Danielle Kidnapped: A Novel of Survival in the Coming Ice Age Page 5

  He put the skinning knife away and broke camp quickly. He pulled the winter-camo ski mask over his head. There was no time to tend to the dog.

  “You’re lucky,” he whispered.

  The dog watched him.

  He rolled up his sleeping bag, tied it to his pack, slipped his pack on his back, and donned his skis. He slung the old M1 over his shoulder.

  He looked at the dog, again. “Shit,” he whispered when he saw the dog staring alertly at the trees to the south. Zach knew it had heard or seen something.

  It was time to go. But he wanted the dog. He lay his rifle down, dropped the pack, again, took a length of rope from it, and quickly started to fashion a harness. The dog was becoming more agitated.

  That was Zach’s final clue. No time for a harness. No time for the dog. It was time to get lost in the forest.

  He stuffed the rope back in his pack, slung the pack up on to his back, picked up his rifle and, poles in hand, he skied eastward from the camp and away from the highway. The dog followed him. He wasn’t sure why it did. The snow was picking up, but it wasn’t picking up fast enough to erase his latest tracks.

  He reached the edge of the woods and started down one of the old skid roads. He felt he’d be safe once he was in the trees. The dog ran ahead. But about three hundred yards into the woods it stopped and Zach skied past him. Suddenly, he brought himself up short. He looked back. The dog wasn’t going any further. Something up ahead had made it stop. Zach looked further up the road. Maybe skiing in this direction had been a mistake. The dog didn’t want to go there. Perhaps he should have skied west, across the highway. But in that direction lay the ocean and that put limits to where he could go. He started to sidestep back up the road while trying to peer into the trees around him. He had a gut feeling the dog knew…

  There was the first shot. He couldn’t tell where it came from, except snow came down from the branches above his head.

  He unslung his rifle from his shoulder and the dog zipped past him.

  Follow the dog, he told himself and resumed going east down the road, crouching low over his skis as more gunfire came out of the trees. The dog was getting further ahead. He looked back over his shoulder and saw skiers enter the road in pursuit.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He felt a tug on his pack and a burst of feathers puffed out ahead of him and he realized a bullet had torn through his sleeping bag. If he hadn’t been crouching forward over his skis it would have gone through him.

  Whoever among them was shooting were not good shots, but it just took one lucky one…or one good marksman in the bunch. His only chance was to keep moving.

  He’d been down this road before and he remembered there was a rise up ahead. A decent shooter could take him there when the hill slowed him down.

  But he was making good time. Then, there was the rise, looming ahead. He’d never make it to the top before they reached the bottom and they’d have the clear shot they needed. He looked back just as they came into sight. Ahead, the dog had already crested the rise and waited briefly before it suddenly slunk off into the trees.

  Zach left the road halfway up the hill and kicked off his skis. He was bringing up his old M1 just as his pursuers were leaving the trail themselves, disappearing into the woods on both sides of the road.

  From somewhere someone else started shooting in his direction even though he’d disappeared. Voices yelled for the shooter not to waste ammo. The shooting stopped. You didn’t waste ammunition in the ice age.

  In the distance he could hear a snowmobile—no, two. Things were getting worse, fast.

  He peered through the branches and the brush. His pursuers were dressed in winter-camo, as was he. Unless they had cohorts further up the trail, salvation still lay to the east. He picked up his skis and started backing deeper into the trees—and he fell over. He’d tripped over the damned dog. It was back.

  “Get outta here,” Zach whispered.

  Another shot brought more snow down from the branches. He didn’t think they could see him. They were trying to panic him out into the open—or to get him to stop moving and try to hide. Stopping would be fatal.

  He looked back through the brush.

  Someone yelled something he couldn’t make out. There was motion through the woods north of him as someone was in and out of sight faster than he could bring his rifle up.

  Then he heard more voices from the south, on the other side of the trail. Moving through the trees, they were trying to get ahead of him, attempting to outflank him on both sides. And the snowmobiles were getting closer. They were closing in. Unless he moved he’d be surrounded.

  If he could just see one of them—for just a few seconds—he could change things. He didn’t know how many there were. But getting east, ahead of them, was still his only escape. He knew he couldn’t linger here and he knew he couldn’t hide, and if the dog stayed with him, it was going to keep giving his position away. He had to kill the dog—now. He unsheathed his knife and turned. It was gone.

  Through the branches he saw something move in the trees to the north. He stared at the spot where he thought he’d seen it. Nothing stood out until it moved once more. Now he could discern a head covered in a winter-camo ski mask like his own. It made the man almost invisible and Zach could just barely make out the contours against the snow-laden branches. He brought his rifle up quickly. He put the bead exactly where he figured the man’s face was, then dropped it about ten inches low and ten inches to the left. He didn’t want the man dead—yet. He squeezed the trigger gently so that the shot was a surprise to him, as it always was when he placed a good shot. There was a silence that made him think this time he’d missed, but a piercing scream suddenly filled the woods.

  A panic-filled voice yelled, “He got Jamison.”

  “How bad?” another yelled.

