The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning

by Jason Kristopher

  He’d take what he could get. Even without the extra training, he and his people had been on the surface for the last twenty years, not cowering in bunkers like frightened mice. They knew how to deal with the elements and the remnants of the mostly-extinct infidel civilization.

  “Have our people encountered any of the Seraphim?” Ezekiel asked.

  Benjamin shook his head. “No, Brother. None have been sighted. Shall we look for them?”

  “No. But round up as many of the Cleansed as you can and set them against the building where the infidels hide like rats. The Cleansed will help us find any weak points in their defenses, which the Brethren will then take advantage of.”

  “I see,” Benjamin said.

  Ezekiel doubted that but chose not to say so. He would pray for their creator’s light to shine on the man during his nightly prayers. In the meantime, he would deal with the situation at hand. The infidels must be eradicated. He turned to Benjamin with a questioning look. “Well?”

  “Oh, you meant now?” Benjamin asked.

  “One… two… three…” Ezekiel muttered under his breath as he closed his eyes. Opening them once more, he looked back at the other man. “Yes, Brother, I meant now. Go, find the Cleansed.”

  “At once, my brother.”

  Benjamin left the improvised tent that had been set up in their staging area and issued orders to the brethren that were waiting. Ezekiel lifted the far-seers, or binoculars as he called them, and looked at the building some distance away. He knew they were likely watching him in return, but it made no difference.

  In a siege, the besieged were always at a disadvantage, assuming they didn’t have access to unlimited resources. In this case, while they had the entirety of a warehouse shopping club to work with, those resources had been sitting there rotting for twenty-five years. They might be unbelievably lucky and find some unspoiled water, but their ammunition would run out. And Ezekiel could keep this up for as long as was necessary.

  Ezekiel was nothing if not patient. The Creator had deigned to bless him with this gift, among many others, including the foresight to know that as long as he might be able to keep them within the structure, their friends would no doubt come looking for them.

  “Best they find only bones and ash,” he muttered. “Bones and ash.”

  Marine Corps Base Quantico

  Quantico, VA

  Z-Day + 23 years

  Admiral Jeremiah Graves coughed and clapped his hands for warmth in the early-morning chill coming off the water. The sounds of equipment rumbling and men shouting in the distance would normally have had him edgy, but his Hunters had already cleared the few walkers from the base and were maintaining a perimeter.

  Their trip to Bunker Five was starting out well, but Graves knew enough never to say those words out loud. He’d sooner bite his tongue off than invite the fickle hand of fate into this operation. Finding the codes to launch the missiles was not something to joke around about. He just hoped he wouldn’t lose too many of his men.

  “Poor bastard,” he whispered to himself as he glanced once more at the remains of the walker at his feet. At least, he could only assume it had been a walker. From the hole smashed in the skull and the sign drawn in paint on the roof, he gathered that this had been the last stand of some, well, poor bastard. Who knew when or how he’d been bitten, if he had at all and not just killed himself.

  “There are worse views, I guess,” he said to O’Reilly, who stood next to him. Graves looked out across what remained of the Marine training base to the Potomac, the Chesapeake, and, just a blue line in the distance, the Atlantic Ocean.

  The men he’d brought with him to this rooftop talked in soft voices, unwilling to break the silence of the night until the sun had risen. A superstitious lot, sailors. But with walkers around every corner for twenty-five years, you grow to be quiet, anyway. This was the only semi-solid tall structure he could find, but it had a view, and that was what he needed. Once an office building on the wrong side of ugly, it had proven that beauty was, at least in this case, most definitely in the eye of the beholder. He could almost smell the tang in the air from the sea, even this far from the coast, and the bitter chill bit at his bones.

  Shaking his head, Graves stood and tried to take a deep breath against the sniffles that plagued him this time of year. A mistake, of course, as another sneezing fit set in. It was the worst time he could get sick, so of course, this is when it happened. Maybe he would finally listen to his corpsman and take the damn medicine, as rationed as it might be.

