After Darkness Fell

by David Berardelli

  I listened for a minute or so, waiting for the gunfire to resume. More shots rang out, one of them buzzing wildly into the brush. I still didn’t see movement in the woods or brush on the other side. They probably hadn’t had time to circle me yet, and were still easing down the hill and getting into position. I knew better than to waste any more time.

  Keeping my bad arm free of the heavy vines and brush, I crawled out of my barricade. Just as I pushed myself up, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned and froze.

  A slender figure dressed in camouflage pants, black tee shirt, and a pale green baseball cap emerged from one of the bushes about twenty feet away. He held what looked like an M16 rifle in his hands and had it aimed directly at me.

  “Smile, dipstick!” he said, and pulled the trigger.

  SIXTEEN

  Two simultaneous explosions echoed up and down the hilly terrain. The kid’s rifle blast flew wild, narrowly missing my head the moment I dropped to the ground.

  A large hole appeared in the boy’s chest as blood and tissue spewed out of him, splattering the ground. The boy arched his back. His head jerked back violently, as if someone had slammed his spine with a sledgehammer. His arms flew out to his sides and his rifle leaped from his grasp, landing in the bush ten feet in front of him. He fell face-forward onto the hard ground and did not move.

  Once again I was perplexed and unable to analyze what had just happened. A fresh volley of gunfire had exploded from the other side of the hill, spitting into the timber and the wild brush around me. I sunk down even further into the shoulder-high weeds and began dragging my tired body awkwardly toward the creek.

  Veer to the right, the inner voice inside me said, and once again I chose to obey it.

  Duck!

  I immediately hit the dirt. A bullet whizzed by me, slapping into one of the pine trees just beyond the creek. I lay motionless in the weeds, my heart pounding.

  The sudden silence told me they were probably reloading again. That usually took them thirty seconds. I had to take the gamble.

  Using my good arm, I pushed myself back up. Keeping low, I began duck-walking again, but as soon as I crossed the creek, I heard rustling in the bushes directly ahead. My pulse sputtering, I dove face-down into the dirt, rolled into the bushes and came back up on one knee, the Ruger braced in both hands, its barrel aimed straight ahead.

  Don’t shoot! the inner voice yelled.

  I wanted to squeeze the trigger but found that I couldn’t. My hand had gone numb. After tense moments, feeling returned, and my finger eased off the trigger and backed away from the guard.

  Strange. One of them was hiding in the brush, twenty feet away. He was probably the second rifleman. If I was right, he was going to finish me off, and I should do him before he did me. So why would the inner voice tell me not to shoot? Why shouldn’t I shoot someone who was obviously trying to kill me?

  The more I agonized over this, the less sense it made. First Marlon, then the other kid. What was happening out here? Who shot Marlon? Who shot the boy with the rifle? Was the same person responsible for nailing both of them?

  The brush rustled again. My back grew warm; every muscle in my body began tingling. Should I or shouldn’t I shoot? Who was hiding in the brush? Was this the same person who’d killed the boy? The same person who had also killed Marlon? Judging by the sheer size and power of the massive wounds that killed both boys, I was pretty certain the same weapon had been used. But I didn’t think either of the riflemen at the roadblock had used such a powerful weapon when they were shooting at me. A .30-06 would have penetrated the trunk of the Nova as well as the back seat, but would have also torn through the front seat, slammed into me, then pounded into the dash before losing its punch. I’d only had a glimpse of their weapons, so I really couldn’t tell. Even if I did know what weapons were being used, it wouldn’t tell me why two such skilled shooters had killed two members of their own gang.

  So who was hiding in the bushes? And why would he be wandering around in the woods, picking off gang members at crucial moments?

  None of this made any sense, and as I’d learned early on, if something made no sense, there was a damned good reason for it. The world I’d once known had died. No cavalry existed anymore. There were no more cops. No good guys. No communications or help network. I no longer had a cell phone, and if I did, it wouldn’t work. Even if it did work, a call to 911 or anyone else would be fruitless. It was just me and a wild pack of psycho kids who’d kidnapped the love of my life and were now coming after me. Whoever was hiding in that brush was one of them. He was either a terrible shot or a very good one. Either way, he was someone with his own sick agenda, and he was walking around carrying a powerful weapon.

