Rise of the Huskers (The Raven Falconer Chronicles) (3 page)

Falling ill and unable to cope, the married couple eventually succumbed, emerging from the neural onslaught
, less human, but more bodily and carnal.  Their ability to reason was nearly destroyed but a new, profound sense of smell transcended all others.  Over the past week, the hours not spent sleeping or devouring the food stores were devoted to an insatiable attempt at sexual gratification.  Like salmon swimming upstream, an innate program buried deep within their altered brains, drove them to a breeding frenzy with no ultimate pleasure or satisfaction.

Today the muffled sound of the rifle shot had alerted the fornicating lovers but it was the pungent smell of the eviscerated calf that drove them from the building and into the cold.  The blood’s acrid, metallic smell wafted through the air, triggering an aggressive, combative impulse to attack, destroy and consume.  Jim acted first, followed quickly by Janice, who shuffled, then sprinted behind her husband to overtake the men and their kill.

“Damn it!  I knew this would happen.  Forget the elk.  Get in the car.  Get in the car!” Ziggy roared, dropping the calf over the winch assembly mounted on the front bumper.  In the same motion he swung the C8A1 carbine off his back and into his waiting hands.  The male Hershey was only steps away, not allowing the officer to make the front seat, when the crack of a rifle stopped the Husker’s charge and dropped him, sliding to a stop in the pile of steaming innards deposited on the historic building’s front lawn.  Janice slowed briefly to take in the loss of her husband but lunged forward, hands outstretched and screeching inaudible gibberish at the top of her lungs.  Officer Nowicki lowered the rifle’s muzzle and fired two quick shots into the ground at the government worker’s feet.  They had no effect.  Undeterred she lurched forward, as if possessed by some unseen force.  The woman’s bare legs were red from the cold, and distant, angry eyes wept emotionless, reflexive tears.  At ten feet Ziggy leveled the carbine at Janice’s heart and pulled the trigger, sending a spinning round through her chest.  The shell’s fragments expanded and exited grotesquely between her shoulder blades.  The slug’s velocity lifted her narrow frame, before gravity jerked the woman back to earth.  Death, though vile, was instantaneous, as the copper jacketed bullet shattered her once caring heart, reuniting the lovers for the final time.

Zygmunt stomped away from the cruiser, slinging the rifle over his back while cussing God and himself.  He didn’t stop until he reached the freezing, swift current of the river where he knelt on the bank and scooped a chillingl
y cold splash of water, throwing it against his face.  He repeated the act again and again until his fingers were numb and he could no longer feel the tears running down his cheeks.  It was too much, too much, indeed.  He’d seen it before in different forms and in different lands but it was somehow the same.  Normal people, living and loving one day, then radically altered by ideology, disease or loss to act outside themselves, forcing others to become their executioners. 
Where does it stop?  How will it stop?
he thought, unable to tear himself away from the water’s edge.

“Ziggy!  Hey man, you okay?”
Willie asked, sliding up alongside the officer but being careful not to raise his ire.

“What . . . oh, yeah.  I’ll be okay.  Just give me a minute.  These were our nei
ghbors, our friends and now . . . ” The Mountie stepped away from the current and put his hand on Daniels’ shoulder.  “Thanks back there.”

“No problem, no way I was getting in that car without you.  They were faster than I expected.”

“Something’s changing – they’re more aggressive.  Don’t know if it’s the food supply or the virus but they’re ballsy, that’s for sure.”

“You
ain’t telling me nothin’ I don’t already know.  They scare the crap out of me.”

“Come on, let’s get you and that
frickin’ elk back to your place.  I’ve got some ladies I’d like to check on.  They’re up near Norquay and I’d like to see them before we lose the sun.”

