The Dying of the Light (Book 1): End (51 page)

I waved off Kim as she tried to help me walk, eliciting a snicker from Johnny, and made my way over to the two pilots, who were sitting on an upturned packing crate and being tended to by Morena. Other than cuts and bruises — and one arm in a sling — they seemed to have made it out intact.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I’m not sure anyone could have pulled that off without a hitch.”

“Well, sir,” said one of the men, “I think you’re just about right. She’s fucked, though. Pardon my French.”

I laughed. “Not to worry. We weren’t going anywhere in that thing ever again anyway.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

Kim strode up and motioned for me to take a walk with her. “We didn’t actually come out too bad,” she said as we trudged down the gouge in the earth. “We lost some non-vital stuff, but all the important gear and equipment made it through okay.”

“What about that Stryker?”

“Well, the driver says it’ll work. Won’t be pretty, but I told him we didn’t need pretty, just functional.”

“Damn right. The MTVs okay?”

“Yeah, they and the other Stryker are fine. We’re almost ready to go, actually. You took kind of a nasty knock, so I wanted to let you sleep as long as I could.”

“Roger that, I appreciate it.”

“We took quite a bit of time off our trip by landing here. Swanson’s
much
closer to the bunker. Should take us about a half day to get there.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Let’s get to it, then.”

“After you,” she said, laughing. “Mary told me to
let
you take the lead occasionally.”

I strode off to collect the men, grumbling as she continued to laugh behind me.

The trip to the bunker was uneventful. We didn’t see any walkers, not that we’d been expecting them this far out from the city. The big doors rolled open for us, and the small convoy moved inside.

My first look at the bunker was a short one, as I stood next to the lead Stryker and watched the MTVs arrange themselves on the giant elevator that would take them lower into the facility. I was just losing count of their three-point turns when Kim grabbed me by the elbow.

“Let’s go, soldier,” she said, dragging me after her to the personnel elevator situated off to one side. I noticed Johnny following us with — was that Janet Turner? — and gave him a questioning look as they entered the elevator with us. He completely ignored me, staring straight ahead. Janet wasn’t as successful; she kept darting quick glances my way and smirking fit to bust.

“Hey…” I started to say, but Kim squeezed my elbow in such a way as to make me wonder how she knew a move that caused so much pain.

One thing I remembered from every relationship I’d ever had was that there was a time to talk and a time to shut up, and this was definitely the latter. So I let her drag me down the hallway as we exited the elevator, and only started to balk when I noticed the sign next to the office she almost threw me into.

Bernard Delacroix.

Chaplain
Bernard Delacroix.

Junior was blocking the exit as I looked around, and if you’ve never seen a shit-eating grin on a big Arizona boy, it’s not something to be missed.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” I whispered as I blocked out what Kim was saying to the poor surprised man behind the desk.

“Damn skippy,
bro
,” Johnny said. “Orders are orders, after all.”

Kim jerked my elbow again, and I faced forward.

Chaplain Delacroix was a portly gentleman, and the only living person I’d ever met who had an honest-to-goodness handlebar mustache. Even if it weren’t for the name or the mustache, I would’ve picked him for a Louisiana boy the second he opened his mouth.

“This is highly irregular, Miss…”

“Barnes. Kimberly Barnes.”

“Ms. Barnes.
Highly
irregular.” I swear, he actually puffed out his cheeks. “That said, these ain’t exactly ‘regular’ times, neither, so I reckon we better all make do with what we got, and move on from there.” He turned to me and held out a Bible.

“We’ll do this all proper like later, but the young miss here seems to be in a rather large hurry, young man. So if you’ll put your hand on the good book there…”

I don’t really remember the rest of the ‘ceremony,’ if you can call it that. I know there was some speechifying, some swearing — the good kind — and more than a few tears.

Oh, and one more thing.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Boy, did I ever.

I looked at my new wife, marveling at how beautiful she was. “Hello, Mrs. Blake.”

She smiled and shook her head, tears scattering. “Hello, Mr. Barnes.”

We all laughed.  “We’ll have to talk about that, I guess,” I said, laughing too. Then I sobered, and held her hands. “For Tom.”

“And Rebecca. And Eric,” she said, causing my heart to skip a beat or six.

“And Rachel,” said Gaines softly as he put a hand on each of our shoulders.

“And for Gordon,” said Janet Turner, and I caught the tear in her eye.

“For everyone,” I said, smiling at her.

Even though we’d lost so very, very many — and more than a few that were close to us — when I looked into Kim’s eyes, I knew that this was the hope for the future.

If we could still find some small bit of happiness, some small tiny bit of joy, despite all the misery and pain, then we would live on. We would continue, and eventually, come back.

I looked around at the others, and saw that they understood, too. That’s when the rest of 1
^st
Team broke into the poor chaplain’s office and began congratulating us, causing the befuddled southern gentleman to summarily dismiss us from his presence. In a nice way, of course.

That’s ok,
I thought, looking at Kim.
I have everything I’ll ever need right here.

The next twenty years would be hard, but, together, we could get through them. We had to. For Tom, and Rachel and everyone else who hadn’t made it. It was up to us now, and, as I looked at Kim, I could see the same determination in her eyes.

It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. As long as one of us lived, we would fight. Until every last one of them was dead, or we found a cure.

I drew Kim aside and held her close. “So, kids, huh?”

She smiled that megawatt smile at me. “Yeah.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“Good, Mr. Blake. Very, very good.”

