Rise of the Huskers (The Raven Falconer Chronicles) (4 page)

“Men, brothers, I know this is a hard thing I ask of you but do I have your support?”  The men reluctantly shouted a weak approval before Darwin continued.  “We, and others like us, with the same vision, will rise up and take what is deservedly ours!  Brothers, will you fight and die with me for a greater good?”  The question brought forth a more robust approval, some shaking their fists and guns in the air.  When the enthusiasm died down, the new leader quickly descended a few steps and brought his hands before him, similar to what Thomas Yellowbird had done only minutes before.  He spoke as if the words were delivered to him from an outside, divine source, inspiring the impressionable warriors with his heart-felt rhetoric.  In conclusion he asked with all the sincerity of his aching heart, “Men of GAW, I have asked you today if you will die for me, but more importantly, I need to know . . . will you live for me?”  Gun blasts filled the air, led by the slender Trevor, who whooped and fired his pistol uncontrollably over his head.

Darwin Gladue, self-appointed chief and God’s anointed, rested his hand on the instrument of his swift rise to power and wheeled to face his lanky lieutenant.  “We have much work to do.  Get these bodies out of here.  I want a traditional burial but no one need attend.  I will take care of explaining the change in leadership and the vision for our future to the others.  You just do what you’re told and I’ll make it worth your while.  Any questions?”  Trevor swung his head, indicating he had none.  “I thought not – get to work.”

Chief Gladue slicked back his shoulder-length black hair with a single stroke of his powerful right hand.  He was older than he looked.  A few superficial creases worn into his face from years of laughing and crying were the only sign he was over 40.  A shallow dimple dented his square chin, drawing attention to his angular jaw and close-set ears.  Hanging, suspended by a band of silver, a small handmade
dreamcatcher danced gently in the wind.  The object, not particularly beautiful or professional in appearance, was his greatest possession: handcrafted and given to him by his dying child shortly before the virus took her home.  A linear scar traversed the side of his face and pointed at his heart.  The lighter band of tissue was more evident when he smiled, but for a man of compassion and control it was a constant reminder of the weakness of youth.

Broad shoulders, chiseled from hours of construction work, and a friendly smile had helped him along life’s path but it was his position as tribal medicine man that garnered the trust and love of the people.  He, more than any other, understood the workings of the Spirit and the connection the land and elements had to his people.  He would use that knowledge now to rally the surviving few to become hundreds, then thousands, and tens of thousands to swarm the land and make it their own.

Swinging the casino door open with an easy thrust, he confidently walked through the lobby, taking in the sound of Trevor pistol-whipping the cowards who had shrunk in the face of adversity.  They would learn to be hard or they would perish.  Darwin smiled, already liking the way his new world was shaping up.

Officer Nowicki paused and listened before he returned to the warmth of his car’s interior.  The image of the fallen couple still ripped at his heart but for now, thank God, all was quiet.  His face and hands had almost recovered from the deliberate splashing he’d given them an hour before, however, the chill had returned when he used fresh snow to clean the elk’s blood from the cruiser’s hood.  Sitting behind the steering wheel he rubbed the sting from his hands, then extended the motion up his forearms, smoothing and warming the goose bumps there.  He had been pleased to see Willy and his wife reunited and the smile that dominated her face, when she’d seen the gutted carcass, made the morning’s efforts worthwhile. 
What do I do with all these people?
he thought, while continuing to warm his arms and digits. “Help better be on the way,” Ziggy prayerfully whispered, as he slipped the transmission into drive and skirted away from the curb.

He swung through town, avoiding the gover
nment building and the scene he’d left there.  Near the train station he noted a couple of middle-aged Huskers rummaging through a dumpster in search of food.  Flipping a toggle on the console spun the lights and sounded the siren for a moment; capturing one of the disheveled’s attention but not stopping their attempts at foraging. 
What the hell?  I hope they find something to eat and stay out of trouble
.  The road that ascended the mountain and led to Norquay was fraught with switchbacks and avalanche sites, testing both driver and equipment.  Normally his tires would have been swapped for the season but the sudden arrival of snow and the dreadful virus had put those mundane, but necessary events on hold, along with everything else but the need to survive.  He passed under the Trans-Canada Highway, relaxed the pressure on the gas pedal, rolled to a stop and eyed the road ahead.  At the mountain’s base a snow covered meadow meandered through sparse stands of pines, often the home to the regions plentiful deer and elk.  Today the scene was still.  An occasional track marred the blanket of white but for now, the offenders were in hiding, seeking warmth and safety elsewhere.

Zygmunt had often used the small gravel parking lot at the extreme edge of the picturesque expanse to enjoy his lunch and watch the wildl
ife.  Just a month ago he’d seen a large black bear lazily chewing berries from a bush, not thirty feet from that exact spot.  In his mind he contrasted the beauty, peace and calm that laid before him with the unexpected, chaotic charge of the Huskers earlier in the day.  He closed his eyes and pushed the thought from his mind, imagining it to be a world away, on another continent more accustomed to killing and death, which he understood too well.

