LOH Comics: The Hunter Chronicles

The Chronicles of "The Hunter"

A series created by: . Daken_LOH(Mr_Fish_)

Prologue: Gunpowder and Dead: Pt. 3

(Sahara Plains, North Africa, July 2015)

Three years. Three years of drinking, smoking, and hunting. Three years of depressing, agonizing, numbing pain. Three long years.

BANG.

Three years, and that sound still echoed in his mind. Having to watch while his little girl, his angel, his pride and joy, was murdered in front of him. Three years, of remembering how helpless he was when the woman of his dreams was killed in cold blood. He knew it was his fault, he couldn't deny it. He wasn't strong enough. Even if he was, it was his actions that brought the radicals to him that night, and his family paid the price. Now, three years later, here he sits. Under a lean-to on the plains of the Sahara, tracking down a lone Lion, that has been terrorizing villagers for several months now.

He took apart his rifle and cleaned it. It was the third time tonight he'd done it, but it helped clear his mind. Helped him focus on the task at hand. Radio static came through very loudly on his handheld radio he kept with him. "Babban Zaki has been sighted, north of Sky Tree. Do you copy Mr. Huntington?" He put his rifle back together and gathered his things, picking up the radio to answer him. The locals called the lion Babban Zaki, or Great Lion in the language of Hausa. He called it ten grand for the price of one bullet.

"This is Huntington. Message received, inbound to the Sky Tree. Let's bag this son of a bitch." After he had packed the lean-to up, he hopped onto his old motorcycle, a gift from the locals to help him get around easier. He set the radio in the compartment and strapped his rifle onto his back, and rode to the Sky Tree. It was easy to tell which one the Sky Tree was, especially on a night like tonight. Full moon, lighting up the plains with an ominous tint, all the shrubs and occasional trees were well lit, save for one that towered over the rest. The trunk alone must have been eight feet wide, and he couldn't hope to guess how tall it was.

He pulled up about a quarter of a mile away from the tree. He undid the strap on his rifle and laid down on a somewhat flat rock. It was as good a surface as he was going to get out here. After rummaging through his bag he pulled out a pair of spotting binoculars, and did the calculations in his head. Distance, elevation based off a local map, wind speed, the works. When he attached the scope of his rifle and looked down through the lenses, the cat was the first thing he noticed. It was a huge lion, easily larger than any he had ever seen. He wouldn't have been surprised if someone said it was 7 feet long, not including the tail. There was something else about the cat that he noticed, and he couldn't figure out why this was.

The cat wasn't moving.

Was it asleep? Was it stalking prey? Regardless, it was not moving a muscle. In fact, he couldn't see it breathing either. What the hell? He thought to himself. He cautiously approached, rifle aimed at the lion while slowly walking up to it, somewhat crouched for stabilization of the gun. He stood maybe twenty feet away from it before he knelt on the ground, rifle aimed at the chest of the beast. He noticed a bunch of leaves on the ground, and rustled them loudly with his knee. The birds in the Sky Tree heard, and cawed loudly before flying into the night, though the lion didn't move. He slowly moved around the lion, keeping distance between him and the monstrous creature, and stood directly in front of it. There were numerous bullet holes on its side, and a knife carved into the fur a symbol. A symbol which he knew like the back of his hand. One that he drew hundreds upon thousands of times in his notes. It was the mark of the men that changed his very being, shook him to his core.

It was the brand of the radical group.

He ran back to the motorcycle and called in on his radio to the village communicator, a man named Tadhg. "Tadhg, Tadhg come in! Tadhg!" His call was not answered, in fact static was the only thing he received on that channel. He cranked up his motorcycle and peeled away from the Sky Tree, heading back to the village. While riding, numerous thoughts drove through his mind. It can't be the same men... It can't possibly be! Can it? Dear God I hope they haven't done what I fear they did. As he drove through the night over the hills he could see an orange tint in the sky, in the direction of the village. He pushed the motorcycle to its limits, tearing through the dirt faster than the bike was likely designed to. He stopped close to a half mile away, when he could see the village. At least, what was left of it. All that remained were flames that stood as tall as any man, and corpses of the structures that once stood proud on the plains. Tents were disintegrated, shacks were rubble, and no living sole moved in the ashes.

He turned his motorcycle off, though he could hear engines still running. He looked on the other side of the village, and saw four sets of tail lights driving away. There was only one vehicle that the village had, and it was this motorcycle. It had to have been the ones that caused this chaos. He turned the motorcycle back on and drove to the other side, and sure enough he found four sets of tire marks fleeing. He got off the motorcycle, and walked around the village. The fires were dying, there was nothing left to feed the flames. In the middle of the village, a commonplace for these people, he stood and surveyed the carnage. Nothing remained. Bodies were scattered, burned, mutilated even. A corpse was propped against a base of one of the shacks. As Hector approached he saw it had the other radio in its lap. He picked it up, careful not to disturb the corpse. He turned it on, and discovered the channel was changed to a different one than he was on. A message came through as he tuned it and turned the volume up, a recording it sounded.

"-e will never forgive, for we will never forget, hail to the Syndicate. Death to our enemies, may they fear is, for we will never forgive, for we will never forget, hail to the Syndicate. Death to our enem-" He had heard enough, and turned off the radio. He knew only one thing was certain. He finally put a name to his old enemy. The Syndicate. The group responsible for years of torment and pain, finally had a name. He mounted his motorcycle, rifle on his back, and revved the engine one good time, before riding down the tire tracks, still fresh in the sand and dirt. It was a long time coming that he found these people, these monsters. Years of anger, sadness, grief, and resentment, pulsed through his body as he tore through the plains. If he had ever been certain of anything before, it would be this.

He would be damned before he let them leave these grasslands alive.

The end.