Fade To Black (Into The Darkness Book 2)

by Doug Kelly

  Dylan was still trapped in the crowd like a small rowboat caught in a whirlpool that was just strong enough to keep it from escaping, but weak enough not to completely pull it under the water. Jim had not come back yet, and that fact was what Dylan was going to use as a polite excuse to leave the gathering. Jim had gone behind the house, but Dylan had not seen him since then. Getting the swing should not have taken this long. Overwhelmed with curiosity, Dylan finally broke free of the well-wishers and hurried toward his backyard. Beside the walnut tree, he immediately saw Jim’s decapitated corpse and whistled with his fingers as loud as he could. Kevin heard his call and came running. All Dylan needed to do was point toward the tree. Kevin saw the dead body and immediately vomited. Dylan apprehensively went to the cadaver, hoping that he was wrong, but he was not. It was Jim wearing the sweatshirt Dylan had recently given to him, lying in a pool of blood. Kevin, his face still pale, came up beside Dylan.

  “Oh, Christ Almighty,” groaned Kevin. “Who did this?”

  Dylan stood there with a slack jaw. He shook his head gently before he spoke. “Whoever did this must have thought that Jim was me. He didn’t have any enemies. This is my fault. I brought all this on the community. If it wasn’t for me—”

  “Dylan! Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

  Dylan kicked the tree. “Get a shovel. I don’t want my children to see this.”

  They strode over to the truck, got two shovels, and dug a shallow grave.

  They went back to the crowd, but only whispered what had happened, trying to spare the children from images of the gore.

  Dylan could not get the image of Jim’s dead body out of his mind. Ready and anxious to leave, he started the old truck. As the motor turned over, the water-pump belt screamed for mercy and made him flinch.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  At the warehouse, Sam marched proudly from the parking lot to the front door. He felt like a big game hunter with a trophy kill, ready to brag about his expedition. Beside the door was a galvanized metal garbage-can lid that he picked up and took with him to his office. The garbage-can cover rattled like a cymbal when he tossed it on his desk. A dull thud followed the rattle as he dropped the severed head onto the lid. He said to himself, “There you are, you son of a bitch. I have your head on a silver platter.”

  Ready to brag, he went to his balcony, leaned over the metal railing, and yelled at Michael and John to come up the stairs. They had been talking with Clark about breeding Sam’s German shepherd and training a pack of attack dogs.

  “Yeah, Boss.” Michael was the first to greet Sam, but John was the first to see the bloody head on the desk, and he recognized the face. Sam smiled broadly, turned toward his desk, and extended his hand like a model displaying a showcase of trophies.

  “What did he do, Sam?” asked John. The images of what Jim’s face used to look like flashed through his mind.

  “He won the lottery. Don’t ask stupid questions. It’s because you two are so weak and ignorant that I had to go and do the job for you.” He extended his hand toward the head again and said, “Dylan’s head on a platter.”

  “But that ain’t Dylan,” rebuffed John.

  “He’s right, Sam. That’s Jim, Dylan’s neighbor.”

  Sam’s face turned bright red from a combination of anger and embarrassment. He snatched a silver-tipped swagger stick from the top of the desk, swung it under his arm, and clenched it into his armpit. It was an antique from the Marine Corps that he had acquired in a trade at the bartering lot. The silver tip indicated that it had belonged to an officer and Sam thought that befitted him. He turned away from the head as if he was trying to ignore it and went back to the balcony. He yelled down to the first level and called for Clark to come to his office. He knew that Clark had seen Dylan up close when he had delivered the truck and the gifts of goodwill that were supposed to buy Dylan’s cooperation. As they listened to Clark ascending the steps, Sam growled, “You two had better be right.”

  “You killed the wrong guy,” said John, again. “That’s his neighbor.”

  With a backhanded motion, Sam swung the swagger stick across John’s face. John winced with pain and cowered from another strike that did not come.

  “Just what are you trying to tell me?” asked Sam, condescendingly.

  “Nothing, Boss. Nothing.” John straightened up, but kept his eyes to the ground.

