Darker Days

by A. J. Powers

  “All right, keep your heads down, fellas,” Clay said before heading out to the next group.

  As Clay moved to the next defensive position, he looked to the horizon for some good news, but, once again, came up disappointed. It seemed that the longest night of his life would carry on just a bit longer.

  His stops at the other two posts were very brief. Thanks to the steep drop off into the creek on the northeastern border, Levi had reported they had only experienced minimal contact in centerfield, while right field had not seen any attempts to break through.

  Clay had started heading back to town to rendezvous with Kohler and Dusty when the sky lit up to his right. Whipping his head over, Clay watched as leftfield brilliantly lit up under the red-hot flare that drifted back down to earth. He realigned his body toward the distress signal and ran.

  His aching lungs wheezed in agony as his overworked body crossed the several acres of snow that separated him from DeMarcus’s group.

  The QRF was already there and engaging the enemy by the time Clay arrived. The battle was intense, but pretty one sided at that point. Clay could make out several bodies scattered around a sizeable hole in the fence just before the flare overhead fizzled out.

  “Need some light!” DeMarcus shouted.

  Makeshift floodlights on either side of the foxhole, each one consisting of four separate Maglite flashlights, quickly zeroed in on the damaged section of fence, allowing DeMarcus’s team to efficiently receive additional intruders with sixty-two grains of love. Clay noticed a man peeking around the corner, contemplating his strategy, but three dangerously close shots from Clay’s AR-15 gave the man more to consider, and he quickly retreated.

  “Contain! Contain! Contain!” DeMarcus screamed. Two men hopped out of the foxhole while several from the QRF broke away and ran outside the lit areas. Moments later, they returned, each one grunting as they pushed a Ford Explorer toward the hole in the fence. Clay ran over and assisted their efforts.

  With a man inside persuading the front wheels to turn ever so slightly, the side of the SUV began to scrape along the fence as they approached the gap. Just as they reached the opening, the SUV wrenched to a halt.

  “What happened?” someone yelled from the back of the SUV.

  “You’re stuck on a body!” DeMarcus shouted from the foxhole.

  Clay ran around to the front, keeping as much of the mobile cover in front of him as he could, and grabbed the corpse’s arms. He tugged, but the weight was too much for Clay’s weary body to muscle. Amidst the gunfire, Clay heard heavy footsteps tromping through the snow from behind—it was DeMarcus.

  He all but shoved Clay to the side as he crouched his gigantic frame down next to the body and pulled it out of the way. A furious growl erupted from DeMarcus as a bullet tore through the side of his stomach, causing him to release his grip on the body and fall backwards. Digging deep, Clay found the energy to finish the job, allowing the SUV to lurch forward again, finally sealing the hole.

  The man steering the two-ton blockade scrambled out of his seat and over the center console to open the passenger door. As the door opened, the man fell to the ground with a thud, no attempt to brace his fall. Bullets continued to drill through the driver’s door and over the heads of those in the foxhole.

  After helping DeMarcus back to the foxhole, Clay took the opportunity to trade out his half-full magazine for a fresh one. “You all right, DeMarcus?” he asked as one of the other men dressed DeMarcus’s wound.

  He grimaced as he nodded. “I’ve taken harder hits with shoulder pads on,” he said.

  Clay laughed at the man’s casual comment about his gunshot wound.

  With the breach properly contained, Clay hopped out of the foxhole and headed south. Seeing the dozens of rooftops toward the center of town ominously silhouetted against the growing fires near the front gate gave him chills. Even when he closed his eyes, he could still see it—the devastation was indescribable.

  As Clay’s legs clumsily carried him toward the destruction up ahead, he heard a terrified scream for help.

  Megan.

  No longer bogged down by the effects of the physical beating he had taken over the past few weeks, Clay moved faster than he ever thought he was capable of. Megan frantically looked around for help as she stood just outside the infirmary door. She was covered in blood, and her expression was wrapped in fear. “I need some help here! Anyone, please!” she yelled.

  “I’m here, Megan!” Clay announced as he approached the sound of her voice.

