by Tom Calen
Despite the man’s sarcastic pessimism, Paul knew Hicks was right. The few hundred motorcycles he and Hicks had destroyed fell far short against the Horde’s gains that day. The enemy had exponentially increased in strength while Paul’s team had suffered a devastating loss. Yet, even with that realization, his mind was directed to only one path.
“If they have Lisa, I’m going to get her out,” he announced flatly.
“Ha! Well good luck with that one, Jenson,” Hicks barked loudly. “After tonight, they’re going to have scouts for miles around their camp. It’s time for self-preservation now, not running after your girlfriend who’s probably dead already.”
Nieves flashed a look of shock as Paul pushed past him in the lunge at Hicks. “Don’t you ever f—” was all he managed to say before Hicks had his left arm twisted awkwardly behind his back, his face pressed hard against one of the metal consoles of the Stryker.
“Let him go, Hicks!” Paul heard Nieves shout. Gradually, he could feel the other man releasing the physical restraints, allowing him to regain his feet. At the front of the truck, Nieves, Barclom, and West all had their sidearms trained on Hicks. More aggravated over losing his composure than his forced incapacitation—though Paul marveled at how fast the man had moved—he extended a hand forward and ordered the men to lower their weapons. As they did, Paul could see the fresh lines of red begin to seep through the bandage.
“He’s right,” he conceded. “It would be selfish to order you to follow me. We have one Stryker left to us. I want you guys to take it at first light and continue the mission as best you can. Meet the Mohawk at the rendezvous next month. Don’t argue, Chris. We rest here tonight, and tomorrow we go our separate ways.” Without another word, Paul sidled past his men and walked out into the solitude of the night.
--
The night passed quietly, though Paul managed little sleep in the darkness. The Stryker was not equipped for slumber, which forced them to seek cramped shelter in one of the abandoned stores along the River Walk. They took turns keeping watch, more out of habit than any real possibility of defense. When he finally stretched his legs, he could feel the muscles straining from hours huddled in a storefront instead of a bed. Yet, the discomfort in his legs paled in comparison to the shearing pain in his hands. Without invitation, Hicks silently checked the wounds and dressing, mumbling to himself that no infection had yet begun.
From the Stryker, Paul removed a small amount of food and water, enough for a week, as well as several days’ worth of fresh bandages and peroxide. With little ceremony, the five men ate a quick breakfast before muttering short farewells. Paul stood on the driver’s side of the Stryker as he watched Scott Barcolm shift the vehicle into gear and slowly rumble down the sidewalk. Mouth covered with his shirt to block out the dust, he bent to his side and lifted his pack from the ground. Righting himself, he reflexively reached for his weapon when he saw the figure standing idly in the dust several feet ahead of him.
“What are you doing, Hicks?” he asked with open irritation.
Stepping through the settling dirt, Hicks replied. “You can barely hold a gun with your hands like they are. And besides, I never said I wasn’t going with you. Just said it was damn stupid.” With that, the man turned and began the walk north. Pausing with a shake of his head, Paul finished placing the pack on his shoulders and followed Hicks’ path.
For once, he welcomed the characteristic silence of the other man. Though they walked in the direction of the Horde’s camp, easily a three-day distance on foot, neither spoke of a plan once the destination was reached. Hicks’ silence allowed Paul to formulate, and quickly reject, several courses of action over the intervening hours. When the sun hit its apex, he could no longer ignore the dull ache of his feet. Sarcastically he thought, Least it takes my mind off my hands.
For the better part of the morning it was his hands that had drawn his notice. The burning pain had given way to a stiffness that made it difficult to flex anything more than a finger. He had seen, and himself taken, enough injuries to know that frequent flexing was necessary unless he wanted the wounds to heal with skin and muscle so taut that the hands would be all but unusable. He was tempted to call a halt with the excuse of lunch, but seeing Hicks pacing beside him with no sign of fatigue, Paul clenched his jaw and continued walking. His thoughts returned to the decisions he would soon be forced to make.
