Dark Days | Book 8 | Avalon

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Dark Days | Book 8 | Avalon Page 6

by Lukens, Mark


  And so far, with only a few miles left to go until they reached the store, Kramer didn’t double check the orders.

  Last night Dawson had gone over the real plans with his four conspirators: Barry, George, J.J., and Isabella (but they called her Bella). Barry was the oldest of the five of them, sixty-two years old but still in pretty good physical condition. He was slim and short, with a head full of white hair. He’d been a lawyer in the old world, before the Collapse. But after the Collapse he’d had a nervous breakdown, hiding in the basement of his home. A band of Dark Angels had found him sobbing on the floor, curled up in a fetal position. They told him he could live if he joined them, became one of them. He told them he would do anything to live, to not be alone. He took the brand. But since then he’d had second thoughts about being forced into a military unit. He’d always been against any kind of military or war, always fighting for those in society who couldn’t protect themselves. And now, even though he wanted to live, he felt he was on the wrong side of things. Dawson trusted Barry somewhat, trusted his ideology, but he didn’t trust Barry’s overwhelming desire to do anything to survive.

  J.J. was the youngest of them at only twenty-two years old. He had no wife, no kids, not even a girlfriend before the Collapse. He worked as a diesel mechanic so his skills were useful to the Dragon and his army. J.J. was tall and gangly, but deceptively strong. His teeth were already going bad at his young age, his hair beginning to thin. He’d been a patriotic American before, practically a right-wing nut, but he believed in freedom above all else; he believed that freedom was what America had been founded on and should be protected more than anything, and at all costs.

  George was the same age as Dawson—thirty-four years old. He’d been a teacher and a history buff. His area of specialty was World War II. He needed very little convincing of defecting, and he was the one who compared the Dragon to a young and rising Hitler. (But George only told Dawson that, no one else.) Dawson understood the comparisons that George made, and he knew that George believed that so much history could have been changed if the assassination attempt on Hitler had been successful. George even had a plan to assassinate the Dragon, but Dawson had to talk him out of it. If Jacob wasn’t killed, then he would just take the Dragon’s place. They needed more help if they wanted to take out the Dragon and Jacob; they needed to recruit the ones the Dragon seemed so afraid of. It hadn’t taken too much convincing for George to see it Dawson’s way, and he was in with the plan immediately.

  George was slightly overweight, but he’d lost fifteen pounds since the Collapse, since he’d become a Dark Angel. He claimed he hadn’t volunteered, that he’d been forced to join by a small group of Dark Angels in Virginia, that they had threatened to kill him if he didn’t join. But this was another thing that he’d only told Dawson about. Complaining about anything could get you in big trouble in Hell Town.

  It had been George who had formed a friendship with Bella, and he’d been the one to bring her into their little circle, vouching for her right away. Bella was a large and somber woman who had a vacant gaze like the undead, like she was already dead and just waiting to fall down. Even though she didn’t show much emotion, she hated how the Dragon ruled, how he had hoarded the supplies, how he had orchestrated everything so quickly. She, like the rest of them, especially with George’s stories of Hitler, saw where things could go with the Dragon leading them. She said there had been enough death and destruction in the world and that they didn’t need to add to it. Dawson agreed to let her in on the plan as soon as he met her.

  Of the four, Dawson trusted George and Bella the most, and Barry the least. J.J. was somewhere in the middle.

  Right now he had no choice but to trust them. The plan was in motion. They had escaped the Dragon and Hell Town, and now they were almost to the store.

  CHAPTER 12

  Petra

  Petra was roused from sleep in the basement. Her hand throbbed. She was cold and achy, her mind sluggish. They hadn’t given her much to eat in the last few days—no more fancy dinner dates with the Dragon; their only dates were on the back porch now with Petra tied to a wooden chair. At least they filled up her plastic gallon jug with some tepid water. The last three days she had been dragged upstairs to the back porch where she was strapped to the chair. The first day Jacob had snipped off her pinkie finger and cauterized the wound with a blowtorch. But then they’d brought another woman, one of the servants like Audrey had been, onto the back porch to torture her. Her name was Sharon—she remembered the Dragon saying that. They had cut off Sharon’s pinkie finger not long after they had taken Petra’s.

