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

by Stu Jones

  As the men departed, Susan allowed herself to breathe, slowly at first and then in deep gulps. Somehow the effort seemed to increase the thundering of her heart. She shut her eyes tight, scrunching her nose. When she reopened her eyes, she saw it.

  She knew she was close but not how close. The fire she’d started had taken hold. With nothing and no one to contain it, it spread across the camp. In the growing light, she could just make out the rusted van where her children were being kept. It’s corroded, hulking form looked like a sleeping Goliath, a giant she dared not wake. Susan was so close that she couldn’t stand it. In just a few steps and with a little maneuvering, she and her babies would be free from this hell. She raised herself from her hiding place as a nearby burst of gunfire rang out, causing her to crouch and duck, as she questioned her decision to move to the van.

  Do it!

  Cringing, she raised herself up again and scanned a full 360 degrees around herself before turning to focus on the van. Surely her children had seen the fire. Like a sprinter leaving the starting block, Susan launched across the open space toward the van, every step carrying her closer to her beloved Michael and Rachael. She slammed against the van, her euphoria turning to dread. They were gone.

  “Michael! Rachael! Where are you?” she called, unable to contain her hysteria. The fear consumed her quaking frame. “Where did you go? Come back to me, please!” she wailed, losing hope that she would ever see her children again.

  Just as her entire being sagged with defeat, she caught a flicker of movement behind her. Susan spun toward it, her eyes taking it in, her jaw dropping open in a breathless, silent scream.

  Kane moved with a rapid, fluid efficiency through the burning gypsy camp. With the primary diversion at the front of the camp, every armed idiot rushed there only to get caught in Jacob, Arrice, and Shana’s ambush. The sporadic rat-a-tat-tat of assault rifles echoing across the camp told him they were still holding. They might hold a while longer or fold any second. Snapping this way and scanning the other as he flew across the open spaces, Kane was nothing more than a shadow, a messenger of death amid the fire, smoke, and screams.

  Rounding the edge of a row of tents, Kane came face-to-face with a disheveled man who screamed in surprise. Knocking into him, he covered the man’s mouth, jamming a knife under his rib cage and into his heart. The man squirmed, his eyes rolling in his head before Kane released him and dragged him into one of the nearby tents.

  The body hidden, Kane stopped in the shade of the canvas and tried to assess where his family might be. He felt distracted, alone with his demons. He’d just murdered a man for being in the wrong place at the wrong time—the third such man since he’d entered the camp.

  Without warning, a sharp pain in his heart caused him to grit his teeth. It twisted in his chest, causing him to lose his balance. He inhaled deep, his head swimming with a dizzying warmth. Something was wrong inside him, and he felt it grow like a rotting infection in his soul.

  Why have you forsaken me?

  “No,” he said, pressing his hands against his chest. “I don’t need you. I can do this.”

  He took a moment to compose himself and returned to survey the immediate area, sweat beading on his forehead. As he watched, two men ran into a nearby tent and helped a third from it. The injured man limped, cussed, and wiped at the blood that poured from a gash in his head.

  “That bitch kicked my teeth out!” he heard the man slur. “She’s gone to get those brats of hers. I know it. Find her!”

  Kane felt a combination of relief and concern pour over him as his suspicions were confirmed. Only Susan could make a guy that mad, but the man was right. She would have gone for the children straight away. Kane saw a moment of opportunity and seized it as he stepped from the shadows and into the flickering light of the spreading fires.

  “You the guy on the radio? Where is she?” he asked, his face dark with hatred.

  Garrett wiped his face and snarled, “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m the guy who tells you how it is. Where’s my wife?”

  Garrett’s face flashed recognition instantaneously. He smiled as he spoke. “Why should I care what gutter that bitch and her little bastards end up in? I used that little whore up a long time ago.” Garrett tried to wipe the blood from his face, but it continued to stream down his face. He waved his hand in Kane’s direction. “Kill this piece of shit.”

  The two men approached Kane, moving to either side of him. Kane’s M4 rifle came up fast. He found his targets, engaging the two goons with triple-tapped shots to the chest long before they had a chance to even draw their weapons. Watching his men fold against the ground, Garrett’s face went slack. He pulled a knife and swung it back and forth as Kane closed in on him.

