All Dark, All the Time

by Brian Keene

  A few nights before it happened, Dylan crawled up on my lap with one of those little paperback joke books, and asked, “Daddy, if April showers bring May flowers, then what do Mayflowers bring?”

  I pretended that I’d never heard the joke before. “I don’t know. What?”

  “Pilgrims!”

  Then we laughed and played some video games together before I tucked him into bed.

  That was the final good memory I have from last spring. After that, things were forever altered. Our backyard. The creek. My heart and mind. My beliefs. All of it just washed away.

  Last year, the April showers brought the flood and destruction and death and permanent, irrevocable change.

  And Old Scratch.

  And when it was all over, the May flowers growing in our backyard seemed to pale in comparison to him.

  • • •

  My name is Evan Fisher. If you read comic books—or graphic novels, as they’re called today—then you’ve probably heard of me. I’m an illustrator and inker. Or, as my father used to put it before a long, ugly battle with lung cancer took him from us three years ago, I draw ‘funny books’ for a living. I’d always explain to my father that there wasn’t much ‘fun’ going on in modern comics—that they were dark and bleak and full of adult situations and characters, but I don’t think he ever quite believed me. It took me a long time to convince him that illustrating comics was a serious job. My Dad worked for the foundry in Hanover all his life, and it gave him a certain mentality common to his generation of working Americans. Unless you were earning a living with your hands, he didn’t view it as work. But eventually, I showed him that I was working with my hands—and furthermore, that I was able to earn a pretty decent living by doing it. Sure, my wife, Marlena, still had to work, but show me a middle class married couple that doesn’t have both spouses working these days. So we weren’t rich—so what? We weren’t unhappy. We did okay. We weren’t poor and we didn’t have much debt. In the end, I won my father over. Before Dad died, he told me that he was proud of me.

  But he never stopped calling them funny books.

  Before last spring, life was pretty good. I’d been nominated for my second Eisner Award, along with my co-creator, Timothy Graco, for our work on United Hero Federation. I’d just picked up a regular gig doing the pencils for The Electric Skull. Dark Horse and Antarctic Press were throwing more work at me than I could handle, and both Marvel and DC were trying to convince me to sign exclusivity deals with them. All of this without an agent.

  With the money I was earning, Marlena and I were able to buy a house near Craley, one of the more rural parts of York County, Pennsylvania. We had three acres of land—enough room for Dylan to do all the things that boys do at his age. There were lots of tall, old-growth trees jutting from the yard, and at the far end of our property, there was a swift, cold trout stream. It was about twelve feet across and knee-deep in most places. I fished there every weekend for a few months until the novelty wore off. We bought a dog for Dylan—a friendly, playful mutt that he named Sanchez. The two of them ran around in the backyard together.

  We only had two neighbors. A retired couple named Jeff and Anna-Marie Price had three acres bordering the east of our property. A single mother named Thena lived on the far side of the trout stream, along with her kids, Derrick and Josie. They were a bit older than Dylan, but seemed nice enough. The other side of our property bordered a vast marsh, and past that lay four miles of state-owned game land—a lush, thick wilderness that could never be developed or forested. Beyond the woods was the Susquehanna River, which our stream also fed into. Many times that first year, the four of us—me, Marlena, Dylan and Sanchez, would hike along the creek bank all the way to the river, where we’d have a picnic lunch before trekking home again. Usually, Dylan’s legs gave out halfway back, and I’d end up giving him a piggyback ride the rest of the way.

