This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Jack hesitated. Looking for words. He looked at Serafina. ʺI canʹt tell you because you wouldnʹt believe it.ʺ Then he switched his gaze to John. His eyes grew misty. ʺAnd I canʹt tell you, my friend, because itʹd be more than you could bear. Itʹd destroy you.ʺ

  The old man wiped his eyes, then held Serafinaʹs shoulder for a moment, a gesture of friendship and encouragement.

  ʺGet a move on,ʺ he said. ʺThe tankʹs full, and itʹll get you to Cedar City. Mapʹs in the glove box. Donʹt stop for nothing–theyʹll be on you still.ʺ

  He patted the side of the door and stepped back.

  Serafina looked at him. She smiled.

  John put the SUV into gear. They pulled away.

  Serafina kept looking at Jim/Jack Jones until he had disappeared in the mist. She wondered if she would see him again. If anyone would.

  She finally turned forward. Opened the glove box. A map was inside, and when she opened it there was a route outlined in yellow Hi-Liter.

  The road glowed in the headlights, a gray strip in the larger gray of the mist. The shapes in the fog were no longer visible.

  They drove. Lebanon, Kansas, was still ahead. The priest and the thin killer were still behind.

  They had a long way to go.

  BLIND LEADING BLIND

  From: POTUS

  To: Booker Randall

  Sent: Friday, May 31 1:19 PM

  Subject: Crisis Analysis

  What news?

  From: Booker Randall

  To: POTUS

  Sent: Friday, May 31 2:42 PM

  Subject: RE: Crisis Analysis

  Still nothing. Without a tissue sample we donʹt have much to work with. Itʹs not normal procedure for me to work on a vaccine for a disease Iʹve never heard of and had less to do with.

  Even if I get a tissue sample, not sure what I can do here. All the other lab techs are dead. I have scales on my hand. Thatʹs outside what I was briefed on. Do you have any info?

  From: POTUS

  To: Booker Randall

  Sent: Friday, May 31 2:59 PM

  Subject: RE: RE: Crisis Analysis

  No, no info. Hopefully itʹs nothing. Please hold fast. You are doing important work and the country thanks you. Stay at your post and weʹll beat this.

  ***

  Walking was for suckers. This was one of the facts of life, one of the Great Truths. If God had intended people to walk, Melville figured, He wouldnʹt have invented cars. More important, Mr. Dominic had given them a series of cars, and that indicated they should use the things.

  But instead Melville was walking. Scuffing up his Grafton Wingtips, which cost nearly a thousand dollars a pair, thinking how much he would like to kill John and Serafina, how very much he would like to get done with this job and return to normal life. Normal life was good. Out of this fog, this confusion.

  He thought about calling for a new car. But he had no idea where they were. And besides, when he checked it, the cell showed no service. He didnʹt know if that was because they were in the middle of nowhere or if it was because of the fog.

  ʺYou have any idea where we are, Batman?ʺ he said.

  The priest just walked, silent as always. Melville decided to cut his tongue out before killing him. That way heʹd have a damn good reason for not talking.

  ʺI donʹt know why you donʹt want to chat. Not like we have anything else to do.ʺ

  Still nothing. And the guy knew that there was no cell reception, so no making him play any little games right now. Melville supposed he could have threatened future reprisals, but somehow he doubted that would have much effect.

  Bored.

  Boring was the opposite of exciting.

  That was some deep stuff right there. He would have to think on that sometime.

  It got bright all of a sudden. Isaiah reacted first, which irritated Melville. Another deep thought: he was going to have to kill Isaiah when the big guy wasnʹt waiting for it. Which was what he usually did, but this time he suspected it would be necessity, not preference.

  Melvilleʹs turn–a fraction of a second behind Isaiah, an eternity if you were drawing and firing–completed.

  There was a car coming up behind them. No, an SUV. Melvilleʹs heart danced. Mr. Dominic had come through again. Forget the U.S., forget Russia, and China could bend over and screw itself–Mr. Dominic was the real and only superpower that existed.

