Whispers From The Dark (13 page)

From his new vantage point, he surveyed the street again.

Nothing moved aside from the flickering of the fire in the building he was moving towards.  He studied the building for a moment, watching for the movement of shadows that would give away the soldier inside, but there was none.  He checked the upper windows for movement, then scanned the street.  As he did, his blood chilled colder than the Leningrad winter.

His prey was gone.

Not the man he hadn't yet killed – the ones he'd shot.

He could see partway into the alley where the rapist had been killed, but there was no body there or even a sign of the girl who was attacked.  He tried to convince himself that he just couldn't see beyond the corner and deep enough into the alleyway to spot the body, but even the man he'd killed on the open street was gone.

The surviving soldier couldn't have taken the bodies.  He was too afraid to try and aim a shot, let alone venture back into the street and drag his comrades back into cover.  And it had happened quickly, too.  Valenchenko had been away from the windows for no more than a minute, two at the most.  Somewhere in that time the bodies had been taken.

Confusion and fear mingled with anger.  He'd killed these men for himself, goddamn it.  And some vulture of the city had swooped down and claimed them.  Valenchenko had taken the risks, done the deed, only to lose the rewards of his first real meal in months to a coward who hid in the shadows and took what wasn't theirs. 

They could pay.  They would pay.

The thief couldn't have gone far.  Most likely they were still in the building or even in the alleyway behind it.  Valenchenko could find them, and take back his kill.

But first he needed to reach a better position.

He scrambled around the debris and ran to the doorway of the building, the same spot that the remaining soldier had been firing from moments before.  He dropped to cover, remaining on the street, and carefully peered through the doorway and the windows, checking the interior of the building.

He could see the fire barrel, and straight through the bombed out building all the way to the alleyway he'd greeted the soldiers from earlier.  Other than the fire and the filleted corpse beside it, there was nothing but rubble inside.

Valenchenko took one last look at the spot where the dead solider had lain.  It didn't look as though the body had been drug; the pool of blood looked undisturbed, growing black in the rapidly dimming light.

He was dealing with someone strong – perhaps more than one person.

His rifle ready, Valenchenko darted through the doorway and into the building.  The air was still cold, but just moving into the shelter of the walls seemed to warm his body somehow.

He pressed into the building, staying against the wall and avoiding the fire for the moment.  If someone was waiting for him they would be watching the fire.  Better to stay in the shadows until he finished this business.

The side wall continued for a dozen feet before opening up where a door had once been.  A large section of the wall had collapsed, leaving a massive opening that led into a larger room.  A meeting room, or ballroom used for festivities in brighter days.  It was filled with rubble now– blown out chunks of stone from the exterior walls, scraps of furniture broken and useless, and piles of random items deemed worthless by the looters.  Valenchenko spun around the corner and ducked behind a heap of stone.

The faltering light outside sliced through the missing sections of the wall, dimly lighting the cavernous room.  It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the low light, but once they did Valenchenko tried to pick out any movement in the room with him.

He couldn't spot anything, but after a few seconds the sounds of a voice drifted to his ears.  It seemed to be coming from the opposite side of the room, barely a whisper.  It was too soft to even discern if it was speaking in Russian or some other language, but it was unmistakably a voice.

Valenchenko listened for a moment before deciding he had to move.

Slowly, trying to be as silent as he could, he moved out from behind the rubble and deeper into the room.  It took a few moments to reach the center of the room and he crouched behind  stone pillar.

The whispering was no louder now, but still continuing unabated.

He moved again, nearing the end of the room and taking cover behind another small pile of debris.  He could see the opposite wall a dozen feet from him now, but the whispering seemed to be coming from beyond it.  It still hadn't gained any volume.

It had to be in the alleyway, he reasoned.  Why it still sounded so far away was beyond him, but the alley was the last place it could be.

Just as he was about to move for the wall, to follow it to a bombed-out opening that would let him access the alleyway, the voice fell quiet.

