North of the TransCanada Highway, near the Canmore interchange, a lone, shadowy figure peered over the balcony of a fourth-story condo. The native man had claimed the lofty, tower suite as his own earlier in the week. His straight, sable-black hair lightly shifted in the breeze at his neck, tickling his sun-baked skin. He swept his hair back and rubbed at his face where dense, greyish-black stubble framed his defined cheeks and chocolate-colored eyes. In his arms he cradled a dated, but well maintained, Czechoslovakian-made 8mm Mauser, a memento his grandfather had smuggled into Canada after the Second World War. The old firearm had proven invaluable over the past couple of decades, but no more than it had since the devastating virus had crippled the country and taken his family. Over a month, Russell Carbonneau had witnessed and experienced more pain, suffering, and sorrow than most men do in a lifetime.
The relentless virus had swept through their tiny cluster of homes on the Stoney Reserve like the ‘Angel of Death’, killing the elderly, including his mother and grandmother. They were his charge, and on a level only he could comprehend, he had let them down. Work had taken him north into the Alberta oil fields, where money was good but life was bleak. In the unforgiving cold of the outback the virus had spared them for a time – time enough for him to make a mad 700-kilometer dash across the prairies, arriving too late to save his lineage, or rescue his wife and teenage children from the disease. For days the middle-aged man had cared for his family, keeping them fed and sheltered, awaiting a miracle that he knew only God could grant. The small community’s food stores had been depleted quickly, sending Russell and others to hunt for their sustenance.
Days, if not weeks, had passed since he’d returned – he couldn’t be sure. Hours had limped by, his every waking minute consumed with the care of his wife and their boys. Some days ago he’d fed them the last of their venison, locked them safely away and headed out for fresh game. The hunting trips had proven to be double-edged. The break, from the never-ending task of caring for his family, was cathartic, but prompted thoughts of unrestrained guilt. He stripped away gloves and mask and was able to inhale deeply without fear of infection or disease. On such outings Russ tried to envision his future . . . his families future, and it left him numb and depressed. He would provide, protect, and even die for them, if need be, but such an existence would be trying, at best, and he prayed for something more.
The deer and elk, which had been easy targets early on, were on the move, requiring him to hunt further and further from their home. That day had been no exception, forcing him several kilometers into the bush. However, the trek had paid off and he’d taken a small doe, light enough he could carry her rather than having to quarter it in the field.
Returning from the hunt he’d heard gunshots. The first few had rung out when he was several kilometers from the community, causing him concern but not utter dread. It was not until the blasts were a staccato of reports that an overwhelming, gut-wrenching desperation set in. He’d dropped the carcass and run the remaining distance, arriving in time to see a handful of pickups and SUV’s speed away. A bonfire had been set ablaze in the middle of the road, the bodies of the infected torched after being summarily executed. He’d tried in vain to recover his loved ones from the inferno but there had been no real hope: the intense heat and acrid, black smoke choked and coerced him away. The crackling and searing of their flesh haunted him still, as he tried to oust it from his senses and memory.
Tonight, as on most nights, he scanned the star-lit horizon, suppressing the image of his family perishing and the bitterness he felt. Russell Carbonneau dropped his squared chin to his chest, and with closed eyes prayed for forgiveness, not only for their passing but also for the revenge he would extract from their killers. He’d recognized the crew and knew what must be done. Vengeance, both liberating and enslaving would be his, meted out on his own terms and in his own way. Trevor Arcand and GAW would pay . . . and soon. His friends, driven from and forcibly taken from their homes, would be freed – of this he vowed.
Content with his vision of the near future, Russ was wrestled from his Godly petition by the sound of a motor. He glanced up to see a small plane careening his way. It bounced and bobbed in the sky, obviously distressed and destined to crash-land. The stout native man looked at his feet where a tightly wound coil of knotted rope lay, debating the time it would take to scamper down the dark stairwell verses shimmying down the thickened strand. He opted for the stairs. Swinging a flashlight from side to side, he descended, grateful no Huskers were in his way. Moments later he burst from the main entrance at a full gallop, the light extinguished and Mauser held at the ready.
The plane was no longer in sight but he’d gotten a bead on their trajectory and had a good idea where they’d end up. In the distance he could hear something odd, the repetitive buzz of a chainsaw biting into timber – and he knew they’d crashed.
The single prop Cessna undulated first left, and then slipped right, as the strength in Hannah’s legs waned and almost vanished against the pedals. Got to hold on . . . can’t crash, she thought, fully aware her time may be short. “The highway?” she wheezed.
Zygmunt could see what she had in mind but directed her further north, out of the path where he knew Darwin and crew would pass. “There . . . that strip of road climbing the mountain parallel to the highway. Can you put it down there?”
“I can try. Hang on to your yoke in case I lose it.”
The officer did as he was instructed and grasped the steering wheel in front of him with both hands. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, unhampered by the near-zero temperature. “The pedals . . . what do I do?”
