Darkness Falls (4 page)

7

Charley Wilson had been a lot of things in his life. A drunk being at the top of that list. A drunk, with no future to speak of, whose wife had left him for a postal worker up in Maine.

That’s not all she’d left him with, though, no. She’d left him broke, turned him into a drunk and deemed him a total asshole (which he freely admitted). She’d also left him with their son, Joshua—‘Radar’ to the locals. The nickname had come from his cousins, on account of his clumsiness, because, they said, he’d need radar to avoid bumping into things. He wasn’t actually that clumsy, but it had stuck. Even Charley called his son by that name. The boy had turned out pretty well in spite of his influence. Was he fit to be a dad? Probably not. He wasn’t fit for a lot of things.

But he also knew more than most, and that was something that would change his standing before long. Not necessarily with the town, or with his son, but with the people who really mattered. The people—or was it
person
?—who had power.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts and vision. He grabbed a can of Coors from the passenger seat, snapping it free of its plastic ring with the skill of an experienced professional. Probably couldn’t walk a straight line for shit, but he could decimate brain cells like a champ.

Charley glanced into the rearview mirror, half expecting to see Frost’s cruiser lit up like Christmas, but he was startled to see Radar staring back at him. He swerved into the oncoming lane, narrowly missing a silver Land Rover, before regaining control.

“Sheeit! The fuck you doin’?” Charley shouted, tossing his half-empty can of Coors out the window. He rubbed at the spilled beer on his jeans, willing his heart back into his chest.

Radar only stared. No reply.

Charley’s expression turned hard and calloused, the look of a man haunted by too many ghosts to care.

“Go on, get outta here, why dontcha? I sure as fuck don’t need no shit from you right now.”

“What are you doing?” Radar’s reflection asked.

Charley refused to meet his son’s gaze.

“What I shoulda done a long time ago. Settin’ things right for me,” Charley said.

“You’re wrong,” Josh said. “You’re wrong and you know it.”

“The fuck you say?” Charley shouted. “You don’t know nuthin ‘bout nuthin, boy.”

Charley grinned, revealing a dental hygiene regimen that would make Steve Buscemi smile. He reached over and grabbed another can of Coors, popping the top and drinking half the can in one long gulp. He followed with a satisfying burp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Why fart and waste it when you can burp and taste it?”

Josh’s reflection stared back blankly.

“Oh I see,” Charley said, agitated. “You don’t agree, so conversation over, right? Just like your mother—”

“You’re wrong,” Radar said. “You’re going to get people hurt, Dad.”

Torn between years of outrage and love for his son, Charley struggled to respond. He wanted to listen to the nagging voice that had crept up inside him, tickling the back of his brain through the ghostly apparition of his son conjured by his imagination. He wanted to, but—

Charley grabbed hold of the rearview mirror and ripped it from the Ford. He chucked it hard out the window, and heard it shatter against the blacktop.

“When I want your ‘pinion,” Charley said, feeling manipulated, “I’ll give it to ya.”

He finished the can of Coors and tossed the empty out the window.
‘Nother dead soldier
. He grabbed hold of the steering wheel with both hands and sat up straight. The Ford’s headlights lit up a green road sign. A white arrow pointed left with big block letters that read:

LAKE HUDSON 2.5 MILES

Charley Wilson stared at the sign, knowing who he needed to see, for answers, and to be told what was coming next. But he didn’t feel ready for it yet. After chewing on his lip, he slowed to a careful stop, performed a three-point turn and headed for the place where he felt most comforted.

8

“You sure you don’t want to wait at the bottom?” Pastor Ken Dodge asked, as he paused halfway up the steeple stairs.

Winslow Herman caught his breath and shook his head. “What good is having a scientist along to inspect things if he can’t even make it up the stairs? Besides, it’s my knees, not my heart. I can handle a little discomfort.” To prove it, he started up again, wincing with each step, but managing the pain through a stubborn determination that sometimes drove his Carol crazy, and sometimes made her proud.

They continued to the top, slower than some, but they made it all the same. Dodge buzzed around the steeple top, searching for anything unusual. The man spent more time at the church than anyone and clearly felt comfortable in the space, despite recent unnatural—supernatural if you asked the pastor—events.

