Black Creek

by Dan Kemp

  "Yeah. Why? You know what's going on out in the world, man. How can you let it happen?"

  "I lost, Dorian. Martin won." He looked just as defeated as he claimed to be, his eyes downcast and his shoulders sagging.

  "Hey. He only won because you're out here hiding, like a coward, instead of fighting him."

  James looked hurt, and although Dorian felt suddenly guilty, he didn't stop. "I know what you've been doing here. I've been looking for you for two years. You think if you rescue somebody now and then, that's enough? Well it's not. You let a maniac destroy the world, and he's still out there. You're the only one who can stop him."

  "I can't. He can't be beaten. Neither can I. It's pointless." There was rage on his friend's face now. "Do you have any idea how long I've been fighting this battle? You don't. He’s tormented me for more years than you could even conceive of. I'm tired, Dorian. I can't do it anymore."

  "So let me get something straight. You knew this guy couldn't be killed, and you led me into his office saying we were going to assassinate him? What the fuck was that about?"

  "No," James said. "I had a plan. Something I'd never tried before. Never got a chance to try, and look what happened instead. It's all fucked, man." Tears were welling in his eyes now, a sight Dorian had never seen before. "All I ever wanted was to be left alone."

  Dorian put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. But you've got a choice to make. You can hide out here, and he’ll keep looking for you. Or you can man up and do the right thing. What is it you would have to do?"

  "I'd have to die."

  That hit Dorian hard. "Well, you've had a long run," he managed to joke. James smiled, his eyes still moist. "Look. I've got a safe place, up in Maryland. Black Creek. I want you to come. We'll figure out what we do next. But you're lost on your own, and to be fucking honest I'm lost without you. So come with me."

  "I haven't been alone," James said. "You should meet my wife. Hope."

  Dorian laughed. "She's real? Well then you should both come with me."

  "Alright. I'll consider it," James said.

  Dorian held his hand out and James grasped it. Behind him, Dorian noticed the truck was still lying on its side. Ah shit.

  "Oh by the way, I've got a bunch of fucking kids in this truck. I guess we'll have to take them too. Can you pick it back up for me?" James did, lifting the truck back upright with ease before Dorian opened the cargo door. The children were terrified, but unharmed.

  "I'm Dorian," he said. "The men who took you are gone. Where did you come from? Do you have parents you can go back to?"

  Muffled 'no's and shaken heads.

  Fuck, Dorian thought with a sigh. "OK, this is my friend James. He's going to take you somewhere safe. It's uh, going to be okay." The children just continued staring at him.

  "You got them? Thanks."

  James shook his head and laughed. "Yeah, sure. Better me than you as far as they’re concerned."

  "See you at Black Creek, right?" Dorian said to James.

  "Yeah."

  ***

  "What the hell is going on?"

  A thick cloud of smoke was rising above the power compound. As Dorian sat atop his purring motorcycle just outside the chain fence, everyone's eyes were on him. Up on the wall were Kristof and the other residents of Black Creek. On the ground, armed men and women he didn't recognize, but clearly Church members. Well, most of them he didn't recognize.

  "I knew I shouldn't have let you go," he said. The woman at the head of the cultists, Skye, scowled back at him.

  "And I told you it wouldn't matter if you did."

  "Yes, you did."

  A silent moment passed, then gunfire erupted. Dorian, out in the open, opened up the throttle and turned, his bike skidding in the mud as bullets thudded against the dirt behind him.

  The Church members were taking cover behind the water pipeline. Dorian came back around and fired a shotgun blast at them as he passed, catching one man in the chest. Somebody up on the wall was hit as well, tumbling over and falling down to the ground.

  The Church went into retreat. They were outnumbered, and neither side could actually advance on the other. Dorian fired off a few quick shots at the cultists hiding behind the water pipeline. The rest turned and ran, back toward the power complex.

  Dorian was just about to chase after them when something emerged from the gates at the other end. It was a man on a motorcycle, accelerating at what looked like top speed along the path toward the gates. As it came closer, Dorian could see that the frame was strapped with explosives. The rider howled and whooped, careening toward the wall.

  "Bomb!" Dorian screamed. "Get down!" He briefly saw those on top of the wall scrambling to get out of the way as he dove into the dirt himself.

  BOOM

  The blast was deafening, and the ground shook beneath him. Dorian covered the back of his head as chunks of masonry rained down upon him. As soon as it all stopped, he got to his feet once again.

  His gates, and a good bit of the wall beside, were now a smoking crater. From the other side, he could hear shouts and screams. The twisted remnants of the saboteur's motorcycle lay no more than a few feet away from him. Ash and embers still wafted down from above. Sparks sizzled and cracked among the broken masonry. Dorian watched as one man struggled to pull another free from the smoking rubble, only to be himself crushed by a crumbling pillar.

