Since it was a nice day, we drove around for a while in my 1969 De Tomaso Mangusta. I work as an investment-banker, and the job has earned me a lot of money over the years, I was able to get this car, a nice house, but none of it mattered but Amara – she was the only thing worth hanging on to. Usually, we drive in Amara’s ‘85 Olds Cutlass Cruiser, but the beautiful day said this was a ‘driving in style’ kind of day.
“So, where should we go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Oh, let’s go here, we’ve never been this way,” Amara pointed.
I drove us down the road and we found some shops that interested her. Nothing fancy, but being with her was enough for me.
“Oh, Grim here! Antique shop, let’s check it out,” Amara said.
“Is there really anything you’re going to want in there?” I asked.
“You never know, there might be.”
I smiled a sigh.
“Come on! Let’s go.”
“Alright,” I said, turning into the parking space in front.
We entered and I had to admit that the shop was a lot nicer and much bigger than it appeared from the outside. There was furniture, paintings, pictures, clocks, snow globes, vases, and an assortment of all things ‘old.’ We explored the store, I didn’t really have a need for anything, but Amara was interested in many things. I had to agree that the grandfather clocks were impressive.
“Wow . . . Grim, look at this table. Look how nice it is – it’s solid wood, not veneer with a particle board center,” Amara said looking at the table.
I looked at it, “It’s nice.”
“Nice? Grim, look how smooth the surface is, it’s flawless! How did this end up in here?”
“Long story – but it was custom made in Pennsylvania for a family in Seattle, and then slowly over the years, owner by owner it made its way here. Only been on the floor since yesterday,” the cashier said.
“Do you know anything about the original owners – the family who commissioned the table?” Amara asked.
“Yeah, the father I think was a collector of fine things and the mother was a photojournalist.”
The cashier and Amara talked about the table and some other pieces. Seeing her happy always brought a smile to my face. It’s almost like everything bad in the world can’t touch her and she reaches out for everything that’s good. We walked out together and Amara had an uncontainable smile on her face, like she was happier than usual and she was carrying a bag of something she bought.
I started, “What’s that you got there?”
“None of your business,” Amara answered.
“Tell me.”
“It’s a surprise.”
Before I started the car, Amara placed a long kiss on my lips and said, “I’m just having a good day with you. Every day with you is a good day. I really love you mister.”
I smiled and kissed her passionately, “I love you.”
I woke up suddenly with the alarm ringing and Amara had vanished . . . again. It took me about twelve to fifteen seconds to hit the snooze button next to my Para-Ordnance 1911 Black Ops Combat Model. Like always, I felt both bitter and numb. I got out of bed to wash my face. The sunlight coming through the blinds was enough for me to get to the sink. I splashed water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I look both the same and different from the man in the dream – still tall, same facial features, same body but older – my hair had lost a lot of its color, my face had accumulated some lines, and like my hair, my eyes seemed greyer now. I now had a full beard, and the grey in my facial hair certainly made me look older. Mornings . . . I felt like an old man at 50. I looked at myself numb, lacking the shame the younger man would have felt. I no longer saw the man I was – I don’t even see someone alive – at least not in the traditional sense. All I see is a soulless murderer, a man with too much blood on his hands . . . someone already dead inside – an empty ghost.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked the ghost out loud.
‘I don’t fucking know’ was always his response. I’ve asked the same question now for years, and still don’t have a satisfactory answer. Somewhere some lucky bastard is having a heart attack and dying in his sleep. It’s an odd thing, when you’re an adult it seems like you know your ceiling when your end is near. It feels like mine is both close and yet too far away at the same time. God, when are you going to finish me and send me to the Hell I deserve?
I got dressed in a military uniform and prepared for another day. I grabbed my pocket watch and popped the cover to see the picture of Amara. I left my apartment and took the monorail to Sunrise University at Northern California, headquarters for the military defense force. I walked up to the guard post to show my ID card and entered.
“Harvard!” Captain Benson called.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that guy,” I muttered under my breath.
Ever since I’ve arrived in this city, he’s been there posturing for an affinity with me that isn’t there. Since he used to be a SEAL, he had the bearing and attitude, but he’s a poser. What I couldn’t get was why he kept trying to hang with me. Did that cowboy fuck-stick Campbell put him up to this? Ten years in prison was apparently not enough to garner his trust. Does he think I’m gonna go back to old habits? The outbreak killed plenty of assholes and then some . . . though certainly not all of them.
“What’s up, old man?” Captain Benson asked.
“Nothing, sir,” I answered, still walking.
“I already told you, you’re a captain, too. So, you don’t have to call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyway, we found some more survivors the other day. They seemed pretty legit and they provided confirmation of the reports about Fort Denver.”
“Another one bites the dust.”
“Yeah, fucking zombies, but all that is gonna change.”
“Got some miracle up your sleeve?”
Captain Benson handed me a file of papers and answered, “Nope, Generals Shepard and Campbell have issued the Black Shadow program. Recruiting starts today.”
