The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel

by James Cook

  Hicks lowered his eyes again, suddenly finding the rippling surface of his drink interesting.

  “Don’t do that,” Miranda said.

  “What?”

  “Shut me out.”

  “I’m not shutting you out.”

  “I asked a question. Are you going to answer it?”

  Hicks spun his glass and sighed. “What difference does it make, Miranda? Can’t we just be who we are now and leave it at that?”

  “The other day when we were walking along the wall,” she said, “I looked at you in the afternoon light, and the sun cut through your eyes from the side, and they looked like stained glass floating in water, and I loved you so much I thought my heart would burst. Then you smiled at me with your mysterious little smile, and leaned over and kissed me, and that love rose through me like a fire and burned me up inside, and I wished in that moment I had all the world to give you. If I could have, I would have reached up and given you the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and heaven, and Earth, and everything in between. Then we walked again, and I held your hand, and I thought about your hands, how big and strong and gentle they are, how your lightest touch can send me trembling like a schoolgirl with her first crush, and how I watched you use those same hands to beat a three-hundred pound ex-football player senseless. I realized, then, that I want to know you. Not just who you are now, but all of you, and everything you were before. I’m in love with this handsome, quiet, sincere man who treats me with so much kindness, and dignity, and gentleness, and love, and he’s the most dangerous man I know.”

  Hicks remained silent.

  Miranda reached out and took his hand away from the glass. “What’s going on in there, Caleb? How are things supposed to work between us if you won’t open up?”

  Hicks pulled his hand away, suddenly angry. “Do I ask you about your life before the Outbreak? Do I grill you about your time with the Free Legion?”

  He regretted it even as he said it. Miranda’s expression grew brittle, sapphire eyes shimmering against her porcelain face. Her hands trembled as she clasped them together in her lap and dropped her gaze. “No,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry, M. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You’re right. I have no right to pry.”

  Hicks closed his eyes, rested his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands, frustrated.

  On one hand, he was in the right. Since the Outbreak, it was an unspoken rule you didn’t talk about life pre-Outbreak. You didn’t ask people what they did, or if they had families, or who they lost. If someone wanted to volunteer that information, that was fine, but it was impolite in the extreme to ask. The kind of thing that could easily start a fight. It reminded Hicks of how prison inmates weren’t supposed to ask each other what they were in for, or how war veterans hated talking about the war. He thought about the three million or so Americans who survived the Outbreak and how most of them suffered from PTSD in one form or another. An entire nation of prisoners and war veterans and victims.

  A nation in mourning.

  On the other hand, Miranda had just spoken one of the most heartfelt declarations of love he had ever heard, and he had thanked her with a proverbial slap in the face.

  I am a son of a bitch, he thought.

  “Miranda, I didn’t mean that. You have every right to ask. I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it yet.”

  “You’re wrong, Caleb. I didn’t have the right to ask. Because if you asked me about my family, or how I survived the Outbreak, or what the Legion did to me, I’d tell you it’s none of your damn business. It was selfish of me to pry. Hypocritical. How can I expect you to talk about your past if I’m not willing open up about mine?”

  “Give me your hand, M.”

  She did.

  “Maybe someday we’ll be healed enough to talk about our past. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t. I don’t know. What I do know is we’re both here now, we’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Everything else is just picking up the pieces.”

  Miranda looked up with a sad half-smile, and Hicks felt a vise clamp around his heart. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s both say we’re sorry and leave it at that.”

  “Agreed.”

  They finished their drinks in silence.

  FOUR

  They made love that night.

  It was not as it usually was, with laughing, and caresses, and kissing, and long, languid movement of body against body. They went to bed in their nightclothes. Hicks lay on his back with his hands behind his head, a cool spring breeze blowing through the open window. Miranda lay beside him with her back turned, curled in upon herself, silent.

