Into the Dark of the Day (Action of Purpose, 2)

by Stu Jones

  Water, the image of which signified life and sustenance for the human race for thousands of years, was a luxury. There just wasn’t enough. The war had contaminated every exposed body of freshwater as far as the eye could see. All the rivers and lakes either had dried up or turned to a chemical orange color that sent all forms of aquatic life floating to the surface.

  Some water could still be collected from rainfall, but even that had to be separated from the black tarlike substance that fell from the clouds, then boiled and treated, before it was presumed safe to drink. And even then this so-called black water still made people sick sometimes. Even with black water on hand, it wasn’t enough for everyone at the radio station. People lived in a constant state of dehydration with a continual fear of dying of it.

  Jenna crossed the room to her satchel and pulled a plastic water bottle from her pack. She swirled the remaining two ounces of water in the bottle and sighed at what was left of her personal water ration for the day. The injured man wasn’t going to make it, not with infection setting in. There was no reason to waste the last of her water on a dying man. But just as she thought this, she forced it from her mind and muttered to herself, “No, this is the work of the Lord.”

  She unscrewed the top, leaned down to the man. “Jim, I have a little bit of water here for you. Tilt your head up for me.”

  The man responded by pulling his head up from the pillow with a groan. Jenna slipped her fingers under his head to support it and brought the bottle to his lips. With small sips, the man consumed the entire two ounces then licked his lips to moisten them.

  As Jenna moved to set the bottle down, the man tried to sit up as he began to stammer, “Ma…mo…more…please.”

  Jenna helped him rest his head again and whispered to him in soft tones, “I’m so sorry, Jim. There’s no more. That’s all I have.”

  Jim made a defeated sound as Jenna patted him softly and closed her eyes. She prayed a silent blessing over him.

  Minutes later she walked through the doors of the makeshift medical bay and headed down the hallway toward her quarters. The hour had grown late. Second shift had just ended. Maybe she’d be able to grab a couple hours of sleep. Maybe not. As she walked, she thought about the circumstances that had brought her to where she was. The memories seemed so distant, as though barely her memories at all: the onset of the End War, the fuel reserve, and her late husband Charlie…Charlie. She shook her head as if to clear it.

  “Not productive, Jenna,” she whispered under her breath, but she was unable to make the dark history leave her.

  Again Jenna’s mind wandered toward the past. She wasn’t a doctor, but a long time ago, in what seemed like another life, she had been a veterinary assistant. And apart from stitching up and healing her share of cows, pigs, and dogs, she also had spent numerous hours of study and research in this field. The least she could do was put her knowledge to work by taking on an eight-hour daily shift in medical.

  Her heart desired to love and help her fellow human beings while sharing the gospel of Christ. This was her calling, a purpose that had become much clearer since those months when she had been held prisoner by the Coyotes, that vicious gang of bandits. The terrors she had been subjected to at their hands had been horrific, but deep in her heart, she knew the root of the problem was how desperately those men needed God. Without God to push back the darkness with the light of hope, all was lost. It was the sole reason that ruthless men did ruthless things.

  Jenna was an eternal optimist. She had refused to renounce her God. Even after the death of her entire family, and the physical torture and sexual assaults that had followed her capture, she never lost hope in the future. She never lost hope in the ability of a merciful God to save even the worst people.

  This last thought brought to mind on name—Dagen. He had orchestrated her sorrow and pain, turning so much hatred toward her because of her faith. She had every right to hate him, but she didn’t. It would be easy to hate him—very easy—but she told herself that everything happened for a reason. Even Dagen’s life had value and purpose. She committed herself to not adding to the enormous amount of hate already in the world.