"Okay Ziggy, four
wheel drive or not, I better give this a try," he said, smiling at the prospect of running into the four attractive young women again.

Slowly accelerating the patrol car, the sea of white undulated in his peripheral vision like gen
tle waves pitching on the ocean’s surface.  His stomach matched the motion, forcing bile to the back of his throat and prompting him to race across the valley’s floor.  Nearing the opposite side of the great expanse he spotted an SUV, not so much parked, but haphazardly slammed into the logs, which lined the parking area he’d often used.  Scanning his memory he tried to put a name or face to the light colored Lexus, but could not.  However, he was quite sure the vehicle had not been there a day or two ago.  The young RCMP officer brought the cruiser to a standstill at the rear of the SUV.  Out of habit he reached for the radio to call in the plate and keyed the mic before he realized what he was doing.  "Idiot," he said, laughing and slamming the handheld transmitter back onto its perch.  From his vantage point he couldn’t see anyone inside the vehicle but it was running, as a steady stream of exhaust belched from the rear pipe.

Ziggy placed the unit in pa
rk and reached again for the handset, toggling the switch to external speaker.  "Driver, exit the vehicle with your hands up." 
Better safe than sorry
, he thought.  He repeated the attempt two more times before exiting the comfort of the car, smoothly sliding his pistol from its sheath and holding it ready at his side.  Cautious and deliberate, far more than he’d ever been in his entire life, including his time overseas, he sidestepped wide of the open door, giving him a better view into the interior.  It was indeed empty, void of life but covered in the remnants of a battle for survival.  Blood, frozen in place, decorated the fine upholstery with what Ziggy knew to be pieces of bodily tissue, grotesquely ice-bound in islands of red plasma.

Finally assured all was safe, he returned to his cruiser and pulled on his heavy coat, gloves and mask.  Standing at the open door of the running Lexus he surveyed the SUV’s contents without touching anything. 
Why risk contamination if I can help it,
he thought.  Small, shattered pieces of glass littered the interior, some streaked with blood, especially those still attached to the frame.  The roof of the cab was particularly savaged with spattered blood and brain matter, a hole punched through the metal housing, just to the side of the sunroof, helped Ziggy mentally construct what he thought had happened.  Satisfied with the inspection, Officer Nowicki walked around and opened the passenger door, ducking he pulled another piece of the puzzle from the floor mat: a Ruger .357 Magnum with a full compliment of shells in the cylinder, two of which had been fired.

He straightened his back and looked around, thinking to himself. 
Now why in the world would you go off and leave your only form of protection?
“And where is the bumper?”  He again inspected the front of the SUV, confirming a solid impact with the lot’s log enclosure but the bumper was definitely missing.

Ziggy walked a full 360 degrees around the Lexus, looking for anything he might have missed, before he reached in and spun the key in the ignition, silencing the engine.  Picking up where the injured driver had walked away from the scene was not difficult.  Footprints, highlighted with crimson droplets, painted a pathway, first across the meadow an
d towards the trees, then circling to the road, where the trail became significantly harder to follow.  The somewhat baffled officer made his way back to the little parking lot, talking out loud as he did.  “So this guy gets into a real knockdown, drag-out fight with a Husker.  Yeah, has to be a Husker, but not here
. 
Maybe in town and he drives, trying to get home and can’t make it or the battle takes place up the canyon and he’s headed for help.  Anyway, this is as far as he gets, at least in the car, but why leave the Lexus?  If he has the strength to walk, why not just drive the rest of the way home or help or . . .?”

The questions hung in the air, twisting this way and that as he ruled out plausible answers and scenarios.  He popped the cruiser’s trunk and placed the revolver into a Ziploc bag along with the gloves he was wearing.  From a large blue bottle he liberally covered his hands with sanitizer and rubbed the lotion into the skin until it was gone.  Removing a pen and paper form his vest pocket, he wrote down the plate from the Lexus, kicked the RX350’s door shut and returned to the steady stream of warm air pulsing through his car’s vents.  “We’ll see . . . he’s
either dead or . . . who knows?”

By the time Zygmunt concluded his preliminary investigation and turned his attention to the roommates, a good portion of the afternoon was gone.  He mentally calculated the time it would
take him to drive up to ol’ Smugs’ cabin and back to the station, wondering if he had enough daylight to make the run under safer circumstances.  “You’re hooped, Nowicki.  Maybe they’ll have to invite me to stay the night.”  He smiled; lurid images of a grownup sleepover distracted him for a moment before he pushed them aside and retorted, “I should be so lucky.”

Tall timbers shadowed the road from the late afternoon sun, setting deep to the southwest.  The cruiser navigated the slick blacktop cautiously, slowing at each sheltered cabin and housing structure, as Ziggy made his way along.  None were using lights, which didn’t necessarily mean the edifice was abandoned but perhaps the residents were not advertising their existence.  At some, he swung the spotlight away from the patrol car and illuminated the dwelling but found no evidence of movement or survivors.  It had been days, if not weeks, since he’d traveled so close to
Norquay.  One of the missing officers had been responsible for the area and he’d gone missing shortly after the Huskers started roaming the streets.