Winslow, on the other hand, stopped to admire the view through the open, three foot section of ventilation slats. Well, ‘admire’ was really the wrong word. While the steeple might normally provide postcard worthy views of town, it was now a bleak, gray shrouded landscape. Visibility was poor, the air rank with ash. Winslow had to admit, despite his issues with religion, the world outside had become hellish, and he’d begun to ponder the pastor’s beliefs.

“See anything?” Dodge asked.

“Nothing good,” Winslow replied, closing the slates.

“I don’t see anything different.” Dodge lifted one of his shiny shoed feet up. “Here, give me ten fingers.”

Winslow clasped his large hands together and bent low. His back groaned, but he didn’t complain. The pastor, who was now leaning against the bell and inspecting its top, over an open, three story drop, had the worse of the two jobs.

“Not a thing,” Dodge said, and carefully hopped down from Winslow’s boost.

“You sound disappointed,” Winslow said.

Dodge clapped some dust off of his hands. “I am.” He looked over the bell again, but his expression was less focused. “You think I want this to be supernatural? That I’d prefer to find out the Devil was ringing this bell? I’m a believer, not a masochist. But do I think it’s possible? Yeah, I do. And until you can say to me, ‘here’s the observable and repeatable proof against the supernatural,’ whatever that might be, I’m open to all possibilities.”

Dodge went back to scouring the bell tower. Winslow just watched him. His job wasn’t necessarily to look, but to inspect once something was found.

“That’s the funny thing about you science types,” Dodge said. “You think I’m the one who’s closed-minded.”

“You’re not?” Winslow asked, curious about where Dodge was going. “What about evolution? The big bang?”

“Well, aside from neither of those theories being observable or repeatable, who am I to determine exactly how God formed the universe? It’s interesting to speculate, I suppose, but I’m not as interested in his methods as I am his results, and his mission.”

Mission?
Winslow thought, wondering if the pastor was going to get fanatical. “And what mission is that?”

“Good news,” Dodge said. “There’s nothing up here. Nothing I can see, anyway. Could be something behind the walls I suppose, but they look intact, and—”

Thud.

Dodge’s voice hiccupped and fell silent.

“Was that from outside?” Winslow asked. He turned toward the ventilation slats. Still closed.

Thud.

The two men looked at each other, eyes wide, sharing the same reaction to the mysterious noise, despite their opposing views on the universe.

“Do you have a gun?” Winslow asked, thinking of the giant bird-thing that had been killed at the Sheriff’s station.

“Not yet,” Dodge said. “But I’m thinking a handgun might compliment the armor of God.”

Winslow turned to the pastor. Was he serious?

“Sorry,” Dodge said. “Bible humor. I’m used to talking to parishioners instead of heathens.”

Winslow let out a chuckling laugh. He’d never really spoken to the pastor, but the man was sharp, if misguided. Bolstered by humor, the pair crept toward the hatch.

“Just a quick peek,” Dodge said.

Winslow nodded and took hold of the small handle. He glanced at Dodge, who nodded, and then pulled. Together, they looked out and saw nothing beyond the bleak sky.

“Chunks of ash, maybe?” Winslow postulated.

“Fire and brimstone?” Dodge said, raising his right eyebrow and right side of his mouth in tandem.

Winslow caught the joke right away this time, but didn’t get a chance to laugh. A scratching noise locked the sound of his voice just beneath his Adam’s apple. Both men looked down and tensed.

The scratching grew louder as three black talons slid over the chipping white paint of the steeple’s overhang, five feet below them. The clawed foot belonged to a creature perched on the gutter, its back to them.

“What is it?” Dodge asked, but Winslow had no idea. He’d never seen anything like it. It looked like a large bird, dipped in oil and dried in an oven.

Before he could reply, the black creature’s head began to rotate slowly. It continued turning until it had spun 180 degrees and craned upward. Two, large, round eyes, black as night, stared up at them.

“It’s an owl,” Dodge said.

“Not anymore,” Winslow countered.

The bird chimed in by shrieking at them, it’s voice dry and haggard. Both men leapt back. Winslow slammed the hatch shut and leaned against it. He half expected the bird to attack, but he could hear the beat of its wings flying away.

Winslow put his hands on his knees, catching his breath. He looked up at Dodge, “No offense, Pastor, but I really hope we can prove your whole hell theory wrong.”

