Cullen McGreggor's Last Hunt

By Ted Fauster

 

           

Things weren’t always like this. Used to be a man could keep to himself, could work hard and raise a family right. But the world got too greedy, I suppose. Wasn’t long before it all came crashin’ down and what was left of the barbequed remains of this United States came crawlin' on its belly to the one place that had been the butt-end of a joke for as long as anyone could remember.

The Appalachians ain’t no joke no more. Seems this is the only place the radiation and the chemicals didn’t touch. Couldn’t pass through the mountains. And since no country saw fit to waste any bombs on an overgrown patch of cantankerous earth speckled with hillbillies and rednecks, the great state of West “By God” Virginia suddenly became ninety-seven percent of the habitable land left in the US when all the smoke cleared. Go figure.

That made it kinda difficult for us native sons. West Virginia was really the one place folks could live out a simple life without fear of harassment. Used to be if you had no ambition for a big career the government pretty much kept out of the picture. Hell, my granddaddy cut timber in a county that had only two sheriffs to its three hundred square miles. Local police? No such thing ‘round unincorporated townships. That was somethin’ you found only in the cities. Take a drive just a few miles in any direction from Charleston or Huntington and it weren’t long before the roads started to twist like snakes. Pretty soon they dropped off into ravines choked with poplars, scrub oak and rhododendrons where sometimes even the sunlight forgot to shine.

But that was a long time ago. Back before the grays started poppin’ out of the woodwork.

Somebody once told me that some government document officially referred to them as CVEs, short for Civilian Victims of Engagement. But ‘round these parts folks just called ‘em grays, shriveled descendants of the Big One that had somehow managed to survive out in the Hot Zone. Chemicals and radiation had bleached all the pigment from their skin, but there was more to it than that. They were changed, feral and dangerous, immune to the plagues and the radiation that still baked the entire planet from the soil up. And let me tell ya, they were a bunch you didn’t want to mess with.

Course, what little Hot Zone refugees there were had long since gelled as one conglomerate glob down near White Sulphur Springs, mostly wealthy folks from D.C. who were able to slip through the tunnel that once contained the underground shuttle that ran from beneath the Whitehouse all the way to the Greenbrier. Once enough city folk had made it safely through, they flooded the whole thing with heavy water and sealed the entrance with a plug of entrained concrete. From what I been told there are still thousands of bodies floatin’ around down there, all puffy and bloated, bobbin’ in a toxic stew like rats in a stuck sewer drain.

The folks over at the Greenbrier are the ones runnin’ the show now, although what they now lord over has become somethin’ of a joke to simple folks like myself. It'll be a cold day in hell before any normal man ever feels the ground beneath his feet out beyond the Blue Ridges.  

I was ponderin’ all this, for the umpteenth time, when I smelled somethin’ like onions bakin’ in the sun. I looked up from the ankle-high leaves I’d been crunchin’ a path through and saw crooked humps of stone covered in moss. Some boy’s old graveyard. And there at the center, squat down in a drum circle, three or four grays were makin’ a meal out of ramps, yankin’ the stanky tubers from the ground, almost gleefully, stuffin’ their faces full.

I passed my free hand over the optical switch of my holobelt and Blue winked out like a light. Didn’t need no dog makin’ a fuss and stirrin’ things up before I was ready. My flesh-and-blood hound had died months back. But the new Blue, all fused with what memories of the original I could squeeze into the programming, was turnin’ out to be a mighty fine replacement. I eased the safety off the Fletcher four-barrel and raised the barrel cluster up.

One of ‘em spooked and looked up, the diffused sunlight reflectin’ off its big bug eyes. It pointed a spindly finger and its mouth dilated. It made a sound like somethin’ was stuck in its throat and then jabbered at the others in a voice that sounded like human talk played backwards. Not waitin’ for a reply, it bolted over a tombstone and dashed off into the woods, the others scamperin’ on its heels.

I breathed easy and switched the safety back in place. They were small, young. Probably lost. I hit the optical and Blue snapped back into the world, a glowin’ blue ghost image of a hound dog a few yards off my right shoulder. He arched his back and dropped his head to the ground but had the good sense not to bark. I always wondered where it was he went when I switched him off. The instructions that came with the belt had been kinda vague on the subject. He groaned a few times and his tongue lolled out as he scampered off to take point.

Pity ‘bout the ramps. They're stinky as all hell, but edible. And things you can eat are gettin' pretty scarce. Huntin' has been somethin’ passed down in my family for generations, but it was pretty much now a thing of the past. No sense in huntin’ these days. Most of the deer are gone, and the few squirrels and possum that remain are sketchy at best. I suspect they will be gone soon. I drew a heavy sigh at the thought. Dinnertime kind of loses its charm when all you have to eat is a bowlful of homegrown veggies and some seasoned soy loaf, if you're lucky.

