This Darkness Light
Page 19
Serafina struggled to hold him up as he slumped, but he was too heavy. All she could do was guide him sideways.
His head fell against her shoulder. Slid down and ended up in her lap. ʺJohn?ʺ she said. ʺJohn? JOHN!ʺ
Her voice turned into more and more of a caricature of itself with every repetition of his name. Got farther and farther away. It fell into a deep hole, but unlike most holes this one was not dark and frightening, but glowed with a light so bright it burned.
John followed the voice. Fell into the light.
One moment he was in the car.
One moment he was leaning against Serafina.
One moment he was in her lap. Vaguely aware of her crying his name, her palm cool on his forehead.
Then he was in another place.
The brightness of the hole surrounded him. Obscured almost everything. He could only see bits and pieces.
Sitting with several other men. He tried to look at them but couldnʹt. He faced forward, his neck stiffened by discipline, by the inevitable replay of a past that could not be altered.
There was another man at the front of the group. Speaking softly to them. And though John could neither hear the words nor see the manʹs face, he knew that this was the moment.
This was the mission.
He and the other men received their orders. They nodded. They stood.
They left. The man at the front of the room nodded sadly at them as they went out a door on the right.
The light took John to another place.
He was alone now. Alone, in a place that he knew but could not see. Given a job to do, a job that he would finish no matter the cost.
But what was the job?
He still couldnʹt remember.
He wandered.
The world was changing, he knew that. It wasnʹt just the fog, either. There were people dying. Coughing up blood, spines and scales appearing on flesh that had once been smooth and unmarked.
And why?
Because of me.
Perhaps. But that wasnʹt the mission, was it? Was the mission to destroy life, or to save it?
He didnʹt know. But he felt like…like….
The light took him away. And this time it did not let take him anywhere new. It was simply all there was, all he was.
John ceased to worry, ceased to think.
Ceased to be.
MISTAKEN IMPRESSIONS
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:35 AM
Subject: Press
You were right. I didnʹt have to worry about how my speech would go over. There was no one at the press conference. A few staffers showed up, but no press reps. Not even Al Tenets, and heʹs made a career of following me around and giving me a hard time.
I donʹt
I donʹt
Shit
I keep thinking about the Constitution. Which is ironic, given some of the things Iʹve done.
The first line and the first Amendment.
The first line begins: We the people.
The first amendment covers freedom of Religion, Speech, Assembly, Petition. Press.
If thereʹs no more press to be free, can we be a country?
Certainly if there is no more ʺwe,ʺ there can be no more country.
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:35 AM
Subject: RE: Press
Donʹt kid yourself. This is far from over, and giving up now is not an option. There are still many millions of people counting on you. Just because Tenet didnʹt show up doesnʹt mean the broadcast waves are down. Just because the seats werenʹt filled in the press room doesnʹt mean you donʹt have a country.
We have to move faster, more decisively. We can save this country, Mr. President.
***
John wouldnʹt wake up. She shook him for a while, but he was completely unresponsive.
She pulled off to the side of the road. Tried not to think about the fog that wept into the car. Ran a quick check. His pulse was strong if a bit more rapid than she liked. His eyes appeared slightly dilated, and they roved back and forth like he was deep in REM state, gripped by a dream or a nightmare.
He was burning up. She didnʹt have a thermometer, and obviously ʹ92 Honda Civics didnʹt generally come equipped with them as standard features in the glove box. But if she had to guess, sheʹd say he was at one hundred and four degrees. At least.
That was a danger level. At that high, an adult could quickly become dehydrated, could undergo hallucinations, seizures. A few more degrees and brain damage could occur, if not death.
She got the car started and went in search of a hospital. They were in the middle of nowhere, though, a long stretch of road between towns on the I-15 between Barstow and Las Vegas. There wasnʹt much of anything–not so much as a city, let alone a hospital she could check her charge into.
Strange she should think of him that way. He had saved her time after time. But he had also gotten her into this, so–
No, you got yourself into this, Serafina. Be fair.
She had been the one to walk down that hall. No one made her do it. She had been the one to look in the room, to look after a patient. Her responsibility to that patient hadnʹt dissolved.
She was still a nurse.
She would have to ask for a raise.
During her musings that wandered between light hysteria and self-pity, the fog, and concern for the man who radiated a heat she could feel through her light scrubs, she almost missed the sign on the side of the highway that advised her of gas, food, and lodging–all available at the next exit.
She spun the wheel to the right, cutting off a semi-truck in the right lane. It should have been a welcome companion in this no-manʹs land, but now it was just a moving obstacle. It blared its horn at her and she heard the squeak of airbrakes as it shuddered to avoid turning the Honda into a flattened can on the two-lane highway.
She would have felt embarrassed, would have waved an apology under normal circumstances.
These werenʹt normal circumstances, though.
