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

by Schow, Ryan

  When she felt the fullness of it, she let out a sigh of relief, then she said, “Kill your way back home, girl. You got this.”

  Downstairs, she shook May awake and said, “We need to get you to a bed.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled.

  She got up, her cut open clothes hanging off her.

  “Why am I naked?” she said.

  “I needed to see about your wounds,” she answered, leading her to a downstairs bedroom. “But I think you’ll make it okay through the night.”

  “My head hurts,” she said.

  “It’s the dust and smoke, and maybe a nasty contusion. When we get into the bedroom, you’re going to sit down and let me check you for signs of a concussion.”

  May looked up and saw the edge of the giant gumball-sized knot on her forehead and freaked out. “What the hell?” she said, coming to life.

  “It was the size of a lemon earlier,” Skylar replied. “I’ve been watching it.”

  “Why didn’t I notice that before?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Be quiet and let me work.”

  She tested her for a concussion, determined that she didn’t have one, then laid May in bed and pulled the blankets over her.

  “Why are you so clean?” she asked, touching Skylar’s ruined face.

  “We need some burn ointment, some food and some water. I can’t rightly present myself to strangers looking like a demon,” she explained.

  “Not a demon. The devil.” Closing her eyes, drifting away, May said, “I want to be that clean.”

  “Food is more important,” she said.

  She was preparing to leave when someone started banging on the front door and yelling in Chinese.

  “What now?” she said under her breath.

  Chapter Six

  She had the gun out as she looked through the peephole. There was a Chicom soldier outside. She couldn’t see if there was more than just the one man because after banging on the door, the soldier put his eye to the other side of the peephole like he was trying to see inside.

  Without thinking, she put the gun against her side of it and pulled the trigger. She then yanked the door open and shot his startled companion. Without hesitation, she dragged both bodies inside, their blood smearing across the porch and the hardwood floors.

  She was about to shut the door when someone yelled, “Hey!”

  The voice was coming from inside what looked like a paddy wagon parked next door. She saw a face peering at her through a small set of bars high in the metal box. Hands went through, fingers wiggling for her attention.

  Not too long ago, she’d been dragged off to a refugee camp in a van like that. Kneeling down, she rifled through the man’s pockets and found his keys. Hurrying, staying low, she crossed the street and went to the paddy wagon, opening up the back door to free the prisoners. There were a dozen people who were overjoyed to see her.

  “What are you doing in here?” Skylar asked.

  “Are they dead?” one little boy asked, looking at the men she shot.

  “Yes,” she said, the smile for the child a subconscious one.

  Several of the passengers broke down in tears, but started moving out of the vehicle regardless. The women were beaten up, the men somewhat worse.

  “Did they take you?” Skylar asked.

  One of the men nodded.

  “Are they taking everyone?”

  “Door to door,” he replied. He turned and pointed to the next block up. “They burned our home to get us out. They shot my pets.”

  In his mouth, she could see he had several teeth knocked out, and several broken. It hurt to look at him. But it made her feel better that the men who did this were dead and she was the one who killed them.

  She handed the paddy wagon key to the most capable of them and said, “Take the van, get out of the city.”

  The woman nodded and waved everyone else back in. Several of them protested, but one of the men said, “This is how we get to safety.”

  They all got back in, thanked her, then started the vehicle and left.

  By then the sun was going down. If she could get a few hours sleep, perhaps she could use the cover of night to go through the nearby houses until she found what meds and medical supplies she could.

  She went back inside, laid down beside May, then closed her eyes, not expecting to sleep the entire night through.

  When she woke, it was to small arms fire outside. She looked over, found May sound asleep, snoring so deeply she didn’t want to wake her.

  Dragging herself to her feet, feeling a bit feverish and so hungry her stomach ached something fierce, she looked at her shoulders and frowned. Her stitches hung open, the wound seeping, not badly, but red nevertheless.

  Tiptoeing out of her hiding place, she snuck to a dirty window, peeked outside. There was a skirmish up the street. SAA soldiers in a tactical gun battle with the Chicoms. This was a street fight, but not a full blown shoot out.

  Shaking her head, everything in her was screaming for her to get out of the war zone.

  She armed herself, snuck outside, began working her way to a more remote location. Someplace not so hot. As she moved against the buildings, quickly and with her eyes peeled, she peeked in what windows she could, and scanned the nearly deserted streets for Chicom or SAA activity.

  Behind her, she saw a man walking. Not slow or fast, not like he was following her.

  He waved; she nodded.

  Up ahead, a Chicom Humvee rolled by, forcing her into an alcove. She waited for it to pass, not realizing the guy she spotted had now caught up with her.

  “Hey,” he said, startling her.

  She drew down on him and said, “Hands where I can see them.”

  He frowned, opening his palms and letting his arms flare off his side. “I’m not going to be a problem.”

  “It’s a problem when you sneak up on someone like that,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, looking her over. “Where are you headed right now?”

  She stood and walked out into the street, her shoulders raw but not stopping her from doing what was necessary. “I need medical supplies.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.