  But the next day they took more of Sharon’s fingers, and then some of her toes yesterday. They asked question after question. Petra told them everything she’d known about the store. She’d told them who was there, naming names, ones she could remember. She told them what weapons they had, where the entrances were. But no matter what she told them, they kept asking the questions again and again. The Dragon was never satisfied with her answers. The Dragon seemed sure she was hiding something from him and he was waiting for her to slip up.

  She hadn’t slipped up so far. Not yet, at least. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on. She wasn’t sure how many more times she could watch Sharon suffer, watch another piece of her cut away, the wound cauterized as she screamed, and she was sure the Dragon knew it.

  Now someone was coming down the basement steps, the gray afternoon daylight washing down the steps, pouring light into the pitch-black basement.

  “Time to go,” Jacob sang out as he came down the stairs, descending them deliberately slow, making each footstep clomp hard on each step. She knew he usually moved without a sound, but when he came down to the basement, he came loud—he wanted her to hear him, to know it was him coming for her.

  Petra didn’t want to get out of bed. She didn’t want to go upstairs. She didn’t want to be strong anymore. She was close to giving up, to giving the Dragon what he really wanted, and then maybe they would all take a short drive out to the field so it could all be over for her.

  She thought about giving up, but Jacob’s singsong voice as he called out to her stirred a rage in her. She thought about what Dawson had said in the back of the pickup a few days ago (which she tried not to think about too much now), about how he and a few others were going to bring people back from the store to fight the Dragon, to bring him down. And the thought of it made her happy. She wished she would be around to see the Dragon and his attack dog Jacob fall, watch them die.

  “Time to get your ass out of bed,” Jacob said as he stood on the landing. “We’ve got things to do.”

  Petra knew the two guards were probably at the top of the stairs, not that Jacob needed them. Resisting would only make things worse. She sat on the edge of her bed and laced up her hiking boots, careful to avoid banging her bandaged left hand. They’d given her a few aspirins a day for the pain and the swelling, but that was it for painkillers.

  She walked to Jacob and then brushed by him on the landing. He followed her up the stairs and into the kitchen. She walked across the kitchen to the back porch. She knew where she was going; she didn’t need to be told.

  The same wooden chair was waiting for her in the middle of the back porch, the other chair in its place across from hers, waiting for Sharon—or maybe even someone new. There were spots of dried blood under Petra’s chair from when Jacob had cut off her finger, but there were a lot more bloodstains under the other chair.

  Petra sat down in her regular chair, her arms on the arms of the chair, waiting for Jacob to tie her wrists down. Jacob seemed to take a sick pleasure in their new daily ritual, tying the ropes a little tighter than he needed to.

  Jacob stood up after tying her ankles. “Comfy?”

  She didn’t answer him. Even though she’d barely eaten anything over the last few days, her stomach gurgled, threatening to throw up the water and bile.

  The Dragon was coming. She could hear him. Sh
e could sense him. He would ask his questions over and over again. The guards would bring Sharon in again and strap her to the chair across from her, the gag tied around her mouth, her eyes glassy with shock, her hands and feet wrapped in bloodstained bandages.

  Petra couldn’t be strong anymore. She could feel the thoughts of Dawson and his plan bubbling to the surface of her mind. She was hungry, cold, tired, and yes, she was scared. But most of all she just wanted this to be over. They would take her out to the field, only this time Dawson and his fellow traitors wouldn’t be her captors—now they would be the captives. They would all hang from the cables together. They would all experience unimaginable pain and terror, and then it would be over.

  Then a worse thought came to Petra. Maybe they would make her watch as Dawson and his traitorous soldiers were hanged and torn apart. Maybe the Dragon would keep her alive. Maybe he still needed her as bait. The idea of being cooped up in the cold basement again started a panic inside of her, and being bound to the chair only intensified the panic. She could feel a scream rising up in the back of her throat where the muscles twitched, ready to expel not only the scream, but the acidic water in her stomach.

