The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) (10 page)

“You owe me two, captain.”

“Very well, lieutenant,” Reynolds said, lifting the phone. “It’s no joke, Kim. It’s me.”

Masters left quietly, noting the tear forming in the captain’s eye. It wouldn’t do for him to see his commanding officer cry.

“They were here, sir. As little as half an hour ago.”

Arthur looked down at the young man standing next to the truck. Clearly, he had learned the lesson of Jackson Kraeger very well, and was not particularly eager to rush into battle. The boy kept glancing at the farmhouse, as if wondering whether it would explode, too.

Of course, that could just be the fact that Driebach’s still inside
, he thought.
I wouldn’t want to be in there, either
.

As if the mere thought of his name was a summons, Driebach exited the structure and jumped up into the bed of the truck in one smooth leap.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask,
thought Arthur. “So, which way, Mr. Driebach?”

The ghoul of a man pointed south toward the highway, and Arthur signaled the rest of the vehicles to mount up, and then leaned down to the young tracker.

“Burn it. Nothing left but ash.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sign was pretty clear:

DO NOT ENTER
HIGH SECURITY AREA
UNITED STATES ARMY MINEFIELD
DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

Reynolds looked over at Masters, who was standing beside him in the bed of the truck, and then up at the camera set on the pole just inside the gate in the fifteen-foot fence.

The fifteen-foot
electrified
fence. Outside the minefield. With sniper positions covering the whole three hundred yards to the bunker entrance. Reynolds knew they were there, and that they were manned, and he felt a whole lot better about making it this far.

He waved slowly to the camera, wondering what was taking them so long. Finally, there was a metal clank, and the gate rolled back on automated rails. He waited until it was clear, and then thumped the truck’s roof.

“Take us in slow, gunny,” he said, holding on as the grizzled old marine started the truck down the entrance road.

“Contact, six o’clock,” yelled Montero, followed by the sound of gunfire. Reynolds and Masters turned and fired as one at the mass of vehicles rounding the last turn up to the base.

“I hope this works,” yelled Reynolds, and touched his throat mic. “Alpha One, Alpha Two. We are being pursued—” He broke off as a rifle shot zinged past his head, far closer than he would’ve liked. “Correction, Alpha One, we are taking fire. Request immediate reinforcements.”

“Roger, Alpha Two. Reinforcements inbound.”

At least the gate was closing, he saw. “Get us out of here, gunny.
But stay on the road!
”

“Aye, sir,” yelled Rains, and he stomped the gas pedal and slung the truck back and forth across the road, trying to dodge bullets.

“Captain, that gate won’t hold those trucks,” said Masters. “Mag!”

Montero shook his head. “I’m out too, sir. Only Barrents has—”

Barrents finished firing off the last round from his rifle and slung it across his back, pulling his pistol. “And that’s me done for rifle ammo, sir,” he said, firing the Springfield sidearm at the oncoming horde. To his credit, one of the men hanging off a pickup fell, clutching his chest. Reynolds made a mental note to get that man into sniper training as soon as possible.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Masters,” Reynolds said, grinning. Masters glanced at him, then turned back. That quickly, rapid-rising steel and concrete barriers had gone up twenty yards in front of the gate, and the first line of pick-ups was already smashing against them.

Originally designed after September 11, 2001 for security at high-value targets such as the Pentagon, these steam-piston powered cylinders were 8 to 10 inches in diameter, and could be raised in the blink of an eye. And once raised, they were immovable. It was almost exactly like running into a cement wall, as that first line of vehicles found out.

Reynolds looked up as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Blackhawk helicopter approaching, and cheered as shell casings from its door-mounted miniguns began raining down on the road around them. The slugs tore through men and machines alike, destroying those who hadn’t already died in fiery crashes against the concrete barriers.

The road was beginning to turn into the mountain now, but Tom saw, way at the back of the zealots’ column of vehicles, a lone pickup truck with just two figures, one dressed all in black, standing in the bed of the truck and watching the carnage. He couldn’t make out any details, and went to grab his binocs, only to realize that they were among the many things he’d left behind in the city to lighten the load.

“Alpha One, Alpha Two. Thanks for the assist. Can you get a visual on the last truck just before the bend? Might be important.”

“Roger, Alpha Two. We’ll take care of it.”

As they made the final turn, Reynolds lost sight of the truck, but saw the Blackhawk moving off after it. He looked up at the huge bunker doors and the mountain towering over them, and then grinned as the personnel access door to one side was thrown open, and several figures rushed out and practically dragged him from the bed of the truck.

“Easy now, Major Barnes,” Reynolds said, laughing as Kimberly hugged him within an inch of his life, the rest of his survivors looking on. As she released him, wiping tears from her eyes, he looked over and reached out a hand to David Blake.

“Seriously?” said David. He ignored the hand and hugged his friend close, as hard as Kimberly had. There were more than a few tears in his eyes as well. “You’ve got a couple things wrong, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she’s a colonel, now. Maxwell made it official a few days ago.”

Kim snorted, but David continued. “And it’s not Barnes, either.”

Reynolds looked at him quizzically, until David raised his hand and showed off the wedding ring. It was Reynolds’ turn to laugh as he hugged both of them again. “You got her to change her name?”