Both severely outnumbered and outgunned, he knew any attempt at an overt, frontal assault on the Horde was futile. He even acknowledged that Hicks was correct. The Horde would be on heightened alert after yesterday’s raid. In Paul’s mind, the only option that remained was guerilla-style attacks; small, cloaked incursions inflicting light damage repeated over a long period of time. Though that tactic may prove successful in the end, he detested the idea of subjecting Lisa to whatever torments the Horde employed during that time. No, he told himself, whatever we do, it has to be fast. We have to get her out fast. The initial glimmers of an idea began to tease the back on his mind.
“We should stop to eat, and rest.” Hicks announced, shattering his concentration. Paul quickly regretted not calling a halt when he had thought of it earlier. He could sense the power dynamic with Hicks shifting greatly, beginning with the killing of the drunken Horde man the evening before.
“If you need to,” Paul answered, slightly embarrassed by his own peevishness.
Hicks responded with a barked laugh and said, “Yeah, I need to.” Finding a small clearing several meters off the road, Paul could barely contain his relieved sigh as he lowered himself to the ground. They each tore into an MRE and ravenously devoured its contents. Swallowing his last bite, he broke the silence, asking, “So, why did you stay behind?”
“I already told…” Hicks began before Paul cut him off.
“No, actually you didn’t. Look, man, I didn’t say anything when the Council basically ordered me to have you on the team. But it’s down to you and me now, and I gotta know who I can trust,” he said, fixing a level stare at the other man. “So, why did the Council push so hard for you to be on the team, and why are you coming with me now?”
Picking his teeth with his tongue, Hicks seemed to be assessing and weighing Paul during the long pause before he responded. “It wasn’t the Council that pushed, it was Reed.”
“General Reed?” Paul asked with some confusion.
“That’d be the one,” he confirmed.
“Why? And why didn’t he tell me?”
“He wanted to. But he didn’t want to distract you from the mission. He knew me from before the outbreak, when I did some work for the government.”
Eyes narrowing quizzically, Paul tried to push him further. “What kind of work?”
Hicks’ eyes tightened noticeably, but his stare never broke. “Work that others find too messy. Work others aren’t willing to do.”
Paul swallowed hard. The suspicion had always been there, he knew. In the mountain camp, and since then, Hicks had always been a hard man, a solitary man, whose demeanor spoke of razor sharp vigilance and deadly potential. he understood what was both said and still unspoken—Hicks had been a mercenary, likely an assassin, before the virus. Perfect skills to survive so long on his own, Paul thought.
“And why the insistence of having you on the team?” Paul asked, hoping his voice did not betray his feeling of unease with knowing the man’s past.
“I don’t fully know,” Hicks answered. “What I do know is Reed did not trust the Council. He was suspicious of their sudden agreement to this mission and ordered me to shadow you.” In anticipation of Paul’s next question, Hicks added: “As a body guard of sorts, not because he distrusted you.”
Paul mulled over the information. Hicks could very well be lying, but in the time he had known him, Hicks was never less than forthright. In fact, it had always seemed he disdained verbal subterfuge, mental manipulations. Like killing the man in the Horde camp, it was direct action, strike and disappear. In the end, Paul chose to believ
e Hicks, though he instructed himself to retain a certain level of wariness.
Before he could respond, Hicks sprang to his feet, a gun in each hand, the deadly potential now fully kinetic. Paul fumbled to grip his own firearm through the thick bandages around his hand. He turned his eyes to scan the area, unsure what had forced Hicks into action. For his part, he did not seem to know either, until he turned to face Paul. “Down!” he shouted. Paul threw his body forward towards Hicks as he heard two shots ring in the air. Rolling back to his feet, his eyes widened when he saw how close the Til—now dead—had been before Hicks killed it. Events followed that forced away his shock and relief. The small clearing quickly lost its peaceful stillness as dozens of Tils broke from the tree line and rushed toward the two men.
