Home Base

by C M Hoffmann

  HOME BASE

  A Novel of Surviving as a Community

  C. M. Hoffmann

  This book is dedicated to so many people. My wife, Alyssa, who when this project started, went out and bought me a tablet, Bluetooth keyboard, notepad, pens, and a carrying case for all of it, just on the belief that this wouldn’t be yet another unfinished endeavour. She also designed and created the cover when I first began. My family and friends, who not only read each ‘update’ as I was writing away but corrected my mistakes and added ideas throughout. My brothers, whose banter and constant annoyances filled in the conversations so well.

  This whole part of my life started as goofing off in the woods. A spit ball idea that was encouraged many times over before I finally sat down and started.

  Thank you to everyone involved, without y’all this never would have come to fruition.

  One last note: although I couldn’t possibly thank them all individually, I would like to extend a special thanks to all of the authors out there that have ensured my love of reading and thereby giving me the inspiration to create my own work. I hope other authors out there will appreciate my work and continue their own paths so that I can forever be selfishly entertained.

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Many locations have been adjusted to fit the parameters of the novel. Some of the characters used are based in real life with their accompanying characteristics and history. Those characters based on real individuals willingly took part in the creation of this work. Others are based totally in the author’s mind. The conversations are based on the characters personalities and should in no way reflect any possible offensive insinuations.

  Thank you to all the readers for your support of this book. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

  HOME BASE Copyright © 2018 by C. M. Hoffmann. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Alyssa Hoffmann

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For permissions contact:

  CMHoffmann91@gmail.com

  CONTENTS

  FIRST CONTACT

  STEVE

  HOME RUN

  FREELOADERS

  HOME BASE

  HOME FREE

  CLOCKING IN

  TASK FORCE TWO-SIX

  OPERATIONS

  KNOCK, KNOCK

  RAVAGER

  ONE DOWN, TWO UP

  TASK FORCE RECOVERY

  FREE DEFECTORS

  FIREFIGHT

  RETRIBUTION

  CLEAR SIGHT

  THE END OF THE BEGINNING

  THE END

  EPILOGUE

  Character List

  FIRST CONTACT

  Newswoman, “This is Carla Pattons with the evening news. It’s November 8th and what a beautiful day here in south-east Louisiana. Before we get to the local news, we’ll turn you over to Rick Moinas for the weather. Rick.”

  Rick Moinas, “Thank you, Carla. The weather this week has been hectic as per usual down in the south. If you’re a hunter, I hope you bring rain gear because it looks like it’s going to get wet out there. From the south to the north shore, a small cold front seems to be heading our way pushing a mild rain. On the plus side for hunters, the animals should be moving. Good hunting.”

  Carla Pattons, “Sorry to cut you off, Rick. Breaking news, just in! A strange new flu-like virus appears to be infecting the global populace at an alarming rate. Scientists and researchers have yet to release a statement indicating where this virus originated, how it is transferable from person to person, or any information regarding the symptoms or any word of a vaccine. In fact this is the first news most have heard at all about the virus. According to the report, scientists waited to release information because they did not immediately identify it as unique. They have just released information due to the unfortunate fact; the first patient has just passed away this afternoon. Out of respect for the family’s loss and their privacy the name and location of the deceased has not been released. This new virus has apparently been giving some difficulty with treating due to hospital staff in multiple regions becoming infected as they come into contact with the patients. We’ll keep you up to date as new information becomes available. I’m sure we can assume as with any illness, people are urged to wash their hands and be wary of anyone displaying symptoms or signs of sickness. We’ll update you as more information becomes available. For now, back to Rick with the weather.”

  Cane turns off the news and picks up the last of his gear for the Hollann annual week long family hunting trip. A private hunting lease awaits the family about an hour and a half from home in Bush, Louisiana on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. The trip is always the highlight of the year when the whole family gets a chance to catch up. Mom, Pops (Gavin Jr., affectionately referred to as ‘Pops’ by everyone), Gavin III (named after Pops), Trey, Cane, and Wade (their unofficially adopted friend) all leave in pairs.

