Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (57 page)

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

263

∑Ω∑

“This disease,” Sarah says, “I think it’s genetic. Why was Patrick killed? How come I remained alive?

I think it’s something in our D.N.A. Something small, something miniscule… Something that bonds every one of us together. Husbands were torn from wives. Families were ripped apart. But do you remember Diego? The boy who was here for a while before he killed himself? Remember why he put that knife to his wrist? His older brother had been taken by several dark-walkers, and he was unable to live with himself. My point is, siblings often remained together. Something in our D.N.A., I think, prevents us from succumbing to the disease. Something within us refuses the germ or virus to gain a foothold over us. And if it’s genetic, and if both you and Adrian are genetically immune, then your child will be, too.”

Rachel takes several breaths, wipes tears from her eyes. “Yeah. I guess. I hope you’re right.”

“I think I’m right,” Sarah says. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“But even if you
are
right,” Rachel interjects, “It doesn’t matter the outcome… There’s no happy ending. There are never happy endings. My baby will still be born into this awful world.”

“Then it will be you and Adrian’s responsibility to show her that even in a world gone to hell, goodness can still exist.”

“Goodness?” Rachel coos. “Goodness? We’re not good. We’re just as bad as the raiders.”

“Rachel…”

“We conceal who we really are by living by the rules and regulations of this community. Talk to Adrian, find out what his experiences were like with those raiders at the monastery. He’ll set you straight. He’s only spoken of it once. His entire countenance fails. Those raiders, they did things that are… unspeakable… for us. But they didn’t find any problem with it. And you want to know why?

Because we’re
animals
. That’s all we are. What separates us from these zombies or vampires or whatever the hell they are? Easy: the fact that we can go out in daylight. That’s it. We’re no more decent. We defend ourselves just as much as they do. We hunger and thirst just like they do. We’re no different, and in the end, whoever survives the longest won’t be determined by who is more righteous. The outcome will be decided by who will take the greatest leaps into depravity to ensure the survival of their species.”

III

The snowmobile idles in the snowfall covering State Avenue. The man sits upon the vehicle, cradling the Russian rifle in his hands, eyes unmoving from the house that sits quietly. Several of the windows are shattered, splintered wood from shattered boards lying half-buried in the snow. The front door has fallen once more from its moorings, and it lies crooked over the snow-covered front porch. The insides of the house are dark, interspersed with rays of sunlight creeping in diagonal, horizontal, and vertical shafts from the scattered windows. The man takes a deep breath, turns off the engine, and clambers from the vehicle. Gripping the Russian rifle, he moves towards the house, his boots crunching in the snow.

He steps past the fallen door and stands inside the parlor, allowing the darkness to fade as his eyes adjust. The ceiling, the floor, the pictures mounted on the walls, all of this invades his senses, settling in his mind like the talons of an eagle, the claws clenching tighter, gaining more control. Faintness hits him, and he leans against the wall, takes several breaths. He looks down at his feet and sees a shattered picture frame; beyond the shattered glass rests a picture. He kneels down, sets his Anthony Barnhart

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rifle against the wall. He lifts the picture frame into his hands, undoes the velvet latches on the back of the frame, and slides the picture out. He blows some dust from the plastic, and he sees a picture of him and Kira, holding one another, grinning sheepishly and yet devilishly. He folds the picture and slides it into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He stands, grabs the rifle, feels the KA-BAR on his belt, and proceeds up the ladder to the upper-story.

He reaches the top landing, sets the rifle down, pulls himself up. He picks up the rifle again and moves down into the hallway. He sees Mark’s old mattress with the pillow and blankets, stained a dark brown from the blood after the massacre. He enters the den. He moves forward in the darkness, leans over his bed, and tears the heavy dark blanket away from the window. Brilliant morning sunlight pierces his eyes, and he turns away. It has been too long since sunlight has entered this room. Cobwebs cover everything, and several rats hide in the corner, poised on their haunches, blinking at him in the newfound light, stunned. He sits on the bed and ignores them, cradling the Russian rifle over his knees. The British rifle leans covered with dust in the far corner. He considers grabbing it but prefers the Russian. He takes several breaths, closes his eyes, and lies down in the bed. He stares at the ceiling, hears the rats scurrying in the walls, thinks of Kira—and how much he truly misses her.

