This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Isaiah ignored him. He looked around the bathroom again.

  Water in the tub. Splashed everywhere. Even on the sink, on the closed lid of the toilet. The walls. Streaks on the cheap drop ceiling.

  Isaiah looked at the toilet. The lid was even more out of place now that he was really paying attention. The rest of the bathroom was outfitted with cheap fixtures, things designed to break down after months at best.

  The toilet lid, though, was heavy duty and well crafted. Not wood, which would have appeared so elegant as to be ridiculous, or the more likely thin plastic lids that tended to appear in places like this. Rather, it was a thick white slab of polystyrene. Most people wouldnʹt notice it, but Isaiah had grown up where working toilets were the most you could hope for.

  This seat…it was too much. Discreet, meant to blend in. But still too much.

  He stood on the toilet. The ceiling was low, and he couldnʹt even stand up all the way. He pushed on the acoustical ceiling tile right above his head. It went up easily. Isaiah moved it to the side and looked into the plenum above the drop ceiling.

  The first thing Isaiah saw was exactly what he had expected to see. There was a small piece of wood nailed to one of the crossbars of the ceiling frame. Secured to that was a small plastic box, which had several leads running out of it. They disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling space.

  Out of the other side of the box, a thin cable extended. It snaked about two feet along the ceiling tiles, then the end dipped down like a parasite burrowing into flesh.

  Isaiah had seen these setups before; had used them, in fact. His were generally a bit more sophisticated, but the idea was the same. It was a fiber optic video camera. Someone, undoubtedly the manager, had rigged this room so that he could watch and listen to whatever happened in the bathroom.

  Isaiah felt like scraping off the outer layers of his skin with a pumice stone. Maybe heʹd have to thank Melville for wasting this guy. Justice had been done.

  But he wasnʹt here just to observe the camera. He had suspected something would be up here–that was the most likely conclusion to be drawn from a toilet seat that would bear the weight of a grossly obese man. The manager had wanted to be able to get up here, and the fact that he wanted to do so without benefit of a ladder or other observable apparatus meant he was engaged in something illicit. The camera.

  More important, though, was the fact that the ceiling was wet. And Isaiah knew now that it wasnʹt from the splashing. The walls werenʹt wet, an item he had glossed over when he first noticed the bathroom, but which his subconscious had tossed at him later. Unlikely that the walls had missed being wetted if the ceiling got doused.

  So the water wasnʹt from the tub below.

  It was from something above.

  Isaiah had seen the bathroom and had figured out there was a space in the ceiling, room to put things that someone would want hidden.

  Would John have seen those things, made those same conclusions?

  Yes.

  He reached into the ceiling space. Felt along the frame.

  Wet.

  They had been here. One or both of them wet for some reason, the water soaking through the acoustical tile and giving the impression that it had been splashed from below.

  But where had they gone?

  Just as he always carried a knife, Isaiah always had a small flashlight with him. He pulled it from his pocket and shined it into the crawlspace.

  The void extended up and down the length of the motel. Cameras every few feet, cords snaking into the tiles and peering down through nearly invisible holes.

  There was no sign of John or Serafina.

  He swung his light away. Then swung it back.

  One of the tiles–a tile over another room, probably just one or two rooms down–was missing.

  He was about to drop down and tell Melville he had a bead on their prey when the other manʹs voice jammed into the darkness. ʺBatman! Get down here!ʺ

  Isaiah crouched and jumped off the toilet seat in one movement. Melville was standing outside the bathroom door. ʺWhat is it?ʺ

  Melville pointed with his shotgun. ʺSaw ‘em. Theyʹre on foot!ʺ

  He ran out the door. Isaiah followed. He saw what Melville had seen: a pair of gray shapes in the mist, moving away but still visible.

  ʺCar!ʺ said Isaiah. They veered toward the sedan. ʺKeep an eye on them. Weʹll run ‘em down!ʺ

  ʺGot it, Batman.ʺ

  They hit the car running. Isaiah jammed the fob with his thumb, the sedanʹs lights flashed as it unlocked. Both men threw themselves in. ʺYou see where they went?ʺ

  ʺHard to in the fog, but I got the general direction. Theyʹre on foot and weʹre in the car, though, so weʹve got ‘em.ʺ Melville smiled. He laughed, and sounded like a child who has just discovered the exquisite joys of yanking legs off insects. ʺMr. Dominic is going to be thrilled.ʺ

  ʺYeah. Peachy.ʺ

  Isaiah put the car in reverse. Pulled back.

  Something felt wrong. He frowned. He cranked the wheel. It responded, but felt slushy. Slow. He put the car into drive, turned the wheel again, and floored the accelerator.

  The wheels spun, but took far too long to gain traction. And when they did the car didnʹt leap forward as it usually did, but only gave a sickly lurch and then died.

  Isaiah turned off the engine, then turned it on again. The ignition revved, but the engine didnʹt catch.

  ʺWhatʹs going on?ʺ screamed Melville.

