Deep in the Darkness

by Michael Laimo

  Another leaped from the group, pushed aside the fiend in front of me and grasped my arm, tears flowing from one golden eye. The other hung shriveled and lifeless from the socket like a pendulum, the miraculous gold converted to a stone cold gray.

  Fenal leaped forward, intercepted. "Pentaff! Blahtah!" The Isolates scrambled away. He then gazed at me, his golden eyes glowing with admiration. "Savior," it said.

  Savior?

  Oh my God...

  Dizzied, I stumbled from the room back out into the large antechamber. The creatures immediately rushed forward, groped me with broken bones and mangled limbs, mouths dripping fetid with disease, their wails echoing in helpless pain, desperate for my aid. Jesus, it was all too clear now, my purpose. My role in the grand scheme of the Isolates. I could see it on their suffering faces, the clear desperation that I would be the one to nurse them all back to health, give them a chance to thrive as they once did, just as Neil Farris had for thirty years. Just as the doctor that lived at 17 Harlan Road before him had.

  Savior...

  Calloused hands groped me. Monstrous cries filled my head. My breath escaped me.

  Overwhelmed, a wave of darkness consumed me, and I collapsed, gratefully succumbing to its grasp.

  27

  I woke up.

  It had taken me some time to realize that I'd actually survived the night. When I tried to move, a crippling numbness seized my body, forcing me to speculate that I'd been laying face-down for an indeterminate amount of time. I was also deaf and blind, and all I could really do was lay there and try to catch my breath, which kept a sufficient distance from me despite my slow but successful attempt to gain of control of it. Soon thereafter my senses returned to me. A breeze tickled my skin, the earth soft and grassy beneath my palms and face. The distant calls of songbirds stirred me even further from my slumber. Eventually I found the will to open my eyes and found myself surrounded by an early morning darkness, fading starlight and the soft shuck of the moon tossing slight shadows across my surroundings. Here was enough evidence to make me believe that perhaps I'd survived—been spared—the night after all.

  When I regained full control of my breathing, I tried to stand, anticipating my head to swim. Oh it did, and it sent me careening across the short sprawl of lawn in the backyard. The presence of my office windows brought reality back to me in a very hard thrust, and made me realize what I needed to do with them as soon as humanly possible (the image of the steel doors Neil Farris had installed, which I hastily took down, came to me; my next step would be an even more drastic yet necessary move). I slid crookedly along the side of the house, then entered into the waiting room through the unlocked door. I wondered if any of the Isolates had come here to help themselves to my belongings while I'd visited their dwelling. I didn't see any mud tracked on the carpet, leading me to assume that they hadn't, but I wouldn't put the feat past them.

  I felt my way across the lightless waiting room, through the hallway, and then into the kitchen where I blindly shuffled to the table. I fumbled for the ball-chain cord to the chandelier, grasped the air a number of times before finally locating it. I yanked it. The room fell into rude light. It attacked my eyes like lasers. When my sights finally cleared I found a cellophane-covered dish filled with Thanksgiving dinner leftovers sitting on the table.

  I should've been happy about it. But I wasn't. A shudder ran through me instead, and a million paranoid thoughts assaulted my mind. Like, what if the food was poisoned? Or, Is this some kind of trick? I told myself that no act of kindness could be trusted, even a seemingly generous gesture on the part of my wife who'd apparently made this last-ditch attempt to save our marriage. I sat down at the table, thought about eating the food but just stared at it. Believe me, I wanted to eat it, but I was scared to...plus it didn't call out to me. Not at all. Along with my soul, my appetite had also stayed behind in the domain of the Isolates. I stood up and took a drink of water from the sink then closed the light and staggered to the living room couch where I curled up into a fetal ball and waited out the rest of the night.

  I must've fallen asleep at some point. Sometime later, something had come out of the darkness and touched up against my dangling hand. I heard a dreamlike voice call out to me. I screamed in a panic, eyes and mouth fully opened. Jessica was there, surrounded by the morning light, eyelids fluttering out of sudden terror. She screamed and fell back in a defensive twist then landed on her back. In a flash she righted herself like a cat and raced from the room, crying hysterically.

