After traipsing through a densely wooded area, Cable came upon a two-story house with a moderately sized backyard. A shed sat within fifty feet of the structure. Multiple tracks led across the lawn and around to the front of the dwelling. He surveyed the scene before stepping from the woods.
The frigid wind blew, causing his eyes to tear. He heard gunfire from inside the dwelling and hurried across the open tundra, following the tracks as they led around the house to an open garage door. He shook his head in frustration at how the men had allowed the quarry to get as far as it did, especially after seeing the wide-open yard it had to cross. He stepped inside and pulled the door closed, wanting one more obstacle in the prey’s path should the man make it back this way.
Cable proceeded up the steps and into the living room, hearing another set of rapidly fired shots. He gave the dead body with its severed head a quick glance, then moved past it. The men were yelling. He turned left out of the living room and down the wide hallway, sneaking up on his former prison brethren. As he stood behind them, they had no idea of his presence. He could’ve killed them all before they knew what was happening.
“Where’s the prisoner?” he asked.
The men jumped, spinning around. Cable held out a hand and caught one of the men’s rifles before it pointed at him.
“Damn, man,” Scars said, “you scared the shit out of me.”
“He’s in the basement,” Mack said.
Cable pushed past the men and peered into the darkness. A flashlight was off to the left, shining on Freak’s body. Not a bad guy, Cable thought. Just stupid. Of the two men standing with Cable, Mack was all right in his book. A killer, but sane. Scars, built like a brick house and had his face cut up by his mother when he was a boy, was a sick fuck. A rapist of not only women, but of former prison mates. Cannibal never should have allowed such unstable, scum into his gang.
Seeing a sweet opportunity, Cable grabbed Scars by the neck and head-butted the guy across the nose. Blood exploded from the man’s nostrils. Cable snatched the man’s Glock 21 from his grip, then hurled him down the stairs. Scars tumbled head over ass, feet flying into the air only to disappear under him before he crashed to the floor and against the wall. Cable aimed the Glock at the man, ready to put a few bullets into him, but didn’t. Scars wasn’t moving.
Cable turned his head to Mack, who was staring slack-jawed into the basement. Mack’s eyes met Cable’s. “You have a problem with what just happened?”
“N . . . no way, man,” Mack said. “Guy was as rotten as they come.” He cleared his throat and launched a wad of phlegm down the stairs. “Far as anyone needs to know, Scars was killed by the escaped prisoner.”
Cable smiled. “This ‘Jack’ is well-trained. Dangerous.”
“That ain’t no lie,” Mack agreed.
“He needs to be put down,” Cable added.
Mack’s eyebrows bunched together. “But Cannibal said he wants him alive.”
“I know what he wants, but he isn’t here getting his ass handed to him, is he?”
Mack shook his head.
“We had no choice.”
“No choice,” Mack repeated. “Got it. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. Fuck this prick.”
“I’m glad you agree, because you were scheduled to go down next if you didn’t.”
The man inched back a step. “Then . . . then how are we going to kill him?”
“Wait here,” Cable said. He unlocked the front door and exited the house. He didn’t remember seeing what he wanted in the garage and doubted the item was kept there anyway. He went around to the back of the house and over to the shed. Removing his handgun, he blew off the lock and opened the sturdy wooden doors.
The scent hit him immediately—gasoline. There were rakes, a leaf blower, hoes, and other gardening tools on the walls. A riding lawnmower sat in the center of the small shack. In the corner on his right was the 5-gallon gas container. He picked it up, feeling its weight and guessed it was about 3/4’s full.
Perfect, he thought, then returned to the house.
Chapter 15
Jack’s mind raced with indecision. Once the stairs were on fire, he’d be trapped in the basement—unless there was a door leading to the outside. But even if there was, someone might be waiting for him there.
