The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel (6 page)

One of the perks of working for Black Wolf Tactical (BWT) was Dad got the run of the training facilities at no charge. I would not say he abused the privilege, but he sure as hell used it. Especially as pertained to my training.

On a typical day, I was up at 0500, then a workout (or PT as Dad called it), then breakfast, then school. School was me and Lauren at the kitchen table from 0830 to 1400. Afterward, I had a few hours to run around the neighborhood and play until 1700, at which time Lauren drove me to Dad’s work.

By then, the students were done for the day, having driven back to their hotels, or for those with the big bucks, staying in one of the luxurious onsite rooms provided by BWT. Lauren would drop me off, and I would wait on the bench in front of the main office for Dad to finish shooting the breeze with his clients, and when he got free, he would look my way and motion me over.

He started with the basics. Unarmed combat, land navigation, how to read a map, how to use a compass, rapelling, traversing rope ladders and bridges, the obstacle course, first aid, CPR, and basic marksmanship. My favorite was rapelling. Dad used to joke he was going to bring me to work someday so I could shame the clients who were afraid to go over the edge.

“Bunch of grown men acting like scared kittens,” he used to say, leaning on the rail at the summit of the rapelling tower. “Serve ‘em right to get showed up by a little boy.”

At first, it was just me and the old man. But over time, Dad made friends with his co-workers and trusted a few of them enough to help with my training. There were three of them: Mike, Tyrel, and Blake.

Mike Holden was an ex-Marine. Except you never called him an ex-Marine to his face because, according to him, there was no such thing as an ex-Marine. He was a big man, standing six-foot-two and tipping the scales at around two-fifty. Long arms and legs, the rangy type, bald on top, the sides and back of his head shaved down to a nub. He had a laugh you could hear from the next county over. I liked him immediately.

Tyrel Jennings was the only man I ever met who spoke less than my father. Ex-Navy SEAL, big bushy beard, long hair held back by an ever-present olive drab bandanna, and dark black eyes like little coals. He gave instructions in short, terse sentences and was fond of fist bumps and high fives. But only with me.

And then there was Blake Smith. About my dad’s size, strongly built, Green Beret, never saw him without a smile on his face. Since Dad was a Green Beret himself, he and Blake hit it off quickly.

Something I always admired about Blake, beyond his general friendliness, was his dignity and sense of grace. He was the only black instructor at BWT, and he occasionally had to put up with offensive comments from ignorant clients and insensitive coworkers. But he never let it bother him. Said it was their problem, not his.

Of all my dad’s friends, I would have to say Blake was my favorite. I miss him terribly.

But that’s getting ahead of things.

Life went on this way for years, me spending a few hours every afternoon with Dad and his friends, and Lauren constantly finding social events to drag me to.

On Sundays it was church. I never cared much for church, and I don’t think Dad did either. I have no problem with Christianity, or religion in general. Jesus seemed like a genuinely nice guy, considering the central tenant of his teachings was for people to love one another. I don’t see much of a problem with that philosophy—I even pray sometimes, in my darker moments. I just did not like dressing up in slacks, and a button-down shirt and tie, and sitting on a damn uncomfortable wooden bench, and being stifled and still for an hour and singing old hymns I didn’t understand. Church always seemed to me like a bunch of people singing badly, and saying amen at the proper times, and listening to some paunchy old dunce tell them how to live.

I especially did not like the preacher. He was tall and broad, an ex-athlete gone to fat. His face jiggled and shook when he talked, and he had squinty little eyes that reminded me of a pig. He smelled of stale cigarettes, and cheap aftershave, and when he spoke he leaned in too close so you could smell the coffee on his breath. He made me uneasy.

The year I turned twelve, as the result of a nationwide sting operation by the FBI, he was arrested for possession of child pornography. He posted bond, drove home, locked himself in his bedroom, and blew his brains out with a shotgun. Justified my opinion of him, I suppose.

We stopped going to church after that.

Lauren tried to get me into sports, but I never cared much for them. In those days, I would much rather run BWT’s close-quarters combat course than play baseball or soccer. Eventually, she gave up.

