Fade To Black (Into The Darkness Book 2)

by Doug Kelly

  “He’s not with us,” said Kevin.

  “Do you know him?”

  Dylan hesitated, trying to think of the best way to answer the question. “He’s from the neighborhood, too. They elected him as their leader. I think it went to his head.” He looked back at John and then turned around again. “He doesn’t like us and the feeling is mutual.”

  Tom whistled loudly and waved John to come over. “Maybe we need to have a big group hug here?”

  “I’ll pass on that,” said Dylan.

  Tom chuckled, finally showing a bit of emotion.

  When John reached the well, Tom yelled toward him, instructing him to drop the shotgun. John placed it on the concrete. On John’s approach, Dylan and Kevin moved and stood farther apart from each other. John stood between them, but farther away from Tom, who was still poised on the porch.

  John spoke arrogantly to Tom, “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” Tom’s bushy eyebrows shot upwards. “Listen, asshole, this is my land. What do you want?”

  “Just keeping an eye on these two.”

  Dylan and Kevin rolled their eyes and sighed at the comment.

  Tom shook his head. He walked backwards a few steps and sat on a rusty metal chair on the porch. He leaned back in the chair, the front legs rising off the porch, and let back of his head lean on the ivy climbing the side of his house. The rifle was across his lap. His head tilted back as he looked at the three men down the crooked bridge of his nose. “Last chance…what do you want?”

  “We just wanted some water, honest,” Dylan answered. “Then I saw the field of corn you have, and that caught my eye—”

  The front legs of the metal chair slammed down on the porch. “That’s what I thought! You want to take from me, don’t you?”

  Dylan bowed his head, closed his eyes and softly said, “No.” With his palms in the air again, Dylan continued to speak. “We need food and we’ll have to grow it. It’s too late to plant another crop now, but in the spring…is there any way you could share your land? Help us plant something?” Dylan pointed to the field. “If you have working equipment, you could help feed a lot of hungry people. We could help you in some way; maybe help bring the corn in from the field.” Dylan put his hands down by his sides. “I honestly didn’t know this was here. We just stumbled across it, but now that we’re here, and I can see how much you have…let’s face it, Tom…you have more than enough for yourself. Can we help you and get a share of that grain?”

  “So, you want a cut of the crop?” Tom leaned back in the chair.

  “We can help,” Dylan replied. “I can find people to work the land. Are you alone here? It looks like too much for one person.”

  Tom’s expression changed, appearing to soften. He glanced toward a tall tree by the barn, and the two mounds of black dirt under the shade of the tree’s canopy. Each mound had a crude cross, made of tree branches held together with twisted barbwire. “My parents, rest in peace. This was their land.” Tom reached for his hat to put it across his chest. Realizing that he was not wearing one, he lowered his hand and then grabbed the rifle stock instead.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” said Dylan, remorsefully.

  “I was a contractor in Springfield. I came up here to help my parents when they told me they were selling the land. It was going to take a year for the deal to go through, so I planted one last crop of corn for my dad. The deer loved that corn and he just loved to watch the deer eat it, and they would, all winter long. My mom, bless her heart, wanted to have one more season with her garden. So I got the tiller out and doubled the size of it for her.” Tom cleared his throat. “Then the shit hit the fan. My father had cancer and ran out of medicine. He didn’t last long, and my mother went right after he did.”

  “Tom, if we could use your tractor and tiller,” Dylan gasped at the thought, “we could break up more of this field and plant food for the community. And your tiller could tear up some lawns for small gardens.”

  “It’s gone. I sold it all. I came up to help them liquidate everything. All I have left is a little plow to pull behind a small tractor, plus a broken-down pickup.”

  Dylan’s heart dropped and the men remained silent for a moment.

  Tom brought the chair back down on four legs, stood up, jumped off the porch, and started to walk to his barn. “Follow me.”

