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

by Stu Jones

  “You missed! How did you miss him?”

  Kane was up and moving, pulling his belongings together. “I didn’t miss. The wind threw the shot off. He’s hit in the gut.”

  “We’ve got to get him. We can’t let him get away!” Jacob yelled, jumping to his feet and tearing off down the hillside.

  “Jacob! Wait! Don’t rush off. We’ll have to track him.”

  “You missed him. Now I gotta clean up your mess. Keep up if you can,” Jacob called over his shoulder.

  “Jacob, I’m serious. It’s not safe to go alone!” Kane yelled, as he pulled the rest of his things together and started down the hillside.

  If the teen heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it as he disappeared into the woods.

  “That impulsive little jackass is going to get someone hurt,” Kane swore under his breath. He stomped down the hillside, muttering, and finally reached where Jacob and the deer had disappeared into the thicket. Kane knelt to observe the blood spoor on the ground. At least the round had made a solid hit. The wound was a bleeder, which would make the animal easy to track.

  Kane glanced up at the darkening sky and estimated that they had about an hour and a half until nightfall. He needed to find the boy and the kill and get them both back to the station as soon as possible. It wasn’t safe to stay out after dark.

  Kane had just entered the edge of the dead woods when he heard the hair-raising shriek of the seventeen-year-old.

  In the silence and smoke of the dream, the warrior boy stood still before his teacher. The old man looked him over, determining his value. With a tone unaffected by any favor or emotion, his teacher spoke.

  “What is it you have learned, Tynuk?”

  “I have learned to honor my people and their history in word and deed. I have learned to face my fear and to remove it from my heart through diligent training and meditation. I have learned that the greatest honor is to lay my life down in the name of the Great Spirit. And I have learned to nobly stand and fight against evil, wherever it may lurk.”

  The old man paused, considering the words of the boy.

  “Do you understand that your calling is unique to you? Even our ancestors did not possess the knowledge that you do now—the knowledge of the Great Spirit. This is the source of your greatest strength and the cause that you must defend to your final breath. When the Great Spirit moves in you, you must follow it.”

  “I understand, Grandfather,” Tynuk replied.

  “I can tell that you do,” said the old man with a wry smile. “Now,” he said, as he moved into a defensive stance, “show me what you can do.”

  A scream in the darkened woods brought Tynuk out of his meditation with a jolt. He sat forward and strained his ears to determine where the noise originated. It had sounded human. Tynuk glanced at his monstrous, shaggy, wolfish companion sitting by his side. The creature’s ears perked, twitching as they drew in every sound.

  “What is it, Az?” the boy whispered.

  Azolja shifted and glanced at the boy before turning back to listen to the woods. The powerful muscles of his torso and legs were visible beneath a flowing mane of black hair that glistened in the light of the fire.

  Silence.

  They were outsiders—he and the beast. They always had been, and though they frequented the radio station to see Courtland, Kane, and their other friends, they never belonged there. But here, in the silent woods, they found a measure of peace. Here, isolated from everyone else, they both felt at home. Tynuk could sense the Great Spirit moving and pulling him away, but to where he could not yet be sure. He knew that somehow his destiny and those of Courtland and Kane were intertwined, but he also felt that there was something else he had to do. He couldn’t yet be sure. It would take much more meditation and a calming of his mind before that purpose could be revealed.

  Another sound pulled Tynuk from his thoughts. Someone or something whistled a sharp tune, one that went from high to low, then high to low again, followed by what sounded like a long groan. The sound lingered for a moment before it disappeared into the smoke-shrouded trees.

  “Come, Az. Let’s have a look, shall we?” said the boy, pulling on his knee-high moccasins and retrieving his newly hardened bow and trusty war club. Tynuk pushed a mound of dirt onto the small fire then patted his fearsome companion on the neck as they both slipped like ghosts through the darkened woods.