  We’d bought the house in early summer. We landscaped the yard, filling it with shrubs and fruit trees and a multitude of seasonal flowers. I spent most of that first autumn setting up my office. We had a cement block two-car garage next to the house, and I converted half of it into a workspace. Even after I’d finished, the office still looked like it was under construction. Marlena called it “organized chaos”, and I guess that’s a pretty apt description. There were three work tables. One was a drawing table with an architect lamp attached to it. Another housed my computer and both of my printers. The third held my scanner, along with sketch paper, an automatic pencil sharpener, jars full of pens and markers, my light-box, rulers, t-squares, a watercolor tray, tubes of paint, pastel boxes, charcoal, a matte cutter, and razor blades. Atop all of this lay scripts for whatever I was currently working on. There were three bookshelves stuffed full of reference material, and binders with my sketches and notes. On top of the bookshelves was an army of action figures and other toys—everything from Judge Dredd to The Herculoids. Next to the shelves, an oversized nine-drawer filing cabinet stood with more toys lying on top of it. I’d covered the windows with drywall—I didn’t want the distraction. There was a bulletin board on the wall, and a mirror for making faces in (that way I could copy the expressions). A framed picture of Marlena, Dylan, and me hung next to that. We’d had it taken at Sears a year before. There were no paintings or art—especially mine. I found stuff like that to be distracting, just like windows. The only other artwork on the walls were the various crayon drawings that Dylan had made for me over the years: Godzilla fighting some stick figure soldiers. The Hulk eating a bowl of beans. Dylan often said that when he grew up, he wanted to be an artist like Daddy. Or an astronaut.

  Personally, I was hoping he’d lean towards astronaut. Maybe that was just my subconscious desire to live vicariously through him. I’d wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up, but life didn’t work out that way. Sometimes, I still dream about it.

  Marlena worked from home, too, which was really nice. She had to keep regular hours (her bosses could tell if she was logged in or not) but I made my own schedule. As a result, we didn’t have to put Dylan in daycare. It wasn’t unusual for an entire week to go by without us leaving the house. Marlena’s work was sent via email, and I sent mine as FTP files. I used Globe Package Services for shipping actual art, and they picked it up right at our front door.

  It was a comfortable, happy, safe environment until Old Scratch came.

  After that, I never felt safe again.

  Here is what happened. Only a few other people know the whole story, and none of them are talking, either.

  You won’t believe it at first, but that’s okay.

  Neither did I, until it was too late.

  • • •

  When the storm began, I was in my office, trying to beat a deadline. My MP3 player was cranking out some old school Anthrax—“Be All, End All”—so when the thunder started, I mistook it for Frank Bello’s bass-playing at first. I sang along, oblivious. It wasn’t until the rumbling grew loud enough to drown out the music that I realized what it was.

  We rarely watch television, and we don’t get the newspaper, so I had no idea if the local forecast was calling for thunderstorms or not. It didn’t matter in any case. I had just been out-side a few minutes before to sign for a delivery, and the sky had been a clear, pale blue with baby powder clouds. The storm had come on suddenly. I turned down the music and listened as another blast rolled overhead. It was followed by the patter of raindrops hitting the roof. They fell slowly at first, but their speed quickly increased. It sounded like someone was throwing coins at my office.

  I was just about to get up and go have a look when the power went out. Without the benefit of windows, my office was instantly dark. I couldn’t even see the desk in front of me. The printer beeped and fell silent. The monitors blinked and then faded to black. Anthrax stopped playing. The only sound was the rain drumming steadily on the roof, growing louder with each passing moment, and more grumbles of thunder.

  Moving carefully, I slid my chair
back from the table and got to my feet. Holding my hands out in front of me, I tried navigating my office from memory, stumbling to the door. I banged into a table, knocking some action figures and a mug full of pens to the floor. I cursed, then cringed. I’d been making a concerted effort to watch my language around Dylan, and even though he wasn’t out there with me, I still felt guilty.

  The situation was actually sort of scary. My office was usually my castle. I felt at peace there. Comforted. Inside those four walls, nothing else mattered. Not bills or car repairs or doctor’s appointments. Not the price of gas or the war or which politician had lied today. Not requests from my editors or negative reviews or what some basement-dwelling fan boy said about me on a message board. My office was free from all of that. I looked forward to going out to it every morning. But now that the lights were off, that same comforting space became strange and sinister and filled with darkness. My breathing sounded very loud, and my ears began to ring.