Epilogue

AEGIS Bunker One

The view from this vantage point always amazed me. This observation tower — built specifically to keep an eye on the surrounding area with access only to and from the bunker — was very, very high, yet it still boggled the mind how much farther behind me the mountain — scratch that, the
volcano
— rose. I turned to take in the vast western face of Mount Rainier, and marveled that AEGIS had been able to organize the preparation of such a massive facility in so short a time.

In this rarified atmosphere, I could see details I normally wouldn’t be able to make out in the soft evening light without high-powered binoculars.  Yet, still, a haze of smoke drifted across my view, and I turned back, sighing.

Tacoma was gone, destroyed in a blaze started not by the infected or those who had turned, but by those who merely
thought
that the infection had spread that far. What had been a few controlled blazes to destroy the dead and soon-to-be-undead were pushed together by unseasonable winds into a firestorm that consumed Tacoma and nearly took Seattle, too.  It was held back only through the brave efforts of large groups of civilians and military. They had destroyed most of the roads, cut down or destroyed flammable objects in the fire’s path and dumped load after load of chemicals and water onto the flames.

Their efforts had been successful, too; successful enough to give those men and women time to die as the infection raging through Seattle finally caught up to them.
Irony, you are a fickle bitch
, I thought. Only smoke remained of what had once been Seattle’s principal suburb. Seattle, of course, was also destroyed, but in a very different fashion.

From here it almost looks normal. I guess distance really does provide a unique perspective.

The walkers had hit hardest in the Industrial District, arriving there in droves on commercial ships, cruise liners and a myriad of other boats. Those who saw signs of infection responded by crowding into the city’s hospitals and care facilities only making the problems worse, of course.
They never had a chance, not in a city like that.

I turned to Kimberly, who stood next to me, sharing what would most likely be our last view of the surface for quite some time. She shivered, and I saw a tear slip down her cheek as she turned to lean into me. I held her as we both watched the end of the world we had known. A low rumble vibrated through the tower and Kim looked up at me. I pointed far, far below us and we could just make out the last of the giant bay doors closing slowly, the AEGIS logo clear and bright on its surface. No more hiding for us. The door’s thick steel and concrete construction looked like tissue paper from this height, but we knew it would withstand just about anything anyone could throw at it.

As I glanced down, I saw again the bandaid on the inside of my elbow. Gardner’s final ploy — that I was a non-infectious carrier of the prion disease — still seemed ludicrous, but common sense had demanded that I do something about it. I’d contacted Mary Maxwell — née Adamsdóttir — at Bunker Six in New Mexico, where all the blood samples had been taken. She said that the results of her initial look were inconclusive, but, just in case, she wanted another sample. I wasn’t sure which I hoped for more — the possibility of a cure, or the relief that I wasn’t going to be a scientific guinea pig for the next twenty years.

The light was almost gone now, as if the sun knew that we would soon be leaving; we few remnants of the six billion living, working, playing people that had once populated our world. We would continue to live and work and play, but we would do it underground, secure and safe in preparation for the day when we could return. A hundred thousand of us would survive, here in the US; who knew how many elsewhere.

As the last few rays of sunlight dimmed and went out, I said once more the blessing I had learned so long ago, that had seen me through so much:

May the road rise up to meet you;
may the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face
and may the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
may God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

As I murmured these words once more, I heard my new wife repeating them with me. I took one last look at the world we had known, the world that was ending, then looked down and touched Kim’s face as I looked into her eyes.  She managed a sad smile, and we turned and strode into the elevator.

The sun had set on this chapter of the story that was humanity, but, one day, we would begin a new one.

We will see the sun dawn once more upon our world.

We will return.

Afterword

Thanks are due to a great many people for this, my first novel.

First and foremost, to my mother, Judy, my father, John, and my brother, Joshua; they always believed that I was meant to write, and helped me see that, too — thank you so much for your support. And to my grandmother, Margie Warhol, who was always my biggest fan.

Second, to the father of modern zombie myth and legend, Mr. George A. Romero, without whom this book — and countless movies — would hardly have been possible.

To my editor Hilary, without whom you would have read a great many more typos, grammar errors and punctuation mistakes.

To all the friends who took their time to not only listen to all my crazy zombie ravings but also to critique, provide invaluable research assistance, and just be there when the writing got in the way of the story, and to those who, in their own way, inspired characters or other parts of the story. Thanks (in no particular order) to Raissa, Scott W., Cindy, Kelly, Dennis and Todd. Y’all have dibs on bunker space when it all goes to Hell.

To Max Brooks, whose ‘novel’ ideas about the writing of zombie fiction — namely “The Zombie Survival Guide” and “World War Z” — provided me with much help, organization of my ideas, and general inspiration, and which I unabashedly used as reference material.

To all those who provided much-needed technical assistance and vetting of the dialogue and terminology, especially that of the military units: thanks to Bart, Colin, Mike, Josh, Keegan, Tyson and Scott W.

To all my editors and beta readers, both formal and not, because hardly anyone ever thanks them, and though I disagree with them occasionally, I still appreciate their work on my behalf.

To the cities of Georgetown, Colorado (inspiration for the fictional city of Fall Creek); Farmington, Maine; Houston, Texas; Tacoma and Seattle, Washington; Rawlins and Laramie, Wyoming and so many others. Also, to the real places in those cities that inspired my fictional locations.