Thomas Yellowbird scowled across the casino’s muddy parking lot.  He stood, sheltered from a cold, swirling wind at the front of the structure, a traditional native blanket draped over his shoulders and a tribal elder on his right and left.  The deeply etched lines, which crisscrossed his face, appeared more prominent as his eyebrows knit together in a profound display of disappointment and concern.  Without turning to speak directly to either of the much larger men, he questioned, “Where have they gone this afternoon?  Who will they kill today . . . and how . . . ” He hesitated, unable to speak what he was thinking.

The trio, normally united in tradition and duty, were the only surviving members of the tribe’s council, and as of late, they had been pushed aside, their views supplanted by a rebellious drive for survival and power.   Alec placed a weatherworn, leathered hand on Yellowbird’s shoulder and squeezed firmly.  “They were looking for survivors to the southwest.  Yesterday they found eight out near the butte, two were kids.”

Thomas interrupted him by reaching and placing a wrinkled but steady hand over his friends.  “But Al, how many did they kill?  How many of our brothers and sisters did they send to the great beyond?”  His voice quivered, but a moment later he spoke with a renewed strength and resolve.  “This ends today!  The killing and the slaughter end now!”

The third member of the resolute group slid his hand to his side and found comfort in the hard-plastic pistol grip he found there.  Darwin Gladue had loaded the 17-round magazine that very morning, knowing he’d be the only one of the elders with the balls to support his foresight with firepower.  Thomas and Alec, though long-time friends and confidants, had no vision, and no picture of what could be.  He spoke with his hand resting comfortably wrapped around the pistols butt.  “Chief, you know I have the utmost respect for you, but . . . ”

A sharp, unmistakable glare halted Darwin from saying what Yellowbird knew was coming.  “Then with that respect, stand with me and put an end to the madness.”

In that moment the eldest of the Gladue tribesmen gave himself to destiny and the act he had seen in a vision.  Days before, while pondering, he’d been taken away to a high plateau, as if carried on eagle’s wings and left to consider his people’s plight and his role.  Quickened by some unseen spirit or power, he stood outside himself, an observer in a divine play.  People, some friends, but most unknowns
, were brought to stand before him.  Power had surged through his being as he witnessed the remarkable scene.  Dark faces, void of emotion or recognition, he ushered away, never to be seen again; their existence inconsequential and unmoving.  Others pushed forward to fall at his feet, embracing and approving of his actions.

For a time he’d watched the string of kinfolk receive their fate at his behest but then a change: the sun’s tanning rays no longer painted their faces.  Angry, heavily
armed warriors marched the newcomers away, their sobs echoing off canyon walls, but with no one to hear or heed their cry.  When the throng had ceased and the crowds melted away, Darwin was left alone, a spectator, watching and learning.  It was then he noted the trail of red that ran from the mound where his apparition stood.  Blood dripped from its hands, thick and bright, speaking the nature of his calling and the manifest, which he must now fulfill.  The day of the white-man had come and was gone, swallowed up by the wrath of an angry deity.  In his mind’s eye he’d seen it and interpreted it clearly: the rise of God’s Ancient Warriors was at hand and he had been anointed chief.

Darwin accepted the reproof with patient grace and nodded a
n acknowledgement, which Chief Yellowbird accepted.  “That is well.  We stand together and the young men will respect our decision.  If they sense any lack of unity among us they will see weakness.  Do I make myself clear?”  Both elders concurred, no longer speaking, lost in the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Thirty
minutes passed before they heard the distant rumble of diesel and gas-fed engines spinning tires in a race for the casino, and safety before nightfall.  A decision had been made, many days before, to house the healthy in the spacious building.  The consensus was precipitated by a lack of help from government agencies and the dreadful state of the living and the ‘near-dead’.  Beds were plentiful and the business was a self-contained community unto itself.  There was a well-stocked kitchen, nursing station, generators and plenty of fuel.  They could ride the pandemic out for weeks, if not months, depending upon the number of the living.  GAW (God’s Ancient Warriors) were seeing to the rescue of tribal members but some had taken it upon themselves to act as executioners for the infected and mindless.  There had even been rumor of assaults and murders involving fleeing Albertans and local police.

