Fade To Black (Into The Darkness Book 2)

by Doug Kelly

  Kevin cast his eyes across the bustling crowd. “Where are they?”

  Pete put the palm of his hand on his upper arm and said, “Look for the tattoo.”

  “Tattoo?”

  “They tattoo each other with the number thirteen.”

  “What if they’re not around when something happens?”

  “I don’t care for them. I can handle myself.” Pete shifted his body in the chair, put his hand into his front pocket, and pulled out a pistol for Kevin to see.

  “Where do they come from?” Kevin asked.

  “The story I heard was a crazy man and his cronies took over a food warehouse on the outskirts of town. Armed to the brim, they used that food to bribe people into joining them. I’ve seen what hungry people will do, so I don’t doubt it a bit.” Pete looked into the crowd and his expression changed. He quickly grabbed a jeweled broach from the table near him and inconspicuously placed it into his pocket. “Don’t turn around. The militia is here. If you’re done trading, you two should walk back across the street and go home. I think they’re going to shake me down a little.”

  Kevin nodded. He did not turn around, and gestured for David to follow him.

  A block away David asked, “Spoons? I don’t get it.”

  Kevin stopped and retrieved one of the metal spoons from his backpack. He handed it to David and explained that Dylan needed arrowheads. He thought if they heated the spoons in a fire, they could smash them flat on the concrete patio using a sledgehammer. Then all they would have to do is use a metal file to put a sharp double edge on it. David walked beside Kevin as he listened to the explanation. He held a metal spoon in his hand and caressed its curves with his fingers. He began to imagine how it could be changed into a weapon for killing deer, and he started to salivate.

  Chapter Seven

  TEN DAYS AFTER THE PULSE

  Rex Wilson fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of his shirt as he walked out of the Allied Grocery Distribution warehouse. He had worked there for decades. It was the only type of work he knew, and he had planned to retire this year. At the end of the parking lot, he stopped and looked down the road toward the highway. He lit the cigarette. It was the last cigarette of the carton he had purchased on a Monday morning ten days ago. He was a pack-a-day smoker and had just realized that it had been ten days since everything had fallen apart.

  He inhaled the last drag of the cigarette into his lungs and held it in deeply, knowing that was the last of his carton. He flicked the filter as far as he could, crumpled the empty pack, and dropped it onto the concrete near his steel-toed work boot. He had just broken a company rule, and he knew it. He had littered on company property, and breaking a company rule is something he had never done, until then. Rex knew all the standard operating procedures for the warehouse and had established most of them over the last twenty years of his career. He had been in charge of the entire facility during the past ten. Rex was a stickler for following the rules. He knew them all and never hesitated to fire anyone who disobeyed.

  The only thing between him and the highway was an apartment complex and a gas station with a convenience store. He could see people gathering at the gas station. An unorganized group of people circled it like sharks. First, he heard the glass windows break. Then he saw the undisciplined throng of people coalesce into a line and, in unison, rush straight inside the small building. A few moments passed, then suddenly there was gunfire, and the crowd dispersed. People ran clumsily, arms loaded with loot.

  We’re going to be next, Rex thought. He went back into the warehouse and stood behind the metal door as it closed. Looking through the small pane of glass in its center, he threw the bolt and tested the door. This won’t hold long. He felt the pangs of hunger again and went to a large bin of damaged goods, the unsalable items already written off. He grabbed a dented can that had a missing label and took it to the break room. As he entered the break room, the door slammed shut behind him and woke a man who was sleeping on the couch. Others, the ones who had stayed, were scattered around the warehouse, sleeping in corners, on stacks of discarded cardboard. He opened the can and removed the lid. Damn it, dog food again! He left it on the counter. The trashcan was full. Back at the damaged goods bin, he grabbed a box of crackers and a dented can of juice. He decided to go to his office on the second floor, which overlooked the warehouse. He climbed the metal stairs, walked along the wrought-iron deck to his office, and from behind his office window, he watched the silent floor of the warehouse. As he caught his breath from the short climb to his office, he wondered once more about what had happened ten days ago that had made the world surrounding him collapse so fast. He tilted his head back and drained the last drop of liquid out of the can. He went to his desk and tried to toss the empty can into a metal wastebasket. He missed, and it landed on a pile in the corner with the rest of the trash that never made it.