  SEVEN

  BEFORE

  COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA

  “Gabrielle!” Dr. Eric Glenn screamed into a poisonous wind as it thrashed his clothes around his thin frame. “Gabrielle, my darling! Where are you?”

  Clawing his way across the rubble, where the hospital stood just hours before, Glenn began to sob. He hurled pieces of concrete and brick, digging into the smoldering pile of rubble.

  He’d gotten up to use the bathroom. That was the last thing Glenn remembered. He had stood, the warmth of his bed clinging to him as he rose in the early-morning hours, and stumbled his way to the bathroom. As he stood at the toilet, sleep still clouding his eyes, the initial flash blinded him. lightning? His mind spun as he tried to figure out what was happening. Then he heard the sound, a sound like the earth itself had been torn open, swallowing everything from above into its hellish depths. It was the sound of overwhelming destruction.

  Glenn had taken one lunging stride toward the bedroom and half of a second step when the blast wave struck the house. Then he was flying, the surface of the floor falling away as he rose, spinning into the fray. Then nothing. He awoke to the pain hours or maybe days later, half buried in the remains of his house with a nasty gash near his rib cage. He emerged into the catastrophe. He could hardly comprehend the sheer devastation of the city around him. Why Columbia? There was nothing in Columbia worth an attack of that scale. Without delay, Glenn gathered his bearings and shifted focus. Nothing else mattered. He had to get to the hospital to find his dear wife. It was for her that he had striven so these last few years. It was all for her. He had emptied his personal savings and had come dangerously close to ruining his professional career only for her.

  They were married only three weeks before, the white-hot fire of their love still burning strong when, late one evening, after too many drinks at a colleague’s party, they’d plummeted down an embankment off the highway into Willowhatchee Creek. The car was destroyed. Glenn emerged with only a few bumps and bruises, but his dear Gabrielle had sustained significant brain damage and had fallen into a coma—an endless reminder that he shouldn’t have been driving in the first place.

  Glenn stopped climbing the pile of hospital rubble below him. There were so many bodies, and they all looked the same. The distinction between hospital scrubs and hospital gowns appeared indiscernible amid the dirt, dust, and fire.

  “Gabrielle! Gabrielle, where are you?” he sobbed, standing to look in all directions. “Where is everyone? Why isn’t anyone helping? There are people in here!”

  Scrambling across the debris like a wild animal, Glenn became frenzied, flinging planks and bricks as he searched in desperation for his wife. He continued to cry and call out her name.

  He had been close—so damn close. He’d perfected the song with Brutus as proof. The many other trials that followed had all been successful. He had developed tonal commands for action and inaction, commands that stirred the blood and those that calmed the nerves. Glenn could control man’s best friend through song. And there were indications—if not evidence—that these songs might work on the feeble or deranged human mind. He hadn’t been able to wait. He had to know.

  Glenn had gone to her, his Gabrielle. He had known that he could communicate with her, that her fragile mind, despite the brain damage, would understand. If nothing else, he would let her know he was there. She had so loved music. Sitting beside her in the hospital, into the late hours of the evening, he had played the song for her. Waiting until no one was watching, he’d held his phone close to her ear and let her listen to a tune, almost screaming out loud when sh
e shifted in the bed. Adjusting quick he played a soothing melody and saw the corners or her lips turn upward ever so slightly. It was a magnificent revelation. He’d been so close to getting through to her.

  Glenn snapped from his train of thought and wiped the tears from his face, turning toward the screams behind him. From a crouched position amid the rubble, he watched as a woman tried to flee from several deranged people. They chased her down and overtook her, beating her into submission. They tore at her clothes and began to rape and abuse her.

  It was no longer safe to stay out in the open. He swallowed hard and took one last look around, his heart still aching over his inability to find his wife. But it was time to be realistic. Gabrielle was dead. Even if she weren’t yet dead, how could he possibly take care of a comatose woman under such conditions? She would have to sleep wherever she lay. He could only hope that she knew nothing of what had happened. Her temporary rest, uninterrupted, would evolve into eternity. He had to take some measure of comfort in that.

