Dark Days (Book 3): Exposure:

by Lukens, Mark

  “Hey,” Jacob said, his voice louder now, his grogginess beginning to fade. “Hey, whatthefuckareyoudoing?” he slurred.

  Luke was out of the car in a second, running in a crouch as he darted in front of the work van with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his gun tucked back into his shoulder holster. The bag was cumbersome and heavy, but he didn’t want to toss it unless he absolutely had to. Maybe if he could catch a breather a few blocks away, he’d go through it and ditch anything that he didn’t absolutely need—the laptop computer, his cell phone, and maybe the extra pair of shoes came to mind right away.

  “Hey!” Jacob called from the wrecked car. “Hey, don’t leave me here!”

  Luke was at the other side of the work van. He ran to the car parked in front of the van, using it as cover from the cops as he made his way to the house.

  The two cop cars screeched to a halt in the street, the sirens still whooping and the lights still flashing. “Stay inside your vehicle!” the voice on the megaphone ordered.

  Luke was at the front of the third car in the driveway. He spotted a chain-link fence beginning at the side yard. He didn’t even think about it, he darted from the car to the corner of the house, tossed his duffel bag over the chain-link fence and then hopped it, not even wasting time with the gate. There could be a dog back here, but he didn’t hear one barking, and right now he figured the cops were more dangerous than a dog protecting its territory.

  A few seconds later he was at the other end of the back yard, ready to hop that fence into the neighbor’s yard. He heard the sound of gunfire from the front of the house. He was sure the cops had gotten Jacob. He didn’t feel bad about it. Good riddance. He was sure that what Vincent, Jacob, and the boys had planned for him tonight wasn’t too pleasant.

  Luke ran through the next back yard, and then through several other yards before running out onto the street, and then across it, and then into another back yard. He wanted to put as much distance between him and the cops as he could. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but he was pretty sure he was heading west. But he wanted to veer to the south more and stay away from downtown Cleveland. He was trying to work from memory right now, and he really wished he had thought to bring a map along in his go-bag, but he had always figured he would just use his phone. His phone still worked, but the internet connection had been dead for a while.

  He would just keep heading south, down to the next county where the population wasn’t so dense, where there wouldn’t be so many cops and soldiers, and where there wouldn’t be so many rippers.

  And then what?

  He wasn’t sure right now. He would worry about that later . . . if he lived that long.

  CHAPTER 5

  Luke kept to the side streets as the neighborhood turned into downtown Parma. Businesses, restaurants, and apartment buildings lined the dark streets. He tried to stay in the deeper shadows that the buildings created, avoiding anyone he saw. When he came to the corner of one street, he froze, waiting between a stand of trees and the wall of a building, hidden in the darkness. He lowered his duffel bag to the ground and pulled his pistol out from his shoulder holster.

  He heard voices—male voices. His first thought was a patrol of soldiers or cops, but then he saw them, and they weren’t cops. There were five men in the group, all of them young and wearing hoodies and dark clothing. They all carried weapons. One of them carried a baseball bat, one carried a machete, and the other three carried guns: a rifle and two handguns.

  Luke watched them from the trees as they approached. He wasn’t worried about a gunfight with the men; he would win that fight against ninety-nine percent of the people in the world. Even three of them wouldn’t be much of a match for him. But he didn’t want a gunfight. He wanted to stay low and out-of-sight right now.

  The men walked by, never even looking his way. They seemed to be some kind of quickly formed neighborhood patrol. Luke was sure the men were either high or drunk, or both.

  After the men were gone, Luke made himself wait a few more moments, looking around. A helicopter flew right over top of the buildings, the aircraft was mostly dark, but it shined a spotlight down at the buildings as it roared by. There were a few other helicopters and airplanes in the distance, towards downtown Cleveland. Normally there would have been a glow at night from the lights of the city against the night sky, but right now there was nothing but darkness in every direction.

  There were other sounds in the distance—a voice shouting through a megaphone, the man too far away from Luke to make out the words. It might even be the same cops that had chased him and Jacob. There was a scattering of gunfire from an automatic weapon. Luke thought maybe the cops or soldiers were shooting at people, but then he figured it could just as easily be some redneck who had amassed an arsenal, praying for a day like this so he could use his weapons.

  Luke left the stand of trees and hurried to the corner of the next building. He looked down the dark street, listening for sounds, looking for any movement. He hurried down the sidewalk, keeping close to the front of the buildings. He crossed the street, still working his way west and south.

  There was a large vacant lot between the buildings that was scattered with brush and weeds and trash. A shopping cart was tipped over, the sides of it crushed in, one of the wheels gone. There were old chairs and cinder blocks around a pit where someone had lit a fire recently. He hurried through the lot, keeping close to the wall of the brick building.

  When he got closer to the next street, Luke stopped for a moment and waited, listening again for any noises in the darkness. He still had his gun in his hand, his duffel bag over his shoulder. It was time to rest for a moment, and he stood with his back to the wall. He was tired and hungry. It had been a while since he had eaten anything. But his thirst was worse than his hunger right now; he wished he would have thrown a couple of bottles of water into his go-bag.

