Tread Fearless: Survival & Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 4) (46 page)

The pack was getting closer. Mark could feel them as much as see and hear them. When it sounded like one was running up to him, Mark quickly turned around and shined his tactical flashlight into the darkness. Three sets of eyes reflected back at him, all pale lamps of reflected light, pink tongues lolling, licking at their chops as if Mark was a sure thing, an easy meal.

He scanned around him with the light and saw three more sets of eyes, all eagerly watching him, waiting for him to run. But Mark wasn’t going to run. He knew running was the worst thing he could do under
the circumstances, even if it was possible. He knew he could run on his damaged ankle, but if he fell again, the coyotes would be all over him.

He also considered using his pistol, but he was still too close, less than a quarter mile from the FEMA camp. He might not attract any attention with one or even two shots, but after six or more, that would definitely bring a patrol. No, he decided, the pistol would be his last resort.

Mark decided to stop moving, and the coyotes began to circle around him, just out of reach of his feet. They were confident in their numbers, and Mark figured by their behavior that he wasn’t their first human target. In fact, if Mark knew the pack’s history, he would know that they had already taken down two people: a woman living in an abandoned car, and just three days ago, a child getting water from a creek.

With their hunger up again, they saw the man, alone in the dark, as easy prey. He limped with injury and fatigue, but he had no fear, and it made the pack leader hesitate. Their alpha-male was expected to make the first move before the pack would press their attack. He had to make the first move. But the others were easy. They had run with fear, and that fear fueled the pack, it gave them strength.

While Mark waited for the alpha to attack, he pulled his knife, a Boker-Fairbairn, from its leather sheath at his left hip and held it firmly, but not too tight. The double-edged, five-inch, razor-sharp steel blade was a replica of the famous WWII commando knife. It was a lethal weapon in the hands of a skilled combatant, and Mark fit the bill. It also felt good in his hands. Mark was a skilled knife fighter, but this would be the first time he ever faced off against a pack of hungry coyotes.

Just when Mark thought the fight would begin, the dogs circling behind him began to move away with excited yips and growls. A loud bark, followed by a deep and menacing growl, signaled the arrival of Sage. He trotted up to Mark, hackles raised, and was ready to fight. Mark said, “Glad you could join me,” without taking his eyes off the alpha.

Then it began. Two coyotes came in at Sage from the right, and the alpha charged at Mark with an accomplice. The alpha jumped high, as if to knock Mark down. His accomplice went in low, as if to grab Mark’s leg. To counter the moves, Mark squatted, keeping his knees close together to prevent a groin attack, and let the low dog take his left forearm. He then thrust the blade deep into the belly of the alpha, and let the dog’s momentum do the real killing.

The knife sliced the large coyote open, spilling his innards on the ground beside Mark. With the alpha done, Mark turned his attention to the coyote on his arm. The beast managed to sink his teeth into Mark’s arm, and was jerking his head violently back and forth as if trying to separate Mark’s arm from his body.

Mark relaxed his shoulder to prevent injury from the jerking, but he tensed his arm at the elbow to keep the dog close at hand. He then raised the knife firmly up and under the dog’s jaw, and only stopped pushing when he felt the blade hit the ceiling of the dog’s skull. When it fell limp to the ground, Mark turned to see what the other animals were doing.

Sage was a flurry of activity. One coyote already lay dead under his feet, his throat torn out. And yet another was in his mouth, held firmly by the neck and entirely at Sage’s mercy. Of the remaining coyotes, one struggled with Sage’s hind leg, trying to pull him down, and the other was trying to reach his throat. Mark drew his pistol and shot the dog trying to grab Sage’s throat. The large, forty-five caliber slug hit the dog in the chest and sent him flying several feet into the bushes.

As soon as the gun fired, the coyote holding Sage’s back leg released it and ran off into the woods. The one hanging in Sage’s mouth whimpered, and Sage dragged it over to Mark. Without delay, Mark grabbed his knife and drove it deep into the coyote’s chest, jerked the handle up and down once, and pulled it out. The coyote tensed when the blade penetrated, and went instantly limp without a single sound. Sage dropped the dead animal and began licking Mark’s face.

With a grateful hug, Mark said, “Thanks for the help, my friend. But I’d rather you lick my arm than my face.” With that being said, he rolled up his shirt sleeve to inspect the bite to his arm. The puncture wounds weren’t too deep, thanks to the heavy shirt he was wearing, but the jerking motion had torn his flesh in several places, and the wounds looked raw and very red.

Mark let Sage lick his wounds for a minute, and then stood and poured the last of his drinking water on his arm. He was eager to move on, given the gunfire and the stinking carcass of the eviscerated alpha that was lying next to him. He checked to see if he had all his equipment, and was ready to leave.

He turned to say something to Sage, and saw him lift his leg to pee on the head of the dead alpha. “My thoughts exactly,” said Mark. “Now come over here and let me check you out.”

Sage padded over to Mark and submitted to the inspection. Sage’s back leg was cut and bleeding, but nothing was broken. “You must have bones of steel,” said Mark, and he checked the other legs in order. He then checked Sage’s neck. He knew that a dog’s neck was the most vulnerable place when it came to dog-on-dog attacks, so he gingerly ran his fingers through Sage’s thick fur.

“You’ve got a lion’s mane. But as soon as I get a chance I’ll make you a studded collar. That will definitely put the odds in your favor,” said Mark, as he drew his fingers back. The tips were red with bold, but it didn’t seem to be flowing. Sage had clearly held his own against superior numbers, and Mark realized, for the first time since encountering the coyote pack, that he’d be dead if Sage hadn’t shown up.

“Looks like I owe you my life, old man,” said Mark, as he briskly scratched Sage’s wide back.

