Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (135 page)

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corner of the house next to his. Two long shadows, one taller and the other shorter. And then they are gone.

∑Ω∑

The funeral was held the next afternoon. Closed-casket, as the old man had taken a shotgun to his face. A few dozen people showed up. No one wept. The man stood along the fringes of the group, and the priest said a few words, and they began cranking the casket into the fresh six-foot deep hole in the earth. The man broke away from the crowd and walked between the graves that had come from a different time, and he stood under a pine tree and unfurled his last cigarette and lit it and began to smoke. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Malone standing there.

“The priest made you a promise,” he said.

The man exhaled smoke. “I don’t remember a promise.”

“Then let me show you.”

They got into the SEDAN and left the graveyard, and Malone drove southeast, and soon they were on a lonely road with trees on one side and wooden lodges on the other. The road dipped down and ran between two mountains, and up ahead was a large concrete building and beyond it a fence that ran up the side of either mountain and then descended again, making its loop around the town. Malone parked the car and they got out, walking along the fence-line towards the building. Beyond the fence was a bubbling creek, and scattered amongst the creek’s polished rocks were broken skeletons, holes chiseled into the skulls. They went into the building with low lighting and descended a flight of steps into a large room. There was a guard there with a rifle, and he nodded to Malone and stood from his desk where he propped his legs and he opened a door. He grinned at the man, and they entered the next room. The man froze, his mouth dropping at what he saw.

“We experiment on them,” Malone said in a grisly voice.

There were several cells with wrought-iron bars, and beyond the bars were dozens of darkwalkers, some strong and others malnourished, huddled together in the dim artificial light. They glared at the men beyond the bars, and their mouths dripped with drool. The man found himself frozen in place. The creatures slowly made their way towards the bars, and a guard appeared, and went forward, and banged a night-stick against the bars, shouting at them. They recoiled towards the back, huddling together.

The man looked over at Malone. “You experiment on them?”

“It’s a germ,” Malone said. “Upon infection, it begins in the heart, erodes the capillaries. Stronger veins, such as the arteries, are not affected. And then it travels to the brain, where it attacks the brain cells and such, making the person go mad before they… die. And they don’t really die. They slip into a deep coma, where they are barely alive. The germ, lodged in the brain, spreads and brings the people out of the coma. They are then autonomous: the brain cortex is unable to function correctly because of the germ, but the brain stem is alive and functioning in its totality. What you have, then, with these… sick people… is mindless bodies, void of thoughts and personalities, nothing but organisms of primal instincts and impulses.”

“And why do they come out only at night?”

“Simple: sunlight kills the germs. It’s the disease’s safety mechanism.”

They left the complex and headed back up the flight of steps and into the sunlight. The man reached for his cigarettes and cursed. He’d smoked the last one. Malone went into his car and opened the Anthony Barnhart

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glove box and pulled out a pack of MARLBORO. He gave one to the man, declined to have one for himself. The man smoked and looked out past the fence at the bodies in the creek.
We experiment on
them
.

Malone kicked at pebbles in the dirt. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like?”

“What ‘what’ is like?” the man asked.

“To be one of them.”

“Sure. I guess. Who hasn’t?”

“We know,” Malone said, looking at him. “There was this girl. Her name was Francine. She was bitten. By blood transfusions we were able to bring her back, even after the sickness had completely overcome her. She spoke of being ‘chained’ in her own mind, being entirely conscious of what was happening. And hating every minute of it.” He seemed to shiver when recounting the story. “She killed herself. She couldn’t get over remembering how badly she wanted to eat human flesh. How we had smelled so delicious to her as we began the transfusion. How she wanted nothing more to sink her teeth into our necks. She killed herself, because she came face-to-face with her own wretchedness.”

