Danielle Kidnapped: A Novel of Survival in the Coming Ice Age Page 6

  In the snow he saw some of the spent brass the shooter had used. He picked it up and knew right away it was .30-06. He pocketed it.

  A blue snowmobile appeared at the mouth of the road and started down into the field. It stopped beside the disabled red snowmobile and the rider dismounted to examine it.

  Raymond screamed at the others to hurry up. But the man with the snowmobile, Jim De Angelis, had left its engine running while he inspected the disabled one and he couldn’t hear the shouting.

  None of the others were hurrying up the hill. They approached the crest warily. They already knew the man they’d been pursuing could shoot. Raymond was livid at their lack of speed.

  “Get up here,” he yelled.

  When they reached him, he pointed to the tracks left by Zach and the dog.

  “He’s gone. Let’s go,” he yelled.

  “We’ve got to take Peterson and Jamison back,” Ted Foy, a large, older man, countered. “And Anderson is dead.”

  “No, we’ve got to get that bastard,” Raymond yelled as he started in the direction Zach had taken.

  When no one followed, he stopped.

  “Come on,” he screamed.

  “We’ve got wounded men to get back,” Foy said.

  “Let the others take them. We’ve got to get him.”

  “You go get him,” Foy yelled back. “We’ve got to keep these other guys alive.”

  The snowmobile finally reached them and the driver, De Angelis, got off. “Jamison bled to death,” he said without emotion.

  One of the walkie-talkies came to life and a voice said, “We found Kyle…he’s dead…head shot.”

  “Kyle?” Raymond yelled in alarm. “He’s just a kid. Give me the goddamned snowmobile,” he screamed as he lunged for it.

  “No,” Foy yelled and blocked him. “We’ve got to keep Peterson alive. The snowmobile’s the quickest way back to the ranch.”

  “Then you pussies can go,” Raymond yelled. “Who’s with me?”

  “No one,” Foy yelled back. “Anderson was leading this expedition and now he’s dead. We don’t know who the hell we’re chasing and I don’t know anyone here who wants to be dead, so we’re going back.”

  “LaCroix’s gonna be pissed we let this guy get away.”

  “Then let LaCroix make that decision. This was bound to happen sooner or later; we’ve run into a meat grinder. How many guys do you want to get killed chasing this one guy? How do we know he isn’t meeting up with some friends? We could be going into an ambush.”

  Foy turned around and yelled at De Angelis, “Go get Peterson and get him back to the compound, fast! Then come back for Anderson, Jamison, and Kyle. But get Peterson back as quick as you can.”

  “What about the other snowmobile?” Raymond asked.

  “It’s toast, but we can part-it-out.” De Angelis said.

  “Anyone know this guy…” Raymond asked as he took the halves of book cover out of his pocket and read the name to them, “…Zachary Amaral?”

  “Who’s that?” Foy asked.

  Raymond was agitated. “It’s a name on a fuckin’ book cover that had a cigarette and firecracker on it,” he shouted.

  “Cigarette and firecracker?”

  “Yeah, that motherfucker tricked us so he could get a lead on us.” He looked around. “Anyone know the name?”

  After a few seconds, Wayne Dodd, who had been silent to this point, started saying, “Amaral…Amaral…”

  “You know who he is?” Raymond asked.

  “Hold on…Yeah, he…ah… he married Sandra Gibbons…”

  “Sandra Gibbons, the cheerleader from a few years back?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s him.”

  “Gibbons is Anderson’s damned cousin.”

  “Second or third cousin, I think,” Foy said.

  “Who is he, though? Who the hell is Zachary Amaral?”

  “I hunted with him five or six years ago.” Dodd went on. “He was a survivalist-type guy; had a lot of guns and ammo. I can’t remember where he came from. But his family owned a cabin out here, somewhere. Kind of athletic. And I remember he won some kind of regional science fair, because that’s why Sandra went for him; she liked brainy guys.”

  “Lotta guys had the hots for her,” Foy said.