By the time I was thirteen, I could run the courses at BWT with sufficient precision and skill to qualify as an instructor. By fourteen, I was six feet tall and a hundred-eighty pounds, and the instructors at my dojo had me start training with the adults.

During the summers, I worked on a ranch not far from BWT. Feeding horses, mucking out stalls, that sort of thing. I developed an affinity for horses that persists to this day. There are few things I enjoy in life more than leaning forward in the saddle, hands loose on the reins, and letting the magnificent creature beneath me stretch out its stride, hurtling the both of us full tilt across open plain. Nothing else like it.

As I got older, my training increased in difficulty and intensity. I learned skills very few people ever do, and some I’m reasonably certain were illegal.

From the ages of twelve to sixteen, Mike Holden taught me the art of the sniper. How to break in a ghillie suit, how to camouflage it, to pick hides, to use my scope as a rangefinder, to compensate for drop and windage, to work the lever on a bolt-action rifle without coming off my point of aim, to use night vision and infrared, to move silently and slowly through dense foliage, to stalk someone without being seen. Most U.S. military snipers’ initial training is between eight to twelve weeks, depending on their branch of service and what year they went through it.

Mine lasted four years.

Then there’s Tyrel. The man who taught me how to pick locks, gave me my first set of picks, taught me how to hotwire old cars and trucks and construction equipment, the best ways to kill a man with a knife and keep it quiet, how to swim properly, how to shoot a pistol accurately with one hand while on the run—a skill which has saved my life many times—and how anything, absolutely anything, can be used as a weapon.

Dad and Blake handled the rest of my training: Patrolling, calling for fire (although I never got a chance to do it for real until after I joined the Army), how to use, break down, and clean a variety of weapons, combat tactics and marksmanship, booby traps, demolitions, survival and evasion, making bombs from household materials, vehicle searches, tradecraft (dead drops, brief encounters, pickups, load and unload signals, danger and safe signals, surveillance and counter-surveillance, etcetera, etcetera), dynamic room entry and clearing, urban combat, and, after I obtained a driver’s license, an advanced driving course.

In summation, I was raised by a former Delta Force operator, a SEAL, a Force Recon Marine, and a Green Beret. These men had access to one of the most well equipped training facilities you will ever see outside the military special operations community. They all cared for me a great deal—Blake and Tyrel were unmarried and had no children of their own—and they took great pleasure in training me. Furthermore, I took to the military lifestyle like a fish to water. I loved it. I loved them.

And let’s not forget Lauren. Any discussion of my upbringing would be incomplete without mentioning the love of literature she passed on to me.

When it came to schoolwork, I taught myself for the most part. The textbooks and assignments all seemed simple to me. I never understood why so many of the children I knew who went to public school found it so difficult. I aced exams with little trouble and wrote papers and essays quickly. Math was just a question of diligence and practice. I will not say I liked schoolwork as much as combat training, but I did not mind it either.

Beyond the standard required curriculum, Lauren had me read the classics: Dickens, Faulkner, Thoreau, Kipling, and Dostoyevsky, just to name a few. On my own, I devoured Bradbury, Asimov, Herbert, and Heinlein. I marveled at the prose of Steinbeck, Tolstoy, Salinger, and Shakespeare. The poetry of Yeats, Dickenson, and Frost roared through me like thunder over the mountains. At night, in the late, cricket-chirp hours when most people plant themselves on a couch and stare at a television, I sat cross-legged on my bed with lamplight glowing soft and yellow from my bedside table, book in hand, exploring the world as only an imaginative young boy can.

I followed Robert Jordan and his band of guerillas as they struggled with their mission and each other. I felt my heart beating with the earth as I lay on the ground, leg broken, and waited for the enemy officer to appear in my sights. I wondered what became of Pilar, Pablo, and Maria. Their side lost the war, after all.

Wang Lung made me like him, then hate him, then grudgingly respect him, and I felt sorry for him when he was an old man. I wept when, after knowing crippling poverty and starvation and war and surviving to become wealthy and prosperous, he told O-lan on her deathbed he would trade all he had gained to save her life.