  “Are any of us?”

  “I have supplies,” he offered.

  She shook her head and said, “No, sir, you do not.”

  “I have what you’re looking for,” he repeated. “You aren’t in great shape, if you haven’t seen yourself.”

  She walked up to him, looked in his eyes and said, “Tell me what you have for me.”

  His eyes shifted just the slightest bit. She slapped him and said, “Tell me what you have for me!”

  “If you’re going to hit me…”

  “I’m going to kill you if you don’t tell me the truth,” she said, tucking the gun up under his chin.

  “I just…I…”

  “Turn around and walk that way. Don’t stop, don’t look back, and if I see you again, even just peeking out the window, I will—”

  He smacked the gun away and hit her back. Reeling, understanding the gravity of her misstep, she’d been caught flatfooted and overconfident. He took her to the ground fast, overwhelming her in a surprising burst of speed and strength. When he all but had her pinned down, he leaned on her with all his weight, then slipped a forearm across her throat and leaned on that.

  When he spoke, it was not in the civilized tones he first approached her with. His voice was an unrepentant growl. “I wanted to help you, that’s it. I have supplies, but I didn’t think I was going to come up against a freaking psycho. So now you get nothing. NOTHING!”

  “Get the hell off me,” she eked out, the pressure on her throat causing her eyes to bulge.

  “I’m going to let you go,” he said, more congenial, but still cautious. “And then I’m going to turn around and walk away and never look back. You won’t see me again. I won’t see you again. And as for these”—he said, rearing up and socking both her shoul
ders two or three times—“I hope they get better on their own.”

  The pain in her shoulders was dizzying. The world around her began to throb, long waves that pulled in and pushed out with so much weight. For a second, she might have blacked out. She reached for her throat, touched it where it was sore and tried not to cry

  The beast finally pushed off her, picked up the gun she’d dropped, then took off, ducking down an alleyway and disappearing. Her eyes were watering from the pain.

  Was her judgement that far off?

  She wasn’t certain.

  It had to be.

  Up ahead, she heard what she now knew to be a Chicom Jeep. Dragging herself off the ground, she hobbled down the same alley as the man she assaulted, the man who assaulted her back.

  She heard the Jeep engine wind up, almost like it had seen her and was coming after her. With nowhere to go, and unwilling to take any chances, she pulled herself into an industrial sized dumpster, praying the Chicoms would pass by the alley when they didn’t see her.

  When she landed in the trash, she let her arms just sit there for a second. She was pretty sure another stitch or two ripped through the skin.

  The Jeep, however, wasn’t waiting for anything.

  Inside, she felt her way through the trash, finding nothing she could use as a weapon. Working her way through plastic bags and open garbage, she wiggled her body all the way down to the metal bottom of the bin. It stunk so freaking bad, but she told herself it was a life or death situation where she was choosing life. The refuse was wet, however, extra mushy bits smearing against her head, on her lips, getting in her ears, down the back of her pants.

  The Jeep approached at a crawl.

  She became exceptionally quiet, relying on her ears where her eyes could not help her. The Chicom Jeep stopped. Her heart was beating so hard, she was nearly deaf listening to the heavy rush of blood in her ears. That’s when she heard a sniffing snout, the little digging, scurrying, scratching sounds of vermin in the bin with her.

  Her heart sank, her breath stuck in her throat.

  This wasn’t her home; this was someone else’s home. A rat’s home. One rat became many now, and just when she was getting a handle on where they were coming from, the Jeep’s door opened then closed.

  By now the rats were getting louder, closer, more bold. As animals, she could deal with the rats, but as vermin—these little furry death dealers carried myriad disease, including the Bubonic Plague.

  Great. Freaking awesome.

  Something brushed by her arm, little whiskers sniffing her skin.

  She heard feet walk over to the dumpster, heard the press of hands on the metal edge of the bin. In her imagination, she saw the Chicom soldier peering into the garbage, not seeing her, then going on his way.

  The asshole fired off two shots into the garbage. The bullets plinked right next to where she was. The rats scurried through the refuse, fleeing the scene in a hurry.

  With bated breath, she waited, motionless, terrified the man was going to fire two more shots and get her. A second later, however, a door opened and then closed, then the Jeep took off at a steady crawl. She listened for it to round the corner before scrambling out of the garbage can as fast as her shoulders would allow.

  Clear of the Chicoms, moving away from the sounds of a dying tussle between them and a small faction of SAA, or perhaps even American dissidents, Skylar realized she was in bad shape. Knowing she could not do this alone, she resigned herself to doing the one thing she hated doing most: she begged for help. She spent the better part of the day knocking on doors until she found someone who would help her.

  The Chinese man opened the door, peeked through the slit and said, “Are you armed?”

  “No,” she said, weary, smelly, exhausted.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I need stitches, actually.”

  A woman’s face appeared beside his, pulled the door a bit wider and looked her over. She saw the woman had a gun with her.

  “Come in,” the Chinese woman said, nudging the man out of the way. “Hurry before they see you.”

