Hunter's Haven E-Book

Linda Thackeray

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

John Hunter is haunted by his past.

After a notorious drug lord murders his sister, John takes the law into his own hands. A wanted man, on the run for his life and craving sanctuary, John makes his way north and finds refuge in a place called Haven - and in the beautiful Lakota Grae.

Drawn into a fight against overwhelming odds, John has one more war left to fight — and one last chance for redemption.

This book contains adult content and is not recommended for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

Hunter's Haven

Linda Thackeray

Copyright (C) 2015 Linda Thackeray

Layout Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Ivanzanchetta.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

I Chicago

Medea screamed when the blood splattered across her cheek.

Gore and blood turned her high-pitched wail into shrieks of terror and had her shaking where she stood. Her scrawny form, petite to begin with, shook like a leaf in the wind. With raccoon rings around her eyes from running mascara, she remained frozen to the spot. The remains of her pimp, Dwyer, were oozing down the now-slick leather of the ruined sofa.

The man who killed Dwyer didn't pay her any attention despite the noise she was making. In fact, he didn't appear to see her at all as she continued to shriek, trying to wipe pieces of Dwyer's brain off the sleeve of her blue vinyl jacket. Stepping away from Dwyer, he slapped another magazine into the LSAT machine gun he was carrying and surveyed the room, looking right through her as he regarded Pinto and Armstrong in more or less the same state as Dwyer, their blood seeping through the parquet floor.

“You should go,” he said simply as he turned to leave.

Medea fell silent immediately and nodded. Conditioned to obey when orders were given, her shriek came to an abrupt halt in her throat. The killer strode past her, all six feet one of him, blue eyes seeming almost black in this light, just like his brown hair. He wore a black military coat and his gloved hands clutched the machine gun he'd used to cut down Pinto and Armstrong when they had tried to come to Dwyer's aid. God only knew how many of Dwyer's crew was dead downstairs.

She'd heard the gunfire when he'd swept into the club, followed by the screaming of fleeing clubbers into the night. By the time the gunfire below fell silent, Pinto, Armstrong and Dwyer were poised and ready to take him on. But the shooting didn't come through the door to the upstairs apartment. Rather, it came through the floor. Even now, she could see the bullet holes that riddled the floor beneath them. Debris from cracked mortar and broken glass covered everything else.

Dwyer tried to make a run for it, but there was only one way into the apartment, and the man with the black coat was already there. He put a bullet into Dwyer's shoulder, forcing the MAC-10 from his hand, then spent a few good minutes clubbing Medea's former daddy about the head until he was good and bloody.

Then he asked his questions.

Medea crouched in a corner, hands over her head, trying to remain unnoticed. She was nobody in the scheme of things, just another bitch in Dwyer's stable of girls. Quaking in her stiletto heels, she tried not to listen as Dwyer spilled his guts to the stranger, giving him all the answers even though the revelation would mean death when Othello found out. In the end, it hadn't mattered anyway.

When the man had his answers, he shot Dwyer in the face without a moment's thought.

He didn't wait for her to answer after telling her to leave. He just walked out.

* * *

The EMTs raced into South Chicago.

Normally, they stayed clear of the area, but something was happening in Triple C territory tonight, something that lit up police switchboards from the South Shore all the way to Hammond like Christmas trees. Reports were coming of mass shootings, with bodies left on the street or in the wrecks of burnt-out cars, as well as an equal amount of fire-gutted buildings. The authorities put it down to an internal turf war. After all, Triple C was an amalgamation of several crews under one leader, Othello Price. It was best to let them fight it out and clean up the mess when it was done.

As the night progressed, it became increasingly clear that this wasn't one crew jockeying for position, but all of them running scared from a new player in town. Someone was moving through the neighborhoods with systematic precision. Originating in South Chicago, the violence spread out like a virulent plague, laying waste to everything in sight, leaving destruction behind like someone scorching the earth.

In the course of a single night, someone was dismantling the Triple C hierarchy from the low-level mules to the producers and dealers, distributors and finally to the first-rung soldiers. Anyone wearing Triple C colors was being exterminated, and while the cops knew they should be racing to the scene to determine who was responsible, Chicago PD remained strangely indifferent.

By 2030, Triple C had grown to become the largest gang in Chicago. It was born out of the Criminal Deportation Act of 2016, allowing authorities to repatriate second- and third-generation Americans to their country of origin if convicted of serious crimes. The act was passed due to a nation's increasing fear of the rise of homegrown Islamic terrorists, but was quickly exploited by law enforcement to target ethnic gangs such as the Latin Kings and the Pistoleros Latinos. With the deportations, the void left was quickly filled by Triple C.

In the early days, the gang mostly made its coin from auto theft, extortion and dealing. Eventually it began moving product for the Mexicans before expanding into the lucrative sex trafficking industry by bringing in girls from Eastern Europe and Asia. Very soon, Triple C was dominating the criminal landscape and, as most of its members were disenfranchised African-Americans, many of whom lived below the poverty line, they were immune to the Deportation Act.

Furthermore, with the end of the war in the Middle East, a new conflict arose, this one involving the country of Azerbaijan, nestled between Eastern Europe and Western Asia. It drew in all the major super powers, ensuring the country's attention was focused on international politics while ignoring the growing problem at home—the rise of the gangs.

By 2030, Triple C was as large a threat to Chicago as the Latin Kings were before them. Its current leader, Othello Price, ruled absolutely over South Chicago and its neighboring communities. By paying off or intimidating city officials, he kept the law out of Triple C business. When that didn't work, Triple C wasn't above killing cops, and if a clear message needed to be sent, he got to their families. So savage was his reputation that attempts to prosecute were simply abandoned. Prosecutors were just as expendable.

