All Dark, All the Time

by Brian Keene

  “I saw her,” Dan whispered. “Upstairs, in her room. I saw Danielle. She was a ghost.”

  “No,” Maria said. “She wasn’t the ghost. You were.”

  “But ... but that’s ... how?”

  “I don’t know. You died in your sleep a little over a year ago, Mr. Miller. Don’t you remember anything about what happened?”

  “I went to sleep. When I woke up, Jerry and Danielle were gone. The house was empty. The power and the utilities were off. And everything ... everything tasted funny. Even the sound seemed off. Not off like the power, but different. You know what I mean?”

  “I’ve noticed the sound is different here,” Maria agreed.

  “But where is here? Where are we? We’re in my house. Everything looks the same. This isn’t Heaven or Hell. Not that I believe in those anyway.”

  “I don’t know,” Maria said. “Maybe this is where you remained. Maybe you created it. Or maybe we see our homes when we die. Our immediate worlds. Because after I cut my wrists, I remember getting very cold and very sleepy. When I woke up, I was dead, but still in my room. When I came outside, I saw you. How far have you explored over the last year?”

  “It hasn’t been a year,” Dan insisted. “I’m telling you, I’ve only been here for a few days.”

  “Maybe time is different here? Maybe what only felt like a few days here, was a lot longer back where we ... well, you know.”

  “There’s nothing out there,” Dan said. “Nothing beyond the mist.”

  “Did you go into it?”

  He nodded. “A little bit. But there’s nothing there.”

  “Maybe our memories only keep our immediate surroundings in place. Maybe everything else vanishes.”

  “Well then, what about that thing out there? What the hell is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Maria said, “but I do know that I wasn’t afraid of it. I don’t think it meant us any harm. I felt very calm when it came toward us.”

  “Calm? Jesus Christ, I was terrified of it.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No,” Maria admitted. “Maybe it’s because you didn’t realize you were dead.”

  “But what does it want? What is it?”

  “Maybe it’s here to help us. To guide us somehow.”

  “How can you know for sure?”

  Maria shrugged. “I don’t. But I feel things. In the last few minutes, ever since waking up after I died—I feel things that are true. Things I didn’t know before.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either. But I feel them anyway. I bet you can, too.”

  “All I felt was scared. There were no universal truths revealed to me. All this time, all that I’ve felt is alone.”

  “Maybe you weren’t ready yet. After all, you didn’t know what you were until now.”

  “I still don’t! How can I be dead? How can—”

  Dan was interrupted by a knock at the door. Unlike the rest of the sounds, the knock was deep and loud. Two more followed, each one powerful and insistent.

  “Oh God,” Dan moaned. “It’s the shadow. I know it is.”

  “It’s okay,” Maria said. “You don’t have to be afraid of it. Stop for a moment and think about it. Let yourself feel.”

  Dan took a deep breath and did as she asked. He was surprised to discover that Maria was right. That sense of foreboding that had come over him every time the shadow drew near was now gone. Instead, he felt a strange sense of comfort and peace.

  “What do we do now?” he whispered.

  Maria stood up and smiling, took his hand. “Let’s open the door.”

  They did, and the figure was there to greet them. It made a sweeping gesture with one large hand, indicating the direction they should go. Maria stepped forward eagerly. After a moment’s hesitation, Dan followed. The shadow walked between them, and when it took their hands in its own, Dan was no longer afraid.

  Around them, the mists dissipated and the gray turned to light. The skies above burned with dark shades of orange and red and yellow, and the light grew brighter, illuminating them.

  “Where are we going?” Dan asked. “Where is it taking us?”

  “To the next place.”

  “And where is that?”

  Maria smiled. “Let’s find out together, Mr. Miller.”

  Dan shielded his eyes with his free hand as the dazzling light consumed them, enfolding them in its radiance.

  And then, he was no longer alone.

  STORY NOTE: This story sat inside my head for over a decade. The idea came from a conversation I had with noted critic and genre scholar Jack Haringa many years ago at some long-forgotten horror convention. We were discussing Fredric Brown’s infamous short story, “Knock”. If you’re not familiar with the tale, “Knock” was quite famous in its time for being the shortest science fiction story ever written. The original version went like this:

  The last man on earth sat in his room. There was a knock at the door.

  That’s it. Two sentences. Short and sweet, and packing one hell of a punch. But then, at the urging of his peers, Brown continued the story, elaborating on those first two sentences. He further developed the plot and the character. The last man turned out to be named Walter Phelan, and the entity knocking on his door was an alien known as Zan, who had killed off everyone else on Earth and wanted to put Walter in a cosmic zoo (along with the planet’s last woman, Grace).

  I told Jack that I thought the story would have worked better had the author just stuck to those first two sentences, because I thought the whole alien zoo thing was silly. I thought it was silly because I’d seen it done in the Marvel and DC comics of my youth, and I was young enough, stupid enough, and conceited enough not to understand that those Marvel and DC comics were riffing on Brown, who had done it first. (I know better now, because I am old).

  Jack asked me what I would have done differently, were I to continue the story from those first two lines. Before I could answer him, we were interrupted by Jack Ketchum, who had a bottle of Dewar’s whiskey that he needed help drinking, and then both Jacks got very drunk and began hollering at me about my incorrect usage of the semi-colon (which many people do, and not always when they are drunk), and I never did get the chance to tell Jack Haringa what I would have done differently with the story.

  So I wrote this to show him what I would have done differently.

  I still think Brown would have been better off sticking with just the original two sentences. Although I do not know for certain, I would hazard a guess that he found expanding upon them to be a challenge. I know that I sure did. Alone wasn’t an easy novella to write. Once I got past the initial plot—Dan wakes up alone and finds out that he’s the last man on Earth—it was hard to balance the discovery portions of the plot in a way that a) wouldn’t give away the fact that he’s dead and b) wouldn’t drag the story down to a tedious snail’s pace. It was extremely difficult to juggle the plot and sustain the narrative in a way that served both the story and the reader. Hopefully, I succeeded. If not... well, I did my best. That’s all any writer can do.

  HUNTING SEASON

  Pop and I were up hours before the sun. I’d gone to bed early the night before, but was too excited to sleep. Tossing restlessly with anticipation, it seemed that when I finally did fall asleep, he was there shaking me lightly.

  “Jason, wake up son. It’s time.”

  I opened my bleary eyes. Pop’s huge form stood beside me, shadowed in the light of the full moon shining through my window. Yawning, I got out of bed, shivering as my bare feet hit the cold wooden floor. I heard Mom bustling about in the kitchen, and my stomach rumbled as the smell of eggs and bacon drifted into my room. It had been a year since we’d had real bacon! She must have been saving it all this time.

  I looked out my window at the pre-dawn world inside the containment fence. A thin layer of snow covered the yard and the treetops in the forest beyond the compound.
The harsh February wind whistled sharply, blowing tufts of snow around in the darkness. I dressed quickly, glancing around my room as I did. The candle’s flame made funny shadows across the walls. My boyhood treasures lay scattered throughout. My rocks and arrowheads, the toy boat that Pop had carved for me, my slingshot, and the two comic books that I had gotten from the trader on his last trip through. The comic’s were my favorite. In my eyes, they were pure magic. Pop had told me that before the comet, there were stores that sold nothing but comic books, although I’m pretty sure he was just kidding.

  I tiptoed to the kitchen, trying not to disturb my brother and sister. Joey had been so jealous the day before, wishing he would turn sixteen like me, so Pop would take him hunting too.

  “You’ve got to wait until you’re older, Joey,” Pop had told him. “It’s not a game out in those woods. It’s too dangerous for a boy your age.”

  Mom had her reservations about it too, which I overheard as I walked into the kitchen.

  “What if something happens?”

  “Now Shannon,” I heard Pop say in a stern but patient voice. “He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s wanted to go with me since he was six. His heart’s set on it.”

  “But Lloyd, what if one of those things...”

  “Honey!” Pop interrupted. “Jason’s got a good head on his shoulders, better than I did at that age. Growing up in this world is different than it was for us. He’s a man now! I’ll be with him, and we’re not going out far. Besides, you know our situation. We’ve got plenty of canned stuff from last year’s garden, but the meat is running low.”

  Clearing my throat, I walked into the room. Mom did her best to look happy, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Pop grinned as I sat down to eat. The bacon tasted fantastic. It was real pig, not the kind we usually had.

  With breakfast finished, I shrugged into my heavy wool coat. Pop disappeared into the side room and came back out with two rifles.

  “Jason, this is yours now.” He proudly handed me the smaller gun, and I gaped in astonishment. Pop’s Remington 4-10.

  “That’s the same gun I used to hunt squirrels and turkey with when I was your age. My Daddy gave it to me, and now I’m giving it to you. I’ve got some punkinball shells for you to use in it. They’ll bring down a deer or anything else, as long as you remember to aim for the head.”

  “Thanks Pop,” I whispered, a lump in my throat.

  The rifle’s weight felt good in my hands. I was even more excited and eager now. I was also a little nervous.

  As we walked to the door, Mom made a big fuss over me, giving me a big squeeze and making me promise to be careful. She and Pop embraced, and he gave her a quick kiss. She stood in the doorway and waved silently as we stepped out into the dim, blue light of the early morning.

  Candles burned in the windows of several other homes within the compound. Others departed from them and joined us as we walked over to the gate—Mr. Norville, our resident doctor, and Mr. Glatfelter and his son Ron. Ron and I had been best friends since birth. Being the same age, we’d grown up inside the compound together. This was his first hunting trip as well, and he was just as thrilled as me. This was all we’d talked about for the last few weeks. Ron grinned as the adults exchanged pleasantries. He eyed my rifle in obvious appreciation. He couldn’t, of course, let on that it was better than his own gun.

  “Seems kind of small to be hunting anything big with,” he said, staring at the rifle barrel.

  “That’s why I’m using punkinballs. Pop says that as long as I hit them in the head, it’ll bring them down. Yours is pretty small too.”

  Ron had his father’s Ruger .22 rifle, which I agreed was almost as nice. While our fathers laughed at one of Doc Norville’s jokes, Ron and I bet on which one of us would make the first kill. Ron seemed as nervous as I felt. Mr. Glatfelter asked us if we were ready, and we nodded.

  “Now you boys remember what I told you about buck fever,” Pop reminded us. “Back when we were your age, buck fever could cost us a deer. Nowadays, it could cost us our lives. When we were kids, animals didn’t get up and walk around after they were dead. Or people...”

  Pop rolled back the steel security gate and we filed through. The gate closed behind us with a loud clang that echoed through the cold silence.

  We lined up in the snow. Pop and Ron’s dad were in the lead, Ron and I in the middle, and Doc Norville brought up the rear.

  “A hunting we will go,” he chuckled softly.

  With the bitter wind whipping our faces, we walked into the dark woods. The snow swirled around us, covering our tracks as the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon. Nobody talked. All of us were on the alert for any game. As we walked, I listened to the forest. The silence was broken only by the soft crunch of our booted feet in the snow, and the wind howling through the trees.

  As the sun rose, the forest began to come alive around us. The wind died down to a few small gusts. In the treetops, I could hear the morning songs of the birds and the soft flutter of their wings as they took flight.

  Both the living and the dead were coming to life around us.

  Growing restless, Ron took aim at a robin perched on a branch several yards away. This earned him a stern look of admonishment from his father, and the bird flitted away.

  Minutes later, there was scurrying noises in the branches above us. Two gray shapes dashed over our heads. Pop and Mr. Glatfelter raised their rifles and fired. Two simultaneous blasts reverberated through the air. I jumped, nearly dropping my own rifle. The squirrels plummeted to the ground, landing in the snow, their blood staining it red.

