Darkness Rises: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (After the EMP Book 3)

by Harley Tate

  Tracy locked the doors to the Jetta and pocketed the keys as Tucker did the same with the Jeep. As they met between the vehicles, she handed him a flashlight. “Only use it if you have to. I’m hoping we can get all the way to the houses without them.”

  “What about weapons?”

  “I’ll bring a handgun. As long as we stay together, we should be fine.”

  Tucker’s head bobbed up and down, his black hair blending into the dark as he turned toward the street. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  Tracy led the way, keeping close to the shadows and as concealed as possible. Just as Tucker promised, after they cleared the block, the school buildings gave way to little houses tucked close to the sidewalk, front porches barely visible in the night.

  Motioning for Tucker to stop, Tracy pointed up at the first house. “Do you remember which ones were still intact?”

  “Most of them, actually. I only saw one or two that had any kind of damage.”

  “All right.” Tracy made her way farther down the sidewalk, passing the first two houses with her gun held loose, but firm in her good hand. “We’ll pick the farthest one off the street on this block.”

  Six houses. All appeared fine, like the owners were nestled away safely inside, without a care in the world. Tracy didn’t know if they were occupied, vacant, or harboring people just like themselves. But they needed a place to sleep.

  She backtracked, stopping in front of a pale house with dark shutters. “Let’s try this one. “It’s got good cover from the trees for the second story windows.”

  Tucker nodded and the pair approached the front porch. Tracy touched Tucker on the arm. “Wait at the foot of the stairs. Let me check it out first while you watch the street.”

  He did as she instructed and Tracy climbed up to the front porch. A swing hung from the porch ceiling to her right and a dead potted plant greeted her beside the front door. If anyone was still home, they’d given up on the flowers a few days before.

  She reached for the door handle. It turned. Was that a good thing or not? Tracy didn’t know. She pushed the door open and waited, wishing she had training for this sort of thing. Breaking into houses wasn’t in a librarian’s skill set.

  “It’s unlocked. I’m going in.” Tracy didn’t wait for Tucker to respond. Instead, she ducked inside and braced herself. If anyone wanted to shoot her, now would be the best time. She couldn’t see more than a foot in front of her.

  After counting to two hundred, she stuck her head back out the front door. “Come on in.”

  Tucker appeared by her side a moment later. “Is it clear?”

  “I have no idea.” Tracy shut the door behind him and flicked on a small flashlight. “But I can’t see anything, so we’ll have to use this.”

  Tucker clicked on his own. “Let’s split up.” He moved the beam around the house, lighting up a small entry, an empty living room, and stairs leading up to the second floor. “I’ll take the upstairs.”

  Tracy nodded. “I’ll start on this floor. We can meet back here.”

  “I’ll shout if there’s a problem.”

  Tracy watched Tucker climb the stairs and disappear down the hall before heading off on her own. Making her way through the open living and dining rooms and into a small, but tidy kitchen, she grew more relieved every minute. From the lack of upset, it appeared whoever lived there had packed and left when the power went out or hadn’t been home at the time.

  The house was full of nice furniture, old but well-maintained. It struck her as a professor’s place, but they were in the middle of spring semester, so it didn’t make sense. A professor would be teaching, not on vacation.

  Then it clicked: spring break. UC Davis had been on spring break. CSU Chico must have been as well. From the looks of the rest of campus, it appeared a good number of kids had stayed on campus, but it made sense for a professor to take a few days off.

  She entered the back hall and found a tastefully furnished bedroom and half bath before walking into a home office.

  With books lining the walls from the floor to the ceiling and a desk sitting in the middle, it had all the feel of scholarly learning combined with a sense of home Tracy would never have again.

  A worn plaid blanket was draped over the arm of a wood captain’s chair on wheels. Tracy ran her fingers across the wool.

  Never again would she relax with a cup of coffee and stare out her kitchen window at the flowers spilling over the pots in her backyard.

