Darker Days

by A. J. Powers

  Clay clenched his teeth as he swallowed the last swig. Disgusting, he thought. Why on earth people used to willingly pay seven bucks for a cup of this is beyond me.

  As he sat alone in silence, Clay’s mind began to digest the past thirty-six hours. He couldn’t help but go to an alternate reality; one that had him dragging his feet to get out of bed that morning. One that had him crossing that small clearing in the fence after the sharpshooter had set up for the opening statement of the war. On that fateful morning, it wasn’t a bullet that had a name on it—it was time. And, unfortunately, it was Simpson’s name that was pulled out of the hat.

  The front door in the living room opened and Megan, along with Dusty and Morgan, tromped in from the snow. Clay looked over and noticed Morgan looking a little worse for wear. Megan handed her some pills and a bottle of water, while giving her some instructions. Dusty made a joke, causing her new friend to chuckle and Megan to roll her eyes. “Drink lots of fluids,” Clay could barely hear Megan say before the girls headed upstairs.

  Megan lightly knocked on the doorframe as she came in. “Hey, Bub,” she said as she gingerly made her way over to the table, sitting down across from Clay. A wince flashed across her face as she took her shoes off and an exhausted groan escaped her lips as she sat back in the chair. “So, how was your day?” she asked unenthusiastically.

  “Well, nobody shot at me today, so that’s something,” he replied as he pushed a cartridge into an AR-15 magazine.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Megan said as she reached for Clay’s coffee cup, only to give a look of disappointment once she realized it was just a few grounds swimming in backwash.

  “You use up your ration for the day?” Clay asked.

  “Uh, yeah, that bird left the nest by nine this morning.”

  Clay looked down at his watch. “It’s getting pretty late anyhow, you probably don’t want to be drinking more.”

  “If only, little brudder,” she said. “I’m just on my ‘lunch’ break right now. Gotta be back in about an hour; shift ends at midnight.”

  The daily eighteen-hour shifts for the medical staff was nothing short of punishing. Soldiers were on twelve-hour rotations, but there were about twenty times as many people filling that role. With only one doctor, a nurse practitioner, and four medical apprentices, there was no other choice but to assign ungodly hours to the weary souls. And poor Doctor Sowell…he had taken up residence in the supply closet of the infirmary.

  “That sucks,” Clay said. “Sorry.”

  Megan’s cheeks puffed up before letting the air squeeze out between her lips. “Yes, it does. But,” she said with a hint of optimism in her voice. “Doctor Sowell convinced Shelton that we in fact do need some more help in the infirmary, so I’m actually going to start training one of them tonight.”

  “You’re taking some of our fighters away?” Clay asked.

  “Kind of have to,” she said with a crooked smile. “The resumes aren’t exactly flying in,” she added.

  “Who are you taking?”

  “Samuelson and…” she struggled to remember the other name. “Oh! McCreary. We’re also working with Estelle at the mess hall to get some assistance from a few of the ladies there—at least for a couple hours a day to help with things like changing bed sheets and dressings.”

  “McCreary?” Clay asked, giving Megan a disapproving scowl. “He’s Dusty’s spotter. He’s kind of important.”

  Megan blew a few rogue strands of hair out of her face before snapping back. “Don’t get mad at me, Clayton, I didn’t pick ‘em. Doctor Sowell made his request and that’s who showed up on our doorstep.”

  Clay wanted to have a few words with Kohler and Shelton about the choice in personnel, but both men had far more important things to worry about than his complaints and Clay knew that. Rather than beating the horse to death, Clay changed the subject. “So, how’s the boy doing?”

  “He’s still not awake,” Megan said, hopelessness clinging to her words.

  “How long can he survive like that?”

  Megan shrugged. “Really all depends. Back when the grid was up, he could be kept alive for years without waking up. But, the world we’re in now…” she trailed off, holding up her hands and shaking her head. “Thank God Doctor Sowell had spent so much time in Haiti,” she continued, “the man’s pretty creative when it comes to improvising. Because of that, we have been able to give the kid some IV fluids, but it’s not like we have a warehouse full of that stuff to spare. And even if we did, it would only help for so long. If he doesn’t wake up soon, he never will.”

