The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade

by Demers, J. D.

Dobson nodded and then motioned to the Doctor.

  “True, DJ, but Doctor Tripp and the Captain have their own idea on this.”

  “And we believe that idea is sound,” Doctor Tripp added. “Yes, there are a lot of scabs. But, if we’re right, they are all in competition with each other. Well, competition to a greater or lesser degree. From what Captain Campbell observed, this ‘Tikel’ seems to pull them all together.”

  “I would much rather fight thirty small groups of disorganized scabs than one giant hive working as a unit,” Campbell said dryly. “The data we’ve seen points to that. We take their War Chief out of the equation and our lives could be much easier.”

  Preacher raised his hand.

  “And if Tikel has already left the area?”

  “Then we get down and dirty,” Fish grunted. “Either way, a few scabs should be drawn to Nomad.”

  “And what about Luke?” I asked.

  “He’ll be long gone,” Campbell assured me.

  “Now,” Dobson said, “I’ve marked the proposed route on everyone’s map. Big Red will take the lead to clear traps. We haven’t seen any in great numbers, but we can never be too cautious. The bus is next, followed by the Stryker. The F350 has the rear.”

  “Standing orders, sir?” Fish asked.

  “Orders are simple,” he replied, staring at the group. “Don’t stop. If you are stopped, we will deal with it depending on the situation. We don’t want to leave anyone behind. Within reason, we will try to help. But, the priority is getting Christian through Scab Country. Everything else is second.”

  “What if one of us gets bit?” Karina asked.

  Dobson frowned. Of course everyone knew what had to happen, but somehow the question took on a new level with the proposed speed and earnestness with which we had to make it through Scab Country.

  “If someone gets infected, the commander of the vehicle will make the call.”

  “My suggestion?” Fish smirked. “Get out and create as much havoc as possible. Die on your feet.”

  Most of them nodded, agreeing with him. I didn’t have that fear. I was going to be safely stored in the most heavily armored vehicle with the most powerful weapon at our disposal.

  “We don’t know how far this hive reaches,” Dobson continued, “but our best guess is twenty miles. That is a long way. Stay vigilant. Keep your wits about you. Now, mount up. We move out when Luke gives the word.”

  People began to separate and go to their vehicles.

  Jenna walked up and gave me a kiss.

  “Good luck,” she said, smiling.

  I couldn’t smile. I hated the idea of her riding in the last vehicle. I understood the Major’s reasoning. It was the fastest, and could maneuver anywhere needed along the convoy. Other than Fish, Jenna was the best sniper we had. If we needed her to set up somewhere, the truck could speed off and get her into position. That did little to satisfy my selfishness, though.

  I took hold before she could pull away and hugged her.

  “You take care. Don’t do anything stupid,” I told her.

  “Me?” she grinned.

  “Just…be safe.”

  Her smile faded as she nodded.

  “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

  Karina walked up and gave me hug as Jenna backtracked toward her truck, blowing me another kiss.

  “You be smart, too,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Fish scoffed. “She’ll talk the scabs to death before they get that close. We should strap her to the front of Big Red and scare them all away.”

  Karina let go of me and turned to Fish.

  “I’ll ride on Big Red if I get to use the machinegun,” she suggested.

  “Not a chance, squirt,” he replied. “That’s my baby this go-around.”

  He walked up to Karina and ruffled her hair.

  “Take care of yourself,” he told her in a surprisingly gentle tone.

  She smiled and dove in for a hug.

  Fish stood there with his arms out for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. Finally, he reciprocated, and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  “Okay, now get off me,” he grumbled. “Get to the bus.”

  She smiled and waved goodbye to me, petting Boomer on her way out.

  “Don’t do anything dumb, kid,” Fish told me after she left.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “No worries, Fish. I’m more worried about you in that turret.”

  “Bah,” he waved dismissively. “DJ armored it up just fine.”

  DJ had made some last-minute adjustments to the turret late in the evening. He added metal plates, guarding the back side of whoever was manning the machinegun.

