Rise of the Huskers (The Raven Falconer Chronicles) (12 page)

The amateur guards nodded their understanding, but then, as if on cue, half of the inn’s occupants came storming down the hall, their weapons drawn.  “Listen folks, we might have a little situation here and the more people that are involved the more likely we’ll have someone get hurt.  Get back to your rooms or take up your positions as they were assigned.  Please, come on . . . I don’t want them to know how many of us there are.”  The residents did as they were asked and Officer Nowicki stepped clear of the
building, walking to the lead vehicle.  A giant of a man stepped from the passenger seat, immediately stopping Zygmunt, who assured himself that his pistol was at his side.  A much smaller native man, wearing a black bandanna, walked swiftly around the front of the Suburban to stand next to the behemoth.  The appearance was unusual, bordering on comical.

“Welcome, how you b
oys doin’?” Ziggy asked, narrowing the distance but not getting close enough to shake hands.  He counted at least eight, maybe ten more armed intruders, but only the two exited their ride.

“Good, good.  We wondered how long we’d have to drive around before we ran into anybody
, and lookie here, first person we run into is the law,” Trevor said, not trying very hard to disguise his disdain.

“That surprises me, half the detachment is on patrol, you should have run into a couple by now.  You didn’t see any cruisers on your way in?” Ziggy lied.

Both men smiled and looked at one another, understanding the game that was being played.  “Nope, not a one.  I see you’ve set up shop,” Trevor said, nodding toward the inn.

“Well, yeah, but we’re full up.  Your posse looking for a place to rest?”

“Nope, just wondering how the people of Banff have made out with this viral thing.  Aren’t too many on the street.  In fact, there’s nobody around but you.”  As Trevor spoke, Lou looked over his shoulder and into the front seat where his SLR was leaning against the dash.  The gesture did not go unnoticed by Ziggy.

“We’ve done better than most, I’d say.  Radio dis
patch this morning from HQ in Calgary said it’s the Wild West over there, but our numbers have kept us safe.”  He’d started down this road of deceit and hoped it would, at least, give the warriors reason for concern.

“You still got radio service?  I’m impressed.  Let me tell you the reason for our little visit this afternoon Officer
er . . . ”

“Nowicki.”

“Officer Nowicki, we’re running low on supplies.  We’ve got a few thousand people back on the reserve that could use some food and medicines. You stocked up enough to share?”

“Geez boys, I wish I could tell
ya yes but the four or five thousand Albertans, hunkered down here in Banff, are stretched pretty thin.  I’ll tell ya  what, if you want to do some searching around town – have at it.”

“That’s generous of you, but if I were a betting man, and I am, I’d bet you’ve ransacked the town and filled this inn to the gills.  Sound about right?”

“I’m not at liberty to give you our numbers or our stores but I will tell you we are prepared to protect what is ours,” Nowicki confirmed, taking a step forward to maximize his shooting angles.

“Now don’t get your feathers ruffled.  We aren’t going to take your stockpile, but . . .
” Trevor said, in a sinister tone.  “We could if we wanted them.”  Lou looked down at the smaller man and frowned.  There was a time to show their hand and Darwin did not want it played by the excitable GAW leader.

“
Well, like I said, you are welcome to search the town and gather up whatever you’d like but don’t be surprised if you get your head blown off.  Lots of people around with shotguns who aren’t in the mood to take prisoners, if you know what I mean?”

“Huskers?”

“Yeah, Huskers,” he assured the duo.  “And not just any Huskers, but perhaps the most badass Huskers in the province.”

Lou took the opportunity to address the officer, smiling before he did.  “We’re not too concerned with the Huskers.  We’ve got a strategy that’s proven successful and we’re sticking to it.”

“You kill them?  That’s well and good if you can see them and get a shot off, before a dozen of the damn things are on top of you and tearing you to shreds.”  The conversation was going nowhere and Zygmunt was ready to call it a day.  “Listen, I wasn’t born yesterday.  I’ve dealt with tough guys like you my whole life, here and overseas.  We both know you’re not here to gather supplies or rid us of our Husker problem.  Come clean and level with me.”

