The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade

by Demers, J. D.

  Just because weather was on our side didn’t mean that fate wasn’t still playing a role. It took us seven hours to find a way across the Florida Turnpike. Every intersection and bridge was jammed up with cars and trucks. In one case, the bridge was demolished. Fish said it had been destroyed by explosives.

  We had to travel far south, opposite of our intended direction, before we found a bridge we could cross. There were no on-ramps to the highway, which is probably why the road was somewhat clear.

  By the time we got back on track, it was already late afternoon. We decided to make camp again.

  While we were not allowed to engage in physical displays of affection, it was no longer a secret how Jenna and I felt about each other. I could tell Daniel was silently stewing. He couldn’t hide it. I caught him scowling at the two of us a couple of times. I tried to blow it off, but it was hard. I wasn’t upset at him. If anything, I was hurt. Daniel was a good man. He couldn’t help how he felt about Jenna any more than I could. It just bothered me that he couldn’t accept it.

  But Daniel wasn’t the confrontational sort. He didn’t say anything to Jenna or me. In a way, I think he felt the same way I did. He had his feelings, and knew they couldn’t be helped and that he couldn’t force Jenna to feel the same way.

  The rain had cleared up by sundown and the zombies took advantage of the dry weather. Even though we had chosen a fairly remote area, we had to put down around forty zombies throughout the night. I can’t express how much I appreciated the suppressors. Who knows how many zombies we would have attracted while defending our small camp without them.

  The next day wasn’t any better. We were still close to Orlando and made little progress north, avoiding large gaggles of zombies and the random scab-trapped roadways. When we made it to Interstate Four, we ran into the same issues as the Florida Turnpike, except the area was crawling with the dead.

  It took most of the day to find a safe way across the interstate. An issue we would repeatedly run into during our journey. Interstates that were near populated areas were roadblocks.

  We caught a break after two more days of slow travel when we reached Interstate Seventy-Five. Our second attempted crossing was a small service tunnel that passed completely underneath the highway. It was only one lane, and Big Red barely squeezed through, but we were happy for the break and waved goodbye to the highway as we found open country roads.

  We made great progress that day, traveling further than any of the previous days since we began our long and perilous journey. Finally, things seemed to be going our way.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Trap

  August 7th Afternoon

  It was bound to happen eventually. The F350 hit a patch of debris in the road and the front left tire was shredded by cattle fencing that had been sitting on the asphalt.

  This was something we had planned for. We had four extra tires for each vehicle.

  The two-lane road was in the middle of farm land somewhere northwest of Orlando. We hadn’t seen any signs of zombies or scabs for at least ten miles. After securing the area, DJ and Enrique went to work on Jenna’s truck.

  Doctor Tripp and Daniel stayed in the CDC bus, working diligently on my blood samples while Dobson, Campbell and Karina sat on top of Big Red pulling overwatch and discussing our route.

  After some badgering, the Major let me take Boomer for a walk around the farm land. There was a light drizzle of rain that should have kept most zombies at bay. We were told to go fully armored and armed with suppressors.

  Dobson ordered Pittman and Fish to shadow me and Preacher decided to join us. We strolled around a field as large as two football stadiums with grass and wild grain as high as our knees. The two operators walked ten yards behind us, discussing their tours in Afghanistan.

  “How are you doing?” Preacher asked as I tossed a foot-long branch. Boomer raced to its landing spot, snatching it in mid-gallop.

  “What do you mean?” I replied as I glanced around the area. I noted small patches of trees in the distance and wondered if zombies waited in the brush for the rain to stop.

  Preacher chuckled. “I mean, how are you doing? Things have been tense for the last month. Just checking to see how you’re holding up.”

  “Preacher,” I smirked, “are you our counselor, checking to make sure we aren’t all going mad?”

  He grinned. Reaching down he pulled a long chute of grass out of the ground and toyed with it as he spoke.