  When my fingertips brushed against the wall, I stopped and fumbled around until I found the door. With a small sigh of relief, I flung it open only to find more darkness waiting for me. The sun was gone, replaced by black, roiling clouds that blanketed the sky. They looked almost solid, as if a new continent was floating above the house. Cold, fat raindrops stung my face and arms. I ducked back inside again, leaving the door hanging open. Seconds later, a gust of wind slammed it shut. Cursing, I forced it open and plunged outside.

  The rain fell in sheets and I could barely see the house, even though it was only about twenty feet away from me. I caught a glimpse of movement at the kitchen window—Marlena or Dylan looking outside. Something crackled overhead. I glanced up at the ominous sky as a bolt of blue-white lightning flashed across it. I motioned for whoever was at the window to get away from it. By the time I’d reached the front porch, hail had begun to fall with the rain. Each ball was about the size of my thumbnail. They hammered our cars, the house, and the trees in the yard. The noise was terrible. It even drowned out the thunder.

  Marlena held the door open and I stumbled inside, dripping water all over the floor. It streamed from my chin and nose and fingers, and when I shook my head, droplets splattered against the wall. She slammed the door behind me. I noticed that she was holding a flashlight. As she shined the beam in my face, I shook off some more.

  “Stop it,” Marlena scolded. “You’re worse than Sanchez. Stay here while I get you a towel.”

  As she turned away, I grabbed her waist and spun her around. Before she could protest, I squeezed her to me, soaking her clothes.

  “Evan! Stop ...”

  By the way she clung to me, I could tell that she didn’t really mean it. She softened against me and I gave her a kiss. Her lips felt warm. The moment was broken only by Sanchez barking and Dylan giggling. They stood side-by-side in the kitchen, watching us with obvious delight. Despite their expressions, though, it was easy to see that both of them were nervous. Sanchez had his tail firmly between his legs. His ears were down and he was panting heavily. Dylan chewed on his index finger—something he’d done since he was a baby every time he was upset or scared. In his other hand, he clutched his Spider-Man flashlight. It had come with a gift set—nightlight, flashlight, toothbrush and cup. The beam was dim. I reminded myself to change the batteries for him.

  More lightning crackled outside. Dylan and Sanchez both jumped. I flicked water at them and Dylan giggled again, momentarily distracted. Marlena went to the hall closet to get me a towel. Then another clap of thunder shook the house, and Sanchez fled for the safety of the bathroom, where he jumped into the tub and hid, cowering against the porcelain. Dylan’s bottom lip trembled at this desertion.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a thunderstorm. Nothing to worry about.”

  “But it went all dark and the TV is off.”

  “It’ll come back on in a bit. Meanwhile, we’ll have some fun. You’re not scared, are you?”

  He was hesitant. “No. But Sanchez is.”

  “Well, then you have to be brave for Sanchez. Okay?”

  “What’s that noise outside? It sounds like someone’s throwing rocks at our house.”

  “That’s hail.”

  He gasped. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”

  “Hail,” I repeated, annunciating the syllables. “Not H-E-double toothpicks.”

  His smile returned. “What’s hail?”

  “Big balls of ice that fall out of the sky.”

  “But it’s not wintertime.”

  “No,” I agreed. “It isn’t.”

  Before I could explain further, Marlena returned with some towels. I dried off and tossed them right into the washing machine. Then I ducked into the bedroom, changed my clothes, and threw the wet stuff on top of the towels, pausing only to go in the bathroom and give the dog a quick pat on the head, reassuring him that everything would be okay. I don’t know if it made him feel any better, but I sure did.

  Marlena had acted quickly when the power went out. She already had candles burning in each of the rooms, and if it hadn’t been for the noise outside, the house would have almost felt cozy. Instead, the atmosphere was almost sinister. Hail drummed against the skylights and roof, rain rushed through the gutters and streamed down the side of the house, and every time it thundered, Sanchez whined in the bathroom. We tried to coax him out of the bathtub with a rawhide bone, and then with a can of food, but he refused to budge.