He bolted from the wall, ready to start shooting anyone he saw at the top of the stairs when the stairs erupted into flames. He staggered back, feeling the heat. Seeing the rifle that had been dropped earlier by the man he killed, Jack scooped it up. It was a .30-06 and in nice shape. When he escaped the basement, he’d make sure to put it to good use.
With the fire blazing, he was able to see his surroundings. To his dismay, he discovered no door, at least in the area he was in.
He shouldered the rifle and headed over to the small window he’d noticed earlier. He climbed onto the tattered workbench. The glass was too caked with grime to see through. Using his sleeve, he wiped away a small section and saw a strip of lawn and forest beyond it. He figured he was on the side of the house. Cannibal’s men could be standing off to the side and out of view, but he had no other choice but to escape via the window.
Simple turn-style latches at the bottom of the window kept it locked. He saw hinges at the top and realized it opened outward. He turned the latches and tried the window, but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed harder, but still nothing. Breaking the glass was an option, but he’d prefer to avoid making that much noise. He pulled the .45 out and began hammering its butt against the lower part of the window as smoke choked him.
Eyes watering, he banged harder, and finally the window gave. He tossed the rifle out first, then crawled through. He was up in an instant, .30-06 in hand, and realized he was indeed at the side of the house. Without wasting another second, he sprinted into the woods.
Jack worked his way about ten feet in, then went right to circle around to the back of the property. He crept up behind a thick Maple and saw two men standing on the far side of the backyard. What they were doing there—he did not know.
He backpedaled quietly and traveled left until he had a view of the person-less front yard. If he had to guess, he’d say Cannibal had sent four or five men after him. Two were now dead, which meant only two or three left.
Jack made his way to the backyard again and saw the two men standing there. They were easy targets, talking, guns pointed at the ground as if they had nothing to worry about. Jack aimed the .30-06, but held his fire. If the sights were off, he’d miss at this range. He needed to make sure his first shot was a kill shot. He retreated into the woods again and worked his way around to their side. The closer he came to his targets, the slower he moved, avoiding branches and leaves. The snow wasn’t thick and made a soft crunching sound. At about thirty feet from the targets, he smelled cigarette smoke.
“Damn,” one of the men said. “Motherfucker is burning.”
“Guy’s dead for sure,” said the other man.
Jack decided not to try and get any closer. From his position, he could see one of the men clearly. Raising the rifle, aiming, he pulled the trigger. The gun jumped, the retort loud. He saw his target jerk forward as blood and gore exploded from the head. The corpse hit the ground as Jack stepped from behind the tree, ready to end the second man’s life—but there was no one there.
Gunfire erupted from Jack’s left. Bark from the tree next to him splintered into pieces like exploding confetti. He dove to the ground and scurried behind a tree.
Damn it, he thought. He really screwed up. He should have kept an eye on both men. No time for second-guessing now. The gunfire stopped. He peered around the tree, staying low and saw no one. His attacker was hiding, most likely waiting for him to pop out, then BAM!
Jack crouched behind the tree, the trunk wide enough to shield him. He took deep breaths, calming and readying himself for what ever was to come. The silence was deafening, almost screaming at him.
Jack’s best bet was to move. He was in a
forest. Bullets traveled straight. The trees would serve as natural shields. He stood a good chance of avoiding getting shot as long as he had a good head start. He got to his feet, took some deep breaths, then bolted from the oak.
Gunfire erupted from behind. He felt a sharp sting in his right shoulder blade and cried out, stumbled a little, but was able to continue running. He moved around and between close-together growing trees, just like he did earlier when he was running from Cannibal’s house. Bullets pinged from all around him. Branches broke and the snow burst at his feet. Whoever his pursuer was, he was good with a gun.
Jack’s shoulder continued to scream with pain. He wondered how badly he was injured. Adrenaline might be the only thing keeping him up, and when that wore off, he would go into shock.
Fighting through the pain and fear, he kept on, his breaths coming harder and harder. Every so often, gunshots rang out from close behind, making him flinch, the hurt in his back worsening as if someone were pressing a hot iron to it.
