Darkness Rising (Book 1): Darkness Rising

by Bell, Justin

  Phil returned his odd expression. “We need to gather our strength before we go looking for Lydia. We figured we’d stay here for a while until we figure out what to do next.”

  Greer’s eyes shot to Winnie who was standing just behind Phil. She seemed to understand the look and broke off, then walked to the couch and sat next to her mother. Phil looked over as Winnie sat and ran a hand through Rhonda’s dark hair, attempting to comfort her. It warmed his heart. The two had never been especially close, certainly not as close as Lydia and Rhonda, and for everything else that happened, it was nice to see that changing, if only temporarily.

  He looked back over to Greer. “Talk to me.”

  “There was a detonation in Provo, Utah this afternoon,” Greer said quietly. “The wind isn’t especially strong, but make no mistake, there’s a cloud coming.”

  Phil’s face turned a ghostly white, his mouth easing open. “No.”

  Greer nodded. “I told your wife when she helped me up. That’s what caused the riots over in Brisbee tonight.”

  Phil’s head drooped and he clenched both fists. His home. His job. Everything that had consumed his life for twenty-five years. It was all for nothing. He’d been able to compartmentalize while they were in Brisbee, thinking that they were in some strange, foreign place and by the time they actually got to familiar territory, everything would just magically be fine. Obviously that was a fool’s belief. A whole life of hard work; working weekends, nights, and sacrificing time with his family. In a week the hospital would be flooded with radiation and hundreds, if not thousands, dead.

  A swift pang of responsibility punched him in the gut, and his head jerked up. “Who knows this?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

  The sheriff shrugged. “No idea. Word spread in Brisbee on the HAM radio. Communications have been spotty, so who knows if the rest of the country is even aware.”

  “I should tell someone. I need to call work.”

  Phil stopped himself directly after he said it, holding those words in his mouth and chewing on them, slowly and thoughtfully. Call work. For twenty-five years during every family event, those two words were always on the tip of his tongue. During Christmas parties, birthdays, graduations, and school concerts. He always had that lead weight phone stuffed in his pocket, and the anticipation that he had to break away to call work. That feeling had never gone away.

  Here he was, at the brink of the end of civilization as he knew it, half the country flattened or burning, millions likely dead…and those two words were still at the edge of his lips, ready to be spoken.

  “No,” he said finally, not really to anyone.

  “Excuse me?” Greer asked.

  Phil looked at him, his jaw set. He wasn’t a physician. He wasn’t a nurse. In the grand scheme of things, his administrative appointment, even at a leadership level, didn’t serve to save lives or make a huge impact, in spite of what he’d consistently told himself over two and a half decades.

  “No, I don’t need to call work. I need to be here for my family.”

  Greer nodded his understanding.

  Phil seemed to realize something then. “What about you? What about your family?”

  Greer shrugged. “You’re looking at it. Got married once, before I knew better. Never had any kids. Brisbee’s been all the family I’ve ever needed.” His eyes went vacant and seemed to stare off into nowhere, as if finally realizing the impact of what he had lost tonight.

  Phil pressed a palm to his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” he said.

  “Clancy,” Greer replied. “I’m not a sheriff. Not anymore.”

  Over on the couch Rhonda lay on her left side, barely feeling the gentle touch of Winnie’s hand through her hair.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Winnie said quietly. “Lydia’s fine.”

  Rhonda didn’t reply. Max was sitting at the other end, his fingers intertwined with hers, a rare moment of affection between him and pretty much anyone.

  “What do we do next?” Bradley asked.

  “We’ll get you to your mom and dad,” Max replied, pulling his hand away from Rhonda’s and placing his elbows on his knees in the dim light of the living room. “We’ll get you home, okay?”

  Brad nodded.

  Phil stepped towards the couch, clearing his throat. “So, kids. We may have to leave sooner than we thought,” he said quietly, trying not to alarm anyone. “According to Sher—according to Mr. Greer, there was another explosion this afternoon.”

  Gasps went around the room, Brad putting his hand to his mouth.

  “Don’t say Denver. Please, don’t say Denver, Mr. Fraser.”

