Constant Danger (Book 1): Fight The Darkness

by Westfield, Ryan

  Fight the Darkness

  A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller - Constant Danger book 1

  Ryan Westfield

  Copyright © 2020 by Ryan Westfield

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About Ryan Westfield

  Also by Ryan Westfield

  1

  Meg

  It was an unusually cold winter, even for Western Massachusetts. Meg was already regretting her decision to return home. But what choice had she had?

  She’d grown up here, and battled her way through eighteen bitter winters until she’d moved away to New Mexico for college. She’d stayed in Albuquerque after college, until last year when her father had contracted kidney disease and she’d decided to move back home.

  She was just pulling into her dad’s driveway. It was only four thirty in the afternoon, but it was already dark. The only good thing that could be said about the weather was that it wasn’t yet snowing. Anticipating the cold, Meg stayed in the stationary truck for a full minute before killing the engine and opening the door.

  Bracing herself against the cold, Meg wound her way down the dark path, around the side of her dad’s small house. For reasons she’d never understood, he didn’t like using the front door, citing vague “security” reasons.

  The house was the home Meg had grown up in. But back then, it had looked different. Her mother had added the “nice” touch to everything, and since she’d passed away, her dad had let everything fall to the wayside. It was always something of a shock to come back to the house, no matter how many times she swung by to give her dad a ride to dialysis.

  Arriving at the back door, she climbed the battered concrete steps and knocked twice on the door, then twice again, loudly, as her dad had instructed her to do. She’d made the mistake of using a different pattern before, and he’d chewed her out in a way that only he could. “When are you going to learn to take these things seriously, Meg?” he’d shouted. “When are you going to learn that the world isn’t nice? That there are people out there trying to get one over on you, trying to hurt you for their own gain.”

  She’d brushed it off, as she’d brushed off most of her dad’s advice. In her opinion, he’d gone off the deep end since her mother’s death. And, as his health had gotten worse, he’d isolated himself more and more. Many of his friends had long since died or moved away, and he spent the long winters holed up by himself, reading his dusty old books and taking small sips of Russian vodka.

  The door suddenly flew open. Her dad grunted a hello in typical Western Mass fashion. It would have been considered rude anywhere else in the country, but that was the way people were here—tough and gruff.

  Meg followed her dad into the house, shutting the door tightly behind her.

  “Dad, it’s freezing in here!” she said.

  He walked ahead of her, not turning around to speak, his bathrobe dragging on the floor, his hair a little too long and uncombed. “This ain’t Albuquerque, Meg. It’s good for you. Builds character. Good for the health.” He spat out these phrases from the side of his mouth as if he were reciting tried and true well-known sayings.

  “Didn’t do you a whole lot of good, did it?” she spat back. That was the way things had always been in her family. Giving each other a hard time was a way to show affection, however strange it seemed. “And I’m the one who’s got to drag you down to the hospital twice a week.... Maybe it is toughening me.”

  The house was by no means large, but it took time to navigate through the things her dad had “collected” over the years.

  Her dad made it through and finally settled into his easy chair. Next to it, there was a card table with a drink and his book, his ever-present companions.

  Meg looked around, not yet sitting. Somehow, it always seemed like her dad had piled more junk into the room since her last visit, no matter how recently it had been.

  “When are you going to get rid of this?” said Meg, poking at a mass of something or other.

  Her dad picked up his book, casting a glance in her direction, and scoffed. “Your generation just doesn’t understand the value of ownership.”

  “What’s the point of ownership if it just takes up space? This looks like junk from a clearance sale. Why not just save your money and buy it later when you need it?”

  “It might not be for sale later.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “You’re counting on your money always being worth something, and the stores always being open.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s always been the way it’s been for me. Walmart is open twenty-four hours a day here anyway, and there are three within driving distance.” Meg shivered in the cold, as her dad took a sip of his drink. “Anyway, come on, let’s get going. We can’t be late again for your dialysis. And put that drink down. What’s the point of polluting your blood just to have them filter it out later?”

  “Couldn’t have said it any better myself,” said her dad. “What’s the point of not drinking if they’re just about to clean it all out?”

  “You know it doesn’t work like that. Come on. Get your coat. I don’t know why you’re sitting down like we’re not about to leave.”

  “They can wait another five minutes for me,” said her dad, rubbing his unshaven face with his palm, as if he were entertaining deep thoughts. “I have something to give you.”

  “Something to give me? Can’t this wait? They’re going to be pissed if we’re late again, seriously.”

