The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel

by James Cook

  No. Not now.

  “I guess it slipped my mind,” he said as he walked into the kitchenette.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Miranda tilt her head quizzically as he poured himself a drink. He didn’t usually drink this late at night, but if he was going to tell her what he had to say, a little liquid courage was in order. He put the bottle back in the cupboard and sat down on the couch.

  “Are you all right, Caleb?” Miranda asked. “You seem … distant.”

  He gave a weak smile and sipped his drink. It was simple grain alcohol from Mike Stall’s distillery, devoid of color and taste, but it went down smoothly and the burn felt warm and comforting. He remembered a time when feeling that burn was the only thing he cared about, regardless of what he had to consume to produce it.

  “You said last night you wanted to know more about me.”

  She was quiet for a long moment, eyes luminous in the golden light. She nodded slowly.

  “It’s a long story. I don’t think I can tell it all in one night.”

  Her hand reached out for him. “Caleb, you don’t have to tell me anything. I’m fine with you just the way you are. You were right about what you said last night. There’s no need for either of us to go digging up the past. We’re here now, we love each other, and we have our own little light in the darkness. That’s all that matters.”

  Hicks looked down and stared at Miranda’s fingers interlaced with his own. “You might not like what you’re about to hear.”

  “I meant what I just said.”

  He kissed the back of her hand. “It’s important. I want you to hear it.”

  Her eyes softened. “All right then.”

  Hicks tossed back his drink, set it on the table, and relaxed into the couch cushions. Outside, crickets chirped and night birds sang in the dark spring evening.

  FIVE

  Three years ago,

  Houston Metro Area, Texas

  I should start with my father. He was the lynchpin in everything.

  We traveled a lot when I was little. I remember that. Dad seemed sad most of the time, especially when I asked him about Mom. He could only ever talk about her for a few minutes at a time, and then his hands would tremble, his voice would crack, and he would start shaking like a leaf. When that happened, I always hugged him and stopped asking questions.

  He told me she was beautiful. That I had her blue eyes and light brown hair, and I looked so much like her. He said I would grow up to be tall and lean like she was. He told me there were complications the day I was born. Something went wrong and she bled too much. I know she got to hold me before it was over with.

  I still have the picture.

  Dad was a quiet man, so I guess I come by that honestly. He was medium height, medium build, dark hair and eyes. His skin was light brown even in winter—Italian blood on his mother’s side. I remember watching him work outside with his shirt off and the way his scars gleamed dully in the afternoon light.

  We stayed in motels and the occasional rented trailer. Dad never stayed in one town for very long because he liked being on the road. Even as a small boy, I had the distinct impression he was running from something. People tell me I was too young to remember that part of my life, but they’re wrong. I remember scenes from it, distant and hazy, like looking through a dirty window.

  Close to my fifth birthday, Dad knew things were going to have to change. I was due to start kindergarten in the fall. We were living in a rented double-wide somewhere outside of Houston at the time. There was a thin strip of paved road bisecting the two sides of the trailer park lined with mailboxes and old beer cans. Lauren lived directly across from us.

  She was divorced, her ex-husband was a lawyer, and she lived on money from the divorce settlement and what she made waitressing nights at the diner down the highway. Her car was a little white Toyota. She was pretty and slender with auburn hair and light hazel eyes. I could tell Dad liked her.

  Dad got a job at a service station not far from the trailer park. Changing oil, rotating tires, replacing air filters, that sort of thing. It was daytime work. Lauren offered to sit for me while he was away. Dad tried to pay her, but she wouldn’t let him.

  Most days, I would and run around the trailer park with the other kids my age while Lauren kept an eye on me from underneath the shade tree in the back yard. She always called me in for lunch at 12:30 on the dot and made the best ham and cheese sandwiches.

  We didn’t talk much. I guess that’s mostly my fault. I got the feeling she wanted to talk, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I have never, nor will I ever, understand why so many people feel the need to occupy every spare moment of company with a fellow human being with mindless chatter. It is my studied opinion that the best people in the world are the ones who appreciate a good companionable silence.

  Anyway.

  It was Dad who made the first move, at my prompting. You see, most days he would come home and ask if I behaved, and Lauren would say yes, and that he was lucky to have such a sweet, precocious little boy. Dad would thank her for watching me, and there would be an awkward moment, and Lauren would smile and say she had to get ready for work. On the days she didn’t work, she just said goodbye and walked out the door. Then dad would get a strange look on his face and watch her walk across the little strip of asphalt until she disappeared into her trailer. Finally, one day, I got tired of it.

  “Just tell her,” I said, exasperated.

  Dad jumped and rounded on me. “Tell her what?”

  “That you like her, sillyhead.”

  His dark eyebrows came together and he sat down on the couch. “Is it that obvious?”

  I rolled my eyes and went to my room to play.

  It was a Friday. I remember that. Lauren had the day off. When Dad got home, they went through the usual ritual. At the part where they stood facing each other awkwardly, I leaned around the kitchen archway and shot my dad a piercing look.

  “Well, I guess I better go,” Lauren said, and started toward the door.

