Beneath: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Taken World Book 4)

by Flint Maxwell

  His mom and grandmother were gone. Ravaged, like the majority of America and the world. He was still here. He no longer had them. But he had May, and he loved May like the daughter he never had. Perhaps Nana and Mom were lucky to be gone, lucky not to have to deal with the constant pressure of finding your next meal, finding somewhere safe to stay, avoiding the monsters. Because what kind of life was that?

  No life at all.

  But Tyler Stapleton wasn’t one to give up. He was here, and he meant to remain on Earth the way he had been born—a human. Not as some mutated monster, and not as a corpse…not for a long, long time.

  “Kurt gonna play?” he asked now.

  May didn’t immediately answer.

  “I figured he would, unless he’s so racist that he’s going to let me win just because my skin is a different color than his,” Tyler continued.

  She looked away. “Tyler, don’t start any trouble. We could have it good here. They saved us, and so far, they’ve accepted us.”

  “Except for Kurt.”

  “Screw him.”

  Tyler smiled. “Such a way with words.”

  He began lacing up his Nikes, hoping he could find something in the way of sports attire before their game. The jeans and shirt he was wearing, aside from stinking to high heaven, was not exactly the type of clothing one played basketball in. Then again, maybe if he smelled bad enough, his defender would stay away from him; though if Kurt was guarding him, he certainly wouldn’t mind rubbing his stench all over the bastard—as odd as that might sound.

  “So you’re playing?” May asked.

  “No, I’m stealing these Nikes and running back to Ohio.”

  “Hilarious.”

  Mostly, he wanted to play because May was right. These people had accepted them, and that was good. They were near a big city, one that had been nuked, but was still full of monsters, and Tyler and May were without a car or good weapons. They’d already made a long journey to D.C. from Ohio, and they didn’t want to keep moving, not really. If Tyler had to deal with a racist prick so they could settle somewhere, then so be it. The bigger picture was remaining safe, protecting May. He would do just that if he could.

  When they exited Macy’s, a few faint rays of light were streaming into the atrium from small windows. Tyler liked to think the light was stronger than it had been in a long time, but he couldn’t know for sure; part of him thought it was just wishful thinking.

  The sound of small tires rolling over the tile—clunk, clunk, clunk—reached their ears. Tyler looked up. Ray rode a skateboard toward them. He had a helmet on over his buzzcut and a big smile on his face.

  “Morning, sunshine!” he said to Tyler. “I see you accepted our welcome gift.” He looked down at the Nikes on Tyler’s feet. “How do they feel? Comfortable?”

  “Like walking on clouds.”

  May chuckled.

  “So you’re gonna play, then? Flo is already banking on you joining the team. She hates basketball, only does it because Avery’s practically obsessed with it.” Ray stepped off the board, kicked down on the back end, and caught it with as much grace as a pro skater. A little quieter, he said, “Kurt’s gonna play, he always does. But I got your back if he tries anything.”

  Tyler had already made up his mind.

  “Yeah, I’ll play.”

  Ray clapped him on the shoulder, almost as hard as Logan Harper used to. “What made you change your mind? The shoes? Tell me it was the shoes! Totally my idea.”

  Tyler chuckled politely. “Yeah, well—yes, the shoes.”

  Ray pumped a fist into the air.

  “But after the shots I made last night, something just reawakened in me, I guess,” Tyler finished.

  “You were looking like Ray Allen out there, man! Let’s hope it carries over into the games. C’mon, they’re waiting for us.”

  Ray put the board back down, kicked off, pushed, and coasted past the abandoned Starbucks, toward the sporting goods store.

  May gave Tyler a playful look. “Go get ‘em, killer.”

  Inside the sporting goods store, Sports Town, Avery was already getting shots up. He wore a pair of purple gym shorts and a tank top. His long hair was pushed back with an official NBA sweatband. His bare arms glistened with sweat. Florence, dressed in sweatpants and a zip-up track jacket, was rebounding the shots and firing them back out to the three-point line. Avery was making shot after shot.

  “Looks like you got some competition, old man,” May said, winking at Tyler.

  “Glad you have faith in me,” he replied.

