This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  ʺI need a new car. Same outfitting, same armaments.ʺ

  She was silent for thirty seconds. Long enough he worried he had lost the call.

  ʺTake your next left, proceed two blocks, then park and wait. Take your phone with you when you leave the car.ʺ

  The call terminated.

  Isaiah did as he was told. He waited less than five minutes. Another car pulled up and parked in front of him. It was a gray car, same make and model as the one Isaiah was sitting in now. A single man got out of the other car, another man dressed like an agent of any of a hundred branches of the government. He left the gray car, walked to the one Isaiah sat in, and opened Isaiahʹs door.

  The agent–Isaiah was already thinking of all of them simply as ʺagentsʺ–gestured for him to go to the gray car, whose engine was still idling. Isaiah did so, and before he had even gotten in the agent had gotten in his old ride and pulled away.

  The engine of the first car sounded even worse outside the soundproofed cabin. Isaiah was glad he had abandoned it.

  Katherine couldnʹt afford for him to sputter his way through this mission. She had never been able to afford his failure. But now least of all.

  Iʹll come for you.

  He got in the gray car. Put the car in gear and pondered his next move. Normally he would suspect that his prey, this John and Serafina, would proceed half-panicked. Hurried and thinking less-than-clearly.

  But in this case? Would a man who righted a T-boned car, emptied a flurry of bullets into the offending vehicle, and then sped away in a straight line be likely to panic? A man with Johnʹs training and his dedication to a singular purpose?

  Not likely.

  Still, hope sprang eternal.

  The words came to him, and with them the rest of the poem; words he not only heard, but heard in Nicholasʹ familiar scratchy voice:

  ʺHope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never is, but always to be blessed: The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Alexander Pope, Isaiah. ‘An Essay on Man.ʹ Fine piece of literature in which the poet recognizes that philosophy is but a tool that can at best be used to vindicate the ways of God to man, and not the ways of man to God.ʺ

  Isaiah realized he was crying. He was also driving aimlessly. Neither would help Nicholas, who was dead, or Katherine, who was not.

  More words came to him, again in Nicholasʹ voice: ʺLet the dead bury their own dead.ʺ

  He didnʹt know what had been done with Nicholasʹ body. When he hunted down all the men responsible for his death, he would be sure to find out. He himself was dead, spiritually, emotionally, so there was none better to see to the final disposition of his old teacher, his original Father.

  To business. He thought of where to start. The only thing he had to go on was where he would go in their position.

  Assumption: the man was a pro.

  Assumption: the car they had taken likely had GPS recovery capability.

  Conclusion: they would ditch the car.

  New question: where?

  That was harder.

  Based on the original direction they had been heading when they left the scene of the fight, Isaiah would conclude they had been heading toward Hollywood, maybe turning onto the 405 or veering toward the Valley. The Grapevine was a possibility, but that freeway led to the north and there was nothing there. Emptiness bore a certain appeal, but the problem with empty areas was that people tended to remember single vehicles passing by. Especially with a beautiful woman inside.

  No. The city.

  Isaiah turned toward the West Hollywood area. Beginning the next move in the chess game.

  The phone rang.

  A new voice. Male.

  ʺThey were just at this location.ʺ

  The voice reeled off an address. Isaiah was irritated to have to turn around. They hadnʹt headed north, but south toward San Pedro. There was no way he could guess that, of course, but it still irritated him that he had missed that little bit. And as soon as he knew they had headed toward Compton he understood why, as well: they were going to not only ditch the car, but leave it open for someone else to steal. A merry goose chase for him and anyone else keying in on the GPS to find them.

  Smart. Damn smart.

  The address wasnʹt far. They hadnʹt had long to flee.

  He got there quickly, but before he arrived he was already seeing something strange. The address was in the middle of a group of buildings, tenements that had been erected for the ostensible purpose of providing quality low income housing for people who needed such assistance. In reality it was a slum, run by unethical landlords–sometimes corporate, sometimes corporeal–with halls that boasted hot running urine, private knifings, and permanent vacancies in the lower floors due to the bullets that flew in on a semi-regular basis as a result of the neighborhood drive-bys.

  Isaiah had come here often, to give what help he could, back when he had cared. Before he died in the crash and was resurrected as a man with no soul.

  The buildings had a strange light above them. A flickering yellow and orange and red. Like the tenants–most of the good ones highly religious folk–had gathered on the roof for their own day of Pentecost.

  He drove closer. Close enough to see.

  ʺGood….ʺ

  He had no end for his sentence. No curse, no prayer seemed adequate.

  One of the tenements had fallen into another. The first was just gone. Pulverized, nothing more than a giant heap of cheap rubble, cheap plaster, cheap metal.

  The second had tilted dangerously, and a steady stream of dazed and bloody men and women were making their way out of the front door and the windows on the first floor.

  Other people, mostly men with tank tops that revealed the dark gang tats on arms and chests and necks, were running into the building. Emerging carrying women and babies and men too old and frail to make the long walk down stairs from upper floors.

