(Wrath-08)-Evil In The Darkness (2013) Read online

  The rancher dropped the reins and moved around to the other side of the horse.

  “What in the world happened? Is he OK?”

  “I don’t know, Jazzy. Found him near the highway. He’d crossed the fence onto our property and passed out down by the old well.”

  She took a careful step toward her husband, her dark eyes scared. She was middle-aged, but tan and pretty. Her nails were carefully manicured and her hands were smooth—not the hands of a woman who spent much time out on the farm.

  All she could see were the stranger’s legs hanging from her side of the saddle. She followed her husband around to the other side of the horse. “Oh my . . . oh my . . .” she whispered upon seeing the uniform. “Reed, is he a soldier?” Her face turned pale, a deep sadness falling across her eyes.

  The man grunted as he pulled the stranger off the back of the horse, draped him across his shoulders, and headed for the grass.

  Jazzy smelled him and turned away, then yelled toward her youngest son: “Bruce, get a couple buckets from the garage. Fill them from the pool. Go on! Go on! Get ’em now!” The little boy, maybe ten or eleven, had wandered close. So far he hadn’t said anything, but now he turned and ran again.

  Reed laid the soldier on the grass at the back side of the house. His wife followed and immediately started taking off his filthy clothes while Reed worked on his boots. The young boy showed up with two sloshing buckets and a wet rag. The woman gently placed the rag over the unconscious man’s forehead. He mumbled but didn’t wake.

  * * * * * * *

  Twelve hours later, Bono opened his eyes. It was dark. It was quiet. The bed was soft and warm. He looked at the darkness in utter confusion, then attempted to push himself up from the pillow, panic surging through his veins. He fell back, his head pounding like a hammer as he grunted against the pain. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his strength and tried to lift his head again.

  “Shhhh,” he heard a soft voice. “It’s OK. You’re all right. Don’t try to get up just yet.”

  A dim glow from a small candle filled the room and, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his surroundings slowly came into focus. A woman was studying him, her hand upon his arm. “It’s OK,” she repeated, her voice as comforting as anything he’d ever heard. “You can relax here. I’ll stay beside you. Everything’s going to be OK.”

  Bono fell back against the pillow. “Where am I?” he muttered through a dry mouth.

  The woman lifted a cup of water. “You need to drink,” she said.

  Bono strained to lift his head, desperately thirsty, and she pressed the cup against his lips. He drank several gulps, then leaned back. “Where am I?” he repeated.

  The woman started to answer, but Bono was asleep again before she could explain.

  * * * * * * *

  “It’s impossible to say for certain,” the rancher said. “It could have been a number of things.” He appeared to hesitate and didn’t explain any further.

  Bono sat at the kitchen table dressed in a thick blue bathrobe and white slippers that were a size too big. He was still weak, but an empty soup bowl sat in front of him and he was starting to feel a little better as the food had time to seep into his blood. He eyed his new friends and wondered in amazement at the unlikely coincidence, then turned to look at the pictures on the kitchen wall: the doctor with his family, his horses, pictures of all the things he loved. The man sitting before him had saved his life not because he was a rancher but because he was a surgeon from Little Rock who had fled the city to their family ranch after the EMP attack.

  “Had to be something in the water I drank?” Bono said.

  The doctor hesitated, then stood up from the table and walked toward the sink. “I’m guessing it had to be.”

  “Does this mean, you know, I’ve got some kind of worm or snail or something disgusting growing inside me?”

  The doctor laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re any worse off now than you were when you got back from Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever else you’ve been.”

  “It wasn’t giardia,” Bono said, still trying to diagnose himself. “Way too fast to be a parasite.”

  The doctor turned around. “Without the ability to do some proper blood and lab tests, we’ll probably never know.”

  “So I don’t need to worry about it?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I didn’t say that, lieutenant. I didn’t say that at all. In a perfect world, we’d do a little more research to try to figure out what it was. But I don’t think it’s going to kill you and I don’t think it will necessarily have any long-lasting repercussions or side effects. I may be wrong, but we can hope.”

