Dusk Territories: Always Burning (6 page)

“Ambush,” Drifter finishing Graham’s thought with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah.”

Raleigh confused on the line of thought, stared down at his feet. “How you know it’s going to be an ambush?” He asked the two men.

“A hunch.”

“A Marine.”
      

“Hehe. Your answer is a lot more dependable, Corporal,” Drifter said as he hobbled toward the sleeping Wood. He shook the young man awake, receiving a sleepy gaze and annoyed gaze. “Come on, son. I’m gonna need you.”

Wood murmured an annoyed agreement, bearing his teeth for a moment.

“Bark at me again, and I’ll knock them teeth out.”

“Something up, Unc,” Wood yawned, correcting himself. He looked at Raleigh, who turned incredibly pale at Wood’s presence. “Someone got lost, didn’t they, and you want me to help find the idiots?”

Raleigh bit his lower lip as though he wanted to say something, but was far too nervous to do so.

“Lucky day, you will be staying around here, my boy!”

“Then why the hell am I up?” Wood grumbled, placing his feet on the floor and jabbing his fist in his cheek in an expression of boredom.

“I’m going to need you for the show.”

Wood took the news with relatively no change in emotions. But, Graham felt it. He saw it in Raleigh’s expression as well. Wood was the last thing that anyone wanted to see in battle. Graham and Wood had that in common, but people respected Graham. People feared Wood to the point that he wasn’t even trustworthy to everyone around him. He was there at one point.

“I guess I should head out,” Graham said, standing. “Wood, we’re going to have to talk when I get back.”

Wood arched an eyebrow. “About what?” Apparently, he wasn’t used to anyone planning to talk with him.

“You’ll see when I get back.”

Drifter crossed his arms. “Making plans on before ya even got out of the door? Pretty confident, boy?”

“Damn sure needed to be, if not, I would have got my ass handed to me.”

Drifter laughed, knowing all too well that was true.

_

The seemingly endless red day brought itself around to a much cooler night. Graham eyed the harsh blue sky above him. The night was just as stunning as the day. Where before the stars and the moon often hung on a black backdrop, now stood a harsh sky filled with dark cobalt blues and lighter purples. Black clouds sailed above as thinly made ships on an open sea. Within this new celestial roof were nebulas, probably some after effects of the various weapons. “It may be true…” Graham said to himself.

All of it could be true.

Graham shook off his stray thoughts, adopting a more serious demeanor. He pulled up the shemagh— received from the Drifter’s stock—to his face. The Plagues were the outside rim of the boggy forest, ruminations of Jacksonville. While the nuclear attacks scorched most of the city itself, what was left was taken by the PX-3. From what Graham understood, or at least what he guessed, that the biological weapon promoted insane amounts of growth. Even standing a quite a distance away, he could see the gnarly, hooked vegetation yearning to take a life.

He had never really spent time in a forest, at least in battle. Desert was his forte, that’s all he had seen for months…even years. So he had to be careful and plot out his plan of attack. He had no intel and low light, even his improved nocturnal eyesight wasn’t going to help him in pitch darkness. But hopefully, prayfully, that meant the same thing for the pack of cannibals stationed here
.
Either way, he would have to start off stealthy.

Sneaking wasn’t his better suit, Graham knew. He was trained as a Rifleman, not a Scout Sniper or Recon. He didn’t fancy the in-depth tactics that went into those specific Military Occupation Specializations. Now, a part of him wished that he had listened. Lance Corporal Victor Calder, the Recon man on Graham’s squad, had always told his CO to watch in case he ever needed it. Graham, being half too hard headed and half too prideful, hardly did. Now, he was straining for just a slither of advice. “Fuck you, Victor,” Graham muttered.

He grasped the gun in his hand harder. His amount of ammo was good enough to take down at least several people, normal people. If anything that Drifter said was true—albeit it is looked more and more towards that direction—they might have some nasty mutants…or demons. The very thought of that would have sent chills in his blood if he already wasn’t cold. There were endless possibilities of what this Ragnar fellow might have waiting at his camp. Thinking about it wasn’t going to get Graham any closer.

