The Dying of the Light (Book 1): End (48 page)

A few minutes later, Maxwell turned off the video of the security feed from the lab cameras and sat back in his chair. He glanced over at Anderson, leaning against the wall to one side of the desk. The stone-faced commander was silent, as he had been throughout what they had just witnessed.

“Nothing to say, Frank?”

“No, sir. I’d say it was the least he deserved. Not something I would’ve done – or you — but Blake? Of all of us, he had more reason to do it than anyone.”

“Well, what about Kimberly?”

“They’re a pair now, sir. Joined at the hip, as it were. She pulled him back from a near-coma, sir. I’ll bet she hesitated when he asked, but not long. After all, it was
him
pushing the buttons, not her.”

Maxwell grimaced. “Be that as it may — and I agree with you — the fact is that they disobeyed direct orders. I’m in a mess of shit now. I’ll have to justify this to the president, you realize. He’s going to want to know what happened to the bastard.”

Frank stared at the general, not moving from his perch near the window. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Always, Frank. You know that.”

“Sir, I’d say if the president doesn’t see the right of this, then fuck him, sir. We’ve got too many other things to worry about right now than the death of some asshole who should’ve been shot a long time ago.”

Maxwell couldn’t help laughing. “Well, you did say ‘freely’, didn’t you?”

Anderson’s lips twitched in what Maxwell thought might be the ghost of a smile.

“Fact is, you’re right. Too much other crap. Better bring ‘em in, then.” He picked up the phone on his desk and punched a button. “Nancy, send them in, please.”

Anderson moved around behind Maxwell as the entirety of 1
^st
Team filed in, taking spots wherever they could. It wasn’t a big office, and space was at a premium, even with all nine of them standing at attention.

As the senior operator present, Powell stood forward and saluted. “First Team, reporting as ordered, sir.”

“At ease, men.” Maxwell tapped a pencil on his desk as he watched them — his crème de la crème — fall into parade rest. He could see Powell was a bit nervous, and decided to be nice… for once. “Don’t worry, they’ll be here in a minute.”

Jake couldn’t help but glancing at the general, then returned to eyes-forward. “Uh, yes sir.”

As if on cue, they all heard the rhythmic thump of boots run into the hallway outside, clearly moving at top speed. A short mumbled conversation later, and Barnes and Blake arrived.

“Good of you to join us, major. Mr. Blake.”

Mobile, Alabama

A coalition of Baptist ministers and deacons organized their followers to protect the outlying areas of the city and its suburbs. Congregating in one of the larger churches, this fellowship stocked the church with food and other supplies sufficient to last them for months, if not years.

Construction began shortly after on a wall surrounding the property and a fortified structure in the rear of the church to house all the people and the supplies. One of the ministers gathered a couple of the farmers and walked them around a section of the land, explaining where he wanted the large garden to go.

The poor and destitute of the area weren’t turned away, and helped to construct the fortifications, and protect the followers from those who fear what they see coming. The clergy extended invitations to anyone willing to work, and promised safety and security.

One man arrived a few days after construction began with his sick wife and child, and the senior minister at the time turned him away, saying that they would pray for the survival of the small family, but couldn’t accept the sick. Tears streamed down the minister’s face as the man turned away with nowhere to go and all hope lost, but he stood his ground and just shook his head when the man looked back one last time.

The only others he turned away were a group of young men who drove up in a rusty pickup, piling out with their rifles and pistols, drunk and boisterous.

The senior minister, a large southern man, wasn’t flustered.

“What can I do fo’ you boys?” he asked.

“We’s here lookin fo’ the Church of the Divine Judgment. Y’all them?” One particularly feisty-looking young man stepped forward.

The minister looked at the boys, considering. He spat on the ground, a stream of dirty brown juice.

“We ain’t them. Don’t have no truck with that nonsense. You boys look like you’re from good folk. Hell, I even know some of ya.” He nodded toward one of the young men, standing at the back, who flushed and looked away. “Yeah, I know your ma and pa, Darrell. What would they say about this?”

When none of the men responded, the minister spat again. “Well, if ya ain’t gonna help, you can be on your merry. Lord save you boys.”

The leader of the men judged the will of the minister, one old man against his young pack, and gestured to the truck. “Load up, boys, let’s go find ‘em.”

The minister waited until they were out of sight and then glanced skyward with a murmured, “Thanks, Lord.”

Soon, the six-foot cinder-block wall was finished, and the construction crew focused on the barracks. They worked hard; it seemed that they knew that they worked for the survival of everyone.

Fort Carson, Colorado

“So that’s the situation. We’ve managed to get some search and rescue crews into the area, but other than the wreckage of the convoy, they didn’t find anything of use. Just a few shredded bits of uniform fabric and some spent shell casings. No equipment, no bodies, nothing.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut as I listened to the general tell us about 7
^th
Team’s fight in Washington.
Tom is gone. Probably dead. How many more will die?

“Sir, there’s a chance…” I said.

“They were surrounded by a couple hundred screaming, angry, crazy religious people last I heard, son,” Maxwell replied, putting his foot down hard on any hope we might be harboring for our fallen comrades. “Tom Reynolds and Adrian Masters were two of the toughest sons of bitches I’ve ever met, but even they couldn’t pull their asses out of that fire. No, they’re gone. And that’s the end of it. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, getting the message. “So, if we can’t truck the supplies in…”

“Choppers. We’ve conscripted every Chinook and Skycrane we could find, in and out of the service. Those bad boys can move more than ten tons each, and we’re getting nearly a hundred of them.”

“What about their bunker, sir?” asked Kimberly.

