Devil Dog: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (Out Of The Dark Book 1)

  Devil Dog

  Out Of The Dark

  Boyd Craven III

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the Author

  Devil Dog, Out Of The Dark

  By Boyd Craven

  Many thanks to friends and family for keeping me writing! Special thanks to Jenn, who has helped me with my covers from day one and keeps me accountable!!!!!

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Photo by Phelan A. Davion www.DavionArt.com

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  1

  I was checking the traps in and around the tunnel. I wasn’t hopeful that there’d be anything in them; we’d long since hunted and trapped out the area. Despite that, Chicago still had some semblances of life. Some of it was brutal, some of it so horror-stricken from the fires, the flames, and the ugly side of humanity… and then there was beauty. Friends, neighbors. Loved ones. Pulling together to try to overcome a tragedy so vast and so complete, I doubted that the country could survive and become again what it once was.

  As if that would be much more of an improvement on now. The rumors I’d heard were that we’d been hit with an EMP. Terrific. Great. I knew what that meant.

  A total reset.

  Still, I had a job to do and responsibilities. No time for dicking around. Oorah.

  See, most people will never understand what real hunger is until the trucks quit running and the trains stop dead... Suddenly, you're stuck in the middle of a large city. The first week, supplies were running low and the water stopped flowing for everyone. Sickness, hunger, and people settling old scores was horrible. After two weeks, people were living out of their pantries, except those who’d tried to leave the city on foot. By the third week, people were dying off due to a lack of medication and no air conditioning, in the middle of one of the hottest summers on record. Then, things got even worse.

  “Let me go!” A woman’s hoarse shout alerted me.

  I lowered my pack to the ground, pushing it under debris, and made sure I still had the shotgun strapped tight to my back. I hadn’t planned on leaving the tunnel today, but someone on the street above me had forced my hand.

  “Mommy, they’ve got— “ A young girl's voice cut off abruptly, and several angry voices shouted and threatened.

  Chicago has a network of tunnels, some as close as right under the pavement. I’ve been living inside of them for almost three years now, when I’d cut myself off from society. I was at the edge of one of these tunnels, right by the gap between the road and a building where I could gain access to the topside. It wasn’t my favorite place to come up, but I’d do it. I ran and leaped for the lip between the gap and caught it with my fingertips. The cold concrete crumbled, but my gloved fingers seemed to dig in, and I gained enough clearance to get an arm on the other side of the ledge and swing a leg up.

  After that, it was easy to scramble over the concrete wall like a demented monkey on crack. The shouts had become quieter and I tried to pinpoint the sound. A motor fired up a moment later and drove off.

  “Shit,” I murmured, “I wish…”

  If wishes were food, we’d all have full bellies. As it was, I’d need to move fast or risk someone targeting me, trying to rob me. Hell, even having a shotgun wasn’t a deterrent. A shotgun with a full load out like I had was worth any ten lives to the slavers. In the home of the 44th president, there were few guns legally owned by citizens. When the fall happened, when the power went out for good, those who survived the fires that started near O’Hare, the folks with the illegal guns, came out to play. It wasn’t pleasant. With no rule of law, the worst of humanity showed itself for what it really was.

  I started walking, using the shadows to cover me, and I darted from cover to cover until I got past the entrance to our secret home. Time passed and I covered a lot of distance. Still, even with no one on the street, that didn't mean that I wasn’t being watched from windows or rooftops. The smell of death, fire, and shit filled the city, almost gagging me. Even when I’d broken into an old sewer tunnel, it had smelled better than topside. I’d have to remember that the next time the little ones wanted to come up. Remind them how much better they had it.

  Without conscious thought, my feet led me towards the intersection that some of the city’s more upstanding citizens had started. Everyone there was armed with something, and it had become a place of barter and trade. You could find almost anything for sale, and the reason people even went out there was because it was as safe there as anyplace else. At least there, everyone was armed and not wanting to pick a fight or put up with bullshit.

  I could smell fire, not the gasoline/diesel/plastic/death smell, but a wood fire and rounding the block, I stepped out of the shadows and walked towards the intersection where some cars had been pushed nose to end to form a walled off square, two cars deep. The one entrance, that doubled as an exit, was about three feet wide, with a gap in a corner where two vehicles hadn’t been pushed tight together. It was, as always, guarded.

  “Hey, Dickhead! You here to trade, my man?” Luis asked. He was a man I’d come to know over the course of the summer.

  “Maybe. Who’s got antibiotics today?” I asked him, already pretty sure where I'd end up.

  If you want to know who’s got what, and for the best price, ask the man who watches everyone go in and out. He was the new form of news, gossip and something the kids told me was called Craigslist. I don’t know who the fuck Craig was, or why he had a list, but who cares. I can usually find anything here.

  “Salina,” Luis told me, “She’s looking for meat or ammunition today. Or you could talk to Johnathon. He’s got a collection of pills, but I think his prices are too high.”

