Ancient Echoes

CHAPTER 63



THE EVENING BEFORE, Devlin Farrell stared down at the empty village. He wondered what the villagers had done with his classmates and the professor. He hoped the empty village meant they escaped.

He heard gunfire.

As more proof that he'd gone completely insane, rather than running away from it, he ran toward it. Maybe if he found the shooters, he would find his classmates and the professor.

He last saw them the day two strangers pulled them out of the creek when flesh-eating beetles attacked. After the experience of being duped by the river rafters, he decided to watch the strangers before putting himself under their control.

Devlin watched them lead everyone into some sort of compound where the men and women were separated. Something about the place, those men, seemed wrong to him.

He had a knife, but no other weapons. As he watched two men who carried rifles, bows and arrows, he decided to follow them. To his surprise, they tossed the rifles into a cave. It made no sense to him. Why treat good weapons that way?

He went to the cave after the men left, and found six HK-91 rifles, plus a few magazines. He had grown up hunting with his dad, and was a crack shot. He silently thanked his cousin in the army who once showed him how to release complex safety mechanisms. He took two rifles, as many magazines as he could carry, and left.

Armed, he considered going to the compound to rescue the others. But then what? Alone, he could travel fast, find help—real help. As an athlete he trained for strength and high endurance. He decided to head south. Driving himself relentlessly, he found a safe spot to cross the Salmon River. From there, he reached the Middle Fork, and traveled along it. When the banks of the river became too high, steep and dangerous, he moved inland. But he would always find his way back to the river, clutching the hope that he'd turn a corner and come across a gathering of friendly people.

But he didn't.

He found hot springs to soothe aching, weary muscles. He saw shooting stars and, once, the aurora borealis to keep him company through long, desolate nights. He experienced torrential cloudbursts and brief, near hurricane-force winds. Twice, he backed away from a grizzly who was mercifully more interested in its forage than in the tall, two-legged creature that feared it.

Despite everything, he would not stop. Memories of his friends, especially of Brian who he was sure had died, and of Rachel, who he hadn’t given much thought to at all when she was near, but he now realized had more spunk, brains and courage than most men he knew, drove him on.

Past the Middle Fork, he trekked southward, until he recognized the headwaters of the Salmon River near the town of Stanley. He'd been to Stanley many times. Small and rustic with crystal clear air, when there he felt as if he were standing at the top of the world, the beautiful, jagged snow-capped Sawtooth Mountains in the distance.

From Stanley, continuing south, he would reach Sun Valley.

But there was no Stanley. The area looked as if the place had never existed.

With that, he knew his quest was hopeless. No sign of civilization at all was found. For all he knew, he was dead, and this emptiness some kind of purgatory. Or worse.

He turned back toward the village to rejoin the others. They were all he had left in the world, and he would do whatever it took to see them again, to have companionship, to end this aching loneliness.

And then, the strangest thing happened. It only took a day for him to reach the pillars. He shivered as a thought crossed his mind, a thought he didn’t like one bit. The pillars appeared to be the center of this new, unreal universe. He had heard about curvatures of time and space in a physics class. It made no sense to him then, and still didn’t. But he was back.

He went straight to the compound, only to find it empty.

His debate over which way to go ended when he heard gunfire.

He hurried to the area from which he heard the shots fired. To his amazement, he had never seen any of the individuals involved in the shootout before, two on one side, and three on the other. He had no idea who they were, or why they were fighting.

The two were losing the battle. He crept near them.

One, trying to encourage the other, had to shout over the sound of automatic fire. Devlin heard him give the names of his friends...Rachel, Brandi, Melisse, Lionel...

He knew which side he belonged on.

He crawled around to the far side of the larger group of shooters. One sniper hid behind a tree. Devlin snuck behind him, aimed, fired, and immediately ran.

The sniper fell to the ground, dead.

Devlin snuck up behind the other two shooters and fired again.

The two apparently thought they were surrounded, and ran.

Devlin followed them far enough to make sure they weren’t going to backtrack, and then made his way to the two strangers. “Don't shoot!” he called as he neared them. “I'm on your side.”

“Who are you?” Michael held his rifle aimed and ready.

“It's okay,” Devlin called. “You know my friends. Trust me!” He stepped into the open, put his rifles on the ground and raised his arms high.

Although his face sported a full beard and his hair was shaggy, Michael recognized him from posters and news reports. “Devlin Farrell,” he said as he moved out from behind the sheltering rocks.

“That’s right,” Devlin said. “But who are you? And who were those guys shooting at you? And why?”

Jake had passed out from the gunshot. Michael used his knife to remove the bullet and his shirt to wrap and bind the wound as he explained as much as he could to Devlin. Devlin told him how he'd purposefully separated himself from the other students to find help. He then told of the stark emptiness he found.

As much as Michael hadn’t wanted to believe what he heard, Devlin’s story made sense.

Michael then briefed him on all that had happened with the students and villagers.

While Devlin stayed with Jake, Michael headed back to the man who had been shot to search for IDs or anything to give a clue as to who he was. He was young and hard-muscled, but carried no identification. His phone and walkie-talkie were completely dead. Michael took his rifle, ammo, and knife.

After Michael returned, Devlin went at night, alone, to the cave where the villagers had hidden their rifles and picked up the remaining four, plus clips.

The three set out at dawn. Jake's wound and blood loss forced them to travel slowly. Michael and Devlin had to support him as he half-walked, half-dragged himself while using a tree limb as a crutch.

When they heard gunfire a little later that morning, they sped up as much as possible while still keeping themselves under some means of cover. An hour passed before they neared the culvert where the others had camped for the night.

There, they found Melisse's body.

Their elation at finding Devlin alive and having gotten away from their attackers, sank into nothing.

Not far from her, two mercenaries lay dead. “Melisse did this,” Michael said. “She gave her life to protect the others.”

They found no sign of Charlotte, Quade, or the others, and Michael’s fear grew that they were dead or captured.

“We'll track them,” Michael said with determination, finding where grass and weeds had been trampled. “We will find them.”

“They’ve got to be alive,” Devlin murmured.

The sight of Melisse lying dead, the need to find the others, spurred the men forward.

Michael abruptly halted. He shot out his arm, stopping the other two, then pointed at a bush. Jake and Devlin aimed their rifles at the shrub. “Come out now, arms up,” Jake bellowed, “or we shoot!”

They heard the sound of crying, and lowered their weapons. They knew who it was. One student, at least, still lived.

o0o

Fish and Nose returned to Hammill’s camp. “We had two of them pinned down when others showed up. We don’t know how many and they were armed. They killed Dogman.”

The Hammer's jaw clenched. Fish, Nose and he were the only survivors of the team. “I want vengeance. Those bastards have a lot to pay for. And they will.”