The law was happy to oblige on this particular night.

Some cops even switched off their radios and ended their shifts in bars, toasting the carnage and laughing that they could just hose the place down in the morning to get rid of the garbage. The powerless had long memories and karma was a bitch getting paid tonight.

* * *

“Have Casey and Lopez checked in yet?” Othello Price demanded.

Omar Phelps lowered the cell phone from his ear, his expression grim as he shook his head, jaw ticking as he formulated his answer and the best way to deliver it. In the end, he realized there was no best way, just the only way.

“No,” he said grimly, “and they're not going to. Jacey, working the strip around the corner from Lockweed, says they got hit hard. The whole building is up in flames. She doesn't think they made it out.”

“FUCK!” Othello lashed out, swiping all the contents of his desk to the floor in a burst of uncharacteristic rage. An assortment of objects clattered against the Persian rug—books, pens, papers and a tablet, which cracked on impact. He kicked the chair to its back before turning around to face Omar again.

“How many is that now?” he asked after a moment, breathing hard, fighting to compose himself. His fists were clenched as he stared into the green felt on the oak desktop, trying to comprehend what was happening, trying to wrap his mind around how this could be happening at all.

“Twenty-two dead so far,” Omar hid his own fear at the storm coming their way. “We can't be sure how many were at Lockweeds. We know a couple of guys haven't checked in yet.”

Twenty-two men, all dead. They were shot, burned, stabbed or killed in some equally gruesome fashion. Everyone he'd sent out to deal with the situation had not come back. When Dwyer bought it at the Sin Kitty Club, the night was young, but that was hours ago. As the hours ticked by, more and more of his crew were getting hit. Some in their homes, others at the various businesses owned by the Triple C and some while their dicks were still in their girlfriends' snatches. It began to dawn on Othello that he had crossed a line, and he had crossed it with the wrong cop.

The fucking war hero was coming.

“How many guys we got around here?”

“Thirteen,” Omar said, still recovering from the realization that Othello, the baddest motherfucker he knew, was scared. “Four on the roof, three at the gates and the rest patrolling the house. There ain't no way that psycho cop is getting in here. We got eyes on the ground. He'll never get past the gate. Lamonte is watching the cameras.”

“Good.” Othello nodded, grateful that his young cousin was not out on the front line, so to speak. An hour ago, he had done something he never imagined he would do. He had sent Mona and the kids out of the city to her folks in Indiana. He didn't know whether or not the cop would hurt them, but he wasn't risking it. The cop hadn't just killed members of his crew. He had killed anyone who worked for Triple C—pimps, mules, dealers, cooks and soldiers. He didn't seem to care if they were male or female. If they were Triple C—they died.

“Don't worry, Theo,” Omar assured him, using the old nickname from back in the days when they used to run together as kids. “We'll get him.”

“Yeah,” Othello grunted, walking to the liquor cabinet and retrieving a bottle of scotch from inside of it. He didn't pour himself a glass, instead taking a healthy swig of it because he wanted the liquor to burn its way down his throat.

“All this over his bitch sister,” Omar commented, going to the leather sofa in front of his desk and lowering himself into it.

Othello tensed. He didn't want to think about the girl.

Mention of her immediately dredged up the memories of the brunette college girl they dragged off her campus three days ago. Her brother was one of those who wouldn't be intimidated, who wouldn't take a bribe. Fucking Captain America who came from the war thinking it meant shit in the real world. Othello wanted to show him how touchable he was, like Charles Martin Smith was in that old movie with Kevin Costner.

They had her for almost a day in one of his warehouses, him and four of his boys. Omar included. She was a real looker too, long legs, brown hair and a killer body. Taking turns at her was sweet and they all had a piece. She'd screamed and wailed as they tore into her body, smacking her good and bloody when she made too much noise.

Yet through it all, she didn't break. The bitch didn't fucking break. Even after they'd left her bleeding and naked, covered in their jizz, he remembered the look in her eyes, the defiance as she stared at him. Smiling, with broken teeth and covered in blood, she said to him without fear, “He's going to kill you all for this.”

It was the last thing she said before he put a bullet in her head.

It pissed him off that she hadn't begged, not once. Not when they were violating her. She cried and she screamed when they hurt her, but she didn't beg. That defiance infuriated him, made him think she'd deserved more pain, more desecration. So he told his boys to send her back to her brother, special delivery.

They sent her back in pieces.

Othello thought the cop was finished. No one came back from a thing like that to be of trouble ever again. The leader of Triple C was confident the cop would rage and curse, but it was all he could do because, unlike Charles Martin Smith, he and his crew were untouchable. In this world where the law was breaking down, he and his guys were the new reality. The cop had no proof they were responsible and even if he did, there wasn't anyone in Chicago brave enough to come after him. He was invulnerable.

Or so he thought.

Something caught his eyes through the window of the study. He winced as the light overloaded his retinas. Blinking the spots out of his eyes, he saw twin strobes glaring through the front gates. Striding to the desk, he opened the top drawer and retrieved his gun—a Glock—and went to investigate.

“What's going on?” he heard Omar ask, but ignored him. Just before he reached the glass, he heard gunfire and immediately dropped to his knees. Omar dove for the floor behind him. Othello heard the rat-tat-tat of an assault rifle just before bullets riddled the window above his head. Glass shattered and he was driven backwards to the cover of the desk.

Only when he was behind the sturdy safety of oak did he dare look up again. This time, he saw that the sentries at the gate were firing blankly at the strobes, which just so happened to be headlights rushing at them. Not from a car, though, he thought. The headlights were too far apart and too high off the ground.

