This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  The engine sputtered. John pulled past the building the signs had led them to. Not a gas station as promised, but what looked like an abandoned church. The sign on the ornamental gate beside the door said Our Mother of Mercy.

  John prayed the mercy was a good supply of unleaded.

  The church was small, which was unsurprising in a part of the country where only ten percent of the population was Catholic–

  (and there I go again, random trivia popping into my head at random times)

  –just a brick building, squared with a belfry at the front corner. The cross at the top of the belfry had one of its arms missing. The churchʹs windows were boarded over to protect against vandals, and the dark brick of the walls was darker in spots with water damage and perhaps the beginnings of a long final dissolution.

  A small place, built humble and made humbler still by abandonment and time and the elements.

  But as small as the building was, the trip around its side seemed to take forever. The SUVʹs engine sputtered, coughed. John made it to the back of the church, where a small building had been appended: likely the rectory where the priest at one time lived.

  The fumes they had been running on ran dry. The engine stopped cycling. They coasted to a halt. The mist wrapped itself around them.

  There were no pumps, no gas.

  ʺI hope whoever did signs for this city got fired and tied on top an anthill with honey in his jockeys,ʺ said Serafina.

  John laughed. The situation was dire, but she was refusing to stop wisecracking. Even black humor was humor. And where real laughter existed, fear could not.

  Serafina laughed, too. Laughter is a benevolently contagious disease, and it brings lightness of spirit, an increase of resolve. Perhaps that is why it is so close to madness at times: because it brings hope where none could possibly exist.

  ʺLetʹs check inside the church,ʺ said John.

  ʺYeah, maybe thereʹs a car in there.ʺ

  ʺWe can hope.ʺ

  ʺOr a plane.ʺ

  ʺWe can pray.ʺ

  ʺGood place for it.ʺ

  ʺTrue.ʺ

  ʺLetʹs ask for a hot meal and a shower, too. And that the people following us all caught terminal syphilis.ʺ

  ʺWe shouldnʹt push our luck.ʺ

  ʺIf youʹre gonna go, go big.ʺ

  He laughed again. Hope and perhaps a bit of madness keeping the darkness at bay.

  They got out of the car and headed to the rectory.

  John worried theyʹd have to force entry, which seemed not merely wrong but somehow indecent. The idea of slamming his way into a church, even an abandoned, decrepit one, didnʹt sit well with him.

  He thought that was something from his past. For an instant he almost grabbed something solid. Something real. A moment from memory loomed, a shadow in the mists of his history.

  The man who had given them the SUV spoke in his mind. ʺAnd I canʹt tell you, my friend, because itʹd be more than you could bear. Itʹd destroy you.ʺ

  In that instant, standing before the closed door of the church, John almost understood. Almost knew what the old man had been saying, what all this was leading to.

  ʺJohn? What is it?ʺ

  The moment of near-revelation passed away. He realized he had stopped moving. Serafina was staring at him, concerned. ʺYou okay?ʺ she said.

  He had to restrain a shout of frustration. Instead he bit his lip and then said, ʺFine.ʺ It wasnʹt her fault. She didnʹt know what her words had caused to slip by. Hopefully the moment would come again.

  ʺ…itʹd be more than you could bear. Itʹd destroy you.ʺ

  Or maybe he was better off not knowing.

  The door to the rectory was not only unlocked, it was ajar. There was a note taped to it. In simple handwriting it said, ʺIf anyone comes here, please meet at the town hall.–Father Thomas.ʺ

  John left the note on the door. Clearly the priest had come here when things started changing for the worst, believing that some in the community might gather at the church as a common point of reference, an old landmark or a once-refuge. He hoped the note had been read many times, and still would be would be many times more.

  He went into the rectory. Serafina followed.

  He fumbled around on the inside wall near the door, found a light switch, and flicked it upward. Nothing happened. Unsurprising, but he still felt sad for some reason. Like even when everything else had failed there should still be light at a church, if anywhere. And the fact that there was not meant that things were much worse than they knew.