  A lazy drive later and the family begins to unload their gear and supplies and arrange their sleeping areas in the hand-built shack. The shack was built from left over metal studs from a job site Trey worked in the past. All the members of the family came together to build it. Navy submarine style rack beds were installed directly to the walls. It made for a cramped night time siesta with many bumped heads in the morning. Only Pops got a special spot with nothing over his head. Several arguments were had over the years about the sleeping arrangements.

  The shack was equipped with electricity and even indoor plumbing, though privacy was reduced to a single camouflage netting that hung in the small doorway. Needless to say when nature called, the shack was hastily evacuated and plenty of jokes followed.

  The typical schedule began with a multitude of groans and jeers when Pops’ alarm went off at 4:30 AM. Sometimes they all just rolled over and slept until Pops returned from the morning hunt and made breakfast. On the days they all had the energy and inclination to go, they would take turns dressing, loading firearms, and picking out who would drop off whom on the four-wheeler depending on where everyone wanted to hunt.

  On the fifth day of hunting, the sons groan and grunt as the alarm sounds. As the week is dwindling to an end and with no game bagged, Pops pushes the issue and makes everyone get up. The boys lazily roll from the racks, and begin to shove each other as they fight for the limited floor space. Eventually they finish getting ready and they all leave the shack before sunrise to get into their stands. Customarily, Mom and Pops go together, Gavin and Wade decide to share a stand, and Trey and Cane also choose to share a stand in the early morning chill.

  After the sun fully rises and a hazy glow falls over the food plot, Cane checks his watch, 8:30 A.M., “Come on, T. Let’s go back to camp. I’m exhausted and we ain’t seen or heard anything.”

  Trey looks at him dramatically, “Alright, little brother, we’ll go back so you can nap. I’ll even fluff your pillow for you.” He wiggles his eyebrows to ensure Cane understands the sarcasm.

  He scoffs in response, “I got something you can fluff.”

  Trey and Cane collect their gear and hear rustling off in the brush. They both stare at the brush searching for the source of the disturbance. Trey breaks the silence first and speaks in a low whisper, “Cane, hear that? And yooouuu wanted to leave, so I guess it’s my shot.”
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  “Dammit. Alright, fine you should you no good son of a bitch. With your luck you’ll probably take out its heart and make it re-swallow it.”

  “Shut up, whatever it is, is coming right for us.”

  A human figure emerges from the brush roughly seventy-five yards away. The brothers watch the man move slowly towards their tree stand; however, he just stares at the ground in front of his lead foot.

  Cane elbows Trey, “Dude, what the hell? Why’s this idiot just roaming around the lease? Any idea who it is?”

  Trey, “If I knew any of those answers, I might just be smarter than you for a change.”

  “Bite me, let’s wait and see what he does.”

  The man continues to wander aimlessly around the pre-planted food plot, which stands in stark contrast to the surrounding overgrown bush, until a squirrel jumps from tree to tree near him. The man’s head snaps up and his eyes lock on the squirrel. Cane and Trey share a confused look. The man doesn’t appear to have noticed them and their standard civilian hunting camouflage doesn’t work so well on humans. The presence of their large, two-seater, ladder tree stand is quite obvious on the edge of the cleared food plot.

  The man watches the squirrel intently before it begins to move again closer and closer to Cane and Trey’s tree. The man begins to walk, almost shuffle, following the trail of the squirrel. The squirrel continues its skittish route until settling a mere fifteen yards away from the hunters. The man stops and begins to search for the movement again seeming to be lost, or severely confused. Cane gets fed up with waiting and motions for Trey to shoot the squirrel.

  Trey picks up his .22 rifle and takes aim. The man’s head snaps up, his eyes focusing on the source of the movement. The man’s jaw hangs slack as he stares. Seeing the man’s reaction, Cane starts to feel uneasy. He reaches for his brother’s arm as an unspoken indication to wait.

