Darkness Rising (Book 2): The Lost Light

by Bell, Justin

Phil took a quick sip of the beer and let a long breath escape through pursed lips.

  “What a day, huh?”

  The words barely seemed to scratch the surface of what had occurred, but it was all he could think to say.

  Greer eased the door shut behind him and took the short stairs down to the dirt yard, stretching his arms high above his head and groaning. The dark sky looked down upon him from above, a million stars as eyes, watching the slow, methodical end of civilization from thousands of light years away.

  Looking up at the sky, Clancy Greer felt very, very small. In the history of the universe what was happening now was something less than an eye blink, a millisecond in the grand scheme of endless time, yet for each and every person still alive it was a slow, agonizing march towards what could very well be the first steps of the end of the world. In ten thousand years if some far-off space explorers stumbled upon the lifeless rock of Earth, what would they say? How would they know what happened here? Would the chronicles of what the people of the world had done to each other be the equivalent of roughly scratched cave paintings, seen as the mindless scrawling of brainless apes?

  Was that so far from the truth? Had humanity evolved to the point where they still killed each other for no reason, only this time they’d learned much more efficient ways of doing it?

  Quite the depressing line of thinking, Greer decided.

  Times like this were when he missed his wife. His one and only Claire was a strong and ruthless manager of the household who he’d seen almost more as a boss rather than a partner. But he’d loved her. He’d loved what she did for him and his life, and every single day that he lived without her, he felt less and less truly alive. Clancy wasn’t sure why he had continued living. They’d had no children, he was an only child, with both parents long since dead. His only real family had been the town. Brisbee, Colorado. And even with its unique challenges like the Cavendishes, the Kruellers, and everyone in between, it had been his home and where he belonged, and he was determined to see it through.

  That was taken out of his hands at the end. Taken out of his hands by the towns own citizens, the people he’d sworn to serve and protect. One of them had even stabbed him, tried to kill him, for no other reason than him trying to encourage an organized evacuation rather than every person fighting for themselves.

  Now, here he was. His town had died almost two days ago, but he had grown a new family in the process. They’d saved him from the certain death of a gut wound, and he hadn’t yet had the heart to tell them that he didn’t necessarily want saving. He was happy to lay in the street of the only home he’d ever known and expire, dying with the only family he had left.

  But maybe now he had a new purpose. A new goal in life, a goal that still required serving and protecting, just on a much smaller scale.

  He felt the wind shift over the plains, and for a moment caught the brief smell of spent gasoline, exhaust, and…something else. What was it?

  The moon glared down on him, peeking out from converged clouds, its bright, monotone eye hovering above his place on this Earth, his temporary place on this rock, and more so than ever before, the rock itself felt very temporary as well. Forty-eight hours after nuclear detonation and the world was already on the precipice of a deep and violent spiral towards the bottom. He thought it had felt like they’d made a couple swirls down the drain already. He’d thought civilization had been so much stronger than that, and American civilization especially. They’d survived countless punches in the jaw, only to come back bigger and stronger than ever before, muscles coiled and ready to punch back.

  This punch had been different. This had been a body blow, taking the wind out of their lungs, buckling their knees, and bringing them to the brink of knockout. Time would tell if they would recover from this haymaker, but as things went on, Greer became more and more doubtful that they would or even could. This body blow had struck so hard it had broken their spine and shattered their infrastructure. The foundation upon which the whole country had built its entire lifestyle was shattered, possibly beyond repair.

  He smelled it again, and it halted his thinking. He recognized that smell. It was something familiar.

  It came to him. It was something that he’d used countless times himself, sitting alone in the sheriff’s office after closing time, his Glock 17 stripped on the desk, cleaning the weapon and lubricating it.

  Gun oil. He’d recognize that smell anywhere—

  “Don’t move, old man.”

  The thick stub of a gun barrel rammed into the small of his back, taking his breath out of his lungs and freezing his limbs into stoic, immobile statuary. He felt a hand move to the holster on his hip, unbuckle it, and slide out the Glock, removing it in a few swift, well-trained motions.