  “Where is she?” Kane said.

  “Wait. Don’t—”

  Kane slammed into Garrett’s jaw with the butt of the rifle, releasing more teeth with a sickening crunch.

  “Don’t what?” Kane mocked. “Don’t kill the man who defiled my wife and enslaved my children?”

  Garrett stumbled, falling to his hands and knees. Kane hit him again hard in the back of the head with the rifle. Garrett made babbling, unintelligible sounds as he slumped to the ground. Still, he tried to raise himself again.

  “Where are they?” Kane said.

  Garrett fell silent, crawling his way to all fours.

  With a snarl of anger, Kane kicked the man hard in the side and felt his ribs fracture under the force. Begging for him to stop, Garrett cried out and stretched his arm toward Kane, who dropped the assault rifle and grabbed Garrett’s arm, pulling it tight.

  “Where are they?” Kane spat through clenched teeth.

  The man’s silence, either a result of stubbornness or pain, determined Kane’s path. With a violent twist, he shattered Garrett’s arm, eliciting a shrill scream. Kane dropped down into the man’s face.

  “You like abusing women and children? Huh? You like that? Not so tough now, are you?” Kane threw all of his weight behind a devastating straight punch to Garrett’s face and felt the cheekbone give way beneath his fist. “Where are they?” he screamed, as his rage overtook him. It blossomed inward, like the bloom of a nuclear blast.

  “They’re gone. You can’t save them now,” came Garrett’s garbled, blood slurred response.

  Kane screamed as he seemed to detach from his actions, watching himself through someone else’s eyes. He shook with primal, murderous rage as he felt his thumbs sink deep through the eyes of his victim.

  You’ve become what you hate. Why have you forsaken me?

  “They’re running!” Jacob called out to Arrice and Shana as they fired at the last of Garrett’s people who posed any threat. They continued their path to the front of the camp, the gypsies fleeing, scattering like roaches exposed to daylight.

  “Okay, so where’s Kane? Any thoughts?” Jacob asked, as he looked down and checked his rifle magazine. It was full. Since the death of the girl, he hadn’t fired a single round. He had to be sure going forward. He couldn’t kill another like her. That look on her face would haunt him forever.

  “We split up, sweep the camp, and meet back here. One of us will find him,” said Arrice, his African accent thick.

  “Look, Kane isn’t going to get his family back,” Shana spoke up.

  Jacob scowled. “I don’t think you understand why we’re here, Shana.”

  “Don’t lecture me, kid,” Shana said from behind him. “I know exactly why I’m here. You’re the one who doesn’t understand what’s happening.”

  Something in the way Shana spoke caused Jacob to turn. Just as he did, she fired her rifle point-blank at Arrice, shooting him in the back of the head without a word. She spun, swinging the rifle on Jacob.

  Jacob screamed, slamming into her, the weapon firing as it knocked from her hands. Jolting hard against the earth, they rolled, nearly equal in size and weight, struggling, groaning in the perilous toxicity of the situation.


  “You crazy bitch!” Jacob yelled.

  “You’re either with us or against us!” she said, scratching her nails deep into the flesh of his face. “No one opposes the Coyotes!”

  Jacob didn’t waste any time. He punched the furious woman again and again in the head and rolled on top of her, where he secured a solid front choke.

  “You murdered Arrice!” Jacob screamed.

  Shana gasped. Reaching out, she picked up a sizable stone and slammed it against the side of Jacob’s face.

  For a moment he lost his bearings. His mind floated back to eighth-grade summer school at Gardenvale High School. The older boy wasn’t going to give it up. They never did. Jacob had never been good at watching his mouth. When someone tried to push him around, his mouth caught up with him. The sun had been suffocating, and Jacob had kept getting up every time the older boy knocked him down. He had been hit so many times that he couldn’t remember how it had all started—except that it had something to do with his mouth. It always did. Jacob took in the warmth, nausea, the ringing in his head like a thousand bells all chiming at once. He was coming to.

