Dark Days of the After (Book 3): Dark Days of the Apostasy Page 2

  May tried to get around the thickest plumes, but Skylar still found herself squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath much longer than she wanted.

  “Is this an extraction point, or an alternate command post?” she finally asked, turning her head sideways.

  “Stop asking questions!” May barked. “We’ll know when we get there!”

  From the other side of the building, overhead, came the heavy whomping sounds of another Black Hawk, followed by the trademark buzz of an M134 in action.

  Plaster and brick chips from nearby buildings jumped as 7.62mm rounds chewed the fascia to pieces above them. May dipped back into the smoke, heading for the only cover available.

  For a long second, they were blind.

  May let off the gas.

  In spite of the destruction raining down upon them, May crept the four wheeler out of the other side of the smoke.

  Where before they were moving slowly, now they came to a dead stop.

  They’d hit a wall of cars, all of them out of commission from the EMP. Panic set in. There was no way through!

  From the Black Hawk, RPGs zoomed down toward the base of the building behind them. Above them, automatic weapons were unleashing hell on the helicopter, but when the RPGs hit the building, the structure buckled low and started to crumble.

  “Get us out of here!” Skylar screamed, wiggling her arms against her restraints despite an immense amount of pain. She had to get free of these ropes!

  “There’s no way through!” May screamed.

  “That building is coming down on us if you don’t get us the fu—”

  The animalistic roar of the collapsing building blotted out the sounds of her voice. With a burst of fear-fueled adrenaline, Skylar started thrashing around in the rope like a caged animal throwing the mother of all fits. She had to break free!

  Sneaking a glance back, she watched the bottom of the building collapse under its own weight, the structure toppling into the street behind them.

  The fear in her heart became screaming out of her mouth.

  May was now working to get free, too. She managed to pull open the knot, the rope binding the two of them together now loose and falling around Skylar’s waist. They were free of each other, but Skylar was still bound by her own restraints.

  Clouds of dust and debris churned out in every direction. The world instantly disappeared into the choking haze, but that didn’t lessen Skylar’s struggle. If anything, this intensified it.

  She didn’t mean to, but she opened her eyes in a storm cloud of fast moving grit. She snapped her eyelids shut, but the dust was in her nose, her mouth, her ears.

  Something big slammed into the back of the quad. The axle snapped as they were bulldozed forward in a jarring rush of rubble that had her and May tossing and turning in the mix. The building’s tidal wave of wreckage rolled her up, folding her under small hills of granular remains, tucking her violently into the powdery ruins of the once mammoth apartment tower.

  She didn’t feel what came next. All she knew was that the darkness washed over her and all her senses failed.

  Chapter Two

  Griffin slammed on the brakes, bringing the cumbrous SUV to a sliding stop. Ryker saw the problem. Leo cursed under his breath. They were caught in the middle of a conflict zone, trapped between two warring armies.

  Chicoms blocked them in the street ahead, surprised to see the civilian vehicle caught in the crossfire of what was a violent shootout. Ahead, the SAA was dropping troops into the streets, gunners lighting up everything in sight.

  “Hold on,” Griffin shouted.

  Slamming the vehicle into reverse and muscling the wheel around, Griffin looked over his shoulder, backed up, bumped a small Hyundai, the vehicle rocking on its hinges. Gunfire stitched up the side of the Chevy, one of the windows blowing out. Ryker was on his side, hoping they didn’t become the target for both armies. Cranking the wheel back around, Griffin looked forward, put the vehicle in gear and stomped on the accelerator.

  “Are you insane?” Leo shouted.

  “No choice!”

  Griffin drove them straight through a twenty foot glass wall leading into an art center. The noise of the glass shattering was ear piercing. They bounced onto the main showroom, took the corner hard, slid into a display wall and slammed into someone’s idea of a beautiful woman.

  The portrait looked utilitarian, like something you’d see in a communist state. Oil on canvas that said nothing, evoked no emotion, sold for a fortune because some pompous douchebag drove up the bid thinking it was the “statement of our time.”