  “Wait,” Dad said, and reached for her arm. His fingers barely touched her elbow, but even from ten feet away I could hear the sharp intake of breath. “Would you like to stay for dinner? I’m making pasta.”

  She smiled, and I thought Dad might melt into the carpet. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”

  A week later, late at night when they thought I was asleep and the moans and gasps and creaking of bedsprings subsided, was the first time I ever heard my father laugh. I lay awake with the moonlight slanting in through the window and smiled.

  Her lease was up at the end of that month. Dad got rid of our ratty old furniture so we could move hers in. At age five, I learned one of the important truths of life.

  A good woman can make any place feel like home.

  *****

  “Joe, he has to start school in the fall,” Lauren said, hands on her hips as she stood with feet firmly planted on the kitchen floor.

  “I know.”

  “Have you even gone and looked at the schools around here?”

  A moment’s hesitation. “No.”

  Lauren stomped away and loudly clanged pots and pans around in the kitchen. I gave my dad a sympathetic look and crossed the room to sit beside him. He smiled down at me, put his hand against the side of my head, and pulled me close to his chest. I hugged him back.

  “That is so irresponsible of you, Joseph Hicks. I thought you were a better man than that.”

  Dad looked miserable. Lauren stomped into the room and pointed at him with an accusing finger.

  “You can’t just treat him like a damn pet, Joe. He needs a proper education. I can’t believe you-”

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  Lauren stopped, eyes wide. I stood up and faced her, fists balled at my hips. “That’s my dad you’re talking to.”

  There was a long pause. I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Caleb, calm down son.”

  I glared at Lauren a moment longer
, then sat down. “Listen,” Dad said. “The schools around here are no good. You know that.”

  “How do you know if you haven’t even looked at them?”

  “I have ears, Lauren. I hear people talk.”

  She let out a sigh and sat next to me on the couch. “So what do you want to do?”

  Dad’s hand went down to my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I was thinking we could home school him.”

  Lauren looked skeptical. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “I think it’s better than sending him to one of the lowest ranked school districts in Texas,” he said flatly.

  “Well … I guess we can look into it.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  Lauren stood up and started toward the kitchen. “I heard the phone ring earlier while I was outside,” she said over her shoulder. “Who was it?”

  “An old Army buddy of mine.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “Me finding a better job. He told me he knows a guy who works at some private combat training outfit not far from here. Black Wolf Tactical, or something like that. Said they’re hiring.”

  “What kind of work would it be?”

  “According to their website, they teach marksmanship and survival skills to civilians. They also work with law enforcement and a few federal agencies. Weekend warrior kind of stuff.”

  “Sounds right up your alley.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Dad’s eyes strayed to a section of wall on the other side of the room. There were several pictures of him with other soldiers, a framed patch emblazoned with the emblem of the 10th Special Forces Regiment, and at the bottom was a picture of him and three other men wearing green face paint and holding M-4s. They were standing on the bank of a river, a hazy gray sky and jungle greenery behind them. It would not be until I was twelve years old before my father finally told me what was so special about that picture, why he kept it apart from all the others. They were friends of his, two of whom later died in combat, from a unit that did not officially exist.

  Delta Force.

  “Well that’s good news,” Lauren said. “Are you going to call them?”

  “My friend will. He’s going to try to get me an interview.”

  “When do you think you’ll hear back from him?”

  “Probably in the next day or two.”

  “Would it be more money than you’re making now, do you think?”

  Dad chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah it would be.”

  *****

  Four days later, Dad left for the interview in a suit he bought at the Salvation Army with a big black duffel bag in his hand. When he came home three hours later, the suit was on a hanger, the duffel bag was half empty, and he was in combat fatigues. His hair was damp with sweat, his face crusted with dust and dirt, and he was smiling.

  “Good lord, Joe,” Lauren said at the sight of him. “What did they do to you?”

  He dropped the duffel bag. “Ah, nothing much. Just put me through my paces. Ed warned me they were going to do that.”

  “You look like you just dug a ditch.”

  The old man laughed. “Lauren, BWT is a combat training facility. They don’t just hire bums off the street. You have to prove you have the goods. Run the courses, shoot holes in cardboard bad guys, that sort of thing.”

  “Was it dangerous?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  She dampened a towel in the kitchen sink and handed it to him. Dad started wiping the dirt off his face. “Do you think you got the job?”

  The smile widened. “I start on Monday.”

  “That’s great! How much did they offer you?”

  He told her. Her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope.”

  Despite the sweat and dirt, Lauren jumped into his arms.

  *****

  The first change was dad got a new truck. The dealership gave him five-hundred bucks for his rusty, beat up old Sierra and sold him a shiny new Dodge Ram. The next change was we moved out of that shitty trailer park and into a proper house. In late August, in an outdoor ceremony on a hill surrounded by elms and maples, Dad and Lauren got married in the sunshine. He let me be the best man.

  That fall, I began my education. And what an education it was.

  SIX

  One of the perks of working for Black Wolf Tactical (BWT) was Dad got the run of the training facilities at no charge. I would not say he abused the privilege, but he sure as hell used it. Especially as pertained to my training.