All he could do is take them out quickly and…

A thought struck him, a few meters from where the wastelands ended and the Plagues began.

It was an experiment. He was sure he could call it that.

Graham began looking at this from a different light. His thoughts tingled with the thrill. Despite it all, in his heart of hearts, battle still excited him. And this was the first time he would have to actively adapt to his…condition.

In the same position, if he was alive, he would be cold, hungry, and tired. Right now, he wasn’t any of those things. Yes, he could feel a small nudge of fatigue and his body still meekly registered temperature. But, it wasn’t like he would be if he was alive
. So it did have its perks. Being a decayed corpse had so many obvious negatives in his head for his humanity—however, he would have to make it work.

A brief, soundless fifteen minute jog had led him to the tall menacing trees of the Plagues. Staring up, all he could see was the purple underbelly of the canopy. Long vines drooped from the pointed tree branches. Flowers hardly native to the East Coast—maybe not even this side of the world—hung from the vines. Even in the dark, Graham could see a trickle of purple mist oozing from the center of those seemingly harmless flowers. Instincts told him not to breathe.

He cleared each of his sides, becoming more aware of the dangers of these lands. Pieces of dismembered skeletons lied scattered near the roots of the trees. Victims of the tree’s mist, he guessed, whatever it did. Or something worse, far worse could have torn them
to pieces.
He couldn’t save them now, either way. If the Drifter’s men were lucky, they might still be alive. If not, they were probably in the belly of a beast…or a human.
Can’t rule that out.

Graham preceded onward, crouching low and taking advantage of any and all cover that he could. The shadows had provided great cover, but he had to keep an eye out for any men. Mentally, he knew that the chances of men in the higher parts of the canopy were low. The lavender haze was much thicker, like swollen clouds, the higher the trees ascended. As natives of the Plagues, they probably knew the dangers and decided not to risk it….

The thought struck him soon after, and he couldn’t help himself from smirking.

That was the key to finding their hideout. Ragnar’s pack would probably stay in a place with water and a safe haven from the toxic. So all he had to find is a place where the mist was thinnest or nonexistent and they would most likely be there. “
Good job, Graham,
” he thought. “
You aren’t a complete blockhead.”
      
All he had to do now was find a place like that. He moved slow, watching everything around himself. Occasionally, he would aim down his sights, peering through the irons in case of movement. He kept himself in this practice. At any time, he could be ambushed. The landscape of the forest hardly helped.

Time felt like it stood still in this labyrinth. Occasionally, Graham would see wreckage of the suburbs of Jacksonville. Old houses and sheds, rusted cars, broken picket fences were dispersed unevenly through the forest. It was hard to believe that this place was populated not too long ago. The Plagues were like another world, dropped into and stitched upon the Earth. This place had easily exceeded all of his deployments as places he would never visit voluntarily.

Hours passed and still nothing. He walked, mind slowing from the constant mental work. There were times where he felt the need to close his eyes. Though the body didn’t yearn for rest, the man inside did. It was hard having a body that seemingly never tired while your brain weakened. Mistakes could easily be made. He forced himself to stop, leaning against a tree and slumping down.
Alright, you’re half-dead, not invincible.
Even now, he still felt ridiculous thinking that.

Graham worked through his surroundings. From the height of the trees, if he was any judge, he was near the middle. He then focused on sounds. Wind held the majority, howling through the small holes opening to the sky. But when listening closely, he could hear water…maybe even a crackling of fire. He tried hard to tune into that sound and where it was coming from. Maybe a few miles away—or maybe several, he wasn’t quite sure how good his hearing was now, or the acoustics of the forest. He stood up again, allowing his body to lead him.

Northeast
, he decided. He continued in that direction, and was rewarded with much more audible sounds. In the abyss of darkness, he saw it. He saw the lagoon.

All of the trees were cleared away from around the water and the nearby cove. The water looked surprisingly clean, aside from the remote puddles of red. The purple mist was clear here, but surrounded the outer rim like a ring. A cave stood on the far end of the water, surrounded by several mud huts. From here, Graham could see a small fire billowing black smoke into the noses of the trees. Four figures were huddled around it.

