Just Before Dawn

by Joshua Hernandez

  All of them except for the computer monitor.

  He rushed over to his computer, his chair nearly popping out from under him as he sat down hard upon it. He looked at the open word processor, his simple paragraph now a much longer vision of insanity. Symbols of combined letters, non-linear phrases and drawings of things he had no idea how to make lined the digital worksheet. Pages and pages of it ran on and on. The more he scrolled down the more his finger trembled over the button for the mouse. At one point the image of his own face stared out at him made entirely of the letter “Q” in various sizes; another page was the Declaration of Independence, albeit a version written by someone who wished death and pain to everyone under the umbrella of “We The People”.

  Then nothing. Another four hundred and two pages of blank screen finishing out, at page 1306, with an entire page of a single sentence; “In the shadows under, I wait.”

  Peter screamed. His voice reached the high pitched scream of a soprano opera singer though lacking any of the same beauty. He could literally feel the blood draining from his face. He bolted, his feet moving as fast as he could. His door seemed so far away from his computer and yet before he knew it the cold metal of the door knob was under his sweaty palm. Peter threw the door open and ran out into the hallway.

  Only to trip over his own bed. Falling in a tumble of flailing limbs and panicked curses Peter nearly cried. His mattress, his former refuge against living through the day, seemed no more than a net seeking to trap him. Kicking and screaming Peter pulled at his wadded sheets and yanked them over his head. There, holding onto his knees, Peter tried his best to be invisible.

  Then came the breathing. It was like the sound of a hundred razorblades slowly parting flesh, alive and warm with a bitter tasting scent. He could hear it beyond his ears; he could hear it against his skin and in the pit of his stomach. Rising and falling it went on and on, slowly getting louder until Peter was sure he felt something climb onto the bed. Peter wanted to scream for his father, but that man had been dead going on ten years. His mother had never been any help with these things, and they hadn't talked in months. It was only him. Alone. In the dark. He felt the sheets begin to move, grasping for him with long spindly fingers. They caressed his legs and his arms and Peter began to thrash under what had always been a sure shield against the dark. The hands prodded his back and his stomach, slid down and brushed his crotch. Peter felt his bladder let go. The shame of him peeing the bed like some frightened kindergartener brought him back, just for an instant.

  “I won't be afraid!” Peter screamed, throwing back the sheets. All the lights in the house came on. The breathing stopped. Peter got out of bed and slowly went into the living room. The clock atop his T.V. Showed 3:57 A.M. His place was a mess. The closet was open how he had left it, crap spilling out onto the floor. Blood spattered his door, and even some of the ceiling of the walkway. The thought of the wet sound of a dog exploding made Peter shiver. The rain continued outside, adding to the eerie feeling Peter already couldn't shake. The computer was on still, the window for the camera showing himself looking at it in turn. It was still recording. Peter wanted to look at the video, but he was too scared to. He couldn't even bring himself to get near the computer. Something about it seemed alien. He almost expected the monitor to blink at him like some great glass eye.

  “To hell with this,” he said aloud and made a beeline to the door. He unlatched it and ran out into the hallway. Out into the rain he went, the door thundering shut behind him. It fell on him in cold sheets, reminding him that winter was near, but he didn't care. He just wanted away from that thing in the dark. No matter how unreal it seemed he knew it was there. Waiting. It had always been there, he had just forgotten it for a while. He thought that maybe that was what had angered it. The forgetting. Peter climbed into his '89 Buick and shut the door. He reached for his keys and realized he was still in his boxers; he never even changed after the exploding dog. That did it, the thought of that shaggy gray dog exploding like some kind of puppy bomb turned his stomach. He opened the door to the car and let the remainder of his dinner fall out

  Into the toilet. Still heaving Peter could feel the fear rising again. The soft light of his bathroom glistened off the parts of the toilet that had not yet been sullied. The smells of his own house and the coppery tinge of dried blood swam up his nostrils. Peter stumbled backwards, slamming into the wall. He was back in his house.

