The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel (42 page)

Later that morning, Tyrel met us at our place. He walked with us to the caravan district, formerly known as the Colorado Springs Country Club.

Gone were the expensive manicured grass, sand traps, and putting greens. All trod under by boots, hooves, and off-road tires. Where golfers had once whiled away afternoons and weekends whacking away at little white balls, traders and merchants now camped surrounded by trailers, horses, jeeps, Toyota Land Cruisers, 4x4 pickups, wagons, RVs, and even a few Humvees.

One of the Humvees belonged to Mike, parked along with several other vehicles and a collection of pilfered U-Haul trailers. He had agreed to take his payment in the form of diesel, and would follow the caravan as far as I-5. There, he would turn north to begin his search.

We stopped outside the caravan’s picketed area and waited while Mike went to talk to the trail boss. The camp was abuzz with activity, rugged-looking men and women rolling up sleeping bags, striking tents, cleaning cookware, packing things away, and a few teenagers fueling up the vehicles. A couple of minutes passed before Mike came back.

“Bossman says they’ll be ready to go in ten. I better get my gear squared away.”

Sophia wiped her face and put her arms around her father’s neck. “You take care of yourself, old man. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” he said, hugging her back. “With any luck, me and your momma will be home by Christmas.”

I am sure Sophia knew it was wishful thinking, but she smiled anyway. “Just be careful. I love you, daddy.”

Mike’s big arms bunched as he squeezed tighter, eyes closed, mouth curved in a beatific smile. The wrinkles and stress lines on his face relaxed, and I got the feeling that for a bright, happy moment he let the pain fall away, held his little girl, and was a man at peace.

It’s what I like to tell myself, anyway.

Finally, he said, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Tyrel and I shook his hand, said our goodbyes, and used silence and steady eye contact to say all the things men hate saying to each other but feel nonetheless. This unique language has a way of baffling women, but men understand it perfectly.

“Y’all look after each other, now,” Mike said, stepping toward the camp, his voice harsh. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

We waved as he walked away.

*****

“So how are Lola and Lance doing?” I asked Tyrel.

We were walking westward on Acacia Drive, back toward our little corner of the refugee camp. People walked by us on the other side of the road, some going to work, others headed to the market or the commissary. There were no shouted greetings, no festive atmosphere, and precious few conversations occurring, ours among them. A woman in her early twenties brushed past me, eyes fixed straight ahead, feet wrapped in strips of thick red cloth bound with shoestrings.

Tyrel rubbed a hand along is jaw. “Things, uh … things didn’t work out between us.”

I looked at him. “Sorry to hear that, Ty.”

“It happens.”

“She doing okay?”

“Yeah. After we parted ways, she started shacking up with some Air Force type. A captain, I think. Lives on base with him now.”

I thought about asking him what drove the two of them apart, but decided against it. Instead, I asked, “What about you? Where are you living?”

“Over in Tenth District, just south of the university.”

“Oh. So you’re not far from us then.”

“Nope. Sorry it took so long to track you down. You know how long it takes the intake center to update the roster.”

I nodded. The ‘roster’ he referred to was a central directory of refugees who made it to Colorado Springs maintained by the people working at the refugee intake center. They also kept a list of the missing and deceased (M&D), all gleaned from information taken from refugees upon arrival. Any day of the week, the former department store housing the roster was awash with worried relatives anxiously searching for the names of loved ones on the refugee list, and if not there, the M&D list. It was a place of joy and tears. But mostly tears.

I remembered reporting my father, Lauren, and Blake deceased when I arrived, speaking in a dead monotone, vaguely hoping Tyrel or one of the others would see it. “Did you find us on the roster?”

“Yeah. You, Mike, and Sophia anyway. When I didn’t see the others’ names, I checked the M&D.”

I swallowed and cleared my throat. “So you knew before you came to see us.”

“Yeah. I took it pretty hard at first.”

“At first?”

His skin color darkened. “Sorry, Caleb. I waited a while. Two weeks, in fact. Had to get my head straight. Didn’t want to show up a blubbering mess.”

I wondered if I should be angry, but then decided I did not have the energy for it. “It’s okay, Ty. I understand.”

We said nothing else about it.

The street parted ahead of us. An Army Humvee came rolling slowly through with a gray-haired, stony-faced general sitting in the passenger’s seat. There was a livid scar above his right eye, and as the Humvee passed, I could not help but feel like I had seen the general somewhere before. Dismissing the thought, I said to Tyrel, “So what are you doing for work these days?”

He watched the Humvee drive away. “I was working with a salvage crew for a while, but they disbanded. General partners had a falling out, split up the business and went their separate ways. So I filled out a resume at the intake center and took a job with one of the volunteer militias. That was about three weeks ago. What about you?”

I grimaced. “Civil Construction Corps.”

“Shit. You’re not working on the wall, are you?”

I nodded.

He shook his head angrily. “Caleb, that ain’t no kind of a job for you, and you know it.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Join the Army?”

“It’s not a bad option.”

I glared at him from the corner of my eye. “No, Ty.”

