Darker Days (As the Ash Fell Book 2)

by AJ Powers

  As her surroundings slowly came into focus, she made eye contact with Doctor Sowell. He spoke a few more words to a patient lying in one of the dozens of beds in the room before turning around to head her way.

  “Good morning, Dusty,” Doctor Sowell said, his deep, raspy voice surprisingly soothing to the teenaged girl. “You gave us all a bit of a scare there.” He reached for her chart, giving it a quick once over before continuing. “But I think it’s safe to say you’re out of the woods now.” His words were washed in relief.

  “How did I,” Dusty said, her voice cutting out several times. She cleared her throat, but it had no impact on her hoarse voice. “What happened?”

  “Well, as for the details, I cannot say. But, from what I understand, you suffered from a nasty fall or two during the last attack. That, however, was the least of your problems when they brought you in two days ago. You were quite dehydrated.” Doctor Sowell sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on top of hers, taking care not to disturb the IV taped to the top of her hand. “Even in the cold, you’ve still got to make sure you’re taking in fluids, even if you don’t feel thirsty.”

  Dusty’s mouth twitched as the fragmented events from the other day started to piece back together. “I was out on a mission—outside the gates—and I guess I-I just forgot to drink.”

  Doctor Sowell nodded. “I understand. Chalk it up to experience. You were lucky this time, but I wouldn’t test luck’s patience in the future.”

  Dusty nodded before being surprised with a sneeze, causing her to cringe afterwards. Her tolerance for pain was higher than most adults, but as with everything, there was a limit to what she could handle. She began to whimper, barely able to hold off the tears. “Why the hell does my chest hurt so much?”

  “It’s likely that you cracked a few ribs during one of your falls, or at the very least, bruised them. Without an X-Ray, I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but your lungs sound clear, so the only thing to do now is give it time and rest.”

  As the intense sensation in her chest diminished, an image of a dark bloodstain spreading across a white ski mask flashed across her mind. The vivid sight, after hearing just how dehydrated she had been, caused her to worry that her mind had played tricks on her. That not only had she not taken out the sniper, but that she had never even seen him in the first place. “Can I ask you something?” Dusty asked timidly, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  “Of course,” Doctor Sowell said.

  “Can dehydration cause…hallucinations?”

  Doctor Sowell slowly nodded his head. “Yes, they can, in severe cases.”

  “Was I severe?” she asked.

  “Uhhh,” Doctor Sowell contemplated. “I would say you were close, but not quite bad enough for that. However,” he continued, dashing Dusty’s brief hopes that she was in the clear. “When other factors are at play, such as hypothermia, mild starvation...stress…those things can exacerbate most ailments and cause a few of the symptoms by themselves.” Doctor Sowell detected Dusty’s angst. “Is everything okay, darling?” he asked, revealing a caring, fatherly side to him.

  “Hope so,” Dusty said before closing her eyes and pressing back into the pillow.

  “Well, you let us know if you need anything, okay?” Sowell said, picking up on her hint to be left alone.

  Dusty kept her eyes shut and gave a nod. As much as she hated to be down and out, fighting in this condition was not something she could do—not well, anyway.

  Dusty’s mind started to slip into that NetherRealm between oblivion and reality as she began to drift to sleep. When she heard Shelton and Kohler approaching, she thought about keeping her eyes shut—faking sleep—but knowing what happened over the last forty-eight hours was more important. And from the sounds of it, she would have plenty of time to sleep later.

  “Dusty, it’s good to see you. How are you feeling?” Shelton asked as he pulled a folding metal chair up to the bed and sat down.

  “Like I was kicked by a mule,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Kohler, who remained standing, responded, “It could have been a helluva lot worse, kid. All things considered, I’d put a kick by a mule in the win column.”

  “So, what did the doctor say?” Shelton asked.

  “He said I’m going to be fine. Just need a couple of days to rest.”

  “Good,” Shelton replied. “Well, I imagine you are pretty tired, so we won’t take up too much of your time, we just wanted to see how you were doing, and to congratulate you.”

  Dusty tilted her head. “On?”

  “The sniper,” Kohler spoke up. “Kid, I don’t know how close you were to him, but you couldn’t have placed that bullet any better.”

  Dusty’s relief came out in the form of laughter, disregarding the ache in her ribs. She smiled as it sank in that she had not hallucinated after all. “How did you find out?” she asked.

  “We sent a team out the night of the attack. It took a while, but they were able to retrieve the body and the rifle,” Kohler said. “It was truly a one-in-a-million shot.” A rare smile flashed across Kohler’s face. “Well done, soldier,” he added, giving a salute.

  Dusty couldn’t help but smile. She might have singlehandedly changed the course of this so-called war. “Thank you, sir,” she replied, mustering up the most proper salute she was capable of.

  The smiles faded and Shelton’s face went grim. “Uhm, there is one other thing that I need to tell you.”

  Dusty’s first thoughts were of Clay and Megan. Did something happen to them? They weren’t expected back for another week at the minimum, so she quickly dismissed that idea. What else could it be except for…

  No.

