This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  The dead bodies were back here. The priest he had shot and the woman he had so sweetly defiled before stabbing and slashing over and over until she died.

  She hadnʹt screamed, hadnʹt so much as whimpered. That made him sad.

  Still, he liked to be near the dead.

  And he liked to look at Katherine.

  Mr. Dominic said they had to keep moving. He was fairly certain the priest/killer–Isaiah–would toe the line as long as they had the girl, but why take chances? And Mr. Dominic always knew. He was wise.

  The car abruptly shuddered to a stop. Melville looked away from Katherine, ready to scream at the driver for disobeying Mr. Dominicʹs orders. The only time they were supposed to stop was when they needed gas.

  The scream died on his lips, and the anger died in his heart.

  Mr. Dominic was standing outside the car. He had a smile on his face. He always smiled. Even and especially when things were going wrong. The smiles were exactly the same, so you could never tell by looking at him whether he was genuinely happy or about to punish you.

  It was another thing that Melville loved about him. He could not emulate it: he wore his emotions on his sleeve and the sharp edges of his many knives.

  ʺHow the hell did he find us?ʺ whispered one of the agents. Another shrugged.

  Melville knew the answer, though he did not say it: Mr. Dominic can find anything he wants. He found me.

  Mr. Dominic looked elegant as always, even standing on the side of a deserted Los Angeles street. He elevated whatever place he graced with his presence.

  He crooked a finger at Melville.

  ʺPop the trunk,ʺ said Melville.

  The driver did. Melville clambered out. He enjoyed the sensation of crawling over the dead. It made him shudder, and he decided to bring these two home.

  As soon as he was out the trunk closed behind him. Mr. Dominic waved at the SUV, motioning for it to move off. It pulled away and turned a corner and was gone and with it went the lovely dead. Melville felt sad.

  But he was happier when Mr. Dominic spoke those magic words: ʺI have a special job for you, Mr. Melville.ʺ

  Mr. Dominic always called him ʺMr.ʺ It made Melville feel special. Like his mentor thought of him as a valued colleague; an equal.

  ʺYes, sir?ʺ

  ʺI am a bit worried that Isaiah isnʹt fully committed to what weʹre doing.ʺ

  Melville frowned. ʺDoesnʹt he understand the stakes?ʺ The priest had to have read the dossiers. He had to know. It wasnʹt just about his stupid bitch, it was about the world. If he failed, millions could die. Billions could die.

  That would seriously impact Melvilleʹs lifestyle.

  ʺI think he does,ʺ said Mr. Dominic. ʺBut perhaps he doesnʹt fully believe what weʹve told him, or perhaps he just lacks ability. Regardless, talent or conviction, Iʹve concluded that he could use–ʺ

  ʺAn assistant?ʺ Melville couldnʹt keep his lips from curling. All his work, his loyalty, and he was going from following in the footsteps of the great to giving support to the stupid?

  ʺGood heavens, no!ʺ shouted Mr. Dominic. He waved his hands in front of him, appeasement incarnate. Melville felt his blood cool immediately. ʺI donʹt want you to assist him. I need you to babysit him. Keep him on track. Make sure heʹs moving forward. And if the opportunity comes for you to blow a hole in the heads of our John and his lovely girlfriend, why, so much the better.ʺ

  ʺWhat about in the priestʹs face?ʺ Melville tried not to grumble. He failed entirely.

  Mr. Dominic, once again, did not take offense. He never got mad, never corrected, never chastised. He was like the perfect father. ʺOnce our two little carriers are dead….ʺ He waved his hands again, a completely different meaning this time. ʺI think it would be absolutely lovely if our priest actually met God.ʺ He leaned in close to Melville. ʺAnd you could take him home with you. He looks like he would be a lovely one. Highly pleasurable.ʺ

  Melville licked his lips.

  A car pulled up. An agent got out. The idea of killing Isaiah was so exciting. He just couldnʹt wait.

  Literally.

