The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (6 page)

Michelle tried to study the waters around them in hopes to see the tell-tale wake of the other boat. The engine was the only sound, yet it seemed to spread across the water and reach her from all sides. Silently calming herself, she stretched her fingers, knuckles cracking, before resuming her hold of the machine gun. She knew she had to be sure of her target when she fired, or she’d risk giving away their position. Perhaps realizing their error, the sound of the motor abruptly cut off and was replaced by a dreadful silence.

The morning slid by at a glacially slow pace as two men continued their trek across the barren landscape. Shortly before noon, Hicks had identified a distinct set of tracks that led beyond the camp’s secure perimeter. Derrick had enough experience to recognize the haphazard shuffling steps of an infected. For the most part the two had operated in silence, whether out of mutual indifference to each other or engrossment in their task, he could not tell. He welcomed the absence of conversation, having grown accustomed to the peace of solitude since the loss of his girlfriend, Jenni Caliente. It had been with great reluctance that he had surrendered to his curiosity and joined the Horde. Even then, he had cloistered himself almost to the point of recluse, avoiding as much interaction as possible as he studied the group.

His memory of Hicks from their time in the mountain camp was of a man quite like himself. Isolated, distant, and haunted. Not much had changed with him, by Derrick’s estimation, as they crossed the wide flats of the terrain. Declaring a brief stop to eat and rest was the first time Hicks had spoken since they set out at dawn.

Over a shared meal of nearly stale bread and smoked meat, he almost jumped when Hicks commented on his choice of weapons.

“You a samurai now?” the former mercenary asked, nodding his head towards the thin katana sword strapped to Derrick’s back. He had found the blade among a collection of swords and knives, most of which were display models and not sharpened, inside of an abandoned home that had offered shelter from a late spring downpour. His fascination had immediately piqued when his eyes had fallen upon the sleek steel with its red-cord handle and Asian dragon etched into the metal above the guard. Unlike the majority of the weapons of the home’s collection, the edge on the katana was deadly sharp and had drawn blood when he had carelessly ran his finger along it. Though he doubted its practical purpose against the ferocity of the Tils, Derrick had taken the sword with him, and had since kept it near at hand. In the months in his possession, the katana had proved invaluable.

“It’s good for close encounters,” he replied through a mouthful of bread. “Better to take one down with it quietly, than use a gun and draw more Tils.”

Hicks only offered a shallow nod and brief smile. Unreadable as always, Derrick took the gesture as agreement, though it could easily have been mockery. “It helps to wear the helmet,” he added, to tamper the latter. Tapping the black dome at his feet, another acquisition from his travels, he found himself seeking the other man’s respect.

“Blood spray,” Hicks said. Swallowing the last of his meal and taking a long drink of water from his canteen, he concluded the conversation simply. “Smart.”

Derrick was surprised at how deeply the words affected him. From the moment of Jenni’s infection, he had felt the shift in perception from the others in the camp. He had been painfully aware how caring for her, the near constant attention she required, had forced him to abandon his role in the group. For months he had wilted beneath Mike Allard’s guilt-ridden and empathetic gaze. Blinded by his love for Jenni, consumed with rage for her condition, he had been unable to see past his own emotions and understand how much he had truly lost that day.

Only when Mike ended the turmoil in the only way possible—a responsibility Derrick now knew he himself had failed in—did the veil of anger and sorrow begin to lift. He had departed the camp that night not in fury, but rather with the torturous realization that his actions had placed him beyond the respect and trust of those once so dear to him. It was that same realization that had required him to save Mike and deliver him to the waiting ship. It was an act of attrition, a marginal penance in what he believed a self-inflicted road of redemption. Hicks’ short praise sparked a flicker of hope that one day he might atone for the mistakes of the past.

