The Dying of the Light: Interval (19 page)

“We’ll get ya back as soon as we can, Ed,” said Masters.

“Yes, sir, I know, sir.” Ames closed his eyes and leaned his head back, obviously in pain. Masters moved back to the open door of the chopper as they flew down the mountain, looking at the devastation he’d wrought with just a couple grenades.

Whole swathes of trees were simply gone, and the snow fields looked as though a giant had tilled them for planting. As they approached the opening of the hangar, set into a relatively flat part of the mountainside, about four hundred feet above the main base door, Masters noticed the snow had only partially covered it. As Samuels lowered them to a rest nearby, he winced, realizing that there was likely quite a bit of snow covering the hangar floor, far below. And, without doubt, some or all of the air crew.

I am
so
going to be hearing about this
, Masters thought.
I wonder if it’s too late to abandon ship?

Why is everything white?
Driebach thought, puzzled by the lack of color.
Is this Heaven? Surely not. This feels like a cloud;
&hellip

That’s when the pain began, and he howled. So hard, he thought his throat might tear. He’d never felt like pain like this in his entire life, and he wished for death if only to make the pain stop.

That’s not true though, is it? You
have
felt pain like this before, haven’t you, Mr. Driebach?

He ignored the voice in his head, and tried to stop screaming. He could feel the broken legs, the dislocated shoulder, even the skull fracture, and he knew that he had very nearly died. He finally screaming, unable to draw in enough air to continue, and he realized suddenly why everything was white: he was buried.

Buried alive. Barely able to move, but fully conscious. If he’d had enough air, he would’ve begun screaming once more, but his lungs didn’t seem to want to continue functioning. Knowing he had only minutes left, if that, he closed off the pain in his head, compartmentalized it and pushed it away, as he had taught himself all those years ago. Granted, this was harder than ever before, but it was even more critical now.

Well, except for the first time
, he thought.
This pales in comparison
.

A few moments passed, and his breathing slowed, using less of his limited oxygen, and he gradually attained a reasonable facsimile of calm. Now that he could think at least somewhat clearly, he began taking stock of his situation: Limited air, limited mobility, severe injuries.

He had an avalanche beacon in his coat pocket. A small, radio-like device, beacons were used to help find victims of avalanches. Those not caught in the avalanche could set their beacons to receive, and locate the victims that way, to dig them out. Odds weren’t good that anyone else was still alive to dig him out, or would go to the trouble, but still, it was wise to activate it. Testing his arms brought useless pain from the left, where the dislocated shoulder was. The right was slightly mobile, apparently not as tightly packed as the other. He began turning his arm, rotating it back and forth and clawing at the snow and ice within reach of his fingers. Slowly, he was able to widen the narrow space to the point where he could bring get to the avalanche beacon and turn it on.

Then, quickly, he turned toward digging upward with his hand, working from his face upward.

His vision was beginning to fill with spots as he scraped and clawed, trying not to breathe in the snow that fell back down.

Suddenly, his grasping hand broke into empty space, and a blast of fresh, cold mountain air fell upon his face. Breathing deep, he rested, one arm outstretched above him, the rest of his body pinned beneath at least two feet of snow.

Now comes the hard part
.

By the time he was able to drag his broken lower half from the snow, his skin was pasty white, and he knew that he needed to get warm, or at least get some nourishment. He could feel his various cuts and scrapes mending, albeit slowly, and knew if he could just get some food, he’d be on the road to recovery.

He sat up, cradling his dislocated arm with the good one, trying not to look at the jagged shards of bone sticking out of his legs, the clotted blood dark and crimson against the bright white snow. He looked around, hoping to find something, some sign or indication that there was anything nearby, but he was at the bottom of a ravine, the trees flattened by the descending avalanche. Remembering the beacon, he pulled it out of his pocket
. I have an entirely different job in mind for you now,
thought Driebach as he switched the small device to ‘receive.’ Hoping the gods of fate had been kinder to him this day than all the others, he switched on the beacon, and was rewarded. A loud ping sounded from nearby, and judging the direction carefully, Driebach began dragging himself in that direction, doing his best to ignore the pain that threatened to overtake him.

