The Dead World Ch. 12

Nightfall was well upon them.

They had driven far down highway 520, pulled from the safety of the city by a signal rising not far off, billowing heavily up into the early evening sky. It burned black for the longest time in thick, heavy plumes high into the air as dusk began to settle over the coastline... a dark omen to the denizens of the city not far from it.

It especially frightened the impoverished and desolate who crowded into the filthy streets of the outer-ring between shacks and makeshift camps. Like a hive of angry bees they swarmed, stalling in their productivity, entranced by the steam of black rising into the dusky sky. This in turn sent the overseers into full hostility as they blared harsh dictation over the loudspeakers for the crowds to disperse and the denizens to return to work. They would get no additional warning before the overseers utilized dogs, heavy riot shields and tear gas to push them back to their productive places.

The Hunters were frenzied, as well. The militiamen hurried to fortify the defenses around the wall as every able bodied soldier geared for a potential siege. Threat level orange, their radios would announce, heavy with anticipation. They needed to be ready for anything.

The outer-ring denizens who toiled the lands around the city claimed they had heard something like an explosion or a bomb going off, far out in the forest, strong enough that they had felt a tremor in the earth. They were absolutely convinced they were under attack. They flooded the long bridge between the land fitted for farming and livestock toward the city cradled by the sea in utter panic, forcing the officers to shutter the gate, trapping the lowly workers outside of the safety of the Hunters' protection.

The denizens would swear the time had finally come when they would be set upon by marauders... but the men of the militia knew better.

You would have to be well out of your fucking mind to attempt a siege on the city by the sea, and would need a sizable army to even think of trying to cross the Sidney Lanier Bridge into the Three Rings of Hell. A simple band of raiders would die on that bridge long before they made it through to the city without impressive numbers, and some serious artillery.

It was assumed by the higher ups that the signal burning into the sky either burned uncontrolled and accidentally, or that their missing party was sending a desperate call for aid. Bravo Team had gone silent almost four hours back after reporting themselves less than ten miles out and headed toward the coast, following up on a lead around an overrun, podunk town of little significance between here and Jekyll Island.

The details they offered were vague. Scout relayed the message via radio with delighted anticipation of possibly rounding up the first survivors through the area in nearly six months and salvaging much needed supplies. He was eager to prove himself. It was his first trip out as a Hunter, after all, he was desperate to contribute to the cause.

Alpha was visibly tense.

This wasn't a man who typically wore his heart on his sleeve, so it was honestly a little unsettling to the volunteer party he commissioned at the last minute to go out past curfew to bring them back. He had the authority and the pull with the Council to borrow a vehicle for the extraction--a very, very expensive flex, betraying his position as one of elite members of the Core party. It was also betraying his emotional connection to the situation. Nobody risked their lives or the lives of their men in the dark for shit that wasn't important to them. He wasn't really hopeful for the best of outcomes, when they set out into the early winter night.

As the old black Jeep sped down the barren, overgrown road, the men with him were silent, and still. They were Hunters all, and dressed as such in protective all-black attire with heavy munitions and lightweight armor that did wonders if you happened to get pinned down by the biters while you were out in the wilds. Their faces were concealed by masks that allowed for only their eyes to be seen. They would move like shadows in the night.

It had been nearly a year since anyone had been sent out to extract anyone.

The territory was claimed, it was known by the neighboring communities as far north as Virginia, and as far west as Arkansas. The settlements under their protection--the Farm at Sterling and the hold at Jesup to the north, and the commune at Kingsland to the south reported nearly nothing regarding any nomadic communities nor stray survivors... only the massive slow roaming herds which were significantly less intimidating than in earlier years, but still very viable threats to men on foot. They did not have fuel to waste on anything but tribute runs, these days. Fuel had become the most valuable asset in these waning days, since the fuel yard incident a few years back.

The glory of Three Rings was that there was little need to leave anymore. The tribute shipments came in every Monday, like clockwork. The communities in their territory did not rebel, and kept good on their part of providing livestock and goods in exchange for supplies that only a functioning city could provide and, of course, protection from raiders... as long as they were left in peace, things ran smoothly.