∑Ω∑

She had called him late that night, had been in tears. “I’m sorry I’m so depressed… I hate being like this, so broken that I’m unable to speak. I’m sorry to hurt you like this.”

His heart began pounding like a stallion. “Hurt me?”

“I’m depressed, and I can’t be the girlfriend you need me to be.”

“Kira.” He searched for the words to say, suddenly wide awake. “I know what it’s like to be in the hell you’re in now. I know it so well. I know you can’t control it. I need you to know that I’m going to be here through it, and I will hold you when you hurt.”

His words didn’t seem to have an impact. “I feel like I’m dead. I’ve gone numb. I am so afraid of…
everything
. I wish I could trust you, but… I don’t know how.”

“I know you can trust me, Kira. I’m not like the other guys. I don’t know… I don’t know how to make you see that.”

“This was supposed to be different.
We
were supposed to be different. You weren’t going to be like all those other guys, and you’re not, but to me, that’s what you’ve been, and I can’t make sense of that. If it’s not you, then is it me?”

“Kira. Listen to me.
It’s not you
.” He was sitting up in bed now, cradling the phone tightly against his chin. “We have things to work on. I wish we could just go back and do it all over again. We’ve made mistakes—hell, everyone does—but we can’t take them back. I’m trying to do everything I can think of to make you realize that I’m not like all the rest, that you can trust me, that I care so madly and deeply for you, with every ounce of the blood that runs through my veins… even if sometimes I fail to show it.”

“I’m just confused,” she confessed, her tears subsiding. “I don’t know how you took that, but don’t think I meant it like that.” He honestly had no idea what she was talking about. “I just want to know what it all means… Why we fight, and why sometimes we can’t stand each other, and why part of me screams that this relationship isn’t right, but at the same time I don’t have the willpower to let go, because there’s something about you that just… possesses me.”

∑Ω∑

Anthony Barnhart

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He had hated the fact that she was insecure, but now he misses even that. Holding back tears, he rummages through a box underneath the bed. He finds what he is looking for, draws them out. Sitting on the bed, he leans against the wall, legs propped outwards, and he finds the right journal: the journal depicting his earliest days dating Kira. He begins reading as several rats make a rush for the door, disappearing into the hallway, scattering into the shadows. Tears trace caverns across his cheeks as the memories flood him like water from a broken dam:

March 30, 2008

Nate, Kirby, Kira and I grabbed dinner at a Chinese buffet, then went to Olive Park. Nate and Kirby took the good spot under the trees, so Kira and I went into the woods and laid out the blanket. We cuddled and talked for two hours, then Kirby had to shit really bad so we went back to campus. Before we left, as we laid out under the trees, Kira told me all the reasons she likes me: I’m handsome, funny, quirky, sweet, nice, sincere. Why do I like Kira so much? Because she is adorable, passionate, hilarious, fun to be around, and I can be “free and open” around her. We dropped off Nate and Kirby and went to the overlook on Knob Hill. We sat in the back of the Jeep, with the hood open, and we sat draped in a blanket, looking at the stars. She confessed, “I feel like I have no reason to exist. I had a dream once, but I lost it.” I asked her what her dream was. She said, “To be a good wife and a good mom.” I told her how I had lost my dream with a previous shattered relationship, but how—in time—it returned. We talked until 1:00 in the morning, and she felt much better. A hug, a kiss, and, “Good night. Call if you start feeling bad again.”

March 31, 2008

We sat at the overlook at Mount Echo, arms wrapped around one another. Not many words were said. I asked, “What are you thinking?” She said, cute as ever, “I’m thinking something good.” “Me too.” “What are
you
thinking?” Bravely, “I’m thinking that one day we might be together… forever… and live out our dreams.” She grinned:

“I was thinking the same thing!” We kissed, and she held me tight, and she said, “I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone.” “Me too,” I said. Another kiss. As we walked back to the Jeep, she said, “It’s weird: I’m actually
happy
with life since I met you. I smile for no reason at all—and I mean it when I smile.” How in the
hell
am I so lucky?!

