, sir,” came the instant reply. “How far?”
Vincent looked back at the screen with the map. “This road just past the river here will do. The Bayou Pierre”
“That would be Highway Eighteen, sir. Very good, sir, looking for the primary.”
“No, I don’t think the primary will get past Archangel. Instead, look for the cyclist.”
Chapter Forty
Solo watched his friend sleeping. Maybe it was more…the man was weak, sick with hunger, and his body was broken. It pained the dog, as they were brothers, sworn to protect each other. He hadn’t moved on the man in the tree, he was a killer. Someone not to be toyed with. Hopefully, Bartos would agree with his choice not to attack. There were others out there, he’d seen them, too. Those others looked the same as the killer, but they weren’t. They could be dealt with.
The sun was climbing toward mid-day when Bartos woke up. He did so in fits and starts; parts of his body seemed less willing than others to face consciousness. The hunger was consuming him, and he felt like lying back down as soon as he sat up. “Hey, Solo…still not dead.” The dog chuffed an unenthusiastic acknowledgment. “Hey, I can see…mostly.” The swelling around his eyes had gone down considerably. He took a long drink from the water flask and pulled on his pack. The sound sleep had helped, now it was time to go.
He used a sapling pine for support as he shakily climbed to his feet. The knee was still a problem, but he could manage. The lack of energy would continue to slow them until he got food or stopped moving. He was to the point of running his hand through rotten logs for insects or termites. He got several small morsels this way but not a meal. The Mississippi woodlands during the summer had an abundance of food. Seemingly, not as easy here. His starvation had been more because of his blindness and need for stealth than anything. Now he could see, so now he needed to change his situation.
He saw squirrels, did he have time to make a snare? No. Shoot them? Couldn’t risk it. Snakes would be here, now he might spot them. Instead, he began noticing edible mushrooms, chanterelles and oyster mushrooms. He cut these and put most in the pack but began nibbling as well. Then, a strand of elderberries. He filled his belly with these and dropped extras into the pack. The foraging helped, his stomach was filling, and the vitamin-rich plants were satisfying but offered few calories and no protein.
Solo beat him down to a wide stream and was hungrily lapping at the water. Bartos filled his bottle and began looking up and down the sandy bank. This was closer to what he was familiar with. Low lying wetlands. “Look there, Solo.” The dog ignored him. Scrapes and tracks on the shore, and a small depression in the reddish-brown sand. He all but ran to the spot and began digging. Small, white ping-pong ball-shaped eggs came out with the sand.
“Turtle eggs, Solo.” The dog now showed some interest. Bartos took his knife and sliced into the leathery egg and brought it to his mouth squeezing out the contents. He cared not for how it tasted, although, in truth, it wasn’t unpleasant, just slightly musky. He opened a few for Solo who was familiar with the little morsels. The dog lapped up the small treats and anxiously awaited more. The nest had only a dozen eggs, and they were soon gone. What they had done for the two weary travelers, though, was nothing short of miraculous.
Back on the trail, several minutes later, Bartos recognized the level of fatigue was fading. His body was still in great pain, but it was bearable, and his senses were sharp again. Sharp enough to know someone was behind them. He took cover behind a large elm as Solo ducked away in the opposite direction. He now heard the dogs, not Solo, but others - hounds, tracking dogs. He gave a small whistle, and Solo froze and looked back. Bartos gave him the hand signal that the dog absolutely loved to see. Kill everything.
Bartos was tired of being the pursued. It wasn’t in his nature, and frankly—it pissed him off. The trackers on his tail had to go. Fuck it if it gave away his location. He was going to fight his way out of this. Besides, something from the other day had finally registered. One of the guys on the pr
evious patrol had mentioned a guy on a bike. He was pretty sure he knew who that would be, and he was damn sure going to reach him.