  “Morgan Rowley was killed in action,” Kohler stepped in, detecting Shelton’s reluctance to utter the words.

  The world went blurry again as Dusty’s eyes filled with liquid sorrow. Her chin began to quiver as the guilt burrowed deep into her soul.

  “As I understand it, you two had become pretty close, so I didn’t want you to hear the news of her passing through the grapevine.” Shelton took his glasses off and dabbed at the moisture in his own eyes. Every death weighed heavily on Shelton’s heart, but Morgan’s death was even harder because she was the youngest combatant—just a few months younger than Dusty—fighting for Liberty’s existence.

  “Uhm…” Dusty shook her head as if hoping she had misheard Kohler’s words. “Are you sure?” she asked after realizing she hadn’t. Her eyes filled with tears as Kohler informed her that her nightmares of Morgan’s death were in fact memories.

  Shelton’s eyes closed as he lowered his head. “There will be a memorial service for her later today. If you are up for it—and Doctor Sowell agrees—I think it would mean a lot if you were there.”

  Dusty’s blank stare held firm as the tears started to stream down her face. She didn’t say a word.

  “I’m sorry,” Shelton added as he slowly stood from the chair. “Get some sleep, Dusty. You’ve been through a lot.”

  Not as much as Morgan, she thought to herself.

  Her wide eyes refused to blink as she struggled to cope with the news of Morgan’s death. A death she, herself, was responsible for. The blame Dusty felt quickly became smothering, making the cracked ribs feel like a playful snuggle from a puppy.

  The tears of sorrow were slowly replaced with rage. She wanted Arlo and every last one of his men to pay for Morgan’s death with their lives, even if it meant Dusty would pay with her own.

  The anger continued to build up as she blamed herself for not being stronger—for not doing things differently. If she had, then maybe Morgan would still be alive today, sitting by her bed while they chatted about the stupid things teenaged girls talked about—and loving every minute of it.

  She recalled the long talks they had in the clock tower each night, not to mention the ridiculous all-nighter they pulled so that Dusty could teach her how to fieldstrip and clean her gun. Morgan was unwilling to call it
a night until she could do the whole thing with a blindfold. She wanted Dusty to teach her everything she knew and vice versa.

  Dusty appreciated Clay and Megan taking her in, and she looked at them as friends—good friends—but she felt a connection to Morgan that she had not experienced with anyone back at Northfield or anywhere else for that matter. Dusty felt like she had a sister—someone she could actually lower her guard for and be who she wished she could have been. The two of them had even decided that either Morgan would come live at Northfield after the war or Dusty would stay in Liberty. They talked about being “professional” scavengers, eventually opening their own little shop. They had big plans together.

  Plans, now, that would never be.

  Dusty took short, rapid breaths. Her grief and rage finally reached its crescendo. She let out a furious scream, startling the quiet morning inside the infirmary. The shriek caused a host of concerned faces to look her way, including Doctor Sowell. Suddenly, her bed was surrounded by a myriad of voices asking her questions, but they all melded together as one, incoherent babbling. Her throat scorched from the cathartic release, making the mere thought of talking painful.

  “Dusty!” Doctor Sowell’s voice broke through, echoing above the rest. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  With at least a dozen worried eyes on her, Dusty finally spoke. “Can I get a glass of water?”

  Chapter 37

  “Are they gone?” Megan asked in a hushed voice, sitting on the hood of a Buick LeSabre.

  Clay leaned up against the wall, peering out of the filthy garage door windows. A group of bandits had wandered by just moments earlier, forcing Clay and Megan to seek cover inside a nearby mechanic’s shop. “Almost,” Clay replied.

  The four men and one woman paid little attention to the various shops, diners, and motels surrounding them as they strolled down the road. Their casual demeanor, along with the absence of useable goods inside the buildings Clay and Megan had already searched, pointed to a scary realization: they were in claimed territory.

  While only two of them were carrying rifles, all five had a pistol on their side. With fatigue impacting his every movement, Clay was certain any gunfight to erupt between him and the group would be quite short and not in his favor. So, even though the group was little more than specks on the horizon now, Clay erred on the side of caution and gave them an extra few minutes to disappear. There was no need to rush out and get spotted just so they could get back out on the road. It was still early enough in the day that time was not a big concern.

  Traveling along the road as much as they were was dangerous, but due to the nature of their mission, there wasn’t much to be done about it. They weren’t going to find guns, ammo, and medical supplies in the middle of a hay field. If they wanted a shot at finding meaningful supplies, they had to go where the people used to be. And wherever people were, roads were built. Clay still made it a priority to travel off the beaten path whenever possible, but in an area that rural folks considered rural, there just aren’t many places to keep out of sight.

  Clay walked over and sat down on a short stack of tires next to the LeSabre to finish out their wait. He pulled a pack of crackers out of his bag and took a few out, handing them to Megan.