April 1, 2008

Kira and I went to a pickup kickball game at Mount Echo today. Grand old times. When we got back, we sat in her dorm lobby and watched a movie, but I kept falling asleep in her arms. It was the most peaceful experience of my life. She held me, and I laid my head on her shoulder, and she stroked my hair with her fingers, and when I fell asleep, she made sure I was comfortable. And when I would wake up, she would be grinning at me. Do I love her? I don’t know. I have feelings for her. But do I
love
her? Love is something so much more than feelings.

April 2, 2008

Anthony Barnhart

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266

I have been thinking a lot about love. I went down to the woods, sat on a stone ledge, and pondered what
real
love is. Of this I am certain: it transcends mere feelings. It has to, for feelings are produced by serotonin and dopamine in the brain, and they fluctuate like the tide.
Real
love, I believe, is this: the willingness—no, the
desire
—to sacrifice your own interests for the interests of another. When it comes to Kira, I am asking, “Am I willing and eager to sacrifice my hopes, dreams, and desires for her own?” The beginning of all romantic relationships are born out of selfishness and selfinterest: “This person brings me pleasure.” But the relationship must move from selfcentered to other-centered, or time and conflict and routine and monotony will destroy it—and the end result will either be a breakup or a divorce, none of which I want.

April 3, 2008

Do I love Kira? I am almost afraid to say it—yes. Why am I afraid to say it? Because, as it has been said, “Love is a hoax.” Love is the most beautiful and yet most painful thing on our planet. Love will make our hearts blossom—or it will turn around and sink its poisonous teeth into our souls. It will make us laugh, dance, and radiate joy—

or it will make us weep, sick to the stomach, and sometimes lead us to take our own lives. I love this girl. She is everything to me. I just want her to be happy, and I will do anything to make her happy. But I am afraid that my love will be trashed. That my love will be betrayed. Will it be betrayed? I don’t think so. But I am always afraid that it will happen. Love is a risk. And I can either acknowledge that I love her and run away, because I don’t want to be hurt, or acknowledge that I love her and come to terms with it, knowing that loving her can bring me more pain than good. But I will trust her. She’s not the kind to just leave me.

April 4, 2008

Kira was sick most of the day, so we didn’t hang out very much. When dusk fell, she called and we went out to the patio outside the coffee shop. I sang her love songs on my guitar, and she sang some back to me. She clutched my arm and buried her face in my neck and exclaimed, “Love me!” She felt extremely embarrassed and blushed really badly. I hugged her, kissed her goodnight, and watched her return to the dorm. I then sat out underneath the stars, watching fruit-bats fluttering among the trees, a cigarette in my fingers—the occasional cigarette, I’m not addicted or anything—and watched as white-hot heat lightning arced across the sky. The insects buzzed and the air felt charged. I leaned back against the tree, smiled to myself, felt my heart dance. A gentle rain began to fall. I finally feel alive!

IV

He knows Mark is right. He can’t move on, can’t stay sane, with Kira looming over his head like some banshee from a haunted forest. He gathers the journals together and walks outside. He kicks away snow from a bare patch of earth with dried grass, and he sets the journals down into the snowcarved hole. He returns inside the house, then rejoins the journals, dousing them with a small bottle of kerosene. He lights a match from a matchbox he had taken from the Irish Pub in Newport before Anthony Barnhart

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the plague struck, and taking a deep breath and holding back the tears, he tosses the match onto the pile of twenty-seven journals. The kerosene quickly burns, wisps of gray smoke curling into the air; when the kerosene is extinguished, the flames consume the pages, and the man falls into the snow, ignorant of the cold wetness, and he holds his head in his hands as ashes carry up with the wind and blow against him, tickling the fingers sprawled across his face. They are memoirs of a forgotten world, a world that will never be again, a world that had its reign and then died. They are of no use anymore. Everything has changed. And Kira is now truly gone.

He ignites the snowmobile’s engines and drives down State Avenue, hearing the flames consuming the house. He doesn’t even glance back as what had been his home, haven, and prison is scattered over all of Cincinnati in the stale late February breeze, the ashes joining the migratory paths of the birds that have long since flown south, oblivious to the nightmare that had consumed the planet just as the flames consume the house. He doesn’t even reach downtown until he has to stop the vehicle. He curls up against the handlebars and weeps, Kira’s words echoing in his mind like some brazen, ancient cymbal: