The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel (35 page)

I stayed in the turret as Sophia climbed in the Humvee. The alarm bells in my head refused to stop ringing despite all the rationalizations I threw their way. My eyes strayed to every window, doorway, corner, and alley. There were too many to monitor all at once. A few times, I thought I caught something, a shadow of movement beyond the light. But when I looked back, I saw nothing.

Then, on the third story of a multi-use office building up the street, I saw a curtain move. The M-240 made a squeaking sound as I swiveled it and took aim. “Guys! We have company.”

My father looked at me and followed my gaze to the office building. He held a hand over his eyes to block the sun. “What is it, son? I don’t see-”

A shot rang out. High caliber, not more than fifty meters away. We all jumped. Dad and Mike ran around the near side of the vehicles and took cover behind the engine blocks. Blake didn’t move.

“Blake!” I shouted. He looked down at his chest in shocked disbelief. As I watched, a red circle expanded on his back, straight in line with his heart, and began flowing downward. There was blood spatter on the fender of the car in front of him, an impossible amount. The surprise never left his face as he fell onto his back, arms limp. He stared at the sky blankly, all the light gone out of his eyes.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” I sprayed the wall of buildings across from us indiscriminately, triggering the SAW in short bursts, aiming at every window and doorway above the ground floor. Dad popped up over the front of Blake’s Jeep and fired a grenade. It blasted the third floor of a storefront half a block up the street and reduced a car-sized section of brick wall to rubble. I was pretty sure it was the same place the shot that killed Blake had come from. I poured a dozen or so rounds into the hole just for good measure and was rewarded with a chorus of screams.

“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here!” Mike yelled. He ran for the Humvee, climbed in the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

I heard the
phump
of someone across the street triggering a grenade launcher, and had barely a second to register panic before Blake’s jeep erupted in an explosion of flame. The blast knocked me backward, my vision going white, then orange, then gray. A searing, scattered pain spread up the left side of my body from my hip all the way to my face.

There was a hollow pressure in my ears as hands gripped me and pulled me down into the Humvee. I think I was unconscious for a few moments. Then there was movement, and I remember groggily watching my father reload his grenade launcher and blast another section of storefront. Small clouds of dust erupted all around where he stood, holes appearing in the walls and concrete behind him. He ducked for cover and shouted something I couldn’t understand at Mike. The Humvee moved and stopped next to the Jeep. Sophia fired her carbine out the passenger’s side window as Mike climbed over me, grabbed the M-4 I had equipped with a grenade launcher, and plucked a couple of shells from my bandolier. I heard him stand up through the turret, launch the grenades, then take hold of the SAW and began concentrating bursts of fire at places where muzzle flashes gave away the positions of our attackers.

Dad jumped into the driver’s seat, tossed his rifle back to me, and put the Humvee in gear. I tried to catch his weapon as it flew toward me, but my hands were too slow. The barrel hit me across the mouth, and I felt my lip begin to swell. Finally, I wrapped my arms around it and was dimly aware of buildings passing us by as we sped through the streets.

Ahead of us, several cars darted from alleyways and stopped in the intersection, blocking our way. Men jumped out of them and trained weapons in our direction. Mike wasted no time suppressing them with fire from the SAW while dad gunned the accelerator.

Something snapped in my head, and just as quickly as my wits had left me, my mind cleared again. I took up my father’s rifle, loaded it with a grenade, leaned out the window, and fired at a small sedan in the middle of the road. The explosion killed one of the gunmen ahead of us and sent the rest running. Dad swerved to the far side of the roadblock, clipped a car on its front fender, revved the engine, and pushed through. Once past, he sped up and did not slow down until the low buildings of Boise City were a speck in the distance. I kept my eyes on our back trail, grenade loaded and ready to fire, but no one followed us. When we were somewhere close to twenty miles out of town, Dad brought the Humvee to a halt.

“Mike,” he said. “I need you to take over.”

The big Marine climbed down from the turret and looked to his old friend. “Why? What’s the matter?”

I leaned forward in my seat to get a better look. That was when I noticed the blood.

*****

During our time with the convoy, Mike had traded a Kimber .45 automatic and fifty rounds of ammo to a medic in exchange for five vials of morphine. We had retained a significant supply of pain meds, but nothing beats morphine, and Mike wanted a little on hand just in case.