  Peter got to his feet and ran, intending to try to leave his apartment again, but he never made it to the door. His computer caught his eye as he ran, for there on the screen, was his website chat-room, open and running. Message after message was appearing on the chat-board, all of them from different users. Suddenly Peter forgot he had ever been scared. He forgot about his desire to end his own life, he had even forgotten why he had felt that way in the first place. The people who had so cruelly left him had come back. They had seen everything.

  And they wanted more.

  Peter crept to his computer, his chair seemingly waiting for him to come back like some vacant throne made for a king. He sat and leaned forward to better watch as message after message showed up on the screen. His heart raced as he read the most recent messages:

  Alphamale123: How the hell did he do all that stuff with the “shadow-people”?

  Bubahotep: Regular cheap-o effects man, just like all the indie-films!

  420Rager: Guys, I’m freaking out!

  StrangerDanger: Wow, he hasn’t been this effed up in a long time!

  Vampymayden: Is it just me, or is he hot!

  Alphamale123: Shut up Vampy! I'm still just tripping out over that thing behind him!

  Seviehead: Dude, do you see it's eyes?

  420Rager: I think I just crapped myself! Buba, how's he doing that mouth thing with it, ain't he poor?

  Peter's rising good feeling left him. These people were watching him, right then, and were seeing something behind him. Something scary. “I don't want to die anymore,” he whimpered. Strangely enough, he didn't. Even before the people had come back he was suddenly very sure he wanted to live. “Just leave me alone...please?”

  Peter turned and looked face to face with the thing from the shadows. A body blacker than night blocked out all light from the apartment around him. Those blue, error-screen eyes stared at him with a burning hatred. And hunger. Peter felt his bladder go once more and warmth ran down his legs. A great maw that smelled of sour eggs and rancid meat opened up. Peter screamed for his father and the creature from the shadows fell upon him.

  “Hurry up Di, it's starting!” Jess shouted across the room. “Popcorn's ready!” Di shouted as the bowl full of the fluffy snack spilled pieces behind her as she ran. Di found the empty chair next to Jess and both of them turned their attention to the monitor. The black background of their favorite web-show, The Shadowed Corner, flashed with bloody red numbers as the show got nearer to its start. Both girls giggled. TSC never gave them a reason to be disappointed.

  “Wonder what he's gonna' do this week?” Jess asked as she pushed a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Di shook her head and shrugged. The screen went white, and then the picture of a white male dressed all in black, his hair slicked back to fall onto his shoulders, appeared in all its vivid detail.

  “Good evening viewers,” the man spoke from inside the monitor. “My name is Peter Peter, Lady-eater,” he laughed. “Today we talk about hunger. There are many kinds of hunger; the hunger of the flesh, otherwise known as lust. The hunger for knowledge, what could be considered obsession. The hunger for status, wealth and ability, also called ambition or avarice.” His face broke into a handsome smile and the girls nearly melted. “Then,” he continued, “there is good old fashioned hunger, the hunger for flesh.” His eyes moved, as if looking at the girls, and they giggled. “Sometimes we can control our hunger, waiting for the right time to go and buy what we need. But in ancient times we had to hunt. The thrill of it won us over, and the joy of tracking and pouncing when the time was
right kept us hungry for more.” He laughed and the screen flashed once, a bright corona of light blinding Jess and Di for a moment. The girls laughed in surprise. “Ladies,” Peter continued on, “I'm hungry.” He reached towards the camera until it appeared the whole of his hand was pressed against the inside of the girls' monitor. The girls squealed with delight. That is until they saw the screen begin to bulge towards them. More and more it came until the glass began to crack. Laughter came at them through the speakers and the girls could not move, paralyzed by fear. Behind the hand on the still breaking monitor two eyes watched them with intense hunger; bright blue eyes the color of a computer error screen.

  Finally the girls began to scream.

