Tevy thought of the Brat Pack, of promises they all made to one another. No one would be left to the rippers. No one would be left behind alive. That left two choices: shoot Milan now or stay, and Tevy had never before killed a human. “I’m not leaving you to die—or worse.”
Milan sighed in relief. “I was hoping you would say this, but in my conscience I had to give you the chance to leave. I will owe you very big for this if we live. That shotgun, is it your only weapon?”
“My Glock is loaded, and I’ve a couple of extra clips ready to go.” Tevy stripped off the old jacket, even though an evening chill was settling. He wanted freedom of movement. “And as a last resort I’ve got my knives.
They waited in silence, watching the orange flames burn low, but the column of smoke from plane was turned into a gray pillar by the light of a rising full moon, even though it was still low and huge on the horizon. The stars, dimmed by the moon, were occluded by a column of smoke, and Tevy could imagine just how significant a direction signal this was from every hill and valley for miles. “Here are humans,” it stated. It might as well be an arrow pointing down to the burning plane. They spent most of the time waving away and slapping at tiny blood suckers—mosquitoes.
When it was full dark, Tevy decided to move. “I’m going off for a bit,” he said to Milan. “Over that way. Don’t shoot that way.”
“You are leaving after all?” Milan looked glassy-eyed and vulnerable in the fading firelight, and Tevy suddenly wondered how much pain the man was in. They hadn’t even checked his ankle or his ribs, which seemed to be giving him more pain than his ankle judging by the way he held his side.
“I’m using you as bait. Let them come. Let them get close. Let me start the shooting.”
“This all supposes they don’t see you first.”
Tevy stood. “They won’t. I’m very good at being quiet and still.” He trembled again, but this time with excitement. He would get to kill rippers and avenge his parents. It was a madness, a relief from all the sneaking around. He hadn’t really stayed for Milan’s sake, but his own. Was he crazy? Suicidal? It didn’t matter now.
But Tevy was a city boy, and he discovered that pushing through the undergrowth on the side of the road was noisy and painful work, generating many scrapes. He finally found a wide spruce that had killed its competition with a bed of needles, and its lower branches, starved of sunlight, had died off and were easy to snap away so that he could put his back to the tree and wait. The smells were so different from the city. Mold from the needles, sap from the spruce, some of it sticking to his hand. He held his hand close to his nose and took a deep breath, for a moment transported back to a Christmas long past with his parents—their living room, the tree, and his father in his housecoat as Tevy tore at the wrapping paper. He couldn’t remember his father’s or mother’s faces, though, as much as he tried. But under that tree near St. John’s, Tevy did remember a presence, a sense of father and mother, of his loving parents.
Milan’s form, his right leg bent at the knee so that his gun could rest there, was silhouetted by the firelight less than three car-lengths away. The plane may have been their nemesis, but it’s cremation provided the light they needed to see and shoot.
Milan began to sing, a ballad about Bertrand in the mountain, about the end of the Vlad. It was a song best sung with guitar, a lament for a lost hero. He switched to an older song, one Tevy remembered from his iPod, one his father warned him not to play too loud, one with electric guitars and drums, with amplified voices and lots of other instruments and strings. Tevy missed that song, but Milan’s voice evoked it hauntingly, even though he sat alone and injured in the woods and waiting to die.
A crack of a breaking branch sounded behind Tevy.
Quiet as a mouse. Tevy pressed himself back into the tree, willing himself to be part of the trunk. He had assumed that the rippers would approach from up and down the road, not from deeper in the woods. An unpleasant thought crossed his mind. He could just stay here, silent and still. Milan was probably done for anyway, even if Tevy managed to surprise and kill the first few rippers that came along. When the St. John’s people came down the road, they would understand, wouldn’t they? There had been no hope for a man who couldn’t run.
