Last Refuge Page 4

  “There,” the man pointed. Nick squinted out onto the grassy tundra. Finally, he found what didn’t fit the scenery: puffs of smoke from what Nick guessed was an old oil-field camp, one not too dissimilar to the camp he and Jimmy had cleared recently.

  “How long?” Pete asked.

  “We saw smoke there three days ago,” the man answered.

  “And no one has checked it out?” Pete questioned.

  The man gave the subtlest head-shake no. “That’s where they are,” he said softly. “I’m sure of it.” Then after taking a deep breath, the man said, “I’ll see you back at the village. We’ll be leaving soon.” Then he brushed past them back into the woods.

  The four men stared out onto the northern horizon, like if they tried hard enough, they could make out details of the camp, maybe even see the villagers or the people who had taken them.

  Pete turned to Nick. “Do you know where you are?” he asked.

  Nick was confused by the question. He looked with fresh eyes at the view. “We traveled northeast to this village,” he answered.

  Without approving or disapproving, Pete pointed left to the northwest and said, “You can just barely make out the pipeline from here. Further north, several hours by foot is Deadhorse.” That was all he said, and Nick couldn’t help but feel like he was being given a coded message, that this was more important than it seemed at first glance.

  Pete looked at Nick, reading him with those same scrutinizing eyes. Nick felt pressure to do or say something, to prove that he understood or was ready or whatever it was Pete was after. Finally, Nick assembled a response: “We’ll find her. We’ll get them back.”

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS DÉJÀ VU all over again. Or, at least it was at first as Nick and the thirty or so natives descended the mountain and began their trek onto the grasslands. But now, they weren’t night travelers, and although Nick hadn’t slept, he felt the second wind of a new day kick in along with the endorphins produced by a full stomach and physical activity.

  As they moved in a single-file line, Nick no longer felt small, defenseless, as he did with Pete and the hunters. Now, there was safety in numbers. But that was just a feeling, and Nick knew it. The cynical, practical part of his mind should have recognized that whatever group had sacked Pete’s village had been strong enough to wipe out a similar number of armed men. Not only that, this group possessed enough members to be able to carry off the women and children, which Nick knew would be no small task. But these kinds of thoughts only came in spits and spats, his sleep-deprived mind seeming to reduce itself to a more primitive, emotion-driven state.

  At mid-day, the march halted long enough for the men to open their thin cloth sacks and share a meal. Nick suddenly realized he was unprepared, having only his canteen of water that he had replenished at the village. Pete and the other two villagers were quickly invited to share in the meal, which from a distance appeared to consist merely of salted meat. It was meager fare, but after the last twenty-four hours Nick was ravenous.

  He sat down in the grass, much like the others, except he was alone. Pete, his only father-figure left in the world, was absorbed in conversation with men from the other village. Dark thoughts emerged inside Nick: why was he here? What difference could he make? There were thirty of them; if they couldn’t do without him, they couldn’t do it with him either. He should be back with his brother. These people didn’t care about him. He was an outsider. Did Lusa even like him?

  The last question stuck with him. They had talked over shortwave every week since the tradition had been established, but it was always following a conversation with Pete. Nick had interpreted it as being equivalent to being greeted at the front door by a girl’s father when you went to pick them up for a date. But that may not be the way they thought of it. They may have just been bored, the reason Lusa talked with him. Pete wanted the intel, not to mention the barrels of wheat that Nick had volunteered. Maybe Lusa had felt obliged to entertain Nick so that they would get more food from him in the future. She didn’t know about the vault, but two barrels of grain had to come from somewhere, and Nick and Jimmy had vehicles and dominion over Deadhorse where there were more modern, western resources. Maybe it had all been a lie, and Nick was the biggest sucker in the world.

  “Did you eat?” a young man asked.

  Nick looked up, startled as if he’d been asleep. “No. Not yet,” came his reply.

  “Here, have some of mine,” the man offered as he sat down in the grass next to Nick.

  Nick moved slowly, examining both the offer and the one who offered it. The young man couldn’t be any older than he was. Finally, like a scared stray dog, Nick reached out his hand and took a morsel of meat from the open cloth sack.

  “Thank you,” Nick said simply.

  The young man smiled, then said, “Did you know Lusa?”

  Nick didn’t like the way he asked the question in the past tense. “Yeah, I know her. I talked with her every week over shortwave.” He felt the need to establish his turf a little.

  “She was my cousin,” the young man said. “I hope we find her.”

  “We’ll find her,” Nick affirmed. “I just hope we can get her and the others out. That’s all.”

  The young man considered his words, then nodded. “My name is Aaron,” he said finally.

  “I’m Nick,” he answered with a second mouthful of meat.

  “Can’t have too many friends, I always say,” Aaron said.

  Before Nick could agree or comment, a loud whistle came from the head of the pack, up where Pete and the leader of the village were.

  “Looks like we’re moving,” Aaron said, as he jumped to his feet. He then extended his hand down to assist Nick. Nick studied his hand for a moment before taking it and joining the group.