  “Still, a lucky shot—”

  “Don’t worry, kid. You just keep your head on a swivel,” he said, eyeing me.

  I nodded.

  “Is Tripod going to be okay in that coffin?” Sheriff Green asked as he extended his hand to shake mine.

  “Probably not,” I replied, grabbing his hand, “but he’ll make do.”

  “Alright Sheriff,” Fish said. “Hope you can lead us to the Promised Land.”

  “Me, too,” he responded, as he gave Fish a firm shake. “I’ve done some dumb shit in my lifetime, but this one tops them all.”

  “Good. Go out with a bang, I always say,” Fish grinned.

  “Let’s hope I don’t go out at all,” he retorted.

  “Christian!” Dobson called from the back of the Stryker. “Mount up!”

  I nodded and said farewell to Fish and Nate.

  Ten minutes later, Nomad made contact.

  The diversion was pretty simple. Six car batteries, a CD player, two amplifiers, and twelve very large speakers, all fastened to a small trailer. The music of choice was Metallica, set to repeat. Fish chose the band, saying that it worked when they were trying to capture Manuel Noriega. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but Dobson and Campbell seemed to get a kick out of it. Luke had towed the trailer a mile west of the storage center, just on the edge of Scab Country.

  When he was all set up, he disconnected the trailer, hit play, and drove off.

  We waited five minutes and then drove through the storage center toward the southern entrance. There, we would take back roads south west, angling us away from the diversion. We knew for a fact two scab clans were close to where Luke was planting our little trap, so at maximum, we would only be facing a single clan of ten or twelve of the monsters when we first entered Scab Country. At best, all the scabs, led by Tikel, would be heading to the music festival.

  A month ago, facing down that many scabs would have been horrific. That was, of course, before we had a Stryker armed with its powerful turret mounted 50-caliber machinegun and a M240 on top of Big Red. We also had a few other tricks up our sleeves, from explosives to smoke and tear gas. We had no idea if the latter would work, of course.

  Unfortunately, all I could do was listen to the chatter over the radio as everyone discussed what was happening. Coleman, who had some experience with manning remote guns, was sitting at the gunner’s console. I would peek over his shoulder occasionally, but really didn’t see much.

  Riding in the Stryker reminded me of flying in a C130. Enclosed, constant rocking, loud and stuffy. The bumps were the worst, and Coleman’s broken ribs felt every single one.

  “Hey Enrique!” Coleman called to the front. “Mind not hitting every piece of garbage on the road?”

  “Two hours I train,” he called back, angrily trying to focus on his driving. “Be happy we no roll into ditch!”

  Daniel was sitting next to Boomer near the rear hatch. The canine was a little skittish in the enclosed vehicle, occasionally whimpering while keeping his head pinned between his two two paws.

  I stayed near Dobson, listening in on the radio traffic.

  “We’ve got multiple detonations,” Fish reported when we were a mile into our journey.

  Luke had set up a dozen claymore mines around
the diversion trailer. The objective wasn’t to whittle their numbers down, though that didn’t hurt either, but to engage them. Make them feel there was still a threat present. Scabs were unnaturally fast, but if we could create a large enough gap between us and them, their odds of catching up were slim.

  Of course, once we opened fire with the machineguns on the Stryker and Big Red, attention would be drawn our way.

  It wasn’t long before that happened.

  “Contact!” Fish barked over the receiver.

  The hull of the Stryker was thick, designed to withstand IEDs. This muffled the M240 mounted on Big Red. It sounded like someone jackhammering in your neighbor’s basement.

  “Call it!” Dobson shot back.

  “Three so far.”

  The M240 continued to rapidly fire for a few seconds, and then the weapon went silent.

  “Make that zero contacts now,” Fish reported. “I can hear them screaming in the distance.”

  The radio crackled as Sheriff Green reported from the CDC bus.

  “We count six moving toward us from the south about a half mile out. Good chance we’ll make it past them before they reach the road. Moving Eagle One to the west to scout ahead.”

  “Any scab traps?” Dobson asked.

