Carlie Simmons (Book 4): The Gathering Darkness (4 page)

Chapter 7

Wilkins Maximum Security
Military Prison, Walla Walla, Washington

The gray slab walls of the prison
resembled a weathered elephant hide, its antiquated cement flaking off in
patches onto the snow beside the high fences that encompassed the four-hundred-acre
facility.

Ryan Mitchell was standing over a
wall-sized map of the Pacific Northwest he had erected in the warden’s office.
Red marker highlighted three areas in Washington. The first was the city of
Walla Walla where the prison was situated—his prison since the first week of
the pandemic when he had seized control. The second area was the Grand Coulee
Dam a hundred or more miles to the north. This provided most of the
hydro-electric power to the state and was a key strategic position. The last
red mark was Fort Lewis just south of Seattle, nearly a hundred-fifty miles
from his present location and the only real threat to his army’s spread.

While Mitchell pored over the map, he
would occasionally glance over at a photo of the former warden on the wall,
beside a handprint in dried blood. He kept it there as a reminder of his
previous incarceration and how he would never be in such a position again. He
thought back to that fateful afternoon when he was out on his required daily
walk in the main yard. Many guards had called in sick that week from the
contagion that was sweeping throughout the region and he was pleasantly
surprised that he would be receiving an outside recess to stretch. As he
completed his second lap around the yard, his manacled hands tethered to a
leather belt around his waist, the overhead alarms went off. Scores of
prisoners inside were screaming for help as a cannibalistic mob from the cafeteria
began overtaking them, tearing into the hardened thugs. With the guard
distracted at the horrific sight and others leaving their posts to rush to the
scene, he pivoted and did a vicious shin kick to the man’s knee. As the guard
crumpled forward in pain, Mitchell struck him in the nose with his knee,
watching him fall onto the asphalt. He stepped forward and ground his heel into
the man’s throat and then squatted down to remove the keys from the utility
belt. With the main gates to the outside in lockdown, he decided against
fleeing. Instead he made his way along the inner wall and rushed to the second
wing of cells which held the death row inmates. He easily subdued the guard,
who was weakened from sickness, then entered the cell-block and hastily
discussed his ad-hoc plan for overtaking the prison to the goons behind the
bars. With them in agreement, Mitchell swung down the master release lever,
setting his hasty plan in place as his spine tingled at the chance to kill
again.

During the ensuing eleven hours of battle
with the remaining guards, whose numbers were slowly eroded from outbreaks of
zombies, Mitchell’s swift brutality and shrewd tactics enabled him to take over
the compound. He surmised that this facility would make a suitable operational
base to contend with any law enforcement in the region until he could figure
out what was going on in the world. The next day, he began public executions of
the staff who had survived, including Warden Jason Kolb, whose mutilated body
hung from the flagpole for weeks until ravens picked it clean.

Afterwards, Mitchell went to work sifting
through convict records, weeding men out according to their profile. Those with
minimum sentences that involved petty acts could either join his roving bands
of scavengers pilfering nearby towns or be exiled outside the gates into the
waiting hordes of flesh-eaters. Convicts with considerable military skills and
a violent record were promoted to his inner circle while the rest served in the
rank-and-file system in logistics and upkeep within the confines of the prison.
Eventually dozens of thugs from outlying areas joined his movement, allowing
his reach to extend into the tri-state region of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho.
It was then that he realized that dominion over the area was within his grasp
and he possessed the means of becoming the supreme power in the Pacific
Northwest.

Early on, he implemented a daily routine
identical to basic training to maintain discipline amongst the five hundred and
ninety convicts in his self-designed militia. He knew that his men did best
when they had simple rules for survival and clear expectations along with
brutal consequences for any misstep. Minor infractions were met with
relinquishing meal privileges for twenty-four hours while more serious
violations were punishable by casting the bound perpetrator into the zombie
cages in the lower level. The rest of the convicts that had survived the
initial outbreak were faithful to his cause only because they were more afraid
of what dwelled in the world outside the walls than the familiar horrors of
life inside the razor-wire perimeter.

Mitchell’s first offensive outside the
prison walls was to raid National Guard armories in the smaller cities. In the
second month of his reign, he began sending out patrols to round up supplies
and captives, clearing out entire ranching communities that were still reeling
from the aftermath of the pandemic. Finally he turned his sights upon the
undead. While others were busy trying to exterminate them, Mitchell was busy
studying the creatures. First from his perch at the warden’s office then
examining them up close through combat with human captives and later
dissection. There had to be a way to utilize the zombies to his advantage.
Never before had he been faced with such an intriguing solution to warfare and
he was determined to exploit this aberration in the natural order. However, it
was the mutants that fascinated him the most and his men were instructed to
trap these intact using live humans as bait. Through their speed, agility, and
strength, he saw the potential for creating a biped bioweapon that was
unmatched in combat.