  “Well, I’ve got the hots for this Amaral, now,” Raymond said. “I want him dead. Let’s get him.”

  “We’ve got wounded to take back,” Foy said steadfastly.

  “No! We’re getting this guy, now.”

  “You’re not taking the snowmobile,” Foy said.

  “I don’t need the snowmobile. Who’s coming?”

  No one volunteered.

  “What about you, Wayne? You coming with me?” he asked Dodd, the weakest-willed, a “yes man” who craved acceptance.

  Dodd wavered for a second. He didn’t want to go. But he didn’t want anyone to think he was scared. He was afraid if he said “No” first and others then joined…how would he look?

  “What’s your decision?” Raymond demanded

  Reluctantly he skied toward Raymond.

  “Who else?”

  No one moved. Some turned their backs to him. They’d lost the stomach to track this guy into the woods.

  “Come on, Scott.”

  Scott Kramer shook his head no.

  “Just go part ways with me,” Raymond said.

  Scott wavered.

  “We’ll just follow him a little ways. If it looks dangerous, we’ll turn back.”

  Scott didn’t know how to say no, either.

  “Come on, you guys. We can get him. We can get him for the guys that are down.”

  “I’m keeping Peterson alive,” Foy said and started skiing away. Most of the others followed him.

  “Let those pussies go,” Raymond said and he started skiing along the tracks Zach and the dog had left.

  “Come on,” he said to Dodd and Scott.

  Reluctantly, they followed Raymond across the field, but they lagged back, afraid bullets would come out of the trees where the tracks led. Once there, they saw where Zach and the dog’s tracks disappeared down the old overgrown skid road; they stood out like signposts.

  The three entered the road but their progress wasn’t as fast as Zach’s because Dodd and Scott still lagged, anticipating ambushes every foot of the way. They knew their quarry could and would shoot. Raymond chided them for their caution as they travelled, but even he was cautious and he wasn’t willing to get too far ahead of his companions.

  Chapter 4

  August 26

  Zach kept up a good pace getting further and further ahead for the next hour. The dog stayed with him.

  He stopped only occasionally to listen for snowmobiles before he’d continue. He’d taken his coat off and tied it around his waist as he heated up from the exertion.

  The snow was coming down harder. This was good if it covered his trail, but he wasn’t sure how far behind his pursuers were or whether they’d even followed. At various points the dog disappeared only to reappear further along. Zach wasn’t sure why it stayed with him.

  He was getting hungry and he came to yet another broad pasture the forest would reclaim if the ice age didn’t take it, first. He crossed it and finally stopped. He looked back and could see the road where he’d entered the field; where they’d have to enter it if they’d followed him.

  He took off his ski mask to expose his ears and he listened again for the snowmobiles.

  There was nothing other than the sound of the wind and his own heavy breathing. He unslung his rifle, leaned it against a tree, then let his pack slide off his back until it dropped to the snow. He sat down on a snow-covered log, concealed from view by the bushes that surrounded it. From here he could keep an eye on the entrance to the field. He opened his pack and took out some jerky and a half loaf of rye bread. The dog was at his feet. Zach ate a little. The dog watched attentively.

  He broke off a piece of jerky.

  “What am I doing
?” he asked himself as he held some out to the dog.

  The malamute edged close enough to take it. He ate it in one gulp.

  Zach ate more himself, then, defying an inner voice that told him he was wasting food, he gave the rest to the dog.

  With the jerky gone, Zach folded the plastic bag and put it in his pocket. A plastic bag was one more thing that, once it was gone, was irreplaceable. He broke off some bread, brought it up to his mouth, but hesitated as the dog stared at him. Ignoring the inner voice again, he tore off another piece and held it out.

  The dog took it, stepped back, and dropped it on the snow to sniff it, then he devoured it.

  Zach continued to watch the clearing. There was nothing moving in the tree line. Gradually, his tracks were obliterated by the new snow. He’d wait here a while to make sure they were completely covered. He wanted to feel that security before he moved on.