Lou shot
Arcand a threatening glance but it didn’t slow the cocky GAW leader down.  “You want honesty, is that it?”

“That would be refreshing.”

“Come Trevor, we’ve seen what we needed to see,” Louis snapped, pushing his counterpart to the front of the SUV.

“Trevor, you know what pisses me off?”  Ziggy asked, not really wanting or waiting for an answer.  “You hotshots roll up here
, thinking you’re going to scare the people of this fine, little community into rolling over and giving you everything they’ve lived and died for, just because you want it.  I can tell you right now . . . it ain’t gonna happen.  You’re obviously a scouting party, doing somebody’s dirty work.  That’s fine but don’t come back here expecting us to be gone.”

“You arrogant prick!  You think your housewives and school kids are going to keep us from taking what we want?  Thousands, my ass, if there are 100 of you I’ll eat your shorts.  We’ll be back and when we do . . . ”

“Shut up Trevor!” Lou boomed.

“You’ll what?” Nowicki yelled back.

Lou stepped forward, causing Ziggy to place his hand on the butt of his pistol.  “You don’t need that but it wouldn’t stop me anyway,” the large man threatened.  “Officer, we both know you and your group of survivors in this inn are all you’ve got.  Trevor’s an idiot but I have a message that I’d recommend you adhere to.”  He leaned in tight, close enough for only him and the officer to hear.  “Chief Gladue is coming for his lands and possessions.  He will do it peacefully, or by force, the choice is yours.  We will happily escort your people to the edge of our lands to the east and set you free.”

“Set us free?  With no place to go and no idea where we might be safe?  I think we’ll take our chances, as they are.”

“Suit yourself but the deaths of all these town’s people will be on your head.”

“You say that like it’s the first time I’ve heard it or thought it.  Get to the back of the line,” Zygmunt grumbled.

“As you wish, but when we come, and it could be tonight, tomorrow or a month, there’ll only be one chance to accept our terms.”

“What terms?”

“Simple really – you leave or you die.”  Lou grinned from ear to ear and turned, climbing back into the Suburban, dramatically testing its suspension.

The Braves drove the rest of the way through
town, flipping a hasty U-turn at the river, departing the same way they had come.  Their purpose served, with no pretense, just as Darwin had hoped it would go.

Since he’d heard Raven’s voice calling to him from the street, Eli had struggled with his desire to see her and the possibility that he was infected.  The bullous, red lesions were shrinking, relieving joint pain and increasing his mobility.  However, he trusted the physical pain would pass but a lifetime of wondering would eat him up.  The night before
, he and Tommy had finished the crackers, leading to a door-to-door search in the early morning hours.  Most were locked and he had neither the strength, nor inclination, to bust down doors or crash through windows.  As he slogged, walking like a zombie, from one place to the next, he swallowed bits of snow from shadowed areas on the northern side of fences and homes.

Rounding a corner that led to a small bungalow with a double garage
, located at the end of a long driveway, Eli and his furry friend approached and tried the front door . . . locked.  Discouraged and hungry, they returned to the sidewalk and moved onto the next house but a quiet voice halted his progress and spun him around.  He looked at the studio apartment sitting atop the garage and wondered.  The steep stairwell, running up the side of the cinderblock structure, was free of snow but still hindered Eli’s access to the unit above.  He held to the old wooden railing, using his arms as much as his legs to climb each narrow step.  That morning he’d been surprised how much better his joints felt but lifting one foot high above the other was proving to be a monumental task, one that nearly turned him around.  The inner voice pushed him on, and with pain shooting uncontrollably from knees to elbows, he finally stood before a screen door on a tiny landing.

