The Dark Ones

by Anthony Izzo

  With their gear now slung over Sara’s shoulder, they left the hospital and got in David’s truck. In his haste to get inside, he had left the keys on the driver’s seat.

  Laura started it up and was able to back out of a spot only a foot wider than the truck (after three tries). The tangle of cars that took up High Street was bad, but someone had left her an opening.

  “This is crazy.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sara looked out the passenger side window. “His, you know ... body?”

  That was a question she really didn’t want to answer, but the kid was two years from official adulthood, so she supposed it wouldn’t hurt if she wanted to know. “They’re busy. While you were outside we declared time of death. They’ll take him to the hospital morgue. Does he have family? Someone will be notified.”

  “Just me far as I know.” A fresh tear trickled down her cheek.

  Laura reached over, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “I’m here. Whatever you need.”

  Nodding and sniffling, Sara said, “Okay.”

  They wound through the streets in David’s truck, bypassing wrecked vans and cars, steering around bodies and broken glass in the street. While they were at a red light, a dreadlocked homeless man in a paint-spattered raincoat came to the driver’s side window and knocked. Laura sped away.

  As they approached Seneca Street, she marveled how they had been left alone. The things that attacked the city most likely only came out at night. But it was like nighttime here, under an ashen dome, the sunlight seeming gray and dirty. Who the hell could conjure up something like that? It was huge, covering the city as far as she could see

  An hour after leaving the General, Laura and Sara pulled up at the foot of Seneca Street. She had a vague idea where the scrap yard was located, having seen it from the I-190 on her trips out of the city.

  The street itself was rundown. The houses had patches of lawns, maybe ten by ten feet. Almost all of them had peeling paint and sagging front porches. One home had a rectangular hole cut in the roof and Laura hoped no one was presently living there. She didn’t see any bodies or the signs of destruction that the attack had brought. In fact, the street was deserted.

  Here it goes, she thought.

  She rolled forward. There it was at the end of the street. Double chain-link gates, six or seven feet high. An arched sign read: AMD RECYCLING. Beyond the sign and the gates were stacks of junked cars, some of them still with blue or red or white paint jobs and others with mottled rusty hides.

  “We’re going in there?” Laura asked.

  “That’s where it is.”

  She parked at the front gate and got out. She noticed something spray painted on the street: Seneca Crew. Gang territory.

  “Wish we had a gun,” Sara said.

  “Probably no one in there but the rats.”

  “Gee, that’s better.”

  “After what happened last night, be glad if it’s only rats.”

  Laura walked up to the gate. A chain was looped through the posts and she saw a padlock lying on the ground. At least getting in wouldn’t be a problem. As she started to swing the gate open, she heard the shuffle of footsteps behind her.

  She turned around. A group of men wearing bandannas over their mouths and noses had surrounded the truck. Some of them carried handguns, others small automatic weapons. The tallest of them, who wore a black hoodie and had the hood up, raised a sawed-off shotgun and aimed it at Laura.

  “You two are coming with us.”

  She supposed they didn’t have much choice in the matter. The man in the hoodie waved the shotgun. Laura waved, indicating Sara should follow, and she put her arm around the girl.

  It turned out they didn’t go far. The men led them into a house across the street. As Laura entered she heard the wild thrashing of a group she thought was called Korn. The heavy sweet smell of marijuana hung in the house.

  They entered the living room and found a tattooed man of about thirty sitting in a recliner. He wore a tank top and jeans. Presently he was smoking a cigar and he took a puff, Laura noticing the hoop piercing in his lower lip. He blew out the smoke and sat forward in the chair. The one with the hoodie directed them to sit on a sofa, which faced a flat-screen television of about fifty inches.

  “Who are they, Tim?” the tattooed man said.

  The gunmen fanned out around the room, some sitting in chairs, others leaning against walls.

  The man in the hoodie said, “Caught them trying to get in the scrap yard.”