They were driving back towards the man’s house when suddenly the man started weeping. Malone didn’t know what to do, just continued driving. The man composed himself, wiped tears from underneath his eyes, said, “Kira… I killed her. And she would have… She would have known what was happening… When I killed her…”

Malone was quiet for some time. “She would rather you have killed her than she killed you. Can you imagine her torment over eating the man she loved?”

“Stop the car,” the man said.

“What?”

“I said stop the fucking car.”

Malone depressed the brake, and the SEDAN rolled to a stop.

The man opened his door and got out.

Malone followed suit, shouted over the hood, “Where are you going?”

The man began walking along the tree-line. “I’m walking home.”

“It’s three more miles.”

“I need the exercise.”

“Come on,” Malone said. “Get back in the car.”

The man paused, cursed, turned around, returned.

They both got back inside.

Malone continued driving.

“I’m sorry,” the man said.

“It’s okay.”

IV

The next day Malone came to see him. “Ready to work?” he asked.

The man grabbed his jacket, the air cool that day. “Where you putting me up?”

He only smiled. “It’s right up your alley.”

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They had driven to the ASPEN-PITKIN COUNTY airfield along the northeast quadrant of the town. Malone had parked the Sedan outside one of the hangars and, using a key, let them inside. He carried with him a flashlight, and upon turning it on, he splashed the beam over the bolted metal airframe of a FORD TRI-MOTOR. The plane was positioned awkwardly, its nose pointing into the air, the twin engines hanging with cobwebs. The man approached the airplane and ran his hand over the rough metal siding. Malone stood back and grinned, said, “We’ve been driving supplies in and out from nearby towns. You’re the first pilot who’s come across the town. Except for one woman, but she only flew small single-engine planes and wasn’t comfortable with this.”

He faced Malone. “How’d you know I was a pilot?”

“You had your pilot’s license in your wallet. No credit cards, though.”

“Credit cards?”

“Most people carry credit cards with them. Relics from the old world. It provides comfort.”

“Oh.”

“So do you think you can fly it?”

A newfound energy pulsed through the man’s veins, and he looked at the plane. “Maybe.”

“I don’t know how good of shape she’s in.”

“We can figure that out.” He looked back to Malone. “How long do I have?”

“How long?”

“To get it air-ready.”

“You’re a mechanic, then?”

“I think I may be able to figure it out. There’s usually mechanic’s handbooks in the plane.”

“Oh, okay. Well, whenever it’s possible.”

“My job is to fly supplies in and out?”

“Yes. It’s faster, more convenient, safer. And you’ll get to fly again.”

“Yeah,” the man said, looking back to the plane. “I’ll get to fly again.”

For the next several days, the man was consumed with getting the plane air-ready. He cleaned the engine, worked on the rotors, fixed on new wheels (the old ones had gone flat), and he even cleaned out the insides. By early next week, he and Malone stood staring at the airplane.

“It still looks like shit,” Malone said.

“I didn’t clean the outside.”

“But it’s flight-ready?”

“I think so.”

“You ‘think’ so?”

“I won’t know until I take it up.”

“When do you want to do that?”

“Soon. But there’s a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I need a co-pilot.”

A young man named Davidson had volunteered for the job.

“Have you ever flown before?” the man asked him.

“No. But I’ve logged over two hundred hours in a flight simulator.”

“Which flight simulator?”

“Umm… MICROSOFT.”

“MICROSOFT? You mean a computer game.”

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“It’s more than a game. It’s flight realism at the maximum.”

Malone was standing close by, spread his arms in apology. “He’s the only volunteer.”

The man sighed. “All right. But you don’t actually fly the plane unless I tell you.”

Davidson saluted. “Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t salute me,” the man said.

The next day was sunny, and flowers were growing in the grass along the fringes of the tarmac. Davidson and the man climbed into the airplane. Malone raised the hangar doors, and after igniting the engine, the man taxied the plane out of the hangar; he had to lean out the side window to see beyond the nose which pointed into the sky. He taxied the airplane to the end of the runway, then leaned back, drew a deep breath.

Davidson sweated. “You sure about this?”

