Dark Days (Book 3): Exposure:

by Lukens, Mark

  Before bringing the food and drinks to the living room, Luke inspected the garage. He shined his flashlight around, not bothering to shield the light with his hand because the only window in the garage was covered with a drawn shade. The Harley Davidson was parked right next to a sixty-nine Chevy Camaro that Wilma had called a sports car. Luke would call it more of a muscle car, but let’s not split hairs. The car was in pristine condition. Maybe if they couldn’t find the keys to the vehicles in the driveway, they could drive this.

  Cabinets were built onto the far wall of the garage. There were shelves on another wall where the washer and dryer combo was hooked up. He panned his light over the stuff on the shelves and the floor below them. He saw some camping gear, which gave him hope that he might find something useful. Maybe these two liked to hike and camp, along with their obvious love of boating. Maybe they’d had an RV parked here, and they had taken that instead of their vehicles. He could picture the older couple in their RV, driving to their kids’ houses, picking up their kids and grandkids, and then driving up as far into Michigan as they could, getting as far away from civilization, or what used to be civilization, as they could.

  Luke swept his flashlight beam over some rolled-up sleeping bags, tents in packs, coolers stacked up on top of each other, and then he shined his beam of light on a large object sitting on the floor in front of the shelves.

  “That might help,” he whispered to himself.

  CHAPTER 17

  “I brought you a surprise,” Luke said as he carried the large object into the living room. He set it down on the wood floor and pushed the coffee table back away a little so he could keep it close to them.

  “A heater,” she said. “Where did you find that?”

  “It was in the garage. Buried behind some stuff. Still has some kerosene in it.”

  Wilma had her black hiking boots and gloves off. She had already wrapped her ankle in the elastic bandage and then pasted some strips of tape around it. Her foot and the bandage looked so pale compared to her black clothing.

  Luke lit the little pilot light of the heater and it fired right up. It didn’t put off too much light, but he double-checked all the windows, making sure they were locked and making sure all the blinds and drapes were closed. He was pretty sure the faint light from the heater couldn’t be seen from outside.

  After he was done checking the windows and doors, he came back with the plastic tub of food and drinks. He set the plastic container of food down on a table between the two couches where they met in the corner. He also found two blankets in a hall closet. The blankets still smelled fresh with whatever laundry detergent the couple who used to live in this house had used.

  Wilma opened a can of bean and bacon soup and a package of crackers. “Cheeze-Whiz,” she said, practically squealing with delight when she saw the can.

  “Only the best for us,” Luke said. “I also found something else.” He got up and came back with a few cans of beer. “They were in the garage, but they’re as cold as if they’d been in the fridge.”

  “I don’t drink much,” she said.

  “It might help with the pain. I found some ibuprofen, too.” He handed the bottle to her.

  She opened the bottle and swallowed three pills down dry, then opened the can of beer and took a sip. “Thanks.”

  Luke sat down and ate his own can of soup.

  Wilma pulled her sock back on and then put her hiking boot back on, wincing in pain as she did so, but tightening up the laces anyway, like she wanted to be ready to run if she had to.

  “It doesn’t look too swollen,” Luke said, watching her.

  “It’s just a sprain.” She looked at him as she sat back on the couch. “Did you find the keys to the cars?”

  He nodded. “They’re on the counter. One vehicle has two sets—must be the car.”

  “It’s already getting warmer in here,” Wilma said. “I’m glad you found the heater.”

  The heater was nice. It wasn’t cold enough for them to freeze to death in their sleep, but the heat, and even the bit of light it put off, helped with their morale.

  “You feeling a little better?” Luke asked after a few more minutes.

  Wilma crunched on a cracker loaded with Cheeze-Whiz and nodded. “My stomach is full. I’m resting. My ankle isn’t throbbing as much as it was. I’m finally halfway warm. And I think I’m getting a buzz from one can of beer. Yeah, I’m feeling better.”

  Luke couldn’t help smiling.

  “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Wilma asked. “You hit everything you aimed at. All head shots. All in the dark and on the run.”

  “I’ve practiced a lot.”

  “Yeah, me too . . . but . . .”

  Luke sipped his beer, saying nothing.

  “Were you in the military?”

  Luke shook his head no.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so. You don’t seem like the military type. So where did you learn to shoot?”

  “What about you?” Luke said, trying to change the subject. “What’s this safe house you were talking about?”

  Wilma drank the last of her beer and set the empty can on the table between their couches. “It’s one of our safe houses.”

  “Safe house. What, like in a spy movie or something?”

  “No, not spies. You were right earlier. I’m part of a group of preppers. A large group.”

  “Like a militia?”

  “You could call it that. I know the word militia is a dirty word these days, even though the right to form a militia is right there in the Constitution of the United States.”

  Luke sipped his beer. “How large of a group are we talking about here?”

  “Thousands all over Ohio, western Pennsylvania, southern Michigan, and parts of Indiana, West Virginia, Maryland, and Virginia. Different chapters. My dad ran the chapter here in Cuyahoga County.”

  “But then he turned?”