  Ahead of them was another false wall. Hopefully. Griffin gunned it. They blew through the wall, destroyed someone’s small office, then slammed into a brick wall that jolted them so hard the back end might have lifted an inch or two.

  “Everyone out!” Griffin said, kicking open the door.

  If Ryker was hurting before, he was worse now. His back and neck were burned from the recent explosion, his ribs bruised for sure, his organs in bad shape from the beating they took when he was blown out of a building and hurled across a parking lot. The fence softened the blow, kept things from breaking, but it failed to cushion him from pain.

  He scurried out of the SUV anyway.

  Griffin turned to him and said, “Memorize this address. It’s our safe house. The rendezvous point. If we get separated for any reason, that’s where we’ll meet up. You got that?”

  “Got it,” Ryker said.

  He memorized the address as Griffin and Leo looked for a back door. When they found one, Griffin said, “I’ll go first, you two head up the rear.”

  “What about the chopper?” Leo said, making mention of the SAA overhead.

  “They’ve got the Chicoms to deal with.” Then, with a grin, he said, “Who in God’s name are we anyway? We’re going to be fine.”

  He looked both ways, then up, and then he trotted out into the parking lot, heading for the cover of the building next door. He was halfway there when his body shook and danced, bursts of red gore punching out into the air in front of him. He took three graceless steps, his knees buckled and he went down, dead.

  Leo took a sharp breath. Ryker couldn’t breathe. The overhead buzzing of the M134 stopped, the Black Hawk audibly shifting direction. A moment later, the belt-fed gun resumed.

  Ryker looked at Leo, stunned. Leo shook his head like he couldn’t believe it. After that, he began to pace, whimpering to himself, rattling on to himself. Ryker found a padded bench to lay out on, his ribs aching. He was trying to calm himself. Was it simply the fear, or was there something deeper wrong with him?

  “Shake it off,” Ryker finally told Leo, but the rebel was quickly unwinding, now saying how effed they were, full blown tears in his eyes. “Seriously man, pull it together!”

  “Griffin was my best friend!” he stopped and shouted, his tantrum now on full display.

  “We have to get to the rendezvous point, man. We have to!”

  “I know, but let’s let things cool out there first,” Ryker said, closing and rubbing his stinging eyes. He blew his nose sideways onto the floor, took a peek hoping not to see blood. He saw the snot was the color of smoke instead.

  Unbelievable.

  “I think I can make it,” Leo said, stopping the tantrum.

  “No,” Ryker said.

  “I can’t just leave him out there!”

  He was about to say something when Leo rushed out. Ryker was off the bench fast enough to see him get shot by a pair of Chicom soldiers being herded back by the advancing SAA.

  Ryker ducked down, backed up and looked for somewhere to go, anywhere. He heard voices out front, men now breaching the front of the building. He scrambled for an exit, finding only a staircase instead. Ryker ascended the stairs as quickly as he could, accounting for his injuries, but not slowing much because of them.

  The only place he found to hide was a bathroom, and that was no good. Looking up, he saw ceiling tiles. He stood on the toile
t, pushed one up. Moving it aside, he got hold of the edge, tried to hoist himself up, but the incredible pain that set in as a result of this had him thinking, no freaking way!

  He abandoned the stall as a hiding place, glanced around, zeroed in on a broom closet. He tore open the door, spotted a wood-handled mop and rolling bucket sitting next to several shelves of supplies. The echoing sounds of voices in the stairwell lit his fuse. He ripped the mop out of the bucket and stomped on the joint, breaking the mop handle off, and quite possibly hurting his foot.

  He took the handle with the jagged edge, hobbled to the last stall of three, then shut the door and sat down on the toilet. After a second, he lifted his legs as well, just in case they looked underneath the metal doors.

  He heard the main bathroom door open, held his breath.

