Beneath: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Taken World Book 4)

by Flint Maxwell

  “A fine place it is,” the Reaper said. “Fine indeed.”

  “Yep,” Kurt said.

  He couldn’t meet the Reaper’s eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t. It was like looking into the eyes of a corpse, as lifeless and empty as the windows of the shops lining Legal Street. Just trying made him feel cold, freezing.

  “All right, I’ll tell you the best place to enter. When you guys clear them out, I’ll stop by, if you don’t mind. Leave the darky for me, please,” Kurt said.

  The two men, Scarf and Scar, looked at each other and then burst out laughing. Even the Reaper, who looked to be incapable of anything remotely close to happiness, cracked a wider, jovial smile.

  “What? What’s so funny?” Kurt demanded. Part of him realized he was in no place to demand anything from these men. These were dangerous men, men much more dangerous than Kurt himself, but he pushed regardless. “You got my wife killed, you held me captive, and made me freeze my balls off. What else do you want from me?”

  More laughter, until the Reaper spoke.

  “I do not think you were particularly fond of that woman. You, my friend, only care for the bottle.”

  Kurt opened his mouth to reply, but two things happened that made him shut up. One, the Reaper gave him a dangerous look, and two, a sober Kurt realized that what he had said was true: he didn’t particularly care for Skylar at all. She was just kind of…there, following him around, drinking his water, eating his food, complaining with her sulky expression more than her words.

  “Yes, that is what I thought. Your journey is not over yet, Kurt Walton,” the Reaper said, and Kurt thought, How does he know my whole name? I never told him my name, did I?

  He didn’t think so. He was sober enough to remember the last hours vividly enough. From he and Skylar being attacked on the road, and his belongings—but most importantly, his booze—ransacked, to his wife fleeing into the forest that smelled of charred human meat, to be devoured by a monster. He remembered it all.

  The Reaper continued, “You are a part of this now. You are going ahead with Gash and Drew, here.” The Reaper motioned to the two men. “If you try anything funny, if you are found to be lying, if you so much as breathe the wrong way, they have my orders to disembowel you on the spot, to leave you bleeding on the ground, gasping your last gulps of air.”

  That dreadful smile again. It seemed like the teeth of the tall man in the shabby denim jacket had grown sharper since Kurt last saw them. In this dreadful smile, he saw more than a reason to be afraid; he saw the truth.

  “I like disemboweling,” the man with the scar said, presumably Gash. “I’ve never disemboweled a rat before.”

  “True, true,” the other, presumably Drew, agreed.

  “Easy, men,” the Reaper said. “Now go on. I will be waiting.”

  Gash shouldered Kurt forward hard enough that he lost his balance and fell to the ground.

  “Go on, piggy,” he said, pulling out a long, serrated knife from a holster on his belt that had been concealed by his jacket. The blade gleamed despite the lack of light in the world, though the edges were caked with dried blood. Human blood. Kurt would’ve bet his life on it. Gash had certainly gotten good use out of the weapon.

  Kurt, with pebbles embedded into his palms, climbed back to his feet on creaking knees, never taking his eyes off the blade. The mall stood before them, a few hundred yards away, dark and brooding.

  Kurt had no choice but to walk.

  Skylar found a pawn shop just outside of the Eastgate Garden Apartment complex. She remembered seeing the apartments on their journey from the mall the first time. The high-rise buildings were scarred, missing chunks. Even in the dark, she could see the blackness on one side of the stone’s facade, charred by a fire that had gone out long ago. She gave these apartments a wide berth, mostly because they reminded her of a graveyard, and all kinds of horrible things could be lurking there.

  She had yet to pick up on the trail of Kurt and the Reaper, but she knew she was going the right way. The Amsterdam Mall could only be a few miles away now. Certainly, the Reaper would move slowly, like Death, but mostly because it was impossible to move fast the way the world was now. Too much noise brought unwanted attention. The air was probably thick with radiation, too; where the bombs hit D.C. was some ten miles downtown. Each lungful of air brought her that much closer to death, so it was better to breathe slowly as she walked, rather than gasp for breath while running. Run only when necessary. That was the goal.

