The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light)

by Jason Kristopher

  “Commander.”

  “Have a seat, commander,” said Armstrong, hitting a button on his desk phone as Barker sat down. “Are you there, Mr. Gardner?” There was a pause, and then a voice came from the speaker.

  “I’m here, captain. Thank you for facilitating this meeting. Or should I say captains? I assume your compatriot is also in attendance?”

  “I am, Mr. Gardner,” said Batzler. “Let’s get on with it. I have a ship to run.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the voice. “One more item to check off, though: Major Maxwell, are you there?”

  “I’m here, Gardner. Like the captain said, get on with it.”

  “Very well. Commander Barker, you are in a very unique position, in that you now hold knowledge that could be highly detrimental to the well-being of the United States. In short, you could, if not properly handled, pose a serious threat to National Security.”

  “I see,” said Barker, not sure exactly what was going on. Who the hell is this guy? “And you are… whom, exactly?”

  “Oh, my apologies. I thought that had been explained. My name is Henry Gardner.”

  “Let me guess, you’re a civilian contractor.”

  “In a manner of speaking. Now, as to—”

  “Because, like nearly every other defense contractor I’ve ever met, your answers to straightforward questions are either evasive, lies, or provide so little information as to be pointless.” Barker could’ve sworn he heard a snort from Maxwell, but ignored it. “Let’s try this again: who are you?”

  There was a pause, and when Gardner came back on the line, his tone was considerably colder. “For now, commander, all you need to know is that your ultimate fate is in my hands. Do not test the limits of my patience again.”

  Captain Armstrong was giving him the fisheye, so Barker sat back in the chair and said nothing.

  “Very well,” continued Gardner. “As I was saying, you’re in something of a unique position. Outside of the men in that room with you, only a handful of other people — less than a hundred, out of the entire population of the United States — knows what you know.”

  “And what is it that I know, Mr. Gardner?” Barker asked, although he was sure he could guess.

  “That zombies are real.”

  “So, I was right. That’s what they were.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Indeed. There’s a bit more to it than that. You see, we can’t just have people with this knowledge running about all willy-nilly. It’s… untidy. So you have a choice: either be remanded to our custody, and spend the rest of your career — if not your life — working for us, or continue doing what you’re doing now, but never saying anything about what you’ve seen.”

  “That hardly seems like a choice.”

  “Very astute observation, commander. There are a one or two caveats you should be aware of, should you choose the latter option, however. One: if you ever tell anyone the truth of what you’ve seen, you will disappear.”

  The finality of the statement left no illusions in Barker’s mind as to what Gardner meant. I won’t disappear, I’ll be disappeared into some deep, dark hole… yeah, no. He thought of his beautiful wife and their four children, the newest barely a month old. “And the second caveat?” he asked.

  “Should we need your expertise for an assignment, you will be called upon, wherever you are, whatever your current station is, you will be requisitioned.”

  And doesn’t that just sound lovely, thought Barker. He says it like I’m a piece of spare equipment, sitting in a drawer. And perhaps to him, that’s all I am.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Not at this time. Are we agreed?”

  Barker didn’t even have to think about it, the mental image of his family still strong in his imagination. “Yes, we’re agreed.”

  “Excellent! Major Maxwell will provide you with some additional briefing material on our organization, which you will destroy immediately upon committing it to memory. Protocols, contact procedures, that sort of thing. You are not cleared to discuss this matter with anyone not affiliated with AEGIS. Is that clear?”

  “Clear. What’s AEGIS?”

  “The major will fill you in, as I said. Major?”

  “Here,” said Maxwell.

  “I understand Mr. Kovac did not survive the mission.”

  “No, he did not. He was Code White on scene, and terminated upon return to the ship.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Gardner said, and Barker didn’t think he’d ever heard a more complete lie in his life. If Gardner cares about anything, it’s not about the guys he’s apparently putting in harms’ way. “Please return the body as per standard protocols.”

  “Acknowledged. Will there be anything else?”

  “Not at this time. Good day, captains, commander, major.” There was a click and the line went dead.

  “I hate that guy,” said Barker and Maxwell almost in the same breath. Barker continued first. “Sir,” he said, turning to Captain Armstrong. “I get why I’m here, and why the major is, but why are you two here?” he asked, indicating Batzler.

  “We’re here,” said Batzler. “Because we were briefed before deploying. Libya is something of a ‘walker hotspot,’ from what Gardner said. Not that I believe anything that man says.”

  “It’s true, captain,” said Maxwell. “We’ve been getting some pretty scary intel out of this region for awhile. Nothing like what we saw last night, though.”

  “And your man, Kovac?” asked Armstrong. “He’s dead? From a bite?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you said—”

  “He’s dead, sir, certainly. But it wasn’t the bite that killed him.”

  “Then—”

  “I killed him, sir.” Before Armstrong could interrupt again, Maxwell came over to the desk and leaned on it with both hands, the bunched and knotted muscles visible under the skin beneath his rolled-up uniform sleeves. “Let me stop you there, sir, and commander, you’ll need to know this, so listen up, sir. There is no cure. There is no treatment. If you get bitten, you die. It’s that simple.