  Then, without preamble, she rolled over and leaned over Hicks’ face and kissed him urgently, one hand disappearing beneath his waistband. Hicks breathed in sharply against Miranda’s mouth and felt his body respond. Hot tears dripped against his cheek, prompting him to gently grip her slender arms and push her away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Shut up,” she said, and twisted loose from his hands. Her shirt came off, tossed carelessly into a corner, and she began tugging at Hicks’ shorts. He raised his hips so she could pull them off, then had to bite down on a moan as he felt the warmth of her mouth around him. He said no more until she climbed on top, and then it was all grunts and hard breathing and Miranda’s insistent hunnh, hunnh, hunnh, hunnh.

  And then it was over.

  She stayed on top of him for a while, face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, saying nothing. With one hand, Hicks stroked her back with his fingertips, tracing the hollow between muscles and spine. With his other hand, he ran his fingers through her long hair, sweeping it back from her face. Finally, she sat up, kissed him briefly, and went to the bathroom. There was the sound of water running.

  Hicks thought about the tower on the other side of town, and how nice it was to have running water. A moment later, Miranda emerged and crossed the room naked in the moonlight. She knelt next to Hicks with a damp cloth and began cleaning him up. He lay still, staring at her silhouette against the window.

  “It’s never like you see it in the movies,” she said. “It’s messy.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  Miranda made a low sound that might have been a laugh. “Very true.”

  Finished, she tossed the soiled cloth into the laundry bin and retrieved her shirt, then lay down beside Hicks. He offered to lift the covers for her, but she said it was too warm. Her arms went around his chest and they lay quietly together in the slowly cooling night.

  “What was all that about?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure if I even know.”

  “If you figure it out…”

  “If I figure it out.”

  “Goodnight, M.”

  “Goodnight, Caleb.”

  *****

  Hicks reported for duty the next day, which was a Saturday, well before sunrise.

  First thing in the morning was PT, led by Staff Sergeant Kelly. Normally it would have been led by Sgt. Ashman, but he and Lt. Jonas had been called to company HQ at Fort McCray. There was much speculation as to why, with opinions ranging from suspicion of wrongdoing to rumors of a forthcoming offensive against the Midwest Alliance.

  Hicks suspected the reason was far more innocuous.

  Ashman was a damned good sergeant, easily the best in Echo Company. He had served in the Army for over fifteen years, had a bachelor’s degree in history—earned via online courses prior to the Outbreak—and his service record was spotless. Hicks suspected Ashman was being offered a commission, and said as much to Derrick Holland.

  “You think?” the diminutive soldier asked, brow furrowed in thought.

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Hicks replied as they dropped to the ground at Sgt. Kelly’s command and began doing pushups. “Fifteen years in, pre-Outbreak combat experience, college degree, exemplary record. I heard there’s more officer billets out there than qualified officers to
fill them. We lost a lot of people during Relentless Force. Seems pretty obvious to me.”

  Holland looked over and grinned. Hicks knew what was coming next.

  After PT, Kelly ordered the platoon to clean up and get ready for patrol. As they bathed in the field showers, Holland began taking bets on why Lt. Jonas and Sgt. Ashman had been called away. The prevailing sentiment was that one or both of them were in some kind of trouble, until Holland posited the theory that Ashman was getting a promotion. The idea caught on quickly with no one willing to bet against it. Not to be deterred, Holland started taking bets on whether or not Ashman would accept the commission. That got people wagering.

  Hicks listened, but remained silent. He was not a betting man.

  After patrol and chow, Jonas and Ashman returned. The lieutenant, never being one to mince words or keep his men in suspense, called for everyone’s attention.

  “I’m sure you’re all wondering why Sergeant Ashman and I were called away this morning,” he said. “If you were thinking we’re in some kind of trouble, the answer is no.”

  He waited for the inevitable round of chuckling and low comments to subside, a small smile on his face, then said, “Thankfully, the reason is a much happier one. Master Sergeant Ashman,” he nodded his head toward the platoon sergeant, who stood nervously, hands clasped behind his back, “has just accepted a field commission to the rank of second lieutenant.”

