Darkness Wakes

by Tim Waggoner

  “There are only two reasons for us to be back here,” she said. “Either we’re supposed to try and get in and surprise the Insiders by attacking from the rear, or we’re here to make sure that when the others do their thing out front, none of the Insiders escape by this route.”

  Ned looked her blankly for a moment, and she knew he was struggling to process what she’d just said. Finally, he nodded. “Sounds reasonable to me. But which do we choose? Break and enter or stand guard?”

  Meredith hoped some instinct would pull her in the proper direction, but it didn’t happen. She had no more idea what to do now than she’d had a moment ago. Perhaps even less.

  “You forgot a third choice,” said a female voice from the closest Dumpster. “You can die.”

  Meredith spun around as the woman stepped out from behind the Dumpster where she’d been hiding. She was followed by a short, pot-bellied man who waved sheepishly as he stepped into view. Both were dressed in casual clothes, and the woman had one eye that was half-red, while the man’s noise trickled a constant thin stream of blood. But the detail that stuck out most strongly to Meredith was the stainless-steel mixing bowl the red-eyed woman held in her hands. The bowl was filled almost to the rim with a fluid that Meredith was certain couldn’t be water. She raised her hand-scythe at the same instant that Ned cocked his shotgun.

  “Here,” the red-eyed woman said as she stepped forward. “I made this special for you.” She flung the contents of the bowl into the faces of the two dements.

  The liquid struck Meredith in the face and burned her eyes like chemical flame. The pain was so intense that it drove all other thoughts from her mind. Instinctively, she reached up to touch her eyes, but unfortunately for her she still held the small scythe in her right hand. The blade’s pointed tip plunged into her right eye, causing it to pop like a tiny white flesh balloon filled with viscous jelly.

  Meredith’s scream of agony was so loud that she almost didn’t hear the sound of Ned’s shotgun firing. If his eyes had been splashed with even half the amount of chemicals she’d been hit with, he was hurting bad. She didn’t expect the shotgun blast to hit either of the two Insiders, not as poor as Ned’s aim had surely been. But one of the two — the chubby man — cried out in shock as much as pain. She then heard the sound of Ned’s shotgun hitting the ground, followed by hitching breaths as he began sobbing.

  “God, it burns!”

  “Of course it does,” the red-eyed woman said. “One of the good thing about being an ophthalmologist is that you know all sorts of nasty chemicals that can damage eyes.

  With one eye seared by chemicals and the other a bloody mess, Meredith couldn’t see but she heard the woman approach. She’d released her grip on the hand-scythe when she’d accidentally plunged the blade into her eye, and it protruded from the socket like some nightmarish prosthesis. Now she took hold of the handle once again, not because she needed a weapon to defend herself against Red-Eye, but simply because it hurt so damned much that she wanted the fucking thing out now.

  Overshadow, give me strength.

  She started to pull the scythe out, heard the wet sucking sound of metal withdrawing from her bloody eye-socket. But it hurt even more than it had going in, and she jerked her hand away.

  “Having some trouble? Let me help.”

  Meredith didn’t have to see to know what the woman intended to do. She started to back away, hands raised to fend off her attacker, but her head was yanked forward with a sharp tug, and she screamed even louder than before as fresh agony blazed where her right eye had once been. She sensed more than heard the hiss as the scythe cut through the air, and then the blade sliced through her throat, nearly decapitating her.

  Meredith was still alive when she started to collapse, but as the last dregs of her misbegotten life drained away, for the first and last time she heard clearly the whispers coming from the bones braided into her hair. There were variations in word choice and phrasing, but they all communicated the same concept. Die, bitch!

  And no voice whispered this with more venomous hatred than one that had once belonged to a little girl stolen from a grocery parking lot.

  Gillian watched the female dement fall to the ground and lie still. Blood continued to pour from the second mouth Gillian had carved into the woman’s throat, spreading out from her head and surrounding it like a widening black halo.

