The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning

by Jason Kristopher

  “Who’s attacking them?”

  “Reports are sketchy at the moment, sir—lots of chaos down there, as you might imagine—but it looks like the Church of the Divine Judgment has made their move.”

  “Who’s in charge over there?”

  Blake looked away for a moment, then back, and the tension was obvious in his face. “Lieutenants Luis Marquez and Eden Blake, for the moment, sir. ExForce was assigned to handle the evacuation and will take command once they arrive.”

  “Eden Blake? Any relation?”

  “Yes, sir,” David said, and Ennis could hear the concern and tension in his voice. “She’s my daughter.”

  Des Moines International Airport

  Major Tom Reynolds was not as young as he used to be. He felt every bit of his age right now as the plane shook and quaked with turbulence as it circled for landing. His bones ached in their sockets, and he knew that sooner or later, he’d have to stop with the field work and get busy riding a desk.

  Tom looked over at his husband, the younger and much more fit—if he was being honest—Adrian Masters. The man was as tough as they came. He was also one of the most honorable people Tom had ever met—just one of the reasons he loved him.

  “Call for you, sir,” the pilot of the C-130 said over his shoulder and patched it through to Tom.

  “AEGIS flight, Coalition Command. Please respond.”

  Tom was in command of the ExForce personnel on this flight and was prepared to take overall command of the coalition forces when he landed due to his friend Anderson’s untimely, if heroic, death. He repressed the sudden pang of loss he felt at thinking of his friend and mentor of twenty-plus years and responded to the call from the field below.

  “Coalition Command, this is AEGIS flight. Go ahead.”

  “Be advised, flight, we are under attack from hostile forces identified as Church of the Divine Judgment. You’re dropping into a hot zone, sir.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Command. Can you fit everyone in the terminal building?”

  “Negative, sir. It’s all full up with refugees as it is. We’ve got people spilling out of every building in walking distance, sir. We… We weren’t expecting this.”

  “No doubt that’s why they’re here, Mr. Marquez. Pull your people back to the main terminal, get as many in there as you can, and we’ll have your back when we land. I don’t care if you have to stack people on top of each other. Get ‘em secured.”

  “Yes, sir. Command out.”

  Tom looked out the nearest window as they came in for a landing. He could see flashes of gunfire and fleeing vehicles. As they got closer, he could see civilians running ahead of the mishmash of vehicles and flashes of gunfire directed backward. The sheer size of the assault was staggering. There were hundreds of what he could only assume were Church forces nearly surrounding the airport. More were coming in from the west, he could see, and through the homes and overgrown landscaping to the east marched a horde of zombies, another hundred of those at least.

  “Holy shit. How many of them are there?” Masters asked as he looked out the window as well, then pointed. “Our trucks are taking the brunt of the fire, shielding the civs as they retreat.”

  “As they should.” Tom leaned forward. “Give me flight-wide comms.”

  The pilot reached up, flipped a switch, and nodded back in his direction as he and the copilot worked to bring the plane down on the too-short runway. “You’re on, sir,” the pilot said.

  “AEGIS flight, this is Reynolds. We’re dropping in hot. Everyone gear up for a fight. Stryker team, be ready for a rolling drop. Do not, repeat, do not activate REAPR. We’ve got civs down there, and dollars to donuts none of them have armbands. Weapons hot, everyone.” He paused, wondering whether to tell everyone exactly what was going on, then shook his head. It wasn’t like they couldn’t look out the fucking window and see it anyway.

  “We are severely outnumbered, at least 2-to-1. We have walkers on the east and Church forces massing from all other sides. Strykers will take positions on the northwest and southwest corners of the airport. Teams Alpha through Foxtrot will back them up. Gamma and Hotel will take out the walkers on the east side.” He paused once more, searching for something to say that didn’t sound bleak.

  “I don’t have to tell you all what’s at stake here. Thousands of refugees out there are depending on us to make it to their new homes, since their old one is now a smoking crater. Your number one priority is to see to the safety of those civilians. Nothing else. Those are refugees down there, people who’ve been suffering and dying under the regime of Malcolm Dagger. They deserve a chance, and we’re going to give it to them. Hoorah?”

  If the resounding “Hoorah!” from his own plane was any indication, the rest of the soldiers he’d brought with him were ready to do their duty. He handed the mic back to the pilot, knowing anything else he said would only lessen their drive.

  He unbuckled his seat belt, made his way back through the cockpit, and took the forward ladder down to the cargo area. He broke open his own kit and saw Masters and the other soldiers he’d brought with him doing the same. Many were smiling the smile of soldiers excited to do their job—not to kill the enemy, but to protect the innocent. They were pumped, which was just what he needed when they were facing such long odds.

  The rumble and whine of the Stryker’s engines started up, and he wished they didn’t have to be in here with that loud bastard of a machine. He looked at the assembled troops and smiled. These men were ExForce, the hardest of the Hunters and other soldiers, assembled to take on the unknown wilderness and beat it back.

  “Take your positions! I want us on the ground and mobile as that ramp comes down!” He could feel the plane descending and knew it wouldn’t be much longer. The men dispersed and unstrapped the flight tie-downs from their assigned vehicles. They prepared for a rolling drop, something none of them relished.

