Indestructible: V Plague Book 7 (3 page)

Struggling with the male, I tried to twist in his embrace
but couldn’t rotate my body.  He was nearly as large as me, and in his infected
state was stronger.  My advantage was speed and agility, and maybe
intelligence, but wrapped in his arms as I was, most of my strengths were negated. 
Feeling desperation creeping in, I pushed harder against his throat and moved
my feet to dance with him.

He was trying to move me off balance and take me to the
ground.  Losing my footing and ending up rolling around in the dirt would
benefit him and put me in an even more compromised position.  Still trying to
twist my body and pull my left arm free to reach a weapon, something crashed
into us and sent us sprawling.

When we hit, he landed on his back with all of my weight
coming down on his chest.  Whatever had struck us was attacking me, tearing at
my right shoulder and arm, but the bear hug had loosened and with a herculean
effort I broke free and rolled.  I left the male behind, but my attacker came
with me, screaming right next to my face.  A female had joined the party.

Still rolling, I reached for the new arrival, hands finding
long hair, which I grasped and pulled hard to control her head.  I was caught
off guard when I was able to pull the body completely off of me and send it
tumbling away towards the male.  Scrambling to my feet I grasped the hilt of my
Kukri and whipped it up as the little girl we had rescued with Stephanie leapt
at me.

A month ago the sight of a child would have caused
hesitation, but I’d learned they are just as dangerous and determined as an
infected adult.  Turning the blade I met her charge and buried the weapon to
the hilt in her small throat.  Yanking the Kukri free, I killed the male who
was just rising to his knees. 

Weapon still in hand, I stayed in a partial crouch, knees
flexed, scanning all around me for any more attackers.  Not seeing any within
range of my vision, I quickly cleaned the steel on the dead male’s uniform,
sheathed it and pulled my rifle up.  With the night vision scope I repeated my
scan of the surroundings, standing up straight and relaxing slightly when I
didn’t spot anything else moving.

With a deep breath I turned a full circle again, still
finding the area clear.  Moving quickly I checked each body I could find.  Nine
dead females that I didn’t recognize.  Four of them appeared to have been
killed by Dog, their throats torn out and deep, defensive wounds on their arms
where they had tried to stop him.

Five more had large wounds in their torsos and heads. 
Large, ragged holes.  I stood staring down at one of them, finally turning my
flashlight back on after checking the area again for threats.  It came on, then
quickly dimmed.  Squatting down for a better look before it completely died, I
was at a loss.  These were definitely not bullet holes, or wounds from any type
of firearm I was familiar with.  Neither were they knife or dagger wounds. 
What the hell had killed them

Putting it aside for the moment, I started looking for
tracks again.  I had to move well away from the crash sight and all of the
disturbed ground before I found where they had walked away to the east.  A mix
of shoe prints and bare feet.  And right in the middle, every track clear and
crisp, Dog’s paw prints.  Moving to the side of their path so I didn’t disturb
them I followed the tracks for close to a hundred yards.

For long stretches, Dog’s trail was pristine as he’d
obviously been following.  Then it would swing out to the side and make a large
half circle that would intersect with the trail and all but disappear in the
jumble of marks in the soft soil.  This told me he was shadowing the group. 

Sometimes at the back, which is when he would leave clear
tracks, others ranging ahead which is why some of his prints were lost in the
passage of human feet.  There was also one time where a set of three tracks
left by unshod horses had come in from the south and intersected Dog’s circle
around the group, but they had peeled away to the southeast and didn’t seem to
be following the infected.

But had they taken my group?  I didn’t see any other
explanation.  I couldn’t imagine Rachel, Katie or Martinez willingly leaving me
behind.  For that matter, the last time I saw them, Katie and Martinez weren’t
in any condition to set off on a hike across Oklahoma.  Fear sent a thrill
through me.  Had they turned?  Maybe they weren’t taken.  Maybe they had
joined.

I was only sure of one thing.  Rachel, uninfected, must have
been with the group or Dog would not have followed.  But I was still at a loss
as to why I was left behind, alive.  I forced myself to not think the worst. 
Katie was fine, not turned, and I wasn’t going to stop until I got her and
everyone else back.