Sage barked and Mark said, “Shhhh . . . stop making such a racket. You’re gonna lead ‘em right to us.”

Sage shook his head, as if clearing water from his fur, and then trotted off a few feet before stopping. He turned to see if Mark was following and whined. “I’m coming. But remember, I can’t walk very fast.”

That earned Mark another bark, and he said in reply, “Hey! What did I just say?”

“It’s about time. I’ve been worried sick about you,” said Lauren, when she saw Mark walking down the dirt road in the scrapyard. She was standing in the doorway of a small back-lot warehouse, which was little more than a collection of old car parts.

With her hands on her hips, she looked upset, but Mark knew she wasn’t. He was glad to see her too. “What on earth happened to you?” she said with a gasp when he got close enough to see. Limping, and with his left arm hooked to his shirt in a makeshift sling, he was something to see all covered in blood and dirt. She fired off her next string of questions like a machinegun. “How did you hurt your arm? Did you get in a fight? Why are you limping? Why aren’t you telling me what happened?”

“Can I sit down first?” asked Mark. “And Sage is hurt, too. Take a look at him first. I have a first aid bag in my trailer.”

“Yes. I know where it is. Come inside. Sit down here,” said Lauren, and she pulled up a padded metal chair with rollers for legs. Mark dropped into it and tried to relax as he took in the sights around the warehouse. It was cramped and dusty, filled with used car parts, but covered and quiet. He wanted Lauren to set up in the front office by the road, but she said it was too exposed, and convinced him to accept the parts building where they currently hid. He agreed because it gave them a better chance to escape if a threat arrived.

Lauren saw Mark looking around and said, “I’ve cleaned up as much as I could, but this place is a dump, after all.”

“Do we have any water? I really need a drink,” said Mark.

“Of course. Here,” said Lauren, and she handed Mark the water bladder. “I made a place to sleep near the back wall. It’s not the Ritz, but at least we’ve got cover.”

“Did you send Sage to find me?”

“No. Wish I thought of it, but I didn’t. He left shortly after I got here. I thought he was running around the junkyard.”

“Good idea with the lights,” said Mark, as he looked up at the twenty-bulb string of battery-powered, LED lights. Lauren apparently found them in his equipment bag, and strung them up to do her work in the parts warehouse.

It was then that she got her first real look at Mark’s face. “You look like death warmed over. Do you need to lay down?” she asked.

“I’ll be alright. Check Sage first.”

Lauren nodded and bid Sage come to her under the lights. She began checking him over and said, “He’s bleeding, Mark.”

“Is it bad?”

Lauren sighed and said, “A little . . . but not bad. He’ll be okay. Now will you please tell me what happened?”

Mark dragged his boot through the dust on the floor and winced. His right ankle was throbbing, but compared to his left arm, it was nothing. “Did you twist your ankle?” asked Lauren, as she treated Sage’s back leg with anti-bacterial ointment and a roll of gauze. She covered the gauze with some blue, self-adhering, flex tape, and began applying ointment to his neck.

Mark nodded and said, “Yeah. Did that first. Can you hand me some aspirin? I’ve got a pretty big headache.”

“Mark Phillips, I’ll do no such thing until you tell me exactly what happened. I swear, I’ll break your other arm first,” said Lauren, as she looked over her shoulder at Mark.

“It’s not a break. We were attacked by a pack of wolves . . .”

“Wolves?”

“No. Sorry. I mean coyotes . . . there were six of them. We got all but one,” added Mark tiredly. “I think I need to lay down. I’m so tired. And I’m feeling a bit light-headed right now,” said Mark as he stood up.

“Sit back down. Here, let me take a look at your arm.” Mark was in no mood to argue, so he plopped back down into the chair and it rolled a foot back. Lauren grabbed the arms of the chair and pulled him under the light. When she bumped his arm, he winced.

“Let’s get that shirt off you first,” said Lauren, and she unbuttoned the sleeve from the front of his shirt. Mark cradled his damaged arm in his right hand as Lauren unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it gently away. Her gasp confirmed his own worst fears about the status of the wound, and he asked jokingly, “Will I live?”

“You should be in a hospital.”

“There are no hospitals anymore,” said Mark.

“Yeah? But there are doctors. You’re going to need better treatment than I can give you if you want to keep that arm.”

“Seriously? Your bed-side manner needs attention,” quipped Mark.

“I’m serious Mark, this is serious. You’ll at least need antibiotics. And I don’t remember seeing them in your supplies.”

“That’s because I don’t have any. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest a bit.”

“Mark. You’re not hearing me. You could die from this,” said Lauren, concern etched across her face.

“You know . . . you’re beautiful when you care.”

“Argh!” said Lauren. “Stand up. I’m gonna put you to bed. Can you walk to the back?”

“I’ll walk anywhere with you.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Thanks,” said Mark, and he grabbed the water bladder. “We’re gonna need more water, soon.”

“You let me worry about things for a while. You need to rest.”

“But I want to tell you about the camp,” said Mark, as he collapsed onto the sleeping pad Lauren set up for him in the back corner.

“We’ll talk later. For now, I’ll get you some aspirin so you can rest.”

Mark’s final words, before drifting off to sleep without taking his aspirin, were, “Thanks, Lauren.”

Lauren didn’t say this to Mark, but she was worried the coyote that bit him might have been rabid. She wasn’t an expert on rabies, but she
read about it a few years ago when a neighbor was attacked by a rabid skunk. From her memory, Mark was already showing signs and symptoms of rabies. She also remembered reading that without treatment, it was fatal to humans. That thought made her want to cry, so she stepped outside to begin pacing. She needed to think, to come up with a treatment plan for Mark.