The Dark Ones

by Anthony Izzo

  The biker, his slick bald head gleaming in the moonlight, held a large revolver on them. He had a pointed goatee and thick black eyebrows. Frank could smell him from here, a combination of dirt and body odor.

  “C’mon, hurry the fuck up,” he said.

  They climbed out of the ditch and stood on the shoulder.

  The biker jerked his head toward the town and said, “What the hell’s going on up there?”

  “The end of the world.”

  The thug glanced down the road. “I don’t know what it is. What I know is you two killed my buds.”

  Frank had the awful urge to laugh at his use of the word “buds.” Something told him that would be a fatal mistake. He bit down on his lower lip. “We can’t stay here. It’s dangerous.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” the biker said.

  Ruby spoke up. “Your ‘buds’ had something that belonged to us. See what’s going on up there?” she pointed to the armory. “You had the one thing that can maybe stop it. And we had to get it back.”

  “Shut up,” he said, and pointed the gun at Ruby.

  “Now what’s this about the apocalypse?”

  “The bull chips are hitting the fan,” Ruby said. “That explain it for you?”

  The biker looked toward the town. “What are those things flying in the air?”

  “I don’t have time to explain this,” Frank said. “Come on, Ruby.”

  The biker’s eyes widened. “You aren’t going anywhere.” Nodding toward Ruby, he said, “She’s coming with me.”

  “Like hell,” Ruby said.

  The biker angled the revolver so it pointed at Ruby’s lower legs. A grin that would look comfortable on a crocodile crossed his face. “I’ll blow yer knees out, then you won’t be able to get away while I’m going about my business.” He then said in an almost conversational tone, “What you do fella?”

  “What I do?” Frank asked. Perhaps he could talk his way out of this. The biker hadn’t shot anyone yet.

  “For a living. You her daddy?”

  “No, not her daddy. And I’m a pastor.”

  “Even better. Hey, I got an idea. This little redhead can come over here and get down on her knees in front of me. And she’s gonna suck the old hog root while the Jesus lover watches. That’s only fair, right? You killed my bros.”

  Frank like the word “bros” even less than the previous aphorism for friends, “buds.”

  “Anything you try and put in my mouth’ll get bit off,” Ruby said.

  Could he get a shot off? The danger in that was the revolver discharging and taking out Ruby at the knees. Did this sick mother really think Ruby would service him while Frank stood here and watched?

  “Get over here, or I shoot her in the knees.”

  Frank glanced at Ruby. She flicked her hand and a ray of Light shot out but flew over the biker’s shoulder and disappeared into the pines. The biker’s face contorted into a look of rage. He raised the gun and fired. The blast hit Ruby square in the chest and threw her into the ditch.

  “Probably wasn’t worth it, anyway. Don’t look like she’d like the hog root much,” the biker said.

  Frank looked at Ruby. Legs up on the bank, her head in the ditch, arms splayed out, staring at the stars. The sweet, down-home country girl was dead. Because of this biker scum.

  The biker started to turn the gun on Frank. Frank crouched, whipped his arm forward. A beam of Light shot out. It caught the biker in his gun arm. The gun fell to the ground and the biker spun around, clutching his arm and whimpering. Frank eyed him. That girl deserved better. Had a business to run, world by the tail. He fired at the biker’s leg, striking the calf. The guy fell to his knees. Sweat beaded on his bald head.

  “What the fuck did you do?”

  Frank fired, hit him in the other arm, then the shoulder. The biker fell to his belly and then rolled onto his back. Frank stood over him. A burned flesh smell rose up; his skin smoked. Frank fired a bolt into his chest, finishing him.

  Bastard bastard. Fucking murdering bastard (do you mean him—or you—good Reverend?). I just tortured a man and Jesus Christ will you forgive me now? Can you forgive me now? Look at him, you burned him alive, Frank. Is that what you wanted? What about mercy?

  “What’s become of me?” he wondered aloud.

