New Night
Fiona van Dahl
. . . is © 2016 by Fiona van Dahl.
. . . contains themes, implications, and/or graphic scenes of helplessness, mass evacuation and diaspora, threatened and actual violence, murder, gore, needles, body horror, kidnapping, isolation, torture, racism, discussion of racism, suicidal fantasies (including suicide as a political statement), and another frighteningly intelligent spider.
. . . is entirely fictional.
. . . is a stand-alone novel with new characters. However, it takes place after the events of the author’s previous novel, Eden Green, and spoils its ending and most of its plot. While it’s completely possible to start here, certain plot elements in New Night will be more entertaining for those who’ve read Eden Green. You can also get caught-up on the story so far on the author’s website.
. . . owes a debt to all the advance readers who contributed their comments and corrections. Any remaining issues are the author’s error.
. . . is dedicated to friends, fiercely loyal, for good or for ill.
“How deserted lies the city, once so full of people!”
Lamentations 1:1
The winter sun is soon to dawn over the eastern hills — but for now, the mountains and valleys of northwest Arkansas are dominated by darkness, chill, and silence.
Here is a pasture filled with neat rows of white trailers, all surrounded by chain-link fence and looming pines. This is the Mount Ward Emergency Group Site, home to hundreds of evacuees.
(The quarantined city of Gothic glows faintly a few miles to the west.)
Near the gated entrance and community building, two trailers in particular have been set aside — identical, but for the signs on their front door. ‘ADMINISTRATOR’, reads one, over a taped notice explaining that the man is away on business for the week.
‘SECURITY’, reads the other, and under it, ‘LUCAS DE LA MORA’. But like most in the site, the watchman is asleep, wrapped in two layers of comforters to ward off the deep cold that seeps in through the trailer’s seams.
“Lucas.”
He stirs a little, but his eyes do not open.
The flimsy bedframe shakes slightly under light, impatient kicks. “Get up.”
Lucas moans quietly and rolls over on his back, rubbing the sleep from his face. “Zech’riah?” He yawns wide. “Wh’time is it?”
The tall young man moves to the window and pushes the curtain aside a little. Faint light glows in his long, golden hair. “Almost dawn.”
Translation: Not even six, but already time to start the day. Fighting through another jaw-popping yawn, Lucas swivels out of bed and dresses from the floor — white shirt, dark blue sweatshirt, sturdy jeans. A faint hangover thuds in his temples. In the bathroom — sparse and tidy, but barely large enough to stand in — he combs his short, dark hair and checks the angry purple bruise on his chin. He picks up a prescription bottle, finds it empty, sets it down. Then he swallows his last three ibuprofen with a handful of water from the tap.
When he returns to the bedroom, Zechariah is still standing at the window, peering out into the pre-dawn light with spooky intensity. Lucas joins him, pulling the curtain aside further. But all he can make out are the dim white shapes of trailers. Nothing moves.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Zechariah mutters. He lets the curtain fall back into place and looks calmly to Lucas. “There’s a storm coming.”
He grunts, then turns and leads the three-foot way into the kitchen. “As long as we get a warm front first, I’ll be happy.” He switches on a little space heater.
There’s a table with a few chairs; Zechariah, head scraping the ceiling, goes straight to the chair closest to the window and curls himself into it. In a moment he is staring out into the dark, a pale hand holding aside the curtain.
Lucas pulls open the fridge and shudders at the wave of cold air that flows down over his socks. The milk is frozen slush, so he sets it on the counter to thaw.
“Don’t know how you can be so calm,” Zechariah mutters, pulling open the curtain a little farther. The first few white trailers are barely visible, but the late February sky glows in the east.
“If you’re scared to go out there, just stay in and watch cartoons.” He points a finger at the younger man. “In your own trailer, if you insist on smoking dope—”
“I’m not leaving your side. Whatever’s out there, it can’t kill me. I won’t let it kill you.”