  He caught eyes with Kurt in the corner of the room, where he sat on a bench, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, the smell of the tobacco pungent. His wife was nowhere to be found.

  Tyler didn’t look away as their eyes caught. He held his gaze until Kurt grinned and stood up.

  Ray was over in the corner, switching out his skating shoes for Nikes. He touched his toes, held the pose, then bounced up and down like a rabbit.

  Tyler thought he should probably be doing some kind of warmup, especially being a man in his forties, but he didn’t care much if he won or lost, just as long as he got in a couple of good licks on Kurt.

  “Everyone here?” Avery asked, holding the ball.

  “Yep,” Ray answered.

  “All right, Ray and Tyler against Kurt and me, sound good?” Avery asked.

  The others mumbled their assent.

  “Okay, huddle up.” Avery waved them closer. When they were all together, he said, “We’re a family. Understood? What goes on between the lines of this court doesn’t translate to what goes on out there. Get me?” He glanced at Kurt, then he glanced at Tyler.

  Tyler offered him an innocent look and almost put his hands up, like Grease was wont to do in Ironlock.

  “Yesterday was…not good,” Avery continued, looking at Kurt again. “If I hear a racist remark come from your mouth, Kurt, we send you outside on water duty for a month straight.”

  “Fuck you,” the man replied, puffing smoke out of his yellowed nostrils, which matched the shade of his teeth very nicely.

  “I’ll take that, but no racist shit,” Avery said.

  From the other side of the court, Florence shouted, “Just don’t be a dick, Kurt! It’s that easy.”

  Kurt rolled his eyes, sighed, and stuck out his hand. “All right, I’m sorry, Tyler. Sometimes…I just forget my manners.”

  Tyler looked at the man’s outstretched hand for a moment, debating on whether or not he should take it. Just when he thought he’d made up his mind, he heard a mixture of his mother’s and grandma’s voices.

  They had taught him a lot about racism and humanity and people in general. Most importantly, they had taught him not to hold grudges, to be the bigger man.

  He didn’t wholly trust Kurt’s intentions; he thought the man was just trying to shut Avery up because he wanted to play basketball. When the ball was in play, Tyler knew Kurt’s animosity toward him would be a different story. That was fine, too. Tyler would be ready. For now, though, he’d shake Kurt’s hand.

  So he did, and Kurt squeezed hard enough to grind Tyler’s knuckles. Though it hurt, Tyler gave no hint that it did. He just squeezed back at a normal clip.

  “Good,” Avery said, satisfied. “Now let’s play ball.”

  “Wooo!” May said, clapping on the sideline.

  “Love the enthusiasm,” Florence said, and began clapping herself.

  “Cheerleaders! Nice!” Avery said.

  “Can it,” Florence replied. “Don’t make me kick your ass again.”

  Judging by the uneasy look on Avery’s face, Tyler didn’t think she was bluffing. He laughed at that, his enemy in front of him forgotten for the moment.

  “Shoot for it,” Avery said. He tossed the ball to Ray.

  Ray caught it and flipped it to Tyler. “Be my guest.”

  “Eh, I haven’t shot yet,” Tyler answered.

  Ray shrugged.

  “Tyler! Tyler! Tyler!” May
chanted.

  Tyler cast a look over his shoulder and grinned at her. Had he seen his own grin and not known his own age, he would’ve thought he were a much younger man.

  “Fine.”

  He gave a little shake of the shoulder, crouched, jumped, and shot the ball.

  Nothing but net.

  May whooped.

  “See?” Ray said. “Nothing to it.” He looked at Avery and Kurt. “You two are going down!”

  “All right, all right,” Avery said. “Check the ball.”

  Ray went to the top of the three-point line, passed the ball to Avery, and Avery passed it back. The ball was checked.

  That first made shot had re-energized Tyler—not to mention the buttered toast he’d had beforehand, and the new shoes on his feet—and he was moving like he had in his early twenties, maybe even his teens. All thoughts of the end of the world and his dead mother and grandma were gone from his head. The only thing that mattered was the ball, the court, and the basket.