  “Who the devil are you and what are you doing at my house?”

  Ah, thought Greer. Here we are.

  He raised his hands. “Take it easy, friend,” he said softly.

  “I don’t know where you come from, but where I come from, friends don’t invade each other’s homes.”

  “I get it,” Greer replied. “I know, and I’m sorry. We’re just a simple family. A bit desperate, but just a family.”

  “We’re all a bit desperate. Doesn’t give you the right to break down my door and set up shop where I live. Last I heard we still operate under some kind of law and order, don’t we?”

  “Lord I thought so,” Greer replied. “I’m honestly not so sure now.”

  “Go inside,” the man growled, pushing Greer with the muzzle of the weapon. Clancy nodded and walked forward, climbing the stairs and pulling open the storm door.

  “Clancy?” Rhonda asked as Greer entered. “You forget something—?”

  Greer stumbled into the living room, shoved ahead by the man with the weapon, who stepped in after the ex-sheriff, lifting his Sig Sauer P320 with two hands and aiming at Rhonda.

  “Yeah, he forgot to not take what doesn’t belong to him!”

  Rhonda got a good look at the man then. He wore a military combat uniform, thick pants, and a shirt with multi-cam desert camouflage. A wide tactical vest was strapped tight around his narrow torso. His face was young, Rhonda estimated around thirty-five, and his dirty blonde hair was brushed back and spikey. He had no facial hair, and his round face twisted into a crunched oval of anger and accusation. Gloves with the fingers cut off covered hands that clutched tight around the handle and the tactical grip of the nine millimeter modular pistol, and the barrel swiveled from Rhonda to Phil, to Angel, and back to Rhonda again.

  “Nobody make any drastic movements,” he said, his eyes drifting to the rows of stacked weapons on the carpet. “Just a simple family, huh?” he asked, snapping a look at Greer.

  “A family doing what it has to do to survive.”

  “Join the club,” the man replied. “I know what it’s like to do what we have to do to survive. Doesn’t mean you deserve to do it in my home.”

  “I know,” replied Rhonda. “And for making that assumption, I apologize. I truly do. We simply didn’t know what else to do.”

  “First thing you can do,” the man in camouflage said, “is pack your junk and get the hell off my property.”

  Rhonda nodded. “Fair enough,” she said and stood, walking towards the left-hand hallway.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, tracing her movements with the barrel of his pistol.

  “We’ve got kids asleep down here,” Rhonda said, gesturing towards the hallway.

  “Kids?” the man asked, his weapon lowering, just slightly.

  Rhonda moved then, more quickly than she knew she could, stepping forward and wrapping her fingers around the pistol he held in his hand. She thrust back, pushing the barrel up and towards the weak point of his grip, the pistol sliding free. Snapping it from his grip, she artfully spun the weapon around and ejected the magazine, gracefully catching it in her free hand.

  “We aren’t thieves,” Rhonda said, her eyes focused on the ot
her man’s. “We’re desperate and just need a place to stay. We’ll be gone in the morning.”

  The man glared at her.

  Rhonda nodded. “And we’re not lying. There are kids here. Three of them. Two are ours, one belongs to friends. We’re trying to get him home to his parents.”

  His narrow eyes fixed on Rhonda, trying to decipher her words and verify their authenticity. “Show me,” he said, knowing he had no power to make her. Rhonda nodded and walked with the man just behind her, the empty pistol clutched tightly in her hand as she led him over the soft carpeted floor. Rhonda stopped by the first door on the left and nodded towards it as the young man came up next to her. With a twitch of his wrist he sparked a tactical flashlight which he’d pulled from a pouch at his hip, shining a pale white light into the room.

  Winnie rolled over in bed, cloaked in illumination, bringing her hand up over her eyes. “Come on, mom, what are you doing—?”

  “Sorry, honey,” Rhonda replied. “Go back to bed, just checking on you.”

  She and the man pulled back and as he turned to walk back down the hallway, he killed the light.

