The Red King (Wyrd Book 1)
Page 22
“Less engine noise that way.”
Ritter slowed.
Candace said, “I don’t think he’s doing so hot.” The ‘he’ being obvious to everyone.
“Looks like he’s bleeding out,” rumbled Dante.
“We don’t want to draw any more of ‘em that might still be around,” said Holiday. “We can’t have them follow us back to my house. Go slow for just the next mile. We’re almost there.”
Ritter drove slowly up Portola Parkway, then turned at the top of the hill alongside the Vineyards. In front of the entrance, they could see Frank and Ash dragging a body out to an already sizeable pile of bodies.
“Stop,” said Holiday when they pulled close. Holiday jumped out and ran toward Frank and Ash. “I found some others! One of them has been shot.”
Ash ran toward the car. Frank remained holding his end of the body. Ash ducked her head inside the car. She popped out a second later. “Drive him down to Frank’s house, but take it slow!” Then she turned and ran like a track star into the complex, ahead of the already moving Cutlass with its door still open. Frank dropped the body as he and Holiday followed the slow-moving Cutlass into the complex. Along the street, they passed the motionless bodies of the dead. Ahead, they could see Ash running full tilt for Frank’s house.
When they arrived at Frank’s garage, Ash was just coming out, carrying a small green canvas bag. She set it down inside the dark of the garage and went to organize the removal of Skully from the car.
Skully began to scream as someone jerked him too hard into a sitting position. It was Dante.
“Don’t touch him. We need to do it together,” Ash lectured the big man from the other side of the car.
“Do you know what in the hell you’re doing, lady?” asked Dante.
She stood up, looked Dante straight in the eye over the roof of the car, then very calmly said, “Trust me. I’m a surgeon.”
A moment later, everyone was doing everything exactly as she wanted it done.
Later.
Twilight fell across the roofs and small streets of the townhomes.
Later.
The grass, freshly watered from the automatic sprinklers, felt cool on the bare feet of those who just needed to sit in the kiddie park.
Later.
Holiday opened his front door. He’d showered and put on fresh jeans and a clean t-shirt. They’d spent the rest of the day helping Ash perform rough surgery on Frank’s dining room table, Ash cutting and sewing, all the while telling everyone the things she needed from her bag, or things they’d need to find nearby.
They’d even donated blood.
Skully had the most common blood type. Several people had the same.
What if they hadn’t? What if Skully’s blood had been rare?
What if?
Later.
They found everyone a place to stay, Frank picking the locks to a few homes along the street.
One for Candace.
Dante.
Ritter.
Later in the twilight.
Holiday walked down the street to Frank’s house. He hadn’t had a drink. Didn’t want to. He could still taste that cold water at the 7-11. He felt cleaned out and more alive than he could ever remember feeling.
He found Ash in Frank’s garage. Beyond the open door, he could see light coming from the kitchen.
Ash was sitting against the side of the garage. She looked exhausted. Holiday smiled.
She stood.
“You saved…” began Holiday.
She slapped him hard.
Tears formed in her eyes. She clenched her jaw, turned and walked into the house, slamming the door to the garage behind her.
Later.
In the dark of early night, Holiday sat on the front steps of his house. Lights were on in all the new houses of the survivors. The front gate was locked. The perimeter secure for now.
He saw a figure leave Frank’s garage.
Walking up the street. Crossing onto the sidewalk on Holiday’s side of the street. He saw the soft red glow of the tip of a cigar.
A few minutes later Frank was standing in front of Holiday, the little gate to the front yard between them.
“I guess she’s mad,” mumbled Holiday.
Frank drew on his cigar.
Smoke curled off into the night.
“She is, kid.”
“About what?”
Frank regarded his cigar. Smelling it in the dark. He was just a shadow. When the glowing tip came close to his face, then you could make out the immobile features.
“See, that’s your problem,” said Frank. “Right there.”
Silence.
Frank continued.
“I like you. You’re a fun guy, Holiday. I should know. I’ve known a lot of fun guys in my time. Guys who liked to drink and have a good time. They’re usually not so bad. But I’ve also known worse. Guys whose sense of fun is warped for instance. Guys who enjoy the suffering and the misery of others. I’ve known those guys too. So if you were to ask me, I’d tell you I prefer guys like you. Guys who like to drink and laugh and talk and chase the ladies. Fun guys on a Saturday night.”