Rising to join Hicks, Derrick made a cursory examination of his gear, retrieved the motorcycle helmet from the ground and began to pace alongside the older man as the two resumed their hunt. Only a few strides in, he felt a shiver pass through him as the hair on his body rose in alarm. Pivoting seamlessly on his right heel, his hands reflexively drew katana and firearm. Hicks immediately took a defensive posture of his own, weapons at the ready, and their eyes scoured the surrounding scenery.

“What d’ya got?” Hicks breathed in little more than a whisper.

“I don’t know, just felt something. Like we’re being watched.”

The terrain stretched in relative flatness in all directions, with minimal trees to obstruct sight. Save for the slight shifting of tree branches in the breeze, the landscape was devoid of motion.

Tense seconds passed, but Derrick was unable to locate anything to justify his alarm.

“You sure, kid?” Hicks asked. “I don’t see anything moving out there.”

Feeling the fool, Derrick muttered, “I guess not. It’s just that I…” He struggled to define the sensation that had precipitated his concern. Abashed, he eventually returned the blade to its sheath and shook his head. “I guess it was nothing.”

Already having relaxed his tension, Hicks holstered his guns as he said, “It happens. When you’re out here on your own, your mind plays tricks on you. Don’t let yourself get spooked, kid. We have a lot more ground to cover before we have to head back.”

Resigned to accept Hicks’ explanation, Derrick fell in beside him and continued to follow the tracks. So much for earning his respect, he thought with anger. I’m jumping at the wind. As they walked though, he continued to glance back over the ground they covered, unable to shake the prickling cold sensation of hidden eyes.

Crouched low, almost pressed into the ground, the creature stared at its prey. Too distant to attack, it simply waited until the indistinct shapes resumed their walking. An almost inaudible growl expressed its condemnation to the two others from the pack. They had drawn too close and thus the prey had been alerted. Second only to the pack’s Alpha, it knew the two others, lesser males in the hierarchy, would obey its warning. The same hunger that burned within them, fought to control its own mind. But, the Alpha’s instructions had been clear. The pack needed to eat.

“There’s at least seven different sets,” Hicks said in his usual grumble as he moved about the clearing in a hunch. It was nearing the time at which the two had planned to turn back when Hicks discovered the new sets of tracks. The footprints varied enough in size to account for several distinct Tils. Not far from the convergence of tracks, freshly deposited urine and feces attested to the recent presence of the tracks’ owners.

Glancing at his watch, and also the late-afternoon sun, Derrick asked, “Do we follow them? Paul gave us twenty-four hours before sending a search party.” Personally, he was inclined to pursue the prints, if only to rid the world of a handful of Tils, possibly even the Til that had managed to penetrate the Horde’s defenses.

As he rose from the ground, Hicks turned to him and spoke with a sincerity that took Derrick aback. “Your call, kid. You know the area better than me.”

Derrick unconsciously chewed the inside of his bottom lip as he weighed the risks. “Well, we’ve come this far,” he said finally. With silent agreement, Hicks shouldered his pack and returned to their steady pursuit of the Tils.

Over the next hours of walking, the sky grew increasingly dark, both from the waning of the day as well as a mass of thick gray clouds that were quickly filling the air above them. Though the heart of the storm was still perhaps some miles off, Derrick could hear the thundering booms in the distance. A stomach-turning pang of regret settled over him as it became clear that the pair would not only been spending the night’s passage in Til territory, but that those hours would pass under a cloud of rain.

Starting as a light mist, the rain that eventually overtook them soon turned to a hissing downpour that limited distant sight. The tracks they were following were quickly becoming little more than pockets of mud. So are ours, he thought sourly. Any search party looking for us won’t find our trail come morning. Pulling the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck, Derrick set his jaw and trudged along beside Hicks.

The other man, either more resilient or more practiced, seemed to ignore the storm entirely. Derrick could note, however, the increasingly coarse language tinting Hicks’ grumbles. Eventually the man pulled up short and scanned what little could be seen in the driving rain.

“What is it?” Derrick asked in a hush. Instinct tingled within him and he slowly reached for his weapons.

