Dark Days

by Bradley, Arthur T. , Ph. D.

  She didn’t flinch. “Annie’s right. You’re a bully. Who else would pick on a little kid?”

  “Maybe we’ll start on you next,” said one of the boys standing beside Carver.

  Carver nudged him and muttered, “Not her.”

  “Why not?”

  “You ever seen her dad? He’s a freakin’ bulldozer.” Carver turned back to Samantha and pointed a thick finger. “Just stay out of our way.”

  Samantha glanced over at Flynn. The boy was wiping tears from his eyes, more embarrassed than hurt. She felt anger welling in her belly.

  “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’ve decided to fight you, Carver. That is, unless you apologize and swear never to hurt Flynn again.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Samantha bent forward and readied herself, squinting and blowing air out through her nose the way she had seen Tanner do when he got angry.

  Carver rolled his eyes and chortled.

  “What are you supposed to be? Some kinda wild pig? Look, guys, Samantha’s turned into a wild pig.”

  The boys laughed and poked fingers in her direction.

  She straightened up. She had always heard that if you stood up to bullies, they would back down. Oh well, it had been worth a try. Apparently either the saying was nothing more than wishful thinking, or Carver was the exception to the “bully rule.”

  She stepped toward him, and Carver instinctively leaned away. Realizing what he had done, he abruptly bent toward her with his jaw jutting out.

  “What’re you gonna do, wild pig? Hit me? ’Cause if you do, I’ll beat you down no matter who your daddy is. I swear to God I will.” He glanced at the door to the old church as if worried that the Almighty might have overheard him.

  Samantha looked down at the book in her hands. Learning and education were what she valued most, not meaningless fights with school bullies. The smart thing to do would be to walk away. Why was it then that her feet wouldn’t turn around? This was Tanner’s fault. He had instilled some kind of misconceived killer instinct in her. Yeah, she thought, what was about to happen was his fault. Oddly, that made her feel a little better about it.

  She looked back up at Carver. The boy stood a head taller and had a good forty pounds on her. Despite his size, she couldn’t help but wonder whether he had ever been in a real fight before. She had. Several of them. And they hurt. Plus, Tanner had been training her for over six months, and she now considered herself fluent in the basics of karate and judo.

  Still, Carver was bigger and stronger. And he had friends with him. If she didn’t take him out quickly, one of them might jump in. Annie and Flynn would likely get involved if that happened, and Samantha didn’t want to see either of them get hurt.

  The anger left her as quickly as it had come. Unlike Tanner, she was not someone who could draw on things like rage or hate. She was a thinker. Cunning. Clever. Like a cat. Yeah, she thought, I’m like a cat, smart and with very sharp claws.

  “You want everyone to think you’re such a big man, but I know what you really are.”

  “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

  “You’re a coward, Carver. A big fat coward.” She spoke the words calmly, dispassionately, as if describing the weather. She was simply citing a fact, which made her words sting that much more.

  Carver’s eyes tightened, and he snapped his teeth as if threatening to bite off the tip of her nose.

  “I’m not afraid of anything. Certainly not a twelve-year-old girl who dresses like my little brother.”

  “So prove it. Let’s have a contest to see who’s tougher.”

  His brow furrowed. “What kind of contest?”

  “It’s called ‘Who’s the Wimp?’” Even as she said it, she silently kicked herself for making up such a dumb name. “I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it.”

  Carver looked back at his friends. Everyone either shrugged or shook their head.

  “It’s a simple game,” she explained. “We take turns hitting one another until one of us cries or runs away.”

  “Yeah, right,” Carver said with a smirk.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to play if you’re afraid.”

  Several of the boys made a loud Oooh.

  “I ain’t afraid. But if I hit you, your dad’s gonna come and kill me. I ain’t stupid neither.”

  “Scout’s honor,” she said, holding up a hand. “If I get hurt, I’ll say I ran into a door.”

  Carver raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna let me punch you? Are you crazy? As strong as I am, I’d probably kill you.”

