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

by Stu Jones

  After taking a moment, he turned, still trying to get his breath as he walked back toward Molly.

  Kane stepped back into the firelight, covered in blood and looking like he just stepped out of the slaughterhouse. He turned his attention to Molly. She was sitting with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest. Tears poured out of her eyes as she cradled her legs with her arms.

  “You okay?” he asked, as he wiped the blood from his face.

  Molly sniffled.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  Molly shook her head.

  Kane knelt and handed her the blanket to cover up with.

  Molly cried, and the tears dribbled off her chin wetting her torn shirt.

  Kane sat next to her, wiping his hands on his pants.

  “You did the right thing,” he said and paused, looking at his hands, hands that just took three lives. “You did what you had to do,” he said.

  Molly didn’t respond, and they sat for a while, embracing the cold, silent dark, together.

  After a few moments, a slight wheeze came from the other side of the fire. Kane rose, reassuring Molly. He stepped around the fire to find the mohawked man wheezing. His eyes were burned out, and his face and head were burned all the way through to the bone, giving him a disgusting skeletal look. Kane stooped over the man and looked at him.

  The man rocked back and forth on his shoulders, whispering in raspy undertones through charred teeth. “You don’t know what you done. What you done. You don’t eve’ know.”

  Kane remained silent.

  The man continued. “Malakssss gonna burn your world for zhis. Everyshang you know, anyones you ever love. Everyshang gonna burn in the darknesss. No one can shtand in the darknesss witshout bein’ swallowed by it.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Kane folded his arms.

  The man huffed and gave a dry, painful laugh. “You shink yer a tough guy? You don’t shtand a chancesss. You don’t eve’ know what you done. You don’t eeeevvveeennnngoooogggghtttt….”

  The man stopped rocking and became still, his skeletal jaw hinging open. Kane turned back to Molly, tension in his voice.

  “Get your stuff together, Molly. We gotta go. Now.”

  DAY 36

  DOWNTOWN—ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

  Malak rolled the Z-laced tobacco cigarette between his fingers. He leaned against the wall as he moved his fingers, his eyes scanning the large concrete area around him that was now known as the Arena. It was an open pit on the bottom level of the underground portion of the parking deck. It was here that all the initiations for the gang took place as well as the matched fights for entertainment and other killings that were necessary. Even though it was made of concrete, the blood and brain and bone that had soaked into it over the previous weeks was as much a part of it as anything else. Malak looked down at the dark pink hue in the concrete, smiled, and licked the paper, rolling the crude joint up.

  Retrieving the Zippo, which never left his pocket, he lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He still could not believe how lucky he was to find the stash of Z in the storage vault they’d located in the basement of the connected building.

  Malak ordered his soldiers to dig through the pile of rotting police corpses to get to the door. The security indicated that whatever was behind the doors would be something valuable in the context of the world, but he had no idea it would be an item whose value would transcend the death of civilization. The building had been so disfigured that he did not recognize it as the state headquarters for the DEA, which currently housed the proceeds of some of the state’s largest narcotics busts.

  Inside the vault, they’d unearthed large amounts of drugs, evidence in cases waiting for a court appearance that would never happen. It was his good fortune. He took another drag on the drug-laced cigarette.

  Z was created in the early years of the twenty-first century. An extremely powerful, hyperaddictive drug, Z combined a mix of PCP, methamphetamine, ecstasy, steroids. Created by accident, it was found to have several desirable effects for criminals, such as numbness to pain, prolonged adrenaline surges, heightened awareness, and rapid muscle growth. Z was so intense that it was known for killing two-thirds of its users during their first trip. Malak liked to use it as a proving ground, a place to test a person’s constitution.

  Malak required his soldiers to use it. This worked in his favor for three reasons: first, their surviving the first trip meant they lacked any shred of weakness; second, his soldiers gained the power of the drug and had to be killed outright to be stopped; and third, it maintained their allegiance to him because they needed it.

  A gentle yellow haze began to penetrate the corners of his vision, and small beads of sweat sprung up on his large, bald head. He shuddered once and took the final hit on the joint, allowing the smoke to penetrate into the deep tissues of his lungs. His muscles contracted rapidly, and he braced against the wall as he and the walls and the floor and everything else began to slowly melt together in a yellow fog. The initial ten minutes and the final ten minutes of the high were the hardest part, but the ride was in the middle—and it could last for days. A series of hard tremors shook Malak, causing him to gasp and claw at the wall. After a few minutes, he straightened himself and allowed the yellow thickness to fade, his mind clearing.

  He looked around the room. Everything had a slight golden sheen around it that sparkled and winked. He called it the glow, and when he saw the glow, he knew he could hear the voice. After the attacks, he had found that he could once again hear the voice without the aid of the drug. But under its influence, it spoke to him clearer, and his consciousness was devoid of other distractions like hunger, sleep, anger, and sex. He felt almost as though he could see the future—just like he had long ago on that night the voice first came to him.

  A sharp pang racked through his mind, and Malak shook his head as it swam with an unusual sensation. He supported his head and tried to focus and get hold of himself.

  It was then that the voice spoke to him.

  “He is coming,” it said.