  “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered and knew O’Reilly was smiling without turning to look at the other man. “What’s our status?”

  “We’re almost unloaded, now that we’ve made some room. The Choctaw County is ready to anchor mid-river as ordered as soon as we’re done.”

  Graves looked down at the unique vessel floating in the river. The ship was the last of her kind, one of three constructed before everything went to shit. A twin-hulled armored catamaran that could carry six hundred short tons of men, vehicles, and other cargo. The ship would hold its place in the river, waiting for word that it was needed. The men and women on board would be safe, since walkers couldn’t swim and would just walk around on the bottom. More important, those men and women would be in a place to help.

  “Very well. What about our route to Bunker Five?”

  “Scouts are three miles out and report it’s clear, sir, with only a few vehicles needing to be moved. Shouldn’t be any problems.”

  “Anything useful on the base?”

  “Not much, sir. Something or someone burned the base, as you saw, and of course that was the depot.”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s one workable Humvee, two more that the gearheads say they can get going with some time. Not much else.”

  “Assemble a team of volunteers to guard the engineers. If they can’t do it before sundown, they head back to the ship, and they can try again tomorrow. Any walker contact, they’re to fall back immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want us moving within the hour. We’ve got a long way to go, and I want to be in Pennsylvania by nightfall. Call the Council. Update them on the latest. They can’t do anything for us at this point, but they’ll wanna know what’s going on.” He turned back to the stairwell, then paused to sneeze, the noise echoing off the concrete. “And get that damned corpsman. I want those fucking antihistamines.”

  New Salisbury, Pennsylvania

  It was the candles Harvard smelled first as he awoke. The scent made him sneeze every time, and yeah, here was another one and another and another after that. He took a deep breath, his eyes still closed, and screwed up his face like he was gonna go again. But the feeling just faded, leaving him there gasping in air like he hadn’t breathed in a week. He raised a weak, shaking hand to his head and massaged the bridge of his nose as he sat up… or tried to. His other arm didn’t seem to want to hold him up, and he fell back with a soft thump and a whoosh of air.

  And those damned candles were still tickling his nose. He hated scented candles.

  He managed to convince his eyes to open, though the lids stuck together like he’d been asleep for days. Harvard rubbed them, saw the light streaming in through the dirty window, and looked around, shading his eyes against the glare. The sun was too damned bright, the candles were making him sneeze, and he couldn’t even sit up. Why were there even candles around when it was so bright out, anyway? Unless the scent was to cover up something that smelled worse…

  What the hell was going on?

  His arm started shaking, so he lowered it and closed his eyes. He concentrated on taking one breath after another and not thinking about the candles. “Hello?” he croaked out. His voice cracked, and his throat was a lot drier than it should have been. He glanced over at the bedside table and saw a stoneware cup and pitcher, but when he reached for them, the cup fell on the stone floor and shattered. “Damn it!” he said
and coughed.

  A shadow fell over him, and he looked up into the light-brown eyes of his tall friend Darnell, who smiled.

  “Well, Mr. Harvard, isn’t this a fine mess you’ve made? Or should I say ‘Mr. Norman’?”

  “Boy…” he started to say, then stopped as the retort couldn’t work its way past his dry lips. “Water,” he managed to croak.

  Darnell nodded. “Sure, sure,” he said. “But first, let’s get you set up.” He took the old man by one arm and slid the other beneath him as he lifted and turned him so Harvard’s back was against the wall. Darnell took another cup from the table where it had remained safe and tipped the pitcher’s contents into it. He handed it to Harvard, making sure the older man had a good grip on it before letting go completely. Even so, he had to help the old man drink. “Much easier that way,” Darnell said.

  Harvard licked his lips to wet them once more. “Never thought a sip o’ water could taste so good.” He took another, savoring the cool, refreshing feeling. “Easier than what?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You said ‘much easier that way.’ Easier than what?”