He reach
ed for the knob but was distracted by a note thumbtacked into the cheap paneled door, just within the screen’s protection.  Tommy Cat bounded up the last of the steps to take up a position between his feet.  The feline licked at his whiskers and then paws, pausing briefly to look up and meow. 
Maybe he knows something I don’t,
Eli thought, squinting to make out the handwritten message.

If you’re reading this, we are gone.  We held out as long as we dared but have famil
y in Jasper that needed us.  If you’re the first one here – help yourself.  Firewood’s in the garage and we left the food we couldn’t carry – sorry there’s not more, but it’s all we had.  Doors locked but there’s a key in a magnetic lockbox on the inside of the screen.  Don’t imagine you’re reading this if you’re a Husker.  Good luck to you and may God Bless!”

It was signed ‘The Millers’.

Eli quickly opened the noisy, metal door to find a lockbox, just as they’d indicated.  The key slid smoothly into place and granted him entrance.  He waited for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust, before he began to search.  A wood-burning stove, sitting atop a dozen red bricks, supported a black chimney that extended through the ceiling, capable of venting the noxious fumes to the outdoors.  The middle-aged man thrust back each of the heavy-lined, floral curtains that shrouded the living room and kitchen in darkness.  It was not fancy but was well maintained and stench-free.  The fridge had not worked in days but was empty anyway, except for an opened box of baking soda with the top cut away.  Drawers were full of utensils, can openers, whisks and more, but nothing to eat.  The cat milled about, smelling everything, before taking up a spot in the center of an old, red Formica table, and watched.

“Eureka,” Falconer exclaimed, having found a stash of food above the refrigerator in a double cupboard.  He pulled a metal chair away from the table and stood to reach the cache, leaving most in pl
ace and taking enough to fill him and Tommy Cat.  A can of tuna roused the pet’s attention the moment the seal was broken and the scent filled the air.  An incessant stream of meow’s reverberated around the small space, until the can was placed on the table for the Tabby to consume the contents.  Eli was content with a can of pork and beans.  The first spoonful almost brought tears to his eyes as he gulped it down.  The second, he allowed to remain on his tongue a moment longer, before it vanished into his stomach.  “I would never have imagined beans could taste so good.  How’s the tuna?” he asked, reaching with a finger to stroke the cat’s head.  The animal reacted with a quick
‘hiss’
and batted his hand away with an extended claw.  “That good.  Remind me to leave you alone when you’re eating.”

The friends finished the easy meal before Eli built a fire in the stove and snuggled up on the couch.  His mind wandered back to his mother
, who had told him; when he was quite young, of an incident that nearly cost him his life.  He was sure she had referenced purpura then, and without a doubt, he was certain that was the cause of his malady now.  As a toddler he had contracted a virus, which normally would have resulted in only flu-like symptoms, but he blew up like a balloon, stretching his skin and joints, just as this virus had done.  Eli thought and considered several options but it was quite clear to the survivor that the reaction had saved his brain and in essence, his life.
But why?  What’s different about me and what does it mean?

He wished he had paid better attention in biology but that was so long ago he’d not likely remember it anyway.  His thoughts danced from one possibility to the next, coming full circle to the realization that he was immune. 
And if I’m immune,
he thought,
I can . . .
  His mind quickly replayed a scene from
Outbreak
and it stopped him cold. 
The monkey!
  “Maybe I’m the monkey . . . maybe I’m the answer!” he shouted.  His companion jumped from the couch in pursuit of a more relaxed place to sleep and curled up below the stove. 
Come morning I’m going to find Raven and see if Bobi has any ideas. 
Sleep did not take him quickly but it did eventually come, late in the afternoon, when the shadows stretched long to the east and the temperature began to drop.

A crescent, yellow moon hung low in the night’s sky, aiding Nathan as he watched the inn’s activity from across the street.  He, and two teen Huskers, lay hidden from view on the forested slope that led to Tunnel Mountain.  The youngsters had tagged along, increasingly sensing the need to have Nathan close.  Waiting until nightfall, the small recon unit had left the overrun hotel, thirsty for the taste of fresh meat.  Melting snow and the rushing river had kept the ravenous pack alive, at least most.  Some had become ill, consuming rotting, packaged meat from the hotel’s lockers and eventually falling prey to their fellow Huskers, who ripped them apart and ingested their limbs while they looked on.