He crouched and watched as the tracking party came into view. Two men holding at least five dogs. They would be spotters, should be a couple more behind them with guns. The dogs had the scent already— Solo would deal with them later. He preferred stealth, but that might not be an option here until…he saw a silenced M16 across the back of one of the trackers. They were within about thirty yards when the sounds of Solo attacking the trailing soldier caused all to turn in that direction. The tracking dogs hearing the other dog turned on their handlers and began straining back to the northeast. Bartos eased up behind the first man and stabbed him in the throat. As he eased him to the ground, the man released the dogs. He cut the strap on the M16, brought it up and over the dying man’s shoulder and shot the other man who was still focused on what was happening behind them. Now all the dogs were free.
Bartos followed the dog pack back toward the others and saw Solo dragging a man down by the knees. Another man was trying to fire, but Solo kept his fellow soldier between them. Bartos eased to a tree and placed two suppressed rounds into the man with the gun. Solo took care of the other, then faced off against the pack of dogs surrounding him. Bartos thought about intervening, but realized his friend had this. Solo was apparently tired and not in a sporting mood. The first hound that lunged at him he bit in the neck dropping the brown hairy dog to the ground. He then straddled the suffering animal and pissed a hot stream over it. Solo looked like a special effect from a horror movie. Blood and gore dripped from his mouth. Streaks of blood painted wild lines down his white coat. Another dog foolishly took a tentative step forward as two more moved behind. Solo shook his head as if to say, That was the wrong move.
Solo faked an attack toward one, then turned on the lunging pair meeting them mid-air. The fight was unexpectedly brutal, even for Solo, and over in seconds. Two of the dogs were dead, the others injured or cowards. They quickly headed for cover. Solo seemed to be undamaged from what Bartos could quickly see. “Psychotic bastard, you love that shit, don’t you?” Solo wagged his tail and began rolling on the ground. “Aight, hurry the fuck up with your celebrating, we gotta move.”
He stripped the bodies of packs and anything useful, dropped the rifle he’d been carrying for the silenced version and took as many clips as he could find. He now also had two Sig Sauer XM17 9mm handguns. He strapped one holster to each leg. The prize find was the radios, though. He could now listen in on the NSF command channel and use the other one to try and reach the guy on the bike. He took a watch off a dead man’s wrist and mentally calculated how long before Scott would likely be listening in. Come in, BikerBoi, he thought.
Chapter Forty-One
The road had become monotonous to Scott. He had passed the same points multiple times now. The Trek Domane racing bike clicked along rhythmically accompanying the whisper of sound as his skinny tires rolled over the asphalt. The thought of Bartos and Solo being close kept pushing him. The idea of the pending attack on the camp scared him. Every time he turned around at that end of his loop he thought about continuing. He could have been in the area in a couple of hours, maybe he could see what was going on. What if Tremaine Simpson is still alive? It was a foolish thought, he had no idea what the man even looked like, and even if he did, how would he locate him among tens of thousands being held there? As he approached the town of Utica, he turned and headed back just as he had done the previous three times.
He focused on the land passing by instead of the effort the ride required. What still shocked him was the emptiness. The complete absence of people. Houses were empty, doors left open revealing dark interiors, fields empty of livestock or crops. No sounds of any type other than the bike, the road and an occasional bird call in the distance. People were becoming scarce all over but definitely more plentiful closer to his home. Here it was desolate emptiness. He felt like other survivors had to be around, but if so, they had learned to stay hidden. Not ride around on a freaking bicycle.
The CME had done its job, then the Messengers came through destroying everything in their path. Now, the government was doing the rest. He’d decided that if anyone survived all that, he guessed, the Chimera disease likely would finish them. Off in the distance, he caught a glimpse of color and the briefest of sounds. As he approached, he realized it was a person. Someone standing deep in the woods watching him. Bartos? He could only see a partial silhouette but saw now it was two pairs of legs, one much smaller than the other.
He needed to make a choice, pedal faster or slow down and investigate. He reached the decision quickly pulling to a stop on the side of the road. His gun was within reach, but he left it in place and slowly raised his hands. His eyes swept the open meadow on the left side of the highway thinking of possible ambushes. Satisfied, he focused again on the pair, “Hello, there. Don’t mean any harm, just searching for my friend.”