  Christine hurtled in, dropping her pocketbook which had been draped around her shoulder. She looked sick. Eyes dark and puffy, skin sallow, no makeup. A thicket of her hair escaped the bun on her head, obscuring her angry face. "Are you fucking crazy?" she yelled.

  Her words burned through me like acid. She screamed something else but her voice was like mud on my mind. Gibberish. Jesus, I thought, if she only knew. I stood up on achy legs and limped away, shoulders hunched as if expecting her next move. By the time I reached the steps, she had gone back into the kitchen and returned with the plate of food she'd brought home for me. She ran forward and threw it at me. Her intentions were good but her aim was bad. The plate shattered against the front door. Most of the food ended up strewn about the living room in a storm of cold chunks, although some pieces hit me in the chest. Fearing another attack, I turned and raced up the stairs to the landing, stopped, turned and looked downstairs, eyes stinging from sudden tears. The sounds of Christine sobbing and Jessica crying could be heard, and it damn near killed me to hear my daughter in such distress. I covered my ears with my palms, then spun away from the top of the steps and ran down the hall. The bathroom door was open and I banged my knee against the jamb at about the same time I heard the front door slam shut. Pain barked up into me from the point of contact. I bit my tongue and grabbed my knee, then moved inside and looked into the mirror and nearly leaped at what I was saw. Mud. On my face, in my hair. On my clothes. Jesus, I looked like a fucking monster. Quickly I peeled off my filthy clothes and slid into the shower where I sat for an hour or more, washing away the disease of the night and trying hard to rinse my mind of its memories. When I realized it wasn't going to work, that the events of the night would stay with me for an eternity, I screamed until my vocal chords bled and cried until my tears dried up.

  Eventually I crawled out of the shower—the water had turned cold by now—barely able to lift my tender legs over the tub. A towel wet from Christine's earlier shower hung limply on the bath-hook. I used it to dry off, smelling the soft feminine aroma she'd left behind in the cottony fabric. Gooseflesh hurdled across my skin, and at one point I put the towel in my mouth, trying to taste the pleasures of my past.

  Dear God, how I wanted that past back again.

  So badly.

  The beautiful, glorious past.

  Half an hour later I was dressed in fresh clothes, my mind brimming with the determination to retrieve everything I'd lost.

  There was only one way to do it, I knew.

  I'd have to fight this damn thing to the very bitter end.

  28

  The living room had retained a bit of an odor. Kind of like, well, Thanksgiving dinner. I did my best to clean away the mess of hurled food. It'd been nearly impossible to get everything up (I'd made up my mind not to tackle the wall beneath the steps which had a surreal art-like spattering of mashed potatoes and cranberries on it). But the bigger pieces of turkey, stuffing, and yams all ended up in the trash.

  Eventually my body called out for sustenance. My stomach loudly protested its emptiness with lion-like growls, so I quenched it with a bagel, banana, and instant coffee—the most food I'd consumed in one sitting for at least a week. As I sat at the kitchen table, I planned out my first task, which wouldn't be an easy one. I decided it prudent to secure the house from any possible intrusion. Every window, every door, would have to be completely shuttered, now that I knew what was really out there. I didn't want one single night to pass wi
thout being sure my family would be fully protected. Then, once this was completed, which would take me most of the day, I'd consider making some plans for a means of escape from Ashborough's limits.

  I'd have to be smart about it. No rushed exits.

  Fuck the 'law' and its battalion.

  I peeked out the window.

  A man walked by.

  Shit. I hadn't considered at all as to whether I'd had any appointments.

  Apparently, I did. And here he was, Mister Punctuality, showing up at exactly nine-thirty on the dot.

  I stood from the kitchen table, peeked into the small mirrored backsplash set above the stove and saw a wretched beast of a man peer back at me (what did I expect?) then moved through the connecting hall into the waiting room. Here on the loveseat sat a rather slight, ordinary-looking man of perhaps forty. His legs were crossed, hands on his knees, near-bald head resting back against the upholstery. As I approached him he gazed up at me, smiling congenially beneath a few days worth of facial hair. He stood to shake my hand. His grip was weak and cold.