  There was some light from a small window, but otherwise it was dim enough to give him a second or two advantage. Light from an amber-tinted flashlight swept over the small space. A quick burst of gunfire ripped through the metal dividers and tore up the tile walls. One round punched through the metal divider beside him, but missed his head and struck a pipe in the wall instead.

  Water started to leak out behind him.

  He heard one person speaking to another in Spanish, saying he would clear the rest of the floor. But the guy who presumably shot the stalls up walked inside, undeterred. The sound of the barrel of a rifle touching the cold tile floor made Ryker think the man was taking a knee and sneaking a nice long look under the stalls.

  He lifted his feet a bit higher, circled his arms around his knees and pulled them to his chest. The SAA soldier finally stood and kicked the first stall door open.

  Quickly, Ryker slid down the front of the toilet, put his feet on either side of the stall door’s supports, then readied the blunt end of the mop handle for jousting. The soldier kicked the second stall door open, the clatter against the stall at his side rattling his heart.

  Leaning sideways, with the help of the flashlight and a small window letting in some light, he saw the feet walk to his stall door. The two feet stood together, but the second one lifted off the ground to kick, Ryker took a half breath then leaned over hard and blasted the man’s shin from under the door. The attacker’s foot hit the door at the same time Ryker hit him with the rounded end of the mop handle.

  He was now face-to-face with his attacker, the ground advantage and the element of surprise firmly his to enjoy.

  The man winced and stumbled backwards, favoring the injured leg. This bought Ryker that one second advantage. It was enough for him to lean forward and thrust the handle straight into his groin.

  The soldier oofed! loud and folded at the waist.

  Ryker spun the mop handle, the jagged edge now forward, and jabbed the man in the throat with all his might. The sharp end broke through the soft flesh, the rifle dropping to the ground. Ryker jerked the broken handle out, not expecting the man to fall forward with it.

  He toppled over on Ryker, blood gushing out everywhere. Ryker saw the man’s sidearm in its holster; he also saw the blade on his side. The blade was quiet, easier to get out of the sheath and just as lethal.

  He slid it loose, marveled at the balance of it, then stabbed the man in the neck. He twisted the blade back and forth, and then he tore it out at an angle. The faucet opened up, but this time the red gore hit the metal partition instead of draining all over his lap.

  He fought to get out from underneath the dead man, but in such close quarters, he was not only battling space, he was suffering a sudden bout of claustrophobia. For a second, he felt trapped. It was impossible to move, let alone wiggle free.

  “Marco,” the dead man’s partner called from outside the bathroom.

  Ryker went perfectly still for a moment, but then he heard footsteps, a sound that had him scrambling to get the SAA man’s sidearm loose. The gun was situated in one of those holsters that made it tough for a civilian to grab at from the front.

  He couldn’t free it for the life of him!

  “Hey, Marco…what the?”

  Ryker finally wrangled the gun loose in time to raise it and fire into the soldier’s chest the second he appeared. Two barking reverberations leveled him with a deafening pressure in his ears. The dead man fell forward, landing face-down on his partner’s body, which lay on both of his legs.

  “Are you kidding me!” he growled.

  With the long wooden stick, he managed to push the dead man off Marco. He then slid the stick down the back of Marco’s pants and pushed, getting the man’s body off him enough for Ryker to get free.

  He was finally able to crawl backwards up onto the toilet, then take a breath.

  The first thing he did was wipe his stick down with a wad of toilet paper. The second thing he did was stuff another freshly crumpled wad of TP into his pants pocket just in case. Stepping over the dead men, gun in one hand, knife in the other, he got clear of the two of them. Then, because he liked the knife, he confiscated Marco’s sheath and affixed it to his belt. He took the holster, too, then removed three mags from the SAA man’s tac vest and set out, eyes peeled, weapon at the ready.

  Downstairs, echoes of the conflict between the Chicoms and the SAA were still raging, the constant clatter of gunfire, men shouting in different languages, some barking orders, others howling out in pain.

