Come Into The Light (5 page)

He asked for the umpteenth time what had happened to his friends and the response he got was the same, no one would tell him anything. Then one day he heard the lock click on the door and the door swung open to reveal Sara standing before him. Her hair was shortened and she was thinner. She was otherwise in a ragged state looking as though she hadn’t slept as she eyed Harold with sadness then with anger.

“Look at you. You’re pathetic.”

It was true he had puked and hadn’t yet washed that day but was she being fair?

“Sara.”

“Yea, it’s me.”

“You’re alright.”

He had been so worried. He spent every hour and minute wondering if she had been imprisoned like him or murdered.

“They kept me here. Jacob he-

She put up her hands to quiet him and suddenly she looked even more tired, “I know all about it.”

He smiled, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yea, well, I’m not that okay, alright.”

Her voice was listless, strained. In the past she had been argumentative toward him or teasing; now she just seemed far away.

Harold made an attempt to stand but he was weak so Sara had to help him. Sara went to get him a washcloth so he could wipe off the puke and when he tried to apologize she wasn’t listening. He was shaking just in the effort to stand. It was what the pills had done to him. For the first time in he didn’t know when he felt ashamed, not only for being a drugged out zombie but for ignoring his conscience.

“Things are bad, Boobala. You should know that.”

He had heard the gunfire, the explosions, some from faraway and some from up-close but the good thing about the pills was he didn’t have to care. None of it seemed related to him. If the floor beneath him exploded he would probably laugh and find it all so funny. Lose a limb here or there, it was all one great big farce.

“He’s crazy, you know.”

Sara’s eyes cut into Harold, “All of us have found the need for compromise. You shouldn’t place the blame entirely on him.”

Harold widened his smile by a few degrees, fighting off the need to sit down and make himself comfortable. He directed his eyes at Sara and kept himself focused no matter how difficult a task it proved to be.

“The last time I saw you you were angry with me. I guess some things don’t change.”

Her gaze was even more intense than his pretended to be yet there was a tenderness that hadn’t been there before. Her hand reached up to play with his greasy, sweaty hair, and this half attempt at playfulness drew a spark of that old fondness in her face. When he reached up to take her hand in his however she froze at his touch and freed her hand. When he stepped forward for a kiss she backed away.

“No, don’t.”

She wouldn’t look at him. Her eyes were jetting about as if she felt trapped, ready to flee.

“I only came to see you because Jacob wanted me to.”

Her eyes caught his once more in defiance, “I’m in firm agreement with what he’s doing. I’m fighting alongside some very courageous people. You wouldn’t understand. ”

His smile faded and his legs were shaking once again. He felt the ache of loneliness rise in him, “I guess I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Boobala. I don’t want you whining. I thought you were dead or had been turned over into one of those sunbies, and you might as well know that Adam and I have become a couple. He’s not like you; he has real passion for me. He was even willing to betray his father for me.”

Harold didn’t know what to say. The words were caught in his throat. Yet he wanted to reach out and hug Sara more than anything. There was just something so pitiful, so loathsome in her voice that all he could do was hold her in his arms. Surprisingly she didn’t pull away when he embraced her and when she started to cry he began to cry too.

When she was about to leave she told him that he would have to stay off the pills if he wanted any further information from her. He could see the scars on her hands, her face, how dirty she had become. And to his horror he had noticed that she was missing a finger.

“I’m really happy for you, Sara; I just want you to know that.”

“Yea, well, so what if you are.”

***

As it turned out he didn’t have to keep his promise to Sara because his supply of pills had dried up and there was no one around to resupply him. When he came out of the fog he realized that he hadn’t had any visitors for some time and that Amanda and Circe were no longer crating him back and forth to the bathroom and taking care of him.

He was starting to worry. There were no sounds in the house, no noises that would indicate there was anyone in the house. What was he going to do? He hadn’t realized how important Amanda and Circe had become to him. They were his lifeblood. Yet there was no reason to panic. He would be alright for a while. They will show up, they always do. He just had to be patient.

