Into the Dark of the Day (Action of Purpose, 2)

by Stu Jones

  In an instant Kane’s many years of police training, intended to develop his combat motor skills and maximize his efficiency in moments of critical stress, engaged. Before even he knew what had happened, his weapon was in front of him, the mechanics of point shooting automated by his hardwired muscle memory. The handgun blazed in a fast and devastating three-round burst, at the end of which he settled into a combat shooting stance. The rounds had a zipper-like effect from abdomen to chest to head as each landed a critical strike. The freak fell limp midair and tumbled against the earth, sliding in a trail of black blood that ended at Kane’s feet.

  As the light continued to swell from the compound’s floodlights, Kane took two steps away from the creature and resumed his combat stance. He swept his eyes and his weapon left and right, scanning for possible threats. He heard a howl of anger followed by the hiss of a Sick as it launched from the shadows, fleeing through a hole in the torn fence. Kane fired his weapon as he tracked the monster, but it was moving so fast that he had trouble getting a bead on it. Rounds zinged over his head as men fired their rifles from the catwalk and the inhabitants of the station poured into the courtyard.

  “Don’t let it escape!” Kane yelled, as he took several more careful shots, the cacophony of gunfire rattling his eardrums.

  After a moment Kane raised his hand, signaling for the group to ceasefire. He stood, loaded a fresh magazine, and holstered a ready weapon. He looked at the people of the station; their eyes were wild, sleepy, and distressed—a look that comes from being torn from one’s place of rest by a moment of violence.

  “I got him,” a man with a rifle called from the catwalk. “Think I just winged him, though.”

  Kane nodded and gave a wave of his hand as he nudged at the dead Sick before him. He took two steps over the creature and moved to the side of the downed sentry, its victim. The man shivered and clutched at his throat and chest as blood poured from his wounds.

  Kane took the man’s hand. “Eric, right?”

  The man gave a slight nod.

  “I’m sorry, bro, real sorry. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Gup…ugh,” the man sputtered. “Caught us by surprise…”

  “Go on,” Kane urged, gripping the man’s hand.

  “Don’t know…out of nowhere…all over us.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, maybe. I couldn’t…save…Jeremy.”

  Kane glanced to his right, to the first man he’d seen, as Courtland and a few others approached. “You did your best. You did just fine. They’re gone now.”

  “I’m sorry, Katie…sho…shorry…” The man gurgled, then grew still, his grip on Kane’s hand loosening.

  Kane lowered his head and patted his free hand against the man’s chest. “Rest easy, friend.”

  Courtland spoke from behind Kane. “Do we know who Katie is? Is she here?”

  Another man watching shook his head. “His wife. I think she’s been gone a while now…since the beginning.”

  Everyone nodded in silent understanding.

  “They got in through the fence,” Kane said as he pointed. “Over there.”

  “It’s my fault,” Courtland muttered. “I knew about it. Tynuk was able to get in and out unseen. I told him I’d have it repaired in the morning.”

  “An costly oversight,” Kane said, rubbing at the aching center of his chest. “Well, it looks like no sleep for us tonight. We need every able-bodied person out here. We have to properly fortify this place right now.”

  One of the men standing close by spoke up. “But this was just an isolated incident, right? I mean those things don’t think. They can’t reason, right?”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Kane said, taking in a deep breath. “These two were scouts. They’re testing us.”

  The man faltered. “But…I mean, what do they want from us?”

  Kane looked the man square in the face, his tone grave. “Friend, they don’t want anything from us. They want us.”

  Dawn broke over the gypsy camp in shades of gray. Bits of light strained to breach the thick canopy, the flicker so brief it hardly seemed to exist. Susan sat up on her pallet on the floor of Garrett’s tent. As she tried to swallow, dust mixed with her saliva and stuck in her throat like a spoonful of peanut butter. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to release the blockage. She coughed and righted herself, attempting to remember the last time she had left the tent. It felt like an eternity. The bucket of her stale urine and feces sat in the corner of the tent, a sour reminder of her imprisonment.

