Through the Fury to the Dawn (Action of Purpose Book 1)

by Stu Jones

  The small dog raised his head, and in the darkness Kane felt the small pink tongue licking the side of his neck.

  “I love you too, Barney. I love you, too.”

  The puppy gave a series of small whimpers and grew still. Kane drew Barney close, trying to feel the animal’s heartbeat, and whispered, panicking, in the dark, “Barney? Wake up. You can’t go yet. Come on, Barney. I need you to stay with me.” He paused, listening for any noise from the small dog.

  Kane burst into a wail.

  “Barney? Don’t go! You’re all I’ve got! You’re the only family I have. Please!” Hot tears of grief ran down Kane’s face as he continued to clutch the lifeless animal.

  “Barney!” His sobbing cries echoed and disappeared into the dark. He doubled over and continued crying bitterly, gasping for air, grieving for his only friend.

  After a few minutes, Kane laid Barney back on his blanket and wiped his face with his sleeve, his pain morphing into a violent rage. He stood, raising his arms in the air, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “You hateful bastard! This what you want? To take everything from me? Well, God, you win! You’ve broken me, and I hate you for it! Why don’t you just kill me?” He yelled, blind with fury. “Kill me, damn you! If you hate me so much that you would do this, then just kill me now and send me to hell. Do something real for once, and kill me like you killed everyone I ever loved!” Kane screamed. “Look, I’ll even help you do it!” he yelled as he began stomping toward the front of the bunker, his chest throbbing.

  Kane reached the first wall of plastic and tore it down, flinging it to the side. He stomped up the stairs, his heart gaining momentum in his chest. He clawed at the second barrier and stripped it from the door, tears streaming from his eyes. Unbarring the heavy door, he pushed his way through and out into the open, squinting his eyes shut against the light as he screamed.

  “Do it! Do it!” Kane gulped the poisoned air into his lungs and slapped at his chest. “Show yourself to be the all-powerful God everyone thinks you are and do something! Answer me, you fraud!”

  Something moved inside Kane’s chest. It crinkled and then moved from left to right with an audible popping sound. He grunted as the air in his lungs was knocked from him. Kane clawed madly at the air, his legs pinwheeling as he elevated slightly from the earth and hung suspended before slamming down onto his knees. Any fight left within him immediately surrendered, evaporating like the morning mist under the gaze of a heavy sun.

  In the stillness that followed, a stiff breeze blew up and ruffled Kane’s shirt and hair as he gasped to refill his lungs. The pain in his chest was completely gone. With his hand pressed to his chest, he rocked back onto the blackened turf outside the bunker and sat for what seemed like forever as tears formed streams down his grizzled face. He began rubbing his palm in a circular motion over his heart, trying to analyze what had just happened. He had been affected by some invisible force—his heart had actually moved in him. He tried to choke back the sheer brokenness of the moment, to master himself, but his own burden crushed him even as he felt it lifted away. Minute flowed into minute as the tears poured from his eyes until at long last he could cry no more.

  Something had changed inside him.

  For the first time, he opened his eyes in the morning light, feeling as though he had never used them before. The scene that greeted him was one of desolation. Not one single aspect of the landscape seemed familiar to him. Mouth agape, he stared at where his home had been, the trees in the yard now burnt, barren stalks, the dark gray sky churning above him. He breathed deep and the air continued to sustain him. It smelled of smoke, destruction, and second chances and was the purest scent he had ever experienced. Kane slowly made it to his feet, wiped his face, and ran his hands through his hair, exhaling.

  “Okay, God,” he said in a whisper. “I’m listening.”

  The wind kicked up and was biting through his clothes. It was too cool for early summer. Kane guessed it was about fifty-five degrees. He squinted at the rolling black cloud cover that turned the day into a perpetual twilight. It was hard to tell what time of day it was, but he was unwilling to stay in the bunker another night. Now that he had emerged, he had no desire to return to its musty depths.

