Darker Days (As the Ash Fell Book 2)

by AJ Powers

  Recognizing the men, Clay immediately lowered his rifle.

  “How bad is it?” Shelton asked, never breaking eye contact with the man in front of him.

  “It’s really bad, sir.”

  ****

  The piercing screams from the woman was almost too much for Clay to handle. The buckshot had made her thigh all but unrecognizable as part of a leg. Her face was a ghostly white and her eyes filled with despair. “Please! It hurts so much!” she cried in vain as Clay and another man lifted her onto a homemade stretcher—one of only three the town had. As a result, only the most severe injuries utilized the archaic means of transporting wounded.

  “One…two...three,” the man said as he and Clay lifted the woman off the ground.

  This action was met with a blood-curdling shriek.

  The three-hundred-yard walk to the infirmary went at a snail’s pace. The woman had already been through enough—adding to her agony by bumping and jostling her around wasn’t going to do any good. There was no saving her, anyhow. Clay glanced down again at the destruction to her leg and recalled the last time he saw so much blood pouring out of a person. I’m so sorry, Clay thought to himself, not wanting to be the one to give her the grim news. Her cries ceased before they reached the infirmary, but as Clay and the man approached the door, countless others’ agony covered the silence.

  Chaos was the only word to describe the activity inside the ill-equipped, makeshift hospital. The wounded cried out in pain as volunteers scrambled to meet the needs of each patient. The reassuring lies being spoken to loved ones—that everything was going to be okay—was a punch in the gut to Clay.

  “What do we have?” an older woman asked as she came up to Clay. The woman, who went by the name of Jackie, was Doctor Sowell’s assistant. A quick glance down at the leg evoked a “Dear God,” out of the middle-aged woman. Jackie had been a nurse practitioner for eighteen years before the eruptions, but she had seen more devastating injuries in that night than she had her entire career up to this point. “Follow me,” she said as she turned and walked briskly to the other side of the room to try and find some space.

  She stopped near the back wall and pointed to an empty spot on the ground. Clay and the other man gently set the stretcher down, and with the aid of Jackie and another volunteer, they slid the woman over onto several stacked blankets on the floor.

  “I’ll make sure that Doctor Sowell sees her next,” the woman said as she walked back to triage another person who had just been carried through the door—someone she might be able to help.

  Clay sighed deeply as he ran his fingers through his hair. Why did this happen, he asked himself. Though he didn’t say anything, it was obvious that Shelton knew the man in his house. Clay wanted to ask him about it, but there were more pressing matters to tend to. Shelton threw the man into one of the town’s two jail cells under heavy guard while they fought off the remaining attackers. The whole thing was disturbing, but the mystery behind the whos and whys of the attack were almost as unsettling as the attack itself. Almost.

  A tall, slender black man walked up to Clay. Without saying a word, he knelt and checked the woman on the ground for a pulse. Still silent, the man grabbed a blanket on the ground next to the body and draped it over her. “She’s gone,” he said with a deep, weary voice.

  Doctor Sowell was a great surgeon and an even better man. He had been a rising star at one of the top hospitals in Houston for many years before he got bogged down with the bureaucratic lunacy that consumed the healthcare system. Having made a decent amount of wealth in the first half of his career, he left that life behind and went into medical mission’s work both at home and abroad.

  The man always seemed to be in good spirits, even during some of the harshest winter months the town had ever faced. He was an optimist through and through and had a way of making his positivity contagious. But as Clay looked at the blood-soaked clothing, the overwhelmed expression, and the slumped shoulders, it was easy to see that the doctor’s high spirits had been conquered.

  “There’s nothing you guys could have done. There’s nothing I could have done,” he said while shaking his head.

  Clay nodded; he’d suspected that prognosis before they even walked inside.

  It had been more than two hours since the last shots had been fired, and since then, Clay had been transporting the wounded to the infirmary. Exhaustion exuded from both Clay and the other man, and the surgeon took notice.

  “You guys are looking pretty drained. Please, go get some water and sit down for a few minutes before going back out,” he said, gesturing to a small break room through a doorway.

  Clay slowly got to his feet and then both he and Doctor Sowell helped the other man up. Clay looked toward the door and noticed that the inflow of wounded had finally slowed. Clay couldn’t help but feel badly that his night was ending, but anyone with even a hint of medical experience would continue to work through the night.

  Clay saw Lona working feverishly across the room—he had never seen her look so flustered. She tried to calm a toddler with a gash across his forehead. Clay’s fists began to shake and his knuckles turned white as he imagined the kind of monster that would take a shot at a young child trying to flee from danger.

  Following the doctor’s orders, Clay found himself slouched over a collapsing table with a red, plastic cup of water in his hand. While the wall separating the tiny break area from the triage/exam/operating room blocked out the gruesome sights on the other side, it did little to muffle the sounds of agony that callously burrowed into Clay’s head. Even so, Clay’s body managed to relax just a little bit.

