Dark Days

by Bradley, Arthur T. , Ph. D.

  When the prisoners had finished, the men marched them back to the truck. Rather than load them onto the bed, they secured both ends of the cable to a thick metal ring on the rear bumper. All but one of the women were left to sit in what little shade the vehicle offered. The one who had been singled out was in her mid-twenties, with shoulder-length brown hair and bleached white skin. To what was sure to be her misfortune, the men pushed her ahead of them as they trudged up the stairs into the tavern.

  Issa darted through the trees to approach from the opposite side of the truck. She passed by an old shed. A quick peek through the window revealed only garden tools and a riding mower.

  When she reached the tree line, she inched closer, studying the prisoners. They were exhausted and filthy. None looked strong enough to pose any real threat to the men, even without the restraints.

  She edged out from the tree line and waved a hand, motioning to the old black woman who had made eye contact earlier.

  “Hey! You there.”

  The old woman stared at her but said nothing.

  Unsure how the prisoners might react when they saw her, Issa bent at the waist and reluctantly shuffled toward them. The women eyed her warily, but none stood, and none drew attention to her advance.

  Still crouching, Issa advanced to within a few feet of the old woman.

  “I’m here to help,” she said in a hushed voice.

  The woman seemed confused, and when she spoke it was with a rich southern accent.

  “Who are you, child?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Why did these men imprison you?”

  The woman seemed reluctant to answer.

  Issa lifted up her sunglasses so that her black eyes were visible.

  “You can trust me. I’m one of you.”

  Hearing this, several of the women shifted around to face Issa and the old woman, following their conversation with greater interest.

  “They say we’re not human anymore. They say we ain’t got no rights.” She nodded back toward the woods. “You should go. Get back outta here while you still can. If they see you, they’ll take you too.”

  “What do you mean ‘take me?’”

  “Make you their slave. Same as us.”

  “Slave?” Issa’s stomach suddenly ached. She didn’t know if it was her baby or just revulsion at the thought of human slavery.

  The old woman said, “Don’t you see, child? We’re slaves, no different than my ancestors brought over on ships three hundred years ago.” She spat to one side. “I never thought I’d live to see such a thing. Not ever.”

  “Slaves?” repeated Issa. “But why? For who?”

  Several of the other women started to speak at once, and Issa had trouble following their stories. Apparently, they had been gathered up, their only crime being disfigurement from the virus.

  Issa motioned for them to hush.

  “I’ll free you,” she said, “all of you. But you have to stay quiet, or they’ll hear us.” She rose up and peeked over the flatbed.

  The men were still inside the tavern.

  “How you gonna do that?” said a pudgy young woman with curly red hair. She held up her handcuffs. “They got us chained up like animals.”

  No, thought Issa, not like animals. Like slaves.

  She stepped closer and ran her hands along the metal cable. It circled back on itself, a heavy padlock attaching the two ends together at the metal ring on the bumper. Nothing Issa had was strong enough to cut through it, and trying to shoot the cable in two would bring the men straightaway.

  “Sit tight,” she said, starting to rise.

  “Where are you going?” asked the old woman.

  Issa’s eyes narrowed. “To kill those men and get the keys.”

  “No. You mustn’t kill ’em.”

  “Why not?”

  “They took my grandson Jerome. Please. That boy’s only fourteen.”

  “These men have him?”

  “No. The males were loaded onto a big green truck. The slavers were still gatherin’ ’em when we was hauled away. But if you kill these men, I may never find Jerome again. Please,” she begged, “don’t kill ’em. At least not without findin’ out where my grandson was taken.”

  Issa growled, shaking her head. The old woman had just made a hard situation damn near impossible.

  “Please,” the woman urged. “I can’t lose him.”

  “Fine,” she said with a determined stare. “I’ll do my best to leave one alive. But I make no promises about the other two.”