  Never again would she sit with Walter on the couch and watch a ball game, waving at the occasional neighbor who walked by.

  She eased down into the chair and spun to face the desk. Picture frames dotted the top, full of smiling faces of a man and a woman. In one, they stood in front of a scenic tropical backdrop, grinning as they held up hands with matching wedding bands. In another they waved from atop a small mountain, nothing but blue sky in the distance.

  Treasured memories of the everyday world. The one they had all taken for granted. The one that ceased to exist in the blink of an eye. No more baby clothes or handmade Christmas stockings. No more flipping through yearbooks or photo albums.

  Everything Tracy had held onto for Madison’s entire life, gone up in smoke. Turned to ash.

  Maybe it was for the best. Losing everything made leaving that much easier. She knew they would have to do it eventually. But it still hurt. She wiped at her eyes with her good hand and stood up. Memories would have to suffice.

  Tracy couldn’t dwell on the past. Every second she delayed was a second she put her family at risk. She took a step when a sticky note on top of the desk caught her eye.

  SMF to LGA, Saturday 8:10 a.m.

  Hotel Indigo Lower East Side, 4 p.m. check-in

  LGA to SMF, Thursday 10:17 p.m.

  If the note described the travel plans of the husband and wife who called this house a home, the chances of them ever making it back were slim. Flights weren’t leaving LaGuardia or landing in Sacramento any time soon.

  Tracy took one last look around and strode out of the room to find Tucker waiting by the front door.

  “It’s all clear upstairs. I think whoever lives here left on vacation.”

  “I agree. Let’s check out the back and then we can move the cars over.”

  Tucker nodded. “There’s a detached garage at the end of the lot. We might be able to stash at least one back there.”

  After confirming the garage and the backyard held nothing but tidy tools and withered tomatoes, Tracy and Tucker moved the two vehicles and unloaded as much as feasible with only two sets of arms and one damaged hand. After securing the cars, they hauled a practically unconscious Drew into the house.

  As Tucker propped the man’s legs up on the living room sofa, Tracy stood up and stretched. “Now that Drew’s safe, one of us should go back and wait.” She shined her flashlight on her analog watch. “They should be back any time.”

  “I’ll do it. You can relax and keep an eye on Drew.”

  Part of Tracy didn’t want to expose Tucker to any more risk. He’d been through so much already. They all had. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. You rest. I’ll head back.”

  Tracy nodded and watched in silence as Tucker grabbed a bottle of water and pocketed his flashlight. He eased out the front door and stood on the step, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, before heading back toward the student health center.

  Once he disappeared from view, Tracy locked the front door and sat on the upholstered bench in the front window. Her hand throbbed from too much exertion and the occasional bump of the wound. She hated not being fully capable.

  Staring out into the dark of the university town, Tracy tried to keep the internal demons at bay. Her husband and daughter were out there, searching for medicine because of her. If something happened to one of them, she didn’t know if she could forgive herself.

  So many things had happened in such a short time. If this was only the beginning, what lay ahead? How much ha
rder would it get? How many of them would make it?

  After pulling the handgun from her waistband, Tracy checked to make sure it was loaded and ready and set it in her lap. All she could do was wait and pray.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WALTER

  Student Health Center, CSU Chico

  7:30 p.m.

  The second the handle turned, Walter knew they weren’t alone. It could have been a shuffling noise or a whisper from the other side or just the hair on the back of his neck, but he knew.

  As the door swung open, Walter pulsed his flashlight beam. Nothing obvious.

  Damn it.

  His heart thudded like a freight train chugging up a mountainside. In or out. In or out.

  There wasn’t a good option. Too little light, not enough men. He glanced at Peyton. Not enough experience.

  If they could clear the room… The crack of something wooden connecting with Peyton’s head shocked Walter out of his hesitation. He spun, gun up, flashlight on.

  A man stood in the hallway holding a block of wood like a baseball bat. A two by four, Walter guessed. With the light in the man’s eyes, he couldn’t see, but he could still swing. The wood flew in Walter’s direction. Even in the chaos, he could see the blood. Peyton’s blood.

