Dark Days of the After (Book 3): Dark Days of the Apostasy

by Schow, Ryan

  One of these clowns unzipped his fly, pulled out his worm and started pissing on them. The other two laughed. When he was done, the three of them left. Ryker closed his eyes again, relying on his ears to warn him of potential danger, but then he quickly fell back to sleep.

  When he woke next, his body felt trash-compacted and weary. Far worse than before. Move! He reached up and opened the closet door, crawled outside, then struggled to get to his feet and stretch. He flinched to a stop halfway through a yawn because the lifting of his shoulders and expanding of his chest had his torso dancing with pain.

  “Suck it up,” he muttered.

  Through the small window in the bathroom, the edge of daylight still burned bright. He listened for a while, the sound of silence blissful. Making his way downstairs, he appraised the back lot and the streets out front.

  There were dead bodies everywhere, lying in carpets of spent brass. There were more Chicom corpses than SAA, but representatives from both armies lay there dead and decimated.

  Speaking of decimated, the M134 was not kind to the human body.

  Blood, guts and broken bones were the order of the day. Up the street, animals were already feasting on the remains. Overhead, carrion birds circled. The air smelled like smoke and blood, but all was quiet. It was time to go.

  He walked back through the destroyed art house, the crunch of shattered glass underfoot loud enough to startle him. As he made his way around back, he felt a deep and persistent ache forming in the arch of his foot where he’d stomped on the mop handle.

  Shaking his head, he told himself this was one of many problems, but this wouldn’t be the one to stop him.

  Limping over to the SUV Griffin smashed into the wall, he knelt down and flashed the Maglite on the floor under the engine. Thankfully, nothing was broken or leaking. He got up with no grace and a few wayward protests, then pulled himself into the SUV and tried to start it up.

  The engine cranked but didn’t turn over.

  He was light on the gas, careful not to flood the archaic engine, but for the life of him, he couldn’t get it to start. Consequently, he didn’t want to move from the seat either. It was comfy, well worn, cradling his body like a hefty lover.

  He tried the engine again, to no avail.

  “C’mon, dammit,” he cursed, trying to figure out where the rendezvous address was and wondering why the engine wouldn’t turn over.

  The address Griffin made him memorize was the American street address, but the Chicoms changed the street names sometime back as a big eff you to the city and her people.

  Now he barely knew where he was.

  He could navigate the city by way of the landmarks, if needed, but wandering around the streets was not an option.

  He felt the tension returning, along with the start of a headache.

  If he had any hope of finding Skylar, he’d need to figure it out fast. They wouldn’t wait at the rendezvous point long, especially now that ground wars were breaking out everywhere.

  With nothing to do but pray for good luck and sound instincts, he tried the engine again. It cranked and cranked and cranked, and then it finally turned over.

  Smiling, pounding the steering wheel with an open palm in joy, he let the engine warm up. It coughed along just fine, save for a little knock and some shake through the cabin. This baby wasn’t bullet proof, but it was awake, alive and ready to go.

  When he backed the rig off the wall and navigated over the broken partition, two by fours and electrical tubing, it was with a tremendous amount of noise. He was cringing through all of it. Slowly he wound around into the showroom floor, coming to a stop on the broken glass, not sure he wanted to back right out into the street like it was nothing.

  He got out, did a light recon of the street, then climbed back in the SUV, backed out (and over a body), then took off (running over two more bodies), heading toward the more commercial area of the city. There he hoped to find a gas station, and perhaps a paper map with both the new street names and their former American names for reference.

  He was only a half mile from the art gallery when automatic gunfire broke out, shattering the back glass and pocking the windshield from the inside.

  He swerved hard, overcorrecting.

  The big vehicle barked the back tires, its body roll heavy and unruly. The sound of lead meeting the SUV’s sheet metal panels heightened his anxiety.

  He smashed the accelerator, even though navigating around the city had been a taxing exercise in going slow and pushing through a tremendous amount of ruin. A quick glance in the rearview mirror nearly stopped his heart.

  An RPG was coming his way.

  He spun the wheel hard, hoping the blast would tear apart the back of the vehicle and not cut through him first.

  It almost worked.

  The RPG struck the pavement, kicking his back end into the air, the rig twisting into a lofty barrel roll. Because of the angle, the SUV landed hard on its front corner, then slammed down on the cabin, and finally on its side. The rest of the glass shattered, the sound of metal skidding on asphalt screaming in his ears like a jet engine at full throttle.

  When the SUV came to a grating stop against something immovable—a tall curb, an abandoned car or a building—he ignored the blood, the fire and the broken glass and squeezed his way through the collapsed and burning cabin.

  Thankfully the gunfire had stopped.

  He crawled out of the opening that was once the front windshield, ignored the multitude of cuts that had opened up on account of the accident, then snuck around and saw he’d hit an airport delivery van.

  Wiping blood out of his eyes, he hid behind the van, waited, then pushed forward despite the overwhelming resistance in his body.

  Another RPG rocketed in, hitting the exposed underside of the SUV dead on.

