Darker Days

by A. J. Powers

  “Well, I ain’t gonna lie. It isn’t exactly the nicest part of town…” Smith said with a shrug. “Plus, my friends already have things that I want…You don’t,” he said, pointing a finger at Clay.

  Clay hated the idea of extending the trip any longer than he already had, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. His AR-15 wasn’t just a luxury—a fun toy to take out to the range on the weekends—the battle rifle was a combat equalizer. It was what leveled the playing field for Clay when he was outnumbered. So, despite the not-so-reassuring description Smith gave the area, it was still worth the risk. Whatever was in that envelope carried a lot of value to Smith, and if Clay could deliver, perhaps Smith could become a long-term trading ally. Having access to a set of skills like his would come in handy.

  “What makes you think this envelope will even be there still?” Clay asked.

  “I suppose it might not be or it could be ruined, but it was pretty well safeguarded—not really a place where anyone would think to look. And since all that was in there was mostly documents and maybe a little bit of cash, anyone who did stumble across it wouldn’t have much reason to take it.”

  Clay nodded. “Fair enough.” He pressed off the cold concrete floor and got to his feet. As soon as he stood up, he reached out and planted his hand onto the wall behind him to keep from falling. “So, where’s your place?” he asked.

  “Easy there, slugger. Don’t you hear that?” Smith asked as he pointed toward the ceiling. “That’s the sound of a heavy downpour. Probably not smart to leave during a typhoon.”

  That explains the air conditioning sound.

  “Besides, I hit you pretty good back there, so I doubt you’re in any shape to make good on your end of the deal at the moment. Crash here tonight and head out first thing in the morning.”

  Smith hadn’t given Clay any room for negotiation, nor would Clay have argued even if he could. “All right,” Clay said with a nod. “Thanks.” With Smith still leaning on the table just beneath the light, Clay could clearly see the ball cap he wore. A black cap with gold trim and the iconic logo. “You a Pittsburgh fan?”

  “Yup,” Smith said, still with a hint of pride. “Born and raised in the steel city. Never really left until I shipped out to Pendleton.”

  “I’m just glad you didn’t say you were a Philly fan or we might have had ourselves a thrown down,” Clay said to try and lighten the mood a little—an attempt to get to know Smith on a personal level. The same approach worked with Vlad and many other traders in the past; it was how Clay was able to learn who he could trust…and more importantly, who he couldn’t.

  “Is that so?” Smith said with a subtle smirk, indicating to Clay what the man thought of his intimidation.

  Clay laughed. “All right, so maybe you would have done the throwing part, but still…”

  The man laughed with Clay’s response, showing a true smile for the first time since they met. “Something tells me you’re a fan of the ‘Big D.’”

  “Yep. My dad had the game on every Sunday—I even saw them play live once. Whipped the tar out of the G-Men, though that was like your guys playing against Cleveland.”

  Smith laughed again. “Well, Dallas was the last ones to win the trophy before all this crap happened, so I guess that’s reason enough to dig ‘em.” Smith said. He had a content look on his face as he reminisced about fonder times.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a faint but rapid beeping sound. Clay looked over at Smith as he growled with frustration and pushed away from the table. Without a word, Smith walked out of the room.

  Clay trailed behind, following him through a few narrow corridors that were equally as drab as the room he woke up in. Smith hobbled down another hallway and on through a door into a room that was illuminated by several monitors displaying live feeds from around the entire campsite. Clay was in awe of the setup. No wonder Smith was able to ambush him—he knew Clay was coming from a mile away—literally.

  Smith sat down at the desk and tapped a few buttons on a keyboard that looked dated from even before the eruptions. After smacking the ENTER key, the center screen—the biggest of the six monitors—brought up a feed from just outside the gates where Clay first met Smith. The rain made it difficult to see much, so Smith typed away on the keyboard again and suddenly the screen went dark with the letters IR at the top right corner of the display. Clay saw a few splotches of gray—with one bigger blob of white nearly centered.

  Smith shook his head and grunted. “That stupid thing is always tripping my sensors,” he said as he turned around and looked down at the little pooch that had followed them to the security room. “Chip, looks like you’re gettin’ fried pussycat for dinner tonight.”

