Dark Days of the After (Prequel): The Last Light of Day

by Schow, Ryan

“I know, man. Why are you calling me?”

  “I’m going to send you a string of code with access points and my login. I need you to get it to Tristan. I need him to tell me everything he knows about Blue Lark.”

  “That’s easy enough,” Han said. “Blue Lark is the key to the Resistance. We’re all looking for her.”

  “How do you know this?” Logan asked.

  “Who do you think spies on the snitches?” he whispered. This was news to Logan. He had assumed Han was watching other programmers, not other snitches.

  “Good God, Han,” he said, his face going cold in the dark. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Needed to see if you were legit, first.”

  “I am.”

  “Good, send me the five minute bookends. Embed it and send it to this address.”

  Logan’s cell phone pinged. He looked at it, saw what Han had sent. At first mention of Han’s real job, his already thundering heart found a new gear. Then again, if Han was overseeing him, then he would also make sure he wasn’t caught. Still, the risks were otherworldly. This was Skylar he was talking about, he was sure of it.

  Was she Blue Lark? Was Skylar the key to the Resistance? He traced back to his memories of her. Went through them like a catalogue. A cold sweat broke over him, leaving him feeling nauseous. Could it be he’d been living with the head of the Resistance these last two months?

  Within an hour, Logan received a secure text from Tristan. He ran it through his own encryption program, then read what Han had sent.

  HAN: BlueLark is concerned. New message from the Tick. Be ready to bug out.

  That’s it? That’s all Tristan was able to ferret out? He looked up at Harper again, studied her.

  Blue Lark.

  Harper was breaking for lunch, so he was breaking for lunch, too. He texted Han who texted back saying he was starving.

  He and Han went to lunch. They followed Harper, ate a few tables away from her, then dumped their trash and made their way back to work. A few blocks away, two Chinese patrol units roared through traffic, skidded to a stop in front of a building. Four men emptied out of the Land Rover inspired jeeps—the Beijing BJ212s. Three of these paramilitary looking police remained street side while the fourth rushed inside, weapon drawn.

  “What the hell?” Han asked.

  Everyone slowed their walk, went on high alert.

  Moments later, on the second floor of the building, a window blew out, a puff of smoke billowing out into the drab afternoon sky. Had someone set off a grenade? Another explosion shook the building—a gas line perhaps. More debris rained down on a procession of people below. Everyone was screaming now, scattering and covering their hands as they bumped into each other trying to flee. Then a woman came flying out of the window, her body on fire. She hit the ground with a dull thud and a splat. She just laid there burning.

  One of the officers below walked up and pumped three shots into her body. The fiery inferno bucked with each shot.

  “This is what happens to traitors!” the officer screamed to the onlookers.

  It made him sick how they were always looking to prove a point. It worked, though. Looking around, everyone was cowering in fear. A second policeman hurried into the building, presumably to check on his partner, or perhaps help.

  “Don’t look at them,” Han whispered.

  No one moved because they did not know how any of their gestures would be received. Paralysis seemed the best bet. He could see in everyone’s eyes how fear had them in a chokehold, how their silent prayers were floating from their minds to God’s ears. He prayed along with them to not be next.

  A few moments later, five dissidents were perp-walked outside of the building at gun point and lined up along the building’s brick wall. The second police officer walked three more men out. They joined the five to make a total of eight traitors.

  Four soldiers stood there for three seconds before two of them rattled the eight bodies with two mags full of lead.

  As he stood there, Logan shook, but he also thought about the message. Before the Chicoms—the Chinese Communists—rose up in California and killed Beau Douglas—a man Han claimed was the first dissident, a member of the Resistance—Beau was able to get a message out.

  Han had been watching Beau Douglas for two weeks by then. He failed the state, according to their last supervisor. He was beaten severely for not catching the treason sooner, which was why he needed someone to talk to, a confidant. Logan happened to be that person. Han told him what the message said. At first, Logan was disgusted with Douglas’s message, but then he became obsessed with it.

