by Platt, Sean
“P-parasite?”
“Have you been getting bad headaches?”
“Yes,” he said, stunned. “I have.”
“It’s the parasite.”
“What kind of parasite?”
Peter once heard stories about a type of parasite that infected small animals and took over their motor control.
Or was it insects?
“You mean this isn’t my fault?”
Peter couldn’t stop the tears pouring down his face. It felt so good for someone to tell him he wasn’t a monster, even coated in his wife’s sticky blood.
“No, it’s not your fault. It’s the parasites. Please, stop now and turn yourself in. You can still do the right thing.”
A stabbing pain splintered through his skull, bringing a roaring anger alongside it.
“No, you’re lying. You’re a figment of my imagination.”
He turned, aimed at Claire, and put his finger around the trigger.
“Sorry.”
His finger froze mid-squeeze.
The stabbing grew more intense as if someone, or something, was slicing his brain into pieces with an icy blade drenched in acid.
Peter clenched his teeth so tight he felt a few break. Blood poured from his mouth.
His body tensed as he felt something sliding through his muscles, going from his chest to his arms and then into his fingers, forcing him to release the trigger and drop the rifle.
He reached into the bag, or his body did, acting against his brain’s commands.
He grabbed a pistol, not sure which, and brought it toward his mouth.
No, no, no, no!
“Kill yourself, Mr. Williams. It’s the right thing to do,” Paola’s voice spoke in his head, adding to the intense pain.
No! Get out of my head!
He stared down at Claire, still trying to get out from under the dead teacher, eyes on her father.
He had to resist, had to free Claire from her misery.
His arms refused to obey.
His mouth opened.
He screamed, trying to resist whatever, or whoever, was in control.
The pain in his head was dialed up to a million, so bad he was certain his brain would explode without release.
He put the gun in his mouth.
Peter found freedom from the pain.
He fell to the floor, dimly aware of the world around him, watching Claire scream.
It was the last thing he saw, the final torment he would visit on his daughter.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — MARY OLSON
As Paola continued to scribble on the paper, Desmond finally arrived at the house, nearly ten minutes after Mary had called.
He ran into the kitchen, fell to his knees beside Mary, and held one of Paola’s hands.
“How long?”
“Twelve minutes,” Mary said.
He looked down at the pages spread on the floor beneath her. Paola had gone through six sheets so far, writing in giant, messy letters.
He picked up the papers and started sorting through them. “Who is Peter Williams?”
“No idea,” Mary said.
Paola started writing faster, bigger letters.
“No, no, no, no.”
“Kill yourself Mr. Williams. It’s the right thing to do.”
Mary swallowed, wondering what sort of horrible thing her daughter was seeing.
The seizures, they had deduced from Paola’s vague recollections and the things she’d written matching news reports of recent atrocities, had somehow allowed her to connect with people infected by The Darkness, reporting the things these people were seeing and presumably feeling.
“We need to wake her up.”
“No,” Desmond said sharply. “We have no idea what harm that might cause her.”
Mary looked down at her daughter’s shaking, furrowed, sweat-beaded brow, eyes closed tight, tears pouring from them as her hands scribbled something indecipherable, big giant letters, all on the same page.
D
I
E
And then it was over.
The seizures quit in a flicker, just like they started.
The girl’s brow relaxed, her hand went limp, dropping the pen. Her head rolled to the side, asleep. Likely exhausted.
Mary exhaled deeply, glad it was over.
Desmond picked up Paola and carried her to the couch. Mary ran ahead to move her tablet out of the way.
Desmond laid her down, then turned to Mary.
“You OK?” He came over and took her into his arms.
It felt so good to have Desmond back. Things weren’t quite as cozy and normal as before, but their relationship had been forged in a dead world’s chaos. There really hadn’t ever been a normal.
Mary wondered if there would ever be any sort of normal again.
The Darkness had followed them back to this world, was wreaking havoc daily, and yet it seemed like nobody outside of their tiny circle knew what was happening. Nobody, save for the Black Island Guardsmen and presumably a few other government agencies, seemed to be aware of an alien presence.
Mary was shocked that no one had let the information leak, that no civilian had managed to capture any cell phone footage of the black, stringy aliens. They had managed to hide well within humans this time. She wondered if that was a good sign or a bad one. Was the aliens’ seeming invisibility a sign of their strength and improved organization or one of vulnerability?
Whatever the case, Mary would do her damnedest to keep Paola safe, and it felt good to have company. While Boricio was God knows where, she could never truly count on him anyway. He had his life to live; she had hers. But Desmond was back, and Mary finally had faith that even if they had to march through fire they’d make it out of hell alive.
He’d always been a confident, if not somewhat mysterious man. He was now more so, and smarter, for his experiences on the dead world. It was as if The Light had prepared him for true leadership. If there was one thing the world needed now, it was someone to guide them, someone who knew how to fight The Darkness.
She just wished Paola didn’t have to be part of the fight.