  She smiled. “That was fun.” She heard sobbing and saw that the other dement, the male, had fallen to his knees and covered his chemically seared eyes with his hands. Gillian held the blood-smeared scythe in one hand and the empty mixing bowl in the other. She dropped the bowl and it hit the asphalt with a loud metallic clang. Then she walked over to the male dement and cut his throat with the hand-scythe. It might have been her imagination, but the gasp that escaped his mouth as he fell over onto his side seemed almost like a sigh of gratitude.

  She heard moaning then, coming from behind her. Still holding onto the scythe — which was now twice as bloody as before — she turned and walked back to Spencer. He lay on the ground next to the Dumpster, his left arm little more than shredded meat clinging loosely to the bone. She looked down at him and shook her head in disgust.

  “Christ, Spencer … didn’t you ever learn to duck?”

  Spencer’s breathing was rapid and his eyes wide with terror.

  “Please, Gillian … call an ambulance. I need to get to a hospital.” He reached out toward her with his good hand.

  She laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Spencer continued pleading with her, his voice becoming increasingly shrill as she stepped toward him. She knelt down and with a single swift motion silenced him forever. She paused to wipe the scythe off on Spencer’s clothes before heading toward Penumbra’s rear entrance. She considered retrieving the shotgun, but decided against it. The hand-scythe was more her style. She didn’t worry about leaving the bodies behind; they could be disposed of later. Right now there was still more fun to be had inside.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Aaron heard the gunshot before they’d crossed half the distance to the fuckle door. Then he heard the screaming. He felt a twinge of guilt at what might be happening to Bone-Braids and Toothless, but only a twinge. This was the reason he’d convinced the dements to come with him, right? To serve as diversions and cannon fodder. He knew it was cold-blooded of him: the dements might be crazy murderous bastards, but they were still human. He didn’t care, though. He had to save his family; nothing else mattered.

  He continued toward the door at a jog, quickly catching up to Gerald and Hayden. Neither seemed to have heard the screams, or maybe they had and simply weren’t bothered by them. Perhaps the dements had heard so many screams during the creation of their Tapestry that the sound no longer meant anything to them.

  They had to move fast. The surviving Insiders would be on high alert now. Hopefully, they’d be too busy dealing with Bone-Braids and Toothless to guard the front door.

  “You realize how insane this all is, don’t you?”

  Aaron’s father now stood to the right of the fuckle door. Aaron hadn’t seen him move from where he’d last been standing, but Aaron supposed unreal people could move in unreal ways.

  “You’re not some kind of fucking commando,” Martin Rittinger said. “You’re just a goddamned vet. You’re not going to be able to break in, and even if you do, you won’t be able to rescue Kristen and the kids. All you’re going to do is get the four of you killed.”

  Aaron increased his pace until he was running full out. He heard Gerald and Caroline’s father struggling to keep up, but he forgot about them.

  “You know something, Dad?” Aaron shouted. “I’ve had more than enough of your bullshit to last a lifetime!”

  He ran onto the sidewalk in front of the strip mall, heading for his father, gripping the handle of the butcher knife so tight it hurt. Aaron’s dad made no move to protect himself, didn’t raise his hands to ward off the blow, didn’t step to one side o
f the other to avoid being stabbed. Martin Rittinger simply stood still and allowed his son to ram the knife-blade into his chest.

  Aaron looked into his father’s eyes, but he saw no emotion in them. No anger, no surprise, no regret and — worst or all — no approval or pride.

  A jolt ran through Aaron’s hand and up his arm as the butcher knife’s blade struck brick and snapped off the wooden handle. The blade clattered to the sidewalk, point blunted and useless. Aaron stared at the chip in the wall where the knife had struck. There was no blood, no sign that Martin Rittinger had ever stood here at all. His father was gone — perhaps for good this time.

  As his two companions caught up to Aaron — chests heaving, mouths gulping air — he held out his hand toward Caroline’s father.

  “Do you mind if I borrow your hammer?”

  “Only if you promise not to try to kill the wall with it,” Hayden said.