Scanning around me again, I trotted back to the crash to
find my pack.  It took some searching and digging through the debris, but I
eventually found it buried under a jumbled pile of seats.  Opening it up I
quickly checked the contents and discarded as many items as I felt I could do
without.  I was going to follow the group and needed to lighten my load as much
as possible so I could move faster.

While searching for the pack I’d come across the M4 rifle
that I had left with Stephanie when I went into the casino.  I liked the little
Sig that Zemeck had given me, but it fired low powered, nine-millimeter pistol
rounds, which were perfectly suitable for CQB.  But I was back outside, moving
across open country and might need something with a little more oomph behind
it.

Pushing the Sig onto my back, I slung the M4 and scavenged
full magazines from the dead Marines and Soldiers.  Taking a few minutes to
prepare an MRE, I stood thinking about my situation as I wolfed it down.

We had taken off from the casino, heading south to reach
Tinker Air Force Base.  It was about ten minutes, I thought, into the flight
when the engines shut down.  Why the hell had that happened?  I had no clue,
and it didn’t matter.  It had, and we had crashed. 

Ten minutes in the air before going down meant I was
somewhere between twenty and thirty miles south of the casino.  I remembered
driving through that area the previous night and not seeing anything other than
an occasional farmhouse.  It had been dark, but there had been enough moonlight
to see fields under cultivation stretching away to the horizon.

The crash had been shortly before sunrise of the day that had
already passed.  And now it was dark again and I had no idea what time it was. 
Had the sun only gone down an hour ago, or…?  It didn’t matter.  I could run at
night just as easily as in the day.  There was enough light from the moon for
me to see, and I’d probably cover more ground without the heat of the sun beating
down on me.

Finishing the last of the meal I tossed the packaging onto a
pile of debris and drank deeply from my water.  Working the pack onto my
shoulders, I adjusted the straps and took another look around the area with the
rifle’s night vision scope.  Satisfied all was clear, I set off at a run,
following the tracks that went east.

Running across the fields was just as difficult as I
expected.  My direction of travel was perpendicular to the rows of cultivated
produce, so rather than a normal stride I had to lift each foot and pay close
attention to where I brought it down.  Miscalculating a step could result in a
sprained ankle at best, a broken leg at worst.  The former would be a serious
problem, the latter most likely a death sentence.

After covering close to a mile, and several fields, I had to
slow to a walk.  The extra effort required to move on the difficult footing
coupled with the weight of my pack was quickly draining my energy reserves.  I
was panting and sweating heavily, fighting dizziness that I was sure came from
the concussion I’d suffered during the plane crash.

Striding along, spanning a furrow with each step, I finally
succumbed to my injuries and leaned to the side to throw up.  Most of the MRE
and water I’d consumed before heading out came gushing, my stomach continuing
to spasm long after it was empty.  Straightening up, the world around me spun
for a moment and I almost pitched over.  I must have looked like a drunk,
standing their swaying as I fought the waves of nausea.

Closing my eyes I breathed deeply through my nose, willing
my body to settle down and let me push on.  Eventually the worst of the
disorientation passed and I was able to open my eyes without getting sick.  My
head pounded and my vision was blurry, but at least I was able to stay on my
feet.  I took a mouthful of water, swished it around and spat it out, then took
a few small sips.  Thankfully my system didn’t rebel.

With another deep breath I began walking again, stepping
over the next row and onto a clear paw print.  I was moving slow, wiping blood
from the gash on my head out of my eye, and I’m not sure if I was walking a
straight line or not.  But I was able to follow the tracks of the group I was
pursuing. 

Pressing on for what felt like hours, I glanced down to check
on their trail and came to a stop.  Nothing but undisturbed dirt and a row of
low, dark green plants in front of me.  I looked to either side, but failed to
find the tracks.  What the hell?  How long had I been walking in a daze?

Reversing course, I began following my own tracks, alarmed
to see the weaving path I had taken.  Pausing, I wiped sweat off my face and
more blood out of my eye, then took a few more sips of water as I looked
around.  My vision was blurry, my head pounding like a jackhammer, but I did
feel more stable.

With a start I realized I hadn’t scanned for threats in I
didn’t know how long.  Lifting my rifle I looked through the night vision scope
and began to turn.  I had only completed a quarter of the circle when I
stumbled sideways as the world around me started whirling in the opposite
direction.  Lowering my rifle, I closed my eyes and waited as a wave of heat rolled
across my face and a fresh bout of nausea struck.

