Into the Dark of the Day (Action of Purpose, 2)
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INTO THE DARK
OF THE DAY
STUJONES
Into the Dark of the Day
Copyright 2017 by Stu Jones
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1490549889
ISBN 13: 9781490549880
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013912295
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
This is a work of fiction in the closest sense of the word. Characters, locations, cultures, tribes, organizations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Author’s Note
Though this story can be enjoyed without prior knowledge of previous events or characters, it is the author’s intent that this novel should be read after finishing the first novel in this series,
Through the Fury to the Dawn.
To my daughter, Millie.
May you live with a thankful heart—
one full of faith, hope, and love—
and may you ever be a beacon of light
shining in the darkness.
I love you.
Blessed be your name
when I’m found in the desert place.
Though I walk through the wilderness,
blessed be your name.
Blessed be your name
on the road marked with suffering.
Though there’s pain in the offering,
blessed be your name.
—from “Blessed Be Your Name,” by Matt Redman
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE: EMERGENCY RADIO CONTROL STATION ON THE COAST OF SOUTH CAROLINA NINE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENTS OF DAY FORTY
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE: BEFORE CANINE COGNITION AND BEHAVIOR LABS COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA
CHAPTER FOUR: NOW
CHAPTER FIVE: BEFORE WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA
CHAPTER SIX: NOW
CHAPTER SEVEN: BEFORE COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA
CHAPTER EIGHT: NOW
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE: BEFORE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: NOW
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TAKING A STAND AGAINST HUMAN TRAFFICKING
PROLOGUE
He had failed. It had been his responsibility, and he had failed. His fixation on the dream had been too much, too lofty—or had it? The cloaked man took two shuffled steps and faltered, stumbling to one knee on the dusty ground. The sky hid from him through the barren trees, glowering down from its darkened place of power. Charcoal clouds billowed across the heavens, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
Blood seeped through the cloak that concealed his many injuries, a reminder that any normal man would have been dead long ago. But he wasn’t normal. He was something else. There was something inside. He tried to stand, but even his own weight seemed too much to bear, as though his greater failures somehow had become more physical than they should be.
“How did this happen?” the man whispered, as the blood wept from his ruined face—a wound of melded buckshot and bone that refused to heal.
“How did this happen to me? You promised!” The large, muscular man lowered his head. He growled a string of profanities and laughed mirthlessly. “You motherfucker, I didn’t fail you. You failed me. You were supposed to be bigger than this, bigger than all of them, bigger than Him. I did what I was supposed to do. You failed me, and now I’ve been broken. If you were what you said you were, this wouldn’t have happened. You’re nothing more than a fake, a powerless dream.”
He laughed again—a sound devoid of any amusement. “Why don’t you prove me wrong, you weak son of a bitch.”
In an instant the wind picked up, howling through the dead trees like the eerie singing of a pipe organ. Still on his knee, the man pulled his cloak about him. The wind lashed about, whipping droplets of blood from his face in a gust that quickly grew to a gale. He squinted his eyes and braced himself with what strength remained, as he hovered amid the dust that flew and stung in the storm.
As quick as it came, the storm disappeared, the wind dropping to nothingness as the man continued to kneel. It was then that he heard it for the first time since it had left him. The voice. It spoke in a whisper, a sharp, lancing pain that slipped into his brain with a smooth, deathlike numbness.
Weak human. You doubt because you are miserable and pathetic. Without me you are nothing. You’re an insect waiting to be stamped out. I own you—forever. You are mine.
The cloaked man rose and began to straighten himself. “Ah, the old adversary of the king comes with his parlor tricks and threats.”
Before the man could finish, he was jerked from his feet and slammed brutally against the earth once, twice, and again. In a violent movement, he was dragged along the ground on his face before being plucked back vertically. There he hung suspended in the air like a broken marionette. Dazed and ruined, he flailed against his invisible tormentor as an oppressive weight of despair came crashing down on him. As he hung gasping, a shadow materialized. The voice spoke again.
Words. They can only explain so much. Even if I tried, your feeble mind could scarcely understand it. I’d tell you of what is coming, what you are now a part of—the grand destiny of it all. But instead of telling you, I’ll give you a taste.
The shadow moved closer as the man hung suspended, every fiber of his being taut with fear and anticipation. A dark mist seeped into his nostrils and clung to his eyes.
Do you see?
The man gasped as tremors seized his body.
Do you see? The voice cooed with malevolence.
The man’s eyes rolled back into his head. He gagged as bloody saliva spilled from his lips and small trickles of blood ran from the corners of his eyes.
Yes. You see it now, don’t you?