  “You punk-ass kid! I think you broke my fucking nose,” Shana swore, dabbing at a trickle of blood that ran down her face as she struggled to get up from the ground. She moved to secure her rifle. “Here’s what you don’t understand. Kane’s family is already dead. And now we’ve got to finish off the rest of you sheep at the station.”

  Jacob rolled to his stomach and shook his head. “We?”

  “Yeah, we. I’m with the Coyotes. Fuck everyone else. I’m on the winning side now.”

  “I’ve heard of the Coyotes. You let them get in your head. You don’t remember what they did to you? You’re the one who’s been had.”

  Shana bristled. “Nobody controls me. I know the truth. You and all your weak-ass friends have to die,” she continued, raising the rifle, “slaughtered like a bunch of squealing pigs. Any last squeals, little piggy?”

  Jacob smirked as he brought his legs under him and dug his fingers into the dirt. “Yeah, I bet you were that girl back in the real world, weren’t you?”

  Shana clenched her teeth and moved her index finger to the trigger.

  Jacob huffed, “You know, the girl who’s friends with this group one day and stabs them in the back the next. No self-respect, big time daddy issues, willing to let every stray thug who comes along get some. Guess not much has changed.”

  “You little—”

  In a flash of movement, Jacob flung a handful of dirt in Shana’s face as he launched from the ground like a young hare, zigzagging as he went. Cursing, Shana let loose a wild burst of gunfire, the dirt stinging her eyes and obscuring her target as he fled.

  Great job, Jacob. Way to be diplomatic.

  Shana was tracking Jacob as he made a desperate attempt to reach the nearest row of canvas tents. Squinting her eyes, she began to regain her composure as her rifle vomited fire and lead, locking onto Jacob’s movements with quick bursts. The last two of three fired rounds hit him like a sledgehammer in the back, sending him toppling forward just as he entered the front row of tents. Jacob flopped against the ground and slid, his body screaming in pain. Scrambling to his feet, he was up and running as an earth-shattering adrenalin dump rocketed him out of the line of fire.

  With shuddering breaths, he touched the jagged holes in his right shoulder and upper chest. He could no longer move his right arm, and each terrified gasp brought on searing spikes of pain that seemed to swallow him whole. A wave of dizziness passed over him, and he stumbled, trying to press the feeling away into the far corners of his consciousness. He was bad off—maybe really bad—but to stop now meant certain death. Jacob had to find Kane. Kane was his only hope.

  As Jacob’s pace slowed, he heard Shana shouting behind him as she entered the first row of tents. “I got you! I know I did! Time for you to die, piggy!”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Courtland stooped low and turned sideways to squeeze through the narrow opening as he entered the low structure. He waited for a moment, confronted by the pungent scent of decay, scanning for threats as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The warmth of the windowless mud hut clung to his skin, hanging in the air like scum on the surface of a stagnant pond. His muscles tensed in anticipation of an ambush that didn’t come, as he slowly stood to his full height. His brow creased, and he hissed under his breath. “Great. It’s empty. What now?”

  The hut was large enough for Courtland to stand up straight and still have a little clearance between him and the twiggy ceiling. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the interior of the hut began to come into focus. As he surveyed the rest of the space, he found something that caught him off guard. This wasn’t the disheveled, bone-filled mud hole he’d expected—at least not entirely. Though the smell and feel did seem like that of any woodland animal, there was also something familiar, something human about the space. It brought to mind the way a convict might decorate his stark, gray prison cell with pictures, drawings, and trinkets. Scanning the room, Courtland noticed a cracked guitar with only two strings, a pile of quilted blankets, various tools, and useful items, and a short three-legged desk that looked as though it could topple over at any moment. He leaned in to observe several items on top of the desk.

  A shuffling movement outside the hut caused Courtland to turn and scan the room again. Nothing appeared to move in the dank space around him. He knew the swelling mass of freaks should have caught up with him, but he had yet to hear their approach. It was possible that if the mutants revered the one who controlled them, they might not enter their leader’s personal space.