The cement truck tore through the steel gates like paper, crumpling one and tearing the other off its hinges to roll off the hood as if it had been swiped aside by its wipers. Two of his men, Naf and Elroy, were mowed down as the vehicle accelerated. The third leaped out of the way only to be cut down by a barrage of gunfire from the driver's side.

Othello heard footsteps pounding over his head. The guys on the roof were running into position, and he imagined the racket was bringing the others patrolling the grounds. The truck rolled down the paved driveway before stopping short of the house, idling.

Suddenly, the door swung open and the faint shape of a body seemed to be taking cover, just as the guys on the roof opened fire. The driver didn't immediately respond. Lost in the sound of MAC-10s was a single burst of sound, like a champagne cork popping. With that single sound, the driver retreated into the safety of the cabin even as bullets pinged loudly against the steel.

The explosion that followed rocked the house to its foundations. Othello heard screams as one of his men went over the side, landing on the grass near his window. His back was a mess of burnt flesh and fabric. It was difficult to tell which was which. He landed with a sickly thud, body flaming but still alive.

“What the fuck was that?” Omar demanded, staring at the ceiling. Pieces of mortar broke off in chunks and concrete dust came through freshly made cracks.

“I think the fucker launched a grenade at us!” Othello got to his feet.

Another burst of gunfire erupted as the men patrolling the grounds circled the house, closing in on the truck, but before they could get close enough, the side passenger door swung open once again. “GET CLEAR!” Othello ran to the window and screamed. “GET CL…!”

He never finished the sentence because another loud pop was heard, and this time the grenade landed in the middle of the group. The explosion sent dirt and smoke in all directions. He heard more screams, followed by the pop and whistle of another grenade being launched. The explosion must have landed closer to the house, because once again the walls shuddered and the smell of smoke and flames was more pungent. It was only the size of the place keeping him and Omar alive in the study.

As the lights died around the house, another eruption of gunfire filled the air. The large-caliber shells being fired from behind the shield of the door fairly ripped apart the remaining Triple C soldiers who hadn't been killed by the second grenade. The bodies of the dead or wounded, he'd never know which was which, were also riddled with stray gunfire as if the cop wanted to make sure they didn't get up.

“Jesus!” Lamonte stumbled into the room. “Theo! We need to get you out of here! That grenade took out all our guys on the roof.”

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped and Othello ran to the window. He saw that the driver had retreated into the cabin of the truck and was gunning the engine once more. The wheels spun in place, smoking up the driveway with the stench of burnt rubber. The bullet killed the lights outside, but one of the truck's headlights remained and it glared into the house like a searching eye.

“Fuck this!” Othello growled and stomped to the front door. He wasn't going to wait for the crazy son of a bitch to come back at him. Flinging the door open, he stood beneath the portico and started shooting at the windscreen. The bullets of his .457 exploded out of the magnum, killing the headlight and what remained of the frosted glass.

“Your sister was such a good thing to fuck!” Othello screamed at the truck. “You should have heard her howl! She was begging for more by the time we were done!”

The wheels continued to spin even after the windscreen was gone. Through the darkness, he tried to see the driver but there didn't seem to be anybody at the wheel. 'What the fuck?' Othello thought. Where was the war hero?

He had no sooner asked the question when suddenly the truck lurched forward, the wheels creating a loud screech before the vehicle roared ahead, quickly escaping the driveway and ruining the manicured lawn. Othello squinted, trying to see who was driving, but as the truck rumbled towards the walkway leading up the porch, he was driven backwards into the house.

“Run!” he shouted, seconds before the truck smashed through the front porch, crashing through columns and bringing down the balcony. Masonry and wood clattered against the huge cement truck as it became wedged in the ruined doorway and buckled the walls against the study. The grill stopped short of the staircase upstairs.

Carlo and Meacham, the last of his soldiers still standing, appeared then, coming through the kitchen. They were farthest out and thus had been spared the death that had come to the others on the front lawn. They opened fire, bathing the cabin with a murderous barrage of artillery. They maintained the relentless assault for what seemed an eternity, covering the already dented front of the truck with so many holes that the engine was no longer running. It died with a pitiful final roar diminishing into a weak rumble before stopping entirely.

“Is he fucking dead?” Omar stepped forward, making sure that Othello was behind him as he, Carlo and Meacham closed in.

“If he ain't dead,” Carlo snorted, “he'd be wishing he was right about now.”

Meacham, one of the few Caucasians in the Triple C, approached the driver's door first, nodding at Carlo to cover him as he pulled it open. The bullet-riddled door swung open and Meacham peered in, expecting to find a body just as ruined as the truck, but instead the cabin was empty with a baseball wedged against the accelerator.

Another loud bang was heard and the last thing Meacham saw before the truck exploded, taking him, Carlo and Omar with it, was the man standing on the walk to the house with the grenade launcher.

Othello started running as soon as he heard the sound of the weapon discharging. He tried to warn Omar and Lamonte, but there wasn't enough time. The fireball swept through the house, and he took comfort in the fact that Omar probably died instantly. Lamonte was not so lucky. The last thing Othello saw of his cousin as he flung himself through the window was the fire sweeping over Lamonte, bathing him in flames.

He landed on the grass outside, scrambling backwards as he saw Lamonte thrashing desperately, his entire body consumed by fire. His screams were barely audible through the roar of the flames. Othello gagged when he realized the stench he was breathing in was Lamonte's cooking flesh.

“LAMONTE!”

