by C A Gleason
It pained him to have made such a mistake, but what was interesting was how it had saved lives after he and Doreen returned to Henrytown to fight with the arsenal in the truck bed. Jonah’s instincts were solid. Even when he made mistakes, he found a way to make things right. Although he didn’t want to encounter dangers on this mission, he would accomplish it without exception.
With all his experience and knowledge, now Jonah was practically a professional at driving across snowy, icy, muddy, or even sandy terrain. Essential weapons were with him, all of which could be replaced with the backups stored under the cabin in its cellar or at the secret burial locations, but the ones he had on the seat next to him were the silenced 9mm pistol and semiautomatic shotgun. The bolt-action rifle with the quick-release scope attached and silenced automatic rifle were on the gun rack. There were canteens filled with water, food, TP, and extra clothing inside the storage crate in the truck bed.
It was the same configuration he’d had in the truck he’d abandoned after ramming the Behemoth, except this truck belonged to Henry. That was another reason to take care of things; the American truck didn’t belong to him, he was only borrowing it, and hopefully Jonah would be able to hand the keys back over to Henry one day.
“What if that doesn’t happen?” He asked himself aloud. “Then I’ll keep the truck,” he answered quickly.
Although his head argued that Henry was long dead, his gut told him he was out there somewhere. Henry had obviously encountered some trouble; otherwise, he would have arrived at the cabin already as he said he would. But that seemed like a long time ago. A lot longer than it had been. Whatever happened may have gotten him killed. It could have been by Molter or man. Or even Behemoth. Especially after learning what they were now capable of, or had always been capable of, how they could feed just like a Molter.
Just focus on the mission at hand.
The snow tires gripped the icy—but mostly slushy—road. The dirt road wasn’t paved but driven on enough to feel stable, even dependable for a truck the size of Henry’s. Years ago, the same road had likely been used for logging or some other necessary business. Military training? That made sense. The military—both American and German—had performed field exercises all over the country, and most of the time they took place in the most uncomfortable places. That wasn’t an accident. Any terrain and weather close to duplicating a war environment was chosen.
Jonah had never been so far east, but there were plenty of other places he’d been to in Germany while training. Being deployed to a desert during a war was arduous, but training in a place during the winter with a foot of mud everywhere was challenging too. At least you got some downtime during a war. Training didn’t end until you returned to garrison: the escape and comfort of the barracks or housing.
Snickering to himself, Jonah was already lost in thought, the trees on both sides of the road a creamy, green blur, remembering all that training. He had only served for a few days short of two years, but it had felt like a lifetime. There was so much that a soldier experienced in such a short period of time. At the beginning, it was all very uncomfortable being of lower rank with every higher-up looking to make subordinates do pushups or just chew them out for no reason, any reason they could think of, for training purposes, but the benefit was that, during that time, a camaraderie was established. For some it lasted years, others a lot longer than that. Jonah hoped many of his battle buddies were still fighting.
Tightening his grip on the wheel, he focused on the road. Mud blanketed the openness to his right and left where clumpy remnants of melting snow and wet continuously dripped from drooping tree branches. The temperature outside felt as if it were getting warmer, so warm that Jonah turned off the heat and cracked the window. It was still cold out, he knew, but the sudden jump in temperature made him feel hot. It had to be the descending elevation. He was driving downhill, after all, and it felt warmer the lower he drove.
Fortunately, so far, there were no threats in sight, no Molters or people with sinister intentions, and he had already driven for miles. Henrytown would be his last destination; his plan hadn’t changed yet; and after a look—probably just a quick once-over of its condition—he would determine who, if anyone, had decided to call it home. It seemed possible that others could have moved in after what had happened there, even with the degree of its destruction from the fires and when he’d manned the fully automatic grenade launcher.
Depending on their destruction, homes could be rebuilt, so there might be people living there, a group of them, and maybe even the community the dead trespassers belonged to. Or Henrytown could be filled with Molter nests or even be considered a home by a Behemoth. He would decide its danger level once he arrived, whether some clearing needed to be done, but then he would return to the cabin.
Henry had kept his truck running and in excellent condition considering he acted as his own mechanic. It wasn’t as if there were auto shops just around the corner. Jonah kept it tip-top also, and he was comfortable driving in the conditions, but he was still being extra careful whenever a road ended, and he had to turn onto a different one, remembering when he did and marking it on a map so he could find his way back more easily. He had a great memory, but he still wanted to do everything right and safely and back up his backup plans whenever possible.
There would be no one to help him out if he slid off the road or was in an accident, and he’d be shit out of luck if his vehicle was inoperable. He hadn’t seen an operable traffic signal in years, and there were no police to intercede if there was trouble, so if he encountered another driver, it would be the wild west. The wild east, actually, and especially if the driver of that other vehicle was looking to loot or worse.
Slowing at a cross street that looked to be a main road, he decided to stop and inspect the map, an actual map that he hadn’t drawn by hand and had been manufactured. It was the same one he’d used to locate the military bases around Germany after Oberstein. He marked it based on which direction he would go.
