Until... | Book 1 | Until The Sun Goes Down

by Hamill, Ike

  The violet-eyed monster was female. I’m sure of it now. It was female and this is the child that she died trying to protect.

  When I move closer, the baby’s eyes open. It’s too young to try to hypnotize me. The eyes are slightly more blue than its mother’s. They’re still beautiful. This little one will grow up to be just as powerful as its mother, I’m sure of that.

  Without another thought, I stab it.

  If I had any power in the house, I’m sure the Mountain of Pure Rock would be playing a dramatic soundtrack to this murder.

  Instead, all I hear is the pitiful cry of the baby as I pull back and stab again.

  Hot tears fall from my eyes. My frustrated scream joins the voice of the baby as I try to puncture its wonderful eyes with my dull broomstick.

  There is nothing worse than revenge. There is nothing more horrible than committing the murder of an infant while thinking of the senseless death of your own heart.

  When it’s done and the thing is melting into the cool water, I stagger back and fall into a chair.

  Emptiness is all I feel. They’re all gone—I’m sure of it now.

  It’s hot, the sun is continuing to rise in the sky, and I’m all alone in Uncle Walt’s house. I’m all alone except for the buzzing flies.

  Sun

  (It's worth a shot.)

  It’s worth a shot.

  Before I give up on this place, I circle the house and wander around in the shadow of the barn until I see it. I find my cellphone, but it’s now simply a black rectangle made of glass, metal, and plastic. Somehow, the glass survived the fall when my cellphone tumbled from my hand. It doesn’t turn on. Maybe it’s just the battery.

  I shove it in my pocket and then return inside.

  I was upstairs earlier, but I forgot to pickup my wallet. It’s no wonder—the mess in my bedroom reminds me of the struggle here. The pain in my wrist flares as I think about the talons that nearly dragged me into the darkness.

  I had a lot of close calls last night.

  I’m not going to let myself dwell on those right now.

  Sorting through the mess of my bedroom, I find some clothes to change into. It would be nice to have a shower, but without power I don’t have any running water. I clean up the best I can and exit the house through the kitchen.

  Part of me wants to tidy up a few things first. The food behind the fridge is disgusting. The flies are still coming in through the broken windows. It would be monumentally stupid to hang around and I’ve done too many stupid things already.

  I sit down on the porch and re-tie my shoes.

  That poor truck. It was old when I was born. It served my uncle faithfully for all those years and then I blew it up in order to save my own skin. I guess it went out heroically. We could all hope to be so lucky.

  I stand up, feeling unencumbered. I almost feel buoyant. The sun is too bright though. I wish my sunglasses hadn’t burned up with the truck. Before I leave, I jog back inside and grab one of my uncle’s baseball caps. It has his smell. He used some kind of pomade in his hair to tame his cowlick.

  I’m finally ready. A voice in the back of my head says that this will be the last time I ever see this place.

  “That’s stupid,” I say, shaking my head.

  The whole point of risking my life last night was to defend this place.

  Walking away, across the dooryard and beyond the burned truck, feels completely unnatural. I don’t know if I can explain why. I want to turn around again, just to get one last look at the place, but I force myself to keep my eyes on the road ahead. Once I’m over the hill and my uncle’s place is out of sight, I wish I had.

  (This is the house that started it all.)

  This is the house that started it all.

  Walking to Mr. Engel’s, I’ve had some time to meditate on what I might find. First, I have to acknowledge how stupid it was to not bring either of my stakes. I got pretty good with those things this morning. There’s no telling what I’m going to find inside.

  Instead of turning back, I made a deal with myself. If the door is ajar, like it was before, I’m going keep walking and never look back. Any hint that those things are still around and I will be in the wind.

  With that in mind I walk up to his door.

  It’s closed and locked.

  I let out a relieved breath.

  Before I break in, I decide to be sure. I make a slow tour of the perimeter of the house, checking the windows and the entrance to his basement. Around at the back door—which is also locked, by the way—I’m pleased to finally admit that the house is sealed up. Looking through the glass, I can even see the latch on the basement door. For the first time, the hook is through the eye. It has decided to stay latched.

  Whispering apologies to Amber, I use a rock to break the glass and reach through the hole to unlock the door.

  I’m already drenched in sweat. This day is turning out to be another miserable one. Mr. Engel’s house is a good deal hotter. It’s exactly what I would expect, and it’s not a bad thing. As he told me—they hate heat.

  Before entering fully, I close my eyes to see if I can sense any of the impending doom that I felt in their presence earlier. It’s hard to say. My heart is already pounding from the act of breaking in, and I’m sweating from the heat. I think it feels okay though. Besides, I only have to go a few feet to reach the phone.

  I take a breath and cross the room.

  The line crackles with static, but I don’t hear a dial tone.

  I try to dial anyway.

  Nothing happens.

  “Hello?” I ask the static.

  The sound of my own voice sends a chill down my spine and I can’t take my eyes off the door to the basement.