  Although he ached all over, Clay felt compelled to find some way to help—and sitting at a table drinking water wasn’t accomplishing that. But, as he considered his next task, Clay’s desire to get back to Kelsey and the kids overcame his willingness to assist in the infirmary. He needed to ensure their safety from another wave of barbarians that everyone feared was coming soon.

  Dusty was currently perched in the decorative clock tower with her .270 just off the town’s main entrance. The moonless night would make it virtually impossible to spot potential attackers, but if anyone could tag an enemy on a stormy night, Dusty could. And she would make them pay for it. If nothing else, her position offered her the ability to alert the town of a coming attack.

  Clay tilted his head back as he threw back the last few ounces of water in his cup. He looked across the room and saw the man he had spent the evening with drifting in and out of consciousness. Clay hadn’t even caught his name. Helluva way to be introduced, he thought.

  Resigned to the fact that there probably wasn’t much more he could do at the infirmary, Clay decided to head back to the hotel for the night. Before he could get out of his chair, the dwindling commotion on the other side of the wall roared back to life, Megan’s voice rising above the rest of the noise.

  Clay startled the other man when he jumped out of his chair and raced for the door. Megan was already briefing Doctor Sowell on the condition of the patient that Levi and Kohler carried across the room without a stretcher. Clay’s stomach sank when he realized who it was.

  “Vlad!”

  Clay’s vision blurred as he walked toward his longtime friend. The world around him started to move in slow motion, causing Clay to wonder—to hope—that this was all just a bad dream—a terrible nightmare he would eventually wake from and return to the slightly less horrific one he had been living for the past decade.

  Megan looked over at Clay. Her grim face told him everything he needed to know—it was time to come say goodbye.

  Clay staggered past the scurrying people and over to Vlad’s bed as Megan, Doctor Sowell, and Jackie prepped Vlad for surgery. He approached slowly, as if he was walking up the edge of a cliff, fearful that he might slip and fall into the abyss. He didn’t want to look his friend in the eyes as he departed this life for the next. I can’t do this anymore, Clay thought. I am so tired of saying goodbye.

>   It took all the energy Clay had to take those daunting final steps up to the bed. Though the amount of blood on the sheets and his clothes was inconceivable, Vlad did not seem to be in a lot of pain. He looked up at Clay, a look of hope flashed through his eyes at the sight of his friend.

  “Clay, please,” he said through labored breath. “Olesya…” His eyes closed.

  “I promise…” Clay said, his lip quivering. “We’ll take care of her.” Clay swiped his hand across his face as he fought back the tears.

  “His vitals are dropping,” Doctor Sowell said. “We need to do this now.”

  Clay took the hint and backed away to give the surgical team some space. He walked over to Lona and embraced her. She buried her face into his chest while she sobbed quietly. An evening that started out as close to heaven as possible had quickly plummeted into the depths of hell.

  Watching the brilliant surgeon work across the room, Clay felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. Being caught up in the moment at Shelton’s house with the masked assailant and then being recruited to help transport the wounded, Clay not only failed to keep his promise to help Vlad, but he had forgotten all about him until he was carried inside.

  The door opened and Shelton stepped inside. He stood in silence as he witnessed the destruction that had been left in the wake of the attack.

  After talking to one of the volunteers for a few minutes, he approached Clay. “Do you have a minute?” he asked discreetly.

  “Yeah, sure,” Clay responded as he released his hold of Lona.

  The house was about fifteen yards behind them before Shelton started to talk. “Clay, uhm…” the usually clear-spoken Shelton stammered over his words.

  “What’s going on, Barry?” Clay asked.

  “There are at least twenty-two unaccounted for—and as far as we can tell, almost all of them are children.”

  Clay’s eyes widened. Shelton’s words only fanned the rage growing hotter with each bloodied victim Clay picked up.

  “We’re forming search parties now,” Shelton said. “Clay, I hate to ask you, but we’re really stretched thin, and—”

  “Just let me go get a few things,” Clay interrupted.

  Shelton nodded, grateful for Clay’s willingness. “Thank you, Clay. Meet back at my house as soon as possible.”

  Clay turned around and jogged back to Vlad’s hotel. His thoughts were in complete disarray, like two radio frequencies competing to be heard, but mostly coming through as static. He slowed his jog down to a walk to try to clear his mind. He would need to be sharp if he was going to leave the town in the middle of the night.

  As he approached the hotel, he heard Vlad’s voice echo in his head.

  “Olesya.” His distressing voice made Clay feel weak. He prayed that his daughter’s name would not be Vlad’s final word.

  As Clay slowly shook off the events from the evening and prepared for the challenge still ahead, it dawned on him what Vlad was actually telling him just before he passed out. He didn’t ask Clay to look after his daughter…

  Vlad begged that Clay find her.

  Chapter 17

  It was cold, wet, and dark. Ordinarily, going out into the wild under such conditions was a recipe for a gruesome death. The extraordinary circumstances, however, cared not for the time or the weather.

