The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel

by James Cook

  “Listen smart guy, I’m not going to argue with you. This is our town. Our salvage. You can leave on your feet, or on your back. Your choice.”

  Tyrel didn’t respond. I had no confidence the man in the stairwell was telling the truth about letting us go, and I knew Ty did not either. What these men were doing, forcibly chasing off salvage hunters in unincorporated territory, was illegal. The military took this kind of thing seriously—they didn’t want civilians battling it out on the outskirts of town—and after we filed a complaint, they would undoubtedly send an expedition to investigate. If the investigators found sufficient evidence to support our claims, these men would be tracked down and brought up on charges. Very serious charges.

  Salvage hunters are notoriously territorial. They do not like sharing their loot with outsiders. Treading on someone else’s turf is a very good way to end up with a bullet in your head. Which led me to an inevitable conclusion: these men had no intention of letting us leave this place alive. They would not have bothered coming here at all if they did. It would have been far easier to let us take what we wanted and leave. But if we made it back to the Springs and told the rest of our militia that raiding this place was feasible, they would be outnumbered and forced to cede territory. It was far more profitable for them to simply kill us and leave us for the undead.

  Or so they thought, anyway.

  I had been in some bad situations, but this one was looking like the worst. We were outnumbered six to one, facing a well-armed, highly motivated enemy, and we had nowhere to run. Keying my radio, I said, “Ty, did you notice they didn’t search the lower floors? Just came straight up the stairs.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m thinking we should stay away from the windows.”

  “I believe that would be prudent,” Tyrel said. “Rojas, you have a visual on any of these assholes?”

  “Negative,” Rojas replied. He sounded winded. “Hang tight brother, I’m on my way.”

  “Be careful. They probably have a sniper somewhere.”

  “I served three tours in Iraq, homes. I know how to watch out for snipers.”

  “Great. Then hustle your ass up,” Tyrel replied. “I think this is about to get ugly.”

  The voice from the stairwell spoke again. “I’m going to give you to the count of five to come out, then we’re coming up after you.”

  Neither of us spoke. My heart began to beat faster as I adjusted my shooting position and focused on the doorway, finger over the trigger, muscles tightening to take in the slack.

  “One.”

  A cold feeling started in my stomach and spread to my face and hands, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud hammering in my ears.

  “Two.”

  I took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.

  “Three.”

  A hand appeared in the doorway, tossed something through, then disappeared. I heard running steps pounding down the stairs. The thrown object was small, green, and oblong, its exterior comprised of a honeycomb of tiny interconnected squares.

  “Grenade!”

  The voice sounded like mine, but I did not remember telling my lungs, mouth, and vocal cords to form the words.

  The world slowed down, the edges of my vision going gray and narrowing down to a small, pulsating point. The grenade rolled into that point, rotating lengthwise and skittering across the slick tile floor. I had a vague sensation of movement as I darted out the doorway, took two huge running steps, and kicked the grenade toward the door of the stairwell. I had just enough time to hit the floor and curl up in the fetal position before there was a tremendous BANG.

  The force was incredible. I felt my body come off the ground and slide backward. A shockwave poured over me like the hand of an invisible giant, knocking the breath from my lungs. My ears rang from the impact, and I dimly wondered how much permanent hearing damage I had just endured. I put my hands over my ears hoping it would help, but it did not, at least not until another slightly less powerful blast hit me from behind.

  Something flew over me at tremendous velocity, tearing a hole in my sleeve and carving a shallow furrow in my upper arm. The pain was immediate and intense, and I hissed in agony. My vision dimmed, went almost completely dark, then opened up like the beginning of an old black and white movie. I saw my rifle, and beyond, the shapes of people moving in the stairwell. I thought I heard screaming, but I couldn’t be sure. The ringing in my ears was too loud. I reached for my gun, grabbed it, and pushed off the ground until I was sitting upright.

  Behind me, I heard gunfire.

  “Shit!”