For whatever reason, the Army had a surplus of the stuff, and in those days, it could be had on the cheap. I administered a shot to my father as Mike drove us north away from Boise City. After a few moments, the pain on his face faded and his eyes drooped. I had taken off his vest and cut way his shirt so he was bare-chested, then bandaged and packed his wounds as best I could. There was one bullet hole in his left shoulder that had missed the bone and gone straight through the thick muscle. If that had been his only injury, I would not have been worried. The old man had survived worse.

It was the three bullet holes in his abdomen that made me panic.

Dad wanted water, so I gave it to him. He drained both my canteens, then complained he was still thirsty. I had Sophia pull another canteen from Mike’s belt and gave it to him. He drained that one too. The morphine made him drowsy, but I shook him to keep him awake, worried if he fell asleep he would not wake up. I kept him talking, listened to him tell me he had seen the man who shot Blake but was too slow to stop him. Tears ran down his cheeks as his eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head. I shook him harder.

“Dad, stay awake. Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

I heard Mike turn in his seat and glanced up to see him looking over his shoulder at us. It was the first time I ever saw tears in the big man’s eyes.

That was when I realized my father was dying.

We cut left and right through a maze of back roads, farm trails, and off-road two-tracks. I couldn’t see anyone following us, but Mike didn’t take any chances. When it got to the point that no amount of jostling kept my father’s eyes open, I screamed at Mike to stop the goddamn car.

He pulled into the driveway of a farmhouse, abandoned by the look of it, the yard overgrown, weeds tall among dead crops, no vehicles in sight. When the Humvee stopped, I grabbed my father by the shoulders and began dragging him out the door. His dense musculature from a lifetime of hard training made him heavy, forcing me to strain hard to move him.

“Mike, help me!”

He got out of the car, took Dad’s legs, and helped me lower him to the ground. There was blood everywhere, all over him, me, the back seat, and now pouring out on the ground through the bandages. In the back of my mind, I knew at least one of the bullets must have struck an artery. Dad’s jaw was slack as I lifted him up and held him, trying to shake him awake.

“Dad. Dad! Wake up! You have to wake up!”

For just a moment, he came to, lifted his head, and looked me in the eye. A calloused hand touched my cheek, his dark eyes smiling one last time.

“It’s okay, Caleb. You’re gonna be all right.”

Then he went limp.

I shook him. No reaction. His eyes were open, pupils beginning to dilate despite the bright sun overhead. I laid him flat on the ground and shouted for Mike to help me start CPR. He exchanged a glance with Sophia, pushed her back a step with a gentle hand, and we went to work.

A minute passed. I worked the chest compressions while Mike breathed into Dad’s lungs. “Come on, come on, come on,” I repeated over and over again.

Sweat poured down my face, soaked my shirt, crimson droplets fell onto my father’s bloody torso. Five minutes went by. I felt Dad’s ribs crack, but kept working anyway. My breathing became labored, heart pounding in my chest. Several times Mike became light-headed and had to put his head between his knees to recover.

Several more minutes went by. The grinding in my father’s chest sounded like sticks rattling under a rubber mat. Finally, strong hands gripped me by the arms and pulled me away.

“Stop, Caleb,” Mike said, his voice hitching. “It’s over, son. He’s gone.”

I struggled against him for a moment, but it was no use. He was more than twice as strong as I was. He sat on the ground and held me in a bear hug until the kicking and screaming subsided into choking, racking sobs.

When he finally let me go, I pulled my father’s head to my chest and cried for him under the harsh, impartial glare of the Oklahoma sun.

After an indeterminate period of wailing and cursing God for taking Lauren, Dad, and Blake away from me, when I finally gathered myself enough to assess our situation, I kissed my father on his cooling forehead and asked Mike to help me search the property for a shovel. He told me I needed to sit down and let him look me over.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

He took me to the driver’s side of the Humvee and turned the mirror so I could see my face. The left side was a bloody mess, the eye swollen, my cheek and forehead lacerated in dozens of places, several pieces of shrapnel embedded in the skin. I touched one of them and felt it grind against my upper gum line. It was a miracle I had not lost an eye. Oddly, there was no pain.

“Now look here,” Mike said, pointing at my torso and left arm. They hadn’t fared much better than my face. My shirt was soaked with so much blood I couldn’t tell its original color had been desert tan.