There were tears in his eyes, not just from the smoke, but from seeing his house, the one he'd had built specially for Mona and the kids, crumbling before his eyes. The lawn, which he so enjoyed walking across with his bare feet, was covered in debris from the explosions and the pieces of men who were once his friends.

By now Lamonte tumbled to the ground, disappearing in the blaze. The fire was out of control and the heat so intense Othello was unable to stay where he was. Backing away, he got up when something moved into the edge of his vision. Still clutching his gun, he whirled around sharply only to cry out in pain when a boot caught him in the jaw. Reeling, he fell back on the grass and tried to raise his hand only to find the same boot driving his wrist into the ground, forcing him to relinquish his hold of the weapon.

“FUCK YOU!” Othello cursed through broken fragments of teeth.

He was answered by the butt of a rifle, this one shattering his nose. Othello uttered a scream, one hand flying to his face as the pain flared across his skull and warm blood flowed down his lips and chin. He opened his eyes to look and saw the same gun, now flipped over, the barrel held poised over his forehead.

“Come on, war hero.” Othello laughed bitterly as he stared into the cop's face. “Do it! Pull the trigger! Ain't gonna bring your bitch sister back, is it?”

The cop shifted the barrel of the gun away from his forehead and fired.

Othello screamed as the single bullet tore into his shoulder. He collapsed on the grass as the pain tore through him. He didn't have time to recover because no sooner had one shot stopped ringing in his head than another shot discharged and he was screaming again. His knee shattered under the force of the bullet and he lay on the grass, writhing.

Panting hard, trying to regain some measure of dignity despite his pain, he glared at the cop with hate-filled eyes. “Just do it! You fucking coward! Get it over with!”

The cop, the war hero, stared at him with dark eyes. There was no trace of grief, no sign of the fury precipitating this night of carnage; just dead, dark eyes boring into him like he was already a ghost. Reaching into his long coat, he retrieved a plastic bottle and began squirting its contents at Othello.

The stuff smelled and it burned.

“What the fuck!” Othello glared at him and realized what he was being doused with.

It was acetone.

“Fuck you, war hero!” the leader of the Triple C screamed as his final fate dawned on him. “I'm glad I fucked your sister! Glad I sent her to you in a doggy bag!” he ranted as the cop emptied the bottle's contents all over him.

The cop reacted to none of this except to toss the bottle aside when he was done.

“Go to hell!” he shouted when he saw the matches in the cop's hand.

“Probably will.” John Hunter spoke for the first time. “But not before I make a stop in Gary, Indiana. You know where that is, don't you?”

Othello froze.

Jesus! Mona and the kids!

He opened his mouth to plead, but he never got a chance as the war hero flicked one of the matches to life and tossed it at him.

After that, he was beyond thinking about anything.

II After the Plague

The night was deadly silent.

The road it overlooked was even more so.

There was a time when this road was an artery clogged with holiday makers, truck drivers and just plain ordinary folk, a community of travelers moving from one place to another in a seemingly endless cycle. In those days the highway was seldom dark. There would always be street lights bouncing off the tar surface and headlights crisscrossing the night. Sometimes, it would come from parked campervans pulled up along the road or from the truck stops along the way. Even the windblown dust glistened under the streetlights or the moon, sparkling like fireflies.

In those days, the highway was a living thing, the circulatory system of the great American landscape. This was Route 50 and its main purpose was to take travelers across the Rockies into Washington State and then farther north to Canada. These days, only the tall redwoods that flanked the winding passageway of tar and rock remembered that glorious past.

In the darkness, their majesty felt imposing instead of inspiring, like an ever-looming black tide, threatening to overtake the lingering remnants of civilization. In some ways, it was almost poetic. For centuries, man had ploughed his way through the land, laying waste to everything in the name of progress.

Now, he was the endangered species.

The end of human civilization had been inevitable since the turn of the millennium.

Now pockets of humans gathered in small communities to protect themselves, like tribes in the Stone Age. Some survived and thrived, most did not. The need to be led after two thousand years of bureaucracy drove many to flock to charismatic men who promised safety and order in exchange for allegiance. The results were mixed, and warlords with delusions of grandeur began to appear too frequently where large groups of humans gathered.

Hunter had seen enough of this in the past year and wanted no part of any of it.

As he drove down the winding highway, the roar of his Harley Davidson motorcycle seemed out of place in the stillness of the night. The single headlight cut through the darkness on this open and forgotten highway, and it struck him then that he could not recall the last time he had seen another human being.

The Canadian border was about a day away, and he knew he could make it all the way to Samish without stopping. The Harley had been the only thing on the road and he had a full tank of gas. Besides, he did not know the area and saw little to recommend stopping. If the last two years had taught him anything, it was the wisdom of selecting a good place to bunk down for the night. With the supplies he had on his cycle, he was an attractive target to anyone who had less.

These days, it was every man for himself.

* * *

Once upon a time, John Francis Hunter was a war hero.

He enlisted in the army straight out of high school because in those days, people still believed wars could be won. Leaving behind his middle-class family, with parents and a baby sister who was still riding a bike with training wheels, he was an ocean away before he realized how completely wrong he was.

Not since the Vietnam War had the stakes been so unclear, with alliances shifting constantly and tin pot dictators jockeying for position with neighboring governments to destabilize the region even further. Each superpower seemed hell-bent on disrupting the other's interest in the area with little ground gained by anyone.

Whatever the reasons for the war, it mattered little to the young soldier he had been. He took an oath and would serve his country. There was plenty of time for his idealism to disintegrate into apathy. He started out in the infantry, and it wasn't long before Hunter impressed his commanders enough to be recommended for Special Forces training. Once there, he performed every morally ambiguous thing they asked him of him, carrying out assassinations, destroying insurgent strongholds, carrying black ops behind enemy lines, and burying more dead comrades then he'd care to count.

