A Shepherd's Calling (What Comes After Book 2) (29 page)

“
We'll be waiting at the trucks”
, he remembered the conversation with his friend. “
We'll be drawing some of them with us, so you'll have a fewer to worry about. You can walk back, if you like: I won't let them leave without you.”

“
That's right kindly of you, but probably not the way it'll pan out. You'll have maybe ninety minutes of daylight left when you make it back. That's if things go well and you don't have any unexpected visitors. When you get back, give me half an hour. Half an hour and not a minute more. If I'm not there, go. You'll need to put some distance between you and this place so you don't run into any other problems.”

“
We'll wait for you.”
His voice had been firm.

“
For thirty minutes. That's all.”
Seeing his former pupil ready to argue, the older man sighed.
“It's a mile and a half, Tom. If I can't make that in less than half an hour... You don't need me with you, anyway. Get to Quebec. Find out what's going on there and why they need you.”

The marines had already moved past the house and were nearing the tree line. Vargas in front, Turner in the rear, with Dettweiler and Preston sandwiched between them. The military men were holding at the edge of the clearing. One of them had cut Eby down and lay the fallen marine at the foot of the tree. Beside Eby's body lay the half-dozen monsters that had been feeding on him, now every bit as dead as he.

“
We goin' or stayin'?” Janessa's voice had a quiet intensity to it, something he didn't remember hearing before. He met her gaze, considering what might be happening behind those eyes.

“
Going,” he said, and with the young woman beside him, ran to where the marines waited.

The first part of their run was uneventful. They stumbled upon a pair of beasts which seemed startled by the arrival of the small group. In fact, they were so intent on whatever had distracted them, Vargas put both creatures down before either could do more than look at the onrushing band. It wasn't until several minutes into the run that they encountered significant resistance.

Dettweiler and Preston, having inhaled significant amounts of smoke before running, called for a breather.

“
Two minutes,” gasped the Sergeant, who promptly erupted into yet another fit of coughing.

“
Maybe three,” Preston amended, watching the larger man struggle for air.

Vargas nodded and a few steps later, motioned for the group to stop near a stout spruce. The tree was at the top of a slight incline and afforded a good view of the surrounding area. Motioning for Dettweiler and Preston to shelter near the tree, the Major gestured for the others to spread out around the two recuperating marines. Each of them was assigned a quadrant to watch and took to the task in relative quiet.

Tom assessed their trail. While they were following the same basic course, it wasn't the exact path they had used initially, nor was it quite the same as what he and Chris had taken earlier. If the incline they were atop had, a slimy, leaf-strewn puddle the size of a small pond at the base, they would be nearly halfway to the trucks. If not, he would need to start directing his companions more south-easterly. Otherwise, they would miss their mark entirely.

While they waited for their comrades to catch their breath, Tom took a moment to do the same. Damp air filled his lungs and brought a bouquet of aromas to his nose; the smell of earth, of rot and a pervasive wetness. A few breaths later, he thought this place seemed too quiet, too peaceful. Even before the small creatures of the forest fell silent. Another breath and he waited for the inevitable.

Of course
, the Shepherd thought. It had been too easy.
Here they come.

Racing through the trees, streaking along the ground, tearing through brush and splintering low-hanging branches, came the dark and light colored blurs. They moved with the feral grace and savage strength of an animal; a beast driven by the deepest pangs of hunger. Having at last seen their prey, they now gave their all to reach it and quell the ravening within them.

Briefly, Tom wondered which of the creatures had followed them. He knew that often, it took only one of the devils to spell disaster for everyone in an area. Somehow, when one of the Turned found someone, it could not only remain unerringly on a person's trail, but draw other fiends to the feast, as well. He had anticipated the bulk of the horde to return to the clearing. But even with the heightened smell the beasts exhibited, it struck him as strange that more than a handful could have tracked the small group this far and so quickly. In some ways, the Turned seemed to have increased visual acuity and sharper hearing, which the monsters regularly used to great advantage. In other ways, however, they seemed both blind and deaf. Knowing that made it difficult for Tom to accept he and the others had been followed such a distance on visual or audio-based tracking.

Some combination of senses, perhaps? Something new?
He thought that last with a shudder.

The horde fell upon them, rushing headlong in a staggered, uneven wave. There were so many, and the trees and shrubs so close together, tracking individual targets took too much time. Dimly aware of his own rifle barking, Tom heard the accompanying crack of Janessa's weapon somewhere nearby. It happened so quickly that by the time the Shepherd had fired the last round in his magazine, he knew it was already too late.

We're going to be overrun
, he thought. He saw his most recent target tumble to a stop beside a balsam fir. The body was immediately lost to sight, trampled beneath the hands and feet of a pair of terrors that sought their own place at the table.

He was so certain of his prediction that he almost didn't hear the additional rifle fire behind him. He had only swung his now empty rifle onto his back, when the two Turned that had overrun their fallen pack mate skidded to a halt. The horrors twitched in a grotesque dance, their bodies caught by several bullets simultaneously.

As he realized some of the gunfire was automatic, he felt himself pulled to the ground. A great weight was pressed upon him, covering his entire body save his right leg and hand. An unfamiliar voice, muffled by the body pushing him into the wet earth, called a single word in a deep, harsh voice.

“
Granada!”

Tom felt a thump on his chest, like something under the ground beneath him was striking toward the surface with a great hammer. He felt the stinging patter of small rocks against his leg and hand. He also heard an explosion that, even muted by the mass of the person covering him, sounded dangerously close.

The Shepherd felt the absence of weight upon him, accompanied by a rush of cool air across his face. Since the compression on his chest was gone, he took a deep breath and pushed himself up. What he saw amazed him.

