Diablo crept forward, his infected shoulder was stiff, weeping pus, but it would hold. He was the most fearsome creature roaming these woods and even wounded, he would shred any animal that crossed him.
He eyed the roadway warily, keen night vision taking in the machines that man rode and the rapidly filling depressions in the snow where the blood scent emanated. He growled a warning at his followers, letting them know this was his find. He would feast first; he would have the choicest bits. The hearts and kidneys and liver. His wounded body craved the blood enriched protein and drool ran from his massive jaws as he crept slowly forward. He feared no creature but man. Man meant pain. Man meant beatings with leather straps and shocks with cattle prods. He inhaled the scent of his enemy, the wolf, but it was an old scent, faint and fading. He had no desire to tangle with the wolf again, but he didn’t fear him either. The scents of the bears and the other animals still lingered but his nose told him the danger was long past and the spoils were his.
He dug into the first cavity, ignoring the pain from his wound. He found the body beneath and with his powerful jaws ripped through the clothing until he reached the flesh. It was hard, nearly frozen but he forced his muzzle through, sharp canines snipping through flesh and tendon to the warmer treats inside. He sensed the approach of the others and growled another low warning. They watched him feast, keeping plenty of distance between them. He gorged on the internal organs; his muzzle coated in blood until he had eaten the choicest bites. He moved on to the next, the Savage Ones quickly fell onto the remains he left behind, snarling and biting amongst themselves as they fought for position around the corpse. The rotten ones they’d been feasting on were scarce lately and their empty stomachs drove them to near madness. Some of them were devoured in the frenzy by their own pack as their first taste of untainted blood pushed them over the brink.
Diablo, sated at last, moved towards the shelter of an abandoned car and put his back to the vehicle. None of the ravenous beasts would flank him. He watched as they devoured his scraps. There was more meat not far from here. The ones who’d caged him. The ones who’d hurt him. His instincts told him he wasn’t prepared to attack there yet. He would heal then seek out the weaker ones inside the fences to fill his belly.
He rose to his feet, turned back into the wood line and disappeared. They would follow, his scent was unique to these woods. These things didn’t concern him. Sleep and the warmth of a den beckoned. He set out in search of a suitable place, the snapping and snarling, the crunching of bone and ripping of flesh echoing in his ears as he disappeared into the forest, leaving the carnage behind him.
53
Smith’s Landing
Richard slammed the door behind him to the startled looks of the girls who had stayed behind.
“Where’s everyone else?” Misty asked then shrank back from the baleful glare, his torn suit and the blood running down his leg.
A few of his guys had made it back before him and they didn’t look injured. They were the ones who ran away first. Cowards. He’d deal with them later. He hobbled to the bar, grabbed a bottle of tequila and turned it up. He chugged deeply, the fire making its way down his throat to burn in his stomach. His leg throbbed and blood flowed freely from the spike hole in his shoulder. The alcohol gave him the illusion of warmth and dulled the pain. The whole miserable ride back it had taken every ounce of his willpower. Every jostle and bump in the road made him hurt more.
“Gordon” he muttered under his breath, turning the name into a vile curse word. “He did this.”
He flung the half empty bottle against the wall. It shattered and the gold liquid soaked into the expensive rug covering the floor. He should have known better than to let that lying little weasel talk him into the raid. His libido always overrode his good sense. Girls were his weakness and Gordy had promised him girls. An easy victory and beautiful girls. He hadn’t said they were wild and untamed like that painted up wolf girl who stabbed him. He had escaped, he was alive when others were dead and he was trying to forget how he begged for his life from a twelve-year-old. Those kids weren’t normal, they were as savage as anything he’d ever seen and she was like a honey badger, vicious and unforgiving. He’d watched the rest of the battle from his hiding spot in the tree line and they scared him. He’d rather fight a horde of zombies than face them again. Their animals were even worse, he’d seen the polar bears grab someone and rip his arm completely off. His whole damn arm. And those pale white savages riding them, they scared him more than the wolf girl the way they swung their axes, splitting helmets and cutting down his men. He was glad they were separated by so many miles and he was thankful for the storm. It would cover his tracks, they wouldn’t be able to follow.
“Get over here, Tasha.” he spat at the pale faced girl.
Or maybe it was Sasha. He couldn’t remember.
“Get some bandages and get me sewn up.”
He looked at the hamburger that was his calf, which the wolf had ravaged. This was gonna hurt.
The rest of the Riders trickled in one by one or in pairs and Richard realized he had been lucky. He only had a hole in his shoulder, bear claw slashes across his chest and a chewed-up ankle. The others were scattered around the living room, the few that were left anyway. They were all wounded. Broken arms, broken ribs, broken legs and cracked skulls. Frostbite, slash marks, bite marks, arrows that punched through armor, missing fingers, gut wounds that probably wouldn’t heal, third degree burns, jagged gashes and then there was Squirrel. The pretty little party girl that thought everything was a joke, who lived in a constant state of inebriation, was a blackened mess. She’d been splashed in gas, caught fire, panicked and ran. It wasn’t that bad at first, only her jacket was burning. She had Everclear in her camelback and when it caught fire, she’d been engulfed. If she would have dropped into the snow and unzipped her suit, she would have been fine but she didn’t. She ran and it melted into her. She probably wouldn’t survive either but if she did, her good looks were gone forever.