The hairs on the back of Lucas’ neck stand up. He busies himself with pouring two bowls of cereal with partially frozen milk, and sets them on the table. “I’d be more inclined to believe you if your hunches didn’t have a long history of wasting my time.”
The younger man doesn’t acknowledge the remark. The two eat in silence for several minutes, each lost in private thoughts. Around the time Lucas begins to scrape the bottom of his bowl, he sees his leather jacket draped over his mini dumbbell rack and remembers his hastily-scribbled notes from the previous night. Retrieving the little notepad from the jacket’s breast pocket, he reads:
write statement
make up story, contact tv
sort out things
use comm center office
method? monk or ‘80s press conference?
With a faint shudder, he puts away the notepad. “Sorry about last night. I was in a dark place.”
Zechariah doesn’t look up from his cereal, only shrugs his bony shoulders.
Lucas flicks through his phone for messages for a while, then gives the younger man a contemplative look. “I’m, uh . . . thinking about writing a letter to FEMA.”
“Ask them to shore up our fences.”
“I’m being serious. I thought the admin was going to get answers while he was in Washington, but—”
Zechariah gives him a tired look. “What ‘answers’ could you possibly hope for? Needle monsters attacked, people died, we’re the ones who made it out, the end.” He notices Lucas’ grimace and offers an olive branch: “Admin didn’t learn anything?”
“He’s flying back, probably be home this evening. He never got to testify.” Lucas glowers at the curtains. “All they wanted to hear about was the quarantine, and how the Army is now forcing all the CDC scientists to stay at the fences—”
“Good for them.” His eyes return to the window. “The city is a dangerous hellhole, always will be.”
Lucas gives him a sharp look. “It won’t be dangerous forever. Maybe, if enough people speak out and work hard and make . . . ‘sacrifices’, the city will be re-opened and we can all go home—”
“And maybe, if we ask really nicely, the needle monsters will just fly away.” Zechariah’s lip curls with faint contempt. “You can focus on how things are supposed to be, or you can focus on staying alive.”
After an awkward moment, Lucas forces a smile and jokes, “¿Por que no los dos?” He stands, gathering their bowls. “If I let you drive the golf cart, will you cheer the hell up already?”
Zechariah unfolds from the chair and pushes his long, pale arms into his coat. Together, they put on their boots and gloves, and Lucas dons his leather jacket. Still, when the door opens, the outside air strikes their faces like a slap, and each flinches all the way down the porch steps and to the little golf cart.
Zechariah pauses with his hand on the ignition key, then squints around. His pale blue eyes search the trailers and distant treeline. Across the road looms the community building and its row of mailboxes. The administrator’s trailer is dark and silent. Beyond, the black iron gate hangs open, as always.
“Come on, it’s literally freezing out here,” Lucas mutters, hugging himself.
“Your stun gun is still at the community center.”
&nb
sp; He nods, shivering. “I meant to reload it from the cartridges in my desk, but then we went drinking . . .”
“Do you have your guns?”
“I can’t carry a gun while I’m on duty.”
“But do you have them?”
“. . . the shotgun is in the truck.” He nods toward his dark-grey pickup, haphazardly parked a few yards away. “The Sig is in my safe.”
“You should have one of them with you.”
Lucas leans back and puts his hands over his face. “Do you want to drive the golf cart or not?”
“I’m just trying to protect you.”
“I’ll be fine. Get moving already. The sun’s coming up.”
Sure enough, a sliver of gold has appeared on the eastern horizon, and the sky is lit up with pink and white. (As if in answer, the quarantine throb to the west has intensified.) With an unhappy sigh, Zechariah starts up the golf cart’s little engine and takes off down the first row of trailers.
Despite the frigid air, a few winter songbirds have emerged to hop across the trailer roofs. The tapping of their little claws on corrugated metal grows louder as the sunlight strengthens. People, too, are emerging, heading out to the bus station or to their cars, to jobs or early-Sunday-morning church services in nearby Shire.