  Bono sipped at a cup of chocolate milk, staring at the bright blue mug. One of the doctor’s neighbors had a herd of cows. How valuable was that? Gold. Even better. You couldn’t drink gold. Better to have a cow.

  “How far up the stream did you walk before you drank?” the doctor asked.

  “A little ways,” Bono answered sheepishly, recognizing his foolish error.

  The doctor sat down at the table. “You didn’t purify it, boil it, use iodine tablets or anything?”

  Bono lowered his head. “I was in a hurry.”

  “Look, lieutenant, it could have been a couple of things. My best guess, if you were to backtrack up the stream a ways, you’d find a dead animal in the water. A raccoon, skunk, rat, fox, who knows, but I’d bet my left arm—and I pretty much need my arm for surgery, so you can see I’m fairly sure about this bet—that there was a rotting carcass somewhere not too far upstream.”

  Bono’s face turned to ash and he pressed his lips together, looking sick again.

  The doctor couldn’t help but notice. “You know, back in ancient days the Persians used to poison their enemies’ water by throwing in dead dogs and rats, the first example of biological warfare that we know of. Entire armies are recorded as having been brought to their knees. Anthrax, Ebola, salmonella—lots of bad things.”

  The doctor paused as he thought. Something about the story still didn’t add up. “I want to be sure I understand. You drank the water when?”

  “I’ve been here one night is all, right?”

  “Yes. I found you yesterday just before nightfall.”

  “Then I drank the water yesterday morning. I was very sick by early afternoon.”

  It can’t be, the doctor thought. The incubation time for any of these is much longer than just a few hours. The timing isn’t right. It doesn’t add up! He thought for a long moment, then let it go. “You’re lucky you survived it,” he told Bono. “Frankly, if I hadn’t found you, I don’t know if you’d have made it through the night. You were about as dehydrated as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  “I wanted to die,” Bono said. “I felt like I was throwing up everything I’ve ever eaten since the second grade. Given the choice of going through that again or dying, just hand me a gun.”

  “But you’re feeling better now?”

  Bono took another drink of chocolate milk. “You have no idea,” he said.

  The doctor pointed to his abdomen. “A little sore, I imagine?”

  “Feels like a freight train drove across my chest.”

  “You’re going to be sore for a while. And weak. It will take a few days to get your strength back.”

  Bono pushed back from the table. The sun was just coming up and the room was lit now by soft morning light. “Thank you,” he said for at least the third or fourth time.

  The doctor only grunted.

  Bono stood. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “You should stay and rest a little.”

  Bono felt his legs grow weak, his knees seeming to buckle under his weight. “I can’t, sir. I really can’t. I’ve only got a few days.”

  The doctor lifted a hand. “I understand,” he said, watching the lieutenant wobble as he grabbed the kitchen table, “but I don’t think you’re going to make it.”

  Bono started to turn, then suddenly changed his mind,
falling back into his chair and closing his eyes to stop the room from spinning.

  “It’s an awful long walk to Memphis,” the doctor said, his eyes narrowing with concern.

  “How far is it if I crawl?” Bono tried to laugh. “That’s the only way I’m going to make it unless the world quits spinning.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re going to make it,” he repeated. “I don’t think you could walk around this house.”

  The doctor’s wife entered the room with a bucket of small tomatoes, some of the last to be taken from her garden. She glanced at Bono and patted him on the shoulder as she walked by. “You look better,” she said as she moved toward the kitchen sink, where she dropped the tomatoes and started washing them in another bucket of water she’d brought in from outside.

  “You’ve been so good to me, Jasmine. I want to thank you,” Bono said.

  She kept her eyes on her work. “We don’t have much, but I’m going to make you some sandwiches to hold you over on your journey.”

