Deep and Dark December

by Paul Cave

  “It’s a healing agent,” he said, surprising the deputy.

  “What?” she asked incredulously.

  “There’s something in the rain that is healing anyone who comes into contact with it.”

  “You mad?”

  Rivers turned his full attention to her. “No. Think about it. Meadows was near dead when we arrived at the motel. Yet, within hours of that, he’s up and about, functioning at a high cognitive state.”

  Anderson shot him a look. “Really? Seemed pretty fucked up to me.”

  Rivers nodded. “Yeah – but considering he was mortally wounded just hours before we arrived, there cannot be any other explanation.”

  “There must be,” Anderson countered.

  “Such as?”

  She shrugged. Did not know.

  “I think the rain is somehow repairing injuries, serious injuries at that. Can’t explain how, but I’m certain of the fact.”

  “Then why the killing - Rivers? How does that factor into this theory of yours?”

  He took a moment. His thoughts and ideas still faint in a lot of respects. “There were also ill. Dying maybe. Especially in Meadows’ instance.”

  “What?”

  “Meadows had leukaemia – late stage. Not long left. I think the healing properties of the rain sent his body into some sort of overdrive. Maybe rendered him at an almost animalistic - basic level.”

  The deputy looked unconvinced. “I don’t buy it. Why did Maggie change? A young kid at that.”

  Rivers said, “That’s what had me stumped initially. Why Maggie? And then I realised, she must have had some sort of degenerative illness. Her hearing. She could speak words.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, she must have been born with the ability to hear. Maybe her hearing loss was a gradual thing, illness, disease, over a long period of time.”

  The deputy opened her mouth to counter that fact. Could not find a suitable argument.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “That’s it. A simple premise. The rain effects those that are injured. And - or - suffering with illness.”

  “But why?”

  Rivers just looked back to hold her gaze. In truth, he did not know why. Maybe he would never know.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said.

  The deputy looked disappointed in that. “So, anyone with an injury can be turned into one of them things?”

  Rivers turned his head towards the windows – looked out for a long time. “No, not just injured. I believe it’s more likely triggered by the illness. Maggie didn’t appear injured. Not to my knowledge.”

  Anderson considered this for a moment. She shivered, as something dreadful dawned on her. “Any one of us could be suffering with an underlining disease. Something not yet diagnosed or detected.”

  Rivers turned away from the windows to hold her gaze.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The pickup was a patchwork of holes and welded plates, that either held the truck together, or threatened to shake it apart. The paint had been stripped away some years earlier, and now, mainly rust and grime could be found. The pickup was barrelling along Highway 52 in simple fashion.

  The logger whistled happily, a full delivery into the local town had thickened his wallet substantially. The rig he had used was heading back northwards, a fresh driver and operator, taking the eighteen-wheeler with new load towards the Canadian border, hopes and wishes counting on the successes of an easy delivery.

  Lights burst ahead, twin beams blinding the logger momentarily, before he reached up to pull the sun visor down, to protect his eyes from the glare.

  Those lights grew brighter, the visor unable to block out the spectacle with any real conviction. The logger squinted hard, his vision impaired, and senses blurred by the oncoming headlights.

  What the hell was this?

  The logger slowed the pickup, the annoyance ahead forcing him to do so.

  Those lights slid sideways. The vehicle in front skidding to block the pickup’s progression.

  “Fuck is this?” the logger said.

  A tan VW stopped the pickup’s advancement. The vehicle pulled to a stop; half parked across the highway. A figure climbed out, long limbed and head tilted to the side.

  Meadows had the switchblade in hand. Blood had tarnished it, a thin strip of red colouring the razor’s edge.

  The lieutenant was waving the pickup to a stop, arms spread-out, and free hand gesturing towards the highway’s embankment.

  The driver must have bought into the act, as the pickup swerved to the side, to stop just before the VW. A big guy climbed from the cabin, his bald head needing to dip low to avoid the roof of the pickup. Something in his posture changed the second he cleared the vehicle. His shoulders hunched tightly, and his face scrunched into a look of discomfort.

  The rain splashed against exposed flesh, and the resultant contact sent the logger’s mind into a frantic spin. Fists clenched tightly, and the logger’s jaw clamped with such force it threatened to crack back teeth.

  In the next second, Meadows was there, his blade eager to find the soft texture of flesh and tissue.

  A thin slit appeared across the logger’s throat, blood pumping out in a great red drizzle, and the logger’s face draining quickly towards a pale look of deathliness. He gasped and gargled, as blood slipped into the back of his throat.

  A tingle. Warm and welcoming as it spread across the logger’s flesh. The blood that ran from his open neck wound slowed somewhat and the pain he felt dwindled to something more similar to an irritation.

  The logger’s senses went into an uncontrollable frenzy, red mist and rage pushing him towards a wish to seek the blood of innocents.

  Words battered his ears, soothing and demanding, and in equal measure. Meadows was talking to the logger, his voice offering a myriad of promises – the want for blood would be met, and the rage that surged throughout the logger’s body could be satisfied.