“They were assigned to Bunker Seven, a hundred klicks or so outside Austin. Frank and I have already discussed this, and he’s headed there to recruit any likely folks he can and get them trained up. He’ll be staying with them there. It’s the only thing we can do.”

Maxwell stood up and began pacing behind his desk. “There’s something else you need to know. Evacuations of lottery selectees have already started. They will continue until everyone is inside and lockdown is initiated. We’re not sure when that’ll be, but things are progressing even faster than we expected.”

“Any idea at all when we’ll be going, sir?” I asked, hoping I didn’t already know the answer.

“Soon, Mr. Blake, soon. We’ve completely lost southeastern Asia, it appears. Africa is bad, as is South America. No reports out of China, but that’s not a surprise. Australia is holding on, lots of people retreating to the Outback.” He snorted. “That’s a helluva comeuppance for them, having to depend on the aborigines for once.”

Maxwell stopped pacing and turned back to us. “Our best analysts have put our most optimistic timetable at a month, maybe two at the absolute most. Personally, I think that’s horseshit. I expect us to get the evac orders within a couple weeks. But asking questions isn’t why we get the big bucks, is it?”

There was good-natured chuckling, and Maxwell nodded. “Good, at least some of you can still find some humor in something. That’s all for now; there’ll be a general briefing in one hour. I expect you all to be there. Dismissed.”

We stood and saluted, filing out. I looked at Kim as we crossed the field toward the barracks.

“You think he’s right?”

“I don’t know. I hope not,” she said. “But there’s something to be said for being safe and secure inside a bunker. Better than not knowing if you’re going to live through the next day.”

“True enough. Still, we’ve got each other.”

She half-turned and flashed me that radiant smile. “You bet your sweet ass we do.” She grabbed my hand as we continued walking, squeezing it tight. “I miss Tom. And Rachel. And Victor.”

“Me, too, love.” I could see tears in her eyes, and put my arm around her shoulder. “Me, too.”

Apple Valley, Minnesota

Just outside Minneapolis, a stranger spied a road-side revival tent city. His walking staff in hand and his pistol weighing heavy in its concealed holster, he entered the haphazard layout, joining a few other stragglers still approaching the event, and found a stage of some sort set up just outside the biggest tent. A man was on the stage in front of a crowd of hundreds, preaching about the end of the world, and how only the truly good shall be saved from the divine retribution overtaking the land. The stranger waited at the edge of the crowd, watching the rapt faces of the preacher’s listeners and wondering how they could be so blind to the truth.

The preacher was going full-steam now, and his speech and gestures grew more and more wild, culminating in a roar, as he commanded the crowd to attend to the ‘salvation arena.’

Intrigued, the stranger followed the crowd to the other side of the tent city, and was astonished to see a temporary cattle corral set up, with several walkers crashing against the barriers. His hand darted to his pistol, but he stopped when he saw the concrete the barriers were set in. He looked at the makeshift stage set to one side and overlooking the corral, where the maddened preacher now held a young girl by the arm.

More preaching, more deranged ravings, and the stranger grew nervous as the rantings took a darker turn, and the clergyman demanded a trial of salvation. It was clear what the madman intended, and the stranger used his walking staffto clear a path as he moved to the stage. Dropping the staff and taking the few steps of the stage in a single bound, he grabbed the girl’s other arm, swinging her back onto the stage just as the preacher flung her forward into the corral.

In an instant, quiet descended over the crowd, except for the moaning of the undead below, eager for their feast. The stranger turned and looked at the preacher, his contempt and disgust clear and evident in his face.

Gently, he said to the girl, “You’re safe now, miss,” and she collapsed against his chest, sobbing. He never took his eyes off the preacher, who was seething.

“How dare you?” roared the preacher. “You have forsaken your salvation with this desecration of a sacred rite!”

“Sacred, my ass,” said the stranger, and unzipped his jacket, revealing a clerical collar and a cross around his neck. “There’s nothing sacred about human sacrifice.”

A gasp from the crowd at this new revelation, and the preacher snarled. “If she was truly pure, she would not be harmed! You are a traitor to your faith!”

The stranger shook his head, stepped to one side away from the girl, and drew his pistol. In the blink of an eye, the .357 magnum roared three times, dispatching all three walkers in the corral with a shot to the head for each. He then turned back to the preacher.

“No more.”

Completely insane now, the preacher screamed and charged the stranger, who sidestepped the man and let him fall into the corral, then turned to address the crowd.

“You’re not evil, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said as they looked at him. “You’ve just been deceived by someone who’s very, very good at it. This
plague
is evil, not a divine judgment. If you’re bit, you will die, no matter how many times a day you pray. Now go home. Pray. Pray for us all. Be with your families. Or better yet, evacuate with the National Guard and the Army.”

He stood there a moment longer, putting away his pistol and checking the girl for bite marks and other injuries, which he was happy not to find. He whispered calming words to her, and she nodded through her tears and ran off.

Headed for home, I hope.

The crowd dispersed, and as he turned to leave, zipping his coat once more, he heard a faint cry for help from the corral. He glanced back, and noticed there were four walkers in the corral, not three. The fourth was crawling along the ground toward the stunned preacher. Its legs those of a crippled person, shriveled and useless.

He turned his back on the corral, picking up his walking stick and moving out of the tent city. He was at the edge of the last row when the screams began.

He didn’t turn back.

“I say again, brothers and sisters, that this is our time to unite against the evils of this world, brought upon us by the military and industrial demons of our past. They have sewn evil for hundreds of years, despite our warnings, and now the reaping has come!”

Reverend Sebastian Wright had never looked more stately, more
godly
than he did at that moment, preaching to his followers from every radio and television station and satellite channel he could get his hands on.