  “What have I gotten us into?” Issa whispered softly. “Tanner would never forgive me for doing something so stupid.” She rubbed her tight belly. “But I can’t let this go unpunished. Maybe one day these same men might come for me. Or for you.”

  She approached from the rear of the tavern, tiptoeing onto the narrow porch. Sliding next to the door, she ran her fingers gently across its painted white surface. It was thick and sturdy, likely crafted from the surrounding trees in an attempt to mimic its original construction.

  She placed her ear to the door and listened. There was the sound of men laughing, but nothing from the young woman.

  Issa rested her hand on the knob and gave it a gentle twist.

  It turned with a slight squeak.

  Afraid to let the knob go, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. It took her a moment to make sense of the setting. The tavern had been completely restored, and there was a long wooden bar to her left and several handmade tables and chairs to her right. Just past the bar was a set of stairs leading up to the second floor.

  Two of the men were sitting at a table, a cooler of beer at their feet. A lever-action .30-.30 Winchester leaned against the windowsill, and each man had a handgun holstered at his side. Both men turned toward her, their eyes wide with surprise.

  For a full second, no one moved. And then, panic-stricken, the man closest to the window lunged for the Winchester.

  Issa swung the Merkel up and squeezed the front trigger. The big gun roared like a clap of thunder, shaking the entire building. The heavy slug hit the man with five thousand foot-pounds of force, throwing him through the front window, with only his feet remaining inside. Issa had expected there to be recoil, but she hadn’t expected to be hurled back against the doorframe. It was only through raw determination that she managed to keep hold of the weapon.

  The second man tipped the wooden table forward, ducking behind it as he drew his pistol. He leaned around to take a shot, only to find Issa staring down her sights. She didn’t bother trying to wing him. Instead, she fired directly at the table. The 500-grain slug split the thick oak in two and sent the man tumbling across the floor, blood gushing from a quarter-sized hole in his chest. Once again, the recoil threw Issa back, this time smacking her ribs against the corner of a tall liquor cabinet.

  She groaned, but despite the pain managed to work the release lever to open the breech on the old weapon. Before she could pull out the spent cartridges, the third man barreled down the stairs, naked from the waist up, trousers unbuttoned. He was a big man with a jaw as square as Hellboy’s and skin nearly as red. He took only a moment to scan the room before charging toward her with a guttural scream.

  Issa had extracted the spent cartridges and was struggling to pull their replacements from her back pocket when he crashed into her. They tumbled to the ground, Hellboy on top. He punched her, smashing his knuckles against her cheek. Her eyes glazed over, but she managed to stay conscious, bucking at the waist to send him tumbling to one side.

  “Come back here!” he shouted, scrambling after her.

  But Issa had already rolled to her feet and was standing with her back pressed to the front door. She slid the two knives free from the bandolier hanging across her chest. Each had a six-inch curved blade, razor sharp and wicked to even look at.

  Realizing that she wasn’t going to run, Hellboy slowly got to his feet and drew a large Bowie knife from his belt.

  His eyes cut to the wet cr
imson pool forming around the dead man in the corner.

  “You’re gonna pay for that.”

  Issa said nothing as she worked to manage the pain radiating down her cheek and jaw.

  His eyes went to the bulge of her stomach.

  “You carrying a child?”

  “I am,” she said, steadying herself.

  “I hope you don’t think that little maggot baby is going to make a bit of difference what I do to you.”

  Despite the man’s size and weapon, Issa felt no fear, only adrenalin rushing through her body. Few people knew how to use a knife the way she did. But she had made a promise to the old woman outside, and she intended to do her best to keep it.

  “Where are you taking them?”

  “Huh?”

  Issa nodded toward the truck. “The prisoners.” She couldn’t quite force herself to say the word slaves.

  “What’s it to you?”

  Issa pulled off her sunglasses and set them on the table next to her.