  The tent flap opened to reveal Garrett’s roguish form. He stepped into the tent and glowered at her, his long, black hair hanging loose, partly shielding his eyes and bearded chin.

  “Up and at ’em, woman.”

  “My name is Susan.”

  “Not anymore. Now you’re just ‘woman.’ You don’t have feelings, or a family, or a life. You don’t have that stuff anymore. You are my property, and that’s all you are.” He moved closer to her, crouching. “You know, I thought we had something…good. Turns out you only care about yourself and those bastard kids of yours. It seems you like to spit in the face of my generosity.”

  “Garrett, where are my children?”

  “Where are my children? Where are my children?” he mocked her in a girlish tone. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Selfishness. You never ask me what I want, do you?”

  “That’s because you just take what you want. You always have.”

  “Aw, sugar. You know you like it. How about a quick one?” Garrett said, stroking the outline of her face with his fingertips.

  “How about you go to hell?”

  Garrett grabbed a handful of Susan’s hair and a vicious yank backward, as she cried out in pain. At once he was close to her, whispering in her ear.

  “You should show me some fucking respect, woman. I’m the only thing that stands between your kids and Saxon—and the things he would do to them. I personally don’t approve, but I suppose every man has his vices.”

  “Please, Garrett, please…I’m sorry. Don’t let him hurt them.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. He won’t hurt them. He loves children.”

  “Please, please…I’ll do anything.”

  Smiling, Garrett released her hair and stroked her face again. “That’s better.”

  “Tell me they’re okay, that you’ll keep them safe.”

  “They’re okay—for now. How long they stay that way depends very much on how…compliant you choose to be,” Garrett said, a lusty smile pouring over his face.

  Susan nodded as she wiped a tear from her face. “Alright. I’ll do what you want. Can I please have some water first?”

  Garrett tossed her a plastic water bottle that contained a few ounces of lukewarm water. As she gulped it down and coughed, he surveyed her with indifferent eyes.

  “Now tell me your name.”

  “Su—” She paused, glancing at him before lowering her eyes. “Woman” she whispered ashamedly.

  “That’s my girl.” Garrett leaned in and licked the side of her face. He pulled down her shoulder strap and slipped his hand across her breast.

  At that moment Susan knew with poignant clarity that there would soon come a day when she and her children would be free, and the blood of this disgusting man would be on her hands.

  TWELVE

  BEFORE

  Dr. Eric Glenn crouched low, hunched over the form of the man he’d just killed. He’d stashed his belongings in the corner of the ruined Jeffy’s gas station, thinking they’d be safe. After all, he had been gone only a few minutes to scavenge the area for goods. When he returned he found this stinking, feral piece of shit going through his stuff. The ambush happened like a predator on the hunt, and he’d overpowered the sick man with his superior speed and strength right away, crushing the violator’s head against a wall.

  Not the hands. Don’t hurt the hands.

  Glenn stroked the dead man’
s long, slender hand and lifted it to where he could see it better. Yes, the third metacarpal bone, the longest bone of the middle finger, would do just fine. Glenn reached for a knife next to his satchel, picked it up, then dropped it immediately. He tried again, his deformed hands failing at trying to hold on to the thin knife. His body was changing.

  It had been two months, and as far as he could tell, Stroph’s protein mixture, MAK47, had taken some effect. He could still think and reason, and apart from a growing haze concerning his memories, his recollection abilities seemed intact. The serum also had given him great strength and speed, heightened abilities he hadn’t known before. Some remnant of the mako shark now lived within him.

  The other infected hadn’t fared so well. Some element of the exposure had caused their brains to hyperinflame and degenerate. At best they were capable of only the most basic, primal mental functions. Most had resorted to shuffling around and chasing down the poor bastards who couldn’t run fast enough.

