Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (108 page)

VII

The man’s eyes open.

The world is a haze, blurred beyond recognition, and his head throbs behind his temples. He opens his mouth and gasps in pain, feels the crackling dryness, the desire for water. He sits up, his world spinning. Nausea billows through him. He looks around the room, everything morphing into focus. Two beds. No windows. On the other bed lies Mark, drool tiptoeing down the corners of his mouth. The man looks towards the door, and as he does, it swings open. Brilliant light enters through the hallway. The man raises his hands to his eyes to shield from the light. The light is abruptly blocked by a large figure, and then the large figure is before him, kneeling down. The man looks into that round and unshaven face with deep-set eyes. The figure toothily grins: “Breathe deep. For these breaths shall be your last.” He cackles in laughter, stands, moves over Anthony Barnhart

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to Mark’s bed. He slams his foot into the boy’s side, and Mark rolls over, coughs. His eyes open, and the big man laughs: “Wake up, pretties,” he snarls, “because there’s a big party tonight. You’re the main act!” He laughs again and leaves, shutting the door.

Mark rubs his side, wincing in pain.

“How are you feeling?” the man asks in a gravelly voice.

“I’ve felt better,” Mark replies. “They drugged us.”

“I know.”

“What the hell do you think he meant, ‘main act’?”

The man looks towards the door, grits his teeth. “I think he means that no one leaves New Harmony, and those that want to leave—they suffer for their decision.”

“That’s fucked up,” Mark says.

“It’s the world we live in now.”

“So what do we do?”

The man doesn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know.”

Sarah awakes. Her head feels heavy as it rolls on her shoulder, and she spits up onto her arm. She manages to gather her senses. She tries to sit up, but she is brought down: her wrists are handcuffed together, and the handcuffs are connected to a bolt-iron chain that wraps around one of the bed poles holding up the snow-white silk canopy above. Her heart hammers in her chest, and she looks around, sees that there are several candles mounted on the walls. She looks down, and in the candlelight bits of diamond in the dress sparkle.
A wedding dress
. Terror runs through her like a winter storm. She struggles against the chains, but she succeeds only to bruise her wrists.

“Don’t fight against it.”

Keith’s voice makes her heart freeze in her chest.

The Boss appears from the corner of the room. He is wearing his ARMANI suit.

“You fucking shit,” Sarah says under her breath.

He is next to the bed now.

She glares at him.

He rests his hands on the bed, leans over her. “Don’t struggle.”

She leans forward, spits in his face.

His lips tremble in anger as he wipes the bile from his cheek.

He slaps her across the face, and her head twists the other way.

A deep red mark is forming on her cheek, the fingers and palm illuminated. He slides on top of her, straddles her. He leans over her. “You’re so beautiful.”

She clenches her eyes shut, struggles madly against the chains.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says again. He begins fondling her breasts, feeling the smooth curves poking underneath the dress.

“So

fucking
beautiful.”

The door to the room opens. Several men armed with SKORPION machine pistols enter the room. Mark and the man stand, and they are violently grabbed by the arms. The men drag them out of the room, and they are taken down the abandoned corridor to a single stairwell. Along the wall of the stairwell is written in fading graffiti:

ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

Anthony Barnhart

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“Not a good sign,” the man mumbles under his breath.

The stairs are submerged in darkness, and they move quickly, half-running and half being dragged down the steps. The darkness wraps tightly around them like a shadowy noose, and then something begin to tickles their ears: rock music. It is soft at first, but it becomes louder as they continue to descend. Eventually they reach the last floor. The hallway is dark, but bursts of intermittent light comes from underneath the far door. The music is louder now. Rob Zombie.

“Dragula.” Mark and the man are pushed against the wall, and handcuffs connected to chains mounted in the ceiling are brought down and snapped around their free wrists. A single guard stands watch, and the others go through the door into the room with the music. The prisoners lean forward, watching the men leave; when the door opens, they briefly see people dancing, jumping up and down, grinding upon one another, most wearing barely anything. All bathed in the thrum of the music and in the flashing disco lights. Mark sees someone slip a pill under their tongue. The door closes.

