All Dark, All the Time

by Brian Keene

  “Jason,” he rasped weakly, holding his hand out to me. There was a bloody stump in place of his other arm.

  In a daze, I floated to his side. A tear ran down my cheek as I took his hand in mine.

  “Ssshh. Your mother’s cried enough for us all today. It’s going to be hard for her to cope with this. You’re going to have to help...”

  He broke off in a violent fit of coughing. I started to yell for Mom but he waved his hand and brought it under control. I noticed in horror that a rusty colored fluid was leaking from the corner of his mouth.

  “You’ve got a job to do, Jason,” he wheezed. “You’re the man of the house now. You’ve got to take care of your mother and the kids. You watch out for them. Take care of me as well.”

  “Pop, I can’t!” I sobbed in protest.

  “Yes, you can,” he said softly. “You’re a good son, Jason. I’m proud of you. I know that you can do this. It’s not easy, but it’s got to be done. Promise that you won’t let me come back! Don’t let me turn into one of those things.”

  Unable to speak, I nodded. With fading strength, Pop squeezed my hand. My face wet with tears, I noticed that he was crying too.

  “Eventually, you’ll have to go back into the woods again. I understand if you’re scared at first, after what happened today. But remember my example and learn from it.” He coughed again, the fluid spraying the sheets in a fine red mist. “I’m a pretty big man, so you all should have plenty to last you for the next few months. Sooner or later though, you’ll have to go hunting again. Remember, there ain’t nothing wrong with eating zombies. Once they die the first time, they’re not human anymore. Once I’m gone, I won’t be you’re Pop anymore either, just meat.”

  I couldn’t speak, so I leaned over and hugged him, our tears running together.

  “I’m gonna try not to come back. I’m really going to try. Better send you’re mother back in,” he rasped.

  “I love you, Pop.”

  “I love you too, Jason.”

  I kissed him softly on the forehead and he closed his eyes. Then I walked slowly to the door and sent Mom back inside. I sat down at the kitchen table and laid the rifle by my side, checking to make sure that it was loaded. Pop had just given it to me that morning. I hadn’t even fired it yet.

  I wondered if Ron’s dad would help me butcher Pop after it was finished. I thought of what life must have been like before the comet.

  Before the dead started coming back to life.

  I looked out the kitchen window, into the night, and lost myself in a flood of memories.

  I waited.

  STORY NOTE: As you were no doubt able to tell, this was another very early story, written in 1997. I have a fondness for this one, however, as it represents a lot of things. It was the first zombie story I ever wrote, and that’s important, since almost twenty years and forty books (as of this writing) later, I’m still known to readers primarily for my zombie stories. This was also me developing characters and concepts that would show up later in a novel first called Cabin Fever, then called More Than Infinity, and finally published as The Rising. For more on that, I’ll refer you to the Introduction in the uncut, author’s preferred edition of The Rising. You can see it all developing in this story though—themes like fathers and sons, characters like Lloyd and Jason (who indeed showed up again in The Rising), and the idea of zombie animals. In fact, I remember that in the original draft of this story, the hunters were attacked by a herd of zombie deer, but the editor made me change it to undead squirrels. You’ll note that I used deer when they were attacked again in The Rising.

  This was also the first story I ever sold for professional rates, and it was the first bit of writing I ever won an award for (a reprint of it appeared on a now-defunct horror fiction website called Blindside, and their readers selected it as the “Best Short Story” of 1999).

  HIDE AND SEEK

  “Let’s play hide-and-seek, Daddy!”

  Connor sighed. He’d had a busy day at work, his knees were shot, and he felt exhausted. The last thing he wanted to play was anything strenuous like tag, wrestling, or hide-and-seek.

  “How about we play with your superheroes, instead? Or Hot Wheels? Or I could read you some books?”

  “No, Dad. I want to play hide-and-seek. Pleaaaaase?”

  “Aw, buddy. Daddy’s tired. It’s been a long day. Let’s pick something we can play sitting down?”

  Killian pouted, in that moment looking so much like his mother, Rachel, that Connor had to grin. His son returned the grin, and Connor relented.

