The Dying of the Light (Book 1): End

by Jason Kristopher

  A voice in his ear. “Roger. Take position for overwatch. Alpha, east. Bravo, with me.”

  The SEAL team breaks from cover at the base of the hill Anderson has scouted, moving to their assigned attack vectors. He slings his binos back into his pack and crawls forward to the next rise in the terrain, 500 yards from the clearing. He climbs a huge corotu tree and takes up a position on one of the massive branches, his long-barreled, camo-painted Mk11 sniper rifle resting ahead of him. He glances through the scope, but doesn’t see any movement or even the friendlies he thought he’d spotted earlier.

  Where the hell did they go?

  There is a burst of gunfire to the east of the camp, and a crackle of static over the headset, as well as a moan. “Alpha team engaged. Repeat, alpha engaged. Hostiles are unarmed,” the team leader says, breaking off amid another rattle of gunfire. “They’re attacking hand-to-hand. Holy fuck! One of them just bit Sparks!”

  Anderson can hear the moans now without his headset; it’s a sound that runs a shiver of fear up his back. Like nothing he’s heard before, it’s full of menace and death. He fights down the urge to bolt and looks through the rifle’s scope again. “Overwatch, no shot on hostiles. Repeat, no shot on…” he says, pausing as he watches two of the six-man Alpha team back out of the jungle into the small clearing of the camp, firing as they retreat. One of them is obviously wounded and hangs on the other, one arm over his squadmate’s shoulder, firing a pistol again and again at whatever he sees under the dense canopy.

  “I see you, Alpha,” Anderson says, focusing on one of the shapes moving towards his fellow operators in the clearing through the dark jungle. “L-T, they are headed west toward your position.” Suddenly, one of the shadows breaks out of the darkness into the cloudy daylight. “Targets appear as friendlies! Engaging hostile targets.”

  He aims and kills the first target with one well-placed shot to the temple. Alpha leader keeps firing into the jungle, and Anderson sees more appear, following the one he’s just killed, moving out of the jungle. More gunfire, this time from the west, and Bravo team emerges, the lieutenant falling back last as his men retreat, firing into the jungle. More shadowed figures move towards that squad as well, and Anderson can see they are going to get cut off and surrounded.

  Through the high-powered scope of his rifle, he can make out more detail on the hostiles, now. Dressed in the rags and tatters of clothes, these people aren’t alive. They can’t be. Not with those wounds.

  The next one he shoots has one arm missing, the flesh of the shoulder hanging in strips, the limb torn off. All of those he sees are covered in wounds and blood, and should not be standing, much less attacking.

  Well, he thinks. I can fix that.

  As he begins taking them out one by one, he hears the lieutenant on the radio. “Fall back to the central shack. We’ll take these bastards out there. MacMillan,” he says, and Anderson sees him gesture towards the tall, lanky second scout of the team. “Make your way around to Anderson and give us some support.” He can see MacMillan’s head turn his way, and flashes the scope of his rifle in a quick signal to the other man, who nods, crouches, and disappears.

  Damn, that man makes me nervous, he thought. No one should be able to disappear like that. Even I’m not that good.

  The others fall back into guard positions around the outside of the door to the central shack, firing quick bursts at the walkers. The lieutenant opens the shack door, looking for cover, only to be met by a crowd of grasping, tearing walkers. There is a short scream as he is torn apart in the doorway, and then the things pile out of the shack, falling on the other SEALs from behind.

  Anderson freezes for a moment, and then, with regret, realizes what he has to do. He begins ending his former teammates’ horror as they are attacked; one shot, one kill. As he sights in on the last of his men, the SEAL gives him a thumbs-up and drops a grenade from his hand. Anderson turns away as the explosion takes out the shack and the things attacking and feasting on his team.

