Dark Days

by Bradley, Arthur T. , Ph. D.

  One of the Versace he had downed previously grabbed him by the ankles and bit down on his calf. He turned and kicked her in the ribs with his free leg, once, twice, three times. Bones broke, and the woman howled in pain as she released her bite and scrambled away.

  Tanner stood in a half-crouch, his hands out in front of him. Three of the Versaces had managed to get back to their feet, but none advanced toward him.

  “Tanner!” hollered Samantha. “Quit playing around and come on!”

  He eyed the women. All were bleeding and in obvious pain. Even so, they seemed to be considering another go at him.

  “I’m tired of being Mr. Nice,” he said through gritted teeth. “You come for me again, and I’ll kill every last one of you.”

  The Versaces looked to one another and slowly edged away to check on their fallen sisters.

  “Good choice.” Tanner picked up his shotgun and slowly backed toward the high-bay door. As he crossed the threshold, he reached up and slammed the door shut.

  Samantha stood a few feet away, stroking Babik.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, cringing as she eyed the scratches and bite marks covering his face, neck, and arms.

  “Oh sure,” he said, touching his fingers to one of the bites. “Just peachy.”

  “You think this was a mistake, don’t you?”

  “Do I think it was a mistake rescuing a furball from a coven of witches so it can help a gypsy talk to your dead mother? Is that what you’re asking?”

  She bit her lip. “Uh, never mind.”

  Tanner hopped off the loading dock and started down the hill.

  “You coming?”

  “Don’t be grumpy, okay?” she said, hurrying after him. “I think you’re making Babik nervous.”

  He glanced back and saw Babik straddling her outstretched arms like he didn’t have a care in the world. And while Tanner couldn’t be certain, he was pretty sure that the cat had a grin on his furry little face.

  If Malina was happy to see Babik, she didn’t show it.

  “Bring him here,” she said, waving Samantha over.

  As soon as Samantha set him on the table, Malina gave him one quick stroke and then leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Strangely, the cat sat quiet and still, listening to every word with the greatest of attention.

  When Malina was finished, she sat back and turned to Samantha.

  “Thank you for breaking the curse and bringing him back to me.”

  “It’s Tanner you have to thank,” she said. “And I’m not really sure that there was a curse at all. You see, we found a big pile of—”

  Malina waved her words away. “Babik’s home. That’s all that matters.”

  Samantha nodded. “Now that he’s here, do you think he can, you know, talk to my mom?”

  “Of course.” Malina motioned for Tanner to close the door and take a seat across from her. “Her spirit is already here.”

  “It is?”

  “A mother watches after her daughter, doesn’t she?”

  “I guess.” Samantha looked around the room, but the only eyes she saw watching her were those of Elvis.

  Malina motioned to Tanner again. “Please, sit. You are in no danger here.”

  Tanner reluctantly came over and flopped down in the remaining chair.

  Malina blew out all but one of the candles, and the room fell under a shroud of darkness. She scooted Babik close to her, and he settled with his two front paws hanging off the edge of the table. The gypsy leaned in close and stared into the cat’s big green eyes.

  “What’s your mother’s name, dear?”

  “Rosalyn Glass,” Samantha said softly.

  Malina broke eye contact with the cat to look at Samantha.

  “Who?”

  “My mom was Rosalyn Glass.”

  The gypsy studied her for a moment, obviously trying to determine if the young girl was having fun at her expense. When she saw only earnest eyes staring back at her, she turned back to face Babik.

  After a long moment of silence, Malina intoned the name three times, slowly and with great care.

  “Rosalyn Glass. Rosalyn Glass. Rosalyn Glass.”

  Samantha looked over at Tanner, only to find him rolling his eyes.

  The gypsy took in a deep breath, and when she did, the lone candle flickered.

  “She’s here. Babik can sense her.”

  Once again, Samantha looked around the dark room. Everything seemed the same.

  “Are you sure? She’s here?”

  “Yes, and she wants me to tell you that she loves you and misses you.”

  “Uh—okay. Tell her I love and miss her too.”

  “Tell her for yourself. She can hear you as easily as I can.”

  Samantha sat up straight. “I—I miss you too, Mom,” she called out into the room. “And I love you.”

  “She also wants me to tell you that she’s proud of you for growing up so strong. She says you’ve changed from the shy little girl you used to be.”

  “It’s because of him,” Samantha said, touching Tanner’s arm. “And Issa, too. They’re my parents now. They’re different from you and Dad, but they still care about me the same. I know that you probably think that Tanner’s mean and rotten, but try to overlook that, okay, Mom?”

  Tanner bumped her with his elbow, and she grinned.

  Malina stared into the cat’s eyes as if deciphering some magical energy emanating from within.

  “She says you shouldn’t seek revenge for her death. That all things are in balance now.” She looked over at Samantha. “Do you know what that means?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Not really. The people who killed her are already dead.”

  Malina turned back to Babik. “She’s leaving us. Slipping back into the world of the dead. But…” Malina leaned toward the cat as if trying to hear one final whisper. “She says that when you feel afraid, remember what she told you the last time you two were together.”

