Dark Days of the After (Book 1): Dark Days of the After

by Schow, Ryan

  “I stared at you through your monitor for weeks,” he said as she laid there snuggled up to him. “I watched your every expression, getting to know you through your looks, all the little emotions you barely let me read.”

  “I was a different person then,” she said. “I had iron walls around me. I was out in the open, hiding like my life depended on it.”

  “It did,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure you were a virgin?” he asked.

  She laughed and said, “Of course.”

  “So then…how did you…where did you learn…”

  “Porn hub,” she said, knowing what he was trying to say. “I didn’t want to say I was lonely when I was younger, but I was. And don’t judge me. A lot of girls looked at porn back then.”

  “Hey, to each her own,” he said.

  “Do you realize that I haven’t been this skinny in five years, and I’m not really that skinny?”

  “Guys used to care about looks first, substance later. Not all guys, but you know…guys in general.”

  “And now?” she asked.

  “I can only speak for myself when I say I care about looks first and substance later,” he joked. She started laughing, then she slapped him playfully and said he was a clown. “Seriously though, I think substance is great, but competence is first and foremost.”

  “And looks come third?” she asked.

  “I like the way you look,” he told her. “That always matters, but it matters because how you look tells me who you are as a person. Not the looks themselves, but the micro-expressions. I’ve never met anyone who could hide in plain sight as well as you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek. “Now be quiet so I can get some sleep, and maybe wake you in the night if the feeling gets me.”

  “Make sure you do,” he said.

  In the middle of the night, she woke him with an unspoken need. He went with it, and then he went back to sleep the minute she snuggled back up with him. Dawn came, and with that the sounds of a rooster and banging hammers. He dragged himself out of bed, went around back and took an ice cold shower. After that it was a hot breakfast of eggs and his favorite oatmeal.

  Orbey asked him again to stay. He politely declined, but then Cooper looked up at him, licked his hand and stared sadly into his eyes (which almost got him).

  To the dog, Harper said, “He’s already made up his mind to go. He’ll get back here when he can, right?”

  “Right,” he said. “But I love that you want me to stay. It feels good to be wanted. Even better to feel needed.”

  “Help me with the rainwater catch before you go?” Harper asked.

  Together they walked up the hill holding hands. He expected her to say something poignant, something romantic. Instead she brought him back to reality.

  “The Sheriff can haul Craig back down to town, but guys like that don’t relent. They only find different ways to get what they want or make the people standing in their way pay.”

  “That’s often the problem with small towns,” she said. “There’s always a Craig somewhere.”

  “At least we know one of them.”

  “At Five Falls Feed & Seed, there’s this guy who’s really creepy. Like so creepy, your aura grows fuzz. He’s the resident child molester. His skin is super shiny, he’s got bad hair and he talks with a syrupy lilt. The second I saw him, I felt it. You know…he felt wrong.”

  “Some normal people ping wrong on the radar,” he warned.

  “Yeah, but we have his history,” she said. “Tristan did a run of the town, matched the zip code with old police programs still running on the dark web.”

  “This is pre-Chicom occupation, right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And?”

  “We’re talking about aggravated sexual assault of a minor,” she said. “Real case of the nasties with this guy.”

  “Are you wanting to take him out?”

  “Of life, yes.”

  “We didn’t talk about this,” he said.

  “We’re talking now.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about that,” he said. “I mean, people can be rehabilitated. They can change.”

  “If you have control measures in place. Like the law, for example. Authority.”

  He thought about it, shook his head, then turned and shook it again. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. He’d killed so many Chicoms in this last week, he was now growing a conscience. Even worse, he was sleeping poorly at night and feeling crappy about it all day. Like his guts were clogged with clumpy oil and rust.

  “Are you sure there’s no other way?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  Then again, on the flip side, he loved the strength he was drawing from the Resistance, even if it came at a cost. That cost, measured against the price of inaction, was manageable. So he did what he was taught. He moved forward, confronted the enemy, fought with conviction and killed to win.

  “I’ll back you no matter what you decide,” he said, his mind made up.

  “I want to kill him,” she said.

  He nodded his head this time, knowing the crossroads that lay before him. Support Harper and her preemptive strike, or defy her and turn all those surprising, momentous feelings into a distant memory.

  “Just wait until the EMP goes off,” he said. “If society doesn’t collapse, and those protections against guys like Ned are still in place, let’s assume he can still change. Or at least restrain himself.”

  “You didn’t see the way he looked at me.”

  “Is it anything like this?” he asked, making googly eyes at her, and staring at her breasts.

  She started laughing and said, “Okay, so I can do without that look again.” Then, seeing him mock pouting, she said, “I appreciate what you did for me. Getting me here. Making me into a woman.”

  “You were already an amazing woman,” he said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “Thank you.”

  Looking at her seriously, but with compassion, he said, “Just doing my duty, ma’am.” She slapped him again, not hard, but enough to make a point.

