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

by Stu Jones

  Jenna touched his arm. “I get all that—I really do—but he can be so difficult, so destructive, and he’s the one in charge. How do we stop him?”

  Courtland pulled his arm from her and looked at her. “Stop him? Jenna, we encourage him or even help redirect him. We don’t try to stop him. God has plans for that man.”

  “It doesn’t seem like God is working in him.”

  “He is. It may be hard for you to accept, but we’re all here to assist Kane in his purpose. It’s the only reason we’ve come this far. We have to trust that everything happens for a reason.”

  “That’s crazy talk. We’re supposed to just stand by while he goes off the deep—” The look on Courtland’s face stopped Jenna midsentence.

  “You’ve got me all wrong, Jenna. I made a promise to God that I would stand against the darkness. It was revealed to me that I would do this at Kane’s side. This is the reason my heart still beats in my chest. I won’t abandon it—or him.” Courtland stood and turned to walk away. “I won’t ally with you against him.”

  “That’s not what I want, Courtland. I’m just…scared. I want to know what’s going to happen.”

  Courtland half turned to look at Jenna from the corner of his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I do know that all we’ve got out here is each other. We’re a single flicker of light in a sea of darkness.”

  “And if our light goes out, Courtland? What then?” Jenna whispered, her lip quivering.

  Courtland stopped but did not turn. “You don’t want to be around for that.”

  Tynuk was capable of traveling on foot, but it was tiresome, and he had many miles left on his journey. There were no working vehicles to be found. Even if there were, Tynuk couldn’t drive. He viewed the use of motorized vehicles as something the world would one day be better off without.

  He adjusted his handhold on the beast’s mane as he rode bareback. Larger than a full-grown Bengal tiger, the beast didn’t seem to mind or even notice the weight of the boy as it moved. Its muscles pushed and pulled like steel pythons beneath its flowing coat. Tynuk patted the beast on its flank, and it slowed at the top of a rise. They were making their way North then West, being sure to avoid high-traffic areas where bandits and other outlaws would be prevalent.

  The boy slid off the beast, his lean, muscular form more like a man’s than it should be at his age. He arched his back, stretching, reaching his hands toward the blackened ceiling of the world. Hearing a sound in the distance, he stopped, arms still raised, his senses calm, his reflexes poised. The warrior boy knew all too well that letting down his guard, even for a second, could mean doom. After a moment he relaxed, lowered his arms, and reached for his satchel to get his waterskin. He shook the container and frowned.

  Too light. Time for a little detour.

  “Come on, Az. Help me find water.”

  The beast lowered his head and sniffed the dusty ground. The boy headed down the opposite side of the hill, his war club at the ready. After a few minutes of foraging, Tynuk dug up a few sassafras roots to chew on, but he hadn’t yet found a water source. The heavy, dry air clung to him, making him more aware of his thirst. He drank the remaining water from his skin.

  Azolja continued to sniff the ground, moving further into a nearby ravine. The boy followed behind. He knew that Azolja had very keen senses. The creature had found them water in the past simply by smelling it in the air. The beast stopped midstep, lifted his head high as his nostrils flared, and sampled the moistened air of the ravine. Tynuk froze, his muscles wound like a spring. He prepared himself to snap into action at the slightest indication of danger. After a long pause, the beast drew his pink tongue across glistening fangs and chattered his teeth together. Tynuk had come to understand that this meant the beast sensed no danger.

  Tynuk crept up next to the Az and pointed to the floor of the ravine. There, a narrow, twisting creek bed snaked through the dark forest. Water no longer traveled the path, but the boy knew there was a good chance the dusty floor would produce something.

  “There,” Tynuk whispered to the beast.

  Azolja huffed and moved toward the dry creek bed, its nose inches from the charred turf. With a thud he dropped onto the soft sand. The boy followed, sinking into the earth in his leather moccasins. He stepped to the lowest point of the bed, on the inside bend of the creek bed, and bent to dig his fingers into the sand. After a few handfuls, he scooped his fingers deeper and pulled up a clump of dark sand. He held it up to his nose, and closing his eyes, he inhaled the thick, moist, earthen scent of the granulated earth.