  “Do you know what kind of pills?” I asked, my voice going hoarse. “Painkillers?” I hated the hopeful note in my voice.

  “Shit, man,” Luis spat, “You got off that junk. Nobody here’s gonna sell you that shit. Your runner maybe, but no. No, Salina said— “

  “Sorry,” I said, wiping my lips, “It’s… It’s almost a habit, more than addiction,” I said trying to make light of it, “Besides, I need the antibiotics. Mouse is sick.”

  Luis dropped a hand on my shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze, “Get your antibiotics for the girl. What you’re doing, man… I don’t agree with the whole situation, but you’re doing a good thing.”

  “Fuck doing a good thing,” I said softly, “I’m doing what you guys should have done.”

  Luis looked perturbed, but he gave me a nod, stepped aside, and I walked into the small area. He knew I was right, but I’d paid the price for living life on my terms. I’d become a hunted man after the power went out for the topsiders, and now that there was no rule of law, there were certain people who would gladly pay ten women for my head if you believed the latest bounty rumors. Even though I was in a world full of trouble, I was allowed to come here. I’d gone to bat for a lot of these people. Some considered me a rabid animal, but one that wasn’t aimed their way. Maybe it let them sleep at night.

  The interior of the intersection had been cle
ared out to make space. Some people had permanent spots they liked to set up in and in the dusk, many of them were back-lit by barrels with some sort of wood burning in them, and most of them had large pots simmering stews and soups of sorts. For people who didn’t want a permanent spot, they came in, laid down a blanket or sheet, and sat on it. They would put their wares out and sit until someone would come walking by. Money was worthless unless it was old silver coins. Nickels, quarters, dimes. Sometimes real silver or gold bullion showed up, but the real treasures were ammunition, medicines, and things that used to be so mundane. But they made living in this post-apocalyptic world possible again.

  A Coleman camp stove was for sale at one spot I walked by, and a man was holding up two rats, insisting that the vendor was getting the better end of the deal. I smirked; he didn’t know what he was talking about. That camp stove was worth six tunnel rats, not two. The man became loud and two other vendors slowly pulled their guns and knives, in case violence started. I sidestepped and went the other way, looking for Salina, as some of the wandering guards came over to check things out.

  I passed quite a few people who had food openly out there for sale. Bread, baked somewhere in a secret location. Some of it was made with standard yeast, but more and more sourdough was being used. I didn’t know where the grain or flour was being purchased from but knew there had to be a store of it somewhere. I almost drooled as I thought about having a slice of hot bread with some butter slathered over the top of it. Looking away from the bread was almost as hard as not thinking about the pain pills.

  Which, of course, got me thinking about the pills again. Two sullen looking teens darted in front of me, almost tripping me. I put out a hand and snagged one of them on impulse.

  “Hey, man, be cool,” the young man said.

  “Hey, there was a snatch and grab over my way. You know who’s operating there now?”

  The kid looked at me, recognition making his eyes open wide.

  “Dude, I don’t know anything,” he said.

  I fished in my pocket and pulled out two .22lr shells. The skinny boy licked his lips. It wasn’t enough to get him a full meal, but it was more than enough to get a bowl of greasy stew that was forever being added to. The never-ending soup.

  “How about now?” I asked, letting go of him and pressing them into his hand.

  “You’re putting me in a tough spot here,” the young man said, looking to his friend that had stopped with him.

  “Who’d they snatch?” His friend said in a feminine voice.

  I was almost startled and looked closer. I had thought that the two were both young men, but on closer inspection, I could make out the delicate bone structure and facial features behind the dirt and grime that was artfully placed. The young woman’s hair had been hacked off roughly. The clothing she wore was baggy, but she was so gaunt that if she was trying to hide curves, there wasn’t much left of them. Hunger did that to people.

  “A mother and daughter, I think. They were fast. I couldn’t get a look at them. They had a working car or truck.”

  “I don’t want to get involved, man,” the young man said, handing me the shells back. “I can’t. My wife…”

  I looked at the both of them. They looked as if they were three meals away from starvation. I took the man's hand in my left and pressed the shells back into it and closed his fingers over into a fist.

  “I... family is important,” I told him.

  His mouth dropped open in shock.

  “Is your name really Dickhead?” The woman asked, surprising her husband.

  “It’s what you topsiders call me,” I admitted.

  “I think you’re like a big, old, mean junkyard dog,” she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, “There to protect people, but at heart, you’re not so mean.”

  “Don’t let that shit get out,” I snarled, “I don’t want every beggar and idiot expecting handouts from me. I just…”

  The woman reached out, took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I promise. Nobody will know that the Dickhead Devil dog is a good guy.” The man gaped, looking between her and me, and I realized that people around us had gone silent.

  “Get the fuck out of here, if you’re not going to help,” I said loudly, giving the young man a shove.

