by Justin Bell
“Good!” Jerry replied. “We may get out of this yet.”
“Watch out!” Greer shouted as three Demon Dogs broke away from the group and charged across the grass, only about sixty feet away. He whirled from behind the tree and emptied the magazine at the trio, the barrel jumping even under his tight grasp. He tried to maintain control and took down two of the three with the burst of fire, but the third spun on him and shot three times. Greer stepped away as the bark of the tree splintered, but felt a sharp stab of pain across the left side of his chest and shouted, stumbling away.
“Greer!” Jerry shouted, seeing the other man drop his weapon and fall to the ground. He ran to the man’s side, dropping down next to him. Off in the distance, he could hear the gunning roar of the pickup truck turning over.
“You all right, tough guy?” Jerry asked, pressing a hand to Greer’s chest.
“Hurts,” Greer replied.
“Where did they get you?”
Greer shook his head. “Dunno. Chest hurts.”
Jerry placed his ear to his chest but didn’t hear the telltale sucking sound of a lung shot. Blood was staining Greer’s shirt, but it wasn’t moving fast.
“I think you’ll be all right. It’s not a lung. Doesn’t look like a heart.”
“Stop worrying about an old man,” Greer barked. “They’ll be coming!”
Jerry looked out towards the lawn. Too late. They were coming. They were almost upon them. A short distance away he could hear the pickup slamming and crashing through the trees, then he saw it barreling out of the woods and onto the dirt road. It turned left, heading back towards the main road.
“Truck’s free! It’s free!” Phil shouted.
Jerry looked back towards the ATVs, and they looked way too far away. “Can you walk?” he asked Greer, looping his arm behind his back and helping him to his feet.
“Yeah. Yeah, I can walk,” Greer groaned. Thirty yards away, Phil had reached one of the ATVs and Greer was halfway there. Dirt and trees exploded around them with a refreshed onslaught of automatic fire. Three bullets spanged off the curved metal hide of one of the four-wheelers and Phil jerked away, though he wasn’t hit.
“We’ll never make it,” Jerry snarled as he looked back at the approaching horde of Demon Dogs. “They’ll cut us down before we reach the main road.”
Greer glanced back, not realizing Jerry was still way back by the tree line. “Come on!” he shouted. “Let’s go!”
“I’ll catch up!” Jerry shouted. “Get on and go, both of you! Now!”
Phil gunned the motor of his ATV as Greer swung his leg over the seat of the second.
“Come on!” Greer shouted. “We’re not leaving without you!”
“Just go!” Jerry shouted. “I’ll catch up, I promise!”
The shot slammed him in the shoulder and threw him forward into a clumsy stumble, but he held onto the AK-12 with rigid determination. Threatening to fall face first, he caught himself on one knee and glared up at them.
“Greer! Phil! Get on the ATV and go! Right now!” Without any further word, Jerry threw himself to his feet, whirling around, the AK-12 in hand. Greer’s mouth opened to shout, but Jerry was already running back towards the mouth of the road.
“What’s he doing?” Phil asked.
“Just go,” Greer said softly, throttling his ATV to life. “We just have to go while we still have the chance.”
Phil gunned his engine, spun around, and took off towards the road while Greer looked up towards where Jerry had run. He could see him reach the mouth of the road, lifting his weapon.
There are so many of them, Jerry thought to himself as he came to the mouth of the road, his shoulder throbbing in pain, and his slick, numb hand barely keeping a hold of the weapon. Demon Dogs were everywhere.
He looked back over his shoulder and saw Phil and Greer accelerating down the road.
It had been two weeks since he’d heard from his wife. Two weeks since he had spoken to his son. He knew they’d been in California, and while part of him hoped they had been far away from the explosion, another secret, buried deep inside of him, hoped that they’d died in that first blast, a swift and painless blink, lives being snuffed out like a barely lit candle. As heartbreaking as it was to think of his son’s life over before it had a chance to begin, what kind of life was this world now? A life of violence? Every person for themselves? What kind of world was this to raise a child in?
He could have done it, this he knew. If his wife had brought herself to bring his son home to him, he would have raised him to live in this new world, taught him how to defend himself, how to fight for what he believed in, and to do the right thing, even in the face of so much bad. He could have done it. He would have done it.
But she never would have let him. He knew that now. Something had happened while he’d been gone, something that was either his fault or hers, but what did that matter anymore? It had happened and all of their lives changed because of it, even before the nukes. Worlds changed every day, even without the mushroom clouds and deadly radiation. It had just taken that event to convince him of it.
Jerry realized then that he hadn’t told him what he’d seen as they travelled south. He hadn’t told any of them that he thought he’d seen someone following them. What he wouldn’t have given for a few more seconds, if only to tell them to be careful and to watch their backs.
But there was no time for that now.
He looked out at the approaching gunman, walking low and slow across the grass, taking care since they didn’t know how many men were in the trees. Jerry peeled a fresh magazine from a pouch on his vest, another spare mag he had stolen from one of the guards. He slammed it into the AK-12, set the firing mechanism to full auto, drew a long, deep breath and charged out into the open. He hauled down on the trigger, his weapon firing long, loud, and bright.
