This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  And what would that be?

  He searched. Pushed back to the moment when he had awakened in the hospital, and then tried to pierce that darkness and see to the light that he hoped lay behind it.

  He failed.

  There was no way to look back. So he would have to push forward. Hoping that would illuminate not only future trails to travel, but past steps taken.

  ʺWhere do we go?ʺ asked Serafina. ʺWe gonna hide somewhere?ʺ

  ʺNo.ʺ

  ʺKansas?ʺ

  ʺYeah.ʺ

  ʺWhatʹs there?ʺ

  ʺI really wish I knew.ʺ

  She stopped walking. ʺNo.ʺ She folded her arms. ʺYou gotta give me more than this, John.ʺ

  He stopped beside her. They still werenʹt out of the rotten part of the city theyʹd left the BMW in and he didnʹt want to leave her alone here, even though he was fairly sure she could take care of herself.

  But it was more than that. He felt like he needed her to come with him. Like it wasnʹt just luck that had brought her to his hospital room–an event that undoubtedly saved him since it bought him a necessary moment to kill his would-be killer–but something deeper.

  John didnʹt know a lot about himself. He didnʹt know who he really was, where he came from. He knew only where he needed to go.

  And now…that he needed Serafina to come with him.

  ʺI canʹt give you more,ʺ he finally said.

  ʺI donʹt even know if youʹre on the right side here,ʺ she said. Her arms still crossed, her face stern. ʺWhat if Iʹm aiding a criminal?ʺ

  He shook his head. ʺYou know youʹre not. Criminals shoot people in hospital rooms and attack them in stairwells and try to run them over in cars. Weʹre running from the criminals, and if theyʹre trying to kill me that means Iʹm a good guy, right?ʺ He wondered if he sounded as plaintive as he thought he did, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

  ʺWhat was the deal with that guy?ʺ she said. The conversational shift was abrupt, but he knew exactly what she was talking about. The man who had fallen, the old man with the strange growth on the side of his head.

  ʺI donʹt know.ʺ

  ʺYou donʹt know much, do you?ʺ

  ʺHardly anything.ʺ

  Serafinaʹs eyes went distant. ʺThere were some people admitted to the hospital with a cough like that today, but they didnʹt go crazy or pound their heads into walls or start turning into hedgehogs.ʺ She shuddered.

  John considered asking her if the hospital was always as busy as they had seen it while leaving. He doubted it. Even large hospitals in big cities slowed down a bit at night, barring some large-scale disaster.

  Serafina came to the same conclusion. ʺEveryone seemed kinda nuts when we were leaving, though.ʺ Another shake of the head. ʺIʹve got to call the hospital. I need to find out if they–ʺ

  ʺNo.ʺ John didnʹt need to hear the rest of the sentence. ʺIf these people are as powerful and dedicated as Iʹm worried they are, then theyʹll have your friendsʹ cell phones monitored, theyʹll track you.ʺ

  ʺThen I wonʹt call their cells. Iʹll call the main switchboard and get transferred to the fifth floor nurses desk. Thatʹs the infectious disease ward, and I want to know if thereʹs anything happening. Besides….ʺ

  She was quiet. She looked down. One hand dropped to her side, though the other clutched her arm. All her toughness dropped away and suddenly she looked like a little child, innocent and lost and very scared.

  ʺWhat is it?ʺ said John. He wanted to hug her. Not as a sexual advance, though there was no denying how attractive she was, but because the pain in her heart was so apparent it begged for help and healing.

  Serafina looked up at him. Her eyes glimmered. ʺThe people in the ICU. The nurses, the doctors. The man you killed, he….ʺ

  Her breath hitched, she stopped talking. John felt like weaving on his feet. How could he have been so stupid? Of course the first hitman had killed the staff up there, just as he had tried to kill John and Serafina.

  And Serafina was well-liked, and had no doubt liked the others well in return. The people murdered had been her friends.

  John had moved like a soldier. Thinking of evasion, survival, the attainment of his mission. He had missed the fact that there was a soul in pain traveling at his side.

