Текст книги "The Darkest Place"
Автор книги: James N. Cook
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FOUR
They made love that night.
It was not as it usually was, with laughing, and caresses, and kissing, and long, languid movement of body against body. They went to bed in their nightclothes. Hicks lay on his back with his hands behind his head, a cool spring breeze blowing through the open window. Miranda lay beside him with her back turned, curled in upon herself, silent.
Then, without preamble, she rolled over and leaned over Hicks’ face and kissed him urgently, one hand disappearing beneath his waistband. Hicks breathed in sharply against Miranda’s mouth and felt his body respond. Hot tears dripped against his cheek, prompting him to gently grip her slender arms and push her away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Shut up,” she said, and twisted loose from his hands. Her shirt came off, tossed carelessly into a corner, and she began tugging at Hicks’ shorts. He raised his hips so she could pull them off, then had to bite down on a moan as he felt the warmth of her mouth around him. He said no more until she climbed on top, and then it was all grunts and hard breathing and Miranda’s insistent hunnh, hunnh, hunnh, hunnh.
And then it was over.
She stayed on top of him for a while, face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, saying nothing. With one hand, Hicks stroked her back with his fingertips, tracing the hollow between muscles and spine. With his other hand, he ran his fingers through her long hair, sweeping it back from her face. Finally, she sat up, kissed him briefly, and went to the bathroom. There was the sound of water running.
Hicks thought about the tower on the other side of town, and how nice it was to have running water. A moment later, Miranda emerged and crossed the room naked in the moonlight. She knelt next to Hicks with a damp cloth and began cleaning him up. He lay still, staring at her silhouette against the window.
“It’s never like you see it in the movies,” she said. “It’s messy.”
“In more ways than one.”
Miranda made a low sound that might have been a laugh. “Very true.”
Finished, she tossed the soiled cloth into the laundry bin and retrieved her shirt, then lay down beside Hicks. He offered to lift the covers for her, but she said it was too warm. Her arms went around his chest and they lay quietly together in the slowly cooling night.
“What was all that about?” he asked.
“I’m not sure if I even know.”
“If you figure it out…”
“If I figure it out.”
“Goodnight, M.”
“Goodnight, Caleb.”
*****
Hicks reported for duty the next day, which was a Saturday, well before sunrise.
First thing in the morning was PT, led by Staff Sergeant Kelly. Normally it would have been led by Sgt. Ashman, but he and Lt. Jonas had been called to company HQ at Fort McCray. There was much speculation as to why, with opinions ranging from suspicion of wrongdoing to rumors of a forthcoming offensive against the Midwest Alliance.
Hicks suspected the reason was far more innocuous.
Ashman was a damned good sergeant, easily the best in Echo Company. He had served in the Army for over fifteen years, had a bachelor’s degree in history—earned via online courses prior to the Outbreak—and his service record was spotless. Hicks suspected Ashman was being offered a commission, and said as much to Derrick Holland.
“You think?” the diminutive soldier asked, brow furrowed in thought.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Hicks replied as they dropped to the ground at Sgt. Kelly’s command and began doing pushups. “Fifteen years in, pre-Outbreak combat experience, college degree, exemplary record. I heard there’s more officer billets out there than qualified officers to fill them. We lost a lot of people during Relentless Force. Seems pretty obvious to me.”
Holland looked over and grinned. Hicks knew what was coming next.
After PT, Kelly ordered the platoon to clean up and get ready for patrol. As they bathed in the field showers, Holland began taking bets on why Lt. Jonas and Sgt. Ashman had been called away. The prevailing sentiment was that one or both of them were in some kind of trouble, until Holland posited the theory that Ashman was getting a promotion. The idea caught on quickly with no one willing to bet against it. Not to be deterred, Holland started taking bets on whether or not Ashman would accept the commission. That got people wagering.
Hicks listened, but remained silent. He was not a betting man.
After patrol and chow, Jonas and Ashman returned. The lieutenant, never being one to mince words or keep his men in suspense, called for everyone’s attention.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why Sergeant Ashman and I were called away this morning,” he said. “If you were thinking we’re in some kind of trouble, the answer is no.”
He waited for the inevitable round of chuckling and low comments to subside, a small smile on his face, then said, “Thankfully, the reason is a much happier one. Master Sergeant Ashman,” he nodded his head toward the platoon sergeant, who stood nervously, hands clasped behind his back, “has just accepted a field commission to the rank of second lieutenant.”
