Primal Gambit

Chapter 21: The Yard Pt. 1

Venturing into The Yard was a death sentence. Out there it was as if the apocalypse had long since occurred. Tracking fleeing prospects deep into the massive expanse was never wise, almost always resulting in complications or casualties. In the mysteriously deep labyrinth of radiation and rusted metal an entirely different ecosystem reveled.

The rotors thumped as the scout helicopter lowered to the dusty earth for the lone veteran to conduct his intimate hunt. It was Husk, the sole man in the outpost that no pilot dared defy. His hunting gear jangled as he hopped from the stomach of the machine and radioed the chopper pilot:

"Don't move until I return with the quarry, or it'll be you we turn in to the guys at Marcotte." Standing before the vehicle, Husk performed a rushed equipment check.

"Uh, yes sir," the pilot was forced to falter, "Just hurry it up Husk – I've heard things about this place. It's not smart to be here in such low vis' with only two guys." He had been the veteran's personal pilot for years, but was still afraid of the daunting man.

"You'll be buried here if it's what I see fit. Power down and sit still – be a good little birdie." Husk ordered Grey before disappearing behind an ancient crane that towered over five stories into the fog. The tip of the broken monolith was obscured by the heavy onset of hanging brown dew, the treads of the beast sunken into the rubble.

Grey was unnerved. He knew his chances of being ambushed were high, had chop shoppers taken notice of the rough landing. It wasn't the choppers that worried him, it was the stories: legend of things more sinister that dwelled in The Yard. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette to calm his nerves and shut down the spinning blades.

Husk slung the bow across the square of his back, using both hands to traverse the treacherous terrain. The prospect had disappeared into a tank boneyard, where there were countless places to hide. The hunter used cannon barrels from the old-world decimators to ascend the garbage and get a clearer vantage point.

Losing sight of a prospect in The Yard usually meant the hunters were going home empty-handed. Husk didn't lose hope, trekking over gutted remains in search of the prey. His eyes scanned the fields after he wiped his lenses. Milky clouds thundered in the distance, hammering the ground with a barrage of sog. Stopping to view the display for a moment from atop the wreckage, Husk felt as though he were back in Siberia, taking jobs from the highest bidders to remain on the outskirts of the violence, only to interfere after evaluation. The aggressive weather was akin to the shelling of cities that happened daily. To watch the foreboding spectacle from afar filled the wary hunter with a strange warmness.

Movement. The rugged man drew his pistol, cutting his moment of serenity short and aiming at the thin space between tanks. His heart began to flutter beneath his chest and camouflage as the clouds obscured the moon, casting darkness. Husk was sure he had seen the flayed end of ragged cloth trailing behind a nearby pickup. He darted down into the depths, picking his way through junk to reach the end of the truck. Above him were various crusted copper pipes that forced his body into a contorted crouch. The rolling storm echoed from the distance, creating white noise matched in frequency only by Husk's own beating pulse. As he struggled to maintain eyes on his target the radio on his shoulder crackled to life, resounding about the immediate area.

"Them clouds don't look too friendly, Husk. I don't want to fly back through the chop; speed things up." Grey's voice was tattered by radio waves and poor reception. Husk was slowly drawn closer and closer into a dark zone; an irritated part of The Yard where a communication relay was impossible to maintain. The cause was most likely due to excessive radiation, though nobody knew for sure.

Beyond the truck was a small oasis hidden by the rubble. Husk heard a bone-crunching scream cut short by a flow of blood – likely from the neck. What followed was a brief dragging across the dirty earth and something between a piping laughter and a feral howl. The renowned man-hunter had never heard anything like it.

Slowly approaching the noise, Husk crunched over shattered windshield glass and tar chunks. On a nearby slate of cracked glass the man made out a wipe of crimson brown gore. His step faltered as adrenaline began to course his veins. The field was doused in silence, the crackling thunder of the impending sog growing louder. Husk holstered his firearm, radioing the pilot and replacing his filter simultaneously.

"Grey, wings up. Prepare to evac."

...Static.

"I repeat, wings up in fifteen – prepare for evac. Grey, you there?" Husk waited for something, anything.

The only answer to his request was the crackling void.

A man built off the pride of his bad intentions, Husk could not see the harm in investigating the source, provoking the evil that hindered the hunt. Some sense of dread washed over him, telling him that something had purposely led him directly into a dark zone.

He drew the bow from his back in understanding the cunning of a man trying desperately to protect his life. When a blind of lightning crashed against the tip of the nearby crane, Husk was not expecting to see what he did.