The Survivors: Book One (45 page)

Marc grinned bitterly. She would insist on a workout tomorrow, he had no doubt. She was stronger than anyone he’d ever known, and that included hardened Marines. His smile faded. Because she’d already lived through worse. Her man was going to pay!

It was dark, cold, and silent except for the restless mutterings of the woman in the vinyl shelter when Marc finally went to bed. The wolf was asleep at the doorway, and Marc took off only his coat as he crawled in next to her. His matching .45’s went under his pillow.

When he curled his body protectively around hers, Angela relaxed against him and fell into a deeper sleep almost immediately, her fear of Kenny overpowered by the need for comfort that only Brady’s arms could give.

9

“Do we keep following?”

Aching with the rain, Dillan shook his head, dark, angry eyes studying a wrinkled map as Dean eagerly fanned the fire to life. With the cabin still smoldering hotly, their smoke would appear to be part of it. They had been running a cold camp to avoid being spotted and both men were ready for a hot meal and a strong cup of coffee.

“No. They’re still moving northwest, just like every time they head out. Going somewhere. We’ll be able to track them down. He’s not covering their trail at all.”

“Back to Cesar, then?”

Dillan nodded. They had been tracking the couple, waiting for the right moment, but it had never come. The Witch and her soldier were very careful. The one time they might have been ambushed while they were traveling, the two Blazers had stopped for a moment, and then went a different way. Like they'd known there was trouble waiting ahead.

Tonight, the twins had been nearby, planning to try again after dark. When the hunter had cleverly distracted the wolf and snuck inside, they’d moved even closer. Hoping to kill her soldier and then her attacker, it had only taken a few seconds to feel the waves of power in the air and realize it was the man who wasn’t coming out.

Dean and Dillan might have gone in anyway, if not for the single gunshot, which either meant the woman was dead and there was no reason to stay, or the hunter had given his life, and the Witch would be ready for anything. They had watched her stumble out the door, looking like easy, terrified prey, but they knew she wasn’t. They also hadn’t missed her fast recovery.

The twins had finally accepted that they needed help. It was something they’d rarely encountered, even before, when only a cell had controlled them, stopped them from doing what they wanted. Now, a mere woman had hurt them, had made them feel fear, and they loathed her for it.

“Where do you think the deformed bastard is?”

Dillan’s glassy eyes went back to the map and then checked his watch for the date, wincing at his mangled arm. He had splinted it, and it was healing, but it would always be useless. “He said every big town along 25. Maybe three days each, four on the bigger ones, skip every other, empty... He should be near Denver. We’ll just follow Interstate 80 until we pick them up on the CB. Or until we see smoke after a storm.

 Dean grinned as he stood up. “’Cause where there’s a storm, there’s Cesar.”

10

Ccrrraaackkk!

The thunder from the fading storm rattled the ground, shaking the tent, and Marc woke suddenly from his dreams of thick smoke and desperate screams. He was alone.

Surprised he hadn’t noticed Angela leave, he quickly stepped out into dawn’s early dimness, immediately finding her standing by the open passenger door of her Blazer. Medical supplies spread across the seat, she was using the mirror to see in, as she cleaned her injuries.

Marc moved to her side slowly, making sure she was aware of his presence. He gently took the alcohol pad from her trembling fingers, wincing when she did, heart breaking at the pain in her eyes. She didn’t seem afraid of him like she had been, wasn’t nervous about being hemmed in by his large body, but he was very careful not to crowd her as he applied the gel she handed him.

He saw her tears, could feel the pain coming off her in waves. When she started to turn away, he gently wrapped his arms around her. “It’ll get easier, in time.”

Her tears were falling thickly, yet even in her misery, she noticed the body pressed against hers. Noticed and compared it to what she remembered. Angela stepped back slowly.

“You want to stay here a day or two?”

“And do what?”

Marc pulled a thoughtless answer out of his head, not expecting the question, “I could teach you to hunt.”

He winced as he heard himself, bracing for anger or more tears, and was amazed by her strength when she gave him a tiny, rueful look of accomplishment.

Might as well. I’ve passed the gun test.”

They spent two full days at the preserve, and Angela improved quickly, telling herself over and over that she’d had no choice. They spent the days working out, drilling on what she’d learned, and Brady’s arms during the darkness kept her nightmares at bay and her heart frustrated by the walls still keeping them apart.

They were back on the road soon after, and then to separate tents without a word spoken about it, but things had changed between them. Angela felt it and worried over who would survive the resulting firestorm when Marc realized it too. Everything was getting closer now.

Chapter Twenty Three

March 7
^th
, 2013

Wyoming, mid-state

1

Waking with the feeling that something very valuable had been stolen from him, Adrian listened first for the sounds of his flock - tents flapping, dogs yapping almost casually, a soft, calm crunch of footsteps, the moderate murmur of voices - and allowed himself to relax, the sounds were there and normal. He sat up, reaching for his cigarette pack.

Naked except for his green boxers, Adrian lit a joint, not cold but aware of the chill in the tent. His watch showed it was 5:33 a.m - time to get his busy day started, and he took an extra five to get ready. The day’s list was almost double what it usually was, and everyone would be busy right up to the shooting contest after dinner.

He hit the joint hard and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, thinking his goatee needed a trim. He coughed at the lungful of smoke and smiled. Tonya sure knew how to grow it. Too bad that wouldn’t be allowed when they settled down somewhere, but if he let in one, all the rest would follow. In the meantime, stashes and supplies would run out like everything else, forcing people off of their habits without him having to be a cruel leader.