If he was expecting a round of applause, he was to be disappointed. Instead, he got a mournful chorus of WHAT? and Come on, man! and Dude, you can’t leave the platoon! Jonas forestalled their complaints with an upraised hand.
“All right, all right, that’s enough. Listen, I’m not any happier to see him go than you are. But the Army needs capable, proven leaders, and Sergeant Ashman here is one of the best. Besides, you’ve all been in long enough to know the only constant in the Army is change. People get moved around, shuffled around, promoted, assigned to other units, all kinds of shit. It happens. Sergeant Ashman has been an invaluable asset to Echo Company for the last two years, and his leadership and dedication to duty have been exemplary. But now his talents are needed elsewhere, and it’s time for him to move on. Stay in the Army long enough, and it’ll happen to you too. Except Holland. He’ll be stuck in First Platoon for the rest of his life.”
Another round of laughter. Holland grinned. “I love you too, sir.”
Jonas tried to scowl, but didn’t do a very good job of it. “Okay, enough jack-assing around. Sgt. Kelly, the platoon is yours for the rest of the day. I expect to see every one of you at the enlisted club at nineteen-hundred hours. First round is on me.”
That got a cheer.
*****
Hicks hung around until 2200, figuring three hours and four drinks was a sufficient celebration for Echo Company’s soon-to-be-promoted master sergeant. Before leaving, he took a moment to shake Ashman’s hand and inform him the platoon wouldn’t be the same without him. The big man accepted the compliment and leaned close so only Hicks could hear him.
“Jonas and I put in a good word for you with Captain Harlow,” he said. “You’re a hell of a soldier; one of the best I’ve ever seen.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t expect to be a specialist for much longer.”
Hicks said his goodbyes and left.
He thought about what Ashman said as he walked along the wooded stretch of gravel between Hollow Rock and Fort McCray. His first consideration was a promotion to sergeant would put him in charge of his fire team. Up until then, Holland was the senior specialist and was officially in charge, but both he and Private Fuller deferred to Hicks’ judgment in most things. Taking the stripes would just make it official. It would also mean a significant pay raise, albeit in federal credits. Still, any raise was a good one. With the new PX being constructed at Fort McCray, he might be able to buy things he could trade in town.
His thoughts turned to a storage facility on the south side Hollow Rock, recently acquired by G&R Transport and Salvage. Within this facility was an eight-by-ten storage unit more than halfway full of salvage Hicks had accumulated through months of contract work for G&R as well as the spoils of war taken from various insurgent and marauder groups. In terms of federal credits, it was worth five times as much as a sergeant made in a year—enough to buy passage for him and Miranda to Colorado Springs. He would even have enough left over to buy one of the newly constructed revenant-proof homes in the nice part of town, away from the refugee districts.
He imagined going back to living in relative comfort and safety, not constantly worried about the next walker attack. A man with his talents would have no trouble finding work in the Springs. Government jobs were no longer the only opportunities. Merchants of all stripes bartered generously for soldiers with combat experience willing to work as caravan guards. Enough so a man only had to work three or four months a year to earn a comfortable living. It was not without its dangers, but it was no worse than the Army. And he had done pretty well in the Army.
He rounded a corner into the field surrounding Hollow Rock’s outer wall, raised a hand, and waved toward the watch captain in his tower. A cowboy hat silhouetted against the full moon told him it was Mike Stall, owner and proprietor of Delta Squad’s favorite drinking hole, Stall’s Tavern. Mike acknowledged him with a wave, climbed down the steps, and slid back the panel of the check-in window.
“Howdy Caleb,” the old cowboy said, one half of his bushy mustache tilted upward. “You’re out late tonight. What’s the occasion?”
“Celebrating with the platoon. Master Sergeant Ashman accepted a field commission today.”
“Well how about that. Next time you see old tall and baldy, do me a favor and tell him I said congratulations.”
“Will do.”
“See any walkers on the way in?”
“Nope.”
Hicks unslung his rifle and slid it under the bars across the window, then followed it with his Ka-bar combat dagger, his ammunition-laden MOLLE vest, and his Beretta M-9.
“They let you fellas carry sidearms now?” Mike asked.
Hicks nodded. “Yep. It used to be against regulation for most soldiers, but everybody was carrying them anyway, so the Army changed the regulations a few months ago. All soldiers are now permitted to carry sidearms, provided we choose one from an approved list and have it inspected by a qualified armorer.”
