Regardless, if I were to die, they still had my sister to dissect when they got to Hoover Dam.
The rain slowed to a drizzle and then stopped all together. As night fell, the stars and moon shone brightly overhead.
“Hey you two,” I said, climbing onto the roof of the house.
“Your shift isn’t until morning,” Jenna responded. “You should get some sleep, honey.”
“I’m fine,” I replied as I sat down next to both of them.
Karina was scanning the woods with a set of night vision goggles.
“How’s Trinity?” Karina asked, lowering the NVGs.
“She’s doing okay, considering.”
“I checked on Enrique earlier,” Jenna said sadly. “He’s still out. Pittman says it will be touch and go for a couple days.”
“Guess that means we’ll be staying awhile,” Karina said.
“Yeah…” I said nervously. The two girls picked up on it quickly.
Jenna leaned in close. “What’s bugging you? Trinity?”
“No,” I said. “Well, yes. I mean, it’s bothering me, of course. But there’s something else.”
“Should I leave?” Karina asked mockingly. “You two need some husband-wife time?”
“It’s nothing like that,” I said, lowering my voice. “I…I kinda need favor from both of you.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that,” Jenna grimaced.
“Yeah, and for good reason,” I agreed. “Look, I’m going after my father before the sun comes up.”
“Whoa, I heard Fish talking to the Captain about that,” Karina said a little too loudly.
“Shh!” I said curtly, nudging her leg.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Look, Fish knows you want to go. He and the Captain were talking about how they need to keep an eye on you.”
“Christian,” Jenna said, a hint of warning in her voice, “if you’re thinking of—”
“Jenna, I have to!” I hissed. I could see her face contort in the moonlight, and I smoothed my tone out. “Jenna, it’s my dad. Trinity’s dad. How can I not at least try?”
“How can you want to?” Jenna replied angrily. “After what he did to your sister? Christian, get some sense into that pig head of yours!”
“It’s going to happen,” I said, attempting to conceal my irritation. “The only way it’s not going to happen is if they overhear us or you turn me in.”
They both suddenly got quiet. I had just dropped the bomb, and they now knew I wanted their help.
Karina sighed. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve had to do this before?”
Karina, of course, was talking about the time I asked her to cause a diversion in Camp Holly. That reason was so I could sneak out and save Fish and the rest of our friends from Cecil’s pursuit of revenge.
This was much different. I was doing it for my own personal reasons, and asking Karina and Jenna to help me go against our leaders.
“Are you thinking of going alone?” Jenna asked suspiciously.
“Of course I’m going alone. Look, I can’t risk anyone else for this. I don’t want help. It’s something I have to do by myself.”
“How do you plan on getting there? How do you even know where ‘there’ is?” Karina sounded like she was going to try and punch holes in my plan.
“My sister gave me directions. I know you two don’t like the idea. Just…please, trust me.”
There was a moment of silence while the two contemplated. Finally, Jenna spoke.
“What, exactly, do you want us to do?”
CHAPTER 24
Pulling the Trigger
September 4th Morning
Karina and Jenna didn’t like the plan, but I made them give every oath and promise in the book that they wouldn’t turn on me.
It was wrong on my part. I was taking advantage of Karina and our friendship and Jenna and our relationship. They knew it. I knew it. But out of everyone, they were the only ones I felt I could trust.
I thought of bringing Preacher in on it. Of everyone in our group, he had supported me the most. I just couldn’t. He was too good a man to involve in deceiving our friends.
I was gone by 7:00 AM, just before the sun crested the trees. With Jenna and Karina watching the area, I didn’t have to worry about being seen. Even better, Karina was going to assume my guard shift. I was supposed to take over in the morning with Sheriff Green. Karina would tell him that I wasn’t feeling well and she was going to cover for me.
My plan wasn’t that intricate beyond that. If I hadn’t made radio contact or returned by 1:00 PM, Jenna was supposed to go to Fish with a note she “found”, indicating my plans. I didn’t want anyone else receiving the fallout from my decision.
I just hoped no one betrayed me.
As much as I wanted to go after my father, I don’t think I would have done it if my sister were not with my friends. As selfish as I was, I had resigned to the fact that I carried the possible life blood for humanity. That was frustrating, but something I had surrendered to. Trinity changed those dynamics. If I were to fall, mankind still had a chance with her.
I had loaded out my vest, carrying six magazines for my AR15 rifle. I also carried a day’s worth of rations and my small medical bag. Besides my radio and my 9mm Glock, I didn’t have much else with me. I wanted to travel light.
The weather was on my side. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the fall weather was beginning to cool the Panhandle of Florida, even with a brightly shining sun. Zombies should be sticking to the woods, and other than a couple of places I had to cut through the trees, I was going to stay on the dirt roads.
I started off at a light jog, but soon changed to walking, using long strides. It was how they taught us in Basic Training to cover long distances in as short a time as possible, while conserving energy.
It was an hour before I ran into my first zombie. He was chasing a rabbit across the road with zero chance of catching it. When he saw me, a much slower moving target, he changed directions and started to come my way. Two quick shots with my rifle put him down. The suppressed shots seemed uncomfortably loud in the still woods around me.
