The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning

by Jason Kristopher

  The determination on the faces of those who were going was clear. They would make it, come hell or high water, and God help the man or beast that stood in their way. Shaw glanced back down at Rachel, raising his voice to carry throughout the bay.

  “You have a go!” There was a cheer from all those assembled, along with lots of backslapping and howling. They were proud of themselves and those with them and eager to accomplish their mission.

  Rachel grinned as she stepped away from the others and came to attention, saluting her CO.

  Shaw returned the salute with a grin as well. “Kick ass, Lieutenant.” He turned to Sergeant Carson and shook the man’s hand. “It’s your show now, Sergeant. Get ‘em home.”

  Carson nodded and saluted as well. “Damn right, sir.” He followed Rachel toward the convoy and mounted up in the second vehicle, the command Humvee. The first in line, the Hunter’s scouting vehicle, took off as soon as Rachel set foot inside. It wasn’t long before the rest of the convoy had pulled out, with the Stryker and second Hunter Humvee bringing up the rear. As the dust settled and the remaining personnel prepared for closing the big doors, Jennifer turned to her husband.

  “I think you’re better at those speeches than you realize, Bill,” she said and laughed.

  “Maybe so, but they’ve got a long way to go.” He didn’t return her laugh. “A long way to go and a short time to get there. Fare well, my friends. Fare well.”

  Church Scouting Post

  Outside Angel Fire, New Mexico

  The leader watched as one of the runners—Brother Michael, if memory served—coughed and tried to catch his breath as he stood in the sand-colored tent of the Church’s camp. The runner coughed again and spat to one side to clear the sand from his mouth and throat.

  The cell’s leader ordered one of the acolytes to bring the scout some water from their limited supply. Before his posting here, he would’ve had the scout beaten for such an affront to his person—spitting on his floor. But the desert had hardened him to the necessities of existence in such a climate, and he barely noticed it now.

  “Your report, Brother,” the leader said.

  Michael nodded and spoke, his voice hoarse and graveled from long exposure to desert winds. “Many trucks, Brother. There were Hunters with them as well and the large vehicle with the thunder-cannons on the top.”

  The leader sighed at the limited intelligence of the men with which he had to work. No, not limited intelligence, simple ignorance. There was no formal schooling allowed in the Church other than the dictates of His Holiness Archbishop Wright. This had left many of their followers ill-informed.

  He sighed again, this time at his internal blasphemy, and added to the day’s count of self-inflicted lashes. For the mortification of the flesh was the most holy of their daily rites and would cleanse his soul of this sin—later, at any rate.

  The scout still stood at some semblance of attention, waiting for further instructions. The leader thought for a moment, then spoke. “We will marshal our forces with those of our Brethren to the east and catch the evildoers between us. They will perish in fire and blood. As it is written, so let it be done. Go now and prepare our people.”

  All his people left except his nameless manservant. His guards secured the tent flap from the outside, and he sat on the carpet. “Bring me the device,” he said, and the servant scurried to the corner of the tent and the heavy oaken chest that lay there. The servant retrieved the bulky satellite phone, then returned to his usual place on the carpet to one side.

  The leader regarded the wretch as he unfolded the phone’s antenna and wondered again where the man had come from. He knew the slave would not speak out of turn, as he had cut the tongue from the slave’s mouth and cauterized the wound himself. Still, it irked him that he knew nothing else about someone so close to his person for such an extended period.

  He turned on the phone, and the autodialing process connected him with a member of the archbishop’s staff. “Brother Ezekiel, you have word?” the voice on the line said.

  “I do. The blasphemers have left their hole and are moving sunward. It is my wish that Brother Benjamin’s believers should ally with mine to destroy them between us with righteous vengeance.”

  There was a pause on the line, and then the voice spoke. “Very well, Brother Ezekiel. We will make arrangements as needed. Know you the place called ‘Clayton, New Mexico’?”