  More screaming. It had to be Jamison screaming.

  “Kill that bastard,” another voice yelled.

  Now there other voices everywhere.

  “Watch out for him,” another voice yelled.

  That’s what Zach wanted to hear.

  Though this Jamison would probably die from his wound, right now he was more useful to him alive and screaming. Wounded, at least one of them was likely to hang back to take care of him. And with him screaming they now knew Zach could shoot. This would make them cautious and he hoped it would slow them down. It had to or he was dead.

  He started running east through the woods. His skis were getting hung up on branches, making travel difficult, but he couldn’t leave them. He still needed to use them to get away.

  Men on both sides of the road were getting ever further ahead, trapping him. He could hear orders yelled back and forth. Another voice was clearly one from a walkie-talkie. They were coordinating their attack. He had to keep moving.

  If he could just hit another one they wouldn’t feel so free to move around and it would give him a chance to make it to the top of the rise so he could get out of the trees and get on his skis, again.

  But where’d the dog go?

  He saw where its tracks disappeared into the brush and he reflexively followed them into a gully. They went up an embankment and into a small snow-filled glade. He was disoriented, now. He couldn’t tell where north-south or east-west lay. The dog’s tracks led across the opening. He started across it and heard the click that made him spin around. A boy no more than fourteen was fumbling with an old Russian AKM rifle. Something had jammed it.

  Zach dropped his skis and brought his M1 up.

  “No, mister, please,” the boy pleaded as he lowered his rifle. The look of terror on his face was complete.

  Zach walked back to him and wrenched the rifle out of his hands. He removed the magazine and jacked out the cartridge in the breech. Without saying a word he swung the rifle twice against a tree damaging the sheet metal receiver so it would never fire again, then he flung it off into the woods.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he whispered to th
e boy. The boy nodded and turned to leave.

  Zach went back to where he’d dropped his skis and heard a shot. He spun back and the boy was back out of the trees with a small revolver in his hands and shooting at him.

  Bringing his own rifle up quickly, he shot the boy in the head.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to shoot the kid. Now the shots would lead the others here. He should have just slit the little bastard’s throat the way he should have done the dog.

  He grabbed his skis and worked his way further into the forest.

  And, suddenly, there was the road covered with the new snow unblemished, except for the dog’s tracks, and again he knew which way was east. He put his skis on and followed the dog.

  Branches reached out over the road like fingers and slapped at him as he whooshed by. It would only be a few more years and they would obliterate the trail.

  As he reached another bend he looked back over his shoulder just as skiers came into view. He made it past the turn before they could get shots off, but ahead was another rise that would slow him down. He kicked off his skis, ran to the top, and put them back on just as his pursuers came back into view behind him. Ahead was a long downhill.

  He tried to remember where this road went as another bullet ripped through the trees behind him. They were taking desperate shots. There were chiding shouts to conserve ammunition. Then there was the ominous sound of the snowmobiles.

  He skied through another turn then he saw it: the road led into a vast sloping snow-covered pasture that sunk down into a glen, then rose away on the other side. It was either off into the woods or attempt to cross the downside of the field and hope to make it up the other side before they reached this spot from which they’d get clear shots. But safety wasn’t in hiding in the trees; it was in getting away. He started down the slope and, suddenly, the dog was back, running through the snow beside him.

  He glanced back several times, hit the bottom of the slope, and skied as far up the other side as he could, until he kicked off his skis again, swept them up, and ran as hard as he could up the hill.

  Sudden shots told him they’d reached the edge of the field. Snow sprayed up around him where their bullets hit.

  “Shit!” he yelled.

  He unslung his rifle, and spun. There were two of them, with scoped rifles, trying to acquire him. He drew a quick bead and squeezed off a shot, but he was breathing too heavily to make it accurate. Another shot. He knew he must be hitting close because they turned and disappeared back onto the road. He continued up the hill and saw the dog had stopped with him. Stupid dog he thought to himself as he plodded through the snow. Just as he reached the top more shots rang out. They had to be as winded as he was and were having the same trouble placing their shots accurately, scopes or not.

  He threw himself onto the snow, as bullets struck around him, and he rolled over the ridge and out of their view. The dog ran on.

  The shooting stopped once he was out of sight. He didn’t dare stand. To the east the field sloped gently away. He could ski it quickly, though he’d have quite a bit of open ground to cover. If they made it up to the top of this rise before he made it to the trees on the other side, there’d be nothing between him and their rifles. He had to slow them down.

  He crawled back toward the ridge until he could see them. “Shit,” he said to himself when he saw three of the men had already skied halfway down the hill. He took careful aim and squeezed off a shot at the lead skier. He missed. He was still shaking and breathing too heavily for good shot placement and each cartridge spent was a round gone forever in a world where no one was making ammunition for civilians anymore. He squeezed off another shot and the lead skier fell. The other two veered off into the woods. The fallen skier lay still for a moment and Zach thought he was dead. Then he started to move.

  The dog came back and stood on the ridge in front of him. Zach reached out, grabbed its leg, and pulled it back.

  “Get back here, you stupid bastard. Stay.”

