He pulled a small bundle from a compartment in the door, pushed a button, and the cover sprang up over the lieutenant. She scribbled a note on a slip of paper and inserted it into the tube. “Got to let Queen Frost know we’re off schedule so she doesn’t presume we died. It’ll take longer on foot. Pigeon.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lark unlatched the cage door and carefully grabbed a bird without letting the others escape.
“And you don’t have to call me ma’am, soldier. I’ve got bars, but what matters is that we have each other’s backs.”
Lark nodded, passing her a monochrome bird—all but the incandescent green feathers on its neck. Skye secured the tube, murmured to the pigeon, then launched it into the air. Lark watched, hoping the hawk was long gone. The homing bird flew out of sight.
“Here’s what’s happening,” Luke directed as he and Harlan parked their bikes beside the Jeep. “Stow absolute necessities in your backpacks—food, water, weapons, bedrolls. Diego, pack ammo, dynamite, and B and E gear. Wes, dosimeter badges all around. Save room for stuff we pick up.”
“Hope the batteries don’t die,” Wes muttered under his breath.
“Harlan, climbing gear,” Luke continued, ignoring Wes’s comment. “Skye, respirators. Lark, pigeons. I’ll pack the radiation shield tarp. We should be farenough away from the Chattanooga and Knoxville hot zones, but I’ve heard tell of drift carrying hundreds of kilometers. We’ve never been where we’re going, so be ready for anything. Moving out in ten.”
Lark’s pack already held her essentials. Crossbow snapped onto a baldric, bow and quiver attached to her pack. Knife in sheath on leg. Canteen on belt—she refilled it from the big cooler. That just left this pigeon cage. She frowned. It was square. Awkward. Bulky.
Rummaging through the back of the Jeep, she found two lashing straps—yellow and black—in good repair and used them to craft fasteners to secure the cage to her body, leaving her hands free. Since the captain called for climbing gear, she assumed a steep incline lay ahead. She pulled on the gloves they’d issued. Snug fit. Excellent grip. These would do.
“All right, team.” Luke addressed them at the cliff’s edge, where the entire bridge had long since collapsed into the river far below. The opposite side had a more gradual incline, which would make it easier to get back to the road once across the river.
At a glance, Lark caught the stark change in terrain—sandbar, dense growth, jagged rock. Mushrooms loomed, twisted trees bore mismatched leaves, and a broad stripe of red cut the landscape, though it was early summer. The strange sights pulled at her focus as the captain spoke.
“Diego and I will set up a secure pulley here at the top of the ridge. Then I’ll descend first, and he’ll bring up the rear. Just snap on your safety harness and rappel down. You could do it in your sleep. Harlan’s packed another system in case we have to do this again. OK, crew—let’s go.”
Despite the drizzle, Lark and her team abseiled easily to the rocky bank below. But the rushing river’s roar made them pause. The current sucked at the bank. Whitecaps battered the swirling stream, shoving branches and debris through the canyon, slamming a log into a rock.
Lark and Diego quickly devised a plan for her to shoot an arrow from her longbow with a rope tied to the end into a tree across the rapids. They tied the other end securely around a remaining reinforced concrete pillar from thebroken bridge, holding the rope as they crossed to keep from being washed downstream.
Balancing a pigeon crate on her head while clinging to the safety rope turned wading into a risky swim. Cold river water splashed into her face, contrasting with the warm sprinkle from the sky. Her foot slipped on slime-coated rocks, but her grip held. Lark was glad she’d worn her boots and not the heavy, clunky army-issued kind. The rapids’ thunder nearly drowned out Luke’s holler to hurry.
Lark’s soaking clothes and gear made her whole body feel heavy as she climbed out of the riverbed onto a soggy sandbar. Harlan was only halfway across, the others emptying water from their guns, when a rustle in the thick underbrush ten meters away startled her. Lark glanced up in alarm. The thrashing grew nearer, sending saplings, brush, and branches swaying.
A thunderous roar shattered the moment as a colossal, mutated black bear burst onto the sandbar, reeking of rot. Luke and Skye spun, weapons half-raised. Wes stumbled back; Diego cursed.
Lark knew black bears from the swamp. They topped out at four hundred pounds and two meters tall on hind legs, mostly harmless unless provoked. Some marsh folk even kept them as pets. Scarred, mottled, oozing with sores—this was no swamp bear.
The beast reared, towering over Luke, enormous jaws snapping and claws swiping the air. Its red eyes glowed unnaturally. Another angry growl tore from its throat, raspy, gravelly, like an old man who’d smoked all his life.
On instinct, Lark swung the crossbow into her hands. She fired the first shot, a steel bolt to the bear’s shoulder. A vicious rumble shook the air; it dropped to all fours, snapping at the shaft buried in its flesh. That heartbeat gave Luke and Skye the chance to dive clear.
Skye steadied her sidearm in a two-handed grip and fired, enraging the monster. It charged.
Luke leveled his shotgun and pulled the trigger. At point-blank range, it should have punched a hole through. Instead, the bear roared again and barreled straight for him. He worked the fore-end. Jammed. His eyes went wide as herattled his weapon to no avail. The bear dug in with a back paw, blasting up a spray of sand, its bulk lunging like a rabid hound. Rainwater streaked with blood clung to its hide. Luke’s breath caught as the beast’s claws scraped nearer.
Fear jolted through Lark like lightning. She wouldn’t watch Luke get torn apart. Teeth gritted, she fired again. The bolt sank into its side, barely slowing the charge.
A canister landed at the beast’s feet, flashing with a concussive bang—Diego’s flash grenade. It staggered, shook its head, blinked those blood-red eyes, and lunged again.
Then a sharp, loud crack split the air, followed by a deep boom. Harlan’s rifle struck true—right between the eyes. The beast crumpled, its malformed head thudding against Luke’s boots.
Lark drew a shuddering breath. Her hands trembled as she lowered the crossbow to her hip and clenched them into fists.
“Nice shot, Harlan,” Luke said. Harlan shrugged and sloshed onto the sandbar with the others.
“Sorry, Captain.” Wes rejoined them, his head hung. “Radiated bears aren’t my thing.”
“Speaking of,” Lark mentioned, “it must have moved through a red zone. Considering a bear’s lifespan, it couldn’t have been born before the bombs dropped.”
“Very likely,” Skye replied. “Remember that strip of red leaves we spotted from across the river?” Lark nodded. “Fallout winds from the big cities to the west blew through here, adversely affecting the forest plants and animals. It’s no telling what we’ll find.”
