Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (90 page)

Kyle moves away from the bar, passing the glass case with rotted and mold-covered food. A sign on the case read: FRESH-BAKED, ALWAYS FRESH, NEVER STALE! In the corner, next to the restrooms, are two shelves. They are lined with coffee thermos and mugs. Jessica had told him, “If you want anything for Christmas, let me know. I get a forty-percent discount. But just so you know, these mugs aren’t worth their price. See this mug? It’s ten dollars. You’re buying the label, not the mug.” Upon the shelves beside the mugs are bags of coffee from all around the world: Latin America, South America, Africa, and the Philippines. He grabs one of the one-pound bags. He squeezes it, doesn’t feel any beans underneath the heavy plastic wrap.
It’s ground
. He grabs two more bags from different regions and turns to head back to the dealership when something dances behind him: “Kyle.” His name. Spoken. He turns around.

She is standing there, emaciated but alive, still dressed in her black-and-green STARBUCKS uniform. Her nametag is faded: SHIFT MANAGER, JESSICA, HAPPY TO SERVE YOU. Her eyes are hidden in the shadows that wrap around her frail form, and she doesn’t come forward, doesn’t come into the light. He grips the bags and just stares at her. His eyes manage to push through the shroud of darkness, the sunlight from the windows unable to crawl across the walls unable to reach her. She stands there and watches him. Drool crawls down from her mouth. Her sunken eyes betray any emotions except blood-lust. He remembers wanting to take her hand in his, remembers wanting to hold her close, remembers the beating of his heart in a faint but present expectation. Now he licks his lips and looks at her. “Jessica.” His voice is frighteningly loud, and he realizes that she never said his name. He had imagined it, a sixth sense alighting him to her presence. He holds the bags of coffee and just watches her. He remembers her telling him after the movie, “It would be so freaking awesome to be a Anthony Barnhart

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vampire!” A knot forms in his throat.
Not so awesome, Jessica, is it?
He begins backing away, his footsteps echoing loudly on the tile floor. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t. She watches him go until he is out of sight. He climbs through the shattered glass window and makes his way back to the dealership.

IV

The night is spent at a DAYS INN farther down the road. Everyone takes their own separate rooms. When night falls, the man lies down on the twin-sized bed and stares at the white-plaster ceiling. He kicks off his boots and pulls the extra pillow underneath his head, layering one atop the other. He folds his hands across his chest and closes his eyes. He can almost hear the distant rumble of jet engines: BOEINGS, AIRBUSES, BOMBARDIERS. He finds the remote on the bedside table, runs his fingers over the rubber buttons. He remembers how he would turn on the television and try to understand what was being said. He usually flew to Great Britain, Germany, or France, and he would always try to polish up on his linguistics by watching foreign soaps or news shows. He presses the power button, almost expecting the television to turn on. But that was a long time ago, and everything is different.

He misses Kira. He would always think about Kira, staying the night in a foreign hotel room, separated by a great ocean of endless and innumerable miles. Now it is not an ocean that separates them but life itself. His eyes begin to water as he remembers the dark-walkers tearing her corpse apart, teeth biting down into her rotting flesh. His hand wraps tightly around the remote control, and he hears the cheap plastic casing snap. The sound of its cracking pushes the roar of the jet engines out of his mind, and all he can hear now are the faint raindrops on the windowpane and the shrieks of the dark-walkers outside.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. He is drifting off when the sound of thunder greets his ears. He rolls over in the bed, and then the sound comes again.
That’s not thunder
. He rises up in the bed, sitting up in the darkness. He swings his legs out over the edge and stands. He approaches the window and stands by the blinds. The screams of the dark-walkers are intermittent, growing louder. Then the sound comes again. Not thunder. Popping. Shells.
Gunfire
. He puts his finger up to the blinds and pulls one of them to the side. Raindrops smear the window, but through the eerie darkness he can see faint flashes of light, followed by the rattling sound of magazines discharging. He tries to estimate the distance. Several miles west. Perhaps in the next town. He lets the blinds slide back into place when there comes a knock at the door.

He walks over to the door, throws back the latch, swings it open. Sarah is standing there. “Did you hear that?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. “Hear what?”

“Gunshots.”

