Stage 3 (Book 3): Bravo Read online

  STAGE 3:

  BRAVO

  Ken Stark

  STAGE 3: BRAVO

  Copyright © 2018 Ken Stark

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  www.kenstark.ca

  Copy edited by Eeva Lancaster

  Cover Design and Formatting by The Book Khaleesi

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  OTHER TITLES by KEN STARK

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER TITLES by KEN STARK

  STAGE 3

  STAGE 3: ALPHA

  ARCADIA FALLS

  JITTERS

  WHAT LIES BEYOND THE SHADOWS:

  A 2018 Halloween Anthology

  CHAPTER 1

  “Move, and you're a dead man.”

  He froze in mid-stoop at the sound of a gun being cocked next to his ear. Several seconds passed before he chanced a quick peek through the corner of his eye, and when his skull somehow remained miraculously unperforated, he dared to turn it a fraction of a degree to get a better look.

  Legs. A man's legs, fitting the voice. Grubby jeans, worn almost through at the knees. Work boots beneath, spattered with mud and blood and what might have been dismissed as water had he not caught the faint whiff of gasoline.

  “I'm no threat to you,” he told the man, “I'm just...”

  “I know what you're just! You and me and everyone else in this world, all of us left are just!”

  The voice was firm, but with a little tremor at the end. A hint of fear. Not much. Just a trace. Just enough to make a trigger finger twitch.

  Several more seconds passed with neither man moving, neither man speaking.

  Then, the man bent at the waist offered an almost casual, “Do you mind if I straighten up? My legs are starting to cramp, and my back is killing me.”

  “You move one inch, mister, and you won't have to worry about your back anymore. I'll be the one killing you.”

  Huh. There was a little rasp in the voice he hadn't noticed before. And calling him 'mister.' Both earmarks of an older man. Sixties, probably. Maybe older. The work boots were his from before. The blood was new, but the mud wasn't. And he hadn't bothered to scrape the boots clean, so it was something he was used to. Not a city man, then. Outdoorsman. Farmer, maybe.

  “Look, friend, I'm just trying to make my way in this world. Same as you. How about you take that gun away from my head, and I'll just back out of here, nice and quiet, and be on my way?”

  The old man snorted. “Mister, I don't know who you think you're dealing with...”

  “Well, that's just it, isn't it? I don't know you, you don't know me, and because we don't know each other, you'll be more than willing to pull that trigger and remove the better part of a stranger's brain.”

  “Damn straight,” came the gruff reply.

  “But you haven't yet. I've been entirely at your mercy for the better part of a minute, and you have yet to murder me. If I might be allowed an observation, what that hesitation generally denotes is that someone hasn't quite given up on his fellow man just yet.”

  “Hesitation?” the older man growled.

  “Poor choice of words. I apologize. Let's call it a pensive pause then. Clearly, you are capable of defending yourself, but you're not unwilling to take a breath or two to fully consider other avenues. Does this person necessarily have to die for me to be safe, or would a simple threat be enough? Well, I can assure you that in my case, neither one is required. You've staked a claim here, and that's good enough for me. It's a big city, and too few people left for us to be fighting over scraps.”

  The gun barrel nestled directly behind his ear. Too big to be a handgun or a rifle. Only a double-barreled shotgun could cover that many square inches. Twin barrels, side by side. Two shots, two triggers. An old-timer’s weapon, but perfectly capable of turning his head into mist.

  “Listen, friend, you are obviously an intelligent man...”

  “You don't know me, remember?” the old man huffed.

  “No, I don't, but stupid died quick,” he said, sharply. “So clearly, you're an intelligent man. But in the interest of cooperation, could I offer you a word of advice before you pull that trigger and spray my brains all over the floor? Take it for what it's worth, accept it or not, but I feel compelled to let you in on two points of strategy that will undoubtedly serve you better in the future. They might even save your life one day. Who knows? Do you mind?”

  The old man made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Sure, mister,” he said. “Why don't you let me in on these deep dark secrets that might just save my life?”

  In a single motion, the younger man bolted upright, batted the gun aside with a thick forearm, and snatched the weapon right out of the older man's hands.

  “Number one: don't get so close, especially with a long-barreled weapon. You can kill a man as easily at fifty feet as you can at three.”

  “A–and number two?”

  “Number two: if you plan on killing someone, don't talk about it. Fucking do it.”

  The old man didn't move a muscle. He stood there, ramrod straight, locking back his shoulders and looking the other man directly in the eye. He was afforded the briefest glimpse down the twin barrels of his own shotgun as it passed in front of his face, then the weapon was pointed in the air, the hammers were eased back down, and the gun came to rest on a thick, muscular shoulder.

  The younger man took a moment to stretch the kinks out of his back, then he gave the barest of nods and stuck out a big, meaty hand. “My name's Hank. Hank Mason. Most people call me Mace.”

