The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel

by James Cook

  On the peninsula immediately south of us, it appeared the same thing had happened to the lower half of Village View Drive. Although a good number of houses remained, I saw no more activity there than I had seen to the north. Other than those few untouched areas, not much of anything was still standing for as far as I could see.

  I climbed down and gave the others my report. Dad nodded gravely and gestured back and forth between himself and Blake. “We’ll check the peninsula to the north, see if there are any survivors. Tyrel, you and Caleb search this neighborhood, then head south and see what you can find.”

  Tyrel gave a thumbs-up. “Roger that.”

  “No matter what,” Dad said, “we meet back here before sundown. Agreed?”

  He got a round of acknowledgments. We dispersed to our vehicles.

  Later that day, Dad and Blake told us how they made contact with three people in the section they searched, two of them an elderly couple in their eighties: Bob and Maureen Kennedy. According to Blake, they were happy to see friendly faces, but didn’t seem terribly bothered by what was going on.

  “It’s a shame about those fires,” Bob said. “Last week or so, damn near everyone lives around here took off like scalded dogs. Even the tourists lit out. Can’t say as I blame ‘em, though. Maureen and I were up all night watchin’ the fires, hopin’ they’d miss us. Was a little while there I thought we’s gonna have to go out on the boat. But we got through it all right, thank the good Lord.”

  “Are you two going to be okay out here?” Blake asked. “Do you have enough food, water?”

  “Well, as far as food goes, we both love to fish,” the old man said, “and I don’t mind saying we’re pretty damn good at it. What you see floatin’ out there ain’t the tip of the iceberg. This lake’s got more fish than a beach got sand. Not to mention we got a vegetable garden here in the backyard and plenty o’ mason jars for cannin’. As for drinkin’ water, we can always filter and boil what we need from the lake. The folks at the dam fixed it so the river can flow just fine before they left. We ought to be all right until the government can get things settled down.”

  Dad and Blake exchanged a glance at that, but didn’t argue with the old man. Instead, they gave the couple a flare and told them to send up a signal if they needed help. Bob accepted it with a smile and said they would be sure to do that.

  The man living down the street from them was a different sort entirely. Blake caught sight of him through a window moving around in his house, but he refused to answer his door. Dad used the loudspeaker connected to the CB radio in his truck to announce who he and Blake were, and that while they meant the man no harm, they intended to search the surrounding houses for supplies. At that point, an upstairs window opened and the man shouted down to them.

  “What gives you the right to do that?”

  Dad said, “You see any cops around here, fella?”

  The man came closer to the window. He was in his late forties, bald, shaved head, several days’ growth of beard on his face, pale and haggard, fleshy cheeks shot through with veins under sunken eyes. “That don’t make it right.”

  “You’re welcome to come with us,” Dad said. “Load as much as you can carry and bring it back with you.”

  The man thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “How about you just leave the houses on this block alone? There’s plenty of others to root through, and a housing development not three miles from here. If it ain’t burned down, it’s probably just as empty as this place.”

  Dad looked at Blake, who shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

  “Okay,” Dad said. “You got a deal. I’m going to leave a flare on your porch. You run into trouble, pop it. One of us will see you, and we’ll help if we can.”

  The man nodded. “Fair enough.”

  He was about to shut the window when Dad spoke up again. “Hey, you got a name?”

  “Phil Cary. Nice to meet you.” With that, he shut the window. Dad and Blake took it as their cue to leave.

  Tyrel and I located two other holdouts, the first one only six houses down from us. He must have seen us pass by the night before because he was standing in his yard with a civilian model M-4 slung around his neck as if to make a statement. He kept his weapon low as the two of us rolled closer, but Tyrel wasn’t taking any chances. He drew his pistol and held it across his lap, out of sight, barrel pointed so he could shoot the man through the door if need be.

  “Morning,” Tyrel greeted him.

