Nearest Night

by David VanDyke

“South,” Skull answered. “Find me a rental car place, but not at an airport. A busy one, where I’ll be forgotten.”

  The driver nodded. “I know just the place. About an hour from here. Will that be all right, sir?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Skull was already mentally mapping out the drive in his head. It would take him at least twelve solid hours of driving to reach the area where Camp Pleasant was supposed to be located, a sparsely populated area of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park along the border between Tennessee and North Carolina.

  Fortunately, he knew the region relatively well. After all, he’d grown up near there. Once more, he was going back home.

  Thoughts of home reminded him of the last time he’d been in eastern Tennessee, four years ago. The last time he’d seen family. The last time he’d talked to his grandmother before she was tortured and murdered by Psychos to get leverage on him.

  Skull lay back against the leather seat with his eyes closed, his fists clenched. A slow, familiar rage that never fully vanished began to simmer inside him.

  I really should have killed the police chief.

  Chapter 22

  It took a day for Derrick’s and Reaper’s people to finally reach the caves that housed a holding area of sorts for Edens in the process of getting out of the United States.

  Reaper was surprised and amazed by the vast size of the stone caverns. ATVs and other vehicles were parked near the entrance. Large tents stood around the edges, rows of cots inside. Lights descended from wires that crisscrossed the room, casting harsh shadows on blankets hung over doorways and entrances to adjacent caves. The steady hum of generators could be heard, an ever-present background.

  “Kind of catches you by surprise, doesn’t it?” asked Big Jim, smiling at her from a chair nearby. “Lived in these parts most all my life and had no idea this even existed. Heck, no one did, as far as we know.”

  Tired, haunted eyes looked out at her from various parts of the vast room. Some people were engaged in mundane activities, but most just sat and watched the world around them, not even animated enough to be curious. “What’s with all the people?”

  “Edens,” Big Jim answered. “This is one of the main holding areas on the Eden Railroad. They wait here until we can arrange to get them out of the country.”

  “They look so...”

  “Dead?”

  “I was going to say apathetic.”

  “Most been terrorized and tormented. Many came near starving. This is a place where they can recover in peace and safety. Where we can feed them and comfort them. I tell ’em to have faith. The Eden virus is a miraculous thing. Given time, their minds and spirits will recover.”

  Reaper felt the bleakness radiating from the people, the worry, the edge of despair. “I doubt they see it as a miracle now.”

  “Owen does.”

  “Jimmy didn’t.”

  “God rest his soul, that warn’t your fault.”

  “I know.” Her eyes roamed. “Where do they come from?”

  “All over, really. We have agents in most of the major cities, watching for Edens. Some made it out of the camps. Even so, they ain’t many. Most of the Edens get caught and...”

  “…die in places like Camp Pleasant. I know. I’ve raided some camps, gotten some people out. Never enough.”

  “I’d love to hear about it when we got some time. I hear you’re gonna open a can of whup-ass on them damn Unionists.”

  “We’ll do the best we can.”

  “Lord willing and the crick don’t rise.”

  “Excuse me,” said Hawkeye, walking up to Reaper with a concerned look. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” she said, following him to an edge of the room. “What’s going on?”

  “Maybe you ought to ask them.” Hawkeye pointed at Spooky and Derrick, talking.

  “I’m guessing they’re working out our next moves right now.”

  “Yeah, me too, but I suspect it’s the wrong mission.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hawkeye lowered his voice and leaned in toward her. “This is a covert operation. We just got strafed by a bunch of drones. They know we’re here. This mission is compromised.”

  “You think it’s time to extract.”

  “Yeah.”

  Reaper said, “They don’t necessarily know we’re here. All they know is they saw a group of ATVs in the wilderness.”

  “And fired on it without provocation. That proves they believe we’re enemies. They must have extrapolated our line of march and know where we’re going.”

  Reaper rubbed her face as if to scrub off hard truths. “I don’t disagree. But what about all the Edens in Camp Pleasant?”