  Tears welled up in Samantha’s eyes, and she swallowed hard.

  Malina prompted her. “You remember her words, don’t you, dear?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Malina smiled, settling back into her chair.

  “I’m sorry. She’s gone now.”

  Samantha used her hand to wipe at her eyes.

  “I’m going outside,” she said, touching Tanner’s shoulder.

  He nodded. “I’ll be out in a second.”

  After Samantha left the room, he turned to Malina and shook his head.

  “You don’t approve?” she said.

  “I’m just marveling at your art, darlin’.”

  She smiled. “I’ve been doing this a very long time.”

  “Oh, of that I’m sure.” He started to rise from his chair, when she reached out and grabbed his hand. For some reason, it startled him. Perhaps it was her cold fingers, or maybe it was the unexpected strength within them.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to read you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She nodded toward the Tarot cards.

  He scoffed. “Don’t waste your breath. I ain’t buying any of it.”

  She released his hand. “Then do it as a favor for an old gypsy.” She glanced over at the door. “Besides, it’ll give the girl time to collect herself.”

  He let out a sigh and settled back into the chair.

  “Fine. Just be quick about it.”

  “Of course,” she said, sliding the cards closer.

  Malina shuffled the deck and carefully laid out five cards in a semicircle. She placed her palm on the leftmost card.

  “This card represents your present position in life.” She slowly turned the card, revealing a winged angel pouring water between two chalices. One of the angel’s feet stood on dry land and the other in a pool of water. The word Temperance was written along the bottom. “Your life is in balance. You are at a time of enlightenment and progress. Unlike the fool who jumps in with both feet, y
ou are careful about the paths you choose to follow.”

  “Things are going pretty good right now,” he said, playing along.

  She turned the next card, revealing a colorful rainbow with ten golden chalices in it.

  “This card represents your current desires. The Ten of Cups speaks of peace and family.” She nodded to Tanner as if seeking his approval.

  “You’re a regular Mademoiselle Lenormand.”

  Whether or not she understood his reference to the famous card reader who reportedly predicted the future for empresses and tsars alike was unclear.

  Malina moved to the center card. “This card represents the unexpected.” She flipped the card, revealing a flaming tower being struck by lightning, and a man and woman plunging to their deaths. “The Tower card represents a time of great turmoil and destruction, shaken foundations, and upheaval. Something big is happening in your life, and you are not even aware of it.”

  Tanner shrugged.

  She seemed surprised. “You’re not concerned?”

  He chuckled. “I’m not usually aware of things until they hit me over the head. You’re gonna have to try harder than that to shake me.”

  She moved on to the fourth card.

  “This card represents your immediate future.” She turned the card, and it showed a man lying on his back with a cluster of swords poking up from his body. “The Ten of Swords represents defeat, martyrdom, unavoidable failure.” Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, but things are not going to go well for you.”

  Tanner faked a yawn. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get by. I always do.”

  Obviously insulted, Malina forced air through her nose until her nostrils flared.

  “And this,” she said, flipping the last card, “represents the final outcome of that future.” The card showed a skeleton in black armor riding a white horse, dead bodies lying around it. At the bottom of the card was the word Death.

  Tanner remained unfazed. “Don’t tell me. I’m going to die, right? But with the right sacrifice to a needy gypsy, it might be staved off a little longer. Am I right?”

  Malina studied the card for a long time before speaking.

  “The Death card can mean many things, including an end to a relationship or another important life transition. But taken with the Ten of Swords, it may well foretell of physical death, yours or another’s.” Malina glanced at the window and saw Samantha peeking in. “What the cards predict will come to pass in some manifestation. That cannot be changed. However, armed with their knowledge, perhaps you can influence the final outcome.”

  “You’re saying that I can change the future? That the cards can’t seal my fate?”

  She shrugged. “They are but cards.”

  Tanner stood up. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

  Chapter 9

  Issa heard the truck approaching even before it appeared in the rearview mirror. Eager to avoid what could potentially be a dangerous confrontation, she quickly steered the Prius into the parking lot of an old barber shop on the outskirts of Gretna, Virginia. Two other cars were in the lot, both coated in a thick layer of dust and pollen. She wedged her car in between them, hoping that whoever passed might not be observant enough to notice the discrepancy in the condition of the cars.

  She leaned her seat back and ducked out of sight as the truck drew closer.

  It was a large flatbed model with wooden rails running along both sides. Three men rode up front, and twelve women crowded together in the back. They were an odd assortment of passengers, young and old, fat and skinny. It was clear from the scars marring their skin, as well as the way they squinted to protect their deep glossy black eyes, that they were all survivors of the virus. It wasn’t until the truck passed directly in front of her that Issa noticed the handcuffs binding the women’s wrists.

  The men up front took no notice of her as they passed, but one of the passengers, an old black woman probably in her seventies, stared right at Issa. The woman made no move to point her out to the others. Instead, she offered only the slightest of nods, a simple greeting that said, “Here we are. And there you are.”