  Dagen, a former military man, had been dishonorably discharged from the marines. He’d become so morally corrupt that he was chosen as one of the commanding officers of the Coyotes. When they’d met, Dagen had been a person of unquestionable evil. But during the events of Day Forty, he had been broken down all the way to his core—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Dagen survived two shattered legs and the terrible infection that followed, thanks only to the undivided medical attention Jenna had given him. He survived the agonizing mental and emotional anguish of self-realization because she had been there. She had offered her friendship in his time of need and over a period of months, the man became a different person. He became a man broken and consumed with sorrow over his previous life, a man searching for answers to questions that couldn’t be asked, a man in need of redemption.

  This string of thoughts reminded Jenna that she had not yet checked on him today. She knew just where she could find him too—away from everyone who shunned him and didn’t want him at the station. After the events of Day Forty, there wasn’t a soul at the station who didn’t know who Dagen was and who he had been. Sleep could wait.

  Slinging her satchel behind her, Jenna climbed the steps to the roof of the station. With her long brown hair tied in a loose knot, she hummed a light tune, one like those she used to hum for her sweet baby girl, Lynn. She’d be turning one next week—if Dagen hadn’t murdered her.

  On the roof of the radio control station, Dagen sat alone in an aluminum beach chair as a toxic wind that smelled of garbage and sea salt rustled his clothing and hair. As he stared toward the darkening hills in the distance, the faint creak of the stairway door greeted his ears. He knew she had come again.

  Why do you torment me? I can never repay you for my sins.

  In an almost invisible gesture, Dagen flexed his fingers and clinched his fist. He raised his eyebrows at her approach but continued to stare into the distance.

  “Hey,” she said as she approached from behind.

  “Hi.”

  “How’s it going up here?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Jenna cocked her head, continuing to look at Dagen as he sat facing straight ahead, his arms resting casually in his lap. He wore a light jacket over a dirty T-shirt. His worn battle dress uniform, or BDU pants, stitched up more than a few times, were tucked military style into his boots. The crutches would be necessary for the rest of his life. They served as a constant reminder of who he’d been, up until that fateful moment when Kane knocked him over a third-story railing. They sat stacked next to the chair and the air horn he had been given to sound if he saw trouble. He was not allowed to have a gun.

  “Well…” Jenna baited.

  “Well, what? Stop staring at me like that,” Dagen said, cutting his eyes at her.

  “Why do you always volunteer for watch?”

  “It’s an easy job for a cripple, and it keeps me out of everybody’s way. Makes everyone more comfortable—including me. Out of sight, out of mind, right?”

  “Nobody ever says anything bad about you.”

  “They don’t have to,” he replied. “It’s written all over their faces—Kane and everyone else. They don’t trust me being here, and I can’t blame them for that. You all should send me out into the wastes to die.”

  “Don’t say that. There’s always hope, Dagen. Always.”

  Dagen shrugged, continuing to avoid eye contact with the woman to whom he would forever owe a debt. But her eyes were as clear and direct as spotlights, probing, searching, and crawling their way across his dark, angular features. He suddenly felt agitated by her gaze, as though he were not fit to be looked upon by such a genuine woman.

  “I told you to stop looking at me like that!” he snapped.

  The air filled with silence. Only the stench-ridden breeze whistling across th
e roof on its way inland made any sound.

  After a quiet moment, Jenna spoke in a barely audible tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  You don’t owe me an apology. Not for anything. Not you.

  He had never attempted any sort of penance for what he had done to her, for what he had cost her. That wasn’t something he could put into words, and he wasn’t fit to be the dirt under her shoes.

  Dagen grimaced. “Just forget about it.”

  “Are you doing OK? Can I get you anything? Do you need me to get someone to relieve you?”

  “I’m fine.” Dagen nodded and waved his hand.

  “Did you eat?

  “Enough with the questions. I’m fine! I don’t need to rest. I have what I need, OK? Nobody gives a damn about me up here. Just leave me alone already!”

  Jenna tossed an expired military MRE into Dagen’s lap. He looked down and touched the package of expired nitrogen-packed food with his fingertips.

  “I’m somebody,” she said, as she turned and retreated into the shadows toward the stairs.