  Dorian’s ears rang, his head reeled as he took a single step. There, in the midst of it all, was Kristof, clambering quickly down the face of the broken wall. Dorian called after him, his voice muffled and strange in his ears, and the man didn't seem to hear him. He took a few stumbling steps after him, finally breaking into an awkward jog.

  The gates at the far end had been blown open too, their metal doors crumpled and hanging from their hinges. Inside, the scene was even worse. The generator building had been burnt out, its windows shattered and fire still raging inside. The pipeline itself appeared to be intact, at least.

  Bodies were strewn all about the grass, a few in Church garb, but mostly ones he recognized. Many of his own lay in various contortions of agony, their clothing fused to their charred flesh. The sick scent of it all filled the air, and Dorian could barely hold back the bile he felt rising in his throat.

  Kristof went from body to body in a lurching half crawl before finally collapsing next to one with a yelp. When Dorian caught up to him, he was cradling a young woman's lifeless body.

  It took Dorian a moment to recognize Lisa, the woman Kristof had insisted on bringing back from the Church's captivity.

  Tears streamed from behind his eyepatch, and Kristof let out an anguished howl, his body shaking and his arms hugging her close as she lay limp in his arms. "Lisa," he stuttered out between sobs.

  Dorian turned away, unable to watch the scene anymore. Something had shaken him, and it wasn't just the death of this young woman whom he barely knew, nor the grief of the man he counted a friend.

  Skye

  Two years earlier

  "For NBC News, I'm Skye Summers. Thanks for watching, we'll see you at eleven."

  Skye smiled wide at the camera before turning her attention down to the desk, where she mimicked interest while shuffling through a stack of papers.

  "Cut," came the director's call, and the bright studio lights instantly dimmed. Skye dropped her papers onto the desk and stood. An assistant scurried over and began to remove her microphone.

  "Nice work, Skye." The director, a pudgy, balding, middle-aged man, had wobbled over to her and was standing there expectantly, his brow moist.

  "Thanks, Ralph." The assistant finished loosing the wires from her chest. "I've got a dinner. I'll see you in a bit."

  "Okay," he said, forcing a smile that failed to conceal his disappointment. He was always hoping she would hang around the studio between the evening and nightly news. Even if she had no plans, Skye wouldn't have done so.

  Skye left the studio and went back to her dressing room. A doz
en multicolored roses sat in a vase on a table, their leaves just beginning to wilt. The couch was adorned with three heart shaped pillows and a tangled blanket from her most recent nap between broadcasts. She checked herself in the mirror.

  Skye's blonde hair and makeup had been meticulously styled by the production staff. She slipped out of the black jacket she wore on camera, smoothing out a wrinkle in her light blue undershirt to conceal an old green-brown bruise which peeked out from underneath. It was still a bit sore.

  It was November, and the sun was already beginning to set. Skye pulled the furry hood of her sweatshirt over her head then fumbled in her pocket with her awkward gloved hand. She managed to retrieve her phone and turned on the screen. There was a text message from Katie.

  "I'm here" is all it said. Skye didn't answer, and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

  The café was only two blocks away from the studio. She rushed happily inside to the heat, pulling down her hood and scanning the room for her friend, eventually finding her at a table near the window. Katie was bent down and absorbed in her cell phone, her bright red hair hanging over her narrow face. She looked up and smiled warmly as Skye pulled the other chair out to sit.

  "Hey, girl,” Katie said, setting her phone down at the edge of the table.

  "Hey." Skye slid into the chair across from her.

  "I ordered your usual."

  "Thanks."

  "You okay? You look down."

  "Yeah. Just tired."

  "Okay," Katie answered, though her tone and facial expression betrayed her skepticism.

  A waiter showed up with their food. Skye's was a shrimp salad. She asked the waiter for a sparkling water, which he soon brought.

  "So how's Mark?"

  "He's good," Skye said, feigning a smile. Katie missed that as she bit into her sandwich, but gave her a knowing look after.

  "You guys still fighting?"

  "Little stuff. Nothing big. He's trying."

  "Mm-hmm," she said through a mouthful. "You know you can talk to me right, Skye? We've been friends for a long time. I hope you know that."

  "I do," Skye said. "I'm fine. Can we talk about something else?"

  "Sure."

  They did, and after an hour they went their separate ways. They hugged goodbye and Katie suggested another dinner later that week. Skye said that sounded great, and she surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye on Katie's shoulder as they hugged. Of course, she wasn't fine.

  When she left, Skye had two calls and two texts from Mark. She had forgotten to message him. Are you out of work? the first one asked. Who are you with? the second. Skye called him back and apologized. "It's fine, I was just worried," he said, but it wasn't true, and she knew it. His voice contained just a hint of venom.

