The Dying of the Light (Book 1): End Page 4

  There was a part of me — a large part — that wanted to go out there into the night, searching for the kid, regardless of my chances of making it out alive. It was the right thing to do, danger or no danger. But the odds were almost nil that he was still the boy I remembered. And I had to get out of this town somehow.

  It was then that I made the hardest choice I’ve ever made, even though it was clear what I had to do: I abandoned him, knowing full well that it would mean his death, if he wasn’t dead already.

  He’s probably still alive, asshole. Hiding somewhere, waiting for you to come rescue him, Dad.

  Like I said, not a nice voice.

  Mentally cataloguing the few possessions I wanted to take with me, I calmly and quickly began stuffing them into another duffel bag I grabbed out of the closet. Without thinking, I used my injured arm, and bit my lip to keep from crying out again.

  First things first, dumbass.

  I moved into the upstairs bathroom and grabbed the first-aid kit, closing both doors into the room as well as pulling the window shade before turning on the lights. I wasn’t sure that zombies were attracted to light, but there wasn’t any sense in taking unnecessary chances. I’d seen enough horror movies and killed enough of them in the last two nights to know that ‘better safe than sorry’ was always the way to go.

  Fortunately the electricity’s still on, I thought. And the water. I turned on the taps and unwrapped the belt, wincing at the fresh flow of blood from the wound, but thankful that the spike had gone all the way through. I was sure there would be splinters, but right now all I could do was stop the bleeding. Dropping the now-shredded t-shirt on the floor, I examined the hole in my arm and saw it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. The splinter wasn’t that large in diameter, though the blood was still flowing freely.

  Thanks, Dad, I thought as I opened the well-stocked first aid kit. As a Marine, he had always insisted on keeping an over-sized kit somewhere in the house, and I was very glad I’d learned that particular lesson. I paged through the simple and well-illustrated field manual in the kit, and followed the directions.

  I was amazed at the relative lack of pain as the coagulant powder stopped the bleeding, and I wrapped gauze around my arm after applying a bandage pad. I looked in the mirror when I’d finished.

  Well, it ain’t pretty, but it’ll have to do. Hopefully I can make it to a hospital or something when I get to Lakewood.

  Popping some painkillers, I repacked the kit, turned off the light and moved back into the bedroom. After putting on a warmer long-sleeve shirt, I picked up the bag once more, this time with my uninjured arm. Now that I’d at least bandaged the arm, the pain had started to fade a bit.

  Extra shoes. Extra batteries. Extra clothes and a jacket. Water bottles. The bag was stuffed and bulging by the time I was through, but I didn’t have to carry it very far.

  I dropped it next to the bag Monty had given me, and I looked around at the kitchen just once as I paused by the back door, checking the path to the garage fifteen feet away. It was a cozy little house, but there was nothing left for me here now.

  I made it to the garage and inside, the door shut and the light on, pistol at the ready. No movement, no noise. The camp stove under the workbench and the sleeping bag from the rafters overhead went into the back of my black 1988 Ford Bronco along with the duffels. I climbed behind the wheel and paused for a moment. This beast was going to draw every one of the monsters for three blocks or more when I started it up; no v8 engine I ever heard ran quiet. Nothing for it, though. Once I was moving, I could just run down any of the bastards between here and I-70. Few things could stop an old-school Bronco once it was at speed, and the over-sized winter tires would keep the big vehicle on the road. And it was a hell of a lot better than walking.

  I was as ready as I would ever be.

  The first roar of the engine overwhelmed the noise of the big garage door going up, and I rocketed out, the tall radio mast barely clearing the door, even tied back as it was. I didn’t see the first zombie I hit, but bits and brains flew over the windshield as I smashed into it somewhere around the sidewalk and turned out into the street.

  I tried to remember the clearest path from my house to the Interstate, given all the abandoned cars and other obstructions on the roads. I’d almost made it to the intersection of Roland and Main, where I was tempted to turn, when I heard what could only be a helicopter overhead. What the hell is a helicopter doing in Fall Creek? I wondered as I slowed and checked for zombies, then stopped and stuck my head out the window.

  The moonlight glinted off the side of a Blackhawk helicopter as it banked low over the ten or fifteen old buildings the visitor’s bureau referred to as “Historic Downtown Fall Creek.” Army insignia were visible on the side of the craft as it headed in the general direction of the town hall, and I assumed it would be landing in the main square.

  That’s my ticket out, I thought as I rolled the window back up and began moving that way. Just like that, all my plans had changed. I just have to get there. Somehow. Through a hundred or more zombies that all want to have me for a late supper.

