by J. D. Palmer
Men freeze. And then someone laughs. I think they mistake me for one of them. Someone playing a long, and elaborate, and useless joke. A chance to scare the man slowly hanging in front of me.
I step forward and raise the knife in my left hand. An oddly dry hand grasping the gun with who knows how many bullets.
A scream.
No. A keening slowly rises and then escalates into a flood across the square. A cry that can only be one thing.
I wish I had covered his body.
I’m sorry, Ann.
A song only the most fragmented of souls can release. A truly horrific scream, it freezes everyone with the intensity of its despair. Its terror.
And they turn to look back in the direction of its calling.
I cut at the rope above Theo’s head, sawing with my oddly shaped blade until he sags back into me.
Someone yells. I shoot the pistol wildly, hoping to push them into cover as I drag the gasping trunk of my friend back into the shop.
He struggles weakly, thrashing about and our momentum propels us into a shelf of china.
“It’s me! It’s fucking me!”
He doesn’t turn around, instead he slowly sinks to the ground in the aisle, a great shuddering breath giving way for shakes to take hold of his body.
“I didn’t think…”
He trails off and I know what he means. I know he’s had far too long to wonder where I was. If I’d come. Or if I had completed the mission and already left.
The mission?
Haphazard gun shots outside. A window shatters. Yelling. They are confused, disoriented. I hear raised voices. Questions. Running feet. Incredulity.
I drag him to his feet again and we stumble to the rear of the shop, bumping into chests and drawers and falling into a rack of clothes in the middle of the fucking room.
I cut his hands free with my own bloody fingers, and I’m thankful that this isn’t a moment of stillness. A moment for him to look me in the eyes.
“We have to get out of here. Quick. Before they mobilize.”
My own voice is dead, just a grim outline of the here and now. Emotion banished until this is over.
But Theo can’t move. He is shaking, his breath coming in and out of him in long rasps. One hand rubs his throat, pulling at it as if the rope were still wrapped around it. The other clutches his side, the one that bears the bullet-hole gifted by Don.
“Theo?”
He nods, his eyes still closed. “I just…” He can barely speak. “A minute.”
Fuck.
Any chance of getting out the way I came in is gone. Hell, I know Theo wouldn’t fit through the window.
Lights sweep across the room as they move the truck to face directly into the store. Broken china and broken glass from the window litter the floor. Theo, swollen nose and eyes closed. The whole store now brighter than day.
Flickers as shadows cross in front of the light.
“Hey! Fuckers better come out now. We ain’t gonna be nice to you if we have to go in and get ya.”
As if they’ll be friendly if we walk out.
A rifle blast adds punctuation to the threat, though I can’t tell if they shot at us and just missed or if they shot it into the air.
I cast about near me. This is a goddamn antique store. There has to be guns. There has to be something we can use. Something to fight these…
You’re the monster here.
I try to shake off the look on the boy’s face. The carnage reflected back to me by twin pools of innocence.
Jingle.
The door is opened. A gun blasts and then I hear boots stamp as men hustle through the doors.
Idiots. You could have held us here.
I don’t know how many bullets I have. I’m afraid to check.
A hand grabs my wrist. Theo, still rubbing his throat, but his eyes are open. He points towards the back. At the man peeking out of the room at the top of the stairs.
It won’t be long until we’re seen. Until someone yells out our position and they open fire.
Theo squeezes my forearm, eyes asking me, imploring me to come up with something.
I hand him the knife. Lean in close. “Don’t go for the door unless you know you can make it out. And don’t stab me.”
He gives me a horrified stare, but nods. Trust. He trusts. Maybe not that we’ll get out of here, not both of us, but that we’ll try. And why shouldn’t we? A storm destroyed our world and we, the survivors, were almost dashed to pieces. The same hearts that fought to survive the end of it all still beat in our foolish chests. It would be folly to cower now.
The world slows. Grim. Cold. Heartbeats measuring time as I find a coat at random from the rack in front of me. Pull it on. Hoping it will give me an extra moment of hesitation before they shoot at me. Then I’m taking a few steps forward. Out of our hiding place. Shoulders hunched as I take five bold strides forward, gun out as if I’m looking for someone.
“There! Watch out!”
Whether they were yelling for their comrades to look out for me, or yelling at me to get back into some sort of cover, I’ll never know. But they waited too long before they started shooting. They waited until I emptied my gun into the headlights stationed outside the window, plunging the store into complete and utter darkness.
Then all hell broke loose.
I got hit. A hot streak across a shoulder blade that has numbed my left arm.
I count myself lucky.
After the light vanished there was a firework show of blasts. Then silence. And now it is utter blackness. We are in the middle. Somewhere. And they have us surrounded. But they can’t risk shooting in case they hit one of their own.
Let them come and try to take us. We’ll see who has the nerve in the dark. I just hope Theo is feeling up to a fight. I really, really hope that he is getting pissed off.
A curse as someone slips on the stairs. Whispers from somewhere else. Someone yells, “don’t shoot unless you got ‘em right in front of ya.”
