Dark Days of the After (Book 3): Dark Days of the Apostasy

by Schow, Ryan

  Moving the bodies out of the way, he eased open the gym’s door, snuck a quick look inside. There was a hostage situation forming. His brother was walking toward the center of the basketball court with his gun at his side. He was at the mercy of a pack of Chicom gunmen. They all were. Worse still, there were dead people everywhere.

  Flashes of his time in the sand sparked old memories. He shoved them back in their corner, reminded himself that this was a different time, a different place. And he couldn’t focus on the casualties as much as he had to save as many of them as he could, starting with Boone.

  He quietly shut the gymnasium door, then broke into a sprint, racing down the hallway in spite of the ungodly pain now infecting him.

  He slowed for the corners, checked them, found the other side of the building wasn’t empty. There were two more Chicoms, both coming through the front doors.

  How many of them are there?

  The way they were moving, it was clear they saw their dead buddies outside. Outside, two more Jeeps pulled in. Yeah, things were about to get real.

  Moving with stealth rather than speed, he closed in on the two men heading down the hall, stuck one in the kidney, slashed the other’s throat, then spun the blade in his hand and punched a hole in the throat of the guy with the ventilated kidney.

  Wasting no time, he moved on, ducking the instant he heard gunfire erupting behind him. He spun and dropped down, saw the guy with the trenched throat taking a dying shot at him. The Chicom menace couldn’t hold up his arm anymore. The gun flopped down on the ground, the man using up his final seconds of life. Clay continued on, rounded the next corner, saw there was no one at the entrance. Fortunately the gunfire coming from inside had ceased.

  If he was lucky, it meant his brother was still alive. Worst case, though…he was dead. The moment he got to the gymnasium door, he sheathed the knife, tucked in his shirt to make the spare magazines accessible, then grabbed the confiscated Chicom gun, took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The first three men in front of him got the left handed special—sloppy shots and Chicom bullets. These shots hit ribs, guts and faces with little precision.

  It was the right handed shooting that mattered most.

  A man in the center of the basketball court was pulling Boone into him to use as a shield. Clay sunk a round in his forehead, then ducked down quick as the remaining men fired on him.

  He finished the job right handed, emptying out the mag, but needing the spare rounds of the Chicom lefty.

  There was one man left and Clay had him clean. He pulled the trigger first…missing him. Mostly. He took off the man’s ear, but not before the Chicom could get off a shot. The shot, however, went wide. Clay was out of ammo.

  The other shooter was not.

  The next bullet crashed through his head, snapping it back, his body falling lifelessly to the floor. A thick pool of blood began to form around him, evidence to everyone else that he was gone, dead, done the second the bullet tore through brain matter and exploded out the other side.

  Clay looked behind him, then down.

  There was a woman laid out on the floor beside him, half sitting up, a bloom of red just above her left breast. She was pretty, but in a plain way, not a Hollywood starlet, but not homely either.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Stephani.”

  “I’m Clay,” he said, moving close to her. This woman just saved his life. “Lay back and let me see what’s what.”

  “I thought I was dead,” she said. “Still don’t feel too good.”

  “You’ve been shot.”

  “Thanks for the 411, Scarface,” she said with a pained grin. He stared down at her, read her words, matched them to her expression and started to smile. He was about to say something cute when she said, “Where’ve you been all my life?”

  Now he didn’t know what to say.

  Actually, she said it for him.

  “Don’t mind me,” she muttered, laying her head back down as others rushed over to her, “I’m always awkward when you first meet me.”

  Clay looked up at Boone, who was glad to see him, staved off the niceties and said, “We need to clear the front. There’s two, maybe three more Jeeps out there. And this woman needs a doctor.”

  Turning to a pretty woman and her friend, a guy who looked like he’d been through it but could take plenty more—judging by the steely, pissed off look in his eyes—Boone said, “Harper, find Rosemary Quinn. She’s the resident doctor. She’ll be behind the bleachers helping anyone wounded. We need to see about Stephani.”