“It’s a rave,” Mark says.

“I’ve never been to one.”

“Me neither. But I’ve seen them on television. In movies.”

The man looks over to their guard. “Want to tell us what’s going on here?”

The guard smiles, shakes his head.

“Sadistic bastard,” the man mutters under his breath.

Mark tries to weasel his hand free of the cuff, is unable. “Damn.”

“We should have risked it with the dark-walkers back at the train.”

“Tell me about it,” Mark says.

The door from the rave opens, and one of the guards approaches them. He has an UZZI set in a holster around his waist. He lights a cigarette. The man asks if he can bum one. The guard delivers a cracking punch to the man’s face, and the man reaches up with his free hand and feels blood squirting along a split upper lip. “I just wanted a fucking cigarette, Man.”

The guard ignores him. “Do you know much about ancient history?”

“You mean history before the plague?” the man asks.

“No. I mean, like, ancient Rome.”

“No.”

“There was a popular form of entertainment back then. They had this giant round building, and they would throw people inside. The people would fight to the death. They’d fight wild beasts, they’d fight one another, they’d fight Roman soldiers. It was terrific sport. It is something that the Enlightened Western world has… forgotten. But it is the most primal of sports, and the most…

exciting… to watch.”

Mark says, “You’re talking about the coliseum.”

The guard grins. “Behold…” He sweeps his arm out at them: “Gladiators!”

Keith leans over her, pulls the chain from around the bed-post. “Don’t you see?” he asks. “I will not bind you for this. This is not something to which you should be repulsed. Love is the most beautiful thing in the world.”

Sarah says nothing, just glares at him.

Keith straightens up, unbuttons the tuxedo’s jacket, pulls it off, tosses it to the floor. He begins unbuttoning his undershirt, revealing his hairy chest. He grins at her, pulls off the shirt. He falls back down on top of her, begins kissing her neck. She leans her head to the side, feels her temples pulsing, Anthony Barnhart

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the rage threatening to burst from the lining in her veins. He sucks on her neck, and he trembles with each kiss. He pulls away, looks down at her. “Put your arms around me, Sarah. Let me feel you holding me.”

She swallows hard. Her voice is rasping: “My pleasure.”

She reaches the chain around his back, and she holds his arms in either hand. He begins kissing her again. “Isn’t this beautiful?” he asks.

She

doesn’t

respond.

“You’re my wife,” he says. “My most beautiful, precious wife.”

She moves the chain between her wrists up his back, towards his neck. Keith looks at her. “Tell me you’re my wife. Tell me I’m your husband.”

She smiles at him, a wicked smile. “You want to know?”

“Yes.”

“You want to hear me say it?”

“I

so

desperately
want to hear you say it.”

“Then kiss me. Kiss me deeply, passionately. Kiss me like you mean it.”

He smiles, leans down…

She brings the chain to the back of his neck, and she speaks:

“I’m
not
your wife. And you are
not
my husband.”

The rave music stops outside the door.

A great silence falls.

The guard with the UZZI looks over at them. “This is your moment of glory.”

Mark looks at the man. The dread in his eyes is mirrored in the man’s. The other guard unsnaps their cuffs from the chains attached to the ceiling. One guard grabs the man, and the other grabs Mark.

Outside the door, an announcer can be heard over a PA system. “Tonight’s special entertainment involves two brave men from Cincinnati, Ohio! They have traveled far and endured much, and we can only hope that their trials and tribulations have molded them into men who are able to fight…

and survive! Are you ready to see some blood?!” Cheers. “Are you ready to see some fighting?!”

Cheers. “Are you ready to see
death
?!” The cheers are louder this time. “Then let’s hear it for our brave contestants, who have volunteered for glory and honor!”

The man looks at the guard. “Volunteered? What kind of bullshit is that?”

The guard laughs. “What the people don’t know won’t hurt them.”

He pushes the man hard in the back, and the man staggers forward.

“Get moving!” the guard says.