  In either case, I wasn’t about to give him a chance to kill me at such a close range. Still gripping the Ruger, I brought my finger back to its proper place in front of the trigger, aimed the gun and prepared to empty the magazine into the center of the bush twenty feet straight ahead.

  “I’m a friend.”

  This voice was real. It wasn’t in my head, and it was the voice of a grown man. It also sounded like it had come from the bush.

  A friend. “I’m a friend.”

  What did that mean? Did I know him? Or did he mean ally?

  Or was this merely another hallucination?

  Confused and frightened, I finally noticed my arms, which still held the Ruger at arm’s length. They weighed a ton and had been shaking so much, I couldn’t get a clean shot even at a distance of twenty feet. Heavy waves of exhaustion had been thrashing into me more than ever; it wouldn’t be long before I collapsed. I’d been running on pure adrenaline the last few hours, but now my reserves were dangerously close to depletion and would soon shut down. The exhaustion was showing itself in many ways. Now, besides that “inner” voice, I was hearing another, and this one sounded more genuine than anything I’d ever heard. Fight it. Ignore it. I kept the Ruger pointed toward the bush.

  More shots broke out. One of them slammed into the pine tree just a few feet behind me.

  I dove into the bush again and huddled there, ignoring the intense throbbing in my arm while struggling to decide on my options. Despite my efforts, I could not grasp the reality of all this, nor could I think of a solution. Because of the increasing pain in my arm, I was having more and more difficulty concentrating. Hallucination or not, something inside me told me not to fire at the bush, and as I cautiously pushed some of the foliage away with my good arm, I saw someone moving around behind it.

  Then I finally made a decision. I didn’t know if it was due to the exhaustion, my growing sense of helplessness or the pressure of being constantly fired upon. Whatever it was, it told me to trust the voice. And my instincts. I was looking at a man—not a hallucination. And if this man had wanted me dead, I would already be dead.

  I lowered my arm.

  Seconds later, a face appeared from behind the bush.

  “Over here, Moss,” he whispered harshly. “And for Christ’s sake, keep down!”

  ***

  The back of my skull buzzed.

  Moss. He’d called me Moss. Yes, that was my name, but in this situation, it didn’t make sense. How did a man I’d never seen before know my name? What in heaven’s name was going on?

  More gunfire exploded in the woods. A heavy barrage splintered into the group of pines around us. The gang had apparently continued down the hill and come much closer. I crawled over to the brush and rolled to the other side, until I was directly behind the pine tree. Then I came face to face with the man kneeling in the brush.

  He looked to be around my age, and was dressed in camouflage pants, shirt and cap. The brim of the cap was pushed down, so I could barely see his eyes. He wore an ammo belt; a canteen hung by a thick strap over his left shoulder. The canteen caught my attention, and for the first time since I’d escaped the bullet-ridden Nova, I realized how dehydrated I was.

  But fresh water wasn’t the most crucial
thing weighing on my mind. I couldn’t stop wondering who this man was, how he knew my name. If he knew anything about me, he’d have to be one of them. So what was his next move? A bullet to my head? Was that why he’d coaxed me out of the bushes? So he could get me close enough to do the deed without making a mess of it again?

  No. The inner voice had guided me here. Despite my instincts, my fears, I felt compelled to listen to it. And because of this reasoning, I had to trust this man, whoever he was.

  My suspicions came thundering back, smothering every other thought and emotion in a heavy darkness.

  He knew my name.

  How was this possible? Had Fields told him?