But Tevy remembered Bertrand Allan opening the door to the closet to find a terrified little boy. That man had run into a burning building even when the odds of saving Tevy’s parents were very low. He was a saint. Tevy drew strength from that, from the lesson that the fight must be brought to the rippers, no matter how hopeless. Good might come from it—even if Tevy died. His heart started to beat faster, the anticipation of the fight growing. Tonight, he would not just hide.
Another crack, closer this time and off to the right. Something approached for sure. Brush rustled, and Tevy sensed rather than saw a dark form between his position and the highway. Whatever the creature, the undergrowth ahead that Tevy had fought through now proved a barrier in the dark, because the ripper diverted onto the highway, crushing through brambles that guarded bottom of the ditch that bordered the road.
Milan must be aware of it now too, for the singing faltered a moment, and the gun twitched on his knee.
Tevy willed Milan not to shoot. Not yet. Please don’t shoot yet. The woods were alive. There were other cracks and creaks and scuttles. Some might be natural, animals that come out at night like the dogs, cats, raccoons and squirrels that still roamed Chicago, but others were rippers, Tevy was sure. He leveled his shotgun to track the dark form that now walked down the highway.
Milan stopped singing. “No good feeding on me, my buddy. I have the AIDs.”
The ripper chuckled. “The bugs will fix that. Why don’t you put the gun down so that we can make this quick. I’m an early evolver, eight years old. Got a lot of bugs that can rebuild fast.” His left arm rose into the air, as if to point at the sky. With his right hand he pointed to his ribs under the arm, where his torn and bloody shirt exposed pale skin. “See there? Shot last week by those assholes from that keep up the road. Healed in less than a day.”
“What if I shoot you through the head?” Milan’s gun didn’t waver. “Will they rebuild your brain?”
Tevy willed himself to patience. He wanted to charge forward shooting, to relieve the tension of hiding and waiting, but others were now stepping out of the woods and onto the highway. Let them come and there’ll be more targets, he assured himself. Let them come.
“You’d have to be a very good shot.” The ripper’s voice was calm, soothing. “And what would it get you? How many shots do you have? Six?”
“Five,” said Milan. “The sixth shot I reserve for myself.”
“We can still feed on you as you die, even after you die. You’re blood’s pretty good for a few minutes, especially if you’re still breathing, and you might be.”
“I am not some uneducated vermin!” shouted Milan, the fear finally showing. “I was an air ambulance pilot. I know where my cerebellum is located. I know how to eat my own goddamn gun and stop my breathing in one quick shot.”
They were all around him in a semicircle now, seven by Tevy’s count, all restless, like wolves waiting to see who will strike first, ready to fight one another for a chance at the kill. The speaker was clearly alpha dog, as the others glanced from him to Milan, preparing for the charge. They knew he couldn’t shoot them all. He was a dead man.
Tevy took aim, thanking God that Bobs had allowed him extra time and ammunition on the practice range. He chose the speaker’s heart rather than its head, knowing if he missed it would still put the ripper temporarily beyond consideration.
“We’re not going to let that happen.” The alpha ripper was clearly about to give signal.
Tevy pulled the trigger.
The alpha ripper simply dropped, his legs giving way so abruptly that he appeared to vanish from Tevy’s perspective, the body hidden by brush from where Tevy stood. All the faces turned in his direction, except Milan’s. He fired at another ri
pper while Tevy pumped his gun and took aim. Now the rippers fled, but Tevy followed his target as he ran across the road. His shot brought that one down too.
Now he charged, taking the easier path out onto the road, his body coursing with adrenaline, rage, and relief. The tension had been released. He was finally the avenger. Two of the rippers fled down the highway, their backs to Tevy and Milan.
“Right!” shouted Tevy, firing at the same time. The ripper on the right dropped to the ground just before Milan’s gun roared out. The one on the left stumbled but kept going.
As quickly as it started, everything went silent. Whether it was from gun deafened ears or not, it seemed to Tevy that even the woodland animals had fallen silent.