David looked at Kim, who put on a mock frown, and said, “Let’s just say it’s a point of discussion.”

There was a heavy step behind him, and a hand the size of his head landed on his shoulder. “Forget something?”

From Dalton Gaines came a handshake of powerful proportions and a slap on the back that Reynolds was going to feel for a week. “Glad you made it, son,” said the big Georgia boy before turning away and rubbing his eyes. “Damn allergies, got me all a’bothered.”

Reynolds laughed as he turned back to the rest of them. “Montero, Barrents, Techman and Armstrong, meet David Blake and Colonel Kimberly Barnes, your new CO.” He waved Milford Rains and his wife forward, and presented them to Kim.

“Ma’am, this is Gunnery Sergeant Milford P. Rains, retired, and his wife Eugenia. If it wasn’t for them, we wouldn’t have made it. Request permission for them to join AEGIS Bunker One, ma’am.”

Rains snapped to with one of his letter-perfect salutes, and Kimberly returned it.

“Well, Mr. Rains, gunnery sergeant, retired. Think you can be of some use to us, do you?” she said sternly, but her eyes danced with repressed laughter.

Rains nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I do. These squids and whatnot need some shaping up, ma’am. I’ll get’em right soon enough, though.”

Kim laughed. “I’ll just bet you will, too. And, luckily for all of us, I have the authority to make this call. So, welcome aboard, marine!” She shook his hand.

As the congratulations died down, Reynolds motioned to Kim, and she walked to one side with him.

“Kim, I’ve got a funny feeling about those two in that truck. We need to find out what’s going on there.”

“I know. The air crew is going to tail them as long as they can, and from what I know they’ve already got some high-res shots of them. We’ll figure it out,” she said.

As the little group walked into the bunker, toting all their gear, Tom took one last look down the road.

They’re coming back
, he thought.
I can feel it
.
I just hope we’re ready when they do.

He shook his head and put all the dark thoughts out of his mind. Instead, he started focusing on the future.

It’s going to be a long twenty years
.

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About the Author

Jason Kristopher was born in Waco, Texas, and grew up in northern Colorado, enjoying the beautiful weather. Sometime later, he lost his mind — or found himself again, depending on who you talk to and where they're from — and moved back to the Lone Star State.

Jason currently lives in the Houston area and enjoys reading, writing, movies, music (live and not), the Houston Astros (winning and not), singing karaoke and the Texas hill country, especially the vineyards.

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Excerpt

Following is an excerpt from the sequel to
The Dying of the Light: Interval
,
The Dying of the Light: Beginning
, available soon from Jason Kristopher and Grey Gecko Press.

New Salisbury, PA
Z-Day + 24 Years

He awoke slowly, and for the first time in nearly twenty-five years, remembered who he was.

It wasn’t like they used to show in the movies; he didn’t get his memory back in dribs and drabs. It was just suddenly
there
, as if it had never gone away. As if he hadn’t languished, a prisoner of his own mind in so many ways, for the past quarter-century. The truth of his identity hit him hard, a hammer-blow to his consciousness, and it staggered him, both mentally and physically. If he hadn’t already been lying down, he would’ve fallen.

As it was, he needed to get up, to tell someone,
anyone
, the truth, before he forgot again, before he went back to being the scarred, weird old man everyone — including himself — called Harvard. He eased his creaky old legs over the side of his cot, tossing aside the light blanket he’d used as a shield against the cool Pennsylvania night air, and pushed himself to his feet with the cane that was always to hand. He shook his head to clear the last of the cobwebs, and wiped his brow.

Going to be a hot one
, he thought as he stumbled to the door of his cabin.
I’m already a’ sweatin.’
He threw the wooden door open and raised a hand against the bright morning sunlight, trying to let his old eyes adjust to the glare. He felt a stab of pain just behind his eyes, and the nausea it brought along for the ride nearly doubled him over. One hand thrown out to the door frame steadied him for the moment, and he took several deep breaths. The rough wood under his hands reminded him of the trip he’d taken with his youngest daughter, Josephine, backpacking for the day in the woods near Camp David, all those years ago.
Or was it Miranda?
Damn, it’s already fading.

Picking up his cane from where it had fallen, he straightened his back as much as he could, and began the longish trek over to Marjorie’s house.
She’ll know what to do,
he thought.
She’s always known
. Most people called her crazy, a coot that had long-outlived any usefulness she might have once brought to the community, but he liked her. She was the only person in the whole village as old as he was; older, even, if he was any judge, but he’d never have guessed out loud.

Besides, he owed her. His health, his mobility, hell, he owed her his
life
. And she would know what to do.

His hobbling, shuffling walk continued. He rounded the corner of the dentist’s office, making a beeline down the main street for Marjorie’s home-and-shop -
Madam Marjorie’s
, naturally — but his age and the constant download of memories betrayed him, and he tripped. Unable to catch himself, he caromed off the porch rail and fell onto the horse trough, overturning it and spilling water everywhere, turning the street to mud. The soft stench of horse manure filled his nose, and he was glad he’d missed the pile — if only by a few inches. His cane wasn’t so lucky, falling square in the steaming mess.