  Because she gave the Eastgate Apartments a wide berth, she stumbled into a seedier part of town, or so it at least seemed. They were near the Palisades, and how seedy a place could be around these parts was up for debate. There was a pawn shop, the front glass doors devoid of glass. No shards lay on the sidewalk outside of it, either. It was almost like the glass had just…evaporated.

  Slowly, she stepped inside. The place was piled high with junk: stacks of yellowed books, old record players, TVs with their screens covered in thick dust, bikes, wheels, dressers and desks and chairs, other stuff that would never come in handy, not even if the world hadn’t ended.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d been in a pawn shop. Back in the beginning of Kurt and Skylar’s marriage, they pawned a lot of goods, items that Kurt had usually stolen with the intent of getting cash for drugs. Skylar accompanied him to these pawn shops, which, in essence, were all the same: full of junk and managed by an equally seedy, balding man. Because of these trips, she knew where the goods were kept, the true goods. She only hoped no one had beaten her to them.

  Climbing over the front desk, she squatted down on the other side of the counter. There was a locked case, the keys hanging out of the latch. She turned them and slid open the case.

  Inside was a collection of gold coins, autographed baseball cards, shining engagement rings hocked by disgruntled fiancés, and most important of all, a few pistols.

  She picked up the newest looking one off the velvet cloth. She hadn’t the slightest idea what make or model it was… Guns hadn’t been prominent in her life, not even with Kurt. He had a few, sure. But he’d get drunk, go outside in a back field, shoot tree trunks and beer bottles, and usually miss. The cops were called, the gun ditched, and Kurt was sometimes arrested and forced to spend the night in the drunk tank. He’d come home the next morning, rinse and repeat.

  This gun she held in her hand now wasn’t like any of the ones Kurt had owned. It was heavy. She liked the weight, the feeling of danger that came with clutching the cold steel. The barrel shone. The trigger was as thick as a strand of hair. She pushed open the cylinder and stared into the two empty holes, tilted the gun back, felt the cool bullets in her hand. Four of them, their tips sharp. Skylar reloaded them.

  Four shots, she thought. Four, that’s all. Well, girl, you better not miss.

  “I won’t,” she said aloud as she walked out of the pawn shop, the weight of the pistol dragging down her right jacket pocket.

  She caught on to their trail about two miles later, but by that time, it was almost too late. First she heard the voices, the scarred man’s laughter, and the Reaper’s cold tone of surety, like they didn’t care how loud they were being.

  Skylar’s feet were hurting very badly, and she was still cold, despite the jackets and sweater and extra socks. She almost gave up, almost said screw it and headed in a different direction, but she couldn’t do that. She knew she’d never be able to live with herself.

  Skylar believed those at the mall deserved her warning, at the very least. But she intended to do more than that. She intended to fight by their side.

  She watched the Reaper man standing in the middle of the road. He towered over the destroyed cars parked crookedly to each side of him. His skin so pale, it glowed in the darkness the way the moon used to. Her eyes had never been the best, but Skylar saw him in all his gruesome detail, the bones of his face so sharp, the sunken-in eyes, the hollow color of his irises, like looking into a deep, blac
k well, that if you fell into it, you would fall forever.

  Void-like, she thought bitterly, her mouth flooding with the metallic taste of fear, a taste she was too familiar with.

  Her fingers wrapped around the gun’s wooden grip. Cold. She brought it out. She knew from watching television and movies that pistols weren’t good for long-distance shots, but she almost didn’t care. She just wanted to put a bullet in the Reaper so she wouldn’t have to look at him anymore.

  Four shots, she reminded herself. That’s all. If I miss, the others will be on me. I know they have guns themselves. They took my own, the one Florence gave me, and Kurt’s rifle. Not to mention the attention the sound of the blast would draw. Is it worth it? Four shots. That’s all.