  “Poor kid,” Clay said under his breath.

  As the flame continued to consume the final inches of wick on the candles, Clay and Megan both sat quietly in their own thoughts. The weight of the world grew heavier by the day, and Clay started to realize that he was fast approaching his breaking point. And his foot was either unable or unwilling to let off the gas.

  Kelsey and the kids invaded his thoughts as he wondered if staying to fight for Liberty had been the right choice. Of course, it was, he told himself. But, as he sat in the kitchen in a town that might as well be on the other side of the world, Clay couldn’t seem to snuff out images of bandits overrunning the farm or one of the kids getting sick while he was away. And if that happened—if anything happened to his family while he was off fighting a war that wasn’t his to fight—he knew that that was a spiral he’d never pull out of.

  “Well, Clayton,” Megan said as she stood from her chair, interrupting Clay’s thoughts, “since you’re out of coffee, you’re no longer of use to me,” she said along with a warm smile—the first in several weeks. A drawn-out yawn took control of her mouth as she stretched her back. “I’m going to go try and get a quick catnap before heading back in.” She ruffled Clay’s hair as she walked by. “Love ya, Bub.”

  No sooner did Megan step out of the kitchen than the sound of muffled shouting come from outside. Clay and Megan both held their breath as they tried to determine if they were hearing things.

  More shouting. Then a gunshot.

  Megan darted back into the kitchen, grabbing her coat off the back of the chair. With a look of defeat on her face, she looked him in the eyes and said, “Be safe, Clayton.”

  ****

  By the time Clay had reached the gate, the battle was already over. He did manage to squeeze off a few shots in the direction of a retreating attacker. This time his target hit the ground and didn’t get back up. Clay struggled with his emotions, or lack thereof, after realizing his aim had been true. It was getting far too easy to cope with taking another man’s life, and it was unsettling that it seemed to comfort him.

  As the gunfire tapered off, Clay saw four dead bodies on Liberty’s side of the gate, and numerous wounded. Though the skirmish lasted just a few minutes, the length of the battle was not congruent with its ferocity. With seven confirmed dead on their side of the gate, the kill-death ratio was still in favor of Liberty, but much less so than the first battle.

  With no technological enhancements like night vision or infrared, it was expected that most of the fighting would occur during the daylight hours, so the surprise attack just after dusk had caught everyone off guard. That won’t happen again. It can’t happen again, Clay thought.

  Clay helped carry the wounded back to the infirmary. Warren had been hit in the leg while Robert took a large-bore rifle bullet to the arm.

  “I’ll just learn to shoot with my off hand,” Robert said through clenched teeth as Doctor Sowell evaluated the damage, lightening the otherwise grim mood.

  Unfortunately, Warren wasn’t as lucky. Just like the woman Clay had carried to the infirmary weeks earlier, Warren’s femoral artery was chewed up, and he was gone before he could reach the operating table. Five to seven—the ratio was falling.

  Clay watched as Megan calmly gave orders to the various volunteers. Doctor Sowell looked up from time to time with a tired smile on his face as he watched her take charge of the makesh
ift hospital. Her leadership allowed him to focus exclusively on the patients, which was what he was best at.

  “Melissa, bed two needs a few sutures on his head then he’s good to go,” Megan said as she handed a petite young woman a Ziploc baggie with some supplies inside. “Tim, bed five needs dressing and pain management. Take this and this.” She handed the middle-aged man some gauze and a nearly empty bottle of Ibuprofen. “Ashley, do follow-ups with beds three, seven, and fourteen. After that, assist Melissa and Tim. Jackie and I are assisting Doctor Sowell with an operation, so do not bother us unless it’s absolutely critical, understood?”

  A collective, “Yes, ma’am,” came out of their mouths as they all went separate ways. Megan zoomed by Clay on her way to join Doctor Sowell in the operating “room” to try and save Robert’s arm.

