The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade

by Demers, J. D.

  We hunkered down on the opposite side of the dirt road. Boomer stopped at the edge, sniffing the wet ground. Fish glanced at me and then Boomer, whose body language indicated signs of zombies.

  “Take the lead, kid. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I nodded and we moved forward with Boomer a few paces in front.

  The woods thickened and Boomer, ever so cautions, began to prowl slowly between the trees just a few feet in front of me. I followed, keeping my AR15 up and ready to spin on any threat that presented itself. Moving silently, I used every trick Fish had taught me when it came to sneaking over wet terrain.

  Boomer slowed to a crawl and then came to sudden stop with one paw still raised.

  I came up beside him and took a knee. My jaw dropped as I scanned the area in front of me.

  Over three dozen broken bodies were dispersed around the trees. Some of the bodies had their appendages ripped off, while others were missing heads or had skulls that were smashed into little more than a gory bowl.

  The carnage was both gratifying and appalling.

  Fish moved up next to me.

  “What the hell happened here?” he whispered as he surveyed the area.

  “I don’t know. They’re not all dead, though. Just…immobilized,” I replied in the same low tone.

  “Let’s check it out.”

  Fish swiftly moved into the zone, careful to stay away from any corpse that was still moving. He began to take note of tracks on the ground, damage to the trees and bushes, and the utter mauling of the zombies.

  Boomer and I followed, he was on edge, giving each zombie a wide berth, regardless if they were dead or alive.

  One of the dead-heads had been broken at the spine, literally folded in half. It writhed around trying to stand, but was so confused with its own disability, it couldn’t straighten itself out. Another’s head had been caved in to resemble a catcher’s mitt. A large, bloodied stone paver was off to the side. Chunks of sticky flesh still stuck to the surface. Whoever had attacked these zombies had done so in rage.

  One zombie had been skewered by a low-lying branch, pushed all the way back to the base of the tree. It flailed around, trying to remove itself. I quickly dispatched it with one round to the temple. Goo shot back, leaving a stringy line of brain matter clinging to my suppressor.

  I rounded a tree and froze. A zombie was lying on the ground, having a seizure. The legs trembled and one of its hands was opening and closing. Protruding from its head was a long, wooden shaft.

  “Scabs,” I whispered.

  I looked over and saw Fish kneeling twenty feet away. He was examining a head that had been wrenched from a nearby body.

  I pressed the transmit button on my radio.

  “Fish, scabs did this,” I reported quietly.

  He looked up at me, giving a nod in agreement, and motioned me over.

  Boomer and I snuck our way past a dismembered zombie. It was missing both arms and the right leg had been reversed at the knee. The canine gave a quick snap of his jaws at the dead-head as we passed.

  “Lots of scab sign here,” he said, pointing out jury-rigged spears. “Nasty bastards, and from the looks of it, over twenty.”

  “I know scabs will fight zombies, but I’ve never seen anything like this,” I commented as I settled next to him.

  He glanced at the skull he had been examining, and then back to me. Deep lines furrowed his brow and a familiar look in his eyes sent chills through me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing, kid. Just a bad feeling.” He stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. “We need to get back to camp.”

  “You sure nothing’s wrong?”

  Fish shot me a glare. “Of course I’m sure, dumbass. Now get up and move out,” he said and marched back the way we came.

  I stood, knocking the decapitated skull with my boot.

  I took a moment and examined the head. The neck had been yanked from the body, that much was for certain. A long vein and nerve cluster, along with part of the spine, were still attached to the neck. Muscle fibers were ripped and stringy. Four feet away, the body of the dissected head was lying chest down.

  Angled across the face from the right eye to the left cheek was a thick, deep gash that had to go all the way back into the brain cavity. I envisioned a medieval axe causing the trauma. When it had been yanked free, chunks of flesh and bone had popped outward.

  It was gruesome. Something about the carnage was eating at Fish. He marched in silence, maneuvering around the foliage.