  Entering the office, Clark tried not to recoil from the gruesome sight. It got easier to do every day as these images were becoming more common. Because of Sam, everyone had become almost completely desensitized to these types of macabre scenes around the warehouse. Sam was growing crazier every day, and people in his gang had started to talk. There were rumors of revolt and even assassination, but Sam was oblivious to the whispers behind his back as he floated along, cloaked in his delusions of grandeur.

  “Want me to clean it up, Sam?” asked Clark.

  “No.” Sam extended the stick toward Jim’s head, like a teacher points to a chalkboard, and asked, “Who is this?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Do you remember the man who got physical with you, threatened you, when you delivered the gifts of goodwill from me?”

  Clark got closer, leaning over and squinting his eyes. “Nope. Not him.” Clark stroked his scraggy beard and added, “He had a full beard. This guy doesn’t.” He squinted harder and said, “No, that’s not him, but this guy was there with Ruth.”

  “Ruth!”

  “Yeah, Ruth Miller. Remember her?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “Didn’t know you cared.”

  The swagger stick flew across Clark’s face and when he bent over to dodge the next blow, Sam beat him on the back of his head.

  “Hold it,” announced John. “I caught her stealing goats over the winter and she attacked me. I killed her. Blew a hole right through her. She can’t cause any trouble for you anymore.”

  John was ignorant of Sam’s feelings for Ruth. To Sam, she was not an enemy. She was an obsession. Sam halted his attack on Clark as though he was caught in a daze.

  “You killed her, did you?”

  “Sure did. She was just a thief.” John almost got the courage to look Sam in the eye. He had no idea that he was about to walk the plank instead of getting a medal of honor.

  Sam cracked a thin smile. “Did you now? Well, then, I’m going to make sure you go places. Let’s step over to the window and talk about your future here.”

  John stepped with purpose to the large single-hung window and opened it after Sam commanded him to do so. There was no screen, so they usually kept it closed to keep out the bugs.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m going to make sure you go places fast.” Sam pointed out the window.

  “What?” asked John.

  “Your future is waiting just below.”

  John furrowed his brow as he leaned out the window to look. Sam pulled a small-caliber pistol out of his pocket and shot John in the back of the head. John’s body slumped over the windowsill. “There you go, John.” Sam pushed the body out the second-story window. “Now you’re going places fast.”

  Clark recovered from Sam’s assault when he heard the pistol.

  “Sam,” said Clark still rubbing his head.

  “Do you want to see your future, too?” asked Sam.

  “No. Sam, she’s alive. Ruth is alive. I saw her in the springtime. John didn’t kill her.”

  Sam went over to Michael and raised the stick to swing it at him, but stopped just as he raised it. He let his arm drop to his side. “This is your fault.” Sam pointed the silver end of the swagger stick into Michaels’ face. “You brought that fool John here, so you’re going to help me clean up this whole mess. I’m going to get the truck. You’re going to get the dog.” Sam stormed out of his office. He turned around, threw the small pistol to Clark, and yelled, “Get me a real pistol and plenty of magazines. I’m going to take Michael to get Ruth and kill Dylan
Smith.”

  When they heard him jump off the landing at the bottom of the staircase, they looked at each other for a moment and tried to read each other’s minds. Clark was the first to speak.

  “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “It’s just a matter of time before he kills me, too,” said Michael nervously because he knew the conversation was going to turn treasonous.

  “You have to kill him first,” said Clark. “When you get to the subdivision, shoot him, then come back here and tell everybody he died in a gun battle. You can run the place. I don’t give a shit who’s in charge as long as they don’t have a bead on me.” Clark sat in Sam’s chair and opened the top drawer. He removed Sam’s 9mm pistol and filled five magazines with cartridges.

  Michael’s thoughts paralyzed him. He had thought about running away, but had no place to go. Staying here would eventually be suicide. His hand went to the pistol tucked into his pants, the one he had earned with his tattoo, and he began to doubt himself.

