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

by Stu Jones

  Kane had three rounds left. As the creatures began to move toward him, he stood his ground, holding the rifle ready. He watched as the sliding door on the garage rose slightly and a red cylinder rolled from under the door and into the street. It rolled down the slight incline right into the thick of the creatures. Kane’s mind snapped into focus. He took a few running steps to the bumper of a burned-out minivan and supported the shattered rifle against it. Aiming at the cylinder, he fired a shot, just as a Sick stepped into the line of fire and had its leg blown off at the knee.

  “Come on!”

  He took aim again and fired the last two rounds in succession. The scene was bathed in a blinding flash, followed by a deafening concussion. The Sicks, now just shadows, disappeared against the backdrop of a fireball. Kane dropped behind the bumper of the van for cover.

  Molly flung the door up and ran back to the bike, grabbing the pack and slinging it over her shoulder. She straddled the bike and revved the engine. It had been a long time since her grandpa had taught her how to ease the clutch on a motorcycle. She stalled it out. Nerves racking in the silence of the blast, she cranked the motorcycle again. This time she took a deep breath and secured her grip on the throttle. Cranking it to the rear, she popped the clutch, squealing the back tire as she shot from the garage like a missile.

  Kane stood and saw Molly coming at him on the old Honda Shadow 1100.

  As she pulled up with a wild look of satisfaction across her face, he dropped the rifle, took the pack from her, and slung it on his back as he climbed onto the bike. Kane glanced over his shoulder to see the Sicks beginning to stand on their feet again. Some of them were fully engulfed in flames.

  “Go!” he yelled. “Get us the hell out of here!”

  The bike growled, and the rear tire barked again as they took off down the ruined street, weaving through the burning wreckage as they went.

  DAY 35

  SOMEWHERE IN NORTHWEST SOUTH CAROLINA

  Wellsey Littleton sat with his back pressed against the hard, cool rock. Other than a dead wind blowing through a barren landscape, nothing moved in the darkness that engulfed him. The short, fat man spat into the fire without regard to the string of tobacco juice hanging from his chin. The juice dripped off his chin and left small dark stains on the tattered mechanic’s uniform that read in cursive Lucky’s Auto.

  He didn’t care anymore. Had it been weeks or months? It felt like an eternity had passed since the world had gone straight down the tubes. Wellsey folded his arms across his chest and listened to the howling of the wind, a product of man’s ultimate violation of the earth.

  Mankind was just too rotten at the core to continue coexisting in this world peaceably—especially once the ability to cause mass destruction was developed.

  He sat, contemplating his circumstances by the fire. In his forty-two years of life, he had not found many people he had cared to even speak with. Most people thought he was an antisocial hermit, but he had always just enjoyed his own company better. Funny that now he was alone, he kind of wished he had somebody to share his black smoke tire fire with.

  Wellsey looked up and tried to scan the sky for some trace of the moon in the boiling blackness. The landscape was dark except for the flickering of his fire on the nearby tree-stalks. The leafless, branchless poles dug at the sky, blaming it for their fate like bony skeletal fingers. He hadn’t met many survivors of the disaster. He could find more people if he tried, but he was out in the country and had no desire to venture toward the cities. He wasn’t sure he’d find anything anyway. They were all just stories and he wasn’t sure he believed any of them anyway. Especially the ones about folks disappearing up here in the mountains. One woman he met cried and said that and ancient evil came up from the ground and took her son. Crazy old hag. He would rather be alone. He spat into the fire again and watched the black juice sizzle and harden in the coals.

  Wellsey snapped his head to the left. Had something moved in the dark beyond the fire? He sat still, straining his eyes at the dark world beyond his small bright bubble. The rubber on the fire fizzed and buzzed as it burned.

  “Jiminy Christmas,” Wellsey said out loud, turning back to the fire and crossing his arms again. The shadows were playing tricks on him. It was all those lame stories that gave him the creeps and put him on edge.