Maybe it was best if he stopped and returned fire. It wasn’t like he was unarmed. Jack saw a thick tree trunk up ahead and ducked behind it. He heard his pursuer’s footfalls and fired blindly from around the tree, hoping to slow his attacker and make the guy take cover, giving him a chance to recuperate.
Bullets riddled the tree that Jack was behind.
Now that he’d stopped running, he felt the weariness of “fight or flight” creep in. He was tired, winded. His shoulder and leg hurt, but he still felt good enough to keep going. Stopping had been a bad idea. He fired a couple of rounds in the direction of his attacker, then took off running. He’d dig in and fight when he had no other choice, but while the adrenaline was still pumping, he’d used it.
Not more than a minute later, his body began to tire again, his energy seeming to dissipate rapidly. The pain in his back and leg was worsening. His pant leg was covered in red. Just when he thought it might be time to stand and fight, he saw a clearing up ahead. Sunshine made the snow-covered field shine in an almost blinding fashion. He couldn’t enter the open area. He’d be dead in seconds. It was time to stand and do battle. Then he saw them. Five figures walking toward him. Friend or foe, he did not know. If they were the latter, whether he entered the clearing or not, he was a dead man—boxed in. Friend, and he had a chance.
Jack ran from the forest. “Help!” he yelled, though it came out horse and low.
He fell to his knees, tripped up by something, a snow-covered branch or rock. This was it one way or another. Killed or saved.
“Jack?” a voice called out. “Is that you?”
Focusing, Jack recognized the person. It was Paul from Cliff House. Duane, Mark, Rob and someone he didn’t recognize were with him. They all held rifles.
They hurried forward.
Jack waved his arms. “Wait,” he said, trying to warn them.
Cable stood just inside the tree line, his form hidden behind a tree. He aimed at Jack. This was too easy. He almost felt like closing his eyes, at least to make the shot somewhat difficult.
Jack had been a worthy opponent. Proved to be more than just a civilian. The type of quarry that deserved a better death. Instead, Cable aimed his G36 at one of the men in the field. They were also easy targets, but he didn’t know them. Didn’t share the hunt with them.
With the squeeze of his forefinger, he fired the gun and watched the man he had in his sights go down. A dead center kill shot. The others returned fire in a panic, the shots random and none threatening. Cable waited until the gunfire stopped, then retreated. He would deal with Jack at another time, should fate warrant it.
Chapter 16
Jack and the others made their way back to Cliff House. The man who had been shot was dead. His name was Mark Jones. Jack couldn’t help feeling it was his own fault, and wondered why the man that had chased him hadn’t shot him instead.
On the way to the house, his shoulder barking and bloody, Jack told the tale of how he, Zaun, and Maria were ambushed and taken to a house not far from where they currently were.
“We were kept in a basement; Zaun and I were chained to a pipe. Ten others, mostly women, were locked in a cage. I was brought to a man named Cannibal.”
“We know of him,” Paul said in disgust.
“The sadistic monster was eating a human leg,” Jack said. “I think all those people in the basement are food. We have to get them out of there.”
“First we need to get you to Cliff House and to the doc,” Duane said. “We’ll talk about what we’re going to do when you’re fixed up.”
The group rested a few times, taking turns carrying Mark’s body. Jack wanted to help, but was too injured and needed his strength. Makeshift bandages were applied, but it did little to stop the bleeding in his back.
At the house, Jack’s wounds were tended to by Darcy Kloom, a nurse who used to work at a nearby hospital. Cliff House’s garage had been divided into an infirmary and surgical center. Darcy was not a surgeon, but between herself and Jim Gunner, a veterinarian, they did their best when someone was injured. Fortunately for Jack, Jim wasn’t going to be needed today.
“You’re lucky,” Darcy said, “bullets must not like you.”
Jack truly had been lucky. The graze on his knee was just a burner, the skin sizzled away. His back proved worse, but not as bad as it could have been.