  That’s it. I’m out.

  I drop the phone and back out quickly, nearly slipping on the broken glass on the floor.

  Once I’m outside, I catch my breath fast. Part of me wants to go back in and try the phone one more time, but I quickly overrule that idea. My gambling days are over. I would rather walk a few miles in the sun than go back in that house.

  Back on the road, I turn around several times to glance at Mr. Engel’s house. I’m sure that it was just nerves, but I’m still happy with my decision to leave. The only thing I’m not happy about is the garage. His keys were probably right in the kitchen, hanging on a hook. If Amber is going to forgive me for breaking in, she might have also forgiven me for borrowing the car.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I’m perfectly capable of walking.

  I pull the hat down to block the sun and I wipe sweat from my forehead. A jug of water would have been smart to bring.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I have survived worse.

  (I wish I had counted steps.)

  I wish I had counted steps.

  I wish I had brought a charging cord and tried to plug in my phone at Mr. Engel’s, just to see if it would work.

  I wish I had some water.

  I wish I had grabbed a protein bar or anything from the pantry at home.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I will survive.

  One foot has to go in front of the other, regardless of what else happens.

  I keep telling myself that I should be proud. I faced down the one with the violet eyes and I killed it in the name of Kimberly. Instead of giving in, I stood up to the allure of infinite bliss and I stabbed that creature to death.

  But what if I’m wrong?

  I don’t have anything to prove the idea that those things were predators. Mr. Engel called them vampires in his delirious state. They tapped on a bunch of walls and windows and collected seeds on my porch. Are those reasons enough to warrant eradicating the whole swarm of them?

  I keep thinking about the one in the freezer—the baby with the bluish violet eyes. That one was surely too young to have hunted anything. I killed the others because I suspected them of murdering Mr. Engel and because they were menacing me. I can’t imagine that the baby did a
ny of those things. I’ve never heard these things described. They’re probably incredibly rare. I might have killed off the last pack of them. Their species may now be extinct because of my actions.

  On either side of me, the tall grass is capped with tan clusters of seeds. There is precious little wind, but when it blows it sends mesmerizing ripples through the blanket of grass. I guess these are amber waves of grain? I never really thought about that before. It’s like the Pledge of Allegiance. They taught us to memorize and recite that pledge, but it wasn’t until much later that I really thought about what I was saying. I accept and endorse that pledge now, but at the time I started saying it, I didn’t have the capacity to make such a deep promise. I don’t believe they should have expected me to, either. It’s like asking someone to sign a contract when they haven’t learned how to read yet.

  It’s amazing how wet I am on the outside and how dry on the inside. Every time I try to swallow, my tongue feels like sandpaper on the roof of my mouth. Sweat keeps rolling down into my eyes so I can barely see.

  I squint from beneath the brim of Uncle Walt’s hat and keep my feet shuffling down the pavement.

  There shouldn’t be this much distance between the house and Prescott Road.

  How is it taking this long?

  There’s a movie with Clint Eastwood called The Good, the Bad and the Ugly where Tuco makes Blondie march through the desert. Clint Eastwood looked like a piece of beef jerky by the end of that march. That’s how I feel—dehydrated and sunburned. My lips are cracked and stuck together.

  My wrist is throbbing.

  I have been infected with something.

  It’s my last coherent thought.

  The fall happens in slow motion, like the toppling of a monolith. My head leans too far forward and my feet are no longer able to keep up. I don’t even get my hands in front of me. On the way down, my eyes go wide and the sunlight carves deep troughs in the back of my head. The amber waves of grain are tilting.

  My limp body bounces on the gravel.

  Everything goes light blue and then the light flares so bright that I can’t see anything but white.

  Sterile

  (They don't know I'm awake.)

  They don’t know I’m awake.

  Consciousness returns to me when I’m in the ambulance. At least that’s where I assume that I am. My eyes are nearly closed, so everything is out of focus. I can see movement. That’s about it.

  I hear voices and I catch a word here and there. Most of it is just gibberish to me.

  One of them is pushing up my sleeve.

  I’m incapable of resistance. My senses work, but I can’t seem to control my body.

  If I could only get my eyes open, I’m sure I could communicate with them. They would see my stare and they would understand.

  The world shifts beneath me and I come to know that we’re moving. This is my world now. I’m trapped in this jostling, accelerating body, unable to make contact. It’s somewhat like the pantry. At least they’re not tapping.

  Cool sanity flows back into me.

  I’m able to blink.

  The guy hovering over me looks familiar. Maybe we was one of the guys who came for Mr. Engel?

  He looks kind.

  I was starting to worry that it wasn’t an ambulance at all. I was starting to think that maybe I was inside of a refrigerator. Now that I can see his face, my panic subsides. I’m able to turn my head and I almost manage to get my mouth to form a word.

  “Easy,” he says, like he’s trying to calm a rearing horse. “We’ll get you there. Take it easy.”