  He looked at Mr. Dominic. His good father nodded.

  Melville turned to the agent. ʺStandard outfitting,ʺ the man had a chance to say. Then Melville shot him and had the joy of seeing the manʹs face fall to pieces.

  How do you like that, Daddy?

  Mr. Dominic laughed. It was a beautiful laugh.

  ʺI do love you,ʺ he said.

  Melville beamed. Mr. Dominic was proud, and that made him happy.

  He got in the car. The dashboard GPS was active, a dot showing his destination.

  He drove away. He didnʹt worry about the agentʹs body or about how Mr. Dominic would get away from the area. Mr. Dominic would manage. Mr. Dominic would take care of it. He would take care of Melville.

  He always did.

  RUNNING BLIND

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 5:52 AM

  Subject:

  This may be the first time since it was invented that a man in my position isnʹt answering. Iʹm just staring at the telephone and watching it ring.

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 5:52 AM

  Subject:

  See attached speech.

  Let the phone ring a while. It will cement the idea that you are the granter of wishes, and that supplicants must wait on your mercy. It is never the other way around, and never has been. Besides, couldnʹt you use a bit of a rest.

  Answer emails from me, of course. But other than that, take a break.

  :o)

 

  ***

  Serafina ached all over. She felt like she had been hit by a car, then whoever was driving had stopped, backed up, sat on her face and torso for a while, then pealed out and taken every inch of flesh from her body, right down to the bone.

  But it wasnʹt that pain that woke her, it was the bouncing.

  She groaned. Then, because no one came to her aid and the bouncing did not stop, she groaned again.

  Nothing changed, so she took the ultimate action: she opened her eyes.

  Blinding light speared through her head, scrambled her brains, bounced around her skull. She almost switched from a dignified groan to a classy scream. Managed to bite it back and slam her eyes shut.

  The bouncing kept on bouncing. It was even and relentless. Someone was torturing her.

  She cracked her eyes open. One at a time, just a slit. The spears that had nearly destroyed what was left of her body were only arrows this time. Painful but manageable. She managed to open her eyes a bit more, and with the pain came memory.

  Driving with John. Fleeing the priest.

  And then….

  The rest of it drove her eyes the rest of the way open. Never mind the last bits of agony the light brought with it.

  The light. The sound.

  The explosion.

  The bouncing continued, and Serafina finally realized what it was. Arms and legs dangled, head hung loosely. Only her trunk was supported, held aloft by a pair of arms so strong they felt like nothing she had ever experienced.

  The light finally faded, drawing closer and closer to something until she could finally see a familiar form at the center of it.

  John.

  He was running. Running with her in his arms.

  She dragged her head and upper chest a bit higher, wrapping her arms around his neck without thinking. She expected him to say something. ʺHey,ʺ or ʺYouʹre awake.ʺ He didnʹt.

  She looked around. They were on a city street, but she didnʹt recognize it. Then they passed an intersection–deserted at this time of day, and John ran right through it without stopping, bounce bounce bounce–and she saw they were on San Vincente and Lime.

  She wasnʹt sure, but she thought that was almost a mile southeast of w
here they had been. Maybe more.

  How…?

  She finally looked at John. Saw the reason he hadnʹt said anything. His face was blank. He looked less like the man she had known than like an exceptionally realistic machine. Like someone had taken the best wax museum replica ever created and packed it with state-of-the-art electronics hung over a titanium frame.

  His eyes stared straight ahead. They saw nothing, they were somewhere far away, if they were anywhere at all.

  ʺJohn?ʺ

  He didnʹt react. Just kept running. East. He had wanted to go to Kansas, which was that general direction. She wondered if that was where they were headed now. If whatever had happened in the car had shut him down to the point that all that remained was that directive. Go east, go east, go east.

  ʺJohn?ʺ she said again. Louder. Still nothing.

  She shook him. Hard to do at this angle. And feeling the rock hard muscles that had clenched around her like a protective shell, she realized he was unlikely to feel the motion.

