Darker Days

by A. J. Powers

  Ambushing them from the side of the road wasn’t even on the table. Based on Dusty’s description, the road was long and empty. The biggest blockade she saw was an overturned semi, and many of the panels on the trailer were missing or rusted through, making it virtually ineffective as cover.

  Both options came with minimal pros while sporting overwhelming cons. If he sent a large group of fighters out into the woods, there was a good chance the attackers would take a different path, missing the ambush altogether, which would leave Liberty without dozens of defenders. He could send just a few fighters out, picking the best spot along the road to wait until the enemy marched by, but Kohler knew there would be no homecoming for those men. He couldn’t reconcile sending three or four men to their deaths just to take out some of Arlo’s. War, in many ways, was like playing a game of chess, but Kohler was never willing to sacrifice a pawn to capture another pawn.

  Peeling himself away from the table, Kohler walked into the kitchen and got himself some food and water. Just as he returned to the dining room, he heard a knock on the door. He set his food and drink down on the table and went to open it.

  He immediately wondered if he had drifted to sleep at the table and was now dreaming. Or maybe the lack of sleep he had had over the past week had finally bested him. But when he shook hands with the visitor at the door, he knew it wasn’t a delusion.

  “Clay! It’s mighty good to see you again,” Kohler said, stepping out of the doorway to make room for Clay.

  “You too, Captain,” he said as he stepped out of the brisk, morning air.

  “How are you? How is Megan?” Kohler asked as he closed the door.

  “We survived,” Clay said wearily. “We had more than a few close calls, but we’re back now, so that’s all that matters.”

  “Well, come in, have a seat,” Kohler gestured to the living room. “I wish there was more time for us to chew the fat before getting down to business, but due to some recent developments, we are really up against the clock here,” he said as he leaned on the arm of a recliner before Clay sat down on the couch.

  Clay read between the lines and wasted no time getting into the meat and potatoes of his visit. He went on to tell Kohler about the food and medical supplies they had brought back, particularly the painkillers they had scored at the law office. Kohler was excited with their success, and was particularly thrilled to know that the wounded currently laid up in the infirmary would have some effective pain management, even if for just a little while. But he was, at the moment, more concerned with how the lives of his men on the battlefield could improve.

  “Did you have any luck with things of a more tactical nature?” he asked.

  Clay flashed a grin before plopping his backpack down with a heavy thud on the coffee table in front of him. He tore into the pack, starting with the loose boxes of ammo he had found sporadically during the trip. Kohler nodded with a smile as Clay pulled the last of them from the bag. Then, he pulled out the three .30 caliber ammo cans, each filled with 420 rounds of 5.56MM on stripper clips.

  “Outstanding!” Kohler shouted with excitement in his eye. “That’s the kind of find we needed, Clay. Excellent job!”

  Clay’s sly smile told Kohler there was something else left—something big. Reaching inside the bag, Clay said, “So, I found this in a cabin in the woods and thought ‘eh, maybe Captain Kohler can find some way to put it to use,’” he said as he pulled the Tannerite out.

  Kohler had the same expression on his face as Clay when he first discovered the explosives back at the cabin. He took the bag out of Clay’s hand and inspected it closely, quickly recognizing that it had not been exposed to the harsh elements all these years.

  “How much is here?” Kohler asked.

  “Five pounds.”

  The wheels in Kohler’s brain spun as a workable plan started to formulate. He walked back over to the table and looked at the notes on the map again. “How much time do you need before you’re ready to go back out?” Kohler asked.

  Clay was exhausted, and could easily sleep for a week if not disturbed, but he knew Kohler had something big brewing in his mind, and Clay wanted to do whatever he could to help. “I can be good to go after a few hours of shut eye,” Clay said.

  “Okay. Meet me back here at sixteen hundred. Dress warm and pack light.”