I crawl back toward the case where I got the knife. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be able to find another one without causing too much noise. It’s also close to the area in which Theo and I broke all the china. Anyone goes by there I’ll hear them.
It’s spooky. Terrifying, really. Hearing soft exhalations in the darkness. Grunts from people moving. Knocks on the floor or on walls. Sweaty palms adjusting their grips on guns.
But the silence is worse. Silence makes you wonder if someone has spotted you. Is sneaking closer to double check. Or is now simply waiting for you to make a move.
Crunch.
I smile to myself. A feral smile as I give myself over to the animal. I slip into the darkness, more at home in this world than I have any right to be.
Hands feel out the floor in front of me as my seeker takes another deafening step. I find a cracked porcelain plate. The curved edge perfect in my palm and the shattered edge sharp to the touch.
I’m patient in the dark. I think I am. When each moment is an eternity filled with fear it’s hard not to do something. Anything. Run or fight.
But I wait. Poised.
There is a whoomp thirty feet away from me and the sound of someone hitting the ground. Hard. Someone shoots their gun.
Everyone freezes, both sides wondering if someone was hit. Each side hoping that they got lucky.
I move in the stillness, spinning around the corner in a crouch, propelling myself into the man squatting in front of me. I slash at his eyes with my shard while my left hand grabs for the hand that has the pistol. He lets out a little “aah,” the sound you make when you know someone is trying to scare you but you still get startled when they jump out. Only this time there isn’t laughter. Only harsh stabbing and hot breaths and moans of pain. I take his gun and move away. Circling around and a little ways away from my original hiding spot. Better to let him moan and bleed and maybe draw one of his companions close. Better to let his sounds cover mine.
Better to let him
live, right?
Silence but for this man. Silence but for a man either dying or dead if he doesn’t receive aid. Now. Tense silence. Every ear strained. Every muscle tense. Then a creak. A yell and then grunts. A tussle. The room left to listen to the sound of a blade going in and out, a meaty thud followed by a soft squelching. Moans. And then nothing but the soft panting of a man struggling to breathe.
“Casey! Casey is that you!?”
A man charges towards the noise. Then another. I ghost along with them. When I get close enough to hear their breathing I shoot five times. Five shots in a row at waist level. In case they’re crouching. Shots that will hit one, if not both of them. Other gun shots ring out as I drop to the floor, crawling away from where I was. Moans of pain follow me.
I do not want them to suffer…
I’m being methodical. I’m being what I have to be to get through this moment. I push remorse, and doubt, and despair away.
There is cursing. A man shoots wildly. Something drops from the wall with a crash. And then silence again.
It’s too much. Someone bolts for the door. The barest outline of a thin form desperately clawing at the door handle, missing, a wrench that makes the jingle ring out with harsh authority.
I shoot him in the back.
Theo and I were trapped. Now, we are all trapped. No one in here can leave. Not until this is over.
“Was that him? Was that one of them?”
Silence is all the answer he needs. Seconds later a gun opens up, aiming at the spot from where I shot the man. But I’m already gone. Already crouched behind a counter that, if I remember correctly, housed jewelry.
I don’t know how many people came inside. I don’t know how many of them are dead. Should I run for it? Get outside and hope Theo can make a run for it?
No. No I won’t be doing that.
Voices from outside. Someone yells, something that I think is directed at those of us in the building. No one answers. No one wants to give away their position. Not to us, not to the creatures in the dark.
There is a scratching. Tiny, minute, as if someone is trying to find a path out through the wall with their fingers. Maybe they are. But then there is a glow. Small, wavering, an orange obscured by the vast amount of smoke its producing.
“Who’s doing that? Who is doing that!” A panicked voice from one of the men. And for once I agree. I don’t know if it’s one of them or Theo, but this will take us all down. That was my endgame… This is out of my control.
The fire blossoms, I see that books are being piled onto the scraps of clothing that served as the kindling. “Show yourselves!” A man screams, his shadow crouched near the flames, feverishly feeding the fire before backing away to resume the hunt.
A new kind of silence. The crackle as the fire gains sway and the room begins to take shape. A sfumato landscape of lumps and angles, fire reflected in the eyes of the birds and elk and deer that bear witness to this folly.
Who will last longer? Will we be seen before we see them? Who will try to escape the smoke first?
The fire is hungry. The cavern that is this shop is filled with nothing but ancient wood and tattered cloth, items desperately waiting for the kiss of flame to end their existence. Smoke floods the room faster than the fire spreads. Harsh, acrid vapor of wood mixed with oil and plastics and years and years of mankind.
I drop to the ground, covering my mouth as I try to stifle coughs that burn. My eyes water and it’s getting harder and harder to see.
You have to get out of here.
The room is engulfed now. The heat escalating with each passing minute. There are yells from men on the far side of the room. A hasty retreat up the stairs by a man coughing so hard I wonder if he’ll make it to the top. The store is glowing, but through a mile of clouds. Air, fresh air, now becomes the overwhelming desire. I stumble towards the door. Shadows loom out of the smoke. Two men also trying to escape. I shoot one, but I don’t see where I hit him. The other falls into me and we collapse onto the floor. Coughing, gasping, both of us knowing that if we continue to fight we’ll both die from the smoke. Both of us far too stubborn, or scared, to let the other go. The man is on top of me, each of us holding the other’s gun away from us. But then he drops his pistol, and his free hand finds my throat. Begins to squeeze.