  Cane leans slightly over and whispers “T, drop the squirrel, and we’ll see how this guy reacts.” He shrugs, “Maybe we’ll get him to piss himself.”

  Trey chuckles, “Roger that.” He takes aim again, squeezes the trigger, and the squirrel drops, unceremoniously tumbling to the earth. The man looks for the source of the sound as the round fires but doesn’t flinch at all. When he appears to resign as unable to locate the origin of the noise, he begins to move toward the fallen squirrel.

  Cane stands up and shouts, “Dude, seriously? What the hell are you doing out here?” The man looks up at Cane and he feels uneasy again making eye contact with the mysterious intruder. He turns to his brother, “T, something’s not right. Look at his eyes.”

  Trey, “Yea, I see ‘em. Hey! You alright?” The man doesn’t respond. He approaches the tree at a steady silent shuffle and grabs hold of the ladder.

  Cane and Trey, sensing an imminent danger, instinctively draw their sidearms. Trey a Rock Island Armory 1911 chambered in .45 caliber; Cane his “Baby Eagle” Israeli Weapon Industries full steel frame Desert Eagle also in .45. Those side arms are constant companions in the woods, where you may stumble upon a feral hog or the occasional bobcat.

  Trey’s police instinct kicks in and he issues the command, “Back away from the stand!”

  The man looks up at Trey with the same expressionless, slack-jawed face and begins to shake the stand with a low growl.

  Cane, “Last chance, man, back up or you’re done.” The man picks up his foot and places it on the bottom rung of the ladder stand. Cane watches perplexed as sudden indecision strikes, “Well, T, what’s the word? Since the threats and muzzles didn’t seem to enforce the point and the severity of his situation.”

  Trey, “The stand won’t take much abuse, it’s older than us. He takes another step, drop ‘em. Something ain’t right.”

  Tense seconds tick on as they stare at the front sight of their firearms lined up on the man’s chest. He stares back intently, a strange hunger in his eyes and the now continuous growl rumbling from deep in his gut. The man finally progresses another step and both guns fire simultaneously. One round each, two hits to the chest. The man falls backwards off the stand and lies on the ground, motionless.

  Cane exhales deeply, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and faces his brother, “Well shit. I hope that was the right thing. You think he’s on something?”

  The man sits up and growls, deep, loud, and guttural, at the brothers rattling their stomachs. Cane and Trey jump and again put two rounds each into the man’s chest having to slightly lean over the meager tree stand railing. This time the man merely absorbs the shock as he is propped up on his arms. When the firing stops, he stands up and lets loose an animalistic roar verging on a screech.

  Cane stares in disbelief, a cool sweat chilling his upper back as the adrenaline pours in deeper, “Uh, T, either that’s some serious shit he’s on or we missed something. Six shots to the chest and he just fucking roared at us like a damn bear.”

  Trey, more confident than concerned, comes to a decision, “He makes it to this ladder again... aim for the head. Stretch him out; at this point it’s him or us. I don’t plan on wasting a whole mag on him.”

  The man approaches the ladder, grabs the railing, the brothers fire again, and once again great shockwaves of force and fire disturb the early morning mist. Three out of four rounds enter the man’s head spraying red gore, gray brain, and white bone on the green grass beneath him. Heartbeat after heartbeat they watch the nearly headless body. Finally, the man lies motionless and the brothers glance at each other.

  Cane inhales dramatically and remarks cheerily with a slight smirk to the corners of his mouth, “Well this has certainly been a hunting trip for the ages. ‘Most Dangerous Game’ all over again.”

  Trey, “The hell you talkin’ about?”

  “Remember the story from school? The island where the guy kidnaps and hunts human beings. He does it for the thrill of hunting something that can reason, realistically hunt you back, adapt, and possibly overcome.”