“Go clear ‘round,” I said loud enough for the mic to pick up. “No sense in pickin’ where grays have been.”

The true functionality of the transmitter attached to my earpiece is lost on the computer-generated dog. Blue can hear my instructions clear as a bell but is unable to say anything short of the occasional yelp or bark in reply, which can actually be quite handy. Sometimes I wish he could talk back, could say anything at all.

The memory suddenly came back like a leaden weight. Annette had fallen victim to one of the many plagues that had found its way down over the mountains. And as I skirted the old cemetery I looked up into the canopy of dappled trees with a heavy heart.

Comin’ on two years now, I thought, and a knot caught in my throat. I swallowed and squared my jaw, and kept walkin’. I still had a long ways to go.

I pushed on through the woods, down to the west bank of the New River, to the spot where the old train trestle still stretches out over the water like the rusted bones of a dinosaur. It's an ancient line that hasn't run for centuries, the tracks long since removed. But the tired old bridge just won't give and there was never a need to tear it down.

On the opposite side is a newer line, one where diesel engines used to push coal back and forth through the heart of the state. Nearby stands the crumblin’ remains of an old concrete building that was once the Prince Rail Station. I checked my comlink as I negotiated the gravel slope that led down to the twisted metal remains. Just a little after eleven. The train should be comin’ soon.

Coal had once been the lifeblood of the state. It petered out a few centuries back and then disappeared altogether when everyone made the big switch to hydrogen and solar. But the hydrogen plants are now dead as nails. What solar vehicles are left can still be charged by the sun, but most of the homes and businesses still rely on good ol’ ee-lec-tricity. In response, the old coal plants were brought back on line and mining got a fresh breath of life. But it's a far cry different now. Diesel fuel is a thing of the past. And no one had ever developed a solar train engine. So the old steam locomotives were dusted off, unhitched from the museums and brought back into service.

As Blue and I took our first steps out over the groanin’ metal, a distinct chuggin’ sound rambled out across the river. Then a whistle tore through the air. I hurried my pace, doin’ my best to ignore the rush of water below.

Hitchin’ a ride is no big feat. Steam trains are slow, and when the driver saw me wavin’ he slowed even more. Course, he couldn’t stop the train altogether, and I had to do somethin’ of an acrobatic maneuver to hop onboard. But I managed. Once I was on, the driver powered the old tug back up and we were soon sailin’ on down the line.

When I made the back hatch of the engine, a big ol’ boy with a long wrench in his hand was standin’ there. He didn’t look fierce, just cautious, and actually stuck out a hand to help me up. He fiddled with the wrench as the driver pulled back on a long lever.

“Where ya’ headed?” he asked as he turned ‘round to look me over. He was old and looked up from behind wire-framed spectacles. He had his hand out.

I reached into my pocket and fumbled for my last credit slip. I pulled it out and placed it into his palm.

“Rosewood,” I said, tryin’ to sound sincere and indiscriminant at the same time. The big boy with the wrench snickered and leaned back onto a pile of sacks, clutchin’ the greasy tool against his chest.

“Rosewood? Up at the Greenbrier?”

I nodded.

The driver leaned over and peered out a little window. He tugged at another lever and a powerful hiss sounded somewhere outside. The old engine groaned and then lurched, nearly knockin’ me off my feet.

“Only thing up there now is guvment folk.”

I looked around for a place to sit. There was an old cedar chest behind me.

“Thought I spied a dog,” the man with the wrench said, his filthy cap pulled down over his eyes.

“Just a hologram.”

“Mind if I ask what business you got up at the Greenbrier?” The driver inquired.

“Matter of fact I do.” I didn’t say it mean like, just stern enough to set the two of ‘em straight. The old boy layin’ on the sacks hitched up his hat and shot me a look.’

“Guns are illegal now,” he said. “Or haven’t you heard?”

I shot back a look of my own, one that needed no words. He shrugged and tugged the cap back down, foldin’ his arms around the wrench. I leaned back and got comfortable. Neither of them had any more questions.

Although it was difficult with the engine swayin’ and bouncin’ all over the place, I actually slept a little. In between blasts of steam I dreamt. In my mind’s eye I saw the Feds outside my cabin, circlin’ around like wolves, expensive assault rifles in their arms. I saw flesh-and-blood Blue barkin’ and scratchin’ at the door. I heard the glass shatter and watched as the gas canister tumbled in. And then Blue boltin’ out the breach. The sound of gunfire…”

I awoke to a screech and nearly tumbled off the chest. The driver had stopped the train. And when I peered out the front window I was reminded of why I had made such a fuss about givin’ up my weapons that day.

