Prelude

​

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

​'Cutoff' is known as the first seat right of the dealer. Also known as the betting seat, and it happened to be Raymond’s favorite game position. He bent the pair of cards up slightly off the dirty green felt, just enough to see a King and Queen of spades. Not a bad hand, especially with a table of seven players who are all playing loose before the flop.

How quickly you call or bet, can give away the strength of your hand, so he momentarily paused to check the sun lit poker faces around the table. Raymond quickly claimed the chair closest to the wall of windows for just this reason. He would be able to read their faces, while the sun directly behind him would blind his opponents if they dared to study him.

Raymond casually said “raise” and tossed in a blue chip, raising the two-dollar blind to a ten-dollar bet. The bet would either steal the blinds or get the action rolling with a suitable pot. Either way, he’d thin out the weak players who were cheaply playing Seven/Two hands that could score a full house on the flop by pure dumb-luck.

Of course, the five hundred dollars in starting chips did not have actual dollar amounts attached to them since money wasn’t a thing anymore. But playing cards, without circumstance, wasn’t really worth playing. To make the game interesting, each of the players agreed that the dollar value equaled pushups. For each dollar lost, meant one push up after the game. Pays to be a winner.

“You play with integrity. If you don’t pay up at the end of the game, you are off mission. Forever. That goes for the two special advisers as well.” Team leader Staff Sergeant Beckett said eyeing Victor and Raymond.

Recon Marines were always looking for a reason for physical training, so the five-man team was eager to play. Raymond loved the strategy of Texas Hold ‘Em, so he was definitely in. In fact, earning money at cards wasn’t nearly as satisfying as mentally crushing opponents, so Raymond was all for punishing the losers with PT. Victor on the other hand, could not remember the last time he had played cards or done pushups for that matter. Not because he was lazy or out of shape, but when living on limited food rations, survivors burned their calorie intake wisely. Five hundred pushups would take him awhile, so as the dealer, Victor folded his Jack Two off suit for free, after watching Raymond’s ten-pushup blue chip roll across the felt.

Around the table, players responded to Raymond’s bet. Fold. Call. Call. Fold. Call. Call.

Victor bit onto a forty-dollar Davidoff 702 Series cigar that had been liberated from the casino’s cigar shop just minutes ago. The earthy tasting tobacco numbed his cheek making him wonder what the extravagant hand rolled Dominican Republic cigar would taste like if he fired it up. He would not know the luxury today, as the sweet smell would attract a deadly horde of infected. With his free hand, Victor took the top card off the deck and set the burn discard to the side, then turned up the next three to reveal the flop.

Jack of Hearts. Nine of Spades. Queen of Diamonds.

Victor half paid attention to the table as he glanced around the open sunlit VIP room that overlooked the casino’s horse track. The curtain covered door was barricaded shut with a blackjack table. At an arm’s length reach, rifles leaned against nearby silent slot machines. Rucksacks sat on plush leather chairs. Damp and muddy boots drained onto expensive walnut hardwood flooring. Victor looked longingly at the beer tap at the private bar, then to the unopened bottle of spiced rum on the bottom shelf that called to him.

A shot or two would give a good warm buzz. He had been without alcohol for so long; he would be a cheap date. A foggy mind and slow reaction time would end up getting him or a team member killed. Victor grabbed the can of energy drink next to him instead. The carbonated sugary beverage was close enough to a good time which had a distant familiarity of a pleasantries before the Dark Day.

Raymond closely watched the table, keeping tabs on who checked, who bet, and how much. As players checked around the table, passing up opportunities to bet. Raymond was getting ready for his turn to drop a twenty five-pushup green chip. The radio operator next to him in the hijack seat beat him to it, and took control of the betting, putting Raymond on the defense.

Ruining his game plan, Raymond turned his head to looked at the radio operator annoyed. He wanted to say something witty to get under his skin, but Raymond didn’t know how to address the radio operator. His unpronounceable last name of Odhiambo was embroidered on a patch above his slanted right breast pocket. Raymond assumed by his accent that the Marine was a Swahili immigrant from the horn of Africa area.

“Why is your call sign Darkness anyways?” Raymond asked sarcastically. Marines thrived on pointing out each other’s unique differences, and the radio operator had the blackest skin Raymond had ever seen. “Is it because of your depressing personality?”

“Toss in those chips Chief, and you’ll find out.” Darkness said with a heavy accent, completely unfazed by Raymond’s attempt to razzle him.

Raymond like this guy simply by his demeaner and professionalism. He had worked with several immigrants while he was in the military. Most of them, had enlisted to speed up the process to citizenship and were typically more patriotic than the average kids off the streets that joined for college tuition.

“Raise to fifty.” Raymond said dropping two green chips in the center of the table. Still trying to agitate his opponent, he continued, “You would think they would give the radio to someone who can speak clear English.”

The fifty-pushup bet cleared out the casual players quick.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Call. Darkness dropped the extra chip onto the table to even the pot.

The horn of Africa area was a poverty-stricken shit hole that was a baren land infested with terrorism and gang warfare which hardened even the kindest of hearts. Darkness was introduced to violence at a early age. After his mother had been awarded visas to America for her linguist duties at the Embassy, joining the
Marine Corps seemed like the right thing to do.

