Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (6 page)

Dwellers of the Night

32

lilies and his bag of tobacco into the passenger’s seat. He twists the key. The engine starts.
Thank God
. He expected the battery to be fried because the door was open. He adjusts his mirrors, a healthy habit, and sees in the backseat an object wrapped in shadow. He bites his bottom lip and turns around in his seat. There is a crib, and inside an infant, face stained with blood. He turns in his seat, grabs the crib, pulls it against him, and begins to shove it out. He freezes.
What the hell are you doing? It’s a fucking baby
.
What do you expect me to do with it? Keep it? The baby’s dead.
Bury it.

I can’t bury it. And I can’t take it with me.

He steps out of the car and walks over to the side of the road.

The airport parking lot sits all but empty before him.

He sets the crib on the sidewalk and climbs back into the car.

He shuts the door, puts the car in DRIVE, and presses on the gas. He doesn’t get out of the airport before he pulls the vehicle to the side of the road and cries. Anthony Barnhart

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Chapter Two

The City of Seven Hills

“Pale Death with impartial tread

beats at the poor man’s cottage door

and at the palaces of kings.”

- Horace (ca 50 BC)

I

From the airport, Cincinnati could have been seen if it weren’t for the rolling hills keeping it from view. Heavy clouds blot out the stars, and the earth is draped in an ink-jet blackness. The black Prizm moves forward, leaving the airport behind. It takes Terminal Drive to KY-212, and all he can see on either side are the dark shapes of clustered trees and the occasional wrecked car. The streets were pretty much abandoned when the disaster struck. He doesn’t think he’ll see very much. Cincinnati, on the other hand… It was always alive with night-life, at least on its fringes (there was nothing to do downtown). He merges onto I-275E. As he drives, he passes another airport parking lot, deathly quiet and abandoned. A few cars sit serenely on the pavement. He passes a few dark buildings along either side of the road, but mostly there is nothing but rolling forest. He takes Exit 8 to I-75, and he presses the gas pedal down, speeding down the center of the 4-lane north highway. He passes more wrecks: cars had collided into one another, gone off the road. He sees one wrapped around a light pole; the front windshield is shattered, and the driver is nowhere to be—

THUMP
.

He grimaces. He has found the driver.

Shadow-laden buildings pass on either side of the highway as he drives. He doesn’t watch the speedometer. All he can think of is Kira. The sparkle in her eyes, the beauty in her voice, her hair between his fingers, his lips against hers. He reaches into his pocket and feels the satin box with the engagement ring. It will be on her finger by tonight. He will light a fire and they will cuddle. The world may be going to hell, but nothing could stop him.

The highway bends ahead. His foot is pressed hard on the gas.
Almost there…
Around this last bend, and Cincinnati—yes, there it is, spread out below. Titanium and steel bridges stretch across the murky Ohio River. The highway’s approach to Cincinnati, across the Brent Spence Bridge spanning the river, is one of the most dramatic approaches to any city in the United States. The man now takes in the panoramic view of the hillsides on either side; and where the highway descends, the Cincinnati skyline and its surrounding hills are visible, though now masked in darkness. A few fires burn on the surrounding hills. He begins entering into Covington, the town’s homes on either side striking 19-th century poses, with brick row buildings and traditional city blocks lining either side of the highway. The city is dark, the power out, but it isn’t burning. He is thankful for that. He leans forward in his seat. He can almost hear her laughter over the throbbing of the engine. The highway continues to turn before it goes downhill into Cincinnati. He thinks he should probably slow down, but he can’t seem to take his foot off the pedal, and he—

Anthony Barnhart

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34

Something flashes in front of him, rushing across the road.

He slams on the brakes. The car screams and fishtails. He grips the steering wheel and throws himself into his seat, teeth clenched together, face ashen as snow, knuckles white. The left wheels reach off the ground; not even a scream comes from him as the Prizm flips onto its hood. He feels himself jerked against his seatbelt as he hangs upside-down. His ears are filled with the sounds of shrieking metal. The windows blow out, glass flying into his face, tearing at his skin. Now he opens his mouth to scream, but he is cut off as the Prizm slams into the guardrail. The last thing he sees is a figment of his imagination: Kira reaching out to him, so close—”
Please come home
,” she whispers, “
I’m
scared
.” And then… nothing.

