Dark Days

by Bradley, Arthur T. , Ph. D.

  Dix shuffled forward along the truck’s railing.

  “What d’ya think, Top?” he said, leaning around to talk through Mason’s open window.

  “Looks like there’s a way across.”

  Dix eyed the bridge. “I don’t have to tell you this would be the perfect place for an ambush.”

  “One way in, one way out, pinch point in the middle. Couldn’t get any better.”

  “How do you wanna play it?”

  The way Mason saw it they had two options—they could either approach it slow and easy, or they could race across the bridge like a stagecoach barreling through “Injun” country. Given that a single well-placed shot to a tire could send them careening into the frigid water below, he decided the more cautious approach was in order.

  “Tell the others to stay sharp. We’re going to take it nice and easy.”

  “Roger that. Just don’t put us in the drink. I swim about as good as I sing, and believe me, that ain’t saying much.”

  Mason grinned. “Got it.”

  Dix hurried around to relay the message to Beebie and the others.

  Mason released the brake and allowed the truck to roll out onto the bridge. The concrete was littered with debris, but it remained intact and passable. He gave the engine a little gas and proceeded ahead at quarter speed.

  As they neared the container ship, Mason marveled at how it seemed to grow in size. By the time they arrived at the damaged lift, the ship looked more like an industrial loading dock than a commercial transport. Because of the vessel’s orientation, it was impossible to judge its exact size, but it seemed to stretch at least a football field in length and maybe a quarter of that in width. A hundred or more rectangular storage containers lay scattered across its lopsided deck. Many others had toppled into the river, either sinking next to the boat or becoming hopelessly entangled in the wreckage to bob in the water like colorful LEGO blocks.

  The faint odor of diesel fuel wafted in through the truck’s open windows, and Bowie turned to him.

  “Yeah, I smell it too.” He looked out the window and studied the water surrounding the barge. There were no signs of a glossy slick, which he took to mean that the fuel leak had likely been contained onboard. A tanker truck half-full of liquefied natural gas was one thing; a container ship’s fuel drums filled with diesel oil was something else entirely. At a minimum, it was worth a look.

  Mason brought the truck to a stop and glanced over at his M4. Navigating the wreckage would be tricky enough without having to tote a rifle. That left him with his pistol and a sharp blade.

  He drew his Supergrade and gave it a quick onceover. The magazine was fully seated, the thumb safety engaged, and a round sat flush in the chamber. He holstered it and examined the two spare magazines on his belt. The top-most cartridges sat flush, and the feed lips looked nominal—no bending or flaring. Everything was as it should be.

  Mason slid his pack closer, checking that his flashlight and rope were both inside. A way to fight, a way to see, and a way to climb. All the essentials to do a little shipboard spelunking were at hand.

  Bowie nudged his nose down into the pack.

  “Unh-uh,” said Mason. “You’ve got your own gear.” He lifted a small saddle pack from the floorboard and secured it around the dog’s chest. Bowie stood fast, letting him snug up the harness. The supplies weren’t needed for the quick exploration mission, but Mason thought it important to give Bowie some time wearing the saddle, as it were.

  Once the saddle pack was secure, Mason pushed open the door, and Bowie scrambled out.

  Dix was leaning away from the truck, holding a grab bar with one hand as he peered out over the bridge.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Smell that?”

  Dix sniffed the air. “Diesel.”

  Mason nodded. “Bowie and I are going down to take a look. Stay here and watch the truck.”

  “Roger that.” Dix made a motion to Beebie, indicating that everyone should hold fast.

  “Come on, boy,” Mason said, starting across the lift. “Let’s go see if we can find some fuel.”

  Bowie followed after him, sniffing the air intently.

  Even though the mangled lift now resembled a giant piece of abstract art, the metal planking felt solid enough under Mason’s feet. He crossed the platform and stood looking down through a large rip in the supporting steel.

