Troop of Shadows Read online

  Something would need to be done about that soon, but not yet. Not just yet.

  A year ago, when he and his colleague from the States found the first of the strange tablets, they’d known it was different from any other previously discovered Sumerian artefact. For one thing, it was much older — possibly dating from 8,000-10,000 BCE — which flew in the face of the scientific community’s generally accepted date of 3200 BCE for the first appearance of language-driven writing. It was cuneiform, the earliest form of linguistic written expression. Its predecessor, known as proto-writing, utilized ideographic and mnemonic symbols to convey basic information such as quantities and animals, but was not an actual representation of a spoken language. Cuneiform was true writing. By definition, that meant the content of an utterance was encoded, so what was written by one individual could be reconstructed and understood by someone else, with a fair degree of accuracy.

  In evolutionary terms, cuneiform represented a prodigious leap for humankind. But the cuneiform chiseled onto the tablet they’d unearthed in Uruk was even more complex and advanced than anything seen before. It took him months to decipher the additional characters which, up to that point, had not appeared in any other Sumerian artefact. And while he’d been working on this project — certainly the most significant archaeological find in the history of humanity — humanity perished.

  The irony was not lost on him.

  During his career, there’d never been time to get serious about a woman, so he had no spouse or children to mourn when the end came, and his parents had been gone for years. His work was his life, so the people he missed the most weren’t family or friends but colleagues, who would have relished the tantalizing mystery spread out on his cluttered desk: photographs of the Urak tablets. They’d found seven in all, each more mysterious than the last. He had made enormous progress in deciphering the new characters, but the resolution on some of the photos vexed him. He was close to completing the task but several elements stubbornly refused to give up their secrets.

  Harold sighed. He knew what must be done next, but the thought of leaving the relative safety of his flat made his stomach churn. Twickenham and Richmond had been a war zone in the final days. So many people died and the ones who remained were desperate and hungry. He’d had the foresight to barricade himself in his third-floor flat for what would be the violent and ugly collapse of civilisation.

  He knew there were still a few people about because he sometimes spotted them through his shuttered window. However, based on what the news reports said before the power went out, most of the global population would have succumbed to the disease the media had termed ‘Chicxulub,’ so named for the dinosaur-killing asteroid. When he first heard it, Harold couldn’t deny the cleverness of the term...until people started dying by the millions. Now, it filled him with bitterness, but also determination to see if his hunch was right about the tablets. He would need to study them in person, which meant a dangerous eleven-mile journey on foot to London. As people tried to flee the cities, the roads had become clogged with the sheer volume of vehicles they were never intended to accommodate; and they remained so to this day. He learned this a few weeks ago when his curiosity overcame his fear and he ventured out to reconnoitre.

  A block from home, two men dressed in shabby clothes and one skeletal woman cornered him in an alleyway, brandishing knives and demanding food. He’d given them the contents of his pockets: an energy bar and a bottle of water. They’d been about to press him for more when something startled them and they ran off. He took off in the opposite direction, making it back to the safety of his flat with a racing heart and a sprained ankle.

  The experience left him anxious about venturing out again, but he knew he must at some point. The necessity had now become more pressing. He needed answers which could only be found by studying the Urak tablets firsthand. What he’d garnered thus far from their ancient author defied belief and challenged everything he knew about the origins of modern man. Even more compelling were the titillating hints about the end of humanity. They pinpointed a date, one that coincided precisely with the past year, when earth would be cleansed of the destructive genus known as Homo sapiens.

  How was it possible that a text, written more than ten thousand years ago, had predicted the exact year in which humankind would essentially be wiped off the planet?

  Chapter 4

  Liberty, Kansas

  “Jeff, quiet as a mouse, okay?” Steven whispered to his son, who had grown in body, mind, and spirit this past year.

  The death of his mother had devastated the boy. For weeks after, he barely spoke. Then a month after her death, Steven suspected his son had experienced some kind of epiphany, which transformed him almost overnight into the young man standing before him now in the bunker. The fourteen-year-old was determined to succeed in every project he undertook, whether at his nightly school lessons with his father, the self-defense techniques they learned together from the DVDs Steven bought before the end, or the daily drudgery of chores. He never complained and he never gave up. Steven sometimes worried about the man his son would become in these unprecedented times, but he refused to obsess about it. How did that Nina Simone song go? It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day. It’s a new life for me. Never had those words been more relevant or poignant...for him, his son and the few remaining humans who had survived Chicxulub.

  After the phone conversation with his sister a year ago, he’d nixed the plans to build a second root cellar and constructed an underground bunker instead, despite Laura’s objections and the debt they’d acquired.

  It was the smartest decision he’d ever made.

  Debt had no meaning now, and he’d provided a safe haven for his family, which now included only himself, Jeffrey, and their eight-year old Labrador retriever, Molly. As horrendous as the death of his mother had been to Jeffrey, losing Laura almost killed Steven. The agonizing grief felt too huge to be contained, much less endured. With claws and fangs, it threatened to tear its way out of his chest, seeking sanctuary in a vessel which could accommodate its immensity. For months after, the only salve for his pain, the only spark of hope in a bleak wasteland of misery, was his son. He must live for Jeffrey. Otherwise, he would have used his recently purchased Glock 17 to blow out his own brains.