  ****

  With his suppressed .300 blackout pushed squarely into his shoulder, Clay crouched down in the back of the pickup truck, keeping guard as Kohler mixed the Tannerite. Having served multiple tours in both Iraq and Syria, there was no more qualified person in Liberty to setup an IED than Daniel Kohler, which was the only reason why the leader of their improvised military was currently behind enemy lines with just one person watching his six.

  Working under the cover of a vinyl rain poncho, Kohler held a penlight between his teeth while he prepared the device. In his experience, the most devastating blasts often came from the most simplistic of designs, and this would be no different—or so he hoped.

  With the Tannerite mixed, Kohler inspected the two Mason jars he had brought along. Each one was tightly packed with ball bearings, screws, nails, and other small, destructive metal pieces that would only add to the carnage. The very thought of using a device that had been responsible for the deaths and maiming of so many of his brothers in arms over the years made him nauseous, but he had exhausted all other options. Twice.

  With everything ready, Kohler clicked the light off before removing the poncho. He picked up the large container of the explosive mixture and carefully placed it on the center of the truck box. He turned around and looked at Clay. “Hand me those, will ya?” he whispered.

  Clay handed him a two-gallon plastic can of gas, and then another one filled with kerosene. Kohler placed both of them just to the left of the Tannerite, facing the road. He then put one of the Mason jars to the left of the gas cans, and the other one just behind the gas can, trying to maximize his area of effect. Kohler then crammed a few one-pound propane tanks anywhere he could fit them—only one of which was completely full. He didn’t expect them to have much oomph by themselves, but coupled with the rest of the bomb, he hoped it would help.

  “Think this will work?” Clay asked.

  “It should,” Kohler responded as he tweaked the position of one of the Mason jars. “I mean it’s gonna go bang, so the real question is, how well will it work. And that, I do not know,” he said as he slowly moved his hand away from the jar. “Hopefully…really well.”

  Kohler grabbed the poncho next to his feet and carefully laid it over the IED. He took several minutes neatly positioning it so that it covered as much of the bomb as possible while keeping the Tannerite itself in view. Kohler hoped that the soldiers had walked by this truck so many times already that they wouldn’t waste the energy to turn their heads. But, if they did, at least they wouldn’t see red gas cans and glass jars sitting out in the open.

  With daylight fast approaching, Clay and Kohler hightailed it back to their shooting position—a rusted out hatchback around two hundred yards up the road. Leaning up against the trunk of the car was Dusty’s X-Bolt and Kohler’s M1A. Either rifle was more than capable of setting off the IED, but it was Clay that would take the shot with the .270 while Kohler acted as his spotter.

  Prepared to dig in for the long haul, Clay and Kohler were both caught off guard when they saw a large group walking their way just after dawn. The mission was off to a good start.

  “Get yourself in position,” Kohler told Clay.

  Resting his elbow on the trunk of the car, Clay propped the X-Bolt up and aimed through the back window and out the windshield, finding a clear line of sight between the headrests. All the windows, including the windshield, were absent, giving Clay an unimpeded shot at the Tannerite. He chambered the round and looked through the scope, finding Kohler’s improvised explosive device behind his crosshairs.

  Lying prone on the ground, Kohler slithered his way out from behind the car, only exposin
g himself as much as necessary to get an angle on the incoming troops. “All right, they’ll be reaching the truck in less than thirty seconds, he whispered. “Standby.”

  “Roger that,” Clay acknowledged.

  As the group approached the truck, Kohler kept his finger near the trigger so he could attempt a quick follow up shot in case Clay was off target. “They’re at the truck…on my mark.”

  Clay held his crosshairs on the bomb, trying to ignore the marching heads bobbing in and out of the bottom of his sight picture as the group walked past the truck.

  Kohler wanted to let as many people pass as he could before giving the signal. Worried that the cab of the truck would deflect the explosion, he hoped to have the bulk of the group past the cab before detonating. “Standby…” he said again. Just then, he saw one of them glance over at the truck—the man quickly doing a double take. He stopped walking and stared at it for a moment, causing the others around him to take notice. It was as if he knew something was different, but didn’t know what. Then he pointed to the poncho.