“Well, what about the militias? You’re perfect for that sort of work.”

“Like hell,” Sophia said, speaking up for the first time since we had left the caravan district. She slipped her hand into mine. “I’d rather have him dead-tired than just plain dead.”

Tyrel gave her a hard look. “Did you ever bother to ask
him
what he wants to do?”

She ground her teeth, but said nothing. I let out a long sigh. “Okay, kids, no fighting. Today’s been hard enough without you two going at each other.”

By Ty’s face, I surmised he remembered Sophia saying goodbye to her father less than twenty minutes ago. He had the good grace to look chagrined. “Sorry, Sophia.”

“Don’t be. I’m in a mood today.”

“And you have every right to be.”

We walked a little farther in silence, then out of curiosity I asked, “Ty, what happened to your hair?”

He chuckled. “Head lice. You believe that shit? My first week in the field with the salvage crew, and I come down with fucking head lice. Had to shave it bald and douse my head and all my clothes with powder. Had to buy a new bedroll too.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “Talk about kicking a man while he’s down.”

Tyrel smiled.

“Heard anything from Lance lately?”

“Yeah. He’s back to being a cop again, works on the south side of town. Haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks, but last I heard he’s doing all right.”

“Glad to hear it.”

A short time later, we arrived at Ty’s street. “I’m up this way,” he said, pointing down a row of shipping containers virtually indistinguishable from the street I lived on.

I said, “Don’t be a stranger, Ty. You know where we live, now. You’re welcome any time.”

“Duly noted. Y’all take care.”

I put my arm around Sophia, feeling the tension in her shoulders, and held her tight against me on the walk home. When we arrived, I opened the padlock, unwrapped the chain from the front doors, and swung them wide. The two of us sat on the floor, drank tepid water, and stared at nothing. The place seemed too quiet, too empty, and even more squalid than usual. It is not until someone is gone that you realize what an influence they have on your life, and your home. There is an energy to each human being, to each life, and it affects the people around them whether they realize it or not.

It was mid-afternoon before Sophia spoke again. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

I glanced up at the soft chestnut eyes, full lips, and the delicate fall of hair. My heart constricted at how beautiful she was, even dirty and dressed in clothes little better than rags. The fact I could not provide a better life for her made me want to break something. “He’s a smart man, Sophia. He knows how to take care of himself.”

“Just tell me he’s going to be okay. Please.”

“He’s going to be okay.”

She pushed her hair out of her face, and said, “You know what? Don’t. It sounds like you’re bullshitting me.”

I did not know what to say to that, so as usual, I didn’t say anything.

The warmth of summer faded into the chill of autumn.

We passed the days as best we could, living and working and hoping that someday, somehow, things would get better. It was the same hope people had before the Outbreak when they climbed in their cars, or public transportation, and whisked off to jobs they hated in order to pull in a paycheck and keep the fire burning for another day. There are no promises, and some days it seems pointless, but what else are you supposed to do?

In the mornings, I would go to the end of the street and get our water, carry it back, and then we would have breakfast. Afterward, I left for my job building the wall, while Sophia left for hers on a cleanup crew. We had to make sure the place was locked up tight before leaving, as theft was rampant in the refugee districts. Leaving a door or a hatch unlocked was as good as throwing your possessions into the street.

Sophia’s job, from the way she described it, mostly consisted of tearing down buildings with heavy equipment and then loading the refuse into large trucks. My job involved walking an hour to the job site, engaging in backbreaking labor for ten hours, punctuated by a thirty minute lunch break, and then enduring the long slog home.

Some days it rained, and the job site shut down. The rest was nice, but the government docked our pay.

In the evenings, either Sophia or I would heat some water in a metal pot and wash one another with damp rags. I found it amazing how little water it takes to wash when you have no soap, and consequently, do not have to worry about rinsing.

Sometimes, when we had the strength, we made love. Most nights, however, we ate a bland meal, read books from the public library (delivered to the refugee districts by volunteers), and slept. The next day, we got up and did it all again.

The fighting north of town never stopped, but it did slacken in pace. There were trenches, miles and miles of trenches, dug along the northern perimeter a few miles from the city. The Army crouched behind these trenches at night, and during the day, they made forays in armored vehicles. They located hordes, lured them to various killing grounds, and waited while fortified bulldozers, bucket loaders, and other heavy construction equipment squashed the infected into paste. With the undead immobilized, the troops dug enormous mass graves and pushed the bodies in by the thousands. Something close to half of them were still kicking and biting when they went over the edge, but the troops buried them anyway. It was easier and less dangerous than finishing them off, and used less ammo.

Tyrel came around to visit once a week, usually on Saturday evenings when we did not have to worry about getting up for work the next day. He always brought dinner from one of the few restaurants operating near the refugee districts, a luxury Sophia and I could not afford. But for Tyrel, being in a volunteer militia meant he had ample opportunity to scavenge the countryside and loot the bodies of infected he killed. A lucrative, if dangerous, line of business.