  Tynuk looked at the beast and smiled as he dug more, then a little faster, pulling greedy handfuls of the moist sand into a pile next to him. With a creeping slowness, brownish water filled the hole as the sand there collapsed in on itself. Tynuk dug out a few more handfuls then pulled a blue handkerchief from his satchel. He dipped the handkerchief into the small pool then rung the water into his waterskin. The cloth was an imperfect method, but it provided a mild filtering element to the collection process. The water was brown and had a musty, earthen smell, but it didn’t appear to be contaminated, though that possibility existed. Even so, contamination was the lesser of many evils. Tynuk knew it was a chance they had to take since dehydration would kill them before anything else.

  He took his time filling the skin while Azolja lapped the dirty water straight from the hole. After finishing his task, Tynuk filled the hole back in and covered their tracks across the creek bed as they headed up the other side of the ravine. The darkness of the woods began to deepen. As the day grew long, the shadows rising, telling the warrior boy and his beast that it was time to resume their journey west, into the unknown lands of post-civilization.

  FOURTEEN

  In the shade of the hill, the man called Raith lay on his belly, observing the radio station. For a few hours, he had watched as the group of survivors went to and fro, working alongside one another to fortify the entire perimeter of the compound. He wondered what had prompted their little exercise. Why, after so long, had they felt the sudden need to strengthen their walls? Had they seen him? Did they have any inclination that they were under constant surveillance by enemy forces? No. It wasn’t possible. He had been quite careful—every detail accounted for, every moment structured. He hadn’t given away his position, and he wasn’t a man of rash or impatient moves. The world was dead, and soon the Coyotes would be the most powerful force in what was once the United States of America—maybe even in the entire continent.

  Raith wasn’t a stupid man. He did everything with an enormous amount of planning and thought. For this reason, he never had done a significant stretch in prison. It was also for this reason that Malak trusted him to watch the station alone. Most of the gang wasn’t suited to such work. They were bloodthirsty, reckless, and prone to rash or careless decisions. That was the nature of animals, which was what most of them were.

  Raith hadn’t quite devolved to that level. Sure, he had his vices, and they certainly included some extreme, maybe even barbaric practices by civilized standards. But the truth was Raith still appreciated some of the finer human things, like a nice genuine conversation between two people. Without question, his favorite type of conversation was the one you had with someone just before you killed them.

  Some of the most personal and intimate conversations he’d ever had with another human being had been with his victims. There was this lovely fat girl in Newark, New Jersey, years ago. He still remembered her name, Loretta Lynn Bansky. What a gem. She had such a desire to live, and at one point, she nearly thwarted months of Raith’s planning. She’d come so close to escaping from the subbasement of the old house where he’d kept her. But it was because of their conversations that he appreciated her most. How she had tried to plead and reason with him. She told him all about herself and her family, things he already knew about her, but he appreciated her honesty nonetheless. He had so enjoyed their conversations that he almost had spared her. Almost
.

  Raith shifted his position and allowed a small, yellowed smile to creep across his face. He’d learned that you really got to know people in their final hours, in their final minutes, and especially in the last seconds. He’d determined years ago that you never actually knew a person until you killed them, which was his sole reason for carrying on the way he had. He had run the authorities around in circles, sent them chasing their own tails. All the drama, all the media attention, staying constantly on the move—it all had been worth it. Seventeen victims in fourteen states and Raith had never been caught. Not once. The police were too stupid to catch him, and he exploited their every weakness.