The broken tree he came upon lay beside his path, about fifteen yards from where he was headed. Still, he knew that this minor detour was necessary, and crawled to the giant trunk, where he began breathing hard and fast. Suddenly, he slammed his dislocated shoulder into the trunk, and a brief scream escaped as the joint was re-aligned. His vision dimmed, and he nearly lost consciousness, but time was running out.

Even though he now had two working arms, it took longer to dig down to the trapped victim than it did to drag himself the hundred and fifty yards from his original landing place. Precious minutes went by before he finally freed the trapped man’s head and shoulders from the snow. Though quiet and still, he was clearly recognizable as the leader of the men attached to him for this mission. Driebach reached down to press two fingers to the man’s throat, hopeful about what he’d find.

“Still alive,” he said, smiling as he looked down at the unconscious man below him. He slipped a knife from the tactical vest he wore inside his jacket, just as the trapped man’s eyes fluttered open.

He looked up, seeing Driebach above him, holding the knife. He tried to twist away, but his trapped arms and legs wouldn’t budge.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” said Driebach. “Well, it won’t hurt
me
, anyway.”

Bunker One

“Captain Potter, clear the room,” I said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

We were in Ops. Masters had brought me the video of what he’d seen on the mountainside from his helmet cam, and I needed Kim, and
only
Kim, to see what I’d just seen.

“You heard the man,” yelled the captain, his voice echoing in the confined space. “Clear the room, now!”

Dropping what they were doing, the technicians stood and exited the room, closing the door behind them. I looked at Captain Potter. “You too, Marcus.”

For a split second, he looked surprised, but it quickly vanished. “Yes, sir,” he said, and followed his men. I tapped my earpiece, calling Kim.

“What is it, David? I’ve got a mess of snow to take care of down here in the hangar.”

“I need you in Ops, Kim.”

To her credit, she got the tone in my voice and realized it was important. “On my way,” Kim said, hanging up.

I didn’t have to wait long; she arrived at a trot, although barely breathing hard. Shutting the door behind her, she moved toward me. Something must have shown on my face, because she immediately reached out to me. “What is it? What’s wrong? Why is everyone out in the hall?”

“Masters brought back something we need to see.”

“OK.”

I brought the video back up, fast-forwarding past the part where Masters and his men were searching the empty, white expanse of snowy mountainside. Then, there was the splash of red, and I returned the video to normal speed. Masters’s voice was clear on the audio.

“Charlie, take us down over there, will you?”

“Charlie?” Kim whispered.

“Charles Samuels, the pilot.”

“Right.”

The chopper got closer, and as the scene below became clearer, the men became somewhat more rattled. “Holy shit,” said someone off-camera. “What in God’s name?”

The camera swung back and forth as Masters shook his head, apparently trying to clear it. “Take us down, Charlie,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Charlie. The chopper set down a hundred yards or so away from the mess in the snow, and I took a deep breath as I watched Masters step down to the ground. He turned back to the chopper, with the men watching glassy-eyed over his shoulder. “Barrents, cover me. Everyone else, secure the chopper, but do not follow.” The others hopped out to take up guard positions around the chopper, but Barrents was staring into space.

Until Masters slapped him. “You with me, Sergeant?” he asked the sniper.

Barrents rubbed his jaw and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Anything comes near me, you kill it and ask questions later, you get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Masters turned back and began moving forward. I could hear him breathing harder as he approached… whatever it was… and I could hear a couple gulps as he fought back the urge to puke. I can’t say I blamed him as my older eyes finally caught up with what he’d seen from the air.

It was only recognizable as having once been human due to the bones scattered in a relatively small area. The skull was facing the chopper, as though to watch its discoverers approach. I don’t know how he did it, but somehow Masters found his voice to describe the scene.