  “Okay,” he groaned. His joints popped as he rose slowly to his feet. “I’ll count and you hide. But remember—no going outside. Hide in the house only.”

  “But there’s more places to hide outside.”

  “There’s also four feet of snow on the ground outside, and the temperature is in the teens. I don’t want you getting sick. Plus, it’s getting dark and your mother will be home from work soon, and she might not be able to see you if you’re hiding in the driveway. So stay in the house. Promise?”

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll hide,” Kilian said. “You count. And you have to count to fifty this time.”

  “Fifty?” Connor feigned shock.

  “Yeah, Dad. That way I have time to hide.”

  “Okay, but it’ll cost you a hug first.”

  Smiling, Killian rushed over to him, wrapping his arms around Connor’s hips. Connor hugged him back. It occurred to him just how tall Killian had gotten. When had that occurred? What had happened to the baby who was small enough to curl up in the crook of his father’s arm?

  In another month, Killian would turn six, and Connor had been surprised lately by all the signs indicating that his little boy wasn’t such a little boy anymore. Using the toilet had become a private affair, as had bath time. First curse words—benign and amusing in Connor’s opinion but enough to anger Rachel—had been learned on the kindergarten playground. Killian had begun to pay more attention to his appearance, making sure his hair was combed and his clothes at least semi-matched. Perhaps most telling was the boy’s willingness to get rid of his baby toys when Rachel had rounded them up to donate to charity. Gone now were Binky the Stuffed Dragon, and various Sesame Street characters, and board books about colors and shapes. They’d been replaced with plastic dinosaurs and an assortment of superheroes and books about Captain Underpants and The Magic Tree House.

  Connor squeezed him tight and sighed. He leaned over to kiss his head, smelled baby shampoo, and closed his eyes, wishing that Killian would stay this age forever.

  “What are you thinking, Dad?”

  Connor broke the embrace and looked him in the eyes. “Oh, nothing. Just about how much I love you, and how lucky your Mom and I are to have you in our lives. Don’t ever go anywhere, okay?”

  “I won’t,” Killian promised. “When I grow up, I’m going to live with you guys still and we’ll play all the time.”

  “That sounds like a plan. Okay, go hide.”

  Killian dashed off through the house, and Connor closed his eyes and counted aloud to fifty. When he was in the teens, he heard the door to the linen closet open and shut. When he reached the mid-forties, he pretended to forget what number came next, eliciting a round of stifled giggles. When he reached fifty, the laughter stopped.

  “Ready or not, here I come.”

  Given that Killian was in the linen closet, Connor made an obvious production of searching the other end of the house first, wondering aloud the various places his son could be hiding.

  “Is he under the kitchen table? No, he’s not here. Now where could he have gone?”

  He pretended to search the kitchen, the master bedroom, and its adjoining bathroom. Then he returned out to the living room and made an equally noisy search of it. Finally, he started down the hall.

  Connor raised his voice. “I wonder if Killian is down here. Oh, Killian? Killlliaaaaannnn...?”
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  Usually, queries like this earned quiet, muffled laughter from the boy, but this time he remained silent. Connor assumed this was just another sign that Killian was getting older—learning not to give himself away during games of hide-and-seek.

  “Now where could he be?”

  Connor placed his hand on the linen closet’s doorknob.

  “I wonder if he could be in... HERE?”

  He flung the door open, expecting a squeal of delight, followed by exuberant laughter as Killian burst from his hiding spot.

  Instead, there was nothing. The bed sheets and pillowcases were stacked neatly on a shelf, as were the bath towels and washcloths beneath them. Under these was a large space, just big enough for the vacuum cleaner and a five-year-old boy. The vacuum cleaner was there, but Killian was not.

  Well, how about that? Connor thought. Little man tricked me!

  He felt a swelling of pride as he exclaimed his surprise. Now, he was certain he’d hear a chuckle, revealing Killian’s real hiding spot, but the house remained quiet. Connor searched Killian’s bedroom, the other bathroom, and the spare room, but the boy was nowhere to be found.

