Authors: Anthony Izzo
The Dark Ones (22 page)
“They’ll find me.”
Laura gripped the girl’s shoulders, hard at first, then relaxed her hold. Sara winced. “I’m sorry. No one’s out to get you.”
“You don’t believe me,” Sara said.
“What exactly are you trying to get me to believe?”
Sara backed up. Laura’s hands slipped from her shoulders. “There are things in that cloud. I drove the cloud and the things inside it away at a rest stop in Ohio.”
“What things?”
“Deformed men, creepy looking. It somehow ties in to my power, gift, whatever you want to call it.”
Now Sara had gone from nervous to completely obtuse. “The boat left the dock, hon. I’m afraid I missed it.”
Sara rolled her eyes, as if Laura were the thickest human being on the planet. “I’ll show you. Back up.”
Laura backed up, crossed her arms. Outside, a host of sirens had joined the initial cacophony. She flinched as a loud boom echoed in the distance. It sounded like an explosion. “Hurry up and show me. I’ll feel better in the basement.”
Sara closed her eyes and raised her left arm, hand open, palm up. At first, nothing happened, and then a tiny pinprick of white Light appeared in her palm. The Light grew in size, to a dime, then to a quarter, then to the size of a softball. Laura squinted. It didn’t hurt her eyes, but it was certainly bright. The white glow filled the living room, and was reflected in the television screen. Sara’s face was bathed in it, making her skin appear almost translucent. In the glow of the Light, she was beautiful. Laura heard herself gasp. She had never seen anything remotely like it.
Sara let the Light glow a moment longer, and it faded gradually, disappearing from her palm. Opening her eyes, Sara said, “Now do you believe me?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Laura said. “What was that?”
“I’m not quite sure. I started to be able to do it about a year ago. I think of light and warm places and it appears. That time I didn’t have to think as much. I must be getting better.”
Laura looked at Sara’s arms. With a T-shirt on, there was no place to conceal any type of device. Her hands were empty, and she doubted there was any technology short of Hollywood special effects that could produce such a light. And Sara would have no reason for trying to fool Laura into thinking she possessed magical powers. “What else can you do with it?”
“The things—the men—that are after me? It will kill them. I can fire it like a gun.”
“Anyone else know about this?”
“David, probably Reverend Frank. They’ve never approached me about it, though.”
Laura’s head spun. The light display was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. “Where did you get this power from?”
Sara shrugged. “We should get to shelter. They might be here soon.”
Laura hoped her father was safe, holed up inside from the coming storm—or whatever it was. They had to make provisions to protect the house. She instructed Sara to check all the windows and doors on the first floor, make sure they were locked. Laura went upstairs, through the bedrooms and into the master bath, and did the same. Satisfied the windows and doors were locked, Laura went to the kitchen and found a flashlight in the drawer. Then they proceeded to the basement.
The basement was cool and dry. Her father had left it sparse. The only items, other than a washer and dryer, were a set of golf clubs and a rolled-up garden hose. Those, and a worn blue sofa set against the wall. The two women sat on the sofa. Sara moved close, and Laura put her arm around the girl, hoping to provide some comfort. She trembled slightly.
“We’ll be okay,” Laura said, and Sara responded with a weak smile.
She just wished the basement door had a lock. Sara’s story of deformed men in the fog didn’t seem so silly after the girl had displayed the ball of Light.
CHAPTER 17
Their meals finished, Milo and Debbie had joined the crowd at the bar. A throng of people packed around the Alligator’s bar, necks craned to view the television. On the screen, the anchorwoman reported that the fast-moving cloud had reached the downtown area. Reports of screams, car accidents, and things seen moving in the fog were pouring in from reporters in the field. Milo was acutely aware of the silence in the bar. It was the only time he had heard such silence in a watering hole.
Debbie, standing at his side, tapped him on the arm. “Dad, should we go?”
Outside, he heard a shriek rise, hit an impossibly high pitch, and then die. “I think we’re better off inside.”
“What do you think it is?”
His first thought was terrorists, that Al Quaeda or some other group of maniacs had released a chemical attack. He didn’t want to cause a panic by suggesting that option, so he said, “Don’t know.”
Outside the deep thrum of a car engine filled the air. Milo turned to see a green pickup truck swerve, jump the sidewalk, and smash into the bar across the street. Glass exploded onto the sidewalk. Smoke rose from the truck’s hood. The driver stumbled out, holding his face. He staggered across the street, and now the crowd turned to watch from the Alligator’s front window. The man barged through the door. He was sobbing. He took his hands away from his face. The skin came away, stuck to his hands in gummy strands. Ragged holes, surrounded by scorched skin, revealed white bone underneath. He looked as if he had washed his face in acid. Milo felt his stomach lurch. The crowd backed away; the man remained in the center of a loose circle of people.
“It’s the fog, it huuurrtsss.” The man fell to his knees. A stream of vomit shot from his mouth. He collapsed forward, and was still.
