The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel (26 page)

We caught up with them on 281 just outside of Blanco.

Captain Morgan (to this day I can’t say it without a smile) had stopped the convoy a mile outside of town and sent scouts ahead in Humvees. When a lookout saw us approaching, Morgan and one of his aides drove back to meet us.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Hicks,” he said, stepping out of his vehicle. His aide remained behind, no doubt monitoring radio traffic. The captain eyed our Humvees skeptically. “Where the hell did you find those?”

“You might say they were a gift.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Come meet everyone. My father can explain.”

We did the round of introductions. Morgan took in the other men’s appearance—the weapons, the tactical gear, the familiar, confident way in which my father and his friends handled themselves—and I saw an acquisitive gleam in the Army officer’s eyes. When he shifted his attention to Sophia, Lola, and Lauren, the gleam faded, replaced by apprehension.

“Nice to meet all of you,” he said. “Do you mind telling me where you came across those?” He pointed to the Humvees.

My father spoke up. “These three and I used to work for a civilian-owned survival and firearms training facility, Black Wolf Tactical. Everything you see here except the trucks and the Jeep were owned by the company.”

“Even the machine guns?”

Dad nodded. “Yep.”

“Aren’t those illegal for civilians to own?”

“In most cases, yes. Unless you have the proper licenses, which BWT did.”

“I don’t suppose you have any documentation to back that up, do you?”

“I do.” Dad held a hand toward the lead Humvee. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Lead the way.”

I watched my father remove a cardboard box from the back of a Humvee, open it, and neatly arrange a number of files on the back seat. He pointed to each one, explaining what it contained. Morgan picked up a couple of them, half-heartedly sifted through the papers within, then shook his head and dropped them back in the box.

“Good enough for me,” he said. “Honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t care if you stole this stuff as long as you’re willing to help me.”

“What help do you need?” Dad asked.

“You look ex-military to me. These other guys too. Am I right?”

The four men took turns explaining their credentials. My father disclosed he had been a Green Beret, but stopped short of mentioning his time in Delta Force. It seemed odd to me, but I shrugged it off, figuring the old man had his reasons.

Lance revealed he had served four years in the Marines, then spent the last twenty years in law enforcement, twelve of those with the Houston Police Department’s SWAT team. Figuring he was eighteen when he joined the Marines, I guessed his age at forty-two. He was in good shape, but looked older than that.

With each proffered resume, the acquisitive light in Morgan’s eyes grew steadily brighter. He expressed concern about Tyrel’s wounded leg, but seemed appeased when Tyrel assured him he could still man a machine gun or provide long-range fire support with his .338 Lapua magnum. Finally, Morgan returned his attention to me.

“Well, you make a little more sense now. Did you grow up around these guys?”

“All except Lance, yes. We met recently.”

He chuckled. “Christ, kid. You must be a freakin’ monster.”

“So what do you think, Captain?” My dad said. From his expression, I could tell he was eager to change the subject. “Got a place for us in your convoy?”

“Absolutely,” Morgan said. “Just hang back in the rear for now. Once we know what’s ahead of us, I’ll sort out where to put you.” He went through another round of handshakes, this one more enthusiastic than the first. “Again, it was nice to meet all of you. Glad to have you on board.”

“Same to you, Captain,” Dad said. We watched the young officer stride away, climb into his Humvee, and drive back toward the head of the column.

“Well that went well,” Blake said.

“Yeah,” Dad said, sounding uncertain.

I looked at him, not liking his tone. He stared at the dust trail in the wake of Morgan’s Humvee, his dark eyes unhappy.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

He glanced at me and shook his head. “We’ll talk about it later. Mike, take point if you don’t mind.”

The big man nodded once. “Not a problem.”

“Everybody else, let’s get out of this heat.”

“Fuckin’ gladly,” Tyrel said, leaning on Lola’s arm as he limped back to his Humvee. Sophia came to stand next to me, her arm slipping around my waist. I pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

“How you holdin’ up?”

She nuzzled her face against my chest. “Better, now that you’re back.”

“I think things are going to be all right, now.” I said. “What that guy Morgan said about Colorado Springs, he seemed pretty convinced. I think we’ll be safe there.”

“I hope so,” Sophia said. “I hate all this running. It’s only been a few weeks since Houston, but it feels like a lifetime.”

“Tell me about it.”

She looked up at me, her eyes like pools of dark honey. “Do you really think things will be better in Colorado? You think we’ll be safe?”

