The Dark Ones

by Anthony Izzo

  Milo sat at the horseshoe-shaped bar in the Alligator Grill sipping a root beer and waiting for the only woman in his life. The bartender, bald as an egg and wearing a gold earring, flipped on the television over the bar. There was some weird-looking cloud hovering over the old Bethlehem site, and the weather people were saying they couldn’t identify it.

  Milo took another sip of root beer, the soda cool and sweet in his mouth. It did the job of ridding his throat of dust and tasted quite fine, to boot.

  That was one weird-looking cloud. Not like anything he’d ever seen, but it was Buffalo. If you didn’t like the weather, wait five minutes—it would change.

  Debbie arrived five minutes later, coming up behind Milo and tapping him on the shoulder. He hugged her, kissed her cheek, looked at her for a moment. Every time he saw her he still got a little hitch in his chest, for she looked almost exactly like her mother. The graceful neck, the bright hazel eyes, the same shade of chestnut hair.

  They took a table near the front window, and watched as the college crowd began to file in on Chippewa: guys in backward ball caps and girls in low-rise jeans strolling past the window. Milo took in the smell of fried onions coming from the kitchen. His stomach grumbled.

  The waiter came, and they both ordered beef on weck and seasoned fries. Debbie also ordered an iced tea.

  “So, what’s new?” he asked.

  “You believe that cloud over the mill?”

  Milo turned, caught a glimpse of the television. The cloud seemed to have grown.

  “That’s some weird weather, all right.”

  “You think we’ll get a tornado?”

  “It’s not unheard of, but I doubt it.”

  “So about my news,” she said. “I got you in suspense?”

  “I’m on the edge of my seat.”

  Please don’t let it be that she’s pregnant.

  “I’m engaged.”

  “To Brian?”

  She held out her hand. A small diamond occupied her ring finger. Milo looked it over. She had been dating Brian all of two months, and now an engagement?

  “Of course, silly.”

  “Deb, you sure about this?”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Debbie said.

  “It’s not that, you’re just so young. And Brian, he’s a nice kid, but two months of dating?”

  She withdrew her hand. A frown crossed her brow, then disappeared.

  “You don’t think I can handle it,” she said.

  “You’re a junior in college. You’ve got plenty of time. You want to get your master’s, right?”

  “That’s a given, Daddy.”

  “You set a date?”

  “We’re not setting any dates until I’m done with school.”

  “He treats you good, right? From what I’ve seen, he’s a gentleman,” Milo said. “What about when you’re alone?”

  “Couldn’t be sweeter.”

  He leaned in, extended his hand. She placed her hand in his, and he put his other hand over the top. “Promise me you’ll finish school. You don’t want to end up like your old pops, running a machine the rest of your life.”

  “Somehow demolition doesn’t suit me, Dad.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “You happy?”

  “Feel like I’m flying.”

  He remembered those days. When he’d first met his wife. Going home and smelling his shirt because it would smell like her perfume or soap where she had leaned her head on Milo’s shoulder. Walking around in a daze, her name dancing through his mind.

  “All right,” Milo said. “Just take it slow.” He patted Debbie’s hand and she favored him with a smile. He let her hand go, thinking she had been about eight the last time he held her hand.

  A waiter with spiky hair and an eyebrow ring brought their food and a bottle of Miller’s horseradish. He set the plates in front of them and said, “Enjoy!” Then he bopped back toward the bar.

  Milo took the top portion of the roll off and smothered his sandwich with horseradish. He put the roll back together and took a bite. The beef was tender, the roll salty, and the horseradish hot enough to clear the sinuses. Delicious.

  After taking a bite of her sandwich, Debbie said, “That cloud’s grown again.”

  In the weather department at Channel 7, Montgomery Felser watched a group of staff members stand around a bank of monitors. They watched the live feed of the cloud, eyes wide, some of them with mouths agape.

  Felser was due to get on the air and give an update in five minutes.