  Turning, Glenn slid down the far side of the rubble and picked up a brick to use in self-defense. Going forward, nothing mattered but survival. He had to get to his lab. Everything, all he had left in the world, was there.

  Glenn stopped just on the edge of a deserted intersection. He scanned the street, looking back and forth. Surveying the area with caution, he pulled himself away from the row of vegetation and crouched low, near the edge of the street. He gave a bout of coughing then vomited a thick, green stream of slimy fluid onto the concrete and wiped his sleeve across his face. He felt as if his guts were dissolving inside him, his organs rearranging themselves in a mad attempt to escape whatever was in his blood.

  It had been two days since the attacks, and he was getting sicker. Everyone he saw was getting sicker. Some wandered aimlessly, while others retched green vomit and floundered in the streets. There was something in the air, and a dirty, poisonous ash fell from the sky, burning the skin upon contact. The soot made his skin tingle and his eyes burn. His head, cloudy from the effects of exposure.

  The street was clear, its only occupant the endless, drowning smoke of a thousand burning fires. In a movement half concealed by the smoke, Glenn dashed across the street. His torn and tattered clothing whipped against his lean, athletic frame as he ran. He had to get to the lab.

  A few minutes later, he made his way up the long drive to the front of the Canine Cognition and Behavioral Labs, or CACOBL, as it was known. Some of the most advanced theoretical medical canine research in the world had been conducted there just weeks prior. Now the formidable structure loomed, a ghost of its former self, partly in shambles though still intact thanks to modern concrete-and-steel construction.

  Slipping through a shattered window, Glenn paused to vomit again, his head reeling from a strong wave of dizziness. His health was deteriorating rapidly. His window to act, narrowing. He had to get help and knew where he could find it.

  Stopping by his office, he unlocked the fireproof safe and extracted a blue folder that contained copies of his most important research notes and trial data. He stuffed the folder into a satchel next to his overturned desk. After pulling a desk drawer open, he rummaged through some miscellaneous papers and business cards to extract a single photo of his wife. He stroked it with his thumb and placed it in his pocket.

  His whole world spinning, Glenn stumbled from his office and down the long corridor. Tiny streams of grayish light pushed through cracks in the walls, his only guide in the darkened hallway. He walked to the end, passing offices that belonged to the company’s more abstract, developmental, and theoretical sectors, then entered the medical research wing. He pulled a large, heavy key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock beside a steel door at the end of the hall. His master key—one of the perks of being the facility director—opened every door of every wing in the building, a precautionary measure in the event of total power loss. The bolt slid free, and the massive steel door released and creaked open. It was quiet in the darkness. Glenn stopped and gave his eyes a moment to adjust. This was where they performed medical research in an effort to advance canine development and health. This was where his friend, Dr. Stroph, had been working on something special.

  Slipping through the workspaces and past the glassed-in testing facilities, Glenn found himself standing in front of the facility’s cold storage. Another turn of the key opened the door, and a rush of frigid air followed. Despite the pain, Glenn couldn’t help smile. Even though the power had been out for a few days and the emergency generators were down, the unit had maintained a near-freezing temperature.

  Searching among the glass coolers that housed row upon row of labeled vials, Glenn searched for Stroph’s baby. Dr. Stroph was one of the ranking scientists in the facility. He and Glenn had become friends—more like drinking buddies. A few beers after work was usually enough to get Stroph talking about his pet project—a highly advanced protein found only in the brain of the Atlantic shortfin mako shark. Stroph, giddy like a child at Christmas, explained to Glenn how the protein (which he’d nicknamed MAK47) could be synthetically modified and appeared to stop, and in some cases reverse, severe inflammation in canines, especially inflammation of the brain. Stroph claimed that with a little more research they might be able to cure cognitive dysfunction syndrome and encephalitis in canines. He stated that the future potential of the protein appeared extraordinary. He had only just scratched the surface as to how it might be used to help both canines and humans in the future.

