The Dying of the Light (Book 1): End

by Jason Kristopher

  “But if the brain’s dead, doctor…”

  “We don’t know. It’s as simple as that. Using a captured specimen, we’ve documented electrical signals coming from the brain to the rest of the body, which explains how they can walk and move around, even that moan that they have. Whether this is a result of the mass of proteins in the pre-frontal lobe simply sparking random electrical current, or something more sophisticated, there’s no way of telling, yet. At least, if there’s a pattern indicating a more advanced cause, we haven’t found it.”

  “So do they eat?”

  “Yes and no. They have no need for sustenance, being dead. We have theorized at this point that the reason they attack humans is simply to spread the prions to another victim. There’s a flaw in the code somewhere though, because they don’t stop biting, which is why they ‘eat’ normal uninfected organisms.”

  “But that would indicate… holy shit,” I said, sitting back in my chair. “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Blake.”

  “Clue in the rest of us, will ya, doc?” asked someone in the crowd.

  “What Mr. Blake is referring to is that if the prions — collectively or individually — are forcing the victims to seek out new hosts, it indicates a level of sophistication that is very, very rare and has only been found in a few parasites and viruses. There’s a fungus in South America that does something similar with ants, but those are ants. This, though…” She shuddered. “It means that the damn things are very, very dangerous, colonel.”

  “Holy shit,” someone else said.

  “Exactly.”

  I saw the mood in the room growing dark, and realized that this battle might be over before it was begun if these folks thought they had nothing to hope for.

  “That’s why shooting them in the head always works. And why their blood is so infectious,” I said. “So, we keep our distance with our rifles, and break out the flame-throwers for cleanup. These bastards won’t know what hit them. I’m assuming fire will destroy these prions as well as anything else?”

  “Yes, of course. Obviously, it’s best to destroy corpses in a sealed environment, just in case, but a flamethrower should work just as well. It’s not just the blood though,” Adamsdóttir said. “It’s any bodily fluid.”

  “Okay, so no kissing them. I think we can handle that, doc,” I said.

  There was a general round of somewhat nervous laughter, and Maxwell stood up. “Thanks again, Doctor. I’ll make sure that we get these yahoos over to you for medical processing before the end of the day.” He turned back to us as Mary took her seat once more.

  “That’s it, folks. You know what we’re facing, and you know the basics of how to kill it. Now, take your materials, get some chow, then study. Training starts tomorrow at 0600 hours.” He straightened to attention. “Dismissed!”

  It was chow time in the mess hall, and I was impressed by the quality of the food, as well as the relatively quiet atmosphere. It was not at all what I had expected; hardly surprising, given that most of what I knew of the Army was from movies and television. Undoubtedly, this new military life was going to take some getting used to. As I left the line, I looked for a place to sit, and as I moved through the tables, one of the soldiers from the briefing called out, motioning for me to take a seat at her table with a few others from the team. “Welcome to 1st Team,” said the brunette at one end of the table. “Well, half of it, anyway.” I hesitated for a moment, and then joined them. I knew they wanted to ask me questions, but I left it to them to decide who was going to go first.

  “Sergeant Eaton, Charlie Company, 3rd Rangers,” the woman said, by way of introduction. “That is you on the video, isn’t it, sir?”

  I nodded. “Yes, that’s me, and you don’t need to call me sir, sergeant. I’m not military.”

  She looked surprised. “You’re not? Well, that answers my second question.”

  “No, go ahead. What were you going to ask?”

  “I was just wondering where you had trained, sir, or at least what branch you served in.”

  “No training. Just hunting and target shooting with friends, and not very much of that.”

  “Then why go back out, sir? Why volunteer for this?”

  I put down the fork I’d been holding in mid-air, my food undisturbed, and thought for a moment. A part of me wanted to say, “Because the bastards took my fiancée and her son,” but I wasn’t ready to talk about that. “This is something I know about… that I seem to be good at… that I can do to save lives. I can’t turn my back on that any more than any of the rest of you can.” I saw more than one person at the table turn thoughtful.

  I sighed. “Besides, what else was I going to do? Sit on a farm somewhere, never talking to anyone? You can’t exactly chat with Joe down the street about this stuff. The Army gave me a choice: live in a gilded cage, or do something about it. To me, that wasn’t a choice at all.

  “And don’t call me sir,” I said to break the tension. Eaton smiled and appeared to want to ask another question, but was interrupted.

  “Alright, you’ve had your turn, Eaton,” said another soldier at her end of the table, a well-built though graying man with an easy smile and blue-grey eyes. I had noticed him at the briefing earlier, sitting near Colonel Maxwell. “Commander Anderson, SEAL Team Four, Mr. Blake. This may seem like a harsh question, sir, but how many did you have to put down?”