  Resolving to go back in only to get Barney and any gear he would need for his journey, Kane stepped back into the bunker. He gathered the army duffel and began stuffing a few items into it: his and Barney’s blankets, some extra clothing, the six-inch fixed-blade knife, magnesium fire starter, compass, crank radio, leftover batteries, an old water skin, and the remains of the first aid kit. He shrugged into a fleece jacket.

  Exhaling a loaded sigh, he began making his way out, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. He looked over his right shoulder at his grandfather’s M1 Garand. The world he knew was gone. He would need some protection and a tool to hunt with if he could find game. Kane went to the rifle and picked it up, working the action a few times. It looked functional, but he could not be sure. The rifle needed cleaning.

  He’d have to test it first. He grabbed up the thirty rounds of old military ammo in their old paper boxes and carried it all to the surface. Setting the pack and rifle down at the entrance to the bunker, he stopped and sighed again. He hated that bunker. Every time he reentered, he had the distinct feeling that the doors would slam behind him trapping him again—this time, forever. He took a deep breath, let it out, and entered for the last time. Moving at a brisk pace to the rear of the bunker, he emptied the water bucket onto the floor, refilling it with rapid pumps of the handle. He then bent and scooped up Barney, the furry body limp in the crook of his arm. Kane stepped back up the stairs to the surface, setting Barney gently on the ground. He stood and surveyed the wreckage where his house used to be. Starting toward it, he began scanning the debris for something he could use to dig with. After a few minutes of searching, Kane retrieved a broken, jagged half of a ceramic kitchen bowl. Satisfied, he returned to an area near the bunker, where he dropped to his knees and began digging through the scorched grass to the soil below.

  Ten minutes of hard work rendered a depression in the clay approximately two feet deep. Kane reached over, picked up his friend, and lowered him into the hole. Using the broken bowl, he scraped the excavated dirt onto Barney until he was completely covered. Using the flat underside of the bowl, he smacked the dirt down into place and shifted back on his heels to sit for a quiet moment.

  “Thanks for lending Barney to me. He was a really smart, good-natured little guy. He was my friend, and I’m grateful for the time we had together. I guess you have your reasons for taking him from me.” Kane paused and wiped his face, a sad smile forming. “He loves bacon and when you rub his belly, but you’ll never get rid of him if you do that.” Kane smiled again weakly and sat for a while longer in silence in front of the small grave.

  “So, Amen, I guess.”

  After gathering his equipment together and filling the water skin, he shut the blast doors to the bunker. He threaded the sheathed knife onto his belt and slung the pack over his shoulder with a grunt. The full water skin added a good bit of weight. Kane picked up the rifle and dropped eight rounds into it, loading it to full capacity. He shouldered it and aimed at the splintered trunk of a fallen tree about thirty yards away. The rifle felt solid and had a good weight to it. The nature of the thing spoke to him; the familiarity of shooting was like breathing as he gave a slow steady trigger pull. The rifle cracked, echoing across the barren valley, and a chunk of burnt bark exploded from the base of the tree. It was right on target.

  “They sure don’t make them like they used to,” he said.

  Kane slung the old rifle over his shoulder and set off in the dim light, down in the direction where he knew the main road should be. He had to find survivors.

  The hollowed-out general store would have to do for the night. Even with the dimness of the day, Kane could tell it was getting darker, and the temperature was dropping fast.

  He steppe
d into the burned-out Western Auto store, which only had three walls and no roof, and glanced around. It would at least provide some protection from the wind. Kane loosened the rifle and leaned it against the wall, followed by his pack, which went next to it. He stepped back outside to rummage around the immediate area for stuff to burn and returned with an armload of chunks of charred wood and bits of paper and cardboard. Making a small pile of the scraps of paper, piece by piece he made a teepee with the wood slivers over it. After completing a decent little structure, Kane retrieved the magnesium fire starter and, with the knife, shaved a small pile of the silver flakes right next to the paper. A few flicks of the blade against the striker lit the magnesium with a white flash, and the paper soon followed.