  “You better get his dog,” ordered Clark. “And don’t say shit to anybody about what we just discussed.”

  Michael walked like a zombie to the dog kennel. The kennel was a partitioned section of an empty semi-trailer. Sam had acquired a well-trained police dog that understood commands in German. The gang’s German was sloppy, especially Sam’s. He was too arrogant to believe that he might not be pronouncing the German commands correctly, so when the dog hesitated, Sam beat it with his swagger stick. They had used the dog to mate with other dogs with the intention of creating a pack of attack canines. Near the back of the trailer was a mother with newborn pups. Michael wanted to take a quick look at the litter, so he jumped up into the trailer and went to the back. In the cage, the pups were circled around something. They were growling, as puppies do, heads low and their rear ends high with tails wagging. Their little heads were shaking as if they were trying to rip something apart. When Michael’s eyes adjusted to the dim light at the back of the trailer, he saw that Sam had cut John’s arm off and thrown it into the pen. He had wanted the dogs to get a taste for human blood. Michael’s stomach turned and he quickly left with the male German shepherd. The dog jumped into the bed of Sam’s truck right as Clark came outside to give Sam his pistol and extra magazines. Sam tilted his head toward the cab of the truck as a signal for Michael to get in. As Michael rounded the bed of the truck, he made eye contact with Clark. With Sam’s back turned, Clark mouthed the words, “You can do it,” to Michael, but Michael did not even nod. He just slinked into the cab. The dog lifted his nose to the air and Sam drove away.

  After they left, Clark crammed a backpack with supplies, set the female dog and her pups free from the cage, and ran to the cover of the tree canopy by the stream. He had escaped, and he never looked back.

  Sam boldly pulled the truck into Dylan’s driveway and ordered Michael to exit the vehicle. Michael did and removed his pistol. Sam took the lead and went straight to the front door. Michael raised his pistol and thought about doing it now. He could shoot Sam and run away. Nobody would know. His hand started to shake, so he lowered the pistol and looked down. He could feel the panic setting in. Michael knew that he was a coward, and better at lying than at killing. The sound of the front door being kicked in and Sam screaming as he charged forward, brought him back to reality. After Sam stormed inside, Michael peeked through the doorway and realized that the house was empty.

  “They’re gone!” exclaimed Sam.

  Michael went into the house, walked through it to look out the back window, and saw a mound of fresh dirt. It was Jim’s grave. Michael felt nervous perspiration drip from his eyebrows, so he sat at the dining room table, picked up a piece of paper, and used it to fan himself. The movement concealed his shaking hand. Sam went into a rage and began to kick the walls and furniture. Michael watched the tantrum and got tunnel vision as his eyes turned into crosshairs. Each time Sam turned around Michael tried to bring himself to raise the pistol and pull the trigger, but he could not do it. Michael froze when Sam turned to him and stared in a peculiar way. It was a crazy, distant stare. A kind that he had not seen before. Sam raised his pistol and pointed it directly at Michael, who thought he was going to die, but then he realized that Sam was using the pistol to point at the paper that Michael was using to fan himself.

  “What is that?” asked Sam.

  “I don’t know. It was just lying on the table.”

  Michael put it down and smoothed out the wrinkles. It was a map. Sam spun it around and could see where a crayon had been used to trace a line on a road out of the city. It ended with a circle around a small town in southern Missouri, and the name Ruth was written by the town. Sam slammed his fist on the map.

  “I know where they are. This is the road they are taking to get to Ruth’s old home.”

  “Maybe we can get some more guys and another vehicle,” suggested Michael.

  Sam went behind Michael and put the pistol to the back of his head. Michael almost fainted.

  “I noticed that you looked at that mound of dirt in the backyard. It looks like a grave to me. Do you want to see what it looks like from underneath?”

  “Sam. Relax. Calm down. I’m just saying that if we know where they went, we can get some heavy firepower and make it easy.”

  “It just takes one bullet.” He pressed the pistol harder into Michael’s skull and said, “Click.”

