Dark Days

by Bradley, Arthur T. , Ph. D.

  Dix gave a little shrug but said nothing more.

  Cash turned back to Mason. “Do as I said and ditch the dog.”

  Mason took a long moment to consider the situation. Clearly Cash was an asshole through and through, and that was as much a reflection on Locke as it was Cash himself. To go against him would likely cause the situation to ramp up even further than it already had.

  He looked over and saw Bowie staring at him expectantly, clearly having no idea that he was the source of the contention.

  “Pass along my regrets to Mr. Locke.”

  Cash seemed stunned. “You’re not coming?”

  “The way I see it, if a man invites you into his home, he doesn’t ask you to leave your family at the door.”

  “And what? That mangy dog is your family?”

  “In every way that counts.”

  Cash stared at him for ten long seconds before finally saying, “Anyone ever tell you you’re one stubborn sonofabitch?”

  “A time or two.”

  Cash turned and started down the dock.

  “Come on,” he growled. “The both of you.”

  Mason and Bowie followed after him, the dog wagging his tail as if he had been allowed into a kid’s birthday party.

  Cash led them around the building and across an open field. At the far end was a large fenced-in pen, obviously used at one time to house livestock. A tall man with sandy blonde hair and an athletic build stood at the center of the pen. Two squat American Pit Bull Terriers stood at his side, each equipped with protective collars and vests and held in check with thick leather leashes. They barked wildly at an enormous black boar standing at the far side of the pen. For all its ferocity, the beast appeared utterly terrified as it pawed at the dirt with its thick black hooves.

  Cash waved to Mr. Locke, and he offered a quick nod in return.

  “I think you’re going to like this,” Cash said, looking over at Mason.

  Locke waited until the dogs reached a frenzy before releasing their leashes. Both animals ran straight toward the boar, fearless and with single-minded purpose. As they approached, the boar whipped left, hoping to catch one of them with its sharp tusks. But as it turned, the other dog leaped forward and latched onto the flesh behind its right ear. The boar immediately spun back and tried to gore the Pit Bull. No matter how hard it tried, it could neither reach the dog nor shake loose of its incredible bite.

  As the boar struggled to free itself, the second dog lunged forward and clamped down on its other ear. The boar let out a high-pitched shriek and tried to dart away. It barely made it a quarter of the way around the pen before collapsing to the ground, its chest heaving from fear and exhaustion.

  The Pit Bulls continued to grip the boar’s ears, pinning the animal to the ground as Locke approached. He circled around, grabbed its hind legs with both hands, and flipped it end over end. The boar squealed as the dog’s teeth tore holes in its ears.

  Once the pig’s underside was exposed, Locke drew a large knife from his belt and repeatedly stabbed it into the creature’s soft belly. The boar flailed about, letting out a series of high-pitched screams before finally becoming still.

  Locke straightened up and wiped the blade on a bloodstained cloth he pulled from his waistband.

  Cash turned with a grin. “Hope that didn’t offend your sensibilities.”

  Mason said nothing. While having done things that surely put him on PETA’s watch list, he couldn’t help but feel repulsed by what he had witnessed. Killing an animal in an enclosed pen with two Pit Bulls to do one’s bidding was more butchery than hunting. Despite his revulsion, he kept a straight face, refusing to give Cash the satisfaction of seeing him affected by the violence.

  Bowie, on the other hand, let out a deep growl as Locke and his two dogs approached. As soon as the Pit Bulls saw Bowie, they raced forward, globs of slobber flying from their blood-soaked mouths as they barked and snarled. The pen’s fencing prevented their advance, but Mason couldn’t help but step protectively in front of Bowie.

  Locke exited through a large gate, careful to keep the dogs contained within. Once he was clear, he motioned for Mason and Cash to move away from the pen to escape the noise. When they arrived at the rear of the nearest building, he stopped and turned to Mason.

  “Oliver Locke,” he said, extending his hand.

  Mason shook it, finding the man’s grip to be thick and strong.

  “Mason Raines.”

  “The way I hear it, you’re something of a cross between Wyatt Earp and Audie Murphy.”

  Mason shrugged. “Honorable lawman, fearless soldier. I could do worse.”

  “Indeed.” He looked down at Bowie. “And you’ve got yourself a dog that weighs as much as both of mine put together.”

  Bowie eyed him warily, making no move to receive his attention.

  “This is Bowie,” Mason said, bending over and patting the dog’s side.

  “I’m assuming he’s a fighter like yourself?”

  “When he has to be.”

  Locke nodded. “A man needs a good companion. Keeps him balanced, don’t you think?”

  Mason wondered whether they were still talking about Bowie.

  “I suppose.”

  Locke turned back to face the pen.

  “What I did out there—did it shock you?”

  “I’m a very hard man to shock.” He paused. “It did, however, seem a bit unnecessary.”

  “Indeed,” Locke said, nodding. “Do you know why I do it?”

  Mason shook his head.

  “I do it because too many people have forgotten where food comes from. Every once in a while, I find it important to be reminded that to give life, one must take life. You can respect that, can’t you, Marshal Raines?”