  On a typical day, I was up at 0500, then a workout (or PT as Dad called it), then breakfast, then school. School was me and Lauren at the kitchen table from 0830 to 1400. Afterward, I had a few hours to run around the neighborhood and play until 1700, at which time Lauren drove me to Dad’s work.

  By then, the students were done for the day, having driven back to their hotels, or for those with the big bucks, staying in one of the luxurious onsite rooms provided by BWT. Lauren would drop me off, and I would wait on the bench in front of the main office for Dad to finish shooting the breeze with his clients, and when he got free, he would look my way and motion me over.

  He started with the basics. Unarmed combat, land navigation, how to read a map, how to use a compass, rapelling, traversing rope ladders and bridges, the obstacle course, first aid, CPR, and basic marksmanship. My favorite was rapelling. Dad used to joke he was going to bring me to work someday so I could shame the clients who were afraid to go over the edge.

  “Bunch of grown men acting like scared kittens,” he used to say, leaning on the rail at the summit of the rapelling tower. “Serve ‘em right to get showed up by a little boy.”

  At first, it was just me and the old man. But over time, Dad made friends with his co-workers and trusted a few of them enough to help with my training. There were three of them: Mike, Tyrel, and Blake.

  Mike Holden was an ex-Marine. Except you never called him an ex-Marine to his face because, according to him, there was no such thing as an ex-Marine. He was a big man, standing six-foot-two and tipping the scales at around two-fifty. Long arms and legs, the rangy type, bald on top, the sides and back of his head shaved down to a nub. He had a laugh you could hear from the next county over. I liked him immediately.

  Tyrel Jennings was the only man I ever met who spoke less than my father. Ex-Navy SEAL, big bushy beard, long hair held back by an ever-present olive drab bandanna, and dark black eyes like little coals. He gave instructions in short, terse sentences and was fond of fist bumps and high fives. But only with me.

  And then there was Blake Smith. About my dad’s size, strongly built, Green Beret, never saw him without a smile on his face. Since Dad was a Green Beret himself, he and Blake hit it off quickly.

  Something I always admired about Blake, beyond his general friendliness, was his dignity and sense of grace. He was the only black instructor at BWT, and he occasionally had to put up with offensive comments from ignorant clients and insensitive coworkers. But he never let it bother him. Said it was their problem, not his.

  Of all my dad’s friends, I would have to say Blake was my favorite. I miss him terribly.

  But that’s getting ahead of things.

  Life went on this way for years, me spending a few hours every afternoon with Dad and his friends, and Lauren constantly finding social events to drag me to.

  On Sundays it was church. I never cared much for church, and I don’t think Dad did either. I have no problem with Christianity, or religion in general. Jesus seemed like a genuinely nice guy, considering the central tenant of his teachings was for people to love one another. I don’t see much of a problem with that philosophy—I even pray sometimes, in my darker moments. I just did not like dressing up in slacks, and a button-down shirt and tie, and sitting on a damn uncomfortable wooden bench, and being stifled and still for an hour and singing old hymns I didn’t understand. Church always seemed to me like a bunch of people singing badly,
and saying amen at the proper times, and listening to some paunchy old dunce tell them how to live.

  I especially did not like the preacher. He was tall and broad, an ex-athlete gone to fat. His face jiggled and shook when he talked, and he had squinty little eyes that reminded me of a pig. He smelled of stale cigarettes, and cheap aftershave, and when he spoke he leaned in too close so you could smell the coffee on his breath. He made me uneasy.

  The year I turned twelve, as the result of a nationwide sting operation by the FBI, he was arrested for possession of child pornography. He posted bond, drove home, locked himself in his bedroom, and blew his brains out with a shotgun. Justified my opinion of him, I suppose.

  We stopped going to church after that.

  Lauren tried to get me into sports, but I never cared much for them. In those days, I would much rather run BWT’s close-quarters combat course than play baseball or soccer. Eventually, she gave up.

  By the time I was thirteen, I could run the courses at BWT with sufficient precision and skill to qualify as an instructor. By fourteen, I was six feet tall and a hundred-eighty pounds, and the instructors at my dojo had me start training with the adults.

  During the summers, I worked on a ranch not far from BWT. Feeding horses, mucking out stalls, that sort of thing. I developed an affinity for horses that persists to this day. There are few things I enjoy in life more than leaning forward in the saddle, hands loose on the reins, and letting the magnificent creature beneath me stretch out its stride, hurtling the both of us full tilt across open plain. Nothing else like it.

  As I got older, my training increased in difficulty and intensity. I learned skills very few people ever do, and some I’m reasonably certain were illegal.

  From the ages of twelve to sixteen, Mike Holden taught me the art of the sniper. How to break in a ghillie suit, how to camouflage it, to pick hides, to use my scope as a rangefinder, to compensate for drop and windage, to work the lever on a bolt-action rifle without coming off my point of aim, to use night vision and infrared, to move silently and slowly through dense foliage, to stalk someone without being seen. Most U.S. military snipers’ initial training is between eight to twelve weeks, depending on their branch of service and what year they went through it.