Free The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) by Jason Kristopher Page A

there’s no sense in us dying needlessly, either. Any idea how far we are from the bunker?”
    “Not exactly, sir. I wasn’t cleared on the specific location or approaches, sir.”
    “Ah. Well, I thought I knew the area well enough, but it’s been so long… what I really need is a good ma…” He broke off as Masters handed him a battered Washington/Tacoma map, and Tom shook his head.
    “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a creepy freakin’ dude, lieutenant?”
    Masters grinned. “Every once in a while, sir.”
    Tom snorted. “Thanks. Hit your rack.”
    “All due respect, sir, I should—”
    “That’s an order, lieutenant.”
    “Yes, sir. Racking out, sir.”

     
    “We should hit them now! While they’re sleeping!” Jackson was pacing back and forth next to Arthur in what they laughingly referred to as their ‘conference room.’ “There’s only five or six of them. Gimme the boys, Art! We can do it!”
    The older man sitting at the head of the table didn’t even glance up at the young buck strutting in front of the room. Wild, full of piss and vinegar, Jackson Kraeger was just as liable to get himself killed as he was to do any killing, and Arthur Beoshane knew it.
    The trouble for young Jackson was, Arthur had him by a good hundred pounds and at least six inches of height. And sometimes — like tonight — Jackson needed reminding of that.
    “I tell ya, Art, we go in hard, hit ‘em fast…”
    Arthur stood and backhanded him in one smooth motion. The young boy flew backwards into the corrugated metal wall of the conference room, denting it outward. “You will do as I command, and nothing else, boy ,” Arthur said without raising his voice. He solemnly picked a bloody tooth off the table and flung it to one side. “Now, where did you say these heretics are holed up?”
    Jackson sat up, spitting a stream of blood and teeth to one side, then stood, holding his jaw. The words were muffled and garbled when he spoke, but he was still understandable, with a bit of effort.
    “Florence Shoes, sir.”
    “Ah. That’s over near Pacific, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir. Pacific and 174th, sir. Bit east.”
    “Well, they certainly haven’t made it very far, then, have they, Mr. Kraeger?”
    Jackson shook his head, still clutching his mouth.
    “Then there’s no point in rushing into this. They’ve got wounded, and they’re likely running low on supplies. They won’t be moving very fast.” Arthur turned to the map nailed to the wall of the room, one hand on his chin as he studied the layout.
    He turned when Jackson coughed and spat some more blood. “You may go, Mr. Kraeger,” he said, and then looked at the map once more.
    After he heard the door close behind Jackson, he said, “Mr. Driebach.”
    A shadowy, hooded figure detached itself from one side of the room, moving closer until it was just outside striking range for the larger man. The figure lowered his hood, and Arthur saw out of his peripheral vision the horror that was Driebach’s face. He managed not to flinch.
    Barely.
    “We’ll need your services soon. I presume the previously agreed fee will suffice?”
    Driebach nodded.
    Arthur fought to hold down his dinner. I’d be willing to bet that he enjoys creeping everyone out , he thought. “Very well,” he said. “You may go.”

     
    “Coffee, sir?”
    Reynolds woke to a steaming cup of heaven under his nose, his eyes snapping open at the intense aroma.He sat up to take the cup and took a luxurious sip, even though he wanted to gulp down the whole thing.
    How in the hell did he find coffee? he wondered. Ah, well. Best not to ask or the magic might stop working . He stared at Masters, who was squatting down beside him. I don’t even remember falling asleep .
    “It’ll be dawn in a couple hours, sir. Thought we should be moving on.”
    Reynolds grunted. “Indeed, lieutenant.”
    “I had a thought, sir…”
    “Oh?”
    “What if we take shelter in the high school, sir? We