  Isaiah didnʹt answer. He got out of the car. Saw that he wasnʹt the only one who took precautions. Just as he had done to the Honda, someone had slashed all four of the sedanʹs tires. But that wouldnʹt have caused the engine to seize. He ran to the back.

  Contrary to popular belief, it wasnʹt generally possible to stall a car by shoving a potato or a banana in the exhaust pipe: the exhaust pressure would just eject most obstructions. But if someone took the few moments necessary to completely seal the pipe with a few tight wraps of duct tape?

  Isaiah jabbed his knife into the tape. The wheels were flat, but even driving on rims would be faster than running. He pulled the tape off, and found white strands attached to it.

  Toilet paper.

  Theyʹd shoved toilet paper up the tail pipe. And who knew what else.

  ʺWe good?ʺ said Melville.

  ʺNo,ʺ said Isaiah. He looked into the fog. He couldnʹt see anything. ʺWeʹre not.ʺ

  The car wouldnʹt start, they didnʹt have time to see if it would drive properly. Every second wasted was another ten or twenty feet between them and the people they needed to stop. Driving wasnʹt a worthwhile option anymore. The next part of the race would be on foot.

  He was about to take off running when something caught his eye. The sedan hadnʹt gotten very far before hacking its way to a stop; they were only a few feet from the motel. Close enough to see the room they had just vacated.

  Close enough to see the thing that slid through the doorway.

  It was low-slung, ponderous. In the gloaming of the eddying mist Isaiah got the impression of a giant slug, searching for someplace to hide after an unseasonal shower. Wet, slick with slime, it rolled onto the concrete walkway that surrounded the motel, then off the side with a thud.

  Now closer, Isaiah could see that what he had taken for slime was blood. The ripples of flesh were not the gelatinous tissue of a slug, but the fat-draped corpse of the man they had left behind.

  The cadaver had bloated, impossibly swelling as though gases that would typically take days or weeks to accumulate within had done so in seconds.

  The shoulders, barely discernible within the swollen mass, were flecked with patches of scales and spines.

  The neck was ragged, a stump that ended in greasy patches of scabrous darkness.

  The headless thing twisted, turning on squat legs and arms as though questing. Searching.

  Isaiah realized he had stepped back. Ten feet, maybe twenty. Melville was next to him.

  ʺWhatʹs going
on?ʺ he said.

  Melville shook his head. ʺI donʹt…they didnʹt tell me about this.ʺ

  ʺIs this the disease?ʺ

  ʺMust be.ʺ

  ʺAnd weʹre safe?ʺ

  ʺMr. Dominic said so.ʺ

  The thing turned and twisted. Searching. Searching. A motion that was almost hypnotizing as waves danced along its length.

  Isaiah remembered the manager, looking out the door–

  (ʺDonʹt let it donʹt let it donʹt let it get me itʹs come itʹs finally comeʺ)

  –and wondered if the thing was searching for whatever had so terrified it only moments before. Looking for a way to run. Or–and for some reason this set Isaiah even more on edge–looking now to join it.

  He turned a circle, suddenly feeling eyes on him, faces hidden in the blankets of fog on all sides.

  ʺWe should follow them before they get away,ʺ said Melville. His voice sounded dreamy. He was probably in shock. Isaiah thought he probably was, too.

  ʺYeah,ʺ he answered.

  They began to run. Following the last course of their quarry. Isaiah tried to convince himself that it was because this was the only chance they had of turning back the tide of madness that had swollen over the face of the earth. Because killing John was a greater impetus than the terror he felt at seeing a dead man roll out of a motel room.

  But it was a lie. He was running from the undead thing in the mist. Just like he was running from his past, running from the truth. Running from the mist.

  And from the huge shape that he tried to convince himself was imagination: the umbral form that lumbered toward the motel and the waiting undead as Isaiah and Melville fled into shadow.

  UNCOVERED BY LIGHT

  From: POTUS

  To: Anton Koikov

  Sent: Friday, May 31 11:14 AM

  Subject: Proposal for Cooperative Action

  Mr. President,

  I presume that you are having the same telecom issues that we are. No one is sure why these are occurring, but when we know anything I will happily share our results with you.

  I know that our countries and our administrations have had our differences, but we appear to be nearing a crisis. I would propose that you and I pool our resources to see if we can figure out exactly what is going on and how to stop it. Would you be amenable to this effort?

  Yours sincerely,

  Richard Peters

  From: Anton Koikov

  To: POTUS

  Sent: Friday, May 31 11:18 AM

  Subject: RE: Proposal etc.

  Mr. Peters,

  Thank you for your kind invitation. We are entirely capable of handling current events without assistance. We wish you best of luck with whatever issues you may be having and I look forward to seeing you at the environmental summit in August.

  Please give my best to Mrs. Peters.

  Cordially,

  Anton Koikov

  [dictated but not read]

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 11:21 AM

  Subject: Russia

  Russian pres just told me to effectively screw myself. I thought you said you had people in Russia. Can we get some coordination going?