  He cut toward the hoop, planting his feet hard, and then popped back out the opposite way. Kurt was guarding him. For a skinny smoker, the guy moved pretty well; he was able to keep up and not fall for the jerky move.

  Ray passed Tyler the ball. A perfect pass, right into his shooter’s pocket. But Kurt was on him, practically within kissing distance, and he smelled so bad, like sweat and smoke and body odor.

  Tyler, with a quick head fake, got Kurt off his feet. Then he gracefully drove around the guy. Avery was too late to help out, and Tyler scored an easy layup.

  Ray said, “Nice move,” and high-fived Tyler.

  Tyler, beaming, winked back in May’s direction.

  The game went on for another five or so minutes, both teams scoring back and forth. They were playing first to eleven; three-point distant shots were only worth two points; anything within the arc was only worth one point. The score was currently knotted up at nine apiece.

  Kurt passed the ball in to Avery, did a buttonhook cut, running down the middle of the paint and hooking out into the left corner. Avery passed it back, but Tyler stayed on Kurt, got right up in his face and made a play for the ball. He touched leather, but Kurt held on strong and made his move, going to the right.

  Tyler, sweat pouring from his brow, was beat. He decided to gamble. With Kurt driving in front of him, he wrapped his arm around the man’s back, trying to poke the ball loose. At the same time Tyler made his move, Kurt swung his left elbow back hard.

  He caught Tyler in the left side of the face. Tyler felt a tooth loosen, felt a warm streak of blood explode from the corner of his mouth. It was a blow he hadn’t been expecting. He fell to the court, the whole side of his head throbbing. Kurt continued playing, despite the blatant offensive foul.

  “Whoa, whoa!” May said.

  She ran over to the court and bent down. Tyler waved her off.

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  He stood up fast. His head was spinning. He swiped the blood away with the back of his hand.

  “Oh, shit,” Kurt said, “did I get you?”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Avery asked.

  “We can take a timeout,” Ray added.

  “No, I’m fine. Check the ball up,” Tyler said, and he was aware just how intense he sounded.

  “Got a little blood there, Tyler,” Kurt said. He wore a shit-eating grin if Tyler had ever seen one. “Doesn’t look too good on you.”

  “Shut up and play,” Tyler replied. Short. Succinct. To the point.

  The grin faltered slightly, but other than that, Kurt got into defensive position. Avery checked the ball to Ray, who slapped it hard, as if signaling for Tyler to run the play they’d worked out beforehand. The problem: they hadn’t discussed any plays. Not in pickup basketball, and certainly not between two people who’d just met less than twenty-four hours ago.

  That didn’t matter, though. Tyler only had one thing on his mind, and that was winning. Sure, he could punch Kurt in the face, maybe give him a cheap shot to the balls, and that’d feel good in the short-term…but the best feeling would only come if Tyler walked out of this gym today as a winner. Kurt could throw an elbow back and catch him in the mouth, he could be a racist asshole, and he could make Tyler bleed, but he, no matter what, would still be a loser.

  All Tyler and Ray needed was two more points.

  This time, Tyler lined up on the right wing. He didn’t bother faking a cut to the basket, instead, opting to lean into Kurt’s skinny—but solid—frame. Blood settled on his taste buds, metallic, warm, and sour. Spinning, he threw his back into Kurt, putting the biker between he and the basket in an attempt to get open for Ray. But Kurt pushed back.

  Ray’s pass was a little high, slightly off the mark. Tyler had to jump for it. As he was in the air, Kurt gave him a nudge. So when Tyler came down with the ball in his hands, he was well behind the three-point arc. Still, Kurt hung tough. He got right up in Tyler’s face, not caring about the blood steadily dripping out of Tyler’s mouth, mingling with the sweat coursing down his face.

  Tyler thought: Screw it. He wasn’t going to let them get the ball back. He was going to end it right now.

  He dribbled forward and stepped backward hard, freeing a modicum of space between he and Kurt.

  Kurt was snarling. Yellow sweat ran down his face. He smelled worse than before; he was taking Tyler’s plan of not showering to keep his defender away to new heights.