  Glenn did experience some negative side effects. Some days were better than others. The fog of old memories and bits of hard-earned knowledge seemed to remain, but his mind became more clouded with each passing day. Glenn feared that he might have slowed the effects of the infection but not stopped them. Such was evidenced by the grayish flesh of his body, which continued to deform, each day becoming more grotesque.

  “Hungryyyy,” he spoke in a voice like a churn of gravel, foreign even to his own ears. Instinctively he slashed a strip of bloody meat from the back of the dead man’s thigh. He stuffed it into his mouth, chewing with methodical strokes of his jaw as he resumed inspecting the corpse’s hands.

  Cutting into the flesh, Glenn pushed the tip of his knife under the metacarpal bone and raised it to the surface. After cutting through the connecting joints, he pulled the bone, which was covered in a reddish-black, clotted goo, from the top of the hand. With a grunt, he sliced off another chunk of thigh meat, stuffed it into his mouth, and moved on all fours to a nearby wall. There he sat, wiping off the bone as he chewed. He began to carve the ends of the bone, scooping out the marrow with the tip of the blade. Though he somehow knew the ultimate goal, Glenn’s body and brain appeared to be running on autopilot. After some time and with a delicate patience, he finished carving the short, whitish flute. Admiring his work, he blew a few quick notes using the row of carved holes across the top. He gave a hiss of satisfaction and set the flute beside him.

  Forcing his deformed hand into his tattered pocket, he extracted the picture of his wife, the photo’s edges worn and abused. He cooed, tracing the picture with his deformed finger, the tip of which was forming a claw.

  “Ghabreeeeelllle,” he groaned, his twisted vocal chords still trying to sound her name.

  A ruckus outside the gas station snapped his attention back to the present. Grabbing the flute, he moved to the rear of the building and ascended an external ladder to the decrepit roof. Crawling low, he made his way to the edge and peered over. Below him, three infected humans gnashed and fought over the remains of a dead dog.

  The song.

  It was a perfect opportunity to test his theory against subjects with diminished cognitive abilities, precisely the type of consciousness that might be controllable. Raising the flute, the tune ingrained in his memory, Glenn blew hard, mashing his deformed fingers over the holes. The song began to fill the air.

  In an instant the group froze, rooted in place, and their feral eyes opened wide. Glenn surveyed their stillness for a long moment before he spoke. He stretched his arms toward them and shouted, “You vheil kaall me fah-ther! You vheil doo vasht eye sayyy!”

  Glenn began to play the second tune. As he did, two of the Sicks turned to face the third. As the song concluded, they leaped onto the third Sick, tearing it into pieces as it screamed.

  Glenn lowered the flute and smiled, the gray flesh of his lips peeling back over broken teeth as he laughed. After a moment the two mutants stood and turned toward him, blood and filth dripping from their faces. Their bodies swayed in delirious anticipation. Glenn raised the flute again and blew a final tune, long and low like a sad lullaby. The mutants moaned with ecstasy, raising their hands toward him, their voices calling out in unison, “Fozzer!”

  THIRTEEN

  NOW

  The inhabitants of the station worked without complaint through the night, repairing the twelve-foot security fence around the station. The task wasn’t an easy one, but working together as a group they’d done a decent job—having moved several disabled vehicles to block off weak areas and strengthened the lower half of the fence using whatever scrap metal they had available.

  Courtland wiped a heavy hand across his brow and squatted to pick up the last sedan, a Buick LeSabre, to be placed along the fence. The rusted vehicle creaked as the giant gripped the frame, dropped his butt, and looked upward. With a groan, he locked his arms out, thrusting the vehicle wheels up, above his head the way a powerlifter snatches a barbell. He smiled as he began to walk, the vehicle suspended overhead. As he crossed the courtyard and neared the front gate, people stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle. Like a circus strongman doing his act, Courtland commanded the attention of his audience. The station fell quiet in observation. As he neared the fence, he dipped just a little and dropped the car into position to help fortify the gate. Still smiling, he slapped his hands together as the dust began to clear. It took a moment for him to sense the silence and realize all eyes were on him. He waved a meaty hand and chuckled, enjoying the looks of shock on their faces.

