Bones: The Complete Apocalypse Saga (46 page)

A small swarm of bullets whizzed by overhead and slammed amongst a nearby motorcycle, peeling back strips of metals and shredding the tires. Lionel looked out into the dark and tried to see where the shot had come from but there wasn’t a second one. But then he caught sight of another man rising behind the truck next to it and, just as that man fired a couple of rifled rounds their way from a large pistol, Lionel aimed at the man’s head and fired. His bullet struck pay dirt, and the air was momentarily misted with blood and jellied brains as the corpse sank back behind the truck.

“Wow, that was some shooting,” Weevil said.

“It’s called ‘drawing their fire,’” Lionel replied. “They’re getting bored and bunkering in. Give them something to shoot at and they’ll start popping up like jackrabbits.”

Lionel’s point was proved a second later as a hail of bullets poured in, splattering around Weevil’s impromptu hiding place. Lionel flinched wildly as if shot and spied one of the shooters checking to see if he’d landed a bullet. Lionel instantly raised his gun and blasted the man in the eye before then rolling over a couple of feet, catching a lucky angle on a second man, and shooting him in the side of the head. The man vomited a stream of blood and teeth as he sailed to the ground.

“Time to find a new hide,” Lionel said, nodding to Weevil as he began crawling away.

“Wait, what?” protested Weevil. “What about me?!”

“You have a gun. Shoot back.”

•  •  •

Out away from the lights, Bones was tearing out the throat of the second sniper when a familiar smell entered his nose. As the dying man gurgled and clutched at the ragged flesh around his neck, Bones stepped away and sniffed at the air, trying to clear the heavy stench of fresh blood from his nose. He picked up something over to his left, the third spot on a half-circle that had arched over the
federales’
position, their trucks having been parked in a way to make the area directly in front of them a perfect kill zone for the snipers.

Bones trotted over to where the third and final sniper had been and saw that he was already dead, having been shanked in the kidneys multiple times from behind. Though the smell of cordite still hung heavy over the man’s position, his rifle was gone. Bones turned towards the desert and detected a man hurrying away into the night.

Wheeling around, the German shepherd bolted after the fellow.

•  •  •

Lionel shot five more of the
federales
before the last two surrendered. Both were astonished to see that they had been trading bullets with a county sheriff’s deputy.

“,” one of the men said in Spanish.

“,” Lionel replied. “”

The men said nothing but Lionel’s words had rung true.

“”

“”

Lionel suddenly looked out over the desert wondering how he could’ve missed him.

•  •  •

Bones pushed farther and farther into the low desert scrub, the running man easy enough to track, as he carried three unmistakable scents with him as he went: the dead sniper’s blood, the burned powder of the recently fired rifle, and then a thick sheen of fear in the man’s own sweat. It could’ve been a burning four-story building made of cinnamon (a particular Bones
bête noire
) instead of a desert and the shepherd would’ve still been able to track the man.

But the agent was making good time.

He was in great shape. His fear was just beginning to give way to optimism. He knew it was still hours before sun-up, so even if local law enforcement got a helicopter in the air, he’d have long since hitched a ride back into Las Cruces with plausible deniability written all over his face when he “learned” of the debacle come eight o’clock.

He still wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong. The scene some poor local was to have found the next morning was meant to be simple: a bunch of dead bikers in the desert, tire tracks leading to Mexico. Mattis had not anticipated the arrival of Oudin but didn’t think one man would have been able to turn the tide as he had. But after the deputy shot his first two men and the snipers didn’t seem to be able to pick him up, Mattis decided to hedge his bets by getting the hell out of there. He’d ridden in with the
federales
and was cursing himself for leaving not so much as a rental car half a mile down the highway, but knew there’d be traffic on the 28 when he got there.

When he was about three hundred yards from the action, he finally stopped for a moment and wheeled the sniper rifle around, aiming the night scope towards the gunfight. He hadn’t heard a shot for a couple of minutes and wondered if somebody had finally knocked down the pesky cop. Instead, he saw that the two
federales
had surrendered to the man and were probably in the process of giving him up.