  A hideous creaking screamed at the dawn. The people assembled near the tilted apartment shrieked and ran away.

  The gang members, once-rivals and now fellow-workers trying save those they had cared nothing for only minutes ago, did not leave. They kept running in empty-handed, running out holding the injured, the terrified.

  One of them came out, a young man who looked scared even though he had arms thick enough to crush trees and a neck broad enough to pull semi-trucks if you put a yoke around it. The kid was holding a baby in one arm, a screaming child in the other. Isaiah heard the childʹs screams even in his car: ʺMama she died, mama she died, whenʹs momma gonna wake up, mama she diiiiiied!ʺ

  Before, thinking of Nicholas, he had wept. Now his eyes were dry. He had no tears for this: it was too much. Too grand a horror for tears.

  He stopped the car. Intending to get out, to help.

  Then realized that if he did, he would lose time. And lost time would mean he might lose Katherine.

  Isaiah paused.

  What would a man do?

  No, that didnʹt matter. He wasnʹt a man anymore. Hadnʹt been for seven years. Almost eight, in fact.

  Has it been so long?

  Then the choice was taken from him.

  The second building fell.

  ʺMama she died, mama she diii–ʺ

  And then a crash, and a billow of smoke, and the scream was gone. The gang member with his thick arms and thicker neck was gone. They were all gone.

  The phone on the seat rang.

  Isaiah picked it up. Not because he felt like he needed to, not even because he felt like that was what he should do. He wasnʹt thinking. His mind was locked in a place with a young man and a boy and a baby.

  But the phone rang, and his body knew that a ringing phone must be answered. His body knew to lift the device to his ear.

  ʺIsaiah, we have a lead on them.ʺ

  ʺI…I donʹt….ʺ He swallowed. ʺThereʹs a lot going on right now.ʺ

  There was a click on the line, and a new voice broke in. Dominic. ʺWe know, Is
aiah. Who do you think did this?ʺ

  Isaiah stared at the phone. Like it was a snake, whispering evil to him. Like it might bite him. He had to force it back to his ear. ʺWhat?ʺ he whispered.

  ʺYou heard me.ʺ Dominic sighed. ʺWeʹve underestimated this guy. We knew he was dedicated to…well, to what we already told you. But we didnʹt know he had resources like this.ʺ

  ʺResources?ʺ Isaiah couldnʹt tear his eyes off the dust that was settling around the area. His car was just outside the radius, but he could see into the cloud of flame and ash and make out the new pile of debris.

  Gang-bangers were already heading back. Pulling huge pieces of cement and concrete away, working together if the pieces were too large. Isaiah saw three of them–each with tattoos marking them as lieutenants in rival gangs–hauling one huge piece of rebar and concrete off something that was moving. A person buried alive.

  They reached into the tomb and brought forth the man who had nearly been dead. He was wrapped in cheap wallpaper and they peeled it off him.

  ʺResources,ʺ Isaiah said again. ʺHow could one guy do this?ʺ

  ʺHeʹs like you,ʺ said Dominic. ʺHeʹs a planner. Near as we can tell, he had this area seeded with explosives weeks ago. Led us in here hoping to stop us from following him.ʺ The voice on the other end of the line was silent for a moment, then said, ʺHe got three of ours.ʺ

  ʺIʹm sorry.ʺ

  ʺMe, too.ʺ Then the voice added, ʺBut a traffic camera caught two people with their descriptions in a dark Toyota Camry, 1988 model, heading east on Rosecrans.ʺ

  Isaiah was silent, his eyes still roving over the massive destruction.

  How could John have done this?

  Then he caught sight of some people. Not the ones crawling over the rubble like ants over a fallen anthill. These were at the outskirts. Men and women who had watched but not entered the fray to help.

  Many were curled on the ground. Writhing in agony that had nothing to do with the destruction around them. Others were coughing, thick rivers of blood and spit cascading from noses and mouths.

  One of the downed people, what looked like an old woman, began to shiver. Isaiah looked away. He didnʹt want to see what came next, to her or to the others around her.

  …highly contagious…

  …rogue asset…

  …mortality rate exceeding 98%…

  …adaptable, transformative…

  …determination to destroy…

  This was proof. John had done this.

  He hadnʹt minded getting rid of the information packet on John. The page they gave him was spare, not much information. Easy to memorize. But enough.

  The man was a soldier. SpecOps. One of several men who had been given an experimental vaccine that had been designed to immunize them. Not against smallpox or anthrax or malaria.

  Against everything.

  The vaccine was a cutting-edge man-made bacteria that was actually modeled after some cancers. Like them, it bound itself to the cells of a host. Like them it hid from outside detection. Like them it was capable of changing.

  But instead of creating tumors and malignancy, these cancers had been designed to attack all viruses and bacteria and anything else deemed harmful to the human body. From the common cold to HIV to the deadliest poisons, the bacteria would scrub the body clean. Keep it healthy.

  It would wipe out disease.

  Not only were the military applications immeasurable, but the real-world ones were staggering. How long could a person live without disease, without infection? Hundreds of years? Thousands?