  The barge lay directly below. The deck had been painted barn red, but the shipping containers were a mix of yellow, white, and green. The vessel had tipped a good twenty degrees to the starboard side and was now firmly wedged between the bridge’s concrete pylons. Short of a hurricane rolling its way up the James River, the boat wasn’t going anywhere.

  The ship’s elevated wheelhouse had collided with the bottom of the lift, wrapping itself around a thick steel I-beam. Captains’ chairs, the control panel, and an oversized stainless steel steering wheel were all visible within. A six-foot metal gangplank had been laid down to act as a walkway between the lift and the ship’s wheelhouse, likely the work of evacuating sailors or curious scavengers.

  He placed one foot on the plank and gently tested it. The metal bowed slightly, but it didn’t seem likely to buckle or slide out of place. After three careful steps, he dropped down into the wheelhouse. Bowie followed after him, warily eyeing the drop-off as he did his best to stay centered on the narrow walkway. When he reached the other side, he hopped down, his paws skittering across the floor.

  Mason took a moment to study the wheelhouse. Behind the two captains’ chairs was a shipman’s coat hanging from an oversized peg hook. A first-aid box lay flopped open on one wall, its contents long since cleaned out. As was the case with many ships, its controls were a mishmash of modern and ancient, analog gauges sitting next to digital radios, wooden-handled levers butting up against sophisticated LCD displays. Mason reached out and placed a hand on the polished metal steering wheel if for no other reason than to briefly imagine himself sailing the high seas.

  Bowie seemed less interested, wandering over to the partially open door and bumping it with his nose. Beyond lay a set of corrugated metal steps leading below. The dog glanced back at Mason as if to say, “You coming?”

  Mason stroked the wheel one final time before following after Bowie. Together, they carefully descended the narrow stairwell, boots and claws echoing together to form a clomp-clomp-tap-tap-clomp-clomp-tap-tap. There were no signs of the ship’s crew, and it felt as if they were exploring a ghost ship in the Bermuda Triangle. It was not the first time Mason had felt such isolation. The world had become an empty place, filled mainly with artifacts of what once was. Perhaps, he thought, someday those relics too would be lost, and the planet would start anew.

  The boat suddenly rocked forward, and Mason fell to his knees, snaking one arm around the railing and the other around Bowie. The ship settled, and he let out a breath. Bowie gave him a quick lick, perhaps as thanks for the graceful save, or perhaps because there was a little breakfast left on his face.

  Mason pressed back to his feet and continued to the bottom of the stairwell. The door leading out onto the ship’s deck had crumpled under the impact with the bridge, but someone had managed to pry open the bottom corner. Without waiting for his master, Bowie ducked his head and attempted to slip outside. His saddle pack caught on the door, and he began tugging at it as he tried to clear the narrow space.

  “Hold up. We’re not going to make it with all this gear.” Mason unbuckled Bowie’s pack, and as soon as it fell to the floor, the dog squirmed through the hole.

  Mason took a moment to remove his flashlight from his own backpack before setting it aside. Once he had pared down to the bare minimum, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through the hole.

  The deck was wet, thanks to the endless slapping of water against the ship, and by the time Mason was clear of the door, the knees of his trousers were soaked. Using a grab bar to steady himself, he got back to his feet and stared out at the s
hip’s cargo.

  A huge pile of bricks had spilled over, scattering across the deck like rubble from an earthquake. Much of the rest of the deck remained covered by stacks of metal shipping containers. While some had toppled over, many others remained tightly packed together, creating a veritable maze of narrow alleyways.

  A few of the closest containers had been opened, revealing buckets of paint, crates of tobacco, and pallets still wrapped in thick plastic. One of the paint buckets had rolled out and cracked, bright white paint spilling onto the deck. The impression of a single boot print had been immortalized in the paint, like Neil Armstrong’s first step onto the lunar surface.

  Mason squatted and held his hand over the print. Even with his fingers fully extended, he was barely able to cover half of it. Whoever had stepped in the paint was either part Sasquatch or could have had a promising career in the NBA.