Weapons raised towards him, gun barrels exploded into a stuttering collage of white and yellow and the darkness swallowed him under the infinite night sky.
Chapter 9
ATF Agent Marcus Reynolds stood under the flickering street light at the corner of Harrison and Beach, glancing down towards the Chinatown gate. In the low light of evening he could just make out the ornate structure at the end of Beach Street. At this time of night, this part of Boston was a hustle and bustle of activity, the lit rows of shops illuminating every corner of the world, accentuating the unique shape and style of the buildings scattered along the sides of the streets.
Everything, however, was instead shrouded in darkness. Power was still in and out and undependable, and the city curfew had dictated that power utilization be curtailed after eight every night. It was long past eight, creeping close to midnight as Reynolds took a look at his watch. The date stared back out at him from the clear LED screen and it occurred to him that it had now been over a week since the first detonation in San Francisco. It had been nearly a week since Liu had vanished, leaving his wife dead and broken in the middle of the street. Investigations had ground to a halt as the American infrastructure continued to crumble, the strain of California’s destruction threatening to pull the rest of the country down into doom with it. Power grid failures devastated the nation, the economic impact of California ceased to exist, not to mention the impact of so many tech companies being annihilated in Silicon Valley and Seattle made recovery a near impossibility.
The internet was non-functional, and cellular service was so unreliable it might as well have been, too. Reynolds was no longer hearing updates from the part of the nation west of the Rocky Mountains, and even a good chunk of Colorado had gone dark.
A little over a week prior the day had started off bad, and over a week after it had only gotten worse. Slow, trickling destruction, one state at a time.
On the plus side there had been no detonations since Galveston, or at least he hadn’t heard of any. In the new world of devastated communications, however, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe everything west of the Mississippi was in flames and
there was just no way to tell the rest of the world. North Korea could be launching air attacks right now, their planes could be heading across the Pacific, getting ready to drop bombs. The nation state could be preparing ICBM’s for all he knew. Almost anything felt possible and none of it was good.
So what was he doing? Why was he slinking around in the dark corners of Chinatown after eleven o’clock simply based on a strange message from a friend? Why was he walking through the shady part of Boston incommunicado, wearing his favorite Harley Davidson leather motorcycle jacket instead of his ATF uniform? Words had been scrawled on a piece of paper stuffed under his apartment door, like he was back in high school again passing notes during English. But he wasn’t in a high school class. It was a dark street in Chinatown, an empty dark street that had always been buried under people up until a week ago, and now stood as a microcosm of the entire country—dark, desolate, and devoid of life.
“Reynolds?”
Marcus turned towards the voice, barely making out the darkened shadow at the end of an alley behind him.
“Brandon? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Agent Reynolds stepped forward, walking towards the sound of the voice. “Nobody’s heard from you since…since the accident. People are worried.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Liu replied, his voice a hoarse, quiet whisper.
“Okay. Tell me what you know.”
Liu beckoned him over and Reynolds reached the end of the alley, then followed him through a broken section of chain link fence out into a small corner behind a dark restaurant.
“Remember what I was telling you before? Way back when? That I think there are some domestic ties to the incident?”
“Yeah, of course. That’s not the kind of thing you forget.”
“Well, I found more proof of that. We found more proof. Me and a guy down in Texas. Tag numbers off the car that was holding the device that exploded.”
“Tell me more,” Reynolds said, easing down into a seated position on a short stack of concrete steps.
Liu wasn’t looking at him. He seemed to be wearing blue jeans and a windbreaker, and Reynolds wondered if they were the same clothes he was wearing a week ago when a car tried to run him and his wife down.
“We found ties to a regional militia movement in Texas. An organization with links to the Branch Davidians.”
“Yikes.”
“I ran this intel up the chain when I got back from Texas…and six hours later, a car tried to kill me.”
“Come on, man,” Reynolds said. “You don’t really think—”
“I don’t know what to think. But I’ve spent the last week continuing the investigation off the grid. Me and the guy down in Texas.”
“How have you been communicating?”
“Land line. He confiscated some gear from the FBI office down there…got something rigged up. It’s not the most dependable, but we’ve been able to send brief messages.”
“Okay, so what did you guys find out?”
“The factory that produced the steel tools used for the device housing is based in Springfield, Illinois. This militia movement has connections there. Several domestic militias have connections there.”
“So you think that there’s some national movement to conspire with North Korea to cripple the United States? What sense does that even make?”
Liu shook his head. It was a swift, sudden shake, as if he was trying to clear out some debris from his head.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t. But something weird is going on.”
“Yeah, I know,” Reynolds replied.
Liu looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“The Task Force is all but abandoned.”
“What? Already?”
Reynolds shrugged. “I don’t know. We chase down leads and it’s like they’re determined to be dead ends. Three of my guys have been reassigned. Rumor is the White House is planning retaliation against the People’s Republic. Like, big time, globally impacting retaliation.”
“I still don’t understand why.”
“You and me both. It’s almost like they’re going through the motions. Setting up the Task Force, FEMA, half-hearted rescue operations, but I’m telling you, the people in the west, they’ve already been written off.”