  I stopped about half a mile away from downtown, making sure the coast was clear before I parked next to an alley with a fire escape. I got out and grabbed the duffel with all my clothes, some food, and ammo. I wouldn’t need the camp stove or sleeping bag. If it turned out these guys were no good, I could always come back here and head back for the interstate. The duffel went on my back, along with the rifle. Pistol in its holster, I climbed onto the roof of the Bronco and grabbed the fire escape ladder just as I saw the first zombie come around the corner, drawn by the rumble of the big V8. Timing was everything, I guess.

  I moved across the roofs of the downtown shopping district quietly and quickly. Fortunately, there were only minor gaps between them, and I lucked out in finding a loose board from one of the signs that I could extend across the larger spaces. Taking it with me each time, I was able to make my way toward the main square.

  I dropped and crawled to the edge of the building near the main square, then slowly peeked over the edge. It seemed like a standard Army camp, at least from what I’d seen in movies. There were a couple temporary helipads chalked onto the asphalt, and some tents set up, their sides rolled up to provide ventilation to the scientists working beneath them. I could see a few random flashes of gunfire from the barricades they had set up; the zombies were being drawn by the noise of all the personnel, but were coming to the barricades in dribs and drabs, a few at a time.

  I was done with Fall Creek now. I’d seen and done things in the last few hours that I had never thought possible, and I moved back, taking the first fire escape down to the nearest alley, crouching around the corner in the few shadows that were left as the sun began to rise. I hoped that these Army guys would be able to get me out of here.

  Beyond the makeshift barricades — a few cars pushed together here and there, and a city bus blocking one street — there were at least two choppers, their blades turning as the Army personnel moved back and forth around their fortifications.

  The problem was that I had no idea what sort of story they’d been told about what was going on here. Could’ve been anything, and they’d already seen several of their men go down. What was odd were the scientists they had with them. Obviously not military, they carried themselves differently, and flinched every time a gun went off.

  At least there’s none at this barricade for the moment, I thought. I could count about 30 or 40 lying on the ground in front of it, though. The night hadn’t been completely kind to these guys.

  And here came another patrol, within a couple hundred yards of me. I took a deep breath and checked for walkers. None spotted, I lowered my duffel to the ground, and holstered my pistol. Holding the rifle by one hand, I cupped the other and shouted around the corner.

  “Don’t shoot, I’m not infected,” I began and jerked back as a fusillade of bullets struck chips off the edge of the building.

 
; Genius, Blake. Pure fucking genius. Why don’t you just fire your rifle in the air to calm them down, now?

  From around the side of the building I heard a gruff voice. “God dammit Jenkins, cease fire! Who gave you an order to shoot, you dipshit?”

  “Well, sir…”

  “Shaddup, asshole, it was a rhetorical question.”

  I chuckled. Definitely not an officer, that one.

  “All you other assholes will hold fire until I give you a direct order, clear?”

  A chorus of sheepish voices answered. “Clear, sir!”

  “Good. You, behind the corner there. If you’re human, you’ll come out with your hands over your head, and slowly, or you will by-god die where you stand. You get me?”

  I grinned again. This guy’s been watching too much Full Metal Jacket. “Yes, sir! Hands over my head and slowly, sir!”

  I extended the rifle into view around the corner, keeping it pointed away from the squad, and lowered it to the ground. I held my hands up and inched around the corner, folding them atop my head as I walked forward, swallowing hard at the sight of no less than 10 M16’s pointed straight at my face.

  I was about twenty yards away when the man spoke up again. “Alright, that’s far enough. Turn around.” I did so, barely moving. “You been bitten or otherwise wounded, son?”

  “Yes, sir.” I closed my eyes as the rifles rose once more to the shoulders of the young soldiers in front of me, and I prayed that they wouldn’t fire as I yelled. “Not bitten! I got a piece of fence through my arm, sir, but I wasn’t bitten.”

  “Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

  Very carefully — and not just because my arm was throbbing by this point after holding it over my head for so long — I removed my jacket and shirt. “Went all the way through, sir.” I pointed out the entry and exit wounds, but he just looked at me.

  “Well, if you’re lying, you’re dying, as they say. In any case, you’re a damn sight smarter than some of these jackasses I’ve got here,” he said, jerking a thumb in one grunt’s direction as he rolled his eyes. From the anger I saw on his face, I guessed that was Jenkins.

  “Alright, son, get over to the medic and get checked out,” he said. “They’ll let you…”

  I interrupted him by fainting as I moved forward, the stress of the past two days — three now, as I noticed the sun coming up — finally catching up with the blood I’d lost. I noticed his name stitched on his uniform as I reached out for him, though.

  It can be funny what goes through your mind as you’re passing out from stress and fear and blood loss; for me, it was a completely useless observation.

  I’ve never met anyone named Maxwell before.

  The massacre at Fall Creek changed everything.