II

Raindrops wake him. He opens his eyes and is immediately aware of the pulsating migraine shrieking behind his eyes. He reaches up with feeble hands and unlatches his seatbelt; he crumples onto the hood of the car, rolls over onto his side—splitting pain—and vomits. He opens his eyes, and the sunlight coming through the shattered windows crawls into the deep recesses of his brains and takes a painful stranglehold. He takes several deep breath, feels his entire face screaming in agony. He reaches up and feels his face, winces; glass is embedded in his skin, adorned with dried blood. Thank God none of them struck an artery. He grits his teeth and crawls backwards out of the flipped car. He tries to stand on the pavement, but he is too weak: he slides down against the car, sitting on the pavement, legs sprawled out, his back against the front tire. He stares forward at the 8-lane highway split down the middle with the grassy median and the forest-covered slopes rising on the opposite side of the highway. Park Hills. He knows the area. One of his friends used to live there before he moved to Las Vegas.

He sits there for what feels like an eternity, feeling off-and-on rain. He looks up and sees scattered clouds passing across the rising sun. Ribbons of light float down onto the highway and dance over the city of Cincinnati off to his right, down the highway. He turns his head—the movement makes his neck throb—and sees the sleeping city, unmoving and still: the skyscrapers, the sports stadiums, the hills ringed with college campuses and state parks. He swallows. The movement hurts. He needs water.

And bandages
, he thinks, touching his face. God, it hurt.

He begins searching for another car. Any that he sees have crashed, the drivers dying at the wheels. And going at the tremendous speeds of the highway, none are now in operating condition. He curses under his breath as he pulls a corpse out of a minivan and tries the key. It doesn’t work. He shakes his head, sits in the seat, feels insurmountable rage flushing through him. Anger at the driver for crashing. A SOCCER MOM decal is plastered beside the wheel. He grabs it and rips it off. He gets out of the car and steps over the body, cursing it. He makes it halfway across to the other side of the street before he realizes what he has done. He turns and heads back. Gingerly, he picks up the corpse and puts it back inside. “Sorry,” he mutters, surprised at the care and tenderness in his own voice. He closes the door, pauses, opens it, reaches over the body, picks up the torn sticker, and does his best to put it back. “Sorry,” he says again as he shuts the door. The corpse doesn’t stare back: her eyes gaze lifelessly at the empty city. The empty world.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

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He finds a car that works. An old and beaten Chevy pickup truck. He looks at the gas needle. Empty. Figures. Just enough to get back. He shuts the door and puts it in gear. A thought occurs to him, and he slams the car in PARK and leaps out. He jogs back to his car, his bruised and broken body shrieking at him. He falls to his knees and throws himself inside the overturned Prizm. He searches frantically among the glass, slicing his fingers and cutting his palm. His heart feels like it’s going to explode. Then relief. He draws a deep breath and picks it up, flips it open—it’s still there. He thanks any god in heaven and crawls back out of the Prizm, sliding the satin box into his pocket. When he gets back to the truck, it’s dead: the gas has run dry. He slams his fist into the steering wheel. When he pulls it away, he sees a bloody smear. His hands, his face… He needs bandages. Fuck the truck.

He sees what looks like a business park on top of the hill next to where he’d wrecked the Prizm, across the highway to the east. He begins climbing the hill, pushing through the knee-high grass. The mid-morning sun beats down on him, refreshingly warm. A cool August breeze sweeps up from the river and ruffles his hair. He thinks back to the crash as his knees ache with each step uphill. What had flashed before him? He can’t remember.
Think, damn it, think!
Had it been a person?
No. I know it
wasn’t a person
. What, then? He tries to think harder, but all he can remember is the car spinning and flipping. And then something flashes in his mind. He pauses with the thought.
Antlers
? It had been a deer. So animals were survivors? Did whatever caused this skip over the animals? And if so, why attack humans and not animals? He doesn’t know. But there are no birds singing in the dawn’s light, and the silence makes his heart bleed.