I looked at it, “I thought the Council Committee was against this.”
“They are, but it’s not their say – military matter, their dissent is only advisory. And we need soldiers, we’re not getting enough volunteers and we don’t have enough age-appropriate and draftable men and women.”
Most people in here think they’re in the safest place in the world – a place where no zombie can get to them. People who made it here are here because they are trying to escape death, they don’t want life-threatening jobs. These people would rather take the garbage out, shovel cow shit, or clean your toilet than go out there again. I highly doubted that they would let their children join this program either – and drafting their children would probably be met with even more vehement opposition.
I looked at the papers, “Three-day trial?”
“Yeah, we don’t want to scare them but they need to know what’s happening. We know what kind of kids we’re dealing with and we’re gonna be educating them during the first two days. Third day is the final test to see if they can actually kill a zombie,” Captain Benson said.
“What if the parents protest, or worse, riot?”
“Then we’ll send them packing. Either they contribute to this place or they can take their chances out there.”
Some things never change – abuse of authority – do what we say or die out there at the hands of the undead or bandits. I am so proud that after the end of the world our forces have come through with our democratic traditions preserved – ugh. It wasn’t my place to say recruiting kids and training them as killing machines was wrong, but it was incredible that these dolts thought this was the best way to get more soldiers. But my opinion amounted to nothing. Do as we say and we let you out – that was my deal. Learn the easy way or the hard way, these people eventually have to learn how to survive. I was hoping I’d be dead before this goes from bad to worse. With any luck, maybe a parent will do me
a favor and put a bullet in my head.
The Black Shadow program, or Shadow for short, was a new program designed to recruit child soldiers and train them to kill zombies. It consists of rigorous training followed by a series of tests, most of them military tests, but the first one is whether the kid can actually stomach killing a zombie. Any kid aged twelve or older will be selected to see if they’re worthy of the Black Shadow. Due to Fort Gold Rush’s low population, we had significantly more children and tweens than older teens and young adults. This ought to be interesting – pull kids out of the first safe place they’ve known since this insanity started, and throw them back into the world of violence that they came here to escape.
Apparently, my job was to be the judge of which kids have the sand. We watch them through a window mirror like those in police interrogation rooms. It didn’t take too long for the military to take the kids from school and bring them here. There were two types of kids, “domestic” and “outsider.” ‘Domestics’ were the kids that have been safe inside the city since the outbreak, therefore they have no experience with zombies or immediate threats to their survival. ‘Outsider’ kids were what we call those who came from outside the fort, those that came through the “badlands” to get here. They sat them down one by one in a room alone with an officer and the officer would ask them questions about zombies, what they think of them, how they feel about them, and whether they’ve actually killed one. The answers the kids provided varied, especially between the domestics and the outsiders – many of the outsider kids had killed a zombie while the domestics had never even seen a zombie let alone killed one. Most of their reactions were expected, domestic kids were confused while outsider kids were calm and steady or simply presented like some important pieces of them were already dead inside.
“Next! Nathan Way!” the officer called.
As the boy walked in, something grabbed my attention almost immediately when I saw him. Probably his dark blue eyes, they were almost the same as Amara’s. Unlike most of the other kids that were scared or nervous, he was calm and answered all questions honestly without hesitation.
“What do you think of zombies?” the officer asked.
“They’re monsters. Not human,” Nathan answered.
“And how do you feel about them?”
“I don’t feel for them – they’re easier to kill that way.”
“Easier? Have you killed zombies before?”
“Yes, people, too. I lost count of how many zombies.”
“People? You’ve killed people? Humans?” the officer asked, surprised.
“Yeah . . . four. One was a man named Logan – he shot two soldiers in the back of the head and he was trying to kill my friends and me, so I had to kill him. The other three men were bandits trying to kill me, so I shot them, first in the chest and then the head.”
I glanced at the other officers to gauge their reactions.
One of them said, “Okay, finally we got one that has some hard bark.”
“Not until we see him kill one, he’s probably full of shit. Let’s see what he’s really made of in the final test,” another officer said.
But I saw it, the look in those eyes. I knew he wasn’t lying. He looked the officer right in the eye and answered each question calmly – he didn’t even blink. Interesting.
“Do you know what it is that keeps people safe in here from the dangers outside?” the officer asked Nathan.
“You guys and a big wall?” Nathan asked.
“That’s right. We keep you safe from those monsters outside and more soldiers die out there by those things. We are running out of soldiers, so what do you think is going to happen when there are no more soldiers around to keep people safe?”
“Everyone is on their own – and it all falls apart.”
“You think they’ll survive?”
Nathan shook his head.
“Exactly, so you understand the problem, right? We can’t let that happen or our way of life is over. That’s why we need you. We have plenty of workers and farmers, but we don’t have enough people who are willing to fight to protect this place. We need to see if you are willing to protect this place.”