Milo scanned the faces of the crowd. A guy in a black T-shirt turned from white to green. Some of the girls covered their mouths. The bald bartender hurried away, presumably to the bathroom. He got ten feet from the bar and splashed vomit all over the plank floor.
Debbie moved closer to Milo. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. It reminded him of nights when she was little and ran into their bedroom, afraid of thunder and lightning.
“Dad?”
Milo had no idea. He shook his head. He took one more look at the dead man, then glanced at the door. It was open, and from outside came the smell of something rotting. Thinking it prudent to shut the door, he took his arm from around Debbie’s shoulders and closed the door. He then clicked the brass dead bolt shut.
The bartender, who was bent over, hands on knees, breathed heavily. Milo called to him, “This place have a basement?”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the bartender straightened up. A green stain dotted the front of his T-shirt, but he didn’t take notice. The man’s bald head was the color of a lobster and a vein throbbed in his temple. “No way this crowd would fit.”
“We’ll bring a shoehorn,” Milo said. The crowd remained mostly silent. Milo thought it a good time to address them and urge everyone to adjourn to the basement. They would have to be orderly. Didn’t need anyone causing a panic.
He was about to speak when a cloud, darker than the surrounding night, rolled in front of the bar’s windows. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the cloud was deadly. Whether the mist was released by terrorists or from a chemical spill he didn’t know, but venturing into the cloud would mean an awful death.
The crowd in the Alligator turned toward the windows. The bars on the other side of the street dissolved in the darkness. Milo squinted. A shape, roughly man-size, silhouetted in the fog, walked in front of the window, then stopped. Two more joined the first. The shape pulled back its arm, and something dark and heavy looking appeared in its hand. It was with sick dread Milo realized the man meant to smash out the glass.
Milo looked back over his shoulder. A hallway ran off the main bar. There were doors on either side of the hall. One of them was bound to be the basement door.
Returning to Debbie’s side, he took her arm and said, “We’re going to the basement.”
Eyes wide, she nodded and said in a voice that broke his heart, “Whatever you say, Daddy.”
They wound around the tables. Behind him, the glass was smashed, low cracking sounds followed by the higher ping of the shards being broken out. Someone screamed. Milo didn’t look back. He gave Debbie a gentle nudge and urged her forward.
In the hallway, Milo twisted the knobs of the first two doors and found them locked. At the end of the hallway, a red exit sign glowed over a steel door. Next to that was the last door in the hall. If that wasn’t the basement, they were in trouble, for the only other option was to return to the bar area. He didn’t even want to think about going outside.
They reached the door. He pulled and it opened to a staircase.
As they began to descend the stairs, Milo saw two rough-looking guys emerge from one of the other doors. One of them had a shiny revolver in his hand. They seemed to pay Milo no notice, both of them streaking toward the bar area. Milo shut the basement door behind him, and they moved ahead, Debbie going first.
At the bottom of the stairs, they came to a storeroom with all manners of beer cases stacked against the walls. Blood stained some of the cases and the concrete. What the hell happened down here?
“Why is there blood? Why?” Debbie asked.
The tremor in her voice indicated the verge of panic.
Across the basement was another door. He would comfort her in a moment, but first he wanted to see where the door led. Before they had descended, Milo removed his flannel shirt and stuffed it under the door. It was possible the mist might eat through his shirt, but all he could do was hope to keep the fog out.
Above them, the floorboards thudded. He heard screams and squeals, as if the patrons of the Alligator had seen a rat. From the sound of the commotion, it would have to be a rat of epic proportions to inspire such panic.
Milo tried the other door. It was locked. He looked around the room. The walls were windowless, which would prevent the mist from seeping in that way. Not satisfied, he tugged on the doorknob again. To his surprise, a muffled voice on the other side said, “Go the fuck away!”
Now, from upstairs, Milo heard the distinct pop of gunshots. The crash of furniture reverberated against the floor. It sounded as if a group of rhinos were charging through the bar.
Encouraged by the presence of someone on the other side of the door, and hoping for an escape route, Milo kicked the paneled surface. To his surprise, the knob turned and he stepped back to avoid being hit with the door. It swung open, and he was nothing if not surprised. A tough-looking guy in a bloodstained poncho stood in the doorway, a claw hammer in his hand. Milo peered over the man’s shoulder. Inside the mattress-lined room, another man sat handcuffed to a chair. His shirtless chest dripped blood.
The tough-looking guy said, “You’re not Ed.”
“And I’m guessing you’re not the butler.”
That seemed to set him off. The man raised the hammer to swing at Milo. Milo shoved the guy, who stumbled backward, but quickly regained his balance. The guy moved forward for another swing, raising his arm again. Milo lunged forward, hoping to close the distance and minimize the arc of the swing. The guy swung his arm.
Here it comes
, Milo thought.
, Milo thought.
The hammer swung down and clipped him on the shoulder. Milo drove through it, plowed into the man, and wrapped his arms around the guy, pinning one arm to his side.
The man in the chair yelled, “Kill him!”
