Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (54 page)

He appears right in front of her, stumbling from around the corner. The fright of his appearance sends her backwards, and she trips over her own feet, landing flat on the hardwood floor, the knife scattering from her grip, prancing over the flooring. He stands there in front of her, head cocked to his side, arms draped down, fingers twitching, convulsing. Through the moonlight from the window Anthony Barnhart

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she can see blood crawling from his eyes, trickling from his nose, dripping in drool from his mouth, even carving lines down his sideburns from his ears. She scurries away from him, crawling like a crab along the floor. Her hand falls upon the knife. She picks it up in her hand, holds it outwards, gets to her feet. Her face is drained of blood at the sight. He staggers towards her.

“Jason!” she shouts. “Jason!”

He doesn’t hear her, keeps coming towards her.

“Stop!” She waves the knife in front of her, threatening him. “Jason! Stop!”

He obeys, halting in his tracks. He throws his head back, lets out a scream, a spray of blood emitting from his mouth, covering the side of the wall. His hands race up to his head, and he splays his fingers over his face, begins shaking his head back and forth, his screams shaking the house’s foundation. She can only watch in horrified fascination as he swaggers into the living room, approaches the fireplace. She calls out his name again, looks over at the phone sitting on a small table along the parlor wall.
Call 9-1-1
. She races over to the phone and picks it up. No dial tone. She curses and slams it down, looks over into the living room just as the maniacal boy begins slamming his forehead into the brick mantle of the fireplace. Her white-knuckled fingers grip the knife at the spectacle: he continues screaming, smashing his head into the brick, staining it with red blood and bits of bone. He slams his forehead against the brick one last time, and then he collapses, body twisting and turning until it lands in a heap beside a reading chair. The silence engulfs the house once more.

Her heart continues to beat in an electrified rhythm.

Her hands shake and quiver, refusing to release the knife.

She moves towards him, whispering his name.

The sight repels her:

The front of his forehead is crushed.

Blood seeps through the shattered bones.

His eyes are shrouded in twin oases of blood.

A pool of blood spreads underneath his head, soaking into the carpet.

She drops the knife and races from the house, stumbling into the front lawn. The cicadas and crickets greet her. She falls to her knees and screams, cries for help, her voice carrying throughout the countryside.

But there is no one to hear her cries,

no one to answer her calls…

No one but the insects that continue their steady songs in the cool of the night.

∑Ω∑

She lies beside him, and he now sleeps. She leans upon her side, traces her fingers along his strong arms. She closes her eyes, can hear them outside: they are distant tonight, on the other side of the city. She pulls the covers up around her bare shoulders, lies back on the pillow. She breathes in rhythm with her husband, but she still can’t get the sight of Jason from her mind. Even now, more than six months later, the memory is still vibrantly alive. She never loved Jason, but his death had still exacted a toll upon her. Now she is in love, now she is married… Her hand caresses her stomach. And now she may be pregnant.
Don’t think like that
. She doesn’t want to know what it would be like to lose Adrian. To see him become one of them. She tosses and turns all night long, and she focuses her attention on something quite different: on a future she hopes to experience. When this is all over, she Anthony Barnhart

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imagines she and Adrian living in a yellow cottage-style house with a veranda and potted plants, and they will drink iced tea and watch kids play on the playgrounds, hear the laughter of children once more, taste the innocence of a world that is now only a bitter memory.

Anthony Barnhart

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Chapter Seventeen

Memories & Memoirs

(or “Sarah’s Story”)

“The best thing about loving and being hurt is that you get to know what true love really is… For as gold is tested in fire, and so will love be perfected in pain.”

- anonymous

I

Mark pushes open the foyer doors the next morning, wraps his coat against the cold, and finds the man tossing his knife into one of the naked trees outside the church walls. The sun reflects off the snow, and a cold wind grows colder. He approaches the man, who is now grabbing his knife from the tree—a six-inch KA-BAR he had retrieved from a pawn shop a few days ago—, and the boy stands quietly beside him.

“You got a new knife,” he says.

“Yeah,” the man replies. “It’s the one the Marines used.”

“I know. I’ve seen the movies. I almost bought one once, on a trip to lower Kentucky.”

The man retreats; Mark steps out of the way; he aims, throws. The blade flips, lodges in the bark. Mark nods in approval, and he detects the faintest smile across the man’s façade. Ever since the wedding, the man has been aloof, cold, calloused, the barriers erecting once more. The joy of finding others, being immersed in a community, has worn off. He must face the demons of the night once more.