  The concussion blast of energy punched him in the back, a wave of heat rolling over him. He went down hard, crawled under a car for cover, then got his gun ready for the mop up crew. When several minutes passed with no one to check on the wreckage, he crawled out the other side of the car, spotted the nearest building and hobbled toward it.

  Rapid gunfire cut through the noise of things burning, the walls beside him getting stitched with lead. Ducking down, he scrambled out of view, but not before he was nipped in the back.

  “Son of a hooker!” he cursed.

  The building was riddled with both old and new bullet holes, broken glass was everywhere and bodies lay strewn about. The place looked ransacked. A predictable response to an EMP attack in an occupied state.

  He hid behind the concierge desk, pulled back the slide of his stolen weapon, saw the round ready to go.

  Patience is my virtue, he whispered in his mind, my aim is right and true.

  He heard the soldiers coming, three of them by the sounds of their footfalls. They were speaking Spanish, rapid and concerned. With his pulse pounding in his neck, he prayed they would see the wreckage inside and let him be. Or that they’d head up the stairs, not checking behind the chest high desk which, to him, seemed the obvious choice.

  Quietly, he withdrew his blade, turned it over in his hand.

  He heard two men go to the stairwell, while the other held back. Scooting back, Ryker positioned himself for the kill.

  The second the man peeked over the counter, Ryker stabbed him in the throat. The SAA soldier pulled back, fired four rounds into the counter, then fell over. Another man entered the building, but Ryker shot him in the thigh, then hurried over and took his gun.

  Back behind the counter, Ryker waited two seconds, his gun trained on the stairwell. The minute the door opened, he fired two rounds into the first man, and caught the second man in the shoulder. There wasn’t a third man, which meant he didn’t need to finish them off. He just needed to put some distance between them.

  Chapter Three

  There was the problem of the bodies, Harper thought. There were a ton of them all over the front of the property, including the Sheriff’s d
ead body. He had to be moved aside. No one really wanted to say whether or not he’d end up in the burn pile, but Harper knew the Madigans were pissed off that he went all Benedict Arnold on them.

  Logan stood beside her, leaning on her for support. “I say we burn him.”

  Harper gave the body a light kick, then nodded.

  “I just don’t know why he would bring them all here,” Orbey said, her face healing from the bits of shrapnel she’d taken in a surprise attack.

  “Because he’s a big pansy and was never meant to be a Sheriff,” Connor replied. Cooper barked in agreement.

  That’s when Harper said, “Times like these will bring out the weakest and the worst in people.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Logan said.

  “It will also bring out the best in them,” Orbey said.

  Connor nodded. “Always the sunshine with you, love,” he said, taking her hand. Then: “So I say we burn this coward with the others.”

  “I’ll second that motion,” Orbey said.

  “It’s settled then,” Harper replied. “It’s one big burn pile.”

  “Just like the Chicoms did to us for all those years,” Logan said.

  Harper held his eyes, saw the sadness in them. It was the past creeping in, but it was also the agitation of his injuries. He wasn’t looking so great, but he didn’t want to lie around in bed all day. He kept asking to help, but everyone was telling him to rest up, to heal. Some people just weren’t meant for laying around doing nothing.

  “Can you walk on your own?” Harper asked Logan.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Does it hurt, is what she was asking,” Orbey clarified.

  “Harper and I have a different philosophy about pain,” Logan said. “It’s the Yoav Rule of Pain versus Injury.”

  Cooper looked up at Logan as he said this. But when Harper sought to finish the statement Logan made, the German Shepherd pup turned to look up at her.

  “If it’s pain then it doesn’t count,” Harper said. “If it’s injury, you need to take time to recover.”

  “Like I said,” Logan repeated, “I’m fine.”

  “Let me see your feet,” Orbey said, nodding to his house slippers.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice and face stern.

  “Logan,” Harper warned.

  “They need some time to recover,” he finally conceded.

  “Well get off them then, dumb ass,” Stephani said with no emotion. “We’ll get you if we really need you. In the meantime, we got this.”

  Orbey nodded and said, “I’ll bring you something to eat in a little bit.”

  With that settled, Logan went back inside while Harper walked among the dead. They were scattered everywhere. The closer she got to the dynamite crater, the more men she found missing limbs. Her stomach lurched. She swallowed hard and looked around. She was not one for the gore of war, but this was an impossible battle they should not have won.

  “No one is this lucky,” she said aloud, shaking her head. She pushed an arm aside with the toe of her shoe, put her hands on her hips and thought, clean up is only the beginning of our penance.

  For as far as she could see, there were bodies strewn about. Turning to Connor—who was watching her intently—she said, “We could just leave them to the animals.”

  He shook his head. “We may need to eat some of those animals at some time. Eating them then would be like eating these guys and I’m no cannibal.”

  She frowned. “Your insight is magical,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

  “I’m like the David Copperfield of dealing with the dead,” he replied with a frown and plenty of dark sarcasm to match. When she didn’t say anything, he said, “What? You didn’t think you were the only smart ass here, did you?”

  She huffed out a laugh, then said, “I was actually just doing the math in my head.”

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Cooper suddenly stood and jumped at her, but Connor pulled his leash and said, “No.”