The road is wide enough for two lanes, but Zechariah still has to maneuver to avoid cars backing out from between the trailers. The cold air whips around the little cart, blowing his hair back.
Zechariah glances at his passenger, who is lost in deep thought, and abruptly decides to press the issue. “Are you afraid somebody would snitch on you to FEMA? Because the admin would defend you. Besides, when they find out about the fight yesterday, they’ll say it’s okay for you to carry a gun.”
He cricks his bruised jaw and grimaces at the faint pain. “Nothing in this site is dangerous enough to justify carrying a firearm. Drop it.”
The younger man sighs but obeys, watching the dimly-lit road ahead. Lucas stares into the gloomy dawn sky.
A figure appears up ahead, walking along the road. “Condy,” Zechariah mutters, pulling over to meet him.
The old man’s pale, wrinkled face is half-hidden by a wool scarf, and he’s bundled up warmly. He waves at them as he approaches.
Lucas steps off the cart and reaches out. “Good morning, sir.”
They shake hands, and Condy nods in a friendly way to Zechariah. “Buenos dias, youngsters. Big plans?”
Lucas’ lip twitches. “You could say that.”
“Pardon?”
“There’ll be Americorp volunteers visiting in the afternoon,” Zechariah points out helpfully. “And the nice Red Cross nurses after. I know you like visiting them.”
“Oh, I’m fit as a fiddle. More concerned about the community meeting this week. Might get hectic again.” He turns his squint on Lucas’ bruised chin. “We’ve got enough lunatics waving fists around here.”
Lucas keeps his expression carefully neutral. “People have reason to be upset. We’re nine months into a six-month evacuation.”
“Some of these old biddies are talking about starting a community garden in the spring. By the time it bears fruit, it’ll be a goddamn year since this mess started. And then they wonder why folks get riled up! We don’t need tomatoes, we need the monsters cleared out of the city so we can go home!”
“I completely understand your concerns, Mr. Condy. However, I really should be getting back to my patrol—”
“Hold on, hold on. There’s a reason I flagged you down. The trailer north of mine is supposed to be unoccupied, right?”
The younger men each consult a mental map, but it is Zechariah who nods first. “Yeah, they moved to Alaska.”
“Well, I heard someone in there last night.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Might be another drifter.”
Lucas curses in Spanish. “Just what I needed. More lowlifes. They’ll be after the copper wire next.” He jerks his head toward the golf cart. “If we give you a ride back, can you show us?”
The old man jogs around the side of the cart and sits down, his back to Zechariah. “Keep it slow, will youuuuuuuu—!”
The moment Lucas is seated, Zechariah takes off down the row, quickly reaching the cart’s top speed of twenty. Condy holds on to the cart’s frame with exaggerated fear, staring around at the few people walking past as if he’s being kidnapped by the mob. Even Lucas is grinning wide, though it makes his bruised chin ache.
“Here! Here!” Condy shouts. They skid to a stop in front of one trailer, and the old man hurriedly dismounts, legs shaking. “Jesus, kid!”
Zechariah smirks at him as he and Lucas step off the cart. “A lil’ excitement’s good for your heart.”
“Quiet,” Lucas mutters, getting down to business. He makes sure his laminated badge is facing the right way, then nods at the trailer next to Condy’s. “This one?”
“Yeah.” He leads the way down its length and stops in front of its little porch. Like all the rest, the trailer is mounted two feet off the ground on concrete supports. At the top of the little wooden steps is the only door, covered in old, weathered FEMA notices to vacate.
Lucas steps up to the door, keys in hand, then swears softly and pokes the lock. “Smashed.”
Zechariah makes a low sound deep in his throat. “Let me go in first. They could be dangerous. Besides, you don’t even have your stun gun.”
Lucas quickly shakes his head. “It was almost zero out here last night. They were probably just desperate for shelter. Besides, this is my job. You two stay well back.”
Condy holds up his hands. “Don’t need to tell me twice.” Still, when Lucas gently pushes the door open, the old man cranes his neck to see inside.