  “Nice shooting, Lloyd,” Ron’s father said.

  “That was some nice shooting you did yourself,” Pop replied. “Looks like you were too slow, Doc.”

  “It was a late night,” Mr. Norville laughed. “I’ll beat you both next time. Look’s like these two were still alive when you killed them.”

  Pop walked over to the squirrels and nudged them with his boot. Tiny wisps of steam rose from the warm bodies.

  “Now see boys,” he explained, “that’s why you have to stay alert out here. If we had been slower, we might have missed those shots. If these squirrels were already dead, or if it had been something else, we might not be standing here right now.”

  We nodded as Pop pulled out his old Green Beret knife and proceeded to cut the head off the first body.

  “It’s always important to destroy the brain as soon as possible,” Pop instructed us.

  “In the old days, we wouldn’t have been able to eat meat that had been dead for a while either,” Mr. Glatfelter added. “Anything that had been dead for more than a few hours would have spoiled and been unfit for human consumption. The radiation from the comet changed all that. As long as the brain is intact, the meat doesn’t rot, no matter how long it’s been dead.”

  Pop pulled the second carcass over and placed the knife to its throat. The squirrel suddenly burst to life, its eyes jerking open with a malevolent glare. Before Pop could pull away, it thrashed in his grip and bit down greedily on his hand.

  Pop screamed and drew his hand away. Blood flowed from a small hole between his thumb and forefinger. The dead squirrel chewed hungrily on the piece of flesh, clutching it in its forepaws like an acorn. Mr. Glatfelter cursed and pulled his trigger. The point blank blast disintegrated the zombie’s head.

  I cast a horrified glance at my father. His face was ashen. I could see the terror beneath his eyes, a terror that he was bravely trying to keep from me. A terror that was mirrored in my own gaze.

  “Pop...” I wheezed. It was all I could manage. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach.

  “Damn,” he said quietly. “I’ve been bit.”

  “Let me see it, Lloyd!” Doc Norville bent to examine the wound, his expression grave.

  Ron looked at me with concern as I fought back the tears I felt coming to the surface. I was angry. Why did it have to be my father? Why not Ron’s or Mr. Norvill
e? I was ashamed by these thoughts, but also terrified.

  “I might be able to stop it,” Doc Norville said. “We’ll have to get you back to the compound, pronto.”

  “Do what you have to,” Pop replied weakly.

  Mr. Glatfelter and the doctor supported him as we made our way back. The squirrels lay tucked away in Ron’s game bag. Ron tried to reassure me that everything would be okay. Pop moaned as the vile poison began to work its way up his arm. The black sludge that pumped through his veins was visible beneath his skin.

  “Please,” I silently prayed, “don’t let him die.”

  The rest of the day was a chaotic blur. Mom ranged from hysterical to comatose. Joey and Chrissy cried all day, their little faces dazed with fright. Pop’s moans increased, turning into screams of intense agony as Mr. Norville amputated his arm. The tortured cries mingled with the stench of blood and dank fear that permeated the cabin.

  Concerned well-wishers flocked from the rest of the compound to offer help. Mr. Norville turned them away; assuring them with a smile that everything would be fine. It was a smile that vanished when he shut the door. He left after dark, telling us that he’d done all he could. Now we would have to wait. He left a poultice for the fever ravaging Pop’s body, and gave my mother a consoling hug. He shook my hand and his grip trembled.

  “I’m sorry, Jason,” he said, his voice tinged with emotion.

  Mom stayed by Pop’s side and I put the kids to bed, telling them that Pop would be okay in the morning. When I was done, she called me into the room.

  “He wants to talk to you,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “You better hurry. He might not be conscious much longer.”

  Slowly, I walked into the candle lit room. My heart raced in my chest and my feet felt like lead. Pop turned his head toward me and I gasped. His skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, almost chalk white. Dark circles underlined his sunken eyes.