  If he was expecting a round of applause, he was to be disappointed. Instead, he got a mournful chorus of WHAT? and Come on, man! and Dude, you can’t leave the platoon! Jonas forestalled their complaints with an upraised hand.

  “All right, all right, that’s enough. Listen, I’m not any happier to see him go than you are. But the Army needs capable, proven leaders, and Sergeant Ashman here is one of the best. Besides, you’ve all been in long enough to know the only constant in the Army is change. People get moved around, shuffled around, promoted, assigned to other units, all kinds of shit. It happens. Sergeant Ashman has been an invaluable asset to Echo Company for the last two years, and his leadership and dedication to duty have been exemplary. But now his talents are needed elsewhere, and it’s time for him to move on. Stay in the Army long enough, and it’ll happen to you too. Except Holland. He’ll be stuck in First Platoon for the rest of his life.”

  Another round of laughter. Holland grinned. “I love you too, sir.”

  Jonas tried to scowl, but didn’t do a very good job of it. “Okay, enough jack-assing around. Sgt. Kelly, the platoon is yours for the rest of the day. I expect to see every one of you at the enlisted club at nineteen-hundred hours. First round is on me.”

  That got a cheer.

  *****

  Hicks hung around until 2200, figuring three hours and four drinks was a sufficient celebration for Echo Company’s soon-to-be-promoted master sergeant. Before leaving, he took a moment to shake Ashman’s hand and inform him the platoon wouldn’t be the same without him. The big man accepted the compliment and leaned close so only Hicks could hear him.

  “Jonas and I put in a good word for you with Captain Harlow,” he said. “You’re a hell of a soldier; one of the best I’ve ever seen.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t expect to be a specialist for much longer.”

  Hicks said his goodbyes and left.

  He thought about what Ashman said as he walked along the wooded stretch of gravel between Hollow Rock and Fort McCray. His first consideration was a promotion to sergeant would put him in charge of his fire team. Up until then, Holland was the senior specialist and was officially in charge, but both he and Private Fuller deferred to Hicks’ judgment in most things. Taking the stripes would just make it official. It would also mean a significant pay raise, albeit in federal credits. Still, any raise was a good one. With the new PX being constructed at Fort McCray, he might be able to buy things he could trade in town.

  His thoughts turned to a storage facility on the south side Hollow Rock, recently acquired by G&R Transport and Salvage. Within this facility was an eight-by-ten storage unit more than halfway full of salvage Hicks had accumulated through months of contract work for G&R as well as the spoils of war taken from various insurgent and marauder groups. In terms of federal credits, it was worth five times as much as a sergeant made in a year—enough to buy passage for him and Miranda to Colorado Springs. He would even have enough left over to buy one of the newly constructed revenant-proof homes in the nice part of town, away from the refugee districts.

  He imagined going back to living in relative comfort and safety, not constantly worried about the next walker attack. A man with his talents would have no trouble finding work in the Springs. Government jobs were no longer the only opportunities. Merchants of all stripes bartered generously for soldiers with combat experience willing to work as caravan guards. Enough so a man only had to work three or four months a year to earn a comfortable living. It was not without its dangers, but it was no worse than the Army. And he had done pretty well in the Army.

  He rounded a corner into the field surrounding Hollow Rock’s outer wall, raised a hand, and waved toward the watch captain in his tower. A cowboy hat silhouetted against the full moon told him it was Mike Stall, owner and proprietor of Delta Squad’s favorite drinking hole, Stall’s Tavern. Mike acknowledged him with a wave, climbed down the steps, and slid back the panel of the check-in window.

  “Howdy Caleb,” the old cowboy said, one half of his bushy mustache tilted upward. “You’re out late tonight. What’s the occasion?”

  “Celebrating with the platoon. Master Sergeant Ashman accepted a field commission today.”