  The old man trembled as he took Mason's hand, but his grip was as strong as iron.

  “D–Daniel,” he managed at last. “Daniel Thorogood.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Daniel.” Mason allowed a quick smile. “Any relation to George Thorogood?”

  “Not that I know of,” the old man said as if he'd been asked a thousand times before. “Y–you're not going to kill me?”

  “I wasn't planning to.” Mason shrugged. “Why? Should I?”

  “No, you shouldn't!” Daniel answered most emphatically. “But that was a hell of a chance you took. I might've blown your head clean off.”

  Mason allowed a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, sure. But you see, there's a third point of strategy I didn't get the chance to tell you. Number three: don't go anywhere without someone watching your ass.”

  Another figure stepped out from behind a row of boxes and
took a bead on the old man down the barrel of an assault rifle. It was a woman. Late twenties. A full foot shorter than Mason, and with a short crop of dirty-blonde hair.

  “Daniel, this is Sarah. Sarah, Daniel.”

  “Uh, h–how do you do, Sarah?” the old man said, doffing an imaginary cap as only someone his age could do without looking ridiculous.

  “Pleased to meet you, Daniel,” Sarah said politely enough, but the rifle didn't move an inch.

  “You know, it's funny,” Daniel said off-handedly, suddenly no longer nervous and even almost cracking a smile. “I was never very good at math. My old teachers... well, they had an awful time with me. You see, I was forever getting everything all bass-ackwards. I think the modern term is dis... uh, dyslexia? Is that it? Anyways, I could barely figure out two plus two. I guess maybe that accounts for me figuring out the third deep dark secret before figuring out the other two.”

  With that, yet another figure emerged from out of nowhere and levelled a Winchester rifle directly at the back of Sarah's head.

  It was a girl, barely out of her teens. Slim. Pretty. Long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail. To Mason, she looked like she'd be right at home leading cheers at a varsity football game. But the hard glint in her eye and that unwavering gun bespoke a willingness to do whatever she had to do to survive.

  He gave the slightest of nods to Sarah, and she dutifully lowered the barrel of her weapon to the ground.

  “This is my granddaughter, Jesse. Jesse, I'd like you meet Mace and Sarah.”

  “Pleasure,” she said politely, sighting down the rifle to the exact center of Sarah's skull.

  “Now, remember what Mace said, Jesse,” the old man cautioned her. “Don't get close enough for someone to snatch your gun away.”

  “I won't, Grampa,” the girl replied sweetly.

  “And if you plan on killing someone...”

  “Fucking do it,” she said, just as sweetly.

  Mason knew when he was beat. He raised his free hand in surrender, lifted the shotgun slowly off his shoulder, and handed it butt-first back to Daniel.

  The old man took it, but instead of aiming it back at Mason, he simply propped it up on his own, rather spindlier, shoulder.

  “Alright,” he said, “now that the niceties are over, the question remains. Just what are we to do about this situation? Now, you seem like decent enough folks, but the second we lower our guns and let you walk away, what guarantee do we have that you won't return?”

  “There are no guarantees in the apocalypse, Daniel,” Sarah said, grimly.

  Mason happened to spot an orange crate nearby, so he said, “May I?” and without waiting for a response, he kicked the crate to its side and lowered himself onto it with a heavy sigh. “Okay, so the way I see it, Daniel, the problem is this. If you do us the courtesy of not decorating the walls of this establishment with our grey matter, how do you know that we won't come back to kill you and your lovely granddaughter, and stealing everything you have? I suppose it's too much to ask that you trust us?”

  “Reckon 'tis,” the old man scoffed.

  Sarah came to Mason's side and he scooted over to give her room on the crate. Jesse made no move to stop her, but the barrel of the Winchester followed her every move.

  “You know,” Sarah said, squeezing her slender backside in beside Mason, “Mace and I were in very different places when this whole thing started. I don't mean geographically, but emotionally, you know? I'm a nurse, so my entire adult life has been dedicated to learning how to heal, how to repair, and how to administer to the sick and injured. I actually made it my life's work to help my fellow man when they needed it most. As for Mace,” she tutted, putting a tender hand on his big, beefy shoulder, “well, let's just say that Mace had a somewhat different outlook. But you know what, Daniel? This new world of ours demands a great deal from a person. I don't think anyone left alive would consider themselves unchanged. But it doesn't all have to be negative. Look at us! I started around here, and Mace started somewhere down... here,” she said, raising one hand high in the air and putting the other very near the floor. “But circumstances being what they are, we both changed, we both adapted, and now we're both about... here,” she concluded, her hands almost meeting in the middle.

  Mason patted Sarah gently on the knee and continued the narrative. “I've only known Sarah for a short time, but I've come to know her quite well. She's a real people-person, you know? Always happy to make new friends, always willing to help out, always eager to lend a hand, always ready to run to someone's aid in times of need. And how did the universe pay her back? With pain. Loss. Heartbreak.” He finally rested the hand on her knee, and they shared a look that spoke volumes.