  “You don’t need to do that. Really, I’ve got supplies. I’ll be OK.”

  She quickly turned toward him. “Have you told him, Reed?” She eyed her husband.

  The doctor looked away. “It didn’t come up,” he said quietly without looking at his wife.

  She lifted another tomato and dropped it in the bucket of water. “Tell me, Lieutenant Calton, did you ever run into a Captain Bradley?” she asked. “He was an Apache pilot. Flew with the Third Battalion of the One Hundred and First.”

  Bono thought, then shook his head.

  The brown-haired woman with the soft hands turned around to face him. “That’s too bad,” she said. “Arnie was a good man. Too young. Too kind sometimes. Too trusting. Not careful enough. But he was a good boy, our son. He was killed eighteen months ago in Afghanistan.”

  Bono stared at her without speaking. “I’m very sorry,” he said.

  Jasmine turned back to her tomatoes. “So are we.” She pulled some homemade bread from the cupboard. “We don’t have a lot, you understand, but I’ll put together what I can.”

  Bono started to argue but could see it wouldn’t do any good. And he was thankful anyway, and willing to accept her generosity. He watched her spread some peanut butter and homemade jam across thick slices of bread. Standing again, he said, “Thank you, sir,” to the doctor, his voice determined. “Thank you for what you’ve done, but I really have to go.”

  The doctor stood beside him. “You’ll never make it in your condition.”

  “Maybe not, sir, but what choice do I have? I think if I start slow and pace myself—”

  “I really can’t allow it.”

  Bono stared at him without replying. Turning, he headed to the kitchen door. His clothes were drying on the fence outside.

  “Let me ask you something,” the doctor said as Bono walked away. The officer turned back. “Do you know how to handle a horse?”

  Bono hesitated. “I rode a horse in Afghanistan.”

  “If I give you a good animal, will you take care of her?”

  Bono’s eyes moved from the doctor to his wife and back again. “I promise you, I will.”

  The doctor nodded. “Figured you would.”

  SEVEN

  East Side, Chicago, Illinois

  It was almost two hours before Sam returned. By then the sun had risen, bringing light to the day. He stood in front of the broken window on the door, his back to it, looking out on the crowded streets. Then he quickly pushed the door open and backed in. “Azadeh,” he called softly.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Azadeh,” he called a little more loudly. Still no answer. He pulled the Beretta from his holster. The handgrip was already warm. He’d been holding it before. “Azadeh.” This time he whispered, his nerves on end. He listened, waited, then slowly started moving toward a door on the back wall. Passing the store’s counter, he found her asleep on the floor. “Azadeh,” he whispered, kneeling down beside her. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, confusion in her eyes, then sat up instantly, wrapping her coat around her waist. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I must have fallen asleep.” She rolled over onto her knees.

  Sam put a hand on her leg to reassure her. “It’s OK. I’m glad you got some sleep.”

  She stood up. “I am ready.”

  He looked at her and laughed. “Ready to what, Azadeh?”

  She looked confused again and then embarrassed. “I don’t know. Whatever you tell me to do.”

  He put his arm around her. “Come with me,” he said.

  She nodded toward the street. “What did you find?”

  “I’ll tell you as we walk.”

  “It is good though, no? It is good. Lights? Electricity? Many people go there. They are all excited. I think it must be good.”

  Sam shook his head sadly and pulled her toward the door. “I’ll explain everything, but we’ve got to leave right now.”

  Azadeh face fell. “You are not happy?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It is not good?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  * * * * * * *

  They moved against the flow of people who were rushing toward the shoreline. The crowds were larger now, and more desperate, most of them running, pushing, screaming, cursing, whatever it took to make their way along. Almost all of them carried something to hold water: buckets, plastic containers, empty milk jugs, water packs. One man carried an old metal sink and Azadeh stared at him, her eyes wide in disbelief. There were children with their mothers, babies in tired arms. All of them were moving down the street toward the shoreline, leaving Sam and Azadeh to push against the tide, like fish trying to swim upstream. Four or five blocks farther west, the crowd thinned out and they could finally talk.