  “Hit two so far. Cut through them like butter,” DJ replied.

  The radio in the Stryker came alive.

  “Major, this is Nomad,” the voice said.

  Dobson leaned over and grabbed the mic.

  “This is Dobson. Go.”

  “No sign of Tikel at the trailer. I say again, no Tikel.”

  Dobson’s head sagged a moment before he responded.

  “Roger that, Nomad. What the hell are you still doing there?”

  “Couldn’t pass up front row seats to the fireworks. I’ve already jumped and heading toward the convoy.”

  “Thanks, Nomad. Good luck to you and the General,” Dobson said graciously.

  “Thank you, Major,” Luke replied. “Get Christian to Hoover Dam. With any luck, we’ll be seeing DJ in a couple months.”

  “God willing. Dobson out.”

  The Major put the transmitter back in its slot and grabbed his hand-held radio.

  “Nomad just made contact. Reports Tikel was not present at the trailer.”

  Disheartened replies came in.

  Everyone feared Tikel rallying the scabs. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel the same way, but I had a different fear of the Ogre. Having fought him first hand, I knew what he was capable of. The beast took nearly twenty rounds and still kept coming, only retreating when he knew he couldn’t win. I prayed he was still in the area we were leaving and too far away to join the clans we were heading toward.

  “Major,” Fish called. “I’m hearing a lot of scab activity. Distant, you know? They’re communicating.”

  “I can back that up,” Sheriff Green cut in. “Seeing movement ahead. Probably two clans. Twenty or so scabs in all.”

  “Distance?” Dobson asked.

  “I’d say about a mile.” The Sheriff paused for a moment. “Some are hanging back and seem to be fanning out. If I had to guess, they’re screaming in the opposite direction, warning other clans.”

  Dobson sighed in frustration.

  “I feared this,” the Major told me. “They may be setting up a trap.”

  I leaned forward, scanning the video feed displayed on Coleman’s screen. On the bottom right corner, it read that we were moving west at 36 kilometers an hour. That wasn’t that fast, if you equated it to miles.

  Dobson keyed the transmitter.

  “Sheriff, fly Eagle One to maximum range. We need to see if they’re planning an ambush.”

  “Contact!” Fish roared, and the clatter of the machinegun reignited.

  “Dammit,” Dobson muttered before raising his radio. “Sit-Rep?”

  “Fish is taking fire…err, spears,” Pittman replied.

  Pittman was riding on the hatch leading to the back of Big Red. The position would give him leeway to cover Fish if a scab were to make it onto the fire truck, or shut the hatch and retreat into the cab of the truck, if necessary.

  “Stop dilly-dallying, DJ!” Fish barked. “Hit the gas!”

  More reports came in as spears and scabs attacked the sides of the vehicles. I couldn’t see anything. I continuously peaked over Coleman’s shoulder, attempting to get a look, but there was little to see.

  I saw one scab charge the side of the CDC bus in front of us.

  “Hold your fire!” Dobson ordered. “You might hit the bus!”

  Coleman cursed, but stayed his hand. The scab leapt up and latched onto one of the armor plates on the side of the bus. Slowly, it began to pull itself to the top.

  Dobson grabbed his radio.

  “Reggie! Bring Jenna up. Take out the scab on the bus!”

  “Coming up now!” Jenna’s voice came through the speaker.

  The turret on the Stryker moved slightly as the F350 roared passed us and drove parallel with the bus.

  Three puffs of smoke shot out from the passenger window. The scab slumped and hung limply, its hand wedged between two armored metal plates on the side of the bus.

  Another scab ran and jumped into the back of the pickup truck. It was wielding a spear in each hand and an unidentifiable, long object was strapped to the creature’s back.

  “Reggie!” Dobson said, leaning into the video monitor. “A scab is in the back of your truck!”

  A shiver ran up my spine. The F350 had a tough wire mesh protecting the rear window, but a scab could easily shove a spear between it, cracking glass and attacking the occupants inside. Jenna was one of those occupants.