  The dog’s tail spun up as his master spoke.

  As Smith left his chair, he grabbed his Faxon ARAK-21. Clay had been so enthralled with the functioning security screens that he had overlooked the sleek-looking rifle leaning up against the desk. He had never seen one in person before, certainly not one sporting a suppressor.

  Unreal, Clay thought to himself. He was still staring at the rifle. Smith pushed him aside to exit the closet-sized security room and made his way down the hall. Clay followed, and Chip, with as much hatred for the cat as Smith, tagged along.

  They arrived at a set of elevator doors and Smith rapidly pressed a button just off to the side. Clay’s eyes widened when he saw the button illuminate. “How are you getting all this power?” he asked in shock.

  The doors opened almost immediately and Smith walked inside. Clay noticed the buttons: SB2, B1, 1 and 2. Smith pressed the 2 button and the doors slid shut moments before the elevator jolted into motion.

  “The military loaded this place up with some new type of batteries and some crazy-efficient solar arrays. They were testing them out while I was stationed in Syria, but I never got to see it in action. Somehow, the panels are able to take even the smallest amount of sunlight and convert it into energy.” A red light at the top of the elevator flicked on and a flat, distorted tone rang out as the ascending room reached the second floor; the doors separated. “Some fancy sci-fi type of crap, ain’t it?” Smith said as he stormed out.

  The second floor was one giant room with windows on all sides—an observation post of sorts. Desks, computers and other communication equipment were still in place, sitting beneath a quarter inch of grime. Because the entire campsite was relatively flat, on a sunlit day, Clay would have been able to see every acre from where he stood.

  Smith headed straight for an outer door and walked out onto a covered catwalk that bordered the entire building. There was an agitation in Smith’s demeanor that made Clay nervous, but it all seemed to be directed toward the cat snooping around the gate. Clay stood back and watched as Smith leaned to and fro, trying to get a visual on the target.

  “There you are,” Smith said as he raised his rifle. He looked through his low zoom optics and had to reacquire his target. “Got you,” he whispered before squeezing the trigger.

  A cracking sound spewed out from the end of the suppressor, and Clay heard the cat scream, but could tell from Smith’s body language that the bullet had merely scared the feline, nothing more. The rifle’s blast was much louder than Clay expected—it was nothing like the movies made it out to be—but despite being just a few feet away, he realized that his ears weren’t even ringing; a little further out and it probably wouldn’t have even sounded like a gunshot. Much further out and it wouldn’t have even been audible.

  Smith grumbled with frustration and walked back to the door. Clay, who had been standing in the doorway, stepped aside to allow enough room for Smith to walk through. He didn’t say anything; he just headed straight for the elevator. Chip came over and sniffed around Smith’s feet.

  “Sorry boy. We’ll get that stupid thing someday,” he said as he bent over to scoop up the little terrier.

  Clay thought it was amusing to see such a big man carrying around a tiny lapdog. Clay used to hate smaller dogs
, but now, he was envious of such a creature comfort.

  Clay and Smith returned to the elevator and descended back to the basement. Due to the late afternoon hour, they decided to kill some time by playing cards. It didn’t take long before they got settled into a game of poker—five card draw, deuces wild. Ammunition was the currency. Clay had his bag of bullets he always brought with him, as well as three full magazines for his AR-15. He wasn’t willing to gamble any of the 7.62x39 away, not when the AK was his only functioning rifle.

  “So…” Clay said with hesitation in his voice, “What happened to your, uhm…?”

  Smith looked up from his cards and gave Clay a brief glare. He laid two of his cards down and took two more from the deck. “Same story, different Marine,” he said, almost nonchalantly. “IED.”

  Clay lowered his head and stared blankly at his cards. “That sucks, man. Sorry,” he said as he discarded two of his own for a fresh pair.

  “Just how it goes sometimes. Some people leave their wallets at fancy restaurants, others leave their limbs in a part of the world that were no worse off than before the apocalypse came,” Smith said.