Dodge nodded, his face slightly paler than it had been a moment ago. “Me too.”

9

Sam thought about Tess as he and Wyatt climbed up into Jimmy’s pride and joy, a Ford Phantom 350. It was one of the largest trucks (probably second after Quentin Miller’s mud-spattered monster truck) that graced the streets of Refuge.

Jimmy flicked his cigarette butt out the window. “Mind if we stop by the garage first? There’s a few things I’d like to pick up.”

“Fine by me,” Sam said, in no hurry. Dana nodded from the back seat, while Wyatt just looked thrilled to be coming along with the men.

They headed North on Main Street, the Phantom’s headlights set to low beam. Trying to see through the large ash flakes with high beams was like trying to see with a flashlight with dying batteries.

Sam watched as the flakes struck the windshield, broke apart and then flew off to either side. The occasional flake would stick, requiring Jimmy to turn on the wipers, but not the washer fluid, which would have caused an all out smear fest.

The purple-like haze created by the moonlight filtering through the ash, cast Main Street in an eerie glow, which was accentuated by how lifeless the town appeared. The empty businesses sat dark, while the street lights remained on, their built-in sensors detecting that it was still night.

As they drove by the Sheriff’s station, Sam thought he saw Helena Frost—now Sheriff Frost—standing by one of the windows, talking to someone he couldn’t see. He didn’t envy her. He was having a hard enough time understanding the current situation, let alone having to manage, and try to explain it all to an entire town. Although he suspected she probably knew more than he did at the moment.

The whole thing felt surreal. Many of the houses around town had their lights on, even some of the camps down by Ayers Pond. The town was alive and awake, but no one was going outside. And for good reason. They might as well all be sucking on Jimmy’s cigarettes. The taste of ash was already stuck to his tongue.

Despite the reassuring glow of power in town, there was something about the light that made him uneasy. There was light from the moon and from around town, and then there just wasn’t. It was as if some giant black wall had dropped around them, cutting Refuge off from the rest of the world.

Jimmy pulled into a parking lot, driving past the huge
Jimmy’s Automotive
road sign—a local landmark for most, due to its size and the happy cartoon mechanic on it. The shop was one of the larger buildings at the north of town, originally built by Joe Miller to service semi-trailer trucks back in the day, when Refuge was in its logging prime. After Joe passed, the place sat abandoned. Joe had owed back taxes and none of his kids wanted to pay them, so the place ended up becoming the property of the town, until Jimmy bought it.

“Back in a jiffy,” Jimmy said, getting out of the truck.

Sam watched as he made his way to the garage and then disappeared inside. Dana had nodded off, and Wyatt was watching out the back window, like he expected Jimmy to return in seconds. Sam turned on the radio and was greeted by static. He punched through the preset channels, found nothing and hit the ‘Seek’ button. The digital numbers scrolled past, never stopping. Before the scrolling numbers finished their first pass, a dark shape on top of the garage caught his attention. Something about it made his arms tingle. He turned his eyes without moving his head.

The hell is that?

Some
thing
sat on the peak of the garage, like a fat, misshapen weathervane. The longer he stared, the more it appeared to be alive.
Could be a bird
, he thought,
covered in ash. Hell of a big bird, though.

Sam reached over and killed the headlights, hoping for better night vision. The shape moved, as if noticing the truck for the first time. He’d seen the way deer stood motionless at the first hint of encroaching danger. As his muscles tensed, he realized people weren’t all that different. Whatever was up there, he could feel it watching him now.

Before he braved another look, Jimmy came out of the garage and slammed the door behind him. Sam’s eyes went to the roof, half expecting Jimmy to be attacked. But whatever had been there, was gone now.

Jimmy opened the back driver’s side door, nudging Dana awake and handing him a cardboard box with two D-cell Maglites and spare batteries. Sam was surprised when he saw Jimmy climb into the front of the cab with his old Mossberg shotgun.

“Uh, something you want to tell me, Jimmy?” Sam asked.

Jimmy slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door. “I’d rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.” He put the truck in reverse, turned them around and headed out of the lot.

“Need it for what?” Sam asked.

“At this point…” Jimmy gave the others a nervous glance, “…anything.”