  “What are you two doing hanging around the scrap yard?”

  “None of your goddamn business,” Sara said.

  “Sara, please,” Laura said.

  “Yeah, Sara, shut your hole,” the tattooed man said, jabbing the cigar at them for emphasis.

  “We’re looking for something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A stone. It was lost. It’s valuable.”

  “What kind of stone?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  The tattooed man took another puff and then exhaled bluish smoke. “This is my turf. The Seneca Crew, got it?”

  “You have a name?” Laura asked.

  “Parrish,” he said. “You?”

  “Laura Pennington. This is my daughter Sara.”

  He studied them over his cigar. “It ain’t too smart being out with those things running around.”

  “We’re trying to stop them,” Sara said.

  That drew a chorus of laughter from the rest of the room. Parrish put up his arm to silence the laugher. Laura noticed a shamrock tattoo that took up the better part of his forearm. “Yeah, we did that, too. When this all went down I rounded up my boys and went down to Allentown locked and loaded.”

  “What happened?”

  “They killed three of my boys. Two more hurt. They’re in the back of the house, one of them got some sort of shit growing all over him. Other one, Greg, got nicked by a bullet. Think it’s infected.”

  This might get them some leverage. “You planning on letting us go?” Laura asked.

  Tim, the one in the hoodie, said, “The younger one’s cute. I say we keep her here.”

  Laura looked at Tim. Between the hood and the bandanna, his eyes were the only thing visible, and she didn’t like the way his gaze fixed on Sara.

  “Don’t mind Tim. He likes ’em sort of young.”

  One of the other men, who wore a surplus army jacket and a red bandanna tied around his mouth, said, “Better if there’s no grass on the ball field, right Tim?”

  “Fuck you, Boz,” Tim said.

  “What’s it matter?” Parrish said.

  “I’m a doctor. You agree to let us go and I’ll treat your friend. The other one with the skin problem, was he stabbed?”

  “Yeah,” Parrish said. “How’d you know?”

  “This girl’s father died of the same thing.”

  “Can you cure it?”

  “I can’t. Your friend with the infection? Him I can help.”

  “He’s in the back room,” Parrish said. “Then maybe we’ll see about letting you go.”

  CHAPTER 25

  They followed Parrish through a dining room, where a stack of ammunition clips and various machine guns and handguns rested on an oval table. In the kitchen, a pair of sullen teenage girls with heavy makeup leaned against the counter. They looked as if they’d claw your eyes out just for the fun of it.

  As they approached the hallway to the back bedroom, Laura heard moaning. It was the sound of someone whose suffering could not be relieved, a bit of pleading, some begging God for help. She had heard it before and never quite got used to it.

  “My boy’s in this bedroom here.”

  Parrish opened a door on the left and they went inside. The room had a single bed, rolltop desk, and an office chair. The man in the bed was shirtless and well muscled. He wore shorts that came past the ankle and could have qua
lified as pants. Beads of sweat glistened on his chest and abdomen. His face seemed to glow with fever.

  With the back of her hand, Laura touched the man’s forehead. His skin was slick and hot and she knew immediately he had a fever. Laura told Parrish she needed the knapsack from the truck and he sent one of his gang members to fetch it.

  The bullet had only skimmed the surface, which wasn’t bad, but she worried about the infection. The skin around the wound was red, inflamed-looking. And the man was fighting a fever—a high one if she had to guess. “How did he get shot?”

  Parrish said, “Friendly fire.”

  Laura cleaned the wound out using alcohol swabs and some soap, water, and a washcloth she asked Parrish to fetch. The kid’s muscles tightened up and he bit his lower lip. He held up good. She put gauze and tape on the wound and instructed him on how often to change the dressing. Then she gave him an antibiotic pill and set some more on the nightstand for him to keep.

  Laura felt someone standing over her. It was Parrish. She looked up to see him craning his neck, inspecting her handiwork. She hoped he was satisfied. She didn’t want to wind up with a 9mm round in her anytime soon.