When the flushing passed, I swallowed twice, trying to keep
myself from throwing up again.  Stomach settling, I breathed deeply, slowly
feeling better.  Ready to try looking at the world again, I opened my eyes and
was startled to see an Indian standing a few feet in front of me.

He was taller than me, broad across the chest and shoulders
and narrow in the hips.  He wore jeans and boots and a leather vest that
exposed powerful, dark bronze arms.  His hair was black as midnight and pulled
into a long ponytail.  He had deep-set eyes and a face that was all planes and
angles.  His skin was difficult to differentiate in the dark from the leather
he wore.

He stared back, an assault rifle held loosely in his hands. 
Was I that out of it that he had managed to walk right up without me even
knowing he was there?  I’ve worked with Indians in the military and not for a
second did I buy into any of the mystical warrior bullshit.  A man is quiet in
the field because he has learned how to be quiet, not because of any magical
powers granted by the earth mother.

“What do you want here?”  He finally spoke in flat, American
tones.  No Hollywood stereotype accent here.  Just a voice that sounded like
any other male born and raised in the United States.

“Just passing through,” I said, assessing him. 

He may have been holding his rifle loosely, but that didn’t
mean he didn’t know how to handle it.  It was being held almost exactly the
same way I hold mine.  The man had had some training.

His face remained unreadable and he didn’t move a muscle. 
“Army?”  He finally broke his silence.

I nodded, instantly regretting the movement that caused my
dizziness to flare up.  He tilted his head as he watched me sway slightly.

“You’re hurt,” he said.  “And on Osage land.  You have no
right to be here and no authority.  Or is the white man going to take our homes
and move us again?”

“Fuck you, Tonto.”  I said.  “Whatever was done happened
long before you or I were born, and there’s not enough people left alive in the
world to give a shit.”

That pissed him off, his eyes narrowing as he made a small
adjustment to his grip on the rifle.  My right hand was hovering a few inches
from my pistol and I was confident I could draw it and put a round through his
forehead before he could raise and fire his rifle.  Well, maybe I could if I
was able to figure out which one of him I was seeing was the real one. 
Dizziness and double vision without tequila is a real bitch.

“Fuck you!”  He snapped back.  “You come onto my land and
insult me?  You need to go back the way you came before I stop being friendly.”

“Friendly?”  I snorted.  “That was being friendly?  Well,
hell.  Where
are
my manners?  Thank you for being so welcoming to travelers.”

The tension ratcheted up a few notches when I finished
speaking.  Even in the darkness I could see his eyes flash in anger, the
muscles in his arms twitching as he squeezed the rifle.  Things were about to
go south in a hurry.

“Look, I’m sorry.”  I said, genuinely apologizing for having
been a dick.  “It’s been a bad day and I was tracking a group that took my
friends and got a little lost.  I was in a plane crash a few hours ago and took
a good blow to the head.  I just want to get back on their trail.”

He stared at me for a long time.  Long enough that the
silence was growing uncomfortable, but I wasn’t going to break it.  I’ve played
the game before and knew the rules.  The next one to speak would be
compromising some of his position.

“The only group to come through in the past two days was a
bunch of infected women.”  He finally said.

“When?  Going east or west?”  I asked.

“West, around midnight yesterday, then back east an hour
after sunrise this morning.”  He answered after a very long pause.  “They were
carrying two on their way east.” 

“Did you see a German Shepherd?”  I asked, feeling the
stirrings of hope.

What I didn’t voice was a question of why he hadn’t tried to
stop them.  The Osage were fierce warriors, one of the most feared Indian
nations at one time, and he didn’t look that far removed from his heritage. 
Then the answer hit me.  He was alone out here and was either out of ammo or
was so low that he couldn’t engage the group.

He looked at me, maybe finally believing my story.  “Yes, I
did.  But he wasn’t really with them.  More like he was trailing them, then
he’d race ahead for a bit before circling back to trail them again.  Kind of
strange.”

“That’s them,” I said.  “The ones being carried and the dog
belong with me.  We got separated after the crash.”

“You don’t want to be messing with them,” he said.

“Yes, I do.  And I am.  They have my friends, and my wife.”