Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (114 page)

Sarah…” Her exposed eye opens, and a smile cracks over her face. “How are you feeling?” he asks. She says she’s doing a little bit better. “Do you want some coffee?” he asks. She says,
No
. He nods and stands to leave. He is nearly to the door when he hears her say his name. He turns and sees her propped up on one elbow, eyes squinted as she watches him. “What?” he asks.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re welcome.”

“We could have been to Aspen by now.”

“It’s okay.”

“The ride for me would have been miserable.”

“I know.”

“But we’re still outside Aspen. Not even to Denver, yet.”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

532

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to cater to me. They say you’re not compassionate. They say you’re just a selfish bastard. I’ve said that before, too. But you
are
compassionate. They’re wrong. Even if you try to hide it, you
do
care. Or at least you care about
me
. And I haven’t had anyone really care for me. Throughout my entire life, I was just pushed to the side. And then I met Patrick. And he cared for me. He cared for me just like you care for me.”

“Okay,” the man says.

Sarah continues speaking, her voice strained and sore. “The second year of our marriage, I was in a car accident. Someone broadsided me in an intersection. Both my legs were broken. My neck was strained. I was in two casts and a neck brace for six weeks. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t go anywhere. Patrick had to work, and I would spend the entire day at home. But when he came back to the house, he would fix me dinner. He would fix me dinners he knew I liked, and they were
expensive
dinners. We were in debt because of medical bills, but… But he still found ways to get me the food I wanted. And he would rent movies every night, and he would hold me as we watched the movies. I was in pain, I was frustrated, I was angry… But he cared for me, and his compassion, his romantic compassion… It helped me get through it.”

The man doesn’t say anything.

Sarah sighs. “I’m tired.”

“You should get some sleep,” the man says.

She doesn’t say anything, just lies back down.

She is asleep before the man can even leave the room and shut the door.

They spend the entire day at the farmhouse. Mark takes a few walks outside, through the corn fields, exploring the barn, looking for anymore weapons. He finds another GARAND, but the stock is broken, so it’s useless. He grabs a few more bayonets and lays them on the table. The man works with the battery-operated coffee maker, and he finds a way to fix some soup in it. He finds some CAMPBELL’S

CHICKEN NOODLE in the cupboard and manages to somehow cook it. He pours the steaming soup into a bowl and delivers it to Sarah’s room. Soup is something she has not had since the days in the church. She is excited, and she tells the man, “You’re so sweet.” He blushes. He leaves her alone with her dinner. Mark comes in from outside and tells the man, “There are scratches all up and down the MERCEDES. Did they chase you from the grocery store?” The man says,
No
. Mark says, “They must have been closer last night. Right outside the house. But we didn’t hear them. They were keeping quiet.” That is a new development in their sociological structure, and the man doesn’t like the sound of it. Mourning, working together, alpha males emerging, sociological structuring, keeping quiet amidst the hunt… He is just thankful his worst fear has not yet been realized. Until he has evidence that his worst fear is a reality, then he can cling to hope that the era of the dark-walker will, indeed, come to an end—regardless of whether or not he lives long enough to tell of it.

Sunset is creeping upon the farmhouse. Mark and the man smoke cigarettes in the kitchen. The man twirls the tip of a bayonet upon the polished wood of the table. Mark taps ash from the cigarette onto the table and says, “We would be in Aspen by now.”

“Maybe,” the man says. “Maybe not.”

“We’re close,” Mark says. “By tomorrow, Sarah should be better.”

“Or at least better enough to ride in the car,” the man corrects.

“Yes,” the boy says. “That’s what I meant.”

Silence.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

533

“If we leave at dawn tomorrow…” Mark tries to formulate his words… “Then by this time tomorrow, we could be in Aspen.”

The man likes the thought of it, but something on his face cries anxiety.

“What is it?” Mark asks.

“What if I was right?” the man replies. “What if there’s nothing left of Aspen?”

The boy doesn’t answer for a moment. “Then we head north to Alaska.”

“Okay.”