  The dog lay down behind him.

  He heard the roar of a motor, again. At the mouth of the road a red snowmobile stopped.

  “Shit.” He couldn’t outrun or out-ski a snowmobile.

  He brought the rifle up and placed the front sight on the driver, then dropped it to the snowmobile itself. He squeezed off the shot just as the snowmobile lurched forward and he was sure he’d missed. He tried to acquire his target again, but holding the front sight on it as it raced down the hill was frustrating. Then, halfway down, its engine started to smoke and it seized up. The rider jumped off and started running toward the woods. He tried to draw a bead on the man, but there was no good running shot to make.

  Other skiers were now coming down the hill but they were moving fast and staying in the shadows of the trees near the edge of the field. The smoke from the snowmobile was letting up. The skier he’d hit was now crawling towards the woods.

  Zach watched him through his sights. He could kill him, but once again, a wounded man was more useful to him than a dead one…though he’d no doubt die, later. He watched the man struggle through the snow until he was almost to the trees. Two men emerged from the woods to drag him to cover. This was what Zach was waiting for. Carefully, he placed the front sight on one of the two. His breathing was measured now, his finger deliberate, and without quite realizing, he pulled the trigger again. The man fell. But, at the same time, he heard the “pling” of the en bloc clip as it flew out of the magazine—one more irreplaceable item from the pre-ice-age world. He reached in his pocket for a loaded clip and jammed it into the magazine well. When he brought his rifle back into play there were two men lying in the snow. The third was already back in the woods. One of the two looked like he may be dead. The other was still desperately crawling his way back toward the trees. He brought the rifle sight to bear on him. His finger gently began to squeeze the trigger, but he again reminded himself the guy was still more useful to him wounded. He took his finger off the trigger and pushed the safety on.

  The dog looked confused and began to whine but stayed down on the snow as commanded.

  Zach rolled through the snow to retrieve the spent en bloc clip. Suddenly, snow was flying from in front of the spot where he had been lying. They didn’t know where he was. They were either trying to panic him so he’d give his position away or it was suppression fire to provide cover to get the wounded man out of the snow. He stuffed the empty clip into his pocket.

  To escape, he needed a diversion, and he had one he’d never had to use before. He didn’t know if it would work, but now was the time to find out. He scooted back to his pack. From one of its pockets he took a plastic bag that held several M80s, a pack of cigarettes, and a butane lighter. He opened the pack of cigarettes and took two out. One he tore in half and put one of the halves back into the pack. He needed something to put the cigarettes on. They wouldn’t burn if he just laid them on the snow. He took a book from his pack and tore off the front cover. He then tore the cover in half and folded each half. He lit the two cigarettes and inserted the fuses of the M80s into the unlit ends of each of them. He nestled one of the cigarette/M80 combos into each of the folded halves of the cover, to protect them from the falling snow, and set them a few feet apart.

  Then he scooted further back until, in a crouch and out of sight of his pursuers, he could put his skis back on. He stood a little and peered back at the opposite hill, to the road from where he had come. His pursuers were all below the crest of the hill now and still out of sight.

  He started off through the field. He looked back at the dog that was watching him, but hadn’t gotten up.

  “Come on, stupid,” Zach commanded, and it rose to its feet and followed him. “Damned idiot dog,” he said as he skied off.

  He was sure his pursuers were, even now, making their way through the woods, again trying to outflank him. But he could cover ground faster through the field than they could through the trees. And as he reached the field’s far
end he heard what he hoped was the first M80 go off. It would make them hesitant to climb the hill. And there was another one set to go off in just a minute or so. He looked back. All that was evident of his passing through the field were his and the dog’s tracks. There was nothing he could do about that. What he needed was for the fireworks to buy him more time so he could disappear into the trees.

  There was another road at this end of the field. Unlike the skid road from which he’d entered the field, this one was wildly overgrown. That was why he hadn’t gone down it his last time here, so he didn’t know where it led. But there was no time to ponder that, now.

  Travelling down this road was slower, but it would also slow his pursuers—unless they had more snowmobiles.

  He kept going. But at one point he stopped, but only because the dog stopped.

  Fresh deer tracks. The dog sniffed them.

  It may be the deer he’d been tracking the day before, though he hoped it was a different one; the more deer still alive, the better. Zach told himself he might come back here to hunt, later, but only if he could figure out where these guys had come from. He needed that knowledge, if he was going to avoid them in the future.

  “Come on, stupid,” he commanded, and the dog immediately followed.

  Δ Δ Δ

  The first to reach the top of the hill was a tall man with blonde hair and beard, named Billy Raymond, and he saw Zach and the dog’s tracks that led off east across the field. He turned and waved the others up. While he waited he saw the second M80, its fuse stuck in the cigarette, still sitting on the book cover. The cigarette had gone out. He picked it up.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. He knew what the man he’d been pursuing had done to stall them.

  He picked up the two halves of the book cover. Putting them together he saw it was from an old Army field manual, FM 21-76, Survival. On the other side someone had written in ink, This book belongs to Zachary Amaral. The name seemed vaguely familiar.