Mary looked down at her daughter, sleeping on the couch, seeming more like a child in slumber than the young woman she’d been forced to become. Mary wasn’t ready to let go of her little girl, ready for her daughter’s exposure to such horrible things. She couldn’t help but fear that while Paola was peeking into the minds of those infected by The Darkness, that the aliens were staring back into hers. She could be in greater danger than even Desmond could appreciate.
As if reading her thoughts, Desmond whispered in her ear.
“She’s going to be OK.”
“How do we know that?” Mary pulled away from the hug and met Desmond’s eyes. “How do we know that The Darkness isn’t getting into her head whenever she has one of these seizures?”
“She has The Light inside her. It wouldn’t allow such a thing.”
“Do you know that? Are you an expert on these aliens now? Or is that a guess?”
“Well, it’s gut more than anything. It’s hard to know what’s true of the aliens. Every now and then I get memories that aren’t mine, memories of the collective gathered by Luca. I have some of his memories, and some from people I don’t know. It’s difficult to assemble them with meaning. But there are things I do know, things The Light drip feeds to me as I need to know them. I have to trust my gut or the bit of The Light inside me.”
“But you don’t know she’s 100 percent safe, right?”
“You want me to lie to you? You want me to tell you that everything will be OK because we want it to be? You know as well as I do that life has no guarantees. We could defeat the aliens tomorrow and get hit by lightning on the way to the park. No, Mary, there are no 100 percents. Except if we do nothing, then there’s a 100 percent chance that The Darkness will destroy this Earth as It did the other.”
Mary looked down at Paola. “I just wish we
could spare her from this.”
“We can’t control her seizures, Mary. Even if we wanted to. So why not take them for the gift that they are? They will help us find the vials. I can feel it. She’s onto something big. I know it. You’re a hell of a woman, Mary Olson. The strongest, bravest, biggest badass I’ve ever met. Now you need to let your daughter be strong. Show her the faith you have in her, not your fear for her safety. Trust yourself. And her. Believe also that I’ll do everything I can to keep us all safe. Can you do that?”
“Funny,” she said. “Before October 15, 2011, I never thought of myself as strong person. Sure, I was an independent businesswoman who managed to survive and thrive as a single mom, but I didn’t feel particularly strong. I just did what had to be done and coped when things went bad. Even after going through survival training and learning how to handle an assortment of weapons, I never felt particularly strong. Yeah, I can handle myself in a fight now, I’ve killed some aliens, but it’s hard to feel strong when so much is out of my control. I take one look at Paola having these seizures, knowing there’s an alien inside her, and there’s not a damned thing I can do. I think strong is an illusion we sell ourselves, but in reality we’re not strong at all. We’re at these aliens’ mercy. To tell ourselves anything different is a lie. We ought not to lie to ourselves and say we’re strong, when these things are light years ahead of us in every way that matters.”
Desmond pulled Mary back into his arms.
“And that right there is what makes you strong. That you’re not complacent. That you recognize the threat. That you’re open to training yourself to prepare, to do whatever’s necessary.”
Desmond hugged her, and while leaning into his strength felt good, Mary wondered if he wasn’t too optimistic and fearless about their chances. There was a distinction between strength and abandon, and Desmond had already died once at the hands of the aliens. Mary didn’t want to see a repeat performance. But there was comfort in having someone who believed in her so strongly, especially when she felt at the edge of falling apart.
Mary embraced him, looking down at her daughter, hoping that Paola was as strong as Desmond believed, and that it would be enough to keep her from The Darkness.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — MARINA HARMON
Marina stared at Father Thomas Acevedo, unable to turn away from his sewn lips. He lowered his cowl to reveal a thinner, balder, older man than she had imagined: mid-fifties or early sixties.
“Who did this to you?” Marina asked before realizing how stupid it was to query a man with his lips sewn shut.
He reached into his robe, withdrew a notepad and pen, scribbled something, then held it up to her.
“I did. Who are you?”
She thought to ask why, but felt it was too personal a question to ask upon meeting him.
“Marina Harmon. My father was J.L. Harmon. He said that you would help me if I came to you.”
Acevedo’s eyes widened. He scribbled something else and held it up for Marina.
“Help you with what?”
“These,” she said, opening the box.
Acevedo’s eyes looked like they might roll from his sockets at the sight of her vials. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen them. The man backed away as if she’d just opened a batch of Ebola virus.
“What’s wrong?”
Acevedo went to his bed, reached beneath the thin mattress, and pulled out a knife.
Marina backed up, putting herself closer to the door in case he attacked.
He brought the blade to his lips and began to cut the black threads. He cut too fast, the blade slipped and drew blood.
Acevedo kept cutting until the threads no longer bound his lips, even though the ends were still stuck, dangling in blood. He ignored it and words fell too fast from his mouth.
“What are you doing with those? How did you get them?”
Marina wasn’t sure how much he knew or how long he’d been locked in the monastery. “My father is dead. You know that right?”
