Dark Days

by Bradley, Arthur T. , Ph. D.

  Tanner thought of Duncan and his wife, Carla.

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “I’m going to make an example out of one of them. I can’t afford to lose any of the workers, so it’ll have to be one of their wives. Pope here,” he nodded toward the guard, “has volunteered to do it.” He leaned in close and spoke in a low voice. “Pope’s sort of a degenerate, truth be told.” Hardin straightened. “I’m only telling you this because I want you to understand that this is your doing. Whatever happens to that poor woman is going to be on you.” He got back to his feet. “Do you still feel good about what you’ve done here, Mr. Raines?”

  Tanner wanted nothing more than to knock the smug look off Hardin’s fat face.

  “We’ll talk about how I feel the next time we meet.”

  Hardin’s smile never faltered, but there was a tightening around his eyes.

  “Next time I see you will be the last. I can promise you that.”

  “Funny, I was about to say the same thing.”

  Tanner listened as the radio call came in. Samantha’s voice was calm and clear, and it warmed his heart to hear it.

  Are you ready, Mr. Hardin?

  “Yes, dear, I most certainly am.”

  I need to hear Tanner’s voice to know that he’s okay.

  “Of course.” Hardin held the radio out in front of Tanner. “Go ahead. Tell her how well we’re treating you.”

  “Hey, Sam. I’m—”

  Pope reared back and kicked him in the head. Tanner fell sideways, landing hard on the concrete floor.

  Tanner? Tanner, are you there?

  “He’s fine,” Hardin said, bringing the radio back to his mouth. “But the longer he stays here, the more fun my boys are going to have with him.”

  Okay, okay, let’s trade.

  Hardin hesitated. “Put one of the operators on the radio.”

  What?

  “You heard me. I need to know they’re still with you.”

  Fine. Hold on.

  A moment later a man’s voice came over the radio.

  We’re here, Mr. Hardin. Please believe me, we didn’t want to leave. She forced us to.

  Hardin smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you home in no time. Put your little captor back on the horn.”

  A moment later, Samantha said, There, you have your proof.

  Hardin smiled. “I like you, Samantha. I really do. Where shall we do this little exchange?”

  Go to the west side of the plant. You’ll find a hole in the fence that we cut last night.

  Hardin looked to Pope, who nodded.

  “Yes, we know the spot.”

  We’ll stay hidden in the trees until Tanner is released, alone and unharmed.

  “No, dear,” he said with a light chuckle. “That won’t do at all. We’ll have a team of guards escort him to our side of the fence. Once the workers come out into the open, we’ll release him.”

  There was a pause.

  Fine, but no more than three guards. I don’t want you chasing me and Tanner into the forest.

  Hardin considered the request. “All right, dear. Three it is.”

  The sun was barely over the horizon as Pope and two other guards marched Tanner toward the fence line. When they got to the hole, Pope spun Tanner around and pushed him down to his knees. He slung the X95 over his shoulder and drew a Beretta Storm from a leather shoulder holster. Chambered in nine-millimeter, the Storm was a solid, semi-automatic weapon that would go bang every time the trigger was pulled.

  He leveled the weapon at Tanner’s head.

  “If I get the slightest whiff of a double-cross, I’m going to put a hole right here.” He tapped the muzzle against Tanner’s forehead. “And believe me, it’s going to hurt.”

  The two guards took up positions beside Pope, watching the trees for signs of the operators approaching. They stood like that for a full minute. Then two.

  Nothing happened.

  Pope and his men eyed the trees uneasily.

  Tanner used his tongue to dab the blood at the corner of his mouth. There was something about tasting his blood that brought clarity to the situation. In that instant, he came to understand everything. Why they were close to the tree line. Why Samantha had insisted on no more than three guards. And what was going to happen next.

  “Mind if I tell you a story while we wait?”

  “Why not?” said Pope. “It’s looking like it might be the last thing you ever do.”

  “It’s about a little girl.”

  Pope sucked air through his front teeth, and it made a little whistle.