  He wanted to believe he killed the man in the heat of battle. But what about him and the other bikers? The one by the stream’s head had exploded. Suddenly being a Guardian seemed to carry a heavy weight. Something pressing on his shoulders, compressing him, driving him to the ground, and he still had work to do.

  He took a last look at Ruby. For now, she would have to remain in the ditch. He said a quick prayer and turned to look at Routersville. A roar rose from near the armory. He had to get up there.

  Trudging at first, then breaking into a jog, he continued down Main.

  Routersville’s main drag was a wreck. A van lay on its side. The rear doors were spotted with blood. As Frank progressed, glass broke under his feet and the heat from a burning house to his right warmed his face. Along the side streets he heard the tramping of feet, the occasional squeal of tires, and screaming.

  He carried on. The main drag was free of Dark Ones for the moment. They seemed to be concentrating on the armory and the side streets.

  Frank continued to jog. His chest began to burn. At least you can still draw breath. Unlike poor Ruby.

  He was perhaps a half mile from the armory, going slightly uphill. As he came to the next side street, there was a large gray Victorian home surrounded by neatly clipped shrubbery. A swing hung from a huge oak limb, the tree taking up most of the front lawn, which was hemmed in by a front gate. Frank came even with the house. He heard a high-pitched squeal. It sounded like a child, of which sex he couldn’t tell.

  Should I keep going? He wondered.

  Another squeal, this time louder. There was no way.

  He passed through the gate and climbed the steps. The glass on the front door was smashed. He opened the door. In the foyer, a coatrack lay on the ground.

  He passed through the foyer and saw a rumpled piece of fabric on the staircase. It was red and shiny and wet. A second glance told him it wasn’t fabric, but human skin. Dear God.

  More screaming. From upstairs. He needed to hurry.

  He took the stairs, stepping over the skin and gripping the polished wood banister.

  At the top of the stairs, a pair of French doors stood open, and inside the room stood the Dark Ones. Four of them, crouched over a girl of about ten. She wore pink pajamas and held a stuffed rabbit. The demons jabbed their weapons at her, apparently not drawing blood—yet. Tears streamed down her face and her breath came in hitches. They were doing a damned good job of scaring her.

  “Away from her!”

  They turned, pale, scarred faces scowling at him.

  He couldn’t unleash a beam without possibly hitting the girl. It was too close.

  They started forward.

  Frank reached into his pocket and took out the Everlight. It began to glow, softly at first, then the white light fragmented into beams and shone like a torch. The girl lifted an arm, shielded her eyes. The demons cowered. One of them tore past Frank and ran down the stairs. The others scrambled for other rooms.

  “Begone! Back to the depths with you!” He’d always wanted to say something like that.

  He held the Light at his side. It dimmed slightly, but still glowed. He approached the girl. She scooted back across the plush rug and sat against a canopied bed. Clutching her stuffed animal, she gave him a look of such ferocity that he nearly backed up a step. “Get away! Get away!”

  He put his free hand up, in an “it’s okay” gesture. He half turned toward the French doors, listening for the demons. Heavy steps fell on the hallway floor and he saw the three remaining ones in the house flee down the stairs and out the front door. It would keep them away, but for how long?

  Frank knelt beside the girl. She started to scoot a
way.

  “I’m not going to harm you.”

  “What is that in your hand?”

  Frank held up the light in an open palm. “It’s a very powerful weapon, but a good weapon. It protects the good people of the world against evil—against the things that came in your house.”

  “Is it magic?”

  “You might say that,” Frank said. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just bruised, maybe. They kicked and hit me.”

  “It could have been worse.”

  “They killed my mother,” she said. “I saw them do it. One of them stabbed her.”

  The child would never be the same after something like this. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m Frank. What’s your name?”

  “Anna.”

  “Do you have any other family or friends in town, Anna?”

  She nodded. “My aunt’s up at the armory.”

  “Then I guess you’re coming with me.”

  “You’re a stranger.”

  “I won’t hurt you. You’re safer with me.”

  “Nuh-uh. I’ll hide here.”