  Rex heard footsteps coming up the metal stairs and moving across the wrought-iron deck to his door. The door was open, and he did not raise his head until he heard his name.

  “Hey, Rex.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sam is out front.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Sammy Deville. He wants to talk to you.”

  “What the hell for?” asked Rex.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I fired him weeks ago.” Rex thought for a moment, pondering what had happened several weeks ago. He knew Sam lived close, in the apartment complex just down the street, and was probably coming to ask for his job back. “Oh, what the hell. Let him in, but he can’t stay. I’ll get rid of him as fast as I can.”

  Sam Deville had worked at the warehouse for years. Rex had hired him, trained him, and tried to be his mentor. Over a period of several years, Sam’s personality had begun to change. It affected his work performance, and eventually, his work-performance evaluations. Sam considered his poor evaluations to be a personal attack, and started to harbor feelings of anger and resentment toward his work and Rex. As his evaluations became worse, his friendships with coworkers faded, so he formed new friendships away from the warehouse. His new friends shared the same bitter outlook on life and felt that they were misunderstood, unappreciated outcasts. As his new relationships grew in this group of men, each man began to feel more loyalty to the group than to anything else. Feeling persecuted, the men found comfort in their common interests, one of which was weaponry. They had stockpiled weapons and ammunition. Considering themselves a militia, they took weekend trips to the woods and studied survival techniques. Sam had read about and familiarized himself with potential apocalyptic events. When the pulse hit, he understood what had happened and what it meant, and he was prepared. According to the group’s plan, when everything started to fall apart they would meet at the rally point, Sam’s apartment, and decide what to do. The men had voted for Sam as the leader, and their leader was ready, willing, and able to do anything for his group. The group did not judge or criticize him. The group was loyal to him, and he returned his complete loyalty to the group.

  Under the cover of night and near the apartment complex, he had dug up one cache of long-term food storage that he had buried in the ground for his hungry men. He waited patiently in his apartment for the five men of his militia to arrive. As he waited, he passed the time by looking through his binoculars. He was trying to catch a glimpse of his old boss, Rex Wilson, at Allied Grocery Distribution. That morning, he had watched his former boss smoke his last cigarette in the company parking lot and throw the cigarette butt on the ground. Rex had littered, which was a clear violation of company policy, and that breech of policy made Sam laugh sadistically to himself. At that moment Sam believed that Rex had given up, no longer a company man.

  Through his window, Sam saw his five friends arriving at the apartment complex’s parking lot, riding in an old Jeep. He put the binoculars down to his chest. The men looked up into his window, and he waved them up. He brought the binoculars back up to his eyes and studi
ed the man who was walking back into the warehouse. Sam heard a familiar knock on his door and, before he put the binoculars down, angrily mumbled to himself, “Paybacks are hell.”

  Sam pounded loudly again on the locked steel door of the Allied Grocery Distribution warehouse as he waited impatiently to be let inside. When a man went downstairs to let Sam in, Rex quickly followed and saw Sam on the other side of the small rectangular window in the front door. Rex quickly went to the bin of damaged goods and selected an armful of the damaged dog food cans, making sure that he removed all the labels. He dashed back up the steps to his office and put the cans on his desk. He reclined in his chair and watched Sam Deville’s profile move past the large glass windows of his office and stop in the open doorway. After Sam had come into the building the man that had opened the front door for him unwisely forgot got to lock it.

  “Morning, Rex.”

  “Morning, Sammy.”

  “It’s Sam, and always has been.” He became irritated when people called him Sammy. It sounded juvenile, and he considered himself the alpha male.

  “What can I do for you? How about some canned goods? They’re damaged, so we can waste them. That’s what the rules say.”

  Sam did not say anything. He went over to the desk and picked up a can, closely inspecting it.

  “I can’t give you your job back,” said Rex. “Sorry, Sammy, it’s a done deal.”

  Sam heard the way Rex said his name again, with a tone of disrespect and condescension.