Spread out between ten and thirty yards from where he and his companions stood, half a dozen men moved up the incline. Like the marines, they wore full military combat dress with forest camouflage. The pattern of the camo differed, however. So did the make and model of their weapons, Load Bearing Equipment, and even their armor. It appeared no less functional, just of an entirely different manufacture. The Shepherd immediately noticed two of the most distinct differences. First, one of the men was carrying something that appeared to be a Squad Automatic Weapon.

The second point, and far more pressing, was that the men were wearing blue helmets.

Tom knew gunfire alone would not have dispersed the Turned, so he thought the grenades must have been instrumental to their route. The noise and force of the explosions, the burst of automatic fire from the S.A.W. and the unrelenting single-shots from both marines and Peacekeepers, caused the remaining beasts to lose interest. With the arrival of reinforcements, the group was no longer overwhelmingly outnumbered or easy pickings and even the Turned seemed to sense that. So the monsters fled their prey with the mob-mentality that seemed to rule them whenever they were in a group. Shots, suppressed and otherwise, followed the receding shapes so that a trail of bodies littered the forest in wake of the fleeing nightmares. Tom watched in awe as he saw something he had never seen before: the Turned were retreating.

The brief but furiously intense firefight apparently over, Tom looked for Vargas. The Major was barely visible around Dettweiler's mass as the marine was now positioned between Tom and the approaching Peacekeepers. The Sergeant put a large hand on Tom's chest, as though imploring him to remain where he was.

From what he could see, Vargas approached the Peacekeepers, his carbine lowered. The Shepherd watched the officer's lips move, but knew that for the best part of a minute, he could not make out a word of the discussion.

The Major stopped a few feet from the closest Peacekeeper. While that man seemed the oldest of the new group, he could not have been much older than Tom. The difference in height and size between the two military men was apparent at once. The Peacekeeper was at least half a foot taller than the marine, much closer to Dettweiler's size. Another thing that struck Tom was how the Peacekeeper's uniform had only a single patch: on his left shoulder, an image of the earth in silver, set on a blue field. The man's uniform bore no other markings or insignia. Not on his collar, on his sleeves, or even on his armored vest. Nothing to denote name, rank, or position. A look at the other Peacekeepers revealed those men to be similarly lacking any signs of seniority or purpose.

It seemed Vargas and the Peacekeeper were engaged in a conversation that was quickly souring. Tom heard their voices were raised and saw the Peacekeeper close within arms reach of the Major. Towering over the marine, the larger man was speaking while grabbing the barrel of Vargas' weapon.

So that's what a Russian accent sounds like,
Tom thought, hearing just a snatch of the Peacekeeper's voice. To his right, Tom saw Preston's eyes narrow. The Corporal was watching the other soldiers with a careful patience that often preceded deadly intent.

This situation is escalating entirely too quickly. Between the officers arguing with each other and the way the Peacekeepers and the marines are watching each other... Tension is running high. I need to do something before words and looks turn into fists and bullet
s, Tom thought. He ground his teeth. As harrowing as the battle with the Turned had been only a minute earlier, Tom felt this encounter with the U.N. troops was even more dangerous. What was worse; for the life of him, he could not determine why two groups of soldiers were acting this way. These men who were trained, selected and equipped for just one purpose, one it seemed he shared with them: to traverse and overcome the dangers of the world in order to help whatever innocents remained. Why would those warriors suddenly set aside that common ground and make ready to kill each other? What could possibly motivate such dedicated people to do that to one another?

His wondering ended there as, from the corner of his eye, Tom noticed the Peacekeeper with the S.A.W. That man had discreetly slipped a few yards from his comrades. Now, he was afforded a more open field of fire for his potent weapon. The Peacekeeper had raised that weapon on Tom's small band when the middle of the machine-gunners head exploded. On the heels of that image came a sound Tom
could
hear, from somewhere behind him: the unmistakable report of single, high-caliber shot.

The Shepherd made the most of the distraction. He didn't know where the two officers had been in their conversation, but it had clearly not been going well. If the soldier with the S.A.W. was any indicator, the discussion would have ended poorly, indeed. The Russians began to move, raising their weapons and getting into prearranged defensive positions. A few were bringing weapons to bear on the marines, the rest scanning all around. They acted quickly, but not as quickly as the Shepherd.

In a flash, the revolver was in his hand and he had stepped around Dettweiler to close with the Peacekeeper confronting Vargas. He reached up and jammed the barrel of the .357 into the larger man's throat, the sight of the weapon lodged somewhere under the man's jaw. Foreign solider and marine alike seemed surprised to see the Shepherd. Some might have forgotten he was there, while others had never known: Dettweiler's bulk had apparently hidden Tom from view until just now.

“
Let him go.” The Shepherd's voice was quiet and brooked no argument.

The Russian released Vargas's weapon and turned his formidable gaze to Tom. It was a struggle to understand him, between the ringing in his ears and the accent of the speaker, but it sounded like the man said, “You would not be so brave with no sniper at your back.”

The Shepherd twisted the barrel, smooth steel and ridged sight digging deeper into the man's flesh. The Peacekeeper did not grimace or wince. He spoke, however. “Maybe you would be.”

“
Get back.” When the U.N. soldier stepped away from him, the Shepherd took a step of his own, straight back, pistol still leveled at the Russian.

He heard a couple of the Peacekeepers speaking to each other, but couldn't understand a word of it. The U.N. soldiers still had their weapons readied; some still watched the marines while the others continued searching for the sniper. None of them moved to their fallen comrade.

The U.N. soldier in front of Tom looked at Vargas. In that accent, the Peacekeeper said, “You understand, Major? You and your men are to come with me. Together, we collect survivors in house where Infected are running, then return to staging area. We are all in danger.”