  “They’ll be no worse off than they are now,” said Hawkeye. “Us getting killed doesn’t do them any good.”

  Reaper glared at him. “Do you hear yourself?”

  “Look, I’m not some heartless bastard. I’m not a coward either, but this isn’t about either of those things. This is about making smart decisions, regardless of emotion. This is about making the tough call.”

  “You sure it’s not about your voodoo premonition?”

  “That, too.”

  “So I’m supposed to let hundreds of human beings continue to suffer horribly?”

  “Yes. When it makes no sense to go on.”

  “You know, these caves have amazing acoustics,” said Big Jim as he approached the two. “If you have a mind to, you can hear people talk from clear across the room.”

  “Nice of you to tell us,” said Hawkeye.

  “How much did you hear?” asked Reaper.

  “Pert’ near all.”

  “And?”

  “It’s all a bunch of horseshit,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” said Hawkeye. “This is a professional military operation.”

  “Professional,” said Big Jim with a laugh, his voice rising. “Professional what? Shirkers? You all sure went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get here, just to run off at the first sign of trouble.”

  “Problem?” asked Derrick, Spooky close behind him.

  Big Jim pointed at Hawkeye. “This one here is tryin’ to talk Miss Jill into cuttin’ and runnin’.”

  “Is that true?” asked Spooky.

  “Hell, yeah,” answered Hawkeye, glaring.

  “You drop in on us, call the heat down on us and woops, time to go?” said Derrick.

  Reaper held up her hand. “Everyone chill out. Hawkeye has a point. We’re a covert action team, not a company of paratroopers. Our SOP is, if we’re blown, we abort.” She pointed at Spooky. “Your procedures too.”

  “We’re not leaving,” said Spooky softly.

  “We might be,” said Reaper. “Since the gang’s all here, let’s talk it through. This is no longer a surgical operation. They’re going to be on high alert, even if they’re not sure where and when we’re going to hit them. We don’t have enough firepower and people. Even if we pull this off, casualties might be heavy.” Reaper noticed more and more people – her team, Derrick’s team and a few civilians – were gathering around to listen.

  “Good thing we heal fast,” said Big Jim.

  Hawkeye spoke. “We’re not superheroes and we’re not immune to capture. All of us have information that could cause grave damage to the FC.”

  “Then don’t get captured,” said Spooky. “Not alive, anyway.”

  “Do you hear what you’re saying?” asked Hawkeye. “We’re not suicide troops.”

  Reaper said, “No, we’re not. And Hawkeye has a point. We can’t just throw ourselves at the walls of Troy. I won’t approve anything that doesn’t have a reasonable chance of success, and that includes the extraction.”

  Silence hung in the air.

  “Let’s say we do this,” said Tarzan. “What will we do with all those Edens?”

  “Let us worry about that,” said Derrick.

  “We should be happy to have that problem,”
said Bunny. “My question is, how do we breach a heavily fortified encampment and get Spooky’s people out?”

  “If we can’t come up with overwhelming force,” – here Spooky glanced at Derrick – “We need updated intel to find a weakness in their defenses.”

  “I got the drone brain,” said Shortfuse. “Livewire thinks he can use it to hack into their video network.”

  “Good,” said Spooky. “That’s a start, but overhead imagery isn’t enough. We need eyes on target. Eyes we can control.” He looked at Reaper.

  “We can observe from the hills around the camp. Someone could slip in close using a thermal suit. I nominate you and your ninja skills, Spooky.”

  Spooky gave her a wintry smile.

  “Too bad we don’t have someone on the inside,” said Flyboy.

  Derrick flicked his eyes at Spooky.

  “You have someone on the inside?” asked Reaper.

  “I have a source.”

  “Who is it?” asked Buzz from the rear of the group.

  Everyone stared at Buzz.

  “Hey, just askin’.”

  Reaper turned to Hawkeye, raising an eyebrow.

  Hawkeye nodded. “It’s a start. If we don’t like what we see, we can abort.”

