Blood and Ashes

Chapter 19

After stationing Millie to guard Beth and Ryan, I instructed Don to make his way to the ridge I’d picked out on the western slope. Up there, as the day waned to late afternoon, the meagre light that the rainclouds allowed through would cast the man into deep shadow, making it unlikely he would be spotted by anyone approaching. I made my way to the front of the camp, intending to set up beyond Don’s position in the woods. First, though, I detoured to the cabin.

Entering, I was assailed by the stench of must and cobwebs clung to my face and shoulders. The rest of the cabin was as decrepit as the entrance. Worn desks and chairs had been abandoned to the elements when the logging company went bust and pulled out fast. Sheaves of papers lay scattered on the floor and on every available surface. Immediately I saw a phone attached to the far wall. Moist, muddy tracks led directly to the phone and I could tell by their size and shape that they were the footprints of a woman: Millie’s, as she’d inspected the telephone. I followed them and bent to study the phone. It was an old black plastic type with a dial, now defunct in this press-button age. The power cord had been snatched from the guts of the phone, possibly the action of a disgruntled worker intent on vandalism on his way to the Welfare line.

Millie hadn’t mentioned the phone, probably because it was broken. It could possibly be fixed with the right tools, but the thought had never occurred to her. To be frank, I didn’t have the tools or the inclination. But I couldn’t ignore it. I headed round the back of the cabin and checked the junction box. It was intact, as was the cable that connected it to the telegraph pole. Further on I saw that the trees had ensnared the cable, ripping it from the next pole and dumping it on the ground. The telephone wouldn’t have worked even with the rights tools and all the time in the world to mess with it. I should have taken Millie’s word for it.

I shook my head, urging myself to forget about it. Get your mind back on the job, Hunter. Distraction kills, remember? More words of wisdom from the arms instructor at Arrowsake. Stay in the red zone, Hunter, or you may as well give up now. Anything else and you’re a dead man. Got it?

I checked my weapons, my SIG SAUER P226 and KA-BAR. I’d left the H amp;K assault rifles with Don. The old man would require both to lay down enough firepower to force our attackers from their vehicles. When our hunters were out in the woods, then I’d rely on the military knife to even the score. The SIG would remain as back-up for extreme circumstances, because stealth was everything now.

Returning to the busted gate, I pulled it to, then used a discarded log to bolster it by jamming it between the frame and the loops of wire. It wouldn’t stop a vehicle from getting through, but it would slow men on foot.

For a second I wished that I hadn’t been so quick in handing over the borrowed jacket to Millie. She was inside now, protected from the elements, but I was ever the chivalrous one. Sometimes to my detriment, I realised. I had on my boots, but my denim shirt and jeans weren’t the most suitable garments for a stroll in the woods, especially not in the depths of a northern winter. At least it wasn’t snowing. The rain kept the temperature above freezing, but people still succumbed to hypothermia in moderate climates. The core temperature’s the thing. Soaked to the bones, I could grow lethargic and confused before I knew I was dying. First task on the agenda was to get warm.

My healing leg was still a hindrance, but it would take more than a quick jog to raise my core temperature anyway. Clothing that was waterproof and warm was an immediate requirement. I ducked back into the security cabin, hoping to find a discarded rain-slicker. No such luck. But in a supply cupboard there was a roll of garbage sacks. Quickly stripping out of the wet shirt, I made head- and armholes in one of the sacks and pulled it on close to my skin. I wasn’t concerned that the rattling plastic would give away my position because it immediately clamped to my flesh like a second layer. I jammed the trailing edges down inside my jeans and then pulled the wet shirt back on. It was an uncomfortable feeling but it would soon pass.

The garbage bag trick was something learned from less-than-wealthy boxers who couldn’t afford a sweat suit for when they needed to make weight. It promoted perspiration, but the plastic held the sweat in and heated it. I’d be nice and toasty in no time.

The blue denims were poor camouflage, but I wasn’t going to find any DPM’s around here. Not that I needed them when the best disruptive pattern material going could be found in nature. Returning outside I scooped handfuls of mud and rubbed them liberally over my shirt and jeans. Didn’t bother streaking it over my face, because the rain would soon obliterate it and I didn’t fancy a mouthful of muck. I washed my hands clean in a puddle, drying my fingers as best I could on the tail of my shirt. The last thing I wanted was to transfer grit to the firing mechanism of the SIG.

There was nothing I could do about my wet hair. Most heat was lost from the head, but with my body now heating up like a boil-in-the-bag snack, I thought I’d be OK. I scrubbed the rain from my scalp, and off my face, feeling two days of stubble rasping against my palms. Normally I was fastidious about keeping well shaven and clean — a habit instilled by military indoctrination — but in the circumstances the rules went out the window. As long as the gun was pristine, I could do my job.

Loping away from the compound, I entered the treeline on the east side so that I was opposite Don’s position. Men are inclined to run away from an assault rifle not towards it, so I was better positioned on this side of the road. Then I made my way through the woods, towards the crest in the road where I’d see my enemies coming.

A little way inside the treeline was a group of boulders, and between them a natural hollow where the lower boughs of a spruce afforded respite from the rain. The hiding place was gloomy, but by contrast the trail ahead glowed silver, a trick of the light refracting from the moisture. I settled in to wait.

I waited.

And waited.

In the end I wondered if the men who’d chased us had had second thoughts about following people into the mountains who’d already decimated their ranks by two-thirds. I was in the act of getting up to return to the camp and gather up the family when I heard the high-pitched whine of an engine negotiating the steep trail.

After the inactivity it was almost pleasing that the men had the stones to follow through with the attack. I was in that place where my sense of justice demanded retribution. I hunkered back down, peering beneath the branches, feeling the adrenalin seeping through my core and pushing away the vestigial chill from my bones. Unconsciously my fingers flexed on the hilt of the KA-BAR, and it didn’t occur to me that the pain I’d been experiencing in my hand had fled. Action was the best medicine for a fighting man’s pain.

A sedan crested the mountain trail, followed closely by an SUV. The two vehicles were those that had survived the earlier encounter. There were only four figures in the cars. That was all? I doubted it; there had also been two men in the black van that had almost collided with us. Where were they? And where was that crazy girl who’d tried so hard to shoot Don?

What about the girl? I didn’t make war on women. If I could help it I wouldn’t hurt her, but if the choice between stopping her and saving the children came up, then my decision could go only one way. Hopefully she’d had enough after her boyfriend crashed the car, and she’d taken off somewhere to lick her wounded pride. Maybe Fonzarelli had taken off with her, because all the heads I could make out in the vehicles were shaved to the skin.

Had to plan for six men at least. Not an insurmountable figure if Don did his job right.

The sedan crept by, followed moments later by the SUV. I studied the faces inside. No sign of Tattoo. If the guy had died when his car rolled, then so be it, but I was a little pissed that I wouldn’t get to look the bastard in the eye when I killed him. I wanted to comment about the tattoo, the significance of the eight-eight pattern. Unlike many people, I was familiar with the number. Not eighty-eight as some might think, but two separate figures. Eight and eight. The eighth letter of the alphabet repeated twice, standing for Heil Hitler. Tattoo wouldn’t be the first neo-Nazi that I’d killed, and I wasn’t averse to teaching any other the error of his ways.

I waited until the cars were past me then rose up, gripping the KA-BAR tightly.

On cue, Don let loose with the H amp;K.