The boy fidgets. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“Why?”

“I’m excited.
Excitement
. That’s not something I’ve felt too recently. It’s like an emotion of the old world.”

“Maybe we’re beginning to grow accustomed to this world,” the man says.

“I don’t even know if that’s a possibility.”

“Mankind has always adapted to his environment. Whether we’re doing it now or not, eventually, we will, too. And it won’t be like the adaptation of New Harmony. They didn’t adapt. They just used what happened as an excuse to satisfy their own lusts. No, I’m talking about something different. Not about us escaping from the world, nor hiding from the world, but conquering the world. I never was much of a Bible-believer, but I’ll always remember that story in Genesis. Adam and Eve. And what God told mankind:
subdue the earth
. One day, that’s what mankind will do once more. We’ll subdue the earth. And I hope I’m alive long enough to see it.”

II

The man can’t sleep. He paces back and forth in the kitchen, clutching a cigarette between two fingers. He takes scarce hits, and the ember slowly burns. His feet tap softly on the linoleum floor. He keeps seeing that weeping demon, that creature of hell with tears crawling down her cheeks.
Compassion
. No. He refuses to believe it, refuses to give such characteristics to the dwellers of the night. They are mere animals, humans stripped of their sparks of divinity, humans emptied of all coherent thought and conscience, humans void of personality. No. They are not even humans. They were
once
humans, but on the night of August 11 of last year, all of that changed. Now they are nothing but animals, on the same plane as hyenas, jackals, and wolves. And they cannot feel compassion. They cannot mourn. They do not know
how
to mourn. Mark had told him, “Mourning over the loss of a loved one is not something unique to humanity. A friend of mine, he was a zoology major, he went to Africa two years ago to study wild elephants. The elephants came across an elephant bone-yard, where their bones had been discarded after poachers took the good parts. The elephants knelt down and bobbed their heads back and forth, were moaning to themselves. He said it looked like they were weeping over fallen members of their clan.” The man didn’t like Mark’s explanation, and he still doesn’t. The dark-walkers are bloodthirsty savages, not gentle and graceful elephants. Elephants may have a mean streak, but the dark-walkers are defined by that characteristic, that inhumane lust for death and destruction. No. He refuses to believe it.

“Can’t sleep?”

The man turns around. Sarah stands in the doorway.

“How are you feeling?” the man asks.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

534

“I’ve slept a lot.”

“I mean your stomach.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

She moves over to the table, sits down. She rests her head in her hands.

“Why can’t you sleep?” she asks.

“A lot on my mind, I guess.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? ‘Nothing’ is keeping you awake at night? Your eyes are tired.”

“It’s nothing of importance,” the man says. He doesn’t enjoy being badgered. Sarah catches the annoyance in his tone, says nothing.

The man continues pacing, as if he has forgotten she’s there. Standing by the refrigerator, he turns around, takes a hit off the cigarette, looks at her. “They’re animals, Sarah. They’re just animals. They’re not
people
anymore.”

“I know that.”

“So do I, but…” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

She eyes him. “But what?”

“Something just isn’t… They’re not acting like they used to.”

“Like they used to?”

“You remember when it first happened. How
stupid
they were. How senseless.”

“They’re still senseless.”

“They’re senseless in their cruelty, yes. But…” He shakes his head. “I was attacked two days ago. I went to the grocery store, to get some things. They set a trap. I
think
it was a trap. I
hope
it was a trap. I got out, unscathed, thank God. I barely got out of there, too. I thought for sure they had me. But I got out. When I was in there… There was this little girl. Maybe eight or nine. Maybe even as young as seven years old. She was eating someone. I think it was another dark-walker, but it was dark, I can’t be sure. She was eating her, and… And she was
crying
. As if she felt
compassion
over her food.”

Sarah is quiet for a moment. “Or remorse.”

The man extinguishes the cigarette on the counter. “I like the sound of ‘compassion’ better. Because if they have remorse… Then they have a conscience. We can maybe get away with them being animals and being compassionate at the same time. Elephants are supposedly compassionate, even to their dead. But
remorse
over something implies a conscience. And no creature on earth has a conscience, no creature but man. And if they have a conscience… Then we can’t call them animals.”