  “Who?” Malak asked, holding his head.

  “A man whose only purpose is to mock you, to destroy what you’ve built, and to steal what you’ve earned,”

  “What man?”

  “He will ride a steel horse and keep company with a silent witness.”

  Malak listened and continued holding his head.

  “Do not underestimate this man, for he comes to take the power from us, that he may enjoy it for himself.”

  “How will I know him?” Malak asked.

  “You will know. He is the one who soils your throne room at this very moment. Seek him and the girl out, and destroy them before you are destroyed yourself,” the voice said, fading away.

  Malak relaxed and breathed deeply a few times, allowing the glow to return. “I will find them, and they will know that I am god.”

  “Daddy,” the young woman called. “Daddy, are you there?”

  Courtland strained his eyes through the dense fog. “Marissa?” he said.

  “Daddy, I can hear you. Come this way,” the young woman said. “I need to show you.”

  “Show me what?” Courtland said.

  “Come,” she said.

  “I still can’t see you.”

  Courtland stepped through the dense fog. It wrapped and swirled and clung to him as he waded through it, unable to see even inches ahead.

  “I’m here. Watch your step now,” she said.

  Courtland took a series of small steps and stopped short of a giant precipice. He stood staring out into the thickness and then down at the ledge. He felt a smaller hand grab hold of his own, and he looked over to see the smiling face of his daughter Marissa. At sixteen years old, she was the best of his wife Teshauna, who passed away while giving birth to her, their only child. The loss of his wife had almost destroyed him, but he had gained a wonderful, smiling, intelligent, beautiful gem of a girl. And she loved the Lord. Be
cause of his faith, Courtland knew everything happened for a reason.

  “Daddy, can you see?”

  “No, dear, I can’t,” he replied.

  “Look again.”

  Courtland turned his head and peered over the chasm again. As he looked, the fog began to clear and he was able to see into the chasm.

  “What am I supposed to see?”

  “Look closer,” she said.

  Courtland squinted, and as he looked, a scene began to develop in front of him. He saw a large red SUV traveling down a dark road at night. It was his custom Cadillac Escalade, tailored to fit his enormous size. He and his daughter were driving home from a dinner date. Courtland watched and knew that even though he was experiencing a vision, he was also uncovering some of what he had forgotten.

  They were laughing and talking as they drove.

  “No way, Dad, I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “It’s true, I promise. I couldn’t make that up,” he protested.

  “Why did I never know that about how you and mom met?”

  “I don’t know. I was sure you knew that.”

  “And this was during your Crushball career?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And mom didn’t have a problem with you playing a violent sport like that?”

  “No, your mother was always supportive of me and my many injuries. She knew I loved it and was good at it. Actually, it was the only thing I was ever good at.”

  “That’s because you were ‘The Sledge,’ right?”

  Courtland smiled. “That was just a nickname.”

  “There’s something you’re better at, though,” she said.

  “Really? Enlighten me.”

  “You’re better at being my dad,” she said, smiling.

  Courtland smiled, and his heart melted as he looked over at his daughter. “That’s because you’re so precious to me, Mar…”

  “Dad!” she yelled

  Courtland’s focus snapped forward, and he instinctively jerked the wheel to the left to avoid the large buck standing in the middle of the bridge. The guardrail provided no resistance as the Cadillac Escalade crashed through the rail and over the bridge, tumbling with screams of terror as it plummeted toward the water.

  DAY 37

  DOWNTOWN—ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

  In the center of the Arena, the chained man knelt, drooling blood and staring without focus at the ground. Malak and his two lieutenants, Dagen and Ashteroth, stood in front of the man as the tightened chains held him to the concrete column. Malak stood shirtless behind the other two with his arms crossed, his giant bulging arms only just covering the large tattoo of a coiled viper in the center of his chest.

  “Well, what’s your answer?” Dagen asked.

  The chained man refused to respond.

  “What was that?” Dagen said.

  Ashteroth lunged in, snapping a left punch across the man’s pulpy face with a crack. The man drooped his head and drooled more blood and teeth.

  “Friend, you can’t have many teeth left in your head,” Dagen said. “So, be a good boy and tell us where the fuel reserve is, because we know that’s where you were coming from.”

  The man did not respond. Malak shook his head.

  “He must be sleeping,” Dagen said.

  “Ashteroth, give him something to wake him up,” Malak said.

  Dagen and Ashteroth were the two most cruel and ruthless men Malak had ever known. Though he knew they could never hold a candle to himself, he also knew they would do their jobs well as his lieutenants.

  Ashteroth, whom the men called Tattoo for his full-body decorations, was a true psychopath whose only medication was his periodic dosing of Z. The wild interlocking bands, sleeves, flaming heads, and tattooed designs covered his whole body, even his face, giving him a wild, tribal appearance. Known for his psychotic outbursts, everyone feared him. Even Malak never knew what to expect from him and almost had to kill him once when, in a fit of rage, he overstepped his position.

  On the other end of the spectrum was Dagen. As cool and collected as a person could be. Dishonorably discharged from the Marines, he had done time in the USDB at Leavenworth for cutting the guts out of a superior officer after the man called him a faggot. An unusually sharp reaction for a single insult – especially for Dagen, but Malak felt sure that the roots of the situation ran much deeper and Malak didn’t care to question the man about his past.

