Chương 11: Interlude 1: Hunters

The white and blue truck burst through the bank of fog, its brakes screeched as it was forced into a turn so narrow two of its wheels lifted off the road. It then narrowly missed a telephone pole that suddenly appeared out of the mists, plowed through two parked cars, then rode the sidewalk at full speed, sweeping everything from trashcans to restaurant tables in its path.

Compounding on the already insane maneuvers, its driver forced it through a second U-turn then another hard left, aiming for the narrow alley between the restaurant and the nearby apartment block while flooring it for all the engine was worth. Sparks flew and the truck's mirrors were shorn off as it didn't quite fit, but instead of slowing down it sped up. It practically flew off the other end of the alley, all four of its wheels leaving the ground this time before crashing down once more.

"Faster! Faster!" the guy in the black and yellow uniform hanging halfway out of the broken rear window shouted in panic.

"They're catching up!" As the truck roared past a flickering street light twisted and bent so low it almost scraped against the truck's roof, "they" were revealed to be a trio of dog-sized but only partially dog-shaped figures gliding out of the gloom on bat-like wings.

They combined the hideously wrinkly face of an emaciated, hairless Pug, the stumpy but muscular body of a bulldog, the taloned legs of a Komodo dragon, a squid-like tentacle with a barbed spike at the end instead of a tail, and their aforementioned wings appeared too small to provide adequate lift but somehow managed to do so anyway. Their skin was the purple-blue of a nasty bruise, complimenting their ugliness along with multi-faceted eyes like a giant insect's that glowed a sinister yellow.

Of course, it wasn't their appearance alone that had sent the truck running. The lowest-flying of the three swerved to the right then started making throwing motions with an empty clawed forelimb. That resulted into balls of red flame the size of a man's fist sent flying out of its paw with every swing, crossing the intervening distance in the blink of an eye and exploding upon impact with the roar and glare of decent-sized fireworks that echoed eerily in the thick, humid air.

Worse still, the miniature flying monster was aiming at the truck's rear wheel, only missing due to the speed and unpredictability of the driver's continued attempts at escape.

"Fuck this shit!" another voice called out from inside the vehicle before its side window exploded and a guy in military fatigues leaned out with a carbine in his arms. Staccato bursts of bullets drilled through asphalt, sidewalk and the sides of parked cars proving that Hollywood style shooting out of a moving vehicle at a flying, rapidly maneuvering target was grossly more inaccurate than usually portrayed.

Finally a burst took the flying fire-bomber in the chest, sending screeching away into the darkness, wounded but still alive. Two dull thumps announced the remaining two fliers' landing on the truck's roof and the subsequent series of firecracker-like explosions left little doubt to what it was they were doing.

"Stop the truck! Stop the truck!" the same panicked voice demanded too late before both left tires finally burst, sending the vehicle out of control. The attackers flew off as it rolled and bounced down a street fortunately empty of all traffic until it came to a stop a hundred and fifty feet later, pretty banged up but whole.

"... you guys... still... alive?" one of the passengers croaked in a pained tone.

"Josh? Miles? Doc?"

"Still hanging but my leg's shot, Sarge!" the guy that had first noticed the trio of flying monsters called out.

"Think my ankle's broken."

"Miles here..." the driver said before coughing wetly.

"... belt damn near crushed my ribs and the airbag bust my nose. Otherwise fine."...

"Doc?" the aforementioned Sarge called out again when no third reply was forthcoming after a few seconds.

"Josh, check on him."

"Doc's bought it, Sarge," the guy with the broken ankle replied.

"Sample fridge landed on his face and it's paste." A dull bang came from inside the crashed vehicle followed by breaking glass, a heavy load made of metal dropping on something fragile.

"His face, not the fridge. Though that's toast, too."

"Damn it!" More banging of metal on metal, sounds of shifting debris and more broken glass.

"Rear door is stuck, side door is face down on the street. Only way out is the window. Josh, you up for it?"

"A minute to catch my breath and I could run all the way back to Atlanta like bats out of Hell were after my ass, Sarge!" Josh of the broken ankle joked.

"Miles?" Sarge called out to the other survivor, not even commenting on the bad humor. Hours like these, a man had a right to joke or complain. Far better than staying silent until he broke.

"Anything from the rest of the convoy?"

"Nothing since that green artillery strike hit us on the bridge," the driver replied with another pained groan.

"Radio's dead, GPS is dead, sat uplink was blown up in the blast - not that it was working - and my cell's fine but there's still no signal. With this fog going up out of the blue thermal scanner can see about as far as I can throw it."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." There was silence for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds before the apparent sergeant made his decision.