He stops rambling. Sarah says nothing.

Some time has passed. Maybe forty minutes. They haven’t said much. Sarah says, “They’re quiet. We can’t even hear them.”

“They’re far away,” the man says. “Probably heading towards Denver.”

“In that case, a farmhouse was a good choice to hole up.”

“Yeah,” the man says.

She is quiet for a moment. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

She puts a finger to her lips,
Shhhh
.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

535

The man listens, shakes his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

“It sounds like scratching. In the walls.”

“It’s probably rats.” After a moment, “Or raccoons.”

“There are raccoons in the walls?”

“No one believes me when I tell them that story.”

“What story?”

“Never mind.”

“You should try to get some sleep,” Sarah says. It is around 2:00 in the morning.

“I’m not tired,” the man says.

“You’ll be tired tomorrow. I think we should try to make it to Aspen.”

“Me, too.”

“If you’re tired, you won’t be able to drive.”

“We have coffee. I’ll fix some coffee.”

“You’ll crash.”

“I know how to drive.”

“No. I mean you’ll crash after the caffeine rush is over. Have Mark drive.”

“I can drive the car.”

“Then just get some rest.”

“Okay,” the man says, standing. She’s surprised at how quickly he succumbs to her pleas. The man stretches, his back cracking. He sighs, says, “There’s a couch in the living room. I’d sleep in your bed, but… I don’t want to catch whatever the hell you had.”

Sarah smiles. “I don’t blame you. I’m immune to it now, so I’ll sleep in there.”

“I thought you weren’t tired?”

“Mentally, I’m wide awake, but physically, I’m exhausted. My body is aching.”

“You’re still sick.”

“I know. But not sick enough to hold us back another day.”

The man nods. “Good night, then.” He turns to leave.

Sarah, still sitting at the table, asks, “Where’s Mark?”

“He’s upstairs,” the man says.

“In the bedroom?” She knows about the skeletons locked in an eternal embrace.

“No. He’s in the reading room. There’s one of those… pull-out… chairs.”

“Oh. Okay. Good night.”

“Night.” And the man leaves her sitting at the table.

III

Mark is drawn from sleep, his body aching in its slumped position in the chair. He coughs, dust from the old books filling his lungs. He opens his eyes, and the darkness begins to peel away as his vision adjusts. He sees Sarah standing at the foot of the chair, arms draped at her side, wearing nothing but a worn bra and frayed panties.

“Sarah,” Mark says. “Are you okay?” He shifts his position in the chair. She doesn’t move.

“Are you sleep-walking?” he asks, sure of it.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

536

She still doesn’t respond.

He is uncomfortable seeing her like that, dressed in hardly anything, and he knows he should take her back downstairs. He begins to get out of the chair when she moves forward, and a shaft of moonlight coming through the open window—
open?!
—illuminates her features. Mark’s Adam’s apple is locked in his throat, and his eyes go wide as saucers as his heart refuses to beat.
It’s not Sarah
. The skinny, scantily-clad dark-walker lunges forward, and he doesn’t have time to shout as she pounces upon the chair.

Her frail arms are stronger than they look, and she grips his upper arms and presses him down into the cushioned chair. Mark’s lungs refuse to inhale, and his mind sears with unimaginable fear. He rips one of his arms out from under her grasp and presses his hand against her cold stomach, trying to push her off; her free arm then wraps over his mouth, preventing him from screaming. She snarls, drool running down her speckled chin, and her eyes radiate an insane glee. Mark looks up at those maniacal eyes, and he rips his hand away from her stomach and swings it out over the chair. She bites her lip, salivating at the thought of this precious meal, and she begins to lower her head, her teeth chattering in the anticipation of closing over his neck, the anticipation of tearing through his flesh and shearing his jugular, the anticipation of his warm, lively blood filling her mouth in a titanic spray.