  Beau Douglas had written, “You think the apocalypse is going to be a world of zombies and starvation, the heart of a nation roasted to a hard cinder? It won’t be. It will be a lot worse. Long after the embers of our dead world blink out, the remembrance of freedom will live in our hearts, torturing us with what once was, what will never again be. That will be worse than any hell you or I can imagine. We must not let that happen. Get out of the city when it’s right, then burrow back in and kill them. Kill every last one of them. Even if it means your life and the lives of those you cherish most.”

  That’s what Logan was thinking when a second bomb went off in the building across the street, showering everyone with hot stone and smoke. He went down hard, the blanket of destruction rolling over him. He managed to get his hand to his mouth to keep the powdered debris out of his lungs.

  “Han!” he screamed through his hand and the chaos.

  He crawled a few feet to a body curled up on the asphalt. It was Han. Half his friend’s head had been cleaved off, a huge chunk of stone nearby, the edges red and meaty. Logan scooted away, was stepped on by someone stumbling through the choking haze. He wasn’t sure where he was, how badly it was, but his ears were ringing, maybe even bleeding.

  Slowly he fanned a hand at the choking air in front of him, trying to clear the boiling clouds of smoke and dust from his eyes. He had to get out of this mess! Turning over painfully, his lungs punched to death in his chest and feeling oh so small, he covered his face with his shirt and hoped he was heading in the right direction.

  He staggered sideways, bumped into people and walls, rolled an ankle over a chunk of…something. With red and watery eyes, he saw a thinning of haze and headed there. Coughing now, his throat coated with the dust, he pushed through the clouds of powdered brick and mortar into a clearing.

  That’s when he saw movement.

  Harper Whitaker.

  She was heading in the direction of the first explosion, her arm covering her face, something in her hand. He followed her, tried calling her name. Tears leaked furiously from his eyes, and when he tried to speak he only ended up hacking instead.

  Going after her, tripping over another dead body, he caught himself, then looked down and saw a leg. It wasn’t attached to a torso.

  Glancing up, tracking Harper through the grayish-brown murk, he realized he was having a hard time walking straight because the high-pitched ringing in his ears had upset his equilibrium. Fortunately the piercing noise began to fade, giving him enough of his hearing to make out the distant sounds of screaming, and sobbing.

  Up ahead, Harper was bent over one of the four offending soldiers with a knife in her hand. Logan stopped and watched her drag the blade across the Chicom’s throat. It wasn’t a slick movement like you used to see in the movies. She really put her all into it, moving through the tendons and muscle in a grueling, sawing motion.

  When she was done, the fallen policeman tried to get to his hands and knees, then to his feet. The pursuit was morbidly unsuccessful. He reached for Harper with a blood-soaked hand. Gore was water-falling out of his neck by then and he knew this. She kept her distance, watching him die, making sure he saw who did it.

  The man lurched one last time. Harper backed up. She was going to get herself killed! But then he fell back down, the last few spouts of blood pumping out onto the dirty asphalt where it mixed with the powdered dus
t. By the time he sunk face-first into the asphalt, the blonde was tracking down the other men.

  He followed her, but at a distance.

  One policeman looked dead when Harper rolled him over. Still, she thrust the knife into him three times before moving to the next man. When she knelt down before the third man—who was moving slowly, as if dazed or in an incredible amount of pain—she sawed his neck open, going from ear to ear before letting up.

  She didn’t see the fourth man, however. He was lifting his gun.

  With everything in him, Logan broke into a hobbled run, then dove awkwardly onto the man. He hit the body hard, and the gun went off. It was a muffled sound against the ringing in his ear, not loud enough to do further damage.

  Logan recovered first, wrestling the gun away. He then spun his body over and beat the man into a stupor with the butt of his own gun. Exhausted, hurting, he crawled off the man, then sat down and looked at his bloody hands. He looked up and saw Harper. She was standing over the top of him.