“Nothing . . . hopefully. I think I can . . .” Hannah suddenly coughed, spewing blood-laced spittle onto the dash. Ziggy held the controls until he was confident the real pilot was once again commanding the flight.
Raven steadied her friend, still trying to prevent further blood loss. Together, panicked by what they could hear and see, Bobi and Raven shouted her name, “Hannah!”
“Yeah, yeah . . . get ready. Raven – buckle,” Hannah breathlessly directed.
“Your side . . .” Raven offered in rebuttal, but she was quickly cut off by Ziggy, who echoed the pilot’s words.
Raven and Bobi huddled together, enfolded in Eli’s arms, as Hannah lined up the aircraft on the roadway. She adjusted the throttle, slowing the plane and dropping it closer to the blacktop. The wings wobbled, nearly touching a parked car, before she righted the course and slammed the wheels down on the street. The impact jerked everyone forward, testing the limit of their harnesses, but they held firm. However, the increased pressure against Hannah’s chest was too much and she instantly lost consciousness, lapsing into darkness.
The yoke in Officer Nowicki’s hands suddenly took on a life of its own. He looked at Hannah for help, instantly knowing there would be none forthcoming. Expecting the rudder pedals to be somehow involved in the slowing and stopping of the Cessna he pressed one to the floor, quickly sending the light aircraft to the left. He mashed the other in hopes of righting or stopping their murderous roll, but the action pitched them haphazardly in the opposite direction, over a shallow curb and down a hill, headed for the river.
Shouts of terror erupted from the back seat. The sound of the fast-approaching river added to their dismay and alarm. “Zig, do something!” they shouted, locked in what they thought would be their last embrace.
The fuselage bounced and careened over branches and small stones. Finally, a downed tree at the water’s edge snagged the nose gear, abruptly stopping the frontend of the Cessna. Momentum lifted the tail section perpendicular to the ground, before gravity reclaimed the aluminum husk, driving it back to earth. The whir and clatter of the propeller, spinning uncontrollably against the lifeless tree trunk, mixed a cocktail of pain and confusion. The vibration and unfettered noise echoed against canyon walls, filling the night with the announcement of their arrival.
“Hannah . . . Hannah?” Zygmunt hollered, as he worked to free himself from the seat’s restraints. The woman was unresponsive, her head rolled unimaginably to the side and her mouth gaped, dripping a slurry of frothy plasma. “Rave,” he yelled, twisting and now free of the safety belt. “You three alright?”
Choked grunts of pain, but life, responded in the affirmative. Eli and his daughter freed themselves before assisting Bobi, who bravely whimpered, consumed by shock. “Can you stop that blasted engine?” Eli bellowed above the repetitive racket. Nowicki spun the ignition, silencing the motor and bringing the propeller to a standstill.
“Every Husker within a hundred miles will be down on us. Zig, did Hannah make it?” Raven asked, allowing the renewed surge of adrenalin to silence her emotions and fuel her survival instincts. She watched as the RCMP officer cradled Hannah’s wrist. Is there a pulse?” she frantically asked. He responded by quickly sliding a hand alongside her jaw, feeling for a carotid pulse.
“It’s faint . . . she’s alive, but won’t be for long if we don’t get her out of here,” Nowicki surmised, catching Rave’s eye for just a moment, but long enough to convey the unspoken, desperate nature of their friend’s condition.
“That’s it then. We move out and find someplace we can help Hannah and protect our butts,” the Falconer woman exclaimed, leaning forward enough to see her father. “Dad, you up to this? You look like hell.”
“Do I have a choice? I didn’t live this long to give up now,” Eli responded.
“Good. Ziggy, get us out of here.” Before Raven could complete the sentence, Officer Nowicki slammed his thick shoulder against the plane’s flimsy door, breaking the latch and swinging it wide. He awkwardly bent and twisted his large frame from the narrow opening, and flipped the seat forward. Raven and Eli used the scant passage to escape, dragging Bobi with them. Zygmunt stumbled over tangled debris that grasped at his feet, slowing but not stopping his race to extract the pilot from the wreckage. Moments later, Eli supported Bobi’s weight while Raven and Zygmunt carefully lifted Hannah from the cockpit.
Raven pressed her smooth cheek against Hannah’s, delighted to feel warm breath moistening her skin. “She’s still with us,” she said, directing her remark to Bobi, who had been silent, except for the occasional grunt or squeal when overcome with pain. “Bobi, did you hear me?” A vacant, distant look told Raven all she needed to know about her friend’s condition. “Dad, she’s in shock. Can you manage?”
“I can if Ziggy can handle Hannah on his own.”
The troop, distressed but not dissuaded, armed themselves with the AK-47’s and the officer’s carbine. Beaten, emotionally and physically, they carefully trudged up the hill they’d so disastrously descended minutes before.