  “Petra,” the Dragon said in his deep Southern drawl, swooping in past her to stand in front of her. Jacob had moved away without Petra even noticing it, like a shadow that just appeared to form in a new place, waiting while his master commanded the attention.

  Petra didn’t answer him.

  “I’m not going to ask you any more questions,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “I think I’ve gotten what I’ve needed. I believe you’re telling me the truth, telling me everything you know.”

  “I am,” Petra croaked. Her eyes were right on the Dragon, but her ears were tuned behind her, listening for the sounds of the guards and the numb, shuffling feet of Sharon.

  “Yes, I believe you.” The Dragon walked away a few paces, a long finger to his lips like an actor poorly mimicking someone deep in thought. He inhaled a sharp breath before speaking. “But I still can’t help feeling that you’re withholding other information, but nothing to do with the store.” He turned to stare at her. “Something to do with the traitors who are plotting against me.”

  Petra didn’t say anything. She held his stare, but she swore she could feel a thousand fingers invading her mind, wriggling there, prying layers up, pulling holes open, searching . . .

  “Yes, you know something. Something you’ve been trying so hard to hide from me.”

  “I . . . I’ve told you everything. You don’t have to hurt anyone anymore.”

  The Dragon sighed again like he’d come to an important but painful decision. “You see, I think you might be wrong there.”

  Petra heard the footsteps coming, the shuffling feet. They brought Sharon to the chair and sat her down on it hard, tying her wrists and ankles to the wood. She was already gagged, as usual. She didn’t fight. She never fought back anymore. There was an acceptance in her glassy eyes, like an animal that knew it was about to be slaughtered, an animal that knew it had no hope of escape or survival.

  “Let’s talk about a man named Dawson,” the Dragon said.

  Petra’s heart skipped a beat. She tried not to react, but she was sure the Dragon had seen the recognition on her face.

  “He was in the back of the truck with you after Audrey and Scott were executed.”

  “Murdered,” she whispered.

  “I believe Dawson told you some things. I believe he promised to go to the store and bring back help for you.”

  Her stomach sank, the pukey feeling worse now.

  “You can’t hide things from me,” the Dragon said, smiling now. “I know things. I can see them. I can see people’s thoughts like watching a movie. I can visit dreams where people can’t hide their secrets.” He took a step closer to Petra, frowning. “You should’ve just told me, Petra. We wouldn’t have had to go through all of this day after day. I knew all along about Dawson and his small band of traitors, just like I knew about Audrey and Scott. Yes.” He glanced back at Sharon. “All of this pain and suffering could have been avoided if you would’ve just told me the truth right away.”

  Petra thought of Dawson, wondering where he was. Would he be dragged out on the back porch soon?

  “Dawson’s on his way to the store,” the Dragon said as if she’d just asked the question aloud. “He’s going through with his plan. Yep. I knew all about it. I let it happen. I want him to bring the others back, to lure them here. And you’re helping to lure them here.” He paused for just a second. “I told you that you would help me, whether you wanted to or not.”

  “Okay,” Petra said. “Okay. You know everything now. So . . . so you can just stop this.”

  The Dragon shook his head slightly. “Sorry, Petra, but you need to learn to be truthful with me. With us. Always truthful.”

  Jacob had his canvas bag in his hand. He brought it over to Sharon’s chair. He set it on the floor and opened it, searching through the tools inside, taking some out, selecting the ones he wanted.

  “Please,” Petra cried. “Please don’t do this.”

  “You did this!” the Dragon roared, his face a mask of rage suddenly, his pale skin flushing red, eyes wild, mouth wide, his teeth showing like a snarling dog. “You need to watch this, to see what you’ve done to this poor woman.”

  A coldness spread through Petra, so much colder than the air outside. She locked eyes with the Dragon. “I’ll kill you for this. I don’t know how, but I swear I will.”