  “That’s right,” said Big Jim. “Plenty of time to save your own ass.”

  Hawkeye turned his face to Big Jim. “You need to watch your mouth, cabrón.”

  “Enough!” snapped Reaper. “Everyone get ready. We’ll move out at sunset. Plan to be in position by dawn. We’ll recon, then decide.”

  The team members dispersed. Derrick motioned for Big Jim. Reaper watched their tense discussion.

  “Civilians,” Spooky said.

  “Don’t play dumb. If your family wasn’t down there we would have aborted long ago.”

  Spooky stared at her overlong. “Yes. I would have aborted, but not for the reason you might think.”

  “And what reason is that?”

  “My own,” he answered.

  “Your own reason may get you killed,” Reaper said, staring right back.

  “I am not afraid to die.”

  “Red herrings. Game playing. What the hell are you really up to, Spooky?”

  “The same as always. Helping my friends, hurting my enemies.”

  Reaper held her tongue.

  Chapter 23

  Larry lay on the thin cot and tried not to think of the food. His stomach tried to eat itself...and he tried not to think about the food. He opened his eyes and looked over in the darkness at the small paper tray on the floor, and its alluring aromas...and tried not to think about the food.

  They would come and take it away soon enough, and then his resolve would no longer be tested. Still, he loathed himself for his weakness. He found his mouth trying to water at the mere nearness of the food.

  I’ve eaten for the last time, he told himself again. I will not delay the inevitable. Death is my only release, he thought. God, please let it come quickly.

  He hadn’t told them anything of substance yet, just bits and pieces, things to keep them hoping…but he knew eventually he’d break.

  Everyone broke. Everyone talked. That’s what they’d taught him in SERE school so long ago, when he was still part of the U.S. Army. It was only a matter of time.

  The trick was, to talk after it didn’t matter anymore. And, with the help of your fellow prisoners, to rebuild honor and morale.

  But Larry had no fellow prisoners. He was alone, and had been brought into the belly of the beast. No help would come. FC forces had raided all the easy camps, the ones near the borders. That’s why the rest had been moved well into the interior.

  At first, he’d reminded himself of people who survived for years as prisoners – captives of Tojo’s Japan, of North Vietnam, of Middle Eastern terrorists and Muslim militias. However, those had usually retained semblances of POW status, or had been used as propaganda pawns, perhaps to be traded.

  Eden camps were more akin to the Soviet gulags or the Nazi death camps. Prisoners entered, but they never left. Not unless rescued.

  His mind drifted to his family. The thought brought a lump to his throat and he pushed it away. He was afraid if he dwelled on them too much he’d break down completely.

  Oh Lord, he prayed, I used to have more faith. Then the world went to hell and maybe I lost it. I don’t understand why You’re letting all this happen, but You must have a reason. I’d sure appreciate it if You would take care of my family.

  Larry thought of Samson, according to the Old Testament the strongest man who ever lived. He’d honored Jehovah with his Nazirite vows, as a judge and defender of the ancient Hebrews…until he’d given in to the Philistine harlot Delilah’s pleading to reveal the source of his strength. After much pillow talk and nagging, he told her if his hair were ever cut he’d lose the Lord’s blessing, and his power.

  She’d paid two men to sneak in while Samson was sleeping and cut his hair, and so the weakened Samson had been blinded, put in chains, and made to work turning a millstone.

  One day the Philistine leaders gathered in a great temple for a sacrifice to their gods. More than three thousand people attended, and Samson was displayed as a trophy. He pleaded with Jehovah to grant him his strength just one more time. The Lord answered his prayer and Samson broke the central pillars, causing the stone temple to collapse, killing everyone, including himself.

  It had always been a favorite story, ever since Larry was a boy in Sunday School, bigger and stronger than any other kids his age. As he grew, he’d thought of himself as Samson. He’d even refused to cut his hair, until the Army gave him no choice.

  What sin had he committed to get him captured? He didn’t know, but it must have been something. He prayed that, like Samson, he would be granted one final chance to strike at these evil people.