  He ran his hand over the old M1. He liked it. It was accurate, reliable, and durable. But he wondered if he should have brought his Winchester Model 70. That rifle was scoped. It would have been better for the long-range shots he’d made in the morning. Perhaps he wouldn’t have wasted as many rounds. He didn’t know. He’d think about that, later.

  He thought about the boy he’d killed. It made him sick. It wasn’t what he wanted to do. If the little bastard had just left, everything would have been all right, but he had that hidden revolver and he had to start shooting at him. It had been two years since he’d killed anyone. He’d done it to get out of another ambush, just like today. And now there were…he held up his hand and counted off on his fingers, one-two-three-four…as many as four more deaths on his conscience.

  He looked down at the sleeping bag still tied to his pack and saw where the bullet had torn through it. Little bits of down were coming out the exit hole. He untied it from the pack and unrolled it. There were several holes, all made by the same bullet as it had travelled through the rolled-up bag. It must have been a full-metal jacketed bullet since it apparently hadn’t mushroomed, so the damage to the sleeping bag was minimal. And it must have exited just an inch or two over his head as he was crouched over his skis. Close. Too close.

  He could repair the holes when he got home. He was thankful he’d been lucky and all that was damaged was his sleeping bag. He also knew it would take just one errant bullet to change everything.

  He looked around. He wasn’t quite lost, but nothing was familiar, either.

  Across the field, something moving caught his eye through the falling snow. He stared and suddenly realized it was a black bear; the first one he’d seen in a year. Even from here he could tell it was skinny, but it was also big, so there’d be plenty of meat. Given the weather shift, it wasn’t going to find enough to fatten up for hibernation, and probably wasn’t going to survive the coming winter.

  There were almost no big animals anymore. In most areas deer and elk had been hunted to extinction, and in remote areas, where some still survived, they were dying off because there wasn’t enough spring or summer to speak of and, without a growing season, most of them couldn’t put on summer fat so they simply starved once the snow started falling.

  Then there were the roaming farm animals. There weren’t many of those, either, but there were still some, though he hadn’t seen any in over a month. It seemed forever ago that he’d taken the goat he’d jerked.

  Domesticated animals were heading for their own extinctions, too. Over the next few generations, if they could survive in the wild, they’d gradually evolve back to the species from which they came. Horses would revert to something that resembled Przewalski’s horses, the tarpan, or the European forest horse; cattle to their Asian and African ancestors; domestic dogs probably wouldn’t survive at all, unable to contend with more efficient predators. And cats? They probably had a better chance than most.

  There was still some small game and though it was sparse, he still found an occasional squirrel or rabbit.

  The bear was too much meat to pass up. He watched it forage in the snow.

  The dog began to growl.

  “Quiet,” he said in a low voice, and it fell silent.

  The bear would still have some valuable protein on it. He wouldn’t try to make the shot from here but, if he was careful, he could make it back through the field until he was close enough to get a reliable shot. Then he could dress it out and hide part of the carcass and the skin in a tree to return for, later.

  He quietly swapped the armor-piercing ammo clip for a clip with the hunting ammunition. He put his outer camo clothing back on so, once again, he blended in with the landscape. He stood and looked down at the dog. It, too, watched the bear. But it was quiet and motionless.

  “Stay,” he whispered, wondering if it would.

  The dog glanced at him, then back at the bear.

  He put his skis on and started out into the field. He hadn’t gotten far when he heard the dog growl, again. It would scare the bear off.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  He turned to ski back to the dog. A quick flick of his knife and he’d have two carcasses. It would still be a good day.

  He unsheathed his skinning knife. The dog ignored him, but it also ignored the bear and stared off into that part of the field they had come over. It made Zach look back over his shoulder, but there was nothing there.

  “Come ’ere,” he commanded with a whisper. But the dog wouldn’t move. It stood at attention and stared into the field

  A shot rang out and Zach went into a crouch.

  He looked back at the bear. It was gone.

  The dog growled, again.