  All because Walter didn’t know what to do. Peyton sagged to the floor next to him, lifeless and awkward.

  Was he dead? Unconscious? Bleeding out? Walter didn’t know and didn’t have time to wonder.

  The man swung the weapon again, blind and full of fear and rage. He grunted as it whipped an inch in front of Walter’s face.

  Walter couldn’t leave Peyton. The kid took up half the doorway, pushing the door open wide with his body.

  The smart thing would be to retreat, get in a corner, somewhere, anywhere to protect Walter’s rear. But he couldn’t leave Madison’s best friend. If he died on Walter’s watch…

  He had to act. Enough hesitating. Enough trying to do the right thing. His daughter was either inside or on the other side of the back door and Walter wasn’t going to let her be hurt or killed.

  Worse.

  The trigger pulled so easy. The gun had been used often, broken in until the pull was smoother than a hot knife through butter. The noise of the single shot pierced the silence.

  The two by four clattered to the ground. Grabbing at his chest, the man sagged to his knees, blood coating his fingers and staining the pale blue of his shirt. In a minute, he would be dead. No one survived a gunshot wound to the heart. Not like this.

  Walter spun, searching for the next threat. It came so fast. Screaming, running, a flash of a knife blade.

  Screw turning the flashlight off, Walter needed to see what was coming. Once again he crossed his arms, gun in his right hand, wrist braced on top of his left arm holding the light.

  No waiting. No hesitation. The second shot hit its target as well as the first. Walter couldn’t say whether the assailant had been black or white or tall or short. Fat or scrawny. All he saw was the knife and visions of his daughter.

  His wife and Drew waited for medicine, counting on him to deliver. He couldn’t let them down. Couldn’t expose his family to this new life alone. The threats lurking inside that health center wouldn’t be making it out alive.

  No one was getting to Madison. No one would hurt his family.

  He backed into the room, sweeping it with his flashlight. A conference table sat in the middle, eight or ten chairs grouped around. No one was inside. He clicked the flashlight off and reached for Peyton, dragging his limp body into the room and clear of the door.

  Walter didn’t breathe until the door was shut and locked and they were secure. Only then did he suck in a lungful of air and drop to check Peyton’s vitals.

  Still alive.

  He gave the kid’s face a quick smack. No response.

  Blood matted around Peyton’s ear, sticky and thick as it globbed in his hair. Walter pushed Peyton’s hair aside, searching for the wound. When he found it, he exhaled in relief.

  Although at least two inches long and still open, it was superficial at best. Peyton wouldn’t bleed to death. Worse case, he had brain damage and internal hemorrhaging. Best case, a minor concussion and hope for a full recovery.

  Either way, he wasn’t any good to Walter for the rest of the mission. After tucking his arms under Peyton’s armpits, Walter dragged him over to the door-side wall. If anyone managed to get inside the room, Peyton would be shielded behind the door when it opened.

  It wasn’t the best hiding place, but it was better than nothing. Walter stood and made his way back to the door. As he opened it, the stench of fresh blood crinkled his nose. Peyton’s assailant sprawled across the hall, face mashed into the linoleum, blood seeping around his T-shirt.

  Walter toed the man’s head, lifting the dead weight up with his shoe before turning it over to get a look at his face. His flashlight beam lingered on smooth skin pocked by acne.

  In death, the kid’s youth eclipsed all else. Without the heft of a weapon straining his muscles and adrenaline contorting his features, he was no older than Madison. Practically a child.

  A pang of regret shot through Walter, but he forced it down. Plenty of nineteen-year-olds were deadly. He knew that firsthand. The kid might have been a college student, but that didn’t mean he deserved to keep breathing. Not after almost cracking Peyton’s skull without warning.

  Walter stepped over the body and flashed the light down both sides of the hall. No sign of the other assailant. Walter frowned. His shot hit the target, so where was the guy? Even in the chaos of the moment, Walter, didn’t miss.