The guy shifted his weight. Milo shifted with him, the two of them partners in a crazy dance. They wound up on the floor, Milo taking in the coppery smell of blood on the poncho. They rolled around, Milo squeezing the man’s arm and attempting to keep it at his side. The guy wound up on top of him.
From the corner of his eye, Milo saw Debbie hurry around the two combatants. She picked something up off the table of tools. Milo looked up at the man, who raised the hammer. With his blood-slicked poncho and his wild eyes, he looked as if he’d gone mad. Milo raised his arms to block the coming blow.
Instead of getting pummeled, he saw Debbie swing a handheld sledge that hit the guy’s head with a
thwock
. The man’s eyes glazed, he dropped his hammer, which fell to the ground, and he slumped over. Milo managed to shove the unconscious man off him. He stood up.
thwock
. The man’s eyes glazed, he dropped his hammer, which fell to the ground, and he slumped over. Milo managed to shove the unconscious man off him. He stood up.
His daughter stood with the sledge gripped in two hands the way a samurai warrior might wield a sword. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Blood flecked the hammer’s head.
“Deb, honey, put it down.”
She looked at him and for a moment, she didn’t seem to recognize Milo. Then the hammer slipped from her hands and banged on the concrete. Milo went to her, embraced her. She buried her head in his chest, sobbing. He stroked her hair and said, “You did the only thing you could’ve done. It’s okay.”
In a muffled voice she said, “I killed him, didn’t I?”
Milo looked down at the man. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. “He’s alive. Don’t know what that shot to his melon did, but he’s alive.”
From behind Debbie, the guy chained to the chair said, “Can we have a family reunion some other time and get me out of here?”
“You going to be the next one that comes at me with a hammer?”
“I don’t give two shits about you, buddy. Look at me. I need to get out of here and clean out these wounds.”
Two nails jutted out from his shoulders, and a host of scratches and cuts leaked blood onto the man’s arms. Milo eyed the tools spread out on the table and figured the man in the rain poncho had even worse things planned for his captive.
Milo gently pushed Debbie away. “I’m going to help this guy, okay?”
She wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. Then she nodded, apparently satisfied that Milo was not going far.
“Who is he?” Milo asked.
“Name’s Hark. Involved in some heavy shit. Once in a while grabs someone off the street, tortures them for sport.”
Milo looked at the man in the chair. He had trouble believing Hark would snatch someone off the street at random. No doubt the man in the chair was a business partner, most likely in crime. He couldn’t bear to leave the guy sitting there. Regardless of Hark’s beef with the man, he didn’t deserve to be tortured. It made Milo’s stomach roll.
Deciding the man in the chair would not cause them harm, Milo said, “Keys?”
The man in the chair nodded, indicating Hark. “Check his pockets.”
Milo crouched down and dug through Hark’s pockets until he felt the key. He removed the key and unlocked the man’s handcuffs, asking, “You have a name?”
“Mike,” he said, not moving his arms. Milo realized why he didn’t move: nails still jutted out of his triceps.
Looking at the nails, and the blood that dribbled down, Milo said, “You must’ve really pissed this Hark guy off.”
Mike winced. “You think?”
“Let’s get those nails out of your arms. Hopefully they’re not too deep.”
Milo brushed past Debbie, who leaned against the table, arms crossed. She kept sneaking glances at Hark, as if he might jump up and yell boo. She had struck Hark in order to help Milo—self-defense if ever there was a case—but he could see the effect of her actions weighing on her. As he searched the table and found a pair of pliers, he patted her on the arm. “How you doing, kiddo?”
“Is he going to be okay?” Debbie asked, indicating Hark.
“Don’t know,” Milo said. “Give me a hand?”
She joined him at Mike’s right side. Milo examined the nail. It didn’t appear to be driven too far into the skin. It still must have hurt like hell, though. “Deb, hold his arm.”
Mike turned his head away. Debbie pressed on Mike’s arm and Milo squeezed the nail head with the pliers. He pulled and as it came out, Mike stifled a yelp. They did the other side, and Mike sprang from the chair, saying, “Bastard Hark, hope you killed him.” He then snatched a short piece of pipe from the table and headed for the door.
Milo set the pliers back on the table. He didn’t want to touch them any longer than he had to, for they felt tainted.
“Don’t go up there,” Milo said.
Still walking, Mike said, “They’ve got my mother up there. Thanks, but I’m going.”
Debbie said, “All hell’s broken loose up there.”
That stopped Mike. Shirtless and pipe in hand, he looked like some crazed barbarian warrior off to storm the gates. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a cloud—something toxic—sweeping through the city,” Milo said. “And someone attacked the bar, smashed the windows. We ran down here.”
Mike studied Milo for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to believe him. “Screw it. I’ve got to find her.”
“Don’t go,” Debbie said, but he was already on his way upstairs.
After Mike disappeared upstairs, Milo ventured to where the beer cases were stored. He retrieved his shirt. Debbie followed him, and the two stood at the bottom of the stairs, Milo cocking his head as if it would help him hear. Floorboards creaked overhead. A dusky, rotten smell wafted down the stairs. Smelled like something died up there.
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