  Ezekiel prayed for patience and held his breath to avoid shouting at the man. He cursed the need to speak with such archaic language and deliberate idiocy. What did this buffoon think, that he’d never heard of the town of Clayton? Or the state of New Mexico? Moron! He took another deep breath and added ten lashes to his daily total.

  “Yes, I know of it.”

  “Good. You will meet Brother Benjamin’s forces there and deliver the righteous vengeance of our Lord unto the blasphemers. Pray for guidance, Brother Ezekiel. And do not fail.”

  Ezekiel started to respond, but the line had gone dead, so he folded the antenna back into the phone. “Take this and bring me my scourge,” he said, removing his arms from his robe. The fabric fell away but stuck a bit to the not-quite-healed wounds from the previous day’s lashes. He took a deep breath and strengthened himself for the task ahead.

  “Lord, give me strength…”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bunker Eight Convoy

  Outside Clayton, New Mexico

  The radio squawked to life on the dashboard of the command Humvee. “Romeo Six, Lima Three, come in.”

  Sergeant Carson recognized Rachel’s callsign. “Go for Romeo Six.”

  “Multiple tangoes ahead. They’ve blocked the road, as expected.”

  Carson swore. They weren’t even in the city yet, and their precious cargo was already jeopardized. To be fair, Clayton wasn’t a thriving metropolis, at just over a mile from side to side, but that wasn’t the point. “Roger, Lima Three. Alternate route?”

  “None yet. Recommend you hold position while we look around.”

  “Can we push through?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a snowplow on the front of your ride, Romeo Six. They’ve stacked a couple wrecked cars.”

  Carson swore again. “Acknowledged. We’ll hold here. Romeo Six out.” He threw the radio back into its cradle and spat out the window in frustration. “Fuck! I hate being out here like this.”

  “You and me both, Sarge,” Fasco said. The private had refused to let anyone else drive once he got patched up. Now he ran a hand over his bicep, where he’d taken the bullet in Clovis.

  Carson shook his head. “Look at me, Fasco,” he said and looked him straight in the eye. “You and I are getting through this. We will not give these sons of bitches the satisfaction. Hooah?”

  “Fuckin’ hooah, Sarge,” Fasco said, and Carson could see the set of his jaw. The kid was ready as he’d ever be to go back into the fire.

  “It’s always fucking something,” he muttered. He climbed out of the Humvee, eager to take the chance to stretch his legs out of rifle range of the small town. Unless there was a nutjob in one of the small houses off the road.

  “They’re out there, I know it. I can feel them. The stink of crazy is in the air. This is gonna suck. This is so gonna suck.” Carson rapped with a fist on the back of the Stryker, and the ramp came down. With one foot on the ramp, he nodded at the woman stationed at the monitors in the vehicle. “Any movement on the REAPR?” he asked.

  The airman shook her head. “Nothing yet, sir.”

  “They’re out there. Don’t take your eyes off those screens. We will not have a repeat of Clovis. Do you get me, Airman?”

  “Yes, sir. Sir? What happened in Clovis?”

  “A shitstorm, Airman. But we’ve got you now, right? You and Betty here. Everything’s gonna be peachy keen, ain’t it?”

  “I… I guess so, sir.”

  “Betty will take care of ya.”

  Carson looked at the ruined buildings on the outskirts of the
small town. He had that feeling he always got just before things went to shit. It was a warm, comfortable feeling, one that he’d gotten used to over the years. Almost an old friend. But nothing ever went to plan when he got that feeling.

  “Not this time,” he whispered, then turned back to the airman. “Button it up! Get the Hunters back here. We’re punching through. Y’all move up and take point. There’s nothing this bitch can’t handle.”

  “Yes, sir,” the airman said. She began to issue orders to the Hunters as the Stryker’s ramp closed.

  Carson had just made it back to the command Humvee when he noticed the cloud of dust rising over the horizon. “Romeo Six, Big Betty,” he heard from the radio.

  “Romeo Six, go ahead, Betty.”

  “Multiple hostiles, sir! Count at least four ground vehicles closing fast on our six.”