Three years after he left home, Hunter began receiving letters from his sister, Sydney. She was seven years his junior and only thirteen when she started writing to him. Accustomed to emails from his mother and father, Hunter remembered the shit he put up with the first time a pink, strawberry-scented envelope was delivered to him. Sydney, who had been a freckle-face little girl in ponytails the last time he saw her, was now a teenager wanting a relationship with her barely remembered older brother.

She wrote frequently and never seemed to mind that he did not keep up with her correspondence. In an age of social media, Sydney appeared to be the only teenager in America who actually wrote letters on stationery. When he asked her about it, she wrote back telling him that a letter was something personal. Emails couldn't show him how much her handwriting had improved or let him see the teardrops against the ink when she wrote him about a bad breakup.

He could have done without the details of her first period, though.

Still, she was right because when the burden of what he was doing became too much to bear, Hunter could read those letters and be reminded that there was purpose to what he did. If he had to get his hands dirty making the world safe for her, he could live with that. Without realizing it, her teenage musings kept him from completely disconnecting from the world.

He came home two years before the Plague.

During a mission to free a group of civilian hostages, Hunter took two slugs to the chest and lost half his team. Even though they completed the rescue, it was enough to take him out of the war indefinitely. Sent home for his convalescence, Hunter was in a VA hospital when he learned that a drunk driver had taken out his parents. The first time he saw Sydney face to face since he'd left home, he had to console her over their shared loss. He promised her that everything would be okay. He would take care of her.

And then he utterly failed her.

* * *

The Plague began with a group of gangbangers, already high on homemade narcotics, breaking into a BSL-4 facility in Austin, Texas. Drooling at the prospect of all the valuable lab equipment and drugs they could sell or use, they promptly gunned down the group of stunned scientists and security personnel working in the research facility. Once they had free run of the place, they began ransacking it for everything of value.

By the time law enforcement could mobilize a proper response, it was too late.

The gangbangers reached the containment area where highly virulent strains of diseases were stored for research purposes. Already high from the looting carried out in the dispensary, they were convinced that the vault would contain even more interesting drugs than the dispensary did. Disappointed to find only uninteresting vials and canisters, they proceeded to smash everything in sight, splattering shards of glass and microscopic drops of fluid against exposed skin.

The contents of the shattered receptacles escaped into the air like trapped wraiths, riding the air molecules throughout the building's air conditioning system, finding warm bodies that would carry them to the world outside.

Once unleashed, the pestilence spread quickly.

As the chaos spread beyond the gangs, ordinary citizens fell victim to the microscopic onslaught, but not always with the same affliction. By the time the numbers had risen to the point where the outbreak was traced back to one privately owned facility, it was too late. Suddenly, hospitals were overrun with cases of everything from Ebola to the Bubonic Plague. Typically, the panicked population scrambled to leave the cities, inadvertently hastening the Plague's spread to new victims. Within two months of the facility's breach, the world was gripped in a pandemic the likes of which it had never seen.

Air travel was suspended but not quickly enough to keep the virus from escaping the continental United States. Subsequent mutations made treatment difficult because as the bodies began to mount, the ability to find those who could produce vaccines dwindled. Once infected, a victim could expect to die in a matter of days. Eighty to ninety percent of those who caught one virus or another died.

Some did recover, possessing a natural immunity that allowed them to emerge from all illnesses with little or no lasting effects. Unfortunately, these were few in number and not many of them were doctors or virologists. In the end, the pandemic reached every corner of the globe and the death toll became too high to track.

* * *

With virulent diseases running throughout the country, Hunter stayed away from populated areas in the hopes that it would reduce his chances of contracting any illness. His plan had been to keep riding until he hit Canada and then lose himself in the wilderness. Unfortunately, there was no place safe from mutated viruses and despite his precautions, he entered a town in the midst of an outbreak of Ebola. Even though he had vacated the area promptly, the damage was done.

He made it as far as a deserted gas station and took refuge there, convinced he was going to die. There was a moment when he considered ending it with a bullet to spare himself the indignity of dying in his own piss and shit. Death did not frighten him. He knew that he had been living on borrowed time for years, and a bullet was as good a way as any to end it. However, his desire to live was stronger than he realized, and every day he found a reason to hold back on that thought for just a little longer.

And then, miraculously, after days of dehydration and delirium, after the fever had burned him inside out, Hunter felt better.

A week after it began, Hunter found he was able to stand up and keep food down. Two weeks later, he was able to leave and resume his journey north. Somehow, he had become one of those lucky few who recovered and went on. His survival astonished no one more than himself. Somehow, he had drawn a winning ticket in this tragic lottery.

Realizing that his survival was a second chance, Hunter decided he was not going to waste it. He was going to find himself a place where he could just live, without danger of some asshole trying to kill him and where he could be forgotten. He saw that goal in the Canadian mountains, where he could disappear in the good, clean air, without people and lots of solitude.

Since Chicago he had done nothing but run. It was time to stop.

* * *

It was Gary who told him about Haven.

Hunter encountered the old man on the highway almost a month before. Gary had swerved to miss an animal in the road and ended up running into a telephone pole. By the time Hunter found him, he was almost dead. With no way to get him medical help, Hunter hadn't felt right about leaving the man to rot, so he stayed with Gary until the old man passed.