“Well I’ll be damned. Back in my day, you didn’t usually see infantry grunts with sidearms.”
“Evil times we live in.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
If it were up to Hicks, he would have only brought the Beretta. But Captain Harlow required any soldier traveling outside Fort McCray to carry a minimum loadout of an M-4 rifle and 120 rounds of ammunition. Normally, he would have also brought his spear, but its holster was lashed to his assault pack and he didn’t feel like lugging the extra weight all the way to town. If he ran into any trouble he couldn’t handle with the carbine and the pistol, he was probably a dead man anyway.
After checking in his weapons, he went through the required physical examination everyone entering the gate had to undergo, then dressed, retrieved his gear, and set off for Miranda’s place. He crossed paths with a few people he knew along the way and nodded to them, but made no attempt at conversation. Finally, he arrived at Miranda’s door and stood still, hesitating. He very much wanted to see her, but it was late in the evening and he was worried she might have already gone to bed. The windows were absent their usual warm yellow glow, and there were no sounds coming from inside. He had just made the decision to head back to base when he heard footsteps approach and the front door opened.
“Hey there,” Miranda said, standing in her nightclothes. Her hair was loose, tousled, and falling down her shoulders. Hicks wanted to reach out and touch it.
“Hey yourself.”
“Where’ve you been? I’d just about given up on seeing you tonight.” There was an edge in her voice when she said it, a certain strain, the slightly clipped tones of someone who is trying to appear unconcerned but not quite pulling it off.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Ashman got a promotion. The whole platoon went out to celebrate.”
“Oh. I was starting to think that after last night…”
Hicks shook his head. “Absolutely not. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
Miranda smiled and visibly relaxed. “In that case, come on in.”
She held the door open so he could follow her inside. Hicks hung his gear on a set of hooks by the door while she lit a pair of candles in the small living room. With the room lighted, she took a seat on the couch and curled her legs beneath her. Hicks stared at the smooth shapeliness of her legs, and wondered how much time and effort she spent shaving them with the straight razor he had bought her. Sometimes he would visit her in the evening and she would have little squares of t-shirt fabric stuck to places where she had nicked herself.
“How was your day?” Miranda asked.
Hicks shrugged. “The usual.”
“Kill any walkers? Capture any dangerous criminal types?”
“Nope. It was quiet for a change.”
She picked up a glass of water from the table beside her and sipped it. “Are you going out with Eric’s crew tomorrow?”
“Didn’t know he was going out.”
“He didn’t send a runner?”
“Not that I know of,” he said and then paused, a memory shaking loose. “You know, now that you mention it, I remember Thompson saying something about a salvage run last week.”
“That makes sense,” Miranda said. “He scheduled it a couple of weeks ago. It’s getting harder and harder to reserve the transports, especially with all the work going on in the fields.”
Hicks thought a moment longer and remembered Thompson gathering the squad together just before evening chow and telling them to keep their schedules clear for next Sunday. Eric Riordan had reserved one of Hollow Rock’s large multi-fuel transport vehicles, and, barring incident, they would be heading out with Sanchez’s squad from the Ninth TVM on a salvage-hunting expedition. He remembered being distracted at the moment, his mind replaying memories of-
No. Not now.
“I guess it slipped my mind,” he said as he walked into the kitchenette.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Miranda tilt her head quizzically as he poured himself a drink. He didn’t usually drink this late at night, but if he was going to tell her what he had to say, a little liquid courage was in order. He put the bottle back in the cupboard and sat down on the couch.
“Are you all right, Caleb?” Miranda asked. “You seem … distant.”
He gave a weak smile and sipped his drink. It was simple grain alcohol from Mike Stall’s distillery, devoid of color and taste, but it went down smoothly and the burn felt warm and comforting. He remembered a time when feeling that burn was the only thing he cared about, regardless of what he had to consume to produce it.
“You said last night you wanted to know more about me.”
She was quiet for a long moment, eyes luminous in the golden light. She nodded slowly.
“It’s a long story. I don’t think I can tell it all in one night.”
Her hand reached out for him. “Caleb, you don’t have to tell me anything. I’m fine with you just the way you are. You were right about what you said last night. There’s no need for either of us to go digging up the past. We’re here now, we love each other, and we have our own little light in the darkness. That’s all that matters.”