He reaches the parking lot of the business park. An arched sign reads GARDEN OF HOPE: AMERICA’S

ONLY REPLICA OF JESUS CHRIST’S TOMB. “Fuck,” he murmurs. There’s nothing here. He moves forward. The parking lot is empty. He walks around the side of a wooden building and sees the replica: a life-size tomb, complete even with a roll-away stone and replica Roman soldiers. He stands next to a plaque engraved with a scripture passage:

In the end of the Sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulcher. And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it. His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow. And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men. And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified. He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.

-

Matthew

28:1-6

His eyes dance over the passage. It means nothing to him.

He tastes blood in his mouth. He needs medicine.

His head throbs. Aspirin would be good, too.

He walks over to a single building sitting in the shadows. He tries the door. Locked. He turns around, spies a wooden bench. He walks over, hefts it in his arms, and walks back to the window. With a grunt and with all the effort he can muster, he slams the front of the bench into the glass window. It shatters under the impact. He pulls the bench away, drops it to the cobblestone ground, and crawls in through the broken window. He finds himself staring at a museum rendition of the crucifixion of Jesus. His eyes spot a scripture verse as he crawls back out:

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

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And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; and the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, and came out of the graves after Jesus’ resurrection and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.

-

Matthew

27:51-53

Religion
. The thought makes him sick.

What kind of a God would do this to people?

What kind of a God would allow this to happen?

What kind of a God would leave him entirely alone?

I’m not alone.

No? How do you figure?

I have Kira. She’s waiting for me. I have to get to her.

But first he needs to take care of his wounds. He knows he is lucky not to have been seriously injured in the car accident.
A miracle
, he tells himself. A miracle? Does he believe in miracles?
Not anymore
. He leaves the Garden of Hope—
What a cruel and twisted name; a mockery of my present condition
—and walks down Edgecliff Road. The road twists east down the hill, intersecting Monroe Street of Covington, Kentucky. He goes south on Monroe Street. The narrow road is clogged with cars on either side, sitting quietly beside the Victorian-style homes. He doesn’t see any bodies. That doesn’t surprise him. Whatever did this did it at night. He looks into the windows, imagining what lies behind the drawn drapes. Horrors he can’t imagine. He thinks about taking one of the cars—
any
car—but knows he’ll have to go inside one of the homes and search for a key. He doesn’t want to go inside any of the homes. He is afraid of what he may find.

He crosses onto Jefferson Street via Hawthorne Street and goes south, taking a one-way street to West 19th Street. He stands at the intersection, the stoplight swinging back and forth in the stale breeze, none of the lights working. He looks up and down either side of the street. To the east, towards the heart of Covington, a police car sits crashed into the side of the house. He goes west. He doesn’t want to look inside that car.

GLENN O. SWING ELEMENTARY SCHOOL sits before him. He stands with his fingers looped through the high fence, the playground beyond. The swings rock back and forth as the breeze kicks up. The jungle jim and slide are still and unmoving. What day is it? Saturday. Yes, Saturday. No kids would be at school anyways. That thought offers a little comfort. He walks around the fence and up to the front door. He tries it. He knew it would be locked, but he decided to try it anyways. He walks over to one of the windows, peers inside. A classroom. Watercolor paintings with children’s handprints cover one wall. On another are posters of the nine planets—
Mercury, Venus,
Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto
, he thinks to himself, proud he can remember it (most adults can’t name all nine planets). On the far side of the room, facing the desks, is the teacher’s workspace and the blackboard. Scribbled on the blackboard is: DUE MONDAY: CHAPTERS 1-3. She was one of
those
teachers, giving elementary kids tons of homework. He hated those kinds of teachers. He imagines her lying dead in her home. And then he imagines all the kids doing the same. He bites his lip.
You can’t think about those things
.