He nodded, still ignoring the dripping blood. She wished he would wipe it away. He looked like one of those crazy homeless people who sometimes harmed themselves outside of the church’s compound.
“He came back to me this morning. I don’t know how, but he did. He said to guard these with my life, and that you could help me.”
“Help you what?”
Acevedo asked as if he knew the answer but was terrified to ask.
“Save the world.”
“Oh God, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“It’s out there, isn’t it? I knew it was only a matter of time. I can feel It.”
“What are you talking about?” Images of the dark thing inside Steven flashed through Marina’s mind.
“It goes by many names, but is commonly called The Darkness. It came in those vials from somewhere far away. It came here to destroy us.”
“Father said the vials could save us. That you know where the others are.”
“Your father entrusted them to a few special people, people he felt wouldn’t be corruptible by their power. I’m afraid your father chose wrong.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he chose me, and I am not good. I thought I was. But if I, a man of God, couldn’t resist the temptation, what does that say for others?”
“Do you know where the other vials are?”
“Why? What are we going to do, assuming they’ve not been opened, and assuming these people will turn them over to us?”
Marina said, “I thought you would know what to do.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place. Please, leave, and show no one those vials.”
“I can’t just leave! I don’t know what to do. My father said you would help.”
“Sorry, I’m not the man your father believed me to be.”
Marina looked at the man’s spare bedroom, with no personal belongings save for whatever few items he could stuff into the trunk at the foot of his bed. She didn’t know much of other religions, but knew an ordinary man didn’t sew his lips shut or commit to a monastic life.
She had no clue as to the man’s committed sins, but clearly seemed to owe atonement for something.
“Why are you here? Why did you sew your lips shut.”
Acevedo looked down, as if ashamed to meet Marina’s eyes.
“Please,” she said. “I have nowhere else to go. My boyfriend, a man I thought loved me, who led the church alongside me, just tried to kill me. He’s got this Darkness you’re talking about inside him. If I return to the church, he will kill me. And he’ll take these vials. Is that what you want?”
He met her eyes, gravely. “No.”
“Then please, you must help me.”
Acevedo stared at her, his lips a mess of blood and hanging threads. He looked lost and defeated already. She wondered if he could help her. Wondered what he’d seen to bring him here, and make him sew his lips shut?
“Fine, I’ll help. But you must promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever I do, whatever I say, do not give me any of the vials. I cannot be trusted.”
“OK,” she said nervously, hoping her father wasn’t wrong to put his faith in this broken, beaten man.
“So, you’ll help me?”
“Under one condition,” Acevedo said.
“What’s that?”
“You must become pure of temptation. I need to know you’re not tainted.”
“What do you mean?”
“I means this … ”
Suddenly someone was behind Marina, grabbing her, putting a rag over her mouth. She tried to resist, but the rag was soaked with something that bleached the fight from her body and mind.
* * * *
CHAPTER 6 — BORICIO WOLFE
Boricio lay on the top bunk with his hands behind his head — the stingy fucks at Carlson County Correctional Center didn’t seem to believe in pillows. How the
fuck were they supposed to “correct” criminals when they couldn’t even get the bedding right? He was doing his damndest not to show that he was feeling like a cracked-out cat in a cracker box of claustrophobia.
Boricio’s cell was a tiny six by eight, with a shitter/sink combo and a pair of bunks with yoga mats for mattresses. Boricio was fortunately alone in his cell for the moment. He couldn’t imagine sharing a space so small without his cellmate DOA. And he sure as shit wasn’t gonna have some cunt come in and demand the top bunk.
Boricio was not a fucking bottom.
He’d been awake for about an hour but hadn’t heard dick from the guards or anyone else.
The jail wasn’t like that shit on Oz where all the prisoners could see one another. Boricio’s cell had no bars — just concrete walls, what looked like an unbreakable window, and a locked door with safety glass. He could see another cell across from him, though Boricio didn’t know if it was empty or occupied. For that he was thankful. Making friends was the last thing he wanted to do in this shithole.
Boricio had barely slept since the cops picked him up. He’d yet to hear what he was being charged with, though murder seemed high on the list.
The irony was laughable. Of all the murders he’d committed, a number that had to climb high in the hundreds, Boricio had been nicked for what he’d argue was self-defense.
Karma wasn’t a bitch. She was a fucking cunt.
He wasn’t horribly concerned. Boricio had little doubt that he’d beat the rap. It was self-defense. Sure, he’d chased the fucker down, but he could easily argue that he did so in fear that the hillbilly would get to his gun then come back and shoot him. He could also argue that he wasn’t chasing the guy, but rather running to the gas station for help, then the guy said he would shoot him. Boricio wasn’t above lying for justice.
Hell, maybe there was even a camera or three that showed the cousin fuckers arriving with Boricio bound in the truck.
And on the off chance that he was convicted, well, Boricio would find a way to escape.
