A Shepherd's Calling (What Comes After Book 2) (28 page)

While he was making this study of the window, he detected a handful of errant Turned slide beneath him. He'd heard nothing from further behind him, but his old teacher told him he probably wouldn't know that the speakers had been activated. He also wouldn't be able to hear whatever sound they were making, since it was likely tuned to a frequency audible only to the Turned. Some had come around from the front of the barn, while others had tapered in from the edges of the clearing. Slowly lowering his gaze but not moving his head, Tom watched the monsters move past him.

At first, they were a slow trickle; simply one or two, coming here or there. One of the two that had been probing the barn eventually answered this call. Even when it brushed the trunk of the tree he was posted in, the beast did not look up. In the space of a few heartbeats, that trickle became a stream. They were coming steadily and much more quickly. It wasn't quite a run, but they moved easily, in that loping, jogging stride he was accustomed to seeing. Less than a second later, with no warning, they became an onrushing torrent. Flooding past at a dead run, the terrors were streaks of brown, black and gray. They passed beneath him in a roaring hiss, their movement nearly drowning out the hoarse grunts and sporadic shouts they called to no one in particular.

Twelve seconds. Tom sat in the tree, thinking small thoughts and praying to go unnoticed, for twelve seconds. Any one of the monsters running under him had only to look up, and it would be all over. Even with his conditioning, his gear and his training, he could not hope to stand against so many and survive. Not even on his best day and certainly not after all he'd been through already this day. Twelve seconds of mastered fear, where he reminded himself: everything Zen. To that point, it would have been fair to say those were the longest twelve seconds of his life. Twelve heart-pounding, choking, white-knuckle, bile-biting seconds later, just as suddenly as it had started, the flood of fiends abated.

Tom knew the Turned only made vocalizations when they were exceptionally hungry or angry, so he marveled at the effectiveness of the tools the marines had brought with them. Feeling more confident about how much time the distraction would provide, he shimmied down the tree, dropping the last five feet straight to the ground.

Landing in a crouch, he burst forward as quickly as he could, meaning to reach the corner of the barn. He pressed his sodden coat against the wet boards, removing his kukri from it's sheath.
That other one should be right around the corner
. It's possible the creature had joined the others in that last wave, but he could not leave it to chance. Angling around the corner, he risked a glance.

Nothing along the side of the building. The Shepherd was quick to note that shadows still lingered, closer to the house and other outbuildings. They had not fallen victim to the distraction, so he would need to hurry or risk being noticed. Keeping close to the wall, he checked every window he passed on his way to the front of the barn.

His luck had returned: the first he saw fit his needs perfectly. One of the boards sealing the portal overlapped the sill by more than an inch. That lip should prove an adequate point of leverage for his long knife to pry the wood open a few more inches. Just big enough to slip in something about the size of a can of shaving gel. Noting the window and the placement of the board, he moved on.

At the front corner of the barn, he stopped again. This time when he checked around the corner, he looked high, where the loft window would be. Finding no weapon protruding from it or sentry leaning through it, he ducked back around the corner. He removed a smoke grenade from one of his peacoat pockets and raised it overhead, in signal to Chris.

After a five count, the Shepherd tucked the long knife beneath his arm and pulled the pin on the grenade. The safety spoon flew clear with a sharp 'ting' sound and the canister of metal instantly grew warm in his hand. He waited one second before stepping out just far enough to clear the corner of the building and cast it up, into the loft window. The moment he lost the grenade in the darkness of the loft, he ducked back and pressed himself against the wall, listening for activity inside the building.

There were no sounds of movement after a few seconds, but he did catch a faint whiff of smoke, so he made his way to the window he'd seen earlier. Slipping the back of the kukri blade beneath the lip of the over-hanging board and planting his foot against the barn, he leaned away from the window. Using the large knife as a lever, Tom put every ounce of his weight into pulling the board free. Several moments of heavy strain passed and, with a small, dull 'pop', the board was loose of the sill. It swung free just far enough so that the Shepherd could squeeze the other smoke grenade inside.

He heard it land with a thud, then roll away with a clink. He was already heading back to the front of the barn, where he would await the opening of the main doors and recover the captured marines. Ideally without further incident. He removed the damp kerchief from where he had looped it around his belt and tied it over his nose and mouth. While he did so, he prayed it would not be necessary to take the lives of more misguided men serving a questionable cause.

The men inside the barn were strong willed, the Shepherd had to give them that much. However twisted their faith or demented their beliefs, there could be no question of the dedication they had to their cause.

Smoke rose from the building as though a great fire raged within; gray plumes streamed from around the roof and a voluminous cloud belched forth steadily from the loft window. All around the structure, gray fingers crept out of cracks in the frame, siding and covered windows. Those wispy digits rose curling into the sky, seeking to marry themselves with the clouds overhead. Indeed, the barn was fairly cloaked in a swirling, flickering curtain of gray before the main doors finally creaked and burst open.

The Shepherd had remained as close to the structure as he dared, but retreated a few yards after nearly a minute. The aura of smoke proved too much for his senses, and knowing he would need to see clearly and breathe deeply when the time came, he grudgingly stood clear of the barn.

The wooden doors were like a dam giving way, releasing a flood of smoke into the yard. Ash-colored billows, thick and dark, poured from the structure. In seconds, it had traversed the width of the yard to the house, blanketing part of that building in a dense, rolling cloud. It rose dozens of feet into the sky in a matter of moments, as though the smoke was intent on reaching the wet heavens themselves.

At last he heard movement; heavy steps, gasps and a heavy cough. The first set of sounds came from only a few feet in front of him. The next sounds were just to the left of the first. The first man had made it out of the barn while the other sounded as though he were still within. The Shepherd could only see a silhouette, but it didn't seem large enough to be Dettweiler.

Just as he thought he would need to enter the barn, he sensed as much as saw motion in the cloud. A swirling in the airy blanket of gray described a man-sized shape with another shadow beside it. A light wind blew away enough of the obscuring cover just long enough for the Shepherd to make out Dettweiler's bulk. It seemed the Sergeant's hand was on the shoulder of another man, as well. Tom had taken but a single step toward the men when the wind died down, returning his world to a thousand shades of gray.

With that one look, he'd been able to orient himself, however. He knew another five or six steps straight ahead would bring him to where he had seen the two men. Once there, they would turn almost ninety degrees to the right and walk until they reached the house. Though it stung his eyes, making them blink and water profusely, the Shepherd continued forward. His nostrils burned and his mouth filled with the hot taste of oil and chemicals, but still he called aloud to the men ahead of him.

“
Dettweiler. Preston. Hold still.” His voice was muffled from the wet kerchief in front of his mouth and the heavy smoke in which they stood.

Like clockwork, his sixth step brought his hand into contact with a strong arm. The Shepherd closed with the large man and spoke quietly. “Dettweiler, it's Tom DuPuis. We're getting out of here. Is Preston with you?”

A heavy hand gripped his shoulder, squeezing it powerfully. His response from the man was a labored fit of coughing. In a small voice from the other side of the Sergeant, Preston struggled to spit out a brief statement. “I'm here. Eby's dead, Doughty is M.I.A.”

“
Give me your hand,” the Shepherd said to Preston. “Dettweiler has my shoulder. Stay close, both of you.”

The Shepherd turned right and, with the marines in tow, took slow, measured steps toward the house. He felt the thickness of the air around him lift just before a light breeze kissed his brow. Like a veil, the smoke was pushed back, letting him see they were halfway to their destination. Seizing the moment, the Shepherd grabbed Dettweiler's wrist and broke into a run, quickly reaching the far corner of the house. He pressed the marines against the wall and looked down the length of the building, to the door on the porch. Seeing no threats, he deemed the area safe enough to leave the disoriented men for a few moments.