  It was getting colder by the hour. He had on a dark hoodie sweatshirt that he’d left his house in (which helped him blend in with so many of the other men prowling the streets right now), and that kept him somewhat warm. He wore a T-shirt underneath his hoodie and a pair of black jeans, thick socks, and his black hiking boots, which he always wore because they provided the comfort of sneakers but the durability of work boots. A knit hat on his head and the thin black leather gloves on his hands was the extent of his cold weather clothing. But at least all of his clothes were dark, and even his duffel bag was black.

  As he rested by the brick wall, he heard a noise—someone shouting.

  No, it was more like a man screaming in terror.

  Luke hurried down to the corner of the building, closer to the street, and peeked around the corner. Four men chased a man down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The rippers tackled the running man, on him in seconds like a pack of wild dogs. They clawed at the man, bit at him. The man tried to fight back, but he was no match for the four of them.

  Luke gripped his gun even harder, but he didn’t aim it at the men. He knew he could shoot those four men right now within seconds, hitting each one of them from this distance easily. He could even kill the screaming man on the ground and put him out of his misery. But he didn’t do it. He needed to conserve the bullets he had; he needed to save them for when he really needed them. He might get backed into a corner soon.

  Ripping sounds came from across the street—the rippers were tearing the man’s clothing away. One of them had his face buried in the man’s abdomen, trying to chew at it. Another one of them was chewing on an arm of the man, tearing away at the flesh, the blood dribbling out and down his face and the front of his shirt.

  Luke needed to move. If those rippers saw him, they would charge him and he would have no choice but to shoot them and use four of the bullets in his gun. He went back the way he had come, crossing the vacant lot to the next set of buildings. An alleyway divided the two biggest buildings, and he hesitated for just a moment, not sure if he should venture down the alley.
Who knew how many rippers might be waiting in there? Or at the other end.

  But he wanted to keep heading south.

  The alley was wide, more like a side street. He hurried down the path, keeping close to the wall of the one building. He passed large dumpsters and piles of garbage bags. Something darted in front of him and Luke froze, aiming his weapon at the blur of movement—but then he realized it was a cat.

  He continued down the alley. He saw the street that the alley opened up to ahead, the moonlight brighter out there on the street. A moment later he ducked out of the alley and onto the street. He looked up and down the street; there were a lot of storefronts on the street level, with some apartments and offices above them. Many of the storefront windows and glass doors had been shattered. Garbage was strewn along the sidewalks and out into the street.

  About half a block down Luke spotted a neighborhood drug store. Maybe there would be some food and drinks in there. He had to try. If he could just find a bottle of water . . .

  Luke took a deep breath. He looked around one more time, listening for any sounds, and then he darted out onto the sidewalk, hurrying down to the smashed plate-glass window of the drug store. Jagged pieces of glass stuck up all around the edges of the large metal window frame like the teeth of a monster’s mouth—a monster waiting for Luke to step inside.

  He was through the shattered window in a flash, careful to avoid any of the pieces of glass sticking up from the bottom of the window frame. He darted over to the inside wall at the edge of the window so he could hide in the shadows yet still see out through the glassless window.

  There was a noise out there in the street, a man shouting.

  Luke set his duffel bag down on the floor that was littered with broken bits of glass and trash. He made himself wait there beside the open window for a moment. He knew someone could be hiding in this store already, so he wanted to be ready for that, alert for any sounds deeper in the darkness of the store, but he needed to focus his attention first on the man shouting in the street.

  It could be one of the rippers. And if there was one of them, then there could be more of them.

  The man in the street was getting closer to the store, and Luke could make out what he was saying now. He wasn’t screaming for help, he wasn’t shouting gibberish like some of the rippers did. No, his words were clear now, echoing throughout the night.

  “Repent, you sinners!” the man shouted from what sounded like half a block away. “Repent! For our Lord hath given His judgment unto us! We are retched sinners, and we have displeased our Lord!”

  Luke didn’t move a muscle. He could see the sidewalk outside the window from this vantage point. He could see the shards of broken glass littering the floor just inside the window and the sidewalk outside of it, the pieces of glass glittered in the moonlight that shined its bluish-white light down on this now cold and dark world. He could also see part of the street and the line of buildings across that street from where he stood.

  A moment later the man was in Luke’s sight. He walked right down the middle of the street, a slow and purposeful walk. The man was old, at least in his sixties, maybe even early seventies. He had a long gray beard and long hair that blew around in the chilly night breeze. He wore a white flowing robe that seemed almost luminous in the moonlight. He only wore sandals on his feet and they made a shuffling sound as he walked. The man reminded Luke of an old wizard from a fantasy movie, or maybe a prophet from the Bible.

  “The End Times are upon us!” the prophet shouted. “We had our chance. We had our chance to change, to come together as one, to love each other. But now that time has passed. It’s too late now. This is your last chance to get right with the Lord before the Evil One comes.”

  The Evil One? Did that old man mean the devil?

  Luke still had his gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger guard. But he didn’t aim it at the man. The prophet seemed harmless enough. Crazy? Most likely, but Luke didn’t really think the man was a ripper.