  “Thanks, doc. Why don’t you and your daughter have something to eat?”

  She didn’t know when their next meal would be coming. “Okay.”

  After Laura treated the gang member with the bullet wound, the one with the skin growth died. Sara heard him howl and moan from behind the closed bedroom door. After what had happened to David, she could only try and block out the man’s pathetic cries for mercy. She couldn’t bear to listen or see that again.

  Laura had accepted Parrish’s offer of lunch and was eating salami sandwiches and cream of mushroom soup in the kitchen. The food had not sounded appetizing to Sara. The heavy reek of marijuana and the funky smell of the house didn’t help her appetite. She decided to step outside and get some air.

  Leaning on the wrought-iron railing that surrounded the front porch, she saw the street was still empty. She smelled smoke on the air and the sweet aroma of baked Cheerios from General Mills.

  She heard the door squeal behind her. Expecting to see Laura behind her, she instead saw Tim—the gang member in the hoodie—step onto the porch. For a moment he only stood there, hands in the front pockets of the sweatshirt. He still had the bandanna over his mouth and nose. Did he think he was some sort of half-assed cattle rustler?

  “What do you want?”

  “What you want in that scrap yard?”

  “Something important.”

  He moved closer. She wished now she hadn’t come out here.

  “I’m going to see what Laura’s doing,” she said, and began to move around him.

  He stepped sideways, blocking her exit. His hand came out of his pocket. In it was a small revolver. He pointed it at her. With a voice muffled by the bandanna, he said, “We’re going in the scrap yard. I’m gonna give you a personal tour.”

  He was on her quick, wrenching her arm behind her back and forcing her to the steps. She grabbed the railing with her free hand, but he was too strong and pulled her away. He forced her down the steps and her ankle banged the lip of the last stair. She cried out in pain. He clamped his hand over her mouth. He was shoving her along, over the curb, on the street and toward the gates to the yard. “I won’t hurt you, trust me.”

  She found a piece of skin and bit down on his hand.

  “Ow, bitch.” His wrapped his arm under her chin. He squeezed and she felt her throat get tight. She clawed at his arm, but he was too strong.

  He managed to drag her to the gate and swing it open. Her only hope was that Laura or someone had seen something. She didn’t come all this way to die in a junkyard.

  Frank approached the toll barriers on the 190, and when they were about a half mile from them, easing around the exit ramp from the thruway, he was forced to stop. The road was blocked by a convoy of army vehicles. Hummers, troop carriers, and armored personnel carriers lined the road. Troops scurried around. A wasplike helicopter buzzed overhead. Frank noticed the full complement of missiles attached to its wings. That type of bird was designed to do serious damage. He also saw a white news copter with blue and orange piping on the tail circling around. Those weren’t the most impressive sight, though.

  A wall of black mist, seemingly hundreds of feet high, rose and curved over the city like a poison dome. He craned his neck, trying to see the top of it, but there was no end in sight. He wondered how far up it went. It appeared that the city was effectively sealed off.

  Various brightly colored news vans were parked on the shoulder.

  He was surprised at the lack of other traffic, then figured he was probably the only one crazy enough to be going into the city.

  “Well boss, what’s our next move?” Jenny said.

  “We’ve got to get closer.”

  “We aren’t doing it in this vehicle.”

  Frank pulled the Yukon over and found a spot on the shoulder. They got out and he motioned for Jenny to follow. They hopped the guardrail, drawing a curious look from a red-suited newswoman. The ground led downward sharply, and they moved through the short brown weeds until they reached flat ground.

  They moved along the embankment that followed the road above. So far, so good. Then they climbed a hill that led upward, near the toll booths. They reached the road again, remaining at the shoulder and guardrail, eye level with the road. He was peering under a truck and had a line of sight to the toll booths. The cloud began on the 190, perhaps twenty feet from the tolls.