The alpha ripper flopped onto his back, gasping. “Oh that hurt.” His bloody shirt hung in tatters, exposing the clear entry wound bubbling from the right side of its chest. “But I’ll live. My students will be back with more and you’ll both fucking die!”
The defiance was empty. Tevy didn’t bother to reply, the rage still smoking. He simply drew his Glock and fired point blank into the ripper’s skull. Tevy turned to each of the other ripper bodies and shot them through the head, what Bobs called “passing lead through the brain” to make sure they were dead.
Milan reloaded, his hands trembling just a little. “I almost gave up on you. I thought I was on my own for a minute.”
“We should maneuver.” Tevy looked up and down the road, but the fire from the plane had nearly burned out, and the moonlight wasn’t high enough to dispel the shadows of the forest. He took deep breaths, trying to calm the rage, fighting the desire to shoot every round he had into the dead rippers, the way Joyce fired into a corpse in rage when Bertrand told her of Tevy’s parents’ murder on that night so long ago. Would he meet her again tonight? Would she come down the highway for him, or would it be someone else?
“I can’t move, young man.” Milan slapped the chamber closed.
“I can carry you.”
“I weigh double your weight. That won’t happen.”
Tevy crouched close and grabbed Milan’s left arm, putting it over his shoulder. “You got one good leg. Come on! Stand! If we can even just get across the road they’ll be thrown off for a second or two.”
“Oh, this is going to hurt, but I guess I cannot argue with my savior.” He heaved on Tevy’s shoulder, pushing up with his good leg so that he didn’t just pull Tevy down. Milan was heavy. The grunts and curses that accompanied their stumble across the road indicated just how painful it was to move, but he bravely kept quiet, although when he slumped down under a maple on the far side of the road, actually closer to the remains of their plane, Tevy feared the man had passed out.
“You okay?” he asked.
“It’s not my ankle but my ribs that hurt so much. I think the ankle is just a bit sprained.” Sweat coated Milan’s forehead despite the evening cool.
Tevy wanted to clean the gash on the side of Milan’s head that he had got from the crash, but this was no time to go stumbling around looking for water. “I’m sorry. I haven’t done anything about your hurts.” But Tevy didn’t know what to do. Should he try splinting Milan’s leg?
“You’re still here. That’s very good enough for me.”
Tevy stood to stare down the highway in the darkness after the ones that got away. “I guess they’ll come back shooting.” The fear returned, but this time of lead flying out of the dark. His stomach muscles tightened at the thought, as if preparing to stop bullets.
“They may have a few guns, but not like Chicago. God, I wish I had some whiskey.” Milan shifted his leg with a wince. “Canadians had strict gun laws up here before the apocalypse, and they made them even tougher when the government was taken over by rippers. They brought back a gun registry and then just started rounding them up, usually along with the gun owners.” Milan tipped his head back against the tree to look at the stars, and the pain on his face was such that Tevy wondered if he were near to passing out.
“Stay with me.” Tevy put a hand on Milan’s shoulder. “It’s gonna take us both to fight them, so stay with me.”
Milan looked back down and met Tevy’s eyes. “Crossing the road was a good idea.” He took several deep breaths. “Listen, if there are too many of them, you run. You’ve been very good. I owe you my life.”
“Not until morning, you don’t.” But the fear and pain in Milan’s eyes went straight to Tevy’s heart. They would die together tonight. There was no sign of the St. John’s people, and the rippers would return.
The sound of running feet made them both look south down the highway.
“You really should go.”
Again Tevy was tested, but again he found strength in the memory of Bertrand Allan. “I’m not going anywhere.”
But as he stood and sighted his shotgun, he thought of Elliot and Amanda, of Emile and Helen. He longed for just one more Saturday movie night with the Brat Pack. He knew he would be missed, and that was even more distressing. Some of the littler ones looked up to him and would feel the loss deeply. It was all so damn unfair! He let the rage build to bury his fear of death.