  “Convinced?” Rhonda asked, handing the pistol back to the newcomer, though she was sure to keep the magazine in her other hand. Phil and Greer stood in the living room and Angel was in the kitchen, all of them standing rigid and tense, braced for what might happen next.

  Rhonda walked forward and joined her husband as the newcomer stood the mouth of the hallway, looking out at the four of them. He scanned them one-by-one, working something out in his head.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “How long what?” Phil asked.

  “How long do you need a place?”

  “Just one night,” said Rhonda. “We’re trying to get to St. Louis, then Chicago. We have no need to stick around.”

  “All right,” he said after a few more moments of silence. “I’m not a jerk. You can stay the night. One night.”

  “Thank you,” Rhonda said. “Really.”

  “I’m only doing it for the kids,” the man barked. “I’ve had my fill of adults in this new world.”

  The man turned and walked into the living room towards the rows of weapons, then halted, his eyes darting.

  “Seriously? You drank the beer?”

  Rhonda made an apologetic scowl and glanced over at Phil, who glanced back. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that.”

  The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Could be worse, I suppose.” He walked over towards the entertainment center and leaned his weapon against it. “Nice arsenal,” he said, glancing at the weapons.

  “We do all right for ourselves,” Greer replied.

  “So talk to me,” the man said, turning towards them and crossing his arms. “Names, where you come from. What’s in St. Louis and Chicago?”

  Both Rhonda and Phil returned to their couch while Greer held out his hand. The man seemed to realize what he was after and slipped the pistol from his belt and returned it to who he’d taken it from.

  “Rhonda and Phil Fraser,” Phil said. “Winnie and Max are our kids. Brad doesn’t belong to us, but he’s a friend of our son and was with us when things went south.”

  “Clancy Greer,” said the ex-sheriff. “I was the law in Brisbee, Colorado until the bomb went off in Utah and my town lost their minds. The Frasers pulled my fat outta the fire just in the nick of time.”

  “Were you a sheriff or something?” the man asked. “Like actual law enforcement?”

  Greer nodded.

  “Okay. That’s a small point in your favor. My name’s Jeremiah,” said the man in desert camouflage. “Jeremiah Schroeder. Ex-military, combat engineer, served in Afghanistan and Somalia. I know how to blow stuff up.”

  Rhonda nodded towards the framed pictures on the entertainment center. “Who are the woman and the child?” she asked.

  Jeremiah’s face shifted, and he drew a long, slow breath. “My wife and son. During my last duty…she decided she didn’t want to be here when I got back. Took my boy.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Phil.

  “Where are they now?” Rhonda asked.

  “Actually, I’m not sure. Her parents live in Napa, California. I know a lot of crap went down over there, but I never heard of anything happening in Napa. But I haven’t been able to get through on the phone.”

  Greer shook his head. “Sorry, brother,” he said. “That’s rough.”

  “Life is rough.”

  “This stuff in California has thrown everything into chaos,” Greer said.

  Jeremiah scoffed. “Life was screwed before then, man. That’s just the foul icing on a crap cake. I’m hoping they’re all right, but at the same time, I don’t know if Marti even cares enough to let me know.”

  They all sat in silence. Phil leaned forward and retrieved the beer bottle from the coffee table. “I barely drank out of it, Jeremiah, go ahead.”

  “Call me Jerry,” he replied, leaning forward and retrieving the dark brown bottle. He tipped it back. As he drank, his eyes flashed towards the kitchen and he narrowed his gaze.

  “What about you?” he asked, lowering his bottle and looking at Angel. “What’s your story?”

  Angel looked uneasy. “My name’s Angel,” he said. “Got stuck in a nasty situation, these nice people pulled me out. Not much more to it than that.”

  Greer looked at him sideways but kept his mouth shut.

  “Fair enough,” Jerry said. “I think being ‘stuck in a nasty situation’ pretty much covers all of us, eh?”

  Angel nodded and smiled.

  “So you guys are heading east?” he asked, looking back to Rhonda and Phil.

  “That’s the plan,” Rhonda replied.

