Taken World (Book 2): Darkness Read online

  That was when Brad found a door just past the main entrance. It was hidden behind some large metal boxes—air conditioners or generators, maybe, he wasn’t sure. He whistled softly, waving the others over. The door was painted the same shade as the brick. Hard to see in the darkness. Even the small window was painted over.

  Brad cocked the rifle back and slammed it into the glass. It gave easily enough. The shattering was loud in the quiet of the city, carrying for blocks. The others stopped dead, waiting for the inevitable monster to be drawn to the sound.

  Seconds passed. A minute.

  None came.

  “This place must be magical or something,” Logan said.

  The way he said it made it seem like he wasn’t joking, but that was just the way Logan Harper spoke.

  Devin wasn’t amused.

  “Next time, give us a heads up, Long.”

  “My bad. I figured I should take the Band-Aid approach here. Get it over with.”

  “Did you try the door?” Jane asked.

  Brad hadn’t. Suddenly, he felt his face turning hot. He couldn’t imagine how red he was getting.

  Can’t be worse than when Stephanie walked in on you in your boxers and saw your morning wood. Man, I hope she made it. I hope all of them back at Pitt made it.

  But he knew better.

  Jane stepped around the newly broken glass. Thumbed the latch. Pulled the door open. It groaned rustily on its hinges, but the noise was nothing compared to that of the breaking window.

  Jane was looking at Brad almost incredulously. She folded her arms over her chest in that menacing way she did when Logan said something she wasn’t particularly fond of, and then her gaze turned just as menacingly, as if to say, ‘Duh! ‘

  Devin and Grease did their best imitation job of her stare as they moved past and headed inside.

  Brad felt beyond stupid, resisting the urge to run west as fast as he could and throw himself in the Cuyahoga River. Note to self: Always check the door before you go breaking a window.

  Logan clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to rattle his bones. Many a bruise had blossomed from Logan’s ‘pats’ of reassurance.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “No point getting upset over spilled milk. You found the door after all, right?”

  Brad nodded. “Thanks, Logan.”

  “You guys coming? Or you just gonna stand around and jerk each other off?” Grease said from the threshold, quickly looking over his shoulder at Jane and adding, “Sorry, Jane.”

  Jane punched him hard on the arm.

  “C’mon,” Logan said.

  He and Brad went inside. Logan closed the door behind them, the same rusty creak filling their ears.

  The door opened onto a service staircase. Pitch black, darker than the sky outside. There was a lingering smell here. It reminded Brad of a moldy basement. Devin pulled a flashlight out and clicked it on. Nothing of note. No blood on the walls or leaking down the steps. No bodies crumbling on the landing.

  Half a flight of stairs took them to the upper level of the arena. Shuttered stores and restaurants ringed the floor, which was so shiny, it looked as if it had just been freshly waxed.

  “Hello?” Devin called. “Anyone here?”

  “Think they got eaten since you talked to them last night?” Grease said.

  “Not a chance. There’s no monsters around here,” Devin replied. “Not so far.”

  “Because they might’ve filled up and moved on…” Grease whispered. Devin didn’t hear him, but Brad and the others did.

  They went through a small opening, which led to the seats of Section 120. The Jumbotron was covered up. Banners hung from the rafters. There was no court laid on the floor. When the shit hit the fan, basketball season had not been upon them, and it would never be again. Instead, there was just a square of concrete where the court would’ve gone.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Jane said. “I don’t like this—”

  The lights clicked on, blaring white. Brad shielded his eyes with his forearm, nearly dropping his gun.

  A voice came from the speakers all around the arena. “Five of you? That’s it? You only brought me five?”

  One damp hand gripping the railing of the steps that led to the upper part of section 120, Brad looked around at the others. They all seemed as confused as he felt.

  “That’s the voice,” Devin whispered. “That’s the woman I talked with.” He projected his voice louder: “We’re here to save you! Where’s everybody at?”

  Jane said, “The bodies…the bodies outside were lined up like someone put them there. The monsters don’t know anything about organization; they just rip whatever they can to shreds.”

  “What?” Logan asked.

  “Smart girl,” the voice said over the speakers.

  “There is no one to save, Devin,” Brad said. He did not like how much his voice shook nor did he like how defeated he sounded.

  “Oh, shit,” Grease said. “You mean she really—”

  “It’s nothing personal,” the voice said. “It’s all about survival. I’m sure you know that.”

  “We gotta go,” Brad said frantically. “We gotta go now.”

  He turned and headed for the stairs, but the others weren’t as fast. Probably for the better, though. In the end, it wouldn’t matter too much.

  When Brad entered the concourse, someone struck the side of his head with what felt like a metal baseball bat. He bit his tongue, blood filled his mouth, and he fell on his knees, his ears ringing. The world around him grew darker still. As he fell down on his side, his gun long gone, he saw a pair of workman’s boots. Brown, dotted with red.

  Blood, he thought fleetingly. My blood.

  And then the blackness came, and the arena and the boots disappeared.

  11

  The Old Woman

  Logan was no dummy. Brad and Jane had come to the realization first, but Logan wasn’t far behind.