His crew would be incapacitated for months. He’d lost friends. Their loss meant more than Gordon was worth. He hoped he was dead. He hoped the bear had killed him or that he’d had his head bashed in by the Warhammer the boy in the buffalo robe carried. The last he’d seen of him, he was on the ground with the kids and their animals gathered around him.
They’d had guns but barely got a shot off. They’d had superior numbers and powerful machines but a few cables across the road had stopped them in their tracks. It had been a perfect ambush and he should have known better. He’d done something similar a thousand times in a hundred different video games. It never occurred to him that the kids would do it in real life.
The girls that stayed behind couldn’t wrap their heads around what happened. Little kids and big animals had killed or maimed everyone. How did Richard let that happen? Were the men of Smith’s Landing really that weak or were the tweenagers almost God-like warriors?
Richard sat in a recliner, his leg elevated, and surveyed the oversized living room that had been turned into a hospital ward. He’d heard their stories as they told what happened to them, how they had gotten injured. He called BS on every one of them. None of them had stood to fight like they claimed. None of them had been brave, him included. They all ran. Moans and groans and curses filled the house. Nearly every one of them were wounded and he still wasn’t sure who was dead. More survivors may be coming.
He looked at Skull. Blood trails ran out of both ears, his head was puffy and misshapen, his nose flattened across his face. The boy with the Warhammer had done a number on him. He chewed Oxy like it was candy.
Maggot was busted up bad from Cappy running over him. He looked terrible, his back looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to it before they bandaged him up. He was black and yellow with bruises and stared blankly at the wall, drool pooling on the couch from the corner of his mouth. He kept moaning that his guts hurt. Richard tuned him out. There was nothing he could do for him exce
pt pump him full of drugs and alcohol.
Gargoyle was gone. The panther had killed the shit out of him. He’d miss Gargoyle.
Boonie was dead, that crazy wolf girl had punched his ticket. He was pretty sure Rooster was dead because he was pretty sure it had been him getting his arm ripped off.
They’ll just have to rot out there, he thought. No way was he going anywhere near those crazy bastards and their animals. If they ever left the compound again, no one would ever be allowed to go south. Ever.
Cowboy and Shaggy were chewed up from the psycho albinos on the polar bears. Jagged sawblade axes had sliced through their snowsuits and found soft flesh. Cowboys back had been laid wide open. Shaggy’s was no better but at least he wasn’t crying about it like Cowboy was.
Bong lay passed out next to his namesake. He couldn’t even tell them what happened. One minute he was riding, the next he woke up freezing cold, all alone with an arrow in him and his helmet cracked open. At least a concussion there, he thought. Bong was brain damaged enough already without taking a hit like that.
He took another swallow from the bottle as he watched the girls tend to the broken boys of Smiths Landing.
He listened to Pole moaning from his place on the floor. The compound fracture of his leg had him drifting in and out of consciousness. The girls were afraid to try to set it, they didn’t have any experience in such things. Pole would be lucky if he didn’t die of infection and if he survived, he would walk with a limp for the rest of his life. His hockey days were definitely over.
Juicy was missing two fingers from his right hand. The boy stared at the bloody bandage with an unbelieving look on his face. Part of him was missing. A ninja with a razor-sharp staff had sliced him as he was trying to aim his gun then disappeared back into the smoke. He didn’t even know if he was remembering it right but he knew he never wanted to mess with the kids again.
Richard guzzled more booze and told Trish to get the Oxy from Flame. He needed one. Or maybe two.
The front door burst open and Gordon staggered in.
He looked scared. He looked around at the wounded and his eyes met Richard’s. His cousin glared at him.
Gordon shed his snowsuit and moved over to stand over one of the heater vents. His pulse raced and his heart pounded. His broken wrist throbbed and the holes in his arms from Harpers ball and chain had soaked his thermal shirt.”
“I figured you for dead.” Richard said. “And truth be told, I wouldn’t have been one bit sorry. You were supposed to know these kids, Gordy. You promised us it would be an easy raid but we got our asses handed to us.”
There were mumbles of agreement from around the room.
“Yeah, well you guys left me behind. I had to fight them off by myself. At least I put a bullet in Cody, he’s probably dead by now and so is the bear.”
He snorted and turned his back on his cousin, falling back on the old standby when someone was winning an argument. Righteous indignation. Twist the truth and put the blame on them. He needed a drink to calm his nerves
Richard eyed him suspiciously. “So, you shot him and the rest just let you go? Sounds like a Gordy story to me.”
“No, they didn’t just let me go. I kicked ass and got away in the confusion. We could have won if you hadn’t chickened out.” The lies slipped easily from his mouth but no one was listening and wouldn’t have believed him if they were.
“Look around you idiot! No one was in any shape to fight. Half the guys were dead before we even knew we were under attack! I’ve got friends laying out there in the snow, food for the animal and it’s all on you!”
Richard tried to rise but his wounded leg screamed in protest. He slumped back into the chair with a groan.
