Dead Light March

by Daniel José Older

  “Hey!”

  “And while we’re on it / Imma verbally vomit / on the topic of resistance. / Ain’t no formula or form or file or insistence / ain’t no understandin’ what this shit is from a distance / ain’t no actin’ like you know or giving your work to some assistants / ain’t no goon squad can overcome our persistence.” Izzy nodded a few times as the music churned on and then yelled, “Now thrash!”

  This was low-key Juan’s favorite part of doing a show with Izzy. She would yell at the band to “thrash” or “rock out” or whatever as if she was running things, and in a way she kinda was, and then she’d step back and Culebra would just explode into the illest metal riff, static turned all the way up, chords dancing maniacally up and down in a frantic progression. And then, here it came, they’d all cut out together except Gordo who hit that smooth and frantic salsa riff and just hold there for a few measures all by himself, those octaves insistent, double-tapping for emphasis between jangling, indecisive thirds, then advancing, falling back, doubling again.

  The crowd screamed into the sudden stillness, the relative chill of Gordo’s solo keyboarding after all that chaos. Everyone tried to salsa, most failed. But Juan’s eye caught a twirling couple that clearly knew what they were doing out on the dance floor. He recognized his sister’s big fro first, then — his heart spun into an urgent chug-a-lug — Bennie.

  She was here and she was dancing. Since when did she know how to salsa anyway? It hardly seemed fair. Her hips swung out as Sierra spun her away and then wrapped her close and dipped her with exaggerated flair. Bennie had hips. And knew how to dance. Why had Juan never known any of these things before yesterday? He scrunched up his face, forcing himself not to stare. Pulpo caught his eye and winked. Juan gave him the finger. Then Kaz hit a four count on the cowbell and everyone fell back in, full thrash mode.

  Juan closed his eyes, let the music wash over him.

  Culebra’s loving thrash erupted around Sierra and for the first time in a long while everything felt some kinda okay. The crowd surged forward, a tangled sea of writhing, sweaty limbs, and Sierra let it carry her along.

  She had overthought. She would stop doing that. She would enjoy this damn night. Maybe even text Robbie’s rarely texting ass back and maybe they’d link up later on the Parkway and walk the revelry, arm in arm. Maybe they’d make out, and figure their shit out, and be alright. Somehow. That part could remain a mystery, though — the how. They could not know, they could find out as they went, maybe.

  She realized she was smiling. Izzy came back on the mic, looking so furious and alive and downright on fire.

  Sierra looked around to tell Bennie that she was finally feeling alright, but Bennie wasn’t there.

  Juan was celebrating in the green room when the call came in.

  “Dope show, bruh,” Izzy said, pounding him way too hard on the back as always.

  He coughed, extricated himself from her hug, agreed, traded a dap, and then pulled out his vibrating phone.

  Bennie.

  Juan’s eyes went wide. He answered and then just kept staring at his phone for a second.

  “Hello?” Bennie’s voice said at the other end. “Juan?”

  “Who that?” Pulpo called from across the room, where he and Gordo were going over the highlights of the show.

  Juan slid out the door into the dingy back hallway of the Red Edge without answering.

  “Juan?” Bennie said again, this time with some urgency. “What’s going on over there?”

  “Hey,” Juan said. “Uh, hey. Bennaldra?” He smacked his own forehead. Why would he go and use her full name like that? Who does that?

  “Uh, yeah. Look, sorry to bother you, I know —”

  “No, no problem, it’s totally fine.”

  “— you guys just finished the show and everything, nice show by the way —”

  “Thanks! It was really —”

  “But yeah, Sierra’s phone is off or dead or on silent or whatever — you know she’s tech deficient — and I’m in a little situation maybe? This guy asked me for help with his dog and —”

  Juan’s heart rate doubled and his fists tightened. “What? Situation? Where are you?” He was moving down the dim corridor, past the green room, past the stage door. He didn’t know where he was going, he just knew he had to move and move fast.

  “Uh,” Bennie said.

  “B, where are you?”

  And then he was shoving open the fire exit at the back of the club and standing in a cramped alleyway with a dumpster, a dead dog, a simpering white guy, and Bennie.