  He hated to try and scare her, but time was short. “If you stay here, they’ll come back for you.”

  Her eyes grew wide and she began to pick at the stuffed animal. After a moment, eyes downcast, she said, “Okay.”

  Frank stood up and offered his hand. She shook her head, preferring to stand on her own. “Can you put some clothes on quick while I wait out here? We have to walk a bit.”

  “Okay.”

  Frank stepped into the hallway and the girl closed the curtained French doors. He stood ready, muscles coiled, waiting for a possible attack. The door opened and Anna came out wearing a pink sweatshirt, Capri-style jeans, and white sneakers. She had a blue bracelet around her bare ankle.

  He didn’t want the child to see what waited on the stairs. It was likely all that remained of her mother. “Anna, will you let me carry you down the stairs?”

  “Why?”

  “There might be some bad things down there. Things you shouldn’t see.”

  The weight of his words seemed to penetrate and to his surprise, she said, “Okay.”

  He picked her up, straining. She probably weighed a good seventy pounds. Did his kids really feel this heavy when he picked them up? Of course that was thirty years ago when his muscles were bigger and his belly was smaller. “Don’t look until I tell you, okay?”

  She buried her head in his shoulder. Her legs came down past his knees. She trembled against him and gripped his neck tightly. “Here we go kiddo, okay?”

  One arm around her back and the other carrying the Light, he padded downstairs, went through the foyer, and stepped on the porch. A breeze blew, bringing with it the smell of rotting things.

  He set Anna down and closed the door behind them.

  “It was my mom, right? You didn’t want me to see her body.”

  “Best not think about that.”

  “I didn’t want to see her like that.”

  “No child should. We have to go. Can you stay close to me? No lagging behind, no running off?”

  “I can.”

  “Okay.”

  They stepped onto the street and Anna looked up toward the armory and she began to tremble. “We’re not going there. Please. Look up there.”

  A great mass of them swarmed around the doors like flies on trash. The winged beasts zipped down, spread wings wide, and landed almost gracefully on the roof. The constant beating of steel echoed through the night. They were at the doors.

  “I have this,” he said, holding up the stone. “You’re safer with me.”

  Together they started toward the armory.

  CHAPTER 22

  David groaned weakly. Laura had cut away his sleeve with surgical scissors and now the rot continued to spread, almost down to his wrist. According to Ostrow, it wasn’t contagious, as far as they could tell. It had been inflicted by whatever weapons the attackers carried.

  Growing impatient, Laura said, “So tell us.”

  “This whole thing dates back to the Middle Ages. There was a man named Engel, he was a torturer and executioner, one of the most sought after in Europe. He loved what he did, and was good at it. His specialty was breaking with the wheel. He put hundreds to death, but then he started freelancing on the side. Mostly women started disappearing in a little German village near what’s now Berlin. The villagers found him with a woman tied up. He was burning her with hot pokers, had already taken out her eyes. So they sentenced him.”

  Laura said, “Let me guess, breaking with the wheel.”

  “They did him in. Buried his body in a pit outside the village. There were reports it didn’t stay buried. Villagers saw him walking in the moonlight, limbs twisted and broken, naked and blood-soaked.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Let me finish. He descended into hell. He was remade, turned into a demon. Given the power of darkness. There came reports, two years after his death, of a man with twisted limbs and pale skin who walked the night. This was in Sicily. He had others with him, hundreds like him. They’d been tortured in the bowels of hell, given powers, turned into an army. Able to forge weapons from the darkness around them.”

  Laura would have thought this the ravings of a lunatic, except she had seen it firsthand. “What happened to him?”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” Sara asked.

  “You wouldn’t have believed me without seeing them. Engel and his army began to terrorize the countryside. Showing up as a black cloud and materializing out of the darkness. They disappeared into caves by daytime. Villagers locked doors, livestock were slaughtered, babies and children were snatched out of beds. Meetings were held. A strange man named Sanborn appeared. He had a group of followers, the first Guardians. Sent to counter Engel. They promised to dispatch Engel and his followers. They carried a stone that radiated powerful light.