  THE REST OF the trip passed uneventfully except for the blisters that were forming on both of Nick’s heels. He couldn’t remember ever walking this far, and on no sleep to boot. By the time they neared the camp where the missing villagers were believed to be, the sun was closing on the horizon and the light of day had a different color. It was one Nick always loved, a time when he could see clearly without having to squint, when the softer light was goldilocks right and the world around him seemed benevolent and inviting.

  But the world wasn’t benevolent, Nick knew. He’d thought a while about why the light seemed so perfect at dusk and dawn and hadn’t come up with an answer until after several months at the vault when he noticed arctic foxes, occasionally wolves, and other predators come out to hunt at these times. Nick figured people were just like them. We must like the softer light because that is when we are meant to hunt.

  This diurnal instinct made further sense as Nick and Jimmy’s eating habits had changed, no longer eating three square meals a day but rather switching to a late breakfast and pre-bedtime dinner. Those were the post-kill times, Nick had decided. That was when people were hardwired to eat, and the mid-day lunch must have emerged as a by-product of agriculture, the need to escape the midday sun and replenish energy stores before laboring in the field for several more hours.

  His mind shifted through tangential thoughts like these but snapped back to the moment with near panic intensity. This was real, he reminded himself.

  What else was real was the difference in the men as they closed in on the camp. He could sense they were nearing it without anyone having to say so, and he imagined everyone else could too. They became more rigid, more erect, their bodies sensing the danger long before their minds could find reasons to.

  Nick found himself experiencing a strange exhilaration, a mixed emotion of fear and bloodlust. He was the hunter, or so he hoped. He was deliriously tired, and he imagined this added to his inability to filter out these baser instincts. They had come a long way, and he knew the culminating moment was near.

  Suddenly, the train of hunters stopped, the village leader in front raising one hand into the air. Everyone listened. Then Nick heard it: a screeching sound
he didn’t recognize. He thought it could have been a hawk at first, but it was too shrill and guttural. It made him think of the blood curdling sound of a dying rabbit, something he’d first heard out on the snowy tundra almost a year ago.

  Then the sound changed, no longer the drawn-out wail. Nick heard what was clearly hoots and hollers from some nearby human. He tried to aim his eyes ahead of the pack, toward the sounds, but the gentle hill they were climbing peaked onto the horizon, and the sounds seemed to come from beyond his line of sight. The camp must be right over there, Nick thought.

  The leader turned and faced the group. He made hand gestures that reminded Nick of those he’d seen Navy Seals use on movies. The message was clear and, apparently, universal: fan out.

  Nick felt someone grab him by the arm. To his surprise, Pete had come from behind him—he didn’t know he had been back there—and whispered in his ear, “Stick with me.”

  Unlike when Pete had first suggested going to the neighboring village, now Nick was all too happy to follow Pete’s lead. More than ever, he wished he had a father, someone to take up the slack when he couldn’t carry his load. Someone to think when he couldn’t.

  The men dispersed left and right, but always upward toward the crest of the small hill. Nick followed Pete through the tall grass, and soon he felt like they were alone, though if he looked to either side, he could spot other hunters.

  Nick took out his Springfield and tried his best to see the reflective white pin in the rear action that indicated the gun was cocked. He thought he had cocked it miles ago, but he didn’t trust his memory right now.

  Suddenly, Nick felt himself smash into the backside of Pete. Pete had stopped walking, and Nick hadn’t noticed.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said quickly.

  Pete turned and shooshed him with a finger raised to his lips. Then he pointed at the ground and then up toward the top of the hill.

  Nick didn’t understand until he saw Pete get down on the ground and begin crawling up the hill on his belly. Nick fell to the ground, his tired mind and body barely feeling the impact.

  Awkwardly, he crawled up the hillside, his pistol in his right hand. He had to use his right elbow like a hand, and his gait was uneven, unbalanced because of it. He was keenly aware of the danger of accidently firing off a round. It was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make, and he kept his index finger elongated parallel to the barrel, outside the trigger guard.

  Moments later, Nick and Pete lay at the top edge of the hill. After the monotonous landscape of the past several hours, Nick’s mind turned flips trying to interpret the visually rich scene before them.

  The camp had been an oil-field alright. That much was clear; heavy trucks and machinery littered the view, and Nick even spotted a small stationary pump, the kind that was often seen along the side of the road as he drove the Dalton. He wondered if this pump had recently been online. In the center of the camp were cargo crates, the kind of metal containers that were eight-feet tall and thirty or so feet long, all laid out side by side.

  A fire burned in the center of the camp, and Nick saw shadows of people moving around it. Someone threw something at the flames, and a small fireball erupted into the sky. Shrieks like they had heard earlier followed, and Nick realized these people couldn’t be mere crazies; they were too organized. They had fire, knew how to throw fuel on it, and seemed to relate to it, worship it almost.

  There was movement to the right from the shadows, and Nick’s inner alarm started screaming bells and sirens. He felt Pete’s arm grab his as if he intuitively knew Nick needed to be settled or restrained. Nick watched as two men dragged a long spruce log toward the camp. They yelled nonsensical utterings, and soon two women and another man came to them and helped them pull the load.