  “Okay. Show’s over. Let’s finish up and rest for a while.”

  The crowd murmured in acknowledgment. Courtland turned to Jenna, who was working along the fence line with Winston, the man who usually manned the radio room. They were talking and weaving strips of sheet metal through the chain-link fence. Courtland lumbered over just as they finished their task.

  “Hey, guys,” Courtland spoke, towering above them.

  “Hi, Courtland,” Jenna said, wiping her hands on her cargo pants.

  “Hey,” Winston began. “I was just asking Jenna how you do that. I mean, I’ve never seen anybody do anything like that before.”

  Jenna shrugged. “I told him I didn’t really know.”

  Courtland knelt, a pleased look on his face. “Well, I’ve always been a big man. By the time I was twelve, I was six foot four and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds—and that was before I hit puberty. I was diagnosed with a rare condition. My growth hormones were overproducing. They’ve slowed a lot now, but technically speaking I’m still growing.”

  Winston was interested, starved for conversation. It was evident that the poor man spent too much time alone in the radio room.

  “Fascinating! What’s the name of the condition?”

  “It’s called gigantism. You remember Andre the Giant, that wrestler? He had the same condition.”

  “Don’t a lot of complications come from something like that?”

  “Yes. Most people with my condition live with a significant amount of pain their entire lives, but somehow I escaped that curse.”

  Winston nodded and held his hands up. “But just because you’re big doesn’t mean you should be able to press a car over your head.”

  “You are correct. I do have something else. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say that God chose to give me a little extra something under the hood, so to speak. I don’t know why exactly. His reasons are his own. All I know is that I must use my strength for his glory, or that power will fade.”

  “That’s amazing! I mean, uh…how…” Winston stammered in excitement.

  Jenna patted him gently on the shoulder. “Hey, Winston. How about you let us finish up here so you can get back to the radio?”

  “Oh, no. This is far too interesting. Besides, Marcus is there.”

  “Yeah, but does Marcus really know what he’s doing?”

  “Well, he…” Winston trailed off and lowered his head. “No, I guess not.�
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  “Why don’t you relieve him, and I’ll come down and visit you there in a little while?” said Jenna.

  “Okay,” Winston responded, flashing a nerdy smile. “But don’t dilly dally. I’m a stallion, and if you wait too long, some other pretty lady will snap me up!”

  “That would be so sad,” Jenna said, making a fake pouty face. Winston turned and made his way to the stairs.

  “You didn’t have to do that. I don’t mind talking about it,” Courtland said.

  “I’m sure you don’t mind, because you’re a saint, but actually I needed to talk to you for a sec.”

  “Oh, yeah? What about?”

  “Last night.”

  Courtland made a face. “Which part? Last night was a doozy.”

  “I kind of lost it,” Jenna said quietly.

  Courtland nodded in agreement.

  “I never blow up like that. I guess it was just a perfect storm.”

  “I’m not sure you were out of line. Kane pushed everyone too far.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “What about it?”

  “I dunno. It’s Kane. I’m worried about him.”

  Courtland met her gaze and nodded. “How so?”

  “Back when you guys came here and rescued me, he was fine. He was…more reasonable. He acted like a man of God. Recently he seems like he’s on the edge. He doesn’t seem like the same man.”

  “He’s had a lot on him. He’s—”

  “You’re making excuses for him,” Jenna said, cutting him short. “You always do. Why?”

  Courtland’s gaze shifted. He pulled on the back of his neck and took a deep breath.

  “Courtland, what is it?”

  “I’ve felt it too. I think his faith is slipping.”

  Jenna nodded.

  “When we first met, his faith was like magnesium burning. It was so fresh and burned so hot.” Courtland sighed and caught Jenna’s eyes. “Recently I think he’s tried to make this more about him and his plans instead of listening to what God wants in his life. I think he mourns his family. I think he’s angry about how Molly died and how close he was to saving her.”