When Sophia wasn’t around, which was not often, he tried to talk me into leaving the Construction Corps and joining up with his militia. Due to his advanced training and combat savvy, he had been promoted to a senior leadership position within the ranks.

“I’m in charge of hiring,” he told me often. “All I have to do is say the word. You wouldn’t have to break your back anymore, and you’d make a hell of a lot more trade.” (The word ‘trade’ had come to replace ‘money’ in casual conversation.)

My usual reply was, “Yeah, and Sophia would cut my balls off.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She’d just be pissed, and you wouldn’t get laid until you started bringing home food worth eating and some nice furniture. Then she’d get with the program.”

I resolved not to test Tyrel’s theory, and I didn’t. At least not until a Tuesday evening in late September when I found Sophia crying and everything changed.

I came home from work the same as any other day. My feet hurt, my back was a wreck, and I had the beginnings of a headache riding over the horizon. I wanted nothing more than to let Sophia wipe the dust from my skin, eat something warm, and sleep for ten hours. But when I turned up the driveway and saw the doors open, I went on my guard.

“Sophia? You home?”

Her voice, tearful. “Yes. I’m here.”

I walked up the drive and stepped through the door. Sophia had started a fire and sat next to it, face in her hands, wiping tears from her cheeks. I hurried over and knelt beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t respond, just kept sobbing. I pulled her hands down and tilted her face up. “Sophia, look at me. What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

When I walked in the door, my mind immediately went to Lauren and the attacks she had endured. If someone had hurt my Sophia, they were dead. There would be no remorse, no hesitation, no mercy, just a movement at the corner of their eye and then nothing. My teeth ground together as I tried to remember where I had put my fighting dagger.

“No, Caleb. No one hurt me.”

I blinked a few times, let out a breath, and released Sophia’s wrists. My fingers left red marks. “Okay. Can you to tell me what’s going on?”

“Sit down, Caleb.”

I was getting very tired of people telling me to sit down, but I did it anyway. “Sophia, you’re freaking me out.”

She took my hands and held them. “Caleb …”

“What?”

She looked up, and the fire caught in her eyes, and they gleamed like stars in the winter sky. My breath caught in my throat and I wondered if I would ever breathe again. I leaned closer, brushed my lips against her cheek, and pulled her close to me.

“Sophia, whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I’m right here.”

She put her face in the hollow of my shoulder, took a long, shaky breath and said, “Caleb, I’m pregnant.”

*****

The next day, I traded my Beretta for a new pair of boots.

After months of mixing concrete, shoveling dirt, and exposure to wind and sun, my old clothes were just about done for. I picked out five new outfits of sturdy outdoor wear and paid for them with four boxes of nine-millimeter cartridges. Everything else I needed was waiting for me at home.

Done with shopping, I left the market, walked to the offices of the Civil Construction Corps at The Citadel Mall, and turned in my resignation. The clerk looked hard at me across the table.

“You sure you want to do this?” she said. “It’s getting harder to find jobs with the city these days.” 

“I have something else lined up.”

She shrugged and stuck my form in a box. “Well, best of luck then.”

Next was a visit to Tyrel. I wasn’t sure if he would be home, but luck was with me. He opened the door, took a moment to read my face, and knew exactly what I was there for. “About damn time,” he said. “Come in and have a seat. I’ll put on some tea.”

The tea tasted better than anything I had ever drank. Tyrel didn’t have any sugar, just the artificial stuff, but considering my options over the last few months had consisted of either cold water or hot water, it was heaven in an enameled cup.

Tyrel sat down across from me, a satisfied smirk on his face. His chairs were proper chairs, complete with foam and cloth and springs. I leaned back and tried to remember the last time I had sat in a comfortable chair. Sophia and I often joked to one another that we lived like the Japanese, most of our time spent sitting on the floor.

“So,” Tyrel said, “what changed your mind?”

I sipped my tea, let it rest on my tongue a few seconds, and swallowed it gratefully. “Sophia is pregnant.”

His cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”

I nodded.

He put his cup down on a little wooden table. The presence of such luxury made me feel like a peasant in a lord’s manor. “I don’t know what to say, Caleb. Congratulations?”

“I’ll take it.”

My old friend smiled. “Congratulations, then. You’re gonna be a daddy.”

I ignored the flip-flopping in my stomach at that statement and smiled back. “I’ll do my best.”

“Does Sophia know?”

“Well, being that she’s the one who told me …”

“Hardy-har, smart ass. You know what I mean.”

I sighed and held my tea in my lap. “No. I haven’t told her.”

“She’s going to be pissed.”

“Yes. Yes she will. But she’ll get over it.”

“Well, I think this calls for more than just a cup of tea.” Tyrel stood up, lit an oil lamp, closed and locked the front doors, and started digging through a box behind his chair. A few seconds later, he returned with two small glasses and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. While he poured, I gulped down the rest of the tea, not daring to waste it.

I accepted a glass of amber liquid and gave it a little swirl in the golden lamplight. Tyrel raised his in the air and said, “To fatherhood, prosperity, and better days ahead.”

“Cheers.” We clinked glasses and drank.