  It moved again with a shuffling sound. Wellsey was on his feet in a surge of adrenalin, gripping the tire iron in his fist.

  “Who the hell is it? Who’s there?” he yelled into the night. As he stood there, trying to focus his eyes and ears, he had the strangest feeling that as he looked into the nothingness, it looked back into him.

  “What do you want? I don’t have anything!” he yelled. It moved again, and Wellsey bent down, grabbing a half-burned tire off the edge of the fire. He spun, throwing it like a discus toward the movement. The tire smacked the ground with a slurping sound and slid a few feet, dragging the flames with it. Wellsey’s jaw dropped open, the hair on his body standing on end as the thing retreated from the flames.

  “Skreeeeek-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k.”

  “No! Get back!” He screamed, his own voice sounding girlish and high-pitched. The silent night air now filled with a chorus of sound.

  “Skreeeeeeeeeek-k-k-k-k-k-k. Skreeeeeeeeee… Skreeeeeeeeeee-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k.”

  They were all around him…those…monsters. He spun, wheeling out of control as the screeching continued to envelop his every sense. Dropping the tire iron, he grabbed a flaming log from the fire as a rapid skittering sound approached. He swung the log back and forth in a shower of sparks as the beast came around the rock toward him.

  “Nooooo! Get back! You’re not real!” He screamed, the horror dodging and moving from the flame. “You can’t be…real—”

  The one he did not see came in so fast from the left that he couldn’t adjust his footing. It rammed him hard, the sheer impact causing him to slam down into the dirt. Wellsey tried to raise himself, choking on the swirling dust that flew up his nose and into his eyes. Something clamped down on his bicep so forcefully he heard the bone snap, and from his throat came a shrill cry of pain. He was dragged away from the fire, and then the pressure was gone as quick as it had come, dropping him to the ground.

  “Skreeeeeeek-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k…Skreeeeee…Skreeeeeeeeee-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k.”

  The shrieks were all around him, moving in the darkness. Wellsey reached with his hand over to his opposite bicep to check it as he tried to move the fingers of that hand. His right hand moved slowly, shaking as he touched his arm at the shoulder and slid it down. In the darkness, his fingers dropped away from contact. He felt the torn shirt, wet, wet with…. Why is it wet?

  The warm liquid flowed into his hand. He continued to grope at the ragged stump and choked out a gasp at the realization that his arm was gone.

  “Oh, shit…shit!”

  “Skreeeek-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k.” They were close now.

  “Please,” he gasped. “Please, I’m not ready to go yet,” he pleaded, cradling what was left of his arm. “I’m not ready.”

  Without warning he was knocked facedown in the dirt. The vice closed over the back of his neck and pinned him against the scorched earth. Wellsey cried out as the thing made a whirring sound that burned the back of his neck.

  Light exploded across his vision with a popping sound, as beams of light burned through his mind. The warm spray of his blood poured into the dirt, and he realized he had stopped breathing. In a detached sort of way, he knew he was dying. He felt weightless, dropping away from the world, flying. He had always wanted to fly, ever since he was a child. Just like Peter Pan, he was flying away into the night, into the dark, to Never Never Land.

  DAY 36

  OUTSIDE ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

  A thumping sound broke the silence of the day as the motorcycle crested the top of the hill and wound down into the barren valley. Molly and Kane had done their best to avoid Asheville, but they had encountered so many blocked roads that they
were forced to cross under I-26 just south of the city. Molly stared straight ahead, focused, leaning into the curves and avoiding the debris in the road.

  They needed water, food, and fuel—in that order. The wind blasting they had received during their ride didn’t help their dehydration. In the mountains of North Carolina, there were many streams and rivers, but not a single one appeared safe to drink. The water rolled, tumbling downstream with an orange tint and an unnatural thickness. Something had gotten into the natural water sources.

  As they crept into the valley, Kane noted the black, twisted metal road signs as they approached. The first indicated State Highway 64. Behind it was another sign that read Hendersonville/I-26, six miles. Kane pointed to the sign, and Molly nodded as they passed it. They were going to have to pass through a small town outside of Asheville called Hendersonville.