  This was a setup. A trap. The exact purpose of this trap, he didn’t quite grasp yet, but he was determined not to find out. He was getting out of here, him and his wife, and the others, too. They wouldn’t go down without a fight. Hell, they wouldn’t go down at all.

  Brad took off. Logan was quick behind him, dragging Jane along with one hand, clutching his rifle with the other. They came out onto the concourse just as some large, robed figure struck Brad in the side of the head with a tire iron. The sound it made as it connected with the kid’s skull set Logan’s teeth on edge.

  He pulled the trigger of his rifle. The shots clipped the figure in the shoulder, sent them spinning around and dropping to the floor, writhing in pain. Logan was in a delirium. He had never shot at a person unaffected by the virus passed on by the monsters, and the fact that he could do it so easily took him by surprise. A fleeting thought passed through his mind:

  Am I the real monster?

  He didn’t have time to linger on this thought because more robed figures were coming out of the shadows of the concourse.

  A barrage of shots behind him.

  Logan whirled around and saw Grease reeling off a steady clip from his own rifle. The figures his way jumped back, and the bullets struck the floor, sparking and ricocheting with a twang.

  Devin yelled out in pain. More shots. Logan saw him squeeze the trigger, saw a hole blast in the ceiling. Two people held Devin by the arms, lifted him up from the floor. He kicked and lashed, but to no avail. It was all happening too fast.

  Someone nudged him, and he spun around, ready to shoot. It was Jane. She held her gun. Her face was pale and her teeth were bared.

  That same voice came again, but not through the speakers. From the shadows, the same shadows the robed figures had come from, a woman walked out. She was older. Hair white, skin wrinkled. One eye was milky with cataracts. Despite the age she carried on her face, her body looked like it was in great shape.

  “Drop your weapons, or we kill your friends,” the woman said. She had a sickeningly sweet voice, l
ike that of a grandmother offering you freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

  Logan glanced at Jane out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t putting her rifle down. Neither was he.

  “Get your fuckin’ hands off of me! Get off!” Grease yelled.

  A pale man whose hood had come down dragged Grease toward the woman.

  Another person who Logan couldn’t see dragged Devin. Devin didn’t put up a fight. In fact, he looked resigned. Logan supposed that a man who’d seen so much war knew when he was defeated.

  Then came Brad. Brad was unconscious and bleeding from his right ear. The stream of blood had snaked around his chin and ran down his neck like a red tattoo.

  Logan’s stomach clenched. He thought of Derek, killed back in Woodhaven when they had tried to fight. He blamed himself. The people he cared about were heading down the same path Derek had taken. They would die. They would all die. He saw it in the woman’s eyes.

  These people didn’t want anything his group had. Rifles? Vehicles? Those things were a dime a dozen in the apocalypse, just lying around, waiting for someone to come along and pick them up.

  No.

  These people wanted death.

  But why? Why?

  “You’re gonna kill us anyway,” Logan said.

  “Maybe,” the woman said. “Maybe not. Really, honey, it’s nothing personal. What happens, happens. What I’m saying is that I’m gonna kill your friends now and make you watch. Unless…you put down your weapons.”

  Logan didn’t move. Neither did Jane.

  The old woman smiled sweetly, shrugged. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it to be.” She turned around, the smile never faltering, and snapped her fingers. “Kill them. The woman, too, and make sure the big man watches. Cut his eyelids off if you have to.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the nearest robed figure said, but he pronounced it like ‘Mom,’ as if he had a British accent.

  Logan tried counting how many guns were currently trained on him, guns these cult-like figures had brought to the party, and guns they’d taken from Brad, Grease, and Devin. He played out the scenario in his head at light speed. He could take down one, maybe two before they subdued him. He knew they wouldn’t go for a kill shot. Not yet. They’d try hurting him, try taking him down because they wanted him to watch.

  A different scenario. Another one and another and another. He didn’t come out too well in any of them.

  He looked at Jane. She looked back, no fear in her eyes, and he loved her all the more for that.

  “Okay,” he said, and he dropped the gun.

  The old woman stopped mid-stride and turned, that same smile still on her face. “And you, sweetie?” she said to Jane.

  Jane was still looking at Logan. He nodded, and she let the rifle fall down in front of her. It clattered loudly in the stillness of the arena’s concourse.

  “Smart people,” the old woman said. “Well, of course; you’d have to be smart to survive this long. Coming out here to save us is just the cherry on top. If there’s a heaven—which I’m not wholly convinced there is, but that’s up to your own interpretations and beliefs, of course—you five will certainly be going there now, won’t you?”

  Smart or not, Logan knew what he was and what he wasn’t. A few months ago, he’d been working the projector at an old movie theater. He wasn’t James Bond or Batman; he was just a regular guy who wanted to keep his wife safe, who wanted to stay alive.

  Rough hands closed around his shoulders, but he didn’t put up a fight this time. Neither did Jane.

  They knew they’d been beaten.

  12

  At Ironlock

  Regina Johnson sat on the roof of Ironlock, the prison that had never gotten the chance to become a prison, but instead became a safe haven for eighteen survivors in a world that had shit the bed in less than half a year. She was sitting on one of the main battlements, looking out into the darkness. It was complete.