  In a matter of minutes, Kane had a more than adequate fire going. He let the blaze settle a little before setting a hubcap he had found on top of the fire. With a small smile of satisfaction, he reached his left hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the can of chicken noodle soup he had scavenged during his walk. He cut the top of the can open and poured its contents into the hubcap. Leaning back against the pack, Kane rubbed at his face and allowed the warmth of the fire to spread over his body.

  He had walked nine or ten miles along the broken, scorched highway toward Knoxville. Now he was just on the outskirts of the city. It had alarmed him how much destruction there had been, and he feared that if the whole nation had suffered the same as the Knoxville area, it might never recover. The lush, rolling green hills were now hollow, barren, and black. Cars sat, frozen in time, their skeletal drivers’ hands still clutching in desperation at the wheel. Everything had happened so fast, no one could react. He had seen no people, few animals, and no living vegetation since leaving the bunker. He had been fortunate to find the canned soup intact during his journey. He furrowed his brow as he contemplated the fact that he had not seen another single living person all day long. He began to wonder if there were any other survivors.

  A cold wind blew across the room, and Kane pulled his blanket up and drew it close around him. He removed a small bottle from the pack and shook out a potassium iodide tablet. There was just no way of knowing how irradiated the environment was. He popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed. Bending forward, he removed the boiling hubcap from the fire, using a strip of torn cloth, and set it next to him. He was just so tired. He had already been through so much, and each new step seemed to draw him closer to some unforeseen destiny. How he had even survived the initial attack had been a miracle, but the true miracle had occurred when he emerged from the bunker. Something supernatural had happened, something ridiculous that completely defied all logic. His heart felt great, which was impossible. It had physically moved as if someone reached into his chest and grabbed it. In his terrible moment of personal desperation, he had reached out, and someone had reached back. God had reached back. He could swear he’d heard a whisper on the wind. Listen, trust, and obey, it said. The words seemed to permeate his very being.

  Am I losing my mind?

  He had thought about those words all day long, and there was no other explanation for it. The God that he had rebelled against for so long wanted him to listen, trust, and obey—but to what end? Kane reached down with the cloth strip and checked the soup to find that it had cooled enough to taste.

  “Thank you, Campbell’s,” he said as he tipped the hubcap of steaming soup into his mouth. The broth was hot, and Kane closed his eyes as he savored each noodle and fragment of processed chicken that touched his lips. It went down easy and had a rejuvenating aroma that reminded him of how a dose of chicken soup had the power to cure all.

  Kane couldn’t imagine what was in store for him but he was confident of one thing—the God who had saved him from himself was far from finished with him. He tipped the hubcap again, and the wet noodles tickled his whiskers.

  DAY 34

  KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE

  Among the rubble and ruins of the Southern town, a slight figure glided between the fires and through the smoke. With extreme care the wraith moved, each step calculated, each movement planned, stopping only to listen. The young woman slid through the wreckage, like a spirit trapped in the mortal world.

  She took two striding steps and arrived at a cement wall, leaning her body against it and cocking her head to listen again. She tugged the stocking cap on her head down around the back of her neck and pushed several renegade strands of blonde hair back up under the dirty cap. Her eyes darted left and right, searching.

  She was sure she had lost them. She was faster and smarter, and her brain wasn’t scrambled like theirs. She did not think it correct to even call them people. People were what they had been. Not anymore, not now. She strained her ears over the crackle of a nearby Volkswagen beetle that was burning. Craning her neck around the edge of the building, she tried to get a look down the next street. It appeared clear. She moved quietly, walking on her toes to avoid excess noise, and entered a ruined consignment clothing store with an illegible name scrawled in broken letters across the entrance. Moving as fast as possible, she crossed to the stairs and went up to the small room that had most likely been a studio apartment above the desecrated establishment. She moved to the corner and sat down, drawing her knees up to her chest.