  “He’s not dead yet,” she said, nonchalantly in spite of her dusty appearance.

  “Does he need to be?” he asked.

  “Did you even try to shoot him?” she asked.

  He shook his head, no.

  “Are there any rounds in that thing? It’s not empty, is it?” she asked. The man before them was gulping in air, gagging, blood boiling in the back of his throat. Finally she said, “Put him out of our misery already.”

  Logan never shot anyone before. But this very average woman he’d never formally met and had been spying on for weeks now was standing over him telling him to kill one of their oppressors. He would never get this opportunity again. There was something enticing in the idea of it, something exhilarating. Was this what it felt like to finally get revenge?

  He needed to know.

  Turning the gun in his hand, he aimed the barrel at the man’s face and squeezed the trigger. He didn’t think much before doing it, and he didn’t lament his choice after the fact. The dead man’s head bucked, kicking up a spit of red in response to the bark of the pistol.

  Logan stared at him, let the gun fall to his side.

  Harper extended a hand and said, “Let’s go before all the smoke clears. Right now we have cover, but that won’t last long.”

  He took her hand. She lifted him with a surprising amount of strength, and they ducked into the chaos of the crowds, avoiding the dead, the dying and those stumbling around looking for their friends, or what was left of them.

  When they were clear of the scene, Harper looked at him and smiled. She had blood spatter across her face and shirt, which made him wonder if he did, too.

  “You didn’t hesitate,” she said.

  “We work for those people,” he replied before catching himself.

  “No, we bend a knee to them. It’s different. You know that, otherwise you wouldn’t have beaten him, and then shot him.”

  “I’m Logan Cahill.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “How?”

  “I’m Harper,” she said, formally extending a hand.

  “Whitaker,” he replied, taking it. “I’m your snitch.”

  The light left her eyes, her expression darkening. “Why did you tell me this?”

  “I know about Blue Lark.”

  She pulled her hand out of his, suddenly looking nervous. He didn’t know what he was going to do about her. Looking around, she crossed her arms. “Again, why are you telling me this?”

  “I told you, because of Blue Lark.”

  She gave a cold laugh, her eyes going dead. “You think you know what’s going on, don’t you?”

  He swallowed hard, tasted smoke, then turned and spit. His mouth was so dry, his tongue felt like it had been wiped clean with a dirty towel.

  “What is going on?” he asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “You’re Resistance. When I report you tomorrow, they’re going to come to your desk and put a bullet in your head.”

  “They’re going to last Chance me.”

  “Yes.”

  “So don’t report me.”

  “I have to otherwise I’ll be Last Chanced, too.”

  She drew a deep breath, inhaled too much dust then started coughing. When she was done, she straightened her dirty, ruined clothes, then slapped him across the face so hard, his entire brain rattled. He wobbled sideways, nearly fell.

  “You idiot,” she growled, changing right before his eyes. “Do you realize what that would mean?”

  He held his face, looked at her in disbelief.

  “Go talk to Skylar.”

  “You know Skylar?” he asked. Of course, she did.

  “Why do you think I’m here in the first place?” she stammered.

  Chapter Four

  Understanding was setting in. Slowly but surely, it was all making sense, like pieces of a puzzle finally coming together. When Harper turned and walked off, Logan merely stood there, taking it all in.

  Who is Skylar Madigan?

  Ten minutes later, while he was in the bathroom at work cleaning himself up as best as he could but making a mess of everything around him, his cell phone rang.

  “Hello?” he said, opening his jaw and popping his ears.

  His screen was cracked so he couldn’t see who was calling. For a second, he had the crazy idea that it was Han calling. A pang of sadness hit him at his core. He tried to stuff it away, not think about it, like if he wasn’t thinking about it, it wouldn’t be real.

  “You moron,” the familiar voice said.