  The man inclined his head. He was tall, maybe six foot four, lean, strongly put together, graying brown hair in a tight crew cut, clean-shaven, dressed in a simple t-shirt, jeans, and sensible work boots. His alert gaze and erect posture said either ex-military or law enforcement.

  “Good morning,” the man replied. He took in Tyrel’s dark beard and longish hair tied back under a headscarf, expression saying not impressed.

  “Tyrel Jennings. This here’s Caleb Hicks.”

  I leaned forward so the man could see me better and waved. He nodded to me, then shifted his attention back to Tyrel. “Name’s Lance Morton. Saw you folks come in last night. Some trucks, a jeep, couple of Humvees.”

  Tyrel nodded. “Yep. That was us.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Friend of ours knows a guy owns a cabin up here. Had a key. Figured it would be a good place to hole up for a while.”

  “What’s the guy’s name owns the cabin?”

  “Dale Forester.”

  Morton seemed to relax a bit. “I know Dale. Good fella. What’s his friend’s name?”

  “Joe Hicks.”

  “You don’t say. Dale mentioned him a few times.” Morton stepped closer to get a better look at me. “Say, you Joe Hicks’ son? I seem to recognize you.”

  “Yes sir,” I said. “We come down about once a year or so, go fishing.”

  “I’ve seen the two of you around before. Don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Now that I thought about it, Morton did look vaguely familiar. “I think I might have seen you at the bait shop a time or two,” I said.

  “I remember that. Your father around?”

  “Farther north up the lake,” Tyrel said. “He’ll be back sometime this afternoon.

  “Where are you two headed?”

  “Recon. Getting ready to round up supplies.” Tyrel said it casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I was worried Morton might take umbrage, but he surprised me by simply nodding.

  “Figured. Was thinking about doing the same thing myself.”

  “You’re more than welcome to come with us.”

  Morton shook his head. “I’m just fine on my own. If we happen to show up at the same place, should I expect trouble?”

  There was no challenge in his voice, but I could feel the tension in Tyrel as he replied. “We’re open to negotiation, no need to fight over things. With all these houses, seems there’ll be plenty to go around.”

  “Agreed,” Morton said. “Guess I’ll be seeing you.”

  Tyrel nodded once. “Take care. Come see us sometime.”

  “I might do that.”

  We spent most of the rest of the day searching what remained of the peninsula south of us. By four in the afternoon, we had almost given up on finding anyone else alive. As we were just about to leave the last neighborhood on our part of the map, I spotted a curtain moving in an upstairs window of a house on a flat portion of the lakefront. We had tried the house before—there was a BMW sedan in the front yard—but no one answered. I pointed it out to Tyrel.

  “Think we ought to try that one again?”

  “Probably best to. Pull on up.”

  I parked the truck in the driveway and got out. Tyrel motioned me to stay put and approached the front door. He knocked several times, calling out that we had seen someone in there and just wanted to talk. Several minutes passed with no response.

  “Listen,” he said, irritation in his voice. “If we meant you any harm, we coul
d have busted down the door by now. Can you just come talk to us for a minute, please?”

  More time passed. Finally, Tyrel threw up his hands. “Fuck it. Can’t say we didn’t try.”

  As he was walking back to the truck, I heard the latch click on the front door and a squeak as someone pulled it open a few inches.

  “Hello?”

  The voice was soft, definitely female. Tyrel turned around slowly, hands upraised in a non-threatening gesture. “Hi there,” he said. “Name’s Tyrel. The kid over there is Caleb. We’re new around here.”

  The door opened a little further, and I saw a slender, unmistakably feminine silhouette in the doorway. It was too dark inside the house to make out any of her features. “I’m Lola,” she said. “Lola Torrance.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lola Torrance,” Tyrel said, putting his hands down.

  Lola stepped out the rest of the way. She was petite, maybe five foot two, brown hair, glasses, early thirties, not especially pretty, but not unattractive either. She kept one hand out of sight behind the door. It probably says something about my upbringing that I could tell by the angle of her arm and the set of her shoulder she was holding a gun.