Gary had been trying to contact anyone on his CB radio when he picked up a transmission from someone broadcasting from Vancouver Island. It was sent wide for anyone to receive and that Gary had picked it up at all was sheer luck. The voice on the other end said they were from Haven and it was a good place, where people got along and lived like they did before the Plague. It was enough for the man to pack up his truck and make the journey to reach it.

After he died, Hunter had done the proper thing and buried him. However, his curiosity was piqued and since he was heading in that general direction anyway, he figured it was worth a look. While he doubted everything was as harmonious as Gary claimed, a safe place where he could hang for a while before moving on was enough.

Perhaps he also wanted to see if it was possible that people could rise to the occasion despite adversity. There wasn't much in him that still had faith in anything, especially after what had happened in Chicago, but he liked to think that the people he had spent most of his adult life defending were worth the effort.

It would be a nice change.

III Voyage

Hunter entered Washington County in the small hours of the morning.

He was less than an hour away from Samish and planned on making the crossing to Vancouver Island there. As he rode towards the city, he recalled once considering stealing a plane and flying to Canada to escape the manhunt currently underway for him. Ultimately, Hunter abandoned the idea, not wishing to risk the heavy security that would undoubtedly be waiting for him at most airports.

As he now sped down Memorial Avenue, flanked by overgrown foliage, he thought of all the immigration and custom checkpoints that were abandoned. It was a sad testament to the times. Driving past the abandoned gas stations, truck stops and streets signs surrounded by overgrown foliage on the Memorial Highway, he felt a wave of sadness at seeing the silent streets with old newspapers drifting across them like tumbleweeds.

He could smell a tinge of sea air mingling with the fragrance of pine cones and resin. Even if he couldn't see the ocean, he knew it was just beyond the cover of the tall, red conifers densely populating this part of the country. He didn't have too far to go and he expected to reach the city soon enough. There was still no sign of anyone on the road, although he did see the first signs of life other than his own in what had to be days.

He was no stranger to Samish, having visited here a lifetime ago. It was during boot camp before he was shipped overseas. Hunter had come here at the invitation of his best friend, Daniel Taylor, during their leave. They had a few days off and Taylor, having been born and bred in Samish, had claimed this was a great place to go kayaking. When they had first met, this place was all the bastard could talk about.

He reached it shortly after that. The last leg of his journey saw the highway winding alongside the jagged edge of the coast. Hunter was treated to some spectacular scenery as he neared the town. Below him, the wind lashed at the cliff face, creating froth as angry waves smashed against rock. The scent of brine and fish was stronger now, wafting on the molecules of cold air.

The town reminded him of the coastal towns in Maine. It was the kind of place with one library and a local museum that chronicled the first settlers and celebrated a holiday for a historical event important only to them. As Hunter approached it, he could see the abandoned boats floating across the shore line and wharf where the main fishing and cruise industry used to be centered.

Hunter paid close attention to this as he took the main road into town. Like every other town he had seen, there were obvious signs of the Plague's effects, although the abandoned vehicles had been pushed to the side of the road. It was a clear indication that, despite the disaster, there had been an attempt to return the community to some semblance of order.

The roar of his cycle seemed inordinately loud against the silence as he made his way towards the wharf. Most of the shops and houses looked deserted, but some were maintained and the smoke rising out of the chimneys gave away the population of this sleepy town. It did not look any different from any other quiet country town scattered across the American countryside. Hunter noted a few faces peering through windows as he passed by.

A man appeared with a shotgun in his hands. Hunter decided to continue onwards, choosing to see what the man intended before taking appropriate actions. The man was middle-aged; Hunter noticed the man's family cowering through the windows of the house he was trying to guard. That disarmed Hunter's hostility somewhat, but not his caution.

Pulling the cycle to a respectable distance away, Hunter climbed off it slowly and held up his hands in a gesture of compliance. The man watched him cautiously, the gun primed to fire. Hunter didn't believe that there was any real danger, guessing the man was probably more afraid of the stranger than anything else. He had a family to protect and Hunter respected him for that.

“Easy,” Hunter declared and brushed aside his long coat just enough to show the man that while he was armed, he didn't plan on getting into a fight. The glint of steel from the semi-automatic handgun in its holster at his thigh was enough to show the man that if they got into a fight, it wasn't going to end well for anybody.

“I don't want any trouble. I'm just passing through. I'm looking for a boat.”

“How do I know you ain't lying?” the man countered.

A fair question, Hunter decided.

“I wouldn't have gotten off the bike and you'd be dead by now. I'm trying to get to Vancouver Island.”

At first the man tensed, but after a moment he decided a confrontation would not help the situation. He relaxed somewhat and loosened his grip on the twelve-gauge. Glancing back at his family, he nodded at them, indicating it was safe. He was in his forties, with callused hands and a lined face, most likely a fisherman. He had dark, graying hair and his brown eyes still gazed at Hunter cautiously.

“Sorry about that,” the man apologized, gesturing to his shotgun. “You can't be too careful these days. A lot of strange people move through here. Some are okay, some aren't. Man's got to be careful of his family, you know?”

“Yeah.” Hunter nodded. That he understood. A few other people had emerged from their homes. Most of them looked at Hunter with a mixture of curiosity and caution, but their suspicion remained even if Hunter had made his overtures of peace. They were a motley-looking bunch, no different from any other he'd come across in his travels.

“Name's Isaac Ross,” the man introduced himself, extending a hand. “You're heading to Haven?”

Hunter raised a brow at the mention of the name. “You know it?”

Behind Isaac, his wife, a rather dowdy-looking woman dressed in flannel and boots, made her appearance. She walked quietly next to her husband with her gaze fixed firmly on Hunter. She was still not ready to trust him. 'Smart woman,' he thought silently.