  “Clay!? Thank God!” she said, the panic in her voice slightly diminished. “I was helping him back to the infirmary when he just collapsed, and I can’t move him by myself,” she said through rapid breaths, pointing to the dying man on the ground. It was Hicks, and he had taken a cannon of some sort to his gut. “I hit the wound with some Celox, but it’s still bleeding. The wound is just too…I mean it’s so massive! We need to hurry; he’s lost a lot of blood.”

  A nearby fire provided just enough light for Clay to observe the damage on the man’s abdomen. The only possible culprit for a hole that size was a twelve-gauge slug.

  “On three,” Megan said, grabbing Hicks’s arm just beneath the armpit; Clay mirrored the position. “One…two…three!”

  Hoisting the man’s body up off the ground, Clay and Megan ineptly dragged him to the infirmary the last seventy-five yards down the road.

  “Doctor Sowell!” Megan yelled as soon as they were close enough that she was confident the old doctor would hear.

  The door to the infirmary swung open and Doctor Sowell took over for a struggling Megan, helping Clay bring Hicks inside. “Over there,” Doctor Sowell said, nodding toward a vacant bed, its sheets having not yet been changed since it’s last patient.

  Both men grunted as they laid Hicks down, and Doctor Sowell immediately got to work. The look of exhaustion on Megan’s face adequately described Clay’s current state, but rest would not be found.

  “Stay in here,” Clay said to Megan.

  “No way, there are others out there, Clay. We have to get them help!”

  Before Clay could argue, a barrage of bullets pounded into the side of the building, two of which made it through, burrowing into the wall on the opposite side of the room.

  Startled patients around the room screamed out in a mixture of surprise, fear, and anger. Clay looked at Megan, then down at her holstered sidearm. “If you’re going back out there, that gun had better be in your hand!”

  Megan’s fingers wrapped around the handle of her pistol and pulled it out. “Okay, let’s go.”

  As they walked back outside, Clay hesitated for a moment with the sight in front of him. Much like the first breaths after an asthmatic taking an inhaler, Clay finally felt some relief after seeing the vibrant purple, orange and blue start to fill the sky. “Dawn,” he said wearily. Then the sky turned red. “Oh, no…” Clay said, his newfound hope quickly dashing.

  “What does that mean?” Megan asked.

  “They’re inside.”

  Chapter 50

  The entrance to town teemed with Liberty’s armed fighters attempting to prevent the invaders from crossing a threshold that was once protected by a reinforced wrought iron gate—a gate that was now lying on the ground. The sounds of shouting and screaming as people tried to communicate were snuffed out from relentless gunfire, only adding to the total chaos of the scene.

  As Megan broke away to help a wounded man who had managed to crawl out of the line of fire, Clay ran toward the screams and incoming bullets—toward the end of this war.

  Slowly and carefully, Clay made his way up to the front entrance where a mountain of dead bodies had started to accumulate—he hoped it was Arlo’s mountain. As he got closer, Clay could hear Kohler giving orders in between shots, doing his best to accomplish a goal that would have been a tall order for an entire special ops team. Standing right by his side was Shelton, smoke pouring out of his Mini-14’s muzzle.

  “Do not
let them through!” Kohler shouted before blasting his M1A in the direction of a man gutsy enough to cross that line. “This is where we make our stand!”

  With a short-lived lull in bullets being exchanged, Clay found cover behind a car that was positioned directly behind the gate. Two of Liberty’s fighters took turns popping up like armed prairie dogs, getting off as many shots as they could before ducking back down behind the car. With his back to the front wheel, Clay spun around and up, dropping his elbow on the hood of the car to steady his shots. Five shots and two tangos down—not a bad ratio. Unfortunately, those shots proved to be dumb luck, as making his bullets find their targets became more of a challenge with each pull of the trigger.

  Dropping down to his knee for a reload, Clay heard the brutal sound of a bullet careening through a human skull. The man next to him went rigid for a brief moment before falling straight back, smacking to the ground with a lifeless thud.

  “No...no…Wesley!” The other man screamed, grief and hatred dancing throughout his words. “I’m going to kill you all!” he said as he stood up, carelessly firing his rifle as fast as his finger would allow. “I’ll see you in Hell!” he shouted until his gun ran dry, an opportunity the enemy did not waste.