  This thing has gone global. North Korea has effectively disappeared, and before sat coverage went offline most of Western Europe looked like it was mobilizing for WWIII. Africa has fallen to widespread bloodshed, last we heard (and last we heard was over an hour ago).

  The fact that there are carriers in China implies that there might be others as well.

  I thought you said your people came up with the original vaccine. How does China have carriers? Whatʹs going on? Did we originate this, or steal it?

  Regardless, I donʹt think this is something we can handle from within our borders alone. We need to reach out, even to old enemies. This is a time to forget enmities and make friends. I need your help for that, just as I always have.

  Just tell me what to do to solve this. Tell me.

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 11:21 AM

  Subject: RE: Russia

  I do have people in Russia. They are very busy, just as my people here are very busy. Trust me when I say that thereʹs nothing you can do by reaching out. This has to be fixed here first.

  There are other carriers, but the most virulent ones are the ones on U.S. soil. This is a terrifying situation, yes, but it also means that they are the ones who can most easily yield a solution if we can get our hands on them and perform some biological studies.

  Further, their objective seems to be a common one: the carriers arenʹt scattering, they are moving toward a central location. This is another reason to contain yourself and your efforts to the confines of your own borders. It is true that no man is an island, but when cleaning dirty laundry you donʹt invite the neighbors over, either.

  My people have the situation moving forward. I anticipate resolution within hours. Until then, whatever National Guard and other armed forces you have available, I would suggest mobilizing them and putting up whatever roadblocks you can at the following locations.

 

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 11:35 AM

  Subject: RE: RE: Russia

  I sent out orders to the National Guard per your suggestions. I got no response. I honestly donʹt expect one. Iʹm just crossing my fingers at this point. There doesnʹt seem to be much left. Am I alone?

  No, donʹt answer that. I know, I know.

  Youʹre here.

  ***

  They ran, and ran, and ran.

  Mist made everything dark, but at the same time it silvered the world, made all seem a land of fae. Not fairies of the benevolent type, the subject of so many Disney platitudes and simple endings. No, the fairies hiding in this fog would be more devious, less well-disposed toward humanity.

  Just as likely to kill as to bless.

  John didnʹt look around. He faced only ahead, only east.

  He didnʹt know how he could possibly still be headed that direction. There were no markers on the rough sand and rock that coated this land, the shroud of mist cloaked the sun in ash.

  But he felt a pull. A tug that drew him on, something inside that whispered, ʺThis is the way, here is the way.ʺ

  It was a small voice, but real. Something he heard thudding through him as a steady beat that matched the pulse of his own blood, the rhythm of his footsteps, the breath in his lungs. Even through the terror he felt, the knowledge that there were men who would kill him and Serafina–or worse–he heard the voice. It was a comfort, and that surprised him.

  The mission. It was all that was left, perhaps all there was in the world.

  He still didnʹt know what it was, exactly. But he would move toward it.

  Serafina was breathing hard beside him, trying her best to keep up. He slowed to match her pace. He was running well below his threshold, but he wasnʹt about to leave her. Not merely because she had saved his life as many times as he had saved hers. There was more. He felt that, too. The same voice that pulled him east told him also that she was more than an accidental part of this.

  She had been a part of the mission. Part of what he had to accomplish from the very beginning.

  She stumbled. Fell sprawling in the hardpacked dirt and inch-high scrubs that had managed to spear their ways through land too hard for life. It was a hard fall. She rolled to her back, gasping. Her arms were bloody, the knees of her scrub pants shredded. Her chin had a long laceration on it, and dirt and burs clung to her clothes.

  She had always been beautiful. Now, wounded for her efforts, she was radiant.

  ʺGo,ʺ she gasped. �
�You…gotta…finish….ʺ

  John knew then that she was hearing the voice. That whatever force pulled him along had managed to hook onto her as well.

  She was part of this.

  ʺGet…moving….ʺ

  She closed her eyes.

  He growled. A strange sound, one of desperation and anger. The only reason he didnʹt bellow was that he knew the priest and the thin man were somewhere behind them. He had seen both at the window, getting out of the car, and almost rushed them.

  Suicide. He could heal, but did that mean he could survive a direct hit by an assault shotgun? Not worth betting on.

  He rifled through the unconscious managerʹs pockets, finding a screwdriver, some duct tape, a wad of used tissue. He grabbed it all, even the tissue, then looked for a way out.

  There was no way. No back window, and the front door was hardly an option.

  He heard a crash. The sound of a door being kicked in.

  He looked in the bathroom, searching not for escape but for something more powerful than a screwdriver. Some weapon he could use.

  He saw the toilet seat. Recognized it not as part of a plumbing fixture, but a stepladder.

  Into the ceiling with Serafina as another crash sounded. Then across framing, through a dark crawlspace littered with the spy network of a rapist, a voyeur, an evil man.