  Darnell shrugged. “Easier than pouring it down your throat while you’s asleep, hoping you don’t drown, is all.”

  Harvard blinked, confused. “Why in the world would you do that?”

  “Mr. Harvard, you been asleep for… for a long while now.”

  Harvard drank some more water and felt around the edges of his mind, like one does when one has been asleep for a long time. Most folks could take a guess at how long they’d been asleep just by how tired or weak or rested they felt. He felt all three to some degree, though weak topped the list by far. “How long?”

  Darnell shook his head and stood. “Ma said I’s supposed to come tell her if’n you wake up, Mr. Harvard. She’s already gonna be powerful mad that I waited this long, but I figured you needed some water.” He left before Harvard could say anything but returned to cling at the door frame. “Don’t worry none, Mr. Harvard. I’m sure you’ll be just fine, now you’re awake. Ma will explain everything.” And just like that, he was gone again.

  He felt like he could almost remember, closer than he’d been in a long time. There was a face that swam across his mind from time to time, and he felt like he could just about place her, but the effort was causing another headache and he groaned.

  Harvard sighed, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He’d been trying to remember everything for years, but nothing had ever come back to him. He should’ve learned by now to stop trying so hard and just let what would happen, happen. Renee had always said, “What will be will be,” and that saying had always brought him some peace.

  His eyes flew open again. “Renee?”

  The sound of a door closing roused Harvard from his light nap, and he looked around. He still clutched the cup he’d drained dry earlier, and he had something of a crick in his neck from sleeping upright. But he felt good, all things considered. He was still a little weak, but as he moved around and stretched, he could tell everything seemed to be in working order.

  “Ah, good, you’re awake,” Marjorie said. She inched forward, her hands moving all around her, helping the blind old woman to place herself in the bedroom of her mind. And so in reality, too. She took a seat on the chair at the end of the bed, looking straight at him as she folded those same hands in her lap. “Darnell tells me you had some water?”

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice still a bit creaky. “Yes, I did, and thank you kindly, Miss Marjorie. Felt like I ain’t had nothing to drink in a year,” he said with a chuckle that turned into a cough, then yet another sneeze. “Don’t suppose we could clear them candles, could we? Just for a bit?”

  She smiled at him as he got his breathing under control. “Sure, sure. Darnell!” The young man entered the room, and she pointed at the candles. “Clear them out of here, now. Mind you blow ‘em out first.”

  Darnell muttered under his breath.

  “I heard that,” she said.

  Harvard chuckled again as Darnell shook his head and blew the candles out before taking them into the next room. “Good kid, that one,” Harvard said.

  “He is, isn’t he?” She turned back to him. “Closer to nine months.”

  He tried to figure out what she meant but came up empty. “What’s that now?”

  “Nine months, Mr. Norman. That’s how long you were asleep. Not a year, but close. We kept you fed and watered best we could, but you’ll need to get some more of both in you over the next few days. And you’ll be taking it real easy until you’re stronger.”

  Harvard stared at the old woman in shock. He knew it had been more than a few days, but nine months? His mind whirled, and he fell back against the wooden wall behind him with a thump. The dizziness threatened to come back, and he closed his eyes as he counted to ten. After a moment, the world stopped spinning. It was impossible he’d been asleep for nine months.

  “That… that’s not…”

  “Oh, it’s possible. They used to call it a coma. I expect that’s what it was.”

  “A coma? Nine months? But… I don’t… wait, ‘Mr. Norman’?” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall once more. “This is too much.”

  “Well, I don’t expect you’ll need to know everything right now. Just take it easy and rest. That noggin of yours has taken quite the beating over the years, but you’re still with us, and that ain’t nothin’. Amnesia, aphasia… It’s a lot to process.

  “There ain’t nothin’ you need to take care of at the moment. Darnell’s been working on stuff as needed, just like you was teaching him.”