  “I'm one of the lucky ones, Daniel, because I actually gained from the experience. Just a short while ago, I would have gladly shot you both in the head just for being in my general vicinity. But I've since come to a new awareness. While the rest of world was losing its humanity, I actually found a tiny bit of mine buried so deep down inside of me that I had no idea it was even there. And with that discovery came a new outlook. I realize now that not everyone is bad. Certainly some are, but not all. So now, I will actually give that other man the benefit of the doubt. I will actually take a breath or two before condemning that man to death.”

  The girl notched the Winchester a few inches to the right, precisely level with Mason's eyes. “You're in a strange position to be talking about shooting someone in the head, Mace.”

  “I think you missed the point, Jesse,” Mason spoke to the girl as a patient father might. “But that's probably my fault, so I apologize. I'm still getting used to this whole communication thing. My point is simply this. Shit happens, and life ain't fair. This universe doesn't give a flying fuck about you, or me, or Grandpappy Daniel, or Sweet Fat Fanny Annie. Good people suffer, and assholes win the lottery. It's always been like that, and it always will be. Shit happens, Jesse, and not one goddamn bit of it is fair.”

  Daniel looked at Mason long and hard, then he narrowed his eyes and asked, “You sure that's the point you want to be making just now, Mace? Didn't you just say—...”

  “I know, I know,” Mason cut him off. “I just said that I've become a better person, but trust me, it wasn't for the good karma or to get a better shake or to earn points in the afterlife. Truth be told, I was dragged kicking and screaming into this new way of thinking. But I have changed, Daniel, and I'm glad I did. I believe it has made my life richer. In a way, you could even say that this particular unrepentant asshole won his own personal lottery.”

  “Well, good for you,” Jesse snorted. “But since shit ain't fair, I guess it won't surprise you if I just play it safe and shoot you both right now?”

  Mason gave her a broad and genuine smile. “You're cute, Jesse. Smart. Strong. Resolute. I truly believe you would do whatever you had to do for the sake of your grandfather.”

  “Damn right,” she said back, as cold as ice.

  “Then you should probably lower that smoke-wagon.” Mason's smile remained as he turned to the old man. “I apologize, Daniel, but I missed one last point of strategy. If you're going to have someone covering your ass, six is always better than one.”

  With that, five more shadows coalesced out of the darkness, and there was a chorus of clicks as five separate guns were cocked.

  “Daniel, Jesse,” Mason said, obligingly, “I'd like you to meet our friends. This is Christopher, Inez, Beverly, Addison, and that adorable little thing behind the Tommy gun almost bigger than she is? Well, that's Alejandra, and believe me when I say, you do not want to get on that girl's bad side.”

  “Fuckin' A,” Alejandra purred.

  Daniel looked around at the guns bristling in from all sides, and he lowered his shotgun to the floor with a sigh.

  But Jesse was something else altogether. She kept her rifle pointed directly at Mason, and she even had the balls to shout out to the room. “Drop your guns, all of you! I swear to Christ, I'll kill them
both!”

  No one moved, but then there came one last click! from behind, and Jesse deflated like a tire. She slumped her shoulders and lowered the rifle. Then, she slowly turned around to see who could have possibly snuck up behind her without so much as a breath of sound.

  It was a dog. An Irish Setter the approximate size of a pony, its head cocked to one side and watching her with utter fascination. Beside the dog was a girl. A pretty little thing with bright green eyes, a big messy tangle of curly red hair, and a snub-nosed .38 revolver, presently pointed right between Jesse's eyes.

  “Did I say six?” Mason said. “Sorry, Daniel, I meant seven. I guess I was never very good at math, either.”

  CHAPTER II

  The Peterbilt was parked against a pair of concrete abutments forming a narrow alcove outside the front door of the building, so Mason discounted the handful of creatures pounding away on the far side of the truck. He came out carrying a twenty-gallon jug in each hand as easily as another might carry pillows. He lowered one to the ground and began pouring the other into the metal tank on the big truck's side.

  “Are you sure?” Addison had to ask, barely managing to drag along a third jerry can. “There's a lot of supplies in there. These truck stops used to stock everything from adult diapers to ammunition. There's probably enough Slim Jims and beef jerky in there to feed us for weeks!”

  “We already have enough to feed us for weeks,” Mason reminded him. “The important things now are water and fuel, and not necessarily in that order.”

  “Well, add toilet paper to the list,” Addison said, thumbing his glasses up his nose and taking a moment to properly adjust his sweater-vest. “And as indelicate as it sounds, you might want to survey the women for what they might need by way of... uh, you know... feminine hygiene products and the like.”

  A definite sourness passed over Mason's face. “Why don't you ask them?” he said, setting the empty jerry can aside and hoisting up the second. “I wouldn't even know how to bring the subject up.”