  This would mean he was one of them. If so, he’d no doubt talked to her, asked her questions. Knowing Fields as I did, and assuming she’d been playing possum all this time, they would have been forced to revert to extreme measures to get her to talk. Torture, perhaps? Sense deprivation? Threats? They’d had her nearly twelve hours, now. Twelve hours, in my experience, afforded kidnappers more than enough time to find out whatever they wanted to know from their victim. From what I’d seen during my Pakistani Brighton tour, a terrorist could find out anything he wanted to know in just a few minutes.

  Would Fields be able to stand the pressure for this long? Or would she cave? Would she tell them about me? My military training? My background? How I functioned?

  My guts twisted, and my exhaustion began trickling away. The throbbing in my wounded arm even eased up. If this bastard was actually Simon or a member of his gang, I was going to find out very quickly. And if I discovered that he’d hurt her in any way, he was going to die a very painful death.

  He knelt on his right knee, his left side against the pine tree. His right side faced me, but the bush separating us concealed his weapon from view. He was watching the area to our right, just beyond my former sanctuary. He actually appeared to be watching our attackers. Logic told me that if he’d been gunning for me, he would have already shot and killed me by now.

  My suspicions remained strong. Gritting my teeth and summoning what strength I had left, I transferred the Ruger from my right hand to my left. My left arm wasn’t in much better shape than my right from all the abuse I’d subjected it to, but it wasn’t numb with pain, and could still function. I wasn’t quite as proficient with my left arm, but the target was only a few feet away, and even though the pistol grip was designed for the right hand, I could manage the shot.

  All I had to do was ask the question. If I didn’t get the right answer, I’d put a round in his kneecap. That would disable him long enough for me to take his weapon, get him on the ground, and repeat my question. A second round would shatter his other kneecap, and the elbows would be next. If he still didn’t talk, I’d simply finish him off and hunt for a way out of the woods. I was pretty much a physical wreck at this point, but that didn’t matter. I was going to find Fields if it was the last thing I ever did. If I didn’t, or if I found her too late, I had no desire to continue my existence in this chilling nightmare world.

  I gripped the Ruger more firmly in my hand and cleared my throat. My heart was in my mouth and my nerves were tingling, but I managed to get the words out nonetheless. “I’ve got a question to ask you.”

  He turned to face me, shifting a little amongst the bushes, and I saw the weapon resting on his thigh. It looked like a Desert Tactical Arms Stealth Recon Scout sniper rifle, with a telescopic sight. The same model the military had used more than thirty years ago, in Iraq and Afghanistan. At the time, it was used strictly for military personnel. By the time I enlisted in the military a decade later, they’d stopped using them, and it was almost impossible to find one. The fact that this man had one, for some inexplicable reason, comforted me. This strange feeling somehow told me that he wasn’t Simon, or even a member of Simon’s gang. Like many off-the-wall ideas, this one didn’t come with an explanation. The only thing I knew was that I no longer felt as tense or as uneasy as I did moments earlier.

  “Is that ... a Scout?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I haven’t seen one of those in years. What caliber is it?”

  “.338 Lapua Magnum.”

  A nasty, heavy load. No wonder Marlon and the other guy had gone down so hard. The round used by the Scout was designed to penetrate body armor at nearly eleven hundred yards. Once again, I found myself wondering what the hell was going on, how this strange guy who apparently knew my name had just come from out of the blue and saved my ass twice in the last couple of hours.

  More gunfire slapped the ground just a few yards away. The gang was getting closer. He motioned for me to get down, and we moved another twenty yards farther into the woods. Once I found a good spot, he crawled over to the pine and peered around it. Then he raised the Scout, peered into the sight and popped off a couple of heavy rounds into the hill on the other side of the valley. The gunfire stopped immediately.

  He turned back to me and stared at my bloody arm. Then, resting the butt of the rifle on the ground between his feet, he reached into his jacket. He seemed concerned. “How bad?”

  “Not bad. I need to clean it up.”

  “Is the bullet still inside?”

  “It was a .22, so yeah, probably.”

  “Bummer.” He produced a silver flask. Another shot rang out, smacking a tree just beyond us. He barely flinched. I had the feeling he was a seasoned soldier. “Pour some over the wound and have a slug or two.”

