The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light)
Page 8
He waved slowly to the camera, wondering what was taking them so long. Finally, there was a metal clank, and the gate rolled back on automated rails. He waited until it was clear, and then thumped the truck’s roof.
“Take us in slow, gunny,” he said, holding on as the grizzled old marine started the truck down the entrance road.
“Contact, six o’clock,” yelled Montero, followed by the sound of gunfire. Reynolds and Masters turned and fired as one at the mass of vehicles rounding the last turn up to the base.
“I hope this works,” yelled Reynolds, and touched his throat mic. “Alpha One, Alpha Two. We are being pursued—” He broke off as a rifle shot zinged past his head, far closer than he would’ve liked. “Correction, Alpha One, we are taking fire. Request immediate reinforcements.”
“Roger, Alpha Two. Reinforcements inbound.”
At least the gate was closing, he saw. “Get us out of here, gunny. But stay on the road!”
“Aye, sir,” yelled Rains, and he stomped the gas pedal and slung the truck back and forth across the road, trying to dodge bullets.
“Captain, that gate won’t hold those trucks,” said Masters. “Mag!”
Montero shook his head. “I’m out too, sir. Only Barrents has—”
Barrents finished firing off the last round from his rifle and slung it across his back, pulling his pistol. “And that’s me done for rifle ammo, sir,” he said, firing the Springfield sidearm at the oncoming horde. To his credit, one of the men hanging off a pickup fell, clutching his chest. Reynolds made a mental note to get that man into sniper training as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Masters,” Reynolds said, grinning. Masters glanced at him, then turned back. That quickly, rapid-rising steel and concrete barriers had gone up twenty yards in front of the gate, and the first line of pick-ups was already smashing against them.
Originally designed after September 11, 2001 for security at high-value targets such as the Pentagon, these steam-piston powered cylinders were 8 to 10 inches in diameter, and could be raised in the blink of an eye. And once raised, they were immovable. It was almost exactly like running into a cement wall, as that first line of vehicles found out.
Reynolds looked up as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Blackhawk helicopter approaching, and cheered as shell casings from its door-mounted miniguns began raining down on the road around them. The slugs tore through men and machines alike, destroying those who hadn’t already died in fiery crashes against the concrete barriers.
The road was beginning to turn into the mountain now, but Tom saw, way at the back of the zealots’ column of vehicles, a lone pickup truck with just two figures, one dressed all in black, standing in the bed of the truck and watching the carnage. He couldn’t make out any details, and went to grab his binocs, only to realize that they were among the many things he’d left behind in the city to lighten the load.
“Alpha One, Alpha Two. Thanks for the assist. Can you get a visual on the last truck just before the bend? Might be important.”
“Roger, Alpha Two. We’ll take care of it.”
As they made the final turn, Reynolds lost sight of the truck, but saw the Blackhawk moving off after it. He looked up at the huge bunker doors and the mountain towering over them, and then grinned as the personnel access door to one side was thrown open, and several figures rushed out and practically dragged him from the bed of the truck.
“Easy now, Major Barnes,” Reynolds said, laughing as Kimberly hugged him within an inch of his life, the rest of his survivors looking on. As she released him, wiping tears from her eyes, he looked over and reached out a hand to David Blake.
“Seriously?” said David. He ignored the hand and hugged his friend close, as hard as Kimberly had. There were more than a few tears in his eyes as well. “You’ve got a couple things wrong, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, she’s a colonel, now. Maxwell made it official a few days ago.”
Kim snorted, but David continued. “And it’s not Barnes, either.”
Reynolds looked at him quizzically, until David raised his hand and showed off the wedding ring. It was Reynolds’ turn to laugh as he hugged both of them again. “You got her to change her name?”
David looked at Kim, who put on a mock frown, and said, “Let’s just say it’s a point of discussion.”
There was a heavy step behind him, and a hand the size of his head landed on his shoulder. “Forget something?”
From Dalton Gaines came a handshake of powerful proportions and a slap on the back that Reynolds was going to feel for a week. “Glad you made it, son,” said the big Georgia boy before turning away and rubbing his eyes. “Damn allergies, got me all a’bothered.”
Reynolds laughed as he turned back to the rest of them. “Montero, Barrents, Techman and Armstrong, meet David Blake and Colonel Kimberly Barnes, your new CO.” He waved Milford Rains and his wife forward, and presented them to Kim.
“Ma’am, this is Gunnery Sergeant Milford P. Rains, retired, and his wife Eugenia. If it wasn’t for them, we wouldn’t have made it. Request permission for them to join AEGIS Bunker One, ma’am.”
Rains snapped to with one of his letter-perfect salutes, and Kimberly returned it.
“Well, Mr. Rains, gunnery sergeant, retired. Think you can be of some use to us, do you?” she said sternly, but her eyes danced with repressed laughter.
Rains nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I do. These squids and whatnot need some shaping up, ma’am. I’ll get’em right soon enough, though.”
Kim laughed. “I’ll just bet you will, too. And, luckily for all of us, I have the authority to make this call. So, welcome aboard, marine!” She shook his hand.