Looking left and right, both ways practically looked identical: trees, gray-bright sky that couldn’t decide which season it wanted to be, and snowy road with patches of mud. It was still very snowy everywhere.
Wouldn’t there be more snow at the cabin and less snow down here because of the elevation?
Answering that question changed nothing, so he decided to think of other ones, like if he would have encountered any Molters already if he had decided to drive while it was dark because they mostly hunted at night. It occurred to him that he would have to drive at night at some point but was certain he could handle himself while in the truck. He would always keep the doors locked while inside the cab.
He noticed how loud the powerful engine was as it idled, so he turned the key toward him, and the world abruptly went silent.
Rolling down the window by cranking the handle as quickly as possible, he listened, and as he did, a chilly breeze hit his face that somehow felt warm and cold at the same time. His warmth, its cold. He wasn’t sure what he was listening for. Anything really. A hint of life or a sign of danger that would cause him to act and turn the appropriate war gear inside him. His reaction would propel the truck wheels in an appropriate direction that was safer than there. Luckily for him, there were roads.
It was peaceful and the kind of quiet that only seemed possible at a high elevation. The silence was as if everything around him was asleep, including the land and trees. Nobody had probably been through in years. But then he saw something of interest and also concern, but in a way he’d expected.
Pulling the keys from the ignition, he grabbed the shotgun riding shotgun and opened the bulky door. It swung open with a creak that caused his brow to furrow with disgust. That’s new. His boots landed on snow and ice, the frozen cold lingering even though it was melting, but it still crushed under foot and would remain slippery until it disappeared completely. He would be careful that he didn’t accidentally lock the door behind him when he shut it in case he neede
d to get back inside quickly.
Fumbling for keys before he could get back inside the cab would be a stupid way to die. He made sure it was unlocked by looking inside at the passenger door, squeezed the keys in his hand before putting them in his front pants pocket, leaned in and grabbed his backpack, and carefully closed the door until it snapped.
Then he turned and froze as still as the ice beneath his feet, listening for a good five minutes until he was sure that whatever was responsible for what he was about to examine was long gone. Unfortunately, it was one of the rare times he’d been wrong. People had passed through and likely recently.
Jonah walked slowly, ready to raise the shotgun and fire at any potential threat, be it man or monster. He saw his breath even though it seemed like it would be too warm for that. He still wore his army green cold-weather jacket and pants to keep warm because there was a wrestling match going on between winter and spring, but the bold and ever-present wind never took sides. The crunching under his booted feet created more noise than he wanted, no matter how trained he was.
Another downside of walking the remnants of winter was that it somehow created an echo. Difficult to pinpoint accurately, but noisier than walking on dirt or even pavement. Most soldiers could move across a landscape in utter silence under those conditions. Then Jonah actually slipped a little—there was still a lot of ice on the ground—and his feet almost kicked out from underneath him. He felt his heart flutter, which made him chuckle.
It reminded him of a field exercise while in the military where there was a foot of mud everywhere they went. Comedy ensued as so many trained killers ended up on their asses in the mud no matter how badass they believed themselves to be. After being out training for weeks without bathing, they were finally allowed to return to base. Everyone was filthy, and the tile floor of the shower had looked like a brown lake once they were all through. To go from that filthy to that clean, it had been the best shower of Jonah’s life.
Same country, different world, he thought. And all those experiences had happened only within the last decade.
There was suddenly a hushed voice, and for a second he thought that maybe it was the echo of his chuckle from a few moments ago. He peered around, the end of the shotgun barrel pointing at his view as he searched for any sign of life, but saw nothing. Just his imagination, he supposed.
If Molters appeared—unless there were hundreds of them—he could kill them far more easily when unhidden than when in the depth of the forest. He could also make it back to the truck rather quickly unless he slipped. He’d seen around a hundred Molters at once before at the military base he’d been stationed at after he killed the Behemoth, and also in Henrytown, but that was a swarming behavior he rarely encountered. Especially lately and not around here.
Occasionally, an enemy exposed a weakness when they attacked because they lost control, similar to when a bee’s nest was broken open by someone by accident, but instead of going after whoever was responsible, the bees went after the nearest person. That kind of chaos could be controlled if whoever was responsible knew what they were doing, as Jonah did. Foreseeing the inevitable—like the progress of enemy movements—could be used for benefit by setting a trap, something Jonah knew how to do.
Whatever—or whoever—he considered to be his enemy often didn’t know what was happening until it was too late. He had defeated enemies that way during the war, and now he defeated Molters. It was how he had killed the Behemoth at the base in Oberstein. It had followed him right where he wanted it to go, where he was leading it. Almost killed him, but he survived. Unfortunately, recently, he’d had to do the same thing to people. Again.
Unconcerned with the sound he’d heard—or thought he’d heard—for now, he crouched and saw impressions in the slush that only a vehicle could make. The tracks looked to be recent too; otherwise, they would have melted already or been obscured by fresh snowfall. The tires looked wide and similar to the ones on Henry’s truck and the backup truck back at the cabin. The road seemed to have been traveled on recently and often.