  She reached over and patted his hand. “I’ll have the boy bring you some soup. Just made it yesterday, so it’s still nice and fresh. It’ll get you right as rain in no time.” She stood up to go, but he took her hand and she stopped.

  “Who’s Renee?” he asked, afraid of the answer and needing to know it at the same time.

  “That’s your wife, if’n I remember correctly anyhow. Renee Norman. Or was, anyway. Dunno where she might be now.” She pulled her hand from his and cupped his cheek. “We both thought you’d never get your memory back, but seems like you’re remembering bits and pieces. Maybe the rest will come back too. But don’t push it. There’s no rush.”

  She paused in the doorway and turned back. “Just so’s you know, Darnell helped you more than you might realize these last months. He exercised your arms and legs, made sure you didn’t get any bedsores, that kind of thing. Otherwise, you’d be lying there for a few more months as you got your strength back. Keep that in mind, for what it’s worth.” She smiled and swept through the door, and he heard murmured conversation from the next room.

  “My wife?” he asked. “I have a wife? Had a wife?” His head began to throb, and he prayed yet again for some aspirin to appear, as if by magic. None did. None ever did. “You’d think with the billion pills or more they made every year that some would’ve survived. Bah!”

  He’d hornswaggled Marjorie into letting him sit outside in the sunshine… Well, the shade, anyway, and it had only taken two days. Being bedbound when you were comatose was one thing, but when you were conscious, it was nothing short of a prison sentence. He wanted to go for a run, or at least a brisk hobble. But he was smart enough to know that sitting there enjoying the warm air and the flower-scented summer breeze was enough. The small table under the one tree in the fenced yard was enough for now. Plus, there was nary a candle in sight or range of his sniffer, and that was just fine with him.

  But he hated the goddamned wheelchair.

  The wide-brimmed hat she’d loaned him kept off the occasional sunbeam and let him watch the hustle and bustle of a busy and growing village. It surprised him to see hardly anyone carrying a weapon, and he wondered if everyone had gone soft while he’d been asleep. Just one walker with no one to take it down, and everything they’d built here would be gone.

  He was just about to yell into t
he house and ask when one of his least favorite people in the whole wide world came walking up the street, strutting like he owned the place, which, in a way, he did.

  Still, didn’t hurt to be cordial.

  “What the hell do you want, Owen?” he asked, a little more ornery than he’d have liked. “I’ve lost nine fucking months of what little life I’ve got left, and yours is one of the first faces I see when I finally wake up?” Harvard looked skyward. “Thanks ever so fucking much, you bastard!”

  Maybe a lot more ornery then. But he’d been asleep for a long time, and he’d never been much of a morning person.

  Owen Macintosh was a short, stout man with the most fantastic and horrible mustache that Harvard had ever seen in real life. Owen’s demeanor was atrocious, his teeth were rotting in his head, he spoke with an affected Scottish accent, and he smelled like garbage. Harvard recalled all of this as the man leaned on the fence in a casual pose.

  “I’d appreciate it if you called me ‘Mayor,’ Mr. Harvard.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you hadn’t elected yourself to the post through intimidation, bribery, and nastiness, Owen. But we can’t all have what we want in this life, can we?”

  “No, indeed, we can’t, I’m afraid. I’m told you’re on the mend, though?”

  “I am. More’s the pity.”

  “Tosh. I want nothing more than good health for all my constituents.”

  Harvard laughed. “Right,” he said, drawing the word out. “You do realize, don’t you, that there’s no more politics? No Congress, no races, no committee, and no money to be made? Christ, Owen, you’re like a SuperPAC all to yourself.” He stumbled over the unfamiliar word, SuperPAC, rolling it around in his head and unable to come up with a definition. He gave up on it for the moment and continued. “Besides, I know it was you that led the charge for those folks wanting to let me die while I was out of it. I believe you called me an ‘unnecessary waste of resources,’ or words to that effect.”