  At the base of the stairs, he was able to get a better look. He snuck a peek out back, saw dead Chicoms laid out all over the lot, a dead SAA man (half his head gone), along with Griffin and Leo.

  There was no exit there.

  Hyper alert to what he was walking into, he crept through the sterile white building and into the front gallery. He watched his corners and ground floor windows, then he managed to catch a look out front, through the open hole that was once a massive window with a floor-to-ceiling view of the street.

  All measure of chaos was underway.

  The Chicoms were dug in and putting up a valiant fight, but the SAA had the high ground and superior firepower.

  If one of these sorry Chicom turds had an RPG, they might have been able to turn the tide in their favor, but alas, they shot their wad with the EMP and now they were having to fight to keep what they thought was theirs.

  For a second, he saw several targets, men unaware of him, men just inside the building he could easily kill. One of them was so oblivious to him, Ryker could have shot him five times over. Another man joined them, both kneeling down, both with their eyes on the street and not on their six. They were so focused on the fight in front of them, he could have snuck up on them and slit their throats before they knew what happened.

  As much as he wanted to get in the fight, however, the smarter part of him knew he needed to exercise patience, wait this thing out.

  The only suitable place to hide was the broom closet in the bathroom where he’d killed the two SAA soldiers. He fell back, headed up the stairs and went into the bathroom, confiscating the SAA man’s Maglite. From there, he checked out the broom closet, found it suitable enough, then got inside, shut the small door and turned the lock.

  Packed into the tight space, he spent the next fifteen minutes trying to make himself comfortable. When he was situated, he took a big breath, let it out slowly. Times like these caused his mind to wander.

  He fought that urge, keeping his mind sharp, fresh and focused.

  His efforts waned. Mentally, he couldn’t sustain. It was the toll taken on his body. The onset of both mental and physical exhaustion. Even worse, the adrenaline was burning off, the pain becoming more obvious and insistent than ever.

  The sadness set in as well. He might not see Skylar again. Not unless he had a way out of this hell hole, and not unless he could find the address Griffin made him memorize.

  Even though he was in perfect darkness, he felt the walls closing in on him. He shut his eyes, forced himself to think of wide open spaces. For awhile this eased some of the tension in his chest, but then the subtle smells of the closet intruded on his dreams. Thi
s was the base line scent of chemicals mixed with musty towels, and maybe a little mold in the corners of the closet where splashed mop water settled in behind the baseboards.

  His blood pressure was on the rise again, his breathing high and shallow in his chest. What is this? The cold prickle of dread mixed with his otherwise warm skin left him uncomfortable and antsy. He told himself he could open the door whenever he wanted. He could flick the switch on the Maglite and see the closet’s dimensions hadn’t changed.

  Breathe you big wuss, he told himself.

  Ryker drew another very deep breath, pulling it up from the belly this time, and then he let it out in a slow, measured release.

  He found he was able to relax once more.

  You have your gun, your knife, your wits, he told himself. And you’re not dead. Not yet.

  He held his gun like a lifeline, praying he wouldn’t need it, ready for anything in case he did. Honing in on what sounds he could make out, he listened to the details of the pandemonium outside—the gunfire, the explosives, the unending exchanges.

  “Kill yourselves,” he muttered into the dark as he closed his eyes once more. “It’ll save us the ammo and the effort.”

  When he shut his eyes, he only intended to do so for a minute; he didn’t expect to drift off so quickly or effortlessly. As it happened, his battered body was more in need of sleep than he wanted to admit. Truthfully, he’d longed for sleep, because it was how the pain went away.

  When he woke up next, it was to voices.

  Startled, groggy, pissed off at being jolted awake, his heart kicked in gear, small stores of adrenalin seeping into his bloodstream.

  Rubbing his eyes, breaking loose the fog of sleep, the physical agony he’d managed to turn off with sleep came roaring back. Everything hurt. The adrenalin would mask the pain, he thought as he peeked out the slatted vent.

  There were three Chicoms standing over the dead SAA men.