  “Okay,” he called. “I give up!”

  No response.

  “Killian, you win! I can’t find you. Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  He was greeted with more silence.

  The pride and amusement he’d felt vanished, replaced with unease. Certain that Killian had gone outside, even though he’d specifically told him not to, Connor dashed to the front door. In dismay, he saw that it was locked. So was the deadbolt, which was high enough up that the boy still couldn’t reach it.

  Connor experienced the first pangs of alarm.

  When Rachel arrived home a few minutes later, she found him searching the house, shouting in both fear and anger. She joined his efforts, telling Killian that this wasn’t funny, and that he was scaring Mommy and Daddy, and he had better come out right now.

  By the time the police were called and an Amber Alert was issued, Connor had to be sedated. He’d knelt in front of the linen closet, clawing at the carpet and screaming one phrase, over and over again.

  “Ready or not, here I come...”

  STORY NOTE: This was one of those stories that was sparked from real life. My youngest son and I were playing Hide and Seek, and he found an excellent spot and refused to come out. I absolutely could not find him, and for a few brief moments, I was panicked and terrified. Then, he emerged from his hiding spot, laughing and quite pleased with himself. I wrote this story soon after.

  BABY TALK

  Hmm?

  Okay, okay. Mommy’s coming. Jesus! Enough already. Can’t Mommy get a few minutes of sleep without you crying?

  Uh-oh! Did you make a poopy? Do you have a stinky diaper? Yes, you do. Yes, you do. You have a stinky diaper, don’t you? No wonder you’re crying, baby. Okay. Come here. Let’s get that changed.

  Are you a little snoogums? Yes, you are. Who’s my widdle wabbit? You are! You’re my widdle wabbit. But you have to let Mommy sleep, baby. Mommy can’t take much more of this.

  Okay, let’s just lay you down on the changing table. There we go. There we go. See? Now you’re happy. There’s a smile! Oh, look at that smile.

  Here, you hold on to your rattle while Mommy lights this cigarette.

  There we go. Now where the hell did Mommy put those wipes?

  Hold still, baby. Don’t wiggle.

  Okay, let’s get this off you—oh goddamn it! Look at this! It’s everywhere. You’re a mess! Shit. You know, sometimes...

  And where the hell is the ashtray?

  Hey! Hold still, baby. Stop wiggling around. You’re smearing it.

  Fuck. Great. That’s just great. It’s everywhere.

  I’d love to get my hands on your dickhead father right about now.

  Hold still, damn it. Let me just—shit! Now, look what you did. My cigarette. Oh, stop it. Stop it! It’s just a little burn. There. See? Mommy got it. I made it all better. Stop crying.

  Damn it, stop that! I told you to hold still. You’re getting shit everywhere.

  Stop your crying or I’ll give you something to fucking cry about. It’s the middle of the fucking night... Now give me your legs so I can wipe—oh goddamn it! Now look what you did, you little shit! I told you to stop that crying and hold still, didn’t I? Didn’t I?

  You...

  made...

  me...

  do...

  THIS!

  There.

  There.

  There we go. All better now. See? Alllll better. You’ve stopped crying and wiggling, and now we can get you cleaned up and changed. Right baby? Right widdle wabbit?

  Baby?

  Mommy’s sorry, baby. Come on. Make a noise for me.

  Baby...?

  STORY NOTE: Sometimes, you get an idea for a story that you do not want to write. Maybe it will make you sad, or maybe it repulses you. Just thinking about writing it makes you ill at ease. You try to push it away. You wonder what the hell is wrong with you, that such a story idea would even suggest itself. But sooner or later, you have to write it, if only to get the fucking thing out of your head, so that you’ll feel clean again.

  I’ve had three such short stories: “Bunnies in August”, “Burying Betsy”, and this one. I don’t know where “Baby Talk” came from, but I’m glad I got it out of my head. It’s your problem to deal with now.

  AN APPOINTMENT KEPT

  The man approached the jailer’s house. It was a red and brown brick structure built onto the side of the prison. The man knocked on the door and waited, softly whistling a tune.