  “Who is he?” Stephani said, looking at Boone, her eyelids heavy, her voice slurring.

  “That’s Clay. He’s my big brother.”

  “Figures,” she said just before passing out completely.

  “Your doctor is named Quinn?” Clay asked. Boone nodded. “Like Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?”

  Everyone sort of frowned at him.

  He shook his head.

  Overseas in Afghanistan, when the real news was replaced with state sponsored news, the troops opted for re-runs over propaganda, and one of the few shows they could watch was Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

  “You said you saw more outside?” Boone asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. Clay changed mags in Boone’s gun then handed it over. “That saved your life and mine.”

  “I gathered as much,” he said, taking his weapon. The two of them grabbed what guns and magazines they could from the dead men.

  “Ready?” Clay asked.

  “I’m coming with you,” a voice said. Clay turned and saw the guy with the girl Boone had called Harper.

  “You armed?” Clay asked. He nodded. “Good shot?”

  “Relatively. I’m better hand to hand.”

  “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Clay said, “because I’m slightly off my fight game and better off with a gun right now.”

  “This is Logan, by the way,” Boone said. “And I’m good with both, a gun or hand to hand.”

  “Of course you are,” Clay grinned. “You’re still fresh out of the wrapper.”

  Boone took the compliment as intended, then smiled at his brother and said, “If I die now, it’ll be okay because I got to see you again.”

  “Don’t get sentimental on me now, little brother,” Clay said, his head still in the op. “We’ve got plenty more lives to take.”

  The second they left the gym, they walked into live fire. Boone and Clay opened up on the men, with Logan going wide and firing as well. The four Chicoms went down fast; neither Boone, Logan nor Clay were shot.

  “We dumped way too much lead into those men,” Logan said.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Clay replied. “Boone, you’re point man, I’ll take the rear and street fighter here will be the meat in this man sandwich.”

  Logan started laughing, then winced for a second and held his side. “That was a good one,” he said.

  Clay liked him already.

  When they cleared the dead men, Boone lifted a fist, checked the corner, then proceeded around it. Logan followed, Clay keeping an eye on their six.

  “Did you shit your pants?” Clay asked, leaning forward to whisper in Logan’s ear.

  “Not yet,” he whispered back, “but there’s still time and circumstance.”

  “So why are you walking funny?” Clay asked.

  “My feet are torn up. Blisters, lost skin, all that,” he responded. “I’ll be fine.”

  Clay thought about his own sore feet, then realized Logan might be as bad off as him. “I got bad feet, too,” he said.

  “You been shot recently?” Logan asked over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, blown up, too.”

  “That explains your face,” he said. “You got me on marks. I’ve been shot as well, but not blown up.”

  “It’s less fun than you think,” he said.

  “Zip it you two,” Boone said. Clay moved around Logan, joined Boone. His little br
other said, “Jeeps out front, no movement that I can see.”

  “Roger that,” Clay said. “Let’s check it out.”

  Out front, they went through the Jeeps, but found no more men. The threat neutralized for now, the three of them convened, eyes on the sides of the buildings and checking in the woods, just in case.

  “This isn’t good,” Boone said. “Not at all.”

  “Tell me about it,” Clay said.

  “You want to keep an eye on things here, Logan?” Boone asked. “Clay and I need to make a quick trip, but we’ll need men on guns out front in case more of these cockroaches show up.”

  “I’m good,” Logan said, confident. “You coming back anytime soon?”

  “Yeah,” Boone said. “Clay and I are hopefully going to get backup. Then I’ve got a thing or two to say to the survivors.”

  Logan nodded, then headed back to the school, walking gingerly.

  “You sure you didn’t shit yourself?” Clay called out.

  Instead of answering, Logan pushed out his butt and exaggerated his walk so it looked like he had indeed soiled himself, but then he turned and flipped Clay off. Clay blew him a kiss, then said to Boone, “Yeah, he’s alright.”