The woman slowly eased out of the woods, the girl trailing just behind her, nearly out of sight. It had taken Scott ten minutes to get them this close. He’d had to lay his guns down in the grass and move away before she took a single step toward him. She still hadn’t said anything and was eyeing him cautiously.
“Hi, I’m Scott, and I’m not a threat. Of course, if I were a threat…I’d probably say the same thing.”
As the woman moved out of the shadow and into the sun, he saw she was a little older than he’d imagined, maybe late twenties or early thirties. Pretty, with a very natural but somewhat muscular appearance, everything about her seemed to say ‘uncomplicated.’ The girl couldn’t have looked more different, she was probably at least twelve but on the small side. Hers was a more exotic look, dark hair, striking features. She would grow into a beautiful woman, assuming she got the chance.
Neither of them spoke; Scott saw a glint of moisture on the woman’s face. Tears, he thought. The closer they got, the more surprised he became. Strapped to the woman’s waist was a pistol. Why is it not in her hands? he wondered. They stopped about ten feet away and silently stared at him still straddling the bike.
He tried once again, “Hello.”
The woman, who he assumed was the girl’s mother, walked out to the road and looked in both directions. “Saw you go by a few times already. No one has been on the road in months. Are you with them?”
Somehow, he knew who ‘them’ was. “No. I’m just a guy looking for his friend.” He was unsure where to take the conversation. Anyone still alive in the world had survival skills and likely had already seen their share of cruelty. He looked at the young girl, and for some reason, his mind flashed back a couple of years to just after the blackout where another girl had stood in a yard outside a mobile home. That little girl was gone now, and her face still haunted his sleep.
He’d dropped his pack by the side of the road. He nodded to it, “If you’re hungry, I have some food.” The girl’s eyes drifted hungrily to the pack, but her mother gave a sharp head shake.
“No one just gives away food, Scott.”
“True. I would like to think that some humanity remains.” He was glad the woman was talking, but he was getting precious little out of them, and it could still be a set-up. “Look, I’m not bad, but I am also not naive. You came out here, so you want something, maybe it’s just information. I will happily share my food, my water and my story.”
“Nobody knows anything, rumors, and lies. Crap the government wants us to know.”
He really could not get a read on the woman, was she a threat, was she desperate? In his own desperation, he reached for his gear. “I’m just going to head on then. I’ll be back a few more times until I find my friend.”
The woman didn’t speak, nor did she reach for her weapon. He realized she was going to let him ride off. The first person they had seen in months. It was then that the girl spoke. An anguished, soul-crushing plea. “Mom, please…”
Scott removed his foot from the pedal and lo
oked first at the girl and then to the mom. The woman’s face glistened with fresh tears. He saw the strength and the melting resolve there. Reaching into his pack he removed the two MREs he had packed, as well as the bottle of honey. He was using the honey as an energy boost, but he thought they could use it. He set the contents on the road beside him. He nodded to the pair and headed off.
The following day, when Scott first passed the same area, the food was gone. That somewhat confirmed a suspicion that he’d had. Both of them had seemed malnourished, but the woman’s behavior puzzled him. She was fearless, but not threatening…hurting, but unwilling to talk to a stranger. The encounter was one among hundreds he’d had, but in the last two years, they never went like this. The previous night he’d raided the supplies that Skybox had left for him. He couldn’t do that many more times, but he set the plastic bag of dried meat and fruit on the road in about the same spot. He felt eyes on him as he pedaled away.
On the return pass, the bag was gone. Four hours later, he came through again and noticed a small white arrow on the road drawn in chalk. Beside it was written the name Scott in small neat letters. He turned away intending to pedal on. This was not his mission. Focus on Bartos. He managed to pedal several hundred yards before returning to the spot and staring at the white arrow. Shit, this is stupid, he thought.
Chapter Forty-Two