  Frank recoiled, feeling sick. Two soldiers in bulky chemical suits crept out from the toll booths toward the cloud.

  “Good Lord, they’re going to see if they can get through.”

  “I’m guessing they were volunteers.”

  The soldiers reached the swirling black mist. One of them put his hands up to his suit’s helmet, as if listening for a radio transmission. They paused, looked at one another, and went into the mist.

  At first, nothing happened. Then Frank heard a hissing noise like meat frying on a stove. It was followed by the most awful, warbling scream he had ever heard. The only other time he had heard a scream like that was when Betsy Morgan, eighty years old, was dying of bone cancer. Frank had sat at her bedside through every piercing wail.

  A moment later the soldiers stumbled out of the mist. Their helmets and face shields had been eaten away. One of the men’s gloves had dissolved, and his fingers resembled raw sausage. The other man’s face was a sticky mess. His skin was bloody and hung from his face in steaming strips. They both collapsed on their knees. The one with the ruined faced fell forward, his face making a flat smack on the black top. They rolled and cried and twitched on the road.

  Lord, please help them through this, Frank prayed.

  Four more soldiers, in desert camouflage, M-16 rifles strapped across their shoulders, ran out to the men. They split in two groups and grabbed the wounded under the arms and dragged them back to the booths.

  “Jenny, let’s go. They’re distracted.”

  “They’ll gun us down.”

  “Not if they can’t see us.”

  He thought about the possibility of having to fight by using the Light against the soldiers and it sickened him, but they needed to get through the cloud and into the city.

  They would have to sprint across the open field and pass through the cloud parallel to the toll booths—all while hoping none of the soldiers spotted them.

  “Now or never. Go.”

  Frank took off toward the wall of mist, running parallel to the thruway ramp and hoping the embankment would provide some cover. From behind him, he heard Jenny mutter, “You’re impossible.” But she followed. He heard her heavy breathing, her footsteps rustling in the grass.

  They were within fifty feet of the wall when he heard someone yell, “Stop!” And then the roar of a helicopter engine and the whup whup of rotors. He looked up to see the black chopper coming in low and slow. In addition to
missiles, it had a nasty-looking cannon sticking out of its snout. If they opened up with the cannon, they’d be able to fit his remains in a soup can.

  “Frank?” Jenny asked.

  He grabbed Jenny by the arm and they moved toward the wall. Now they were about twenty feet away. He looked at the exit ramp, where four soldiers had rifles pointed in their direction. So much for being stealthy. The helicopter continued to hover.

  Now, three more soldiers moved down the embankment while their buddies provided cover. The soldiers coming down the embankment carried M-16s and wore flak jackets. A few of them had on sunglasses, making them appear vaguely insectlike.

  He reached in his pocket and took out the Everlight. He held it in his closed fist. He could kill the soldiers with a beam of his own making, and they would escape. He briefly considered it, thinking that if they were captured, the city and possibly the rest of the world would be lost. But then he thought of the bikers he had killed, the stench of their burning hair and flesh. He had taken lives and the thought of doing it again made his hands start to shake.

  “Whatever you’ve got planned, I’d do it now,” Jenny said.

  Blind them. Create a wall of light.

  He raised the Everlight over his head, resting it in his open palm. He didn’t have his hand up a second when he heard the pop of a rifle and then something like a bee stinging his wrist. He immediately lowered his hand, grasping at the wrist with the other hand. The stone fell to the ground. He fell to his knees, examining the wound. The bullet had nicked him. Someone was a damned good shot. Another inch and he would’ve been looking at a shattered wrist and shredded blood vessels.

  It still stung like mad.

  Jenny dropped to the ground and grabbed the stone. Frank looked up. The soldiers had come within twenty feet. Their rifles were aimed at Frank and Jenny. They stood in half crouches. One of them said, “Get on the ground. Now.”

  Frank decided to play things up. “My wrist, oh God.” To Jenny, he mouthed, “Hand me the stone.”