  Must’ve had something nasty in there, he thinks as the explosion catches another shack. The detonation from this one is even larger, showering the surrounding jungle with scraps of debris and more than a few of those things. As he turns back, he sees several other nightmares making their way toward his position, drawn by the sound of his gunfire. He laughs as he takes down his thirty-fifth kill, but he sees more of them still coming from other shacks and through the trees.

  A sudden noise from the base of his tree makes him spin around on the branch and fire his pistol without even realizing that he’s drawn it. The bullet caroms off some buried obstruction and zings out into the distance. A shaky voice issues from around the trunk. “Stop! It’s me, boyo,” says Hamish, poking his head around the tree, only coming out when he sees it is safe. Bloody and filthy and clutching a bandage to one forearm, the Scot looks wide-eyed at Anderson who swears profusely.

  “Sorry, Hamish,” he says. “They’re headed our way. What’s with the arm?”

  “One of the fuckers bit me,” he replies. “The others?”

  Anderson shakes his head in reply, and MacMillan curses. “Good thing I’ve got the radio,” he says, suiting actions to words and twisting a dial on his mike. “Papa Bear, this is Rabbit Four. We are di di mau with two SEALs to LZ X-Ray.”

  The reply is fast. “Roger, Rabbit Four. E-and-e to LZ X-Ray, pickup at 1330 Zulu.”

  “Roger, Papa Bear. Out here.” MacMillan looks at Anderson, who climbs out of the tree and readies himself for travel. “Let’s get out of here, Frank. It’s gonna be a long walk.”

  “Damn straight.” They both stiffen as a moan drifts their way from somewhere close. They glance at each other and then hike up their packs and disappear into the foliage.

  Over the next 20 years, AEGIS contains and eliminates twenty-seven separate incursions within the United States. Through secret dialogues with other countries, scientific advancement is shared, with the stated ultimate goal of finding a cure, somehow, somewhere.

  A few of the finest minds on the planet are brought in to consult, and given a plausible cover story. Almost none question the necessity, believing that the Army is just being well prepared. Special operations units are called in when necessary, and only told the most basic need-to-know information.

  The situation appears to be manageable, at least for the moment, and although attacks become slightly more frequent, there is nothing to indicate that a massive escalation of military force would be in order.

  Chapter Two

  Fall Creek, Colorado — 1 year ago

  Monty’s Sports & Outdoors was exactly what you would expect from a small-town outfitter. It wasn’t huge, but Monty could get almost anything for his customers, even if he had to drive to Denver occasionally to pick it up. He carried mostly ammunition and some hunting rifles, tents and other camping gear, and the standard sports equipment. There was a musty scent to the air every time you walked in the store, and it was never clear if it was from the dust or merely the age of the shop.

  Montgomery James Gordonsson, Junior was a huge bear of a man, standing head and shoulders above even the tallest of Fall Creek’s citizens. Since he was so intimidating in size and appearance, most people found themselves hard-pressed to talk to Monty initially, but they soon discovered that he had a thoughtful and caring intelligence combined with an easy humor and wit.

  At least, that was true before Fall Creek turned into Hell, I thought, looking across the street at the dark and still store. I hope he’s still alive. I’d come down from the roof, but my new hiding place in the bushes seemed more exposed each moment. The problem was that this was the only scrap of cover in sight. I didn’t see any movement inside the store, but that meant nothing, since I could barely see inside anyway. The movement I was more concerned with was that of the walkers on the street between me and my destination.

  There were only five of them, and none of them were within more than fifty yards or so. I should be able to make it to the alley a
cross the way if I was careful and quiet.

  There’s no point trying the front door. Monty would’ve made sure to lock up.

  I took a deep breath and darted out of the bushes in a low crouch, one hand keeping my boots from falling off my shoulder and my sock feet making no noise on the pavement.

  I made it. I couldn’t believe my luck, but I didn’t stop to revel in it. Once I was halfway down the alley and out of sight — and hopefully hearing — of the main street, I slipped my boots from around my neck and put them back on. I pulled the Springfield out of its holster and looked around the corner of the shopping center.