  “Careful now. You don’t want to get me all worked up.”

  “I met her last year. At first, I swear she could barely tie her shoes without a pep talk and a map.”

  “A girl like that’s not gonna make it long in this world.”

  “You’re right. She wouldn’t. But over time, I watched as she grew more confident, more capable. To act when others were falling apart.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Not only that. She figured out how to survive. To sleep outdoors under the stars, to build a fire, to find food and water when there wasn’t any.”

  “I assume we’re talking about your little rescuer.”

  “Most important of all, she learned to fight—with her hands, with a knife, and with a gun. She took to the rifle like you would a greasy cheeseburger. Dead shot, right out of the gate. First time she had to aim down the sights against live targets, she hit four for four.” Tanner shook his head with an admiring smile.

  Pope said nothing, unsure of where things were headed.

  “And that was before she started practicing nearly every day. Hell, I bet she could hit a coconut at three hundred yards with nothing but a pair of rusty iron sights.”

  “So?”

  Tanner cocked his head. “So, your head is about the size of a coconut.”

  Pope furrowed his brow. He was about to speak when a faint pop sounded. A split second later, a bright red spot appeared just above his eye. Even before he hit the ground, a second pop sounded, this time sending the man to Tanner’s right toppling sideways, clutching his gut. The third man swung his rifle in the direction of the sound, scanning a thick crop of trees a couple of hundred yards to the west.

  With the last guard’s attention elsewhere, Tanner rolled sideways, landing near Pope’s body. Sitting up, he scooted backward and used his bound hands to feel around for the X95. He found the stock and began working it off Pope’s shoulder.

  The remaining guard turned and pointed his rifle at Tanner.

  “Call her off, or I’ll—”

  The man’s eye suddenly exploded in a mix of blood and a clear jelly-like substance. The .22 long rifle slug only weighed forty grains, but that was more than enough to rattle around the man’s skull, turning his brain into a soggy loofah sponge.

  Tanner rocked back and rolled up to his feet. With the X95 clutched securely behind his back, he bolted for the opening in the fence like a prisoner of war. A gunshot rang out, this one much louder than the faint pop of Samantha’s .22.

  A puff of dirt spat near Tanner’s feet.

  He snaked from side to side as he drew closer to the fence. Another shot sounded, and then another. Both misses.

  He glanced back and saw three men running his direction. A fourth had stopped and dropped to one knee to get a better shot. As agile as he was, Tanner realized he wasn’t going to make it. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try.

  He tucked his head and tumbled forward, rolling through the cutout. His shirt tangled in the fencing, but he got back to his feet and pulled free as yet another gunshot sounded. This time the bullet grazed his right buttock, leaving a bloody burn for its passing.

  Tanner stumbled but refused to fall.

  Another string of gunshots came from the trees, a sharp crack-crack-crack. It was too fast and too loud to be Samantha’s rifle. The guards in pursuit scattered behind a barricade constructed of service truc
ks and shipping crates.

  The trees lay dead ahead, and Tanner abandoned zigzagging in favor of an all-out run. A handful of bullets whizzed to his left and right, but none found meat. Twenty-six seconds later, he disappeared into the forest.

  Samantha carefully unwound the copper wire from Tanner’s wrists. As she pulled the final strands free, she couldn’t help but wince. Both hands were badly swollen, and bloody rings lined his wrists.

  “Ick. Your hands look like Dr. Jarvis’s.”

  Tanner clenched his fists a few times. His fingers felt puffy, like they had been stung by a whole swarm of bees. He rested his hands on the top of his head, hoping that might help drain the excess fluid.

  “As long as I’ve still got my pretty face.”

  Pretty was not the word that came to Samantha’s mind. Tanner’s cheeks were swollen and his lip was split, but what really worried her was the freakish spiderweb of veins that crisscrossed one eye.

  She tried to force a smile, but it made her look like she had just swallowed a bug.

  “That bad?” he said.