  “What happened back there?” Azadeh asked him as they walked.

  Sam kept his eyes moving. “The United States government has brought in a portable water purification facility. They got it from Canada, apparently. Shipped it across the Great Lakes. It’s got its own power generator, pumps, filters, distribution outlets, the whole bit. They’re pumping water from the lake, purifying it, and making it available to anyone who needs it.”

  Azadeh looked relieved. “That is good, no? Water. We all need it.”

  Sam adjusted the water pack on his back. Azadeh reached out and pressed it, feeling its weight and pressure, noting it was full. “What is bad about this, Sam?”

  He frowned, a fist of worry growing in his gut. Everything was tumbling around him and he didn’t know how to explain. He thought back on what he had seen and heard at the water station. Someone had shoved him. Others pulled him back. The water master had stared at him, his face a threatening scowl. “Where you from?” he had demanded. Sam was slow to respond. What difference did it make? The city official had glared at him and said, “You’re the wrong color.” Incredulous, Sam could only stare, his mouth open. “Where do you live? What neighborhood? We need to ration. What family are you from?”

  * * * * * * *

  Walking with Azadeh, he felt another cold chill run through him and he wondered how he could explain it. Azadeh looked at him, her eyes wide. She reached out and touched his arm. “Sam, are you OK?”

  He shook his head. “There were soldiers there. They were from a unit I didn’t recognize. They wore dark uniforms and red headgear.” He stopped talking. He was angry and confused. His face screwed up tight.

  Azadeh froze, her mind flashing back to the soldiers with black uniforms on the mountain in Iran. Her father tied up to a tree. The gasoline. The matches. She felt suddenly sick inside. Sam stopped beside her, glanced behind them, then pulled on her elbow, picking up the pace. “There were other soldiers,” he went on. “Light blue uniforms with the U.N. symbols on their helmets.” He paused again. “And other soldiers, too.”

  Azadeh didn’t understand. “Other soldiers?”

  “Yes, Azadeh. Soldiers from other countries. Some
of them appeared to be from private security organizations.” He huffed in disgust. “Yeah, I saw them in Afghanistan and Iraq. A bunch of blowhard wannabes with big guns but little brains. It isn’t good, Azadeh. It isn’t good at all.” He gestured to the crowded streets around them. “There should be U.S. soldiers everywhere. Every corner. Every street. If not active duty, there should be National Guard soldiers here.” He paused, as if realizing it for the first time. “I haven’t seen any U.S. soldiers since we got here.” His voice was low. “Where is everyone? Why aren’t they around?”

  Azadeh didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t know.

  “Our leaders have chosen not to deploy our own soldiers. Why wouldn’t they deploy our soldiers? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Azadeh hurried by his side. “There were soldiers, though.” She gestured to the water station. “Maybe from another country, but still, that is good.”

  Sam turned and looked at her. “No, Azadeh, it isn’t good. If anyone should know that, it is you. There are good soldiers and bad soldiers.”

  She nodded slowly and dropped her eyes. That was something she understood. “But this is America, Sam. There are no bad soldiers in America.”

  Sam reached out and pulled on her hand. “There are now,” he said.

  EIGHT

  Sam and Azadeh were still five or six blocks from the apartment where the rest of their family was just waking up. A six-story, gray brick building was ahead of them on the corner. The main doors were open and a gang of men were waiting, watching them. As they approached the building, the gang moved off the stairway and onto the street, moving quickly toward them. Sam leaned into Azadeh as they walked, nudging her toward the other side of the street. He kept his eyes ahead, avoiding eye contact with the men. She kept her eyes down, too scared to look up. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders, blown back in the morning breeze that was funneling down the street. The men adjusted their direction to intercept them. Underneath his jacket, Sam’s hand moved toward his gun.