Hicks looked down and stared at Miranda’s fingers interlaced with his own. “You might not like what you’re about to hear.”
“I meant what I just said.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “It’s important. I want you to hear it.”
Her eyes softened. “All right then.”
Hicks tossed back his drink, set it on the table, and relaxed into the couch cushions. Outside, crickets chirped and night birds sang in the dark spring evening.
FIVE
Three years ago,
Houston Metro Area, Texas
I should start with my father. He was the lynchpin in everything.
We traveled a lot when I was little. I remember that. Dad seemed sad most of the time, especially when I asked him about Mom. He could only ever talk about her for a few minutes at a time, and then his hands would tremble, his voice would crack, and he would start shaking like a leaf. When that happened, I always hugged him and stopped asking questions.
He told me she was beautiful. That I had her blue eyes and light brown hair, and I looked so much like her. He said I would grow up to be tall and lean like she was. He told me there were complications the day I was born. Something went wrong and she bled too much. I know she got to hold me before it was over with.
I still have the picture.
Dad was a quiet man, so I guess I come by that honestly. He was medium height, medium build, dark hair and eyes. His skin was light brown even in winter—Italian blood on his mother’s side. I remember watching him work outside with his shirt off and the way his scars gleamed dully in the afternoon light.
We stayed in motels and the occasional rented trailer. Dad never stayed in one town for very long because he liked being on the road. Even as a small boy, I had the distinct impression he was running from something. People tell me I was too young to remember that part of my life, but they’re wrong. I remember scenes from it, distant and hazy, like looking through a dirty window.
Close to my fifth birthday, Dad knew things were going to have to change. I was due to start kindergarten in the fall. We were living in a rented double-wide somewhere outside of Houston at the time. There was a thin strip of paved road bisecting the two sides of the trailer park lined with mailboxes and old beer cans. Lauren lived directly across from us.
She was divorced, her ex-husband was a lawyer, and she lived on money from the divorce settlement and what she made waitressing nights at the diner down the highway. Her car was a little white Toyota. She was pretty and slender with auburn hair and light hazel eyes. I could tell Dad liked her.
Dad got a job at a service station not far from the trailer park. Changing oil, rotating tires, replacing air filters, that sort of thing. It was daytime work. Lauren offered to sit for me while he was away. Dad tried to pay her, but she wouldn’t let him.
Most days, I would and run around the trailer park with the other kids my age while Lauren kept an eye on me from underneath the shade tree in the back yard. She always called me in for lunch at 12:30 on the dot and made the best ham and cheese sandwiches.
We didn’t talk much. I guess that’s mostly my fault. I got the feeling she wanted to talk, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I have never, nor will I ever, understand why so many people feel the need to occupy every spare moment of company with a fellow human being with mindless chatter. It is my studied opinion that the best people in the world are the ones who appreciate a good companionable silence.
Anyway.
It was Dad who made the first move, at my prompting. You see, most days he would come home and ask if I behaved, and Lauren would say yes, and that he was lucky to have such a sweet, precocious little boy. Dad would thank her for watching me, and there would be an awkward moment, and Lauren would smile and say she had to get ready for work. On the days she didn’t work, she just said goodbye and walked out the door. Then dad would get a strange look on his face and watch her walk across the little strip of asphalt until she disappeared into her trailer. Finally, one day, I got tired of it.
“Just tell her,” I said, exasperated.
Dad jumped and rounded on me. “Tell her what?”
“That you like her, sillyhead.”
His dark eyebrows came together and he sat down on the couch. “Is it that obvious?”
I rolled my eyes and went to my room to play.
It was a Friday. I remember that. Lauren had the day off. When Dad got home, they went through the usual ritual. At the part where they stood facing each other awkwardly, I leaned around the kitchen archway and shot my dad a piercing look.
“Well, I guess I better go,” Lauren said, and started toward the door.
“Wait,” Dad said, and reached for her arm. His fingers barely touched her elbow, but even from ten feet away I could hear the sharp intake of breath. “Would you like to stay for dinner? I’m making pasta.”
She smiled, and I thought Dad might melt into the carpet. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”
A week later, late at night when they thought I was asleep and the moans and gasps and creaking of bedsprings subsided, was the first time I ever heard my father laugh. I lay awake with the moonlight slanting in through the window and smiled.