  The last place I wanted to be was alone and exposed in the hallway with no cover. I scrambled backward like a crab, fired a few blind shots through the stairwell opening, and pushed my way back through the door of the classroom.

  Remember your training, my father’s voice told me. Stay in the fight.

  I got up to one knee, leaned a little way around the wall, and trained my weapon toward the stairs. The gunfire behind me continued unabated, but I ignored it. I would have to trust that Tyrel had survived the grenade thrown at him and was holding his own. If not, I was as good as dead, and the only thing left for me to do was to take as many of these sons of bitches with me as I could.

  The hallway was filled with smoke, the air sharp with an acrid scent I could not identify. As I watched, a man-shaped gray thing stepped into the swirling dust, weapon blazing. His shots cut the air in front of me, making little thwap-thwap sounds as they passed. I adjusted my aim slightly upward and fired three times. The man jerked, screamed wetly, and fell. It was in my head to make a follow up shot, but then I saw two more men emerge behind him.

  I focused on the closest one and fired, finger working the trigger as fast as I could. I don’t know how many times I shot him, but it was enough that he dropped to the ground. The man behind him saw my muzzle flash and aimed in my direction.

  We fired at the same time.

  I knew my shots would hit; the reticle of my VCOG was centered squarely on the upper portion of his chest. His weapon flashed twice, and I had a brief moment of panic as I expected to feel impact, and heat, and pain. Instead, I felt a scalding sting on the right side of my face, screamed, and fell over backward.

  I put my hand to my face, blinking furiously. The eye still worked, which was a good sign. My cheek was wet with blood, but not much of it, just a trickle. I sat up and moved my head, my arm, felt around on my torso. Everything seemed to be in good working order. I had a fevered remembrance of a quote from Winston Chuchhill, one I had always found amusing: Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.

  It did not seem very funny anymore. Whatever I was feeling, it was pretty damned far from exhilaration. As I sat there, it occurred to me the hallway had gone silent. I keyed my radio and whispered, “Tyrel, you still alive over there?”

  “Pretty sure I am.”

  A wave of relief poured over me strong enough to make my eyes sting. “Glad to hear it.”

  “How’d you make out on your end?”

  “Shot three of them.”

  “Dead?”

  “They look pretty dead. Can’t say for sure if there are any more. You?”

  “Four down, and at least one more wounded. I think I heard the rest making a run for it.”

  “Rojas, you got anything?”

  No reply. I waited a few seconds, then keyed the mike again. “Rojas, do you-”

  Gunfire interrupted me, sounding like it was coming from outside the building. I belly crawled into the hallway and peered through one of the shattered windows overlooking the courtyard out front. Two men lay face down in the snow, firing toward the southwest side of town. I followed their trajectory and saw muzzle flashes at the treeline. Rojas.

  I leaned out the window and sighted in on the men below. I knew I was taking a huge risk, but I could not just sit there and do nothing while Rojas fought for his life. The reticle settled where I wanted it to go, half a breath fogged the air i
n front of my face, and I squeezed the trigger. The man lying closest to me jerked and cried out in agony. The man beside him looked startled for a second, then stood up and began running away in a serpentine pattern. I moved to adjust my aim, but something whizzed past my ear close enough to feel a tug of wind on my skin, and a thudding whack hit the wall behind me.

  “Fuck!”

  I spun away from the window, went flat on my back, and kicked my feet until I slid back into the classroom. From outside, there was a burst of fire, a scream, and then silence.

  Static. “Rojas?” It was Tyrel.

  Nothing.

  More static. “Rojas, you still there?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m here.”

  I let out a breath. Ty said, “What’s the situation?”

  “Both bad guys are down. Caleb got one, I got the other while he was running for cover. You two all right up there?”

  “More or less.”

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  “Copy.”

  “Stick to the treeline,” I said. “That sniper is still out there somewhere. He just took a shot at me.”

  “Acknowledged. Out.”

  “Hey Caleb,” Tyrel said over the radio.