  For whatever reason, he started barking, pissed off and wanting to either go to Harper or to the meat. She wasn’t sure which, but if she had to place a bet, her money would be on the bodies.

  “You can’t have them,” Connor snapped. Cooper barked again, insistent. “Because they’re bad meat, that’s why!”

  Cooper hunched down and started pawing the dirt.

  “Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” Connor asked.

  The German Shepherd pup lowered his haunches and squeezed out a steaming coil of brown poop, never once taking his eyes off Connor.

  “Wow, he’s in a mood,” she said.

  “This is him throwing a tantrum,” Connor replied, scolding the dog with pinched brows and an even bigger frown.

  Cooper barked.

  “Kick some dirt over that if you’re gonna be a big baby,” Connor said, shaking his head.

  Cooper barked, then turned and managed to get a hold of his leash, giving it a yank, like he was trying to wrestle it from Connor.

  “How’d he do that?” Harper asked, astounded.

  “He’s a stubborn little crybaby sometimes,” Connor said, looking right at the young German Shepherd. The pup yanked the leash again, but Connor held firm and said, “Whatever we’re going to do, we have to do it soon before he starts pulling the inside of the house apart and pooping everywhere.”

  Cooper started to growl, but Connor gave the leash a retaliatory jerk. The pup finally let go. Still agitated at not getting his way, he turned and started digging in the earth, his front paws kicking dirt on Connor’s feet.

  “Is he for real?” Harper asked, slightly amused.

  “You’re acting like a child,” Connor scolded him, shaking the dirt off his boots. Cooper then moved over and flung the poop at Connor, hitting him in the leg.

  “Alright, that’s enough!” he roared. Cooper turned and looked at him. “Sit.”

  Cooper didn’t sit.

  “SIT!”

  He finally relented.

  “Stay.”

  Harper couldn’t help but laugh. When she got hold of herself, she said, “The way I see it, now that it’s just you and me, we have three options for these guys. We bury them, we burn them where they lay, or we stack them into a big pile out in the cul-de-sac and mostly burn them. I’m not talking about a hot burn, and I’m not talking about a thorough burn. We leave their bones and some of the charred meat behind as a warning to others thinking they might want to come up here.”

  “It’s a good idea,” he said. “I can help when I’m done pressing lead.” He told everyone that morning that he’d be down working on their ammo stocks.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “You do your thing.”

  “How’s Logan’s head?” Connor asked.

  She gave a hesitant, back and forth nod. “He shouldn’t have done what he did. Coming out here with those feet. It’s best he get some food in him, get some sleep and heal up. I think when he’s ready, he won’t be so freaking antsy.”

  “He walked outside today,” Connor said, looking down at Cooper, who was now looking off in the other direction, tongue out, finding his inner Zen. “How bad could they be?”

  “You haven’t seen them, Connor.”

  “True.”

  “If there’s a doctor in town, we need him or her up here to look at that gunshot wound, too. We have to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

  “I’ll send you and Stephani down there after you guys take care of things around here.”

  “What’s Stephani doing?” she asked, not sure how she was going to move all those bodies herself.

  “She’s up with the bees. After that she’ll collect the day’s eggs. Or maybe Orbey will do that and Stephani can help you.”

  “How’s her face?” she asked. “Orbey’s I mean, under the gauze.”

  “So far there’s no infection, no fever, no sickness. I cleaned her wounds with some hydrogen peroxi
de around midnight, then smeared some Polysporin triple antibiotic or something on her. So she seems to be doing alright.”

  “It’s not helping that the kitchen window is busted and half the front of the house is shot to all hell.”

  “Yeah,” he said, glancing at the mess the Chicoms made of his home.

  “What are we going to do about the window?” she asked.

  “Board it up for now.”

  “We need eyes on the front yard, just in case,” Harper said. “If an attack like this happened once, it can happen again, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So what then?”

  “I can take the laundry room window out. It’s a lot smaller than this, but I’ll frame it out and at least we’ll have a visual.”

  “Back to the bodies…” she said.

  “I agree with you. We burn them and leave them out front. It’s easier to let their bones do the talking, so our guns don’t have to. You can use the wheelbarrow to transport them. Are you up for that?”

  “I told you before, Connor,” she said. “I’m no paper tiger. So I’ll load the bodies up and get them down the hill while you stock our ammo.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “This is our life now, right?”

  “For better or worse,” he replied, looking at Cooper.

  She thought about it for a moment, then asked him the question that had been sitting in the back of her mind these last few hours. “This Chicom rat we killed. The one with the fancy uniform.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He was someone important, wasn’t he?” she asked. Connor nodded, his face solemn. “We took out him, maybe a hundred of his men, a whole convoy. Someone’s going to be missing them.”

  “Some important someones, I assume,” he said.

  “How many rounds do you have on hand?”

  “A few thousand.”

  “How many more can you make with what you have?” she asked.

  “A few thousand more. It’s gonna take some work, though. That means I can’t keep my eyes on you girls.”

  “We’ve all got big balls,” she said with a confident grin. “Don’t you worry about us.”

  “I worry about the men who cross you,” he said.