Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga (12 page)

A dull echoing roar rumbled to his right, the sound bouncing off the wooded hills across the Salmon River valley.
 
Denny’s eyes snapped open and looked east.
 
The last time he heard a sound like that was when the Russians had attempted to take control of the town.

Explosions.

The deer crashed through the trees and bolted downhill.
 
Denny drew back, hoping to get a clear shot but the buck bounced and skipped behind too many trees.
 
In less than three seconds, it was gone.
 
He listened to the sound of the buck tearing through the undergrowth in his mad dash to escape the fearsome sound from the east.

Denny sighed and released the tension on his bow.
 
What the hell is going on back there?

It made little sense—he’d helped the Rangers liberate Salmon Falls weeks ago.
 
He’d led the effort to hunt down every last surviving Russian as they fled into the hills.
 
It had taken a handful of hard, cold days, but they’d done it.
 
Denny glanced over his shoulder.
 
At least, he thought they’d tracked all the Russians down.
 
He couldn’t find any sign of survivors.
 

Once people began to succumb to the Korean Flu, Denny had taken to the hills along with a handful of others.
 
With winter fast approaching, self-imposed exile meant a much harder life, but the risk of contracting the deadly virus was practically non-existent up in the hills.
 

Denny gripped his bow tight and looked down at the ground.
 
It wasn’t fair.
 
So many had died when the Russians attacked.
 
The survivors had only a day to celebrate before people started getting sick.
 
A few days later, the first person died from the flu.
 
He opened his eyes and looked toward town again.
 
Hidden by hills, valleys and dozens of miles of Bitterroot wilderness, Salmon Falls lay dying in the grip of the Korean Flu.
 
No word had come from the state or federal government.
 
He knew TV stations were back on the air—people with satellite dishes had been relaying news trickling in from the outside world for over a week.

The invasion of the west coast had only exacerbated the suffering and death caused by the Flu in the Occupied States.
 
The biggest cities, true in any pandemic in history, suffered the worst—even those on the east coast.
 
Denny looked at the ground and frowned.
 
There wasn't much anyone could do to help—the last news report he'd seen before leaving town had claimed Europe had its own outbreak.
 
That was over two weeks ago.

Movement downslope caught his attention.
 
The buck had stopped his wild flight and stood staring away from Denny, ears swiveling non-stop.
 
The tail twitched, displaying a white rump, flashing like a beacon through the greens and browns of the forest.

Denny's stomach rumbled.
 
Now that he'd stalked the deer for a while and seen it up close, he was sure it was much bigger than the last one he'd brought back to town.
 

You will feed far more people in town than your brother...if I can just catch you.

The buck obliged by not moving.
 
Whatever it was focused on was in the opposite direction from Denny.
 
He decided he had a chance of sneaking up on it from above if he picked his path carefully and moved behind cover.
 
He slowly crouched, making sure he was hidden from view and moved south.
 
Whatever was happening in the town would have to wait.
 
The hunt was on.

A
LMOST
TWO
HOURS
LATER
, Denny dropped the last of the field dressed buck in a tarp-wrapped heap next to his camp fire.
 
He collapsed next to the withering flames, utterly spent.
 
He lay there, breathing deeply and staring at the rock ceiling of the old forest ranger station, relishing in the release of weight from his shoulders.
 

I made it.
 

It'd been a long slog uphill, but the last of the mule deer was now inside, safe from predators.
 
He groaned as he rolled on his side, pulled two more logs from the stack, and shoved them into the fire.
 
The red-orange glow lunged at the fresh wood and sparks flew toward the ceiling.
 
The heat increased and he began to thaw out.
 
After a few moments, Denny struggled to his elbows and sat up.

His hands were crusted over with the deer's blood.
 
The coppery smell permeated his clothes.
 
He wanted to clean up; he wanted to get something to eat; he wanted to sit down, relax, and get warm…but he knew he couldn't.
 
Denny heard more of the strange popping noises and what had to be explosions coming from the direction of town on the way back to camp.
 
Before doing anything else, he had to find his radio and contact John.

"
Scutalawe, scutalawe,
come in…" he said into his little handset.
 
He wiped his blood-stained hands on his jeans and gripped the plastic transmit button again.
 
"
Scutalawe
, this is
m'wewa
," Denny said.
 
Wolf calling turtle.

"Thank God you're back,"
John Anderson's tired voice replied over the radio.
 
"We were beginning to worry about you.
 
So many of the others have been rounded up…"

Denny wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.
 
"What you talking about?"

"Not over the air.
 
Come in and we'll talk."
 
The transmission died.

Denny put the radio down.
 
Come in and we'll talk.
 
Not once since he had left town had John told him to return.
 
His neighbors, John and Ruth Anderton, had retreated into their emergency basement shelter when local thugs had torched Denny's own house.
 
The Anderton home, next door to his own had burned to the foundation.
 
John and Ruth had been perfectly safe, but found themselves trapped inside.
 

It wasn't long after the liberation of the town from the Russians that Denny had gained access to the Anderton home through the emergency exit in the treeline behind his property.
 
They had been careful to make sure no one had seen him coming and going, so he'd been able to supply the Andertons with fresh meat and water for the last few weeks.
 