  Clay felt awkward for asking the question, but his approach was working. Smith was talking and Clay listened. In the event Clay was unsuccessful in finding Smith’s envelope, he needed a backup plan—an alternative way into Smith’s little circle of friends.

  Smith tossed out fifteen cartridges in the middle of the table. Clay looked down at his hand, then up at Smith’s face. The same stone-cold expression was present as when Clay first saw the man. He was impossible to read, but Clay had a full house, so he had this one in the bag. Clay put a full magazine down. “I see your fifteen and raise ya fifteen more.”

  “Hmmm,” Smith grunted. After contemplating for a moment, he dropped another fifteen rounds. “Call.”

  Clay laid his hand down on the table, a satisfied grin pasted across his face. “Full house.”

  “Good hand,” Smith agreed. “It’s been a while since I’ve played, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this hand is better,” he said as he laid out a royal flush. “Thanks for the extra magazine, Cowboy.”

  Clay’s sigh gave way to a guttural growl—not just for the thirty rounds lost but that Smith took his magazine, too. A complimentary prize that Clay had not intended to part with, but decided not to argue over. He had already decided that even if he lost all the ammo he brought, it was a good investment to get on Smith’s good side. And as the evening wore on, Clay’s strategy paid off. It wasn’t long before Smith brought out some food and homebrew to share. Clay nearly gagged after the first shot, but managed to swallow the homemade alcohol and keep his “man card.”

  “Got any family?” Smith asked, starting to warm up to Clay.

  “Just me and my older sister.” Clay said, purposefully leaving Kelsey and his kids out of the picture. He was fine sharing a little bit about himself with Smith, but he wasn’t about to put it all out there. “You?” Clay asked.

  “Nope. None,” the man said as his body visibly tensed.

  “So, what’d you do after being discharged?” Clay asked.

  Smith knocked back another shot and then began dealing out the next hand. “I opened up a gun shop. Took two years to get all the paperwork approved, but it finally came through,” he said with a sharp solitary laugh while he shook his head.

  “I imagine business wasn’t nearly as good once all you could sell were hunting rifles and ‘smart guns’, huh?” Clay asked.

  Smith’s expression shifted to a wry smile, “Oh, business was booming, just not the kind of business I listed on my tax forms.” Smith laughed and filled his shot glass.

  Clay’s confusion was written on his face. “What do you mean?”

  Smith’s laugh faded as he realized that chapter of his life was over ten years ago. The man in front of him would have just been a boy at the time, meaning his subtle comment of his illicit firearm business went right over his head. “Let’s just say that Uncle Sam told me I wasn’t allowed to sell certain guns,” he said before leaning across the table to whisper. “But Clay, do I look like the type of guy who likes being told what he can and can’t do?”

  Clay was visibly uncomfortable, but managed to shake his head and say, “No.”

  “That’s right,” Smith said as he sat back in his chair, his laugh transitioned to a cough. “How do you think I ended up with a rifle like this?” he asked as he gestured to the ARAK-21. “I conducted legitimate business, sure. I sold the same crappy, sissy guns that they wanted me to sell and I repaired just about anything that came through my door. But there was never a shortage of people looking for the classics—the type of rifles that didn’t require Wi-Fi. If they had the money, I got them what they were looking for.”

  Clay nodded along as the man proudly shared his story of Federal defiance.

  “All right,” Smith said as he leaned back in his chair and stretched. “It’s getting late and you should head out first thing in the morning if you want to make it to the house before nightfall.” Smith got out of his chair and picked up his rifle. “Allow me to show you to your accommodations for the night.”

  Clay got up and followed Smith to the elevator where he pressed the button next to the text SB2. Clay’s optimism bolted as the elevator doors split apart. The dimly lit hallways and moldy walls made the floor above feel like a beach resort by comparison. And the smell…it was all Clay could do to keep from throwing up on Smith’s shoes.

  Smith led Clay to a holding cell at the end of the hall and gestured inside. The tiny room had a wafer-thin cot mattress, an overflowing toilet-sink combination, and a small metal tray table mounted to the wall.

  Clay looked over at Smith. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, trying not to gag over the smell.