  “Be careful with that,” he said quietly, his voice sharpening to an edge.

  Rhonda leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “Why do you say that?”

  Jerry drank again. “Lots of scared people out there. Some local gangs have collected…taking the law into their own hands. Makeshift border patrols. I’ve had a few run-ins with them. They’re enough to make you wanna be a hermit.”

  “Border patrols? Last I knew American citizens were welcome to cross state lines.”

  “That was last week,” Jerry replied. “A lot has changed since then.”

  “So what’s the point of these patrols?” Greer asked.

  “People are worried that folks fleeing the west will overrun the east. Population explosion, draining resources, end up putting the east in the same position the west is in. They want to keep the west’s problems in the west.”

  “Well, that’s neighborly of them,” Rhonda said, then took another sip of beer herself.

  “I can see their point,” Jerry said. “Sometimes it’s better to cut off the decaying limb so the entire body can survive. Besides, trust is a valuable commodity and ain’t none of us real rich in that, especially not now.”

  “That’s a pretty harsh way of looking at it,” Phil said.

  “Hey, I’m not the one who made things harsh. You can thank North Korea for that one.”

  “Is that what they’re saying now? We’ve been a bit cut off from the news,” Rhonda said.

  Jerry nodded. “Yeah, that’s the working theory.”

  “So when’s the counter-strike?” Greer asked. Angel stood in the kitchen watching the exchange but kept his own nose out of it.

  Jerry shrugged. “I still know my fair share of guys in the Army, but there haven’t exactly been clear lines of communication these days.”

  “For all we know, it might have already happened,” Phil said, looking at Rhonda. “East Asia might be in flames as we talk here now.”

  “Would that be a bad thing?” Jerry asked.

  Rhonda closed her eyes and shook her head. The whole thing was too horrifying to think about. How many more would have to die before this was all said and done?

  They all sat in silence at this statement, wondering the same thing as Rhonda.

  G
reer slipped his pistol into his holster. “Well, I still have a couple of hours on my watch shift. I’m going to go finish it up.”

  “Watch shift?” Jerry asked.

  “Long story,” Rhonda replied. “We ruffled a few feathers in Brisbee when we left. We haven’t run into any trouble since, but we’re trying to be over-cautious.”

  “So you’re telling me I should be rethinking this whole letting you stay in my home thing?”

  “Your call,” Rhonda replied, shrugging. “But if you kick us out, I’m not buying you any more beer.”

  Jerry laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough, I suppose. Though I’m telling you all right now, you don’t need to thank me. I’m letting you stay for the kids, not for you. Like I said, trust is something you have to earn, and stealing my house, then stealing my pistol aren’t great steps in that direction. I think I’ll be staying awake right here for the night. Do whatever you want to do about watch shifts.”

  “Whatever pulls your trigger,” Rhonda replied, trying to conceal her irritation. Would she have felt any differently if the situation was taking place in her living room? She doubted it. It was tough to blame him.

  Greer shrugged and walked down the stairs to take his spot in the front yard, one man protecting them against the world.

  Chapter 6

  The empty bottle sat on the edge of the coffee table, less than a foot away from the bent knee of Jeremiah. He sat back on the couch, his eyes low and fluttering, the M4 semi-automatic laid sideways across his lap. His chest rose steady up and down underneath the padded tactical vest, his clean shaven chin lowered down close to his chest. Rhonda’s eyes were thick and stinging with much needed sleep, but she kept herself awake, watching the battery powered clock on the off-white wall of the living room above the passage to the kitchen. Sitting on a kitchen chair was Angel Menendez, hunched over, head rested on his bent arms on the table. His back rose as Jerry’s chest did, breathing low and even in the near silence of the small trailer.

  Rhonda knew she had to wake Phil and tell him to take over. Greer had been out in the front yard for just over two hours and it was time for the next shift, so she pushed herself up from the chair with both hands, her legs and back straining with the effort. Her whole body was stiff and sore with stress and muscle exhaustion, the wear and tear of riding ATVs for most of the day taking its toll. All she wanted to do was sleep.