  As the other man’s body crumpled to the ground, hopelessness began to parade through Clay’s spirit. This was, in fact, going to be the last battle, but the outcome would be much different than what Clay had envisioned.

  With Liberty’s defenses continuing to falter, Arlo’s forces started stacking up in the Deadly Eighth. Surrendering pawn after pawn to gain a little ground, each duo of men ran through the gate and inflicted as much carnage as they could before being taken out, getting in a little further each time. This method had been far less effective while the gate was still standing, but now it was like watching a lumberjack swinging his heavy axe at a trunk, swing by swing chipping away at the timber until one last blow finally brought the tree down.

  Clay jumped up from his cover and fired multiple shots at an incoming attack, sending both men into a scramble for cover. Dropping back down, he suddenly felt a stinging sensation in his neck as the car shuddered from the return fire. “Son of a—” Clay said through clenched teeth as he felt the blood start to slide down his shoulder. Reaching up with his hand, his fingers found a flapping fold of skin just above his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if it was a graze or shrapnel, but either way he counted his blessings it hadn’t been an inch to his left.

  Regrouping himself, Clay slid along the length of the car, stepping over the middle man’s legs and stopping just short of the back wheel. With a few deep breaths, he jumped back up and fired his AR-15 over the roof of the car. With daylight in full effect, there was no more wondering where his targets were, but this tactical advantage was a two-way road.

  To keep the enemy guessing, Clay changed his location on the car between each volley of shots. It was working.

  While reloading his second to last magazine, Clay heard Kohler and several others all shout at the same time. Suddenly, it sounded as if someone mashed down the trigger on a minigun as five different men opened fire on the same target.

  Clay saw movement out of the corner of his eye, causing him to turn his head just as the attacker’s body started to fall to the ground just past the car, his legs still trying to walk. After smacking into the ground, Clay saw the flames spit up before he heard the bottle break—a bottle that had Clay’s name written on it.

  Dripping with blood, sweat, and rage, Clay stood to his feet and opened fire on the attackers advancing up the Deadly Eighth. Empty shells furiously kicked out of his rifle as he engaged a seemingly endless barrage of targets. He took out two more guns before his own rifle was silenced from a bullet punching through his left shoulder. The impact caused Clay to stumble back, tripping over a body.

  As he lay bleeding in the snow, Clay gazed up into the near-perfect blue sky as he listened to the hypnotic sounds of copper-jacketed lead screeching overhead. What little energy remaining in his body absconded with the rifle bullet that tore through his shoulder. Winded, and feeling faint, he didn’t try to get back up. He had nothing more to give for this cause.

  His eyes welled up as the constant nightmares that he would never see his wife or children again became cemented in reality. After ten long years of surviving some of the most brutal situations a man could face, the end had finally come.

  “Hold the line!” he could hear Kohler yell over and over. “We’re still in this fight!”

  Clay willed his body to move, but it refused to cooperate. Then his view of the clear, blue sky above was obstructed by a snarky sixteen-year-old.

  “Get your ass up, Clay, it’s time to move!” she echoed Morgan’s final words to her. “You’re coming back with us, I’m not going to babysit Geoff all by myself.”

  One by one, power seemed to restore to his muscles, allowing him to get to his knees. “Hey!” Dusty said, getting Clay’s attention. The girl gave a sincere smile. “It’s gonna be okay. Just be smart.”

  “Stand tall!” Kohler said. “Hold the line!”

  Clay nodded at Dusty and made his way back over to the car. Propping the rifle on the hood, Clay clumsily aimed with just his right hand and engaged every charging body.

  Dusty was down to her sidearm, but she was having success with it.

  “Changing mags,” Clay said as he knelt behind the car. After releasing the empty magazine from his LaRue, Clay dropped the muzzle of the rifle into the snow—the burning-hot barrel sizzled after being smothered with the frozen powder. Grabbing the final magazine in his chest pouch, Clay quickly inserted it into the magazine well, and tapped the bolt release with his knee. The snow that stuck to his flash suppressor melted away by the time he popped back over the car. Down to his final thirty rounds, Clay was more intentional with his shots.