  All he had to do was listen to those words. Obey, and this new hunger for violence could be pleased with the promise of bloodshed.

  Follow me, the words commanded.

  Do as I say, and all would be okay.

  The logger held on to those words, as if his very life depended upon it. Never had he felt so desperate to follow.

  Something had awakened within him. A power and need, and this new drive pushed every single sentiment of rationale towards the darkness.

  The logger wanted to feel the hot sense of blood dripping over his hands and fingers, the warm liquid that dripped from his own throat, insignificant in his lust for a greater pain.

  He turned towards the horizon. More lights could be seen. A farm perhaps way off in the distance. That want for vengeance was tuning all his senses into an acute need of necessity.

  Meadows nodded towards the distant lights. And the logger understood what needed to be done. If he followed these directions, then that wish and demand for something tainted could be satisfied.

  All he had to do was follow Meadows’ lead.

  Simple.

  The logger nodded absentmindedly. He had fallen into the throes of bloodlust. That red tinge that had thwarted his thoughts and vision was in control.

  Listen to those words of comfort.

  And all would be okay.

  The logger clenched his fists tightly. Looked out towards the lights on the horizon.

  He was going to do whatever needed to be done.

  Indeed, he felt his heart quicken with the thought of retribution. The blood that ran from his throat was lessening each beat.

  A crooked grin split his face, dreadful and cold, and he took his first step back towards the parked pickup truck, thoughts and dreams focused solely on the pain of the damned.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Deputy Kelly Anderson was not a woman to be easily frightened. But what Rivers had said was working fingers of fear into her brain.

&nb
sp; What if she had an illness? Did it even have to be something severe? Christ, she could go mad just thinking about it.

  What even constituted as an illness? A runny nose. Cough. Rash. Fungal or yeast infection. What the hell?

  She stopped pacing the cabin. Looked at Rivers – wanted to tell him to fuck off with such a stupid notion yet could not easily dismiss the theory either.

  That just left one thing.

  Wait the rain out.

  If his ideas were correct, then that would be the only sure thing to do. Stay indoors until the storm moved on. She had tried the radio earlier, but had found it useless, as the battery pack had been removed. Maybe that was standard procedure at the end of the season. Bring a fresh one next time. She did not know. Just their luck though, that they found themselves completely isolated.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Rivers, the turmoil on her face clear.

  “What happens next.”

  “Thought that were obvious,” Rivers said.

  “Which is?”

  “We live here. Have children. Live happily ever after.”

  The deputy scowled at him. She was not in the mood for such bullshit or bravado. Maybe she should have left him to slip into a fever-induced coma.

  “Dream on – soldier boy.”

  Rivers laughed – a genuine sound of amusement.

  The deputy felt his lighter tone, and she took a breath to gather her wits. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to undermine your time in the war.”

  His face became more serious. “I was one of the lucky ones.”

  The deputy sat at the side of the cot, a simple folding chair bearing her weight. “How?”

  “I survived. Got out with all my faculties. It didn’t break me.”

  Anderson considered this. “Attempted bank robber and known killer. A real model citizen is our Jake Rivers.”

  Rivers laughed again, but this time with nothing but bitterness. “True,” he said simply.

  “What the fuck happened?” she asked. “With the bank, I mean. Why did you even get involved?”

  “Like I said already, I owed Meadows my life. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”

  “So, you try to rob a bank as a thank you?”

  “That wasn’t Meadows’ idea. Meadows is – was – a good man. Just run out of options, I guess. Magnotta came up with the bank idea.”

  “This Magnotta – where does he fit into all this?” Anderson asked.

  Rivers’ face took on a darker expression. “Mean son-of-a-bitch. Ran our platoon back in ‘Nam. The Sarge. Did some terrible things.”

  “Then why listen to him?”

  “He had convinced Meadows that it was their only chance at treatment. Magnotta was ill, too. Tumour to the brain. Slurred speech and all that.”

  “That doesn’t warrant what they – what you did.”

  “No,” Rivers agreed. “It does not.”

  They fell into a moment’s pause. Each with their own thoughts.

  The deputy broke the brief silence. “So, you shot this Sarge?”

  “Had to,” Rivers said. “He would have killed the guard otherwise.”

  Anderson pondered on that for a second. “And who shot you?”

  Rivers looked suddenly embarrassed. “The guard.”

  “The one you saved?”

  “The very same.”

  The deputy laughed. “I’ve got to give it to you Rivers, they don’t make many like you.”

  Rivers just gave her an exaggerated look of apology. “We friends?” he asked, tugging on the cuffs that tethered him to the cot.

  She laughed again. Harsh this time. “I’m still taking you in. When all this is over.”

  He nodded.

  The deputy leaned in closer to him. “You mess with me, and I’ll shoot you. Be in my rights, too – killer and all.”

  Rivers nodded again.

  Anderson reached towards her utility belt. “I’m the one with the gun – remember.” She popped a small pocket open, and the keys to the handcuffs came into view. The bracelet to the cot clicked open.