  I changed the batteries in Dylan’s flashlight. Then Dylan, Marlena and I huddled together on the couch and waited for the storm to pass. It didn’t. Instead, it grew worse. Each time I thought it had peaked, the storm reached a new and frightening crescendo. I told them both to stay away from the windows and the skylights. It wasn’t like they could see much anyway. Visibility was down to almost nothing. We could see as far as the first few trees in the yard, watching as they swayed back and forth, leaning closer and closer to the house. Beyond them, the world had been swallowed by a wall of black. Rain and hail fell in torrential sheets, almost like a waterfall. The noise of it hitting the vinyl siding and shingles was so loud that we had to shout to hear each other. Lightning crackled overhead, followed by a loud boom as it struck something nearby. Dylan whimpered. Marlena and I both put our arms around him and told him it would be alright. Then we glanced at each other. I felt nervous and apprehensive, and I saw those same emotions mirrored in Marlena’s eyes.

  With all the noise, talking became futile, and each of us retreated into our own thoughts. My mind wandered. I despaired when I thought about the fruit trees and crown vetch I’d planted along the creek bank just a few weeks before, during the first warm day in March. Chances were they’d be washed away now, especially the crown vetch seed. I thought about some of the bigger trees in the yard, and wondered if they’d hit the house should they fall. Then I tried to remember if I had gas in the chainsaw or not, in case they did fall. It used that stupid oil and gasoline mixture, and no matter how many times I tried, I always mixed it wrong, and the chainsaw would belch out blue clouds of noxious smoke. I thought about the creek and how close the rushing waters could get to us if it breached its banks. I didn’t know if we had flood insurance or not. Marlena was better at handling stuff like that, so I always let her. I considered asking her, but decided that if she wasn’t thinking about it, then there was no reason to worry her even more.

  Lightning crashed again, and something fell nearby.

  I stared at my wife and child. Dylan clung to her, his face partially buried beneath her breasts, his eyes wide and fearful. Marlena stroked his hair and leaned close and whispered something that I couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, the words seemed to calm him. I suddenly felt a wave of love for them both so strong that its intensity surprised me. Don’t get me wrong. I love them all the time. But we don’t really go through our lives thinking about it every minute, now do we?

  At that moment, I was.

  Eventually, there was a lull in the storm. The rain slowed to a steady p
atter, and the rumbles of thunder grew brief, almost as an afterthought. Sanchez slunk out of the bathroom and hopped up on the couch with us. His tail was still between his legs and his ears hung low. His expression was comical. He looked embarrassed. I scratched his ears and told him that he was a brave dog.

  Dylan looked up from his mother’s chest and blinked.

  “Is it over, Daddy?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think it is, almost.”

  Then the thunder roared again, making a liar out of me.

  • • •

  The storm stuck around for another few hours, and even after the worst of it had passed, the rain continued, slowing to a drizzle. Marlena and Dylan had fallen asleep. Sanchez slept, too, with his head resting on my leg. Occasionally he stirred, looking up at me with big, mournful eyes, pleading (in that telepathic way that only dogs and cats can), for me to make the thunderstorm go away.

  “I wish I could, buddy,” I whispered. “I wish I could.”

  It’s a funny thing, love. With it comes responsibility. I’d thought I was responsible until I met Marlena, and then I set out to prove to her just how responsible and mature I could be, because I wanted her to marry me. A year later, I’d impressed her, her parents, my own family and friends, and even myself. Especially myself. The new Evan Fisher was an improvement on the old. We got married and I promised all the things you vow to do on your wedding day—and I meant them. But that responsibility had paled in comparison to the duty I felt once I became a father. Dylan and Marlena and Sanchez were everything to me. It sounds trite to say that you’d die for someone. The phrase has been overused in pop culture, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Fact was, I would die for my family, without a moment’s thought. It was my job—my primal instinct—to protect them from harm, no matter what the cost. For the most part, I did. I made sure we were provided for. Made sure we ate. Made sure we had health care and a roof over our heads. I drove safely. Made Dylan wear his seatbelt. Taught him not to play with matches or talk to strangers. All the things we do to keep our kids safe.