  “I got him!” Fish’s voice called.

  That didn’t make me feel any better. Regardless of how good of a shot Fish was, a M240 machinegun was not that accurate and was used more to spray and pray than focus on a specific part of the target. The scab was wobbling in the bed of the truck, trying to keep balanced.

  The back of its head exploded. Fish must have used his .308 rifle. Still, that shot seemed impossible between two moving vehicles while the target was swaying back and forth. Of course, I didn’t know at the time but he had fired four times before he hit his mark.

  “Fish!” DJ barked. “Twelve o’clock!”

  A second later, the M240 erupted again.

  The situation was tense. Being blind to the danger around me, hearing my friends scream about our perils made me anxious.

  The camera view in the Stryker changed as Coleman scanned on either side of us, switching back and forth.

  He fired at two scabs coming from the south. The report from the 50-caliber turret on the Stryker was much louder than the M240. The jackhammer sounded like it was on the roof of the Stryker, rather than a house next door.

  It was spectacular and horrific all in one. Dirt danced as the large rounds impacted the scabs and the ground around them. Trees behind the beasts split and shattered and the bullets ripped through the scabs, dismembering them.

  The gunfire died down, both from us and Big Red.

  Time passed as Dobson received more reports of scab movement. No sign yet of Tikel, though, or any group larger than ten.

  We picked up speed, hitting an open road through farm country. Scabs, even with their hearty stamina and speed, were unable to catch us.

  Over an hour had passed and things were looking positive. That is, until Nate radioed the Major.

  “Major,” the Sheriff said sourly. “Eagle One is at extreme range right now. Picking up multiple scabs near a wide irrigation ditch. Sixty of ‘em, at least. These back roads may have been a poor idea.”

  “Why’s that, Sheriff? Let’s just take another road.” Dobson suggested.

  “Only one bridge here. I just got a look at the one to the south. It’s been completely demolished. Looks like a truck caught fire on top of it. Most of the structure is in the canal. The next one north of us is seven miles away.”

  “Think we should mo
ve north and take that route? Keeps us in Scab Country, but if there are that many scabs in front of us, then you can almost bet Tikel is there leading them.”

  Fish jumped in on the conversation.

  “Not to mention those bastards are probably planning a party for us.”

  “You’re probably right, Fish,” Dobson agreed. “Sheriff, want to guide us north?”

  “I think that’s a bad idea, sir,” Nate grunted. “Our path would zig zag while the canal is a straight shot. With the speed these scabs have they would beat us there in a race. We’re approaching their core territory. No matter what we decide, we’re staring down a lot of scabs.”

  “But they may not have time to set up another trap near the airport,” Dobson countered.

  “They won’t have to,” Sheriff Green argued. “The bridge to the north is right next to the airport. We had road blocks already set up on the bridge. And don’t forget what happened there. If I had to guess, that is the largest concentration of scabs in the area. Even if they can’t make it there in time, they can scream a warning to their buddies before we get there.”

  “Sir, there is a good chance that all the scabs in this area already know we’re here,” Campbell said, jumping into the conversation.

  Dobson’s head dropped. His jaw clenched, betraying the stress of making the right decision.

  Scabs were smart. Their thinking may have been tribal and archaic, but even Neanderthals were expert hunters. I once watched a Discovery show on how early man would hunt mammoths. They would herd them, force them in certain directions until any choice they made would result in the ancient elephants charging blindly into a hunting party and their spears of death.

  We were in a similar situation. Go straight, run into a large group of scabs and an obvious ambush. Head north, and run into another group. Even worse, there was no turning around. Who knew how many had gathered behind us?

  “Major? We need to decide soon.” DJ called.

  Dobson looked at me, silently asking me if I had an answer.

  “It’s an Ogre’s choice, sir,” I said.

  “Come again?” he asked, confused.

  “No matter what we do, sir, we’re going to have to face them. Head north, we face an unknown amount of scabs, roadblocks already in place, and the possibility of these scabs reinforcing them. Go forward, and we run straight into this trap they’re setting up.”