  Rivers rolled his shoulder on that side. “Thanks,” he said.

  The deputy was leaning in, ready to release the other cuff. A sudden burst of light filled the windows on her side.

  Anderson bolted upright.

  The light intensified; all the windows filling with bright white light.

  The deputy watched as the darkness burst with headlights. Not just one, but many. She almost felt relief, was this the cavalry, here to save them, when the vehicle at the front took shape.

  The tan VW.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “What is it?” Rivers wanted to know.

  Anderson shot him a look. “We’ve got company.”

  Rivers sat upright. “Fuck,” he cursed, seeing the small convoy.

  “You ready?” Anderson asked.

  Rivers nodded.

  “Yeah – time to bring this night to an end,” he said.

  Chapter Forty

  All entrances and exits were covered. The short hallway which led to the fire escape had now been cluttered with chairs. They were scattered about randomly, some upright, others with their legs tilted towards the ceiling, jutting out sharply, like the spears that defended a medieval fortress.

  Ben was perspiring heavily. The exertion to move so many objects drawing sweat from each pour.

  The steak knife was still embedded in his shoulder. The agony that throbbed there slowing his every movement.

  So far, Maggie had not been seen.

  The trucker had managed to push the diner’s tables around the main doorway, using his greater bulk and hips and thighs to good use. He had formed a channel from the door to the main area that would hopefully force her in a straight line if she came in from that way.

  The stove was a red-hot blaze, the frying pan that the cook had used earlier was sizzling noisily, as the liquid fat that Ben had filled it with bubbled and spat.

  If Maggie decided to enter that way again via the flue, a la Santa Claus, then she would get a Christmas treat she would never forget.

  Ben leaned heavily against the counter. He had all the lights back on. No point in scratching around in the dark. The teenager knew he was here. Let her come – he thought, the shotgun cradled loosely in his arms.

  The lights within had a reflective effect against the windows, which meant he could clearly see himself stood there, yet the night beyond was something of a mystery. Ben did not like the idea of her creeping around outside undetected but felt even less comfortable standing here in the dark.

  The lights from the overhang outside gave him some relief, as he could see the gas pumps with clarity, but everything else captured on either side remained in darkest dread.

  He heard footsteps. Above his head. Maggie was nothing if not predictable. The footfalls stopped at the centre of the ceiling. The flue made a metallic boom of noise.

  Ben almost willed her to come that way. See what surprises I have for you. Yet, the hollow bang stopped suddenly. She had not taken the bait. Those footsteps beat out a short tattoo across the roof – as they scampered away in the opposite direction.

  The trucker followed them. He had the shotgun aimed towards the diner’s ceiling. His finger was positioned flat against the trigger guard. He was not going to waste this one opportunity to put her down.

  Yes, he realised, he had concluded that he would willingly put an end to the teenager’s life. And he felt comfortable with that fact. She had taken Cal. Dispatched him with callous disregard. Ben wanted to avenge his fallen friend.

  Maggie would pay for what she had done.

  In droves.

  Ben listened as her footsteps faded. A mop of hair dropped into view, tangled and sodden, and dangling upside-down from the edge of the diner. That hideous face of hers grinned in demented fashion – the smile more a frown in this ungodly position.

  Once again, Ben was reminded of The Exorcist – only it was n
ot Linda Blair who was possessed, but Maggie, her eyes empty and hollow, and her face seemingly incapable of real emotion. Just the one on offer – hatred. This was the only sentiment that Maggie seemed able to communicate.

  Ben held her gaze.

  She simply stared back – those eyes empty vessels that had been lost the moment she had felt the rain engulf her very being.

  A hand came into view, then her arm, followed by two dangling legs. She dropped onto all fours just outside the diner’s window.

  Ben shivered.

  She moved like a spider, all bent limbs and skittering motion.

  The teenager sidestepped her way to the main entrance. A hand reached up to test the handle. It remained unlocked. Ben had wanted it so. Her hand hung for a second, her head tilting both sides, as something worked its way inside her fevered brain.

  The trucker was willing her to come on. Take the fucking easiest route. Come get me.

  Yet, she did not.

  The part of her mind which retained that self-preservation aspect stopped her short. Her hand dropped away from the handle. In the next second, she had crawled out of view.

  Ben felt the strength to his legs falter. Just the simple task of remaining stood seemed almost impossible. His muscles quivered and gave out, as he slipped down against the counter.

  Darkness crept in around his periphery – his sight clouding with a black veil that reduced his vision to twin pinpricks of light.

  Fatigue was calling him. That voice which had started out as a slight whisper now loud and clear. Ben closed his eyes. Needed to. Eyelids heavy and tiredness weighing them down with demanding authority.

  The night took him then.

  And the sleep of oblivion reigned supreme.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jake Rivers counted four in total – Meadows, a guy from a pickup truck, logger’s jacket and bald head, a woman who looked the business type, short hair and smart clothes, and an elderly man dressed in night attire. The woman had arrived in a dark Sedan, and the old man brought up the rear in a battered Corvette.