Blood now poured from the man’s eyes, nose, and mouth, gushing rivers of red as he groaned in agony and terror.
I’ll fix you. I’ll make you the most powerful creature ever to walk the face of this planet—for a price. I told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I own you, Malak—forever. It’s best that you not forget that.
Kane Lorusso pushed at the large, blood-soaked patch of dirt at his feet with the tip of his boot.
“Courtland, are you sure this is where he was?” Kane asked, turning toward the gigantic, bald, black man who stood to his left.
“Without question.”
The heavy cloud cover churned overhead, the result of man’s ultimate violation of the earth. Though complete, it was beginning to show the slightest weakness in its facade, as tiny bits of light penetrated through the oppressive, marred barrier that now stood between heaven and earth. It was a scene that inspired hope for all who looked upon it.
The two comrades stood in silence for a few moments, surveying the scene where just hours ago the greatest battle of their lives had come to an end. Kane squinted and examined the blood-soaked ground again. Though a few hours had passed, the ground
was still soaked. It had taken on a tacky consistency as the blood caked in the sand.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Kane muttered under his breath. “Maybe some of his goons dragged him off in all the chaos.”
“I think we would have seen it—seen something.”
“Are you sure he was dead?”
Courtland rubbed his massive hand across his brow and sighed. “I don’t know.” He looked up at the gaping hole in the wall of the structure, three stories up. “That’s a long fall. I don’t see how he could have survived it.”
“You did.”
“I did,” Courtland said with a nod, “but the Lord was with me, and…Kane, I landed on top of him. He landed on his neck. You should have seen how it twisted on impact.” Courtland scrunched up his face. “He looked as dead as a hammer.”
Kane pondered this for a second. “It is true…God has been with us. But after seeing what we saw up there—what came out of Malak—I think it’s safe to say that something is with him too.”
Courtland nodded again. “Maybe it protected him, sustained him, something…”
Kane looked up and away, toward the faint outline of smoke-shrouded hills in the distance. Finally, he broke the silence. “All right, I need to go finish preparations for the burial service. Molly and the others…they deserve for it to be done right.”
“Absolutely.”
“You still don’t mind saying a few words? I know she would’ve appreciated it.”
“No problem, Kane,” Courtland said, patting his friend gently on the shoulder. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thanks, man,” Kane said as he turned to leave.
“It’s just…” Courtland started.
Kane stopped, turning back. Courtland nodded, deep in thought, as he looked once again at the blood smeared patch of earth in front of him.
“That thing in him is not of this world,” Courtland spoke, choosing his words carefully. “It knows neither pain nor weakness nor death. If we didn’t destroy it, you can be sure of one thing. It will never stop—not ever. Not until it is drunk with every last drop of anguish and misery it can squeeze from us. Don’t ever forget that.”
ONE
EMERGENCY RADIO CONTROL STATION ON THE COAST OF SOUTH CAROLINA NINE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENTS OF DAY FORTY
Kane Lorusso crossed the courtyard of the radio control station with the subtle, relaxed gait of a man who was in a hurry for nothing. After a few friendly greetings in passing, he began his lazy descent down the narrow, metal staircase to the subbasement of the station. Kane reached the concrete landing and knocked twice on the metal door before turning the knob and entering. The warmer air from within washed over him, and he smelled the faint aroma of heated plastic. The dim lights buzzed, giving off a false feeling of comfort.
As he entered, a portly figure sat up in his chair in the center of the room.
“Oh, Kane. Hey, man. Wasn’t expecting you this time of day.”
“Hey, Winston. I woke you up?”
“Naw, uh, I mean, well…” The chubby man sighed. “Yeah, I guess you did. Sorry, man.”
Kane stared at Winston, his gaze penetrating the soft, round man like X-ray vision. Winston pulled his chair forward and began to clear the microphone control booth as he mumbled.
“Uh, yeah, I can’t lie. I was napping a bit, but I’m a super-light sleeper, and I’ve got this thing turned way up, man. I mean if anyone was broadcasting anything, I’d hear it. You know, man. I’m…”
“Forget about it,” Kane said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Like I said, I’m sorry. Just haven’t been sleeping well lately, man.” Winston nervously smoothed an unruly cowlick.
“Forget about it. Not that big of a deal. Just hear it if it picks something up.”
“Cool, man. No prob. I got this locked down.” Winston smiled, realizing the threat of disciplinary action had passed. He bobbed his head. “No worries. I got this.”
“Good. We’re glad to have someone like you, someone with a little experience with this kind of equipment.”
“I dunno if being a disc jockey for my college radio metal station is experience, but hey, it is what it is.” Winston unleashed a goofy smile.