  “Right here,” Bennie said, lowering her phone.

  Mina had stood by and she had watched.

  She had watched while Mort and Bertram sat in the front seat and worked out a plan. Watched while they hemmed and hawed over the finer details of it, mapping alternate possibilities, disasters, escape routes. Watched as they both turned back to her, smiling those avuncular smiles, and asked if she was ready (a nod in reply, the semblance of a smile). Watched them navigate to the club, Bertram driving now, Mort with his nose in the air. She watched them get suddenly serious as they approached, embrace like soldiers preparing for battle outside the Red Edge. She’d traded a solemn handshake with Mort, watched him head off into the night, and then she’d followed Bertram around a corner, then another, crouched beside him in the shadow of the back alley dumpster.

  She’d watched and she’d waited. Bertram bummed a menthol from a passing hipster, smoked it. She’d watched and she’d waited.

  Then Mort walked down the alley, his dress shoes clacking noisily against the pavement and something small and four-legged and panting moving along beside him. Whatever it was, Mina was pretty sure it would be on missing posters by the morning. She tried not to gasp when Mort stopped in front of the back door of the Red Edge, grabbed the scruffy dog from behind, and slit its throat with a knife she hadn’t even seen him draw. The gasp came out anyway though, and Mina cringed as Bertram put a steadying hand on her shoulder. The dog hadn’t even had time to yelp, it just released a breathy moan, more like a sigh, and then went limp as crimson gushed from its neck and painted the pavement.

  Then Mina watched, mouth hanging open, as a shimmering shadow moved through the darkness of the alley toward Mort. This one had a gold tinge to it, like it had been dipped in the essence of the Sorrows. “The Sinestrati,” Bertram whispered. “The elite ghost guards of the House of Light. This is one of them.”

  “But …” Mina let the thought trail off.

  “I know,” Bertram said. “The dead belong to the realm of shadows. You’re right there. But these dead have been cleansed. They are sanctified by the House of Light, blessed and knighted, so to speak, by the Sorrows themselves. They’re with us, Mina. Don’t worry.”

  Mina was trembling again. She hated herself for being afraid, for not knowing what was right anymore, for just wanting to go home.

  She’d shaken off the million incoherent thoughts and forced herself to watch as Mort exchanged some kind of elaborate hand signal with the shining spirit. Then she watched the spirit dive forward into the still-bleeding corpse of the dog.

  “What … is he?” Mina gasped.

  Bertram shook his head. “More than just a freelancer, I guess. I didn’t know he could do that.”

  Then, for the first time since he’d strutted down the alleyway, Mort had looked up at Bertram and Mina. He’d nodded slightly, a genial smile on his face, and then the smile was gone, and he was squinting, blinking, wiping his eyes, shaking his head. He was fully bawling by the time he pulled open the back door of the Red Edge and ran inside.

  Mina exhaled and leaned back against the dumpster. She felt like if she let herself slide down she’d just keep sliding, down through the pavement and pipes and tunnels into the broken heart of the world. And there she’d be consumed by lava or sadness or whatever lurked down there, and that might not be such a bad thing.

  “Hey,” Bertram said, breaking her reverie. “
Take this.” He was holding one of those telescoping extendable nightsticks out to her, the kind security guards and wannabe cops carried.

  She shot it a dubious glance. “I don’t —”

  “In case things get messy. Take it.”

  She took it, the cold weight of it awkward in her hand, and shucked it open and closed a few times to get the hang of it. “There you go,” Bertram said with a wink.

  Mina shrugged noncommittally and stashed it in her jacket pocket.

  And then the club door swung open again and there was Bennie, Bennie from the hallways of Butler, Bennie who was always with Sierra, cracking jokes or doing impressions of boys, Bennie who had never ever made Mina feel like a stranger or a freak, unlike 98.2 percent of the OBH student body.

  Bennie was messing with her phone while trying to calm down Mort, who was sobbing and blubbering about his beloved dog. She called someone, lifted the phone to her ear, cursed, started typing again. Mina watched and watched, barely breathing, and then Bennie had a brief convo and Juan popped out, looking positively ready to take on the world, and that was when the dead dog lit up like a house on fire, beams of golden light bursting forth from its eyes, its mouth, the brand-new slit across its little furry neck.