  “Here we go,” he said and nodded as he picked up the radio. “Lima Three, Romeo Six. Come in.”

  “We’re on our way back, Romeo Six.”

  “Do you see the dust cloud at your twelve o’clock?”

  “What?” Rachel asked. “Yeah, but what—”

  “Is it a haboob?”

  “No, it’s not big enough. Those are solid walls of dust, this is broken and—oh, shit.”

  “Exactly. We’ve been made. We’re en route. I want y’all to bring up the rear, but stay close.” Carson grinned as the convoy moved out once more and the Stryker filled his forward field of vision. “Betty’s gonna punch a hole for us.”

  It was only a minute or two before Carson passed the scout Humvee where it idled on the roadside. By that point, he could hear the approaching vehicles, even if he couldn’t see them. They were loud enough to pick out over the roar of the Stryker, and that was saying something. He looked back out of the Humvee’s right side and saw the scout vehicle take its place in line as rear guard.

  “Betty, Romeo Six.”

  “Go ahead, Six.”

  “Whatever we come to up there, you keep that hammer down, got it? Punch through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He saw the exterior hatch on the top of the vehicle swing shut as the vehicle picked up speed.

  “All units, all units, maintain speed. Fire at will. Say again, fire at will.”

  He couldn’t see around the Stryker, and that forced Carson to keep an eye on the side streets and the occasional backward glance. It only took a minute for him to be able to see the first of the pursuing vehicles, and at the same time, his rearguard radioed in.

  “Lima Three, we have contact.”

  Carson could both hear and see the intermittent cracks and flashes of light from the rifles carried by the Hunter squad. He doubted their efficacy at such long distances, but he stopped doubting when one of the vehicles swerved and spun out Mad Max-style off to the side. It wasn’t the first time these freaks had made him think of that classic movie.

  He just wished he knew where the hell they got so many of them.

  “Betty, contact. REAPR activating.”

  Carson just had time to cover his ears as the twin .50-caliber machine guns fired. They swiveled back and forth, tracking multiple targets. Following so close to the big vehicle, he couldn’t see the effects, but he had no doubt they were doing their job.

  “Stryker, Romeo Six. Concentrate your fire on the roadblock when you see it. That’ll make it easier to punch through.”

  “Roger that.”

  The buildings began to get closer as they entered the town itself, and the road narrowed to two lanes. Mangled bodies lay beside the road, still dressed in what remained of their church garments. As he’d expected, the Church of Divine Judgment had ambushed them.

  Suddenly, the machine guns tracked straight forward and began pounding something he couldn’t see. It had to be the roadblock.

  “Hold on, Romeo Six. Ten seconds to roadblock. Heads up, lots of tangoes.”

  Carson watched the rooftops and sidewalks as they sped along, firing as one or another zealot poked their head up. Most seemed to be running, unable to stand against the withering fire of the massive guns.

  He felt the impact of the Stryker into the cars forming the roadblock as if it were his own vehicle. The explosion made his ears ring, and the wrecked cars tore through the remains of the buildings on either side. For its part, the Stryker didn’t pause, the chewed-up old cars not impeding its progress through the streets of the small town.

  “We’re through, sir, we’re—”

  The transmission broke off as a rocket hit the side of the Stryker, and both the rocket and the big vehicle vanished for a moment in a cloud of smoke and fire. Carson coughed as his Humvee, following close, also moved through the cloud. He spat out a mouthful of dust and smoke. Once out the other side, his vision cleared, and he could see one of the vehicle’s tires was a shredded mess. The other two on that side were picking up the slack.

  “RPG!” he shouted into the radio. “Keep going!” There was no question of stopping or even slowing now. They had to get the less-armored cargo trucks through before the zealots reloaded their weapon… assuming they just had the one. “Lima Three, take out that rocket!”

  He didn’t hear their confirmation of his order but continued firing at the crowds of zealots that ran toward him. “Where the fuck did they get all these people?” he asked aloud. His own gunner had opened up with the top-mounted machine gun on his vehicle and was laying waste to those on the opposite side of the street.