  “You could have just shot the beast.”

  “True. But then my dogs wouldn’t get the practice they need.” He patted Mason on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see what you’ve brought me.”

  Locke turned and led them back toward the loading dock. As they rounded the corner of the building, a disgusting odor filled their nostrils. The source of the stench was as obvious as it was disturbing. A large flatbed truck filled with dog carcasses was being unloaded. A man in a hazmat suit and mask stood in the back of the truck, tossing the animals onto a pallet, no different than had they been sacks of freshly cut wheat. Another man stood nearby with a clipboard in hand, obviously taking account of the load.

  Bowie whined and moved behind Mason, peeking out from around his legs.

  “Whew, that’s ripe,” Locke said, waving a hand in front of his nose.

  Mason’s face wrinkled up. “You use dogs in your emergency rations?”

  “We have to. Protein’s extremely hard to come by at the moment. Nearly all of the nation’s livestock died from neglect during the pandemic. That leaves us to find what we can, where we can.” When Mason didn’t say anything, Locke continued. “It’s all very sanitary. We clean and skin them, much like we would cattle or pigs, and then dry, chop, and cook the meat into tiny morsels that are blended into the bars.

  He looked down at Bowie. “Don’t tell your friend, but dog is one of the tastiest meats there are. A bit fatty, perhaps, but it has a wonderful fragrance and tastes like a cross between beef and mutton.” He licked his lips. “Quite the treat if you can get over the fact that you’re eating man’s best friend.”

  Mason studied the dead animals hanging from the side of the truck. They looked anything but tasty.

  “Where do you find them?”

  “The roads. Local communities. Pretty much anywhere we can. It ends up being a win-win. Not only are we providing nutrition to starving colonists, we’re also helping to eliminate these dangerous pests.” Locke put a hand on Mason’s shoulder. “The truth is we’re doing what we have to in order to survive. Same as everyone else. I hope you can appreciate that.”

  Mason gave a noncommittal nod. “And do the colonists know what they’re eating?”

 
He gently ushered Mason forward until they were past the truck and beyond the worst of the stench.

  “For reasons you can surely appreciate, we believe it best to keep the recipe for the secret sauce to ourselves. I hope you will respect that decision and do the same.”

  As repulsed as Mason was by the thought of eating dogs, he could understand Locke’s decision to use them as a food source. Before the pandemic, some twenty-five million dogs were eaten every year, a fact that he was aware of from his time spent traveling abroad on special operations missions. While it was certainly taboo in North America, dog meat was widely accepted in many other parts of the world. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something cruel about killing and eating animals that were capable of so much love and devotion.

  “It’s not my mission to inspect your operation. I’m assuming that appropriate folks in the colony’s government know what’s going into their food?”

  “They do indeed.”

  “Then I’ll leave that to stay between you and them.”

  “Good man,” Locke said with a friendly nod. “I have something further that I’d like to discuss with you. A proposition, if you like. Any chance I could talk you into staying for dinner?”

  Mason glanced back at the truckload of dead dogs.

  “Depends on the menu.”

  Locke let out a little laugh. “We’ll be eating the boar I just killed, along with fresh produce the local farmers provide. I assure you, it’ll be quite the feast.”

  “And my men? Are they welcome too?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’ll put us late getting out. We may need to stay the night.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Traveling back to the New Colony after nightfall is unnecessarily dangerous. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to take care of before dinner. Cash will show you and your men to your quarters. We’ll eat in the main dining hall around seven.”

  Mason wasn’t surprised to learn that everything had already been set up. They were doing a dance, and Locke was choosing to lead.

  “Sounds fine.”

  Locke shook his hand one final time before bidding him and Cash farewell.

  After Locke disappeared into the building, Cash turned to Mason.

  “I hope you understand that when Mr. Locke offers something, he expects you to take it.”

  “And what happens to those who don’t?”

  Cash’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile.

  “I do.”

  Chapter 8

  Samantha studied the map, wondering where they had gone wrong. The two-hundred-mile trek to the Watts Bar Nuclear Facility should have had them skirting Greeneville, Tennessee. Somehow a wrong turn had landed them just south of Fall Branch, some ten miles off their chosen route.

  “I don’t get it,” she said, shaking her head. “We went around Jonesborough just like we were supposed to, but somehow we ended up here,”—she tapped the map—“instead of over here.”

  Tanner glanced over at the map.

  “You see a road we can use to turn back west?”

  Samantha didn’t answer. She was too busy looking up ahead at an old lady standing beside the road. The Romani woman was dressed in a poufy purple skirt and ruffled white blouse and looked every bit the gypsy. Behind her was a small brick house with a sign that read Psychic Readings by Malina.

  “Look,” Samantha said, pointing. “A fortune teller.”

  In response, Tanner pressed the accelerator. But as he did, the old woman hobbled out into the street, using a piece of driftwood as a cane. When she got to the center, she held up her free hand as if initiating a traffic stop.

  “What the hell does she think she’s doing?” he said, easing off the gas.

  “She wants us to stop.”

  “I can see that. But if she tries that with the wrong person, they’re going to pull a Death Race 2000 on her.”