  “Quiet, stupid,” he whispered, and it stopped.

  He listened, but there were no other sounds. No snowmobiles.

  He strained to see through the falling snow and finally he could barely make out one… two…no, three figures clad in winter-camo going to the spot where the bear had been. So, they had followed him.

  Soon, the three were all huddled down in the field. He knew they were dressing the carcass out. He didn’t know how many others there might be behind them. He stayed hidden. If he’d gone out there to take the bear himself, he’d have been in the middle of the field before they’d taken their shot. They’d have seen him and he’d have had nowhere to hide. He felt lucky.

  They took the better part of twenty minutes working the bear’s carcass. He watched as they took part of it back to the tree line and hoisted it up into a tree.

  Finally, taking what they could carry, they all left the field. They’d given up pursuing him. They had no idea they were within a few hundred yards of him.

  Zach waited about twenty minutes before he skied back across the field. He found the organs where they’d left them on the snow.

  The dog approached the entrails. He was hungry.

  “No!” he said to the dog and it stopped,

  The entrails were likely to contain pathogens. He gathered them up in a heavy plastic bag.

  “Come!” he said and the dog was off in pursuit as he skied to the edge of the field and found the stash they’d put up in a tree. They’d taken the best cuts with them, but there was still enough here to feed him—and even the dog—for several days. He guessed they’d gone to get a snowmobile to retrieve it.

  He reached inside his coat and took out the plastic bag. He took what he could carry which was almost all the rest of the usable meat and bone. He’d stash it somewhere else. The rest he spilled onto the snow. Let them think it had fallen. Maybe it would even feed some of the other animals. His tracks would be gone by the time they returned.

  All in all it was a good day. He’d survived an ambush, gotten a good part of a bear, and, in the dog, he had meat on the hoof…foot…whatever. Fresh meat for whenever he needed it. So far the dog had earned his keep.

  “Let’s go,” he said and the dog started running.

  By nightfall he’d stashed most of what he’d taken in a tree several miles away. In this weather it would keep until he came back.
And all of the new tracks he and the dog made were rapidly disappearing.

  He could go home, now. But he had mixed feelings about going back to his cabin. He often had terrible dreams when he slept there. His best haven was also his worst nightmare. So, he made another camp about four miles from his cabin and stayed out another night. There were ghosts at his cabin.

  He carved a burrow out of the snow and let the dog sleep in it with him.

  Chapter 5

  August 26

  Danielle woke to Whoops’s cries and raised herself up onto one elbow to make sure the baby was covered. There was a pink mark on Whoops’s face where Hank had slapped her to make her scream. Danielle made her sister as comfortable as she could, then lay back down, pulled the blankets back over her shoulders, and let the baby cry.

  The room was cold and stunk of must and mildew. The mattress had the faint odor of old urine. They had taken her clothes. After trying to fight them off, last night, her muscles ached. She didn’t know how many had had her. Hank, the big man who had punched her father in the stomach then dragged her away from her family, had been the first. They had undressed her as a gang, then the others stood along the walls of the room and made rude comments while waiting their turns.

  She tried to fight him off, but he was too big. The air around him was oppressive with his BO and he’d enjoyed her struggling while he lay on top of her. And his tongue—he forced it into her mouth and when she turned her head, it was in her ear. He was strong enough to hold both of her arms above her head with one of his huge hands, and he used the other to cover her mouth and nose so she couldn’t breathe. She struggled desperately but without air she began to black out. When he removed his hand she gasped for breath and he laughed. He did it again and she started losing consciousness faster. She was going to die. When he took his hand away, he spit in her face, he yelled, “Wake up!” and laughed.

  Finally, she was too tired to fight and she thought he’d finally take her. But he got angry instead. He swore at her and that’s when he reached over and slapped Whoops’s face and she screamed. From somewhere deep inside, Danielle found more reserves and almost threw him off. He laughed, again. This was what he wanted. She immediately realized it wasn’t sex he craved, what he wanted was violence because seconds after penetration he was done.