“
Stay here,” he told them, pulling the kerchief down to his neck. “I'll be back.”

He was stepping away from them when he felt his hackles rise. Though he commanded his body to turn as quickly as it could, he knew it wouldn't be fast enough. After the running, the fighting, the waiting, the smoke... his awareness was dull, his reflexes sapped. He might as well have been turning underwater for all the speed he was able to muster. His heel was planted in the ground, his hips just beginning to twist, when he heard the sharp crack: first from the forest, again when it reverberated off the house. He felt a slight bump against his ankle.

It felt like an age had passed when he finally completed his turn. He found his eyes staring at the limp body of a fiend sprawled out before him. One of the arms was stretched out, reaching for him. The Turned had long, hideous fingers capped with thick, black, diseased looking nails that scrapped the sole of his boot. The beast twitched as death tremors passed through it's body. When it lay still, the Shepherd looked to where he knew his old mentor lay waiting. Hunting. He nodded and went back to the corner.

Rifle ready and watching the smoke shrouded barn, the Shepherd called to the open windows above him. “Time to go.”

Rope was trailing from the window closest to him. It began to shudder and the Shepherd heard a telltale scratching that signaled someone was coming down. Janessa pushed away from the wall and dropped the last few feet. She stayed low as she crossed in front of the Shepherd, keeping herself as clear as possible from his line of fire.

“
Watch the south side,” he murmured to her as she passed.

While the barn itself was still veiled in smoke, the light breeze had swept back some of the cloud obscuring the front of the building. Tom could clearly see one body laying in the yard. The covering and condition of it's clothing told him it must have been one of the men watching the marines. As the gray blanket rolled further back, another body was briefly revealed to his eyes. It's proximity to the barn doors and the rifle clutched in it's hands told him that man probably belonged to the same group.

The Shepherd could hardly fault the Major for wanting those men dead. After all, he was certain he would feel the same way, were their positions reversed. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit disappointed. At the moment, he didn't know if that disappointment was directed at Vargas or the situation in general.

The rope shimmied again. Before the person on it could reach the bottom, the Shepherd saw movement near the barn. While his tired, strained eyes sought to confirm the identity of his prospective target, he heard a rifle fire. One shot from his left, quickly followed by a second. A third came from behind him. A blur of digital camouflage temporarily obscured his target as one of the marines rolled clear of the rope and out of his sight picture.

When he found his target again, it was not alone. Two, no, three of the creatures were creeping around the barn. Apparently, the distraction had run its course. The lead beast was moving to the house, straight toward him and the others. The Shepherd touched off one round, dropping the fiend in it's tracks. It's companions paused before sliding closer to the barn, where they were swallowed by the smoke still seeping from the building.

One minute from now, I would like this place to be a distant memory
, the Shepherd thought.

“
Anytime, Major,” Turner called. Crouched beside Tom, the radio operator's voice was loud.

The rope began to shake again. Some overly exhausted part of Tom's brain saw the twitching and swinging motions of the rope as happening in direct response to the irregular rifle shots issuing from all around. The asynchronous sound coupled with Vargas's movements produced an effect similar to a bizarre, erratic dance. In a different time or place, Tom might have laughed at how utterly random and ridiculous it seemed.

“
Darrow?” The Shepherd asked when the Major was on the ground.

“
Still up there. Plenty of food and water for him and whoever else survives.” The Major slipped past Tom and readily found his men. Only after both of the marines gave Vargas a thumbs-up did the officer turn to Tom and Janessa. “We are leaving.”

“
Finally,” Janessa muttered.

“
Right behind you,” Tom said.

He looked to where he thought Chris was positioned. The Shepherd knew, as the Turned were even now returning in force, someone should stay long enough to cover their retreat. Of course, his old instructor had set himself up perfectly to do just that. Tom did not think the marines would be in a hurry to leave without Chris, especially not after he had played such an important role in the rescue of two of their number. While part of Tom was loathe to leave the Hunter, another part of him knew that the older man could more than take care of himself.