  ʺIʹm so sorry,ʺ he whispered.

  ʺI just need to know whatʹs happening.ʺ

  He nodded.

  And realized they were not alone.

  Four men stood nearby. Spread in a loose circle around them.

  That they were predators was obvious. Even without the knives they held loosely in hands obviously accustomed to violence. All of them were well-muscled, dressed in tight shirts and tank tops that showcased their physiques and the gang tattoos that curled around their thick arms and chests and listed numbers and names–some sacred, some profane, all made dark in the context of ink signaling spilt blood. Four men, but only one soul, one corruption between them.

  No, strike that. John realized that not all of them were the same. One–a thick-armed, thicker-necked kid whom John saw was probably only sixteen or so–shifted slightly. Had eyes that darted under veiled lids. Signs of fear, signs that he didnʹt want to be here.

  ʺWhat have we got here?ʺ said one of the men. Not the largest, not the toughest-looking. But he was the leader. The alpha. The one that would give the orders, and be first to feed on whatever kind of blood and flesh these animals sought.

  John looked at the one who still had a chance. The boy who could still be a man; who could still choose to walk in the sun instead of slinking in the dark.

  ʺYou donʹt have to do this,ʺ he said.

  ʺWho said you could talk?ʺ said one of the other gangbangers.

  John kept his eyes on the kid. The kid looked away. Looked back. Looked away. Back again.

  ʺPlease,ʺ John said. Begging. The others laughed at the anguish in his voice, not realizing he wasnʹt begging for Serafina or for himself. He was begging for a boy on the cusp of being a man. A man, or something twisted. A thing that looked like a man, but never could be.

  ʺYeah, you ask pretty we might let you go,ʺ said the leader. He touched his knife to his lips as though thinking. ʺʹCourse, itʹll cost you.ʺ He looked at Serafina. John felt the nurse back behind him.

  ʺYou donʹt have to do this,ʺ repeated John. He never looked at the others. Only at the boy.

  Was I ever that young?

  He knew he must have been. Once, a long time ago, before he became a soldier, a killer, whatever he was.

  ʺPlease.ʺ

  The last plea.

  ʺI ainʹt waiting no more.ʺ

  The gangbanger who spoke lunged at Serafina. Then the others joined in.

  Not the kid. Not the boy. He trembled as though wanting to jump in. But he didnʹt move.

  John was glad.

  He took the others down. Took them apart.

  He didnʹt kill them. He heard Serafina scream, but didnʹt know if it was fear or the fact that he shoved her away from a knife, then down on her butt so another blade passed over her head.

  He broke an arm at the elbow. The arm would never be strong again.

  He broke a wrist, crushed the small bones of the hand under his foot. No more knives for that man.

  The last gang member–the leader–ended up in an arm lock, screaming as John put pain on shoulder, elbow, and wrist all at once.

  ʺHow, how, how?ʺ he shrieked.

  John nodded to the boy. Thick neck, thick arms. A boy who could live, who could do much good if he walked away. Not just from here, not just from this moment, but from the choices he had been on the verge of making.

  ʺGo home,ʺ he said.

  The boy did.

  He left his knife behind.

  The gang leader was still screaming. So were the other two, writhing in pain around crushed bones and mangled joints. But the leader screamed the loudest, in spite of his lack of injury.

  ʺHow?ʺ he kept shouting, as though
unsure how his tiny kingdom could have ended.

  He coughed.

  He vomited blood.

  A moment later, so did one of the gangbangers writhing on the ground. He began to choke.

  John couldnʹt spare more than a glance for him. He was too busy looking at the leader.

  The man was writhing in his grasp. But it was no longer merely like he was in pain. He suddenly felt….

  John had to search for a word, a concept. Some way of making sense of what was happening. He half expected to feel scales or spines under his fingers. Neither appeared. Instead his fingers suddenly sank deep into rubbery flesh. The arm–once rigid where he was pressing in a direction joints were not meant to go–sagged. Not slackening. It was as though the bones inside were melting.