  Tom took the opportunity to pull Masters aside for a last-minute review. “You know the plan. I’ll take command of the south side. You get to our man and set it in motion, then coordinate on the north side.”

  Masters nodded. “He’ll be in play before you know it, sir.”

  Tom looked into his husband’s eyes. He wanted to say all the things you should say in this situation. Be careful. Don’t get killed. Come back to me. I love you. But none of it needed saying. Adrian already knew it all.

  Tom settled for bowing his head toward Adrian, who did the same. Their foreheads touching, they held each other’s arms for a moment. Neither one was religious, but if they had been, this would’ve been their prayer.

  After a long moment, they separated, and Adrian nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Tom hoped that was as true as he wanted it to be. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Secondary Terminal Building

  Des Moines International Airport

  Masters didn’t intend to be quiet most of the time. He just moved in a deliberate fashion, with an economy of motion that most people lacked. It wasn’t active stealth so much as lack of extraneous movements. This sort of “natural stealth” caused him to sneak up on people often, even when he didn’t mean to.

  The guard was antsy, which wasn’t surprising given what was going on outside. He happened to be looking into the brig the command had set up when Masters rounded the corner from the building’s small lobby area, so when he turned around to see an officer standing where no one had been a moment before, of course he jumped back with a shout.

  “Holy shit!” The man had his gun up and almost fired, but Masters was ready for that and had sidestepped and shoved the barrel of the rifle upward and away from them both.

  “Steady, Private,” he said, noting the man’s rank from his uniform. “I’m one of the good guys.” He would’ve smiled, but Tom had told him to stop—it just freaked people out.

  The private gulped air and tried to steady himself. “Sorry, sir, it’s just…”

  “With everything going on outsi
de, you didn’t know who I was, I startled you, I shouldn’t sneak up on people, etc. Look, we don’t have time for this. Marquez sent me to relieve you. Said he needed you for something.”

  The private licked his lips. “Needed me for… something, sir?”

  “I didn’t ask, Private,” Masters said. “He didn’t tell, and I didn’t ask. I’d suggest you get moving. I’ve got this.”

  “Yes… uh, yes, sir,” the soldier stammered and headed for the exit.

  “Private,” Masters said as he held out a hand. “The keys.”

  The private shook his head and took the keys off his belt. “Sorry, sir. Here you go.”

  “Now go!”

  The soldier ran for the exit, glad to be away from the creepy captain who moved too fast and too quiet.

  He waited until the man had left, then Masters approached the brig and unlocked the door after only two tries on the four keys the stammering private had left him. He covered the man on the bunk with his rifle as he swung the door open and stepped inside. The prisoner sat up, back against the wall, eyebrows raised but silent.

  “Mr. Mancuso, it’s time we got you out of here.”

  Des Moines International Airport

  Reynolds looked at the small squad of men he had with him. They’d taken cover behind some equipment as Church forces rolled and ran up from the south side. The teams on the east side had all but finished with the walkers there and would be joining them soon. He’d ordered the Strykers to hold off the western attack, since that was where the fighting was heaviest. Still, he couldn’t help but wish for one of them now.

  He popped up over the equipment and fired a few rounds at an advancing zealot, taking him down just as yet another pickup broke through the tree line. That drew the fire of another squad several hundred yards away, also hunkered down in cover. The truck’s engine exploded under the withering fusillade, and the burning husk rolled for a few more yards, then stopped.

  “Contact east. Walkers!” one of his men yelled.

  Reynolds and the others turned to see fifteen or twenty walkers emerge from the brush at the airport’s edge and shamble their way. He aimed, took a breath, and fired. One down. Aimed and fired. Aimed and fired.

  It wasn’t long before the walkers were all dead—finally, this time—and the attacks slowed to a trickle, then tapered off. He wondered at their good fortune, but maybe they’d just had enough.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a scream from the men to the west, and one of his squad shouted, “Runners!” A quick count showed five or six of the deranged undead teenagers attacking the squad.

  Reynolds ejected the now-spent magazine from his rifle and grabbed a fresh one from his pocket, tapping it on his helmet before loading it into the weapon. You never knew when good luck might save your life, after all.

  The others fired at the runners as they approached, and he saw that they’d already taken down at least one or two of the men to the west. He’d forgotten how fast these damned things were and missed several times as the undead came his way, and he was out of ammo by the time the last one got close. He stepped past the last man in his line to cold-cock the creature with the butt of his rifle, then slammed it over and over again into the thing’s head until it stopped twitching.

  Covered from the waist down in runner blood and glad as ever for their mandatory eye protection, he turned back to that last man. “Maybe we need to get you out on the range, soldier. Your reload speed is a little lacking.”

  The marine stood up and nodded. “Sir, yes, sir,” he said with a glance at the mess at the major’s feet. “Thank you, si—”

  The sound of the bullet striking the side of the plane was the first indication that something was wrong. The crack of the shot came a moment later, and Reynolds was amazed at the size of the hole in the plane’s fuselage.

