This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  The man abruptly spit out chip and salsa. He didnʹt do it elegantly or discretely. Gramma Bain had told Isaiah that if he must spit something out he should do it into his napkin, then fold the napkin and put it on his lap. He had never spit out any food at all, because he had never seen his grandmother do it. He wanted to be like her.

  The man in the scope just spewed the food everywhere. He looked like he was trying out for a third-rate slapstick comedy. Until, that is, he stopped spitting his food and raised his arm so he could begin beating the woman who sat slightly behind him.

  Isaiah had seen this before. He had watched the man do this over and over again during the course of the month. An imagined slight. A beating.

  Often the beating would be followed by a rape. That it was his wife receiving what he termed his ʺlucky loveʺ mattered nothing. It was still rape.

  Isaiah would have shaken his head in disgust if he werenʹt looking through the sight.

  But he was looking. And heʹd seen enough.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The weapon he had chosen for this mission was an Alias CS5 loaded with .308 supersonic hollow cavity-ammunition. It was a very loud rifle, made louder by bullets that cracked as they broke the speed of sound. Typically he didnʹt go for that sort of thing, but in this case it worked well.

  The man was named Claude Ferrell. Every night he beat his wife, and raped her more often than not. He did this because he was a dog. He could do it without fear of being seen because he lived in the hills, in a place where the rich placed homes far enough apart that no one had to deal with the inconvenience of human interaction.

  It was a place where loud sounds just made echoes and would be impossible to target. No one would even call the police.

  Every night Claude beat his wife. Every seventh night he invited friends to play poker. They played together, and they watched Claude beat his wife when he felt like it. That was why Isaiah had chosen this night to move.

  He never moved in less than three weeks. He always verified the truth of what was happening, always waited though it meant more pain for the innocent. He would not be duped.

  But he had waited extra in this case. Had given Idella Ferrell four extra days of pain and abuse to get to this moment.

  Poker night.

  So Claudeʹs hand went up.

  And Isaiah pulled the trigger.

  The boom was deafening, even through his ear protection. It ricocheted off the hills, bounced through his skull. But he didnʹt let that stop him. He just jumped to his feet and began moving.

  The rifle went over Isaiahʹs shoulder, slung on a harness over his back. He had been laying at the end of Claudeʹs driveway, only fifty feet away from the window through which he had been looking, so by the time he stowed the rifle he was already at the window.

  The glass had shattered. He kicked away what was left and stepped through. Pulling a KA-BAR from the sheath on his hip as he did so.

  He could hear the screams. Smell the blood.

  Claude hadnʹt even lowered his arm. The high-caliber bullet had hit the hand he had been about to use on his wife. It mushroomed as it was designed to do, and the manʹs arm suddenly ended in a ragged stump at the wrist.

  Isaiah smiled behind his ski mask as he wondered what it looked like to the other men in the aborted poker game. Business as usual, just a bunch of buddies getting together for a bit of fun. Watching their ringleader knocking the old lady around, the way all of them did–Isaiah had verified that as well–and then….

  And then an explosion.

  Claudeʹs hand blowing up.

  Blood on the wall.

  Screaming.

  And a hulking form dressed all in black with a dark mask over his face crashes through whatʹs left of the bay window.

  Isaiah pulled a Mark XIX Desert Eagle off his other hip with his free hand. He aimed it at the men who hadnʹt been wounded.

  ʺFirst one to move will die,ʺ he said. His voice came out strange, machinelike. There was a microphone sewn into the lining of his mask that altered his voice and completed the terrifying image he wanted to present. It lay along his throat, a strange analogue to the very different collar he usually wore. ʺAny man in here twitches I will shoot in the head.ʺ

  They werenʹt his job. Only Claude was his job. But if they gave him an excuse, well….

  Idella was staring blankly. She hadnʹt even moved when the explosion occurred. Isaiah hoped it wasnʹt too late for her. He knelt before her. Leaned in close enough that he hoped she could hear him over her husbandʹs screaming.

  He thumbed a switch that turned off the voice-altering hardware. ʺHeʹll never do this again,ʺ he whispered, words meant to give comfort and so meant only for Idella to hear.

  He turned the collar back on and looked back at the other men. ʺYour tires are all slashed, the phone lines are dead, and thereʹs a cell disruptor in the house. You canʹt get out in a car, you canʹt call for help. So sit tight. Anyone leaves and I shoot the rest of you and go hunting.ʺ He grinned, knowing they wouldnʹt see the smile but also knowing they would sense it. He lifted the Desert Eagle, knowing how huge the ten-inch barrel was; how much huger it would seem. ʺIʹm very good at hunting.ʺ

  He wasnʹt lying. About any of it.

  He helped Idella to her feet. She moved like a doll, barely responsive.

  Please be alive inside, Idella.

  He led her down the hall, just out of sight of the front room. Let her sit against the wall.

  Went back.

  Claude was still screaming, though the screams were growing weaker as the blood pumped out of him. And the other men hadnʹt left.

  Isaiah approached Claude. He grabbed the stump. That wrung a new set of screams out of the other man. ʺYou wonʹt be hitting anyone anymore, Claude.ʺ Claude gripped the edge of the poker table with his free hand.