  Dirt

  The sun beat down on the dirt road hard enough to feel like strong hands pressing down on his shoulders. Charles Woodlock looked up at the cloudless sky, one hand rising to rest on his brow in an attempt to shield his eyes from the glare of the all too bright sun. Behind him the corn seemed to crackle in their husks as the ears grew more and more dried out from the constant sun. The field rustled as if by a breeze but Charles knew better than that. It was the heat, and only the heat, that set them moving so. As the water continued to be sucked dry by the killing waves of the sun the plants had begun to weaken and break, creating the illusion of breeze blown motion. It had been almost painful the first time he had heard it, so did he long for moving air. He had gotten a breeze once, but it had been so hot it had almost stung his skin to instant dryness. Still, Charles would have killed to feel it again.

  He wiggled his toes in the sand. The tension in his legs and feet had grown into a pervasive ache, breaking his chain of thoughts. The wiggling helped, just not enough. He looked down and saw the dirt of the road covering the darker than chocolate hue of his skin. It looked odd, and he had to pause to wonder why. It hit him before too long; his toe nails were completely clean. He didn't know why it was odd, just that it was. Charles wiped the sweat from his brow, careful not to get it on his sleeve. He leaned forward a bit, his head slowly looking both directions down the road, searching for something. A ride, perhaps.

  Charles leaned down and wiped the dirt from his pant legs. It wouldn't do to look too disheveled if someone were to come along. It wouldn't do at all. He turned and picked up his hat from the oblong stone he had sat it on. It was an odd stone, completely out of place from this rolling expanse of corn fields with a single dirt road cutting it in two. The stone was too smooth, too strange. It could have been a mile marker, maybe, but whatever it had been was now forgotten.

  Just like himself.

  He dusted the dirt off of his white top-hat and put it on. Perhaps it would give him some help in this heat. He knew he had to look odd on the side of the road in his white suit, top-hat and all, bare foot in the dirt. It couldn't much matter though because he hadn't seen a person drive by yet. He looked up at the sun again, wondering how long before it set. He hoped soon, but it seemed stuck at noon and angry about it too.

  Then it came to him, floating on the air like some god given drink of water, the sound of an engine. Charles leaned forward and looked down the road. A cloud of dust had risen up, obscuring the vehicle. Charles wiped down his suit again, trying to be as presentable as possible. He held up his thumb and smiled. The car drew closer and Charles nearly died from the anticipation of it.

  Before too long an old Ford pickup rumbled to a stop in front of Charles. It was an old beast, Charles judged it to be a '59, if not older, the color of rust and primer. The engine gave the clean purr of a well maintained machine and the driver reached over and pushed open the passenger door. “Need a ride son?” a voice drawled in a semi-southern accent. Charles leaned forward and saw an older white man smiling at him from behind the wheel. He wore glasses that were a bit too thick, overalls and red plaid shirt. His skin was wrinkled and weathered and his hair was white, strands of it tempered with the bleached-yellow of sun exposure over the years. Charles smiled at him and gave a nod. The old man jerked his head in a “come here” gesture and Charles hopped in and slammed the door. The old man jerked the truck into gear and they were quickly going down the road with a bump jarring them only occasionally.

  The bench seat was like heaven to Charles' back, even though the foam had long since aged to the point it felt more like stone than foam. His back and feet ached from his stand in the dirt and they tingled with the feel of it. He wanted to clean off the bottom of his feet but thought it would be rude to dirty the otherwise immaculate cabin of the old man's truck. He took off his top hat and sat it beside him on the bench and the old man gave it a look. “Headed to the dance up north, eh?” the old man asked as he took a second look at Charles. Charles gave him a questioning look, unsure how to answer. The man shook his head and returned his attention to the road. “Just thought you were,” he said, you becoming ya and were drawn out until it sounded more like wuur. “I mean, what other reason would you have to be dressed like that 'cept to go to a costumed dance?” the old man laughed. It was an infectious sort of laugh, and Charles found himself laughing along.