“No,” the man replied. “But we’re going to do this.”

“Okay.”

“You volunteered.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“All right.”

The man put the mixture at full richness, made sure the props were forward, checked to make sure the carburetor heat was cold, and then he set the trim for takeoff. He drew a deep breath and released the brakes. The plane lurched forward upon the runway. He took all three throttles in his right hand and thrust the throttles forward to 1000 rpm. The plane gained speed, and the nose dropped, revealing the runway rushing past beneath them. Davidson pressed himself into the back of his seat. The man calmly thrust the throttle to 2000 rpm, and then he pulled gently on the yoke. The plane’s wheels thudded over the tarmac, and then they lifted off the ground. He kept the throttle at 2000 rpm for the climb, and the plane climbed at 75 miles per hour. He banked the plane to the right and leveled out, taking the throttle down to 1850 rpm and the mixture to lean. Below them the ground rushed past, the sweeping pine forests and then the town itself. People gathered in the streets and looked upwards, pointing, as the TRI-MOTOR thundered overhead. He looked over to Davidson, and his own smile was met. Both of them were giddy like schoolboys: the man back in the air again, and the young man living his dream, a dream that had only been toyed with on a computer game. The man flew the airplane over the city and banked it back around and prepared for landing. He descended, and on the approach he set the mixture to rich once more. He approached at 80 miles per hour and cut back to sixty miles per hour as they neared the tarmac. Malone could be seen standing in the overgrown and flower-splattered grass along the runway, anxiously crossing his fingers. Upon touchdown the man yanked the throttle back to idle, and he depressed the brakes. The plane whooshed past Malone and slowed to a stop. The man turned off the electrical equipment, set the trim for takeoff, and set the parking brakes. He cut off the mixture as well as the ignition, generator, and master-switch. With the parking brakes set, he released the speed brakes. He and Davidson sat in the cockpit, and the man suddenly burst into laughter. Davidson exhaled a sigh of relief and leaned back in his seat. Malone ran towards the plane, jumping up and down, shouting shouts of joy.

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V

“Did you come by my house last night?” the man asks Davidson the next morning.

“No,” he says as they climb into the airplane. “Why?”

“Someone came by, and then they ran off. It looked like they had a child with them.”

“I don’t have any kids. I’m only twenty-two.”

“I know. I was just wondering.”

“Where are we flying today?”

“We’ll go to the Denver airport. Scrounge up some supplies from around there.”

Behind them, several men climb into the plane: the supply crew.

“All right,” the man says. “Let’s put in another day.”

A friendship has developed between Davidson and the man. It is a friendship that does not compare to his friendship with Mark, but what ever shall? His friendship with Mark is something that he believes will never be met again. It was the most beautiful friendship possible, and beautiful friendships only come once and then are gone forever. The moment they reach their peak of beauty, they are taken, and that is the way the world works. Davidson and the man have gotten to know each other well; Davidson was a psychology major at Colorado State University, and he had been one of the first to populate Aspen. He had been there since it’s “Grand Opening.” He seeks to bring the man to some sort of closure, and the man pretends to be annoyed, but he truly listens and seeks some type of knowledge from the boy, anything to ease his aching heart.

“There are stages you go through when something tragic happens,” Davidson says.

“I know,” the man says. “I’ve heard it all before.”

“The first stage is denial. You deny that the tragedy has taken place.”

“I am well aware of the tragedy,” the man says.

“The second stage is escapism.”

“I’m not drinking as much anymore. And I’m not using drugs. Or sleeping around.”

“Escapism can take on many forms.”

“You’re thinking I’m an escapist?”

“You’re formulating this hope in your mind that is unreal.”

“Isn’t all hope unreal?”

“But you hope to be reunited with Kira.”

“That’s unrealistic.”

“But you still hope for it. You deceive yourself into thinking it’s possible.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you know
exactly
what I’m talking about, and you know I’m right.”