He eyes her, whimsical. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She stares into his eyes. “The fuck you don’t.”

She pushes past him, into the room.

He turns, says, “I’m trying to sleep.”

She walks over to the window, pulls back the blinds.

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“Why don’t you go look out your own window?”

“Mine faces east. The sounds are coming from the west.”

“It’s thunder.”

She doesn’t say anything.

He shakes his head. “Sarah. It’s
thunder
.”

She lets the blinds fall back. She turns. “You were looking, too.”

“Lightning. Just… flashes of lightning.”

“Flashes of lightning on the ground?”

The man takes a breath. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Sarah says.

She walks past him, into the hall, disappears.

The man shuts the door, throws down the latch, and returns to his bed. He lights a cigarette and smokes, tapping his ashes into the room’s glass ashtray. A few minutes pass, and then the gunfire stops.

He snubs out the cigarette, lies back, closes his eyes, and sleeps.

V

Kyle sleeps. He dreams that he and Jessica are standing outside THE SUNSHINE DINER, their heavy winter coats wrapped tightly around them, fighting off the late November chill. They are looking at one another. He steps closer. She doesn’t react. He reaches out, takes her hand. It is warm in his. She tilts her head to the side, bites her lip and smiles.

The scene changes. They are in the hotel room. The same hotel room in which he is sleeping now. They are drinking hard whiskey. SOUTHERN COMFORT. They are throwing back shots, playing cards. Rummy. When he loses a hand, he takes off a set of clothes. When Jessica loses, she takes off a set of clothes. His heart is hammering in his chest.

The scene changes. They are lying on the bed. He is wearing nothing but his boxers. She is wearing nothing more than her bra and panties. They rub against one another, kissing, feeling one another with adventurous hands, intoxicated fingers.

The scene changes. She is on top of him. His boxers are gone, her panties are gone. She’s still wearing her bra. Her legs hold him tightly, and she hovers over him. His arms reach up and hold her waist. He reaches his arms around her back, fondles with the strap of the bra. It unsnaps, the straps falling down either side of her arm. She lifts one arm, pulls the strap free. The bra tilts to the side, revealing a single breast. She leans to the other side, lets the other strap fall off. She grabs her bra in her hand, crunches the fabric in a fist, tosses it to the floor. Now her breasts rock back and forth in front of his face, the nipples a deep brown, hard in the cold. The heater is broken. She throws her head back, chocolate hair falling around her shoulders. She moans, feeling him inside her. He closes his eyes, her warmth spreading down the sides of his legs. She lets out a shout, and he smiles, knowing he is pleasing her. She lowers her head, and suddenly her eyes are sunken, the skin on her face pulled taught, cheekbones elegantly sharp. Her mouth opens, revealing a ring of fangs. Drool crawls down her chin, drips in goblets onto his chest. He tries to throw her off of him, but she grabs his upper arms Anthony Barnhart

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in her hands, thrusts them down onto the bed. Her strength is enormous as her fingers clench tight around his arm, breaking his skin. Blood dribbles out. He tries to kick her off, but her legs are spread on either side of him, pulled tight, keeping him free. Kyle looks up at her. “Jessica… Jessica…

Jessica…” He pleads with her to stop, and as her hair falls into his eyes as her head lowers to sink her teeth into his neck, it is his own scream that wakes him.

He finds himself alone in the room, the raindrops tapping on the window. His heart sprints behind his ribs. He can almost feel her on top of him. He sits up, breathing heavily, sweat popping over his brow. He scans the room, eyes slowly adjusting. It’s empty. He stands, limbs weak, walks over to the bathroom. He grips the doorknob, opens it. Nothing. He leans over the sink, sweat dripping into the porcelain bowl. He leans his forehead against the mirror, and his breath fogs up the glass. The dream was so real, so vivid, so… believable… and he fights with his own mind to accept that it wasn’t a reality, that it never happened. The pain in his arm from her sharp fingernails is still present, but there are no marks. He returns to the bed and lies down. He listens to the rain and thinks about nothing, thinks about everything. He doesn’t even realize that he falls asleep.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine

Flowers Quickly Fading

“Ah, vanity of vanities!

How wayward the decrees of fate are,

How very weak the very wise,

How very small the very great are!”