  “There’s a lot of good people here, but I think there’s a dozen less than earlier. This isn’t a joke, Clay. People were killed back there. Almost me.”

  “I know it’s not a joke.”

  “So stop playing grab ass with the help and nut up,” he said, changing his tune. “We’re in the shit here and this is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “This is nothing,” Clay chuckled. “You’ve just never been to a real war before.”

  “Well, it’s about to be something, and I’m about to be in a real war, because the body count in this town is mounting, and the Chicom knuckle draggers are bound to take notice.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see a prophet,” Boone said. When Clay raised an eyebrow, he said, “Don’t get all reverent on me, this guy’s a self-righteous turd.”

  “Then why are we going to see him?” he asked as they climbed in one of the Jeeps.

  “Because he’s a great shot and seems at home in a skirmish.”

  “He’s a vet?” Clay asked.

  “Good guess.”

  “Okay,” Clay said, patting the dash. “Let’s go then.”

  Chapter Nine

  Boone and Clay got up in the hills to Noah’s place ten minutes later. The old man met them out front with a long gun equipped with a scope.

  It was obvious he wasn’t expecting company. He was standing in his tighty-whites with pulled up black socks, brown leather shoes and an old yellow t-shirt that said, “OF COURSE I TALK TO MYSELF. I SOMETIMES NEED EXPERT ADVICE.”

  “What the balls is this?” Clay muttered under his breath.

  “This is Noah. He’s a bit eccentric.”

  “You said he was a prophet.”

  “Noah.”

  Clay snorted out a laugh.

  The second Boone waved out the window, Noah lowered the rifle and sat back down in his chair. Chilling in the ashtray was a fat Cuban cigar, tendrils of smoke curling into the fresh afternoon air. Noah picked it back up, drew from it deeply, then blew out the smoke.

  “He looks like an old prick,” Clay said.

  “I see you’re still reading people right,” Boone responded.

  When they got out of the Jeep, Noah said, “I almost killed you two jokers.”

  “I trust you to be a better judge of character than that,” Boone said. “Where are your pants?”

  “Drying on the wire out back,” he said. “You guys have a blood fight? ‘Cause it’s all over you.”

  “We ran into the bad end of a bad situation,” Boone said.

  Looking at Clay, Noah made a line down his face with his finger, the same line Clay’s scar made down his own face, and said, “Looks like you’ve been through it, boy.”

  Clay nodded.

  “You Army, or Marines?”

  “Marines,” he said.

  “Never did like you jarheads,” Noah said, looking at him like the air smelled a little farty.

  “You Army?” Clay asked.

  The old guy nodded, took another draw on the cigar, squinting his eyes to keep the smoke out of them, then said, “We were almost friends.”

  “Almost,” Clay said.

  “How are your ears?” Boone asked.

  “Long and floppy, and growing bigger by the day. As for hearing? They’re alright, not what they used to be.”

  “I’ll bet,” Boone said.

  “Can’t really hear the highs,” he said, “but I get the lows just fine.”

  “So you haven’t heard the ruckus down the hill?”

  He shook his head, still chewing on the cigar. “Anything like the ruckus two days ago?”

  “Chicoms just shot up the school. We were meeting to discuss security and long term survival strategy. Deputy Don is dead, along with a dozen of ours. It’s a freaking blood bath down there.”

  He set his cigar back in the ashtray, took a long contemplative breath, then said, “Well isn’t that something.”

  “It is,” Clay said.

  “Wasn’t talking to you, Jarhead.”

  Clay took a breath of his own, looked everywhere but at the old man. Back in the desert, he’d put someone down for talking like that.

  “What’s with the put-back-together face?” Noah pressed.

  “He survived an IED attack,” Boone said.

  “I can talk for myself.”

  “That’s something, too,” Noah said. “Your pecker still work?”

  “I haven’t tried it but to piss,” he said, his jaw flicking.

  “Well I got some pills if you need them. Fills you full of lead for a bit, in case you got a lady friend who wants what you’ve got.”