  I rested the Ruger on the ground in front of me.

  He frowned. “You’re using a .22?”

  I took the flask. “I needed something light to carry around. These assholes have been chasing me all night. I’m using mini mags.”

  “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “I’m also carrying a .38 Ladysmith in a pancake holster behind my back and a .22 Beretta in my pocket.”

  He shook his head. “I’m surprised you’ve only been hit once.”

  “I guess you could say it’s my lucky day.”

  He got back into his kneeling position, raised the Scout, sighted in again and emptied the mag into the countryside. He pulled out the empty, pocketed it, removed a fresh 5-shot box mag from his belt, slammed it in, bolted it action-ready, sighted it in and got off two more shots. An ear-splitting shriek echoed across the woods. He set the rifle back down and reached into his jacket pocket again.

  I carefully spilled a steady trickle of whiskey directly onto the bloody wound. It burned like the blazes. I clenched my jaw and held my breath until it had soaked through and the stinging died down. Then I had a swallow. The whiskey burned all the way down and its tingling perked me right up.

  I snapped the flask shut and held it out. He motioned for me to keep it. Not wanting to argue, I slid it into the inner pocket of my jacket. He found something else in his jacket and pulled it out. He offered me a bandage wrap.

  I just gawked at it. I must have looked really stupid right then, but I still couldn’t believe any of this was actually happening.

  “Take it. Wrap it as best you can. We’ll fix it later.”

  Later? That meant ... well, it meant later, as in the future.

  Didn’t it? Of course it did. It also meant hope. And that meant I was somehow getting out of this.

  I wanted to shake his hand ... to thank him for showing up ... for saving my life—not once, but twice.

  But I knew better. This wasn’t the time for pleasantries. The gang was still out there, shooting at us. But since I’d just been told we might actually be able to do something “later,” maybe then we’d have time to share the rest of the flask. But Fields would have to be with us for the celebration to have any real meaning for me. And that meant we still had a lot to do once we got out of here.

  I took the bandage. “Thanks. I really...”

  “We gotta get out of here. I just spotted two of those little bastards crawling around behind those dead trees.”

  ***

  Staying behind the trees, my com
panion and I backed away from our nest amongst the bushes and snuck over to the hill about forty yards behind us. The rise was overrun with trees and brush, ascending at a forty-five-degree angle for more than a hundred yards—a long, arduous climb, but obviously our only escape. If my new friend was right, the armed gang would be crossing the creek in just a few minutes. Being here to meet them would be very bad for everyone.

  I stayed about ten feet behind him, watching him closely and stepping in his tracks as we squeezed through the thick trails of wild brush and vines. Without losing step, I removed the magazine from the Ruger and shoved the gun into its shoulder holster beneath my left arm. I opened the flap of my ammo pouch, grabbed a handful of .22 mini mags and dropped six of them into my palm. While I remained focused on the man in front of me, I worked by feel to carefully load the magazine. My nerves were shot and I was exhausted. Even though the shot of whiskey helped me stay alert, I felt myself succumbing to the fatigue. I even zoned out once or twice, and recovered only after I’d stumbled on exposed roots. Fortunately, my instinct and sense of survival remained in high gear, and I managed to maintain my footing. I kept a firm grip on the magazine and kept myself from dropping the ammo.

  By the time we were about twenty yards from the top of the hill, I’d finished loading the mag. An exhilarating feeling overwhelmed my exhaustion, and I soon discovered that I felt much better than I did when we’d begun our climb. The pounding in my wounded arm had even eased up. I pulled out the Ruger, slammed the fully-loaded mag back into it, and jacked one into the chamber. As a precaution, I turned and scanned the wooded drop behind us. I saw nothing.

  “They’re probably spreading out after they cross the creek,” my friend said. “It won’t be long before they figure out we’re not there anymore. Then they’ll decide to make the climb.”

  “I don’t think they’re good trackers. It takes years to become a decent tracker.”