  “I won’t lie,” he admitted. “I really don’t want to go home. I want to stay here with you and do that every night.”

  “So stay.”

  “This world is going to hell in less than three days. I have to find Skylar, or at least try, and if I can’t do that, Kim and the others need to know they can come here for refuge. They can come, right?”

  “Those were Skylar’s wishes,” Harper said. “And those are Orbey’s and Connor’s wishes.”

  “What about Stephani?”

  “You know her by now,” she said. “She’s easy, and she gets along with everyone. Just don’t mess with her bees.”

  “We’re going to need a bigger garden,” he said.

  “We already have the wood for more planters cut. We’re going to take dirt from the root cellar, mix it with compost, prep it properly and seed it. From there we need some other supplies to create a gravity fed drip system taken directly from the tank, but that’s another conversation.”

  “Well have fun with that while I’m back in hell,” he teased.

  Wrapping her arms around him, she said, “When this all falls apart, are you going to be with me, or am I going to be this thing you did?”

  “I’d like to be with you,” he said, meaning it.

  “What if you find Skylar?”

  “Then I do.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “I already told her I’d slept with you,” he said with a grin. “Which technically I wasn’t lying about.”

  “And?”

  “I just thought you should know.”

  “So after the EMP…”

  “I’m coming straight here,” he said, reassuring her.

  Shaking her head, she kissed him, then they walked down to the
motorcycle, which Connor was filling with gas.

  “I forgot to ask,” Logan said to Connor, “is this bike EMP proof, do you think?”

  He nodded his head and said, “Pretty much everything we own is, the motorcycle included.”

  “Good.”

  With that, he started it up, thanked Connor, then looked one last time at Harper.

  “Get back here as soon as you can,” she said.

  “I will.”

  And then he took off, starting into the cold morning air, knowing that if getting back was as bad as getting there, he might show up to work with a few extra cuts and bruises. Then again, it was nothing he couldn’t weave into a story to fit his narrative.

  Besides, he was only going to be in San Francisco for three days and then it was go time. At least, if the countdown was accurate.

  For some reason, on the way home, the roadways were totally clear. There weren’t even border guards to check him on his way into California from Oregon. It was a strange feeling, driving for hours and encountering no one.

  About four hours into the trip, he wondered if the EMP had already gone off, but then he saw an airplane fly over and knew it hadn’t. It was a transport craft, not commercial. Then again, how long had it been since he’d seen a commercial jet?

  Months? Years?

  By the time he rolled into town, he was tired, his back hurt and he wanted a bed and a good night’s sleep. Traffic in town was terrible as usual, but not as congested as it was downtown. They were moving about, not a mile from his apartment when the signal lights went out and the cars in front of him rolled to a dead stop.

  “What the—?”

  In that moment, he wasn’t sure what exactly happened, only that one minute he was sitting there, then the next he was hammered from behind so hard he was pitched from his motorcycle and thrown into the car in front of him.

  His knees must have hit something—the handlebars or the deck lid spoiler of the car in front of him—and his face…good Christ it hurt! Looking up, he saw his head had spider webbed the back window of the car in front of him, the car he was now lying on.

  He remained still, blood leaking from his head onto the dirty white surface of the car.

  “Yo, man,” some burly guy was saying, “get the hell off my car.”

  All he could do was groan.

  “What’s wrong with my car?” some other lady was saying. “Is your car starting? Hey, guy…is your car starting?”

  The burly jerk turned and said, “It just stopped.”

  “It stopped,” Logan groaned, picking himself up off the lid of the car. “Wait, it just stopped?”

  “Is he alright?” a woman behind him was saying. “Are you alright young man?”

  He looked up through a wash of red and said, “You tell me.”

  “Bro, you’re bleeding all over my car,” the jerk said, his temperature rising. “Gross, man. Seriously.”

  Logan turned and looked at the old woman who ran into the back of his bike, then at the guy yelling at him for being an accident victim thrown into his car. He sat up and spit on the car. Lots of nasty blood.

  “What the hell?” the jerk growled.

  “Get any closer and the next one’s in your face,” he said as he slid off the trunk lid and landed on unsteady legs. His heel suddenly caught on something, pitching him backwards over his motorcycle’s front tire. When he fell down, he remembered hitting his head, but he didn’t remember passing out. When he woke back up, the old lady was standing over him saying, “I gave you mouth-to-mouth, was that right?”

  “I think so,” he said, the back of his head hurting more than ever.

  “I saved his life!” she announced. “He’s breathing again!”

  “Did I stop breathing?” he asked, astounded.

  “I don’t think so,” she whispered. “But I think I just saved your life.”

  “I think you did, too,” he said, getting up and wondering just how long her mouth was attached to his.

  “I’m sorry about your motorcycle,” she said.

  It was crunched, ruined.

  The part of him, that barely-hanging-on part of him, was flat out horrified and more than a little pissed off.

  The jerky guy was up talking with the lady in front of him and everyone was out of their cars carrying on about what might have happened. The EMP happened, he thought.