“The victim has only been partially uncovered,” he said as he moved closer, and we could see as he angled the view that he was right. The lower half of whomever it had been was still stuck, several feet under the snow. The rest was… everywhere. “It appears they were
eaten
. There’s no meat left on these bones, though, not a scrap. Whatever did this was very thorough. This wasn’t walkers. Walkers don’t eat like this. There’s blood everywhere, and… oh, God.”

Masters took a few steps and puked at the base of a broken tree, bringing up everything he’d eaten in the last ten hours, if I’d had to guess. I could hardly blame him. He finished and stepped closer once more, rotating the camera to get a look at the whole site. “Judging from the spray of the blood, I would say that the victim was alive when… when this happened. How long he or she lasted, there’s no way to know.”

The view turned back as Masters noticed something. “There are tracks leading away,” he said, moving to follow some bloody footprints in the snow. The wet snow cleaned the blood off quickly, but the tracks were still evident, especially to someone of Masters’ ability. A black object lay in the snow ahead and to one side, and Masters approached it carefully. “It looks like a tactical vest, or at least what’s left of it. Useless now,” he said, holding it up. There was a name stitched into the vest. “Driebach,” read off Masters. “Whoever that is.” He glanced around and noticed some more clothing nearby. He dropped the vest and moved closer, inspecting the item. Torn and useless, it was a hooded sweatshirt. A black hooded sweatshirt. As he held it up for the camera, all three of us recognized it at the same time.

“The Man in Black,” Masters whispered, dropping the shirt and spinning around, rifle at the ready. “Barrents, any contacts?”

“Negative, sir, no contacts.”

“I’m on my way back. Charlie, I want us airborne as soon as I’m on board.”

“Yes, sir.”

Masters returned to the chopper and it lifted off, with the others looking at him. He shook his head. “No one say anything about this until I clear it with the colonel.”

There was a chorus of “Yes, sir,” and then Masters reached up, turning off the camera.

I looked over at Kim, who had sat down in a nearby chair. She looked pale, and I thought she might throw up, too, so I grabbed a trashcan. Frankly, I don’t know how I was holding it together myself, but I just counted myself lucky and took another chair, pulling it close to her and sitting down.

“He…” she started to say, then closed her eyes and put a hand to her lips. “Oh, God, he
ate
… a living…”

“Yeah.”

She took several deep breaths, calming herself down, then opened her eyes. “Let’s keep this one on a need-to-know basis, David. Hopefully word won’t spread. I don’t want anyone thinking about this that doesn’t have to.”

“I know; that’s why I cleared the room.”

“What kind of monster is he? It? It’s not a walker—not like any we’ve seen—but is it even human anymore?”

“I don’t know, but he’s not even my biggest worry.”

Kim looked up at me. “Really? What’s worse than this?”

“Driebach isn’t the problem,” I said, looking at the maps on the table, in particular the one showing the ruins of Tacoma. “Driebach is just a weapon. I’m worried about the guy
controlling
the weapon.”

“You mean Arthur Beoshane.”

“Yeah,” I said. What I didn’t tell Kim was my biggest fear:
What if Beoshane is only the middle man? What if there’s someone worse out there, pulling
his
strings?
I reached out and took Kim’s hand.
What’s next? Where did Driebach come from? And, most importantly… Are there more like him?

Chapter Nine

Bunker One
Three years later; Z-Day + 10 years

In Ops as usual, Kim sipped her coffee as she watched the monitor showing the feed from the main door approach. “Only four of them, this time?” she asked the young technician.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Captain Potter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the greying Ops commander. “As I mentioned in our last briefing, we’ve seen a few of these kinds of groups over the last couple months. They’re getting smaller and smaller, and some of them aren’t even armed.”

“None have made it past the gates?”

Potter shook his head. “No, ma’am. We figure they saw the signs and decided not to risk it. Assuming, of course, that they could read. Some of ‘em looked pretty young.”

“Any ideas?”

“As I said, Colonel, either they’re scouts, which is doubtful, since they’re not well-armed or particularly well-provisioned, or they’re just remnants.”