  Aaron nodded. As the old man handed over the sledge, Aaron noticed that strands of Shari’s hair were stuck in the blood-paste smeared onto the hammer’s head. He resisted an impulse to pick the hairs off the hammer before stepping in front of the fuckle door. He took aim, lifted the hammer, and brought it crashing down on the door knob. The metal knob snapped off, hit the concrete, and bounced away. Aaron paused only a second before swinging the sledge back sideways and then slamming it against the round opening where the knob had been. The fuckle door flew open, and light spilled out from inside. Penumbra had been breached.

  Aaron started to go in, but before he could take a step, Caroline’s father shoved him aside with surprising strength of a man of his years.

  “I’m home!” Hayden shouted and ran through the open doorway. As he passed by, Aaron thought he saw the scars on the man’s face pulsing with a deep crimson color, reflecting his excitement.

  Some instinct prompted Aaron to make a grab for Hayden, to get hold of his shirt and pull him back. But as Aaron reached out, he heard the explosive crack of a gunshot, and Caroline’s father flew backward. The man hit the ground, landing halfway across Penumbra’s threshold. The scar tissue covering his forehead had a round bloody hole in it, dead center, and even as Aaron stepped out of the doorway to avoid getting shot, a distant part of his mind couldn’t help but be impressed with Wyatt’s aim.

  “Gotcha, motherfucker!” Wyatt crowed from inside the club. “And it was pretty fuckin’ dumb of you to bash in the door like that. We left the damned thing unlocked!”

  Aaron tried to think of a way to distract Wyatt so they could get inside and attack. If he stepped into the doorway and hurled the sledgehammer in Wyatt’s general direction —

  But before Aaron could fully formulate his next move, Gerald let out a bellow of rage and rushed through the doorway, stepping on Hayden’s chest as he went. The old man was too dead to protest. Another shot exploded, followed by men shouting. Gerald, Wyatt, and Phillip too, Aaron guessed. He’d only heard the next sound for the first time a few minutes ago, but there was no mistaking it: a baseball bat covered in razor blades being slammed into someone’s face.

  Aaron decided that was his cue. Holding tight to the sledge, he hurried through the doorway, trying not to think about how it felt to step on a dead body as he made his way inside.

  Wyatt was on his hands and knees in the middle of the room, blood streaming from his face and pattering to the floor like thick crimson rain. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps, and there was a soft keening sound, as if he were trying to cry but no longer possessed the anatomical equipment to do so. Wyatt’s gun — a 9mm, Aaron guessed, though he was far from a weapons expert — lay on the floor nearby. Gerald stood over Wyatt, his razor-bat dripping with fresh gore. The dement had a maniacal grin on his face was he gazed down upon his bloody handiwork, and he rubbed his bald scalp vigorously with his free hand, almost as if it were the tip of his cock and he were masturbating. The dement appeared unwounded, and Aaron assumed Wyatt’s second shot had missed its target. Phillip stood off to the side, looking back and forth between Gerald and Wyatt, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that everything had gone to shit for the Insiders so fast, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He saw Aaron then, and the confusion left his face to be replaced by grim determination. His gaze then flicked to Wyatt’s gun and he lunged for it.

  Aaron ran forward, hoping to beat the other man to the weapon, but Phillip had gotten the jump on him. Before he was halfway to the gun, Aaron knew Phillip would reach it first.

  Gerald saw Phillip make his move, and he swung his razor-bat one-handed toward the Insider, the motion sending an arc of blood flying from the weapon’s blades. But Phillip was moving too fast, and Gerald’s aim was off, and the razor-bat missed the Insider. Phillip reached the 9mm, snatched it off the ground, and aimed it at Aaron. Without thinking, Aaron hurled the sledgehammer toward the man, and the head struck him in the sternum just as he fired. Aaron expected to feel a bullet penetrate his flesh, but the hammer blow had spoiled Phillip’s aim and the bullet went wide. The sledge’s impact knocked Phillip onto his back, and the gun flew from his hand and skittered across the floor.

