The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light)

by Jason Kristopher

  Tareq whispered in Barker’s ear. “Hassan. He is elder.”

  Barker noticed more than a slight family resemblance between his large host and the elder. Father? Uncle? Somewhere in there, anyway. He extended a hand. “Elder Hassan, thank you for your village’s hospitality.” He had no idea how much English the other man spoke, but what could it hurt to go all out?

  Hassan smiled in return, taking Barker’s hand in both of his. “Aalaamu alaikum, John Barker. Peace be with you. We are glad to provide.”

  Barker remembered some of what he’d picked up in the briefings. “John is fine, sir. And peace be with you.” They broke the handshake, and he motioned to the rest of the men, still agitated though much quieter. “What is attacking? You said someone, not something? How can someone who’s dead be attacking?”

  Hassan shook his head. “I do not know, John. I have not seen them myself — I was not here, or I would have led the defense, you understand,” he said, looking intensely at Barker, who nodded as though that was, indeed, understood. “But for the last few nights, we have been attacked by what Tareq and his brothers are calling ghilan… in English, ghouls.”

  “Ghouls?” Barker was mystified. “What, like ghosts?”

  “No, these are flesh and blood. As real as you or I, but they do not feel pain, they do not stop until we cut off their heads. The first person to encounter them was a young man. He,” Hassan paused, visibly grinding his teeth and clenching a fist. “He was my grandson. Only eleven years. The monster grabbed him while he was herding, and… it tore him apart. He is dead because I was not here.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, elder.”

  “Do not feel sorry for Kazim. He is with the Prophet now. But for the rest of us, there is still work to be done.” Hassan looked around at the men, then back to Barker. “We are not warriors, John. We are fishermen. We cannot fight these ghilan alone. Will you help us?”

  Barker knew the absolute last thing he should be doing is getting involved in a firefight in the middle of hostile territory, regardless of who he was defending against. Still, he didn’t have much choice, either — not if he wanted a ride out in the morning. “Do you have weapons? Guns, anything? Hell, even knives or a pitchfork?”

  Hassan grinned, his teeth glinting in the low lighting. “I said we were fishermen, John — not peasants.” He turned to Tareq and spoke in Arabic, then motioned for Barker to come with him. He moved quickly for an older man, and Barker was nearly jogging to keep up with the elder’s long strides.

  Soon, they were at the edge of the village. Away from the water, Barker thought absently. The close streets and homes of the village had given way to the unending desert darkness. There were a few lamps on tall poles scattered around, but their light was feeble, at best. Not a very defensible position. No high ground, just flat desert with a few bits of brush here and there. If only we could get some height…

  Tareq approached with his brothers — the crewmen from the fishing trawler — and motioned toward their right, speaking quickly. He handed Barker a long rifle and a small canvas sack of ammunition, then began passing out other weapons. From his own experience, both back home and as a military man, Barker recognized more than a couple AK-47s, the SKS rifle that he’d been given, and what he thought was an RPK machine gun. Peasants? No, definitely not, but no way in hell are these guys just fishermen, either.

  Hassan turned to Barker. “Tareq says there are two of them at the southwest corner. We go!” He began running, and Barker had little choice but to keep up. Even so, the elder was still faster, and arrived at the corner of the village first.

  Barker scanned the small area lit by the lamp above the last house, and saw nothing. Noticing a stack of crates near the home, he slung the rifle across his back on its strap, shoving the canvas bag into one of the many pockets of the dirty jumpsuit he still wore. He ran over to the crates, and was relieved to see they were relatively new, and would likely hold the weight of what he had planned. “Hassan, over here!” he said, hoping his voice would carry without attracting any unwanted attention. When the others moved to join him, he pointed to the roof of the structure. “We need high ground. That’s the only advantage we’ll have.”

  Hassan was already nodding, having devised Barker’s intentions. He spoke to Tareq and his brothers, three of whom ran off back to the village, leaving just Tareq, Hassan and Barker. “We will tell everyone to stay in their homes, no matter what they hear. Then, we will defeat these monsters,” Hassan said, motioning to Tareq as he began climbing the crates. Tareq ran to the door of the house, calling through it to the occupants.