  Perfect.

  Isaiah slammed the KA-BAR through the other manʹs remaining hand. Twisted it. More screams, more blood.

  ʺNo more hitting at all.ʺ

  Someone retched. Isaiah didnʹt bother looking. Didnʹt bother checking to see if he was safe. These men beat their wives and families. They were cowards. He had nothing to fear from them.

  ʺAnd I donʹt like the other things you do to your wife, Claude.ʺ

  Claudeʹs eyes, hazy with pain, suddenly cleared as Isaiah wrenched the knife out of his targetʹs hand. Claude seemed to know what was coming.

  ʺNo, please,ʺ he whimpered.

  ʺNo fun to be the one saying that, is it?ʺ said Isaiah.

  He buried the knife again. Claudeʹs scream was high and clear as a child.

  Isaiah let the KA-BAR stay there, pinning Claude to the expensive leather chair he sat on week after week, master of all he surveyed, now king of nothing. He turned to the other men. They were pale, weeping, holding hands in font of eyes. A few of them sobbed so hard their cries devolved into choking coughs.

  ʺHeʹll die,ʺ said Isaiah matter-of-factly. ʺAnd youʹll watch it. When heʹs dead, then you can call the police. Tell them everything. Leave nothing out. And remember how it happened. How I knew everything. Remember that I knew Claude was beating and raping his wife. Just like I know all of you pigs do the same thing.ʺ Another grin they couldnʹt see. He could feel the fires of Hell reaching for him, and didnʹt care.

  ʺI expect each of you to leave your families. I expect each of you to leave them your money, and buy them the best counseling and never, never touch another person again. And if you do….ʺ He yanked the KA-BAR out of Claudeʹs groin. ʺIʹll do much worse than this. Because you should really know better.ʺ

  He stepped back through the window. Ruminating on how odd it was that the only person in the house who had dry eyes should be the only one who lived in constant fear and pain.

  By the time he set foot outside, though, he realized that it wasnʹt odd at all. It was the way of the world: the innocent suffered silently and the guilty wept in anguish when their sins were shown–but they kept on sinnin
g, and the innocent kept on suffering.

  Isaiah hoped Idellaʹs suffering would lessen. Claude was gone. Perhaps she would find some peace without him.

  But he knew that was a foolʹs hope. And not his job. His job was not now–and never had been–to bring hope. Some of the people who hired him thought that was his job, but they were mistaken. Hope was beyond his grasp, now and forever. He had none for himself, so how could he bring it to others?

  All he could hope to do was provide a measure of the one thing he completely expected to one day receive.

  Judgment.

  He walked past the line of cars that belonged to Claudeʹs poker buddies. Shiny, late models all. Most of them cleaned not by professionals but by wives and children with purple ridges along arms, with deep bruises on backs, with tremors in their gazes.

  Isaiah had meant what he said. The cars were out of commission. And they would not be able to call anyone for a few minutes yet. Not until after Claude was surely dead.

  He had also meant what he had said about them leaving their families. He would be watching, and if any of them touched their children, their wives…anyone…he would end them.

  Judgment. Usually it was a paid job for him. He couldnʹt afford to freelance. But occasionally he did make exceptions.

  His own car was waiting a few feet down the road. An older Nissan he had stolen from a shopping center about fifteen miles away. It belonged to one of the people who restocked shelves at the Walmart there, and with luck he would have it back before anyone noticed it was even missing.

  He would walk from the parking lot. Meet the client. Get paid.

  The he would go home. Think about getting drunk, though he would not actually do so. He never allowed himself that escape. He did not deserve it. And the last time he had permitted himself to do so….

  He winced.

  He got in the car. He wasnʹt worried about fiber or hair samples. In the unlikely event police managed to track the car back to the Walmart, he knew the owner of this car also moonlighted as a small-time meth dealer and pimp. Lots of people drove in this car, for lots of reasons, none of them good.

  Judgment, though incidental, would also come to him. Isaiah was very careful whom he implicated in his work.

  He drove without incident. Obeying all rules of the road. Isaiah was a careful driver. Not only because it wouldnʹt do to be pulled over in a stolen car with the kind of weaponry he was carrying. He always drove carefully.

  Always.

  Along the way, at the various stoplights between judgment and payment, he stripped off his mask. Then the holsters and sheaths and straps that bound the various weapons to him–both the ones he had used and the ones he had not had to. They all went in the black duffel he had brought for this purpose.

  He breathed easier once they were stowed. Even if stopped for some fluke, few cops would notice the bag, and he was confident of his ability to talk his way out of his lack of registration or insurance for this vehicle.

  He was not worried about his outfit, either. Black clothing might arouse suspicion when worn by others, but not in his case. He buttoned his shirt. Added the final touches.

  The Walmart parking lot was nearly empty. He got out, dropped the keys he had stolen on the seat. He had been wearing gloves for his entire mission, so no worry about prints.

  He walked away.