  Sundown had come and gone. The sky was violet—not quite full dark yet. A full, yellow moon dominated the sky, seeming to stretch across the horizon. In the jailer’s yard, a brass urn spit sparks into the gloom, disturbing a hovering cloud of buzzing mosquitoes. The man watched the sparks fly and smiled. The urn had been lit early that morning, informing Monroe’s citizens that a trial would be held soon. The defendants were an in-debt farmer charged with non-payment of taxes, a young woman accused of prostitution, a man charged with theft, and an older woman accused of witchcraft.

  The latter was the more common crime.

  There was a lot of witchcraft in Monroe these days.

  Even though the urn was now extinguished, thick curls of resin-smoke still drifted up from the bowl. The visitor breathed in the aroma, patiently smoothed his tie, and then knocked on the door again.

  Around back, in the cells beyond the prison yard, prisoners mumbled. The man stopped whistling and listened. A woman, the same one tried for witchcraft earlier in the day, sobbed from above him. She was jailed at the top of the house in accordance with the law, which dictated that female prisoners and the insane be kept separate from the other prisoners.

  The door bolt clicked as it was drawn back. There was a pause, and then a black woman opened the door. The man smiled at her. The woman’s eyes went wide and she gasped, her hands fluttering to her chest.

  The man’s smile faded. “I am not here for you, good mother. I seek an audience with Mr. Bullock.”

  The woman bowed and mumbled a good evening. Her bottom lip trembled.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she apologized, eyes cast to the floor. “I mistook you for—another.”

  “Indeed? Which other? There are dark men about these days. Do I resemble one of them?”

  “No, sir. Begging your pardon. You reminded me of someone I saw one night when I was a little girl. Back home.”

  “Do tell?”

  “I was young when they took me from Africa. But I’ll never forget. My father called to him one night, and he came to our fire to grant my father a boon. But you could not be him, lest you hadn’t aged.”

  “They say that everyone has a doppelgänger. Do you believe this to be so?”

  The woman seemed too nervous to respond. It was obvious to him that she was terrified of him. The man’s smile returned. He swept past her
and into the foyer. The woman scurried off.

  The jailer’s assistant, Matthew Bullock, sat in front of the fireplace in the next room, blowing hard on the orange coals. He was dressed in a dirty, stained tunic and pants—both of which were two sizes too small—and his hair was sweaty and unkempt. Several days’ worth of beard clung to his face. There were food crumbs in the whiskers. He seemed morose, and did not look up when the visitor entered.

  Patiently waiting to be addressed, the man glanced around the room. A lantern glowed softly on the mantle. An oil painting of a ship at sea hung on one bare wall. A round wooden table and a few battered chairs sat in the center of the room. They were all fashioned from oak, because the jailer probably couldn’t afford to have mahogany all the way from South America.

  “Look here,” Bullock muttered, without looking up. “If you come to speak with the jailer, then I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

  “Indeed? And why is that?”

  “Because Mr. Grant ain’t here right now. He’s away over to the Miller’s house for a visit. Gone to hear Miss Tessa play the organ. It just arrived from overseas. Cost them a pretty penny, I imagine.”

  Bullock still did not look up or rise to meet his caller. Instead, he leaned forward and blew on the coals again. They flared. Then Bullock pulled an iron brand out of the fire and began filing it, removing the rough edges and flecks of dead skin that were stuck to the sides.

  On the ball of Bullock’s thumb was a lump of scar tissue, a brand—T, for thief. It stood out in the firelight as he filed the edges of the hot branding iron.

  “I am not here for your master,” the visitor said.

  “Well, I ain’t got no time to talk. I’m about my tasks, as you can see. Mr. Grant bid me to finish these brands for court tomorrow. Been a busy week. So I’ll bid you good night.”

  The man made no move to leave.

  Ignoring the visitor, Bullock placed the brand back in the center of the coals, then withdrew it and pressed it down on a leather pad. There was a soft hiss as it burned a perfect T into the leather. Bullock eyed the mark with satisfaction, and then set the iron aside.