  ʺJOHN!ʺ

  She was getting nowhere.

  She kissed him.

  Serafina did it without thinking. She realized as she did it that she had wanted to on some level for quite some time. He was strong, smart, brave. Aside from the fact that he had no apparent job he was quite the catch.

  There was also the whole ʺmeeting him meant sudden deathʺ thing, but every relationship had its challenges.

  Regardless, she kissed him, feeling both ridiculous for trying this reversal of the Sleeping Beauty motif, and delicious for allowing herself this flight into fancy. She would kiss him, he would wake. He couldnʹt sweep him into his arms–she was already there–but he could declare his undying affection and they would beat the bad guys and live happily ever after.

  Failing that, they could go for coffee and see where it led.

  The deliciousness quickly disappeared, the ridiculousness remained. The kiss was not returned. His lips were slack under hers. He was sweaty and drooling a bit and it was wholly unpleasant.

  He was not Sleeping Beauty, and she apparently had a long way to go before she completed Charm 101.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce.

  The ridiculous feeling persisted, and grew. She soon felt not merely ridiculous, but embarrassed. Then mortified.

  If her friends could see her now.

  But most of them were dead.

  Serafina punched John in the mouth.

  She thought about doing so even less than she thought about the kiss. One moment she was irritated, the next moment mad, the third her small fist was planted firmly in the (terrible) kisser of the man who had both ruined and saved her life.

  That did it.

  John blinked. His mouth, which had been bouncing open and shut like the bones had been removed, suddenly firmed. He shook his head.

  ʺWhatʹs going on?ʺ

  He stopped. And dropped her.

  Both happened so abruptly she was utterly unprepared, and if she had it to do over she might have rethought the punch. She hit the ground and rolled painfully, every knot and bruise in her body screaming in protest.

  ʺSerafina!ʺ John shouted, and before she had finished rolling he already had his arms around her again. He pulled her to her feet and for a moment on the way up he was cradling her against him. She felt like staying there forever, like this might be the only–the last–safe place on the planet.

  ʺWhat happened?ʺ she said. ʺWe were in the car. It….ʺ She couldnʹt finish the sentence. Her mind shied away from the end.

  John looked down at her. Tall and sure usually, not even armed men or falling buildings or people coughing their lives away before half-transforming into something else had fazed him for more than a second. Now he looked lost.

  ʺWe blew up,ʺ he said.

  The words were almost painful to hear. The street was empty–strangely so, she reflected–and his voice sounded hollow. The voice of a ghost, foretelling a doom, or perhaps recounting one already passed.

  Serafina shook her head. ʺThatʹs not possible.ʺ

  ʺI know.ʺ John looked around, still getting his bearings. He glanced up, and she suspected he was somehow figuring out their longitude and latitude by the sunʹs position. ʺBut itʹs what happened. I remember a grenade hitting the street right behind us, then the car sliding around, then…boom.ʺ He made a nova with his hands, fingers drawn together then exploding outward. He didnʹt look at her when he did it.

  ʺThen howʹd we end up here?ʺ she said, challenging him even though what he said was exactly in line with her own memories. Because what he said made no sense.

  Just like a man who showed up at a hospital grievously wounded…and hours later bore only old traces of injuries.

  Just like a nurse whose only problems had been paying off some student loans and dealing with a pig of a doctor who managed to quietly sexually harass her without actually running afoul of hospital policy…and now was on the run from persons unknown, but who had so much power they could start a small war in the middle of a city without batting an eye.

  Just like men who were healthy one moment…and then vomited blood and grew scales and spines and died so suddenly it seemed a nightmare.

  No, none of this made sense. But lack of sense didnʹt mean lack of truth. Sometimes the only thing that could be counted on in a fallen world was that things wouldnʹt make sense.

  ʺI donʹt know how we ended up here,ʺ said John. He was still looking around. ʺBut I think we were given a bit of a grace period, and we shouldnʹt waste it.ʺ

  He held out a hand. She knew she could turn away. Could refuse to go with him. He wouldnʹt make her come along on his ʺmission,ʺ whatever that was.