  As she clutched the gold crucifix around her neck, the one her father had given to her as a high school graduation present so many years ago, she prayed to God that her husband would make it home. Selfish as it was, she didn’t ask the same for the others—mostly because she hadn’t thought about the others. All she could think about was Devin.

  They’d lost their son twenty years ago, a miscarriage, and it had nearly killed her, but God had helped her remain strong. It had been difficult—oh, had it been difficult—but her belief, her faith, had gotten her through a lot of things: the miscarriage, her daddy’s heart attack and subsequent passing, the loss of her job a year before… And it would get her through this, through these end times.

  But losing Devin? Losing the love of her life? She didn’t think anything in the whole wide world would get her through that. And it was already two hours past when he said he would be back.

  She remembered his words as clearly as if he were right here, right now. He’d wrapped one arm around her waist, placed another on her bottom, and squeezed; she could smell the cool mint of his breath: ’We’ll be in and out. Everything will be okay,’ he had said.

  Apparently not.

  Her heart was beating abnormally fast. What would she do without Devin? What would she do without his hunters? The compound would crumble without them. They’d have to migrate, find another safe place, another leader—

  No! her mind screamed No, Regina.

  It was funny, she thought…she’d sat here just yesterday and told Jane not to worry, but here Regina was, worrying.

  You are strong. Stronger than Devin, even. He may have fought in wars, he may have killed people in battle, but he’s never grown a life inside of himself and lost it, has he?

  No, he hadn’t, but Regina knew how much that had affected him. He had taken up drinking again for a stretch after the miscarriage. He had said they would try again, but time passed, as it always did, and they never had tried again. What was it holding them back? The fear of failure? The fear of losing another child?

  Looking out at the darkness, the total, complete darkness of a world that had once been bathed in light, Regina was glad they hadn’t tried again. Their child would be grown now, yes, but how could she go on without worrying of losing it? The answer: she couldn’t. Maybe if things had been different, if the world hadn’t ended, like it seemingly had, maybe she would’ve been glad to have a child. But God worked in mysterious ways, and it hadn’t been her destiny to be a mother, and she’d accepted that, just as she had accepted the voids and the evil that had spilled out of them.

  She wouldn’t, however, accept the death of her husband. God could take her unborn son and her father and the very world she knew and loved, and she could brush it off as a necessity, but He would not take her husband from her. No—And please excuse my language, Lord—friggin way.

  She wished Jane was here instead of out there. Misery loves company, right? At least then maybe she could bum a cigarette off her, and the long silence of the dead world wouldn’t feel so lonely. But Jane was gone. So were Devin and Logan and that sweetheart Brad. Everyone still here was asleep below her, except maybe Manny, who ought to be listening to the static on the radio waves. She should be in there with him, listening for any sign of her husband or the other hunters, except she didn’t like Manny all that much, didn’t like the way he looked at her, like he was undressing her with his eyes. Besides, out here in the darkness, she would see headlights coming from a mile—

  Regina shot up from her chair so fast that she knocked it over, the plastic bouncing off the stone roof. She rushed to the battlement and squinted her eyes—against what, she didn’t know—almost losing her balance.

  A feeling of hope and happiness was filling her up. In the distance, in the great black of the world, headlights were coming toward the prison.

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” she said, grinning.

  Devin had made it back, of course he did. He never let her down, not in their many years of marriage, not ever.

  She was about to turn an
d head toward the stairs, rush to the front lot and meet him there, wrap him up in a hug and say, ‘Don’t you ever leave me again!’ like she had after his last tour in Iraq, but something stopped her dead in her tracks.

  The car was coming fast—too fast—and by God, was it swerving back and forth along the road? Leaning harshly to one side?

  Yes. Yes it was.

  Her fingernails dug into the cold stone of the battlement. Her heart picked up speed again, beating almost painfully fast. She resisted the urge to claw at her chest, thinking somewhere in the back of her mind of her father and the heart problems he’d suffered as he approached and went past middle age.

  “Oh, Lord,” she said. “Please.”

  Please what?

  Please let it be okay.

  As the car approached, it seemed only to pick up speed, the engine revving and wheezing as if close to death. Regina’s eyes weren’t that great, and she didn’t have her glasses—she hated those damn things, they made her look fifteen years older than she already was—but the vehicle was close enough for her to make out that it wasn’t the Humvee. The shape of its body was evidence enough, but then she saw the color was also much too dark. Devin’s Humvee was sand-colored, like the shirts he always wore.

  Regina decided watching was not in her best interest; she decided doing something was. The bell. She had to ring the bell and warn the others about this coming incident. She turned, heart still beating madly, and raced down the steps. It took her all of ten seconds to get down the three flights, but before she could cross the main corridor and reach the bell right outside of the survivors’ quarters, a crash did the job for her.

  Metal twisted and groaned. The car scraped stone, probably the watchtower. Glass broke and rained down on the concrete with an amplified tinkling sound. Then it was quiet, and Regina felt cold all over.

  God, she felt so cold.

  No need for the bell; the whole of Ironlock was stirring now. Cell doors opening, people asking what that noise was.