  Boone laughed. Clay’s guard dropped instantly, his ill-timed, barnyard humor breaking the ice. He let himself laugh, too. Then: “Are we becoming friends?”

  “Maybe,” Noah grinned. “That or I’m getting old.”

  “It’s not that,” Boone said.

  “I didn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings no more,” Noah explained, looking not at Clay but at his brother. “Rather git’m a pill than a tampon.”

  “You keep tampons here?” Clay asked.

  “Good for bullet holes,” Noah replied.

  Clay had to smile. This guy was a man’s man through and through.

  He’d written Five Falls off the map when he went overseas to war, never expecting to come back. Not after his dad died, and certainly not after his mother died. But now he was back and it wasn’t like he remembered. It’s amazing at how much you can miss looking at things through the eyes of a child. Then again, he still didn’t know where the happiness of youth had gone.

  “My brother says you’re a good shot,” Clay said.

  “I can circumcise a cat from a thousand yards,” Noah said, picking up his cigar again. “But that was back in the day. Not even close now. Maybe only nine-hundred fifty yards out. Nine-sixty at best.”

  He said this never once taking his eyes off Clay. And who said Army and Marines couldn’t get along?

  “Whenever you’re done blow-jobbing that cancer stick,” Clay said, “we’ve got issues that need dealing with.”

  “Right to the point, isn’t he?” Noah asked Boone.

  “We come from a no nonsense family, I’m afraid,” Boone explained. “But he’s right. People are dying down there. They’re dead actually.”

  “This is your problem, son, not mine,” the old guy said. “I just want my peace and quiet.”

  “You need something to do,” Clay said. “Something besides sitting around in your underwear proving Sigmund Freud right.”

  “He’s talking about the phallic symbol,” Noah said, holding out the cigar for Boone to see.

  “I know what he meant,” Boone replied, a little tension in his voice. “He’s right though. You need so
mething to do other than sit up here in your panties sucking on that steamy Columbian dick.”

  “I’m doing something right now, girls,” he barked. “You see me in my underwear? You see me scratching my nuts? This is my happy place. Not down there. Here.”

  “If you want to sit up on your wrinkly white ass and do nothing,” Boone said, dangerously close to losing his temper on account of the stress of what just happened, “be my guest. But one day you’re going to need your community and they won’t be there for you because you’ve been up here, by yourself, getting crankier by the day.”

  “You know this thing’s only getting started,” Noah said, getting up and stretching his lower back, cigar still in his mouth, his eyes still squinting from the smoke.

  “That’s what we came here to tell you,” Clay said. “Now quit running that mouth of yours and do something. Or close out your life, alone, doing nothing, mattering to no one. Just make a damn decision already.”

  He looked at Clay a long time, neither man backing down, neither blinking. Finally Noah took a breath and said, “Let me get my good shoes and a gun, then we’ll head out.” He wandered into the house like it was nothing. From inside, the old man said, “You giving me a ride back, Boone? Or should I get the keys to the truck?”

  “I’ll give you a ride back.”

  “Where’s that other friend of yours?” he called out.

  “You know his name, quit pretending you don’t,” Boone said, referring to Otto. “He’s probably sleeping one off if he missed all the gunfire from earlier. And if not, he’s probably making explosives. After what happened two days ago, he’s doing what everyone else is doing.”

  “And what’s that?” Noah asked, waltzing out the front door, ready to go.

  “Preparing for war.”

  They all piled into the Jeep, Clay crawling in back, even though contorting the way he did made everything hurt.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Noah said.

  “My father taught us to respect our elders. Since you’re about five hundred years older than me, I thought I’d do you a solid.”

  Noah laughed, then hitched thumb Clay’s way and said to Boone, “I wish you had his personality.”

  “I wish you had some mouthwash,” Boone said. Turning around, like something set him off, Boone said, “He’s in back. I’m not sitting up here smelling his breath all the way to town.”