As the congratulations died down, Reynolds motioned to Kim, and she walked to one side with him.
“Kim, I’ve got a funny feeling about those two in that truck. We need to find out what’s going on there.”
“I know. The air crew is going to tail them as long as they can, and from what I know they’ve already got some high-res shots of them. We’ll figure it out,” she said.
As the little group walked into the bunker, toting all their gear, Tom took one last look down the road.
They’re coming back, he thought. I can feel it. I just hope we’re ready when they do.
He shook his head and put all the dark thoughts out of his mind. Instead, he started focusing on the future.
It’s going to be a long twenty years.
Support Indie Authors and Small Press
If you liked this book, please take a few moments to leave a review, even if it's only a line or two. Reviews make all the difference to indie authors and are one of the best ways you can help support our work.
Write a Review
New Release Mailing List
Want to get the earliest of early-bird news about new releases from Jason Kristopher? Sign up for the New Release mailing list.
You'll only be emailed when a new book or story is released (3-6 times per year), your email address will never be shared with anyone for any reason, and you can unsubscribe at any time.
About the Author
Jason Kristopher was born in Waco, Texas, and grew up in northern Colorado, enjoying the beautiful weather. Sometime later, he lost his mind — or found himself again, depending on who you talk to and where they're from — and moved back to the Lone Star State.
Jason currently lives in the Houston area and enjoys reading, writing, movies, music (live and not), the Houston Astros (winning and not), singing karaoke and the Texas hill country, especially the vineyards.
Connect with Jason
Facebook:
Author.JasonKristopher
Twitter:
JasonKristopher
Blog:
www.thefireinourheads.com
Email:
jason@jasonkristopher.com
More from Jason Kristopher
The Dying of the Light Series
End
Beginning (coming soon)
The Walker Chronicles: Tales from The Dying of the Light
Short Stories
A Drop of Rain
Island's End
The Last Ginger
Wave, Wind, and Blade
Excerpt
Following is an excerpt from the sequel to The Dying of the Light: Interval, The Dying of the Light: Beginning, available soon from Jason Kristopher and Grey Gecko Press.
New Salisbury, PA
Z-Day + 24 Years
He awoke slowly, and for the first time in nearly twenty-five years, remembered who he was.
It wasn’t like they used to show in the movies; he didn’t get his memory back in dribs and drabs. It was just suddenly there, as if it had never gone away. As if he hadn’t languished, a prisoner of his own mind in so many ways, for the past quarter-century. The truth of his identity hit him hard, a hammer-blow to his consciousness, and it staggered him, both mentally and physically. If he hadn’t already been lying down, he would’ve fallen.
As it was, he needed to get up, to tell someone, anyone, the truth, before he forgot again, before he went back to being the scarred, weird old man everyone — including himself — called Harvard. He eased his creaky old legs over the side of his cot, tossing aside the light blanket he’d used as a shield against the cool Pennsylvania night air, and pushed himself to his feet with the cane that was always to hand. He shook his head to clear the last of the cobwebs, and wiped his brow.
Going to be a hot one, he thought as he stumbled to the door of his cabin. I’m already a’ sweatin.’ He threw the wooden door open and raised a hand against the bright morning sunlight, trying to let his old eyes adjust to the glare. He felt a stab of pain just behind his eyes, and the nausea it brought along for the ride nearly doubled him over. One hand thrown out to the door frame steadied him for the moment, and he took several deep breaths. The rough wood under his hands reminded him of the trip he’d taken with his youngest daughter, Josephine, backpacking for the day in the woods near Camp David, all those years ago. Or was it Miranda? Damn, it’s already fading.
Picking up his cane from where it had fallen, he straightened his back as much as he could, and began the longish trek over to Marjorie’s house. She’ll know what to do, he thought. She’s always known. Most people called her crazy, a coot that had long-outlived any usefulness she might have once brought to the community, but he liked her. She was the only person in the whole village as old as he was; older, even, if he was any judge, but he’d never have guessed out loud.
Besides, he owed her. His health, his mobility, hell, he owed her his life. And she would know what to do.
His hobbling, shuffling walk continued. He rounded the corner of the dentist’s office, making a beeline down the main street for Marjorie’s home-and-shop - Madam Marjorie’s, naturally — but his age and the constant download of memories betrayed him, and he tripped. Unable to catch himself, he caromed off the porch rail and fell onto the horse trough, overturning it and spilling water everywhere, turning the street to mud. The soft stench of horse manure filled his nose, and he was glad he’d missed the pile — if only by a few inches. His cane wasn’t so lucky, falling square in the steaming mess.
I always hated that damned thing, he thought.
His cry of pain and embarrassment drew attention, though, and just the sort he needed. Young Darnell happened to be leaving the general store, and Harvard saw him drop his purchases and rush over.
“Lemme help you, Mr. Harvard,” Darnell said, suiting actions to words and levering the old man back up. “Wow, you’re burning up. Better get you over to see my ma.” He threw the old man’s right arm over his shoulders, leaving him the cane to use with the other.