  That was all Michael could take. He was ready to kill the lunatic. He wanted to get revenge by killing Dylan, too, but at that moment he needed to stay alive. Michael agreed with Sam, and Sam lowered the pistol. His mind began to race with thoughts of how he could kill Sam. He wondered if Sam was crazy enough to walk into a blaze of gunfire from Dylan’s rifle. Maybe he could get Dylan to do it, then he could just slip away during the battle. He really wanted to live more than he wanted revenge.

  According to the map, it looked like Dylan was going hundreds of miles away. They would never run into each other again, but Sam was intent on pursuing him and Ruth. Michael knew he would have to pick his moment carefully. Maybe wait until they got farther away, no witnesses, and he would be away from his enemies in the subdivision, too. Don’t do it here, just wait for a better moment, he thought.

  “We are leaving now and we are not coming back until Dylan is dead and we have Ruth.”

  “What about gas? We only have a tankful.”

  Sam prodded Michael’s skull with the tip of the barrel again. “Then we better move fast if we’re going to catch them.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Dylan was in the lead as the two old vehicles drove down the divided highway on their way to a better place, a place they all hoped was free of violence and the desperation that brings it to people. Ruth’s home and her family were at the end of the journey and if it was anything like Ruth had described, it would truly be a better place. Dylan drove with his hand on the gearshift and nervously tried to interpret every small vibration he felt. It was a ragged truck, but it was all they had to get them to the better place, that place that he hoped was still there, but to him was still just a story. Ruth knew that place well, and she regretted leaving her family home every day since the pulse had blanketed the world.

  Dylan came around a tight curve a little too fast and tapped on the brakes. Ruth was sitting next to him and his daughter was fast asleep as she lay across Ruth’s lap. The little girl’s body shifted when Dylan turned abruptly to stop and cross the divided highway, and she awoke. She sat up straight and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. Ruth put her arm around Jennifer and held her tight. On the other side of the road, Dylan had seen a large truck stop attached to a restaurant. They drove across the parking lot. A glass door was off its hinges and they could see through the large windows that looters had ransacked the place. Stalled cars and trucks still littered the parking lot. At the side of the building was a metal cage of propane tanks for gas grills. He thought it would be a good place to stop and stretch, and maybe break the lock on t
he cage and get some of the tanks. He coasted to a stop beside the cage. On the front of the metal enclosure was a picture of a blue rhinoceros with a flame for a horn.

  “Daddy, what is that?”

  “Propane tanks, honey.”

  “Is this our new home? I don’t want to live here.”

  “No, dear. This isn’t it,” answered Ruth. “We’re not there yet. Remember, I promised you kittens and green grass. You’re going to love it there.”

  “And I can have all your dolls that you had when you were a little girl?”

  “Of course you can.”

  Jennifer leaned close to Ruth’s ear and whispered, “I have to go potty.”

  Dylan heard the whisper and said, “You go with Ruth and stretch your legs, okay? Ruth, will you take her to the bushes?”

  “On my way.” She helped Jennifer get out of the truck, went behind the building, and headed for the privacy of a cluster of bushes.

  Kevin parked the El Camino under the metal canopy that covered the diesel pumps. He was not sure why Dylan had stopped, so he had parked in the shade of the tall truck canopy that was near the exit to the road. When had Dylan pulled up to the propane tanks, Kevin understood. He got a tire-iron and met Dylan by the pickup.

  “I think you might want one of these,” said Kevin as he slapped the tool across the palm of his hand. The tire-iron was short and bent like a hockey stick. The bent end had the socket and the other end had a chisel-shaped tip for removing hubcaps. Dylan inserted the chisel-tipped end into the padlock and tried to twist. It was too short to get much leverage. They scavenged the area for a pipe they could use as a cheater-bar and found a rusted piece of metal pipe about four feet long. Dylan pushed the chisel tip all the way through the loop of the padlock, then inserted the tip of the tire-iron into the rusty pipe. Both of them twisted the iron pipe and the lock snapped free. They helped themselves to several full tanks of propane before going to the bushes to relieve themselves.