“Sasha, take a look at my wrist.” Gordon ordered.
“Do it yourself,” she answered.
She was pouring hydrogen peroxide over the bone sticking out of Pole’s leg. He screamed as the liquid hit his exposed nerves. Misty and Trish held him down as she gave a sharp tug on his ankle, pulled the bone back into place. She felt it slip into position then cleaned and stitched the torn flesh as best as she was able before wrapping it in a splint. She moved onto the next boy. It was gonna be a long night.
54
Piedmont House
The mood at breakfast was somber, they were lost in reflection over the fight. Murray had cooked when the twins didn’t show any interest as they sat around the fire cleaning gore out of their weapons. Each of the tribe had gone to sleep as soon as they made it home last night, the adrenaline rush gone and the long walk back sapping the last of their reserves. They had won, a decisive and absolute victory, but it felt hollow. It had almost been too easy. Most of them didn’t even have a scratch and they had put a lot of people in the grave.
The crying girl, her body burnt and scarred, her hands melted lumps, had sapped their fury. Their determination to kill them all and be done with it. She had changed everything, shamed them when they realized they were getting ready to butcher the injured and unarmed. They couldn’t kill Gordon or the rest of them in cold blood, couldn’t sink spears into helpless people.
Kodiak wondered if all survivors felt guilty for being victorious. If maybe that was why so many soldiers committed suicide, they couldn’t get the images of what they had done out of their heads. He didn’t know how things could have been different, it was kill or be killed, but it was a lot bloodier and uglier than any movie or video game. It wasn’t clean and easy.
Instead of killing them, they helped the injured, the ones who hadn’t already ran away, and sent them back to where ever it was they came from.
Even Gordon.
Outside, the snow continued to fall in big fluffy flakes. The storm had passed, almost as if it had spent its fury during the battle, dying out as the adrenaline faded and the spilled blood froze.
Murray and the triplets had a million questions about the fight.
The tribe ignored them.
Harper promised details later. Much later. It just didn’t feel right to talk about it.
“They won’t be coming back,” was all Kodiak said. “We hurt them pretty bad.”
He had been hurt the worst, his face felt like mangled hamburger.
“I’ll have to teach you how to fight.” Swan had said and made faces as Harper cleaned and closed up the wounds.
It almost didn’t seem fair. They had killed a half dozen of the gang, broken the rest of them, some permanently damaged, and he was the only one who’d been seriously injured. He couldn’t see very well out of his swollen eye that got slammed into the snowmobile track but at least it hadn’t blinded him. Harper said the scar gave him character so that was okay. The others had bumps and bruises, sore muscles, a sprain and Otis had a gouge in his shoulder but the bullet had passed right through. He’d acted like a big baby when Murray cleaned the wound and stitched it up but it gave him an excuse to be fussed over and hog the floor in front of the fireplace, as if he really needed one.
The traps and their vicious ambush had worked. There was so much confusion among Gordon’s people they had broken and ran almost as soon as the fight started. Harper hadn’t even been in it. The first gunshot startled Bert and it took her a while to get him to stop running and get turned around.
After breakfast they lounged around the fireplace playing games, reading or brushing their animals. Kodiak stared out of the window, questioning his decision to let Gordon go once more. When it came down to it, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t kill him in cold blood, even after everything he’d done. He might be a killer but he wasn’t a murderer. There was a big difference.
He was proud of his tribe. Proud of the way they’d stood in the face of superior numbers and firepower. Proud of all the long hours spent with their animals, not even training them for battle, just being with them. Being their friend and teacher.
Swan sat in one of the wide windowsills, sharing the ledge with Zero. She cradled River, the cutest of the wolf pups, while his brother and sist
er tussled on the floor nipping and biting each other, fearsome growls emanating from their tiny bodies. She thought about the life she’d taken. His blood still stained her tomahawk. It was dried now, dark and rusty looking, nothing like the bright red spray that splashed her face when she buried her blades. She’d thought revenge would be easier to swallow, but she felt empty inside. A few months ago, she’d have laughed if someone told her she’d be a fearsome killer and run with a pack of wolves. If she was like this a few months ago, she’d be all over the headlines and sitting in a jail cell. But so would Gordon. He’d shot Kodiak and they’d simply let him leave.
They had it coming, she thought, they could have just stayed away.
This world didn’t favor the weak. In the bright light of the day, she wanted to disagree with their decision to let Gordon go. He needed killing. He was too dangerous to let live but the crying girl had stopped them. She had made them see the stain it would leave on their souls. Maybe the snow would take care of the problem for them. Maybe the snowmobile had left him stranded and the crows and ravens would feast on him in the spring. Maybe one of the zombies would get him. She’d love to see him at the gate, clawing and snarling, his eyes dead and flesh rotting on his bones. She savored the thought, nursed her hatred. She liked the idea of catching his zombified corpse and putting him in one of the animal enclosures. He’d make great target practice for her bow and tomahawks, as long as she didn’t hit him in the head. When the pups grew older, she’d use him to train them to attack. She smiled at the thought. River yelped and she snapped out of her nightmare daydream. She’d been squeezing the poor thing.
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