  Juancito! The spirits cawed, swirling through the club. Bennaldra!

  “I hear you,” Sierra growled under her breath. “But what about them?”

  The tall shadows didn’t bother answering, didn’t slow their desperate stomping. Juancito! The Red Edge was already emptying out, and now the sparse crowd started looking around irritably, sensing the ethereal commotion. Bennaldra!

  Too late, always too late, Sierra remembered to check her phone. It was off, of course; she hated the stupid thing. Out of batteries probably, or maybe it had just gotten tired of being ignored and given up. Either way, Bennie had surely tried to reach her on it, wherever she was.

  “Find them,” Sierra said sternly.

  A hipster standing nearby looked up, alarmed. “What? Who?”

  “Never mind, you.” The spirits had fallen into a shimmering line and were marching toward the door beside the stage. Sierra sprinted through the towering shadows, their chilly tendrils sliding along her face and shoulders. She ran down a dim hallway. To her left, a shaft of light came from a door marked GREEN ROOM. Most of Culebra and Izzy looked up from the celebrations when Sierra poked her head in. “Juan or Bennie around?” she said, trying not to sound too anxious.

  Juancito! the spirits called, rushing down the corridor behind her. Bennaldra!

  Sierra had already ducked back out when Izzy said, “Nah.”

  The back door had a big EMERGENCY EXIT ALARM WILL SOUND sign, but it was already ajar when Sierra reached it. She burst through, out into the chilly September night, where Juan was standing with his back to her in a dark alley. A tall white man had Juan by the wrist, and Juan’s legs were bent and shaking, like he was about to collapse. The man’s eyes went wide when he saw Sierra.

  Without stopping, she barged headfirst into her brother, shoving him out of the way. Juan collapsed in a heap. The man took two steps back. “S-stay away,” he stuttered.

  Sierra dug into her pockets for chalk, anything to ’shape with, cursing herself for not being better supplied. “What did you do to him?”

  A crew of shadow spirits surged out of the club and rushed down the alley. Sierra watched them register on the man’s face in slight twitches, but he kept his eyes glued to her. “Who are you?” Sierra said. He was about to run, she could feel it, see it in his tensed posture. He was terrified of her.

  “No!” the man yelled as she pounced, snatching his wrist so he couldn’t get away.

  Where was Bennie, though? Had the spirits gone to find her?

  “Don’t,” the man gasped. Then his eyes narrowed. Sierra looked down. His own hand was wrapped firmly around her wrist. She suddenly felt very weak.

  Bennie ran past in a clatter of pounding sneakers and desperate panting. Mina watched, barely breathing at all. Then a raspy snarl sounded and the dog, the dead damn dog that Mort had somehow put a shining golden spirit into, that dog, hurtled past in a shuffling, lopsided canter.

  “It’s …” Mina gasped.

  “C’mon,” Bertram said, taking off after them. Mina didn’t know if he meant C’mon let’s stop the evil dead dog from eating your buddy or C’mon let’s help the evil dead dog get your buddy, but she struggled to her feet and followed anyway.

  They rounded a corner onto a sloping street with dark brownstones. At the top of the block, a tattered golden glow shambled along, casting its uneven shine on parked cars and front doors. Bennie screamed, “Get away!” from somewhere up ahead. Mina ran, hard now, passing Bertram. She had no idea what she would do if she caught up to them. Attack the thing? How does one even defeat a magically possessed dog corpse? Or help Bennie hide somehow? Nothing seemed possible. And even if she could help Bennie, what would happen next? Bertram would see. She would be a traitor to the House of Light. Would they send Mort after her next?

  A stitch opened up in her side as she pounded around another corner onto Sixth Avenue behind the shining dog. Did the Sorrows even know this was what their acolytes were up to? Surely, they didn’t. They could be cruel and complex, of course, but this? Setting traps and chasing innocent kids through the streets of Park Slope? Then again … was Bennie really so innocent? That towering phantom in the park had been after Mina and Mort. He’d said it would’ve killed them if the shadow children had been there to ’shape it. Mina shook her head, feeling the breath run out of her, her thighs aching, the stitch gnawing away at her. Who knew what the hell was what any more?

