Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (84 page)

V

The man is furious that Katie had taken so long to mourn, and Mark doesn’t even say anything to counter his insensitivity: he expects it now, and he doesn’t want to waste a breath on the man. They cannot make the journey to Anderson University in the same day, so they resign to staying at Anthony Barnhart

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Elizabeth’s apartment. The man parks the Explorer in a parking garage, hopes that nothing will happen to it, and everyone climbs the ladder and enters Elizabeth’s apartment. Katie, Sarah, and Anthony barricade the door leading to the hallway with the majority of Elizabeth’s furniture—“Not the bedroom furniture,” is Katie’s only demand. Mark, Kyle, and the man find a way to raise the lowest ladder so that it isn’t touching the ground. They admire their work, and Kyle asks, “What if they get onto the ladder through another window?” The man’s only reply: “Then we’re fucked.”

They will have guards posted at either possible exit all night long. Katie is relieved from guard duty: she doesn’t want to leave Elizabeth’s bedroom, and she wants to be there alone. Mark breaks out some BAILEY’S IRISH CREAM and mixes it with half-and-half packets he’d found at the OREGON

EMPORIUM coffee shop: “It’s called a ‘Nutty Irishman’. Usually it’s cold, with some hazelnut liquor, but it’ll still do the trick.” The man decides to have one, too.

The dark-walkers came out on schedule, spilling out from dark buildings and hitting the streets. Their cries rose like incense into the night sky, and it was not long before they were crowded along the side of the building below, knocking shoulder-to-shoulder. Mark and the man stand out on the steel grate, smoking cigarettes. They silently stare at the dark-walkers, who have molded together rank-and-file, shoulder-to-shoulder, unmoving except for their rapid breaths, chests expanding and deflating with lightning intensity. Their eyes are shadowy and empty, and their heads swivel backand-forth upon their necks. Their eyes scan the building, up-and-down and side-to-side, searching for a way up to the precious feast. Mark remembers when they would clamber over one another, snap at one another, like sharks tearing through a school of tuna in a feeding frenzy. Now their motions are cold, calculating, mechanical. They move together, as a unit.

“They’re evolving,” Mark says under his breath.

“I know,” the man says, exhaling smoke from his lungs.

“They’re more and more like birds.”

“I know.”

“They’re working together, as a single entity.” Shivers run down his spine. Not from the cold.

“They’ve gone from ragtag bands to consistent packs. Their craze and madness has become swift precision.”

“Harker was an idiot,” the man mutters under his breath. “He didn’t factor evolution into his equation. He didn’t factor in the fact that these creatures are animals. That they struggle for survival. That they
will
survive. That they’ll evolve. There were billions and billions of people on this planet when the plague struck. Almost all of them became these dark-walkers. Many of them have died. But the stronger have survived, and they’re learning that if they work together as a tribe, then they can survive. It isn’t long before their cleverness outsmarts us.” He looks over at Mark. “Then we’re
really
fucked.”

“Something I keep thinking about,” Mark says. “Cameron. She came back.”

“Yeah. I know. I was there.”

“But we didn’t see any bites on her.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t bitten.”

“What if the virus or germ is inside us, and when we become too weak, and when our bodies begin shutting down, it has a chance to replicate and then take over? What if Lindsey didn’t turn into one of them because she was bitten, but because she grew so weak that the germ or virus or whatever the hell it is was able to overcome her immune system and do to her what it did to everyone else?”

The man doesn’t have an answer.

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Sarah holds a lit tea-light candle in the palm of her hand. She pushes open the door to the bedroom, and she sees Katie sitting on the bed with her own candle. Katie looks up at her. Sarah asks, “Can I come inside?”

Katie doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Sarah says, backing out.

“No,” Katie says. “No, you can come in.”

Sarah obliges, and she sits down beside her on the bed.

No one speaks.

The candles cast their shadows upon the whitewashed walls: two figures, quiet, alone. Katie looks over at her friend. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

“What?” Sarah counters, surprised at the question. “What? No. Why would I think that?”

“I don’t know.” Then, quietly, “Because I’m…”

“A lesbian?” Sarah asks. “Just because I’m not doesn’t mean that I frown upon you because you are. I don’t care what the hell your sexual orientation is. Whether we’re attracted to members of the opposite sex or members of the same sex, that’s not what makes us good people. What makes us good people is whether we put others before ourselves, whether we are willing to sacrifices ourselves for other people, whether we are kind and compassionate and generous.”