  "Hello Doctor Cayle, nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."

  "And you are?"

  He hesitated for a moment, perhaps wondering why I hadn't known his name, after all it was most likely inked in my appointment book. Or was it? He ran a nervous hand through his thinning hair, eyes narrowed and head cocked, giving off a sense of sudden perplexity. "Sam. Sam Huxtable. I didn't have an appointment."

  Given another minute I might have simply gone through all the motions Sam Huxtable expected. The smile, the trading of pleasantries, the silent stroll into my office to proceed with the examination; he'd come for some medically-sought motive, and had yearned to be treated. But I acted with the arrogance and supposition of a man in the throes of paranoia—a man riddled with ultra-high levels of anxiety along with the will and sudden strength to survive the elements. I couldn't help it. I instantly had to take my frustrations out on somebody. And that somebody had become Sam Huxtable.

  Using both hands, I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, twisted him around and slammed him up against the wall. The Monet print there toppled off the hook and landed with a bang on the floor. I brought a knee up into his groin. This prevented him from engaging in any possible defense. He doubled over, giving me the opportunity to assume full control of the situation. I threw him to the floor, flipped him on his back and straddled him, one hand still gripping his shirt, the other successfully seeking out the few strands of hair left on his head.

  Tears sprouted from his tightly squeezed eyes. His mouth was wet and twisted with fear. "You're hurting me..." he cried.

  "It's my intention to," I said.

  "Please stop."

  "I will...when you answer my questions."

  His eyes darted open. They were wet and red and glossy. I let go of his hair and fisted his collar to make sure he didn't go anywhere, then slammed him a couple more times against the floor just to reaffirm how serious I was.

  "Questions? I...I don't know if I can..." His words were interrupted by a fit of coughs.

  "You can, and you will. Ready?"

  He remained silent, unmoving.

  "Ready?"

  "I'll t-try. Jesus, don't hurt me."

  I kept my grip tight. Clearly he didn't want to talk. Probably knew he couldn't because common sense told him that the new doctor in town had finally come in contact with Ashborough's strange governing body and wasn't all that ready and willing to give in to their decrees yet, so he picks on this poor unsuspecting character in the Grand Scheme who simply wants to rid himself of his ails while keeping everything he knows under lock and key so the little fuckers in the woods won't drag his wife or son or daughter into the woods and send them back with a limb or two missing.

  The thought of all this made me want to kill the man. I really wanted to fucking kill him.

  I took a deep breath, tried to get a grip on myself. "No...you'll do more than try," I said. "You'll tell me everything you know, 'cause if you don't, God help me, I'll break your arms and legs and drag your sorry ass up there into the woods and plant it on that big bloody stone and feed you to those motherfuckers. Would you like that? Huh?" God help me, I meant it, too.

  "Let go of me."

  "What? I don't think so."

  "You let go of me and I promise I'll tell you what I know."

  I pressed down harder. Cramps shot through my hands. Sam grunted in pain, then coughed. Dapples of saliva hit me in the face. His already pale skin went whiter when he realized what he'd done.

  "I'm sorry..." He coughed again. More spit. "Sorry...just please let go of me."

  "How do I know I can trust you?"

  "You have my word...I'll tell you everything I know."

  I loosened my grip. "Everything..."

  "Everything I know," he stressed. Meaning don't expect much. He again added, "Please don't hurt me."

  I loosened my hold, then stood up, pulling him up with me. We staggered a bit, but I gained a foothold and dragged the smaller man into my office. I shoved him deep into the room then closed the door. He caught his footing against my desk and stayed there, unmoving with the exception of his heaving chest; evidently he hadn't been used to this level of activity. Start exercising and cut out the high fat foods. More fruits and more fiber. Doctor's orders. We both took a moment to catch our breath. I then swept an arm toward the chair at the forefront of my desk and told him to have a seat.

  Sam Huxtable's eyes avoided me like the plague; he'd been defeated. Never had a chance really, and he knew it. He nodded then paced like a wounded soldier to the chair and sat down, keeping his eyes pinned to some non-descript spot on my desk. His shirt was torn at the collar. A juicy red spot marked one of his cheeks. Tears streamed down his face. He looked pathetic, though probably not as much as I did.