- William Makepeace Thackeray (A.D. 1811-1863)

I

The man awakes with the first rays of sunshine cutting into the room. He dresses quickly, throwing on his jeans, plaid shirt, boots, and jacket. He fastens the KA-BAR sheath around his belt. He tiptoes down the hallway, can hear the others sleeping. He descends the flight of steps leading to the ground floor, passes through the empty lobby. He unlocks the front door and steps into the crisp spring air. The sky is clear, a magnificent bowl of brilliant blue, and the wild grass is covered with drops of dew. The scent of fallen rain lingers. He opens the side door to the RAV4 and finds what he is looking for. He opens the cardboard box and withdraws one of the pistols he’d taken from the factory in Cincinnati: a “full size” 92-model BERETTA. Alloy flame, no glare finish, ambidextrous safety lever, double action, reversible magazine release, open top slide, chamber loaded indicator, triple safety, rear sight for split-second aiming. He grabs a 9mm magazine and loads it into the chamber. He stuffs two more magazines into his jeans pocket. He shuts the door and enters on the driver’s side. He ignites the engine. It rumbles to life. He glances at the hotel windows on the second floor that are facing him; no movement. He puts the S.U.V. into gear and pulls out of the parking lot, heading west. He runs the dead stoplights.

It takes him several minutes to find it. He passes underneath the I-70 bridge, and a few blocks down, sees skid marks on the road. He follows them up an adjacent street lined with restaurants and barefaced businesses. He slows the RAV4 as he approaches. There is a truck wedged against a light-pole, the front end crunched. The glass in the cab is shattered, and the tires are blown, the rubber shreds lying flat and lifeless on the pavement, the ends clinging to the steel tire-frame. The man flicks the safety off on the pistol and pulls up to the side of the road. He steps out onto the street, pistol at the ready. The only movement is the splicing wind that blows ice into his face. He slowly moves towards the truck. The pavement is chipped and pocked by bullet impacts, and great swathes of blood are drying in the sun. He steps over a femur bone gnawed to the marrow. He stands at the back of the truck. Maine license plates.
You’re a long way from home
, he thinks to himself. He moves around to the driver’s side door. He brushes fragments of glass from the window frame and looks inside. The seat is covered with blood, the top layer drying. The rest of the blood has turned into a sordid jelly. There is a single leather boot propped up against the gear-shift. A rifle lies between the seat and underneath the dash. The man opens the door, the creaking of the hinges painfully loud. He leans inside, grabs the rifle, pulls it into the light. An M16. Military issue. He checks the chamber. An empty cartridge. Anthony Barnhart

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He doesn’t know what bullets the gun takes. He sets it back on the seat and backs away, looks out at the rising sun behind him. “Fuck it.” He grabs the gun and returns to the car.

He finds a DICK SPORTING GOODS STORE in a nearby business complex. He breaks the glass and enters. He makes his way towards the back, the pistol held at the ready. Nothing attacks him. He passes by aisles filled with sporting jackets, golfing outfits. Baseballs and basketballs and soccer balls. Paintball guns. Tents of all shapes and sizes. Something crashes off to his right. He swings on his heels and raises the pistol. A raccoon blinks at him in the shattered sunlight coming from the front of the store. The man lowers the weapon. The raccoon saunters away. He reaches the ARMS

DEPARTMENT and hops over the counter. He places the pistol on the counter and searches underneath. He finds what he is looking for and spreads it out next to the pistol. He maneuvers so that his shadow doesn’t break a ray of sun coming from the skylight above. He searches through the inventory. No M16s even mentioned.
It’s not a civilian gun
. He begins going through the bullets, trying to fit them into the chamber.
You’re going to get yourself fucking killed
. He doesn’t care. The comfort of an M16 is too great to pass up. The 9mm bullets are too thick, and the .50 caliber slugs won’t even fit into the chamber. Finally he finds the 5.56mm bullets. They fit perfectly. He raises the gun, squeezes the trigger. There’s an arc of flashing light, the scream of the bullet rushing out of the barrel, and then the rumbling impact of the bullet into a manikin—all the sounds blended into one cacophonous chatter. The manikin teeters and topples, lifeless eyes pinned to the floor. The man smiles, grabs as many boxes of 5.56mms that he can carry, and exits the store.