  I looked at the commander and sighed, putting down my fork again. This wasn’t going to be easy. He caught my eye as I looked around at the others, and gave me a slight nod. He knows what this is like, I thought. He wants to get it out of the way so we can move past it. I had the feeling that Anderson and I were going to get along well.

  “Well, sir, I would say I don’t have an exact number for you, but you all know that would be a lie.” There was general agreement from around the table, as I had expected.

  “I remember the face of every one of the twenty-seven walkers I killed during those two days in Hell,” I said, pausing for a moment. “Even the children.”

  A soft whistle drew my attention to the other end of the table, where the redhead I had noticed earlier sat. She coughed as heads turned her way, most of them grinning at her. I noticed BARNES stenciled on her uniform. Now I had a name to work with, at least.

  “Children?” she asked.

  I found it hard to look at her — at any of them — as I answered. “Yes, children. There weren’t many, just three. Three was enough, though.”

  Though the mood was somber for a while, it didn’t last. SpecOps operators know as much about psychology as any soldier, and they turned the conversation to lighter topics soon enough.

  That was when my friendship began with those soldiers drawn from such varying backgrounds. We hadn’t been truly tested yet as a unit, and we would need to get to know each other much, much better, but we all knew now what we were going to be getting into, and that brought us together somewhat. We might not be able to talk about what we were doing with anyone else, but at least we knew that we weren’t alone, and that just might be enough.

  Chapter Four

  Fort Carson, Colorado

  In the weeks and months afterward, I grew stronger and more disciplined. I trained with First Team’s Alpha squad, and those were some of the hardest days I have ever had. There were many times that I regretted my decision to join AEGIS, and several times I considered resigning, despite knowing that I would have regretted it forever. Besides, what choice did I have? After all, they weren’t just going to let the only living zombie survivor walk around without a care in the world.

  Most of the others weren’t even slightly fazed by the physical part of the training, all being Operators, but for me, it was as if I’d thrown myself into some sort of crucible. None of my experiences could have prepared me for the truth of real training. Hell, the most exercise I had gotten to this point was climbing the stairs in my house after a long day at the bookstore where I’d worked in my old life. Still, with the
encouragement and help of the others in my squad, I held on, and at the end of the intense twelve-week ‘zombie boot camp,’ I looked and felt better than I ever had.

  I could keep up with my squad, was showing great proficiency in marksman drills and even learned the language of the military. I was spared none of the training, and found toward the end that I had come to enjoy it, using my pain and stress to help me push past the demons in my past and learn once more to hope for the future.

  I’d known I wasn’t going to be a military man from a young age, so when Maxwell approached me about accepting a commission, I naturally declined. I told him I was happy to stay on as a consultant, and go through all the training the rest did, but I wanted to remain a civilian. I had many reasons, not the least of which was wanting to be able to come and go as I pleased — not that I planned to go anywhere. It also seemed to me that it would be something of a slap in the face to the men and women I worked with. After all, why should I get something after 12 weeks that they’d worked years to earn?

  Though surprised at first, and annoyed at the extra paperwork it would generate, Maxwell eventually acquiesced and left me alone about it. None of my squadmates ever brought it up, so I assumed Maxwell hadn’t mentioned it.

  On some afternoons, I instructed both squads of 1st Team in what I had learned during those two days in Fall Creek. Many of the standard tactics and procedures these fine soldiers had learned couldn’t help them now, and some bad habits had to be unlearned.

  At my urging, Colonel Maxwell ordered that everyone be fitted for new Army Combat Uniforms (ACU), much tighter and more form-fitting than the previous ones. I explained that anything loose or baggy could be used by a walker to grab and ensnare an unwary hunter.

  It was during this period of difficult training that I learned to depend on my squad, who helped me through the roughest part. Barnes especially was helpful, and we grew closer as the weeks and months wore on. She was taking to her tentative position as squadleader well, and whenever I faltered, she seemed to be there to lend a hand. With her ready smile and an encouraging word here and there, I began to rely on her strength, and lent her mine when she needed it, though she never asked. She was strong, confident and independent, the soldier’s soldier. Over time, we gradually became good friends. She made an excellent leader, and we all expected her to be granted the command of Alpha squad, if not 1st Team itself when the time came.

  We also began to grow closer as a unit as well, as demonstrated by our callsigns.

  “I’m thinking… Banjo,” I said one evening in the chow hall, looking at Gaines. Standing well over six feet and built like a brick shithouse, he was easily the biggest man in our team.

  He scowled at me and remained silent as he ate. Not so our compatriot Angelo Martinez, who laughed. “Good one, Blake.”

  Kimberly looked over at me, one eyebrow raised in question. I shook my head with a smile, but Eaton piped up from a couple seats down.

  “Didn’t you ever see ‘Deliverance,’ ma’am?” she asked Kim. “It’s that song, Dueling Banjos.”

  Kim laughed and Gaines’ scowl just deepened, causing Martinez to laugh even more.