“No more rescues?”
Reynolds shook his head. “Official statement is that things are too far gone. Radiation is too prevalent, but I’ve seen the heat maps, and its bull. There are plenty of survivors. People who are being abandoned and left to die.”
Liu crossed his arms. “I’ve gotta chase down some of these leads.”
“And how are you going to do that? You yourself said the last time you opened this can, people died.”
“Not people,” Liu replied. “A person. My wife. I can’t let that stand, Marcus. I won’t.”
Reynolds nodded. “I get it.”
Liu stood in silence, letting the dark wash over him, feeling himself consumed by it, dragged down deeper into it, willing himself to become invisible. Undetectable. Truly off the grid.
“So what next?” Reynolds asked.
Liu turned and looked at him, his face half cloaked in darkness, but the receding bruises of his Texas attack visible in the pale light of the moon above. His mouth opened to speak, but the dull growl of an engine caught his attention, and he held a finger to his lips.
Reynolds turned towards the alley as the engine grew louder. It revved to a throaty growl, then shuddered and died, still a distance away.
Liu looked around and verified they were still alone. The area behind the restaurant was no more than fifteen feet long, bare pavement with a collection of trash cans next to the short stoop where Reynolds had been sitting. A metal door sat atop the stoop, and the brick buildings pressed against each other. Liu looked behind him and verified the tall wood slat fence barricaded him and Reynolds from any observers in that direction, and another cluster of buildings was to their right. They were safe, at least for the time being. Secure and away from public eye.
“I need to get back in touch with Orosco,” Liu said. “It’s been a couple of days since I was able to get through. I’m hoping things are okay down there; Galveston and Texas City were nearly wiped off the map.”
Reynolds shook his head. “I haven’t seen that reported on the news or anywhere else publicly,” he said. “If I wasn’t on the inside, I wouldn’t even know.”
“So I can count on you?” Liu asked. “You can help?”
“Yeah,” Reynolds said. “I’m with you. We need to get this figured out.”
The night was quiet. Long since faded, the roar of the engine was forgotten, an audible apparition of this new world and, perhaps, it had even just been their imagination. Reynolds ducked down, slipping through the torn and folded chunk of chain link fence, out into the alley and Liu followed close behind. Up ahead the moon shone a pale light on Beach Street and Liu hung back just a bit, letting Reynolds get some distance.
The shadows shifted near the mouth of the alley. It was just the slightest movement, but Liu’s eyes snapped there, his hand going to his belt where he'd tucked his government issued P2000.
“Reynolds! Two o’clock!”
Reynolds shifted, but before he could even reach for his weapon, three snaps of barely silenced gunfire shouted from the darkened corners of the tall brick building. As Liu back-pedaled, he could see Reynolds crumple to the ground and three shadows separate from the darkness, moving towards him. One of them extended a pistol with an elongated, silenced barrel and another flat crack barked in the alley as a round punched into the back of Reynold’s head.
Liu turned around and moved when the corner of the brick building splintered, spraying chunks of mortar and stone across Liu’s back and the cracked pavement beneath his feet. He ducked and slipped through the chain link fence, pulling his weapon up into both hands. Spinning, he fired as the first dark form moved around the building, two swift shots, and the form yelp
ed and lurched backwards, a weapon spinning from its hands. Another shadow slipped past, moving quickly, shooting three times, but Liu threw himself backwards, flat against the brick, all three shots smacking into the wooden slat fence. Drawing in a breath, Liu charged forward at the shape and slammed an elbow into where its ribs should be, cracking his hand against the gunman’s wrist, knocking the weapon away. He dodged a swift punch, then returned it to the man’s jaw, clamped his arm and spun, throwing him into the neat stack of garbage cans next to the stairs.
A cascading crash and orchestra of metal bangs echoed within the tight confines of the alley as Liu jumped from the short staircase and ran towards the slat fence. Four more muffled shots screamed through the night, burying bullets in the fence just to Liu’s left as he leaped into the air, clamoring over the wood, his left arm screaming with the strain of carrying his weight. Curling his knees tight, he rolled himself over, landing on the other side of the tall fence in a pained, clumsy crouch, then launched himself forward as another trio of bullets speared through the fence behind him, whining out into the darkness. He wasn’t sure how close they’d come, but he could have sworn he heard the sound of an angry bee buzzing just to his right.
Angling around one of the ornate roof-topped buildings, he broke into a sprint as he charged off into Chinatown, knowing that once he was swallowed by the cluster of structures, the growing shadows would conceal him from those that pursued him. As he ran, he could still see the formless mound that used to be Marcus Reynolds in his mind and he could still hear that flat, noiseless whack of the silenced shot that took his life.
***
Dark eyes and dirty, mottled fur, the creature slunk through the low scrub, its muscular legs barely covered with scant swaths of hair. Its body was plump; it had eaten well by the looks of it, but still there was a deep, unbridled hunger in those black eyes. It smacked its lips as it rounded the narrow trunk of the young tree, nostrils twitching.
The gun shot was quick and abrupt—a single rifle crack and the creature hitched, then stumbled, then fell, slumping to its left shoulder before collapsing to the ground.