Frank drew deeply on his cigar. Holiday had the feeling Frank was gathering his thoughts. Like what had come so far was the bread of the compliment sandwich. Next was the meat, and it probably wasn’t going to taste good. Holiday had gotten a lot of compliment sandwiches in his time as a low-pay service employee. Especially after he’d skipped a shift or two to party.
Drink really.
Of course.
Next came the meat. It always went like that.
“Fun guys are for Saturday night,” began Frank anew. “But you see, all this end of the world jazz… this ain’t Saturday night anymore. This is survival now. End of the world type stuff. Back in ‘Nam we didn’t have room for fun. That was for the college kids burning their draft cards and smoking marijuana. Calling us baby-killers so they could make their professors proud of ‘em. In ‘Nam it was serious. Every day for thirteen months and sixteen days. I knew guys that got it early and guys that got it at the end. Taking it seriously made a difference. At least sometimes.”
A bat flapped overhead in the dark, its leathery wings beating at the stillness and heat of the night.
“Other times,” continued Frank after drawing on his cigar. “Someone else got it because another guy didn’t do his part. Usually because he was too busy goofing off. All because he just wanted to have some fun. And that’s where we are now, kid.”
Frank brought the cigar to his mouth again. The tip burned a hellish red for a long moment. The aroma of the cigar spilled across the garden and the night.
“See, when you went on your little liquor run last night, you left the front gate open. We woke up to a street full of those things this morning.”
Holiday’s mouth hung open.
He was going to protest.
“Later, we found a cart full of booze up at the store when we went looking for you. Figured it was you.”
“Figured you’d gotten in over your head. We were pretty sure you were dead, one of em’ now. So we cleaned up and counted you out.”
“I didn’t…”
“What you didn’t do… is take it serious. Real serious. We know you didn’t. You know you didn’t.”
Pause.
“But that’s okay, you probably didn’t mean to. You probably didn’t mean to get us killed. Except, that you almost did, kid.”
Another draw from the cigar. Holiday heard the distinct sound a bottle of booze makes when it’s moved. The bass note glug glug as it’s jostled in a pocket. The sound was in his head.
“So tomorrow we, Ash and I and these new people, we’re going to fortify this place. We’re gonna do better than we did before. We’re gonna take e
very advantage we can get. We’re gonna seal every entrance, board up every window. Even make a new gate. We’re gonna turn this place into a modern-day castle, ‘cause there ain’t no place else to go. We’re gonna make weapons. We’re gonna learn to work together as a team, and we’re going to survive and make it through whatever the hell this is, alive. Tomorrow, we’re gonna take it seriously.”
Frank leaned over the gate and set a liter bottle of some indistinguishable dark liquor in front of Holiday.
“You. We’re counting you out, kid.”
Then Frank turned and walked down the dark street, passing in and out of the shadows and streetlights until he was gone.
The Red King
There was a blinding flash. Off, over the horizon. The Raggedy Man stared at the board, oblivious to the sudden flash. He glanced at the pawns he’d deployed across the board.
A gray mushroom cloud began to rise and bloom.
The white horse his opponent had moved taunted him.
“Who are you?” he asked again for the sixth time.
His dark eyes darted up to watch his opponent.
“Who are you?” the Raggedy Man asked again, this time pointing his question across the board.
The Opponent said nothing.
Flakes of ash began to drift down across the sky. Blackened gray scraps of once-something floated down onto the board.
Only three pieces had been moved. The two black pawns. The white knight.
The Opponent studied the board. Then he moved the other knight. His thick thumb and forefinger deftly picked up the piece and raised it over the front line, landing it out on the board. Beyond the front rank of white pawns.
The Raggedy Man straightened for a brief moment and flicked a stray piece of ash from the board with one long and dirty finger, then remarked, “They’ve gone nuclear.”
Silence resumed as each studied the board.
“Why do you hate them so much?” asked the Opponent, knowing the Raggedy Man would never give him, or anyone, an answer. He watched as once more the Raggedy Man bent to the board. Intent on his next move.
THE END
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The Dark Knight, Wyrd 2.0
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About The Author
Nick Cole is a former soldier and working actor living in Southern California. When he is not auditioning for commercials, going out for sitcoms or being shot, kicked, stabbed or beaten by the students of various film schools for their projects, he can be found writing books for Harper Collins.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
The Red King
About The Author