Even during the early days of boot camp, he knew he had found his calling. It seemed his childhood had properly prepared him for the Marines. He ran faster, did more pull ups, he shot better, had a natural warrior spirit, even with broken English he understood orders better, and even outperformed his entire boot camp company in the swim qualification.

From boot camp, he went on to take the honor graduate title at the school of infantry where he was invited to the Force Reconnaissance selection indoc where he passed with ease which not only brought additional enlightening challenges, but an elevated level of honor and respect.

He loved his new life. Even on the hardest of days, he was grateful for the opportunity. He saved his earnings, counted his blessings, took as many military developmental schools as he could, and studied English as much as possible which is why he volunteered to be the RO (radio operator).

What he loved most was the camaraderie. When assigned to a team, he finally met the brotherhood of professional warriors who sat before him at this poker table, he knew that he had found his place in the universe. From the outside, they appeared to be as different as people could possibly be. TL Beckett was a good ol’ boy from the mountains of Montana. The coxswain, Corporal McCune, was a skinny former surfer who spoke the slang. Even though most of them had graduated Scout Sniper school, Rios the Harley riding Texan was their designated marksman. And finally, their Navy Corpsman, who everyone called Doc, was a thick Korean who could bench-press twice his own body weight.

Several of them had earned purple hearts and medal a valor for sacrificing personal safety for the lives of their brothers. They were from all walks of life, but they looked out for each other; on and off the battlefield. There was an unspoken love of family amongst the team. But like all brothers, they constantly teased one another, they would get drunk on Friday nights and fight each other then hug and make up on Saturday, and a lot of friendly verbal harassment that was as politically incorrect as racial slurs could be.

So, the jabs that Raymond threw at Darkness to shake his game, had been easily deflected.

Victor lost in a depressing daydream of the dark and quiet lifeless casino below them on the main floor, wondering how safe they were as they casually played cards in the VIP suite. He hadn’t been paying attention to the game whom he was dealing for. On his mind was hordes of dangerous monsters who had once been human, that surrounded their building. The infection riddled creatures, determined to make mankind extinct, had been lured in from all over Philadelphia to the loudspeakers repeating the same message over, and over, and over again that was already getting on Victor’s nerves.

“Pot’s good.” Raymond said, clearing his throat.

Victor brought his attention back to the game. He bit onto his cigar again, discarded the top card and flipped over a Queen of Clubs.

Darkness tossed in two black chips worth two hundred pushups.

What the hell? Raymond thought. He’s probably sitting on a King Ten, giving him a straight which would beat my own trip queens. He could also be holding Jack Queen, giving him a full house. Or, maybe he’s trying to screwing with me and trying to buy the pot.

Darkness grabbed a cool ranch chip out of the crinkly cellophane bag and loudly took exaggerated irritating bites from the crunchy chip while staring at Raymond. “Mmmmmm. These are so good. Still fresh too. Would you care for some mister liaison man?”

Raymond ignored him, pondering to call his bet or not. Studying the table: Jack of Hearts. Nine of Spades. Queen of Diamonds. Queen of clubs. Damn. He could even be holding a pair of crappy Nine’s in his hand, giving him a full house. He thought irritated, internally cursing Victor for dealing such a wicked hand.

“There are more chips. Right over there under the bar. I can get you some if you desire. Maybe some pretzels, but you seem like a salt and vinegar kind of guy.” Darkness continued crunching the chips loudly, being distracting. “Hey man, what kind of product do you use in that mane of yours? I think your callsign should be Hair Gel!”

“All in.” Raymond said in frustration, pushing his entire chip stack forward. Five hundred pushups was worth knowing if he was bluffing or not. Because next time, when playing for something better than exercise, at the next card game whenever it may be, Raymond would know if Darkness got lucky or if he was a bluffer. 

“Okay.” Darkness said casually in his thick accent, pushing his pile of chips in as well. “I haven’t exercised yet today anyways.”

Victor, along with the rest of the team was paying attention now, it was getting exciting. Someone was about to start sweating. The card game had been a good idea to kill some time. Sitting around the gaming table had almost a sense of normalcy about it all, as if the world hadn’t gone dark months ago. As if Russians and Chinese hadn’t invaded the west coast. As if thousands of infected Grays weren’t being ripped to shreds on the patch of overgrown grass in the center of the track just outside the window.

Victor slowly took the top card off the stack, held it in the air momentarily, grinning at the faces frozen in suspense and placed it on the discard pile. Deliberately reaching for the river card, a series of light footsteps ran across the loose roof gravel above them.

They all looked upward at the tall mosaic ceiling in surprise. Victor dropped the entire stack of cards onto the table. Beckett stood up too quick and knocked his chair over backwards reaching for his M4. Raymond had his pistol drawn. The others were kitting up, wrapping ammo laden chest rigs to themselves as sounds of rodents above them scurrying back and forth continued.

Over the blaring message being played on repeat on the loudspeakers outside, they could hear a chilling sound of children sobbing echoing through the stairwell and hallway just outside the VIP lounge. The haunting sound penetrated them, the sound of kids whimpering uncontrollably to the point they couldn’t breathe and sucked in gusts of air between chest spasms.  

Victor pulled the bolt back slightly, giving him comfort of showing brass inside his chamber. He looked up at SSgt Becket and nodded.

​“Hey!” Raymond held up his hand. “Flip the last damn card!”