  Then Melville saw the vehicle more clearly. It was old and blocky. No smooth lines, no clean black paint. The engine chugged instead of purring. It was, in short, exactly the kind of vehicle Melville hated, and exactly the kind of thing Mr. Dominic wouldnʹt send.

  Unless thereʹs nothing else. Unless he had to.

  Melville did his best to remain optimistic. Perhaps whatever was going on in the world, whatever mass catastrophe spawned by the disease he and Isaiah were trying to contain, perhaps it had also resulted in a colossal breakdown and the mass destruction of all late model vehicles. That would be acceptable. He would keep his fingers crossed.

  The SUV pulled up and the last of Melvilleʹs hopes curdled. The man that got out was as disheveled and decrepit as the vehicle in which he arrived. No clean suit, no sharp creases, no expensive haircut. He sported boring khakis, a boring blue shirt that looked like heʹd gotten it on layaway at Wal-Mart, and raggedy hair that had probably never seen a salon.

  Melville determined to hate him on the spot.

  The man walked toward them, and Isaiah had his gun trained on the old guyʹs head in a flash. Again, he reacted just a tad faster than Melville.

  ʺWhoa,ʺ said the old man. ʺNo reason to get antsy. Iʹm unarmed and I brought you some wheels.ʺ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  ʺWho are you?ʺ said Isaiah.

  ʺJack Jones,ʺ said the man. ʺWell, Jimʹs my name. But I go by Jack, Iʹm sure you can understand.ʺ He winked at Isaiah and Melville realized this guy was some old faggot and his hatred pulsed brighter.

  ʺWho sent you?ʺ he demanded. His shotgun jabbed forward.

  Maddeningly, the old coot seemed to take no notice of the weapon. Worse, he took no notice of Melville. He never even looked at him, just kept talking to Isaiah like they were the only two in the world.

  ʺThe roadʹs only about five hundred feet that way,ʺ he said, pointing.

  ʺThatʹs impossible,ʺ growled Isaiah. ʺWeʹve been walking for hours.ʺ

  The man chuckled. Another wink. Faggot. ʺA lot of us tend to walk in circles when we canʹt see our way, I suppose.ʺ He shrugged. ʺAnyway, you can have this truck. Thereʹs a map inside.ʺ

  ʺA map to where?ʺ demanded Melville. Then, because the old asshole still wasnʹt looking at him, he slammed the side of the shotgun into his head.

  The old man slumped. Fell to earth. Melville grinned.

  His grin slid off his face when he saw the man slowly stand and saw his grin.

  ʺI donʹt much like you, son,ʺ said the coot. Melville almost killed him right there, but the guy said, ʺBut Iʹve been told to help you on your way. To tell you where John and Serafina are going.ʺ

  Melville didnʹt know how long he and Isaiah remained silent. But it finally dawned on him that the shotgun was pointed straight down. He had lost control of this conversation.

  Melville, you never had control of it in the first place.

  The voice that sounded wasnʹt his, it was Mr. Dominicʹs. He was deeply ashamed. Mostly because he knew it was true.

  The old man bent over and put his hands on his knees, then craned his head up to look at Isaiah. ʺYouʹre a big one, arenʹt you?ʺ he said.

  ʺWho sent you?ʺ said Isaiah again.

  The old man nodded. ʺNo fair telling,ʺ he answered. ʺDidnʹt tell them, wonʹt tell you.ʺ He straightened. ʺThereʹs a map in the glove box that shows the route to Lebanon. Enough fuel in the tank to get to Cedar City. Drive straigh
t and donʹt stop for anything or youʹll never catch up to ‘em.ʺ

  ʺI donʹt understand.ʺ Isaiah looked so thoroughly confused that Melville almost enjoyed the moment. Only the presence of the old queer kept him from reveling in seeing the priestʹs bewilderment.

  ʺNo, I suppose you donʹt,ʺ said the old man. And then, before either Melville or Isaiah could react, he stepped forward and put a hand on the black manʹs shoulder. He looked deep into the eyes of the priest. ʺBut you will soon.ʺ

  At last Melville was the one to react first. He stepped forward and shoved the ancient queen. ʺTell us whatʹs going on, you…homo.ʺ

  The last word wasnʹt the one he wanted, but he was so angry at what was going on–the confusion, the lack of information, the lack of control–that it was all that came to mind.