The man moves forward, tears the knife from the bark. “You know why I practice, Mark?”

“I’m sure I’m about to find out.”

“We’re still in danger.” He tosses the knife in the air, catches it by the handle. He looks at the boy. “This church, these people see it as a haven. Thick walls. Only three entrances. Surrounded by towering barbed wire fencing. Sitting atop a hill. I see it differently. It’s a
prison
. What happens when they get into the church? They will. They’re evolving. They’re getting smarter. They’re fighting off the cold, forming hierarchies, surviving. The strongest are dominating, and they’re taking control of the packs. That’s what I call them. They don’t move alone. They travel in packs. And they’re clever. They’re getting
fucking
clever. One day they’re going to find a way into this church—and all the things that we think protect us will imprison us. We’ll have nowhere to go.” He steps back, hurls the knife at the tree. “It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

They are inside the church, in the basement. Only a few people are up and moving around. The man pours a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette.

“You’re not supposed to smoke in here,” Mark says, pouring himself a cup. The man doesn’t seem to care. “See that girl over there? What’s her name? Nancy? The nurse?

Look at her. She’s so complacent. She’s become numb to everything. This church has become her Anthony Barnhart

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home. This place breeds complacency. People are becoming content… Or, at least, that’s the word I use to describe how they’re giving up.”

“I don’t think forming a community and helping each other out during the crisis is giving up.”

“You
would
think that,” the man says. “You’re always
so
optimistic.”

One of the doors opens, and the newlyweds enter, Rachel clinging to Adrian’s arm. The man shakes his head. “You need an example? Look at them.”

Mark eyes the man. “Are you kidding?”

“Their marriage is ignorance. How long do you think they’ll last?”

“No one’s here to sign divorce papers. I think they’ll last.”

“Not the
marriage
. Themselves. How long until they die?”

Mark’s stomach turns sour. “You can’t think like that.”

“I can’t think realistically? That’s all I’m doing, Mark.”

“You’re just pissed because it’s not you and Kira walking arm-in-arm.”

The man glares at him. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I saw how you just got up and left during the middle of the wedding.”

“I felt sick.”

“Sick to your stomach with anger. You hate the fact that they can be happy when you can’t.”

“That’s not it.”

“You and Kira were supposed to get married. But she was taken from you. And you hate that two other people can experience what you and Kira had—love—and that they can experience something you and Kira were never able to experience: marriage.”

The man doesn’t say anything.

Mark speaks. “You need to move on. It’s about time someone told you that.”

“Oh, and you’re the one to talk. You’ve been pining about Cara since the day I met you.”

“I missed her. I still miss her. But she’s gone. I’ve dealt with it—have you?”

The man extinguishes his cigarette against his jeans. “I’m not going to forget about Kira. I’m not going to treat the love we had as shit by forgetting about her.”

“Letting go doesn’t mean you have to stop loving her. It simply means you have to accept that there are some things that cannot be. And I’m sorry, but… Kira is gone. What you two had, what you two were
going
to have, the dreams you had with one another… None of it is ever going to be. You need to accept that.”

The man doesn’t say anything, just sips his coffee.

Mark shakes his head. “You complain about people being so complacent with their heads up their asses that they’re going to get us killed. But you’ve got your head so far up your
own
ass in grief over Kira that you’re no better than anyone else.”

Harker wakes Mark the next morning: “Where’s your friend going?”

Mark rubs sleep from his eyes. “What are you talking about? What time is it?”

“It’s daybreak. Your friend… He’s leaving.”

Mark throws open the door to the basement’s garage. He sees the man sliding onto one of the snowmobiles. The man glances over his shoulder, sees Mark. He turns back around, grabs his Russian rifle and slides it into a makeshift gun holster on his belt, alongside the army knife. He takes a deep breath, looks back over at Mark, who is still standing in the doorway. “You’re going to try and stop me?”

“It depends on where you’re going.”

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“You’re like a babysitter.”

“That’s because you need one.”

“Forget the fact that I’m thirty-six years old.”

After a moment, “Where are you going?”

The man takes a deep breath. “I’m going back to the house.”

“Why?”

“I just need to take care of some stuff.”

“You’re coming back?”