  Issa sat up and watched the truck grow smaller in the distance, before finally veering off Highway 29 to take the business route into Gretna.

  She rubbed her stomach. “What do you think that was about?”

  Issa liked to talk to her unborn baby, even though she was certain that he couldn’t hear her. The fact that the baby was a boy at all was little more than a mother’s intuition. But as she had told Tanner a dozen times, it just felt like a boy. Of course, he had been right to point out that since she had never given birth to a child, she really had nothing by which to compare.

  She smiled. He had made that mistake only once, and she doubted that he would do so again. By God, a woman knew what lived inside her body, and it was not a man’s place to tell her otherwise.

  She recalled the old woman’s vacant stare. There was a helplessness in her eyes, a resignation that life was nearing its end. Whether the woman was a prisoner for something she had done or simply what she had become, was impossible to say.

  “Not much we can do to help them,” she said quietly.

  She started the Prius and eased back out onto the highway. It wasn’t until she veered off onto the business route that Issa accepted that she wasn’t quite ready to let the old woman go just yet.

  Having kept sight of the truck for nearly a half mile, Issa now watched from the shoulder of the highway as the flatbed truck carefully bumped its way across the shallow median and onto the southbound lanes of Highway 29’s business route. Once the truck was back on flat ground, it turned onto a wide dirt trail leading toward a two-story farmhouse set not far from the road.

  Still a good three hundred yards away, Issa opened her door and carefully lifted out the double-barrel shotgun. Each time she picked it up, she couldn’t help but marvel at the heft of the eleven-pound weapon, nearly twice the weight of modern assault rifles. She had never asked Tanner where he had gotten it, but it looked like something right out of the film King Solomon’s Mines.

  She took a long look at the gun. Both barrels shared a single iron sight centered between their muzzles, and underneath was a staggered double-trigger, one behind the other. The bluing on the barrels was worn away in spots, and the receiver’s fancy arabesque engraving had long since tarnished. The stock was made from walnut, but it too was discolored from sweat and oil. Despite its wear, the rifle held a charm of irreplaceability, the way family heirlooms often do. Along the bottom of the stock, she found the manufacturer’s name: Merkel. She had heard that name before, probably from her father, who had prided himself a great hunter of animals, big and small.

  She pushed the unlocking lever sideways and opened the breech. To her surprise, it didn’t contain shotgun shells at all. Instead, she discovered two large rifle cartridges.

  “What do we have here?” she said, sliding out one of the cartridges with her fingertips.

  It was a Nosler .470 Nitro Express brass cartridge with a solid 500-grain flat nose bullet. At four inches in length, the cartridge felt like something that would be used to down an African elephant. She carefully inserted it back into the gun and snapped the breech shut.

  Opening the back door of the Prius, she lifted out the wooden ammunition box and set it on the hood of the car. Inside, she found an array of forty-eight identical cartridges. Two empty holes showed where rounds were missing. She assumed they were the ones in the rifle. She lifted out four additional cartridges, slipping two in each of her back pockets, and then tucked the box back under the seat.

  “We’re not in any condition to go head to head with three men,” she said, touching her stomach, “but let’s do the best we can.”

  Issa waited until the truck parked behind a grove of tall trees before starting across the divided highway. There was little risk of a car happening along, and if it did, she suspected that seeing the rifle in her hands would give its occupants pause about sto
pping.

  She made it across the median and to the far side of the highway without incident. Her dark slacks and sweater were better suited to the trees, so she walked deeper into the forest before turning toward the farmhouse.

  Issa prided herself on her ability to move through nature quietly and without leaving a trail for others to follow. Much of that experience came from years of hunting with her father. Those years had also given her a keen sense for guns and knives, as well as an understanding of how to bring down an animal. Her time living with the infected under Washington, D.C., had taught her to apply those skills to the deadliest animal of them all.

  Man.

  She approached from the southwest, hopping across a small stream. When she was close enough to see the truck, she squatted down and watched as the men unloaded their prisoners. One by one, they pulled the women down from the bed, forcing them to stand single file. Next, they wound a thin metal cable through their shackles, connecting the women together like prisoners on a chain gang. Once the women were properly secured, the men marched them toward the rear of the building.

  To keep them from disappearing from view, Issa circled around to the east, making sure to keep eyes on all three men. It was then that she spotted the historic marker standing in front of the old building.

  Yates Tavern, circa 1750.

  It had not been built as a home after all, but rather a watering hole for weary wilderness travelers. The building had obviously been restored. Not only did it have fresh mortar holding together its stone fireplace, it also had clean white siding and treated wooden porches at the front and rear entrances.

  “What are they doing stopping here?” she whispered to her baby.

  The answer was quick in coming. The women were marched into a small grassy field behind the house and told to relieve themselves. Despite their obvious shame, they began to pull down their pants to urinate and defecate on the open ground.

  Issa’s mouth tightened. “They’re treating them like animals.”