  “A what?”

  “Before your time.” Tanner studied the houses on either side of the road, wondering if it might be some kind of ambush. They looked dark and empty. “Keep your eyes open. Could be a trap.”

  “Nah. She probably just needs a little food or something.”

  “More likely she wants to con us out of everything we own.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Gypsies, Irish Travelers, Roadies… thieves and grifters, every last one of them.”

  Samantha scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. She looks like someone’s grandma.”

  “Grandma or not, I guarantee she’s trouble.”

  Tanner brought the truck to a stop, and Samantha climbed out to see what the woman needed. Tanner took his sweet time following after her.

  “It’s about time,” the old woman cackled. “Come, come.” She turned and started for her house.

  “Ma’am!” called Samantha. “We stopped to see if you needed help.”

  Malina looked back over her shoulder.

  “Of course, I need help. Why else would I have brought you here? Now come along.” She turned and hobbled up her walkway.

  Samantha turned to Tanner with a confused look on her face.

  “Should we go and see what she wants?”

  “We don’t need a load of crazy right now. Let’s just be on our way.”

  Samantha looked back at the woman, still uncertain.

  “I think she needs something.”

  “Yeah. Our wallets.”

  “We don’t have wallets. Or money either, for that matter.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Come on. What harm could it do?”

  Tanner hesitated.

  “Please,” she begged. “I’ve never been inside a real fortune teller’s house before.”

  “And you never will be. I’m telling you, Sam, they’re all phonies.”

  She shrugged. “Who knows for sure?”

  Tanner shook his head. “That’s how it all starts.”

  “Stay out here if you want, but I’m going in.” Samantha turned and hurried to catch up to the old woman.

  Tanner reluctantly traipsed after them, sawed-off shotgun hanging at his side.

  Malina led them inside her small home, and it was everything Samantha had hoped for. A table sat front and center, covered in a crimson cloth that had probably been a bedspread in a previous life. An empty basket, a silver crucifix, several candles, and a deck of Tarot cards sat atop of the table, and three velvet-padded chairs had been pulled up alongside it. The floor was thick with throw rugs, all of them a mishmash of colors and patterns. Two life-size oil paintings hung on opposite walls, the Virgin Mary to the right, and Elvis Presley to the left. The windows were covered with heavy curtains, casting a gloomy, mysterious feel to the room. Rounding out the ensemble was a dusty bookcase filled with various tomes of the supernatural, and an old leather trunk that looked like it could have been the property of famed explorer Phileas Fogg.

  Tanner snickered. “What, no crystal ball?”

  Without acknowledging his slight, Malina went about lighting the candles. When she was finished, she carefully lowered herself into the chair at the head of the table and motioned for them to sit opposite her.

  Samantha hurried over and took a seat, but Tanner remained by the door, eyeing a hallway that opened into the kitchen.

  Malina turned to him impatiently. “The spirits won’t wait forever.”

  “Why not? They got places to be?”

  “Please,” she urged, “Babik’s life is at stake.”

  “Who’s Babik?” asked Samantha.

  “My cat.”

  “Your cat’s life is in danger?”

  “Yes, and the spirits have dictated that only the two of you can save him.”

  Tanner chuckled. “Darlin’, if you think we’re risking our lives for a cat, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  “Babik’s not an ordinary cat.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Samantha. “Not ordinary how?”


  Malina leaned across the table and whispered, “Babik communes with the dead.”

  “Oh Lord,” muttered Tanner, “here we go.”

  Malina placed a cold hand over Samantha’s.

  “Babik can reach across the veil to speak with those who have gone before us.”

  “But what good is that if the cat can’t talk?”

  “He communicates with me through our spiritual connection. I relay the messages.”

  “So you act as sort of a telegraph? A cat telegraph?”

  “I think you mean telepath, young lady,” said Malina.

  Samantha wasn’t sure which she meant, perhaps both.

  She furrowed her brow. “But how would anyone learn to be a cat telepath?”

  The woman leaned away and smiled.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Samantha said quickly. “I’m just saying that it sounds kind of strange.”

  The smile remained on Malina’s face.

  “I suppose it does. But it’s no less strange than you being here in my house.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our meeting is not by chance, dear.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. I called to you from a great distance, steered your father down this very road.”

  “Sam,” Tanner growled, one hand reaching for the doorknob.

  “Yeah, yeah, just a minute,” she said, holding up a finger. Turning back to Malina, she said, “We did make a wrong turn, which isn’t like me at all. Maybe—”

  “Now you’re beginning to see.” Malina turned to Tanner. “But we need him to see as well.”

  “What do you need him to do exactly?”

  “Go ahead and keep talking about me like I’m not here,” said Tanner.

  “Babik’s been caught in Lilliam’s curse,” explained Malina. “I need your father to set him free.”

  “Wait,” said Samantha. “Who’s Lilliam?”

  “Lilliam was a slave who threw herself in front of a train back in 1821. They say she loved her cat so much that she took him with her to the grave. Ever since then, cats can hear Lilliam’s call, begging them to come to the old railroad to play.”