The man known as Harvard grunted, and said, “Thank ya, boy. Funny, I was just coming to see your ma; I need her help.” At least, that’s what he tried to say. For some reason, his mouth wasn’t working right, and he felt all fuzzy. The memories were starting to fade faster, and he knew he had to get to Marjorie before they were gone completely. “’S go!” he managed to mumble, doing his best to put one foot in front of the other as they trudged down the street.
He saw Darnell glance at the townsfolk who stood to each side of the street, watching the scarred cripple being helped by the younger man, and he saw the boy’s face darken in anger. Harvard tried to tell him that it wasn’t their fault, that those watching were just scared folk, but nothing came out, his tongue tied in knots. Frustrated, he concentrated on walking faster.
Soon enough, they had reached Marjorie’s place, and Darnell had dragged him inside, clearing off what his mother euphemistically referred to as her ‘examination table,’ even though it was quite clearly just an old coffee table. The overpowering scent of the ever-burning candles in the shop made Harvard sneeze, and he raised a hand to his head, in pain.
“Ma! Harvard’s hurt!” Darnell yelled, moving toward the bead curtain that led into the back of the shop, intent on finding the old woman.
Before Darnell could get out of reach, Harvard grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, pulling him close. He struggled mightily, forcing his lips and tongue to move, to say something, to say anything before the memories drained back out of him, before they were gone for who knew how long, probably forever. In the end, the only thing he could manage to croak out was his name.
“I’m… Norman…” he said, coughing and wiping away the sweat from his eyes, the confusion and what was now obvious to him as a fever taking over. “I’m… Ennis… Norma—” Just before he passed out, he saw the old woman come through the curtain, and wondered if the boy would remember what he’d said.
Marjorie saw to the unconscious old man named Harvard, cleaning him up and wiping his brow. “Go and get the straps now, honey,” she said, pointing vaguely into the back room.
The young man returned quickly, concerned. “What’s wrong with him, Ma?” he asked as the woman carefully secured the tossing and turning man’s arms and legs to the edge of the table with the padded straps.
“I’m not sure. He’s got one helluva fever, and that’s no mistake. You said he was on his way here?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what he said when I picked him up. He didn’t look like hisself, though. At first I thought he was drunk.”
“Before noon? It doesn’t matter, the man never touched a drop o’ shine the whole time I known him. Did he say anything else?”
Darnell nodded. “Yeah. He said his name was Norman.”
“Norman? Well, that’s no help.” She ran her hands over Harvard’s face, as she had countless times before, tracing the pattern of the burn scars she hadn’t been able to get rid of, all those years ago. “Norman? As if that helps,” she repeated.
She turned to her small kitchen area, taking the kettle off the wood-burning stove and pouring herself some tea. Sipping it slowly, she felt her way over to her favorite rocking chair, near the window, and took a seat. Darnell took his usual place in the other chair at her side, and she patted his arm. “Did he say that was his first name or last name, by any chance?” she asked.
“Last name, I think,” Darnell said. “I think his first name was Ennis— ow,ma, that hurts!” he yelled, snatching his arm away.
Her tea lying forgotten on the table next to the chair, Marjorie grabbed Darnell and turned her milky, sightless eyes on him. “Did you say Ennis? Ennis Norman?”
“Yeah, ma, that’s what he said, why? Damn, you cut me with your nails!”
“Oh my god,” the old woman said, her son forgotten in that moment. “Oh my god! Now I know why I’ve always thought his voice was so familiar! I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before. Here, Darnell, help me over to the cedar chest.” With his help, she reached the large cedar box, sweeping the bric-a-brac that lay atop it into a careless pile on the wooden floor, tossing the contents of the box out in every direction until she felt what she was searching for and pulled it out. She thrust a faded bu
t still pliant magazine into Darnell’s hands, the subtle and pleasant aroma of old paper drifting up from the yellowing pages.
“What’s Time, ma?”
“Shaddup, boy, and tell me what it says on the cover!”
“It’s kinda dark, lemme move to the window,” he said, reading as he moved closer to the daylight streaming through the dirty window. “It says ‘Can he save us?’ and has a picture… holy shit, ma!” he said, eliciting a slap on the shoulder from her.
“Language!”
“Sorry, ma, it’s just… How come Mr. Harvard’s on the cover of this book?”
The old woman sat down hard in her rocking chair, spilling her tea onto the floor, the metal cup clanging dully and rolling away into the dust underneath the cupboard. “I can’t believe it. It’s really him.”
“It’s really who, ma?”
Marjorie grabbed his arm and yanked him down beside her. “You can’t tell anyone, boy. Not anyone. Not ever.”
“Tell who what, ma? What’s going on?”
“Swear to me, Darnell!” she said, not letting go. “Swear to me you won’t tell anyone.”
“Alright, alright, I swear! Jesus!” She let go and slapped him again, but without much force, and he knew it was purely from reflex. “Now will you tell me who he is?”
She pulled her shawl tighter around her trembling body and pointed a shaking finger at the man on the table, moaning in his fever dream. “That man, boy… that man is Ennis Norman.”
“I know that, ma. But who is he?”