This was the first time I had been alone since I came across Cecil outside of Camp Holly. At minimum, Boomer had been by my side. Now, with nothing near me to make some sort of noise, from breathing to footsteps, it felt strangely peaceful. The report of my rifle, though suppressed, reminded me how alone I really was.
I continued marching down the dirt road until it came to a bend near a river. The river was only twenty feet across. The road continued south for several miles until it crossed a bridge to the other side. According to my sister, though, there was a foot bridge near the river bank close to where I was.
I left the safety of the road, stumbled down the embankment, and followed the river’s edge south. She had told me that the waterway was only five or six feet deep, but once soaked, I would have a miserable time during the rest of my personal quest.
The stream bent around an outcropping of trees. I followed along the river and once around the bend, I saw the footbridge. It was skinny, but raised several feet above the water. I climbed back up the river bank and stepped onto the bridge.
There was something off. The lonely, serene feeling I had been having had faded. Something told me I wasn’t alone anymore, though I couldn’t see any threats across the bridge.
Call it sixth sense, luck, or subliminal instincts, but I immediately ducked just as a spear flew by my head. I saw it soar over me and stick into the opposite side of the bridge.
I gripped my AR15 and spun around just as another spear flew at my chest. I had nowhere to go, blocked by railings on either side.
The wooden shaft hit the magazine well of my rifle and splintered. A shard of wood jabbed into my right palm, digging a three-inch jagged gash.
Twenty feet up the embankment stood a single figure. The scab was tall, standing well over six feet in height. It was thin and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundr
ed and sixty pounds. The hair on the scab’s head had almost all been ripped out, and his left arm ended in a stump right below the wrist. Masses of scars, both self-inflicted and former bullet wounds, covered its body.
I tightened my hold on the pistol grip of my rifle, taking aim. I didn’t feel the pain in my hand yet, but the sensation of blood being squeezed from my wound was nauseating.
The pain came when I pulled the trigger. I could feel skin rip each time the rifle kicked.
For its height, the scab was nimble. He leapt down the embankment and rolled skillfully behind a tree. Two of my ten rounds caught him in the leg as he tumbled, though they did little to slow him down.
I backpedaled, making sure to step carefully over the three-foot-wide bridge.
The scab ducked and dived between trees as I tracked him. I shot only when I thought I could hit him. Round after round flew, but I only struck him three more times before my magazine was empty. Of those, all were just superficial wounds.
I ejected the magazine and reached for a new one. The pain in my palm hit me as I readjusted my rifle. My thumb was refusing to work properly. Tendons and muscles that pulled the thumb closed had been shredded. Thankfully, it didn’t affect me reloading since I was using my left hand.
By the time I had slapped the new magazine in and hit the bolt release, the scab had made it to the bridge. I fired rapidly at point blank range as he ran toward me. Ten rounds hit him center mass, but he kept charging and rammed into me at breakneck speed.
The two of us fell back onto the bridge, just a few feet from the other side.
My rifle was nothing but a hindrance, latched to my vest and getting in the way of using my own limbs in self-defense.
Thankfully, the scab had received mortal wounds that his accelerated healing ability could not fix before he died. He fought sluggishly, using his weight rather than dexterity to keep me pinned. But even a weakened scab was still as powerful as I was.
We wrestled, and I had a sudden fear of falling off the bridge as our entangled bodies rocked from side to side.
He raked his hand across my neck. A burning pain erupted as his fingers dug into my flesh. My right hand was almost useless, unable to grip or grab his flailing arms. Using my forearm, I pushed him back. I could feel his energy waning, but he was not out of the fight yet.
My left hand dug toward my belt. There wasn’t a gun on that side, but I did have my knife.
He struck me hard on the cheek with his mangled stump just as I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of my K-bar. I pulled the blade out and extended my arm off the bridge.
I thrust the knife over and down, impaling his lower back. With no pain receptors, he barely noticed.
Again, he bashed me in the face with his stump, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe through my nose. Blood flowed both ways, dripping into throat and running down my cheeks.
I withdrew the knife and stabbed higher, this time hitting him just below the shoulder blade.
He screeched in annoyance as I yanked the K-bar free once more. This time, he spun and gripped my left arm with his right hand. He straddled me. The blade swung around violently as the two of us fought for control.
And then, his eyes went wide as something struck the back of his head. Two more hollow thumps lightly echoed across the water, and his right eye exploded in a white and red mist.
He sat there, unmoving. I pivoted and pushed him off the side of the bridge. His body fell limply into the river below.
I scrambled backward, clutching my right hand. Blood was flowing freely as an intense, burning pain emanated from my palm.
Standing at the foot of the bridge was Preacher. His .22 rifle was still poised in my direction. His face was frozen in both fear and shock.
“What are you doing here?” I spat as I used the railings to stand.
Preacher took a breath.
“I…I followed you.”
“Dammit! Why?” I cursed.
Quickly, I detached my first aid kit and began to pour peroxide on my palm. The searing pain hit me like lava. I gritted my teeth so hard they could have shattered.