  “You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

  By Tyrel’s body language, he also knew she was armed. Honestly, I couldn’t say I blamed her. I would have done the same thing.

  “We got in yesterday,” Tyrel said. “We’re planning to gather supplies from the empty houses in the neighborhood. Figured we’d offer you a chance to come along, take what you need.”

  Silence stretched for several seconds. “That’s stealing,” Lola said.

  “No ma’am, it’s harvesting. Things back east are pretty bad. Houston’s gone. I doubt anyone is coming back here any time soon. No sense in letting perfectly good supplies go to waste. Seeing as you were here first, we figured you got a right to your share, but you should start gathering it pretty soon. No telling who might come through here looking for food.”

  Lola hesitated. I had a feeling none of what Tyrel said had occurred to her.

  Peering closer, I noticed she looked exhausted. Not just road weary and sleepy like my group, but the kind of tired where your cheeks hollow out and your clothes hang loose from your bones. She obviously had not been sleeping or eating very much for a long time. As she stood watching us, her eyes clouded over with warring thoughts, apprehension written plainly on her face. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision.

  “I’m going to step outside,” she said. “Just so you know, I’m armed.”

  “I know,” Tyrel said.

  This gave her a moment’s pause. Gingerly, she stepped out on the porch, a massive .44 magnum revolver in her hand. I almost laughed—that much gun would have broken her wrist if she had tried to shoot it.

  “Do either of you have any medical training?” she asked.

  Tyrel and I exchanged a glance. “We both have extensive first responder training, ma’am. Is someone injured inside?”

  She nodded, her shoulders beginning to shake. When she spoke, her voice came out in a tremulous whisper. “My husband, there’s something wrong with him. He’s … not right.”

  Tyrel stepped slowly closer. “Ma’am, we’d be glad to help, but I’m going to have to ask you to put the gun down first, okay?”

  She looked at him with eyes like a hunted thing. Her hand slowly came up, offering Tyrel the gun. He plucked it gently from her grip, unloaded it, stuffed the cartridges in his pocket, and held a hand toward the house.

  “Lead the way, please.”

  We followed her inside.

  EIGHTEEN

  The house must have been nice, once.

  Tasteful decorations on the walls and over the fireplace, Monet and Rembrandt prints, plush expensive-looking furniture, rich cherry and rosewood coffee table and bookshelves, hardwood floors, gorgeously intricate rugs in burgundy and black, and a collection of vases that probably cost more than both the Humvees back at the cabin. People who lived on the lake were not known for being impoverished.

  The house had an empty, lost feeling about it. Our feet scraped and echoed a little too loudly on the floor, the rustle of our clothes grating and garish as we entered the foyer. Empty wine bottles occupied nearly every tabletop, the redolent scent of sour grapes heavy in the air. Dust covered everything, even Lola’s clothes. It looked like she had not changed them in a while. Despite the lush décor, I felt like a sane person walking into a rundown asylum.

  “Perry, my husband, he’s in the basement,” Lola said. “I can’t … I can’t go back there.”

  “Why not?” Tyrel asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

  She shook her head, arms crossed tightly under her chest. “I don’t know. He went to Houston last week, said he was going to find his parents and bring them back here.”

  “Did he?” I asked.

  “No. He came back alone. Said he couldn’t get to them, there was too much rioting. There was a bandage on his arm, bleeding through. I tried to get him to change it, but he acted funny about it. Wouldn’t let me touch it.”

  “Anything else wrong with him?” Tyrel asked.

  “He was upset about his parents, but otherwise, he seemed fine. Then a few hours later, he started feeling sick.”

  “What were his symptoms?”

  “Fever, nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, runny nose, coughing. Like he all of a sudden came down with a bad case of the flu. Started shaking really bad and talking funny, kind of delirious. I wanted to drive him to the hospital, but he said that was a bad idea. Said the hospitals were overrun with those things.”