  “What I did for Jonas Kovac was what I would do for anyone here, and what I would want done for me. It’s a toxin, experimental, insanely expensive to produce, and in very short supply. It allows the victim to continue functioning at a high level of efficiency, but only for a short time. After that, they drift off to sleep, and never wake up. It hasn’t been approved for field use yet, hence the test.”

  He stood up and walked to the hatch. “But it’s a damn sight better than turning into one of them. Commander, I’ll have the briefing packet delivered to your quarters by one of my men. See that you don’t lose it. And welcome home.” He turned, securing the hatch behind him.

  “Any questions, commander?” asked Armstrong.

  “Just one, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d like some leave, sir. My baby girl was born just under a month ago. What with this… well, I need to remember what I’m fighting for, sir.”

  “Under the circumstances, I think we can make that happen, commander. What’s her name?”

  “Catherine, sir. Her name’s Catherine.”

  Maxwell Recreational Hall

  Austin Green Zone

  Z-Day + 22 Years

  The young boy squirmed on his lap, and John tickled him again. The older boys weren’t so easily distracted, though.

  “What happened then?” one of them asked.

  “What happened? Well, I went home, met my daughter, and lived my life.”

  “Did you ever see walkers again?”

  “Not until I joined your parents in Bunker Eight, Jeremy.”

  “Was Gardner as bad as they say?” asked the boy.

  “Oh, that he was, and worse. Did I ever tell you—”

  The door to the rec hall slammed open, and General Frank Anderson entered, with the normal entourage he didn’t seem able to shake these days. Commander
John Barker — retired — chuckled, and shook his head. Glad that’s not me, he thought. It took a second for him to realize that the general was headed straight for him, and he put the boy down, standing as the head of Bunker Eight’s military forces walked up.

  Even though he kept in good shape for his age, being that he was on the wrong side of 70, it took longer to stand than he’d have liked.

  “Commander John Barker?” asked Anderson as he approached, holding out a hand. “General Frank Anderson.”

  Barker shook his hand, his aging body still obeying some of his commands. “I know who you are, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “Would you care to sit down, Mr. Barker?” the general asked, motioning to the chair Barker had just vacated.

  “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather stay standing — it’s not as easy getting up and down as it used to be.”

  Anderson nodded. “Believe me, I understand,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Got a touch of sciatica, myself.”

  “Try ejecting from a plane, it worked for me!” They both laughed, but quickly sobered.

  “I’ll get to the point, then,” said Anderson. “I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s going on with Bunker Four, and what we’re doing about it. I tried to keep a lid on it, but around here…”

  Barker waved him off. “No point to that, sir. I know most of it. How can I help?”

  “I need you in the right seat of one of our C-5’s, commander.”

  “Perhaps my sterling physique and youthful manner fooled you, general, but I’m an old man now. A retired old man, playing with his grandson,” Barker said, looking down at the boy he’d been bouncing on his knee. “And I never flew anything bigger than a Skyhawk.”

  “I know that, Mr. Barker. And I’d love to let you stay here, doing just that, for as long as you can. But I also know that our co-pilot for this mission came down with some sort of stomach bug because he was being a damn idiot, and now he can’t spend more than twenty minutes outside the head.” Anderson grew even more serious. “These things aren’t in great shape, John. We need your help. If we don’t make it there, lots of people will die. People just like your grandson. I wouldn’t ask if I had another option.”

  Barker looked down at the newest member of his family, thinking back all those years ago to the young SEAL who’d saved a crying child, knowing what it would cost him. A child who wasn’t even his own. He thought about all the years between then and now, and how that sacrifice had saved not just the child’s life, but likely his own, as well.

  For everything we’re given in this life, there’s a price, he thought. It’s time I paid this one. He looked up at the general.

  “When do we leave?”

  Whatever Happened to Thomas J. Reynolds?

  Spanaway, Washington

  1 week after Z-Day

  “What’s our situation, lieutenant?”

  “FUBAR, captain.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve got four men able to travel at full speed, two significantly injured but able to move and 8 KIA. We’re low on ammo and supplies, and we’re all but surrounded. If I had to guess, sir, I’d say they’ve likely got this street here — Pacific Ave South, sir — blocked all the way past the airport.”

  “Give me the phone, I’m gonna try the bunker again.”

  “Can’t, sir. Battery’s dead.”

  “Shit. Haven’t found another one, have you?”

  “You’ll be the first to know, sir.”

  “Crap.”

  Captain Thomas Reynolds stood, carefully keeping out of line of sight of the window he was peering through. Wouldn’t do to get killed now, he thought.

  The street outside was getting darker, but the glow from the zealots’ trash fires still lit the sky with a nasty, disturbing glow. The flickering light played over the features of the men lying behind him, and Reynolds took a moment to survey the damage the religious nuts had caused.

  Assholes, he thought. The whole fucking world is ending, and these jackasses decide to make it worse.

  Reynolds noticed Masters moving amongst the men, offering an encouraging word here, a comforting hand there. That boy’s got the making of a good officer. Too bad he’ll probably never get the chance.