The panel behind the man moves. The large hanging pelt of a bear detaching from the wall and swinging around to loom above us.
I must be dead. Or hallucinating. But then I see Theo’s eyes beneath the large canines. A black bear paw plunges downward and the man on top of me exhales in shock. Another plunge. Another gasp that is a whimper.
I roll the man off of me and am pulled to my feet by a demonic creature spattered in blood. Bits of flaming detritus scorch my cheek and singe my hair as we stumble forward and plunge out of the window into the sudden coolness of night.
I can’t see very well. It’s all a blur of tears and I am shaken by a fit of coughing that seems to never end. But when I finally begin to collect myself, climbing to my feet as our more current danger emerges to the forefront again, the street is still. There are four men on their backs, or sides, coughing or not moving at all. One man crying with a hand over a face blackened by soot, his arm a long length of red blisters. Around them stand a couple men and women. People who have come to help. People who have no idea what the hell is going on.
Theo rises beside me and I can see the fear in their eyes. A snarling figure from some horrible other world, knife dangling from his hand and blood coating his clothes and fur. My hands are bloody, too. Arms bare of clothing, the tattered remains of my shirt smoking and covered with black-rimmed holes. Hunched awkwardly as the wound to my back begins to throb. A snarl on my face.
We are a nightmare incarnate.
One of the men on the ground forces himself up on a knee. An older man, his beard singed and his clothes ripped and torn, points a shaking finger at us. He tries to speak, but no words come out. No words, but his message is clear.
I see a couple of the men reach for their guns.
“No.”
The voice that comes out of my chest is guttural, smoky, and far louder than I thought it would be. A voice that is a warning. A voice that is tired of this violence.
They freeze. One of them takes a step back. Perhaps we are too demonic looking. Or they are too confused, too disheartened by what’s happening to keep fighting.
“No,” I say again, and I know there is violence in my eyes. Death cannot be controlled, cannot be corralled… But now, right now on this night, these men are dead if they push this any farther. We are gone over the edge, across the chasm, truly ghouls of the night. If they tempt us we will end them.
Please don’t.
They take another step back. And one of them raises his hands over his head. We turn and walk away into the night as other figures run towards the fire. Buckets in hand, desperate to save their town. A town with a wall, uncomprehending of what, and why we came here.
Theo and I make our way to the gate that I came in through. Thankfully, there is no one there. The screams and yells of people, the growing roar of a fire… that’s enough.
We open it and leave, and shut it behind us. I don’t know why. As if to signal the end of our presence. That the nightmare is over.
We don’t say anything as we circle the town and then move back onto the road. We aren’t stealthy, there is no pretense of caution. We know no one will follow.
Tonight.
We stop at a small hill to turn and look back at the burning town. Three houses, at least, are engulfed. I wonder what Ann is doing. Is she throwing water onto the fire, saving her grief until some time later? Is she weeping over his body? Or is she standing somewhere, wondering where I am with hate and murder in her heart?
“I feel bad.”
An understatement.
Theo snorts. “Fuck those motherfuckers. Fuck every fuckin’ one of ‘em.”
I don’t ask him why he said that, nor does
he ask me why I feel bad. We understand. There is just the barest whisper of space now; between words and actions, between morality and obscenity. Reacting to danger means not waiting to be proven wrong. Survival means no hesitation before you swing the knife or fire the bullet. Morality is simply how bad you feel afterwards, it has no place in the before.
Oh how John would be saddened.
“Did we get… What we needed?” He asks.
I nod. I’m unable to meet his eyes.
“And Cyrene?”
Theo says the name and the implications are clear. Do we go meekly back to her, prize in hand? Or do we do this our own way? I unconsciously put a hand over my back pocket, to where the flesh of a man resides.
Goddamn her.
I want nothing more than to go back to the car where those two men await us. To kill them. To take their car and return to Cyrene and make her pay. To destroy her and any that would stand in my way.
And then I see a little boy. And blood everywhere. And suddenly it’s everything I can do not to break down. To cry forgiveness. To cry for myself. To cry at the idea of my child having to live through something like that. It takes everything I have to push that into some far corner of my brain. For later. For sometime a long time later.
“We go back. We play nice. But with new rules.”
“Fuck that.” Theo hands me the knife before shedding his bear skin, somehow seeming to grow larger without it. He tosses it off the road and into the bushes. “Fuck playing nice.”
I can’t help but agree.
BERYL | 16
I CAN’T SLEEP. Harlan would tell me to try, that I will need my strength for what will come in the next day or two. But I don’t believe he would sleep, so neither will I.
But I’m exhausted. My head spins from the wound or from the vodka. I feel nauseous. And not just from the unwanted touch of Cyrene. Too many fearful images crowd close, my mind flowing from one thought to the next with no guidance, myself a passenger and no one manning the helm.