The truth was, I had no idea. Nothing I had seen of the spiraling world around me gave me the slightest confidence there was such a thing as a safe place anymore. But when I looked down at Sophia, I saw hope, and I saw her confidence in me, and her trust, and there was a surge of something in my chest that made me want to be all the things I saw in her eyes. So in my foolishness, rather than reveal my doubts and my fears, and speak to her honestly of the risks we were taking and let her make an informed, adult decision, I took the coward’s way out—I resorted to false bravado.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Sophia,” I said, and planted a gentle kiss on her lips. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She smiled at me, little dimples forming in her cheeks. “I believe you.”

How easy it was to make promises, then, before I understood the consequences of failure and hubris. Before I learned of the demons that come in the late hours before sleep, and the burdens of regret one carries in their wake. 

Fate is a cruel teacher. But by God, her lessons stick.

*****

With the exception of a few wandering infected, the town of Blanco was abandoned.

The sun was low in the sky, wearing on toward evening. The captain decided to make camp in town for the night and move on at first light. The convoy went in first to exterminate what few undead occupied the streets. We waited in our vehicles with the windows down and the engines off to conserve fuel. Sophia sat in the passenger’s seat, one hand clasped in mine, the other fanning her face with a torn-off flap of cardboard. A thin sheen of perspiration covered her skin, turning her hair dark brown where it stuck to her neck.

“How long do you think this is going to take?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No idea. Guess it depends on how many undead there are.”

We didn’t talk much after that, just sat and listened to the sound of distant gunfire. One of Morgan’s troops made his way back to us and inquired if we had radios or not. When he found out we did, he told us what frequency to set them to so we could receive messages from Morgan and his senior staff. I turned the knob to the appropriate setting, placed the radio on the dashboard, and waited.

Not long after that, the cracks of gunfire diminished in frequency until they ceased altogether. A few minutes later, the radio came to life.

“All stations, this is Captain John Morgan. At this time, it appears the town is clear of infected. However, I urge you to proceed with caution. There’s no telling where more of them might be trapped, or how many more might be headed our way. Do not, I repeat
do not
open any doors, approach any windows, or attempt to enter any buildings. I’ve posted troops throughout town who will direct you to the Best Western on 281, where we’ll be making camp for the night. Follow their directions, and do not deviate from the path. If you do, my men will not be responsible for your safety. Please proceed ahead.”

On the road beyond the windshield, two big green trucks laden with the survivors from the RV encampment and their possessions revved their motors and slowly lumbered north. We waited until they gained some distance on us, then followed suit.

The bridge on 281 leading into town passed slowly under our wheels. A thin green lake too neat and even not to have been shaped by the hand of man surrounded Blanco to the south. We rolled through the streets, first passing empty lots, then a mix of small businesses, houses, a few restaurants, and a large graying building occupying the center of an entire block proclaiming itself the Old Blanco County Courthouse. Farther on, it was more of the same. A bank, a real-estate office, a church, an auto parts store, a moving truck rental agency, and interspersed amongst it all, house after empty house.

“Looks like the people who lived here took their cars with them,” I said. “What few I see are mostly junkers.”

“It’s so sad,” Sophia replied. “Houses look different when nobody lives in them anymore. Like they’re in mourning or something.”

I scanned the periphery of the street, watching the forgotten mailboxes, empty windows, and yawning driveways slip by. “Maybe they are.”

“I wonder where they all went.”

“Colorado? Kansas, maybe?”

“Think they’re still alive?”

“Who knows, Sophia?”

A soldier on the road motioned us ahead, looking bored and uncomfortable in his heavy gear. His eyes lingered on Sophia as we passed, and I shot him a hard stare. If he noticed, he gave no indication. Several minutes and a few more ogling soldiers later, the hotel rose into view and the brake lights of my father’s truck flared red in front of us. I eased my foot on the brake until we came to a halt, then watched a soldier approach Mike in the lead Humvee. There was a brief exchange, followed by Mike exiting his vehicle and motioning for us to do the same.

“Let’s see what this is about.”

Sophia and I got out and walked over to where Mike stood. The soldier remained behind him, eyes wandering back and forth between Lola and Sophia. Tyrel noticed as well, and when he drew close, he leaned in until he was barely two inches from the young man’s nose.

“You got a staring problem, boy?”

The soldier leaned away from the ex-SEAL’s face, all sharp angles and heavy brows and merciless black eyes, and he took a step back.