  “Ah, you’d be surprised by what I can take. So, what do you say? Are you up for a little ‘Who’s the Wimp?’”

  Carver looked around at the other students. Everyone was watching. There was no way he could back down from a girl. No way.

  “Fine. But when you go home with a broken nose, remember, you asked for it.”

  She nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Carver stood up straight and rolled his shoulders around like a boxer preparing for a prize fight.

  “Who goes first?”

  “The weaker person usually goes first.” She leaned forward and offered him her jaw. “Go ahead. Give me your best shot.”

  Carver furrowed his brow. “Me? I ain’t the weaker one.”

  “What?” she scoffed. “You think I’m weaker than you?”

  “Of course you are.”

  “So you say.” She looked at the students who had gathered around. “What do you think? Which one of us is weaker?”

  Nearly everyone pointed at her. The only two who didn’t were Annie and Flynn, and they didn’t do much of anything.

  “See!” Carver said, puffing out his chest. “Everyone agrees that you’re the weakest. You have to go first.”

  “Are you sure? Because I think Bart was pointing at you.”

  Carver turned to glare at Bart. “The hell he was.”

  Even before the words were out of his mouth, Samantha was in motion. By the time Carver turned back, she was in full swing, the hardbound American history book whooshing through the air like a cricket bat. The flat of the cover hit him squarely on the cheekbone, whipping his entire body around. And like every good batter, she continued through the swing, the momentum nearly sending her tumbling down on top of him.

  When she regained her footing and turned back, she saw that Carver had collapsed in a pile, his legs corkscrewed beneath him. He tried to stand, and when that failed, he fell onto his side and began to cry.

  Samantha looked down at the rubber band on her wrist and pressed her lips together. Yep, she thought, this was most definitely Tanner’s fault.

  Chapter 3

  The rumble of the big diesel engine shook the tanker truck, rattling its doors and wobbling Mason from side to side like he was riding atop a Magic Fingers vibrating bed. Bowie sat on the other end of the sprawling seat, his head craned out the window to watch the two men clinging to metal grab bars. Both men wore dark-blue New Colony Security Force uniforms. Mason instinctively checked the driver’s side mirror and confirmed two other officers holding onto his side of the vehicle, rifles slung tightly across their chests.

  Almost immediately, five enormous white spherical tanks came into view. Four of the storage tanks measured a good sixty feet in diameter, with the final one nearly twice that size. From a distance, they looked like four planets and a sun, all clustered together as part of a densely packed solar system. Mason found that particularly fitting given that they were at the heart of NASA’s Langley Research Center.

  According to General Carr’s briefing, the vacuum tanks had at one time been used to support hypersonics and the testing of spaceflight hardware. When the pandemic hit, however, the vessels had been converted to store liquefied natural gas as a temporary stopgap to keep the center functioning.

  In the end, it hadn’t mattered. Like every other national infrastructure, NASA had co
llapsed from within, leaving behind empty laboratories and billion-dollar satellites that now amounted to nothing more than orbiting space debris.

  Mason pulled the steering wheel to the left, turning the tanker onto the private drive that led into the center. Their mission was to recover one of the nation’s most valuable commodities—fuel. In this case, whatever fuel could be recovered was to be delivered directly to The Farm to support the production of their emergency food bars. That made the mission particularly interesting to Mason, as it would be his first visit to the lifesaving agribusiness.

  Brooke had arranged an interview with Oliver Locke to coincide with Mason’s visit. The entrepreneur was looking for men who knew their way around a gun and, more specifically, someone to help lead the men he had already recruited. While Mason had no particular interest in working for a private company, he had promised Brooke that he would hear Locke out.

  The recovery of liquefied natural gas was to be the New Colony’s first foray into the NASA center, and no one was quite sure what kind of resistance they might encounter. Nor were they certain the tanks still contained fuel at all. A few bullet holes or a leaky seal could have caused it to boil off and escape into the atmosphere.