Preacher walked toward me, relaxing the grip on his rifle.
“I had to,” he stated, deep concern etched around his brow. “You’re hurt.”
“Yeah, I know,” I growled, wrapping the wound on my hand. “You shouldn’t have come!”
“Christian, I couldn’t let you do this alone.”
“I have to do it alone. This is my father. No one else needs to put their necks—”
“Wrong!” he said harshly, cutting me off. He grabbed a roll of excess gauze and pressed it to my neck. “I should have supported you before, and I didn’t. Not with the Bogdons, and not with your sister. You were right with both. I wasn’t going to let you go down this road by yourself.”
I finished wrapping my hand and let him wipe the claw marks on my neck. The deep gouges stung as he padded the area. I retrieved an elastic, adhesive bandage from my bag and let him apply it.
“Preacher, this is not your fight.”
Grabbing a small towel from the medical bag, I wiped the blood from my face. My nose was tender, but not broken.
“If I hadn’t shown up, you would have died,” he pointed out.
“No,” I said, disagreeing, “that scab was dead. He just needed a little more time to bleed out.”
“All the same, he could have continued to hurt you.”
I lowered my head. “Preacher, you have to go back.”
Preacher smiled, lifting my chin so I was facing him.
“Christian, I cannot let you go by yourself, especially now that you’re hurt. You need me and you know it, if only for someone to lean on.”
I wasn’t sure if he was saying I needed him as a physical or emotional crutch, but either way, I didn’t want him with me. It was too dangerous.
I flexed my right hand. My thumb wasn’t clenching all the way, but I could still grip my rifle.
“How did you know I left?”
“Yesterday, I heard you talking to your sister,” he admitted. “After that, I just kept a close eye on you. When I saw you leave this morning, I followed.”
“Jenna or Karina didn’t stop you?”
He smiled.
My shoulders slumped.
“They knew you were following me,” I stated.
“When you left, I met them on the roof. It took a few minutes, but I convinced them you needed me.”
Leave it to Preacher. He had a way with words. That frustrated me further.
“Preacher, please go back. I promise I will be fine.”
“We walk this road together,” he said, staring me down.
I turned and watched the body of the scab float down the river and out of view.
“Okay,” I said, succumbing to his will. “You can come with me. But you do what I say and if we run into trouble, you hide.”
“Agreed,” he said.
He helped me patch up my neck and then we continued on our journey.
“So, what do you plan on saying to your father?” he asked when the bridge was well out of view.
We walked up a small hill and hit another dirt road.
“I’m not sure yet,” I conceded. I pulled out the notes and map, aligning it to the direction we needed to go. “I figure it will come to me when we get there.”
“Maybe this is where I can help?” he suggested.
“Sure,” I said, leading us down the road, “what should I say?”
He let out a light chuckle.
“I’m not sure, maybe it will come to me, too.”
“That’s helpful,” I said sarcastically.
He grew serious. “Sometimes, we have to react to the wind, Christian.”
“I seem to be doing that a lot lately,” I said with disdain.
“Just have faith, Christian. Remember, nothing evil—”
“Comes out of love,” I said, finishing for him. I turned around and smiled. I truly hoped he was right.
<
br /> We continued to march forward, moving easily down the road. I have to admit, the serenity of walking alone through the woods had worn off, and I was happy for the company. I felt more secure.
Time passed as we pressed on. Preacher had trouble keeping my pace, forcing me to slow down. It didn’t hurt my timetable too much, though. We were about at the two-hour mark, and the map said we were close.
A small, overgrown, dirt driveway veered off to the south. I consulted the map and stopped.
“This is it,” I said in a hushed tone.
Preacher stopped and we both listened.
There was a gurgling, croaking sound in the distance. It was accompanied by a strange, rhythmic noise.
“Zulus,” I whispered.
“Coming from that way,” he returned, pointing down the driveway.
We moved slowly, prowling our way down the gravel path. It wound back and forth a couple dozen meters until we came across an open area. The small clearing only extended thirty feet around a small, white trailer no larger than a single car garage.
Between the woodline and the trailer was an eight-foot-tall chain link fence, reinforced recently by two by fours and wooden planks.
Four bodies were lying on the ground near the gate, their heads bashed into goo. Two of the bodies had their legs removed. From the looks of it, they had been hacked off right where they lay.
An animated zombie was standing above them, hanging and pushing on the fence. It wasn’t strong enough to damage it, though.
I took aim and popped it in the head. The zombie slid down the gate and crumpled to the ground.
There was still a sound, though, emanating from the trailer. Was it…singing? Not really, more like humming. But there was something else as well. A muffled moan was almost in sync with the humming.
Preacher eyed me warily.
A heavy weight formed in the pit of my stomach. I was suddenly scared to go further. Whatever was in that trailer scared me more than Tikel. More than Cecil. More than any scab I had ever faced.
Fighting the urge to turn back, I grabbed whatever strength I could find and reached for the gate. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked. I guess there was no need unless you feared other survivors.
The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade Page 42