  “Y’all are right. It is pretty funny,” Gaines drawled in his deep, southern Georgia twang. “I still shoot better’n all of ya, though.” Dalton Gaines, Gunnery Sergeant (USMC), had outscored nearly everyone in our marksmanship trials, trailing only behind Corporal Eaton and that only by a few points. He glanced her way, and then turned back to Kim.

  She may not see it, but this big boy’s besotted with her, I thought. Probably the only girl ever to beat him in anything.

  “I’d prefer Gunny, if it’s all the same to you, ma’am,” Dalton said to the captain.

  Kim nodded and Gaines broke out in a big smile. “What about mine?” Kim asked me.

  I looked thoughtful. “Well, One Alpha Six isn’t great, nothing to build on there.” The designations were simple: One for 1st team, Alpha for the squad, and Six as the commander. Similarly, I was One Alpha Five, as her Executive Officer, also known as an XO.

  “No, I’ve got it.” I finished the last of my potatoes before answering. “Carrot-top.”

  That dinner roll barely missed me.

  I also learned a great deal about hand-to-hand combat during that time. I’d had some experience with various martial arts when younger; after all, what boy didn’t want to be a ninja at some point? None of that mattered now, though. We studied one-on-one techniques as well as multiple-on-one situations, such as when a crowd of zombies might attack a lone or separated soldier. There was training with knives, clubs, police-style batons, and the kukri — a short, curved knife. We all began to master Kendo, Judo, Tae Kwon Do and Aikido. Many of my teammates had already learned one or more of these arts in their previous positions, but by the time we left the training, we were all as deadly with our hands and feet as we were with rifles or blades.

  After a particularly grueling lesson one day near the end of training, I collapsed into the corner as my squad was finally dismissed by our instructor. We sat on benches and the floor, some of us panting more than others. I looked around at my fellow soldiers, and smiled at the pained but prideful expressions. The training had been exceedingly hard, but we were all proud of our accomplishments. Still, I wondered how useful techniques such as these would be against zombies.

  My concern must have shown on my face, since Eaton spoke up. “Blake, what’s up? You look worried.” The rest of the squad turned to look at me.

  I shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just wondering how useful some of these techniques will be in the field. I mean, the idea is to keep the walker from biting you, I know that; better than most, actually. So the throws especially I understand working on. But that only gets you so far. Let me show you what I mean. Barnes?” I turned to find her stretching to one side, and cleared my throat as my thoughts drifted. “Uh, give me a hand?” She stood up and nodded, then moved to the middle of the mat.

  “Okay, Barnes here is a walker, and she’s going to do everything she can to bite me,” I said as I moved forward. She promptly adopted the stance and mannerisms of a zombie, raising her arms and moaning as she moved towards me. “Brains,” she drawled as she walked forward. “Brai-” she stopped suddenly, breaking off and turning away. Several of the others laughed as she turned back around, chuckling.

  Seeing my puzzled expression, she laughed as well. “Well, obviously I wasn’t going to find any brains in that direction, was I?” The squad broke up laughing as she stuck her tongue out at me.

  I began to laugh myself. “Har, har, har. Very funny.” I sobered quickly, though. “Can we focus, please?” She nodded and was instantly the consummate soldier once more. She suddenly came at me, shambling along and moaning, and as I turned to throw her as we had practiced earlier, she made a show of biting me on the arm closest to her. I nodded and bowed to her, then walked back over to the rest of the squad.

  “See? Just like that, you’re one more soldier down, and there’s one more walker to take out, only this one’s someone you’ve fought and lived with.” I sighed again. “And that’s assuming their arm doesn’t just pull right out of the socket or come apart in your hands. They’re dead and decomposing, remember.”

  The squad was silent, realizing the importance of what I had just shown them. From the back of the room came a sharp snort and we all turned quickly to see Maxwell approaching us. None of us had seen him in weeks, and we had been wondering what had happened to him.

  “He’s right, you know,” he said. “All these trainers and instructors are accustomed to training people to deal with normal threats, which doesn’t include zombies. Blake, what would you suggest?”

  I looked at my squad, who were all waiting for me to answer. “Well, sir, I would suggest that we use the training that we’ve received as a baseline for further work. I know that my squad has some very well trained martial artists amongst them, and I’m sure the other squads do as well. If we combine their k
nowledge of our true enemy with the training we’ve already received, we should be able to work up some more advanced training scenarios. But all this martial arts is — or should be — a secondary consideration, sir.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, because the whole point should be to keep the damned things as far away from us as possible, sir. That’s the single most important thing to remember about zombies. At a distance, they’re essentially harmless. It’s only up close that they become so dangerous. So while the throws and hand-to-hand are a still a good idea, just in case, we really should be focusing on how to escape being grabbed or pinned with these exercises. The knives and clubs and what-not… well, ideally we should never get close enough to use them, sir.”