  “How do you even remember things like that? That was legit like ten, fifteen years ago.”

  “Well you’ve already acknowledged once in the last fifteen minutes that I’m smarter than you... What’s once more?” He flashes a big toothy grin to his older brother.

  Trey jabs Cane in the shoulder with the muzzle his handgun, “I’ve also just shot someone in the last three minutes... Wanna make it two?” The brothers laugh at their extremely dangerous way of bonding.

  Cane forces himself back to reality, “Well I suppose we should call Pops and give him a heads up. Oooorrrr, we can see what our new friend down there has to say for himself?” He wiggles his eyebrows at his middle brother, “Last one there buys dinner when we get home?” Trey smiles and a shoving match ensues twenty feet in the air in the old ladder tree stand. The brothers wrestle to get their gear and get down the single ladder. Cane ever the agile brother decides to jump halfway down to beat Trey.

  As the brother’s laugh and collect themselves, they each due a full tactical reload in form: index fresh magazine from the belt first, bring firearm into workspace, drop partial magazine, catch, pinch, pivot, insert fresh magazine, replace partial on belt, chamber check, and holster.

  When Cane falters with his reload slightly, juggling multiple magazines, Trey sneers, “You may be smaller and lighter on ya feet, but I’ll always run my guns better than you.”

  Cane snorts, “Anybody told you to bite them lately? But I’ll tell ya. It’s times like these I’m glad we always carry spare mags.”

  “Times like these? Please, oh genius one, regale me of the last time we had to shoot someone?”

  Cane thoughtfully and dramatically stares into the sky with a hand on his chin, “Well, yea, but, still. We always talk about things like this. Survival situations, hurricanes, collapse, only a matter of time before all that talk and planning and prepping was actually useful for a change. It’s nice to know that my theory on two spares, one: for the malfunction, two: for the reload, actually got some use. Only
thing is... what’s the story this time? Random drug addict wanders into the lease looking for a score? Or is he just tripping’ majorly?”

  “Guess we should ask our new friend.”

  “Guess we should. Cover me just in case?”

  Trey laughs with spittle flying, “Scared, little brother!? Think he might jump up and bite you?” He laughs again, “Thinking ‘Zombie Apocalypse’? The one thing we were always so sure would never happen.”

  “I’m not scared, jackass, but if he does pop up I better hear rounds down range.”

  Trey draws his 1911 again, “I got ya.” He snorts and waves a dismissive hand, “Go on, Princess, poke the bear that’s missing three quarters of his face.”

  Cane drops to a low squat next to the motionless man, “T, this is weird.”

  “If I shot you in the head four times, you’d probably look pretty weird too.”

  “Not that, dipstick, I mean we’re out here, we just smoked this guy, and here we are cracking jokes and totally ignoring what just happened.”

  With a shrug, Trey replies, “‘Takes a special kinda person for that,’ isn’t that what you always say?”

  “Yea, but that’s usually directed towards us being police officers for an ungrateful populace that hates us when we arrest their kids for a little weed, but then berate us when we couldn’t instantly teleport to the scene of the crime or telepathically learn that the car we passed en route to the location was the suspect. Ya know instant gratification ain’t fast enough.”

  “Getting a tad empathetic, little man? Let’s just see what’s up, get back to camp and talk to Pops.”

  Cane shakes his head and starts to go through the man’s pockets. “Well, we got a wallet. Got some cash, too. Looks like two-twenty. Definitely not a tweaker then. Tweaker woulda spent all his cash. Louisiana DL. Hmm, ‘Rodney Pierson.’ Covington address. Picture of a nice family, looks like a wife and two daughters. Damn, look at that living room. Must be a huge house. So I suppose drug addict is out the picture. Maybe alcoholic stumbled into the woods after a bender. Visa, MasterCard, Discover, American Express. Dun dun dunnn. VIP card for Visions Men’s Club. Definitely didn’t wander in from NOLA. Ummmm, car keys... BMW, nice.”