She pulled around the tight curve of the off ramp. The sign on the side gave a twenty-five mph speed limit. She drove forty-five, and wanted to go faster but she didnʹt think the Civic would have kept all four wheels on the ground.
The stop sign at the base of the ramp was completely ignored.
The ʺLODGINGʺ part of the sign that turned her off the highway turned out to be a Motel 6 wannabe, the kind of place built forty years ago by some optimist who believed the area was ripe for development and who, when proven wrong, had abandoned all pretense of class or upkeep.
She left John in the car. He was mumbling something. She couldnʹt make much of it out, just an occasional ʺsirʺ and ʺare you sure?ʺ
Serafina ran to the office. The fifty feet between car and office were fifty feet through an oven. They hadnʹt reached the Mojave Desert yet, but even here the temperatures were well into triple digits. She felt like the rubber on her tennis shoes was likely melting.
She wondered how fog could exist here, in this place in this heat at this time of day.
Itʹs not possible.
None of this is.
There was no one in the office. Just an empty reception desk with a small black and white television behind it that showed nothing but static. Behind both stood an open door that she assumed led to a private office.
There was a Mr. Coffee on a rickety card table to one side of the office–both probably dating back to the Vietnam War. What passed for a Continental breakfast at places like this.
A shiny bell sat on the desk. Serafina rang it.
ʺYeah?ʺ said a voice behind her. She had expected someone to come from the back office, so the voice coming up behind her surprised her so much she nearly screamed, but managed to jam the shout back into her throat before turning around.
Grossly fat, a few strands of hair clinging to the sides of his scalp. He was pasty white, which Serafina would have thought an impossibility based on the climate in this neck of the woods. He was holding a wilting King Size Snickers bar in one hand, a bag of Skittles in the other. He wore a goatee of melted chocolate and errant caramel strings.
His eyes roved up and down her frame without the slightest discretion or embarrassment. He licked his lips. His tongue was gray.
ʺCan I help you?ʺ he said. He emphasized the word ʺhelpʺ and her skin crawled.
ʺYou the manager?ʺ she said. She tried not to let her face wrinkle in disgust, more because it was ingrained in her upbringing than because she wanted to avoid offending this guy.
He nodded.
ʺI need a room.ʺ
ʺSingle or double?ʺ
ʺDouble.ʺ She emphasized the word harder than he had emphasized ʺhelp.ʺ
The guyʹs expression darkened a bit. ʺTen bucks extra.ʺ
ʺFine.ʺ
He moved around behind the front desk, passing by her closer than was necessary. He stank. The smell reminded her of some terminal patients at the hospital: blood and feces and the underlying scent of despair that accompanied the ones who had decided to die whether they had a chance or not.
ʺItʹs seventy-seven fifty per night, cash or credit is fine but Iʹll need two forms of identification either way.ʺ
Serafina nodded. She reached toward her waist. She had a pocket sewn into the inside of her pants where she always carried her driverʹs license and debit card–mostly in case she wanted to buy something at the hospital gift shop.
If they found us with traffic cams, how fast will my credit card get them here?
ʺYou tryinʹ to hypnotize me or something?ʺ said the pig-man. He licked his lips again.
Serafina realized she had been staring at him as she thought. Realized that was the last thing she wanted to be doing.
And realized there was no real option. She had to get John inside, and get him into a bath. Fast.
She handed over her credit card and license.
Maybe theyʹre not watching.
Maybe whateverʹs causing all the weirdness is keeping them busy.
Maybe Iʹm going to win the Lottery and be elected Queen of Disneyland.
Piggy swiped the card. She expected it to be declined. Expected red lights to go off and sirens to shriek. Neither happened. Piggy just gave her cards back to her along with a key attached to a huge plastic circle.
ʺI think room fifteen is free,ʺ he said, and she almost laughed. She suspected she had the run of the place, and probably would have for the last decade or so.
Then another thought struck her: how was she going to get John into the room? No way she could lift him: she hadnʹt even been able to keep him upright.
She looked at Piggy.
ʺCan I ask you for some help?ʺ she said.
He leered at her. ʺAnything.ʺ
ʺMy….ʺ She hesitated. ʺMy fiancée is sick. Really sick. Heʹs got a bad fever and I need to get him in a bath. Heʹs too big for me to move, though.ʺ She drew a breath and said words that were perhaps harder than any sheʹd spoken in her life. ʺCan you help me?ʺ
Piggy looked behind him at the staticky television, as though drawing inspiration from the crappy reception. He looked back at her, a smile peeking out between streaks of chocolate. ʺSure,ʺ he said.
Serafina ran back to the car. John was moaning louder. No words anymore, just a wrenching cry, like he was watching everything he loved go up in flame. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
He looked gaunt, as though he had lost weight in the few minutes she had been inside. Impossible. But when she put his head back on her lap, it felt lighter.