  As he looked over the Doppler, Rick Ferguson, the station manager, appeared at Felser’s desk.

  “That’s some cloud,” Ferguson said.

  “If that’s what it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been here thirty years, seen two blizzards, the October surprise storm. Some small tornadoes.”

  “That’s why you’re the best, you’ve seen it all.”

  “There’s just one problem,” Felser said. “I’ve been on the horn to the National Weather Service.”

  “So?”

  “They don’t have a clue what that thing is,” Felser said. “And neither do I.”

  As David cruised down the 190, the elevated thruway that wound through the City of Buffalo, he kept looking at the cloud over Lake Erie. It rose up in a column, then fanned out, swirling blackness that darkened the horizon. The attack would come soon. Finding Sara became even more critical.

  Using directions Frank had given him, David exited the 190 and wove his way through downtown Buffalo. It was early evening, the air just starting to take on a chill. Normally he loved this time of year and the crisp fall weather, but tonight it only chilled him. He turned on the truck’s heater.

  He parked on a ramp a block from Buffalo General. He untucked his flannel shirt and jammed the revolver in his waistband. Then he pulled the shirt down to conceal it.

  He approached the hospital and found the ER entrance. He went down a corridor and found the ER waiting room. He approached the desk, where a pretty nurse with black-rimmed glasses sat. She had dark circles under her eyes.

  “Excuse me,” David said.

  “You hurt?” she said, and yawned.

  “I’m looking for a doctor.”

  “Okay sir, but do you need treatment?”

  Did he look sick? “No, I need to speak to one of your doctors, Laura Pennington.”

  “It’s her day off.”

  “Great.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ve come a long way to find her. Did you notice her with a girl, sixteen years old, black hair?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable giving out information to strangers. Now do you have a medical issue?”

  “I’m not a stranger, look.”

  The nurse craned her neck to look around David. “Our security guard will be making rounds. Do I need to call him over?”

  He wasn’t looking to harm anyone, but the nurse didn’t know that. In today’s day and age, he couldn’t blame her for being suspicious. He could be a Ted Bundy clone for all she knew. “No, I’m sorry. I’m leaving.”

  She gave him a scowl and he turned and left the waiting room.

  From the hospital, David drove to Laura’s apartment building on Delaware Avenue. Charles had supplied them her address and apartment number. The hospital would have been the best place to find her; doctors were always working. Of course he caught Laura on her day off. He parked on the street and approached the building. A U-shaped courtyard with a faux marble statue faced the street. Beyond the statue was a set of double glass doors. David entered the courtyard and scurried across, bathed in yellow security lighting. He reached the double doors, looked around. Nothing had followed him. In fact, nothing had followed him all the way from Routersville.

  He entered the building, passing through a marble-floored lobby dotted with potted palms and ferns. He saw a bank of elevators across the lobby. Luckily, it was deserted at the moment.

&n
bsp; He pressed the button for the ninth floor. The elevator dinged and the doors opened.

  He arrived on nine. Laura was in 903. The elevator doors opened. He stepped off, saw 901. Guessing, he turned right and found 903 on his right. He knocked on the door. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened for footsteps. No one answered, and a minute later, he knocked again.

  “I help you?”

  He turned to see a black man with curly white hair grinning at him. In his arm he held a brown grocery bag. In another gnarled hand he held a polished cane made of dark wood. He seemed kindly. “I’m looking for Laura Pennington.” David said.

  “How do you know her?”

  “I went to high school with her. I’ve been out of town for a while.”

  “Don’t know where she is. Saw her leave here with a teenage girl, though.”

  Sara was alive! And she had tracked down her mother. Try not to seem urgent, he told himself. He didn’t want to seem like he was stalking them. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone? I’d really like to catch up with her.”

  “Naw,” the man said, and shuffled past. His grocery bag gave a papery ruffling noise.

  That left Charles’s house. If they weren’t there, then David had no idea where to look.