  I think I’m strapped down because my arm meets resistance when I try to lift it.

  “Easy.”

  When they roll me from the back of the ambulance, we pass through a shaft of sun. It burns my skin. At that moment, I make a wish—I never want to be in the sun’s bright glare ever again. I’ll do anything if that wish is granted.

  They roll me into the air conditioned building and I nearly break into tears. It’s so perfect in here.

  I can relax for the first time in forever.

  (The pain is a distant concern.)

  The pain is a distant concern.

  It must be the drugs. My body is alive with throbs and aches, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m perfectly content to stay perfectly still and listen to the sound of my own breath moving in and out of my lungs. The air is tranquil surf, rolling in and then disappearing into the sand.

  My eyes shift, taking in the details of the room. The television is off. The lights in the ceiling are mostly extinguished. The blinds are halfway drawn. Through the gaps, I see clouds painted pink at the edges.

  Everything is perfectly perfect.

  Staring at the doorway, I see several people pass by before one glances over at me.

  She stops in her tracks, regards me for a second, and then goes on her way.

  I’m not surprised when she returns a few minutes later and asks me, “How are we feeling?”

  It seems rude to answer for both of us, so I just smile at the question.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  I don’t feel qualified to supply an answer to that. I give her another smile and I try to nod.

  We go through this process for another few cycles before she gives up. I can’t seem to communicate, but I’m not annoyed at all.

  It must be the drugs.

  It was wonderful when she was talking to me and it’s still wonderful when she’s gone.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air, in and out, becomes the crashing surf and it’s lovely to listen to.

  (I'm still in a fog.)

  I’m still in a fog.

  I’ve grown accustomed to the hospital schedule, but they’ve told me that it’s time for me to go home. My body will recover more quickly if I don’t spend too much time in a hospital bed.

  “Aren’t you excited to get back to normal life?” one person asks me.

  I don’t have an answer.

  Honestly, I gave up on the idea of normal life a while ago. When I got to the point where I could form basic sentences, I started asking to talk with the police. They were eager to talk with me as well. I guess the state of my house left them with open questions.

  An officer with a badge clipped to her belt came in and leaned very close to me to hear what I had to say. I told her about the knock on the door. I told her about my escape attempt, the fall, and then the truck. She blinked rapidly when I talked about the fuel line of the truck being cut and how I was forced to blow it up so I would have enough cover to get back to the pantry.

  After that, I glossed over all the details until my walk back to humanity.

  I included how I broke into Mr. Engel’s house to try to use the phone. She nodded at that detail.

  “Who do you think it was? Who tried to attack you at your house?”

  “I don’t have any idea. Did you find any evidence of them?”

  Her eyes went up and around, bouncing from one corner of the room to the next until they landed back on me.

  They all think I’m crazy.

  That’s the main reason I’m so surprised that they’re so eager to send me home.

  Once I’ve healed a bit more, they tell me that my regular doctor will help me make an appointment to be fitted with a prosthetic. For the staff in the hospital, my missing left hand is completely normal. They’ve only ever known me as the guy with the bandaged stump.

  If I wasn’t so drugged, I think that I would be appalled by the nub where my hand used to be. But, honestly, it seems perfectly normal to me as well. If anything, it seems like a temporary arrangement. When I get home, after some healing period, my hand will be right back where it belongs. I’m sure of that.

  The first time I got up to use the bathroom, one of the nurses walked alongside me to make sure I wouldn’t fall. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I shrieked. She jumped back, surprised for moment, and then her face went back to s
tandard nurse’s expression. They’re usually unfazed by anything. If they register any emotion at all, it’s annoyance. I’m not trying to paint a negative picture, I just think that part of their strategy is to treat everything with nonchalance. Perhaps that helps keep the patients calm.

  I couldn’t be calm at the sight of myself though. It wasn’t just the missing hand. The color of my skin was completely wrong, and my eyes were horrifying. My eyes looked like they were nearly glowing with green fire. They were supposed to be brown. At least that’s what I remember and that’s what my driver’s license says.

  The nurse didn’t care. She had found her way to nonchalance and she wasn’t going to retreat from that stoic position.

  Someone has laundered my clothes.

  I button my pants with one hand using the plastic device they taught me to use. They taught me how to tie my shoes with only one hand as well, but I don’t bother. I just tuck in the laces. They can’t make me do it if I don’t want to.

  I check myself out and get into the cab they called for me. The driver takes me to get a rental car.

  (The house looks the same.)

  The house looks the same.

  I know that the police have been here. The power company has removed the lines and put in a new pole, but they haven’t hooked up the service yet. I’m supposed to just be here to pick up a few things and then go get a hotel room. That’s what I told the officer.

  They can’t make me leave though.

  I can stay here if I want to.

  My wrist throbs as I walk into the kitchen.

  There’s bird shit on the floor. I sigh. I have to get cardboard, a utility knife, and some tape. For today, that will have to be good enough.