Kane motioned at the console. “Mind if I do one?”
Winston stood and offered Kane his chair. “Knock yourself out, man.”
Kane took a step through the small doorway and seated himself in the cozy booth. The air was warmest there, heated by the instrument panels and various antiquated electronics. The old-fashioned radio system was stored in the subbasement to make way for more sophisticated systems. In the end, it was the only equipment at the station that had made it.
The modern studio with all of its advanced computer-controlled systems was located on the upper floors of the station. It hadn’t survived the electromagnetic pulse that had blasted everything during the onset of the End War. Every unshielded appliance and gadget that relied upon sophisticated, computerized technology had been completely fried. And that was just the beginning. In a brief, violent conflict, modern civilization was completely wiped from the face of the earth. Three-quarters of the world’s population were destroyed. It had taken just under forty-eight hours. That was more than ten months ago.
Those who had survived lived to inherit a fate far worse—that of the new world. It was a place of savagery, greed, and basic survival, one tainted by the radioactive biological and chemical remnants from the war. Bands of violent criminals roamed the wasteland. Vile mutants called Sicks who had once been relegated to wander what was left of the larger metro areas began to stray from the cities. Massive forest fires raged unchecked. Water sources were ruined and undrinkable. Animal wildlife appeared to have disappeared from the earth. It was a nightmare.
In those first few days, Kane had lost everything that meant anything to him, but he’d gained something as well—something astounding. A light had entered his soul, and as it extinguished the darkness it found there, it turned a once bitter agnostic into a man of faith. It protected him in those early days through seemingly unsurvivable trials against evil men, monsters, and demons. It had made him a believer in the God of the universe and in his plan, which was still unfolding even now as Kane sat alone in the radio room.
He shuffled the chair closer to the microphone, cleared his throat, and moved his hand to the hot switch. Kane thought about the spirited young woman, Molly, whom he had befriended in the days after the war when everything seemed so messed up. She had been an inspiration to him, and even though she was gone, he knew he had made it this far because of her. He asked himself what she would want him to say on the radio. More important, he thought of her final words to him. They were words that couldn’t be true, words that stung and elevated his emotions to a plateau of false hope.
They’re alive, Kane. Your family is still alive.
There was no possible way. If it were true, how could she have known anyway? When the End War began, his family was in Miami, a city that was later completely destroyed. They couldn’t be alive, and Kane couldn’t think of such things. It wasn’t fair that Molly had told him this then passed away without an explanation. Then again, “fair” was a civilized concept, one that didn’t exactly have a place in the new world.
Kane clicked on the hot switch, and the radio crackled to life.
“This is Kane Lorusso broadcasting from the emergency radio control station on the coast of South Carolina, north of Charleston. A number of survivors have established a secure colony here along the coast, north of Charleston. We have resources and expertise that we are willing to share and trade with like-minded people. There is hope. There is light in the darkness. But let this be a warning to anyone who receives this message and plots to take from us, kill us, or raid our settlement. We are prepared, we are trained, and we will not go without a savage fight. That is all.”
Kane snapped the hot switch down and licked his lips.
Don’t do it. Don’t do this to yourself
.
He snapped the hot switch back on.
“Susan, if you’re out there, and you can hear me, I love you and…if you hear this message, contact me on this frequency. I haven’t lost hope.”
He snapped the hot switch down again and swore under his breath.
Winston tried without success to conceal a look of pity as Kane stood and made his way to the door. Breathing deeply through his nose, Kane turned the handle and swung the metal door open, stepping out into the dark of the day.
Jenna Gregory turned to the dingy cot behind her to assess the next patient, a middle-aged male who moaned and shivered under a thin wool blanket. She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow as she took inventory of his injuries. Another mauling victim. Those things were becoming bolder. Looking the man over, Jenna took it all in: an eight-inch abdominal gash held together with an uneven stitch job that was less than sterile; severe contusions across his chest, neck, and head; and a raging fever to start. He was also dehydrated and may have been exposed to radiation or some other blood poisoning. There was no way for her to know; it was all just a guess anyway. She wasn’t a doctor. She wasn’t even a nurse. Regardless, she was still the best chance that this man had to survive.
Jenna stooped close to the man’s ear. “Is there anything I can get for you…to make you more comfortable?”
“Wa…wagga,” came the man’s raspy croak.
Jenna grimaced. Water. She knew he would ask for it long before he managed to croak out the request. It would be the hardest item to give freely.
“OK, I’ll see what I can do. You just rest now.”
In times of plenty, people forget that the human body is roughly 70 percent water—a fact that becomes all too easy to remember when the world turns to dust and every mucus membrane in the body begins to dry out.