Without thought, they stood back to back, and firing steadily into the infected onslaught. Paul abandoned the idea of drawing his second weapon, as it required both hands to fire the one with any accuracy. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Hicks was felling the attackers far faster. When the one-time mercenary shouted, “Reloading,” Paul swung his gun arm in a steady rhythm back and forth from his position and Hicks’ own. As the other man rose from his crouch with re-loaded weapons, Paul stooped low to perform the same function while Hicks covered him.
The rage-distorted faces filled his vision. Snarls and guttural screeches almost drowned out the sounds of gunfire. The Tils were gaining ground each second, some coming within arms’ reach. Paul doubted he and Hicks would survive a second attempt to reload. Calculating in his head, he estimated perhaps another three rounds remained. Almost as abruptly as it had begun, the Tils turned their awkwardly bent necks to the East before howling with rage and falling back into the trees. As their chilling sounds faded, he heard the unmistakable roar of several motorcycle engines. Turning quickly to Hicks, Paul’s mind raced as he found no sign of the man. Before he could react, four bikes rolled into the clearing. Paul had no doubt that he was facing four members of the Horde.
The men were as grizzled a group as Paul had expected. Long beards, two almost fully gray, matched even longer unkempt hair. Each wore a black bandana across his temple, the color matching the assorted pieces of leather clothing they wore. One of the graybeards drew a pump-action shotgun from the side of the bike and casually leveled the weapon at Paul.
“Drop it,” the man instructed in a voice marred by years of cigarettes. When he spoke, Paul could see he had several teeth missing form his mouth.
Trying to split his focus from the men to his scanning for Hicks, Paul tossed the weapon to the ground and raised his hands to the level of his head.
“Looks like we got ourselves a straggler here, boys,” Graybeard cackled and coughed. “Thought we took care of you lot yesterday.”
Paul thought to deny affiliation, but he knew his clothing marked him as part of the team slaughtered in the hotel. Where the hell is Hicks? he thought wildly. Did he get taken by the Tils? If so, he understood that his chances of surviving the next few minutes were slim.
“Bet he was the one who blew the bikes,” this spoken by what Paul believed to be the youngest of the four, if only by the lack of gray in beard and hair.
“We probably should bring you back alive,” Graybeard began. “Face justice for your crimes, and all.” Paul almost gaped at the man’s mention of justice and crime, recalling the stories of the Horde all too well. “But, I’m thinking we just kill you now, take your head. That should be good enough.”
Hicks, if you’re out there… Paul pleaded silently. The thought went unfinished, though, as shots rang out from his left. Flinching with eyes shut, he at first thought Graybeard had fired, but a second after the bullets flew through the clearing, he opened his eyes to find the other three members of the Horde slumped over their bikes, and Graybeard hidden behind his own motorcycle, with his left leg tangled unmoving in the handle bars. As Paul bent to retrieve his gun from the ground, Hicks appeared from behind a tree some yards off.
“Well, least we have transportation,” Hicks said in response to the last minutes of chaos.
“No,” Paul replied with a smile. “We have way more than that.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mike was slightly taken aback when those around the table sprang to action when he announced they would be leaving that very night. Erik and Andrew immediately began rolling up the maps and various charts that covered the kitchen table. Tumelo exited the house with Matt Locke, the former driving the shipman to his craft to ready for departure. The grocer’s wife worked closely with Michelle in collecting an adequate supply of food for the journey. Everyone seemed engaged, and rather enlivened, by the tasks. He, however, simply stood to one side and watched the activity around him. Though not as evident as the others, he too, was engaged in a task.
Now that plans had been readied and begun, his dark thoughts attempted to return and cripple his resolve. The necessity of leaving was apparent to him, his absence from work and his past connection with Michelle, Andrew, and Erik certainly painted him with a target. It was not even the idea of returning to the hell of his memories, though he had told Paul empathically that he would never go back. Rather, it was the fear and doubt of his ability that threatened to weaken him. He worried that in a crucial moment his mind would work against him, freeze him, and would jeopardize the others’ safety.