He didn't move.  There was  a long, still silence without even the sounds of artillery to disturb it.

Then the whispering began again.  Only now it was coming from behind him, back the way he had come.

Valenchenko turned back, his heart racing.

The fire was the only real source of light now, and it was quickly dwindling as it burned through the last bit of wood on it.

But standing beside it was the boy.

He was staring at Valenchenko.  It would be impossible for the child to see him, cloaked in the darkness as he was, but nevertheless Valenchenko could feel the cold emerald eyes on him, watching him.

It was a ruse.  It had to be.  The boy had been following him, but he couldn't have been alone.  He was with someone – a parent or relative, perhaps – who was using him to goad Valenchenko into action.  To force him into the open so that they could overtake him and then make a meal of him just as they would the soldiers that Valenchenko himself had killed.

They watched each other for a moment, Valenchenko deciding what to do.  The other party had to be nearby, waiting for Valenchenko.  Probably around the corner just out of sight.

He could press forward, try to stay quiet and surprise them.

Or he could panic them just as he had the final soldier.

He could kill the boy, just as he'd thought about before.

It wasn't that he was evil, or some vicious monster.  But he'd killed to survive, and that food had been stolen.  And now the thieving vultures were trying to kill him as well.

There was no real choice, was there?  It was survival.

Valenchenko raised the rifle.

The boy didn't move, just kept those cold eyes fixed on Valenchenko.

He fired and watched as the wall behind the boy was sprayed with dark crimson and watched as the child's head snapped backwards as the bullet passed through it and watched as the boy fell to the ground, those pale emerald eyes never closing or changing in the least.

And then he watched and listened for some reaction from the boy's comrades.

The whispering had fallen silent again.  Nothing moved.

Valenchenko waited for a few minutes and then moved to the wall nearest him, following it carefully until a small hole in it led him back into the alleyway he'd been in so long ago.

He moved down it swiftly, staying low and quiet.  In the distance, the German artillery started up again and sent thundering thuds through the city.  It made Valenchenko smile, the shelling.  It would mask his approach.

Within minutes he neared the blown out wall where he'd first encountered the soldiers and their fire, and he slowed his pace as he approached it.

They were near; he could feel it.

Valenchenko peered around the edge of the opening and looked into the building.

The fire was dwindling to nothingness – a few glowing embers and a couple of small flames.

The boy's body was gone.  Even the blood on the wall had vanished.

Valenchenko stared into the darkness beyond the fire, listening for anything that would let him draw some kind of a bead on his prey.

He moved into the room cautiously, his rifle leading the way.  The pounding of his heart mixed with the explosions tearing through Leningrad.

Just as he reached the fire, Valenchenko saw him.

The boy was ten feet or so from him, standing just where the fire's illumination was swallowed up by the dark.  He could make out the shape of the boy, but it was the eyes that he could see clearly –   the piercing emerald eyes reflecting the glimmer of the fire back towards Valenchenko.

He stepped out of the fire, the bullet hole that had blossomed so cleanly above his left eye gone now, replaced with pale skin as pure as the gray snow that filled the city.

Valenchenko understood immediately, and he tried to wrestle back the panic knotting in his chest like a cancer.

Valenchenko stumbled backwards, but gave up his retreat after a few steps.  After all, where could he hope to go in a city such as this?

The city was dying, after all, and the devil had it now.

It, and everyone in it.

KUDZU

Leon’s jaw dropped as the truck swung around the final curve in the road and the field fell into view.

When they’d left it last year, the field was the epitome of southern beauty: lush green grass stretching for twenty or so acres, the deep woods of the Appalachias on one side and a pristine creek bubbling through the shade of a few trees on the other.

Now it had been overtaken; conquered.  The field was still green, but not because of grass.  Kudzu had invaded it, apparently with the ferocity and determination of a Mongol horde.  The vine swept out of the forest and covered the field; only a fifty foot strip of grass remained between the creek and the kudzu.