When it was over, the officers announced that they would bring them back here tomorrow. The next day they broke the kids into groups and showed them a very clear PowerPoint describing the dangers outside the walls, the current number of soldiers protecting this place, how many of them are killed in action each week, and how long soldiers will be in service until they’re not fit to fight. They asked them more questions and the kids’ reactions were slightly different, but not by a lot. Then they started talking to them – everything they said was their way of getting into their heads. Basically, they were making them want to do this.
“Do you kids understand what we’re doing?” Captain Benson asked them.
A few muttered, “Yes sir.”
“Do you think we’re being bad to you?”
“No sir.”
“You’re in our home and we’re letting you live here . . . but nothing lasts forever and that includes us. Eventually we’re not gonna be around to protect you . . . or the people that you care about. Which means they could die. Do you want that?”
“No sir.”
“Do you want that?!”
“No sir!” the kids answered loudly.
“Good, because we wouldn’t ask you to do this if we have any doubts about your ability to do what’s right. Tomorrow is your final test. So, go home and sleep well tonight, come back tomorrow, and show us what you’re made of. Decide . . . decide what you’re willing to do to protect those you love . . . who you want to fight for.”
That gave them all something to think about. Tomorrow, would be the final test to see if they can kill.
****
The third day and final test had come. Already the trucks bringing in the zombies to the back of the building were hauling them in like cattle. The kids came in shortly after and there was an ominous silence – they knew instinctively what was coming. They sat each kid, one at a time, one after another, in a room alone with an officer or a solider. Then they would bring a zombie in chained up, they were given a sidearm, and were instructed to kill it. As I expected, many of the domestic kids couldn’t do it – they didn’t have it. Despite what I’ve done and what I’ve killed inside of me, I still didn’t like seeing kids cry. Those that were able to kill the zombie the officers had to really push to make them do it – it took some time to make them pull that trigger. Most of the kids were slow to walk up to the zombie and shoot it – they were emotionally taking it in, and usually it was too much for them, sensory overload.
“They’re not people anymore . . . they may look like people, but that person isn’t there anymore,” Captain Benson said.
“I know sir,” the domestic boy said.
“I hear you, but for some reason I’m not feeling it. You wanna say something? Speak your mind kid.”
The kid hesitantly spoke, “They used to be people.”
“That’s right, they used to be. That was then, this is now. Now that thing is here to kill you and everyone you love.”
The boy didn’t say anything, he just sat there looking down.
Captain Benson walked up to him and leaned in close, “You live here. This is your home. Your country. Your people. Your blood . . . and those things have spilled a lot of blood . . . and they’re not done because they do not stop. They’re like a virus and viruses don’t stop until they’ve killed the host. We’re the host and they’re the virus . . . and if you want to live, you have to kill the virus. Kill the virus.”
The boy looked up at Captain Benson and he handed the boy the gun. The boy stood up and shot the zombie. They examined the zombie to make sure it was dead.
“Welcome to the Black Shadow,” Captain Benson said.
After the domestic kids were done, we started with the outsider kids. I glanced at the clipboard noting that we were screening the boys while another team wa
s screening all the girls. Out of hundreds of domestic kids only fifty-five had what it took to shoot the zombie – and most were older teens.
It was Nathan’s turn, as always, he was calm and steady as he waited. Then they brought in the chained zombie and I was surprised by Nathan’s reaction. He wasn’t that surprised by the zombie; he barely raised an eyebrow as they brought it in. The zombie, of course, was violently biting and growling like a rabid dog while trying to get free of its chains. Then the officer placed the Beretta M9A1 with only one bullet in it on the table and told him to kill it. Nathan grabbed the gun, checked the clip, took the safety off, walked up in front of the zombie and shot it in the head without hesitation. Blood splattered on the wall and the zombie stopped growling as it slumped down to the floor. The officers checked it to see if it’s really dead and dragged it out of the room.
“He’s done this many times,” I said out loud.
“No kidding,” an officer said, impressed.
“I retract my previous statement. He’s not full of shit at all,” another officer said.
He didn’t even hesitate and his hands weren’t shaking. His face was devoid of any regret or contrition. I have never seen any kid show little to no remorse like this. This kid did not feel sorry about killing that zombie at all. In fact, he did it so well that they needed him to kill two more, one by shooting it and the other with a crowbar. Both kills showed the same results as the first, zombie dead and Nathan feeling nothing by putting them down.
“He’s Black Shadow material,” an officer nodded.
Of course, he is more like survivor material. Since he’s from outside the fort, he must have been on his own for a long time. This kid obviously gets it – he knows that those things aren’t people anymore and aren’t worthy of pity. He appeared to have what it takes to survive in this ugly world. He may be dead inside, too, like me. Keep it up Nathan, trust no one and you’ll live – but see how much of yourself survives.
“Harvard, you marking him down?” Captain Benson asked.
“He’s in,” I replied, checking Nathan’s name.
The Dark Days Series | Book 2 | Sanctuary Page 14