  “No, Brad,” Phil replied. “Utah. Provo, Utah. It’s not going to be safe here for very long. Maybe twenty-four hours or a little more. I honestly don’t even know.”

  Max piped up, recovering quickly. “It’s okay, dad. What do we need to do? What can I help with?”

  Phil turned towards his son, looking at him in a surprising new light. “Start packing up some essentials. We should have bottled water and canned foods. Any food that won’t spoil. We’ll need a lot of both. Flashlights and batteries; all the batteries we can carry. Our basement is a stockpile of that stuff, Maxie, so grab as much as you can. Brad, can you help?” Brad nodded and the two of them went off down the hallway.

  Rhonda remained on the couch, looking off into emptiness. Her eyes were locked in some faraway place, looking at a blank red eye which seemed to just look back at her, blinking and staring.

  “Winnie, are you with us?” Phil asked.

  “Yeah, dad,” Winnie replied, firming up her voice. “What can I do?”

  “Start packing some clothes. Yours, ours, Max’s, plus extras of his for Brad. As much as you can into as few bags as you can, okay, sweetie?”

  “Sure, make the girl pack the clothes,” Winnie replied weakly, but her tilted smile revealed she was trying to make a joke to lighten the mood.

  “You want to pack the bathrooms instead?” Phil asked with a wink.

  Winnie pushed off the couch and walked off in the same direction as the boys, her intention to go upstairs rather than down.

  Phil crouched down next to the couch, putting an arm on Rhonda’s shoulder. Her eyes stared over his shoulder, looking off into nothing. But not into nothing. Into a dead, red, blinking eye.

  “Rhonda, honey,” he said quietly. “Are you in there?”

  Rhonda nodded softly.

  “Okay, good,” Phil continued. “We need to get ready to move again, okay? We’re not safe here. Not for long.”

  She nodded again. The eye was hypnotic. A rhythmic, throbbing globe staring deep into her soul.

  “You stay here for a bit, okay? Clancy and I will pack up the bathrooms, then we’ll help Max and Brad get supplies from downstairs. I’m not sure how much gas the Chevy has, but it’ll have to do for the short term.”

  Rhonda started to nod again, then halted in mid-motion, her eyes narrowing. She was fixated on something, and Phil followed her gaze over his own shoulder.

  The red eye stood there, blinking steadily in the darkness.

  “No way,” Phil whispered.

  It was the answering machine. Plugged into one of the generator powered outlets, the answering machine sat there, powered on and blinking to indicate there was a message on the machine.

  Rhonda realized what she was staring at and leaped up off the couch, charging across the room towards it. She pushed by Phil and reached the small table against the wall next to the kitchen and thumbed the play button before she’d even had a chance to stop or get a pad of paper.

  The machine clicked on with a short chirp of static, then there was a voice. It was a male voice. “Rhonda? Phil? This is Jeff DeAngelo, Brad’s dad.”

  Rhonda’s heart jerked. She felt an intense chest wound of disappointment that the voice wasn’t Lydia’s, but she continued to listen, almost not wanting to hear the rest.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard what happen
ed. We tried your cell a bunch of times but we can’t get through. I don’t think anyone can.” His voice was a frayed edge, a worn rope barely holding him together and threatening to snap. “We’re getting out of town. Heading east. Monica’s parents live in St. Louis and that’s where we’re headed, okay? As far inland as possible.”

  His voice broke and she could hear the muffled crackle of what she figured was the phone being pressed to his shirt. Soft sobbing could be heard as well, likely from both him and his wife.

  “Please take care of our boy,” he continued after a few moments. “Please take care of Brad. You…we need you to get him to us. We’re okay, but we need our Bradley here with us.”

  Rhonda felt tears stinging her eyes, thinking of the pain Brad’s parents must have felt leaving town, knowing they were leaving their son behind in the care of people they barely even knew.

  “Brad, if you’re hearing this, we love you, honey. We miss you. We’ll see you soon.”

  Rhonda clicked the ‘save message’ button on the machine and drew in a long, deep breath holding it there for a moment. The red light continued blinking. There was a second message.