The situation was so much better under her command than they had ever been with Craven leading the Hunters...

The fact that she preferred not to cannibalize captive survivors but rather put them to work did wonders for her approval ratings, and the city's productivity as a whole. She did her best with the chaotic design the men who held the city before her had set into place here... and they had grown from paltry numbers, barely fifty, to nearly three hundred denizens.

The roads were rougher the closer they came to Hickory Bluff, cluttered with abandoned cars of those who had attempted to flee the area and became jammed behind accidents and the outbreak, so many years ago.Several times now they passed by gatherings of clothing and bones picked bare long ago, mass graves for those unfortunate enough to be caught in the madness of day one. They weaved through the chaotic remnants of the early days of the end of the world, as best as they could, until they could go no farther.

Coming from the north, they had to inevitably halt at the crowded overgrown military blockade, and avoided the clusters of the dead pushed away from the small town by the scent of smoke. Scent was all that the reanimates had to go by, and so in the face of heavy clouds of burning, they scattered like roaches beneath the light. The blockade however would allow them to drive no farther.

They weren't more than a mile perhaps from the still smoldering structure shooting heavy clouds of now white smoke up into the air, by the time of their arrival. Daylight had faded into nothing, now. Alpha didn't speak. He used hand signals the men were trained to identify to dispatch them in two teams to sweep and clear the area... and off they went.

Calculated gunfire, exceptional aim--the Hunters were swift and efficient. The three men razed over the old coastguard safe zone in soundless formation, with handguns suited with silencers. The semi-automatic rifles were reserved for hordes of more lively walking corpses, or human threats, but they had not seen such horrors for many years... there weren't enough survivors anymore to have to worry about freshly fallen reanimates.

It took maybe thirty minutes for the entire safezone to be deemed secure. It seemed someone had done a lot of the work for them much earlier on.

Alpha posted up patiently front and center of the damaged wrought iron fence, observing the crumbled structure that looked very much as if it had been demolished by heavy artillery, with a sullen brood. It wasn't an accident. Someone had done this with purpose. He only hoped it was his own, and not uninvited guests.

There were ample weapons scattered about the safezone... he figured the panic of things when infection spread rapidly through the zone in close quarters forced an emergency evacuation of the Feds, and from the looks of things, very few of them made it out alive. None had settled in Three Rings for the city to even be aware of this safezone. The entire thing had been marked off as a deadzone... there was no need to travel this way, or toward the coast from here. His concern shifted swiftly from piecing together years old tragedies... he had four missing men to locate. Or identify.

It was looking far more the latter at this point.

"West is cleared. Remains over by the tall building with the clock, there, maybe two bodies. Hard to tell, sir--not much left, big stains of blood and lots of tattered clothing, bone fragments, couple pairs of boots... the rotters ain't leave much. I recognize this rifle, sir. It's registered to El Lobo."

The eager voice of the younger man, designated Cowboy, was ill-fitting for this assignment. It didn't surprise him. This particular soldier, and his kid brother, were both easily considered odd ones... and there were many others like them these days. He had seen the lab, and participated in the study. It wasn't a secret to the Core party that the virus did something to the survivors... perhaps far worse things than it did to the dead.

Cowboy offered out the blood stained weapon for Alpha's examination. The younger man didn't bring his mask down, or remove his black cap as he stood at attention, masking his inappropriate excitement in the moment. It took everything he had to try and sound dull and disheartened over the fact that two of his comrades had very likely been devoured by unholy creatures.

"Southside clear--Killshot cleared East. No signs of our boys, or hostiles." Toro's thick Spanish accent read true in his voice as he joined the men at the fence and reported.

"Sweep for survivors. Cowboy, Killshot, take the street--Toro, come with me. Stay alert. The hostiles could still be close. If you find anyone not oursshoot them in the head."

"Sir, yes'sir."