“No way was this a direct shot,” Darcy said as she examined him. “I’d say you caught a ricochet. The bullet’s lodged against your scapula, but there doesn’t appear to be much damage.” Jack was given a rolled up cloth to bite down on as Darcy plucked the slug with a pair of forceps. Both wounds, along with some scrapes, were disinfected and bandaged. With no working hospitals around, and very little in the way of on-hand antibiotics, infection was something a person did not want to deal with.
Jack thanked Darcy, who told him he should rest.
“I’d love to, Doc, but there’s too much at stake.”
He headed upstairs to Don’s room, desperately needing to talk to the man.
The bedroom was a fair size, probably the master suite. Windows on one side of the room were completely boarded over while windows that looked over the valley were not. A queen-sized canopy bed took up much of the floor space to the right, along with a rich mahogany bureau and makeup piece including a chair and long mirror. In the corner was a matching-in-style upright dresser, the doors closed.
On the other side of the room, sitting in front of a working fireplace, was a plush, purple ornate-looking sofa and a dark, cherry-colored, leather recliner. Don was adjacent to these items, sitting at an executive’s desk and writing in a notebook. He looked over. “Jack,” he said jovially, then rose to his feet and hurried over to him. “Looks like Darcy patched you up pretty well.”
“Yeah. She did a fine job.”
“I’m so glad you’re okay. Come, let’s talk.” Don walked over to the fireplace and sat on the recliner, keeping it upright.
Jack took a seat on the sofa, wincing as he did so.
“Darcy give you pain meds?”
“I didn’t want any. Save them for people who really need them.”
A low burning fire danced in the hearth, the warmth welcoming.
“I’m sorry about Mark,” Jack said.
“Yes,” Don said, nodding. “Me too. He was a good man. A hard worker and well-liked.”
“Did he have family here?”
“No. He came to us after his wife was killed.”
Jack shook his head. “Again, I’m terribly sorry.”
“Anyway,” Don went on, “I heard about what happened to you and your friends. I must apologize, Jack. I thought we’d scared those people off.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Would you like a drink of water?” Don asked.
“Sure.”
He got up, grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to Jack before sitting back down.
Jack unscrewed the top and drank about half the water before replacing
the cap and setting the bottle next to him.
“They have our weapons,” Jack said, looking Don in the eyes. “It’ll help them if they plan on attacking you again. We’re talking flashbang grenades and machine guns.”
“It is definitely a concern, but what I’m more worried about are your friends and the others you say are being held there.”
“We have to rescue them.” Jack said. “The sooner the better. And we need to discuss Cliff House’s situation.”
“Situation?”
“Those men out on the road were waiting for us. They knew we were coming.”
Don’s eyebrows shot up. “How can that be?” Then, as quickly as they went up, they furrowed. “Wait . . . what are you saying?”
“You have a mole in Cliff House.”
Don let out a breath, looking dejected.
“There is the possibility that we were followed from the bridge when you rescued us, and Cannibal’s men simply waited for us to leave.”
“No,” Don insisted. “No way. We made sure the area was clear before we left for the bridge and no one was following us on the way back.”
“Then you’ve got a traitor amongst you.”
“Imposs—” Don began, then stopped himself. He shook his head slowly. “It just can’t be. Everyone here is . . . like family.”
“You know them all, personally? From before everything happened?”
“Most, but not all.”
Jack inhaled, feeling a stab of pain in his upper back. “Now that I’m here, whoever the mole is will want to report back. You need to keep an eye on your people. And keep this conversation, this knowledge, between only the few you know you can trust.”
“Right.” Don nodded, seeming to stare off into space.
“Step up patrols. Get the lockdown established. No one in or out. Only put guards on ground duty who you know. And be ready—because they’re coming. Cannibal is one sick man, and now that he’s armed, he’ll be even more dangerous. It’s only a small number of guns added to his arsenal, but it could mean the difference.”
Machines of the Dead 2 Page 9