  I caught up with Fish before he made it to the road. He was zig-zagging and appeared to be searching the grounds and canopy.

  Fish eyed something between a trio of oak trees and darted over. He reached into the underbrush and pulled out a spear. Stuck on the sharp end was Eagle One. It appeared that the drone hadn’t crashed because of the rain, but because a scab had lodged a javelin through the plastic casing.

  “Might as well bring it back. Maybe Preacher can fix it,” he said, pulling the spear out of the body of Eagle One and tossing it to the side.

  I agreed, scanning the area for scabs. They hadn’t left the area that long ago, and I was worried they still may be skulking around, looking for prey.

  Fish and I followed our tracks south, almost all the way back to the barn. The rain began to fall hard again, allowing us to move faster with little worry about our footfalls betraying us.

  He stayed quiet the whole time, obviously bothered about something that he wasn’t prepared to tell me. When the barn came into view, Fish stopped.

  “You go on back,” Fish said, checking the magazine in his M4. “I have something I want to check out.”

  “Fish, you can’t go out on your own,” I told him. “Boomer and I can still go with you.”

  “It’s not a debate, kid. Get back to the barn.”

  I knew it was useless to argue with him so Boomer and I headed back to the barn as Fish headed northwest. We made it back just as Fish was telling DJ he was going on a scouting run. DJ was troubled with the idea of Fish gallivanting off on his own, but didn’t put up a fight.

  I told DJ what we had found and about the possibility of a powerful group of scabs in the area. Jenna joined Pittman on the second floor, deciding to just take quick scans out of the roof for any signs of trouble rather than exposing themselves to the danger of being hit by a scab spear.

  Preacher took the drone but said there was little he could do with the parts we had.

  The rain thundered above us over the next hour.

  Fish had gone dark and told us to not try and contact him. Campbell radioed and said their group would be returning in a couple of hours. Evidently, Doctor Tripp had found some fascinating information about my family. That news was interesting to both Trinity and me, but the Captain left out any details.

  I had taken over guarding the prisoners while DJ and Enrique sat in the Stryker, scanning the area with the turret, looking for heat signs in the trees. They could only cover part of the woodline, though, and depended on Jenna and Pittman to cover the rest of the surrounding perimeter from the roof.

  “What do you think your friends found?” Trinity asked me, breaking the silence.

  “You mean at your house?”

  Trinity nodded, not taking her eyes off me. I realized she was studying me.

  “Not sure. Doctor Tripp wants to find a reason why we’re immune. Maybe it will explain our immunity or something,” I guessed.

  She considered a moment. “They really are trying to find a cure, aren’t they?”

  I smirked.

  “Think anyone would travel all this way through hell for nothing?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows. Just hard to believe. In the first few weeks, people thought the government would come up with a cure. After contact was lost with the outside world, most people gave up hope. Now you and your friends show up, promising miracles.”

  I leaned in close, ensuring that she met my eyes.


  “Trinity, I’m in a position where I don’t need to lie to you. I’ve exhausted myself trying to convince you. Regardless, we are going to Hoover Dam and we are going to try and make a vaccine.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And, regardless, I am going with you?”

  I smiled. “Regardless.” Then I frowned, and sighed, “I don’t want it to be this way. I didn’t want it to be this way. But this is where we are.”

  She glanced over at Goblin, and then to Ray before she looked back at me.

  “It’s hard…” she stopped, regained some composure, and then continued in a light whisper. “It’s hard to trust. To believe there may be…a future.”

  I sat back, keeping my expression indifferent.

  “I’m not guaranteeing there is a future. Not a bright one, at least. I’m just saying there may be a chance at something better. If not for us, then maybe humanity.”

  She shrunk back against the planks of wood and stared at the ceiling. Minutes passed before she spoke again.

  “Do you know what I miss?” she asked, surprising me at the change in conversation.