  Mason reached out the window and thumped on the door with the palm of his hand. The man closest to him nodded and relayed the message to the one behind him, and he on to the next. The message to all was simple enough. Stay alert. It was go time.

  The small road ended at a security building, now dark and empty. A heavy metal gate stood to either side, blocking entry to the facility. Beyond the gates lay a row of pneumatic bollards that had thankfully been left in the stowed position.

  Mason pressed the brakes, and a high-pitched squeak sounded as the tanker gradually slowed. When it came to rest, the two men riding closest to the front hopped down and raced around to unwind a thick metal chain secured to the front bumper. The other two guards stepped down and moved forward to cover them.

  As soon as the chain was free, one of the men picked up the heavy hook attached to its end and hurried toward the gate, dragging the chain behind him. He looped it around the cast iron bars a couple of times before hooking it back on itself. Once everything was set, he wheeled around and pumped his fist into the air as he hustled out of the way.

  Mason dropped the transmission into reverse and eased the big rig back a few yards. The gate moaned as it slowly bent outward until the latch finally broke free to send it swinging open. The same man hurried back to the gate, detached the chain, and returned it to the truck. Within seconds, the entire four-man team was back onboard and bouncing their way over a set of bright-yellow speed bumps.

  NASA Langley Research Center was a sprawling complex filled with laboratories, office buildings, wind tunnels, and outdoor test ranges. Its eastern border butted up against Langley Air Force Base, a military compound that had been one of America’s thirty-two air service training camps. Both the research center and the air force base had long since been abandoned, but neither seemed to have attracted much attention from survivors. Perhaps that was because of the abundance of gates and “No Trespassing” signs. More likely it was because survivors worried that a small contingent of soldiers might still be in place and all too willing to shoot looters.

  According to the map, the main thoroughfare, Langley Boulevard, offered a straight shot through the center. It would also bring them directly alongside the row of giant spherical tanks, making exploration of the center’s many winding roads unnecessary.

  Mason steered around a lazy curve, passing a three-story building whose glass and steel architecture was so different from that of the dull brick structures that it looked more like a cruise ship pulling into port. Nearly all of the building’s windows remained intact, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that surviving scientists had made it their post-pandemic retreat.

  Ahead to the right was a small two-truck fire station. The high-bay doors had been pulled down, and the facility was dark inside. Mason couldn’t help but be reminded of his firehouse encounter with Buckey, the tomahawk-wielding Black Dog who had been part of the team sent to kill President Rosalyn Glass. That encounter had left Mason with a scar on his forearm, and Buckey with a hole in his head.

  The first of the giant spherical tanks sat across from the fire station, resting atop four thick metal supports that functioned much like a golf tee. Mason pulled alongside the tank before turning to cross the centerline. Once he had enough room, he spun the wheel hard to the right and began backing toward the vessel.

  The four security officers hopped down, two of them moving rearward to guide his careful advance and the other two posting toward the front of the truck, rifles at the ready. While not quite as practiced as the elite troops Mason had served with in the past, he believed them capable of getting the job done.

  Like soldiers often do, each man had adopted a nickname. Dix and Beebie were both ex-military, and Cam and Red had been Norfolk city cops. All the men knew a thing or two about handling a gun, and all had killed since accepting their posts as security officers.

  As soon as the truck was in place, Dix held a hand up and shouted, “Ho!”

  Mason killed the engine, opened his door, and climbed down from the big rig. Bowie followed behind, nearly barreling him over in the process. By the time Mason arrived at the rear of the truck, Dix and Beebie were squatting down to inspect a coupler that had been added to the bottom of the spherical tank. A large pipe wrench and two pairs of thick welder’s gloves lay at their feet.

  “Looks like the seal’s still intact,” Dix said, shifting a wad of chewing tobacco from his lower lip to one side of his mouth. He picked up the wrench and looked over at Beebie. “Drag the hose over while I loosen ’er up.”