But as he aimed at the nearest ripper—apparently a young man when he died, his jeans and shirt muddy—the sound of an engine distracted everyone. Tevy looked north to see headlights. He looked back quickly before he lost his night sight. The rippers halted in their rush and fled to each side of the road and into the forests.
“Saved!” shouted Milan.
But Tevy had let the anger rise too far. It had to be sated. He fired at a ripper before he reached the woods, dropping it to the ground. A different muzzle flash splashed through the woods like a bolt of lightning, giving away a ripper’s position, one with a gun.
Tevy charged into the forest, heading straight for it. He heard Milan’s call to stop. He heard the horn of the approaching truck, but the world was a red haze, and he wouldn’t stop until every ripper in the forest paid for the death of his parents. Tevy was lost in his rage.
Six - Two Sides of a Triangle
Kayla knew it was luck more than anything that they brought her along on this desperate sortie into the night. She had just come out of the cathedral and was on her way down the grand stairway when Jeff overtook her, running down the stairs followed by Martin and Basil. All the men carried guns and were in a frantic haste, but Basil, the Newfoundlander with all the hair, turned at the bottom of the stairs to look back up.
“Hey Jeff, she’s already packing.” He pointed at Kayla, who had frozen on the stairs, wondering where they were going in such a hurry at sunset.
Her Uzi. Rachel had already made fun of Kayla for carrying it everywhere, but since the night the manor house had fallen, when she had given herself up for dead until they escaped, she just couldn’t part with it. The gun had been her salvation, her refuge, and now it was her talisman. She kept it slung over her shoulder, loaded and always ready for fighting.
“Kayla! Come with us,” shouted Jeff, his hair undone and flying as he turned at the bottom of the stairs to run for the garage, closely followed by the other two men.
They were taking the Toyota? This must be important. Kayla ran down the stairs, grabbing the ornate knob at the bottom of the stair rail to aid in the 180-degree turn to run for the garage behind the grand stairway.
The 4x4 was a jacked-up, tough little nut with an extra bank of lights over the cabin and a fifty cal on a pintle in the back. Jeff ordered her into the shotgun seat while Martin and Basil jumped into the back. The garage door opened, and before she knew it they were on their way, speeding down the highway, the high beams illuminating the dotted yellow line in the center of the road and the residual pink of the sunset lighting the tops of the trees of the encroaching forest.
“What’s going on?” Kayla rested the Uzi on her lap and rolled up the window, wishing she had a jacket for the cool night.
“Novak crashed just north of the Mattagami.”
It took Kayla a moment to remem
ber that he was the pilot, a surprisingly cultured man with an eastern European accent, but different from her friend Radu’s. Milan Novak was one of the inner circle of Barry’s friends. A room was kept ready for him, even though he was rarely at St. John’s for more than a few nights a month.
“Is he still alive?” she asked.
“Who the hell knows. Uh-oh.” Jeff slammed on the brakes, tossing Kayla into her seat belt and bringing the little truck to a screeching halt on the asphalt. “Keep an eye. This could be an ambush.”
Evergreen branches rose perpendicular to the road. A tree had fallen—but not naturally from age or wind. Saw cuts and chips near its base indicated the work of rippers with a chain saw, for no human would block their lifeline with the world.
Martin and Basil jumped from the back, each carrying a large chainsaw. It was one of Kayla’s jobs to ensure these were fueled and functioning at all times in the back of the Toyota, so she was relieved when both of them started after only a few pulls.
“Get on the fifty cal.” Jeff didn’t look back to see if she was obeying this order, instead hurrying around the stump of the tree with his rifle aimed and ready in case rippers were hiding behind the branches.
Kayla hurried into the back of the truck and took hold of the fifty cal, swinging the barrel to point over the heads of the men. She made sure the belt of cartridges could run free from the box on truck bed. Did she even remember how to use this thing? Rachel had showed her a couple of times, but they hadn’t actually fired any of the precious rounds.
The 1000 Souls (Book 2): Generation Apocalypse Page 7