The brothers saluted and set their sights on the cafe with its windows shattered out aside a tall tower in effortless union, Cowboy leading with Killshot watching his six as they closed the space between the toppled gates to the line of shops and retail that had once been the center of life here in this little town.

It wasn't their way, not typically, to just kill survivors they came across. People--even bad people--were far more useful alive... but these survivors were a very clear and serious threat, and there was no telling what they had salvaged here, or how many of them there were.

Judging by the looks of things, the rotters they had put down and the fact that they had seemed to make very short work of Bravo Team, Alpha felt he was right to assume the worst.

Rumors trickled over the Ham Radio back in the city from Texas, and down from Virginia of parties of roving anarchists that had swept across the nation last year and practically obliterated any peaceful community that fell in their crosshairs. He could only hope they met their match against someone bigger and badder, and weren't now lurking at his doorstep.

Survival depended on numbers and from the looks of it there were about to be down four men... their numbers were struggling in the last year with fewer survivors to bring back to the city. But she would make an exception, he was sure, once he delivered his report. He could only pray that the fears of marauders were just that... fears.

He made his way around the scorched, crumbling structure that had once been city hall, back around to the back of the building while holding the heavy high powered flashlight. Just up ahead he saw yet another massive stain of dried rust-colored red on the concrete, among scattered debris pooled in the cargo bay of the old municipal building.

He turned the beam, seeking any scraps of clothing that might identify the fallen individual, noticing smaller boots, and a firearm of which wasn't at all similar to the semi-automatic military issues that littered the ground here. Just then... he was very much unfortunate to notice what appeared to be a slim arm extended from beneath clustered charred wood, metal, and body parts of armored military persons. The snarling heads of the rotters with their riot helmets still attached were scattered about around the rubble.

Alpha gave a nod toward the remains, and Toro moved forward, his boots crunching over blood stained glass that had blown out during the explosion. With grim resolve he took the wrist of the faceless individual first and pushed back the long sleeve of his dark shirt, checking the rigid limb for the telling tattoo. Surely enough two small black rings, one around the other, rested on the center of his wrist, his flesh icy to the touch.

Toro pulled hard, dragging the body from beneath the debris... what was left of it. His bloodied rib cage was exposed, viciously gnawed by the biters before the explosion, and the entire bottom half of his body missing. As he pulled, his entrails dragged the ground, causing Toro to almost gag and bring an arm up to cover his nose from the smell of it with a grimace.

Once the motionless corpse was pulled free, Toro immediately released the arm of the deceased young man, and shook his head darkly as Alpha's flashlight swept over his exposed skull. His face was no longer recognizable with slight tufts of his wavy brown hair remaining, brutalized by the ravenous reanimates in part, and burned lastly by the blast from the explosion.

"Scout." Toro's grim announcement caused Alpha's gloved fingers to tighten harshly around the flashlight and drop the beam of light from the mangled remains of the teenager.

"...Bring him back to the Jeep." Toro was soundless as he lowered the heavy tactical bag upon his back to the ground and drew from it the cloth meant for an emergency stretcher, taking care to wind it quickly around the remains of the unfortunate eighteen year old.

"Got a bullet hole in the center of his skull, right between the eyes. Hope it means he didn't suffer much..." The Latino man couldn't shake the feeling of dread and disappointment at how things were panning out. It had been a long, long time since they'd lost anyone... to lose a much younger Hunter though was the harshest reality, because there seemed to be less and less youth in this dead world.

"The hell were they even doing this far east? I thought they were scouting out Sterling following up on the low tobacco numbers coming out? There ain't shit between here and the coast but overrun traps, Foxtrot Team put that report in over eight months back--empty, picked over, or overrun... more trouble than it was worth."

"This was Cambridge's party... there's no fucking telling what he was doing. Knowing him, whoever the hostiles were, they might've had something with them he wanted to get his hands on off the books. If he had called it in, they'd still be here. Get the kid back to the Jeep. I'll fetch the Privates. Best to clear out... there's nothing else we can do here."

There was static over his radio, and with grim, dull anger still boiling his blood he brought the device to his lips.