  While Clay had watched Megan work before, it was remarkable to see how she was handling every train wreck that barreled her way. She was in her element, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.

  The subtle moans and groans around the room were abruptly replaced with agonizing cries from outside the infirmary.

  “Someone open the door!” a booming voice shouted from outside.

  Clay ran over to the door and pushed it open. Two men carrying another shuffled toward him. Still holding the door, Clay stepped out of the way to give them space.

  “Over here!” Tim yelled, pointing to a vacant bed on the other side of the room.

  Clay’s stomach soured as the extent of the man’s injuries was revealed.

  “Dear God, how did this happen, DeMarcus?” Tim asked, trying to maintain his composure.

  “They tried to get in from the creek,” DeMarcus replied as they carefully put their friend down into the bed, which was met with more excruciating screams.

  “We had everything under control,” the other man started talking, “until one of those pricks lobbed a Molotov over the fence. It landed right inside Nolan’s foxhole, and…” he said, his lip started to tremble. “They burned him alive, man.”

  Without saying a word, Tim turned around and ran back to the OR to get help.

  “After that, they broke through,” DeMarcus picked up where his friend left off, his booming voice bouncing around the room. “One of them actually made it inside, but me and Sean here smoked him before he got too far,” he said, putting his massive hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Fortunately, we was in the middle of a shift change when it all went down, so there were a few extra guns nearby. Every one of us shot until we was empty; sent those fools runnin’ for the hills.”

  “Is the fence secured?” Clay asked worriedly.

  “Still was a hole in it when me and Sean left with Nolan, but there was at least a dozen guns guardin’ the place until it could get fixed up,” DeMarcus replied.

  Tim came back with Jackie; her clothes and gloved hands were smeared with Robert’s blood. Her eyes widened when she saw the severity of the burns, but then softened when she looked more closely at him. Holding her hands in the air to avoid contamination, she looked at Tim. “Can you check his pulse, please?”

  Tim flinched when his fingers touched the scaly burns on the man’s neck. He pushed his fingers in, repositioning them several times. He turned around and gave a subtle shake of his head toward Jackie.

  “I’m sorry guys,” Jackie said to DeMarcus and Sean. Without another word, she spun around and returned to the operating room.

  Sean tried to stifle his cries, but was unable to. “It’s going to be a’ight, Sean,” DeMarcus said as he consoled his friend.

  Tim put his hands on top of his head and let out a lengthy sigh. “I didn’t sign up for this. I used to be a dentist for crying out loud, not some combat doctor.”

  DeMarcus shot Tim a glare. “Man, I had six colleges offering me a full ride before all this happened. You think pulling my friend’s charred body out of a hole in the ground is what I was expectin’ to do ten years ago?”

  Tim was silent.

  “Ain’t none of us doing what we thought we’d be doing, but here we are.” He paused and looked over at Clay as well as Sean. “So, we can either bitch and moan about our problems or get back up, dust ourselves off, and keep fighting.”

  After a couple of sniffles, Sean wiped his eyes and nodded. He grabbed DeMarcus’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, man,” he said. “I needed to hear that.”

  Me too, thought Clay.

  Chapter 26

  “How much you wanna bet I could pick that guy off from here?”

  Clay observed one of Arlo’s men standing at the edge of the tree line through his spotting scope. “That’s about a five hundred yard shot there, kid. You’re good, but not that good.”

  Dusty scoffed at the insult. “Whatever. Five hundred might be a long distance for someone at your skill level…” she replied without taking her eye off her scope.

  “Besides,” Clay added, “you know the orders. No shooting until they cross the road or fire first.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

  Conversation fell away as Clay and Dusty searched the area for anything unusual—more unusual than the scouts plotting their next attack, anyway. It had been a week since the last clash and the entire town braced for more. It seemed long overdue, but both sides suffered significant losses during the last battle, so it was not terribly surprising that Arlo’s men held off longer than expected.