  He gingerly touched the paint with his fingers.

  Dry. Days, perhaps weeks old.

  Bowie inched forward and sniffed the boot print.

  “Don’t worry,” Mason explained as he straightened up. “Whoever made it is probably long gone.”

  He took another look out across the deck. While the shipping containers might house all sorts of useful supplies, it seemed unnecessarily dangerous to attempt to cross the wet deck without safety ropes, or at the very least, a good reason. A single slip and he could find himself tumbling over the side. Even worse, if something broke free, he and Bowie might find themselves the jelly to a boxcar sandwich.

  Mason turned and began feeling his way along the wheelhouse. A quarter of the way around, he found a tightly sealed hatch. There was a small port-style window, a single sooty handprint marring its surface. He cupped his eyes and attempted to see inside. Too dark.

  He tried the door’s hand wheel and was surprised when it turned freely. Once the latching mechanism released, he pulled the hatch open. As he did, the unmistakable odor of rotting flesh drifted out.

  He leaned around and took a quick peek inside. Thanks to the light coming in through the hatch, he could make out several people sitting on the floor along the far wall.

  “Hello!” he called.

  There was no response.

  He watched them for a moment longer. Based on their stillness, they were either sleeping or dead. Given the smell, his bet was on the latter.

  “You first,” he said, looking down at Bowie.

  The dog inched forward, took a deep sniff, and reluctantly went inside. After a few seconds, he let out a series of short barks.

  Mason drew his Supergrade and stepped through the narrow doorway.

  Bowie faced five figures sitting on the floor. All were clustered in front a large metal bucket, but none moved.

  Mason clicked on his flashlight and studied them.

  A man, a woman, and three children sat dead on the floor. The flesh on their hands and faces was swollen and splitting, and their eyes had sunk into their skulls to reveal wet black holes. Flies hadn’t been able to get to them because of the tightly sealed door, but thanks to Mason, the macabre feast would soon begin.

  He stepped closer and shined his flashlight down into the bucket. The bottom was covered in a fine ash as well as the charred remains of several emergency ration wrappers—no doubt the dying family’s last meal. Mason wondered if they might have accidentally poisoned themselves. Burning anything indoors without proper ventilation was little better than sticking one end of a hose into a muffler and the other end into your mouth. Carbon monoxide from burning fuel led to headaches, dizziness, and eventually, the complete loss of consciousness. Once that happened, it was game over.

  Bowie inched closer to the body of the man and began sniffing his trousers.

  Mason moved up beside him and squatted down. Even with decomposition well underway, cause of death was easy enough to see. A wide gash ran along the underside of his throat. It was high and deep, cutting all the way through his larynx. Similar wounds were visible on the woman and children. The family hadn’t accidentally poisoned themselves. They had been butchered and propped up like trophies on display.

  The only thing that saved Mason from getting sick was that the bodies had decomposed enough that they looked more like zombies than they did humans. For some reason, it had always been easier for him to witness the foulness of decay than the brutality of a fresh murder.

  “This wasn’t an accident,” he said, as if needing to explain things to Bowie.

  The dog ignored him, having turned his attention to several footprints that led through the fine ash covering the floor. The prints went in both directions, and based on their enormous size, Mason assumed they belonged to whomever had stepped in the paint outside.

  Bowie wandered over to a second hatch that led deeper into the ship and sniffed near the bottom as if searching for a clue about the mystery explorer. Eager to leave the bodies behind, Mason followed. Once again he tried the wheel, and once again, the hatch swung open.

  Bowie started to go through, but Mason stopped him.

  “I’ll take the lead from here,” he said, stepping through with his flashlight in one hand and the Supergrade in the other. If they were going to run into a giant with a penchant for throat slashing, it was better to lead with a .45.

  The hatch opened into a short hallway, at the end of which was another set of metal steps leading down. An emergency light on the adjacent wall pulsed with a faint orange glow, no doubt a welcome beacon to those seeking escape. Before Mason could start down the hallway, the boat shifted again, this time emitting a deep moan from below.