  The old man just stared at him. And then winked.

  That was too much. Melville buried the end of the shotgun in the cootʹs stomach and pulled the trigger.

  Even buried in aged flesh, the report was so loud Melville expected the fog to flee before it. It didnʹt. Instead it seemed to come closer as blood and meat exploded into the permanent twilight, darkening silver mist to full black before flinging away and disappearing in cloud.

  The man fell forward. He clutched Melville. Agony writhed across his features, which was nice. But then he ruined it by talking. ʺYou donʹt know what youʹre doing,ʺ he said in a hoarse whisper. ʺNothing you do will change whatʹs coming.ʺ He smiled, and the smile disconcerted Melville. Men whose guts have been blown out their backs should not smile.

  He also realized that blood was probably all over his clothes. That angered him. He pulled the trigger again.

  This time the gay flew away like a superhero in a comic, which was cool. He didnʹt go far, though, no up-up-and-away for him. Just up-straight-then-down-and-bounce.

  He landed face up in the dirt. Blood poured from his nose, his lips. His stomach and chest were shredded so badly they were barely recognizable as human and Melville knew that the back would be worse.

  The man gasped. A pitiful, wheezing last breath. Then he whispered, ʺHey, Evie,ʺ and let out his breath and stared at nothing.

  Melville grinned. That was awesome.

  Isaiah spun to face Melville, and suddenly he was truly afraid. ʺWhyʹd you do that?ʺ roared Isaiah.

  Melville forgot completely about the shotgun in his hands. He fell back. ʺHe bothered me,ʺ he said. His voice sounded afraid. That was impossible. He never sounded like that. Never.

  ʺHe bothered you?ʺ Isaiah took another step, and his free hand formed a pincer that Melville knew was intended for his throat.

  ʺDonʹt,ʺ he said. ʺTheyʹll kill her. Cut her up and rape her and kill her if you do anything to me.ʺ

  ʺHow will they know?ʺ snarled Isaiah. ʺYou canʹt call, they canʹt call. Your phone doesnʹt work. For all we know no phones work.ʺ

  Another step. One more and the big man would grab him, throttle him, kill him.

  Melvilleʹs phone rang.

  Isaiah stopped moving.

  Melville pulled the phone from his pocket with a shaking hand. ʺY-yes?ʺ he said.

  The voice that answered wasnʹt who he expected. Not just a voice. The voice. Mr. Dominic. And the moment he heard those elegant tones, Melvilleʹs fears fled. Buried deep inside where he didnʹt have to worry about them.

  ʺAre you quite all right, Mr. Melville?ʺ

  Melville glared at Isaiah. ʺWe ran into a few snags, Mr. Dominic, but weʹre back on track.ʺ He stared at Isaiah. ʺRight, Batman?ʺ

  Isaiah continued being the Strong Silent Type. Melville wondered if this was how he picked up chicks.

  ʺI am gratified to hear it, Mr. Melville. Please continue with your work.ʺ

  ʺYes, sir.ʺ Melville smirked at Isaiah. ʺHeʹd like us to keep working together, wouldnʹt you know it?ʺ

  ʺI want to talk to her.ʺ

  At first Melville didnʹt understand what the priest meant. Then he realized: ʺThe retard?ʺ Isaiahʹs hardening expression was answer enough. ʺShe canʹt even understand you.ʺ

  ʺYou donʹt know that!ʺ Isaiah roared, then calmed himself with visible effort. ʺI want to know sheʹs alive.ʺ

  ʺShe canʹt even talk. How do you think weʹre going to prove it?ʺ

  ʺI actually have a solution to that, Mr. Melville,ʺ said Mr. Dominic. ʺPlease put our friend on the line.ʺ

  Melville looked at the phone as if he hadnʹt understood it, then shrugged and handed it to Isaiah. The big man took it, listened a moment. Melville heard something from the small speaker. Muffled and faraway, but it sounded like…singing?

  Isaiah started crying. ʺHang in there, baby,ʺ he said. ʺI love you.ʺ He handed the phone back to Melville, then turned to the still-idling SUV.

