Havoc Tales Volume 2 The Hunt: Havoc Tales, #2

By Rollin Miller

Jack Havoc and his team previously met the monstrous threat and sent it reeling back into the hole from which it sprang. But now, a new threat was emerging as the creatures turned their attention elsewhere. Its first attack came quietly upon its victim, the young woman completely unaware until the moment her life was savagely ripped from her. Her cries fell upon the morning breeze, wafting over the rocky terrain while her blood poured profusely upon the ground. 

 

With a town under threat, Havoc and his team are called back into the fray, bringing to bear everything at their disposal to bring an end to the horror. Come and join Jack as he drops out of the sky, strafing the ground, the things of nightmares in the bomber's gunsights.

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rollin Miller
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201203658

Rollin Miller

Rollin Miller, the author of Are We Monsters?, Virgin Birth, and the dystopian thriller 2520 The Last Day, recently retired and lives with his wife in Las Vegas, Nevada. Rollin is currently at work on a series of novellas titled Havoc Tales. The title comes from the lead character, Jack Havoc, who leads a specially chosen team in dealing with the frighteningly unimaginable. 

Book preview

Havoc Tales Volume 2 The Hunt

Chapter 1

THE UNDERGROUND DARKNESS suddenly gave way to a peek of moonlight and dusty twilight as the rocky ground and narrowing stone walls angled upward. The sliver of the night's surface opening grew larger with every one of the thousands of scurrying steps. Scratching and digging sharply into the earth and rock, these alien-sounding steps sent a steady flow of stones, knocked loose, careening back down behind them. The climb was driven by a primal urge to hunt, tempted and enticed by newfound senses the unexplored world above offered.

Their emergence on the surface came quietly with the first, its antennae pushed back, dragging against the rugged chute of the earth, popping free in the morning air. The cool breeze and the sense of a strange and new world sent shivers of anticipation down its long body.

Eager to get on with the hunt, its mandibles moved in frenzied motion. It was almost as if the creature could already taste its prey. The poisonous tips of its massive forcipules slowly spread and contracted in concert with its legs digging and thrusting the remaining length of its serpentine body upward and out onto the surface.

Scurrying away from the opening, it found a vantage point and stopped as the others behind it made their own journey. It remained there for some time, its head darting one way and then the other, sensing, probing, gathering information. Once satisfied, it scampered off toward a clump of brush where it abruptly stopped again, its antennae sweeping the surroundings for any sense of danger or dinner.

Then, as if signaled, the others pulled themselves out onto the surface, spreading out as they did. Their sensor antennae were in information overload as they drew in their first senses of this new world. Then with the flutter of night wings overhead, they were gone, each running off in a different direction.

The great horned owl landed several yards away, perching on a rocky peak. Rotating its head, it looked to the west and the glow of light that broke through the darkness. The city was still at rest, nearing the point of waking up. It was completely unaware of what was about to happen.

The owl's head spun around, hearing the sound of approaching danger. Leaping into the night, it flew off as the creature neared, never looking back as it sought a safer location.

Reaching the pinnacle now abandoned by the owl, the creature also looked to the west with innate curiosity as it gazed on the sprawling town below. Almost immediately, the primal urges returned, and the juices began to flow. It was hungry.

THE ARIZONA DESERT morning was unusually cool, with the sun having not yet peeked out from under the blanket of the horizon. It would be another couple of hours before it crept over the eastern mountains and pushed its way through the dark clouds. Speckles of starlight still ruled the sky. The moon's reflective glow, crescent and bright, highlighted the night, casting shadows in the shade of night as it trekked low in the sky.

The call of desert quail gave the wake-up call to anyone around who would hear, hidden in the Blue Grama grass and Sumac that populates the ranch land. The darkness of the main house fled when the lights came on, giving off a buttery warm glow through the front shades. Movement followed soon after as well as sounds coming from the kitchen and smell—the distinctive and comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

With breakfast still some time off, the early morning was filled with quiet reflection, hot coffee, and now, lingering pipe smoke. A tall silhouette framed the open doorway, the amber glow of embers surging in the walnut bowl with every draw.

One might wonder how Jack Havoc could have a peaceful morning after everything that recently happened. Call it compartmentalization or something else. But whatever it was, Jack was able to put all the nightmarish considerations aside as he pulled open the black screen door, the stretching of its rusted spring complaining as he did.