  Sam slammed the can onto the desk and yelled, “It’s Sam! My damn name is Sam!”

  Startled, Rex pushed with his feet and the wheeled chair rolled back. “Just take the cans and go. There’s nothing for you here.”

  Sam leaned forward, palms on the desk, and asked coldly, “With my cans of dog food? Do you think I’m a dog, Rexy?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? I saw the labels for dog food on the floor by the bin of damaged goods. It’s right by the stairs. Don’t forget, I used to work here. I know the codes stamped on the bottom of these cans. Do you think I’m stupid, Rexy?”

  Sam walked around the desk and toward Rex, who was still seated in his leather recliner. Rex pushed against the floor, and the chair rolled back until it met the wall. Sam stood menacingly, directly in front of his old boss. Rex looked up at Sam’s flared nostrils and angry, narrowed eyes. He realized that he had made a mistake by allowing him back into the building. Sam reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folding knife. With one hand, he flicked open the blade. Rex’s eyes grew wide, and he pushed his body back into the cushioned chair as Sam brought the blade closer.

  “Get away from me!” Rex’s voice began to tremble.

  “Am I violating one of your precious rules?”

  “I did the right thing when I fired you. You’re a troublemaker.”

  Sam dropped the knife onto Rex’s lap and went to the other side of the desk again. He picked up a can of dog food and tossed it onto Rex’s lap.

  “Eat it. Use that knife to open the can, and eat it. Tell me what it tastes like. Tell me if you think it’s funny.”

  Rex threw the knife and can across the room. “The hell I am.”

  “Then hell it is for you, Rexy.” Sam went to the wall that had an outside window, turned a metal handle, and the window moved on its hinges. Sam whistled out the window and moments later the boots of five men could be heard coming up the steps, their profiles seen going uniformly past the office window. They assembled in the office.

  Sam threw another can of dog food at him and commanded, “Eat it!”

  Rex, in shock and with his mouth hanging open, just shook his head.

  Sam moved his jacket to the side and pulled out a semi-automatic pistol.

  “Rex, as you are in violation of my policies and procedures, I’m afraid I have no other choice but to terminate you.” The bullet went through Rex’s chest and was stopped by the concrete wall. Sam nodded toward the corpse, and his men knew to clean it up. “Take his fat ass out of here and throw him in the field, down by that stream,” Sam ordered.

  They moved the limp body onto an area rug and rolled the carpet into the shape of a tube with the corpse inside so they could carry the gruesome mess away. A circle of blood expanded on the rolled carpet.

  The noise from the pistol had captured the attention of all who remained in the warehouse. Sam took the opportunity to go to the wrought-iron balcony in front of the office to see all who had gathered. They recognized Sam, and Sam recognized them. They saw the armed men carry away the roll of bloodstained rug and understood what had just happened.

  Sam cupped his hands to his mouth to project his voice and spoke to the men below. “Rex isn’t with us anymore. Anyone who wants to stay…can stay. If you don’t want to stay…” He finished what he was saying with a gesture to the door and walked back into his new office. He saw the chair that he had sat in several weeks ago when Rex fired him, and decided to put it behind the desk. He sat in it, looking around the room. There was a picture on the desk of Rex with his hunting dog. Sam threw it toward a trashcan against the wall, leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his head, and put his feet on the desk.

  One of his men walked into the room. “Hey, Boss, it’s done.”

  “Any takers?”

  “Yup.”

  “How many?”

  “Seven.”

  “Ah, that’s a lucky number.”

  The man smiled when he saw that Sam was happy.

  Sam stood up and walked back to the balcony to survey the floor and the remaining men. He gripped the metal railing and leaned on it. The other man stood by his side.

  “We’ve got a lot of food here, but we still need to ration it. I don’t want anybody getting soft on me.”

  “Do you want me to give any of the new guys a weapon?”

  “Not yet, we need to feel them out first. Check their loyalty. Keep the weapons up here, in the office. There’s only one way into this room, and we’ll keep it guarded for now.”