They were already looking to him as their leader once again, as if the past year had not happened, as if his mind had not been fractured in trauma. Michelle had seen him though, she knew. She had seen his trembling fear in his home, and he was sure she had noticed the effort required for him to detail the plan. She won’t blindly follow, he hoped. She’ll question and keep me from making a fatal mistake.
Mike was roused from his thoughts as Erik entered the living room. “What about her?” he asked lightly, lifting his chin towards the sleeping curl of fur on the couch.
He had considered leaving the dog with Tumelo and his wife, but Mike knew the separation would be difficult. More for you than her, he laughed silently. “Gazelle comes with us,” he replied, smiling as the dog lifted her head alertly at the sound of her name. “She’s our Til early warning system,” he said as he recalled the countless times she had sensed the Tils long before human capabilities.
Crossing to the canine, Erik began to play with her as he said, “It’ll be just like the old days then.”
“Yeah, just like the old days,” Mike repeated. He could not help noticing the excited inflection that marked his former student’s words. He was willing to bet that the past twenty-four hours was the longest Erik had gone without a drink in quite some time. For him, Mike realized, going back completed the broken parts of him. He tried not to think what it meant for himself.
--
An hour passed before Tumelo returned and Mike and his old students piled into the grocer’s early-50s sedan. Michelle held tight to the large pack of provisions Senora Sardina had supplied. In addition to the food, Tumelo had given the group three shotguns and a generous amount of ammunition. Weaponry had been Mike’s biggest concern. For his Glocks, he had taken the several hundred rounds stored in the chest with the weapons. Erik’s cache of ammunition for the two 9mms he carried was disconcertingly low. When they had gathered around the kitchen table, Matt had informed them of a handful of guns he kept stored on his ship. Even with all that, Mike knew bullets and shells would quickly run out if they were faced with large numbers of Tils or renegades similar to those encountered before the escape to Cuba. Let’s get across the water first, he chastised himself for worrying too far in advance.
The drive to the boatyard was brief, and Tumelo wisely powered off the car’s headlights as he pulled into the yard’s parking lot. Matt stood at one of the long docks and fluttered his flashlight twice as a signal. Once the car came to a stop, all four doors flew open and there was a silent flurry of activity as Mike, Erik, Andrew, Michelle, and Gazelle exited the vehicle and hustled towards Matt. Though he could not see her in the
night, Mike never doubted that his dog was by his side. The years evading Tils and surviving in the mountains had trained her well and she never drifted far from her owner.
Before following Matt onto the dock, Mike and the others paused to shake hands with Tumelo and thank him for his assistance. Mike could see that Michelle struggled against crying as she gripped the old man tightly and whispered goodbyes to him. For his part, the grocer seemed to be choking back tears of his own. Mike whispered softly, “Let’s go.” Breaking her embrace, Michelle turned and followed Mike and the others as Matt led them down the sloping dock.
Nearing the last slip on the dock, Matt slowed his trot before boarding his boat. Guiding his passengers with a flashlight, Matt helped them board. In the faint illumination of flashlight and moon, some of the ship’s details were visible. The thirty-foot craft was mostly white with several areas accented in red. A metal ladder climbed up the cabin’s exterior wall leading up to the bridge. The lights below deck showed a spacious cabin with cushioned seating along the port and starboard sides, and once on the deck, Mike saw a small oval medallion on the boat indicating it was a Carver craft. After the others joined him, Mike reached over and scooped Gazelle off the wooden dock where she had been waiting patiently. Back on her own feet, Gazelle padded behind Michelle as she stepped down into the cabin.
As planned, Mike followed Matt up to the bridge, while Erik and Andrew kept watch on opposing sides of the boat. Not only did Matt have a boat capable of making the crossing, he assured Mike he knew the area well enough to travel by moonlight until reaching a safe distance from New Cuba. There were patrols, however infrequent, along the island’s coast, and risking light could potentially doom the rescue shortly after it had begun. From the deck below him, he heard Erik confirm the lines had been cast off. “We’re loose,” Mike told the ship’s captain. Wasting no time, Matt powered the engines to life and the boat made a slow lurch forward as it slipped past its side docks.