"OK boys, we're getting out of this tin can and pulling back. Brass back in HQ still thinks this is some weird hurricane thing and someone needs to tell them otherwise." More crunching, more heavy objects being moved around.

"Take only water, a first aid kit, three MREs and as much ammo as you can carry. Josh, let's see to that ankle of yours."

"What about Doc?" Miles the driver asked.

"He's dead. Leave him," came the immediate reply.

"We can't tell HQ shit if we're dead." xxxx xxxx Three slightly banged up men got out of the crashed, upturned truck and into the mist-covered street. All three of them were armed with ubiquitous M4 carbines, but not all of them looked like soldiers. The one crawling through the remains of the shattered windshield wore a uniform of blue and white, matching both the truck's colors and the four letter 'FEMA' acronym.

The one kneeling on top of the upturned truck's side and helping an awkwardly standing third put a splint around his ankle was the only one in military gear, with the third still in the black and yellow uniform. The trio with no less than six colors between them fell into an unpracticed loose arrowhead formation, trying to watch every approach at once and searching the still thickening mist for threats.

"Can't see past my nose in this shit," the stumbling guy in red and yellow complained as the three of them walked down the abandoned but not empty street. Many shapes loomed through the mist, an upturned car here, a crashed school bus there, a still-smoking news stand with most of its wares either strewn on the sidewalk it had been ripped from or reduced to charcoal and ash. What had torn it off its place and deposited it in the middle of the road was nowhere to be found.

"I believe that's the idea," the sergeant commented as he shone a yellow flashlight on a red-brown trail of what was obviously blood.

"Sarge?" Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"Think about it. Big-ass storm appears mid-state out of nowhere. Comms in and out are cut off, even land lines. Brass sends our asses to investigate, help with the emergency." His gun and flashlight swept left and right, uncovering torn, bloody clothing but nothing of its wearers.

"The moment we get within thirty miles of the blacked out city, mist comes out of the blue. Ten minutes later the convoy gets hit with arty that's fucking green and those things show up."

"That sounded... organized," Miles carefully stated, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as he scanned apartment buildings and store fronts at the edge of what visibility the fog allowed.

"Everything here looks abandoned. Where is every-... there!" The trio stopped and aimed at several figures that could only be half-glimpsed despite being less than fifty feet away. There weren't a very large group, only ten or eleven forms slowly walking closer through the gloom, the only sound cutting through the silence being their footsteps.

"Halt! Who goes there!" the sergeant called out, carbine at the ready but not aiming at the half-glimpsed figures yet. There was no response, the slow-moving group getting closer without uttering a word in response despite being called out.

"I am Sergeant Sorensen of the Atlanta National Guard!" the now named Sarge called out again.

"Stop where you are and identify yourselves!" The group didn't; they kept sedately walking closer and as the layers of mist between them and the trio thinned their torn, bloody clothing, shaky, dejectedly moving limbs and aimless stares were revealed.

"Shit, they're injured civvies!" Josh cried and almost dropped his M4 in his haste to reach them before Sergeant Sorensen blocked his path and physically grabbed him by the belt to stop him.

"Stand your fucking ground and cover them till I tell you otherwise!" the older man ordered harshly then shed some light on the closest figure's face, a smaller one barely thirty feet away. She was a slack-jawed teenager, thirteen or fourteen years old, in a crop top and miniskirt. She was also very obviously dead, her head titled at an angle, eyes staring at nothing, throat torn open and bloody.

"What the fuck?! WHAT THE FUCK!?" Both Josh and Miles recoiled, carbines coming up on shaky hands.

"What in God's name...?" That last came out in a muttered, utterly shocked whisper before... Crack! Crack! Crack! Three singular shots rang out, the sergeant shooting the dead girl center of mass twice, staggering her but doing little else. The third shot caught the walking corpse between the eyes, dropping it to its knees... but not killing it. It stayed there for only a couple of seconds before struggling to rise.

"We're so screwed..." Josh muttered before the three of them raised their guns and slowly shot the zombies in the head until they all dropped. Then Sorensen gestured to the other three to retreat, and they fell back towards the abandoned news stand.

"Shit... fuck..." Miles cursed, leaning heavily on the half-burned kiosk.

"Fucking zombies, man. We're dead. We're dead and this is Hell."

"We're not dead," Sergeant Sorensen denied, taking out his M4's magazine, checking how many rounds were left and loading a new, full magazine.

"But this was a mistake. They were slow. We should have just outrun them."

"They were fucking zombies, Sarge" Miles complained, apparently convinced it bore repetition.

"Like we're in a fucking Hollywood movie. You'd have left them at our backs?"

"Destiny, Florida, is a city of two hundred and fifty thousand people - or was," Sorensen countered with an exhausted sigh.