  Maybe not yet. But maybe this was how the disease started, a downward spiral into madness before the virus took full effect. Luke wondered again if he might be infected. He wondered if everyone was infected now, everyone exposed to whatever plague filled the air. But what could he do about it now?

  Another movement in the moonlit street caught Luke’s attention. A lone man wearing a dark hoodie was slinking up the street from the other direction towards the prophet. The man was average height and slim, his clothes baggy on him. It was difficult to tell the man’s age, difficult to tell much about him because of the blood and gore smeared all over his face. The man was a ripper.

  The ripper crept towards the prophet, moving like a jungle cat stalking its prey.

  Either the prophet didn’t seem to notice or care that the ripper was approaching him. The prophet continued preaching his message: “The End Times are here! Repent now! Save yourself while you still have time!”

  Who’s going to save you, prophet? Luke thought. Where’s your God now as certain death is coming right for you?

  The prophet stopped walking. He froze. He had stopped shouting. It was like he had finally spotted the man approaching him, like he had finally noticed the blood all over the man’s face and stained on his hands and clothes.

  Luke aimed his gun at the ripper. He didn’t want to use his bullets, and he didn’t want to take a chance on giving his position away, even if he was using a silencer. But he wasn’t sure if he could watch another person be eaten alive.

  The prophet still hadn’t moved. He didn’t look scared—he wasn’t putting his hands out and warding off the ripper. He wasn’t crying or begging, or turning to run. He just stood there in the street. Maybe the prophet was in shock. Maybe he was too crazy to even realize the danger he was in. Or maybe he saw his death coming, his path to God, and he was welcoming it with open arms.

  Luke thought about telling the old man to run, but again he thought about how it would give away his position. The ripper would charge the store and Luke would have to shoot him anyway.

  Maybe God was helping the prophet out, Luke thought. Maybe, in a strange way, God’s hand was working through Luke’s hand to save the old man. Maybe there was something to the old man’s message after all.

  Nah, Luke thought. It’s all random. No God . . . nothing but dumb luck.

  The ripper ran straight at the prophet.

  Luke tracked the ripper with his gun, his finger beginning to squeeze the trigger.

  There was a sound from down the street from behind the prophet, the sound of a powerful vehicle approaching quickly. The street was awash in bright light, but the prophet hadn’t turned around to see who was approaching, and the ripper was still running straight towards him.

  A second later an armored military truck roared into view with a soldier perched in a turret at the top of it. He had a rifle in his hands aimed at the approaching ripper. One shot from the rifle rocked the ripper’s head backwards as if the Hand of God Himself had smacked the ripper down. The back of the ripper’s head exploded from the impact of the bullet tunneling through his head, bits of brains and slivers of skull exploding out among the mist of blood, all of it captured in the bright headlights of the military vehicle. The ripper collapsed, splayed out and lifeless on the street, steam rising up from his ruined head into the night air.

  The military vehicle kept on going right past the prophet. The soldier turned in his turret, aiming his rifle at the old man as they drove on by. Just like when the ripper had been approaching, the old man stood his ground, staring at the soldier like he was waiting for the bullet.

  But the soldier never took the shot. The vehicle sped down the street and out of Luke’s view.

  Everything was quiet for a long moment. Luke watched the prophet, realizing that he still had his gun aimed in the old man’s direction, his finger still on the trigger. Gunshots echoed from another street—the soldier shooting at other rippers, Luke guessed.

  A moment later the pro
phet took a step forward, and then another, his sandals scuffing on the street. He raised his stick-thin arms in the air, the sleeves of his robe slipping down to his elbows, and he began shouting again as if nothing had just happened. “Repent, all ye sinners! Repent, for the End Times are upon us! Ye have displeased our Lord. The Lord has given us many chances to come together in peace, but it is too late now . . . the End Times are upon us! Repent, ye sinners! Repent!”

  Luke relaxed as he watched the prophet walk out of the view of his shattered window. He could still hear the prophet, but the old man’s words were almost indecipherable now. Luke imagined that the prophet would walk to the next street and probably be attacked by another ripper. Or maybe the rippers would get him on the street after that.

  But then again, maybe not. Maybe the old man would just keep on walking and preaching his message.

  Luke turned his attention to the interior of the store. It wasn’t a huge place, but he could only see a few feet into the gloom before everything turned to darkness. There were food wrappers, trash, canned goods, liquids, and glass all over the floor in the splash of moonlight. He could just make out the aisles between the shelves that had been practically wiped clean.

  His stomach rumbled just at the sight of the food wrappers and packaging all over the floor, but it looked like the place had been picked over pretty good now. Still, he hoped to find something to eat. He needed calories to keep going, especially in this cold weather.

  As Luke got closer to the shelves towards the rear of the store, he saw that two of them had been knocked over into each other, creating a teepee over a wall of darkness. Maybe there were some containers of food or bottles of water down in that darkness underneath the leaning shelves, something the scavengers or rippers had overlooked.

  Luke felt like he was making too much noise with his footsteps, but he couldn’t help it, his hiking boots crunched over the crackling garbage, plastic wrappers, and bits of glass—it was impossible to avoid all of it.