  The Dragon calmed down, switching from one extreme emotion to the next. He seemed suddenly bored, ready to leave, his message delivered. He looked at Jacob and gave a slight wave of his hand for him to carry on.

  Jacob picked up a knife, studying it for a second, happy to carry on.

  CHAPTER 13

  Jo

  Jo had Mike’s birthday “cake” ready. It wasn’t really a cake. She couldn’t actually bake a cake; they had no electricity, no generators, nothing to fire the ovens with or keep the refrigerators cool—they only had dried and canned food to work with, pre-packaged boxed food. They had snack cakes. She wanted to keep certain foods rationed, using absolutely all of the last of the perishable foods like breads, fruits, and vegetables first. Bananas had been gone for a while now, lettuce and some other vegetables were too questionable to eat. The cold air in the store helped preserve the fruits and veggies a little longer, but they weren’t going to last much longer. Jo planned on using some of the vegetables, fruits, and breads for the dinner, along with some cheeses and canned meat. But for the dessert, the “cake” was going to be made up of individual snack cakes all pieced together like a 3-D puzzle and covered with icing. It took a little figuring out, to put the pieces together, some of them rectangular, others circular, others logs, some irregularly shaped, but Max helped her paste them together with the icing and then he spread the rest of the icing over everything until it actually resembled an actual cake.

  Brooke helped too. It was so good seeing Brooke become more active, more sociable. Kate told Jo about when she’d found Brooke (or more accurately when Brooke had saved her) down in the old crawlspaces beneath the warehouse and storage bays, down in the brick tunnels, in the dark with the rats and spiders, hearing the roars and commotion of the rippers above her, knowing her parents and everyone she’d ever known were dead, that no one was coming for her.

  But Brooke had survived. And she’d let Kate inside the building, leaving the relative safety of her tunnels to unlock the door to the alley.

  Like she knew. Kate told Jo that Brooke had seen her in a dream, that Emma had come and told her to help a woman soon who would be banging on the metal door, trapped in the alley with the rippers. Jo hadn’t believed the stories about the dreams Emma and Brooke shared, that Kate, Max, and Petra also shared, but now that Emma was here, along with the others Brooke had drawn in her art tablet, Jo couldn’t deny anymore that something unexplainable and powerful
was at work.

  And just being around Emma was enough for Jo to believe. She could see how Ray, his son, Luke, and Josh had followed her through the wastelands. Emma was a small and slight woman, but there was power inside of her, something instinctually felt. It was like being next to a massive generator that hummed with power . . . lethal power if tampered with the wrong way.

  Jo had never believed in things like psychic abilities, or even religion, but everything had changed in the last few weeks. There was no denying the monsters roaming around the parking lot, and there was no denying the dreams her visitors had shared and the power inside of Emma. And the power inside the Dragon—possibly Emma’s equal, or maybe more like her opposite, the dark to her light.

  Yes, Jo believed in all of it now, but she wondered where it left her. Why hadn’t she dreamed about Emma or any of the others? She’d seen the Dragon—or just the shadows and glowing eyes—in her dreams, but she hadn’t seen the light along with the darkness. Had Emma chosen only a few she could connect with? Josh said Emma couldn’t control what she did in her dreams, that she did things kind of subconsciously so the Dragon couldn’t pinpoint their location. But the Dragon knew they were here at the store now; he had to know. So why couldn’t she see the dreams like the others could? Did it mean something? Something bad? If there was some plan here, some final battle, did it mean Jo wasn’t involved? That she wasn’t as important as Emma and her friends, as important as Kate, Brooke, Max, and Petra? Or maybe Emma could only communicate through dreams with people who were like her. Well, not exactly like her, but those who might have a flicker of the abilities that she had.

  Above all, Jo was pragmatic. She was realistic. If she didn’t even have a smattering of the psychic powers that Emma and the others had, then she wasn’t going to let something like that determine her fate. She wasn’t going to create a self-fulfilling prophecy. She would do her job, do her best to protect this store and those inside.

 

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