He tried to pretend that he would be alright but each moment was making him anxious. He waited and waited and still he couldn’t hear a single soul coming to his rescue anywhere, even the explosions and gunfire had subsided. He was engulfed by absolute silence and it went on and on until he thought he would go mad. He screamed out Amanda and Circe’s names but there was no reply. He called out to anyone to help him but his only companion was the silence. He had begun to sweat and shiver, to twist and turn in agony, overcome with pain and nausea.

He rolled back and forth in that little room singing and humming to himself, trying to lock out the worse of it, wishing he could die rather than feel the way he felt. His voice turned raw from screaming and eventually after he vomited a few times he passed out.

CHAPTER 8

The explosions shook the house waking him. There was rapid gunfire coming in close, some explosions further away. It felt like the house was being rooted off its foundation. The boards on the windows shook and cracked. The floor was rocking beneath him. He didn’t understand what was going on. Dust was falling from the ceiling and the ceiling had begun to buckle. He was going to be crushed as explosions and gunfire continued to rain down on him. Overcome by a nervous frenzy he rolled to one corner of the room and stayed there trying to figure out just what was happening.

There were a number of close impacts and each impact loosened boards from the windows letting in the sunlight. One window was cracked and the ceiling continued to bulk and though he knew he must act he just sat there frozen until he heard something smash against the door. There was another smash and another until the door gave way. Harold watched in confusion as these people poured into the room. He saw a face here and there as they turned in his direction. They looked like nightmare images in the mottled mix of shadow and light. So they had come back for him after all, they hadn’t forgotten. He tried to speak to express his sense of betrayal and anger but the words that came out made little sense as Jacob lifted him off the floor and spoke rapidly into his ear, telling him they had to go. Ross took the other arm helping to hold him up as they half carried half walked him out the door. He had little strength in his legs but each step worked to restore some mobility. Four men were ahead of them with satchels hanging from their belt loops carrying rifles. They acted as point men, guards.

The house was truly rocking now. They were being bombarded by slabs of plaster and dust that rained down on them from all sides. The stairs were wobbly and uncertain but they managed to get to the ground floor just as a loud explosion blew out a wall and a boarded up window nearby.

They proceeded out of the house and into the midst of chaos. Colder Avenue had been turned into a war zone. You didn’t know who was on what side in the battle. It was nothing less than a confusing mess with dead and injured bodies everywhere and people shouting out orders, people screaming in agony.

A man in the forefront of their group was shot in the chest before he returned fire and collapsed. Harold remembered that this was Scott, the carpenter. He had become the movement’s handy man and sometime plumber. Ken checked for a pulse while keeping his rifle positioned to fire. He got up and shook his head and they started out again. Shortly after that a grenade was lobbed a few yards from them and there was an explosion. Harold was on the ground bleeding. There was smoke, tear gas, he couldn’t see where anyone was or whether they were hurt. Someone had grabbed hold of his legs and was pulling him off the street and into an alley, inside a door. The door slammed and it was pitch black, dark. There was more gunfire and screaming from outside and he was breathing badly, scared. He heard a voice near his ear telling him to breathe slowly, to calm down. It didn’t sound like Jacob but the voice was so low, whispery that it could have been anyone. He tried getting up but was pulled down. He was told it wasn’t safe.

He heard someone outside call out his name. He got up to respond and felt the blow to his head that left him unconscious.

Sometime later he opened his eyes, blinking in astonishment at the shelves of books and the candlelight. With the effort it took to think he realized he was in the basement of the central library where the reference section was. How did he get here and why? His head hurt like mad, he knew that much, even sitting up had caused a wave of pain and dizziness but he had to know what was going on. He touched his hand to the spot where he received the blow and felt a gauze pad surrounded by band aids over the spot. The area around the pad was sticky with dried blood and he saw that someone had patched his arm. He had a nose bleed but it wasn’t anything serious and his eyes felt dry, swollen. He reached in his pocket for the pain killers that were no longer there and when he realized what he had done he had to laugh. The laugh came out hollow, echoing within the labyrinth of the library. He didn’t care who heard him. There were those remnants of his withdrawal still clinging to him: the shakiness, the tremors, the nausea, and yet everything felt remote next to the pain.

