Meanwhile, Orion Locke was driving through the night toward his hometown in a battered pickup truck missing both doors and most of its windshield.
Hannibal and his former companion had lived in those mountains for more than a decade, killing countless travelers and tourists, and over the years they had hidden their victims’ vehicles in a secluded valley.
Orion had searched through hundreds of abandoned cars before finally finding an old pickup that still ran, while Hannibal’s enormous body fit surprisingly well in the open bed.
Orion wiped a layer of dust from the steering wheel and revealed a faded Chevrolet emblem underneath.
The truck looked as if it belonged in a scrapyard, but mechanically it was still reliable enough to keep moving.
After stopping once for gas, Orion drove for more than three hours before the first light of dawn appeared over Monroe, Louisiana.
He eventually entered a poor neighborhood and stopped across from an aging two-story house with peeling paint and a sagging porch.
Orion remained behind the wheel for several minutes, silently staring at the place where he had grown up with his mother.
After she died, the mortgage had fallen behind, the bank foreclosed on the property, and the home they had spent more than a decade living in was eventually sold to strangers.
Orion had never really had a home after that.
A few minutes later, he quietly started the truck again and drove toward a small farm southwest of Monroe.
The property was one of the few permanent assets he had purchased during his early years in the Navy, although calling it a working farm would have been generous.
It covered a little more than twenty-five acres, relatively small by American agricultural standards, but that also kept the property taxes manageable.
Even though the land had produced almost nothing for years, Orion still had to pay those taxes annually.
What had originally attracted him wasn’t the farmland itself but the property surrounding it, which included a neglected orchard and a small lake covering several acres near the front of the property.
Beside the orchard stood an aging wooden farmhouse, while a large storage building farther away had once been used for vehicles, equipment, fertilizer, and miscellaneous supplies.
Bang!
After parking near the farmhouse, Orion slapped the side of the pickup bed and immediately woke Hannibal from a deep sleep.
He searched through his backpack for the old house key, only to discover that the lock had rusted almost solid after years of neglect.
Orion gave it a slightly harder pull, and the entire lock cylinder tore free from the door while a cloud of dust and stale air rolled out from inside.
“Hannibal, clean the house.” Orion found two old mops, a bucket, and several cleaning supplies in a storage closet before handing them to his enormous subordinate.
Hannibal stared down at the equipment with visible confusion, and the mop looked almost comically small in the hands of an eight-foot mutant.
Still, Absolute Obedience prevented him from refusing, so after several clumsy attempts, he began cleaning.
Leaving Hannibal to deal with the farmhouse, Orion drove slowly around the property to reacquaint himself with the land.
Much of his farm had become overgrown with weeds, and several fences badly needed repair, making it obvious that nobody had properly maintained the place in years.
When he reached the southern boundary, however, the neighboring property looked completely different.
A broad-shouldered, bearded middle-aged man was operating a combine through a cornfield on the other side of the property line.
His farm was carefully maintained, with cultivated fields stretching into the distance and cattle grazing beyond several sturdy fences.
Compared with Orion’s neglected land, it looked like the kind of farm someone actually depended on for a living.
When the combine turned around, the driver noticed Orion standing near the boundary.
The man initially looked surprised, but recognition quickly transformed his expression into a wide grin.
He shut down the machine, climbed out, and immediately headed toward him.
“Hahaha!
Orion!” The man opened his arms and pulled Orion into a rough hug before slapping him several times on the back.
His name was John, a heavily built man in his forties who stood a little under six feet tall, with a long scar running across his left cheek that gave him a naturally intimidating appearance.
Despite his civilian clothes and farmer’s hands, Orion could still see the old military habits in the way he moved.
John had once been a Navy Chief Petty Officer in Naval Special Warfare before injuries forced him into retirement.
During Orion’s early years in special operations, John had been one of his senior teammates and had looked after him partly because they were both from the Monroe area.
He was also the person who had helped Orion find this farm and had even covered part of the purchase price when Orion was short on cash.
“I heard about James,” John said after stepping back.
His expression became more serious as he looked Orion over.
“What happened wasn’t your fault.” Orion didn’t answer immediately.
Both he and James had once trained under John.
Orion had possessed extraordinary physical and combat talent, while James had always shown the instincts of a natural field leader, and neither John nor anyone else had expected him to die during what should have been a manageable hostage rescue.
In combat, however, a single mistake or unknown gunman could erase years of experience in seconds.
“It’s good that you’re home,” John continued.
He pulled out his pipe, packed it, and lit it before taking a slow drag.
“The military isn’t what it used to be anyway.
Too many politicians and people sitting behind desks have forgotten what soldiers actually sacrifice.” John had never hidden his resentment toward senior leadership or Washington bureaucracy.
After being medically retired, he had refused several security and defense-related jobs and instead returned to Louisiana, where he ran the family farm with his wife and sister-in-law.
Farming suited his temperament better than taking orders from people he no longer respected.
“Enough depressing talk.” John looked across Orion’s weed-covered property and grinned.
“You planning to actually grow anything over there?
I’ve got a couple experienced farmhands I can lend you for a few days.” “No need.” Orion waved the suggestion away.
“I bought the place because I wanted land of my own.
I’m not interested in becoming a farmer.” He already had a much clearer idea of what his future would involve.
Special creatures like the mutant cannibals could provide the Special Energy required to raise his Life Level, which meant Orion intended to search for more of them whenever possible.
Spending his days planting crops and fixing irrigation lines had never been part of that plan.
John laughed as though he had expected exactly that answer.
He lifted the edge of his shirt slightly, revealing a stainless-steel revolver holstered at his side.
“Come over for dinner tonight.
Tomorrow I’ll take you into town, buy you a proper welcome-home drink, and introduce you to a few people who might help you make some money.” “Sounds good.” Orion nodded without asking for details.
His savings were running low, and John knew enough veterans, hunters, contractors, and local businessmen that whatever opportunity he had in mind was probably worth hearing about.
“Aba… aba…” A deep voice suddenly came from behind them.
Hannibal had apparently finished enough of the cleaning to notice Orion was gone, and after following the pickup tracks across the property, he had eventually found him near the neighboring field.
John turned toward the noise, froze for half a second at the sight of the enormous deformed figure approaching them, then immediately drew his revolver.
“What the hell is that?!” “Roar…” Hannibal sensed the hostility and lowered his massive body into a crouch, releasing a threatening growl while preparing to charge.
Orion immediately raised one hand toward him.
“Hannibal, back off.” The mutant stopped at once and stepped away.
John glanced between them, still holding his revolver cautiously.
Orion gestured toward Hannibal and said, “This is Hannibal.
I found him wandering around after I left the service.
He has a severe genetic mutation.
Looks terrifying, but he’s obedient.” “Genetic mutation?” John slowly lowered the gun and studied Hannibal’s deformed face and gigantic frame.
Anger quickly replaced suspicion in his expression.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if some factory dumped chemicals into the water or some company buried toxic waste where nobody was supposed to find it.” Orion said nothing.
John’s natural distrust of corporations and government regulators had conveniently created an explanation for Hannibal before Orion even needed to invent one.
(End of Chapter) [Reader Support Milestones]