“S-sorry,” the troop stammered. “I didn’t mean …”

“Don’t you have somewhere else you need to be, Private?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then get there.”

Blake stepped up beside me, stifling a laugh as the soldier scurried away. “It’s like he forgot he’s carrying a gun.”

“Ol’ Ty has that effect on people.”

Tyrel looked my way, mean-mug still in place, and winked.

“So what’s going on, Mike?” Dad said, getting everyone’s attention.

“We got a choice to make,” Mike said. “We can stay here at the hotel, or we can find someplace else to bed down for the night. Personally, I vote for the latter.”

“What’s wrong with spending the night in the hotel?” Lola asked. The question startled me; it had been so long since Lola had spoken I had almost forgotten she was there.

“Well, I shot one of the folks from the RV camp earlier today,” Mike said. “Not bad, mind you. Just a graze. But I doubt he’s gonna be happy with me about it. And Caleb here damn near beat the wheels off their leader.”

Lola swiveled her head to look at me, a new brand of regard in her eyes. I imagine her expression would have been much the same if she had been standing in the desert and suddenly realized the lumpy brown thing next to her feet was a rattlesnake. “Is that true?” she asked.

“I’m not proud of it, but yes. He didn’t leave me much choice.”

“How bad did you hurt him?” Dad asked.

“Bumps and bruises.”

He looked skeptical. “You sure?”

“I saw him after the fact. He had a big shiner on his temple, but otherwise, he was fine.”

Blake laughed next to me. “Man, I feel sorry for that guy. I’ve sparred with you enough to know what you can do when you play for keeps.”

Next to me, I could feel Sophia’s stare, and see the smirk on my father’s face, and hear Mike’s approving grunt, and I reddened, uncomfortable with the attention. “Anyway, Mike has a point. The two of us probably aren’t their favorite people right now. And the rest of you will be guilty by association. It’s probably best if we find our own place for the night.”

“I agree,” Dad said. “We’ll head down the street to the brewery. The roof of the main building looks good and flat. We’ll sleep there tonight.”

“How will we get up there?” I asked.

“We’ll figure something out. Let’s go.”

Blanco, Texas

Morgan waved us over as we drove by.

He was in the hotel parking lot on the roof of his Humvee, directing operations. I got on the radio and said I would handle it, and drove in his direction. The others proceeded ahead to the brewery.

“I need you to stay here,” I told Sophia after stopping next to Morgan’s vehicle. “This shouldn’t take long.”

“All right,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on the massive Abrams tank squatting in the middle of the road, swiveling its turret back the way we had come. The Bradleys and Howitzers drove past us, dispersing toward the bridges on the south side of town, most likely with orders to blow them if they saw too many infected coming.

Morgan jumped down when I got out of the truck and walked over to me. “Where are you folks headed?”

“To the brewery,” I said, standing close so only he could hear me. “I’m thinking Travis and Jerry probably aren’t too happy with me right now. Probably best if we make our own accommodations for the night.”

Morgan thought about it and nodded. “You’re probably right. Infighting is the last thing we need right now. You gonna be okay on your own?”

“We’ll be fine. We still have our radios. We’ll call if we run into anything we can’t handle.”

“Sounds good. See you in the morning.” He walked back toward his men.

I climbed in the truck and drove away.

“Any trouble?” Sophia asked on the way to the brewery.

“Nope. Morgan seems like a stand up guy.”

Sophia tilted her head to look in the side view mirror, the image of the hotel growing smaller in the square of glass. “So far, anyway.”

I turned right from Highway 281 onto the narrow, dusty street leading to the brewery. Looking around, it occurred to me Blanco had not been hit by the fires like areas farther south. When I thought about it, I remembered the prevailing winds the night of the fire had mostly been from the north, so between that and the lake protecting the town to the south, Blanco had escaped mostly unscathed. Which probably had a lot to do with why Captain Morgan wanted to stay the night here.

Up ahead, I saw the two Humvees and the other vehicles stopped. They sat across a dirt parking lot from a loading dock, a small copse of trees occupying the middle of the space. A few rusty shipping containers stood to their right, and to the left, I could see the main building and the larger brewing facility beyond.

Dad, Blake, and Mike stood in a huddle while Tyrel rested his hands on the stock of an M-240, barrel trained toward the loading dock. I had a moment to wonder what was holding them up, but then I drove closer to Mike’s Humvee and the mystery was solved.

Infected.

“Shit,” I muttered.