  As Lola talked, a low sinking feeling began to weigh in my stomach. I remembered the newscasts and the emergency bulletins about the infected, and what to do if someone was bitten by one of them. Tyrel and I looked at each other, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing.

  “Ma’am,” Tyrel said. “did your husband happen to mention how he got the wound on his arm?”

  “No. I asked him, but he told me not to worry about it. Said it was nothing.”

  “Mrs. Torrance-”

  “Lola,” she interrupted. “Please, just call me Lola. Not ma’am or Mrs. Torrance. It makes me feel like an old woman.”

  Tyrel held up a hand in apology. “All right then, Lola. Can you tell me how your husband ended up in the basement?”

  Her bottom lip began to tremble. “He sealed himself down there, said he had to do it before it was too late. Went out back and got some old boards and a hammer and nails from the tool shed. I heard him hammering, putting planks over the door. He told me where to find his gun.”

  At that point, she put her hands over her face, slumped to the floor, and began wailing like a child with a skinned knee. Tyrel hesitated a moment, then knelt beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. For a while, he whispered gently to her, trying to calm her down. Pity and more than a little embarrassment drove me from the room.

  In the kitchen, a few steps past the doorway, I heard a sound that had not been audible from the living room. It was coming from a door on the opposite side of the kitchen next to what I assumed was the entrance to the garage. I stepped closer, straining my ears.

  Thump-scraaaape. Thump-scraaaape.

  “Hello?” I said, voice pitched low. When I spoke, the noise stopped abruptly.

  “Hello? Mr. Torrance?” A little louder this time.

  A low moan came from behind the door, making the hair on my neck stand on end. It reminded me of a sound my father once made in his sleep in the grip of a nightmare. I had been very young then, but the plaintive, agonized, un-self-conscious raggedness of it never left me.

  My instincts told me to back away, but instead, I raised a hand and knocked gently. “Mr. Torrance, can you hear me?”

  There was a moment of silence, then a tremendous THUMP that rattled the door on its hinges and sent shockwaves along the kitchen wall. Dishes rattled in a cupboard somewhere to my right. I stepped quickly back in surprise, my r
ight heel catching the corner of a chair leg. I tried to catch my balance but wasn’t fast enough and sat down hard on the ceramic tile floor. At some point, my right hand drew my pistol and leveled it at the door, but I don’t remember consciously doing so. A second or two after the THUMP, I heard the same wailing sound as before, but louder now, anguished, enraged, and unmistakably predatory. The noise continued in ululating waves, punctuated by continued crashes against the door. THUMP … THUMP … THUMP …

  Footsteps sounded to my right. I looked over to see Tyrel standing in the doorway, rifle leveled, finger not yet on the trigger. “The fuck was that?”

  I kept my aim steady on the basement door as I stood up. “I’m guessing it’s Mr. Torrance.”

  Tyrel approached slowly, eyes wide, but not in fear. His gaze was swift and calculating, absorbing and processing information for split-second decisions. His gait was even and steady, hands firm on his carbine, the barrel steady as a rock as he walked. I had a strange moment of pity for the people he had faced in combat, or at least their families. I doubted the combatants themselves were still among the living.

  Lola followed close behind him, one hand on his broad back to steady herself, cheeks streaked with tears, the skin of her face pale and sickly looking. I did not think it was a good idea for her to be in the kitchen with us, but then again, it was her house.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  Tyrel took a couple of deep breaths, watching the door. The thumping was loud, but the door seemed to be withstanding it. He lowered his carbine and stood up straight.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. Lola, is there another entrance to the basement?”

  “There’s a storm access on the other side of the house, but we keep it locked.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  She walked over to a decorative set of key hooks on the wall beside the back door and came back with two keys on an aluminum ring. She held them out to Tyrel, then stopped and pulled her hand close to her chest. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Take a look at your husband and see if there’s anything I can do for him.”