  Her dad brushed the comment off with his hand, set down his drink with his other hand, and reached down to the floor.

  “Here,” he said, plunking something heavy onto the shoddy card table. With the impact, his drink sloshed out over the rim of his cup and his book fell off the table, landing on the floor.

  Meg reached down to pick up the book, reading the spine as she did. “The Art of War?” she said. “You’re reading ancient Chinese books now? Don’t you ever read anything modern?”

  “Believe it or not, the rules of life and war are always the same,” he said. “Life gets more complex, but some things never change.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Meg, brushing off the comment. “I’ve heard this a thousand times. There are bad people out there ... you already told me that once today.”

  “I have to keep telling you because you never listen,” said her dad. “Now take a look at this. I want you to have this.”

  He removed his hand from the object on the table, revealing a massive pistol.

  “Dad,” she said, not hiding the annoyance in her voice. “You know I already have a handgun. I doubt you’d ever leave me alone if I didn’t have one.”

  “Yeah,” said her
dad. “But you’ve got that dinky little thing. This is the real deal. No matter what those magazines say, there’s nothing like stopping power.”

  “That thing’s a behemoth, though.”

  “You’ll hardly notice the weight, not with all those exercises you do. What’s that thing called again? A kettle ball?”

  “Kettlebell,” said Meg. “Do we need to start taking you to a dementia doctor too? I’ve told you it a thousand times. You should start doing it too. Might increase your strength.”

  Her dad brushed off the comment. “I’m too old for that stuff,” he said. “Now come on. We’re going to be late.”

  Meg sighed, annoyed, and waited for her dad to get his ancient winter coat on. It was a Carhartt, old, tattered, and frayed, and like most of his possessions, could have told a thousand stories.

  "Well," said Meg. "You keep the gun for now, OK? I'll get it from you after we get back from your dialysis."

  Her dad grunted an affirmative.

  It seemed to have gotten even colder when they got outside, and the night even darker.

  Her dad became grumpier, as normal, on the way to the hospital. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to talk, so Meg put on the radio. It was a local news program, and she only half-listened as the stories rolled out of the speakers.

  Her mind turned to her dad and his health. She knew that he wasn’t doing well, despite the dialysis. And anyway, what kind of life was it for him, having to be dependent on someone else, and on expensive machinery? She knew that if he skipped a single dialysis appointment, his life would be in great danger. He knew it too and it bothered him. He liked to think of himself as independent, in both his thought and his life.

  Suddenly, the tone of the news radio program changed, the man’s voice starting to sound urgent. It caught her attention and her ears perked up.

  “The president’s recent diplomatic trip to...” the announcer’s voice was shaky, as if he were incredibly nervous, and the name of the country was unintelligible, “...turned sour ... the president has issued an urgent warning to the American people....” there was some noise, as if papers were being shuffled, or equipment was being arranged, “... experts are cited as saying that an attack could be imminent.... we should prepare ourselves for the worst.... ladies and gentlemen.... I don’t know what to say.”

  And then, the announcer simply fell silent. There was no static or other noise. Nothing to indicate that there had been any sort of malfunction. The announcer simply was at a loss for words. He seemed to be too horrified, shocked, or panicked, or a combination of all three.

  “You hear that?” she said, glancing over at her dad.

  He had a strange expression on his face. She hadn’t seen it before and she didn’t know what it meant. The only thing she knew was that it showed anything but surprise.

  He didn’t answer for a long, long time.

  Meg just kept driving, down the long dark road, with dark leafless trees on either side. There were no cars in sight, no houses nearby. The radio was silent.

  Meg’s heart started pounding in her chest. She could feel it, as if it were slamming against her ribcage.

  Everything suddenly seemed terrifying and eerie.

  She was driving around a curve, her hands turning the wheel. She looked over at her dad again. He had his eyes closed now, as if he was deep in thought.

  Finally, he started to speak. “I’ve known for a long time that...”

  But before he could finish his sentence, Meg’s truck hit something.

  It was a tremendous impact.

  She’d seen nothing in front of her. Nothing but the black road. Had she been looking off at her dad, just as she’d been rounding the curve at exactly the wrong time?

  But it was as if they’d run right into a concrete wall. Or, as if they’d run into a car sitting in the road, with all its lights off.

  It had all happened too fast. There was nothing she could have done.

  Meg was thrown forward. The seatbelt caught her, digging into her. Hard.

  The driver’s side airbag deployed. It happened in an instant.