  The service area behind the strip appeared to be deserted, but I’d already discovered in the last two days that looks could be deceiving. These things made almost no noise until they spotted some food, and then… well, they could be loud. I spotted a loose piece of concrete nearby and judged the distance carefully as I threw it down the alleyway. It made just enough noise on the concrete paving to suit me, and nothing responded, so I figured I was probably safe.

  I found the rear door to Monty’s easily enough, and tried the knob. To my surprise, it moved, and I wondered if Monty had simply left, not caring about the contents of the store. Unlikely. He practically lives here. Something’s not right. I turned the knob once more, standing just behind the door as I pulled it open.

  Suddenly the door was thrust open fully, and I ducked as a wooden baseball bat flew over my head to carom off the open door. It’s funny the things that stand out when you’re in a situation like that; I clearly remember the grain of the wood as it passed by my eyes with only inches to spare, and the dull bong sound as it hit the metal door. I also remember looking up into Monty’s eyes as he recovered and started to swing again, only to pause for a moment as he recognized me, and I took advantage of that interruption to stand with my hands to one side in a peaceful gesture, the .40 caliber pistol in my hand notwithstanding.

  “Son, you’re liable to get blown away or killed doing some damn fool thing like that,” he huffed. He looked both ways down the alley, and then pulled me inside with no more effort than shifting a heavy shopping bag between hands. He shut and locked the door behind us, then turned to give me a once-over under the bright light of one of his camping lanterns. “Those things can hear like nothing I’ve ever seen. I was bringing in the last of the supplies I had stored out back when I heard you coming. I only realized I forgot to lock the door when you tried to open it.”

  I grinned at the big man and was relieved to see an answering grin in return, albeit a pained one. “You okay, Monty? It’s a mess out there.”

  “I’m okay, David. More or less.” He gestured to a bandage on his arm near the wrist and shook his head. “Some wackjob tried to bite me, of all things. I only told him I didn’t have any more ammo, and he just flew off the handle. I had to shove him out of the store. That’s when I locked up.” He jerked his head in the direction of the front of the store, and through the stockroom entrance I could see the rolling metal grate that he had locked in place.

  Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t try the front door. “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, but I’m getting outta this place, Monty. There’s nothing left for me here now. I was hoping to find some supplies here. You said you’re out of ammo?”

  “No, not really. Just didn’t like the look of the guy, ya know? Told him all I had was already sold, but you’re welcome to whatever you need. I know you’re good for it once this crap is all over with. What about the missus and your boy?” He began rummaging around in a stack of boxes, finally pulling out a large black duffel bag and tossing it to me. When I just let it hit the floor, he glanced over. “What’s wrong?”

  “She… I…” I couldn’t seem to speak; my tongue wouldn’t form the words, and he caught me looking toward the street. The pain I felt must’ve been evident, and Monty had always been an observant guy.

  “Shit. That’s fucked up.”

  I’d lived in Fall Creek nearly all my life and I’d never heard this affable man utter a single word even close to profanity. Everything really is going to hell, then. I simply nodded, and Monty growled deep in his throat. “Well, if you’re getting out, then I’ll see to it you have what you need. Follow me.”

  I followed him to his office, where he opened the huge safe that dominated one wall and took a small box from a stack inside. He motioned for me to hand him the pistol and I did so. The gun was dwarfed in his huge hands, but he fitted the suppressor from the box onto the end of the gun and handed it back.

  “That’s a little something from me to you that don’t nobody need to know about, kid.” He looked me dead in the eye with a grim expression.

  “Got it. Thanks, Monty. Listen, you want to come with me? I could use you in a fight.”

  He chuckled and shook his head, the motion shaking his whole body. “Nah, I’m no good at that sort of thing, David. Besides, I’m kinda tired. Think I might lie down here when you’re done and get some rest. I figure I’m safe enough inside here for a couple more days, anyway.”