The biting wind suddenly seemed more intense as Thomas stiffened his back and folded his arms across his chest, allowing the tightly woven blanket to flutter at his heels.  He watched the first of three vehicles pass beneath the casino’s signage
, fishtailing in the half-frozen snow and mud, before the driver restored control and brought the black Suburban to a stop near the entrance.  Two more four-wheel-drive trucks roared to a halt, following the tracks made by the first.  In a few hours the ruts would be frozen and more easily traversed.

A young, slender warrior stepped from the passenger side of the Suburban and shot a questioning glance at the three leaders.  Trevor Arca
nd had been anticipating a showdown and it looked like today would be fulfillment of that prophecy.  He slammed the heavy door shut with a bit more bravado than needed and looked to see if his message had been received.  It had, but not as he expected.  The chief stepped forward, taking the time to fold his wrap and handed it to Alec.  A weary card player in the game of life, Thomas did not show his cards until he had to, but the stern, direct gaze was unequivocal and fixed.

“You have questions?” the skinny native shouted, as he opened the rear door and ushered a handful of dark-haired survivors from the back seats.  Out of nowhere, a group of women rushed from the building’s main entrance to scoop up the men, women and children from the rescue party and escorted them into the casino where a warm meal was waiting.  When the elders failed to respond, Trevor adjusted the long-barreled pistol that hung at his waist and waited for his companions to join him.  They held their gro
und, each anxious and unsure except for the gutsy GAW leader, who wore a black bandana low across his brow and sunglasses so pigmented that his shifting eyes were hidden.

Again he shouted across the short distance, the wind diminishing his volume but his words finding their target.  “Twelve more today – that makes 31 this week.”  The exuberant rescuers raised their weapons and fists, shouting modern-day expletives that did not sit well with any of the Elders.

“Well done, we are grateful for your efforts and hope we,” Darwin said, before the chief picked up his thought in mid-sentence.

“We hope we can rely on you to do the right thing,” Thomas concluded.

“Do the right thing?  Since this outbreak started, we’ve done nothing but bust our asses to ‘do the right thing’,” Trevor shouted from the bottom of the steps.  “We’re out there day after day, risking our lives and possible infection and you question our motivation?”

Alec inte
rvened, hoping to downplay the chief’s implied tone and assert himself as a peacemaker.  “GAW has been a savior for many.  There is no denying your successes, but we,” he said, swinging his right hand to suggest a unity of leadership among the Elders, “see a different way forward and we’d like to see a change.”

“A change?” one fellow yelled from the pack, followed by jeers from the others.

“What kind of change?” Arcand asked, slipping his glasses up over his forehead and bringing them to rest on the top of his head.  His eyes were now visible, intensely dark and uniformly positioned between jet-black brows and highly arched cheekbones.  His nose, though very slender, pitched slightly to the left, the result of a pool cue adroitly cracked across his face by a jealous boyfriend in a Calgary bar.

The question hung in the air for a second or two, twisted by the wind but not smothered completely.  Chief Yellowbird strode forward, bringing him to the edge of the first step leading down to the band of young men.  His countenance reached across the empty space and gripped a few of the warriors, who cowered and slunk away from the others.  The act did not go unnoticed by Trevor or his stalwarts.  Thomas extended his hands in a show of strength and peace, palms up as he said, “We, your Elders, want the killing of the stricken to cease.”  As the words crossed his lips, he turned his hands over, driving home the finality of the discussion and decision.

A calculated, piercing stare, energized with the vigor of youth, challenged the old man, whose greying eyes had seen too much to turn back now.  Nothing was said.  Relentless tensions seemed to peak then subside as Trevor finally looked away and turned his back on the chief.  Relieved but somewhat confused, Darwin extended his large hand and touched Thomas’ shoulder.  “It is enough,” he said, motioning for the elderly chief to follow him back inside.