  Skylar.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m buying you takeout,” she said, chewing on her molars. “You went to lunch, but I spent money getting you freaking takeout.”

  She hung up; he hung up.

  He was certain he’d have a message waiting for him when he got back to “the closet,” or more officially, his office. Takeout had to be code for a message, he assumed. That’s how she talked. Everyone knew there was no privacy anymore.

  When he got back to his office, Ms. Yeung popped her head in to tell him he could not take the rest of the day off despite the horrific circumstances.

  “But, I was blown up,” he reasoned. He had a vision of killing her. Hands around the throat, squeezing until her stupid eyes popped out of her head, all the blood vessels bursting at once. He smiled, then said, “Han is dead.”

  “Does that please you?” she asked.

  His eyes started to water and he said, “No, it’s…it’s just hitting me. I’m sorry.”

  She waved him off, making a face like she had bitten into something offensive. “You and your pampered society have had it so good. You don’t know how normal this is.”

  “Not for here, it’s not.”

  “Chaos and random acts of terrorism are merely a condition of a the old society refusing to die,” she explained. “That’s all this is. Best to get used to it.”

  Ming Yeung once called San Francisco a mortal wound. No one told her it had become that way before the occupation. No one dared tell her the Communist Chinese made it worse when they brought their military in and started punishing dissidents.

  He understood this was California’s penance for trying so hard to leave the nation. No one liked the state anymore. Well, no one but China. When they came in and assumed control, as they’d done in many other nations throughout history, the new President acted like he couldn’t care less. The federal government had its own problems, mainly the east coast occupation and a breach of the southern border. When the President cut off federal aid to California, Oregon and Washington, he might has well have said to the Chicoms, “It’s all yours.”

  “So you’re saying I can’t take the rest of the day off?” he asked Ms. Yeung.

  “Look at how smart you are,” she mused. “See? Being this smart, you are still capable of hard work. Now go. Hard work will set you free.”

  He knew what she meant. Hard work was a place to lose himself, to
rise above the horrors of this new world and its occupation.

  Like him, Harper sat down before her computer, her face a mess, her eyes dusty and blinking quickly. She went back to work, typing out so much code, dropping in bomb after bomb after bomb. He should report her, but he hated Ming Yeung so much that if Harper somehow destroyed the entire system on this Cantonese sadist’s watch, they just might last Chance her.

  No more duck tongue soup for you, he thought.

  When she was done, Harper looked at him. Rather, she looked at her computer’s camera, and then she flipped him off.

  Slowly shaking his head, his lungs aching, he let it go.

  Someone knocked on the door, causing him to stir. He turned and opened the door to Ms. Yeung. She was asking about Han.

  “I told you he was dead,” Logan said.

  “You sure?” she asked. “I thought that was a metaphor.”

  “For what?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Is he dead or not?”

  “I saw his head blasted open,” Logan barked, too rattled from the entire afternoon to want to think too much about his friend. “Even Jesus Christ couldn’t come back from that.”

  “Don’t say his name!” Ms. Yeung roared, causing him to reel.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Yeung,” he said, groveling. “It just slipped out. A holdover from the last government.”

  “Who’s blood is that?” she asked pointing at his shirt.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You ate lunch, but now you have take out?”

  He’d been expecting this. “I…I ordered before she left. Harper, I mean. I followed her to lunch thinking I could find something.”

  “What did you order?”

  “My head,” he said, touching his temples. The headache was forming fast, a result of either the blast or the smoke. “I…I can’t…some things aren’t exactly clear, Ms. Yeung.”

  She handed Logan a Styrofoam container that was heavy with cashew chicken and fried rice. Ms. Yeung left, but before disappearing, she said, “No excuses for bad production. Get me something!”

  He sat down, used a fork to push the rice aside. A small note wrapped in plastic was laying on the bottom. Logan pulled it out, wiped it off and opened it. The note read: WHATEVER YOU DID, UNDO IT.