  As it turned out, the officer lived, and Dagen was released on parole after spending a number of years in the box with good behavior. He was Malak’s battle commander and the voice of reason. As serene and smooth as he appeared to be, Malak had run with him for a long time and was aware of the depths of evil the man was capable of. He had once witnessed Dagen, during a simple home invasion, torture a whole family to death. A man after Malak’s own heart.

  Ashteroth finished giving the man an injection of adrenaline from a dirty syringe and pulled the chained man’s shoe off as he brandished a small scalpel-like knife. As he went to work, the air filled with the screams of the tortured man.

  “See,” Malak said, with a wicked smile. “He’s not asleep.”

  “Where is the fuel reserve?” Dagen asked again, but the chained man just moaned.

  Malak nodded at Ashteroth, who went to work on the man’s other foot.

  The man continued to thrash and scream.

  “You stupid fuck. Why not tell us where it is and let us have it? It’s not worth all this,” Dagen said.

  The man hung his head, determined to keep the secret to himself in his final hour.

  Dagen shook his head and looked at Malak.

  “Bring out his family,” Malak said.

  Ashteroth motioned to a goon at the doorway.

  “No. Not them!” the man whimpered.

  Ashteroth spat in the man’s face as he hissed, “Whatever happens to them is your fucking fault! You did this to them,” he added, an evil smile on his lips.

  A woman, bound together with a young girl, were walked out to the Arena at knife point. The little girl cried as they were forced to sit.

  “I’m getting tired of hearing myself say this,” Dagen said. “Where is the fuel reserve?”

  The thug was now dumping gasoline over the woman and child as they wailed.

  “Wait, wait, don’t do this! They have nothing to do with this,” the man came to life with sudden vigor.

  “Then answer the question, or they’ll burn!” Ashteroth yelled as he struck a match.

  “I can’t. Lives are at stake,”

  “You got that right,” Ashteroth said as he flicked the lit match at the gas-covered woman and child. The match went out before bouncing off the woman’s shirt and falling to the ground. Ashteroth, annoyed by the new chorus of wailing, was cursing and striking another match.

  “Wait! I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, just don’t do that.”

  Ashteroth was preparing to flick another lit match when Malak stayed him with a motion of his hand.

  “Then speak, you worthless piece of trash.”

  “South, south of Atlanta, uh, I mean where Atlanta was. The reserve is south on I-75 about twenty miles. Look for the high-reinforced walls that protect the compound. It’s visible from the interstate. The reserve was a government facility constructed for emergencies, but…families have taken refuge there. Don’t hurt them,” the man said and hung his head.

  “Are there ways to transport the fuel out?” Dagen asked.

  “Yeah, they have operational tanker trucks there,” the man whispered.

  “They weren’t disabled in the attacks?”

  “No. They were housed in an underground storage along with the fuel. It was EMP hardened.”

  “Excellent,” Malak murmured. “You should have told us all of this the first time we asked.”

  “Malak!” A disheveled man entered the Arena. “I need to speak to you, boss…about scouting party three.”

  “Fagen should be giving this repor
t, and you should know how this works by now, Nelson. It can wait,” Malak said, turning back to the sniffling family.

  “It’s about Fagen and the others…” Nelson said.

  Something in the man’s tone turned Malak back around. He looked at Dagen. “Handle this for a moment,” he said, walking over to Nelson. “This better be good.”

  “We found some people south of town.”

  “So what?”

  “We…”

  “Where is Fagen?”

  Nelson was silent.

  “Where are Fagen and the rest of them? I swear I’ll pull your fucking lungs out.” Malak spat the words with a growl in his throat.

  “They were killed,” the man babbled.

  “How many were there for them to overtake you?”

  “It was a man and a woman.”

  Malak seized forward, grabbing and lifting Nelson and slamming him to the wall. “You’re not making sense. Come clean with it, or you’re a dead man.”

  “The…the man, he and the girl killed them all.” Nelson shook.

  “You’re supposed to be crazy, bloodthirsty killers, and you can’t handle one civilian man and woman?”

  “He wasn’t just a civilian. He fought like a cornered Comanche Indian. He had training. But it’s okay, boss. I’ve got his bag.

  “And tell me why I give a shit about his bag!” Malak squeezed Nelson’s throat.

  “Guhhh,” Nelson gasped. “Because there’s a map that shows where he’s headed,” the man said, holding up the radio station map in his left hand.

  Malak released the man and snatched the map from him, regaining his calm in an instant. “Tell me everything. Spare no detail.”

  While Nelson recounted the story, Malak looked over the map, noticing black arrows along certain routes and that the control station was circled.

  “The one who soils my throne room,” Malak recited under his breath. “Was there a motorcycle?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the woman, his company, did she speak?”

  “No.”

  An involuntary tremor of excitement shuddered through Malak. He grabbed Nelson again by the throat and slammed him forcefully against the wall. Nelson gagged as he slid upward, his feet kicking tiny circles in the air below him as Malak began to slowly crush his trachea.