  Mike sat in the basement of Hark’s club listening to Schuler’s snuffly breathing. From upstairs, bass throbbed through the floor. He hugged his knees in to his chest, trying to get warm. The damp air seemed to knife right through his clothing.

  He looked at Schuler, who lay on his side against a stack of beer cases. Schuler moaned.

  “How you doing?” Mike asked.

  “Feel like shit. Wish they’d just kill me.”

  “We’re not going to die,” Mike said. “Don’t suppose you have your cell on you?”

  “They took it. You?”

  More wet, bubbly breathing came from Schuler. Mike couldn’t help but cringe.

  “Left it on my dresser.”

  They had to do something. Mike stood up and went over to the door where Schuler had been held. He turned the knob, found it locked. No surprise there. He searched the rows of beer and liquor cases, shifting and poking through them. Nothing to find, although he’d hoped for a stray tool, maybe a crowbar or hammer.

  He needed a weapon, anything. Flipping open a case of Labatt’s, he took out an empty. Holding it by the neck, he tapped it on the floor, and the bottom half broke, leaving a jagged edge. No one would hear him, for the music was too loud. He carefully picked up the broken glass and put it in the Labatt’s case. Then he closed the lid.

  He returned to his spot on the floor and left space between his rump and the beer cases. In the space he hid the bottle, neck facing his right side. That way he could reach back and grab it. It wasn’t enough to kill a man, but if he could surprise one of them, he might be able to stab them and grab a weapon.

  “That’s no good, Mike.”

  “I don’t see you doing anything to help us.”

  “Sorry, my nose is a little fucking broken.”

  “You got us here,” Mike said. “Remember that.”

  Schuler propped himself up on an elbow. “I got us here? You should’ve never gotten involved with Hark. Never.”

  Before Mike could respond, he heard the cellar door open. Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs. Hark, dressed in a black tracksuit with white piping, stood looking at them. The huge man from the warehouse, the one with the wingspan, was with him. Under his arm Hark held a package wrapped in clear plastic.

  “Thought you were the best,” Hark said.

  “Even the best have bad days,” Mike said.

  “Which one of you started the fire?”

  Mike and Schuler remained silent. The throb of bass pumped through the ceiling. There was really no chance of anyone hearing them.

  “Don’t want to talk? You will.”

  Hark shifted the package to his hand and began to unwrap it. He pulled it from the package. It was wrinkled and clear, with a hood. It became apparent what it was when he pulled it over his head: a clear plastic poncho. Disposable.

  “This is for your benefit, O’Donnell,” Hark said. “Actually, for mine. Things are bound to get messy.”

  “Wonderful,” Mike said. “You know there were witnesses, that’s why we took off early.”

  “Job not done. I hired you, you fucked it up. And you’ll get the worst of it. Your buddy’s getting off lucky.”

  With that, Hark nodded at the goon. The guy took a piece with a silencer from inside his coat. He aimed at Schuler. Mike watched his friend, whose eyes got big, and Mike wanted to scream, but the goon pulled the trigger. Schuler jerked, blood splashed against the beer cases, and that was it. His friend’s chest looked like some weird red jelly. He was gone just like that.

  The goon aimed at Mike.

  Hark said, “We’re going in that room now. If you don’t squirm too bad, I might kill you early. Most people squirm, though.”

  “Where’s my mother?”

  “Resting comfortably in my office. Pretty sick, isn’t she?”

  “Cancer,” Mike said.

  “A shame,” Hark said. “Though she’s faring better than you are about to.”

  The goon motioned with the gun for Mike to follow. The broken bottle seemed useless now. They weren’t going to get any closer. But he had to try something. He felt behind him and gripped the bottleneck.

  “What you got there?” the big man asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Drop it or I’ll shoot you in the nuts.”

  At least I’ll die fighting, he thought.