  “No. he died two years ago. Massive heart attack. Killed him before he hit the ground. My mom died seven years before he did. Cancer.”

  “Who runs your chapter now?”

  “My brother Matt. He’s the only family I have left now.”

  Luke was quiet for a moment. “Most of your group, they will have turned or died by now.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Some will have turned. But a lot of them were prepared with bunkers and gas masks and hazmat suits.”

  “I guess your dad was involved with prepping for a while.”

  “Yeah. Matt and I were brought up that way. We lived on a large farm down in Medina County. We learned to hunt and fish. We learned to shoot. We learned different self-defense tactics. We learned to farm and live off the land. We learned how to survive.”

  “And how to pick locks.”

  Wilma smiled, closing her eyes for just a moment. “I shouldn’t have left the safe house, but I wanted to find my cousin. Her name was Doris. I wanted to get to her before, you know, the disease got to her and her kids. She wasn’t a prepper. Hated the idea of it. So I knew she would need some help.”

  “That’s when you lost your gas mask?”

  She nodded.

  “And you said you went with two others. You said they didn’t make it.”

  She shook her head no and sighed slowly. “I was going to go by myself. Matt didn’t want me to go at all, but I wasn’t going to leave Doris behind. Like I said, I don’t have much family left. Tommy and Giles volunteered to go with me. I told them I could go myself, but they insisted. Giles was driving the van when he started to turn.”

  “He turned?”

  “Yeah. He was wearing his gas mask, and he turned.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought you said this plague was airborne.”

  “That makes the most sense. But it got to Giles, and he wore his gas mask faithfully when we were outside.”

  Luke just nodded, storing that information for later.

  “Giles turned into a ripper while he was driving. He ran the van off the ro
ad. He started talking gibberish, trying to get at us. We had to leave him behind. He was wedged in the driver’s seat from the wreck.”

  “You didn’t shoot him?”

  Wilma shook her head no. “I couldn’t do it. Tommy didn’t want to, either. And the sound of the crash drew a horde of rippers. Me and Tommy got out of the van and ran away before the rippers got to the van. We ran through some yards and I got to a wood fence. Tommy helped me over it, but he couldn’t climb the fence in time. I tried to shoot at the rippers, but there were too many of them. I couldn’t get them all.”

  Wilma was quiet for a moment, struggling to hold back tears. She swallowed hard and went on. “The rippers were pushing against the fence, about to knock it down. I couldn’t see Tommy, but I could hear him screaming as they ripped him apart and ate him. I had no choice but to run. I got away and eventually made it to Doris’s house.”

  “But she wasn’t there,” Luke said, remembering what Wilma had told him a few hours ago when they had been braiding the bedsheets into the rope.

  “I lied about that,” Wilma whispered.

  Luke just nodded. He had known at the time that she had been lying about it.

  “She was there,” Wilma said in an even softer voice. “She had already turned.”

  He didn’t need Wilma to say any more, and she didn’t. Luke thought of the horrors he had seen at Howard’s house, and he was sure Wilma had seen something similar at her cousin’s house.

  She snuggled down deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket up to her face, lying on her side and facing the kerosene heater.

  As much as he hated to, Luke knew he would have to turn the heater off soon. The warmth was intoxicating, even the meager reddish light the heater put out made him feel a little better. But it was also making him a little sleepy, and he couldn’t fall asleep with the heater on. Not only because of the fire hazard but also because of the possibility that the rippers might somehow see the glow of light from the house even though he had made sure all the blinds and drapes were shut tight. Still, the rippers might even sense the heat coming from the house somehow.

  They’re still human beings, Luke had to remind himself again. They’re not superhuman creatures now, some kind of new species.

  “Don’t leave me while I’m sleeping,” Wilma muttered.

  Luke thought she had already fallen asleep. Her breathing had gotten a little heavier and harder, but she was still awake. Her eyes were still closed, and Luke studied her for a moment. In the red glow of the heater, she looked a little younger than she was. Luke guessed she was maybe in her late twenties, but now she looked like she could have been a teenager, even a child. Suddenly she wasn’t the tough and capable woman Luke had known for the last few hours—now she looked small and vulnerable and fragile.

  “I won’t leave you,” he told her.

  “Promise?” she asked. She still hadn’t opened her eyes.

  “Yeah,” he whispered. “I promise. I’m going to stay awake for a while and keep watch. You get some sleep.”

  She seemed to relax even more. Her face seemed even smoother and younger, that scowl she’d worn for so long was gone. She seemed to finally be at peace for the first time since Luke had met her, the tension eased. She deserved a few hours of peace, he thought. They both did.

  “I told you about myself,” Wilma mumbled.

  Again, he thought she’d been asleep. Several minutes had passed. Maybe she was testing him, pretending to be asleep, seeing if he would keep his promise and stay with her.

  He didn’t reply to her.

  “It’s your turn now,” she mumbled.

  Luke still didn’t answer her. He watched her for a few minutes, listening to her breathing.

  He was pretty sure she was sleeping fifteen minutes later.