Sophia reached in the back and grabbed her rifle. “Dad said I need target practice. Guess this is as good a time as any.” Before I could say anything, she was out the door and headed toward the parking lot. I grabbed my own weapon and scrambled after her.

“Sophia! Hold up.” I caught her in six running strides. She had already reached Mike, who stood in her path, hand upraised.

“Whoa there,” the big Marine said. “Where do you think you’re going, little girl?”

She gave him a withering glare. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Sorry. Where do you think you’re going,
young lady
?”

“I was thinking about going over there and shooting those infected.”

Mike’s face closed down. “Like hell you are. Get back in the truck. Let us take care of these things.”

“I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad,” Sophia said. “You don’t get to order me around.”

She went to brush by him, but Mike’s hand shot out and seized her arm. “Sophia, stop it.”

Her eyes tracked coldly from the hand to her father’s face. “Let. Go.”

“Sophia …”

“Let. Go. Now. Or I swear to God, I will leave this place and you will never see me again.”

She sounded like she meant it. I stood and stared, shocked at her sudden anger, wondering what the hell had gotten into her. Mike looked pained, mouth half-open, unsure what to say. In a flash of inspiration, I stepped up and put a hand on both of them.

“Okay, hold up a minute,” I said. “I have an idea.”

They both looked at me, Mike with desperate hope, Sophia blankly. “Listen, Mike. These things are everywhere. She’s going to have to learn to deal with them sooner or later. There aren’t that many of them. This is a good opportunity to let her get some real world experience in a controlled environment.”

I could see the gears turning behind Mike’s eyes. His hand loosened on her arm and fell away. Pressing my advantage, I said, “She can stay close to the two of us. Me on one side, you on the other. We’ll watch her flanks while she takes out the infected ahead of us. The three of us can work one side of the parking lot, Dad and Blake can set up a crossfire on the other. If things get too heavy, we’ll all fall back and let Tyrel light ‘em up with the heavy machine gun. Sound good to you?”

Mike looked to the others, who gave short nods, then back to me. “Sounds like a plan.”

I turned to Lance. “You mind staying here in the middle? Hang back and take out the ones that slip by?”

He checked the safety on his carbine, then slid back the charging handle to make sure there was a round in the chamber. “I can do that.”

“All right then,” I smiled at Sophia. She smiled back. “Let’s do this.”

The infected were spread out across the parking lot, perhaps a hundred of them, more emerging from a stand of trees to the left of the main building. It was roughly the same number Lance and I had faced the day we found Bob and Maureen killed in their home. If the two of us could handle that many on our own, I felt confident of our chances with Dad, Blake, Mike, and Tyrel helping out. Not to mention Sophia.

Mike led the way, walking toward the shipping containers. Looking at them, a thought occurred to me. “Hey Mike.”

“Yeah.”

I pointed at the closest container. “Ever heard the saying about working smarter, not harder?”

Mike looked where I pointed and grunted approvingly. “Think you can haul my big ass up there?”

“We’ll manage.”

We broke into a jog; the infected were drawing close enough to be worrisome. Mike slid his rifle around to his back, leaned against the container, and interlaced his fingers at hip level. I stepped into them, hauled myself up high enough to grasp the top of the container, then pushed off his shoulder with my right foot. It was enough to get me over the top, and once there, I told him to send Sophia up.

After helping her up the container, I told her to grab hold of my belt, dig in her heels, and lean back as hard as she could.

“What for?” she asked.

“So your bear of a father doesn’t drag all three of us to the ground.”

“You ready up there,” Mike shouted, casting a worried glance at the steadily approaching undead.

“Ready,” I said. “Come on up.”

He backed off, took two running steps, and with surprising agility for a man his size, leapt up and seized the edge of the container. Then, feet scrambling for purchase, he pulled himself up until his chin was over the edge, at which point I was able to grip the back of his vest and haul him the rest of the way over. That done, we stood up and sorted ourselves out.

“Cut it close enough didn’t we?” I said, pointing at a ghoul who now occupied the space where Mike had stood a few seconds ago.

“They’re faster than they look,” Mike said. “The ones that ain’t messed up too bad can really move.”

“Yeah, I noticed the same thing.”

“Well, are we going to stand around admiring them all day,” Sophia said, “or are we going to kill the damn things?”

She stood at the edge of the container, rifle at port arms, eyes bright with anticipation. It seemed odd to me that she should be so eager to kill the undead. Sure, they were a threat, but they had been people once. Human beings. I had killed a number of them, but felt no elation or satisfaction at doing so. It was a simple matter of survival, of necessity. I derived no pleasure from it.