There was something else that concerned him even more than the identifiable tracks. Not all the treads were the same, which meant multiple vehicles, and based on the size of the tires, they were all probably trucks. And if the truck beds were taken advantage of, it meant there could be dozens of people—maybe hundreds—possible enemies, to contend with.
His thighs realized he’d been in the same position for a few minutes too long, so it was when Jonah adjusted his stance that he saw the cocoon out of the corner of his eye. He stood up straight, arched his back and stretched, and stared at the developing monster hanging from a tree branch across the road. The growing Behemoth hadn’t only formed recently. It had been there for a few weeks, at least.
The cocoon was dark and bulbous, heavy because of the weight of what grew inside it, and looked as if it were about to split open and birth the monstrosity within. Jonah turned, intent on going back to the truck to replace his shotgun with his bolt-action rifle and doing what he’d done many times before, but unfortunately even he could be taken by surprise, especially when his focus was on taking the time to kill a Behemoth before it began its reign of death.
So when two trucks appeared in the distance to his right at incredibly high speeds for these conditions and headed right for him, Jonah wasn’t sure what to do. With all his mental preparation and readiness, he actually hesitated.
Fire at them as if they were his enemy? Or wait and see what they were going to do, or even had to say? They were the same species, after all. But so were the people he’d been forced to deal with near the cabin.
Jonah opened his backpack while squatting down, removing the map he’d drawn of actual stash locations and the map detailing his path—he hadn’t made enough turns not to have memorized them already—and lit them both on fire with the handy lighter in his pocket.
There was a map inside a gap in the ragged carpet beneath the seat of Henry’s truck, but it was a fake, and he didn’t want to destroy that one. Its purpose had always been to mislead potential thieves or be used to bargain. He pretended to warm his hands over the small blaze as he thought about what to do next and watched the potential threats speed closer.
CHAPTER 8
The trucks were similar in size to Henry’s, the truck Jonah was driving, and also the backup truck at the cabin—extended cabs, long beds, powerful engines—and they were obviously equipped with snow tires too. That was when he noticed there were men in the beds. They wore scarves or stocking caps or both, and they all held weapons ready: bolt-action rifles, assault rifles, pistols, or shotguns.
Even if Jonah did start shooting, there were already too many of them for him to take on himself. And not with just a shotgun, not at this range, and he didn’t have his pistol handy. It was in the truck. Silenced pistol, he remembered. He’d left the silencer attached, which he could remove easily, but once at the truck, the 9mm was practically useless against the weapons they were carrying—with there being so many of them—and would be more like only a show of force. No better than the shotgun. And it wasn’t as if he could sneak up on them. They’d already spotted him.
Yes, he could send some buckshot their way, but then he would have to run for the truck and make a standoff using the silenced automatic rifle. The one that was still on the gun rack inside the cab. He should have laid it on the passenger seat. Kept it ready in case things went south like they had. He would do that from now on. Take the shotgun out with him, but leave the rifle handy, and not venture so far from the truck. He would park it closer to wherever he intended on walking. That plan of action wasn’t going to help him today.
The trucks braked, going from high speeds to a halt within seconds, a loud, slushy slide that seemed to be intended to intimidate Jonah. The men who jumped out of the beds and the exiting drivers immediately aimed their weapons at him. There was another man in the passenger seat of the lead truck, but he remained inside.
With everyone who th
reatened him—there might even be more on the way—Jonah couldn’t figure a way of escape without doing something stupid that might get him killed. He was so exposed it was as if he was trying to hide in the middle of an open field, so he slowly rose up and stamped out the blackened, burning paper.
Then he held the shotgun up in the air and his other hand too. He remembered the radio under the front seat. Why hadn’t he put it in his backpack? He could warn Doreen about what was happening if she had hers in reach, which he was sure she did. Then again, and based on the behavior of the armed men approaching, maybe it was better that he didn’t have the radio on him.
“Drop the gun!” one of them said. He had long blondish hair, and although he’d attempted to grow a beard, he was unsuccessful. It grew in straggly, sparse patches. He aimed an assault rifle. “Now!”
Jonah was betting that neither he nor the rest of them, spoke German. The men he’d killed had likely been with them, and when Jonah had tried to greet the first man he encountered in German, he hadn’t understood what Jonah had said.
“Nein Englisch,” Jonah said. “Deutsch.”
“Oh, like hell. Fine. Ich spreche Deutsch. We all do. Which language do you prefer?” He waited. “Nice try, asshole. You look more American than any of us. Now do as I said!”
So, they were all American too. “I’ll lower it but I’m not going to put my . . .”—he almost said weapon—“gun on the ground.”
They obviously thought Jonah was dangerous, but they had no idea how dangerous he really was—no sense in hinting at his military background by calling his shotgun a weapon—and he was smart to think of them the same way, not to underestimate them either. Until proven otherwise. But their demeanor, for now, was clear; they were a threat, and he was ready to shoot if they did.