  Of course now, months later, he was glad he hadn’t, even though he missed his wife every minute of every day. He and Jeffrey had accomplished amazing things together. Some days he felt content...satisfied, if not happy. But there were also days like today, when the threat of losing everything clarified how tenuous was their continued existence.

  “Dad,” Jeffrey whispered, pointing toward the 30.06 Springfield he had just finished cleaning but hadn’t yet returned to the weapons locker.

  Steven gave him a terse nod, placing a finger against his lips. No more talking. The blast resistant door was soundproof but the ventilation duct wasn’t. Noises from inside could be heard above and the last thing they needed was for the intruders to discover the concealed vent, which he’d covered with a pile of dead tree limbs thirty feet away.

  Jeffrey nodded, lifting the loaded rifle, and gripping it with the confidence of a young man who knew how to handle firearms. Steven felt a frisson of pride. He’d done a good job with his son this past year, teaching him skills and knowledge he would need to know if he ever had to survive on his own. And he would not let those Neanderthals trampling about above them take that away.

  Steven hadn’t camouflaged the bunker; there’d been too many pressing tasks to do first. The bottom half of the rebar-reinforced concrete structure was buried six feet deep in the sandy Kansas soil, and the top which rose six feet above ground, would ultimately be covered with dirt and fescue sod, leaving only the blast-resistant door visible. He’d figured since the opening faced away from the house and toward a barren cornfield, trespassers would likely never see it since there was nothing in that direction to draw their curiosity. He also intended to plant trees and shrubs to disguise the mo
und, but it was too late for any of that now.

  The intruders were kicking on the two-inch steel door. He couldn’t hear them, but he could see them. Two men had appeared on the seven-inch monitor of the closed circuit camera system he’d installed. It was run by a solar power generator built from scratch. Three wireless cameras with motion sensors were placed discreetly throughout his property: one near the steel door, a second located at the front door to the house, and the third was positioned at his driveway entrance where it connected to the semi-rural residential street. When the electric current wasn’t running through it, he knew the metal fence wouldn’t keep out someone who was hell-bent to gain access, despite the razor wire. Their best defense would be a forewarning and the precious moments it would give them to hide. The signaling mechanism Steven jerry-rigged into the cameras was triggered by movement — the old Motorola pager he carried had vibrated ten minutes ago.

  The late afternoon sunlight had taken on a golden cast which intimated the arrival of sunset. It was Steven’s favorite time of day, and they’d been in the bunker with the door open, finishing up their weekly firearms maintenance. He’d been teasing Jeffrey about the Evans girl, who was expected for dinner along with her mother in an hour. He knew of twenty or so people still alive in Liberty. There may be more out in the neighboring farms, but if so, they kept to themselves. It was Jeffrey’s good fortune that one of the survivors had been the prettiest girl in Janie Stark Middle School’s eighth grade class.

  Now, all thoughts of the pleasant evening they’d planned vanished. Father and son scrutinized the small black-and-white screen. The men didn’t appear to be starving, as other drifters had been. They seemed well-fed, and they moved with the fluid efficiency of trained military personnel. Their mismatched clothing belied the possibility they were there on government-sanctioned business; and since Steven had seen zero evidence that the United States government still existed, he knew this meant big trouble.

  The man on the left withdrew a pen and notepad from a shirtfront pocket, scribbled something with lazy indifference, and held it up to a camera which Steven had believed to be well-hidden in the low branches of a giant cottonwood tree.

  COME OUT SLOWLY, HANDS UP, NO QUICK MOVEMENTS. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES BEFORE WE START LOOKING FOR YOUR VENT AND DROP AN M26 DOWN THE PIPE.

  Steven was nominally familiar with military vernacular, but he knew what an M26 was. He knew the kind of devastation the fragmentation grenade would cause. The thirty-foot underground air duct ran mostly horizontal, so unless it could make 90 degree turns and still keep going, it would never reach them. But the explosion would create enough rubble to plug the shaft and cut off their air supply. They had sufficient oxygen to last a few hours...maybe a day. Then they would suffocate.

  Steven analyzed the situation and devised a resolution in less than ten seconds. He would never allow these men or anyone else to take what he and his son had worked so hard for. He’d anticipated this exact scenario and taken counter measures in advance of its happening.

  The two minutes felt like two hours, but finally the men moved away from the steel door. Steven wished there’d been time to place a fourth camera near the air vent, but it had been a matter of limited resources and priorities.

  So they wouldn’t be able to witness the springing of the trap Steven had set for anyone venturing into its vicinity, which was just as well. He didn’t want Jeffrey to see the resulting carnage if it worked, and he had no reason to assume it wouldn’t.

  The mechanics were crude but effective; he’d patterned them after the basic Punji trap used by the Vietcong in the ‘60s. When someone stepped on the wooden treadle — concealed by twigs, rocks, and other indigenous debris — the spiked end would spring up and strike the person in the face and chest. Six-inch box nails extended sufficiently through the half-inch plywood as to elicit devastating results. Though the injuries sustained might not be fatal, the victim would be in agony...and blinded if his height fell in the average range. Then Steven could finish him off.