“Raven, I suspect we’re not alone after such a feather-like landing. Did you check your magazine and chamber?” Nowicki asked.
“No, hadn’t occurred to me,” she responded sarcastically, the message sounding loud and clear with the officer.
“Just asking . . . glad you’re prepared. Get up to the road and see what’s waiting for us.”
“Yes sir,” she whispered.
The men and their charges halted, giving Raven a chance to maneuver the last few meters of cover to see what may be lurking just out of sight. Raven knelt at the slope’s crest where a sidewalk angled parallel to the road. She squinted, peering in both directions, the extent of her vision curtailed by eerie blackness. They’re out there. I can feel it. The thought normally would have prompted a great deal of caution, but there was no time. Hannah was dying.
A few seconds later, she reported the findings to her friends. “No Huskers, at least not yet. Houses up and down the street, but no lights.”
“Okay, we need a house we can defend . . . someplace close,” Ziggy proclaimed, already taking steps toward the road with Hannah cradled in his powerful embrace. The young author hustled ahead, taking the point and providing security. Eli supported Bobi, wrapping an arm around her waist while speaking quietly into her ear. Together the group ascended the hill and emerged into the clear. Ranging to the right and over a block away, structures were outlined and shadowed, but the road was steep and uninviting. To the left, darkened homes dotted the roadway: a large, cedar-sided dwelling captured Zygmunt’s attention and he pointed his intent.
A few meters ahead, Raven, as the spear of their procession, suddenly stopped, dropped to a knee and swung the assault rifle to her shoulder. The others ceased their movement, stared and listened. Footfalls, first faint but drumming, stamped out a rhythm of escalating terror as the sound increased.
“Huskers!” Rave shouted, pointing left, down a road separating half a dozen homes. “Get to the house, I’ll cover!”
Mindless shrieks erupted from the Husker’s rank when the sight of lively, fresh prey appeared, jostling across the street before them. Their advance slowed somewhat as the road’s pitch increased, giving Raven the edge she needed to fire on the advancing horde. She inhaled deeply, forgetting her friends and freeing her mind. The first burst skipped across the blackened asphalt, sparking flashes into the night but not slowing the incensed. She adapted, sucked the stock firmly against her shoulder and pulled the trigger again, striking the lead Husker center mass and sweeping him off his feet. As if nothing had happened the remaining cannibals galloped on, their lust ignited, and aflame with need.
“Rave! Fall back!” She heard her father yell from somewhere behind her. She fired again, taking life and breath from those who had been dead for days but were unaware. Raven continued her one-woman onslaught until her magazine ran dry. Her mind reeled, understanding the remaining Huskers would take her down before she could reload and keep them at bay. Unfazed, the young woman pivoted and bolted to her feet, running for her life. A short distance away Ziggy was kicking at the home’s door, frantically trying to save Hannah and not lose Rave. Midway between, Eli half-stepped and shuffled along with Bobi, an urgency to his gait but slow, nonetheless.
“Move it, Dad! They’re right behind me,” she screamed, the Husker’s guttural gnashing propelling her on. Again, in a split second, Raven calculated their circumstances. If she could just keep up her pace she’d outdistance the mob and assure her survival, but doom Eli and Bobi to a monstrous fate. Her decision was swift and resolute. Stopping her panicked run, she spun to face the deadly swarm. Controlled, she ejected the spent magazine and was pressing a full clip into place when the fastest, lead Husker leapt to claim his prize. Raven ducked, closed her eyes and prepared for the worst.
KABLAM
Unexpectedly a loud muzzle blast erupted from behind her. A large slug caught the advancing Husker squarely in the chest, halting his progression and rolling him backwards in his tracks. Raven opened her eyes, and hearing the report again she watched another assailant meet the same fate. Thankful for the seconds she needed to finish her load, she joined the unknown marksman and sent another handful of Huskers to the grave.
“Rave, you’re clear!” Ziggy roared, as his carbine joined the action and sniped at the few remaining Huskers, who refused to call it a night. The concussion of a large bored rifle sounded a final time, assuring the small group was safely within the walls of the abandoned house.
“Damn, that was close,” Eli panted, through parched lips. “Sweetheart, you okay?” he asked his daughter.
“Shaken . . . that’s for sure,” she replied, trying to make her way to Hannah. “Can you see about getting a blanket for Bobi?”
“Sure. What else can I do?” he asked.
“I guess just see if you can make her comfortable, and get her feet elevated while we look after Hannah.”
Nowicki had laid her on a sofa in the middle of the main floor. He was bent over, intently listening to a trickle of words she was uttering. “What’s she . . .” Raven began to ask, but was interrupted by a man’s call.
“Hey you . . . you in the house!” A voice called from outside the residence.
Raven looked at Zig with apprehension written across her face. “The cavalry, I’d presume. Look after Hannah. I’ll see who they are and what they want,” the officer asserted, adjusting the gun at his hip.