  Gritting her teeth, still not able to avert her gaze from the Reaper, she put the gun back in her jacket pocket, but she kept her fingers on the cool wood. Just touching it seemed to give her courage.

  One of the men, the one with the gruesome scar down the side of his face, laughed madly. The terrible noise echoed across the distance separating Skylar from them, making it sound like there were a hundred scarred men cackling all around her.

  She didn’t like it. Her flesh broke out into goosebumps, and everything inside her told her to turn around and run, run as far and as fast as she could, but she wouldn’t do it.

  I know I’ll probably die here. I know this is the end. But if I can do just one good thing to redeem myself before I go, then I will be happy.

  The Reaper stood in the middle of the road, watching Kurt and the two other men head toward the mall. He stood there like a man who feared nothing.

  At first, Skylar’s feet didn’t want to move. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and forced one foot after the other. It wasn’t easy. But it was all she could do.

  Minutes after Kurt and the others left, the Reaper moved closer to the mall. Skylar watched him from behind a building, her teeth chattering loudly. She bit down on her tongue, thinking the sound was so loud that the Reaper would be able to hear her.

  Ridiculous, of course.

  She sat watching him for a long time, wishing she could get closer, wishing the wind would stop blowing, wishing she was in front of a warm fire. About fifteen minutes passed. The sound of voices drifted toward her. Garbled. Accentuated syllables. The tone of the words sounded happy enough. That, she didn’t like.

  The Reaper began walking again.

  Kurt was left with Gash at the mall’s western entrance. From where he stood, he could see a car rolled over on its back in the middle of the road that led to the mall’s vast parking lot. He could see the ruined vestiges of what might’ve been a survivor’s camp, surrounded by army trucks. And, of course, he could (or couldn’t) see the darkness.

  Gash stood very close to him, breathing loudly. Any time Kurt stepped away, a slight shuffle to the right or left, Gash followed. There was not much moving. Not much of anything, because Kurt still couldn’t believe what had happened.

  The western entrance was nearly obliterated. The barricade blocking the doors had been toppled over, and the iron shutters protecting the large windows of the food court had been bent and twisted, the glass broken.

  Someone had beaten them to the chase. Something had attacked the impenetrable fortress of Amsterdam Mall, a feat Avery had admitted would never happen.

  As the initial shock of seeing this started to drift away, Kurt smiled. His smile turned into a fit of laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Gash asked.

  But Kurt couldn’t catch his breath enough to answer.

  “I said what’s so funny, you bastard? Answer me before I get to using this knife.” Gash brandished his large hunting blade again; still, Kurt didn’t care.

  He was bent over, hands on his knees, laughing so hard that the sounds coming from his mouth were wheezes.

  “That’s it, motherfucker,” Gash said. “If you was lying, the bossman is gonna gut you himself.”

  Finally, catching his breath, Kurt said, “Not lying. I just can’t believe it. I get kicked out, and the bastards get attacked by monsters. Poetic justice, don’t you think? I hope the monsters carved that darky up nice and good, too. Now, Gash, my friend, I need a drink, and I know you got my little bottles of booze in that bag of yours. I think after getting my wife killed and making me come back up this way against my will, you owe me that much, don’t you?”

  Gash’s breathing turned noisy and he bared his teeth. In the pale light escaping from the broken windows, Kurt saw that the man’s cheeks had gone slightly red with anger.

  Kurt held his ground.

  Perhaps it was this standing of his ground that made Gash change his mind. He grinned, which still looked like he was baring his teeth, and began digging around in the bag. He pulled out a bottle of vodka: Grey Goose. He opened it, took a swig, and handed it over to Kurt.

  Kurt didn’t like the idea of drinking after the man, considering it looked as if Gash had never had a close relationship with a toothbrush or a tube of toothpaste, but his head was pounding and he needed that familiar burn in the back of his throat soon, or he thought he would die.

  Taking the bottle, he downed the rest of it, swished the alcohol in his mouth, letting it sting the back of his tongue, and gulped. Almost instantly, his head buzzed. It was a good feeling.