In addition to those four men, there were two patrols on opposite sides of the lake. They moved almost lazily around the shore, comfortable in their safety.
Patrol duty is like that
, Graham thought.
They’re so sure that no one can, or will, attack. They believe that they can’t be infiltrated. They believe they are safe.
It was the nature of humans, but also the nature of prey.

Staying within the ring of fog and the shadows, he approached the camp to get a better look. There were indeed four men, standing around a fire. They had long since lost their humanity. What was left were bipedal beast, long haired and pale, so soaked in blood that it stained their skins. They were having a late dinner, a young woman. Entrails poured from the stomach, eye socket empty. Squashed pink and red meat sat at the cannibals’ feet, each taking large hunks of it with their hands. The crazed look on their faces was like they were enjoying a sick Thanksgiving dinner.

“When are we gonna get to eat the other two?” one of the men asked, wiping the blood from his uneven blonde beard.

“Ragnar said not to touch ‘em til he gets back with the Drifter!” another man howled.

“But—but—“the first man stuttered, “this isn’t enough and they looks so delicious!’

Thickly set man, bald with a long burnt wheat-colored beard answered. “Remember what Ragnar did with the last man who ate his dinner.”

The blonde haired animal grinned, showing his bloody teeth. “Yeah. Poor Mark.” He snickered with a high pitched laughter. “Ragnar still uses his bones for tooth picks.”

“So don’t touch Ragnar’s food until he comes back with the Drifter!”

“How do we know he’s goin’ to even come back with the Drifter?” A black haired man questioned. Everyone stared at him with a scowl. He, in turn, popped an eyeball of the woman in his mouth and shut up.

“Ragnar’s gonna come back with the Drifter. We just need to shut up and take Beastmaster’s orders.”

The three men looked at the last man. He was the shortest and thinnest of the group. Graham assumed that he was Beastmaster—the leader, or rather the second-in-command. Unlike the others, he had faced himself in a way that he couldn’t be ambushed, back against the wall of a hut. His amber eyes stared into the distance, dark brown hair madly around his cheeks and chin like a mane. Surprisingly, he was the only one beardless, which would have made his lion-like appearance that more fitting. Instead, he wore stubble that reached up to the corners of his cheekbones. He was quieter than the rest, much more aware, sniffing the air every so often.

“Keep your eyes open,” a surprisingly deep voice leaked from the man’s lips. “You’ll never know when we will…have a visitor. “

If Graham’s adrenaline worked correctly, his heart would have skipped. He had to act fast. If one person would to notice, it would be Beastmaster.

The patrols had to go first. He could have fired, killing all of those four men in a long burst. However, that would alert the others. The patrols were armed, and maybe had some sort of ability. Graham wasn’t about to risk that. So instead, he was about to take them out, stealthy. He allowed the gun to hang loosely from the strap on his chest.

Graham had already decided his first target. The first patrol that he saw was sloppy. The guard dangled around the rim, a bit too closely. A stalker, unaffected by the miasma, could easily ambush him. Of course, that was not possible in the guard’s mind. Yet it wasn’t impossible either.

A proper distance away from the four men around the fire, he waited for the clumsy guard. He kept low, watching as the chubby man with a self-made hatchet walk into his line of attack. Though stealth wasn’t a specialty that he could brag about, close quarter combat was. Graham had grabbed the man’s arm, tossed him over his shoulder, and slammed him down in an expertly done hip toss. When the bandits open his mouth to howl in pain, the flower’s pollen strangled him. His face turned blue, followed by an instant fever and some heavy breathing. Toxic, the trees was excreting it as some sort of defense mechanism.

Sorry ‘bout that,
Graham thought, motioning with his eyes.
Just had to experiment.
He put him out of his misery, a swift stomp on the man’s neck with his thick combat boots. It was an instant death, a much greater mercy than the pain that shot through the man’s body.

Graham peeked out of the cover of the trees to see that the second patrol was now on his side of the lake. Actually, it was a woman, but only in gender. The short haired, ghastly looking beast stared almost viciously from the other side, probably looking for her fellow guardsmen. “Heath. Where are you, dammit?”