I strode the kingdoms of Hyboria, sword in hand, dealing death to enemies, drinking deep of wine and women and life. Great was my mirth and great was my melancholy. And by my own hand, I became a king.

Through books, all this and more did I live and know.

When I was seventeen, after all the years of feeling the rifle buck against my shoulder, the pistol snapping in my hand, the rubber grip of training knives, the smell of cordite in cold morning air, the satisfying ping of a steel target in the distance, the echo of my father’s .308 across the hills as the deer bolted, faltered, and fell, the power of horseflesh rearing beneath me, and the smiles and laughter and thousand little corrections from Dad, Lauren, Mike, Tyrel, and Blake, I finally had occasion to put my training to use.

The year I turned seventeen was the first time I killed a man.

The car was a 1998 Honda Accord.

Price: $2500.00. Odometer reading: 98,319.

I could not have cared less about the mileage. After five summers at the Lazy J Ranch, weekends mowing lawns around the neighborhood, and afternoons swapping bullet riddled paper targets at Black Wolf Tactical for five bucks an hour, it was mine. Any excuse to go for a ride was fine by me—a fact Lauren had no qualms about taking advantage of.

Caleb, could you run to the grocery store and pick up some milk?

Sure.

Would you mind taking this package to the post office for me?

Not a problem.

Your dad forgot his lunch. Could you take it to him, please?

Be glad to.

I don’t think I ever said no. The day it happened, I wished I had. But not for me.

For Lauren.

It was early in the afternoon on a warm, pleasant Tuesday in April. She had sent me to the dry cleaners to pick up the dress she wore to her friend Nancy’s baby shower. Mary Sue Lewellyn, who my stepmother liked not at all, had spilled a glass of pinot noir on her cream-colored Burberry London. Afterward, there followed the requisite gasp of surprise, a round of horrified apologies, graceful forgiving noises on Lauren’s part, and her landing a real stinger when Mary Sue suggested she would buy a replacement.

“Oh no, honey,” Lauren said, smiling sweetly. “I wouldn’t want to put you out. Stan’s tire shop went under last month, didn’t it? Just save that money. I’m sure you need it more than I do.”

So I took my time that day. I stopped at a gas station to fill up, even though the tank was only a little over half empty. I bought a Slim-Jim and ate it as I cruised down the mostly empty streets. The little Vietnamese lady who owned the dry cleaning business recognized me and we had a short, pleasant chat. I paid with the ten-dollar bill Lauren gave me, pocketed the change, then carefully hung her dress from a plastic hook above the back seat.

As I neared home, I had a strong feeling something wasn’t right. The front door was shut, even though it was only seventy-five degrees that day. When the weather was cool enough, Lauren always opened every window in the house and held the doors open with wooden stops, leaving the screen doors latched to keep bugs out. She loved the scent of a warm spring breeze as it aired out the stuffiness left over from winter. I tried to remember if I had shut the front door out of habit when I left, and decided no, I had not.

So what was it doing closed?

Rather than slowing down, I kept going, circled the block, and parked on a street parallel to my house. After killing the engine, I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I was being paranoid.

There’s no such thing as paranoid
, my father’s voice told me.
It never hurts to be extra careful. If something doesn’t look right, it probably isn’t.

I could have credited the closed front door to an absentminded mistake on Lauren’s part, but that did not fit her patterns. She was a meticulous, detail-oriented woman. She folded all the towels in the bathrooms exactly the same way, her car went through the carwash every Saturday morning, she never missed an appointment, the spices in the kitchen were stored in identical little tins with magnets on them, each one labeled in Lauren’s neat, precise handwriting. Each pair of shoes had assigned parking on the closet rack, her CD collection was in alphabetical order, and she never left a room without turning off the lights. Why would someone like that open every window in the house and then shut the front door by mistake? Why would she walk by and leave it shut if it was not her habit to do so?

The answer was obvious: she wouldn’t.

Something had to be wrong.