Impossible.
Piggy was walking along the side of the motel. He stopped a few doors down. She pulled the car over and hopped out.
He lumbered over to her. She made as if to grab John, but he waved her off. ʺI got him. You get the bath started.ʺ
And just like that, she felt bad for calling him Piggy in her mind. Felt like every thought sheʹd had about him was not a misjudgment, but merely a true judgment on her.
She ran to the door, unlocked the door, then hurried into the room. The place smelled like stale sweat and cigarettes masked by a cursory spritz of cleaning solutions. She didnʹt care, though. The place could smell like a hog rendering plant as long as it had a tub and cold running water.
The bathroom had both. It was barely big enough to hold the tub and the toilet–she could have peed while soaking her feet–but it did have what she needed.
She plugged the tub and began running the water. It came out too cool. She added warm water until it was tepid. Cold water was bad news for a high fever. It could cause shivering that actually raised the bodyʹs core temperature and brought more problems.
The tub was half full when she heard the huffing and puffing of a large man being hauled in by a huge one.
ʺYou ready?ʺ said the manager.
She nodded. ʺReady enough.ʺ
She let the water keep running. There was a drain right in the middle of the bathroom, another hallmark of a classy place, so she wasnʹt worried about making a mess. Not that she would have cared much regardless.
She grabbed Johnʹs feet and together she and the manager got him into the too-small tub. Again she felt like he was much lighter than he should have been. Still too heavy for her to maneuver on her own, but too light to be the man she remembered.
John reacted instantly to the touch of the water. He screamed and thrashed. Serafina almost got a foot in the face.
ʺJesus!ʺ screamed the manager.
ʺDonʹt let him out!ʺ hollered Serafina.
They wrestled John down. One of his fists caught the manager in the shoulder. ʺOw!ʺ he screamed, but he held him down just the same. He looked at Serafina and grinned a thin grin.
John settled down after another minute. He never opened his eyes. His head sunk down, but didnʹt fall below the level of the water. The tub just wasnʹt big enough for his whole body to fit inside. Which was great, since his trunk was what needed cooling right now.
The manager rocked back on his heels, then sat on the toilet. He looked at John. ʺWow, heʹs really out. How longʹs he been like this?ʺ
ʺFifteen minutes? Longer?ʺ She felt his head. Still hot, and the skin felt thin, stretched like parchment.
ʺSo he might not come out of it.ʺ
ʺHeʹll come out of it.ʺ
ʺBut he might not.ʺ
ʺHe will. Heʹs strong. He–ʺ
A hand grabbed the back of her shirt. Yanked her back. She flew into the wall of the bathroom–a short trip, but one she traveled with enough force that the wind was knocked out of her. Before she realized what was going on, the manager was standing over her. His eyes blazed within the too-white mural of his face.
ʺSo this is the fiancée?ʺ he said. He licked his chocolate lips. ʺNot much to share a room with.ʺ
Serafina understood what was happening. Understood, but couldnʹt believe. ʺAre you insane?ʺ she screamed.
She was on her back, staring up at the huge man, and now she scrambled backward out of the bathroom, moving away as fast as she could, her head and shoulders knocking into something. The queen bed.
The manager stepped toward her. She kicked at him. But he danced back, surprisingly agile for such a big man. That fact scared her.
ʺSomeone will come,ʺ she said. More a hope–a prayer–than a conviction.
He laughed. She saw that gray tongue again. It glinted slightly and she realized for the first time that it wasnʹt just gray. It looked chapped.
Scaly.
She grew cold. Shivers ran through her body with abandon. Memories of men vomiting blood and half-changing to something no longer quite human.
Itʹ
s happening to him, too.
ʺSomeone will come,ʺ she whispered again.
ʺAre you kidding?ʺ he said. Another laugh. A mad giggle. He started to unzip his pants. ʺDidnʹt you see the television? Every channel looks like that, chickadee. Every channel!ʺ His pants fell to the floor and he kicked them away. Chocolate bars fell from the pockets, scattering behind him, across the bathroom floor.
ʺThe world is ending.ʺ He held up his hands, a gesture that encapsulated the room, the motel, and the whole of creation. She saw chocolate smears on his palms. For some reason that drove her fear to a whole new level. A touch of reality that kept her mind even from the mercy of convincing itself that this could be a bad dream or a descent into personal madness. ʺThe world is ending, and the rules are all gone. I can eat, I can drink, and no one will make fun of me. I can finally do whatever I want!ʺ
He licked his lips. The flickering tongue of a lizard.
ʺAnd I want to do you.ʺ
GAMES PEOPLE PLAY
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:38 AM
Subject:
All the station and department heads are doing check-ins. So far it seems like weʹre at about 80%. No telling how long that will last.
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Friday, May 31 10:38 AM