  “What is it, Marine?” Reynolds asked as he watched the man’s face go white.

  “Medic! Medic!” the marine screamed into his mic as the other soldiers ran over.

  Reynolds couldn’t understand what they were yelling for, but he felt cold all of a sudden. He stumbled and began to fall over but was lowered by the marine and some other men. He looked down at his legs and thought it was weird that he couldn’t feel them. Was that his blood or the runner’s?

  “That’s a lot of blood,” he muttered, then looked up at the marine. “We should probably get a medic.”

  “Where’s that fucking medic!” the marine shouted.

  The sky was growing a bit dark for noon. It shouldn’t be that dark, should it? Reynolds looked over as a new person ran up.

  “Someone tell Adrian…” he mumbled. Then everything went dark.

  Mobile Command

  Church of the Divine Judgment

  Des Moines International Airport

  Brother Nicodemus was only a little worried. His troops were moving forward on all fronts. He’d rounded up the largest number of Cleansed he’d ever personally seen in makeshift pens east of the airport and had his men release them at the right moment. His squad leaders had found many more, but they had been in too decrepit a state for action. They had done their work and earned their rest, and the brethren had sent them on to the next plane with the appropriate blessings and sacraments.

  That still left over a hundred of the Cleansed to assault the airport, and they’d done just what they were supposed to do—draw the enemy’s forces away and split their focus. Coupled with his own three-hundred-plus men, he still felt confident that they would take down the infidels, even though they were taking more losses than he had expected. Then the infidels had suddenly received nearly twice their number in reinforcements.

  When those had arrived, one of his men had questioned the wisdom of attacking a force of thousands with only four hundred, and Nicodemus had laughed.

  “Four hundred against thousands? Thousands of women, children, and elderly who have been sucking off the infidel teat for twenty years and pose no threat to us. No, the Cleansed will account for them. Our task is to fall on the infidels themselves, and there are only a handful of those, less than fifty. We shall easily overwhelm them.”

  The objecting brother had, of course, then been taken for conversion into a Cleansed, since it was against the word of the Church and the reverend to object to one’s superiors. He would have done better to follow orders and not raise his concerns, but then, many of the brethren were not exactly smart.

  No, the Church would win this day. Nicodemus had no doubt.

  After all, the Church had God on its side.

  He’d split some of his forces off to the north and some to the south, with the main attack coming from the west and the Cleansed coming from the east. The attack had been totally unexpected, and he was certain that even with their reinforcements, the infidels would pay the ultimate price for their heathen ways.

  It was only a matter of time before the forces of the righteous overran and slaughtered the wicked. What a day. What a lovely day.

  One of his brothers whose name he couldn’t recall arrived in one of the stolen infidel vehicles. All screeching tires and dust cloud, the brother pulled someone from the back of the vehicle and brought him around to Nicodemus, throwing the man at his commander’s feet.

  “He was running straight toward us, Brother,” the driver said. “He was easily captured.”

  Nicodemus’s eyes widened. An infidel, alive! And judging from the insignia on his uniform, one highly placed and therefore valuable to his superiors. The infidel coughed, clearing the dust from his throat, and looked up at Nicodemus.

  “I formally request asylum. If you contact your commander, he’ll verify my worth to you. Tell him that Mancuso has made contact. He’ll know of me.”

  Nicodemus’s hand flew of its own volition, striking the infidel across the mouth and knocking him to one side. The bound man fell hard, and Nicodemus saw his head strike the ground. But he wasn’t unconscious, just pained.

  “Silence, dog! You will speak only when spo
ken to, or I will have your tongue!”

  Mancuso spit blood from his mouth and nodded without speaking. It was a violation of a minor sort, but Nicodemus let it pass, given the circumstances.

  “Brother Hanun,” he said as he finally remembered the other man’s name. “We will take him with us when we are done here. He will provide much knowledge to the archbishop.”

  Hanun nodded and returned Mancuso to the rear of the stolen vehicle, where he was joined by a few civilian prisoners and other Brothers who took the remaining seats.

  Nicodemus looked out at the battlefield and then glanced over at the bound man in the back of the stolen vehicle.

  “Or maybe not,” he said to himself. He raised his voice. “Get me the device.”

  One of his assistants handed him a bulky satellite phone. He activated it with the proper prayers and waited for the voice on the other end.

  “Brother Nicodemus, you have news?”

  “The attack on the infidels goes well, but—”

  “Is it completed?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “I—We are not interested in your excuses, Brother. Complete your mission. You know the penalty for fail—”

  “Mancuso!” Nicodemus yelled into the phone, spittle flying from his mouth. “He told me to tell you his name was Mancuso and that you would know who he is!”

  There was a silence on the line, and then the voice came back. “Hold, please, for the archbishop’s representative.”

  Nicodemus could not have been more shocked if someone had hit him with one of the cattle prods they used to corral the Cleansed. “Uh…” he said, speechless, then recovered. “Of course. Holding.” Not that the person on the other end of the device had been listening.

  At least he hoped not.

  Another voice came on the line, one he didn’t recognize. “Am I speaking to Brother Nicodemus?”