  Barker followed Hassan onto the roof, taking up a prone position at one corner and readying his rifle. He slid the stripper clip in, slamming the bolt home. Yeah, folks, stay inside. I’d hate for someone to get shot thinking they’re one of these ‘ghouls,’ whatever they— Dear God in Heaven, he thought. Just what the hell is that?

  He felt rather than saw Tareq slam down onto the roof between him and the elder, unable to tear his eyes away from the walking nightmare that had just entered the yellow glow of the lamplight. The horror that approached had strips of dessicated flesh and tendon hanging from its bones. Patches of hair still stuck to its nearly-stripped skull, and the few gusts of wind that blew snapped its tattered remnants of clothing back and forth.

  But it was the moan that chilled him to the bone. Whether it was a freak of coincidence — a breeze shifting across some pipe somewhere — or an actual sound from the creature, he couldn’t tell, but he knew, knew in his soul, that what he was looking at could not possibly be real.

  He knew it, because zombies don’t exist. They can’t exist. People are either dead, or they’re alive, his mind gibbered to him. They’re alive, or they’re dead. But this thing is moving, so it must be alive, but it’s rotting oh God it’s rotting and moaning and it must be dead its alive but it must be de—

  The slap cracked loud in the night air, and he knew he’d feel a bruise on his cheek for a week, but his head was clearing, and he glanced over at Tareq, who at least had the grace to pretend the slap hurt his hand as much as it had Barker’s face. He felt sanity returning in a rush, and shook his head to get rid of the last dregs of crazy.

  “Shukran,” Barker muttered, for what felt like the hundredth time in eight hours.

  “Al’afw,“ Tareq whispered, grinning. “What we do now?”

  Barker looked back out at the shambling monster moving toward them, and set the rifle into his shoulder. “We kill it,” he said, shouldering the butt of the rifle and taking a breath. A held breath and a squeezed trigger later, and the crack of the rifle sounded loud against the night. What was left of the zombie’s skull shattered, spraying backward from the impact. Barker turned to the other two men as he glimpsed another form moving into view. “Shoot them in the head,” he said, pointing to his own melon for emphasis, then turning back to see the new zombie take a hit to the chest from Hassan’s shot.

  Hassan said nothing, but simply racked the bolt on his own rifle, and fired again, this time striking dead on.

  Or undead on, in this case, thought Barker, and tried to ignore the slightly crazy laugh that crept out of his throat as he saw more slow-moving nightmares emerging from the darkness. I just hope the others can hold out, too.

  El-Harab Fishing Village

  0415 Hours Local Time

  The zodiac crunched ashore as the 6-man SEAL team leapt out, two men pulling it further up the beach to prevent it getting washed out by the tide. They caught up with the rest of the team, all of whom moved fast through the low scrub brush and up-and-over the dunes. It only took them a few minutes moving at speed to be among the homes and streets of the village, and they could hear occasional rifle or other small-arms fire coming from the edge of the village ahead.

  Maxwell paused by the side of one structure and raised his night-vision device, pulling out the beacon tracker. His hand-signals to the other members of the team were swift and sure, indicatin
g less than 1 click — one kilometer — to the target, in this case one Commander John Barker. Lowering his NVD once more, his vision of the landscape went a soft green, marred only slightly by the bright spots of the tall lampposts. The team slowed as they approached the last line of homes, and there was a click in Maxwell’s ear.

  “Alpha Six, Alpha Four.” Alpha Four, call sign for one Jonas Kozac, was on the extreme eastern edge of their advance. “Multiple contacts acquired. Be advised, friendlies up top.”

  “Roger, Alpha Four. Weapons free. Defensive positions, and stay frosty. Alpha Two, you’re with me, we’ll get the package. Call out to friendlies; no accidents, here. Move out,” replied Maxwell. Their desert camouflage made them nearly invisible in the pre-dawn hours, and he hated the thought of one of his team getting shot by some scared civvie.