  “Yeah.”

  “Unless my math is wrong, that’s nine accounted for. Right?”

  Tyrel got four, I got four, Rojas got one. “Yep. Four plus four plus one equals nine.”

  “Good. That grenade blast knocked the shit out of me. My head’s all loopy.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  A moment of silence, then, “I’m thinking they split their forces evenly, six on each side. We know three on your side are dead, which leaves three more.”

  “I’ll wait until you get here.”

  A minute later, Tyrel crawled to the doorway, his rifle held in front of him. “Let’s go.”

  We stayed low until we cleared the last window on the way to the stairwell, then stood and edged our way toward the door. Tyrel went first, using a technique called ‘cutting the pie’, which basically meant aiming your weapon around a corner in such a way as to present a small target profile. I waited behind him, holding my breath, until he relaxed and lowered his weapon.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I found our other three hostiles.”

  “And?”

  “I think the dumb sons of bitches missed the door with that grenade they threw. Looks like it blew up on the landing. Ripped ‘em to pieces.”

  “They didn’t miss.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t miss. It came through the door just fine. I kicked it back at them.”

  Tyrel turned to look at me, eyes white around the edges. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared a moment longer, then tossed his head back and laughed. “You crazy-ass motherfucker.” His hand bounced off my shoulder.

  I said, “What happened with the one they threw at you?”

  “Didn’t toss it far enough, blew up a few feet shy of the doorway. Saw it coming and jumped back. Still hit me like a fucking hammer, though.”

  I peered down the stairway, caught sight of a ragged, bloody stump of leg, white bone protruding through flesh, and stepped back quickly. “Shit.”

  “You all right?”

  “Man, I’ve seen some things, but that …”

  “Don’t feel bad about it. They tried to do the same thing to you.”

  I was about to say something else, but Tyrel stiffened and turned his ear toward the window. “You hear that?” he asked.

  “I can’t hear shit right now.”

  Tyrel fished a telescoping mirror from his vest, edged over to the window, and held it out. I noticed it was pointed down, as though he were trying to look at the ground. I watched his eyebrows come together and his mouth tighten into a hard, flat line.

  “We got trouble.”

  “What trouble?”

  He looked disappointed. “What just happened here, Caleb?”

  “A firefight.”

  “And firefights are …” He held an open hand in my direction. I blanked for a few seconds, then had a flash of insight and slapped myself in the forehead.

  “Loud,” I said. “Firefights are loud.”

  “And who likes loud noises?”

  I dropped my magazine, stowed it, and popped in a full one. “Infected.”

  “Here’s what we’ll-”

  A crash and a scream echoed from downstairs, making us both jump. Tyrel keyed his radio. “Rojas, you all right?”

  No response.

  “Rojas, can you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Rojas?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  “We have to go down there,” I said.

  Tyrel pointed his rifle down the stairwell. “On me.”

  As I followed him down, I did my best not to look at the shredded limbs and gutted torsos littering the stairs, or slip in the disturbing amount of blood. The air in the narrow passage smelled of copper, raw meat, and shit. I had to bite down hard to keep from gagging. Finally, we emerged at the second floor exit.

  In the hallway ahead of us, Rojas sat with his back to the wall holding his mid-section. He turned his head when we opened the door.

  “Stay there!” he shouted.

  “What happened?” Tyrel replied, although I am certain he already knew the answer as well as I did.

  “Goddamn sniper.”

  “Can you crawl over to us?”

  “Probably.” He sighed and winced. “But I don’t see much use in it.”

  Tyrel blinked. “Are you insane? The infected are coming!”

  Rojas, his face twisted in pain, moved his hands. A torrent of blood spilled from his midsection. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t let them get me.” He patted his pistol.

  “Oh no …” I muttered, staring at the gunshot wound. My stomach felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. If my recall of Gray’s Anatomy was correct, the bullet had hit one of the large arteries running near the centerline of Rojas’ body.