  Beebie nodded and hurried back toward the truck. Beebie was a giant of a man with skin as black as oil, marred only by two thick pink scars that crisscrossed his forehead like a sloppy cattle brand. To hear him tell it, they were the result of a .38 caliber round bouncing off his thick skull, and to date, no one had been inclined to throw the bullshit flag.

  When Beebie returned, dragging what looked like a thick fire hose behind him, Dix loosened the coupler enough for some of the natural gas to leak out around the valve. As the icy fuel met warm air, it vaporized into a wispy white cloud. Unlike the gas distributed to homes, the raw liquefied version hadn’t been treated with an odor, and the smoke could have passed for the unscented puffs of an e-cigarette.

  Bowie inched forward and sniffed the gas. Unable to make sense of what he was smelling, he turned to Mason with his mismatched brown and blue eyes.

  “It’s natural gas,” he explained. “They’ll use it to run the machinery over at the food plant.”

  Bowie sniffed the gas once again and then backed away from the tank as if he thought it might pose a danger.

  Dix reached down and pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves.

  “You do know you’re crazy for talking to your dog, right, Top?” Being old-school Army, Dix tended to call anyone running an operation “Top,” a nickname typically reserved for first sergeants.

  “What can I say? He’s a good listener.”

  “That may be. The question is what’s he really hearing?”

  Mason reached down and scrubbed the dog’s neck.

  “You’d be surprised how much Bowie understands.”

  A hiss sounded as the final nut came free from the coupler. Even though the valve above remained closed, a steady trickle of liquefied natural gas leaked from around the seal, it too turning to a cloud of white vapor.

  Dix nodded to Beebie. “Better put your gloves on. This stuff’ll turn your fingers into fudge pops.”

  Beebie dropped the end of the hose and quickly slipped on his gloves. The big man’s hands were like small hams, and he had to push down between the fingers to get the gloves fully seated. When they were finally on, he picked back up the hose and held the nozzle in place until Dix could secure it to the coupler
.

  Dix turned to Mason. “Ready, Top?”

  “Give it a go.”

  Dix stood up and tugged on the valve handle. It didn’t budge. He tried again, this time with both hands. No luck.

  Beebie snickered.

  Dix looked over at him and growled, “You laughing at me?”

  “More of a chuckle, really,” he said in his deep baritone voice.

  Dix was known to have a temper, but what might have led to a fight with another man was met with only a quiet retreat.

  “Be my guest, Paul Bunyan,” he said, stepping back and waving him in.

  “You must mean John Henry,” Beebie said, brushing by Dix to grab the handle. “Paul Bunyan was white. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m blacker than the president’s limousine.”

  Leaning back, he gave the handle a sharp tug. Whatever rust or sludge had jammed the valve broke free, and they all heard the sound of liquid gushing through the hose.

  Beebie looked back at Dix and winked.

  “Maybe if you spent more time lifting weights and less time lifting skirts, you wouldn’t have to ask me for help so often.”

  Dix shrugged. “Some men prefer cold steel. Others favor hot—”

  Mason cleared his throat. “Gentlemen—and I use that term loosely—we’ve got work to do.”

  “Roger that, Top.” Dix slapped Beebie on the shoulder. “Go up and make sure we’re not leaking too bad at the other end.”

  Without saying a word, Beebie turned and hurried back to the truck.

  Despite their frequent ribbing, Mason found that the two men worked well together. While Dix could get a little annoyed if things went too far, Beebie seemed to have skin as thick as the callouses lining his palms. And that was a good thing. Should the big man ever lose his temper, someone was going to get hurt.

  Beebie shouted down from the top of the tanker.

  “Looks good up here!”

  Dix gave him a quick nod, and Beebie made his way back down the metal stepladder. With fuel now flowing, the only thing left to do was wait for the tank to fill. Mason went over and stood next to the truck while Dix and Beebie spent the next twenty minutes debating the tradeoffs of a healthy life versus one worth living. When they finally ran out of things to say, Dix wandered over to Mason.