  “I guess I am,” said Charles, “though I've been waiting for a ride long enough to have forgotten it.”

  “Yup,” the old man nodded sagely, as if that explained everything. Charles waited for more, but none came. Silence sat between them like a third body as the engine rumbled, driving them on. “I think some of the young folk from back a ways were headin' that way,” the old man said with a one handed gesture behind them. “All dressed up for the dance like it was the end all,” he said with a chuckle, and he turned and gave a conspiratorial wink to Charles. “We know some'at more than that, don't we son.” Charles smiled back, unsure of how to respond. It was another few seconds before the old man spoke again.

  “Well son, it looks like you done lost your shoes.”

  “Not sure when,” Charles said with a wiggle of his toes, “but I wish I hadn't.”

  “Would'a been the devil's time trying to walk from where you were to town I reckon,” the old man said. “Had you done much walking 'fore I got to you?”

  “No sir,” Charles said, wondering how long a drive it was going to be.

  “That's good,” the old man said with a nod, “does a terrible thing to your feet, walking through that mess.” Charles nodded in agreement as his feet throbbed with understanding pain. They drove on, and for a long while nothing was said. Hours went by as they bumped along the dirt road and Charles quickly grew tired of the sight of corn. Worse still was the stifling air that seemed to grow heavier by the minute. The old man smelt of peppermint, cigars and sweat, not a combination that did well by Charles' hungry stomach. He wanted to open the window, but the dust cloud they kicked up behind them seemed to hover by the windows as they went. If he opened his window it would come in and be worse than the smell of the old man, so he did the best he could to just bear it. Who knows how long it would take another person to stop and pick him up.

  “Well Chuck,” said the old man, “I was wonderin' when I would see you.” He smiled as Charles looked at him, puzzled by his statement. “Been wonderin' quite a while. Nice suit, so white and clean. Shame to think of the filth it hides.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” blurted Charles. He looked at the old man expectantly, but the old man seemed content to let Charles temper die. Charles wasn't in the same mood. “I don't know who you think I am, but I've never seen you before and don't appreciate being called filthy.”

  “Come on now son,” said the old man, “you and I both know it takes more than looking clean to be clean. 'Sides, don't you just look the fool standing there in the dirt, a homely ol' black boy in a white suit like he some kind of top of the heap king. Foolish.”

  “What did you call me?” Charles shouted at the old man. The old man slapped his knee as he laughed at Charles' response. “What now son,” he laughed, “you'd rather I call you nig...”

  “Finish that word and I'll choke the life from you,” Charles said in
a blind rage.

  “Now that's the Charles I was expectin'! Not that fine ol' boy in the suit, but that dirty, motherless sonofagun who ain't about to take no crap from no one. Finally.” The old man nearly cackled. “How the hell did you ever manage to get such a white suit with a temper like yours?”

  “I don't know what you are talking about, so you can just let me out now,” said Charles.

  “Can't do that son,” said the old man. “The road isn't your place, not just now. You know that.”

  “What are you talking about!?” Charles shouted.

  “Dammit boy,” the old man shouted back, “That's why you don't got no damn shoes! You can't go around thinking with your temper. Nothing good happens like that. Nothing good comes of acting like that!” The old man slammed on his brakes sending both of them rocking forward from the force of it. He turned and glared at Charles through his glasses, pointing one wrinkled finger that the more than confused man. “How many times you done this and still you ain't learned nothin'. You still aren't thinking with more than your 'right-now' thinker and it just ain't going to happen like that.” The old man reached across Charles and opened the door. Charles looked at the open door and then at the old man. The old man simply stared. Getting the point Charles slid from the pickup, his tired feet reminding him how hot and hurtful the dirt could be. “You know son,” the old man said grimly, “the long road ain't got nothing for you but pain. You already knew that, or you wouldn't have been waiting for me to come and get you. Someone taught you better, or so I thought, but it ain't doing you know good right now. So,” he said, pointing down the road, “start walking.”