  He picked up the binoculars and surveyed the compound again, looking for his lovely. He had spotted her almost immediately, days earlier, and knew that one day she too would be his. With her long brown hair and agile frame, she was always carrying that satchel, tending to people who needed water or medical attention—especially the lookout man on the roof of the station. She visited him often. Raith wondered whether they were a couple and whether the man would try to intervene. But Raith had also noted the crutches and the way the poor man limped about. He smiled again. Like a broken-down dog, this man just might have to be put out of his misery when the time came.

  One way or another, she would be his, and when the Coyotes tore the station down to its foundation, Raith would be waiting. He would be there, ready to scoop up his pretty and take her away so that he could truly get to know her.

  Entering the lobby of the Reeds at Colonial Pointe, Raith nodded to the two barbarians guarding Malak’s chambers. They returned the nod and stepped aside to allow him access to the king. Raith made his way up the stairs, reviewing the details of his report in his head. He wanted to be sure his delivery to Malak went smoothly. He’d learned early on that Malak was not someone whose time you wanted to screw around with.

  Raith knew better than to mess with Malak, and to be fair, this was Malak’s organization. Raith was, by trade, a loner, but he also knew that in this new world there was something to be said about safety in numbers. He could still fulfill his own agenda while serving the greater goals of the Coyotes. It was a small price to pay.

  Raith cleared his throat and rapped on the wall next to the open door of the grand suite.

  “Come in,” the voice growled from inside the room.

  Raith cleared his throat again and entered. The air in the room smelled of fresh blood and despair. It clung to his skin.

  Get it over with.

  “I have the station report for the day.”

  Malak raised his eyebrows. “Raith, the man of mystery. And what news does the mystery man have for me?”

  “Surveillance report from the station. Everything—all activity in and out of the station—has slowed. No scavenging parties today. No new arrivals. This morning they were fortifying the fence all the way around the perimeter. Everyone seems to be busying themselves with tasks, like they’re preparing for something.”

  “They’ve seen you.”

  “Impossible. You’ve seen me move. There is no one more careful.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. There are no indications of anything yet, but I’ll continue to observe them as close as possible.”

  “Take care that they don’t see you. If you have alerted them to our presence, it will not bode well for you, mystery man.”

  Raith did not reply. He stood in silence before the big man. “If that’s all, Lord Malak. I’ll grab some sleep and head out again first thing.”

  “That is all. Keep me informed.”

  Raith paused, considered saying more.

  “There’s something else?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” Raith took a deep breath. “There’s a woman at the station. When this goes down, I want her.”

  Malak chuckled. “Do you, now? Who is she?”

  “She’s…perfect. About five foot six with a very lithe frame. She’s always helping people around the station. She may be a doctor or something. I want her for my…collection.”

  Malak didn’t move. He surveyed Raith with black eyes while the man finished speaking.

  “You are an interesting one, mystery man, but I like your style.” A moment passed before Malak nodded. “Continue to observe the station and report back. If you can identify her when the time comes, you will have your woman…under one condition—you must spare her no pain.”

  Raith gave a slight bow as he turned to leave. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  FIFTEEN

  In the late afternoon, the business of the compound began to slow. Dagen sat on the edge of the roof and pushed his legs over the side so they dangled over the empty space. Reaching into his ragged backpack, he searched for the singular item that would guarantee him a temporary reprieve from the war in his heart. He couldn’t go on like this. He was a mess, and his every waking moment and every interaction with Jenna only served to confuse him further. He had no idea what he wanted anymore—no idea what he needed.

  Dagen tried to hold on to some shred of his identity, to reclaim something with meaning, something that made him who he was. But to his dismay, he came up empty every time. He’d never had much. Orphaned at an early age, he had never had any family who cared about him. As a boy, he’d been the victim of sexual abuse by a Christian pillar of his community. He grew up angry, with no purpose and no faith in anything. His lack of direction continued well into adulthood. He floundered, desperate to locate something in his life that felt real. With a sad resolution, Dagen determined that he had no such thing. And now lacked the ability to walk unassisted.