“
Motherfucker
,” Mattis cursed before checking to see if there was still a round in the chamber.

When he saw that there was, he drew a bead on Lionel’s chest and was about to pull the trigger when he picked up movement a few feet in front of him. He angled the scope down and saw Bones less than six feet away. He switched his aim, led the dog with the gun’s muzzle, and as the bounding shepherd filled up the scope, he pulled the trigger.

•  •  •

As the shot rang out over the desert, Lionel stared out into the darkness, suddenly worried for Bones. The two
federales
looked a little more nervous than they had a moment before. Lionel shrugged when the bullet didn’t fly anywhere near them.

“We’re all lit up here. If that rifle was aimed at any of us, we’d be dead. Besides, I’ve got a silent partner out there I failed the mention.”

Lionel realized that he had said that in English and knew it was his concern for Bones speaking. He translated for the
federales
. They nodded and relaxed. There wasn’t a second shot. The sheriff’s deputy put handcuffs on both and could do nothing but wait.

A moment or two later, a long stream of flashing roof lights appeared out on the 28 and began racing out to the scene of the shoot-out. When he saw that they were indeed a phalanx of local and state cops, Lionel finally stepped away from his prisoners and looked out towards the source of the shot. When the first officer pulled up, Lionel quickly turned the scene over to her and then hurried out into the desert, calling back that he feared there might be an officer down out in the scrub.

Truthfully, he didn’t believe that would be the case. Bones could handle almost anything. But there was a lingering feeling of doubt as he hurried through the darkness. He wouldn’t admit it was fear, but there it was.

Though Lionel knew he might be inviting a gun shot, he shouted out into the darkness. “Bones!”

There was only silence, but then a weak voice came from somewhere out in front of him.

“Oudin…call off your fucking dog!”

Lionel slowed and could make out the weak green light of the battery-powered Starlight scope in the dirt attached to a rifle just ahead. He picked it up, looked through the scope and spied a dry wash about twelve feet in front of him. He walked and saw SAIC Mattis lying on the hard, cracked ground of the wash bed, looking like he’d broken his leg. Bones, alongside the man, looked up at Lionel, his eyes flashing bright white on the scope. Lionel could see that the shepherd had torn a large bloody gash through the agent’s arm, almost severing it. This was what probably caused the man to stumble backwards and fall into the arroyo.

Blood, which showed up black in the scope, had pooled around the wound, and Lionel knew if he’d gotten there only a couple of minutes later, Mattis would’ve already bled to death.

Setting down the rifle, Lionel clambered down into the creek bed, pulled off his belt, and tied off Mattis’s arm. “You’re gonna lose this, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, ’cause of your fuckin’ dog, Oudin,” the agent replied ruefully, spitting blood.

“You hear they’re looking to repeal the death penalty in this state?” Lionel replied. “Might do you a disservice. Not gonna be an easy thing, a one-armed ex-fed in the state pen.”

Mattis went silent and then leaned back on the hard ground.

“Your fuckin’ dog.”

•  •  •

“Good day of work, Bones,” Lionel told the shepherd as they drove back to Las Cruces a few hours later, the sun now painting the desert floor in pinks and orange. But when he looked over, he saw that the shepherd, clearly exhausted, was curled up asleep on the passenger seat. Lionel snorted, thought about when he might get some rest himself. With a sigh, he rolled up the driver’s-side window, not wanting the noise of the passing traffic to disturb his snoozing partner.

Mark Wheaton is a horror screenwriter (
Friday the 13
^th
,
The Messengers
), graphic novelist (
The Cleaners
) and author of several bestselling straight-to-Kindle horror novellas including
Last Tuesday, Bones, Night of the Scorpions, Shepherd, Stuttering Hunter,
and novels
Sunday Billy Sunday
and
Flood Plains.
Print edition of these stories are available as
Four Nails in the Coffin
and
Unnatural Selection.

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