With no effort of his own, Nathan had watched a hierarchy form within the community.  He, of course, reigned supreme, retaining his authority with intimidation, power and the ability to kill or maim on a whim.  The more intelligent Huskers kept to themselves, until it was time to hunt, and then dozens of the inordinately vile and ferocious were anxious to follow and assist in the killing.

The pack’s numbers were swelling; regardless of the reason or rationale, Huskers were instinctively roaming the streets at night, often converging on the old hotel before daylight.  In recent days, the ex-Olympian had seen the city come alive, reducing their food supply, as people hastily packed and departed.  He now saw the reason for the activity and on a deep, intrinsic level, understood . . .
strength in numbers; the herd is forming.

Lying on the cold, leaf-covered sod they observed, hoping for a chance to spring but it
would not be . . . not until he’d marshaled his horde in a grand, lethal assault.  The trio skulked away, crawling and then running in the shadows of the near-deserted town, Nathan’s axe slapping at his firm thigh with each stride.  He grunted out encouragement for Shlomo and Elina to keep pace.  “Move,” he growled, swinging his arm in a wide arc.  The two did the best they could, struggling to keep up, but fatigue, cold and hunger limited their steps.

Winded, Nathan slowed and walked the last
, tree-lined kilometer, his followers in tow.  The forest’s ambient sounds were somewhat lost on the group, their hearing impaired but not gone.  However, other heightened senses stopped the leader and he knelt.  The brother and sister hustled to crouch beside him.  Faint hisses and low, almost indecipherable snarls drifted from the dense brush on the south side of the road.  “Watch,” he ordered, taking the hatchet’s grip in his powerful hand.  Irregular shadows covered their renewed, but much slower, walk toward their home.  Sounds, now fully formed as aggressive chants filled the woods.  A sense of dread retarded the sibling’s footsteps, but did not dissuade them from following their fearless leader.  He loomed large before them, his head pivoting right and then left, the axe raised and ready to strike.

Branches and twigs suddenly rustled and snapped as a cadre of bloodthirsty Huskers rushed from the darkness.  A dozen men and women, overcome with need and aggression, burst upon the scene, throwing stones and yelling wildly.  A well-placed rock knocked
Elina off her feet and to the asphalt; blood immediately covered the ground, spilling from an open head wound.  Nine of the assailants finally recognized whom they had accosted and cowered away, but three were so overcome with an unsatiated bloodlust that they carried on, even after Nathan dispatched the one leading the charge.

Dressed in filthy jeans and a ragged
, western vest, the one time cowboy went down hard, the hatchet cleaving his skull and frontal lobe with ease.  The overwrought Husker leader yanked the blade from the man’s brain but not before being tackled and thrown backwards by the next raging cannibal.  The man, wearing a long-rider’s coat, sunk his teeth deeply into Nathan’s jaw below his ear, the incisors striking bone.  He shook his head like a wolf ripping meat away from a bone.  Edwards howled, punching and clawing at the attacker to no avail, eventually dropping the axe.  As he dealt with his own skirmish, a view of Shlomo, embroiled in a fight for his life, trailed past his central vision.  A woman, much larger than the youth, had him pinned to the ground and was brutally strangling him.  The boy’s little sister lay nearby, bleeding and motionless.

Anger welled up within the highly trained athlete, sending a surge of hormones through his system and strengthening him
further.  He raked at the biter’s face, worked a finger into his gnawing mouth and pried away.  Pain, unlike anything he’d felt since being infected, rolled his eyes but did not stop the battle.  The clenched mandible reluctantly gave way, taking a piece of cheek with it.  The dark-eyed Husker had seen death before but never his own . . . not until now.  The violent act was imminent, and radiating from Nathan’s face.  Blood streamed down the leader’s neck and rage leapt from his blue eyes.  Edwards handled the man like a rag doll, ignoring the errant punches and scratches meant to stop the hormone-stoked killer.