  “Thanks,” Megan said as she took a small bite out of the stale, white square. “So, I’ve gotta say, if ten years ago someone told me I would be hiding from a group of bandits in a dingy old garage with my brother while we searched for supplies to help us win a war…”

  Clay grunted out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re not alone. I never thought things would have gotten this bad—even after the eruptions. I mean I remember watching all the reports on the news and I knew it was going to be bad, but I just kept believing that we’d find a way to bounce back. That somehow stuff would eventually go back to normal, Dad would fly home, and it’d be business as usual by the end of the month.” Clay gestured around himself. “But here we are,” he said through a sigh.

  “Do you ever wonder if Dad is still out there somewhere? Still fighting to get home to us?” Megan asked.

  “Wow,” Clay said, a little caught off guard with the question. “I haven’t really thought about that in a while. I used to think he was; I even thought about going back home after we moved into the tower to leave him a note.” Clay paused to mull over his next response. “But…I think Dad died ten years ago; I don’t think he ever made it out of California.”

  Megan stared down at the half-eaten cracker in her hand. “Yeah,” she said with a sniffle, “me too.”

  “One thing’s for certain, though; I know he fought like hell to try and get back to us.”

  Megan smiled at the thought.

  “But,” he added, a hint of optimism in his voice, “there’s no way to know for sure. And if a couple of kids like us could survive all this time, it’s not a stretch to think that someone with his training and experience could, too.”

  “Yeah,” Megan’s smile grew wider.

  Clay hopped off the tires and walked back to the door to confirm the group was no longer in sight. He turned around and asked, “Do you want to look around here some? Or just move on?”

  “There wasn’t anything at the motel or the diner, so I’m thinking we’d probably just be wasting our time here.”

  Clay nodded. “All right, then, let’s get going.”

  Back on the road, Clay and Megan continued to head north. And though they had not gone as far north as they had originally planned, they had both decided it would be their last day traveling that direction. They would find a place to stop for the night, and then they would head south in the morning, taking a slightly different route back to the FEMA camp. From there, they’d return to Liberty with as few stops as necessary.

  Clay felt some relief knowing that, after tonight, they would stop moving further away from their friends and family back in Liberty, and would be coming “home” to return to the fight—if home was still there.

  Clay and Megan walked up the road for several hours and didn’t so much as see a farmhouse. It was getting to be about the time of day when Clay would start thinking about a place to camp for the night, which worried him. He stopped walking and did a quick survey of the area. The featureless road they were on vanished into the horizon. To his right were rolling fields—no sign of civilization. To his left were more fields with an expanse of trees off in the distance.

  “What are you thinking?” Megan asked.

  Clay was less than thrilled to share his plan with Megan, mostly because he knew exactly how she would react. “I think we need to head for the tree line over there.”

  Megan shot him a look. “Uh, yeah…that’s not gonna happen.”

  “I’m serious, Megan.”

  “Clay, there is no way I am walking through another forest.”

  Clay was empathetic to his sister’s fears—walking into another ocean of trees sounded about as desirable as drinking kerosene and pissing on a brushfire. But as he took another look around, the choice was obvious. “Listen, if there was a better option, believe me, we’d be doing that. But there is absolutely nothing around us. It’s going to probably take the better part of an hour to reach those trees out there. And with a little luck, it’s just a small patch and we’ll find something better on the other side.”

  “And if we don’t?” Megan asked, glaring him down.

  “Then we’re better off building a shelter in the woods than staying out in the open. The trees will help with the wind, and I can build a quick lean-to with some branches and one of the space blankets to shield us from the rest. We’ll really have to burrow into our sleeping bags, but we’ll survive,” Clay said. I hope, he added to himself.

  “And what about the ravenous mob of lunatics that seem to be attracted to creepy forests in the night?”

  “We haven’t heard them in at least three days—I don’t think they are this far north. We still have to worry about bandits, obviously, but I’m not terribly concerned about that at night,” Cla
y said, trying to sound confident in his plan. “It’ll be okay, Megs. I promise.”

  Megan exuded apprehension, but she had trusted her brother thus far and he had kept his promise to keep her safe—for the most part—so she finally relented.

  Clay trudged through the snowy field, angling his body toward the trees up ahead. With each step, he felt less confident in the decision. There was no telling what would be on the other side of those trees, if they could even reach the other side by nightfall. He considered climbing atop one of the hills off the right of the road to get a better view of the area, but they were nearly as far away, if not further, from the trees. And if he summited the hill only to see more fields on the other side, there would be little chance they could get back to the woods and set up any semblance of a shelter before visibility disappeared.

  There was no easy call to make, so Clay took a gamble on the trees. Playing the odds had kept him alive this long…

  Clay’s confidence was deflated as they approached the trees and were unable to see through to the other side. Dusk was a little over an hour away, so Clay decided they would keep walking. If they didn’t reach the other side in thirty to forty minutes, he would scramble to set up a crude shelter for the night. Fortunately, dead trees littered the forest and would provide an excellent foundation for his lean-to. The small axe Clay had hanging from his pack and a small spool of paracaord would take care of the rest.