  The once-leader, once-king, slumped. John let go of him. He fell face down on the pavement and his body didnʹt crack with broken bone. It hit with a splat, and then spread out like a puddle of thick mud. The manʹs scream bubbled.

  Serafina was on her feet. Tugging at John. Pulling him away.

  ʺWhat, what, what?ʺ

  John realized he was the one saying the words now.

  He let Serafina pull him.

  They both ran.

  When they stopped they began looking for a phone so Serafina could make a call. John didnʹt know if she still wanted to as much. He thought so–she was not someone who would let her care for others be sidetracked by something as unimportant as an impossible transformation in a slum–but maybe she was just searching for a way to get her mind off what had just happened. He knew he was.

  There was some spare change in his pockets. Not much, but enough to make a phone call. Finding the phone turned out to be the hard part. In the era of mobile communications there were fewer and fewer public phone booths. And the first ones they found had the receivers yanked off them, just steel cords dangling like alien tentacles in the cool night.

  They finally found one, though. John handed Serafina the change and she clinked the coins into the slot. They clunked into the bowels of the machine, each making a sound that was solid and strangely reassuring. In a digital era so much had to be taken on faith: you dialed a number and there was only silence until the voice answered. You sent an email saw only the words you typed until a response magically appeared. There was something comforting about putting an actual coin in an actual slot and hearing actual gears and levers moving, followed by an audible dial tone.

  Serafina dialed a number. She waited, clearly listening as the hospital automated switchboard ran through its opening statements and options. Then she dialed a number, then another.

  ʺCan I speak to the fifth floor nurses station in Infectious Diseases, please?ʺ she said. ʺThis is Nurse Cruz, I heard things are a little crazy tonight and I wanted to check if they needed any extra hands.ʺ She nodded, then said, ʺThanks, Iʹll wait.ʺ

  John looked at the phone. It had a volume control on the side of the handset. He motioned to Serafina and when he had her attention he pointed at it, making an ʺupʺ motion with his hand. She looked confused, then understood and nodded.

  She pushed the button several times, turning up the handset volume until it was loud enough John could easily hear the hospital hold music.

  The music cut off. A voice whispered out. It was a pleasant voice, articulate and elegant, but for some reason it put John instantly on edge, more so than he already was.

  ʺMiss Cruz?ʺ

  ʺYes, who is this?ʺ

  ʺMiss Cruz, I presume you know how very much trouble you are in. The man you are with is a fugitive, and you are looking at a very long time in jail if you continue helping him.ʺ

  Serafina looked at John. He felt like screaming, Donʹt believe him! but knew that wouldnʹt accomplish anything.

  ʺWho is this?ʺ she repeated. She didnʹt look away from John, and he got the feeling she was taking his measure.

  There was a pause. Then the voice said, ʺYou may call me Mr. Dominic, Miss Cruz.ʺ

  ʺWell, Dominic, you want to tell me why half a dozen of my friends are dead?ʺ

  ʺYou should ask your companion.ʺ

  ʺI did. He doesnʹt know.ʺ

  ʺHe doesnʹt? Interesting.ʺ The voice drew the last word out–iiiiinnn-teresting–and the elongated syllables felt like probes digging around in Johnʹs mind. ʺAnd you believe him, do you? Thatʹs charming.ʺ

  ʺMy belief isnʹt the point. The point is what happened to my friends.ʺ

  ʺAh, a woman who wants to know. Knowledge can be dangerous, donʹt you think?ʺ

  ʺBetter than stumbling along blindly.ʺ

  ʺQuite so. Youʹre a woman after my own heart, Miss Cruz.ʺ

  John started to tremble. He didnʹt know why. Every word that this Dominic spoke pounded a new spike through his heart. He felt like he was dying a bit inside. Couldnʹt figure out why. He felt something strange. Not hatred–not exactly–but a deep discord. Like Dominic represented something John could not stand to even be around.

  He knows me.

  And I know him.

  The realizations rang through him with crystalline tones. Truth. He had known this Dominic before, though he sensed somehow that Dominic was not the manʹs real name.