Three and a half miles up the winding parkway he finally encountered something beyond the norm. 
A man and a woman sat on a front porch rocking rhythmically in a pair of large wooden chairs.  The spot’s intense beam panned across the earth between the car and the couple, removing shadows and uncertainty.  “Huskers!” he grunted, as the light displayed the grisly remains of a near-headless torso and the cannibalistic Huskers, covered in gore and carnage.  He instinctively reached for the auto-lock button on the armrest, double-checking his security.  The woman of the pair took exception to being dazzled by the extreme light and stood, covering her eyes and stepping from the elevated porch.  The man quickly followed and advanced down the steps to join her.  Ziggy immediately doused the light and punched the accelerator, not wanting to send another couple to meet their maker so soon after the events of the morning.

Moments later he backed off his speed to maneuver a tight hairpin turn, staying close to the
mountainside opposite the guardrails and the drop-off below.
 
His lights, now a necessity, panned the roadway and trees, which seemed to jump out as odd shapes and shadows.  Just as he completed the sharp-angled turn, movement caught his eye.  Quick reflexes, honed by years of experience and training, brought him to an abrupt halt, his right foot mashing the pedal to the floor.  Sure enough, there in the middle of the pavement was a nervous coyote busily lapping at something on the road’s surface.  The well-fed animal bristled but continued its scant meal, keeping one eye on the intruder.  Ziggy swept the external light to bear on the scene, pivoting it right to left, suddenly framing the missing front bumper; hanging, broken, and partially wedged into the guardrail. 
Well, there’s the rest of the Lexus . . . battle must’ve happened here but who . . .

The last few miles up the canyon were black and eerily quiet.  Bits of snow and ice crunched beneath the tire treads as the temperature dropped and the day’s slush formed crystalline ridges along the road’s un
even surface.  An arcuate sliver of yellow moon-glow provided little, if any help, in illuminating the roadway ahead.  Zygmunt held the wheel tightly at the ten and two o’clock positions, just as he’d been instructed as a young man of 14.  He slowly maneuvered the cruiser up the mountainous terrain, squinting, until he finally saw the lights of a small cabin ahead. 
This better be the place
, he thought, bringing the car to a stop behind the Jeep he recognized as the girl’s.

Before climbing from the cruiser he flicked on the interior light and looked at himself in the rearview mirror; ran a han
d through his thick, brown hair and used his index finger to polish his front teeth. 
It’ll have to do
, he thought, extinguishing the light and stepping from the vehicle.

“Hold it right there!”  Came a trembling shout from the cabin’s porch.  It was a little less friendly than the RCMP officer had anticipated but he smiled, knowing the young women were playing it safe.

Ziggy cautiously walked to where he could be seen by the sentry and introduced himself, his hands extended up and away from his weapon.  “Ma’am, it’s me, Officer Nowicki.  We met the other day, remember . . . I stopped you in Banff and I gave you the rifles.”

As he completed the last of his statement,
Bobi’s roommates joined her on the porch, each toting a weapon, aimed directly at him.  “Step up here a bit closer.  You don’t sound the same.  I want to make sure it’s you.”

“Oh, it’s me alright but without the gas mask and other accouterments.  I can assure you it’s me,” he said, stepping ever closer and eventually being engulfed in the bright beam of at least one flashlight.

Mick lowered her weapon’s muzzle but continued to blast the officer with the light’s brilliance.  “What brings you so far from town this late in the day?  This a social call?” she further questioned.

“Well, ladies, I wish I was here to tell
ya the threat is over and you can go home but I’m afraid that’s not the case.”

“So why are you here?” Raven questioned, in a more mellow tone than Mick had used.

Officer Nowicki lifted his arm to block the light searing his retinas and replied, “Take this for what it’s worth . . . I was worried and just wanted to check in on you.”

“Isn’t that sweet.  We were just saying this afternoon how helpful and . . . ”
Bobi’s further explanation was hastily curtailed by Raven, who’d been the most vocal during the day’s discussion.

“Yeah, we were certainly appreciative of your help with the guns and all,” Raven said, casting a quick glare at Bobi and bumping her with her behind.

“Do you mind?  I mean, the lights, could you give me a break?” Ziggy asked, waving his hand to exaggerate the discomfort he was feeling.  A second later the conical beams were lowered to his feet and then eliminated.  “Thanks.”

An awkward silence hung in the chilled air for a minute as Nowicki thought of his next sentence and the roommates whispered among themselves, debating their next move and who should act as their spokesperson.  Raven won out, quickly descended the steps and greeted the young officer with a more friendly welcome.  “Sorry for the guns and precautions but we’ve had our share of scares and well . . . you know what I mean, right?”