  Hellboy grinned. “Well, lookie what we got here, another black-eyed freak.” He licked his lips. “I can see why someone put a plug in you though. Can’t let a good piece o’ meat go to waste.”

  “Where are you taking them?” she repeated.

  “You know what? I think I’m gonna take you along. Not to sell. No one would want a pregnant freak as a slave. Nah, I’ll keep you ’round for anyone who’d give a few credits for a quick—”

  “Where!” she barked.

  His eyes narrowed. “They’re gonna be sold at the market up in Luray.”

  “What market?”

  “The market where monsters like you get auctioned off to the highest bidder. It’s a new America, sweetie.”

  “Why would people want slaves?”

  He shrugged. “Same as always. To work farms or give ’em a little something to poke at night. I don’t give a shit what they do to your kind.”

  “And the slaves, they’re all taken up to Luray? Men and boys too?”

  “That’s right.” The man’s eyes turned hard. “If I was you, I’d worry less about them and more about yourself.”

  Issa met the man’s stare. “I have what I need now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She readied the knives. “It means we’re done talking.”

  Hellboy shook his head, amused. “You sure you wanna dance with the Devil?” The big man swished the Bowie knife in front of him, more for show than actually trying to cut her.

  “Believe me,” she said in a low voice, “the Devil and I are old friends.”

  Issa waited until his hand came close enough and then flicked one of her blades toward it. The tip nicked his knuckles, opening a bloody slice that went all the way down to the bone. He screamed, quickly passing the knife to his other hand as he cupped a finger that hung on by little more than a meaty thread.

  She feinted right, and when he turned to protect himself, Issa slashed him from the other direction. This time, her blade cut a deep gash through his right triceps.

  Hellboy shoved the Bowie knife toward her with his left hand, hoping to create some distance between them. But when he did, Issa sliced up with her other knife, opening the underside of his forearm from wrist to elbow.

  His knife fell to the wooden floor with a heavy thud, and the man stumbled back, his blood-soaked arms pressed tightly against his chest.

  “All right,” he gasped, “you win. Please, no more.”

  Issa bent at the waist and came for him, the two blades crisscrossing in a figure eight. Strike after strike hit him, opening wounds on his arms, chest, and neck. He fell back over the broken table to land flat on his back in the pool of his partner’s blood. He lay there, panting, struggling to get back up but lacking the strength to do so.

  Issa stood over him, watching as he slowly settled back into the blood and closed his eyes. When she was sure that Hellboy was dead, she went over and picked up the Merkel. It occurred to her that she had an opportunity to swap it out for the dead man’s Winchester. That rifle would surely be easier to handle. But as she held the old hunting rifle in her hands, she found a sense of calm that came not only from the power of the weapon but from Tanner’s words. He had said that it would stop any man or beast, and by God, it had proven him right.

  She finished loading the gun and headed upstairs.

  Issa figured that the woman Hellboy had taken was probably hiding by now. Whether he’d had time to rape her wasn’t yet known. Issa hoped not. Such things were not easily overcome, even for a woman who had undoubtedly grown accustomed to living with shame. But even if she hadn’t been spared from sexual violence, at least the woman would know that her violator had been suitably punished.

  When she got to the second-story landing, Issa saw that there were only two doors. Both were open, revealing small bedrooms within.

  “You’re safe now,” she called. “He’s dead. They’re all dead.”

  There was no cry for help. Not even so much as the sound of a floorboard creaking.

  She peered inside the first doorway. A woman lay naked on the bed, her arms and legs splayed out like a figure X. Dark purple ligature marks ringed her neck and throat. Her black eyes bulged, and a faint trickle of inky liquid oozed down the side of her face.

  Issa didn’t know why Hellboy had killed her. Perhaps it was unintentional as part of some sadistic game. Or perhaps murder was the only way he could get to the big finale. Either way, it didn’t matter. Not really, it didn’t. Her killer was dead and Issa couldn’t very well kill him again.