  She stopped, leaning forward with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. Something was moving around her. She looked up, squinting through her exhaustion. Shadows! Mina froze as they streamed past on either side. This wasn’t the Sinestrati, though, no golden tinge, just a faint pulsing light that rose and faded in all of them simultaneously.

  They were on the dog corpse in seconds, battering it this way and that. The creature faltered, snapping at the air around it as golden shafts of light pulsed out into the dark world around them.

  “She’s getting away!” Bertram yelled, sprinting past.

  This old guy clearly worked out. He must’ve been conserving his energy, holding that steady jog so he could hit the quick dash if needed.

  Mina followed, passed the calamitous pile-on of shadow spirits as they pounced, forcing the light out of the poor, battered animal.

  Up ahead, Bertram reached the intersection at the top of the block.

  Mina felt the light churn inside her; she felt it rise as she sprinted forward. A burning golden shine filled the edges of her vision. She knew what was about to happen, and somehow a tiny smile edged out through her terror.

  Then Bertram turned around.

  “Behind you!” Mina yelled. Bertram spun back toward the street just as the explosion of light burst out of Mina’s hands, hurtled forward like a thunderbolt, and knocked Bertram clean the hell out.

  He’s draining my power. Sierra could feel it, could almost see the shimmer of shadow seeping out from her core, along her arm and into this wild, terrified man’s hand. She fought it with everything in her, managed to slow it down, but still, he emptied her with slow, steady precision.

  Juan lay in a heap, and where were the spirits? Gone. They’d flushed past, probably helping Bennie, wherever she was, but … they’d left Sierra. Abandoned her. Just like Mama Carmen. And now the one gift Mama Carmen had left behind was being sucked away.

  No, a voice deep inside Sierra said. We are with you, even when we’re not, the spirits had insisted the night before. And she had known it was true. Doubt had overcome her; fear and hope clouded her vision, but one thing she knew was that the spirit world hadn’t just left her to die. She looked up, into the strange man’s wide eyes. He was afraid. Afraid of her. The spirits hadn’t abandoned her; they trusted her. Trusted her to handle herself. T
his tall, gangly white man with power enough to drain her essence — he was afraid of her. He, her enemy, believed in her and her power even more than she did.

  And the shadow spirits did too. If they were gone now, it’s because they needed to figure out some other piece of the puzzle — something Sierra couldn’t see.

  And if she couldn’t ’shape anything, she’d have to use what she did have.

  Sierra pulled her free hand back and cracked it across the man’s face as hard as she could. His head flew to the side, a splatter of blood launching out from his mouth. He looked at her with shock and she decked him again, this time following up with her elbow. Her knuckles burned. His legs gave out and he dropped onto his knees, but his grip still held fast.

  Panting now, she hit him again. Her energy was still draining, but slower now. “Let!” she yelled, clobbering him yet again, “Go!” The man glared up at her, lip bloodied, one eye swelling shut, his face battered. And still he held on. Sierra wrenched her hand up as hard as she could, but his grip was like a vice. Sierra wasn’t sure how much power was left in her. She kneed him as hard as she could. He crumpled forward, coughing, but still held tight.

  “Si!”

  Sierra looked up. Bennie was running down the alley toward her, a battalion of shadow spirits surrounding her. They locked eyes as Bennie tossed a piece of chalk her way. Sierra snatched it out of the air with her free hand, heard the man gasp as she scribbled three jagged lines down her own arm. The spirits swarmed forward to her, leapt through the air, and disappeared into her.

  “No!” the man yelled. The chalk lines sprung to life, scrambling down Sierra’s arm toward his hand. He let go before they could reach him, stumbled back, turning just in time to catch Bennie swinging a trash can lid full-on into his face. The guy staggered and then dropped.

  For a good five seconds, Sierra and Bennie just stared at each other, wide-eyed.

  “Yo,” Sierra gasped.

  Bennie shook her head. “You okay?”