  “Sorry, Cowboy, but I just met ya. You seem like you’re on the level and all, but I don’t know you from Adam, and I’m not the type to just let a stranger wander around my house while I sleep. I’ll be back in the morning with your gear to send you on your way,” Smith said before handing Clay a bottle of water.

  Clay stepped inside and looked around the depressing five-by-eight cell. The stench was life threatening. Of all the stupid choices Clay had made since the ash had fallen, hunting down Smith was fast-tracking its way to the top. He turned back around to face Smith standing just outside the door. “Cozy.”

  Smith chuckled as he spun a key ring around his finger. “Sweet dreams.”

  The door latched shut, engaging the lock.

  Chapter 7

  The trek had taken longer than Clay had expected. He wasn’t sure if the house was further away than Smith had said or if his own physical state was to blame for the long day. His head still ached, and the lump Smith left from the rifle butt to his skull was tender—even more so than the day before. On top of that, his food intake was minimal at best. He had carefully rationed the food when he left Liberty, but it was simply not enough to sustain the calories he was burning each day. He was tired, wounded, underfed and sopping wet; it was a lousy time to be trudging through another swampy forest in the rain. But, at this point, Clay was too invested to stop.

  The fading light brought with it the callous shrieks in the distance. The sound always put him on edge, but it was even worse when accompanied by the howling wind tearing through the trees all around him. On more than one occasion, Clay squeezed his eyes shut, praying that he was just dreaming. Yet, as always, when he opened his eyes, the ten-yearlong nightmare continued.

  A loud snap echoed through the woods, causing Clay to drop to one knee and swing his rifle toward the sound. He watched as a deer pranced off, gracefully navigating around the various obstacles on the forest floor. Under different circumstances Clay would have pursued the beast in hopes of a nice dinner, but his priority was to find Smith’s home before night chased the sun away; not his grumbling stomach.

  Clay exited the woods with the same relief as he had the other night. Still not out of the woods
yet, though, Clay thought to himself, then rolled his eyes. All puns aside, his plan to reach the house before nightfall was not looking good. He had little idea where he was—and more importantly, who was nearby—causing him to quicken his pace despite his body’s protest.

  To Clay’s much needed relief, the rain started to ease. Though he was already thoroughly soaked, the frigid rain always added an extra layer of discomfort to an already weary traveler. As he often was, Clay was surprised with how quickly darkness took over the sky. The setting sun, while a gradual process, still provided enough light to navigate his surroundings. But then, as if a candle was suddenly extinguished, the world succumbed to blackness.

  A nearby street sign confirmed that Clay had made it to Smith’s street, but the 611 adorning a nearby doorpost indicated he had a long way to go before reaching Smith’s 2409. And Clay could no longer see the house numbers. Every few minutes he ran up to a random porch and would briefly turn on his light to see the numbers. 1983. Almost there. He felt confident he would be able to stumble his way through the night and eventually end up at Smith’s place, but then he heard the murderous cries—it was time to find shelter. The screams came from no more than a hundred yards away, making the Screamers far too close for comfort—a discomfort made worse by the begging cries for mercy from the victim. There was nothing Clay could do—even if he ran as fast as he could, the poor soul would be dead before Clay could get halfway to him. Not to mention the lack of light gave the sadistic night dwellers the upper hand. He tried to block out the cries for help, but it didn’t work. Fortunately, both for Clay and the prey, the ritual was not dragged out.

  Circling back behind the nearest house, Clay found shelter in a house with an unlocked door. As he carefully checked each room on the first floor, he could still hear muffled screeches from outside, but the sounds faded as the group moved further away. Clay moved up the stairs as quietly as he could; all clear. There were four bedrooms, three of which were the same size. Clay was not happy with the arrangement. It was an older home and lacked the modern amenities he was used to seeing. There was no giant master closet—not even a master bath. The only bathroom on the floor was at the top of the stairs, equidistant from the bedrooms on either side of the steps. He picked the bathroom as his overnight accommodation, inside the tub—which thankfully still had a shower curtain hanging up—and cozied up for the night.