  Glenn stood in the darkness of the cool room, Stroph’s words echoing in his mind as his fingers hovered over the row of five vials marked “MAK47.” Whether or not the protein worked on him was irrelevant. He’d die anyway due to exposure to whatever was in the air. He had to do something, and this was his only plan. Maybe, just maybe, the serum would have some positive effect.

  Glenn removed the vials from the rack and pulled an injector from a nearby drawer. Taking a deep breath, he locked the first vial into the injector and placed the tip against the side of his neck. At once he injected the protein mixture, as he gritted his teeth against the sting of the needle. A strange numbing sensation spread across his face. He shook his head and looked at the remaining four vials.

  “What the hell,” he whispered to himself as he ejected the empty vial and inserted the second. Nothing else mattered. He had to survive.

  EIGHT

  NOW

  Courtland set the small box of scavenged medical supplies on the counter in the makeshift medical bay and glanced around. He had been in that room only a few times since they’d taken up residence at the station. He surveyed the room, noticing that ten of the twelve cots were occupied. Life in the wasteland wasn’t easy.

  “Hey,” Jenna said, interrupting his thoughts as she patted him on the shoulder.

  “Jenna. How are you holding up, dear?”

  “One day at a time,” she said with a small smile. “What do you have for me?”

  “Looks like a few boxes of sterile bandages, some antiseptic, painkillers, wound closures, and a few bottles of black water straight from the purifier.”

  “You’re an angel, Courtland. I’ve known it since the first day we met,” she said and kissed his cheek.

  “It’s not my doing, miss. Can’t take the credit. I’m just the deliveryman,” Courtland responded, showing a smile of his own. “But pretty girls are allowed to lay a kiss on an old man’s cheek any time they like.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she said, moving to check on one of the patients.

  “Yeah,” he said, waiting for just a moment before beginning again. “Hey, how’s Dagen doing?”

  “Dagen is…Dagen. He can be difficult sometimes,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. He’s kind of a strange fixture here at the station. To be honest I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to you about him…and what he did…” Courtland trailed off. “I guess I’m asking if you’re okay. You give so much, Jenna.”

 
Jenna looked at Courtland with a strange little smile, one that reflected both joy and pain. “I’m okay, Courtland…most times.”

  “You’re an amazing person, and I don’t think you hear it enough,” Courtland said with a warm smile. “I think it’s a wonderful testament to God’s love, but don’t be surprised if some people don’t understand why you look out for Dagen.”

  “I don’t expect anyone else to understand. And it’s okay if they don’t. I just think he deserves another chance, that’s all. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  Courtland nodded, running his fingers over a few items in the box in front of him. “I just wanted to check on you. You know, if you ever need anything, you come and get me.”

  She smiled. “You bet, Courtland. I appreciate it.”

  Courtland headed toward the door but paused and turned. “Oh, have you heard from Kane or the scavenging party today?”

  Jenna shook her head as she checked on one of the female patients. “Not since they all left this morning.”

  “Right. I just thought they’d be back by now.”

  Jenna looked up from the woman she was treating. “None of them are back? I thought the scavengers were going to one place while Kane and Jacob went to another?”

  Courtland shrugged his massive shoulders. “Neither group has reported back. Nowadays that’s not a good sign.”

  Kane forged ahead through the dead brush, branches clawing at his face and tearing at his hands in the fading light. “Jacob!” he called. “Jacob, where are you?” Kane burst through to a small clearing and called out again. “Jacob, if you can hear me, respond!”

  “I’m here. I twisted my leg,” Jacob called from the bottom of a nearby embankment.

  Kane made his way to the ledge and peered down the slope. He saw the teen covered in dirt, lying on his side. “What happened?”

  “My knee. I think it’s twisted or something. It hurts to try to stand. I’ve got good news, though,” Jacob said.