  What is his name?

  Not important.

  ʺWhy did you send them after me, Dominic?ʺ he snarled into the phone.

  There was a long pause. When Dominic spoke again he had lost a bit of his polish. ʺSo you are there. Good to have the confirmation. Youʹll never get where youʹre going. Either of you.ʺ

  And then John knew. This wasnʹt a conversation for fun. Dominic abhorred him, hated him with a hate so deep and black it could swallow a thousand suns in its depths. So for Dominic to talk to John at all meant that there was something else going on. A reason for the conversation.

  John yanked the receiver out of Serafinaʹs grasp and slammed it down in the cradle.

  ʺJohn!ʺ Serafina was furious. ʺI didnʹt find out anything.ʺ

  ʺAnd you never would have. Dominic just wanted you talking so he could get to us.ʺ

  ʺWhat, like tracing the call?ʺ

  John started moving away from the phone. Then running. Serafina followed after only a moment. ʺTraces arenʹt like in the movies,ʺ he said as they ran. ʺThey happen instantly, and they happen whether you hang up or not. They knew where you were the second you said your name. He just wanted to confirm that I was with you…and keep us on the line as long as possible.ʺ

  ʺFor what?ʺ

  He didnʹt answer. Afraid that if he told her what he feared she would try to do something about it, try to save people. That wouldnʹt save anyone and would only get her killed as well.

  ʺFor what?ʺ

  Again, John didnʹt answer. But this time it was because the explosion knocked them both off their feet. There was a rushing wind, a high-pitched whistle, then a distant shriek, then the phone booth–now half a block behind them–disappeared in a ball of flame that engulfed much of the apartment building it had stood against.

  John sat up. The first ball of flame snuffed out, extinguished by its own sound and fury, but a moment later a second one erupted.

  A third of the apartment building was gone.

  ʺWhat? What?ʺ Serafina struggled to sit up as well. Her forehead was bleeding.

  ʺMissile strike,ʺ said John.

  Serafina saw what had happened. She let out a small whimper.

  A series of cracks rippled through the predawn air. Then louder creaks, then booms that were louder still.

  Screams sliced bright tears in the darkness.

  The apartment building tilted. Began to fall.

  Right toward John and Serafina.

  MEN AT WORK

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 5:21 AM

  Subject:

  Iʹm okay, right? I mean, Iʹm not…

  You know what I mean.

  From: X x>

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 5:21 AM

  Subject:

  Your yellow streak is showing.

 

  Youʹre fine. I already told you. The vaccine will protect you and your family. My people just havenʹt been able to mass-produce it yet. The only way to stop the spread is to stop the carriers.

  ***

  Isaiah had been shocked.

  Not just at the speed at which the other car recovered from a surprise hit on the side, an impact that should have left both driver and passenger bruised, concussed, dazed and ineffectual. Not just that.

  No, it was the return fire. The fact that the other car–a nice vehicle, a few years old, nothing special, had then erupted in gunfire that sent him diving for the floorboards.

  Isaiah couldnʹt remember the last time he had to react. He was a planner, and his plans always went perfectly. His chess games were not merely five or six moves ahead of his opponents, they were planned out to an inevitable–and usually rapid–checkmate.

  Not this time. This time his opponents–John and the Cruz woman–had managed to not only surprise him but to actually take one of his pieces off the board. Only a pawn, but still….

  The car sputtered, shuddered. It was a fine piece of work, the crash had damaged it. Or maybe one of the bullets that came at him had punched a hole in something in the engine. In that case he should be grateful it hadnʹt pounded its way through to him.

  Either way, the result was the same: the car was still moving, but he didnʹt want to count on it.

  He picked up the cell phone and dialed.

  A new voice answered, different than the first one he had spoken to. A woman, but a different one than before. ʺYes, Isaiah?ʺ she said. She sounded attentive and nice. He pictured a slightly overweight woman, forty-five. Making cookies.

  She was probably hard-eyed, mean, cooking up assassination plans while she stabbed puppies.