Here and there large pillars of the plant rose up from the ground where apple and maple trees had once stood, the trees choking beneath the shroud of kudzu.  Other mounds, oblong in shape and as tall as a man, had also appeared.  Leon assumed the vines had tangled upon themselves and grown into the three huge wads that were now dotting the field like warts.

Beside him his wife, Gail, seemed as flabbergasted as he was.  “Jesus.  Where did that come from?”

He dropped the truck into four wheel drive and eased the truck off the gravel road and into the field, watching in his rearview to ensure that the camper trailer made the transition as well.

“I’ve always seen it in the woods up there,” Leon said, pointing to the mountainside.  “Not sure how the hell it overtook the whole field that quickly.”

In the truck’s small backseat, Missy said: “Doesn’t that stuff grow super-fast, Dad?”

He nodded and smiled.  She was smart for a seven year old.  “Yeah, Punkin.  But super-fast is a couple of inches a year.  This stuff must have grown hundreds of feet since last July.”

As the truck made its way across the field to the creek, Leon couldn’t stop staring at the stuff.  It was unprecedented, growth like this.  He’d been around kudzu his whole life, having grown up in the south.  It was as much a part of the area as grits and moonshine.  He’d seen the stuff overtake entire patches of forest before, but it had taken years.  This was insane.  It was…

…unnatural. 

“I thought we paid somebody to keep the grass mowed,” Gail said.

“Yeah.  Well, just the part we always camp at.  Everything else some good old boys come and bail up to feed their horses with.  I guess they haven’t needed any hay since last year.”

The field had been in Leon’s family for decades.  His grandfather had purchased it before Leon had even been born.  One hour up a gravel road, far from any kind of civilization, it had been the camping destination of choice for his family ever since.  The creek held a bounty of trout, and several hiking trails led to waterfalls and splendid views.

He didn’t get out here as much as he’d like to, but once a year he managed to load up the camper, hitch it to the truck, and disappear with his family into the mountains for a few days.

Leon pulled to a stop about halfway between the creek and the kudzu and engaged the parking brake.  The three of them climbed out of the truck, each raising their arms above their heads and stretching their road-weary muscles.

Leon stared at the field, studying the kudzu.  It was a deep green, almost black.  The leaves were abnormally large, each one the size of a hubcap.  The field was an ocean of the stuff, the surface broken only by the tall pillars of vine that clung to the trees and the three knotted mounds that dotted the field.  The scene was eerie, and Leon found himself feeling slightly unnerved by the plant.  This wasn’t right; not at all.

 Maybe he should load the family back into the truck and leave.  Just go to one of the dozens of pay-as-you-stay RV parks in the area.  Get away from the mutant kudzu.

“Daddy?  Can I let Roscoe out?”

Leon turned.  Missy was standing by the door of the camper, hand on the handle, anxious to give her dog freedom.

He glanced back to the kudzu.  It may have grown fast, but it was just a damn plant.

He shook off his nervousness, feeling silly for letting the kudzu bother him.  “Sure, Punkin.  Let him out.” 

She opened the door and the collie bounded out into the mountain air, running a lap around the truck and camper before making his way to the creek and diving in.  Missy laughed with glee and trotted to the creek bank.

“Don’t go in the water until we can watch you, Missy,” Leon called out, watching her with a smile.

She threw up a hand in acknowledgement.  “I know.”

The sound of pots clanking together came from the camper.  Gail was already inside, unpacking and setting up for their week-long stay.

Sneaking one last look at the field, Leon began unfurling the camper’s awning.

***

It took them two hours to set up camp, and by then the sky was streaked purple and orange as the summer sun fell behind the mountain range far in the horizon.  Leon sipped a beer and watched Missy and Gail roast marshmallows in the fire.  Roscoe had claimed a patch of ground underneath the truck as his bed, and had spent the past half hour snoring away the evening.