  Whatever that might entail.

  He suffered a moment of doubt when he considered the confident demeanor of the intruders. He hoped whatever their military experience, it hadn’t included training on the type of trap awaiting them.

  They would know soon enough...

  Chapter 5

  Near Prescott, Arizona

  Pablo’s Journal, Entry #382

  I admit the solitude is beginning to wear on me; a soft but insistent pressure on my chest and head...insidious in its methods since it was initially a boon of sorts. A gift of freedom from oppression and prejudice, presented as a magnanimous yet bloody favor by the Grand Liberator, which the pundits called Chicxulub. Now there are moments when my loneliness reaches such depths that I would relish the companionship of the very ones who sought to limit and subjugate me. Anyone. Anyone who is human. And by human, I don’t mean those devils cloaked in filthy rags that strut about the courthouse square, brandishing their weapons and screaming of their prowess to the wind and those who might be listening. I will not call them animals, because most animals have honor and decency, as Bruno can attest. But I would happily share my fire with someone who might have hated me before — hated me because my skin is brown and my kind were willing to perform tasks which they considered beneath them. During our evening, we might achieve an accord. He (or she) might be surprised by how well I speak English; better than most Whites. They would not be threatened by this, because color no longer matters, but also — perhaps — because at that moment, in the warm glow of the fire and with the glittering stars above, they would realize their former bigotry was misguided.

  And since I’m fantasizing, I think I’ll make this person Scarlett Johansson. A man can dream can’t he?

  Pablo chuckled to himself, prompting the German shepherd at his feet to lift his head and gaze up at his human. He tucked the Bic into a jacket pocket, rubbed the furry head and looked up at the night sky. He missed television, along with the thousands of other modern conveniences lost when civilization imploded. Good food was also at the top of the list, not this canned offal he’d been eating for months. His mother’s perfectly seasoned chiles rellenos...oh my...he might trade his left huevo for one bite. Okay, two bites. Two bites would be worth sacrificing a testicle, for sure.

  He sat outside the abandoned cabin he’d stumbled upon in the foothills of the Bradshaw Mountains after fleeing the madness and anarchy of the Quad City area. The sun-bleached boards were barely held in place by nails coated in rust. The place might have been used for hunting, or perhaps gold-panning, situated as it was next to a tributary of the Agua Fria River. Thirty feet away stood an outhouse, still intact, and complete with the traditional crescent moon opening carved into the door. The nearby stream provided clean water and an occasional bluegill or mullet; treasures more valuable than any nuggets of gold. Within minutes of pulling them from the water, Pablo roasted them in the fire pit next to the cabin. Fresh food was a special treat these days and he knew he would soon need to find additional sources, or be forced to venture back into Prescott — a trip he dreaded.

  Under these strange circumstances, he had discovered a level of inner peace unknown to him during his life as the son of illegal immigrants. He no longer had to endure the snubs, nor the feeling of being socially inferior to those who benefitted from the labor of his people. For his family and friends, these realities were normal and did not warrant discussion. To Pablo, they’d made life almost unbearable. The disparity was infuriating...why couldn’t they see this? Why did they just accept their fate? Their lowly position in society, as if they’d been born peasants in Medieval England?

  It had been gnawing away at him for years, like a miserable crow plucking at some ancient road kill. Nobody else saw it, and nobody else cared. Things were what they were and probably always would be so.

  Then Chicxulub cleansed the planet of almost all people — indiscriminately, like a tsunami scouring the shoreline and destroying five s
tar hotels and poor hovels without bias.

  Pablo’s unusual, light gold eyes — eyes his father jokingly said must have come from the mailman — filled with tears. He missed his family so much, but he couldn’t say he was unhappy now; just sometimes nostalgic for all that had been, and lonely for the sound of a human voice or the touch of fingers on his face.

  His focus shifted from the night sky to the large spiral notebook on his lap. Elegant handwriting covered almost all of the pages — he’d need to find a new one soon or risk losing his mind. The daily journaling had become more than just a way to pass the time and document the end of the old world; his literary ramblings were a coping mechanism. And his salvation.

  He hesitated a moment, then flipped back to the first entry from more than a year ago...

  Pablo’s Journal, Entry #1

  Papa died today. The pain is intense, as I knew it would be, but there is also some joy because he is now with Mama. I have always struggled with religious faith, much to my parents’ dismay, but as it turns out, I DO believe. I NEED to — because to NOT believe in an afterlife, a continuation of our spirit, is abhorrent. Their souls are together now as they were in life...billions or even trillions of energy molecules soaring through stardust and frolicking in the heavens. Perhaps they are corporeal again, reincarnated into the bodies of newborn babes, destined to find one another on this earth as they have done many times before. They would scold me for such thoughts, of course. Good Catholics don’t believe in that nonsense, but the truth is we don’t know. Nobody does — not the priests, nor the televangelists, the Buddhist monks, nor the ayatollahs. So for me, I believe in whatever brings me comfort to contemplate. I don’t know of any other way that makes sense.