  And yet, he was weak. The smell of chicken and vegetables called to him. He growled, refusing to look at the food. Why couldn’t they come take it away already?

  Larry sensed rather than saw someone watching him. He sat up, forgetting about the food for now, and peered out into the shadowy hallway. Sometimes, when the light was low inside, he could see out through the glass.

  Dimly seen figures occupied other cells. He knew, because he could sometimes detect their movements, hear their pitiful stirrings, like mice behind the walls. He felt their frantic eagerness when feeding time arrived. They gobbled up the meager fare provided.

  Were those eyes staring out at him from the cell across the hall?

  Larry stood on shaky legs and pressed his face against the thick glass. He remained that way and stared for what might have been five minutes or five years. Time ceased to have tangible substance.

  Two small, pale, disembodied hands slowly materialized from the darkness and touched the glass across the hall. Larry found his heart beating faster, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to lie back down on the cot and close his eyes. To go back to not thinking about the food.

  To sleep, and to die, as he’d already resolved to do.

  He forced himself to stand his ground and stare.

  The skeletal hands remained against the glass. A face appeared between them. The eyes were devoid of hope or expectation. Larry had seen this one before, a young boy of perhaps ten.

  “Why are they torturing you?” Larry whispered, and even this sound seemed out of place, like the dead talking in a tomb. He didn’t expect an answer; the rooms passed sound, but speaking to other prisoners was forbidden, and could earn a beating.

  The boy merely stared back. After a minute he blinked slowly, as if this movement were a colossal effort, and then looked down, and then back at Larry.

  When Larry made no movement he did it again.

  Looking down, Larry saw the paper tray of untouched food at his feet. Easily more than the guards fed the others in three days combined. Chicken, vegetables, rice, beans. A feast. A small carton of milk accompanied it.

  “You want the food,” Larr
y said.

  I want the food, a cowardly internal voice cried.

  No, I’m not eating it. But he might as well.

  The boy’s face sagged in anticipated disappointment. His face withdrew back into the darkness.

  Larry dropped down to the bottom of the door, where there was a gap. He found the two-inch-tall feeding slot, an opening without a cover. Across the way, the kid’s slot beckoned.

  He could kill two birds with one stone. He could help this child and remove his own temptation at the same time. He carefully grasped the edge of the tray before looking across the smooth concrete floor.

  “Get ready, little buddy,” Larry whispered. “It’s coming your way.”

  The face came back and the eyes appeared brighter. The boy squatted down, mirroring Larry’s stance.

  Taking a deep breath, Larry shoved the tray as hard as he could. It slid faster than he thought it would and bounced off the edge of the slot with a clatter, spilling some, but thin fingers snagged the thing quick as a snake and drew it in. The hand shot out again and again, scooping up what had fallen, plucking up food with its fingertips.

  “There you go,” said Larry. “That’s how it’s done, champ.”

  The eyes stared at him as the boy shoved food into his mouth. He chewed with desperation, trying to ingest it as fast as possible, as if it would be snatched away at any moment. Larry noticed he was shaking.

  “Just take it easy, buddy,” Larry said, soothing. “It’ll be all right.” But he knew he lied.

  Still, this small act of defiance, of human decency, lifted his spirits immensely.

  There came a loud clang at the end of the hall. Larry heard a collective moan of dismay and more stirrings from the cells around him. The sound of clicking footfalls echoed down the hallway, preceded by a bright circle of light.

  “What have we here?” Bauersfeld’s voice said in mock dismay. She shone her flashlight on the cell across from Larry’s and the thin boy shied away from it, back into the corner of his cell. Larry had a brief but horrifying look at hollow eyes, at a distended belly, skin covered in running sores.

  Bauersfeld walked briskly over, opened the boy’s door and kicked the tray out of the cell, sending the remaining food flying down the hallway. There came more scurrying as some of the braver souls ventured toward the front of their cells to reach through their food slots in hopes of snagging a bit of something, anything.