They'd provided him with a safe place to sleep and news as Townsen and his friends consolidated power in town.

John cautioned Denny to be careful and never be seen entering the tunnel.
 
He also made it clear he didn't want Denny coming and going very frequently.
 
He wanted Denny to think of their home as an emergency retreat, a last resort.
 

Denny mulled over his options as he stepped outside into the night to gather more wood from the stack.
 
Standing there watching the light fade from the sky, he realized his expedition to gain personal freedom had failed.
 
Suddenly he felt very foolish.
 
Looking down at the deer blood on his hands, he realized he'd started down a path he could not turn from.

I killed those Russians.
 
We hunted them down.
 
Like…

A rifle barked in the distance echoed across the valley.
 

Worry gripped him.
 
Something was still going on back in town.
 
Explosions and gunshots were never a good sign.

The echoing gunfire made Danny think about what led him to disappear into the wilderness.
 
After the occupation, he thought killing the last Russian would've given him some peace.
 
It left him with more questions than answers.
 

He questioned who he was—a killer of men or a teacher of children?
 
He knew he could not be both.

But the Russians…those men needed to be killed.
 
They'd done so much harm to so many of his friends and neighbors—they'd irreparably damaged his community through violence.
 
Someone had to punish them.
 
The Rangers had taken off in search of Chad Huntley, their Source.
 

Denny understood though the townspeople largely hadn't.
 
Many felt the Rangers should've stayed to help protect the town.
 
No one knew if more Russians were coming or if the Koreans would break through the Bitterroots from the west.

Denny stepped over a fallen log and slid downslope a few feet.
 
He came to a stop and let the blanket of silence over him once more.
 
His instincts told him if he stayed quiet and didn't rush back uphill to camp, he might come across one more deer to bring back to town.
 
That extra meat might mean the difference between someone starving to death over the winter or living to see the spring thaw.

Denny thought about that for a second.
 
He supposed the venison he provided might also be the difference between someone having a chance of recovering from the Korean Flu or dying in their bed.
 
Memories of the horrible deaths his friends and neighbors—his wife—suffered during The Pandemic rushed back.
 
He forced his heart to stop racing, forced the memory of his beloved Emily away and he clenched his fists until the pain of his fingernails cutting into his palms brought him back to the present.
 

Not now.
 
Not here.
 
Hold yourself together.

He looked down at his fists and realized he didn't even have his bow with him.
 
He sighed and walked back to camp.
 
What the hell am I doing, walking around out here?
 
I need to eat and sleep.
 
I can take the buck to John tomorrow.

Before he left town, he'd stopped at the Anderton's for news and supplies.
 
He knew he'd be gone at least a week, maybe more.
 
Anytime someone went hunting alone that long, there was always a chance they might never come back.
 
Accidents happened and there were bears and wolves in the mountains.
 
Environmental regulations on hunting had lead to a rise in predator species all over the northwest in recent decades.
 
He'd heard plenty of wolves but had yet to see one.

Tripping and breaking an ankle or being attacked by a bear were the least of his concerns, however.
   

Some part of him refused to feel guilty.
 
He had killed in the name of justice—he had killed to protect others.
 
Reminding himself of that and staying busy had kept him from descending into a spiral of guilt and self-doubt.
 
He crested the slope and spotted the ranger station built into the rock wall that surrounded U.P. Lake.

I did nothing my ancestors didn't do hundreds of years ago.
 
He stood up and defended his town to the best of his ability.
 
He had not willingly gone out looking for someone to kill.
 

But I did.
 
I hunted those men…after…

No,
he told himself for the thousandth time.
 
The Russians forced the issue—the Russians were the aggressors, not me.

His thoughts drifted back to the first days of the crisis.
 
The news coming from California before they lost power had not been good at all.
 
Many of the locals had panicked at word of the Korean invasion of Oregon and Washington.
 
A good number of people had fled town when they learned that the enemy had not only invaded California, but was marching east.
 
It was only a matter of time, many feared, before North Korean tanks appeared in Idaho and rumbled through the streets of Salmon Falls.

Denny knew better.
 
At least, at the time he thought he knew better.
 
The Army Rangers that appeared with a small fleet of helicopters did not seem to be all that concerned the Koreans would come rolling through the Bitterroot Mountains, so they left on the more important mission: rescuing Chad Huntley.

The Source.

Denny sighed.
 
Rumor had it the government was using Chad's blood to make a cure for the Korean Flu.
 
If that were true, he supposed abandoning Salmon Falls to chase the Source was a bigger mission.
 
He walked past the wooden door to the ranger station and stopped at an overlook peered at the Salmon River Valley through a gap in the trees.
 

The landscape surrounding Salmon Falls was definitely not conducive to swift military travel.
 
If they had helicopters and leapfrogged from mountaintop to mountaintop, he supposed the North Koreans might swoop down on them, but it would be time-consuming and noisy.
 

He eyed the main roads through town as they cut across the landscape.
 
Much easier for an enemy to just load up their troops into trucks and drive the roads.
 
Denny shook his head.
 
The fighting had changed him.
 
Instead of appreciating the beauty before him, bathed in the glow of the waxing moon, he stood there planning strategy.