Her lease was up at the end of that month. Dad got rid of our ratty old furniture so we could move hers in. At age five, I learned one of the important truths of life.
A good woman can make any place feel like home.
*****
“Joe, he has to start school in the fall,” Lauren said, hands on her hips as she stood with feet firmly planted on the kitchen floor.
“I know.”
“Have you even gone and looked at the schools around here?”
A moment’s hesitation. “No.”
Lauren stomped away and loudly clanged pots and pans around in the kitchen. I gave my dad a sympathetic look and crossed the room to sit beside him. He smiled down at me, put his hand against the side of my head, and pulled me close to his chest. I hugged him back.
“That is so irresponsible of you, Joseph Hicks. I thought you were a better man than that.”
Dad looked miserable. Lauren stomped into the room and pointed at him with an accusing finger.
“You can’t just treat him like a damn pet, Joe. He needs a proper education. I can’t believe you-”
“Hey!” I shouted.
Lauren stopped, eyes wide. I stood up and faced her, fists balled at my hips. “That’s my dad you’re talking to.”
There was a long pause. I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Caleb, calm down son.”
I glared at Lauren a moment longer, then sat down. “Listen,” Dad said. “The schools around here are no good. You know that.”
“How do you know if you haven’t even looked at them?”
“I have ears, Lauren. I hear people talk.”
She let out a sigh and sat next to me on the couch. “So what do you want to do?”
Dad’s hand went down to my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I was thinking we could home school him.”
Lauren looked skeptical. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“I think it’s better than sending him to one of the lowest ranked school districts in Texas,” he said flatly.
“Well … I guess we can look into it.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Lauren stood up and started toward the kitchen. “I heard the phone ring earlier while I was outside,” she said over her shoulder. “Who was it?”
“An old Army buddy of mine.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“Me finding a better job. He told me he knows a guy who works at some private combat training outfit not far from here. Black Wolf Tactical, or something like that. Said they’re hiring.”
“What kind of work would it be?”
“According to their website, they teach marksmanship and survival skills to civilians. They also work with law enforcement and a few federal agencies. Weekend warrior kind of stuff.”
“Sounds right up your alley.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Dad’s eyes strayed to a section of wall on the other side of the room. There were several pictures of him with other soldiers, a framed patch emblazoned with the emblem of the 10th Special Forces Regiment, and at the bottom was a picture of him and three other men wearing green face paint and holding M-4s. They were standing on the bank of a river, a hazy gray sky and jungle greenery behind them. It would not be until I was twelve years old before my father finally told me what was so special about that picture, why he kept it apart from all the others. They were friends of his, two of whom later died in combat, from a unit that did not officially exist.
Delta Force.
“Well that’s good news,” Lauren said. “Are you going to call them?”
“My friend will. He’s going to try to get me an interview.”
“When do you think you’ll hear back from him?”
“Probably in the next day or two.”
“Would it be more money than you’re making now, do you think?”
Dad chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah it would be.”
*****
Four days later, Dad left for the interview in a suit he bought at the Salvation Army with a big black duffel bag in his hand. When he came home three hours later, the suit was on a hanger, the duffel bag was half empty, and he was in combat fatigues. His hair was damp with sweat, his face crusted with dust and dirt, and he was smiling.
“Good lord, Joe,” Lauren said at the sight of him. “What did they do to you?”
He dropped the duffel bag. “Ah, nothing much. Just put me through my paces. Ed warned me they were going to do that.”
“You look like you just dug a ditch.”
The old man laughed. “Lauren, BWT is a combat training facility. They don’t just hire bums off the street. You have to prove you have the goods. Run the courses, shoot holes in cardboard bad guys, that sort of thing.”
“Was it dangerous?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
She dampened a towel in the kitchen sink and handed it to him. Dad started wiping the dirt off his face. “Do you think you got the job?”
The smile widened. “I start on Monday.”
“That’s great! How much did they offer you?”
He told her. Her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
Despite the sweat and dirt, Lauren jumped into his arms.
*****
The first change was dad got a new truck. The dealership gave him five-hundred bucks for his rusty, beat up old Sierra and sold him a shiny new Dodge Ram. The next change was we moved out of that shitty trailer park and into a proper house. In late August, in an outdoor ceremony on a hill surrounded by elms and maples, Dad and Lauren got married in the sunshine. He let me be the best man.
That fall, I began my education. And what an education it was.