“Yeah, sure,” Isaac continued, oblivious to his wife's arrival. “Some of 'em come down here now and then to get supplies and stuff. Invited me and the family to join 'em a few times, but we're pretty happy here. It's peaceful most of the time and my family has lived in these parts for generations. We got too much history to walk away from.”

Hunter couldn't see how anyone could have a sentimental attachment to a set of abandoned buildings just because their family had lived here once. The people looked as bleak as the town, wearing dour faces as they carried guns to protect their patches of earth.

Earth no one wanted.

“So, is there a boat around here I can use?” Hunter asked, impatient to get a move on. Just being here brought back memories unpleasantly associated with Taylor. Hunter didn't want to linger too much in the hometown of his dead best friend.

“They're all down at the wharf.” The man pointed to the water. “If you can get one going, it's all yours.” Isaac had answered quickly, just as eager as Hunter to move on.

Hunter was happy to oblige him.

* * *

Isaac Ross was right.

There were a number of boats that were more than seaworthy if they could just get going. According to the nautical map that Hunter found on board one, the trip to Vancouver Island would take a little less than a couple of hours. Unfortunately, Isaac had no idea just where Haven was located on the island. Hunter decided he would approach it by the southern tip and work his way up the island by land.

He was not good with boats. He knew that all forms of locomotive transportation employed some basic mechanical principles, but his expertise was mostly with planes, gliders and helicopters. He had very little experience with the seafaring variety. Nevertheless, he found a weather-beaten, rusted-out tugboat that used a simple but operational diesel motor receptive to a bit of maintenance.

It took a few hours for him to get the craft seaworthy. He ran the motor for a time to make sure it wouldn't cut out in the middle of the ocean. He tightened screws, checked wiring and ensured the engine compartment was dry. It was nice to know that he retained some of the more practical skills he had learned in the service, other than just killing.

Once the tug, called the Sea Witch, was ready, Hunter made his goodbyes to Isaac Ross, who was generous enough to provide him with meager supplies for the journey. He suspected that Isaac was trying to get him to leave as quickly as possible. Hunter could hardly blame the man. The world was now a dangerous place.

After loading his cycle via a ramp onto the deck of the boat, Hunter brought the engine to life and guided the Sea Witch out of Samish's harbor. The midday sun had begun its descent even though it was hard to tell the difference. Heavy cloud cover kept the day gray and bleak, and not even the sun could penetrate the thick blanket of cumulus.

The wind was strong but manageable and while the seas were choppy, the journey to Vancouver Island wasn't too uncomfortable. He had no difficulty navigating past the small islets scattered between the mainland and Vancouver Island, though it was years since he'd made a sea voyage anywhere. During the war, he was airlifted to the target and because every place he was sent was landlocked, there was little need to travel by sea.

Nevertheless, it was necessary to get off the water before dark. Isaac had warned him about the boats that were still out on the water. Many had died trying to flee the mainland by sea, their inhabitants' sickness incapacitating them before they got to their destinations, leaving the vessels adrift to become shipping hazards.

Hunter hated the idea of coming all this way just to drown.

By evening, Hunter sighted the craggy, rock shore of Vancouver Island. The sun had begun to sink into the horizon and the blanket of dark that followed promised a pitch-black night. Hunter wanted to be well out of its reach before that darkness made its arrival. Turning the boat towards the shoreline, he skirted the edges of the island, searching for a suitable place to dock.

Vancouver Island was the largest land mass in the area aside from the continent itself. A very healthy population was capable of surviving within its tall coniferous forests, mountains and lakes. Once a popular outdoor camping location, it was famous for its trout-filled lakes, plentiful forests and large tracts of land perfect for arable farming. It was, therefore, quite capable of sustaining several thousand people if those people made use of these natural assets. Hunter wondered if that was how Haven had come to be.

An hour after dark, Hunter found, at last, a lone jetty in a deserted part of the shore. The night had descended in its entirety and the horizon was as black as anything. He looked beyond the bow of the boat and saw nothing except an impregnable black canvas. Steering the craft gently towards the wooden jetty, he approached slowly with small waves lapping against the boat's faded hull. Once Hunter had cut the engines, the boat drifted forward silently on its own momentum.

It reached its destination with a bump as it brushed against the wooden dock. In the waters around the wharf, Hunter could see the silhouette of other boats, floating stationary. It was too dark for him to tell if they were seaworthy or not. As it was, there was just barely enough light for him to see a few meters ahead and he was used to moving around at night.

Once he was on shore with his belongings, Hunter offloaded his cycle and sped off into the night.

* * *

He didn't need to ride very far to reach the darkened streets of Victoria City, the largest city and the capital of Vancouver Island.

As Hunter pulled the cycle to a halt, he saw a city that hadn't escaped the chaos that ravaged so many cities during the Plague. The buildings were in a state of disrepair. There was garbage on the streets, smashed and stripped cars on the sides of roads, graffiti covering the walls of most buildings; every indication was that this was an urban jungle. He didn't see anyone around, but that was not unusual. Only ten percent of the population had survived the Plague, which left whole neighborhoods devoid of people.

It certainly didn't look like Haven.

This place reminded him of Chicago the night he went after the Triple C, and that sent an uncharacteristic surge of hatred down his spine. He reached an intersection, deserted like the rest of the city, and Hunter started to question the whole idea of Haven's existence. Had he been gullible enough to believe in some half-assed fantasy? He sat astride the chopper for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do next.