I didn’t have a gun or a knife, not even the Gerber pocketknife I usually carried. I pondered my options for a moment, then popped the trunk, lifted the thick piece of cardboard under the upholstery, and took the lug wrench from beneath the spare tire. A heavy, L-shaped hunk of steel about the length of my forearm.

Better than nothing.

I tightened my belt and slid the lug wrench into my waistband. Once I was satisfied it would not fall out, I got moving.

The thought occurred to me to knock on a neighbor’s door and try to call Dad, but most people in the neighborhood were at school or work at that hour. And even if someone was home, how long would it take to get Dad on the line? What if he was at the range with a class? Even if I told whoever answered the phone it was an emergency, it would take a minimum of twenty minutes before Dad could get home.

Not fast enough.

So I hurried to the Taylors’ house, whose backyard shared a border with ours along a tall wooden privacy fence. There was an entrance on my side of the street, latched, but easily defeated by inserting a thin twig between the slats and lifting. I shut the gate behind me, crouched low, and crept into the Taylors’ yard hoping no one was home.

The backyard was empty except for the Taylors’ patio, a stainless steel grill, and a hammock off to my left. I stayed close to the edge of the fence and crouch-walked to the far side, watching the windows and straining my ears. There was no movement, but I thought I heard a thump in one of the upstairs rooms followed by a muffled shout.

The fence was over six feet tall, with sharp points atop the slats and 2x4 crossbeams between the support posts. I gripped the V between two slats, stepped up on a crossbeam, and leapt as high as I could. My feet cleared the fence as I did a 360 in mid-air and landed in a three-point stance. Looking up, I could see the inner part of the back door was open, but the screen section was latched shut.

Above me, I heard a whimper and the dull thud of flesh striking flesh.

The urge to run into the house was strong, but as it has many times since that day, my training took over. I knew it was stupid to run into a building of any kind when I didn’t know what was waiting for me inside. So I drew the lug wrench from my belt and took position beside the back door. A quick peek around the corner revealed the kitchen was empty, so using flat end of the wrench, I cut a hole in the flimsy screen and carefully undid the latch.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned the handle, opened the door, and waited. There were a few more thumping sounds from upstairs, but nothing else.

I stepped inside, lug wrench raised over my shoulder, ready to swing or throw it in an instant. My shoes made almost no sound on the laminate floor as I crossed the kitchen and turned the corner to the living room. Just inside the front door, the foyer table was overturned, the lamp atop it broken on the ground, and several family pictures along the wall had been knocked askew. On the floor, a blood trail ran across the living room carpet and up the stairs.

Cold rage burned low in my stomach. I stepped back into the kitchen, closed my eyes, and breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Think, dammit.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Assessment: There is an intruder in the house, possibly more than one. Assume they are armed. They have Lauren, and she is most likely injured. Secure the house, then immediately call for police and medical assistance.

Dad had stashed firearms in five different places throughout the house. I was guessing Lauren had been attacked and subdued before she could get to one. The closest was a pistol under the kitchen sink, a CZ-75 9mm automatic. I grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the counter, rubbed some of it into the cupboard hinges to keep them from squeaking, then opened the door just enough to reach inside. After a bit of feeling around, my fingers grazed the pistol’s checkered grip. The holster had no retaining strap, just a thumb paddle. I pressed it and drew the weapon. After checking to make sure there was a round in the chamber, I thumbed the safety off and headed for the stairwell.

Ascending stairs is one of the worst tactical situations a person can face. Your enemy has the high ground and multiple angles of attack, whereas the person going up the stairs has a limited range of motion and no cover. The best way to handle it is to keep your weapon up and move quickly, covering as many vectors as you can. 

The carpeted stairs were mercifully quiet. I kept my weight close to the wall to avoid making the steps creak. Once at the top, I checked my corners and crouch-walked toward my parents’ bedroom. The door was shut, but from behind it, I could hear a low moan and a sound like fabric tearing. The rage in my gut soared to a crescendo.

I pressed my ear gently to the door and listened. More sounds of fabric ripping. My stepmother’s voice, speech slurred, a plaintive tone.