  Dagen’s face burned with shame. He had insulted her—yet again. He lowered his head and hissed as he wiped his palms across the red-hot flesh of his face.

  “Jenna,” he managed to croak as he heard her footsteps slow to a stop. It was painful for him to even say her name.

  “Thanks,” he said as he held the MRE up where she could see it.

  “Don’t lose hope, Dagen. There are those of us who still care what happens to you,” she whispered from the shadows of the rooftop behind him.

  Dagen groaned as he heard the door to the stairs click shut. He had murdered Jenna’s husband and her infant daughter. He had orchestrated her torture then stood by as his men raped and assaulted her. He had beaten her and humiliated her because of her faith in a God he didn’t believe in. It was all his doing, and it was a burden he would have to carry alone.

  Dagen wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes and exhaled. It was now his responsibility to keep quiet a terrible secret, one he never could share—not ever. He couldn’t tell her that in those days, during Day Forty and afterward, he had begun to love her. It had not been a joyful love but one born of respect, shame, and sorrow over the injustices he had inflicted and her response to them. His love pushed him past the beauty and forgiveness of a creation to the God who had created her in his image. And though he had no right to, Dagen found that with each passing day his love for her grew.

  Deep in his heart, he mourned these emotions. He told himself that he did not deserve to love or be loved. He was a monster, unworthy of something so pristine. He also knew that because of the nature of its origin, he could never act upon this love, and she could never know that it existed.

  TWO

  Kane exited the radio room and headed up the external stone stairs to ground level. The hazy, late-morning light mingled with the oppressive smog like cloud cover, disguising the true time of day. Another broadcast had gone out; another wash of static came back in response. Though they had yet to receive any communication over the radio, people sometimes showed up at the station saying they had heard the message, which meant the broadcasts were getting out.

  Kane had embarrassed himself in front of Winston by begging for his wife to contact him. He’d done it so that he might sleep at night. She wasn’t out there. She was dead along with his twins, Rachael and Michael, who would have been four now. At the top of the stairs, Kane raised his eyebrows as he turned to see the scavenging party returning early.

  That’s either really good or really bad.

  Things had changed too much. The world had become a mere shadow of what it once was, some darker and more primal version of its former self.

  They had known from the start that the supplies at the station wouldn’t last, especially with the growing number of survivors taking refuge there. It had become a settlement of sorts, with Kane reluctantly occupying the position as their leader. It wasn’t something he had asked for, but then again none of it was. Maybe it was his ability to command respect and to act decisively without acting like a dictator. Or maybe it was his eleven years of experience as a police officer that led people to want him to call the shots. Whatever it was, he was up to his eyeballs in it.

  The group had resorted to scavenging the surrounding area for supplies, food, and water. They also traded with other small groups of survivors they encountered. Hunting was out of the question, as wildlife appeared scarce. Farming hadn’t worked out well due to the toxic combination of the absence of direct sunlight and an abundance of polluted rain.

  Parties sent into the wastes to scavenge always traveled light and in groups of four or five. There was no telling what they might find. Sometimes they encountered other survivors, some friendly and others not. An unfortunate rule pervaded the new world—kill or be killed. Gangs of bandits and highwaymen had become prevalent. Many would murder at first glance, maybe for a good knife, a lighter, or some other trinket. Kane’s group had been forced to kill plenty of these bandits in self-defense.

  An interesting detail differentiated this world from the one before. Before the war, killing and murder were often considered synonymous, and many times society criminalized even those who killed justifiably. In this new world, just as in ancient times, murder was not acceptable, but killing another in self-defense or in defense of a group was sometimes necessary for survival. It wasn’t something any of them liked, but it was necessary.

  Sometimes one of Kane’s groups went out into the wastes and scored something valuable, like a working vehicle or medical supplies. Other times they found nothing but the toxic ocean breeze blowing inland and the scattered remnants of burned and broken homesteads, neighborhoods, and small towns—a sorrowful reminder of what had been.