  “Rojas, I want you to listen to me,” Tyrel said. “I can treat that wound. There’s still a chance you can survive. But that’s not going to happen if you stay there.”

  The man I had come to know and respect over the last seven months turned his head and smiled. “You a doctor now, Jennings?”

  “No, I’m a SEAL. I have medical training, you ass. Now get the fuck over here.”

  Rojas chuckled. “SEAL, schmeal. Y’all ain’t shit. Buncha spoiled, overrated glamour boys. You wanna be a real man, be a Ranger.”

  “We can argue about it upstairs. Come on, man, you can’t stay here. If you don’t start moving, I’m going to crawl over there and drag your sorry ass.”

  “Nah, man. Don’t bother. It’s over.”

  “Don’t talk like that. Nothing’s over.”

  Rojas leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “You wanna know something? I’m not scared. I always thought I would be, but here at the end of it, I think I’m just relieved.”

  Tyrel’s fists balled up. “Rojas, stop it. I don’t want to hear any of this all-hope-is-lost bullshit. I’m coming over there to get you.”

  “I was married. I ever tell you that?” He rolled his head to look at us, eyes glassy, tears running down dark cheeks. “Had me a pretty wife and two little girls. Still got a picture of us all together.” He patted his chest pocket. “Take it with me everywhere.”

  The tension went out of Tyrel. He sat down and leaned against the doorsill. “I didn’t know that, Miguel,” he said, using Rojas’ first name. “You never told me.”

  “Yep. Met her not long after I graduated AIT. Got married down in Rosarito, near where I grew up. You ever been down there, by any chance?”

  “Lots of times.” Tyrel said.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. You were in Coronado. That’s where they send all you SEAL pussies.”

  Tyrel smiled with red
-rimmed eyes. “Fuck you.”

  “Best thing ever happened to me, homes. I loved that woman, those girls. I was in Afghanistan when the Outbreak hit. Took three weeks to get us home. Shit was crazy, man. You think things were bad here in the States, you should have seen what it was like over there. Fucking pandemonium.”

  Tyrel nodded. “I’ve been there. I can imagine.”

  “When I got back, I deserted. Ain’t ashamed of it either. Soon as my feet hit American dirt, I stole a car and hauled ass to Baja. I knew that was where they would go, to my family’s place. Somebody got there first, though.”

  At this admission, the trickle of tears became a flood. Miguel Rojas sobbed, one bloody hand covering his face. “The house was burned down. They took everything. My wife, my girls, my parents, they were all just these black burned things.”

  I could not see any more at that point. I sat down beside Tyrel and leaned my forehead on his shoulder.

  “I buried them there on the beach, slept the night next to their graves. Left Baja the next morning and didn’t look back. Wound up in Colorado Springs. Hid in plain sight, didn’t tell anybody I was in the Army. Fell in with the militia. Been living day to day ever since, trying not to think too much about the past.” He looked around and let out a bitter snarl. “And here it ends. Fuck it. I guess this place is as good as anywhere. I’m ready to be done, amigos. I’m ready to see Veronica and the girls again. Been too long. Way too long.”

  He reached a hand down at his side and began fumbling at his pistol holster. “It’s strange, losing everything. You think your life is over, but it’s not. You just have to find something else to hold onto. Something else to live for. Me, I’ve been living for the militia. For money, for booze, for women, for whatever distracts me. But now I know I wasn’t really living. I was just waiting. Passing the time the best way I knew how. My wife would be ashamed of me.”

  Seeing he didn’t have much left in the tank, I moved past Tyrel and crawled to Rojas’ side.

  “Caleb!” Tyrel hissed.

  I ignored him and put my back against the wall next to Rojas. “Shit, man,” he said. “Help me out here?”

  The moans of the infected became loud enough I could hear them past the ringing in my ears. I could even hear the crunch of their footsteps in the snow outside. I reached down and drew Rojas’ pistol. He looked at me and said, “You mind?”