  “By the way,” Dusty said, breaking the silence, “thanks for filling in for Morgan tonight. She still hasn’t shaken whatever she got last week; she needed a night off.”

  “No problem,” Clay replied. “How is she working out? Good spotter?”

  “Pretty decent. She’s got some things to learn, still, but I’m showing her the ropes. And with such a capable teacher like me, she’ll be up to speed in no time.”

  Clay laughed with Dusty’s superhuman confidence. “Good deal,” he said as he watched the scouts start to fall back, disappearing into the woods. “I saw you guys hanging out at the mess hall the other day. Seems like you found yourself a new friend.”

  She responded with an overly dramatic sigh. “I’ve got enough friends, Clay. Like I said, just showing her the ropes.”

  Dusty was very touchy when it came to the topic of friends—as in, she never talked about having any, past or present. Though there was no denying that Clay and Geoff fit the dictionary definition of the word, she never once used the term to describe either of them. Being betrayed by a friend, especially as a young, impressionable girl, had a lasting and devastating effect.

  “What do you think is going through their heads right now?” Dusty asked, changing the subject.

  “Huh? Who? Arlo’s guys?”

  “Yeah. I mean, how could anyone just go and kill a bunch of unarmed people like that and still sleep at night?”

  “I don’t know,” Clay responded. “Before I found you in that school a few years ago, you probably did some things you never expected to do, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but I didn’t kill anyone…At least not anyone that wasn’t already trying to kill me, anyway.”

  “Yeah, but you did what you had to do to survive. Even killing someone that was trying to kill you, that’s a tall order, especially for a little kid. But you did what was necessary to stay alive. You tried to run, that didn’t work, so you had no choice but to fight.”

  “I guess,” Dusty said as she fiddled with the zoom on her scope slightly.

  “And that ‘tough girl’ act that you still put on for us every day…”

  “That’s no act, chump...”

  “Okay, fine,” Clay conceded, despite seeing through the lie. “My point is these people are probably just doing whatever it takes to survive.”

  “Wait a second,” Dusty said, her eyes coming off the lens for the first time since the conversation started. She gave him a baffled look. “Are you actually justifying what these guys are doing?”

  “Of course not!” Clay barked back. “I am,
however, playing devil’s advocate here. What Arlo and these people are doing…what they’ve done…it’s wrong. Wrong! Okay? But I want you to remember that we’re not all that different from them. We’re not above crossing the same line they’ve already crossed. I’m sure these people didn’t just wake up one morning and go, ‘I think today I’m going to murder a bunch of people so I can take their stuff,’ Dusty.” Clay looked her in the eyes, “Staying on the right side of that line, especially in the world we live in now, is a choice…no, a fight we have to make every single day. But don’t assume you’ll always make the right choice. Don’t even assume you’ll always want to make the right choice. Because that’s when you’ll get blindsided.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot, Dusty. More than any kid should ever have to go through, but you’re not alone. In fact, there are a lot of people out there who have been through even worse. So, fight every day to stay on that right side—the good side—but never assume you aren’t capable of going down that same path. Or one day you might find yourself scouting along a tree line looking to prey on some innocent victims.”

  Dusty remained silent. She didn’t nod or acknowledge Clay’s statement; she just turned her head back to the scope and continued to scan the horizon.

  Clay’s words were just as much for himself as they were for Dusty—perhaps even more so. With everything he’d seen, everything he’d been through—especially over the last few months—the hope that he had been clutching to all these years started to fade. Decisions he had made and the thoughts he had had indicated he flirted dangerously close with that very line he just spoke of. He might have been able to give himself a pass if this had all started after Arlo’s ambush on Liberty—call it a side effect of war—but this demon had started whispering into his ear the moment Charlie died, a whisper too faint to notice until he contemplated slaughtering the Screamers in that house last month. He hoped—he prayed—that this was just a bad stretch of road that he would soon see in the rearview mirror. And hopefully, before too much destruction occurred. Until then, he would try to follow his own advice, as well as DeMarcus’s.