  Tyler jabbed right, trying to gauge Kurt’s balance. Get him going one way and then cross over to the other side—a basic basketball move he’d learned many years ago. Kurt didn’t bite on it.

  “Coming!” Ray yelled.

  He lumbered over to Tyler and Kurt, Avery trailing behind.

  “Go, Tyler! Go, Ray!” May shouted, but Tyler hardly heard her. He was too into the game.

  Ray was coming over to set a screen, an act of the offensive player getting in the defensive player’s way in order to free up the offensive player’s teammate. It was a perfectly legal move as long as the person setting the screen was planted firmly before coming into contact with the defensive player. Because of Ray’s size, his screens were the best Tyler had ever taken. Kurt could hardly get around them, and when Avery switched from Ray onto Tyler, Tyler would just pass the ball down low to Ray, who must’ve outweighed Kurt by a hundred pounds; the poor guy didn’t stand a chance guarding him. He would usually just smack him hard on the arm, resulting in a restart to the previous play.

  That’s not what Tyler wanted, though. He didn’t want to check the ball up again, letting Avery and Kurt get a reset on defense. He wanted to drill a long-distance shot, a three pointer—only worth two points in this pickup game—and go back to his bed and maybe fall asleep for a good few hours.

  That’s all he had on his mind when Ray set the screen. Kurt, though, moved faster than he had throughout the entire game. He slipped past Ray easily and stayed glued to Tyler.

  This surprised Tyler, but he didn’t let it fluster him. He kept his dribble, turned his back on Kurt, and then faked a spin to the left.

  Kurt bit on it so hard that he lost his balance and fell to his knees. This would’ve elicited quite the reaction from the spectators of concrete playgrounds in Atlanta. The crowd would’ve gone wild, all of them screaming and running around like madmen.

  Tyler had been on the winning and losing end of these types of moves many times. But none felt sweeter than this one right here.

  Scrambling up, grunting, Kurt rose to a half-crouch. It was too late. By the time he put his hand up to contest Tyler’s shot, Tyler was already coming down, and the ball was well on its way to the hoop.

  The net snapped as the shot went through.

  Tyler landed three feet behind the three-point line.

  “Yes!” Ray shouted, and he ran over and lifted Tyler up like he’d just made a last-second shot to win an NBA championship.

  Tyler was smiling ear to ear. May was clapping hard—too hard, considering her arm probably wasn�
��t fully okay. Even Florence offered her congratulations.

  Tyler hadn’t felt this good in a long time.

  But the good feeling didn’t last long.

  As soon as Ray put Tyler down, Kurt had the ball in his hands, and was walking it back to the top of the three-point line.

  “Foul,” he said.

  “What?” Tyler practically screamed.

  “Foul?” Ray repeated incredulously. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “I called a foul,” Kurt said, his tone furious. “He pushed me down. That’s the only reason he was open enough to take and make the shot. I would’ve swatted it back down his throat if he hadn’t pushed me.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Tyler said. “I never touched you, man. That’s bullshit.”

  “Respect the call. What’s our one rule when it comes to fouls? Respect. The. Call.” Kurt dribbled—no, practically pounded—the ball on the court. “Now check the damn ball.”

  “You elbowed me in the face,” Tyler said. “I didn’t call anything on that, and that was an obvious foul.” As if to prove a point, he pulled his lip away from his tooth to show the nasty cut there, on the left side.

  “Geesh.” May winced. “You should probably get that stitched up or something.”

  Tyler shook his head.

  Pounding the ball again, Kurt said, “Well, you should’ve called the foul, Darky. I woulda given it to you.”

  “Fuck you,” Tyler said. He saw red, first around the edges of his vision, then damn near everywhere.

  “I called a foul. It’s our ball. C’mon, check it,” Kurt said.

  “Avery?” Ray asked. “You can’t be serious.”

  But Avery looked like he was at a loss for words. All he managed was a shrug.

  “That wasn’t a foul!” Florence shouted. “You just slipped and fell on your ass, Kurt!”

  “Shut up!” he called back. “We got one rule. Respect. The. Call.”

  “No, game’s over,” Ray said. “We won. The shot went in, that’s eleven points. Game over.”