  “Sure, Boss.” There was a moment of silence, and then the man asked, “Do we have a name? Somethin’ to go by?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The group, what do we call ourselves?”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” said Sam, as he tapped his skull.

  Sam walked back into the office and laid full length on the sofa. “How many of us are there now?”

  “If you count everyone in the warehouse…like we were one group…that would be… thirteen.”

  “Ah, that’s an unlucky number.”

  The man frowned when he saw that Sam was unhappy.

  “Should I kill one of ‘em? I could round that number down to a nice even twelve.”

  Sam sat up, buried his face in his hands, and shook his head. “No, no, no. I wasn’t serious. That’s superstition. Bad luck isn’t real. Don’t kill anybody.” He looked up at the man and said, “But we’ll call ourselves the Lucky Thirteen. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds good, Boss.”

  “Are you going to kill any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Not unless I tell you to.”

  “Not unless you tell me to.”

  Chapter Eight

  Days ago, Michael and Becky had sprinted away into the night, hiding under the tree canopy that lined the stream feeding the lake near the neighborhood. Their exodus, after Dylan had violently evicted them from the neighborhood, had taken them upstream, away from the subdivision. As each day passed, the speed of their escape decreased and then their retreat concluded with listless stumbling in the night, until they could walk no farther. Weak with hunger, they stopped at a clearing, drank the stream water, and huddled close to one another in an attempt to share their body heat as darkness fell. The cool air invaded the valley and they shivered throughout the night as they suffered from bouts of diarrhea. Finally, the couple gave up. They sprawled on the ground, too hungry,
too weak, and too tired to move. Then, as they lay in the darkness, each subsequent bout of diarrhea covered them further in their own filth, their guts wrenched upwards until the last drop of saliva was gone. Dehydrated, Michael had faded in and out of consciousness throughout the night. When his eyes opened again, he noticed that he had crawled closer to the stream bank. The babbling water beckoned him and he summoned the strength to extend his hand into the stream. Michael brought a handful to his mouth and lapped up the cool water with the little remaining energy he had. Finally, his intestines quit convulsing; he drank more, and fell asleep again.

  The eight hairy legs of a wolf spider woke him as it crawled across his face. Prone on the ground, he did not move. He did not care, and only opened one eye to watch the spider dart across the dirt and leaf litter scattered about under the trees. Finally, he realized that he could see the spider, so it must be morning. He summoned the energy to turn over, and when he did, he looked up through the clearing in the forest. The trees surrounded them like tombstones in a graveyard. Michael saw morning light escaping the horizon. The red light looked like a bloody rag had been squeezed across the skyline. He put his hand on his abdomen. It was silent, the spasms had ceased. On hands and knees, he crawled forward to the water, put his lips to a still portion near the bank, and filled his stomach. He crawled to a tree trunk, and seated on the dirt, leaned his back against the rough bark. His eyes darted back and forth, observing the ground that they had slept on during the dark, moonless night. His wife was still there, half cocooned by leaf litter in a failed attempt to insulate herself from the cold ground, and now, Becky was too weak to even shiver as she slept.

  A gray squirrel scampered across her body and she woke, but did not move. Michael watched the squirrel scurry about on the ground as it clawed at the dirt searching for buried nuts. When the squirrel found an acorn, it climbed back up a tree and disappeared. Michael looked up and realized that it was an oak tree, then looked back down at the ground, squinting in the filtered light. On his hands and knees, he went forward to feel for the acorns. He found one, then another, and soon he had a handful. Michael smashed the nuts between two rocks and ate the bitter pulp. He found more and smashed them for his wife. She leaned back on a rotten log and put hand to mouth, gagging at the bitterness of the smashed acorns. Her mouth was so dry that she choked on the thickness as it went down her throat. She too crawled down to the water and drank from the stillness at the bank. When she moved away from the log, some bark had fallen off it. Michael could see plump grubs slowly crawling around their destroyed home. He took splinters of the wood, skewered each albino larvae, and assembled them on a sheet of rotten bark like hors d'oeuvres. When Becky returned from the water, he placed the bark in front of her. Her contact lenses having been lost days ago, she could not discern what they were. She believed her husband when he told her that they were mushrooms.