  Her head lashed forward, past her torso which was restrained by the belt. It collided with the airbag rather than smashing into the steering column.

  But, despite the name “air” bag, the impact was still severe, and it seemed as if her vision went black for just a split second. A sort of dizziness and vagueness came over her.

  It was all over in a flash. In an instant. It had almost been too fast to register. She sat there, somewhat dazed, wondering what they’d hit. Her headlights must have gone out, and there was nothing but blackness in front of her. She still couldn’t even see what they’d run into. After all, it was a pitch-black night, with the moon covered by thick clouds.

  What had she run into? Had she made some grievous error, driving off the road? Had she done something horribly stupid and just driven into a brick wall somewhere in the dead of night? If she had, she’d never forgive herself. After all, it was vitally important that her dad make his dialysis appointment.

  She felt no pain. Not yet. But she knew from experience that the pain often came later, after the adrenaline faded.

  Suddenly, through the dizziness, in which she was busy trying to blame herself, she remembered to look over at her father.

  Immediately, she knew it wasn’t good.

  Somehow, one of the cabin lights had been switched on. Maybe from the impact. She could just barely see her dad in the dim light.

  The passenger airbag hadn’t deployed. He’d been wearing his seatbelt. But his head had hit the dash, the hard plastic area above the glove box.

  He was slumped back and there seemed to be blood on his head.

  Meg had to consciously peel herself out of the dizzy, confused haze she felt, just to be able to speak.

  “Dad,” she said, her voice sounding strange to her. Hollow and urgent.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Dad!” she said again, reaching out to touch him, to try to rouse him.

  What if she’d done this? What if she’d killed her own dad with her careless, reckless driving?

  Then, from somewhere deep in the dizzy recesses of her short-term memory, the strange radio announcement floated up to the surface of her mind. What had that radio person been saying? That the president was warning of some sort of foreign attack?

  It sounded like such a strange thing for the president to say. She’d certainly never heard of anything like it ... and it had been so vague yet serious at the same time.

  What did it all mean?

  “Hey!” shouted someone outside the truck. “What the hell did you just do?”

  The voice was loud and vicious. It was a man’s voice and he sounded about as angry as she’d ever heard anyone sound.

  Meg rolled the window down.

  “I don’t know,” she said, struggling to get the words out through the confusion. “I’m sorry.... I don’t know what happened.... but we need help.... my dad’s hurt.... I think he’s unconscious.... Dad.... Dad...”

  She was pleading with him, pleading with him to wake up, saying the words over and over again. But her dad was still out, the blood in the ghostly light looking worse and worse.

  “You’re going to pay for what you did!” shouted the man, his voice rising louder and louder. “I’m tired of being taken advantage of! This is the last straw!”

  So it seemed as if Meg had run into a car. Maybe she’d come around the curve at just the wrong time and not noticed it. But wouldn’t she have seen the lights of this man’s car?

  “Look,” said Meg. “I’m sorry. I’m sure my insurance will pay for it. I don’t really care about that now. My dad’s going to need some medical attention. Could you calm down so we can call an ambulance and the police?”

  It was difficult to talk with the airbag shoved up against her.

  “Call the police?” he shouted. “I’ve had all I can take. The last thing I need is the police.”

  Meg
didn’t care what the man said. She was already reaching for her phone. Her dad needed urgent help. That was what was important right now.

  She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, having to fight against the airbag all the while, instinctively pressing its side button, as she’d done thousands of times before. But, instead of the screen lighting up, presenting a pleasant background picture, nothing happened. The phone screen remained black.

  Before she had a chance to investigate the phone issue any further, she felt something cold and metallic shoved roughly against her face.

  “Don’t you dare use that phone,” said the man’s voice, his face still invisible in the darkness. “Or you’re going to get a face full of lead.”

  She still felt dazed and now she was starting to feel nauseous, as if she might vomit. Was it from fear?

  There were too many things happening. It was hard to sort through what was going on.

  But one thing remained constant in her mind. She’d never forget the fact, no matter what else happened, that her dad was in urgent need of medical care. Likely his kidney disease would make his injuries all the more grave.

  And she also knew that she wasn’t going to let some jerk get in her way. She wasn’t going to let him prevent her dad from getting to the hospital, even if he did have a gun.

  2

  Tom

  It had started off as a normal enough day for Tom.

  He’d certainly never imagined that he’d be stranded in Western Massachusetts, pressing the muzzle of his handgun into some stranger’s face, so full of anger that he was just itching to pull the trigger.