  With nearly 1,500 people dead, the cover-up was the most massive in AEGIS history. Along with all the civilians killed, the loss of the state troopers, national guard and soldiers in that action caused those in the know in the government to listen to what their military advisors had been telling them for years: that a corps of specially-trained and conditioned fighting men and women was needed specifically for these sorts of operations.

  A classified Executive Order was issued establishing a secret Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force, reporting only to the Secretary of Defense and the president. Containing elements of all four military branches, no expense was spared in the outfitting of these teams, their budgets so deeply buried by experts in red tape and secrecy that not even Congress could find them.

  An experimental team was formed — a prototype for those that would come after — and began training in the new expanded AEGIS facilities at Fort Carson, Colorado.

  Fort Carson, Colorado — Present Day

  “Atten-tion!” The shouted order was followed by the sound of many pairs of combat boots coming together in perfect synchronization. I squared my shoulders, took a very deep breath, and opened the door. The very tall, very loud soldier commanding this group made his way over to me. He looked me up and down like a prize fish and shouted once more as I managed to collect my wits and close my mouth.

  “Parade rest!” Moving as one, the team shifted to the more relaxed stance, and I straightened to some semblance of attention. I did not insult this man or the other soldiers by saluting, however. I knew that much.

  “Blake, isn’t it?” the soldier asked, his voice lowered to what seemed to pass for conversational volume for him. I could tell that he wasn’t thrilled with my presence. For that matter, neither was I. He was graying at the temples, well over six feet tall, and built like Mr. Universe. I swallowed hard and introduced myself.

  “Yes, sir. David Blake, reporting as ordered. I wasn’t told who I was to report to specifically, sir.” I lowered my voice to prevent accidental overhearing. “Is this… is this AEGIS, sir?”

  He looked at me again, and I could tell he was mentally sizing me up, wondering if I was worth giving a damn about. I hoped that he thought so, or my stint with this group was going to be even harder — and quite possibly much, much shorter — than I thought. Never make an enemy your first day, kiddo, I remembered my father saying. Suddenly, the soldier stuck out his hand and smiled.

  “Colonel Maxwell, at your service. Welcome to Fort Carson. Glad you could join us.”

  Relieved, I smiled back and shook his hand. “I know I’m late, colonel. I don’t have any excuses; I’m simply not used to military bases just yet and I got a bit turned around.”

  The colonel snorted. “You will be.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, you may not remember this, but we met once.”

  I frantically racked my brain trying to remember where I might have met the man. He smiled as the memory finally came to me and my eyes widened. There was only one other time I’d met anyone from the military as anything other than a lab-rat for Army doctors and psychiatrists. It had been nearly six months since that morning, but I could still see the steel-and-rubber construction of the man who had so casually stopped his squad of soldiers from shooting me dead where I stood.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I meant to find you, after, but they wouldn’t let me talk to anyone, sir. I was sequestered for four months. I can only assume that you got me to the medic, sir?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I ordered the squad to carry you. You remember Jenkins?” I laughed and smiled as the colonel continued. “That was that boy’s last mission.”

  My face fell, and the colonel shook his head, grinning. “Nah, he’s fine, but I think the sight of them nasties made him want to crawl back to his mamma’s skirts. He’s pushin’ paper somewhere in Greenland now, last I heard.”

  I smiled in a rictus grin. “Well, sir, you and I both know what that sort of experience will do to a man. I’m just glad that they recognized talent when they saw it,” I said, nodding to the silver birds on his collar.

  Maxwell snorted again. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. Still, we lost some good people that day.” The colonel’s gaze went distant as he thought back, then cleared as he came back to the present. “So they tell me you’re going to be a consultant.”

  “Yes, sir. General Morrison thought it best when he offered me the spot on the team, since I didn’t have the training that your soldiers have. Still, he wanted me to go through all the new training alongside them, so that I can be ready for the field.”

  “That’s a big responsibility, son. And not a little hard work. Top-of-the-line soldiers fail in training like this all the time. You’re gonna be hating life pretty soon.”

  “I know, sir,” I said, looking down for a moment, thinking about the past. When I looked back up, I thought I saw a flash of concern in the colonel’s eyes. “But I’m game.” I hoped he couldn’t see the real reason that I was up for this mission — that I had nowhere else to go.

  He looked at me, gauging me again, and then he cleared his throat and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Take the last chair, Blake,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, a
nd moved to my appointed position, dropping my gear bag and attempting to match the pose of the soldiers, none of whom had even glanced my way. I counted eleven soldiers in the room, not including the colonel, who moved back to the front.

  Looks like I’m lucky number twelve.

  “Take your seats.” A shuffle of movement, and we all sat down, alert and ready for whatever was to come. The colonel took a remote from his pocket and activated the projection system of the briefing room. The lights dimmed, and the screen at the front of the room lit up with a logo that I would come to know well: the AEGIS shield, with the crossed machete and M1 Garand.