  He steadied himself on the heavy door frame.

  Bowie looked around and let out a squeaky whine.

  “Don’t worry, boy. It’s just the hull straining to keep out the water.”

  The dog whined again, this time with more conviction.

  Mason considered turning back. Perhaps Bowie was right. Perhaps descending into the bowels of a ship half-submerged was indeed a foolhardy idea.

  “The boat’s probably been here for months,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as he was Bowie. “What are the chances that it decides to go down in the few minutes we’re onboard?”

  Bowie tipped his head sideways, the way he did when he either didn’t understand something, or he wanted his master to believe that he didn’t.

  Mason took a deep breath and forced himself to take a step toward the stairs.

  “Just a little further, I promise.”

  Continuing on, they discovered that the stairs led down to a landing. The walkway transitioned to a corrugated metal grating, through which Mason could see a second, smaller causeway below. An assortment of steam pipes ran the entire length of each, and the smell of diesel fuel grew stronger with every step.

  “Come on,” he said, picking up the pace. “We must be getting close.”

  Mason crossed the walkway, finally arriving at a large bulkhead door. The hatch was partially ajar, and the smell of fuel was so strong that he had to squint to keep his eyes from watering.

  “It must be through here,” he said, reaching for the handle.

  The door suddenly burst open. A huge figure barreled through, tackling Mason to the floor. The metal grating scraped his back and neck as he was driven across the corrugated steel. He brought the Supergrade up, but his attacker smacked it out of his hands with a pipe wrench. Mason swung the flashlight up, clacking it against his assailant’s head, but it was hardly enough to stop the vicious assault.

  His attacker was a giant of a man, fat and strong. His face was covered with soot and a thick brown beard, and he wore dingy blue coveralls with the words “Big John” monogrammed above the pocket.

  As Big John swung the wrench back for a skull-crushing blow, Bowie latched onto his bicep and jerked him sideways, chewing through meat and bone. The huge man shrieked and rose to his feet, lifting Bowie high into the air.

  Mason seized the opportunity to crab-walk back toward the stairs, hastily scanning the w
alkway below for his Supergrade. He spotted it lying wedged between two pipes. Rolling onto his belly, he stretched his arm around the side of the corrugated floor. No luck. The weapon was a good two feet outside his reach. To recover the pistol would require climbing down to the next level, and that was not going to be easy with a human giant bent on making him into blood pudding.

  Bowie let out a loud yelp as Big John slung him through the open hatch and down a set of narrow stairs. The dog rolled end over end, finally righting himself at the bottom, but not before the giant pulled the door shut with a thunderous boom.

  Mason got back to his feet and drew his hunting knife.

  “We don’t have to do this.”

  Big John stared at him as if unable to understand the words. Blood trickled down his chewed arm to land on the metal flooring with a steady drip-drip-drip.

  Mason held the knife out to one side.

  “What do you say we put the weapons away and talk about this like civilized men?”

  Big John took a step toward him, gripping the pipe wrench. There was a vacant look in his eyes, a madness that Mason had seen before. The Craze. The illness had only manifested in the past few months, and no one had yet been able to identify its cause. All that was really known was that it affected everyone differently. Some people became suicidal, others psychotic. Many it left so despondent that they simply stopped feeding themselves. It was the second blow of a one-two punch that had started with the Superpox-99 virus. Mason wondered what chance humanity had when half of the world’s survivors had become hate-filled mutants, and many of the others were now losing their sanity to a fresh round of disease.

  “That’s how it’s going to be, huh?” he said, drawing the knife closer to his body. It was a fine blade, sharp and deadly. But it was not the right weapon against a man twice his size, especially when that man carried a weapon with ten more inches of reach.

  Bowie let out a series of angry barks from the other side of the door, but there was little he could do to help his master. The dog was out of the fight, for the moment at least.