  She hovered her finger over it for a moment, then pressed down, her breath locked in her lungs.

  “Mom?” the voice was ragged and broken, a choked plea from the depths of copper lines between her and wherever the caller was.

  “Oh no,” Rhonda sobbed, putting a hand to her mouth. Phil came up behind her and wrapped his hand over her shoulders.

  “Mom? Dad? This is Lydia. I…I’m okay,” she said. The tone of her voice told Rhonda that she had something to tell them, but she was nervous about it. “I…I didn’t tell you, but I actually went away for Spring Break this year.”

  “What?” Rhonda gasped into the living room air.

  “I met someone, mom. A boy. I…I flew to Chicago to spend the week with him. I’m at Denver International right now, mom, waiting for the connecting flight. They won’t let us leave, but I keep hearing about flights being canceled. I don’t know where they’re sending us.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Rhonda shouted. “My baby. My baby is okay.”

  “Things aren’t good here, mom,” Lydia replied, her voice breaking. “I’m scared. I think my friends at school are all dead,” she broke into haggard sobs of pain and loss. “I want you to come get me. I don’t want to be here.”

  Rhonda pressed a hand to her forehead, breathing deep, trying to steady herself. It was a foolish notion. She wouldn’t be steady ever again, at least not until her whole family was together.

  “Please find a way to come get me. I really don’t like it here, mom. Please come. I love you guys. I miss you. I’m scared.” The answering machine clicked, hummed a dead dial tone, then cut out completely.

  Rhonda’s shoulders shook with her sobs, and Phil could feel a well of emotion building in his chest as well.

  “Do you think she’s still there, Phil?” Rhonda asked. “Is she still at the airport?”

  “I don’t know,” Phil said. “We have to get there and find out.”

  “Did you see the cars out there? The roads are blocked. What are we going to do? What if she’s gone?”

  “We’ll get her, Rhonda,” he said quietly. “We’ll find her, I promise.”

  He wasn’t sure if they would, but when the world was on fire and civilization itself was crumbling around them, all they had was hope.

  ***

  “You’re still here?”

  Agent Brandon Liu looked up from the computer console and narrowed his eyes towards Agent Marc Reynolds of the ATF. He’d thought the building was completely empty as everyone had headed home for the night hours ago.

  But he couldn’t. Even on the night of his second anniversary, he needed to keep working. Keep uncovering whatever details he could.

  “Yeah. You, too?”

  “Got nowhere else to be,” Reynolds replied.

  “What are you working on? Don’t tell me you’re actually connected to the Internet over there?”

  Liu laughed. “No chance. Ever since the Provo blast, nothing is getting online anywhere. Don’t ask me why.”

  “So what are you looking at then?” Reynolds asked.

  “Homeland network. All offline, connected through dedicated land lines. Still running this dude through all of our local profiles.”

  “Which dude?” Reynolds asked. “The guy from the power station?”

  Liu nodded. “It’s slow going when you can’t get out on the web, but we still have some decent resources.”

  “I thought Kramer had some other guys working on this one?”

  “Eh, I’ve never been big on other people doing the fun stuff. I need to do something. This might be useless, but at least it’s still something.”

  “Sure is,” Reynolds said, gesturing towards the screen.

  Liu turned and drew his head back. Recognition software had found a potential match. He called up the personnel record of the tentative match and read through it.

  “Anti-government sentiment. Lots of it. Second amendment fanaticism.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” replied Reynolds.

  “Hey, I’m all for the right to bear arms,” Liu said, “as long as the arms you’re bearing aren’t pointed at the law.”

  He read through the profile a little bit more, then leaned back in his chair.

  “He’s got a minor criminal record, and his social media profile is certainly pretty whacked out, or at least it was the last time they scanned it. He could be our guy, or at least working with our guys.”

  “What are your thoughts on that?”

  Liu sat silent for a moment. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, this guy’s an American. Full blown. Not an illegal immigrant, and he’s not from North Korea like the other bombers or like the guys your team smoked this morning. Born and bred right here in the U.S. of A.”