  “Maybe,” he said, staring at the long, green shaft in his hand. “I am worried about you, more so than the others.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  Boomer came running back to me and almost rammed me with his head. I pulled on the stick in his maw. He relinquished the prize after a moment of tug-of-war.

  “There’s a lot at stake, Christian, and you are in the middle of it. Must be a lot of stress on your shoulders,” he sighed.

  I threw the stick again and Boomer darted off after it.

  “Not really,” I frowned.

  I avoided a foot-wide hole in the ground. Out of habit, I raised a hand to warn those behind me. It is weird how simple military things like that come back to you. It was the first thing we learned in Basic Training when we went out on patrol. A simple sign to show there was a hazard nearby and for those behind you to pay attention.

  “Hmm,” Preacher murmured.

  I sensed that he didn’t believe me. Truth was, he was partially right. I gripped the barrel of my rifle with my left hand and thumbed back at Pittman and Fish with my right.

  “If anything bothers me, it’s that,” I said dryly.

  Preacher glanced back at the two warriors and smiled at me.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, confused.

  “Everyone treating me like I’m glass,” I responded bitterly. “I’m not fragile.”

  Preacher shrugged.

  “You should be grateful. A lot of people came to protect you. They left friends and family to make sure you make it to Hoover Dam.” He wasn’t condemning me for my attitude. Preacher wasn’t that sort of man. Rather, he was pointing out what other people were sacrificing to keep me safe.

  But that reminder was constant, and was starting to lose weight as far as I was concerned.

  Boomer returned, laying the stick in front of me. I stopped and picked it up. The canine jumped and pranced around in anticipation of the next throw, but I was distracted by my conversation.

  “I get all that. But still, it’s tiring. I’m not helpless. I’m not stupid. You say I should feel grateful, but I don’t. I feel like I’m suffocating. Heck, I thought for sure Dobson was going to keep me crammed in Big Red while they fixed the truck.”

  “But he didn’t,” Preacher reminded me. “Dobson is smarter than you think. He knows you’re good. But if you die, all this is for naught. You can’t blame him or the rest of us.” Preacher smiled and patted my shoulder. “You’re far too important—.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Preacher,” I said, hurling the stick as far as I could. It landed near a patch of trees. “It’s not me, it’s my blood. My immune system. Dobson could care less about me personally. Hell, Doctor Tripp treats me like I’m her specimen.”

  Preacher shook his head. “The Major cares, Christian. You weren’t there a couple of weeks ago when he and Doctor Tripp argued about your sister.”

  A sudden pain shot through my chest as I remembered the proposal I made to find Trinity.

  I had examined the route we were taking to Hoover Dam. It was taking us within a dozen miles of my parent’s property.

  Highway 2 was just a few miles north of Crestview. My father retired outside of the city, buying twenty acres of land where he built his final home. It was an hour’s drive east of Pensacola and the Alabama border.

  The argument was that if I was immune, my sister might be too. I didn’t bring it up to Dobson though. I figured if I could convince Doctor Tripp, she would state the case to the Major. She did, but the final verdict
was a no.

  Dobson’s reasoning was sound, I admit. There was no guarantee that my heritage was the reason for my immunity, which Doctor Tripp conceded. And if it were, the chances of my sister surviving to this point were slim.

  I wasn’t there for the discussion. Fish, DJ, and Preacher were. Fish said the Major was right. This was the first time I had discussed it with Preacher, though.

  “It wasn’t an easy decision for the Major,” Preacher continued. “You may not know this, but Dobson’s family lived in Tampa. Don’t you think he wanted to go see if his wife and daughter made it?”

  That was something I didn’t know. He had a wife and daughter. How selfish I was being. There I was, just thinking about the possibility of some of my family surviving, and not even considering everyone else. I had no idea if Pittman had a wife or kids. Doctor Tripp mentioned nothing about her family either. They all had to have loved ones somewhere.

  I had come to realize that people didn’t like talking about the ones they’ve lost, and in my arrogance, I only thought about my family.