The man nods. “Yeah.”

“Maybe I should go with you.”

“I need to do this alone.”

Mark bites his lip. “Can’t you tell me
why
, at least?”

“To get some of my things.”

“Like what?”

The man ignites the snowmobile’s engine. “Raise the garage door for me, will you?”

Mark returns inside the church, shutting the door to the garage.

The snowmobile’s engines grow faintly dim, then disappear.

Harker appears. “You let him go?”

“He doesn’t need a babysitter.”

II

Rachel’s nervousness is undeniable. Sarah sits beside her in the sanctuary. Rachel shakes her head, says, “I don’t know why we didn’t use a condom… I didn’t even think about it… We’re married, so we don’t need to… But all I know is that I’ve been sick for the last two mornings. Nausea. A headache. Cramps.” She looks up at the older woman, her lips quivering. “What if it’s morning sickness? What if I’m… pregnant?”

“Morning sickness takes four to six weeks to strike,” Sarah tells her.

“In most cases. Not all the time.”

“If you’re pregnant, then… Well, why are you worried about it?”

“It’s just…” She shakes her head. “Everyone knows this plague is airborne. That it’s some sort of germ or virus. That’s the only
reasonable
explanation. People debate over whether it’s space-borne, a terrorist attack gone wrong, a failed government quarantine in Russia… No one knows
where
it came from or
why
… But we know it is airborne, because it traveled east with the wind currents. And it killed nearly everybody. Germs and viruses, they’re small. And it’s
highly
unlikely that they would miss someone. We were just as infected as everyone else… Except, for some reason, the disease didn’t affect us. For some reason, we’re immune. Some people are worried about whether or not our immunity will break. But none of us have fevers. If our bodies were fighting the plague with antibodies, then we would at least been sick. And none of us were ever sick… Not by the plague, at least. By fear, sure, but not by the germs or the viruses or whatever the hell caused this. I’m just worried that… Well, I’m immune, and Adrian’s immune, but… if I’m pregnant… what if our child isn’t?”

Sarah doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say.

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Rachel shakes her head. “What if a baby starts growing inside me, and it’s one of them… What if when it’s born, it’s one of them, and I have no choice but to kill it? I know what everyone says: that I have nerves of steel, that this plague freed me from society’s constraints to be the warrior I am at heart. But I just do these things to protect myself. My defense against these… creatures… is
self
defense. But if it’s my own child… My own
fucking child
… Will I be able to do it?”

Sarah opens her mouth to speak, but Rachel cuts her off:

“And what if the baby grows inside me, and the baby is one of them… And she eats me alive from the inside? Or what if the virus affects her, and through the womb the virus affects me? What if I become one of them… Like you do when you’re bitten?” She wipes a tear from her eye. “What if falling in love with Adrian results in my death? Or, God forbid,
his
death… If I become one of them, and he lacks the nerve to do what needs to be done?”

Tears stream down Rachel’s face. “How awful is it… that I want to have a miscarriage?”

Sarah’s slap carves a red line down Rachel’s face, and she hisses: “Don’t you
dare
say that.”

∑Ω∑

His name was Patrick. They had met in 7th grade. In 1st period, they both had science with the notorious spelling-bee champion Mrs. Calhoun. Calhoun made it known that she had won the spelling bee multiple times while in junior high, and she held onto those victories as if they were the only victories she knew: she would demand accurate spelling on all papers, and Sarah remembered being given an F on a paper regarding Whale Sharks because she had spelled plankton wrong. When Sarah was in ninth grade, Calhoun came out of the closet as an open lesbian. She received much flak from her classes; she made it a rule that if someone passed a note in class, she would read it out loud. A student had written a lesbian proclamation on a note, passed it in plain view, and Calhoun absentmindedly read it aloud. The whole class had exploded in laughter, and that had been the end of that rule. It was in 7th grade, the week before School Picture Day, that Sarah began developing a crush for Patrick. She pleaded with her best friend Stacy to find out if Patrick felt the same way. The next day, Maria came back with the joyful news: Patrick most
definitely
liked her back. Sarah had recently broken up with a boyfriend, and even in 7th grade it had been hard. She feared getting involved with another boy, afraid it would complicate things, so she didn’t pursue it. When Picture Day came, Patrick looked as mesmerizing as ever, and as they stood in line to get their pictures taken, he asked her out. She said yes.