  Clay and Geoff walked in silence as they searched for any signs of life. Each search party consisted of three men that would head out as far as they could manage in a pre-determined direction. There were twenty-three men in all, which meant one group would be down a man. Clay and Geoff volunteered to be the two-man team. Having worked together for years, the pair operated more like a single entity than two individuals. Apart from Dusty, throwing a third person into the mix would have only hampered their effectiveness.

  It had been hours since they left town, and it appeared they had gone the wrong direction. Between the pounding rain and the lack of light, any trail left by the abductors was long gone. Clay and Geoff merely headed out in the direction assigned to them, looking for the slightest clue that a group of people might have passed through over the past few hours.

  “Check path,” Geoff said quietly.

  Clay lifted his heavy, oversized poncho off his body and on top of both him and Geoff. Geoff pulled out a compass and clicked on a flashlight.

  “Still southeast,” Clay said. “Good.”

  Geoff killed the light and Clay pulled the poncho back onto himself—not that it was doing much good anymore.

  “So, what do you think?” Geoff asked. “Keep going?”

  Clay didn’t have any way of telling time, but he guessed it was closer to dawn than not. He had long burned through his energy reserves and was down to fumes. With the daunting trip back still ahead, Clay wanted to call it off. But with Vlad’s desperate plea for help still echoing in his mind, he forbade himself from quitting just yet.

  “Let’s push a little further.”

  Geoff walked forward, offering his nonverbal agreement; Clay trailed behind.

  About twenty minutes later, they found what they were looking for—a dim light in a window several hundred yards away. The jolt of adrenaline brought a renewed bank of energy. Clay and Geoff quickly moved closer, hoping to get a better look at the target. It was too dark to know for sure, but Clay’s gut told him they found what they were looking for.

  Clay and Geoff crouched down and formulated some strategies. With visibility piss-poor at best, their options were limited. Every plan they came up with, however, relied on the element of surprise, and Clay’s suppressed .300 blackout was going to play a crucial role. He just hoped it was sighted in properly—his mind kept thinking back to Smith missing the cat.

  They decided to wait until dawn before making their move and found cover in a patch of trees. Even though most of the leaves had already fallen to the ground, the scraggly branches would provide them with some level of concealment and slight relief from the rain.

  Clay and Geoff had already staged their ambush minutes before sunrise. It was still too dark to make out details, but the ever-so-subtle hint of light creeping over the horizon allowed them to get a better idea of the building’s layout. It was a farmhouse with a barn around fifty yards off to the side.

  They refined their plans based on that information, then moved in closer. With each minute that passed, the scene in front of them brightened. Geoff used the binoculars to do a quick scan; all quiet.

  The sun finally crested the horizon, bringing everything into much clearer view. They waited patiently for some indication that they had found who they were looking for. And within minutes, their suspicions had been confirmed.

  Geoff watched as a man holding a rifle walked out of the house and over to the barn. As he approached the barn, he shouted and another armed man walked out. They chatted for a moment and the one man had pointed back to the house he had just come from. They then went their separate ways, each going to the opposite building from which they came.

  “Looks like shift change,” Geoff said, “but if I had to guess, they’re not going to be here all that much longer.”

  “Yeah,” Clay agreed as he observed through his ACOG scope. “I think you’re right.”

  Clay and Geoff solidified their plan of attack and prepared for the assault. Clay ensured he had his subsonic ammo loaded. He only brought two mags worth, but to make the suppressor as effective as possible, he needed to use it. If all went well, he’d only burn through a couple of rounds.

  Ditching their packs behind some shrubs, Clay and Geoff followed the tree line for as long as they could. They were about a hundred yards from the barn when they ran out of woods. At that point, Geoff knelt down, pulled a few magazines out of his pouch, and placed them on the ground next to a tree for quick retrieval.

  Geoff nodded toward Clay. “Good luck.”

  “You just make sure none of those SOBs sneak up on me.”

  “You know I got your back.”

  He did.

  St
aying low and moving fast, Clay quickly closed the gap between the trees and the barn. The sounds of whimpers and cries crept into existence as he reached the rotting, wooden structure. All doubt that they might be attacking an innocent family was gone.

  For the most part, Clay was no longer visible from the house. Making sure he kept it that way, he hugged the wall of the barn and move toward the back. About half way down the building, one of the wooden planks was popped out enough that he could get a glimpse inside.

  There were two guards inside; both armed with SKS rifles. His field of view was limited, but Clay saw three kids sitting on the ground, huddled together under a filthy blanket. Their bodies shivered from the frosty morning air. It sounded as if there were more hostages inside, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Clay weighed his options. At that moment, the best approach he had was to pop in from the front door and take both guards out. He felt confident enough in his ability to shoot both men before they could react, especially since one of them had his rifle slung over his shoulder. The problem with that idea was that it would mean Clay would have to expose himself to the farmhouse. If one of the guards managed to get a shot off or even shout, Clay’s position would leave him vulnerable, ruining their plans to silently extract the children. They, of course, had a fallback plan, but it came with a much higher risk for collateral damage, which was unacceptable to both Clay and Geoff.