"What have you got?"

"Denver, sir. At your six from the burned out building--the bar--he's got a pulse, barely. He's bad. Real bad."

"Take him back and meet us there, quickly. We'll need the stretcher."

Toro wanted to tell him it would be smarter to leave the partial remains and go for the man they knew was still living, but he knew far better than to argue against anything Alpha said. He knew this boy, too, and he was one of them. They laid their dead to rest when they could.

With wordless resolve he rushed off carrying the partial corpse of the deceased Scout as Alpha took Toro's pack, and quickly cleared the safezone for the bar.

He found the brothers, sans their masks at this point, kneeling before a very battered and bloodied Denver. His wheezing breath was so faint it wasn't any surprise he was unresponsive. Alpha didn't doubt the man would probably die on their way back to the city. With quick resolve he scanned his injuries and dropped down to a knee, lifting one of Denver's eyelids, to no response.

He was thankful that the creeping red and blue streaks clouding the sclera and dilated pupils of tell-tale mutation hadn't begun. The lack of that sure sign of mutated infection from an injury from one of the reanimated didn't stop him from questioning. He looked to Cowboy.

"Bitten?"

"Can't tell, sir. Looks like he was stuck with something--punctured lung maybe, from the sound of it... and... then... there's the leg." Cowboy nodded down to the nearly severed limb. A bottle of liquor rested beside the man, Denver's ginger attempt to try and clean and tend the wound before he lost consciousness. His leg was practically removed just below the knee and hanging on by thin bits of sinew, the bone cleanly fractured by a sharp and violent weapon... an ax, perhaps?

" 'scuse my french, but who the fuck are we dealin' with, sir? Raiders?"

"Some real violent sons'o'bitches, right?" The almost excited chatter between the two younger men was silenced with a pointed look from Alpha.

They straightened up and let their hands meet behind their backs, but only for a moment before the sound of glass crunching caused both of the younger, tawny haired men to snap to attention. They had their hands on their rifles immediately, training their barrels toward the door as Toro appeared there, breathless and eager to move.

"Jesus Christ--dios nos proteja...", he drew the sign of the cross.

"The stretcher, quickly."

"...what ya recon our course of action if he dies on the way, sir?" Killshot piped up almost hopefully, and Alpha passed a dark eye to him as the younger man moved to help assemble the stretcher.

"We handle it, then. We aren't leaving him here... if he makes it the night, maybe he can tell us about it. Move out."

Alpha took the driver's seat for the return trip, removing his protective gear, revealing a worn and sun kissed face of a man in his early forties. His dark hair was worn in long, thick locs of dark chestnut hue that draped well down his back, held back by a thick black band, his beard and mustache neatly groomed. His face bore scars, but far more than that, his dark eyes told of far more horrors than his skin.

He looked very much the son of ancestors who boasted Nordic origins, with a strong bone structure, an impressive height and steely gray eyes. His expression was a permanent placement of a hardened survivor, his thick eyebrows knit together, thin lips in a brooding scowl more often than not.

He pressed the pedal to the floor as they raced to get their man back to the safety of their city... and after what felt to be the longest twenty five minutes, they finally made the long bridge. The security detail were notified by radio well before they arrived, officers gathered and activated the floodlights at the twenty foot wall between the bridge and the security gates that seemed to turn night to day.

The routine to check for infection was one thing they couldn't avoid, not even pressed for time. The temperature guns came out. Cowboy came up hot. Alpha grumbled that they didn't have time while they fetched the blood scanner, pressing the gun against his bicep to stick him, observing the screen for its results.

The screen remained dormant, rather than blaring red to report the presence of mutated infection, and as the men waved them through he mashed the pedal harshly and the tires squealed as the Jeep tore through the now empty streets of the outer-ring, clearing the second wall with far more ease than the city's only entry point.

A medical team waited for them at SGHS, rushing the gravely injured man into the hospital on a proper stretcher, and as the men exited the Jeep the younger soldiers stretched and yawned and chuckled between themselves as they gathered their effects.