  Masters saw the captain looking, and nodded towards the rear of the nearly destroyed shop. Reynolds followed Masters into the stockroom. The back door in there was shut and locked, with a marine he didn’t know posted as guard.

  The lieutenant pitched his voice low, intended for Reynolds only. “They need a few more hours’ rest, sir, but I think we can move out around 0400.”

  “Well, almost two weeks on the run, in and out of sewers and back alleys, will do that to you. Hmmm, that’ll give us a good two hours of darkness.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Masters, giving Reynolds the look all lieutenants had when patiently waiting for explanations from higher-ups.

  “Go ahead,” Tom said, easing down against a wall.

  “Sir, what’s the play here?”

  “The play, lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Do we keep running, find somewhere to hole up, or go out in a blaze of glory?”

  Tom glanced over at the young man, but in the flickering light from the fires, he couldn’t tell if the kid was playing him for a sap or just being honest and gung-ho. “Let’s 86 that ‘blaze of glory’ crap right now, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tom chuckled softly, not wanting to wake the men. “I’m not one for running from a fight, but there’s no sense in us dying needlessly, either. Any idea how far we are from the bunker?”

  “Not exactly, sir. I wasn’t cleared on the specific location or approaches, sir.”

  “Ah. Well, I thought I knew the area well enough, but it’s been so long… what I really need is a good ma…” He broke off as Masters handed him a battered Washington/Tacoma map, and Tom shook his head.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a creepy freakin’ dude, lieutenant?”

  Masters grinned. “Every once in a while, sir.”

  Tom snorted. “Thanks. Hit your rack.”

  “All due respect, sir, I should—”

  “That’s an order, lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir. Racking out, sir.”

  “We should hit them now! While they’re sleeping!” Jackson was pacing back and forth next to Arthur in what they laughingly referred to as their ‘conference room.’ “There’s only five or six of them. Gimme the boys, Art! We can do it!”

  The older man sitting at the head of the table didn’t even glance up at the young buck strutting in front of the room. Wild, full of piss and vinegar, Jackson Kraeger was just as liable to get himself killed as he was to do any killing, and Arthur Beoshane knew it.

  The trouble for young Jackson was, Arthur had him by a good hundred pounds and at least six inches of height. And sometimes — like tonight — Jackson needed reminding of that.

  “I tell ya, Art, we go in hard, hit ‘em fast…”

  Arthur stood and backhanded him in one smooth motion. The young boy flew backwards into the corrugated metal wall of the conference room, denting it outward. “You will do as I command, and nothing else, boy,” Arthur said without raising his voice. He solemnly picked a bloody tooth off the table and flung it to one side. “Now, where did you say these heretics are holed up?”

  Jackson sat up, spitting a stream of blood and teeth to one side, then stood, holding his jaw. The words were muffled and garbled when he spoke, but he was still understandable, with a bit of effort.

  “Florence Shoes, sir.”

  “Ah. That’s over near Pacific, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Pacific and 174th, sir. Bit east.”

  “Well, they certainly haven’t made it very far, then, have they, Mr. Kraeger?”

  Jackson shook his head, still clutching his mouth.

  “Then there’s no point in rushing into this. They’ve got wounded, and they’re likely runn
ing low on supplies. They won’t be moving very fast.” Arthur turned to the map nailed to the wall of the room, one hand on his chin as he studied the layout.

  He turned when Jackson coughed and spat some more blood. “You may go, Mr. Kraeger,” he said, and then looked at the map once more.

  After he heard the door close behind Jackson, he said, “Mr. Driebach.”

  A shadowy, hooded figure detached itself from one side of the room, moving closer until it was just outside striking range for the larger man. The figure lowered his hood, and Arthur saw out of his peripheral vision the horror that was Driebach’s face. He managed not to flinch.

  Barely.

  “We’ll need your services soon. I presume the previously agreed fee will suffice?”

  Driebach nodded.

  Arthur fought to hold down his dinner. I’d be willing to bet that he enjoys creeping everyone out, he thought. “Very well,” he said. “You may go.”

  “Coffee, sir?”

  Reynolds woke to a steaming cup of heaven under his nose, his eyes snapping open at the intense aroma. He sat up to take the cup and took a luxurious sip, even though he wanted to gulp down the whole thing.

  How in the hell did he find coffee? he wondered. Ah, well. Best not to ask or the magic might stop working. He stared at Masters, who was squatting down beside him. I don’t even remember falling asleep.

  “It’ll be dawn in a couple hours, sir. Thought we should be moving on.”

  Reynolds grunted. “Indeed, lieutenant.”

  “I had a thought, sir…”

  “Oh?”

  “What if we take shelter in the high school, sir? We could send out some scouting parties for weapons and ammo.”

  Reynolds shook his head. “Bad idea. Chances are, they’ve taken it as their main base. From the map you gave me, it looks like that’s the only big building in the area. No, we’re not going anywhere near Fort Crazy-Ass today, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘yessir’ me, boy.”

  “No, sir.”

  Reynolds eyed the young lieutenant, searching for signs of the miscreant nature he knew to be there, but went unrewarded and settled for another grunt. “Right. Let’s up and at ‘em.”