I sat on the front porch and let Mike and Sophia cut away my clothes and tend to my wounds. They extracted the shrapnel with tweezers, and in the case of one big shard stuck in my hip, a pair of needle-nose pliers. The pain gradually began to penetrate the haze of grief and adrenaline, but I simply gritted my teeth and took it. An hour later, the metal was out of me, the wounds were cleaned, stitched, and irrigated, and I had fifteen milligrams of OxyContin in my system. The multitude of bandages on the left side of my body reminded me of a confetti-covered street after a parade. I put on fresh clothes and the three of us searched the house.

The inside was ransacked, as though whoever once lived there had packed up and left in a hurry. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a wide, spacious kitchen. The pantry was empty except for a few cans of vegetables on the floor and a burst-open sack of ant-ridden sugar. Most of the pots and pans were gone, and there were color-mismatched squares on the walls where pictures had been taken down. Others, mostly old-fashioned artist’s prints, remained. I could only assume the missing frames had contained family photos.

Funny, the things people take when they evacuate.

There was a gun cabinet in the master bedroom, but it was empty. The three beds still had sheets on them, clean except for a little dust. One of the bedrooms looked as if it belonged to a teenage boy, while the third was clearly the domain of a pre-teen girl. Lots of pink, and unicorns, and rainbows, and racks of stuffed animals.

The only part of the property that seemed undisturbed was the tool shed. It had a padlock on it, but a few swings of a crowbar solved that problem. Inside the shed, we found the usual collection of yard implements—lawn mower, weed trimmer, hedge clippers, tree pruner, etc.—and a couple of digging spades.

It took the two of us most of the afternoon to dig a grave. I used the mental exercises Mike taught me about keeping my mind clear to focus on the task at hand, losing myself in the rhythmic stab of the shovel, stomp of foot, levering of dirt, and shoulder-swing throw into an ever-growing pile. The sound of rocks and earth rasping over metal filled my existence, drowning out all other voices. When the grave was deep enough, we wrapped my father in a sheet and lowered him into it. Then we filled it in again and stood for a while mopping sweat from our faces. Dad was not a religious man, so we didn’t bother with a cross. He would not have wanted one.

During the process, Sophia expressed concern the people who attacked us in Boise City might come looking for us and maybe we should hurry up and get going. I told her to grab a pair of binoculars from the Humvee, climb to the balcony above the farmhouse’s second floor, and keep a lookout. If anyone showed up, I would shoot them, cut out their heart, and eat the fucking thing in front of them while they died.

She paled, nodded, and backed away.

*****

Night fell.

We stayed at the farmhouse. I sat on the front porch, outfitted for battle, grenade-launcher equipped carbine between my knees. Mike and Sophia went inside to eat dinner, but I declined. I had no appetite.

There was a pair of NVGs next to me. When full dark came, and the half-moon and stars were the only light to be seen, I donned them and conducted a wide patrol, circling the property, praying I saw signs of pursuers. I wanted them to come for us. I wanted to see the outline of the suppressor through my rifle’s optics, feel the stock buck against my shoulder, hear the clack of the chamber, the muted crack. I wanted to hear screams of pain as people died in the darkness. I wanted them to know they were being punished.

But no one came.

Maybe they got what they wanted from the vehicles we left behind, or maybe we killed enough of them they decided it wasn’t worth coming after us, or both. Maybe they tried, but simply could not find us. Mike had done a good job of leaving a meandering, double-backed, circuitous trail for any tracker to follow. Even with a good horse and a flashlight, I would have been hard pressed to figure it out myself. Whatever the case, as dawn crept red and gold over the eastern sky, I switched off my NVGs and headed back to the farmhouse, disappointed.

Mike and Sophia greeted me from the kitchen table and offered me breakfast. I took off my gear, sat down, and shoveled food down wordlessly. I do not remember what I ate. Minutes later, I went upstairs to one of the bedrooms, took off my boots and combat gear, and fell into a dreamless slumber.

*****

Five weeks passed.

My wounds, carefully tended to by Sophia, healed quickly. Soon, all that remained of them were fresh pink scars and a few persistent aches where the shrapnel had scraped bone. I was still sore most of the time, but did not let it slow me down.

Mike spent most of his time scouting the area and hunting wild game. Sometimes I went with him, but most of the time I made some excuse to stay at the farmhouse with Sophia. I know he knew why, but he didn’t make an issue of it. Not that it would have done him any good.