  He threw the duffel with his weapons in a Dumpster that was heavily used and emptied daily–would be emptied in two hours, in fact, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would notice the duffel or investigate its contents before it was taken to a landfill. And if they did, all the weapons were clean - no prints on them or the remaining ammo or the duffel itself. DNA evidence masked by the contents of the Dumpster–which was outside a free medical clinic and so had some old blankets, towels, a few things that, while not biohazardous, were crawling with hairs, skin, and other DNA that would drive even the most dedicated forensics officer to madness.

  Then more walking.

  Three miles to the final meet.

  Three miles to the second part of the job.

  Three miles to a small bit of atonement.

  No. Never that.

  There is no atonement for the damned.

  FALLING DOWN

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 12:52 AM

  Subject: Operation Falling Stars

  Just out of curiosity, if the back-ups donʹt succeed…who do you have in mind?

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 12:52 AM

  Subject: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  I have several interesting possibilities. People Iʹve been trying to recruit for years. This might be the job that tips them into service.

  Win-win, both for the country and for me personally.

  As for names, itʹs probably better you donʹt know at this point. Plausible deniability and all that.

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 12:57 AM

  Subject: RE: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  Will you at least give me status updates?

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 12:57 AM

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  Donʹt whine, Mr. President. It doesnʹt become you.

  ***

  Serafina was gone only moments. She came back holding jeans and a t-shirt.

  ʺThe guy who was wearing these came in with a gang-related knife wound. Heʹs unconscious and handcuffed to his bed. I figured he wouldnʹt need these.ʺ

  The t-shirt displayed the name of a popular band whose songs featured despair and a stated desire to travel to Heaven so they could do pleasant things like ʺrape angel babies.ʺ

  John, again, wondered how he knew that while still remaining sketchy on his own personal details.

  He did know he wasnʹt a fan of the shirt. Or of the bloodstain on the side of the jeans.

  Serafina must have correctly interpreted the expression on his face, because she grimaced as he threw the clothes on. ʺI know. Not the classiest. But we had to cut your clothes off, and this is better than running around nude.ʺ

  John nodded. ʺThank you,ʺ he said. She went to one of the cabinets and took out a pair of shoes, sturdy cross-trainers that John didnʹt recognize at all but which she handed him and so he knew they must be his.

  He was suddenly struck by how well she was taking this, and how quickly and resourcefully she had reacted.

  ʺThank you,ʺ he said again as he put on the shoes. He dragged the killerʹs body behind his hospital bed. It was still visible, but less so. It might buy them a few seconds if anyone looked in. And that might buy them life.

  Seconds would count.

  Serafinaʹs gaze flicked to the corpse. Her lips pursed. ʺYouʹre welcome,ʺ she said. ʺYou sure you donʹt know whatʹs going on?ʺ

  The mission.

  ʺI know we have to get out of here.ʺ He looked at the bloodstain.

  Serafina produced a red bandana. She wrapped it around his thigh. It mostly hid the bloodstain.

  ʺVery tough. Very legit,ʺ she said.

  ʺThanks.ʺ He grabbed her hand. It was warm. Alive. ʺLetʹs go,ʺ he said.

  They ran into the empty hall. John saw the dead man and knew what had happened. Saw the small red smear on the desk at the nurses station and didnʹt have to look into the area behind it to know what lay there. He didnʹt know the quantity, but the quality of mayhem was certain.

  He didnʹt know how many more would come, but he felt in his bones that come they would.

  He also felt…a pull. Like he was an iron filing being drawn by a magnet. A consistent tug in a particular direction as unwavering as the pole to a compass needle.

&n
bsp; John needed to move. Not simply to escape, but to go. To achieve a goal, and find a thing.

  He felt like a prophet or a shaman, driven by some force beyond himself. Something from his past that was striving desperately to pierce the forgetfulness that had drawn itself over his mind.

  Move. Follow the mission.

  They were at the elevators.

  ʺWhere do we go?ʺ said Serafina.

  ʺEast,ʺ answered John. ʺWe head east.ʺ He didnʹt know why he answered that way, but he knew it was the only way to go. The only way to safety, the only way to see this through.

  It was the way of the mission.

  The elevator seemed to take forever. He could hear the quiet dings coming from inside the shaft as it stopped at each floor. A placard on the side of the doors had the number seven: the floor they were on. Good to know.

  John also realized he knew the number of exits nearby. Where the stairwells and fire extinguishers were. Several other items of tactical importance.

  Am I a soldier?

  He thought he was.

  The elevator dinged. Louder this time. Steel panels slid apart, revealing a chamber wide enough to allow a pair of gurneys to slide in side by side.

  John couldnʹt see how the two men inside had managed to squeeze in together. It was comparable to compressing Mount Rushmore into a shot glass, if Mount Rushmore had had only two faces. And those two faces wore Aviators and were carved of something even harder and more emotionless than stone.

  He reacted instantly. By the time Thing Two had a chance to widen his eyes in surprise and say, ʺHow did you–?ʺ John had driven the hard ridge of his right hand into Thing Oneʹs throat.

  It didnʹt matter how big or sturdy you were. A few places were always soft. Eyes. Groin. The Adamʹs apple.

  Thing One gagged and his hands flew up. He pitched backward, slamming into the rear wall of the elevator.