  The woman got it. She dropped me a wink and pulled him away. Nobody wanted to be caught giving me the information on where the slavers operated. The price on me was too big. They would cut down anybody to get to me. I’d been loud and shoved him at the end because people had noticed that I’d been taking the time to talk to them and I’d offered payment. By shoving him and yelling, I was just another asshole trying to shakedown the young couple.

  “Making friends, I see,” a silky voice said.

  I turned, and Salina was there in front of me. Her ebony skin gleamed, despite the darkness. She was a stunning beauty. More important than her physical looks, were her abilities as a doctor and healer. You would think that she’d give away her services for free, but she didn’t. She did, however, trade reasonably, and her medicines were life savers.

  “Salina,” I said, pulling her close to hug her, “I need a favor,” I whispered in her ear, the hug meant to cover my question.

  “Come. Jerome is at my table. Let’s talk there, where we can trade.” Her voice had a Caribbean lilt that had broken the hearts of many men.

  As beautiful as I found her, I’d never been enthralled with her the way most men here were. A few shot me jealous looks at the hug and the seemingly casual familiarity that I had with her. Doctor Salina had run the North Side Clinic, and I’d used her for years. A homeless veteran didn’t have much choice and the VA was useless. She’d gotten me off the junk twice now. After the second time, she forbade people from selling anything narcotic to me, threatening them with refusing to treat them later in life. I was finally able not to be angry about that, as selfish as it seemed.

  “Yeah,” I said hoarsely, “Mouse is sick.”

  “You should let the girl and her brother come up with us. I will protect her,” she said without looking at me.

  I followed her to her table. Her eldest son, Jerome, stood behind it. He was almost six and a half feet of solid muscle and he looked to be twenty seconds away from violence at any given moment. The truth was, he was a little slow, but a good kid. Almost twenty years old. In the ordinary course of life, he’d have made a good general laborer… but his mental deficiencies matched mine. His brain didn’t retain much, whereas mine slipped from time to time.

  “She won’t leave Pauly and he won’t come topside willingly,” I told her.

  “Well then, let's see what we can do.” She walked behind her little table, spoke into Jerome’s ear and he smiled and settled into a sitting position against one of the cars used as a backdrop. “What’s her symptoms?” she asked.

  “Trouble breathing. Her breath sounds soupy and she’s running a fever. Lots of discharge from her nose, and when she coughs. I’ve got her separated from the group for now, but I… She’s not allergic to anything I know of and…”

  “You don’t want her to infect the others, but you’re worried enough to come topside for pills, instead of one of your crazy capers.”

  “I’m not crazy!” I snarled, regretting the words immediately.

  Jerome stood in a hurry, looming over the three-foot table that separated us. He didn’t scare me, but he didn’t know that.

  “I didn’t say you were, Richard,” she said softly, too softly for the crowd that had started forming up around us to hear.

  “I can’t… She’s only six,” I told her. “What do you have?” I asked.

  She had various metal containers set out on the table, some of them old army ammunition storage boxes. In one, she dug around and pulled out a large white bottle. She counted out pills in her hand and dumped them into a plain white envelope.

  “Twice a day for ten days. If the fever doesn’t break in three days, come back here. You have Tylenol? Motrin? Something
safe for her to take?”

  I nodded, but they had done nothing. I told her that.

  “That’s probably because it’s something like pneumonia or a severe respiratory infection. The child really needs to move topside. Those dank, dark tunnels…”

  “Doc,” I told Salina, “we’ve had this talk. Both the girl and the boy were used. Badly. She’d go into hysterics if any man other than the boys in the group or I got near her. Pauly is so scared, he’s never going to go for it. I just need to get her healthy for now.”

  “I know… You do what you can.”

  “How much?” I asked her.

  “Four twelve gauge shells. Buckshot.”

  I snorted.

  “I need the pills… but, four shells?” I asked her, almost hoping she was joking.

  “No joke. I gave you some Clindamycin. Some of the strongest stuff I have. Mouse didn’t kick whatever crud she had the last time. If it were something lightweight like Keflex, it’d be cheaper, but I don’t think it’d work. You do want this to work, Dickhead? Don’t you?” Her words at the end rose in volume.

  I suddenly wasn’t the center of attention, just another guy haggling for goods and services.

  “Yeah, ok,” I said, hating to have to pay that much.

  I was prepared to give up a pocketful of loose mismatched ammo, or even some meat if my traps had caught anything. As it was, I did have enough shells, but I used buckshot almost exclusively. I dug three shells out of my pocket and set them on the table.

  “You’re still one short,” she said, tapping the table next to the envelope for emphasis.

  “Dammit, we’re friends. Isn’t three enough?” I asked.

  “We are not friends. You are an asshole, if anything. I’m already giving you a deal. I would usually ask for five shells, and a dog.”

  I paused to consider it and then shrugged. I pulled the Keltec KSG to the front of me. It was a drop-sling, which allowed me to carry it a number of different ways. I racked the slide and ejected a pair of shells. I put one brass side first on the table, a little harder than I’d intended. The second one went into my pocket.