  The team crept forward slowly at that point, taking cover as they could find it, until they were all within sight of the last row of houses. Maxwell and Alpha Two moved west, towards the beacon from Barker’s last known position. As they approached the last house in the village, Maxwell marveled at the number of walkers laying dormant nearby. Spotting the crates that Barker and the others had used to climb up to the roof, Maxwell nodded.

  Smart guy. He touched Alpha Two lightly on the shoulder, indicating he was moving, and they both ran for the crates, making almost no sound, even with their boots on the gravel. Certainly not enough for the guys on the roof to hear, now deafened by who knows how many gunshots. Maxwell called softly upward. “Friendlies on your six!”

  “Clear!” came the reply from above, and Maxwell and his cohort climbed up, kneeling at the edge of the roof. Maxwell saw what could only be his target, Commander Barker, motioning to his comrades-in-arms that it was okay, and the other men joined them. They moved stiffly, having been in the same position for at least a few hours, obviously. Barker greeted him with an outstretched hand and a quiet voice.

  “Commander John Barker, USS Forrestal,” said Barker, then motioned to the two men next to him. “This is Elder Hassan, and Tareq. I’m hoping you’re here for me, because you wouldn’t believe—”

  Maxwell cut him off. “Nice to meet you,” he said to the other men, then jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Sir, my orders are to retrieve you and get out of here in a damn hurry, sir. I don’t have time to chat.”

  Barker was taken aback for a moment, then nodded. “Of course they are. Once these people are safe.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “That’s an order,” Barker said. “These people saved my life; the least we can do is return the favor.”

  Maxwell ground his teeth, then moved forward to the edge of the roof, glancing through the optical sight on his M4 rifle. “All units, we are now at Condition Bravo.” Their was a soft crack as the suppressor on his rifle muffled the noise. “Walker down. Clear west.” He turned back to the men on the rooftop. “Stay here, sir. We’ll take care of it.”

  With that, he and Alpha Two hung briefly from the edge of the roof, then dropped to the ground. Spreading out, they formed the western end of an arc across the village, moving out into the desert. Alpha Team moved quickly, their NVDs picking up and amplifying the ambient light, allowing them to see even the slightest of movement in the darkness as though it were noon.

  Maxwell counted four more walkers of his own, with the other members of Alpha picking up two or three each. He shook his head, wondering how they could’ve walked into this, mentally promising to take Gardner down a peg or two when he got back for the bad intel, yet again. For now, though, it appeared that the incursion had been contained. “Alpha, report in.”

  “Alpha Three, clear.”

  “Alpha Five, clear.”

  “Alpha One, clear.”

  There was a pause, as everyone waited for Alpha Four to report. As the pause got longer, Maxwell got worried. Jonas was normally quick on the trigger, so to speak. “Alphas One, Three, and Five, locate Alpha Four. We’re retrieving the package and will join you.” He signaled to Alpha Two and they ran back toward the southwest house, where Barker was waiting on the ground with Tareq and Hassan. “Sir, we may have a problem. I need you to come with me now, sir.”

  Barker nodded, then motioned to Tareq and Hassan. “Come with us.”

  Maxwell groaned — on the inside — but said nothing as they all moved east to the last known position of Alpha Four. He certainly wasn’t going to slow down for either of the locals, but as it turned out, the old man was keeping up without even breathing hard. Must be the desert air, Maxwell thought.

  As they rounded the final corner, he called out, “Friendlies!” He took in the scene as he slowed and stopped; the other members of Alpha Team were standing over Alpha Four, propped up in the open doorway of a house. Moving closer, Maxwell could see a crying child inside, held in the arms of an obviously frightened young woman. A man even older than Hassan stood nearby, a fireplace poker held at the ready. Alpha’s Three, the team’s medic, finished examining Alpha Four, and glanced over at Maxwell as they ran up. Maxwell nodded to one side, and Alpha Three joined him, away from the others.

  “I did what I could for him, major,” said the medic. “It’s a Code White.”

  Maxwell swore. “How the hell did this happen?”

  “Apparently that walker managed to almost get inside,” the medic said, motioning to the remains of a walker off to one side. Maxwell hadn’t even noticed it. Alpha Three continued. “He grabbed the thing and threw it down, but in the struggle, he got tagged.”