  Staring at Sam Huxtable, a gale of sudden remorse whacked me, and I felt suddenly ashamed of my actions. My frustrations and determination had driven me to get to this point, and now that I was here guilt riddled me like a virus. I'd just committed some irreversible, self-deprecating act, and had chipped away a bit of my soul in the process. What little soul, that is, I had left. I told myself that all my actions had been utterly necessary, all for the well-being of my family. I'd had no choice in the matter. Do or die.

  Sam gazed up at me. "You look like shit," he expressed rather brazenly. Given his predicament he should've kept his mouth shut, but he probably saw through my weak facade. I was no murderer. Far from it. And he knew it too.

  Yes, but would a man murder to protect his family?

  I shoved my hands in my pockets, seeking false comfort and finding nothing. "So do you...at least now you do."

  "I was feeling like shit before I came here."

  I nodded. "What's wrong?"

  "You said you wanted to talk," he remarked angrily, ignoring me. His priorities had taken a bit of a shift; I'd taken the ball away from him and placed it in my court, putting him on the defensive. Now I could press forward and slam dunk some info out of him, what I'd aimed to do all along. However hastily.

  "I have some questions, Sam, and I think you know where I'm going. I'm the type of person that doesn't like to be kept in the dark about certain things, especially when they affect me and my family. And let me tell you, I've never been more affected in my life, as you can well imagine."

  Sam stared at me, said nothing.

  I continued, "Basically I've been fucked up the ass just like you and everybody else that lives here in Ashborough, if that's what you want to call it: living...it's more like a modern inquisition if you ask me, wouldn't you say? The only difference is that I'm not gonna stand for it, and I don't give a shit if everyone here, and in all the surrounding towns for that matter, are in on their diabolical plot. I've paid my dues, and now I'm gonna take my family and get out of here."

  Sam grinned incredulously. Suddenly he had a voice, and he used it. "What a genius...don't you think I've tried it, that hundred
s of others over the years have tried leaving here? You don't understand, doctor. They're everywhere, like goddamned cockroaches. They hear all and see all. And just when you think it's safe to pack up your things and slink out of here they'll come at you twice as hard and make life miserable for you and your family. They have no qualms about killing, I'm sure you've seen some of their handiwork by now, right? But that's why you're questioning me now, isn't it? Because you've seen what they can do and you simply don't want to take a chance. Paid your dues? I don't think so. You haven't even scratched the surface."

  "Yeah? Well...then how can they possibly stop me in my car?" Somehow I knew they could, but I wanted to hear it from a man with experience, someone who had more answers than me.

  "Why don't you try it and see what happens? They'll fuck with the engine or even toss themselves under your wheels if they have to. Anything to stop you. And you want to know what's really fucked up? Afterwards they'll come and get you, dear doctor, to fix up their injured martyrs after they've committed their nasty deed. Yeah, go ahead. Go and get your family and make like wind in your minivan. You'll be mending broken arms and crushed ribs for a week."

  I thought about Christine and the mystery 'animal' that had darted out in front of the car. Then, of my visit last night to their dwelling. How one of them had crawled over to me after I'd completed the caesarean, how it dragged its leg behind it as if it's been run over by a car.

  "Jesus," I said, suddenly sobered.

  "I tried to leave once," Sam said. "It was in the middle of the night. I had my wife and son in the car, and at the time I didn't think they knew anything about the Isolates. But I was wrong. I ran inside to get the keys which I'd forgotten on the kitchen table and when I got back outside the car was teeming with them. I couldn't even see the wheels. It looked like a piece of sucker candy swarming with ants. My family was trapped inside for hours and I could do nothing but stand there and watch helplessly until morning came. The Isolates eventually skittered away—all at once mind you, a real frightening scene—and at that moment I still had the mind to get in the car and start driving but my son had hyperventilated himself into a coma and nearly died. Thankfully Dr Farris had taken care of him, although I'm not sure if it'd been the right thing to do. Now everyday I have the pleasure of waking up and seeing Josh lying in bed all curled up and twisted, full of bedsores."