  “Now, now, now, now,” Kohler ordered.

  Clay squeezed the trigger.

  Just as he was recovering from the concussions of his shot, Clay was thumped in the chest from the shockwave of the fiery explosion two hundred yards ahead. Bits of debris and wreckage were already raining down around Clay and Kohler, with a few larger chunks narrowly missing them.

  Shaking the cobwebs loose, Clay looked through his scope again to examine the destruction. The first thing he noticed was the flaming, twisted wreckage of the truck. The front door and hood were relatively untouched, but the back half was devastated. Swinging his scope to the left, he watched as a small group of men retreated to the auction house driveway, tripping and stumbling over their own feet as they scrambled to safety. With the disoriented group lacking any real threat status, Clay shifted his scope down lower and spotted numerous bodies littering the road; only a few even attempting to get up. After counting ten, lifeless corpses, which only accounted for a portion of the lives claimed in the blast, Clay pulled his eye off the scope—he had no desire to ever find out just how many people he had killed with the single pull of the trigger.

  Meanwhile, Kohler shifted his attention to the auction house. As expected, there was a burst of activity on the premises, which meant that he and Clay needed to leave about five seconds ago. He saw someone run up to the edge of the rooftop and look out toward the smoking truck.

  “Captain, I think we need to go,” Clay said as he, too, noticed the soldiers gathering up outside the building.

  Kohler heard Clay, but was distracted by the man on the other end of his scope. Estimating the rooftop to be around six hundred yards, Kohler found the appropriate hashmark on his reticle and placed it on his target, who, eerily, seemed to be staring right back at him. As his finger reached the trigger, he started second guessing the decision. It was never in Kohler’s plan to start taking shots at people, they were to set off the Tannerite, and then escape amidst the chaos. But he hadn’t expected this opportunity to present itself.

  Wading through a slew of questions in his head, both moral and tactical alike, Kohler had only seconds to decide. It’s worth it, he thought to himself, sealing the man’s fate. He took in a deep breath before easing the air out through his mouth, and then squeezed the trigger.

  The .308 kicked back as it spit out the smoking shell case before chambering the next. The picture in his scope came back into focus just as the bullet struck the man in the chest. Even from six hundred yards, Kohler could see the shock on his face when he looked down at his mortal wound for a fleeting moment before stumbling away from the edge. One of the nearby snipers ran to his aid, but by then the man had already collapsed. Kohler questioned whether it had been the right decision or not, but there were no take backs now. The deed was done.

  Rolling over behind the car and getting to one knee, Kohler looked up at Clay, “Okay, now it’s time to go,” he said as he jumped to his feet.

  As soon as Clay and Kohler were on the move, sniper fire rang out from the rooftop. There was nothing they could do except run. Spinning around and firing while jogging backwards or blindly shooting over the shoulder was the type of stuff that worked in movies, but in real life those kinds of action hero stunts would just slow them down and get them killed.

  Snow and asphalt kicked up around them as they moved in a zig-zag pattern, making themselves nearly impossible to hit with a bolt gun from that range. After a few minutes, the gunfire slowed, eventually coming to a halt. They both managed to get out of the sniper’s range with no new holes in their bodies. However, uncertain whether they were actively being pursued or not, neither man slowed his pace until after they were deep into the woods.

  Feeling comfortable that they weren’t being followed, they each found a tree to lean on while they gasped like fish out of water. “Glad I took your advice on the whole packing light thing,” Clay said, deep breaths disrupting his remark.

  “Yeah, I kind of thought something like that might happen,” Kohler responded before coughing through the ache in his lungs.

  “Did you think the explosion was going to be that big?” Clay asked.

  Not wanting to waste precious oxygen on the response, Kohler just shook his head.

  With their O2 and adrenaline leveling off, Kohler was anxious to get moving again. “Come on, we need to double-time it back home and get ready for their counterattack. Arlo is going to be furious.”