Mitchell’s thoughts shifted back to the
present as he heard his two senior fighting men approaching. Deacon and Jeffers
were former marines imprisoned for treason and smuggling. They were reliable
warriors and independent thinkers unlike the other inmates who followed him
like loyal lapdogs seeking their master’s approval. Most importantly these two
soldiers were skilled in fighting tactics and had extensive combat experience
before being incarcerated. Besides these two, he had eight other men who were
former army or marines with combat experience that he had assigned as his
sergeants. Under these leaders were another one hundred that Mitchell had been
training in small-unit tactics and marksmanship. He deemed them his alpha teams
and afforded them better privileges, food, and weapons than the rest of his
underlings. They would serve as a strike force once his new plans were in
place.

As the two men approached, Mitchell stood
and waved a finger at the map. “What do either of you know about the road to
the Grand Coulee Dam and surrounding regions?”

“Nothing, boss,” said Deacon while Jeffers
merely nodded. Mitchell allowed both men to dispense with military formalities
around him when they met. “But I can inquire with the men to see if anyone grew
up in that area.”

“Gentlemen, this is the next front,
perhaps the most significant real estate we will need to acquire for any
further expansion to be fruitful. The Grand Coulee Dam has three power plants
which have enough juice to provide a city like Seattle with energy for a year.
We take that and Fort Lewis and our esteemed Secretary of Defense Conrad Lavine
will fall.”

“But wouldn’t Fort Lewis already have a
contingent of troops there to safeguard that resource?” said Jeffers, who
adjusted the camo ballcap on his shaved head, his eyes staring ahead while he
stroked his wispy goatee.

“Contingent is the key word. From what
I’ve gleaned from our scouting patrols on the roads who’ve interrogated
survivors who strayed from those regions, Lavine and his band of soldiers are
stretched thin,” said Mitchell, pressing both hands around the image on the map
in the shape of a triangle and pressing his face close like a jeweler
inspecting a fine emerald. “Direct action against Lewis at this stage is too
risky but if we take the dam we will control the greatest power source in the northwest
and cripple their future capabilities thus breaking that fool Lavine’s mighty
grip on this region.”

“What do you propose we do? Our numbers
are too few to go up against the troop base that Lewis can muster in response
to an assault on the dam,” said Jeffers.

“Leave that part to me.” He walked to the
window and looked out at the gray clouds which resembled an ashtray. “What I
need is to have the men harvest a few dozen more of the fast-moving mutants,
increase the daily quota of undead the men have been collecting in the
semi-trucks, and intensify the small-unit drills here. I want our alpha teams
on standby for their upcoming relocation—I have a ranch in mind a few hours
from here that will need to be cleared to provide us with a forward operating
base for the mission ahead.”

“Copy that, boss,” said Deacon. “We’ll get
right on it.”

As the two men turned to leave, Mitchell
raised his hand. “And one more thing—bring me a woman from the group of
captives, someone with spirit.” The door closed, leaving Mitchell alone in the
comfort of his own mind where he felt most at ease. He had no desire to be in
the presence of a woman. He despised the thought of touching another person
except through the rush of extracting information from an unwilling subject.
The thought of someone being so close to him was distressing. But he had to put
on a façade for his men and there had been no shortage of disposable female
candidates abducted from nearby settlements.

Chapter 8

Carlie looked at the note from Shane a
fourth time and then at her watch, which revealed she had only an hour. She
quickly showered and changed then strode upstairs, past the cafeteria to the
end of the hallway. She knocked on the door to the lounge but got no response.
She opened it and slowly entered the dimly lit room, making out a silhouette of
a person standing in the corner, his arms folded. She instinctively placed her
hand on the folding knife in her pocket while inhaling a pleasant aroma of pasta
that saturated the air.

“Welcome to La Restaurante de Shane, my
good lady.” Shane moved forward from the shadows into the glow of candles illuminating
the decorated table in the middle of the room. The table was set for two with a
steaming bowl of noodles, spaghetti sauce, and rehydrated beef. Alongside it
were assorted dishes of crackers, cheese, and two goblets of wine.

She straightened up, walking inside and
closing the door. A smile began creeping out, peeling back her ever-present
warrior exterior and revealing a side of herself she barely knew.

“I know we had a dinner date once in
Tucson after we first met on some inter-agency event but I always hoped we
could pick things up again someday. I’ve decided that the time has come.” He
smiled and motioned with his hand to the table.

“Did you now?”

He pointed to her hand on the folding
blade. “And this is a crime-free zone, at least for tonight, so you can ease up
on your weapon there, Agent Simmons—or may I call you Carlie.”

She eased off her defensive posture and
moved forward, slapping him on the arm. “You are something. I didn’t anticipate
this move.” She looked at the food and surroundings which had been neatly
arranged. “I’ve seen how you grill food in the field—did you have some help
with this meal from Eliza or Matias or am I to assume that you undertook this
operation on your own?”

“Oh, you’ve never tasted cooking like this
before, I assure you.” He reached for her arm and escorted her into her chair.
“Plus the dessert of rehydrated ice-cream will have you pleading for more.”

“More what—Tums?” she said, laughing.

“Now, now—you go easy on ole Shane. I had
to make these room reservations way in advance and barter some of my contraband
tequila to Duncan.”