  With all the camping supplies, ammo and MREs you could ever need, I thought. He’ll be fine. “I’ll just grab a few things and be on my way. And I’ll be back before you know it when I find help.”

  He smiled and eased back into the enormous office chair that somehow managed to cradle his bulk, scratching absently at the bandaged wound on his arm. “Sure thing, David. Sure thing. Just gonna rest here awhile.”

  The twenty-third zombie I killed was what had once been a little girl; she’d spotted me crossing a side-street. By this time, night was falling, and she came at me out of the little backyard of what I presumed was her house; no more than four or five years old, she was dressed in the dirty and stained tatters of a pink dress, her hair still in pigtails.

  The moan she issued at me was anything but childlike, and she was light as a feather as she attacked me out of nowhere, biting and clawing. Her small teeth wouldn’t be able to break through my pants or jacket, but that didn’t mean I wanted her crawling on me; childlike or not, she was deadly.

  She moved faster than any of the others I’d seen, and was on me almost before I could react. She clung to my leg, trying her best to make a meal of my thigh, and, as I tried to pry her off, I stumbled, falling back against the picket fence surrounding the small yard.

  The fence had seen better days; it broke into splinters as I fell against it. I screamed as a huge piece of jagged wood pierced my arm. My balance gone, the girl swarmed over me as I landed hard on my back, and it took every ounce of will I had to fight through the pain from my arm and keep her from biting me as she snarled and spit, saliva and blood flying everywhere.

  Suddenly, I saw my opening, and, grabbing her leg with my good arm, I swung her away from me into the stone wall of the house next door at full force. She hit with a sickening crunch and slid to the sidewalk, the creepy moans and gnashing of teeth silenced for good now. I groaned as the pain from my arm hit me again, and struggling to my feet, I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard as I gripped the spike of wood, took a deep breath, and pulled it out fast. I gasped as blood welled up from the wound, thick and black in the near-dark night.

  Taking off my belt, I wrapped it around my bicep above the wound and cinched it tight, cutting off the blood flow. I’d have to do a more thorough job of cleaning and washing it later, when I had time, but for now all I could do was get moving again.

  My scream had no doubt drawn the attention of every walker within a mile or more. As I retrieved my pack from where it had fallen, I tried to resist that bastard inner voice that told me I was a monster for killing a little girl, even though I would have been food if I’d given her even a ghost of a chance.

  You’re still a jackass, the voice reminded me. You should’ve checked that yard before crossing the street, asshole.

  My inner voice was not nice. Not anymore. Not after two days in this place.

  This time, I checked the yard carefully
before entering my little house on Roland Avenue. Not seeing any horror-film nightmares, I moved quietly to the porch and knelt down, covering the darkened interior with the pistol held in my good hand. I knocked softly on the frame of what had once been the front door; shattered and twisted, it hung off of the hinges, glass covering the entryway floor. As it had for the last two days, only quiet stillness answered me.

  No moans, no shuffling of dead feet. The house was empty. Even so, the events of the last two days had rapidly instilled new survival traits in my psyche, and I searched the shadows warily as I moved into the entrance hall.

  I listened for long minutes at the base of the stairs, waiting to hear any noise at all. I realized after sitting there for fifteen minutes that I wasn’t just listening anymore; I was avoiding going upstairs. Upstairs were the bedrooms. Upstairs I was certain, on some level, that I would find Eric. Or what was left of Eric. Even though I’d searched for him before, I had to do it again. To take one last chance of finding him alive.

  Chance failed me, again. Upstairs, downstairs, the basement… all were empty. Eric was gone. There was no way for me to know if he was a zombie, had simply run off, or was hiding somewhere. I had been tempting fate running around looking for them; it was only pure luck that had so far kept me from getting killed, just like Rebecca. At the thought of what I’d done to her, I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Just because something was necessary and right didn’t make it easy.