  With a series of quick steps, Kane approached a battered Chevy Silverado, a rusted grate bolted to the front.

  “Is everybody okay? Is anyone hurt?”

  “We’re good. Everyone’s fine,” Jacob said, stepping out of the truck bed. “You worry too much.”

  Kane made a face at the teenager. “Then why are you guys back so soon?”

  “We scored a good one today. Check it out,” Jacob answered, as he whipped back a tarp to reveal a dirt bike that appeared to be in good condition.

  Kane nodded. “Nice. It runs?”

  “Oh, yeah. Purrs like a kitten.” Jacob spat a black stream of tobacco juice onto the dirt. “We also picked up some food, a load of canned goods, a camping stove, some road flares, a pump shotgun with a few boxes of shells, and some empty plastic water jugs. Some other junk too.”

  “Well done. No encounters of any kind?”

  “If we had, I would’ve handled it,” Jacob drawled with his chest out in a way only a seventeen-year-old kid can.

  “Sure thing, tough guy,” Kane huffed. “Just don’t press your luck. You’re not invincible.”

  “Says you.”

  “Kane, we did see a few of ’em at a distance,” Jay spoke up, as he, Shana, and Mico handed items down from the truck. “The way they moved, you could tell they didn’t quite seem human.”

  “Yeah?” Kane grimaced as if he could taste the flavor of unpleasant memories. “How many would you say?”

  “Just a handful here and there. We didn’t go close to them.”

  Kane nodded, frowning in contemplation. Long ago they’d decided as a group not to enter the larger metropolitan areas. This was one rule that remained constant. Whatever goods or valuables they could get there weren’t worth the risk. Kane knew this from personal experience.

  The creatures were former humans who had been infected by the combination of biological, chemical, and radiological attacks during the war. While it killed a lot of people, some became something else. They tended to congregate in the metro areas where the population density had been highest. Some people referred to them as zombies, but that was a ridiculous and Hollywood-fueled concept. They didn’t rise from the grave, and they didn
’t have to be shot in the head to be killed.

  Molly had called them Sicks, which was accurate since they were sick people, mutated, starved, and driven mad by an airborne concoction called Chimera that had doused many of the cities. And though it had been designed to kill, the amazing resilience of the human body allowed some to live and adapt.

  Recently several groups of scavengers had encountered and been attacked by what they described as small packs of Sicks. These packs seemed more organized and less like the maddened horde that Kane and Molly had encountered as if somehow they had evolved into something else, something more intelligent. This final thought gave Kane a cold shiver, which he shrugged off, as he attempted to remain focused on the task at hand.

  Jenna leaned forward and rested her gloved hands on the shovel in front of her as she ducked her head forward and wiped it across the sleeve of her shirt. She sighed, the weight of death and mortality heavy upon her, like a constant burden. With a flick of her head, she cleared the hair out of her face.

  “Fourteen,” she whispered.

  “Huh?”

  Jenna remained silent, her mind far away from the dusty gravesite.

  Rob cleared his throat. “Did you say something?” he asked, throwing the last shovelful of dirt onto the small mound.

  “Jim. He makes fourteen since we’ve been here. It feels like so many when you know them all.”

  They stood in silence for a minute, neither sure of what to say.

  “We don’t know if Jim had any religious preferences?” Rob asked, patting the dirt mound gently with the flat underside of his shovel.

  Jenna shrugged. “I didn’t know him that well, but I don’t mind saying a few words about him anyway.”

  Rob nodded. “Should I put this in?” He motioned to two sticks of rebar he had wrapped together with ten-gauge wire to form a cross.

  “Sure, Rob. That was very thoughtful.”

  Rob nodded again and pushed the rebar cross into the dirt at the head of the mound, sinking it deeper with a few strikes from the shovel. He stepped back, pulled his cap off, and held it over his heart as he bowed his head.