Primal Gambit

Chapter 61: The Flank

Scarab neared the corner, pulling his mask back down over his eyes. He hoped the men shooting at his mercenaries were no longer using the flamethrowers that blinded them all and instead returned to traditional firearms. The sounds of unsuppressed weapons rattled the metal of the building, which filled the hunter with hope. He lurched around the corner slowly to see three men firing. One of them laughed maniacally, with a smaller frame and submachine gun. The others riddled shots off in pure silence, their faces grim and devoid of emotion entirely.

The hunter turned the radio down so the voices and white noise were silenced, then hustled forward behind a nearby pile of rusted debris. A wrinkled blue tarp crackled as it drifted in the air above the heap, stuck in place yet trying desperately to get away. Holstering the pistol and taking the rifle in his hands, he lifted his torso above the lowest portion of the trash until his goggles were infiltrated by three orange figures. Targeting the nearest one and exhaling slowly, he squeezed the trigger ever-slightly.

The round rocked the rifle back into his shoulder as he watched it tear through The Crow. A spurt of red blood immediately became blue in the dual band as Scarab watched his prey fall to the ground. The mercenary ducked down immediately as the The Crow bypassed the wound and returned fire with a volley of rounds from the pistol he had looted from the scavenger weeks ago. None of them connected with Scarab as he covered his head from the firestorm. From the sounds of the shooter being used by his adversary, the mercenary captain understood it was a six shooter; when the hail of gunshots stopped he knew it was his moment to strike. As he lifted himself up to fire upon The Crow once more he noticed the man was on his knees now – one hand clutching the left side of his abdomen.

He took the putrid man's face into his sights and was about to fire when silenced shots rang out from the other end of the parking lot. His men took charge, firing into the wounded chop shopper from behind, embedding rounds in both his spinal column and scalp. When the whispers ended the heavyset man collapsed face-first into his own blood – mouth locked into a final gaping growl.

"Another one down." A voice spoke quietly to Scarab.

The ash began to fall slowly from the stars. To the mercenary, who only took a moment away from the assault to stare into the sky, figured it was some type of new anomaly. Ash was drifting down, but not from any noticeable clouds above. It was something he had never seen before.

"I've got the last two, the rest of you begin rounding up the stragglers inside the warehouse. Be prepared, they're military-trained." The leader quietly ordered into the radio before collecting himself for another rally.

"You got it. Moving on." The radio answered as Scarab felt the solitude surround him. He was finally hunting on his own – just how he liked it. In his mind, only when he was alone could he fully immerse himself in the hunt. Now was his chance. He could hear a jarring voice cry out from beyond cover:

"Did we get 'em all?" The weaseled voice cracked; Scarab could hear firearms being reloaded. Empty shell casings clinked, echoing across the silent area. A sense of eeriness flooded the hunter's senses as if he had just entered the den of the beasts.

He skulked slowly from around the cover to get a better angle. The darkness rendered him virtually invisible. An unseen tracker stalking prey from within the bent streetlights and tallgrass, he used all four limbs to crawl across the cracked concrete. Watching intently, Scarab noticed the smaller of the two men took a fresh fuel canister into his hands and screwed it tightly into place underneath the heavy flamethrower. The mercenary was surprised the thin-framed man could fire, let alone hold such a goliath weapon.

Drexel would not be able to hold it for much longer.

Scarab watched as the psychopath pillared columns of flames into the sky to thwart any men trying to advance on their position. He didn't even notice that The Crow had perished a few yards away. The mercenary observed through small gaps in the trash heap, the tarp still ripping coarsely through the breeze. He was not ridden with anxiety by the speed in which the mission was to take place – to him, taking a life was an action that warranted as much time as necessary. Everything else would have to wait.