  “Got anymore?” he asked.

  Gash shook his head. “Drew’s got the rest.”

  Kurt nodded. That was okay. He had the vodka. Not enough, but okay. It was still working its way through his bloodstream, would be for the next few minutes. He didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

  Not long after, the man known as the Reaper came up the walkway, moving like a ghost in a graveyard. Drew followed him. He moved clumsily, his yellow scarf flapping in the wind.

  “It seems to be unoccupied,” the Reaper said.

  “Wasn’t, though,” Kurt answered. “This is new. I wasn’t lying.”

  “I know you weren’t, Kurt Walton.”

  Again, with the last name. How does he know? Putting the thought to the back of his mind, he said, “I held up my end of the bargain. I led you here. This place is still in good shape, regardless. Good bones, good items inside. Now can you let me go?”

  The Reaper smiled, his skin somehow tightening against his skull. “Your job isn’t over yet.”

  Somehow, Kurt knew that would be the answer. Whatever, as long as I stay alive. In the meantime, I need another fucking drink.

  “You know the place well enough, correct?” the Reaper questioned.

  Kurt didn’t answer. He looked at the tall man, but not for long. It was impossible to stare into his face for more than a few seconds without pain coming, like staring at the sun.

  “Don’t you?” the Reaper asked again.

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, Kurt nodded. The worst part of this guy was how he made Kurt feel sober.

  “Good. Good.” The Reaper walked to the opening, boots crunching the broken glass on the walkway. He peered into the faintly lit food court. Kurt watched him, and the Reaper appeared to sniff the inside, as if smelling for death. “And you say there are supplies here?” He looked at Kurt. “Weapons?

  Kurt nodded again. Behind him, Gash and Drew were chuckling like a couple of stoners.

  “Then you will lead us to them,” the Reaper said.

  “What about the monsters?” Kurt asked, feeling his heart speed up.

  “That’s why you’re here,” Gash answered, chuckling still. “They smell you first, then we can get on outta there. Too bad I won’t get to disembowel you, though. They’ll handle that for me.” He crossed his fingers and winked.

  “Precisely,” said the Reaper.

  “Do I have a choice?” Kurt asked.

  The Reaper shook his head, the expression on his face saying Not a chance in hell, my friend. Then he stepped out of the way of the entrance, holding his slender arms out in the direction of the mall. “After you.”

  Reluctantly, Kurt went
, and he began to feel like he would not be leaving the Amsterdam Mall alive; that scared him more than he could ever put into words.

  23

  Ventilation

  They had been in the suit shop for a long time. It seemed like years. Not much sleep had been had, nor was there much talking. Tyler sat on the couch, biding his time. Things had worsened outside, in the rest of the mall. He heard more than just three monsters, and had heard a terrible destruction near the food court. For a moment, he felt like a child again, lying in the dark with his bedroom door cracked open, the hall nightlight filtering in weakly. On the opposite side of his room was the closet door, and no matter how hard Nana and his mother tried, they just couldn’t get it to shut all the way. So it stood cracked, and Tyler thought he saw glowing, yellow eyes in that crack. Watching him. Waiting for him to fall asleep, so that whatever creature those eyes belonged to could creep out from its closet habitat and take his soul.

  Of course, that never happened. There were no creatures in the closet. Not back then. Maybe these days there were. Instead of a closet, they waited in the Amsterdam Mall, biding their time. The shadows were their friends; the darkness their lover. They knew no sun would rise this morning, and they knew that the fresh meat behind the plastic and metal shutters would eventually need to come out from behind their barrier for food, water, bladder and bowel relief. They could smell it, sense it, taste it on the air.

  Tyler would bet that a large part of the mall had been blown wide open. The earlier sound was like a car driving through the food court, which meant more and more creatures would be joining the fray, waiting for their feast. In a world where there wasn’t much game to consume, any scent of fresh meat was a godsend to them. They wouldn’t squander it. As dumb as they looked, they weren’t dumb at all. They were predators, and predators knew how to get what they wanted.