Watching her, I was reminded of everything I had read over the years about projection and catharsis. How some people have a need to externalize their fears and insecurities and purge their inner pain. They find a target, an outlet, someone or something they can point their finger at and say,
That is bad
, and feel better about themselves. Or in Sophia’s case, designate an object of contempt and diminish it so low on her scale of regard that killing it carries no more meaning than squashing a mosquito against her neck.

I have met a great many people who feel the same way. They have an unreasoning hatred for the undead and will go out of their way to kill them, even when it is dangerous or unnecessary to do so. These people see the dead, and they see the reason for everything they have lost, for everything the world has become, for all the death, and pain, and suffering, and all the shattered dreams and lives, and the screams of the dying that haunt them in the night. I can see how these people come to this conclusion, and I understand where they are coming from. But I do not agree with them.

When I look at the infected, I see victims.

When I put them down, it is not retribution. I am doing them a kindness. And God forbid, if I am ever infected, I hope some merciful soul will do the same for me.

“All right, Sophia,” Mike said, stepping next to her. “Remember what I taught you now. Stay relaxed, lean into the rifle, let out half a breath before you shoot, and make sure you squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.”

“I know, Dad,” she said, motioning for him to back up. She took a breath, brought the rifle to her shoulder, sighted through the red-dot scope, took aim, and fired.

And missed.

“Shit.” She shuffled her feet, re-aiming.

“You’re too stiff,” Mike said. “It’s making you jump when you pull the trigger.”

“All right, all right,” she huffed. “Just let me get a few practice shots.”

She fired three more times. On the third, she managed to blast a chunk of bone, skin, and most of one ear from an infected woman’s head, but not enough to kill it.

“Son of a
bitch
.” She ground her teeth, took a deep breath, and readied herself to try again.

“Try this, sweetheart,” Mike said in a gentle voice. “Move your left hand further down the forearm, and relax your shoulders-”

“Dad, just stop. Okay?”

“But I’m just-”

I decided it was time to intervene. “I noticed something that might help,” I said, giving Mike a pointed look. He let out an exasperated breath and stepped back.

“Be my guest.”

As I took his place next to Sophia, the difference in her demeanor was immediate. Gone was the tension, the irritation, the shallow breathing of someone about to lose her temper. When I went to move her shoulders and arms, she became pliant under my hands.

“You want to relax here and here,” I said, touching the two sides of her trapezius muscles. “Just take a breath and kind of roll your shoulders around. Good. Now take this hand and move it forward. It’s too close to the mag-well back here, makes it hard to switch your point of aim. Having your hand farther down the barrel makes for a faster transition.”

Behind me, Mike sputtered and fumed. “But … but that’s the same thing I just …”

I glanced over my shoulder at him and shook my head. His shoulders sagged. He threw up his hands, walked over to the other side of the container, aimed his carbine, and began killing infected with savage enthusiasm.

There you go, big guy,
I thought.
Work it out
.

“Okay, close your eyes, Sophia. Now take a deep breath. Fill up your lungs.” I kept my hand on her back, making sure she did as I said. “Now let it out slowly. When I say go, open your eyes, pick a target, and fire with both eyes open. Make sure the red dot is just a little bit high.”

Her ribcage contracted, contracted, and when it was at the halfway point, I said, “Go.”

Her eyes opened. They were clear, focused, no longer clouded with eagerness or frustration or anything else. The scope was slightly below her line of sight. Keeping both eyes open, she raised it, acquired a target, and squeezed the trigger slowly until the report caught her by surprise—exactly the way it is supposed to be done. Ten yards away, a splash of black and red spouted from the back of a ghoul’s head, and it slumped to the ground.

“Perfect,” I said. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Start with the closest targets, then try to hit a few farther away.”

She spared me a glance and a white-toothed smile. “I think I got it now.”

“And be careful where you aim.” I pointed to where Dad and Blake had taken up position. “We don’t want any friendly fire.”

She nodded soberly and promised me she would be careful. I relocated to the middle of the container, split the difference between Mike and Sophia, and lay down in the prone position. The metal was hot underneath me from baking all day in the sun, but I ignored it. Firing from the prone position is the most accurate way to do business, and I wanted to conserve as much ammunition as possible. The high vantage point afforded by the shipping container gave me an excellent field of fire. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it.