  “Have you—”

  “Already taken care of it, major. He’ll have enough time to get back to the ship, and then it’ll be very quick. We’ll have him in sickbay before he goes, make him comfortable.”

  “Damn, damn, damn! This isn’t supposed to happen to us, for shit’s sake!” The medic didn’t say anything; there was nothing to say, and he knew it. “Thanks. Round up everyone else, I want us out of here in five.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Maxwell walked over to the stricken Kozac, squatting down to eye level. “What the hell, Jonas?”

  Kozac grimaced, flexing his bandaged arm where the walker had bitten him. “Sorry, sir. I saw it breaking in, saw the little girl… couldn’t shoot, what if it’d gone through the door? What would you have done, major?”

  Maxwell shook his head. “The same damn thing, probably.”

  “She’s no older than my little girl, major. I couldn’t—”

  Maxwell held up a hand. “I get it. You know what happens now, right?”

  Kozac went a little grey, but nodded. “I’ve still got time to help.”

  “Damn right you do. Now get off your ass and let’s get out of here.” Maxwell stood, helping the wounded man to his feet.

  The old man came to the door, the young woman looking over his shoulder, and began speaking quickly in Arabic. Hassan noticed and came over with Tareq and Barker following. He held a hand on Kozac’s shoulder, keeping him there for a moment while the two talked.

  “He says to tell you that he, his daughter, and his granddaughter owe you their lives,” Hassan said to Kozac. “He says he does not think he can ever repay you, but whatever you want, you may have.”

  Kozac coughed and shook his head. “Please tell him thank you, but it’s not necessary.”

  Hassan dutifully repeated the American’s words to the old man, who shook his head as well and spoke loudly. Hassan turned back to Kozac. “He is most insistent. He says he must show you the proper respect.” The older man disappeared inside the home, and returned a moment later, holding out his hands to the young SEAL, who tried to refuse.

  Hassan spoke up again. “He will be insulted if you do not take the gift.”

  Maxwell leaned in and whispered in Kozac’s ear. “Just take whatever it is. We need to get out of here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the SEAL, and took the gift from the old man. “Shukran,” he said.

  Maxwell nodded and smiled at both of them, then spoke to Hassan. “
Elder, we must leave. Dawn is coming soon.”

  Hassan wasn’t the only one to suddenly glance at the lightening sky, and he nodded. “Yes, you must get John Barker away from here. It is likely the militia will be coming, after all the gunfire. We cannot hide him.”

  Maxwell held out a hand. “Good luck to you.”

  “And you.”

  Maxwell turned to find Barker peeling off the dirty jumpsuit he’d been wearing, handing it back to Tareq with a firm handshake. “As-salaam 'alaykum, Tareq,” Barker said.

  Tareq nodded and smiled. “Wa 'alaykum salaam, friend John.”

  Maxwell stepped to his side. “Sir, we have to go.”

  Barker turned and shook hands with Hassan as well, then looked at Maxwell. “Let’s go.”

  Finally, thought Maxwell as Alpha Team headed for the coast. I’m going to have Gardner’s head on a pike for this. He glanced over at Kozac, knowing the man was on borrowed time. I might even do it myself, if I get the chance.

  Captain’s Quarters

  USS Forrestal

  0630 Hours Local Time

  There was a creak as Barker opened the hatch to the Captain’s Quarters, stepping inside. He closed the hatch behind him, then stood at attention. “Commander Barker, reporting as ordered, sir,” he said.

  “At ease, commander,” said Captain Armstrong, seated behind his desk. Armstrong was of medium height, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. “I trust you know Captain Batzler of the Nimitz?” he asked, motioning to the man seated in one of the other two chairs in the room.

  Captain Batzler stood up as Barker moved to shake his hand. Tall and thin, the captain was greying at the temples and had a no-nonsense way about him. “Only by reputation, sir,” said Barker, shaking the offered hand firmly. “Good to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise, commander,” said Batzler.

  “I believe you’re familiar with our Major Maxwell here, also,” continued Armstrong.

  Barker nodded to the SpecOps soldier, standing in the corner. “Major.”