Lucas steps through the doorway and shudders at the chilly air inside. The trailer’s interior is bare except for the nailed-down furniture; he already inspected it after the previous occupants moved out, and had found it clean and in acceptable condition. It still is, other than a little dirt tracked through the kitchen.
He follows the footprints through and into the little bathroom. The floor is dirtied and the toilet has been used once — vacant trailers have no water service — but there are no signs of vandalism or long-term vagrancy. All the fixtures are still in place.
He steps back out into the hall and spots Zechariah standing at the far end of the trailer, in the bedroom doorway. The younger man is frozen in place, gaze fixed on whatever lies beyond. Lucas curses softly and hurries that way on quiet feet. With a firm hand, he grabs the shoulder of Zechariah’s jacket and pulls him back, then slides past him.
The bedroom is dark; thick blinds block most of the early morning light. The only furniture is a bedframe holding up a bare mattress. A figure lies curled against the headboard, dressed in a thick parka and new hiking boots. They wear a backpack, all its pockets zipped shut and bulging.
After a moment of observation, Lucas pegs the intruder as a teenager or young person, sound asleep. He checks the floor and bed for weapons but finds none.
When he moves to touch the figure’s shoulder, he feels heat radiating from them even through their thick coat, like a violent fever. “Hey,” he whispers, gently shaking their shoulder. “Don’t be alarmed—”
The young woman startles awake and sucks in a deep gasp. Before he can stop her, she scrambles away from him on the bed and dives to the floor beyond. She is African-American, and her wide, white eyes are such a contrast against her skin that for a moment, he thinks she has no pupils. He withdraws his hand, expecting to be attacked.
She crouches on the other side of the room with the bed positioned between them. All he can see in the dim light are her eyes, wide and frightened. Not a teenager, but in her early twenties. Under her parka, she is dressed for cold weather. Her short, dark hair is in disarray.
“Who are you?” she demands, voice shaking. “Who do you work for?”
He holds up his hands to show that he is unarmed. “My name is Lucas de la Mora. I�
��m a security officer for FEMA. I protect this place.” With one hand, he carefully pulls his lanyard up over his head and tosses his laminated badge across the bed to her. “See?”
She snatches up the badge, glances at it, and returns her eyes to him. “Your hair was shorter.”
“It’s been a long evacuation. What about you? What’s your name?”
She carefully tosses the badge back to him. “Io.”
“. . . and your last name?”
She says nothing, just stares.
Lucas slowly lowers his hands. “This trailer doesn’t belong to you. You broke the lock.”
She glances nervously at the doorway, and he knows she’s thinking of running. “Nobody was using it. I was cold. I didn’t hurt anybody.”
“I understand that, but—”
“I’ll go.” She stands suddenly, side-walking toward the door.
“Hold on, hold on.” He throws his lanyard back on and moves to the doorway ahead of her. All tension has left him; this is no junkie or criminal on the run, just a scared young woman, probably homeless. The moment he blocks the doorway, she comes up short, recognizing that physical confrontation with him will end badly.
“If you needed a place to stay, you could have come to us,” he lectures. “I would have gotten in touch with the police in the closest town, Shire—”
“No!” she cries, and then winces. “I mean, I . . .” She stares at him, struggling for an excuse.
“You’re a little old to be a runaway.” His voice turns carefully neutral. “Are you in trouble?”
Her jaw works for a long moment, and then she shakes her head. “Well,” she blurts, “obviously, I’m in trouble over the lock. And, and I don’t have a home. And everyone I care about is dead or in, in jail.”
“I can find help for you.”
“Nobody can help me, least of all the police. Not! Not that I’m wanted or anything,” she hastily adds.
He pulls the door open and calls across the trailer. “Hey, Zechariah. Can you get Shire PD on the phone and—”
Io pushes past him, and for a moment he’s startled by the waves of heat pouring off her. “Look, I’ll just leave!”
New Night (Gothic Book 2) Page 1