Jack loved mornings like this as he stepped out onto the porch, releasing the screen which slammed shut behind him. He stood there long enough for the first real breath of the morning air before walking out to the edge. There, he stopped, raised his pipe, and drew heavily. The heat permeated the bowl, transferring into the calloused tissue of his hand.

Lowering the pipe, he held it in front of him, holding his coffee cup in the crook of his elbow as he stirred and tampered the bowl before drawing again. It was his favorite sitter, carved with the details of an old man's face. Its long flowing beard artistically followed the track of the gnarly burl of black walnut.

It was one of his larger pipes, resting heavily but comfortably in the palm of his hand. It was, in his estimation, ideally suited for Arizona desert front porch smoking. The face reminded him of his grandfather.

Lifting his eyes, Jack sipped his coffee and looked to the east side of his ranch. They landed on the wide entrance gate, above which the iron icon of his ranch, a sitter pipe, welcomed all who entered. Turning, he scanned along the fence line over to the hangar at the northeast corner. The largest building on the property, the hanger, was his baby's home. The A-20's canvas-covered nose was barely visible in the low light.

The arid desert ground that connected them all was where Jack's boot landed as he stepped off the porch. The scored bottom of his Cody James hit the ground hard, disturbed wisps of dust rising and circling from where the leather sole landed.

After setting his cup down, he reached for one of the porch posts, grabbed onto it, and lowered himself to the wooden planking, adjusting himself as best as possible. Letting go, he pushed himself back and leaned against the post and railing.

Drawing on his pipe, Jack held the smoke for a moment, his eyes again wandering. This time, they followed a stretch of weathered fencing running from the east, southward. His eyes crossed the dark shrouds of Joshua Trees and Desert Pines before eventually losing the fence line behind the house.

Releasing the smoke, he turned the other way, picking up the fence again, in the far distance between the house and the tackle shop. From the tackle shop, he looked at the workshop and the garage before coming full circle, encountering the corrugated steel of the hangar. The morning light had gained a little traction while sitting there, and he was able to make out more of the details of the Havoc bomber's nose.

Too large to be behind closed doors, the A-20 Havoc bomber was forced to keep its nose peeking out in the elements. Most of the time, Jack kept it partially covered under a protective canvas as it was now. It hung oddly and skeletal-like, draping over the bomber's six 303 Browning machine guns. A recent purchase from a seller in England, the guns had only recently undergone an extensive overhaul before installation. Jack couldn't wait to get in the Havoc in the air and try the guns out over a remote patch of desert.

The springy sound of another angry screen door opening and slamming shut drew Jack's attention to the small building on the far side of the hanger. Initially used for parts storage, it was now a makeshift apartment for Wrench. Complete with a narrow bed, similar to what Wrench had on board his ship in the Navy, an under-counter refrigerator, and television, he had nearly everything a growing boy would need. The rest of the space was sucked up by a large workbench strewn with tools and equipment, mainly from the Havoc.

Wrench was up early, shuffling outside with his chipped Popeye coffee cup in one hand and some sort of a contraption Jack couldn't recognize in the other. Whatever it was, Wrench couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of it as he meandered his way into the partially open hangar bay doors and out of sight. Jack drew again on his pipe before reaching for his coffee, annoyed when his phone started to ring.

Placing his cup on the porch beside him, Jack held the phone close and saw the call was from Ashley. After another ring and a deep breath, he put it to his ear. This is Jack, he said as he continued to smoke. A striped whiptail lizard ran out from under the edge of the porch. Darting in front of Jack, the lizard stopped briefly, alerted to the presence of Jack's boots, frozen but for its flickering tongue. As Jack adjusted his leg position, the slight movement sent the lizard in retreat, vanishing back under the porch.

Yeah, don't worry about the hour, Jack said as he rolled his head, bones in his neck popping. I'm usually up pretty early. He arched his back, fighting against the product of a night on a hard mattress. In an hour? Sure, you and Dr. Berg are welcome to come out and join us. Pushing up the sleeve of his shirt, he looked at his watch. That will be great. Just in time for breakfast, so bring your appetites. The phone went quiet without any goodbyes, and Jack slipped it into his shirt pocket. Reaching for his cup, he drank the last of his coffee, which had quickly cooled, his mind caught up in all things Ashley. So much for compartmentalization.

He stared at the bottom of his empty cup. A drop of coffee lingered in the edge, slipping round and round as he tilted it, dragging with it lingering questions and doubt that had accumulated over time. Putting the cup back on the warped plank of his porch,