“The trail’s getting thin,” Hicks replied grimly.

“If we wait out the storm…”

“There won’t be anything left. We’ve been going northeast for the last hour or so, though. We should continue in that direction until full dark and make camp for the night.”

Derrick was about to voice his agreement when a blinding fork of lightning cascaded over the sky behind them. Before his eyes recovered, his body shook as thunder blasted his ears. A second bolt of electric blue flashed. In the momentary brilliance of light, he saw three human shadows contrasted in the flash. Or, he thought he did. When the sky returned to its minimal dusky light, the place where the figures had stood was bare but for a leafless tree with twining branches. Recalling Hicks’ warning of nerves getting the better of him, he tried to push the fleeting image from his mind, but a cold dread continued to tickle his spine.

The thick blanket of night unfolded far earlier than normal due to the heavy cloud cover that could now only be seen in the dancing flashes of lightning. A small aluminum tool shed provided cramped quarters but Derrick breathed a grateful sigh for the roof’s protection from the pummeling storm. Even if the rain hitting the metal roof did not sound like a battlefield of firing cannons, the unease he felt, and believed he could see mirrored in Hicks, would not allow for sleep. Rather, the two huddled quietly in clothes that had long since been soaked through.

By the light of a small flashlight, Derrick ran the small sharpening stone along the edge of the katana. Since he had had the blade in his possession, the smooth ritual of stone on sword had often worked to soothe his tension. That magic failed in keeping troubling thoughts from his mind this night.

Derrick had faced Tils before, more than he cared to recall, and the fear that had once filled him when the ravenous eyes of an infected fell upon him had long since diminished. He had learned much over the years, learned the Tils’ weaknesses, and learned he could face them and survive. No, he had stopped fearing the Tils some time ago, but the events of the last two days had resurrected the fear he thought defeated. The tension in his body was as heightened as it had been on that first fateful day of the outbreak. He tried to work the reasons in his head, but it always came to the same conclusion. We’re being hunted.

As if to punctuate the thought, lightning and thunder, less than a blink a part, erupted so forcefully that the few tools still hanging upon the shed’s walls clanged against the interior adding to the chaotic din. Finally giving up the task, as his nerves were irreparably frayed for the night, Derrick returned the whetstone to its small leather pouch and the katana to its scabbard. Cramped muscles called out their disagreement as he rose to his feet. The shed’s roof allowed him to stand, yet the cramped space caused him to dip his head anyway. Shuffling carefully to the small window, he could see no further than the wet streaks that slid down the glass.

“You shouldn’t stand that close to the window,” Hicks admonished in the darkness.

Though he could not see him, Derrick turned from the panes to reply. “We’re standing in a metal shed. I don’t think the window is our biggest concern right now.” Though the floor was wood, the two men had to be quite vigilant in keeping their bodies away from the structure’s walls. When Hicks did not comment back, he turned his attention back to the world beyond the shed. The heavens flashed again.

“Shit!” Derrick shouted through the subsequent thunder. He refused to believe his mind could fool him twice with the same image. Three figures, heads cocked in a painful angle, had been standing but a few yards from the front of the shed. In the brief blue-white intensity of light he had seen their faces. The rain had washed away traces of blood and gore; if not for their necks and bestial stares, he might have taken them to be members of the Horde beginning their search early.

“Dammit, kid, it’s just a storm!”

“No, there are Tils. Three of them, right outside!” Derrick knew his voice was on the edge of panic but he could not bring himself to care what Hicks might think of him. He saw the faces of the infected, Tils just mere steps away. There was calculation, a primal intelligence, in their eyes, the likes of which he had never seen before.

“Are you sure?” Hicks asked, this time his voice coming from beside Derrick’s shoulder. There was no need to answer when thin tendrils of blue snaked across the sky, once again illuminating the darkness. They had not moved. The forms were grotesque statues seemingly sprouted from the muddied soil. Though their movement was inert, their wretchedness was innate.