Authors: John Urbancik
DarkWalker (3 page)
They ran. “
Fuckin
’ wimps,” the leader said, turning back to Jack.
“You don’t want me,” Jack said.
“And why the fuck not?”
“Got nothing for you,” Jack said. He hadn’t reached for a weapon, never puffed himself up. He
could
fight, if necessary. And maybe he counted on that mark, that ability to walk through seemingly anything. Or maybe he didn’t consider the kid a real threat. It wasn’t like they were an actual gang. A group of kids with more guts than brains, yes, and perhaps something more than blood coursing through their veins. But dangerous? Compared to the stranger with the shaved head and cane? Not a chance.
“Aw, shit,” the guy said, finally turning and chasing after his friends.
They disappeared behind the side of the fence, where hedges hid them from the street. They were noisy now, whispering, rustling the leaves, tripping on their own feet.
After a moment, Jack resumed walking. He crossed the railroad tracks, following the curve of the road, and found his car where he’d left it.
6.
He officially became owner of the ‘69 Mustang when his mother died, but he’d already rebuilt the engine. The blue was faded, but there wasn’t a spot of rust. Mach I 428 CJ Fastback. Scoop on the hood. Almost looked mean when its four headlights stared you down. Only drawback was the automatic transmission.
Everything Jack owned was in the car: a bag of clothes and the laptop.
He spent some time recording tonight in the computer, omitting the kids at the parking lot, then slid the laptop under his seat. The Mustang roared to life when he turned the key. Lights blazed. It was a five-minute drive to the thirty-dollar motel where he’d bought three nights. This was the third.
He hadn’t decided to leave, but delayed paying for another night because of money. Thirty bucks was thirty bucks, especially when your only jobs were menial, scattered, and generally cash at the end of the day. He hadn’t worked in almost two weeks. That whole
stealing from the dead
he’d told the ghost, that was rare. Like the
ashed
girl in the parking lot, victims usually took their money with them when they vanished without a trace.
7.
The room was typical of cheap motels: springy bed, mold in the shower stall, a 20-inch television that got HBO and ESPN. Pale beige carpeting, heavy brown drapes, a musty odor that outright refused to be vanquished despite the three scented candles Jack had scattered about the room. He’d bought those specifically because of the odor, eight bucks that could’ve been two meals.
The bed was more comfortable than sleeping in the car, which he sometimes did. He usually slept dreamlessly, but he also rarely went to bed before four.
came and went without incident.
Half an hour later, still trying to get comfortable, Jack heard voices outside his room.
Jack Harlow had heard a lot of voices. They didn’t always belong to people, living or dead; some seemed to be entities onto themselves, repeating phrases but not engaging a conversation. The whole “The Devil made me do it” syndrome could often be blamed on mental instability or outright insanity, but sometimes there
were
voices saying “Kill your neighbor’s dog” or “Go to the kitchen and get the butcher’s knife.”
Jack didn’t trust voices. He didn’t listen to them. He sure as Hell didn’t question them.
These voices probably belonged to regular, everyday people stumbling back to their motel room. There were two distinct males, one other that might’ve been female. Their whispers carried weight, pushing through the walls and into Jack’s ears. The words were unimportant.
But they echoed, in a way words weren’t supposed to echo. As if caught within a bubble, bouncing back and forth, doubling and trebling over themselves so that, quite quickly, the words were unintelligible.
Red numbers on the clock:
.
Jack turned over to look at the ghost sitting on the side of his bed.
“Thought you were asleep,” the ghost said.
“Not that lucky.”
She was barely visible, a wisp on the air, facing away from Jack. Hands to either side, on the bed, bent at the elbows. She leaned forward, as if about to push herself to her feet.
“And I can’t really scare you any, can I?” she asked. “Not like a regular person.”
“Guess not,” Jack said.
“Do you know the way out? To the light, I mean. I hear about it, and I’m told I should go there, but I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. I always thought, when I died, I’d be able to see again.” She paused. “Can’t.”
“Don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe it’s warm?”
“You’re warm,” she said. “But I see what you mean. Well, not really
see
.” She forced a little laugh.
She sounded young, not as annoying as the ghost in the bar. No notes of sadness or desperation tinged her voice, just acceptance. He felt sorry for her.
“You died here?” Jack asked.
“In this very bed.”
Jack sighed, and unconsciously shifted.
“It didn’t hurt,” she said. “Not really. It was just a little . . . surprising.”
“I can’t help you,” Jack told her.
The voices outside were gone. They’d rebounded within the ghost. Now, silence echoed within her. The distant night sounds from outside were too muted to have resilience.
“I’ll go into the warmth. Like you said.” Then she faded, slowly, into nothingness.
1.
By day, Lisa Sparrow worked in
an office in
Winter Park
. Through her window, she had an obscured view of the interstate, so she could judge the flow of traffic and opt for back roads to get home.
It was a good job, in that it never came home, rarely required overtime, and paid well. She took late lunches so the second half of the day was almost over before it began. She worked at a computer most of the time, editing reports, changing the same words and adding the same commas daily. The reports changed, but the mistakes never did.
They gave her time off when she needed it. She was never alone in the office. She played CDs at her desk, low so no one else really heard them. She had an actual office, not a cubicle, though half her space doubled as the copy room and mail bin.
It was thoroughly unfulfilling.
She lived in a small apartment downtown. The rent was high but affordable. Her car was a few years old; she hoped to keep it long enough to save the money to make a sizable down payment on a Mercedes.