  Mike whooped and charged the gunman. He expected to see a muzzle flash and hear the thwip of the silenced gun. Instead, when he got within five feet, the gunman flicked his foot, catching Mike in the gut. He doubled over. The beer bottle fell to the floor and smashed. Then Mike fell to his knees, gasping and clutching his guts.

  The gunman hauled Mike to his feet. Hark, now at the storage room door, chuckled. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Flipping a light switch, he entered the room. Fluorescent light spilled out. The gunman shoved Mike into the room. He fought the urge to gag. The room smelled like a butcher shop, the stench of meat and blood thick in the air.

  He was still half doubled over but managed to scan the room. Against the far wall, a wooden armchair was bolted to the floor. He noticed padding on the wall; the room was soundproof.

  The gunman nudged him over to the chair.

  “Sit down.”

  Mike sat in the chair. To his left was a table with a variety of tools on it, each of them neatly in place. A row of pliers, a blowtorch, nails and a hammer, assorted knives, a bottle of drain cleaner (that one, for some reason, disturbed him most), and several pairs of handcuffs. He also saw the meat hammer they had used on Schuler. Brown splotches dotted the floor, no doubt the blood of Hark’s victims. Mike’s heartbeat shifted into overdrive.

  The pain in his gut had settled to a low throb, and the air returned to his lungs.

  “I’m going to cuff you to the chair,” Hark said. “If you resist, I’ll tell Mr. Sullivan here to shoot you in the kneecap.”

  I’d rather take a bullet, Mike thought. He shoved Hark, who moved back a few feet. Springing from the chair, Mike dove for the table, hoping to grab a weapon. Sullivan aimed the gun at Mike. Mike heard Hark say, “No, you’ll kill him too quick.”

  Mike saw a couple of gleaming knives next to a container of what looked like salt. He reached for a knife. That’s when he felt something hard smash the back of his skull and things went dark.

  Water splashed in his face. Mike jerked his head back, whacking it against the wall. His arms were on fire, the forearms stinging. His upper arms had shooting pains that traveled up the side of his neck like electric shocks.

  Where was he? Someone shot Schuler. His chest had exploded. He really was dead, wasn’t he? Where was Mom? He shook his head as if to clear it. It hurt to think.

  Hark
stood in front of him, grinning. Bloody streaks covered the front of his poncho. He set a bucket on the floor at his feet.

  Mike looked down at himself. He was shirtless, his chest hair matted with water and sweat. They had cuffed his wrists and ankles to the chair. There were shallow cuts on his forearms, raw and stinging. He looked again and saw the salt granules around the edges of the cuts.

  Good Christ, that hurts.

  The pain rocketed through his arms again. He turned his head to see long nails jutting from his upper arms.

  “I see you’ve been busy,” Mike said in a weak voice.

  “We’re just getting started,” Hark said. “You know what happened to the last guy who screwed me the way you did?”

  Mike managed to smirk. It made his head hurt. “Threw him a surprise party?”

  Hark chuckled. “Two of my men held his head back. I poured drain cleaner down his throat.”

  “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Engel stepped from the yawning door of the old steel mill. He looked above. The dark cloud swirled and whipped like a dust storm. It would soon carry his children to the city.

  He looked at the host of trucks with their strange mechanical arms pointed in the air. He thought they were reporting the news. A throng of cameramen point their lenses to the sky, tracking the cloud.

  Engel raised his arms in a Y. Send the cloud upon them.

  The cloud began its descent. It dipped lower and moved toward the city like an alien fog, rolling across the grounds of the mill. There was nothing to stop it. The cloud itself will eat flesh. Then it will roll back, leaving his army in the city to slaughter. It will surround the city, preventing escape. If he were lucky, the cloud would kill the girl, or one of his children will bring her here. Either way, it was the end of the Guardians and the beginning of his Dark Master’s reign on earth.

  At the same time, another cloud was set to roll from the mine in Wickett’s Corner and strike his enemy in Routersville. His army of demons would follow, taking out the last stronghold of the Guardians.