  Skye met Mark in college. He was a football player, not a star, but a solid role player. She was smitten with him right away. He was charming, funny, and sweet when he wanted to be. On their third date they walked along a cliff overlooking the ocean and he sang to her. He brought her flowers every single week.

  He was always a bit of a jealous type, insecure. When she went out with friends he would message her frequently, or invent reasons to need to call her. When she spent time with male friends, he would get sullen and passive aggressive.

  If Skye confronted him about it he would apologize profusely. He knew he was insecure, he’d say, it was just that he was irrationally afraid of losing her. That he would do anything to make it up to her. Skye would always end up feeling guilty, and over time she simply stopped seeing her male friends altogether.

  Mark rarely drank, but when he did, he drank too much. At times he was a whiny, emotional drunk, at others a violent and angry one. But he never hit her then, although he terrified her. He would always come to her the next day, still hungover but with a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolate.

  They had good times and bad times. Lately it had been more bad than good. Last Christmas, she had to work and he got angry. They fought, and he pushed her. Skye fell and hit her head. She was okay, so she went to work in a huff and he wasn't there when Skye came home. He came back the next morning, promising he would never drink again. They would do couple's counseling. They did, and things only got worse.

  She laid herself bare to him there, all her most secret fears and vulnerabilities, and what hurt her the most was when he began to use it all against her. She was used goods, he said. She was a whore. She was crazy. She was lucky that he even bothered to stay with her. It didn't take very long before she started to believe all of it.

  Skye was trapped, and she hated herself for it. She knew she should be strong enough to leave him, but she wasn't. What if he was right? Mark was the only man she had ever told about what had happened to her that one summer afternoon when she was eight and her mother left her home alone with her uncle. He was the only one she'd ever told, and he resented her for it. Used it against her. Asked her if she had somehow led him on. Told her that was all she was good for anyway.

  He was a good man before Skye came along. You make me act like this, he said. How could anyone else love her if he couldn't?

  ***

  Skye had just closed her eyes when the doctor entered. She heard the door to her hospital room open and close but didn't open her eyes until he spoke. "Mrs. Summers? Sorry to wake you," he added.

  "It's fine, I was just resting." There was the steady rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor behind her. She pulled her hospital gown up further over her chest.

  "How are you feeling?" the doctor asked. He was young, handsome. He wore khakis and a dress shirt with his tie just slightly loosened and a crisp white coat on top.

  "Better. My stomach still hurts a little, but not much."

  "That's to be expected."

  Skye nodded. He pulled a chair out from the bedside and sat, crossing one leg over his knee. "How are you really feeling though?"

  "Okay. I feel stupid."

  "Don't."

  "You said if I had taken much more the antidote might not have even worked. I don't want to die."

  He leaned in and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to."

  She choked back tears and forced a smile. "Thank you for saving me."

  He smiled back. "That's what I do."

  "Can I still go home today?"

  "Yes. Your liver functions have returned to normal, and the psychiatrist cleared you. You should follow-up with her this week."

  "I will."

  "Alright." He stood and extended his hand, which she shook. "Your husband just arrived to take you home. I asked him to wait until I was done talking to you. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No. Thank you."

  "Okay then." He looked disappointed.

  The highway rolled steadily by. Skye, still in her hospital gown, laid her head against the window and watched it go.

  "How are you feeling?" Mark asked from the driver's seat.

  "Better."

  He put a firm hand on her thigh, not looking over. "Did you seriously think you could get away from me so easily?"

  Skye didn't answer. A tear welled in her eye and spilled onto her cheek. It was getting dark outside as storm clouds gathered overhead. The first drops of rain started to hit the windshield.

  He laughed quietly. "Got nothing to say now?"

  Skye was trying to think of what to say when there was a deafening roar like a train passing by, and the car started to shudder and shake violently.

  "What the fuck?" Mark said, leaning forward intently. Skye just closed her eyes as the car was lifted into the air and then thrown, spinning, back to the ground. There was nothing but loud crashing and still the sound of the roaring wind, then her vision went black.

  Skye woke a few minutes later. She was upside down, suspended by her seatbelt and alone in the car. Through the windshield she could only see pavement. She felt for the seatbelt release and tried to steady herself with her other hand before pressing it, though she sti
ll fell onto her head. The door was open, and Skye crawled free of the wreck.

  The sky was almost black and heavy rain was falling. The tornado had passed by, leaving all the trees along the highway leveled or gone entirely. Other cars lay in similar states of destruction on the highway around them. An eighteen-wheeler truck was on fire. Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming.

  "Skye. Help me up." Mark was sitting on the road on his side of the car, holding his right ankle. "I got out of the car and fell down before I could help you out. I think it's just sprained though. Help me up."

  He looked up at her but there was no emotion, certainly no love, in those eyes. Next to him on the ground was a thick chunk of broken asphalt. Skye bent down and picked it up, staring at its jagged edges.