The door opens, and dizzying light blinds them.

Keith doesn’t expect those words, and he doesn’t have time to react as Sarah drives her elbow into his face; his body twists to the side, and she knees him in the groin. He collapses onto his back, dragging Sarah on top of him. He looks up at her, anger etched over his face. Sarah wrenches her body to the side, and the chains grate over Keith’s neck. He tries to fight against her, but now she is at his back, on top of him, and she pulls the chains against his throat. His head arcs back, and his raspy screams fill her ears. He struggles against her, and he summons his strength, throwing her to the side. Now he is on top of her, his back against her chest, and she grits her teeth, resilient: she pulls the chains as tight as she can, her arms crossing behind his neck. His legs kick against the sheets, and the chain breaks the skin of his throat. Blood courses down the sides of his neck, running over Sarah’s fingers; Anthony Barnhart

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she lets out a muffled cry, the handcuffs biting into her flesh, rubbing her wrists raw, exposing trickling blood. Keith’s mouth opens up to the ceiling, and his eyes bulge from their sockets. She closes her eyes, tries not to scream, focuses all her attention on the act. And then Keith goes still.

She slowly relaxes, is suddenly aware of the burning in her wrists, the cacophonous pounding of her heart, her lungs rapidly inflating and deflating behind her ribs. She rests her elbows on the mattress beneath her. Keith’s body is heavy. She pulls the chain up and around the top of his head; the locked chains are stained red, flecked with bits of scathed flesh. She pushes Keith off of her, and he rolls onto his side, facing her. Her vivid eyes look into his blood-filled pupils. She looks away and crawls out of the bed.

She searches through the room, searching for the keys to the handcuffs. She takes one of the candles on the wall and moves it in front of her. She finds the keys on the dresser, sets the candle down, unlocks the cuffs. The cuffs fall to the ground, thudding softly on the carpet.

She rubs her sore and stinging wrists, then quits: each touch is numbing with pain. She hears noises coming from beyond the door. Voices: “Boss?”

Shit
. She ducks down into the corner, amidst the shadows, beside the vanity.

On the vanity is Keith’s GLOCK 9mm handgun.

She takes it, checks the magazine: full. Throws back the safety. The door opens. Two guards enter.

They stare at the bed, Keith’s lifeless corpse, blood staining the sheets. The guards look at one another.

“Where’s the girl?” one of them asks.

“What

girl?”

“The bitch he was with. She did this to him.”

“How do you know?”

“She was the only one in the room.”

“Then she’s still here.”

“Do you see her?”

“Maybe she jumped.”

“She killed him and then leapt to her death?”

“I don’t know.”

Sarah takes a deep breath, leaps out, raises the 9mm.

The guards shout, reach for their weapons.

Sarah’s gun sings, and the bullets find their targets.

Both guards collapse to the floor, holes drilled through their foreheads. The sound of the gunshots echo through the room.

She knows there’s another guard in the hallway.

She moves over to one of the dead guards, drops the pistol.

She pries the SKORPION from his rigid fingers and moves into the next room.

Sarah pushes open the door to the hallway and steps out.

The guard down the hall is running after her, swinging his gun around. She raises the Skorpion, squints, looks away, pulls the trigger.

The gun bucks in her hands, and she feels the spray lurch to the ceiling. When she opens her eyes, she sees the guard twenty feet away,

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lying on the ground,

a pool of blood forming underneath his body.

She has no idea where Mark and the man have been taken,

but she knows how to find out.

She can hear them on the other side of the door. The bed rocking against the wall, the creaking of the bed’s legs, the woman’s moans, the guy’s panting. She tries the doorknob. It’s locked. She fires the weapon into the lock and kicks the door open. She hears shouting as she moves into the room. The man on the bed leaps off the woman, and he lowers his hands to his privates, protecting himself.

“Who the fuck are you?!” he shouts.

She keeps the gun fixated on him.

The woman rolls over, tries to reach for the man’s pistol on the bedside table. She swings the SKORPION around: “Don’t.”

The woman freezes, her hand dangling over the gun.