  “You look better than a blobfish.”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  They had retreated deep into the forest, safely out of sight of those at the nuclear facility. Duncan sat nearby on a fallen tree, leaning forward with his weight resting on the Sig Sauer MPX.

  “I appreciate you sticking around to help Sam,” said Tanner.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good shot.”

  “You put their heads down. That was enough.”

  He offered a weary nod.

  “Why the long face? Your family’s safe, and now you can join them.”

  Duncan looked off in the direction of the nuclear facility.

  “And then what? With Hardin controlling the plant, he could kill us all. It was our charter, our duty even, to prevent a nuclear catastrophe.” His shoulders slumped. “We failed.”

  “What is it that you’re afraid of? That he’ll let the rods overheat?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not likely to lead to anything more than elevated cancer risks in the coming years. Bad, but not catastrophic to the world.”

  “The rods wouldn’t melt?” Samantha asked, still clinging to Dr. Laslow’s radioactive sludge comment.

  “Almost certainly not. They’ve had months to cool, and their claddings were designed to withstand very high temperatures. Also, without the water to act as a moderator, fission won’t occur. The pools are failsafe in that way.”

  Tanner scratched his head. “Then what’s got you all worked up?”

  “What’s worrying me is that we’ve already shown Hardin and his men enough to enable them to bring the reactors back online. If they succeed in achieving fission, they won’t know how to properly control it.”

  Tanner and Samantha waited for him to continue.

  “The resultant explosions could spew nuclear materials for miles around, leaving a swath of this country uninhabitable for thousands of years.”

  Samantha looked at Tanner. “That’s exactly what we were sent here to stop.”

  “No, we were sent here to discover what was happening. And we’ve done that.”

  “Are you saying we should let Hardin and his men destroy the world?”

  “It wouldn’t destroy the world,” he muttered. “A couple of hundred square miles at most.”

  She stared at him, letting her eyes do the talking.

  Tanner turned to Duncan. “Any idea of how to stop them?”

  Duncan shook his head. “The only way to divert a disaster is to drive them out and let us return to do our jobs.”

  Tanner rubbed his fingers across the tender patch of flesh on his right buttock. The bullet had barely grazed the skin, but it burned like someone had set a firecracker off in his pants. A firecracker. The words stuck in his mind as if they were important. Then, like all great ideas do, it simply came to him—a way to make everything right.

  “You go on to your family. Sam and I will take care of this.”

  Duncan looked confused. “But how?”

  “You ever heard the saying that there’s no such thing as coincidence, only hitsuzen?”

  Duncan’s confusion turned into complete befuddlement.

  “Don’t feel bad,” explained Samantha. “You could fill a dictionary with all the words he makes up.”

  “Hitsuzen,” explained Tanner, “is a Japanese word. It refers to events that are irrevocably tied together, even if they don’t appear to be at first glance.”

  “Okay…” said Duncan. “But what things are tied together in this case?”

  “Your dilemma and our discovery.”

  “What discovery?”

  Tanner turned to Samantha with a grin.

  “Sam knows. Don’t you, Sam?”

  She looked at him quizzically, and then her eyes widened. “Please, no.”

  “What discovery?” repeated Duncan.

  “If Tanner’s smiling, it can only mean one thing.” She paused to cast a disapproving look his way. “He’s going to blow something up.”

  Chapter 18

  With Dix overboard and Beebie literally pinned in place, Mason turned his attention to Cam and Red. The wheelhouse was a big structure, stretching three stories into the air and another three below deck. Much of what lay above deck consisted of shipmates’ quarters, and most of those had been destroyed in the collision. Behind the wheelhouse lay the ship’s funnel, a giant white smokestack used to expel engine exhaust. Part of the smokestack had been crushed, folding under the bridge to permanently entangle the two.

  Below deck lay the engine room, an area he had briefly explored during his first venture aboard. Mason knew that the bottommost level was flooded with diesel fuel, and he found himself wondering whether that might be put to use. If he had wanted to kill the men outright, he could have probably figured out a way to set the fuel ablaze and trap them in the inferno. But he still held out hope that his former teammates could be taken alive.