  The road wound, twisting like a black concrete serpant through the dead mountains. They hadn’t seen anyone, not a single living person on their journey. Kane liked it better that way. The people they might run into would most likely be untrustworthy, smiling to your face and then stabbing you in the back to take what you had.

  “You okay?” he yelled over the wind to Molly, who nodded her head in answer.

  “Alright, keep your eyes out for a good place to rest for the night.”

  Molly nodded again.

  As they rounded the corner, coming into Hendersonville, a convenience store stood out on the right side of the road, battered, burned, and in bad shape. The damaged sign above the parking area read, Bart and Debbie’s One Stop Shop—The best hot dawgs and boiled peanuts on earth!

  Kane pointed to the store, and Molly nodded, turning smoothly into the parking area and hitting the kill switch. Kane stepped off and dropped the backpack, bowing his back, stretching.

  “Where’d you learn?” Kane indicated the motorcycle.

  Molly dismounted and gave a little stretch herself and mouthed “My grandpa,” patting her chest.

  “Who?”

  “Grandpa,” Molly mouthed again more dramatically.

  “Ah. Right on, grandpa,” he said.

  Kane did a slow 360, checking out the area and noticing that the interstate was about two hundred yards away. Satisfied, he picked the pack up and said, “Should we see if Bart and Debbie are home?”

  Molly stepped in behind him as he walked to the front door and noted that broken glass littered the interior and exterior of the store.

  Kane peered through the shattered out glass door and yelled, “Hello? Hey, is anyone there? Bart? Debbie? Ya’ll back there with the famous peanuts?”

  Molly nudged him hard, a look of impatience on her face.

  “I couldn’t resist,” he said with a delirious smile. “Come on, let’s check it out.”

  The two stepped into the darkened building, Kane playing his flashlight over the store. The sharp smell of human decomposition hit them, and Molly gasped and pinched her nose. Kane became serious again, looking at Molly.

  “Stay on me,” he said and turned, moving through the store. Molly looked back and forth, noticing that the shelves were bare except for a few lone items.

  “This place was looted pretty bad—” Kane stopped short, seeing the boots protruding from the door that read OFFICE at the rear of the building. Stepping around, Kane looked at the heavyset older man in coveralls and a NASCAR t-shirt, holding a double-barrel, side-by-side coach model shotgun across his lap. By the looks of him, he had been dead for a long time and was the cause of the stench. Molly peered over Kane’s shoulder with a grimace as he bent down to try to retrieve the corpse’s wallet. Pushing the body to the right, Kane pulled the wallet from the dead man’s pocket, opened it, and peered at it for a moment.

  “We found Bart,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Molly. As he went to fold the wallet back up, a key slipped from an inner pocket of the wallet and fell to the floor with a jingling sound. Kane looked down and picked up the key, examining it close.

  “Huh. What do you think it goes to?” Kane said.

  Without hesitation Molly pointed straight to a large, heavy-looking door in the back wall of the office.

  “Well, that would seem to be the obvious choice, wouldn’t it?” he said, stepping over the body and taking the shotgun, which he opened to find two full chambers of 00 buckshot. Snapping the shotgun closed, Kane inserted the key in the door and turned it. The deadbolt slid free with a clink, and the door moved, exposing a narrow opening. Kane slipped his fingers into the gap and pulled the door open toward him. It opened with a light creaking sound, and Kane snapped the flashlight on, disturbing the darkness. He stood a moment in silence before moving forward

  “Jackpot.” He whispered.

  Molly struggled to look around Kane, but he stepped to the side and waved his hand like Vanna White revealing the requested vowel.

  What greeted Molly’s eyes may as well have been an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. Large quantities of canned and dry goods and tanks of stored water sat stacked on shelves, along with some survival items and firearms. Bart had been well prepared.