“Ugh, great, does anyone else know about
this other than all of our friends and colleagues?” She held up her wine glass
as he poured in some chardonnay.

She looked around at the setting once more
and up at his beaming face. “Well, good sir, it’s all very impressive and very
surprising—you totally caught me off guard and that’s not easy to do.”

Shane tilted his head. “No—no it’s not. I
thought that if this didn’t work or you came in the door, guns ablaze, doing a
room sweep, that things might turn out differently. But here we are,” he said,
sitting down opposite her, his face fully illuminated by the candles. Carlie hesitated
to drink as her eyes widened at Shane’s smooth facial features. “Dear Lord, you
even shaved. Why Shane Colter, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

He rubbed his chin and then held up his
glass. “A toast then, to new appearances, a hot meal for a change, and great
company.”

She tapped glasses with him, emitting an
easy smile, her eyes drifting over his jawline and down his shoulders. Carlie
took a sip and then set her glass down. “You know the last time we did this in
Tucson, you left me to pay my portion of the bill. Did it ever occur to you
that that’s maybe why there wasn’t a second date?”

Shane arched his back and leaned into his
chair. “Now wait a minute, I offered to pay, I even grabbed the bill, but you
were like, ‘No, my agency will cover my part of the tab as I’ll just say this
was a business meeting.’”

She rested her hands under her chin. “Hmm,
was that what happened? I can barely remember, though I do recall just how
charming you looked dressed in that blue button-down shirt with the flared
collar.”

“Hey at least I didn’t travel with a steam
iron in my vehicle so I could press my work clothes between coffee breaks like
you Secret Service types,” he said, chuckling as he served her a portion of the
pasta on a white ceramic plate.

They both started eating. After he
swallowed his first mouthful, Shane’s cheeks grew flushed and he scratched his
throat as if a hot coal was lodged there. He tilted his head up and squinted
his watery eyes then reached for the glass of wine, emptying its contents and
quickly refilling his glass for another swig.

“Whew—you must have real Italian blood in
you,” Carlie said, waving her hand across her mouth and trying to swallow
gracefully without drawing attention to her burning tongue. “This is some
sauce.” She grabbed her wine and quietly swished it around in her mouth, trying
to quell the flames on her taste buds.

Shane looked at the jar of spaghetti sauce
on the counter and then back at Carlie as he let out an embarrassed smile.
“Tell you what—why don’t we just skip to dessert instead? I think I must’ve
added in too much oregano or something but I promise that the chocolate mousse
is out of this world.”

“You’re on,” she said eagerly, pushing the
plate of pasta to the side.

As the candles burnt down and the shadows
shortened, the two of them continued on through the evening, joking and
exchanging quips about their past jobs, politics, and recent missions together,
laughing like old friends gathered around the campfire. Carlie often found
herself staring in admiration at Shane as he recounted some adventure from his
days with the SEALs. Several times, she felt like reaching across the table and
pulling his lips towards hers but that veneer of desire was tempered by a bastion
of self-control whose walls she couldn’t seem to breach.

With the wine bottle nearly depleted and
candles nearing their end, they retreated to the couch and sat down facing each
other while continuing to talk. Carlie knew Shane was interested in more—she
had always known but she had made her immersion in her work, and later her
survival, push her recognition of it into the trapdoor recesses of her own
heart.

As Shane set his empty wine glass down, he
rested his hand upon hers. She twitched slightly, her fingers scrunching up and
then relaxing while she cleared her throat.
You’re a grown woman
—
how
old are you again, 34, so just relax. You’re entitled to a nice evening.
These
thoughts pulsed through her head, made light by the wine, until she found
herself reaching back and interlacing her fingers with Shane’s.

He moved closer, brushing his other hand
across the side of her face, sliding her blond hair back over her ear. She
smiled at him, looking into his hazel eyes, but then found herself wavering and
looked away. Carlie pulled back slightly and looked at her watch, forcing out a
gruff exhale. “It’s late and I have to prep for tomorrow’s, uhm, training
activities.”

She began to sit up but Shane held onto
her hand, grasping it with both of his. “Carlie, won’t you stay a while longer?
We have a few days off to just relax—be ourselves for a change—and spend time
with each other.”

Carlie looked down at his rugged hands and
then into his face, the fading candlelight etching the furrows in his tan cheeks
even further. She found herself pivoting on her toes, like a swimmer on a
wobbly diving board, preparing for a plunge into the unknown. The warmth of his
touch felt so good—it had been so long since she felt such a connection and to
a man she cared for deeply. But tentacles of fear shot through her like lightning
before the arrival of a thunderstorm. She glanced around the room and back at
him. “This, uhm, this has been amazing, Shane. I just, uh, I really had a nice
time but I should go.” She slowly extracted her hand and walked to the door,
turning to give him a warm smile and running her hand through her hair as she
turned the handle.

“OK,” she said, trying to convince herself
of her resolve. “See you tomorrow.” She waved self-consciously as she retreated
into the hallway.