  Looking back at the dingy desk, Courtland ran the tip of his finger back and forth across the cracked glass of a picture frame. It took several passes, as he cleared the dust away, for him to realize he was looking at a doctoral degree from the University of California. The certificate had been presented to Eric Steven Glenn “for demonstrating ability through original research in animal behavior, specifically canine behavior.” Wedged in the corner of the frame was the worn and faded picture of a young woman, her arms raised as though she might be dancing.

  Courtland frowned and moved the frame aside to wipe the dust from the glass of a second frame. Inside was an aging newspaper article dated May 17, 2007, clipped from the State, a major newspaper in South Carolina. The story featured an inset picture of a thin, well-dressed man with an infectious smile shaking hands with another well-dressed, portly individual. Courtland scanned the article.

  Columbia, South Carolina—The University of South Carolina announced today that they have handpicked Dr. Eric Glenn of the University of California, Los Angeles, to be the director of their new Canine Cognition and Behavior Lab, also known as CACOBL. Dr. Glenn received his bachelor’s degree in microbiology and cell science, as well as a master’s degree in animal behavior analysis from the University of Houston before attending the University of Florida to obtain his doctoral degree in canine cognition and behavior. In 2004 he returned to his roots, accepting a position on staff at the University of California’s universal animal studies department, where he worked for three years before taking on this newest endeavor.

  When asked for a comment, Dr. Glenn stated, “CACOBL is the largest and most advanced canine cognition and behavior lab in the world. I’m absolutely thrilled to have been asked to be a part of this. We have an incredible group here, from top-level researchers to our assistants, all of whom will strive to break every barrier possible when it comes to the understanding of man’s best friend. There is no limit to how we may be able to better our canine friends and, in so doing, benefit humankind as well.” Dr. Glenn stated that he will be studying the use of tones to alter and direct canine behavior.

  “Findsssss vhat it seeeksssss?”

  Courtland spun in surprise, dread crawling over his skin like thousands of mites. He had been so absorbed in the article that he’d let his guard down. Near the darkened doorway of th
e hut, he could just make out a wiry figure with goblin-like features wearing torn rags for clothing. The mutant’s eyes appeared to be filled with blood, absent of any white. His body was sleek and predatory, with mottled, gray flesh, dagger-like ears, clawed hands, and lips that peeled back to reveal sharp teeth bared in a wicked smile.

  Courtland looked down at the frame in his hand then back up at the creature, making a small gesture with the item. The mutant nodded.

  “Dr. Glenn? Why? Why have you killed so many of us?” Courtland all but whispered.

  The voice came back like soiled vapors escaping from a cracked sarcophagus. “Zhere isss no vhy. Zhere isss ongly zurvivallll.”

  “But how could you do this? You’re a doctor, a scientist.”

  “Zhere isss no vhyyyyyy. ”

  Courtland looked at the picture again. “You did it, didn’t you? You achieved your dream. When these poor people devolved to this terrible state, you still had something of the old Dr. Glenn inside. You knew how to use your knowledge to control them.”

  The mutant leader smiled with evil intent, touching the small, ivory flute, no longer than a man’s index finger that hung from a cord around its neck. The white of which lay in stark contrast to the dark, ruined flesh of the creature’s chest.

  “Zhey ere mae chilldrennn and eye zher fozzer. Zhey do vasht eye zayyyy.”

  “And you tell them to murder us?” Courtland was beginning to gain confidence.

  “Killssss smooth skinsss, yessss. Killssss them and eatssss them.”

  “There’s another way. If you leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone.”

  “Zher isss no ozzer vhey. Zher isss ongly zurvivallll.”

  “Please,” Courtland pleaded, “I know Dr. Eric Glenn has to be in there. If there’s enough of him to create that…” He motioned to the flute. “Then the man who loved animals and wanted to better humankind has to be in there too. He wouldn’t do this.”

  Courtland thought he saw something in the mutant’s face, a distant flicker of sorrow, fear, and failure. The creature snarled and flung its clawed hands open. Suddenly Courtland heard the screams of hundreds of mutants gathered outside the hut. The one they called Father brought the bone flute to its lips and blew a few quick notes, causing the clamor to subside instantly. The Father kept the flute to his lips and crept back toward the entrance to the hut.