  “She stinks,” the man said when she was inside. He curled his nose, huffed a breath, made a bigger deal of it than necessary.

  “How long since you bathe?” the woman asked in broken English.

  “I washed my face and armpits this morning.”

  “We have water to bathe whole body with, but you need more. You need long hot shower, but no more shower.”

  The idea of a bath seemed surreal. Where her red flags went off with the guy she read wrong earlier, now they were silent. She didn’t want to be that vulnerable, but some of this junk smeared on her body and pressed into her cuts could easily get infected.

  “I could just use the sink,” she said.

  “Come, come,” the woman said, ushering her back to the bathroom. The man brought back a two gallon bucket of water, set it on the toilet seat along with a towel.

  The water was cold, but she was grateful nevertheless.

  Another man she hadn’t seen before came into the bathroom, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand. Her fight or flight instincts went wild, but then he sat a brown bottle on the counter and said, “Hydrogen peroxide, for wounds. I have stitching.”

  She wasn’t suspicious of them because they were Chinese. She knew these were good people. Not Chicoms. But was that right? Did she still trust her instincts in this desperate state?

  They could be part of the advanced Chicom infiltrators from twenty years ago.

  This was not likely though.

  When the man left, her mind raced, warning her that he could be calling the Chicoms right then. Finally they shut the door and gave her some privacy.

  She looked in the mirror, saw a ferocious sight. She looked hellish, like something out of a nightmare. Where before she looked badass to herself, she now saw herself through the eyes of strangers and didn’t like what she saw.

  Turning away, she stepped into the bathtub and took the water with her. Measuring it out, she washed herself from head to toe, careful of her wounds, crying to herself over the pain in her shoulders, how stiff they were becoming.

  When she dried off and returned to her guest’s living room, she felt better, even though there was that part of her mind warning her that she could be walking into a trap.

  All three of her Chinese hosts were waiting for her.

  For a second, they looked at her like she was the enemy, and then the woman came forward, pulled her into a hug and said, “You poor thing. Will you let us take care of you?”

  Moved, almost to the point of tears from her graciousness, she nodded, unable to find the words in such a vulnerable state. The older man carefully cleaned, stitched and dressed her wounds, then in better English than the woman, he said, “Why are you still in the city?”

  “Why are you?” she asked.

  “We cannot get out,” the woman answered. “And if we could, where would we go? This is our home. We’ve lived here for thirty-five years.”

  The second man said, “Some things are worth fighting for.”

  That’s when she realized he was armed with a pistol, and that there was a shotgun nearby, leaning up against a chair.

  Skylar asked, “Fighting I understand, but is all this worth dying for?”

  “My husband has cancer,” she said, examining the fresh stitches. “He is dying anyway. I will die soon, too, if I repeat the mortality cycle of my parents.”

  “And what about him?” Skylar asked about the quiet man with the pistol.

  “He just wants to kill as many of them as he can before he’s killed.”

  “He should come with me then,” Skylar said, “because I’m going to kill a whole slew of them.”

  “Not unarmed, you are not,” the quiet man said, his voice low, humble.

  “I’m not taking your weapons,” she said.

  “We have enough.”

  He left the room then returned a moment later
and set an old Glock on the table next to her. He sat beside it a box of rounds and two empty magazines.

  “Do you have a knife? Something heavy?” she asked.

  She was grateful for the weapon, but there was plenty of guns and ammo up for grabs so long as you could keep killing those commie rats. And she could. But a knife? She was good with a knife, the death she dealt nice and quiet.

  “With a knife, I can kill one of them and take his gun. Then I can kill many and take their guns, too.”

  “Take the gun,” he said.

  “I can’t take your weapons in good conscience,” she said.

  “This is but one of many,” the woman said.

  “How did you get your weapons past the Chicoms?” she asked. “They’ve done search and seizures every month for the last three years.”

  “Nevada,” the older man said. “Gun shows a few years back, when they were legal.”

  He smiled, his teeth old looking, some missing. It was a tragic smile. So free in spite of the sickness his wife said had taken over his body.

  “We know the Constitution,” the second man said. “We know what it used to say, even though it is no longer used.”

  “You are noble people,” she said, saddened by their final plight, pissed off at the tyranny that has kept them from hospitals, proper care, life. She felt that rage building in her again. Looking into the old man’s eyes, she felt a stab of pain in her heart, then let that rage loose.

  “As for me?” she said. “The next Chicom I come across, I’m going to take his weapon, shove it up his ass and empty the entire magazine inside him. These commie pricks will never take another thing from us again without a fight to the death.”

  “What if you die?” the woman asked, unmoved by her bold deportment.

  “Then I will reincarnate and go after them again. Once these ticks are dug in, they won’t leave easy, and they won’t leave anytime soon. So just like ticks, you have to burn them out. That’s what I’m going to do. Burn ‘em out.”

  “But you are one girl,” the man said, his face searching for understanding.

  “With that attitude,” she said, unaffected by his assertion, “I think you’ll be impressed with the damage I can do.”