  There should be a trail of blood or a body or something. Some evidence of the second attacker. Damn it. While he’d been tending to Peyton and letting curiosity get the best of him, a knife-wielding threat disappeared. Walter ground his teeth together. He would find him. And this time, he wouldn’t let him get away.

  Five feet down the hall, the next door stood partially ajar. Walter kicked it open. Screw flicking the flashlight on and off or not broadcasting his position. He was done hiding. He shone the beam in every corner and crevice of what appeared to be a waiting room. Nothing.

  Turning back around, he hurried to the dead man in the hall and grabbed him by the ankle. He hauled him into the room, leaving a smear of tacky blood in his wake. As soon as the guy’s head cleared the door, Walter dropped his legs and stepped over the body and back out into the hall.

  He shut the door and exhaled. Hiding all the blood wasn’t possible, but at least he could keep the sight of a dead man from his daughter. She didn’t need to see what he had done. She didn’t need to know how far he would go to protect her. Not yet.

  With the gun and flashlight back in position, Walter made his way down the hall, clearing every room Madison and Brianna should have been inside by now. If they had been captured or taken hostage…

  Walter’s grip on the gun tightened, the checkering digging into the skin of his palm. Inhaling, he forced his body to relax. Getting choked up now wouldn’t do any good. At the next door, he read the sign. Suite 107. The pharmacy had to be close.

  He tried the handle. Locked. The first locked door on the inside of the building. Walter bounced the beam of light up and down the hall before flicking it off. It could be a supply closet or doctor’s office or any number of things. Or it could be where the wounded knife-man was hiding.

  If he ignored it and went on, he’d be leaving a potential threat behind. If he took the time to pick the lock, he’d be risking Madison and Brianna’s life. They could be in the pharmacy right now or already trapped. He hated to leave the room unchecked, but he needed to clear the rest of the floor.

  Against his instincts, Walter kept walking.

  Suite 108. The pharmacy.

  Unlike the other doors, this one had a window in the middle, although it did little good in the dark. He eased the door open, flashing the light once again like a firefly, on and off in quick, disparate bursts.


  A large waiting room, a counter with three separate areas divided by partitions to counsel customers, and rows upon rows of undisturbed medicine beyond.

  Walter strode toward the counter, intermittently flashing the light held just below the gun, scouting for the man he’d shot but not killed. So far, so good. He hopped the desk and landed on the other side.

  Madison was right about the difference between college hospitals and health centers. For a campus facility, the pharmacy was small. No more than fifteen rows of shelves, each about ten feet deep. Walter scanned the first aisle with his flashlight. Sudafed of every variety, epipens, a billion different boxes of birth control.

  Walter shook his head. College today.

  He eased into the next aisle when the sound of pill bottles clattering to the floor made him freeze. He wasn’t alone.

  Walter clicked off the flashlight and backed up out of the aisle until his backside brushed the cabinets on the far wall. The noise came from his left, toward the front of the pharmacy. He wished he had some night vision goggles or a red cover for the flashlight. Anything to preserve his night vision.

  But he didn’t. Without using the white light of the flashlight, he was blind. Walter clicked it on again, flicking it around to hopefully catch a glimpse of something. No such luck.

  He’d have to ferret the person out. Rolling his feet as he walked to minimize the sound, Walter eased toward the source of the noise. His heart picked up, once again drumming in time with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  After flicking his light on and off and glancing down a few empty aisles, Walter paused. He would never find a person this way. He sucked in a deep breath before calling out. “Is anyone here?”

  No response.

  “I won’t shoot if you’re unarmed.” He walked closer to the end of the pharmacy. “Identify yourself.”

  At last, a labored voice called out. “I don’t have a weapon. Please don’t shoot.”

  Walter turned the flashlight back on, clearing every aisle until he reached the last one. A college kid sat on the floor, one hand pressing a wadded up fistful of gauze into his bicep.