The lug wrench was still poised over my left shoulder, my right hand holding the gun. There was no way to know how many intruders I was facing or how well they were armed. But what I did know was that Lauren was in there, she was hurt, and I was the only person in a position to do anything about it. Equal parts rage and fear coursed through me as I took a half step back, lunged forward, and slammed my foot just left of the door handle.

The door burst open hard enough to crack the drywall behind it. I stepped into the room and darted my eyes from one side to the other. My parents’ bed was to the left, a dresser and Lauren’s jewelry stand against the wall to my right. Lauren lay flat on the bed, gagged and bound with duct tape.

There were two intruders, Caucasian males, one young, maybe early twenties, the other in his mid to late forties. Both wore identical blue polo shirts and tan slacks with dark brown dress shoes—the kind of thing a door-to-door salesman might wear on a temperate spring day. One crouched to my right, rooting through Lauren’s jewelry stand, while the other sat astride Lauren’s hips, ripping away at her blouse. Pale pink fabric lay in tatters on the bed around them, one side of her bra torn away to reveal her small right breast. Both men looked up in almost comical surprise as I entered the room.

Without hesitation, I hurled the lug wrench in a straight overhand toss. By good fortune, the flat end hit the man astride Lauren full in the mouth, causing the lower half of his face to explode in a crimson burst of blood and broken teeth. He let out an inarticulate cry of agony and toppled backward off the bed.

The other man saw the gun and lunged.

It is hard to describe what happens to you in situations like that. The adrenaline rush, the taste of copper on the back of your tongue, the tunnel vision, the way the world goes gray around the edges, the sound of your heart hammering in your ears, the way everything happens in the course of seconds but there are so many details.

I once heard a commercial where a coach exhorted to his team how life was a game of inches. How the small distances—the space between a receivers hand and a football, how close a soccer ball rolls toward the goal line, whether a boxer’s punch connects with his opponent’s chin or empty air—these tiny gaps, or lack thereof, are what make the difference between victory and defeat.

In mortal combat, they make the difference between life and death.

The intruder crossed the space between us in less than a second, hands outstretched toward my gun. But as fast as his legs propelled him across the room, my trigger finger was faster.

The first shot went low, striking him in the abdomen. I’m not sure if he even felt it—he didn’t make a sound—but by then he was halfway across the room. I raised my aim to avoid his grasping hands and fired again the instant before he hit me. He was shorter than me, but heavier, his weight enough to send both of us tumbling into the hallway. I had the presence of mind hook my instep under his thigh as we went down, and by rolling with the fall and thrusting with my arms and legs, I flipped his body up and over me. He landed flat on the floor, the air whooshing out of his lungs.

I twisted on the ground, brought my gun to bear, and fired twice into his chest at point blank range. In the fraction of a second it took me to fire, I realized I was wasting ammo. There was a neat nine-millimeter hole in his forehead. A pool of blood began to form beneath him, crimson liquid pouring from the back of his skull like water from a faucet. For a second or two, all I could do was stare in horrid fascination, and then I heard a curse and a thump from the bedroom.

Wake up! You’re not out of danger.

Just as I rolled flat on my back to face the doorway, a gunshot rang out. I could see the other man kneeling on the ground with one hand over his ruined mouth, the other holding a snub-nosed revolver. His shot went wide, smashing into the drywall to my left and dusting my face with white powder.

With my legs pressed flat to the ground to avoid shooting them, I fired four times. The first three shots caught the intruder center of mass, the impacts causing him to jerk violently. The last shot went wide and perforated the wall behind him. His gun fell from nerveless fingers as he slumped over and coughed out a bright spray of blood. Wide, surprised eyes stared at me for an eternity of seconds, then went blank. His face slackened just before I heard his bowels let go.

Then there was silence.

I lay on the ground, eyes stinging from the drywall dust, my own harsh breath grating in my ears. The three white dots on the CZ’s sights stayed lined up on the intruder’s chest, my finger tight on the trigger. Slowly, I eased my index finger along the slide and stood up. The intruder’s corpse shuddered a few times as I approached, but soon went still. To my left, I heard Lauren groan.