  Mason had found mercy to be a tricky business. More often than not, it came back to bite him on the ass. Even so, a man’s conscience could not be denied, not if he had any hope of remaining whole.

  Bowie snorted, and Mason turned to find the dog staring at him expectantly.

  “Don’t rush me. I’m formulating a plan.”

  He eyed the wheelhouse door that Cam and Red had gone through ten minutes earlier. They were likely deep within the ship by now. Following them down would be dicey because there were numerous blind turns. If they suspected he was coming up from behind them, it would be easy enough to lie in wait and catch him rounding a corner. Hopefully, they had enough confidence in their compatriots that their attention would be focused on what might lie ahead.

  “Let’s keep it simple. We’ll sneak up from behind and make them surrender.”

  Bowie cocked his head sideways.

  “I didn’t say it was a brilliant plan.” He reached out and gave the dog a quick rub under his chin. “But right now, it’s all we’ve got.”

  Bowie craned his head up so Mason could really give him a good scrubbing.

  “Later,” he said, kissing him on the nose. “Right now, we’ve got to move.”

  Mason straightened up and looked out from behind the shipping container. When he was sure that everything was clear, he raced across the deck in a half-crouch with Bowie bounding beside him. They reached the wheelhouse door, and Mason took a quick peek through the window. Thanks to the angle of the early morning sun, he was able to see the outline of the burn pot as well as the bodies leaning against the far wall. There were no signs of Cam or Red.

  He held an arm across Bowie and pulled the hatch open. Nothing happened. No gunshots. No shouts of surprise.

  Mason smelled the decaying bodies mingled with the faint odor of whatever they had burned for fuel. He leaned his head around the open doorway and examined the room.

  Everything was exactly as it had been before. The hatch on the opposi
te side was ajar, and the bodies looked undisturbed.

  With his Supergrade leading the way, he slipped into the room and pressed his back against the wall. Bowie was less careful, walking headlong into the room to give the cadavers another round of inspection.

  Mason pulled the door shut behind him and edged his way around the room’s periphery. When he came to the inner hatch, he stood to one side and nudged it the rest of the way open with his boot. A short hallway led to a set of metal steps leading down. He recalled that at the bottom of the stairs was a walkway, and beyond that, another set of steps that led to the engine compartment. The emergency strobe light still pulsed, illuminating the path well enough for him to see that no one was lying in wait.

  Crossing in front of Bowie, Mason quietly stepped through the hatch. Almost immediately, he heard the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs in front of him. There wasn’t time to retreat; nor could he rush ahead and close the distance. Unsure of what else to do, he raised his Supergrade to the neutral ready position and waited.

  Cam turned the corner a few seconds later and abruptly halted, his panicked eyes saying more than words ever could. He glanced behind him.

  Mason shook his head. “You wouldn’t make it.”

  “Did you kill Dix? Beebie?” His tone was a mix of anger and disbelief.

  “They’re not coming to help, if that’s what you’re asking.” Mason nodded toward the rifle in Cam’s hands. “Set it down slowly.”

  Cam unclipped the AR-15 from its sling and set it by his feet.

  “We were a team, Marshal. We kept one another safe.”

  “I wasn’t the one who asked for this.”

  Cam’s hand hovered near the Smith and Wesson 459 hanging along his right thigh.

  “You planning to kill me too?” he asked.

  “If you reach for that pistol, I won’t have a choice, now will I?”

  Cam eased his hand away from the gun.

  “If you’re not going to shoot me, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m debating on whether to tie you up or have you jump in the river. Got a preference?”

  Before Cam could answer, Bowie nudged past Mason, jarring him sideways as he did. Cam used the distraction to reach for his pistol. It hadn’t even cleared the leather before Mason shot him through the thigh. Cam’s leg buckled, and he toppled forward, whacking his head against the bulkhead. He landed hard, his face to the floor, hands splayed out to either side.