Adrian inhaled harder, until his lungs burned. He was tired and worried, his usual state of being since the War, and it took only a few hits for him to feel the effects. He closed his eyes, lower mind planning the day, fitting things together for convenience, his higher mind searching for those he had to believe were still on their way. Maybe they were already here, just overlooked. Maybe he’d passed them by.

"I need help!"
Adrian shouted silently,
"I can’t keep doing this alone!"

The leader let out a harsh sigh, knowing he would keep trying until he was used up, and probably even beyond that. He wouldn’t give up as his father had. The guilt rolled over him at that, and behind it, came the overwhelming need to right the wrongs that he could.

Adrian got up, again listening for his people, something he did when he woke each morning. They were the reason he worked so hard, and he began to move faster, eager to be with them.

Pulling on his black jacket against the chill of mid-40’s, he stepped out into the strong wind, and his eyes went immediately to the sky. Adrian frowned at the ugly look of it. Something was racing their way. Rain? Snow? Both? He would have to
look
, and that meant using his own magic, something all of those he was searching for would also have - to one degree or another.

The leader took a careful look around, seeing only the guards’ eyes on him, and he closed his own, concentrating.
“Show me!”
he demanded silently, and as his lids opened, the wind gathered strength. A two-foot dust whirl rose off the dry ground, spinning wildly toward him. It broke apart against his legs, covering his jeans in thick dust, and Adrian’s heart thumped. A sand storm.

Observant eyes watching, Kenn joined Adrian and opened his notebook without being told, erasing his neat mental chalk board with one swipe. He wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened, but it gave him a flash of the determined woman on the way to her son, and he kept his eyes on the page, so Adrian couldn’t see the guilt there.

“We’ll only have an hour. It’s moving fast.”

Kenn’s eyes followed Adrian’s, and he too frowned. Their mountain view to the South was becoming obscured by the wall of danger racing towards them, the sandy wind beginning to beat on their tents, tarps, and cars. The dogs were now barking in an agitated manner, the livestock trailers able to be heard too, and the Marine’s gut unclenched from the boring resignation he’d woken with. This would not be an average day. “I’ll keep ‘em rolling.”

Adrian lit a Winston, working on details, and Kenn shook his head at the Level Two Eagle from Neil’s team, who’d stopped nearby. Jeremy kept going at the denial, frowning.

“We have to roll in the camp by at least half a click. It’s too big to protect.” The leader took his knife from his boot and knelt down to draw in the dirt. He made deep marks to keep the wind from distorting it, thinking the sound of tent flaps smacking harshly in the heavy wind was a warning few would understand. This storm would kill as many survivors as the blizzard had. Nature was pissed.

“The Mess in the center.  Line up seven rigs on the redline in front of it; back them in as close as you can get. Make the wire tight and put a bathroom camper on each end. The weight of the water will hold them better than a semi. These two ends have to be right up against the corners of the Mess, and then line the other vehicles up behind us, sideways, big to little. It’ll create a barrier. Put tarps on the sides to close it off. Tie ‘em to the trucks, but watch for gaps. If they billow in the wind, we’ll be one big sail.”

Both men looked up at an odd whine to the wind, just in time to be hit with a small tornado of dust as high as a car. It slapped at them with hundreds of bits of stinging sand, and Adrian’s dirt map disappeared.

Wiping his face with a gritty hand, the blond went on like it was still there. “Put the ends under the tires and heavier stuff. Make sure it’s secured right. Everything else has to be broken down and shoved into the outer trucks to add weight. Cover the livestock and dogs. They go in the very front.”

Kenn was copying – orders and the map - and those nearby watched alertly in the gritty dimness as the wind increased. The sense of something big about to happen was starting to spread.

“The sheep in the center trucks?”

Adrian’s blade flashed through the dirt again, ringless fingers nicked, scarred. “Yes, here and here. Make the weight as even as possible. Do the best you can. One bag allowed and put those stickup dome lights inside, so there are no fumes or flames. Gear: goggles, boots, ski masks, orange safety vests - all Eagles on shift inside the area.”

Kenn finished writing, looked up. “What about the guards on the perimeter?”

Adrian’s eyes went back to the brownish black wall of sand that was noticeably closer, vaguely aware of raised voices as people started to see what he and Kenn already had - danger heading their way.

“Only in the front trucks - anywhere else is voluntary, and I don’t recommend the rear. Even inside cabs, there’ll be flying glass and debris if the windows go, and they probably will. Make it clear that anyone crazy enough to do it, better bring the right equipment.”

Still writing, Kenn wanted to volunteer just for the credit, but he also knew Adrian would need him to help with the herd. Waving Eagles over, Kenn barely hid a grin of excitement. He thrived on shit like this, couldn’t wait for it to begin.

2

The dust storm bore down on them like an angry swarm, first invading with fierce winds that ripped tent pegs from the ground, then hitting them with a thick wave of sand and grit that blanketed everything. The sky darkened, turning almost black as it came over the last ridge. It smothered the land like night falling and they watched in amazement as great chunks of buildings were torn away from their foundations and sent flying.

It raced toward Safe Haven like a missile looking for a target, and Adrian felt his stomach churn even as his heart thumped. He hated it that his people weren’t safe, but loved the fury of Nature. There was nothing else like it.

“Here it comes.”

Adrian and the three levels of Eagles were in the much smaller Mess, thick telephone poles a great anchor. The tarps kept out a lot of the grit, but all the men wore the gear they’d been given, ready to assist wherever Adrian told them to.

“Brace for impact!”

They moved to the center as the winds picked up, tarps slapping violently, and then the air came alive with tiny, stinging bits of sand that filled every inch of the rolled-in camp.