  As the herd up ahead started thinning, optimism began to flood his mind. They might just be able to win this, yet.

  Still in the fight.

  Feeling the bolt lock back, Clay verified he had run dry on 5.56. Wasting no time, his transition to the Glock 17 was seamless, and he immediately put the pistol to work. Seventeen rounds went fast. Reloading the pistol wasn’t going to be as easy to do as it was with his rifle. Dropping the empty magazine, Clay looked over at Dusty, “Dust, need help,” he said as he tossed her the Glock. Fishing a magazine off his belt, he tossed the magazine to Dusty, who promptly inserted it into the handle before giving a tug on the slide. She quickly handed it back to Clay.

  Before he could stand back up, Clay heard something he hadn’t heard in what felt like hours.

  Nothing.

  The gunfire had stopped; the screams and yells had ceased. Silence had taken over the town once again—beautiful, precious silence. An enemy terrorizing their spirits before, the sound of nothing was now warmly welcomed by those who were still breathing.

  Slowly getting to his feet, Clay winced as he absent-mindedly tried to push off the ground with his left arm. Helping him to his feet, Dusty stood next to her good friend as Captain Kohler cautiously declared victory.

  As the soldiers clapped, whistled and raised their rifles high up into the air, an overwhelming sense of peace fell upon the weary town. Against all odds, they had done it; Liberty had survived.

  The celebrations were promptly cut short when Arlo himself walked through the gate, his empty Galil strapped to his back as he held his hands above his head and waved a white handkerchief back and forth. “Soldiers of Liberty, don’t shoot; I formally surrender,” he said through delirious laughter.

  As he came to a stop just past the gate, every pistol, rifle, and shotgun in the area had given the man its undivided attention. His unhinged smile as he looked at his surroundings gave Clay chills. Knowing this was not going to end well, Clay stroked the trigger with his finger.

  Arlo’s eyes flashed with antipathy as they landed upon Shelton’s face. After which, he feigned a smile. “Bravo, Mayor Shelton!” he said, lowering his
hands to give an insincere applause, causing a lot of edgy soldiers to tense. “I’ll be honest,” he said, stuffing the handkerchief into a breast pocket on his coat. “I sorely underestimated what this little town was capable of. Quite frankly, I thought for sure you would have given up long before December, but you turned out to be quite the tenacious bunch, didn’t you?”

  “Damn straight!” one of the soldiers yelled.

  “And Brendan!” Arlo continued, striking a nerve with Shelton, despite his lack of involvement in the decision. “Well, it takes a lot of cajones to order the assassination of a man’s son—I didn’t know you had it in ya,” he said, followed by more deranged laughter.

  Kohler took a breath in to speak, to make it clear that Shelton had not ordered the hit on his son, but Shelton, knowing what Kohler was about to say, held his hand up to him, shaking his head.

  Lowering his Mini-14, Shelton replied, “Arlo, you’ve known me longer than any other soul here, so you know that I take no delight in killing another man, especially the son of a man I once called a friend…” The weeks of pent up frustration and anger finally started to come out, “But you, once again, gave me no choice in the matter!” he shouted. “Brendan’s blood is just as much on your hands as it is mine.”

  “You would be wise to watch your tongue, friend,” Arlo shot back, as if he had any edge in this fight.

  “You see these people here?” Shelton continued, motioning to those standing around him. “I made a promise to them…to their wives…husbands…children…that I would do everything in my power to keep them safe—to keep this town safe. Sometimes, those decisions are black and white,” he said, handing his rifle to Kohler before walking up to Arlo, “and other times they are cloaked in gray. But my pledge to the people of this town was never contingent on making easy choices. And someday, I will readily stand before my Maker to answer for those choices, so that these people won’t have to.”

  Arlo had run out of moves the instant he stepped through the gate, but he wasn’t about to leave without speaking his piece—without accomplishing his objective. Arlo looked at Shelton right in the eyes, giving a derisive smile. “Why wait for ‘someday?’”