  “Yeah, I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t like it, like it bothers you? Or don’t like it like you don’t believe it?”

  “It bothers me. Unfortunately, I can believe it. It would make a lot more sense than twenty North Korean illegals getting on the wrong side of our borders all at the same time.”

  “Then I’ve got some even scarier news for you.”

  “Okay?”

  “Our forensics team has begun some analysis of the device your team found as well as some fragments from other detonated devices.”

  Liu looked at the clock on the wall, surprised that they’d been able to coordinate and accomplish these tasks in less than a day. Apparently political bureaucracy goes right out the window when half a million people die in a single morning.

  Reynolds drew in a breath. “Some of the components within the two devices we analyzed look like they were manufactured in domestic factories.”

  “Domestic factories?”

  Reynolds nodded. “Right here. In the United States. Detroit, to be more specific. There’s some telltale signatures that one of the old Ford manufacturing plants may have been repurposed to build out this steel tooling.”

  “Holy—”

  “Yeah. Holy indeed.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “You, me, and a few analysts. That’s it right now.”

  “So the deadliest attack in American history and the crippling of our entire infrastructure may have been an inside job?”

  Reynolds thought for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t think there’s any ‘may have been’ about it. I’m almost convinced of it.”

  “No way,” Liu replied. “I’m not buying it.”

  “Okay, okay, hear me out,” Reynolds said. “I don’t think it’s some deep rooted conspiracy, okay? This wasn’t political, it wasn’t deep web or any of that stupid junk. I think North Korea found themselves some sympathizers and put them to work. Maybe they didn’t know what they were getting into, maybe they thought they were doing what was best for the American way of life, but I thin
k that’s what happened.”

  Liu nodded softly. It made some sense. Unfortunately it made a little too much sense.

  “So what are we supposed to do with this information?” Liu asked.

  “Not up to us,” Reynolds replied. “We’ll have to pass it up the chain and see what happens, if anything. Meanwhile, there may be a bunch more bombs out there and they may be in the hands of American citizens who are still fully prepared to use them.”

  “Maybe after seeing what damage has already been caused, they’ll get cold feet?”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Liu shook his head.

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  The two of them stood there staring at the computer screen, not entirely certain what to do next. The blurry face of the truck driver from Utah glared back at them, two bright eyes standing out against the scrambled, unfocused face behind them.

  “All right,” Liu finally said. “I’m heading home to get some sleep. As it is, we’re supposed to be back here in five hours. We won’t be doing anyone any favors being half dead tomorrow morning.”

  “Good call,” Reynolds replied. “Get some shuteye. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Liu nodded and stood. He walked out of the room, trying to convince himself that there would even be a world left to save when he woke up the next morning.

  ***

  Slow, but fierce, the orange flames licked at the fallen roof of the gas station, reaching up around the broken lip and making its way towards the peak of the roof. On the ground a Gulf sign was shattered, broken into dozens of pieces, scattered across main street.

  A vintage sedan sat wrecked and flipped, the metal crunched to pieces. Thin streams of yellow fire rose up from spilled fuel around it, and the rubber on the two rear tires slowly peeled away from the metal rims, heated by the surrounding flames.

  Dull whumps echoed from within the car, a series of thudding smashes and with each slam, the door shook slightly. Finally it broke away, the passenger door separating from its hinges and tumbling down onto the sidewalk. A shape crawled from the flaming wreck slowly, hand over hand, moving in a painful sliding struggle, trying to get away from the burning car and the gas station consumed by a raging inferno. Picking himself up with one unsteady hand, Bruce Cavendish pulled himself into a slow, clumsy walk, taking one uneven step by another uneven step across the street. He reached the other side and held himself up on a light post, one arm dangling uselessly at his side, while his other was pressed against the cold metal, holding himself upright. Streaks of red ran down from the wound on his shoulder, and blood swirled over the contours of his bare, muscular arm, spilling onto the pavement and trailing the path of his walk like droplets of red tears. Clutched in his slacked hand was a bag, dangling by a long strap. It dragged lightly on the ground as he limped towards the edge of the road.