  She had nothing anymore, nothing but the clothes she had found and a constant string of prayer running through her head. That was the only part of her old life that remained. Nothing could take that from her. Even though she could not speak the words, she prayed them anyway in her mind. It gave her comfort to know God had not forgotten her.

  Molly shifted and leaned her head back against the wall, shutting her eyes and exhaling. She had not seen another healthy, living human being since she had dragged herself from the wreckage of her dorm room several weeks ago. Everyone she had come across was dead, dying, or had mutated into one of them. She was so confused at first why these other survivors had tried to kill her. They had first appeared to just be sick people, but after a group of them had tried to eat her, she had changed her mind.

  Something chemical had fried their rational brains and had turned them into rabid, cannibals. It was disgusting how their skin seemed not to fit anymore, sagging off their starved frames, and how they were always scratching and coughing. Most of them seemed completely oblivious to major injuries, burns, and trauma that would have a normal person concerned. She called them “Sicks,” because the name was fitting.

  She put her hands over her face and rubbed her eyes. She had slept little and eaten even less in the weeks since this nightmare began. Something about the constant fear of being found by one of them had her terrified of spending too much time in the open or falling asleep in an unsafe place. She knew she needed to get out of the city, but she was also terrified of what she might find outside of it.

  A muffled coughing on the street below caused Molly to freeze and cover her mouth with her hands. She had heard what sounded like only one of them, but they never traveled alone, never. Molly sat as still as she could, hardly breathing, waiting. There it was again, more coughing, coughing and moaning out in front of the building and in the alley behind her.

  The coughing was everywhere, and one of them was in the building below her now, shuffling and moaning. How did they always find her? It was like they could smell her out. Molly pinched her eyes shut and began praying in her mind. Heavenly Father God, I’m so tired, I can’t…I just don’t know where to go…there is nowhere that’s safe.

  One of them was moving up the stairs, coughing.

  Father, send your angels. If it is your will that I live, send your angels to protect me, because I can’t do it anymore.

  The Sick was nearing the top of the stairs, scratching and coughing.

  She opened her eyes but continued praying. Lord God, Your will be done.

  The thing shambled through the door, bloody, burned, and half naked, and for one terrible instant, they locked eyes. The creature emitted a blood-curdling shriek and began pointing at her. They
were running. She could hear them in the street and below her in the building, running, coming up. Coming for her.

  Move!

  The figure with the bloody, sagging skin lurched at her. She was up and moving, dodging under the grasping arms, and in three steps she vaulted through the busted-out window to her right, spinning and grabbing the windowsill. It was a fifteen-foot drop to the street, and she took the fall as the creature came through the window after her. Falling, she hit the stone alley and pitched forward onto the ground, knocking the wind out of herself with a grunt. She rolled to the side, seeing stars, the shrieks growing louder in her ears. Hoisting herself to her feet, she began running, blindly running away. She knew if they trapped her in the alley, it was over. She burst out of the alley in a dead sprint and saw the lot of them streaming out of the building to her left. There had to be twenty of them, maybe more. She groaned in terror as the muscles of her legs began to cramp and she struggled to catch her breath.

  Lord Jesus, save me!

  Molly was slowing as the rabid, nightmarish gang descended upon her. She dashed into another building, hoping to find something she could use to barricade herself in, but as soon as she cleared the opening she knew she was in trouble. The building had an upper floor that had collapsed onto the first with holes in the walls and no ceiling. It wasn’t going to work.

  She bolted for a gaping hole in the far wall. Taking a few running steps, she leaped over a pile of junk in the floor and landed on the uneven concrete surface, her right ankle twisting violently under her weight. Molly gasped and took two more steps, her leg buckling under the stabbing pain. She stumbled and went to all fours, scrambling into the corner and collapsing to face her pursuers. Tears cut fresh paths down her dirty cheeks as she balled her fists and cried a desperate sound. The awful bloody monsters poured through the wall and did not slow as they came at her, mouths wide in horrible screams.