  “No, but I’m sure the list is pretty extensive,” I chuckled.

  “Popcorn. Not the instant kind that you put in the microwave, or that crap they serve at the movie theater,” she said with disgust.

  “You mean like how mom use to make it?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Trinity gave a small laugh. “Dad would spend twenty minutes trying to connect the DVD player so we could have a family movie night. Mom would pull out that ancient cast-iron skillet, melt a pound of butter, throw in the popcorn seeds and put a lid on. By the time she finished, Dad would finally get the movie playing.”

  I smiled, remembering as if it were two lifetimes ago. “Dad would always take the kernels that were charred. He would say ‘These have that special flavor.’”

  Trinity and I shared a laugh, attracting glares from the other prisoners.

  “You know Dad was lying,” she said, in a more serious tone.

  “Nah, he loved them.”

  She shook her head with a grin.

  “Dad told me a while ago how much he hated the burnt ones.” Her eyes and voice softened. “He told me he only said that so Mom’s feelings wouldn’t get hurt. It ended up backfiring on him because she always made sure a good portion of the popcorn got overcooked.”

  “Really? Wow. Poor Dad,” I said, still lingering at the memory.

  “He loved her so much,” she mumbled. Trinity’s eyes began to swell with tears.

  “He did,” I agreed.

  “Dad made me promise to never tell Mom,” she said with a mixture of laughter and sobbing. “He said ‘If a man loves a woman, he will eat dirt and say it tastes like prime rib.’”

  I casually chuckled at the memory of my father, until I realized how much he had changed.

  “I can save him,” I whispered confidently.

  She took in a deep breath. “I don’t think—”

  “I can,” I insisted, moving closer to her. She shut her eyes, unable to respond.

  I glanced over to the stove. Preacher was sitting next to Karina, examining the circuitry of the damaged drone.

  I turned back to Trinity.

  “You know, we may not recognize it at first, but nothing evil comes out of love. It might become twisted, unrecognizable. In the end, though, it will find a way to work out.” I was paraphrasing from one of Preacher personalized sermons.

  “Maybe…” she said quietly.

  I laid my hand on hers.

  “I will. You just have to—”

  “Christian!” DJ hissed from the hatch on the Stryker.

  My nerves shot up as I saw DJ’s expression. A deep concern traced the lines of his face, and from his tone, he was worried.

  I stood up, keeping one eye on the prisoners as I skirted over to the Stryker.

  “Where’s your radio?” he asked.

  “Charging,” I said with a hand motion toward the Stryker.

  He reached back, grabbed one of the radios, and shoved it into my chest.

  “Get on the net,” he growled. “We have company!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Nemesis

  September 2nd Afternoon

  I placed the radio into the cradle on my belt, shoving the earpiece in. My eyes darted to where Leia and Boomer were lying next to the side door. If something was outside, the heavy downpour was masking their approach.

  I flicked on the radio, catching Fish in mid-sentence.

  “—how many?” he inquired.

  “I’ve seen two. Both to the east, just inside the woodline. Wait…” Pittman paused. I looked up to the second floor and saw the mountainous man standing part way through the roof hatch. “One more to the south. He just tossed something under the bus.”

  “What did it look like? Was it a metal ball with spikes?” Fish asked.

  “Roger that,” Pittman acknowledged.

  My brain went into overdrive. The CDC bus was lined against the south wall of the barn while the Stryker was backed into the west side plugging the hole it had made that morning. It was blind to what was happening on all other sides.

  Pittman had identified a spiked ball and I was immediately reminded of the weapon the scabs had used at the bridge that took out Jenna’s truck. It had to be scabs. They had to be throwing the ball under the bus to prevent it from pulling away.

  That brought up a chilling question. How did the local scabs know to design and use a weapon that scabs from a different region created? It was true that in the past, humans on different sides of the globe both designed bows and arrows, even though they were separated by thousands of miles. Were scabs that intuitive? After all, scab traps and weapons all had the same basic construction model. But those spiked balls seemed to be a step above what they normally used.