  They followed Tom to the barn. He slid the ragged door open. The morning light filtered its way through the dusty air. Inside the barn, near the back, was a partition made of plywood and canvas. The plywood was pristine, as were the sheets of canvas secured to the framework as a barrier. Inside the barn sat an old pickup truck with the hood open. “Let’s see if we can work out a deal,” said Tom, spryly.

  “What kind of deal?” asked Dylan.

  “Now, hold on,” John interjected. “I was elected by a majority vote, so all deals have to go through me.”

  “John,” Dylan tried to speak calmly, but his irritation was obvious. “Take a look around and tell me which one of us voted for you.”

  John clenched his teeth and took a step back behind Dylan and Kevin. He leaned into a rear quarter panel of the pickup and picked at a flake of rust with a long, dirty fingernail.

  Tom moved to stand in front of the open engine bay and said, “I need this truck to run. It sputters, and then it dies. You get this truck to run, and I’ll give whoever helps pick the corn a cut of the harvest.”

  John’s ears perked up. “What did you say?”

  “Get this here engine runnin’.”

  John went to the front of the truck. “I see the problem. Distributer cap is gone.”

  “I know the distributer cap is gone. I took it off to make it hard to steal.”

  “Then it’s the fuel line. You got some dirty gas.”

  Tom’s head turned to the wall of the barn, looking at an old metal gas can with paint worn off the handle and the remaining red paint mostly faded away.

  “Oh,” said John. “You didn’t use the gas that was in that old thing, did you?”

  “Afraid so.”

  John brought the gas can into the sunlight, opened the top, and tilted the can around to see the round circle of sunlight move about the bottom of the can.”

  “Sludge. It’s got to be in the fuel tank, too.”

  “Bad?”

  “I’ll have to drop the tank, but I can fix it.”

  “Then I’ll need some good gas, too. Fix this truck and get me some good gas, and I’ll give you a share of the corn.” Tom took a quick glance at the partitioned section of his barn and added, “Firewood, I’ll need firewood, too.”

  “Are you thinking about leaving if we get you enough gas?” John asked. “Maybe go back to Springfield?”

  “Hell, no. Where I lived has probably burned to the ground. My roots are here now.”

  “I saw a huge pile of old trees, rough cut and piled high,” said Kevin. “Where they were starting the new phase of the subdivision. It looks like they clear cut several acres to get it ready to develop, and just bulldozed all those old trees into a pile.”

  Dylan nodded his head. He had seen the trees, too.

  “That wood is dry by now,” said John. “I’ve got a chainsaw. We could cut up a bunch of those logs.” John tapped the truck. “We’d need this truck to haul it back here.”

  “Sounds like you better get busy fixin’ my truck. I’ll get my tools.” Tom walked to the back of the barn and pulled a sheet of canvas to the side. John had followed him, silently. When Tom noticed that John was behind him, he stopped, put his hand up, and said, “Go back.”

  John obeyed, but stared at the partitioned section of barn with intense curiosity as he went back to the truck wondering what was so secret.

  After returning from behind the partitioned section of the barn, Tom set two toolboxes on the gravel floor and stood with his hand on his hips. “Is it a deal?”

  Kevin nodded to Dylan and Dylan nodded to John.

  “Deal,” said Joh
n, “But we’ll have to work on getting the fuel.”

  Tom seemed to relax, showing the hint of a smile, and came close to the three men with an extended hand. Each man shook Tom’s hand in turn.

  Dylan, the last to shake his hand, looked him in the eye as he did. He noticed a crude tattoo of a teardrop below Tom’s left eye and thought that seemed rather uncharacteristic for a contractor, a businessman. “What kind of contracting work did you do? Home building? Heavy construction?”

  “All kinds.”

  Dylan watched Tom’s body language and did not think he had gotten an honest answer, but it was too soon to judge a man he had just met.

  The large shadow of a blue heron went across the tall grass like a dark spirit. Dylan looked up at the clearing sky and saw the large bird flying away from the lake, in the direction they had been heading before the detour at Tom’s house. It reminded Dylan of their plan to walk upstream.

  Dylan nudged Kevin. “We need to get on our way.”