  And it happened three days early.

  “Dammit!” he swore so hard, the pressure of his outburst pulled together in a knot on the back side of his head, making him a bit woozy. He grabbed the car in front of him for support, thankful that he hadn’t passed out again, but worried that he might anyway.

  “I have insurance,” the older lady said.

  He pulled her into a hug and said, “I will always remember what you did for me.” And then he started walking into the traffic…only to stop and remember something. Turning around, he walked back to the bike, popped open the seat compartment, withdrew the weapon and the spare mags, and then he headed in the direction of home.

  He marveled at the chaos, feared for what was to come next, realized that if they were going to survive, he’d need to get Kim to safety, hope to God Skylar was at home with Kim, and then find some way to get back to Oregon.

  Five Falls was their best shot at living. Maybe their only shot.

  When he got home, however, he saw his door had been kicked in. “Mother of God,” he grumbled.

  Pulling out his weapon, he entered his house the same as if he were clearing rooms. When he got inside, he saw three dead Chicom police and one nearly dead Chicom sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, bleeding.

  He barely looked up when Logan came in.

  Logan walked over, patted the guy down, made sure he had no weapons, and then he said, “Shhh,” before doing a whole house sweep.

  He fought the urge to call out to Kim, needing to clear the hall closet, the bathroom and the bedrooms first. He cleared everything but his own room. When he set foot in there, he saw Kim face down on the bed. Her back was red with welts, and some cuts. There was a small hole in her side, right about where her kidney was. He stopped, watched her body, and then he started to shake inside.

  She wasn’t moving.

  Sitting down beside her, he gently rubbed her back.

  “Kim, it’s me.”

  She didn’t move. Her skin was cool to the touch, but…he’d just left her! How could she be dead? He rolled her body over. The front of her had barely any warmth, but it was not anywhere near as cold as it should be for a dead person.

  That’s when he saw the sheets. Where she was laying, they were soaked in her blood. It was the kidney shot. She’d bled out from that.

  Tears gathered in his eyes, his heart hurting worse than ever.

  He brushed strands of loose hair away from her eyes and mouth. Her face was a few angry lumps, a split lower lip and two broken teeth. Her jaw wasn’t lined up right. Looking down at her hands, he saw knuckles that were both mushed and cut, like she’d beat the hell out of something before she died.

  He gazed into her lifeless eyes and he started to cry. Not because he wanted to, or because he knew her all that well. He cried because these men came in here looking for him or Skylar, and she was here. She was a victim of circumstance.

  A wrong place, wrong time murder.

  Wiping his eyes, he looked down at her one last time, then he glanced out into the living room where the dying intruder was sitting.

  Stalking in there, he knelt down in front of him and said as calmly as he could, “Why are you here?”

  “Blue Lark,” he muttered.

  “Why is everyone so interested in her?” Logan asked.

  “Head of the Resistance,” he coughed, blood and spittle spraying out, his eyes wincing under the pain of such an outburst.

  “No, she’s not the head. She’s only a spy. An infiltrator.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The guy who’s going to take your pain aw
ay.” He got up, walked to Skylar’s bedroom, he ejected the mag from his pistol, thumbed out the rounds, and jammed it back in.

  He returned to the living room, knelt down and said, “One round. This is the easy way out. I’m going to sit here with you so you don’t have to die alone.”

  “What if I shoot you?” he said.

  “You won’t.”

  He tried to lift his hand. Logan slid him the gun. He looked at it, turned it over in his hand and said, “This is one of ours.”

  “I have lots more like it,” Logan said, his heart tremors now infecting his voice.

  The policeman looked at the gun, then he worked a little strength into his arm and tried to lift it to his head.

  “My spine,” he said.

  “Here, let me help,” Logan said, raising his arm and turning the gun toward his face. “When you’re ready, just pull the trigger and it will all be done.”

  “So much pain,” he said, his eyes shiny.

  “Good.”

  With his finger on the trigger, and the barrel of the gun now moved into his mouth, he sat there, shaking, and then he started to cry. Logan said nothing, and he didn’t take his eyes off the man. Then the Chicom worked the courage back up again, really finding that little extra something, but then he backed off again.

  “It’s okay,” Logan said. “This is inevitable.”

  Finally he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. All he heard was a dry click. The man opened his watery eyes, blinked twice, then watched as Logan took the gun from his hand and said, “You didn’t think I’d let you off easy, did you? After what you did to my friend?”

  With the gun in hand, he stood and said, “You don’t get the easy way out. You get the hard way out. The blow-by-blow way out.”

  That’s when he started kicking this man as hard as he could, taking out years of rage on him with each and every impact. It felt good, and then it felt terrible, but still he kept kicking. Even as his shocked knees started to ache, to stand weak, to wobble, he kicked this man. He didn’t know how long he’d been dead by the time he stopped, but Logan didn’t know when he’d started sobbing, either.