  “Well how about that. Next time you see old tall and baldy, do me a favor and tell him I said congratulations.”

  “Will do.”

  “See any walkers on the way in?”

  “Nope.”

  Hicks unslung his rifle and slid it under the bars across the window, then followed it with his Ka-bar combat dagger, his ammunition-laden MOLLE vest, and his Beretta M-9.

  “They let you fellas carry sidearms now?” Mike asked.

  Hicks nodded. “Yep. It used to be against regulation for most soldiers, but everybody was carrying them anyway, so the Army changed the regulations a few months ago. All soldiers are now permitted to carry sidearms, provided we choose one from an approved list and have it inspected by a qualified armorer.”

  “Well I’ll be damned. Back in my day, you didn’t usually see infantry grunts with sidearms.”

  “Evil times we live in.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  If it were up to Hicks, he would have only brought the Beretta. But Captain Harlow required any soldier traveling outside Fort McCray to carry a minimum loadout of an M-4 rifle and 120 rounds of ammunition. Normally, he would have also brought his spear, but its holster was lashed to his assault pack and he didn’t feel like lugging the extra weight all the way to town. If he ran into any trouble he couldn’t handle with the carbine and the pistol, he was probably a dead man anyway.

  After checking in his weapons, he went through the required physical examination everyone entering the gate had to undergo, then dressed, retrieved his gear, and set off for Miranda’s place. He crossed paths with a few people he knew along the way and nodded to them, but made no attempt at conversation. Finally, he arrived at Miranda’s door and stood still, hesitating. He very much wanted to see her, but it was late in the evening and he was worried she might have already gone to bed. The windows were absent their usual warm yellow glow, and there were no sounds coming from inside. He had just made the decision to head back to base when he heard footsteps approach and the front door opened.

  “Hey there,” Miranda said, standing in her nightclothes. Her hair was loose, tousled, and falling down her shoulders. Hicks wanted to reach out and touch it.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Where’ve you been? I’d just about given up on seeing you tonight.” There was an edge in her voice when she said it, a certain st
rain, the slightly clipped tones of someone who is trying to appear unconcerned but not quite pulling it off.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “Ashman got a promotion. The whole platoon went out to celebrate.”

  “Oh. I was starting to think that after last night…”

  Hicks shook his head. “Absolutely not. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

  Miranda smiled and visibly relaxed. “In that case, come on in.”

  She held the door open so he could follow her inside. Hicks hung his gear on a set of hooks by the door while she lit a pair of candles in the small living room. With the room lighted, she took a seat on the couch and curled her legs beneath her. Hicks stared at the smooth shapeliness of her legs, and wondered how much time and effort she spent shaving them with the straight razor he had bought her. Sometimes he would visit her in the evening and she would have little squares of t-shirt fabric stuck to places where she had nicked herself.

  “How was your day?” Miranda asked.

  Hicks shrugged. “The usual.”

  “Kill any walkers? Capture any dangerous criminal types?”

  “Nope. It was quiet for a change.”

  She picked up a glass of water from the table beside her and sipped it. “Are you going out with Eric’s crew tomorrow?”

  “Didn’t know he was going out.”

  “He didn’t send a runner?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said and then paused, a memory shaking loose. “You know, now that you mention it, I remember Thompson saying something about a salvage run last week.”

  “That makes sense,” Miranda said. “He scheduled it a couple of weeks ago. It’s getting harder and harder to reserve the transports, especially with all the work going on in the fields.”

  Hicks thought a moment longer and remembered Thompson gathering the squad together just before evening chow and telling them to keep their schedules clear for next Sunday. Eric Riordan had reserved one of Hollow Rock’s large multi-fuel transport vehicles, and, barring incident, they would be heading out with Sanchez’s squad from the Ninth TVM on a salvage-hunting expedition. He remembered being distracted at the moment, his mind replaying memories of-