"If these were former civilians, how many more of them are there and how many rounds do we still have?" Unlike the two younger men, the Sergeant appeared to be neither terrified nor angry, remaining perfectly, perhaps unreasonably calm in what had to be the most unbelievably messed up situation imaginable... except for his hands.

Those were clenched so tight on his gun it was a miracle he could actually move it around and shoot, something both younger men completely missed and thus took heart their leader seemed to have a handle on things however impossible that had to be - exactly as the Sergeant had intended.

"Now Josh, you got the maps, right? Find me where we are and the closest path to some damn cover. I'm feeling like a fish in a barrel here in the open."

"Got it, Sarge, path to solid cover coming up!" Josh got a tourist brochure out of his backpack and started leafing through it. They were very lucky to even have it given the state of their GPS and other gear and didn't regret going through the dead Doc's things for it.

"The old Desert Inn from before the city was built is maybe a quarter mile from here. If we can-" The sound of wings flapping from above sent Sergeant Sorensen into a leap that slammed Josh off his feet and carried both men several feet away from a trio of explosive orbs that shattered the ominous gloom and set the news stand on fire once again. More fiery glares struck at Miles' heels as he was forced to roll under the half-burned ruin or get instantly barbecued.

Then an M4 threw its defiant retort back into the night sky, followed by two more only seconds later. It was feeble counter-fire, and both sides knew it. The three aerial menaces that had pursued the FEMA truck had brought friends; lots and lots of them.

In the chaotic barrage that followed all three men were forced to take cover under the quickly diminishing news stand, unable to more than take potshots or spray and pray against their more numerous, highly mobile enemies attacking from a position of tactical superiority. BOOM! A yellow thunderbolt pierced the mists, rattling nearby window panes and completely bisecting one of the fliers, sending the remaining eight into a frenzy.

Red explosive orbs were thrown around like party favors, unearthly screeches and barks made pandemonium out of the previously quiet street and generally the flying monsters wreaked havoc like little winged dogs of war. BOOM! A second yellow thunderbolt clipped one of the fliers, completely frying both its wings mid-dive and sending it head-first to the ground, where it burst apart on impact, its remains deflating into skin and goo. Whines of obvious dismay were exchanged by the rest and they scattered.

A man's figure strolled out of the mists, singing merrily as he wielded either a very large shotgun or a very small cannon one handed. He wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a honest-to-God leather trench coat that refused to close over a beer gut that must have been lovingly grown over several decades. His unkempt grey hair and even more unkempt beard framed yellow-gleaming eyes and a late middle-aged face that could conservatively be called "rough", but was actually cheerfully ugly.

Half a dozen exploding orbs flew his way but he kept on walking in the open with complete lack of concern. Apparently, he had a very good reason to do so because the orbs splashed against a yellow dome seemingly projected by the old, oil-operated, brass hunting lantern in his off hand. Explosions that had melted through truck tires, ravaged a news stand and might have killed a man outright were not just blocked cold but didn't even make the transparent dome budge any more than they'd burned through tank armor.

BOOM!

"Ho there, lads!" the stranger called out as he drilled through two wildly dodging flying monsters with the same blast of his gun.

"Great night to be hunting varmints, ain't it?" Apparently the "varmints" thought so as well because they scattered and fled through the mists.

"I am Sergeant Sorensen of the Atlanta National Guard!" the Sarge said from under the smoldering wreck.

"Stop where you are and identify yourself!"

"Me? I go by Dallas, son." The sixty-something man chuckled.

"Came over when this here town got built all the way from Oregon and haven't regretted it since." He looked down under the charred ruin, blinked then stretched back to his full height.

"Well I'll be damned! You boys FEMA? Hell of a time you picked to come to Destiny."

"I'll say," Josh muttered but Sergeant Sorensen silenced him with a kick without taking his eyes or carbine from the very strange stranger.

"You're a local?" he asked to confirm, though none of them could exactly trust the very weird stranger with the obviously supernatural firearm. The thing shot yellow thunderbolts, for Pete's sake.

"What's the situation?"

"Situation is that it's fucked," the old guy proclaimed merrily then took a single step back. A figure the color of spilled blood dashed out of the mists arms outstretched, its tackle attempt missing by inches. Then the huge shotgun barked once, shoving a thunderbolt up the figure's... back. That caused it to explode in a rain of gore, splattering burning bits every which way.

"Strangely enough, it is also awesome!" the stranger added, still with a broad grin as if nothing particularly noteworthy had just happened.

"Come with ol' man Dallas, boys," he beckoned the trio of flabbergasted militia with a wave of his gun.

"He'll tell ya all 'bout it."