  But how long would she last alone? The men who were after them werenʹt likely to just let her walk away at this point.

  Besides, there was something in her that cried out that she was part of this now. She had to come. Had to see this through.

  She took his hand.

  They ran.

  NEARLY A COWARD

  From: POTUS

  To: FLOTUS

  Sent: Friday, May 31 5:55 AM

  Subject: Itinerary

  I know itʹs early, and youʹre asleep. When you wake up go to the camp. Not THE camp, Iʹm talking about OUR camp. The one we used to go to before all this. Donʹt call the kids–itʹs the ʺrightʺ thing to do, but you and I both know theyʹre a pair of ungrateful assholes riding our backs until we die. I know thatʹs not a great thing to say. I guess all this is actually bringing out my honest side. Who knew.

  Do not alert anyone. Not the media, not your personal assistant, not even your hairdresser–hard as that will be. Just tell whoeverʹs assigned to your personal detail today and leave. Pack a bag with MINIMUM supplies. Like a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. You look great in that, even though I know you donʹt believe it.

  I know you donʹt understand. I know I havenʹt been a great husband. Please trust me, just this once. Watch the tube later today and youʹll get a bit of an idea. Iʹll try to call you if I can.

  I love you. First time Iʹve said it without having to screw up first, but I think it might actually be true.

  ***

  Isaiah expected a car. He expected an agent.

  He did not expect the cadaverous man who had killed Nicholas, who had, he suspected, been the one to both kill and savage Idella Ferrell.

  Isaiah was holding the Steyr. It still had a full mag. He felt his hands swing the weapon halfway to firing position as the other man got out of the sedan.

  The other man grinned at him. ʺI wouldnʹt,ʺ he said. ʺNot if you want to see the little bitch again.ʺ

  That was enough to bring the weapon all the way to firing position.

  The other man seemed to realize heʹd made a mistake. He blanched. Just the tiniest motion, but it was enough to tell Isaiah something instantly. The man was evil, sure, that had never been in doubt. Only an evil person could kill someone
as good as Nicholas, only a truly evil person could be a part of what had happened to Idella.

  But that look. That instant…it was enough to tell Isaiah that this man was a coward. The same as most evil men, he would swagger and strut as long as the power lay with him. But when things changed, he would crumble.

  Iʹll use that. Iʹll see you cower the way Idella did. Iʹll show you the difference between the way you die and the way Nicholas did.

  ʺKill me and sheʹs dead,ʺ said the man. He held up a phone. ʺI have to call in every hour. If I donʹt, they cut her to pieces.ʺ

  Isaiah didnʹt lower the weapon. ʺI wonʹt kill you,ʺ he said. But the tone of his voice left no doubt that there were many things worse than dying. And he knew them all.

  Again, the thin man grew a bit unsure. ʺDonʹt,ʺ he said. ʺI swear, theyʹll–ʺ

  Isaiah lowered the weapon. He approached the other man. The agent was taller, but Isaiah was bulkier. Oddly, he also felt for the first time in years like his frock and collar really mattered. Like he was a true servant of Good facing down a slave of evil. His collar almost burned as he said, ʺIʹm not going to kill you. But donʹt ever call her that again. Donʹt speak her name, donʹt even refer to her. Youʹre not worthy to do so.ʺ

  He stared at the thin man. Pressing against him with all the force of will he possessed.

  The thin man almost wilted. If he had, Isaiah would have possessed him. Would have owned him, could have pushed him any direction he wished.

  Somehow, the man found a spine. He straightened. Shoved Isaiah. The push wasnʹt hard enough to actually move him, but it said that he wouldnʹt be cowed. ʺDonʹt threaten me,ʺ he snarled. Spit flecked his chin. ʺDo you know who I work for? What Dominic will see happens to that little retard of yours if you even breathe on me?ʺ