The old driver stood scratchin’ his head, lookin’ out at the dead tree stretched across the tracks. But I knew better. I flicked on Blue, who immediately started to bark, and pulled out the Fletcher just as the first one skittered up onto the back hatch. It screeched like a banshee and I let loose with a single barrel that splattered him back against the car behind.

The old boy in the cap was up now, a wild look in his eyes as he clutched the wrench tightly. Another one busted out the front window and reached inside, clawin’ and screamin’. The old man fell back onto the wooden floorboards and the old boy had the good sense to start swingin.’ He made a strange sound as he brought the wrench down again and again.

I was out the hatch now with all four barrels aimed over the side rail. Two more grays came lopin’ past in the grass below. The first was too quick, but Blue targeted him and gave chase. A fiery blast from the Fletcher knocked the second one into the brush.

I hopped off and ran round the front, tryin’ not to slip in the loose soil alongside the rails. Off in the distance I saw Blue catch up to the one he’d been chasin’ and lash out with a snarlin’ snap. He couldn’t bite, but the program come with a handy feature that was just as effective. A moment later the gray tumbled to the ground, the victim of a nasty electrical shock.

I expected the last one to come ‘round the side of the engine, but a cry from the cab told me he had made it inside. I heard the familiar grunt of the boy in the cap, and the sound of his poundin’. And then a leathery form dropped down onto the grass.

The old boy hopped down with the bloody wrench in his hands, his eyes wide, chest heavin.’

“Best be lookin’ into gettin’ yerself a permit,” I said as I slipped more cartridges into the throat of the Fletcher. “They’re gettin’ smarter every season.”

It didn’t take long to pull the dead tree from the tracks. And soon we were on our way as if nothin’ had happened.

A few hours later we neared Caldwell and the driver slowed the train. The two men thanked me and the driver actually tried to give me my credit slip back. But I refused. Money isn’t much good anymore, anyhow. He slowed the train as best he could and Blue and I hopped off.

It had taken me a while to locate the man who had signed the order, the one who had sent those three men to my house that day. The man responsible for the shootin’ of my dog and the burnin’ of all my worldly possessions. I’d decided that day that I would start with him. And he had himself a right nice house up in the suburbs surroundin’ the Greenbrier.

I walked up along an old road that had once been covered in asphalt, grass and weeds now pushin’ up through the cracks, still searchin’ of the sun. I followed the road for a spell and then dropped back into the woods to avoid the guardhouse. There were more Fed in the woods, I knew, but they were city folk. Besides, no one had ever attempted what I was about to do.

I mapped out a route on my comlink usin’ the most recent map I had attained, one that had cost me a pretty penny. But money was somethin’ Blue and I no longer needed. The real tradin’ these days is with food and supplies. I’d blown the last of my money on the Fletcher and the train ride. Didn’t matter. Blue’s power cell would keep him alive for decades, and I could survive out in the wild indefinitely, thanks to what ol’ granddaddy had taught me.

The house wasn’t hard to find. Not at all. And I soon found myself on a ridge lookin’ down into a sprawlin’ backyard complete with a manicured lawn of lush green and a pool filled with turquoise water. It was a Saturday, so the bastard was actually outside at the barbecue. I settled down and pulled my old huntin’ rifle from the pack and took my time assemblin’ it.

Once I had it together I looked down into the scope and focused in near the grill. City Boy came into focus, but a little boy of about five was standin’ beside him, all giggly. I heard a bark and saw a dog, too.

I pulled the scope from my face and drew a heavy sigh. Annette and I could never have children. Somethin’ wrong with my plumbin.’ I always wondered what it would be like to have a gang of rugrats runnin’ around. At last, the boy went inside and I brought the rifle back up.

City Boy’s skull filled the scope. A big smile stretched across his smooth, pale face. He was lookin’ down, gettin’ ready to give the burgers and steaks another good flip. In that moment I wondered what was passin’ through his head, what thoughts were on his mind. Maybe he was thinkin’ how lucky he was. Maybe he was thankin’ the Lord above for his wife and family, for his dog, for the fresh new life he’d been given.

But I doubted it. I steadied the crosshairs on his forehead and squeezed the trigger.

Satisfied, I let the rifle strap slide away and turned to make my way back into the woods. None of the surroundin’ guards had heard the hollow click. Blue looked up at me, his eyes wonderfully oblivious. I slung the dry-fired rifle over my shoulder, and Blue and I disappeared into the brush.

My daddy had always taught me never to fire a rifle with no bullet in the chamber. Could damage the weapon. But there was no sense in huntin’ these days.

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* This story was awarded third place at the 2009 ConDFW in Dallas

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