  “Captain,” Fish called, “better get moving. I’ll be at the road in two mikes. Pick me up.”

  “In route now,” Campbell replied.

  “DJ, keep everyone inside until we get there. Pittman, get your head out of range and seal that roof hatch!” Fish’s voice was raspy, indicating he was running as he dished out orders.

  “What is it?” Karina asked as she and Preacher joined us at the Stryker. Trinity and the prisoners were watching us. I didn’t see any reason to lie.

  “Scabs. Not sure how many…at least twenty. They are approaching from the south and the east,” I told them as I latched my AR15 onto my vest.

  DJ raised an eyebrow. “Twenty? Pittman saw two.”

  “They are probably the same scabs that tore up the zombies Fish and I found. Fish guessed there were around twenty of them,” I told him while I checked the chamber on my rifle.

  DJ prepared his own weapons, charging a round into his AK47. “Enrique,” he said as he walked toward the middle of the barn, “keep an eye on our flank.”

  “Sí,” he replied from inside the Stryker. The motor on the turret whined as it rotated.

  Karina jumped into the back of the vehicle and handed Preacher his .22 rifle before strapping the MP5 over her shoulder.

  “Preacher,” I said as I joined DJ, “you and Karina watch Enrique’s back.”

  Trinity began to push herself up to her feet, using the wall as leverage.

  “Let us help you,” she said.

  “Sit your crazy ass back down,” DJ barked. “I’d sooner have a dead-head watch my back.”

  “We could use their help,” I countered in a hushed tone. “At least my sister…”

  “Hell no!” he growled.

  Trinity stood defiantly against the wall and Leia bounded over and took a defensive stance in front of her. Boomer had slowly circled over to DJ and me, keeping an eye on the side entrance. His senses were hindered by the weather outside but he knew we were on high alert.

  I jumped at the sound of Pittman closing the roof access hatch. I looked up and saw Jenna kneeling next to him. They were prowling toward the closed, upper hay doors on the opposite sid
e of the barn.

  “Anything on FLIR?” Fish asked over the comms.

  “No,” Enrique responded. “I looking, but nothing come yet.”

  “Keep those beady eyes peeled, Pablo. I have a feeling—”

  Fish’s voice was drowned out by a horrifying shriek. It was deep and hollow, unlike most scabs we had encountered in the past. There was a daunting familiarity to it, though.

  “Holy shit! I heard that from here!” It was Sheriff Green, communicating from Big Red.

  Answering wails echoed around the barn, causing Boomer to growl.

  “I still see nothing!” Enrique said anxiously.

  The scabs were not coming from the west side where the Stryker could see them. It was either bad luck or they knew the 50-caliber mounted on the top of the armored vehicle was a major threat.

  Pittman edged up to the hay door on the second floor, but stopped just before opening it.

  The tension was almost tangible, reaching out and touching us like some ghostly hand.

  The pounding rain was suddenly drowned out by a large bang that reverberated throughout the barn. Boomer tensed, pointing toward the east side of the barn.

  I followed the canine’s gaze to the large door on the other side of the barn. It hadn’t been a factor, having been sealed and nailed permanently shut long before even my sister and her friends took up residence. We had treated it as just another wall.

  Again, something slammed, and I saw the wooden planks split and pop inward on the barricaded door.

  DJ aimed his AK47 at the forming hole.

  The third strike fragmented the boards as an eight-inch-thick wooden beam protruded through the opening. As soon as the beam retracted, two sets of hands gripped the sides of the opening and tore at the wood viciously, breaking the planks.

  DJ didn’t hesitate and began to fire through the wooden planks near the breach. I joined in and our two suppressed weapons rapidly sent sixty rounds through the degraded door.

  A three-foot-wide breach had been opened, but our barrage of fire had either killed the threat or caused it to retreat.