  “Why was his family in Tampa?” I asked quietly.

  “I think it was the headquarters for special operations command or something. He didn’t want to drag them to England where he was stationed because he was rotating in and out of Afghanistan,” he replied just as quiet. There was an unspoken agreement between Preacher and I that we didn’t want Pittman or Fish to overhear us.

  “But we are going, literally, to where my sister may be,” I said, not quite finished being selfish.

  “Yes, and we passed Tampa by only thirty miles,” he pointed out. Preacher shook his head, fearing that he wasn’t getting through to me. “Dobson did say he wished we could. He knows you feel alone. Yes, you’ve made friends and have grown close with people here. But you carry a heavy burden and he knows that. Family may keep you rooted. But be realistic, Christian. Say, by some chance, your sister is still alive. What are the chances she is at your parent’s home? What are the chances that she stayed in the town at all? We could spend days or weeks looking for her. All the while, putting you, and everyone else, at risk.”

  I was about to respond when I noticed Boomer hadn’t come back. I examined the brush where I threw the stick. Boomer was there, sniffing the area and hunching over.

  “You see that, kid?” Fish said coming up behind me. Evidently, Fish noticed Boomer before I did.

  “Yeah. He’s got something,” I confirmed and began to march toward Boomer.

  “Stay behind us,” Pittman barked as he and Fish took the lead.

  Fish and Pittman cautiously navigated toward Boomer, scanning the brush and tree line with their rifles. Reluctantly, I obeyed and Preacher and I stayed twenty-five feet behind them.

  I kept an eye on Boomer. He wasn’t giving any zombie or scab signs, but something had excited my dog. He kept sniffing toward the brush, would stop and perk his ears, as if hearing something well out of range of the inept humans that were trailing him.

  Fish and Pittman passed Boomer and approached the edge of the brush. Boomer almost followed, but stopped and waited for me.

  I double checked his posture, ensuring that his excitement wasn’t caused by the dead or scabs.

  Fish half turned toward me. “What is it, kid?” he asked in a loud whisper.

  “It’s not Zulus or scabs. Maybe a pig or deer? Who knows,” I shrugged.

  “Or the living,” Pittman scowled.

  I nodded.

  “You two take cover in the trench,” Fish ordered, pointing his rifle toward a small irrigation ditch a dozen feet from the woods. It was three feet deep, wet and muddy from the light rain.

  I rolled my eyes, but complied. They were not going to let the Package near any possible danger. Preacher and Boomer followed me.

  Boomer would be an immense help to Pittman and Fish, but it was determined long ago that Boomer’s place was with me. Not just because he was my dog, but if I was alone, Boomer would be my first line of defense.

  My radio crackled with Fish’s voice.

  “Major, Boomer alerted to something. Pittman and I are going to check it out. The Package,” he said sarcastically, “is secure with Preacher and the mutt.”

  “Roger that, Fish. Everyone, keep the line clean,” the Major responded. Basically, we had to stay off the radios so Fish would be heard if something happened. I thought that was silly because no one was talking anyway, but protocols are protocols.

  Normally, I would have thought this was an unnecessary risk. We were supposed to have minimum contact with both the living and the dead. It would seem we were asking for trouble. But something I’ve learned working with Fish and those with more strategic and tactical knowledge than myself is that you never leave your back open. If we were to turn and hightail it out, we left ourselves open to be followed or worse, attacked.

  After climbing down into the ditch, I set my line of fire to the left side of the brush. There were more woods in that area and more places for a possible threat to hide.

  “Preacher,” I whispered. “Keep your eyes on the right.” I tapped his weapon to remind him to point it in that direction.

  Preacher, a little nervous, nodded and took aim with his .22 rifle. It was the weapon he was most comfortable with. The reverend wasn’t very gun friendly, and the rifle had low kick and carried a twenty-five-round magazine. The small caliber was almost worthless against scabs and zombies, but there was no sense in giving him something more powerful that he couldn’t handle.