  John heard Dylan’s cue and offered his hand. Reluctantly, Dylan shook John’s hand, and then Dylan started to walk away with Kevin.

  “Thanks for the water,” said Dylan.

  “Stay in touch.” Tom was standing in the barn with his hands on his head, fingers interlaced, smashing his curly hair flat to his scalp.

  Dylan and Kevin gathered their belongings at the well and left to continue their journey upstream. When they were safely out of earshot, Kevin stopped to adjust the backpack. Dylan looked back at the barn and asked, “Did you notice that tattoo?”

  “The teardrop?”

  “Yeah, I thought that was only something a convict got?”

  “I don’t know a lot about that.”

  They followed the curves of the stream for hours. They stopped at a cluster of trees on the stream bank where they judged their location to be half a day’s walk from home. They thought this would be a good location to stop so they could spend the second half of the day walking back, hopefully before dark. They went into the trees for shade and found a large, fallen tree. They sat on the rotten log to rest their tired feet. In front of them were the remains of a fawn, eviscerated and with portions of flesh sliced away.

  “That little fawn didn’t stand a chance,” said Kevin. “What do you think got it? Dogs?”

  “Probably.” Dylan knelt by it for a closer look and saw the bloody, broken glass on the dirt. “Or maybe not. I don’t think a dog would use broken glass to slice its meal.” Dylan stood up. “Let’s move into the grass and take a look around before we go any farther.”

  After they crossed the stream, Kevin removed the backpack and took out the binoculars. He could see a building in the distance, and with the binoculars, he could easily read the sign. In large capital letters, he saw, ALLIED GROCERY DISTRIBUTION.

  “Food warehouse, straight ahead.” He handed Dylan the binoculars.

  Dylan took the binoculars and walked farther into the grass to view the building from a different angle. He walked until he found a clearing of matted grass. In that clearing, he saw a corpse with its hands still tied behind its back and its skull partially gone. The body was next to a roll of bloodstained carpet.

  Kevin kicked the carpet. It unrolled, revealing the decomposing corpse that was inside the tube. The shirt was intact, and Kevin could see a name embroidered on a patch near a bullet wound, Rex Wilson. It was an Allied Grocery Distribution uniform.

  “Militia did this,” said Kevin.

  “Militia?”

  “When I went to the barter lot with David, a man warned me about the militia. He told me the militia took over a food warehouse and used that food to bribe people into joining them. He said they are heavily armed.”

  Dylan looked around with the binoculars. He saw the railroad tracks that went close to the empty loading bay. Two trailers were still by the truck loading dock on the black asphalt parking lot. He lowered the binoculars and handed them back to Kevin. He looked at the corpses and then back up to the building. “I knew it was too good to be true,” said Dylan. He kicked the tied and bound corpse over to see that it was also wearing an Allied Grocery Distribution uniform. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Over the next week, Dylan spent his time finishing several more bows. He had promised them to men in the neighborhood, and he was a man of his word. Dylan had made some more arrows and created arrowheads from Kevin’s metal spoons by heating them in a fire to soften the metal and then smashing them flat on the concrete patio with a sledgehammer. The sharp tips were fashioned with a metal file. The arrowheads were crude. He really needed razor-tipped arrows, the kind that used to be produced in a factory. He was concerned with how close he would need to be to kill a deer with his untested arrowheads. To help Dylan with the time-consuming process, Mary had kept the children occupied, and so did Kevin, when he was not hunting. With the blunt-tipped arrows, they were only able to get small game, like rabbits and squirrels. Getting a deer and sharing the venison would do more than appease hungry people. Dylan thought that hunting and sharing the meat might bring people together and entice cooperation. He distributed the crude, metal-tipped arrows to his neighbors, and hoped for the best.