  “Well, I imagine so, seeing as we just took out a good chunk of his men with one shot,” Clay said, quickly pushing the images of the gory road out of his mind before he threw up. After clearing his throat, he continued, “But don’t you think he’ll take a little bit of time to lick his wounds and come up with a solid response? I mean I don’t know the guy all that well, but from the sounds of it, everything he does is pretty methodical and well-planned. After such a big blow, don’t you think he’s going to take a little time to recover?”

  “Rational thinking goes out the window when you find out your son is dead—trust me on that one,” Kohler said with a grief-stricken look in his eyes. He began walking and Clay quickly fell inline. “I assure you, Clay, Arlo is coming, he’s coming soon, and he is going to bring everything he’s got.”

  Was Brendan next to the truck, Clay asked himself. That was when he remembered Kohler’s only shot of the morning. The feeling sent a chill down his spine.

  Yes…Arlo would be coming very soon.

  Chapter 48

  Surrounded by four of his best men, Arlo braved the deadly evening temperatures as he led his new recruits to the auction house. Ordinarily, a journey like this would be spaced over the course of two days, but Arlo’s fervor to stake his flag inside the walls of Liberty overpowered his own physical limitations. He wanted his newly acquired fighters to be well rested, fed, and properly motivated to storm Shelton’s gates the day after next. So, as they passed their usual pit stop for the night, Arlo pressed on.

  Arlo’s enthusiasm, however, waned once the smell of burned rubber and plastic drifted into his nose. With each step, it grew stronger, as did Arlo’s anger. Somehow, he knew what had happened. And there was going to be hell to pay.

  “Jenkins, give me some light,” one of Arlo’s bodyguards said as they approached the pickup truck.

  A few of the men flicked on their flashlights, revealing the disturbing aftermath the IED had left behind. Smoke continued to pour out of the shattered windows as the seats inside smoldered. The melted snow around the truck gave way to cracked asphalt covered with corpses, detached limbs, and pools of blood that had started to crystalize from the below-freezing temperatures. It was a massacre.

  “What the…?” one of the men said, verbalizing what everyone else thought.

  “Nobody move or you’re all dead!” a voice in front of them cried out from the darkness, sounding more afraid than threatening.

  Recognizing the voice, a man standing next to Arlo replied, “H
ey Morris, when you’re all done pissin’ your pants, why don’t you come over here and talk to us.”

  “Is that you, Elliot?” the man replied, his voice slightly bolder.

  “Just get over here!”

  Morris jogged over and was greeted with a furious look from his boss.

  “Care to tell us what happened here?” Arlo asked.

  “Uhm, well, sir, s-s-someone hit us,” Morris nervously replied.

  “Oh, someone hit us…” Arlo scoffed before bringing a closed fist across Morris’s jaw. “Do you think that I am blind, son? Can I not see plainly that ‘someone hit us?’ How about you enlighten us and elaborate a little further.”

  Morris still held his jaw, using every ounce of strength to suppress his whimpers—he was just barely seventeen. “My apologies, sir. I did not personally see what happened. All I know is that someone had planted some sort of bomb on the truck, and it detonated as our troops were passing by.” Fearing a reprisal from a lack of information, Morris’s body tensed up. But he only heard an infuriated sigh flee from Arlo’s nose. “I b-b-believe Simms was on the roof when the attack occurred.”

  Arlo nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Morris. I presume my son is inside?” he asked.

  Morris feared for his life. “Yes, sir, I believe he is.”

  Without saying a word, Arlo continued walking toward the driveway up ahead. Elliot looked over at Morris with contempt. “Clean this mess up, boy,” he said, pointing to the bodies around.

  “Y-y-yes sir.”

  “Let’s go!” Elliot said as he and the rest of the men followed Arlo down the road.

  Morris busied himself with a corpse until the group faded into darkness. More willing to face the Screamers than Arlo’s wrath for lying about his son, he turned and ran in the opposite direction, never looking back.