“Do you think I’m… those things?”

Sarah sighs. “I don’t really know you that well, Katie. But what I
can
tell is that you loved Elizabeth deeply. That you were willing to do anything to come and see her. I saw how your face lit up as we got closer. And I can see from your grief that you miss her.”

Katie looks away, says with resolve, “I’m not crying because I miss her.”

Sarah’s brows rise as she seeks to understand.

“I
do
miss her,” Katie says. “But that’s not why I’m crying. I’ve missed her for months.”

“I know,” Sarah says. “You’re crying because there’s no hope of being with her again.”

“No,” Katie says. “I’m crying because I’m a bitch.”

∑Ω∑

The clock on the wall ran as slow as usual. Time dragged by, and each step to the liquor cabinet made her feet scream in pain. The air conditioners were broken, and the loud shouting of the people outside and the juke box playing Led Zeppelin and the cracks of pool tips against pool balls only made the bitter heat more nauseating. Her replacement came in ten minutes after her shift ended, and waiting only made her even more miserable, rage tickling at the back of her throat. When Brian finally arrived, she threw the cleaning cloth in his hands and didn’t say anything. She stepped out of the bar and stood in the cool night air, the stars twinkling overhead, a canopy of diamonds. She took several breaths and leaned against the brick wall. She missed Elizabeth. She always missed Elizabeth late at night, and crawling into the empty bed without feeling her warmth beside her only made it all the worse. The most empty nights were the crisp ones, where the air filled your lungs with crackling intensity. Despite it being august, and despite the heat, the air somehow felt crisp in with each breath. She turned and saw a man standing close to her, saying nothing, smoking a menthol cigarette.
That’s
why
, she thought to herself. She reached for her keys and realized they were still behind the counter.

“Fuck.” She went inside, walked behind the bar, grabbed her keys. Brian apologized in blabbering sentiments for being late, offered to buy her a drink. She said, “Fine,” and sat down at the bar. He asked what she would have. “Two shots of tequila,” she told him. He asked if she was driving home. Anthony Barnhart

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“Yes. And put big grains of salt on the glass. Better make it damn good.” He poured the first shot, and she threw it back, felt it inching its way down her throat in its fiery, mind-numbing intensity.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

She turned and saw a thin girl with long black hair.

“No,” she said. She looked away. “It’s open.”

“Okay,” she said, sitting down. She ordered a BUDWEISER.

Brian poured her another shot. She threw it back.

The girl beside her looked at her, smiled. “Rough day?”

Katie rolled her eyes. “I just got off work.”

“Oh? Where do you work?”

“Here,” she said.

“I bet it’s fun, serving alcohol and everything.”

“Try it sometime. It’s actually quite disenchanting.”

They didn’t talk for a bit.

Katie buried her head on the counter, felt the alcohol flooding her veins. She looked up. “Brian? Another shot.”

“Katie, that’s two already.”

“I can fucking count.”

“In two minutes.”

“I can fucking tell time, too. Give me another shot.”

Brian sighed, poured another shot in her glass, ran the rim with salt. “Want a lime this time?”

“I don’t need a lime,” she said, throwing back the shot. “Stay close.”

The girl bit her lip. “You’re a feisty one.”

Katie eyeballed her. “Excuse me?”

“Feisty.”

“I heard you.” She returned to staring at the liquor cabinet against the far wall.

“My name’s Jasmine.”

Katie ignored her. “Okay.”

Twenty minutes passed. She had taken two more shots, and she and the girl had struck up conversation. Katie didn’t really like her, forgot her name, just wanted someone to talk to. She didn’t have many friends in the area, and it was better than sitting in her own house taking back shots. As they talked, the strap of Katie’s tank-top fell off her arm. Jasmine, without flinching, reached forward, and with her hand slid it back onto her shoulder. The touch of Jasmine’s fingers against Katie’s bare shoulder sent electrifying bursts through her veins. She was stunned for a moment, as if a switch has been flicked, and she felt herself getting tight. Her heart began to flutter in her chest, but she pushed it down. “Thanks,” she told Jasmine weakly. Jasmine smiled at her playfully. Katie began to stand, saying, “I’d better go…” and fell backwards; she hit the ground hard, landing on her back, the stool lying atop of her. The girl reached down to help her up. A crowd gathered. Brian rushed around the side of the bar, apologizing like a blabbering fool. Katie cursed, told everyone to mind their own business, she was okay. Jasmine helped her up, and she wrenched away from her, half-walked, halfhobbled out of the bar, into the warm night with its buzzing cicadas and crickets and the roar of a nearby airplane.