Alec, Thomas and Darwin had advanced a meter with their backs to the young warriors when a mocking call was hollered out, “Bullshit, old man!”  A wry smile crossed Darwin’s lips, which drew a puzzled look from Alec.

“No way!  We are not going to stop putting our brothers and sisters out of their misery.  We are not going to stop providing a safer world for our children, but I’ll tell you what we are going to stop.  We’re going to stop listening to you and your notions of the past.  We’re going to stop doing what the white establishment wants us to do, and we are going to take back what is rightfully ours,” Trevor yelled, the veins sticking out on his gaunt neck like thick, banded cords as his cheeks flushed with the increased blood flow.

Chief Yellowbird spun to take on his adversary with a speed heightened by a rush of adrenalin and spite.  He shook, anger getting the better of him, beginning at his outstretched fist and reverberating through his aging frame.  “You will do as we instruct or you will leave the tribe!”

“And who will make use leave?” the gangly young leader asked, casting a knowing look at Darwin while placing a hand on his weapon.

“We, the leaders, and the people of
Stoney will enforce our law and remove you,” Thomas stammered back in rebuttal, unaccustomed to being challenged so openly.

It was then that the vision suddenly made complete sense to Darwin: the faces, the life and death decisions and the blood.  For it was at that moment that Thomas reached within the hidden folds of his garment, removed an old, 1800’s styled revolver and pointed it at the small cluster of warriors.

Trevor’s hands flashed up, as if under arrest and his companions did the same.  “Whoa, whoa there Chief.  Aren’t you getting a little carried away?  Does that thing even still shoot?”

“Test me and you’ll find out.”

Arcand dropped his hands and took an experimental step forward, lifting his frame a full six inches above the rest.  “You going to kill me, old man?”

The c
hief extended his shaking thumb to draw back the hammer, which stopped the advancing youth in his steps.  “The decision of your life rests solely in your hands, Trevor.  You can pledge to me, under penalty of death, that you will abide by our decision and stop the senseless killing or you can leave, but challenge me one more whit and you die where you stand.”

A sudden rustle of motion and the faintest of sounds surprised both Chief and antagonist, as Darwin slipped the 9mm handgun from under his coat and fired a single slug into Thomas Yellowbird’s right temple, blowing cleanly through his skull and exiting with a
grotesque mix of blood and grey matter.  Alec had just enough time to pivot and send a quizzical look at his friend before a second slug released from the Smith and Wesson drilled a tidy little hole between his eyes, exploding his brain and killing him instantly.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to do that,” Trevor spat out, advancing to join the shooter on the landing.

Darwin knelt over his fallen friends and rolled them each onto their backs, placing their arms neatly over their chests.  Tears fell from his eyes, wetting his cheeks and nose before weight and volume pulled the moisture away and onto the dead.  The stunned warriors stood motionless, unsure of what had just happened and why.  It was obvious they were out of the loop but how could the tide be changed so quickly and so brutally?

“What’s with the tears?” Trevor asked coldly.  “The old coot’s time was up . . . ”

Gladue inhaled deeply and twisted his fist into the fabric of his dead friend’s shirt.  He slowly rose to his full six-foot-three stature and clutched the much smaller man by the neck, lifting him onto his toes.  “He was our chief and my friend!  He is dead because the Great Spirit willed it so, and for no other reason.  I love him now in death, as much, if not more than I did in life, and you will respect him . . . or you will join him.  Do I make myself clear?”  Without waiting for an answer he looked down the steps at the bewildered warriors, while continuing to hold their leader firm.  “I have been anointed chieftain over you in a vision and I have seen our future.  You will follow me out of respect for both the living and the dead.  These great men have died today to fulfill a higher purpose for you and for me.”  Darwin finally relaxed the chokehold he’d inflicted on the GAW leader, who sputtered and tried to regain his composure.