  She turned and went back downstairs. Searching the men revealed two key rings. One had a single key that was obviously for the truck, and the other had dozens of smaller keys that looked like they might fit the padlock and the prisoners’ handcuffs.

  The last thing Issa did before opening the tavern’s front door was to reach down and pick up her sunglasses. Not only would they keep the sun from hurting her eyes, they would also help to hide the bruising. She sure as hell didn’t want sympathy from the prisoners.

  Pity, she believed, was something best saved for the dead.

  Chapter 10

  Apparently, a two-hundred-pound boar could feed a small army because that was exactly what Locke had assembled. Nearly a hundred security officers sat around long cafeteria tables stacked with trays spilling over with shredded pork, boiled potatoes, cabbage, and loaves of freshly baked bread. The setup was all very casual, and it struck Mason as being closer to a Fourth of July picnic than a formal Christmas dinner.

  Perhaps a dozen young women, some surely still in their teens, worked the room, serving plastic cups filled to the brim with dark yellow beer. Like waitresses at the lowliest of “breastaurants,” the women worked their wares, rubbing up against patrons and playfully slapping away uninvited hands. Even with their rebuffs, Mason suspected that everything was for sale at the right price.

  “Now this is my kinda place,” Dix said, eyeing the young women.

  “There you go again,” said Beebie.

  “Ten credits says I don’t sleep alone tonight.”

  “Ten credits is what it’s going to cost you not to sleep alone tonight.”

  Dix grinned. “I always say, sometimes you gotta reach into your back pocket to get into a woman’s front pocket.”

  Beebie shook his head, more amused than anything else, and the two men wandered off to find a place to sit.

  Cam looked over at Mason. “I appreciate you letting us ride on your coattails like this. I haven’t had a hot meal in damn near a month.”

  “It looks like there’s plenty. Best go get your fill.”

  Cam gave him a quick pat on the shoulder as he and Red proceeded into the room.

  As the others found seats and bellied up to their respective tables, Mason looked down at Bowie. The dog’s wet black nostrils flared out as he inhaled the fragrant odors.

  “Sorry, boy. You’re going to have to sit this one out. Folks aren’t going to like a dog m
aking himself at home in their dining room.”

  Bowie stared up at him, his eyes slowly drifting toward the nearest table of food.

  Mason pushed open the front door.

  “Go on. I promise I’ll bring you something.”

  With his head hung low, Bowie grudgingly walked back outside and flopped down beside the door. He let out a sigh as he laid his head down on his paws.

  Mason smiled. Bowie was never above milking a situation for all it was worth.

  Turning back to the cafeteria, Mason caught sight of Locke wandering the room. The man seemed entirely in his element, shaking hands and patting backs. These were his people, after all, and they knew it as well as he did, replying in kind with smiles and friendly laughter. Cash hovered a few steps behind him, eyeing the crowd like an overzealous Secret Service agent. Brooke stood next to Cash, and Mason saw her glance in his direction.

  He gave her a slight nod, and she returned the gesture.

  Mason scanned the room, searching for an empty seat. He made eye contact with a security officer near the front and felt a glimmer of recognition. The man abruptly stood and left the room through one of the side doors. Mason watched him leave, trying to place the man. His face was familiar, but he couldn’t put a name or circumstance to their meeting.

  There seemed no point in worrying about it, so Mason continued his sweep of the room. Spotting a vacant seat near the right corner, he made his way over and sat at a table of six security officers. French, the guard he had encountered at the front gate, was in the chair directly opposite him.

  As Mason sat down, the men stopped talking and eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. French was the first to speak.

  “Rumor has it you met with Mr. Locke.”

  “That’s right,” Mason said, filling his plate from the platter set in the middle of the table.

  “What’d he want?”

  “I’m not quite sure yet.” Mason took a bite of the boar meat. It was gamier than pork from domesticated pigs, but good nonetheless.

  “My guess is he’s gonna offer you a job.”