The most sensible thing would be to find someone and ask them what he needed to know, but the deserted streets made that idea seem impossible. There were no lights to indicate that anyone was around. He could understand the absence of electric lights, but he had yet to see a place that didn't employ the use of some alternate form of fuel, even if it was kerosene, wood or oil.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Hunter's attention was captured by a scurrying rat across a garbage-strewn floor. Out of nowhere, he saw a running child moving through the night. The boy froze as he ran in front of Hunter, caught in the headlights like some mesmerized animal. Hunter regarded the boy for a second, making no attempt to approach him. The child wore thick, heavy clothes, all too big for him and cut crudely to fit. Grime covered his face.

“Please don't tell,” he pleaded.

“Don't tell what?” Hunter asked, feigning disinterest.

The child didn't wait around to elaborate, choosing to scamper away into a nearby building. Hunter was tempted to follow, but he had his own concerns and it didn't look like the kid wanted company. He supposed he would have to go in at some point, though, especially if there were people in there. He needed answers.

He was about to shut down his engines when he heard the unmistakable roar of a car approaching, and fast. Loud voices, rowdy with rancor and too much booze, sailed above the roar of a clapped-out motor. These voices put Hunter on guard immediately. Resting his hand against his gun, Hunter waited coolly as the headlights sped towards him.

The car, a convertible, came to a screeching halt once the beams fell on him. The vehicle was occupied by at least three men who were heavily armed but were, oddly enough, dressed like door-to-door bible salesmen. Hunter saw no reason to get hostile just yet, even though he was poised to act if it became necessary. If at all possible, he still wanted to get some answers.

“Who the fuck are you?” the first man demanded. He was a short, squat Hispanic man with a broken nose that hadn't quite healed right. The most impressive thing about him was the AK-47 he was carrying.

“Hey!” the second man, a Caucasian, exclaimed excitedly, recognition flooding his eyes. “You're Hunter!

“Fuck,” Hunter cursed under his breath.

“The John Hunter from Chicago?” the third man, also Caucasian, asked, eyeing Hunter with skepticism. “Wasn't he supposed to be dead?”

“Wasn't everybody?” the first man bit back, never taking his eyes off Hunter. “You really him?”

Hunter ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Is this place Haven?”

The question immediately had them laughing, a reaction that did little to improve Hunter's ever-diminishing patience.

“Haven?” the Hispanic asked after regaining his composure. “Man, you are definitely in the wrong place for that. In fact, I think the boss would like to talk to you.” His features hardened as he raised his gun at Hunter. The others followed suit. “Get off the bike.”

Hunter did nothing of the kind.

Suddenly, a can skittered across the road. Its impact on the granite caught all three men's attention. They swung around instinctively, giving Hunter the opportunity to act. Going for his gun, he drew and fired at all three before they had a chance to return fire. They jerked around unceremoniously, uttering short cries as bullets tore through their heads and chests. They collapsed on the seats in a bloody mess.

Hunter cursed under his breath, angered by the fact that he didn't get a chance to get any answers about Haven. Their responses to the question were confusing. They said he was in the wrong place. If so, was Haven even on Vancouver Island?

Lowering himself back in the saddle of his cycle, he pulled out a cigarette, deciding it would do no good to get more pissed off. He was about to light it when he paused a moment and looked into the darkness ahead.

“Come on out.”

For a second, there was no response. Then, after a brief pause, the boy he had seen earlier emerged from the shadowy alley in which he had been standing during Hunter's exchange with the three goons. No more than ten years old, he approached Hunter cautiously, cringing at the sight of the dead bodies.

He stopped in front of Hunter, saying nothing. His fear radiated off him in waves, despite his best efforts to hide it.

“Your timing was good,” Hunter replied, offering him a faint smile of reassurance. “Thanks.”

“Are you famous?” the boy asked in a hushed voice.

“No, not really. What about you? What's your name?”

“Aaron,” he answered, wanting to know more about the mysterious stranger, but not enough to press him further.

“It's a little past your bedtime isn't it?” Hunter remarked.

“Yeah, I gotta get to my dad. You better come too,” he said, gesturing to a street ahead.

“Why?” Hunter asked suspiciously.

“Cause you killed three of the Kindred! Brother Reuben's going to be mad at you for sure. You better come with me and my dad. We're going to Haven too.”

Hunter shot the boy a look. “It's real?”

“Yeah,” Aaron replied. “My dad says it's farther north.”

At least that was something, Hunter thought. “Come on.” He gestured the kid to the back of his bike. “I'll give you a ride.”

“Awesome!” the boy exclaimed and hurried forward to climb behind him.

“So, who is this Brother Reuben?” Hunter asked, bringing his foot down on the kick starter and roaring the bike to life under them.

“He runs the Kindred and this is his turf. They call it New Jerusalem.”

IV New Jerusalem

As Aaron explained it, the Kindred was the creation of a religious fanatic named Brother Reuben, who used the chaos following the Plague to convince the survivors of Victoria City that they were chosen by God to survive. Of course, being the chosen people meant following God's laws, which were conveniently handed down to them through Brother Reuben. With the Almighty backing him, Brother Reuben was able to ensure everyone in Victoria City, now named New Jerusalem, that he was their savior.

There were only a few hundred people left in the city after the Plague, and the ones who became his most loyal followers were the survivors who had no interest in God but who liked the power of being in charge. These were mostly thugs and degenerates who were willing to swear fealty as long as Brother Reuben gave them first dibs on the dwindling resources of the city.

Especially the women.

Brother Reuben believed that for the survival of the species, breeding had to be regulated, and so the childbearing female population of New Jerusalem was locked away like breeding animals, to be confined and abused. The men who objected were locked up or killed, while their wives, mothers, sisters and daughters were taken away to Brother Reuben's Ministry in the center of town.