  “I’m not a good person,” Luke whispered, finally answering her question. But at least she was asleep now and hadn’t heard him.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wilma woke with a start. She sat up on the couch, the blanket falling off of her. For a few seconds she didn’t know where she was, but she knew she wasn’t safe. She felt for her gun in the holster under her hoodie. It was still there. She pulled it out.

  It was cold and dark in the living room, almost pitch-black. It was so dark because they had pulled all the drapes and blinds closed because . . .

  Because they had been using a kerosene heater that Luke found in the garage.

  It was all coming back to her now. She moved her right foot and felt a blast of pain from her sprained ankle. Her muscles were stiff. She was thirsty and hungry. And cold.

  She remained still and listened for a moment. She didn’t hear anything in the house except that grandfather clock in the dining room ticking. Thank God it wasn’t one of those clocks that chimed every hour—the chiming noise might have been heard outside.

  Luke was gone. She stared at the couch, but all she saw was the blanket bunched up at the end of the couch.

  He had left her in the night.

  My backpack.

  She felt along the floor and her hand touched her backpack. At least he hadn’t returned the favor and taken her backpack like she’d done to him.

  I’m not a good person. Luke had said those words as she had been falling asleep. He probably thought she’d been asleep by then, but she remembered him saying that. Or maybe he hadn’t really cared if she’d heard him or not.

  Luke wasn’t a good person. She had already guessed that judging from the silencer on his pistol, the dried blood on the nail gun, and the extra weapons, envelopes of cash, and fake ID he was carrying around with him. No, he was some kind of criminal, and maybe not a good person, but at least he hadn’t taken her backpack when he’d left.

  He probably took one of the vehicles in the driveway, but at least there was another one. If he was really a bad person, he could have done so much more to her. Like he’d said yesterday, he could have locked her outside on the back porch of that house when those rippers had chased her back to the house. He had saved her life then, and he had saved it again when they had climbed down the rope from the second-story bedroom window.

  She was on her own now, and she would survive. And maybe it was better for both of them this way. She could imagine Matt’s face if she would have shown up with Luke, who would’ve set off alarm bells with Matt and the others immediately—Luke kind of had that vibe about him.

  A few seconds ticked by as she sat on the couch, still listening. No sounds inside the house except that annoying clock in the dining room. There were no distant screeches or howls from outside, no footsteps on the front porch or back deck, no one clawing to get inside the house, no windows shattering. She could relax for a few seconds while she got her bearings.

  She’d been dreaming right before she woke up, dreaming about her father, mother, and Matt. They’d all been at the house in Medina County, out back at the shooting range where her father had set up hay bales with targets pinned to them. Wilma had been shooting, and there had been an assortment of weapons laid out on the top of an old wooden wire spool turned up on one end. Wilma was firing a weapon at the target in the dream. Her father, mother and Matt were right behind her. She never turned around to look at them, concentrating on shooting, but she couldn’t hit the target no matter how hard she tried. She should have been able to hit the target with no problem, but she couldn’t.

  “Take your time, sweetie,” her father said from a few feet behind her.

  Wilma wanted to turn around so badly. She wanted to see her mother and father again, she wanted to hold them. But for some reason she couldn’t turn around.

  “She doesn’t have time,” Matt said. “She needs to hurry. The rippers are coming soon.”

  Wilma focused on the paper target, the silhouette of a man’s upper body, attached to the side of the hay bale. She squeezed the trigger over and over again, but she still kept missing the target, the bullets hitting the hay bale and even pelting the dirt and grass around the target. Why co
uldn’t she hit the target?

  Just then she heard the roar of a crowd—it sounded like the yells of a marauding army in some old movie about medieval Europe.

  The rippers—they were coming, just like Matt had said. Soon she would see the rippers pouring over the low hills all around the property, all of them approaching from every direction. Thousands of them. Millions of them. Every ripper in the world.

  She knew she needed to hit the target. If she couldn’t hit the target, then she wasn’t going to be able to hit the rippers when they came. But when she looked back at the target, it had changed. It wasn’t the silhouette of a man anymore, now it was the symbol for anarchy painted in bright red spray-paint—the letter A with a circle around it.

  “Take your time, baby,” her mother said from behind her, only it wasn’t her mother’s voice anymore, now it was Doris’s voice. “You couldn’t save me, Wilma. I wanted you to help me, but you couldn’t save me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wilma whispered in the dream, still trying desperately to hit the anarchy symbol spray-painted on the hay bale.

  “They’re coming!” Matt yelled from right behind her. “The rippers are coming!”

  “I know!” Wilma snapped back at him.

  “But that’s not the worst thing,” her father told her. And now he sounded like he was right behind her, only inches away. His voice was right in her ear. She swore she could feel his breath on her skin and smell his aftershave. “There’s something worse coming. The Shadow Man is coming.”

  She looked up at the hills in the distance and saw a line of people standing there, but these weren’t rippers, it was some kind of gang of men and women, all with weapons. And standing in front of them, shrouded in darkness, was a tall man wearing a black trench coat and a large floppy hat. His face was just a shadow, but she could see his eyes—they were shining like two pinpoints of light.