  “They battled up in the mountains. Engel was defeated with the stone. They buried him with it, sealing him a cave in the mountains. He got loose when a construction road crew was doing some blasting. This was around nineteen eighty-nine.”

  Sara clung to the steel gurney rail. David had a rapt audience in her.

  “He showed up in the States. Looking, hunting.”

  “For who?” Laura said.

  In one of the bays, a team of nurses and doctors rushed in. Someone wheeled in a crash cart. They threw the curtain around. Someone’s ticket was about to get punched.

  “You.”

  “Why me?” Laura said.

  David nodded toward Sara. “Because of her.”

  Sara knew it. The sidelong glances Frank and David had given her. The way she could produce the Light. The whispered conversations between the two of them that would suddenly end when Sara entered the room. And the things that had followed her.

  David continued, “You’re a Guardian, Sara, a very strong one. Maybe stronger than Sanborn. Your grandparents were strong, strong enough to defeat Engel.”

  “Wait, my father?” Laura asked.

  “Your father and mother. Engel was getting close. People started turning up dead in Buffalo. Tortured, bones broken before they died. The cops thought they had a serial killer, but it was Engel. Your father tracked him down.”

  “And?”

  “He buried him.”

  Charles Pennington was in the dark. He saw only shadow. He was on his back, arms stretched over his head and hands bound to something. He was shirtless. His body ached and burned and in a small way he was glad for the darkness, for that meant he couldn’t see the extent of his wounds.

  Hisses and grunts came from the shadows, no doubt the Dark Ones. He remembered being kicked, slashed, feeling blood run freely over his skin. The damage had been delivered by Engel himself, who had gotten in Charles’s face, his breath smelling of grave rot, mocking Charles, asking him where his pathetic God was now. Did the oppressors ever change? Hadn’t that line been uttered before,
albeit to someone much greater than Charles?

  He had managed to kill a few of them before they bound his arms. The beams he fired at Engel did little or no damage. He needed the stone to properly battle hell’s favorite demon. He’d been a fool to come here, hoping for a quick victory.

  Putting Engel in the grave had seemed easier years ago.

  Seventeen years ago. The Fruit Belt Killer—or at least who the police suspected was the Fruit Belt Killer—had taken a sixth victim. A prostitute, flayed, arms and legs broken, eyes gouged out, all while still alive, at least according to the coroner. The FBI came in, brought in profilers. They found no one.

  Frank had come to town. Through the years since Engel’s last appearance, the Guardians had been warned. Stories had been passed down. Be vigilant for killings like this. Investigate. Frank and Charles had watched the news, picked up a police scanner. When the fourth killing happened, they rushed to the crime scene. There had been a large crowd. Frank and Charles had gotten as close as the police would allow. As the crowd nudged and jostled, Charles had felt as if he’d been watched. He turned, and saw a man at the rear of the crowd. Tall, pale face visible under the hood of a sweatshirt. The man tugged his hood lower. The wrist on his arm was malformed, as if the bone had been broken and poorly set. Charles nudged Frank. When Charles turned back around, the man was gone. Charles was sure it had been Engel.

  He had returned home. Charles, his wife Sylvia, and Frank had sat at the table near the window, watching ambulances come and go at the children’s hospital. They had decided to find Engel and kill him. Frank had brought the stone and had it in his palm, rubbing it and working it around.

  Their break came the following week. Sylvia caught a newspaper article about a Hickory Street resident seeing strange-looking men at the abandoned Iroquois brewery. The police investigated and found nothing. Charles guessed Engel and his demons had dissolved into a cloud, disappearing before the police could arrive.

  On a cool September evening, the three of them drove to the brewery. Frank killed the headlights and they drove the length of the rutted alley in silence. They stopped, got out. Frank had the stone. Sylvia stood at Charles’s side. She reached down, placed a small, warm hand in his, and squeezed. He looked at her, skin smooth and beautiful in the moonlight, wishing she were safe at home.