  Aaron stepped over Phillip, who now lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, fighting to draw breath into his shattered chest. Aaron bent down and picked up the sledgehammer. He then stood over Phillip and held the hammer upside down by the handle and dangled it over the man’s face.

  “Where’s my family? Are they in the back room? Are they safe? Tell me or I’ll drop it.”

  Phillip’s eyes were wide with fear as he looked up at the iron hammer hovering over his face. His mouth opened and closed, like a fish struggling to breathe out of water, but no sound came out.

  Aaron released his grip on the hammer and the head smashed Phillip’s nose to a bloody pulp. An agonized hiss of air escaped Phillip’s throat, the best his damaged chest could do to produce a cry of pain.

  Aaron picked up the hammer and held it over Phillip’s face once more.

  “I’ll ask you one more time: where’s my family?”

  Gerald stepped to Aaron’s side. “He’s not going to be able to answer you if he can’t talk.” The dement’s scalp was smeared with blood, the result of his too-vigorous rubbing. “I’ve learned a few things about hurting folks at the Homestead over the years. Why don’t you let me — ”

  Gerald didn’t get to finish his offer, though. A gunshot roared and the dement’s head jerked to the side as a bullet bored into his skull. The razor-bat slid from his limp fingers and fell to the floor, and Gerald followed immediately after, dead.

  Aaron turned to see Wyatt on his knees, eyes blazing through a mask of blood, the 9mm gripped with both hands. Wyatt trained the gun on Aaron, but Aaron swung his sledgehammer before the cop could fire. Wyatt slumped to the ground, the top half of his head sheared off by Aaron’s hammer blow.

  Aaron’s pulse thrummed in his ears, and with every breath it felt as if electricity surged through his body. He remembered what it had felt like when he’d slammed Bryan against the wall. He’d felt strong, powerful. He felt the same way now, only ten times more so. He knew the Overshadow’s touch had done this to him, awakened a love of violence that he’d never known before. But he didn’t care about what had happened to him. All he cared about was saving his family, and if he had to become a monster to help them, then so be it. He dropped the hammer to the floor and pried the 9mm from Wyatt’s dead fingers. Aaron had never fired a pistol before, but he figured he could make do.

  He turned back toward Phillip. But before he could threaten the man with the 9mm, Phillip pointed toward the rear of the club. Aaron looked in the direction he indicated and saw that the door to the Overshadow’s chamber was open, and Caroline stood in the doorway.

  “Your family is in here, Aaron.”

  He trained the 9mm on Caroline, the gun steady in his grip. She stepped forward as if nothing was wrong. She surveyed the carnage around her with a connoisseur’s eye.

  “I’m impressed. I didn’t think
you had it in you.”

  She walked over to Phillip and looked down at her husband. He still lived, but his face was gray from lack of oxygen. She knelt at his side and stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers.

  “Sorry about this, hon, but you fucked up.”

  She pinched his nostrils closed with a thumb and forefinger then leaned over and sealed her lips against him. It only took a few moments more for Phillip to die.

  Aaron knew he should forget about Caroline, should run into the back room and check on his family, but he couldn’t take his gaze off Caroline. Was it because that despite everything that had happened he still wanted her? Or did his new lust for violence keep him rooted to the spot so he didn’t miss Phillip’s death? Or perhaps now that the way was clear he couldn’t bring himself to go in back and look for fear of what he might find. Whichever the case, he stood and watched, but he didn’t lower his gun.

  “Tell me they’re all right, Caroline.”

  She stood. “Gillian’s looking after them, don’t worry.” She started walking toward Aaron, but then she saw her father lying cross the front door’s threshold and she stopped.

  “Is that …” She went over to him, walking at what seemed a deliberately calm pace, but Aaron could see she was trembling. “It is, isn’t it? My daddy.” She gazed down upon Hayden’s body, and Aaron thought she might bend over to touch him, but she didn’t.