Sophia and I made love often, taking comfort in each other’s embrace, reveling in the heated, gasping, kissing, thrusting passion of new lovers. We explored each other, teased each other, took turns reducing one another to clutching, moaning incoherence. Then we would rest for a while, talk and laugh in exhausted, throaty voices, and start all over again.

I often wondered in the months after why my sexual appetite, which had never been much of a distraction before, suddenly had so much power over me. It was not until after I joined the Army, and the battle of Singletary Lake, that I learned of the strange urges that possess a man after combat. I remember sitting with my back against a cinder-block wall, and a Navy medic coming around to check the guys in my platoon for injuries, and how pretty her green eyes were, and the roaring, burning urge to pull her clothes off and take her right then and there.

She must have seen something of it in my eyes, because she gave me a strange look. Or maybe she noticed the swelling in my pants. Either way, I cast my eyes to the ground, ashamed, willing the feeling to go away. It has happened a few times since, and for a while, I thought there was something wrong with me. But later, I learned most of the other soldiers I served with had experienced the same thing at one point or another, and it was not unique to men. Why it happens, I do not know. I am sure there is a psychologist out there somewhere who can give me a rational explanation, but I have not crossed paths with them yet.

So with Sophia at my side, and Mike the Stalwart an ever-present reassurance, the pain and anguish slowly began to fade. But I never let Boise City out of my mind for more than a few hours. The shadows behind the windows, the indistinguishable faces behind muzzle flashes, the glimpses of what I could have sworn were Army issue combat fatigues. A single word kept rattling around my mind, whispering to me, visiting me in the dark hours when I drifted off to sleep next to Sophia’s warmth.

Deserters.

During those weeks, I did not spend all my time eating roasted meat and indulging carnal pleasures. I drew up a few ideas about how we might head back and recon Boise City, see what we were up against, what we could do to make them pay for what they did to us. When I thought I had worked out all the angles, or at least as many as I could see, I asked Mike to join me for a sit-down on a nearby hill.

He listened patiently, chewing on a toothpick. When I was finished, he tossed the toothpick into the brush and said, “Caleb, you have to let it go.”

“It’s not that simple, Mike. They killed Blake. They killed my father.”

“We all knew we were taking a risk going into Boise City, son. There could have been infected, or hostile locals, or deserters holed up, or any host of dangers. We went in there with our eyes wide open—Joe and Blake included. We rolled the dice, and we came up snake-eyes. Joe and Blake were two of the best friends I’ve ever had. I loved them both like brothers. But they’re gone now, and we ain’t gonna accomplish a goddamn thing getting ourselves killed trying to avenge them. It’s not what they would want us to do. I know that because if I had died and they had lived, I wouldn’t want them to risk their lives the same way. There’s been enough bloodshed here, Caleb. No measure of revenge is ever going to bring them back. We need to move on.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Mike interrupted. “And what about Sophia, Caleb? What if something happens to us, and she’s on her own? What do you think will happen to her?”

To my shame, the thought had never occurred to me. I had been too caught up in my own anger and plotting and pain. The idea of Sophia alone in these wastelands, unprotected, sent an invisible spear through my gut. I looked down and crossed my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry, Mike. I never thought of that.”

The big man reached out and put a massive hand on my shoulder. “Listen, kid. For all I know, you and Sophia are all I have left. I have no way of knowing if my wife is still in Oregon, or if she’s even still alive. I think it’s pretty safe to assume the Outbreak made it that far. The only way for me to find out is to get you two someplace safe and then try to find her. Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. I don’t know. But I can’t start trying until the two of you are out of harm’s way. And every day that goes by, my chances of finding her alive get slimmer and slimmer. So do me a favor, Caleb. I know you’re hurting. We’re all hurting. But I need you to start thinking about someone other than yourself for a while. Okay?”

I sat quietly and watched him walk down the hillside back to the house. Inwardly, I cursed myself for a fool. Mike was right. I had been a selfish idiot. I had forgotten about protecting Sophia. I had forgotten about Mike’s wife, Sophia’s mother, stranded in Oregon. All I had thought about was myself, and my pain, and how much I wanted,
needed
to lash out, to make someone else hurt as much as I did.

I looked down at my hands, the calloused palms, the new scars, the dark brown skin from too much time in the sun. They were not the hands of a child. They were the hands of a grown man.

It was about time I started acting like one.