  They’re collecting firewood and working together, Nick thought. He noticed how so many of them had tattered clothes, and all the men had year-long beards. He couldn’t tell from this distance, but he was pretty sure many of them were shoeless. Mere crazies, they were not. Not like any he’d seen before, anyway. And he didn’t think they were just some band of unaffected humans either. They were too… his mind searched for the word… wild.

  “Where are they?” Pete whispered to Nick. Nick searched the camp, not understanding at first who Pete was referring to. Then it hit him: where were the villagers?

  They waited as patiently as anyone in their position could. Then after several minutes of observing these wild people, Nick felt Pete’s elbow in his ribs.

  “There,” Pete whispered as he pointed toward one of the metal shipping containers. Nick watched as one of the people opened the door, removing the long metal bar that acted as its lock. Another person waited beside the first, carrying a heavy stick.

  Then, after the door was opened, Nick heard high-pitched cries and wails unlike those he’d heard before. The first man entered into the shipping container. More cries sounded. Seconds later, he re-emerged, dragging a small child out who kicked and screamed. Nick saw hands from within the cargo container clutch the child’s legs and feet, trying to hold on to him. Then the man with the club bashed at the grabbers.

  It all happened so fast Nick couldn’t believe his eyes. But there was the evidence that it all had really happened: a chubby little boy that he thought he recognized from the village. Pete’s people were in those containers. Lusa was in there.

  Nick watched in dreadful silence as the two men dragged the little boy toward the fire. When Pete turned, Nick saw terror in his eyes. His stoicism lost, Pete mouthed the word, “Cannibals.”

  CHAPTER 8

  TWICE SINCE THE little boy had been grabbed, Pete had run up and down what Nick’s sleep-deprived mind considered the line of scrimmage: the crest of the hill upon which all the natives were scattered. When Pete had first jumped up, Nick thought he was running away. Everyone has their breaking point, after all. But Pete, today’s quarterback, had called an audible, an impromptu plan of rescue that needed to be executed now, before supper was served.

  Once Nick had realized Pete wasn’t abandoning the group, Nick had turned to watch the horror show before him: real life cannibals. The scene which unfolded seemed nightmarishly surreal, the little boy struggling against his handlers as they dragged him toward the fire. Much to Nick’s relief, the boy wasn’t placed directly upon the flames but was first hog-tied, his hands and feet behind him so that he was unable to run or crawl. Just right for sticking an apple in his mouth, Nick’s twisted mind offered.

  The encampment itself was huge, much larger than Nick had previously assessed. But the onset of evening meant most of it was veiled in shadows, which prevented Nick from getting an accurate headcount. But he didn’t need one. It was clear by the number of cannibals he could see that Pete’s group was outnumbered. There was no way they could simply overpower these…people.

  Nick struggled to classify them, knowing they weren’t mere crazies. Sure, crazies would eat other humans, but they weren’t brain-hungry zombies; they were more like murderous scavengers, opportunists that would dine on anything or anyone, whether that be spam, roadkill, or your best friend. But these cannibals were different. They worked together, planned and cooperated. Cannibal wasn’t a perfect word for them, but Nick knew of none better.

  Pete returned, sliding to the ground beside him like Pete Rose stealing second base. It was the fastest Nick had ever seen the reserved man move, but he knew why; time was running out—for the little boy and, soon enough, for the others.

  Seconds later, three men dove onto the grass behind them. Surprised, Nick felt an initial jolt of adrenaline that quickly tapered off; his nerves were beyond fried. He looked behind him and found a smiling face: Aaron.

  “Are you ready,” Pete whispered.

  “For what?” Nick asked. “What’s the plan.”

  Pete spoke slowly now, his emotions under his control again, and it seemed to Nick that Pete was somehow disappointed with him for not simply knowing what would happen next.

&nb
sp; “We’re going to go get them,” Pete said plainly. “Stick with me and do as I say.”

  Nick would have liked more explanation, but this was enough. And he doubted if he’d have the nerve to go through with it if he’d heard the real plan, the details of what they were about to try.

  They waited, though Nick didn’t know why. Nick watched some of the cannibals near the fire as they pulled knives from the dirt. Nick’s inner critic spoke up, saying how foolish it was to stick a knife in the ground, how it would dull the blade and rust it in no time. But then he realized he was critiquing incoherent cannibals.

  Unlike crazies, these wild people did possess a rudimentary appreciation for tools. They even understood sharpness and dullness. He watched in amazement as they dragged their blades against what looked like large river rocks, effectively sharpening them before use. Not as stupid as I thought.

  Nick’s attention turned to the three cargo containers where he’d seen them grab the little boy. That was where Lusa was, and the others. And it was there, he was sure, they would end up tonight. Or die trying.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out. Its long reverberation told Nick it was some distance away. The cannibals must have pinpointed its source better than he could, because the entire camp moved as one, a single swarm of running, flailing limbs, toward the sound. Hundreds of new cannibals appeared after the shot. The hornet’s nest had been kicked, and Nick was grateful the mass was heading away from him.

  “Come on. Now’s our chance,” Pete said as he rose and rushed the camp.

  Nick hesitated, part of him unwilling to stick his hand into the fire. But the bodies behind him moved, and he felt himself scooped up, lifted onto his feet.