  Carson risked a glance backward and saw the MTVs—medium tactical vehicles—behind him. They damn sure weren’t slowing, either. The men mounted in them fired in all directions. The armor plates on the sides of the cargo trucks showed dents and signs of small-arms fire but nothing larger. Not yet, anyway.

  The Humvee swerved, and he drew back inside, looking at his driver. “What the fuck, Fasco?” he asked.

  “Sorry, sir. At least one landmine just lying in the road, sir.”

  Carson grunted. “Good eye. They don’t even know how to use a landmine. This is getting ridiculous. Bet they could still arm them, though.” He picked up the radio. “Landmines, people. Sharp eyes!” It was only pure dumb luck that the Stryker hadn’t hit one ye—

  He felt the front of his Humvee tilt upward, and he went weightless for a moment. Time moved slow, and he turned to see Fasco’s face frozen in a scream. The windshield shattered inward, covering the driver in broken glass. Carson could see the ground approaching through the opening, which felt odd to him in that moment. The radio was making noises, but he couldn’t understand them.

  The ground was much closer now and coming faster.

  The first thing Rachel heard when she woke was ringing. Nothing else came through. She blinked the dust and dirt out of her eyes and took stock of her body’s aches and pains. Everything still felt attached, which was good, and nothing screamed at her when she made slow movements. She tried to ignore the smell of blood and cordite that suffused the area and fought to keep from sneezing. The dust cloud that had followed their attackers into the city wasn’t helping.

  As she looked around, she realized she was sitting up against the side of the Humvee. She couldn’t remember how she got there, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the blood that coated the lower half of her uniform.

  It wasn’t hers. It had come from the body of one of her fellow Hunters, the remains of which were lying across her lower legs. His torso lay shredded, leaving his upper body on one side of her and his legs half-covering hers. Though the sight would normally be traumatic, she was numb to it. She knew she was in shock, but again, it didn’t matter.

  She tried to stand and discovered her legs wouldn’t respond. She didn’t feel any pain, and they looked okay, if covered in blood, but she couldn’t get up. Her body was refusing to go any farther. She strained again and felt a bit of strength return.

  “Get up, Rachel,” she muttered. “Get your ass up. Find the others. GO! MOVE!”

  She struggled to bring her legs under her, lo
oking around for her rifle. There was one under the side of the Humvee near her, and that was good enough. She levered herself up using the weapon and the vehicle and took note of her surroundings.

  It was a mess. It seemed as though half the street was on fire, with the buildings on either side burning bright. Abandoned for more than twenty years, they were dry and went up like matchsticks. She’d seen the same thing in Austin. She heard the crack of a pistol nearby and flinched. Then another and another.

  “Time to get moving,” she said and looked into the Humvee for other survivors. No one in there, but no bodies either. That made sense. If the others were alive and thought she was dead, they’d get to safety to ride out the storm, so to speak. There was a chattering of machine-gun fire from farther into the town, and she recognized the sound of an AEGIS-issue AR-15 rifle. Moving toward it in a low crouch, she toggled the radio mic on her shoulder.

  “Romeo Six, Hunter—” A fit of coughing interrupted her, and she tried her best to suppress it. “Hunter Three. Romeo Six, Hunter Three, come in.” She had no idea whether they’d received the transmission or not, but her radio appeared to be intact. She moved through the cloud of smoke and fire that was all that remained of one Humvee and paused as she sensed an empty space before her. No way to know what was in that smoke. Could be zealots, soldiers, or walkers. She crouched and scuttled to the side of the street that wasn’t burning and inched forward in as much cover as she could find.

  A shadow ran through the smoke in front of her, and she flinched back. No AEGIS uniform, so not one of their people, and she was in no shape for hand-to-hand fighting at the moment. Her head still rang from whatever explosion or rocket had hit her Humvee, and she was more than a little disoriented. She waited until she was sure the shadow was gone, then crept forward once more.