Paintings hung on the walls, real oils on canvases done by some of the better local artists. She didn’t hate prints; she just didn’t see the point. Keeping Monet and Picasso on the wall only reminded her she’d never afford the originals.
Her bedroom was just large enough for her king-sized bed, a dresser, and enough walking space to reach her closet.
The kitchen, dining room, and living room were lumped into a single, multifunctional area. Big enough for one. She never threw parties.
On the coffee table, where she propped her feet in the morning while sipping cream and sugar (with a splash of coffee), a single magazine could be found. Sometimes
Entertainment Weekly
, sometimes
The New Yorker
, just as often something like
Weird Tales
or
Popular Science
. She kept maybe two dozen books on the shelf, but borrowed most of what she read from the library.
She loved her apartment. Three walls were red. The short hall to the front door was silver. Her L-shaped couch was stacked with comfortable, usable pillows. A stereo sat on an entertainment stand where a television might be; more than five hundred CDs lined the shelves.
She went out regularly. Dancing. But if she disappeared, the office would notice first.
Shortly after
, she slept fitfully. She kicked, flailed her arms more than once, and whimpered. By dawn, she’d have forgotten the nature of her dreams, but the sheets would need to be fixed.
Again.
2.
Lisa kept a dream journal by her bed and scribbled down what few images remained when she woke. Fields of flowers, rainbows, horses . . . typical, non-nightmarish things. And when she dreamt of the dark, she was surrounded by cats and owls, friends and lovers. The moon was always bright; the lights never failed.
She sometimes dreamt about men who worked in her office, but when her dreams turned sexual her partners were always anonymous strangers, someone she’d seen while dancing, or passed on the highway—a guy she’d never met, often the same guy, or someone like him. She wished she had those dreams more often, and recorded every possible detail in her journal.
The nightmares sometimes woke her. She’d turn on the light, get a drink of water, look at the clock and wonder why in hell she was up at
This was one of those mornings. The time was
.
Lisa Sparrow yawned and filled a glass from the tap. She’d been dancing till late. If she believed every guy who ever tried to get in her pants, she was beautiful. But before dawn, without make-up, her hair askew, she didn’t feel beautiful.
She rinsed her face, swallowed two gulps of water, and looked out the window.
It was like a painting. The window was almost as big as the wall—three panes, separated by thin black strips, looking down on
Lake
Eola
. She saw trees, other buildings, but no streets. Not from her fifth floor apartment. It was as much landscape as cityscape from here, and she was able to forget the troubles of the world—and the troubles of unremembered nightmares.
She was awake. There was no going back to bed, not for just another sixty minutes. She started the coffee machine, removed her robe, and stretched on the hardwood floor.
She lowered into a full split, then bent at the waist to touch her
t
oes on either side. She worked her arms and neck, did a few dozen crunches, then changed into jogging clothes.
The path around the lake was almost one mile exactly. She could circle it four times before coming back to shower and get ready for work. She’d pay for it later; she should have been sleeping, but she could always get to bed early tonight.
At least, that’s how she planned it.
3.
At
in the morning, well before sunrise, Jack Harlow slept. It would be his last night in the seedy motel. The ghost of a girl fluttered nearby, unable to see him but comforted by his warmth.
4.
Frank Thompson, delivering newspapers to drugstores and supermarkets, paused briefly to glance at the clock on his dashboard. His unshaven face itched. The truck smelled of news ink.
His route was the same every morning, seven days a week. He worked early, starting his day at four and getting home by ten, which gave him plenty of time to watch games, bet horses, or play with nine-year-old Frankie Junior.
He made lunch for his wife Gina every afternoon. They lived comfortably and never wanted for anything. He lost many afternoons to paperwork, but that was a small price to pay for the wonderful, simple life he’d built. They owned the house, something his parents never managed, and owed nothing on either car. They vacationed one week a year, no further than they could drive. They kept no secrets from each other.
He hauled a bundle of papers out of the back of the truck and lugged it to the card shop. Since the supermarket next door had closed, this corner of the shopping center was dark. The shop wouldn’t open for hours.
Frank Thompson wouldn’t live to see dawn.
The thing waiting in the shadows for Frank Thompson was small, skinny, unthreatening . . . but fast. Its razor claws slashed paper and clothing and flesh, catching on the bones. It didn’t care; by then, it had already champed its teeth on the newspaperman.
Frank was big enough a man to push the thing off him. Once. It rolled on the ground like a ball, and popped back, claws extended, teeth bared. Yellow, feral eyes were the last thing Frank saw.
5.
After leaving his room, Jack Harlow spent the morning moving lumber. It was a job, day labor, a few hours and enough money for a couple more nights at the motel. He didn’t yet know where he’d be going next.
He earned a good deal of sweat and got his blood pumping. He always felt better after an honest day’s labor. This type of job was like a workout; he’d be sore the next day. But it also cleared his mind. Whatever thoughts plagued him, whatever concerns manifested during the day, physical effort often chased them away.
It wasn’t that he no longer thought about things. Rather, his subconscious did the work. At the end of the day, after sharing a beer with his fellow laborers, Jack’s mind would meander back to those things he’d tried to put aside.
Long ago, he’d ceased feeling horror. The death of innocents didn’t affect him as much as it used to. The first time he saw blood, he’d vomited and shook and nearly passed out. He still felt pity. But he’d learned there was no such thing as innocent: the slaughtered waitress might have been diverting hundreds of dollars from her till, the devoured stock broker probably cheated on his wife.