  He was a physical, mental, and emotional wreck. The only thing he ever had been good at was playing the bad guy. He had a talent for hurting people, and he had fed off the fear and anguish of others, allowing it to empower him further. For a while causing such misery and running with Malak and his gang worked pretty well for Dagen—and then Jenna happened.

  Why did it always come back to her? She and her message of God just wouldn’t leave him alone. She couldn’t just let him die and go on to whatever terrible fate awaited men like him. And on top of all this, as much as he loathed admitting it, Jenna’s talk of hope and God’s ability to save him had begun to resonate deep within him. He wanted to be redeemed. He wanted it so bad, but it was something he didn’t deserve—just like he didn’t deserve Jenna. For a long while, Dagen stared at the small, silver cross necklace in his palm. Knowing what it meant and where it came from only twisted his spirit further. What was he thinking holding on to such a thing?

  He couldn’t do this any longer. He had to drown this garbage inside himself—this time for good. Shoving the cross back into his pocket, Dagen pulled a liter of Popov vodka from his backpack. Drinking alcohol was like swallowing gold. Nobody had alcohol anymore, and the bit that was scavenged was usually distributed evenly among those who wanted it. The bottle had cost him an arm and a leg, a leg he didn’t have. In addition to the alcohol, Dagen also had traded for a heavy-duty prescription of oxycodone, which he intended to take with the alcohol. Maybe the combination would kill him. Or maybe it would get him so high that he wouldn’t realize it when he fell off the roof. At the very least, the combination would take him out for a while and hopefully kill all that confusing nonsense floating around inside him.

  Dagen popped the top off the meds and shook a few pills into his hand. He threw them into his mouth and chased them down with three long gulps from the plastic vodka jug. He was supposed to be acting as the lookout for the station, but why should he? The people there had done nothing for him. They could go to hell, as a matter of fact. He might get there first to greet them when they arrived.

  Dagen waited a few minutes as the toxic combination of alcohol and pills began to push through him, whipping the anger inside him into a violent storm. He groaned and, with a slur, cursed everything and everyone he ever had known. Dagen flopped back against the gravel rooftop and watched the world spin, f
ly, and fade to black.

  Evening fell over the station compound. A few people continued to work on the fence. Others transported loads of water from the black-water cistern into the station. Kane exited the second floor onto the catwalk. He moved to the railing then took a moment to adjust the assault rifle that hung across his chest on a sling. There wasn’t any time for sleep, not tonight. Besides, his sleep wasn’t especially restful as of late. Instead, Kane took a rifle and planned to spend his evening in the courtyard with the night watch. It was more than a hunch. Kane knew the Sicks would come again, under the cover of darkness. This time they would come in force. He crossed the catwalk to the external stairs and made his way down to the ground level. There he encountered Jacob, hobbling along, carrying two buckets of water.

  “What’s up? What’s with the rifle?”

  “Figured I’d do a rotation on watch tonight. Want to join me?”

  “Hell, yeah. Does this have anything to do with the breach last night?”

  Kane shrugged. “Not necessarily,” he lied and motioned to the boy’s leg. “How’s it healing up?”

  “It’s much better, man. Still a little slow on it, but I’m getting around much better.”

  “Glad to hear.”

  “Hey, let me grab a bite to eat and check a rifle out of the armory. I’ll meet you back out here.”

  “Deal. See you in a bit.”

  Kane watched the kid limp to the door with a full jug in each hand. He admired the boy’s perseverance, his work ethic. Jacob could be stubborn sometimes, but he had guts and heart. Kane would be glad to have him with him on watch.

  Kane made his way across the courtyard to speak with the gate guards and let them know he’d be out with the scheduled watch personnel that night. After a brief visit, he decided to do a cursory check of the entire perimeter of the station. Making his way along the fence, he thought over how much work had been done in one day. The people at the station had really come together, on little sleep, few rations, and even less water. They had done a fantastic job fortifying the station perimeter. Courtland had seen to it that they’d secured and fortified all necessary areas.