  DAY 36

  OUTSIDE OF COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA

  The rolling landscape lay concealed in a blanket of smoke, the haze was so thick in some places that it had become difficult to breathe. The forest fires had burned out of control with no measures to protect against them. That meant two days of nonstop work for those at the ranch, digging trenches, cutting trees, and scraping back the ground cover to keep the fires from overtaking it. Courtland continued to labor, but as hard as he worked, he never broke a sweat. He hadn’t slept in over two days, but he felt strangely unaffected by the deprivation.

  A thin man with gray hair stood up a few yards down the line and propped a hoe over his shoulder.

  “Courtland, why don’t you take a break with me away from the rest of the family for a minute,” the man said.

  “Sure, Vincent,” replied Courtland, setting his rake down.

  Vincent was elected the leader of this family.

  Whether that had been a group election or a self-appointment, Courtland could not be sure, but the people here seemed to go along with it okay. Vincent seemed to be a decent guy, if not a little arrogant. Usually, his reasoning for doing something seemed rational.

  “Listen up, everyone,” Vincent said to the line. “The fires seem to be past us now. Let’s finish up what we’ve started, and we’ll call it quits on the fire line.”

  Everyone nodded and murmured in approval.

  Vincent motioned for Courtland to follow him. They walked across the farm through a ruined orchard and into the main building, where Vincent stopped at a door and motioned for Courtland to enter first. The giant man stooped and turned sideways to squeeze through the standard doorway. Vincent followed him in and shut the door.

  “Courtland, I am not a theatrical man, so I’ll just get to the point,” Vincent began. “In the few weeks you’ve been here, you’ve worked hard, given freely of yourself to others, and been just an all-around positive influence on our family,” he said.

  Courtland nodded.

  “So, why is it you still aren’t at home here.”

  “Because I’m not home, Vincent…not yet,” Courtland sighed.

  “Well, I know I can be overbearing sometimes, but I have to make tough decisions for the good of the whole. This may irritate some under my care, but several hundred men, women, and children are depending on me to keep them alive. That’s quite a responsibility. I’m sure you understand.”

  Courtland was silent, his wheels turning.

  “We need you here, Courtland. Have you spoken with the new woman, Christine, who arrived here two days ago? Not only do we battle the elements, food shortages, and rampant forest fires, but this woman tells stories of how there are beasts that come up from the ground and prey on survivors. She says they are creatures born of darkness that seek out human victims. She has seen this evil with her own eyes.

  He paused for ef
fect. “I’m not sure about all that, but she also had a run-in with the Coyotes, you know, that gang we’ve had to bribe several times. The only reason they haven’t attacked us yet is that for the time being we have superior numbers. I fear, though, that if they did attack us, they would still overcome us. Psychopaths. They captured Christine up near Asheville before she was able to escape and find her way here. The things she has seen at their hands would put a chill to your bones. She says their leader—”

  “Is a cutthroat demon of a man named Malak,” Courtland interrupted. “I know about him.”

  “Courtland, listen,” Vincent said. “We are in desperate times, and we will not be able to survive here on this farm forever. In the coming days, we…I am going to need your counsel on difficult matters, matters that will affect all of us.”

  “Vincent, you know that I will help you in any way I can, but something is happening out there that is bigger than you or me or this family. When it calls up[on me, I will be obligated to answer and leave this place. There is still much about myself and God’s purpose that needs to be revealed.”

  Vincent held a questioning look in his face that slowly ebbed into something indiscernible.

  “I am concerned with the here and now, not all this business of God and prophesy,” he said with irritation.

  “And this is what separates us,” Courtland stated, a look of weariness on his broad face as he looked down at Vincent.

  The two men stood staring at each other in a silent showdown of wills.

  “You do as you must, but do not forget us,” Vincent said briskly and opened the door. “The world you knew is gone, Courtland. There is nothing left for you out there among the ashes.”

  “God is there. He has gone before me.”

  Courtland squeezed through the door again and moved toward his quarters without a sound.