  Fish and Pittman entered the tree line and disappeared. Every once in a while, I would see a palmetto leaf wave, or hear a twig break. Mostly, though, I heard nothing. Fish and Pittman were good.

  “Tell me about your family,” Preacher whispered, catching me off guard.

  “What about them?” I said while trying to keep my senses sharp.

  “Your mother…father. Tell me about them,” he said. Preacher had a way about conversation. The best way I can describe it is that he felt safe to talk to. Maybe that was what made him a good minister.

  “They’re dead,” I said flatly, not really wanting that particular conversation to happen.

  “Are you sure? You seem adamant that your sister may still be alive,” he reminded me.

  “My mother came down with the sickness. My father took her to the hospital and stayed with her. Even if they are immune like me, the chances are pretty slim that they made it out. Hospitals were death traps, remember?”

  Preacher snorted in agreement.

  “True,” he said sadly. “What were they like?”

  I took a deep breath, deciding whether I wanted to talk about them or not. Not only was it not a discussion I wanted to have, but I didn’t think it was the best time for it. Again, Preacher had a way about him, and I succumbed to his questions.

  “My dad was kind of a hard ass,” I said, and then smiled. “A philosophical hard ass. Always had something meaningful to say when he yelled at me. Some twist to make his point, you know?”

  Preacher chuckled. “Yes, I know what you mean. My father was a Deacon for our church back in Mississippi. Always had a scripture to go along with the switch, if you catch my meaning.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “He was a good, hard-working man,” Preacher continued. “Worked on farms all week long and the church on the weekend. Taught me a lot about life. Too bad I didn’t listen to him until after he died.”

  That hit home with me. I felt the same way. My father’s words of wisdom were lost in my youth, but found ground after the Awakening.

  “I definitely understand that,” I said solemnly.

  I no longer heard Fish or Pittman, and no sign of movement was coming from the brush. The radio was silent as well. I was beginning to get nervous.

  Boomer sat next to me with his head on the edge of the ditch. His ears twitched, hearing something that was beyond me.

  “My father loved my mother, though,” Preacher said grabbing my attention again. “I remembe
r one time, I didn’t come straight home from school. I was thirteen and thought I knew everything. Boy, my mother yelled and screamed at me until she was out of breath. I thought I could stand up to her and back-talked. She raised her hand to smack me and, for the first time, I stepped back and balled my fists.”

  “You were going to hit your mom?” I asked, taken aback.

  Preacher laughed. “I don’t think I was. But I wanted to show her I couldn’t be hit anymore, even though I deserved it. Dumb teenager stuff, you know?”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, she went silent and left the room. She met my father in the driveway later that afternoon. It was then that I learned a very valuable lesson,” Preacher said, smiling inwardly.

  “Let me guess,” I said, figuring the kind of upbringing and punishment Preacher had grown up with. “Your father came in and beat your butt until you couldn’t sit for a week?”

  Preacher grew quiet for a moment, reliving his past. After a few seconds, he answered.

  “No,” he said, lightly shaking his head. “He walked into the house, came face to face with me. I was so scared. He carried that look that Fish has. The look of someone who was ready to kill the person in front of him. With speed I didn’t think my father had, he grabbed me by the neck, lifted me off the ground, and rammed his forehead into mine. I will never forget the words he said. They were the words of true love.”

  Now preacher had me. I had to know. What kind of loving words could come from that act of violence?

  “What did he say?” I pressed.

  “He said, ‘I choose her!’. With that, he lowered me to the ground and walked out of the room. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. I remember thinking about that phrase into the late hours. Finally, in the early morning, before the sun rose, it struck me. He loved my mother and chose to have her in his life. Me? They may have planned me, but what I became was not their choice. I understood that, in my father’s eyes, my mother was his world. She was put up higher than anything, including me. Sounds strange, I know, but I understood what he was saying. I went into their room and woke them up. I apologized to my mother and father.”