Nathan held him down, a knee pres
sed into his assailant’s heaving chest.  He paused briefly, long enough to see the fight leave Shlomo’s limbs.  “Kill . . . now,” he screamed, using his left hand to press against the man’s forehead while clutching his throat with the right.  Fingers sunk deep into banded, thick cords, wrapping around the trachea and squeezing it shut.  Gasps for breath seized the would-be king killer and he flailed to free himself.  Using his upper body strength and the leverage against the man’s forehead, Nathan jerked his right hand back and pulled the windpipe free.  Seconds later he spit into the attacker’s dying face, and then tossed the body aside.  Retrieving the hatchet, he knelt and hurled it eight meters.  The weapon tumbled end-over-end, ultimately striking and lodging in the woman’s side, toppling her from off the youth.

Shlomo lay still.  Nathan went to him, ignoring the cries of the female Husker who thrashed about
, a few meters away.  He lifted the boy’s head and looked into his eyes.  They were void of recognition, the white’s, red with small broken vessels just under the conjunctival surface.  The teen’s chest rose with a shallow breath, then again, before he breathed his last, and died.  Nathan released the boy and crawled the short distance to Elina, reaching out to the little girl . . . she was cold.  The light had passed from her shortly after the rock spilled blood from her brain, freeing her from a Husker’s fate.

Nathan sat on his haunches looking at the small frame.  Something inside wanted him to feel, to mourn, but he was empty.  The sense of loss was fleeting, expelled by rage and a passion for revenge.  He lifted himself, ignoring the pain and blood coming from his face and walked to the wounded woman.  She lay on her back, her hands outstretched in a defensive posture.  Nathan kicked them aside and reached for his axe.  He held her with his foot while he wiggled the blade from the ribs and muscle that held it firm.  She grunted and cried out, looking to those that stood nearby for help.  It was obvious; she was on her own.

The Husker leader straddled, and then pinned her arms to the ground.  Overwrought, he felt no sense of understanding or pity for her plight; and mercy, a word no longer needed, would not be extended to this killer of the small and weak.  Nathan raised the hatchet and with his eyes fixed on hers, he swept the blade down and planted it firmly between her eyes.  The hazel-highlighted orbs crossed and then rolled, exposing the white, veiny sclera.  He repeated the act again and again, until a gelatinous mass quivered below him and he was covered in foul blood.

Nathan stood, the rage quenched.  The onlookers backed away, unsure what he might do next.  He knew what they waited for but he would not give them the satisfaction.  Without hesitation he turned on them and released his fury, lifting himself to his full height and screaming ill-defined dialogue at the top of his lungs, until he shook and tears dripped from his eyes.  The group vaporized into the woods, leaving no trace of
their existence, but he was not fooled . . . he knew their eyes were still upon him.

He scooped Shlomo and
Elina up, each under an arm and walked to the river.  At the water’s edge he eased them into the current and watched them disappear beneath the whitecaps.  The pair were the closest thing to humanity he’d known since the plague had captured his mind and sacrificed his heart.  They lingered with him until he returned to the location of their demise and saw the pack consuming their cohorts.

Co
ntrol: he sensed it waning and without it he would be just another mindless Husker, living from one kill to the next. 
The pack must eat.
  Above all else he understood this one thing.  He would retain his influence and power as long as he could lead them to fresh meat.  Minutes later he rallied his gruesome mob, whipping them into a frenzy of hostility.  Covered in gore, the promise of violence spoke to the Husker band and they moaned and grunted their approval.  The horde moved out, thirsty for blood and ready for a fight.  Nathan led his hundreds down the narrow road.  They eagerly followed; filling their hands with anything that could be brandished as a weapon . . . the Huskers were indeed learning.