  During the same timeframe in which Dylan had created the homemade arrowheads, the water in the attic’s rain barrel had warmed from the heat of sunshine radiating from the asphalt shingles, just as planned. Up the hill from Dylan’s house, the spring water had seeped through the jagged rock of the abandoned foundation and filled the pit. They siphoned the water down the hill to Dylan’s home, and connected the hose to his spigot. They used the warm water from the rain barrel, carrying an odor of chlorine, to wash clothes and bathe, and filtered the cold spring water for drinking.

  Dylan was standing in his driveway, ready to deliver another newly made bow to a promised recipient, when he saw a lone figure walking down the street in his direction. As the figure grew larger, he could see that it was a man carrying something in each hand, dangling by his sides. Then he recognized John, and realized that he was carrying two five-gallon gas cans, obviously empty from the way they bounced freely off his thighs. John walked up the driveway and set them at the rear of Dylan’s car.

  “I did my part,” said John, smugly. “You better come up with some gas.”

  Dylan saw the dirt and grease caked into the skin of John’s hands. Dylan did not doubt him and believed the job was completed.

  “Did you have fun playing with your toys while I was working?” On the concrete driveway, John scowled at the new bow next to Dylan’s feet.

  “It’s not a toy, and I was working,” Dylan snapped.

  Dylan glared back at John, then looked at the empty gas cans. He realized that there was fuel in his car’s gas tank, and John wanted it.

  “You want what’s in the tank, don’t you?” Dylan inquired.

  John smirked and nodded.

  “How are you going to get it out?”

  “Get a small screwdriver and a hammer,” replied John. “If you have a gas can for a lawn mower, get that too.”

  John removed the car’s gas cap and positioned himself behind the rear of the car. He placed the screwdriver’s tip low on the gas tank and punctured it with a quick strike of the hammer. He covered the hole with one finger, slid the small gas can under the plugged hole, and then removed his finger to let the thin stream of gasoline enter the can. When the small can was almost full, Dylan put his finger over the hole and John put that fuel into a five-gallon container. There was only enough fuel to fill both large cans and part of the smaller one.

  “This won’t be enough,” said John. “His truck is going to take about twenty gallons to fill, and I’m going to need gas to cut firewood.” John tested the weight of each can by picking them up from the driveway and setting them quickly back down.

  Dylan shrugged his shoulders. “You got all my gas, and I don’t have a chainsaw.”

  “I’m cutting wood tomorrow morning. You and your friend can help me load it
into his truck and take it to Tom.”

  “We’re busy tomorrow.”

  “Busy? With what?” John looked scornfully at Dylan. “With your toys?”

  “Again, they’re not toys.” Dylan strained to maintain his composure. “We’re going to patrol past the north end of the community, to the end of the lake, and see what’s out there.”

  “Have fun on your nature walk,” John snorted. “The real men will stick around and get the work done.” He picked up the two gas cans and abruptly marched away. His shadow cast long in front of him as he walked back down the street, away from the setting sun.

  The next morning Dylan and Kevin stood shoulder to shoulder and faced the open field that bordered the subdivision. Each had a backpack and plenty of water. They left the filter at home after deciding to walk only as far as half their water would last them, and then they would return. They might spend the night in the woods, so each of them had a tightly wrapped blanket tied to the backpack. Dylan strapped his rifle across his shoulder and sheathed his knife over his right thigh. They looked back to see Mary with Dylan’s two children, waving from a bedroom window. They waved back and strode away.

  The sun had already dried the morning dew. It was a beautifully clear day and the morning air slowly warmed in the sunshine. There was a distinct foot trail through the narrow band of saplings, shrubs, and tall grass that stretched between the subdivision and the stream. Jim and others from the neighborhood had made this trail with daily visits to gather water. The area past the stream and towards the lake consisted of a variety of trees. The vegetation was so thick, that in the height of summer, it was difficult to walk through it in certain areas. The path wound around bushes and dense foliage and finally came to the stream. The stream, which fed the manmade lake, turned slightly to the west and gained speed as it went to a lower elevation and rushed into the lake. At this point, where the steam turned west, there was a bridge crossing it. The steel bridge connected the bike trail that circled the lake to both sides of the stream.