Jasmine followed her out of the bar. “Wait.”

Katie spun around. “What?”

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“I just…”

“It was good talking to you. But I do need to go. I have to work in the morning.”

“You’ve had, what, five shots? Six shots? Maybe seven.”

“I know,” Katie said, making her ways towards her car.

“You can’t drive home,” Jasmine said, on her tail. “You’ll get pulled over. Or killed.”

“I’ll be okay.” She reached her car, pulled out her keys.

“The roads in every direction are crazy. You work here. You know that. Twists and turns.”

“Yes. I drive them all the time.” She tried inserting the keys into the lock, missed. Jasmine touched her shoulder. “Katie. Please. Let me take you home.”

She felt the strange sensation, something she had only felt with one girl.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” Jasmine said, “you’re not.”

Katie could feel the pressure of her hand against her shoulder.

She imagined the hand elsewhere.

Between her legs.

“Okay,” Katie said, stumbling over the vowels.

“I’ll take you to my place,” Jasmine said, snatching Katie’s keys with her other hand. “I’ll bring you here in the morning. I have work off tomorrow.”

Katie knew what was happening. Intoxication deprives the human faculties of common sense, shattering inhibitions, but the drunk person, even if unable to remember what took place overnight when next morning arrives, is not lacking free will, is not under the spell of intoxication to the point of being unable to make decisions. Katie knew what was happening when they reached Jasmine’s apartment, and as they stood in the living room, she didn’t protest as Jasmine leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. Katie had never felt lips so soft, not even on Elizabeth. Jasmine’s hand slid down her neck and shoulder. Katie returned the kiss, and their tongues playfully entwined. Katie reached up her hand and stroked her fingers against Jasmine’s soft face, could feel her long jet-black hair tickling the back of her hand.

Jasmine pulled away, eyes afire. “Want to go to the bedroom?”

Katie stumbled over her words, world spinning—a concoction of drunken euphoria and forbidden excitement. “Okay.”

They reached the bedroom, the furniture mere shadows in the darkness. No lights were turned on. They were kissing as they reached the door, and Jasmine kicked it open. They tumbled inside, fell upon the bed. No words were spoken. Jasmine lied down on top of her, reached underneath the tanktop; Katie was mesmerized by the feeling of foreign fingers against her bare stomach. Jasmine’s fingers pried underneath the sports bra, found her left breast, began stroking Katie’s nipple with her forefinger. Katie moaned, lied back, reached forward, grabbed the hem of Jasmine’s shirt, yanked it upwards. Jasmine slid her shirt off of one shoulder, off of her arm, revealing the side of her bra and bare skin. She couldn’t take the shirt off: her other arm was underneath Katie’s tank-top and bra. Katie gripped Jasmine’s free bare arm, felt the blood pulsing under the skin. Jasmine bit her lip in a crimson smile, withdrew her hand from underneath Katie’s clothing. She pulled the shirt off her other arm, reached behind her, fumbled with the bra snaps. The bra fell to Katie’s chest, and the woman’s round yet perky breasts seemed succulent, demanding attention, even in the shadows. Her small brown nipples were accented by the diamond-studded navel wring along her tight stomach. She unzipped her pants, revealing pink panties. Katie moaned, wanted to suck and lick and explore Jasmine’s body. Jasmine just laughed, began to undress her.

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Katie closed her eyes as Jasmine went to work. She lifted her arms to make it easier for her new friend. As Jasmine took off her clothes, she felt her hands rubbing over her body. Jasmine crawled backwards in the bed, used her teeth to unbutton her shorts and then threw them onto the other side of the mattress. Katie lied on the bed, naked except for her thong. Jasmine’s hand slipped underneath her thong, her fingers gently probing the inside of her vagina. Spots danced before Katie’s eyes. Jasmine pulled the thong down her legs, tossed it onto the floor. She began kissing Katie’s inner thighs, looked up.