  Melville put his cell to his ear. ʺWhat was that about?ʺ

  ʺNothing much. Time is wasting. Please continue, and please keep me apprised.ʺ

  ʺWill do, sir. Thank you for the vehicle.ʺ

  ʺVehicle?ʺ Mr. Dominic actually sounded surprised. ʺIʹm afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. Iʹm not really sure what you are talking about.ʺ

  Melville looked at the dead body. Blood pooled over the hardpack, unable to penetrate. He supposed it made sense: Mr. Dominic never would have sent anyone like that.

  ʺNever mind, sir,ʺ he said. ʺIʹll keep you in the loop.ʺ

  ʺVery good.ʺ

  The line cut off.

  Melville walked to the dead man. He was still smiling that strange smile, which infuriated Melville. He kicked the corpse in the head. The neck cracked and the head went sideways, but the smile remained, so Melville stomped it–and the rest of the face–out of existence.

  He went to the SUV and got in. Isaiah was at the wheel, a map unfolded. He was all but hidden behind it, and Melville got the feeling that was because he hadnʹt wanted to watch the destruction of the dead queer.

  Melville liked that. He liked when people hid from his accomplishments. It was a tremendously exciting experience.

  And, for that matter, just when everything had become excruciatingly boring, excitement had returned. In spades. He had gotten to kill someone, they had wheels again.

  He had gotten to hear Mr. Dominicʹs voice.

  ʺWhere we going?ʺ he said. He sounded so chipper. He thought he would sing show tunes as they drove. Maybe some Disney songs.

  Isaiah folded the map. ʺApparently weʹre going to Kansas.ʺ

  ʺSo you believe the queer?ʺ

  Isaiah didnʹt answer. The SUV bounced its way to first gear, and a moment later they were on the road, on the hunt.

  Melville began with songs from Aladdin.

  interlude:

  POSSESSION

  MUTED SONG

  From: Director

  To: FLASH LIST

  CC: POTUS

  Sent: Friday, May 31 4:18 PM

  Subject: SitRep (FinalMsg)

  Please see attached. Forgive the typos and brevity. No one around to fact check or edit.

 

  From: POTUS

  To: Director

  Sent: Friday, May 31 4:19 PM

  Subject: RE: SitRep (FinalMsg)

  What the hell does this mean?

  From: Director

  To: POTUS

  Sent: Friday, May 31 4:20 PM

  Subject: RE: RE: SitRep (FinalMsg)

  What it says. Donʹt contact me again. I wonʹt be here. Going home. If itʹs still there.

  God forgive me for the things Iʹve done. God forgive us all.

  ***

  Alone in a tomb with the rotting bones of men newly dead.

  This is the second time she has lain in a car, unmoving, trapped not by the metal coffin that surrounds her but by the closer confines of the coffin she herself has become.

  This time there are no li
ghts. No blue, no red. There is only mist.

  She waits for the dark face with the sad eyes. The bloody nose. It does not appear.

  She waits to see the face of the man, torn apart and single eye staring. It does not manifest.

  She waits for the woman who stares and sings songs of love before dying as well. She does not come to her, and her song does not sound.

  There is only her and the three men.

  The driving ended abruptly, and now she is here. It ended because the men coughed. They coughed harder and harder. The car swerved when one of the ones in front lost control of his body. The car hit something and they all flew forward, trapped by seatbelts.

  She did not move after that. Not even to sing, her new voice silenced by what happened next.

  A man in front continued coughing. She heard something wet. Then the man next to her growled. A strange, alien sound. Feral. Maddened and maddening.

  She could not turn her head. It had slumped forward, canted to the side so she saw only the jagged edges of glass that had once been a window, tinted and smoky like the uneven teeth of a witch or a troll.

  She realized she was thinking. Clearer than she had in a long time. Still not sure of many things, but sure of this: she was afraid. So terribly afraid.

  The growling grew louder. Shouts followed it. Then screams. Sounds of tearing, and she could not be sure if it was cloth or skin, thick upholstery or the thinner mass of flesh that made up the men in the car.