He can hear his name being called out. Who was it that called out to him? He never had the chance to find out. Did anyone survive the blast? He had to make sense of this.

Eventually his need to find answers and to find whoever had cold cocked him had led him across the reference section to the double wooden doors. The dizziness and pain he experienced made him dependent on the rows of book shelves to keep him upright but the important thing was he was able to stand, to move, and if he kept working his legs his muscle strength would come back. With one long breath he exhaled and tried turning the knobs on the doors but they wouldn’t turn. Of course why should they? At the paramount of his frustration he shouted to be let free but no one responded. He shouted a few more times than gave up.

He spent the next few hours, or at least it seemed like hours, carrying a candlestick in one hand as he walked back and forth through the aisles of books to get his legs in condition. It tired him out to the point where the ache in his legs almost matched the ache in his head yet he thought he might as well use his time productively if he was going to stay here a while.

What was it about him that made him the perfect candidate to be someone’s prisoner, someone’s punching bag? He was beginning to get the notion that he was nothing more than a test dummy being tossed about in a crash, yet it wasn’t right and damn it he was going to remedy the situation.

He thought about what he would do as he walked repeatedly up and back and each step took him closer to a feeling of anger. He tried controlling the anger but couldn’t. He pulled at the heavy books on the shelves until they came free and then he tossed them on the floor or threw them at the shelves or at the walls, knocking over a candlestick with one of the historical novels and nearly causing a fire. He tried everything he could to dampen his anger but nothing worked. He tried closing his eyes, clenching his teeth, yet all that brought up was the time his mother refused to let him in the room with his grandmother because she was sick and might die. He was eight at the time and he didn’t care he wanted to see his grandma, see how sick she really was.

Grandma was coughing and she looked very weak, drawn. She coughed a lot but she waved Harold over to tell him of her dream. She saw horrible things, people with golden eyes and mad grins encircling her, people bloody and dying on the streets, and in the sky something hovered, something watched. She could feel its eyes on her, hear its laughter. All of what his grandmother was telling him sounded strange and yet she went on in a kind of feverish need to explain that it didn’t feel like a dream that it felt too real, too immediate like she was being warned. She held onto Harold’s hands, grasping them tightly in hers even as she trembled. She fixed her gaze on him in a kind of desperate plea and wouldn’t let go, telling him that she was frightened for him, for his future, for all their futures. Harold tried pulling away from her grasp, tried telling her that everything will be fine even as the planet was heating, there was outright warfare, and people were hungry. His schoolmates said that God would help them. He was crying by the time his grandmother let go of her grasp and Harold’s mother flew in and pushed him out of the room saying he would be punished. There was no greater punishment than seeing his grandmother groan and take on so after that until one day soon her heart would stop and he would attend her funeral. He never got to talk to his grandmother again. His parents said she had lost her mind. That they didn’t want Harold to see her this way.

His parents went on disbelieving the warnings calling the event in the sky that made headlines years later a miracle. God had finally come to rescue his children.

Harold can still remember the golden light in their eyes. The way they spoke of a new beginning with the assurance of adolescence. They were taking him to be reborn when his uncle intervened saying Harold was going with him that he wasn’t going to become one of those crazies like them. Liam and Harold’s father fought but Liam got the upper hand and kept Harold from his parents. Harold was confused but he did whatever his uncle asked. His uncle was spirited yet determined. He was someone Harold could look up to and he protected his nephew for as long as he could. He sometimes would sing Harold to sleep with a song his grandmother used to sing to him whenever he was upset just so he wouldn’t miss his parents so badly. It was about showing your true colors, that you should let them come shining through, that they are as beautiful as a rainbow. His grandmother said the song was old when she was young and had been passed down through the family because it had such tenderness of meaning and believed that everyone was special inside. He can hear the lovely tone of her tenor voice even now and the powerful emotions that were conveyed in him by the soulfulness contained in the melody and the inspired words. The song had always been the perfect antidote for his worries as it was now, so he sang it to himself. Sang it over and over until he couldn’t recall anything but that song.