  Forever?

  But the vaccinations hadnʹt worked the way they were supposed to. Instead of creating virtually invincible super-soldiers, they drove the men insane. All of them broke out of the facility where the experiments were being conducted. All of them were on the move.

  And, worst of all, all of them were carrying something that turned out to be not merely highly adaptable, but highly contagious.

  The secondary infections werenʹt anything like what was predicted. The bacteria had mutated. No one knew what else it was doing to John and the others. But when if ventured into the outside world, it caused blood to explode out of its victims. Some in seconds, some minutes, some hours.

  And worse than the blood was what came after. The changes.

  Some just died. The lucky ones.

  Some just died. But some…changed.

  John didnʹt just kill with weapons and with his hands and feet. He killed with every breath.

  He had to be stopped. Before he ended the world.

  A voice intruded into Isaiahʹs thoughts. It was a welcome interruption.

  ʺDid you hear me?ʺ Dominic said over the phone. ʺHe was spotted on Rosecrans.ʺ

  ʺI know the place.ʺ Isaiah watched the three men who were yanking huge pieces of concrete and rebar away from the pile of debris that had once been a stack of homes. Had they come in contact with John? How long before they were curled in pain and drowning in blood…or worse?

  They pulled another person from the rubble. This one did not move. The three gang members walked the body reverently to the side of the road. One of them took his shirt off and draped it over the body. All three lowered their heads for a moment, two of them crossed themselves.

  Then they went back to work.

  Isaiah put his car into gear.

  He would go into work as well.

  ʺIsaiah? You there?ʺ

  ʺGotta go. Gotta kill someone.ʺ

  He turned off the phone and sped away.

  He would find them.

  He would kill them.

  He would still kill the men who had taken Katherine.

  But first…John and Serafina.

  FACELESS THINGS

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 5:41 AM

  Subject: message from the President

  This is President Petersʹ personal secretary. I finally prevailed upon him to sleep as he has been up for over 48 hours straight.

  Before agreeing to rest he instructed me to send a message to this email address. I am to say I have never seen this email address before, and will never utilize it again. I am instructed to inform you he is asleep. I am instructed to request that you call him or email him with any updates. I am instructed to thank you for your time and consideration.

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 5:41 AM

  Subject: RE: message from the President

  This is another personal secretary. As one professional to another, tell your boss never, EVER to let anyone else use this email address again or it will be shut down permanently. I will not pass on your message as a professional courtesy.

  PS ʺBefore I prevailed upon him to sleepʺ makes you sound like an elitist twat with an enormous stick up your puckered sphincter. You may wish to consider rectifying such remiss linguistics before they culminate in a serious depreciation of your personal reputation.

  ***

  In and out, up and down. Past is present, present is past, all wrapped up in the future with a neat little Mobius strip of a bow.

  Sometimes she remembers her name. Not now. Right now she is trying to remember who the men are.

  One beside her, two in front.

  Something behind, something she does not want to see.

  They are driving a car.

  And then, abruptly, she is in another car. The woman with the face that changes from gentle and loving to hard and cruel, moment to moment, is in the front. A man is with her. She thinks she should know the man but she never quite remembers him.

  The woman sings a song. The woman sings the song.

  ʺJesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so….ʺ

  She laughs and turns and looks back and her eyes are kind but also strange. Dreamy and dark.

  The man in the front laughs, too.r />
  Then the womanʹs dark eyes turn white and wide. Then noise and thunder.

  The black manʹs face appears. Black and red and white and black again.

  Funny clothes, funny clothes. Funny clothes and a funny nose.

  The words are hers, but she can never quite understand them. Nor can she understand the words the black man speaks as he leans over her with blood streaming from a flattened nose and tears streaming from gleaming eyes.

  Then all is darkness and she is back in the car with the men again. She has wet herself several times, but they do not seem to mind that. They just drive, drive, drive.

  One of them keeps mentioning, ʺThe killer priest sonofabitch,ʺ and the others agree that it is best to keep moving until ʺthey can take care of him, too.ʺ

  She starts to notice something: they all have black faces. Not like the black man, not like the man whose face figures so prominently in her present/past/future. He has a black face of emotion and life and even a strange kind of light.

  No, these are dark faces. They seem hard to see, like their heads sit in the middle of small thunderheads, the kind she sees sometimes when the black man takes her outside on walks, though of course she does not walk, but rides.

  He takes me on walks.

  She never knew that, or at least never realized that before.

  And the realization that she never realized that before is also a revelation.

  One of the men leans into her sight. He is the blackest of them, the darkest of them: the thin one who sits behind her. She cannot see his face now, only his eyes. Those eyes stare at her, rove over her.

  ʺI canʹt wait,ʺ he says. ʺYouʹre gonna be so much fun to play with.ʺ

  He touches her. She barely feels it. She is glad.

  She notices that the others lean away from the man who came from behind. As though his darkness frightens them.

  One of the men in the front seat coughs.

  The others all swivel to face him. They seem frightened.