  He left the door open behind him as they entered so they would be able to use the wisps of illumination the mist permitted to pass through it; hopefully that would be enough to get by.

  The priestʹs living quarters were nearly empty, and even in the darkness John could see that a layer of dust covered everything that remained. A single cross hung on the wall directly across from the front door: the first thing visitors would see and apparently left behind as a memory of blessing.

  Serafina moved to the left, where a small kitchenette held a sink, an oven, a few cabinets. She started going through the cabinets, then looked under the sink.

  John moved right. There was a dingy hutch and a desk that hadnʹt been removed when the church fell into disrepair because they were built into the wall. A part of the structure, so left to die with the rest.

  Inspecting the front room took only a few seconds. Then there was another doorway to the side that led to a small bedroom. Nothing in it beyond the remains of a fire that some squatter had lit on the carpet. That made John mad. A place like this had once been the center of life for many. The fire seemed like the desecration of a corpse.

  ʺNothing,ʺ he said.

  ʺThereʹs still the church,ʺ said Serafina.

  He nodded, trying to quell his discouragement. Not many Catholic churches carried spare gas in the nave, stashed unleaded under the altar or diesel in the narthex. But the alternative to looking inside was to simply sit and die in despair…or to venture blindly into the mist.

  He didnʹt care for either of those alternatives.

  They headed back into the main room. There was a doorway that John figured would lead to the sacristy, where the priest would have kept his vestments and the items he used for mass. That then would lead to the church proper.

  Precisely in the center of the room, Serafina froze.

  ʺWhat is it?ʺ John said.

  She held up a hand, a quick command to silence. Johnʹs own brain immediately shifted all attention to his ears. He heard the throb of his heartbeat, the low soughing of wind in the mist, the cavernous nothing-sound of a world growing empty and cold.

  Then something else.

  He looked at Serafina. Her eyes were so wide they glowed in the darkness.

  He hadnʹt heard the first sound, whatever noise she had originally heard. But he heard the next: a thud. The metal-on-metal chunk of a car door. Then another.

  Two doors.

  Two people?

  Serafinaʹs face had paled to the point it nearly lit the room. She mouthed a word: ʺThem?ʺ

  John started to shrug, to shake his head. Neither gesture succeeded.

  Two car doors.

  Two.

  What were the chances of any two other people being in this place, at this time?

  A moment later, they heard crunching footsteps. A voice.

  ʺWe better damn well find somewhere with gas. We donʹt then forget finding those two. And forget saving whatʹs left of the world or your little bitch.ʺ

  John started to shake.

  …forget finding those two….

  There could be no doubt. The men who had followed them had found them once more. And the voices sounded close enough that it was certain the killers would see him and Serafina if they tried to run out the door and escape in the mist.

  Their place of possible respite had been converted to a cage.

  Worse, perhaps, was the implication inherent in the other words.
/>   …and forget saving whatʹs left of the world….

  …whatʹs left of the world….

  What did that mean? Again, John felt like he was at the threshold of understanding, a revelation that would not only tear away the veils of forgetfulness draped over his memories but would also…what?

  Destroy me.

  Suddenly he did not wish to know his past. Suddenly he feared it. Knew that if he understood who he was, he would never forgive himself. Would never recover.

  He pushed away the threatening memories. Tamped them down in the deep places, the vasty depths of his heart.

  Serafina saved him. He would have stood there and struggled with himself until they came for him, until they killed him. But she grabbed his hand. Yanked him away from the still-open door that led outside.

  She pulled him toward the door that led to the sacristy. With the part of his mind not devoted to resisting what he knew, John hoped it was unlocked.

  Together those two things occupied him completely.

  That was why he tripped.

  THINGS MADE FLESH

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 8:13 PM

  Subject: Iʹm sorry

  Sorry sorry so so scared.

  Didnʹt mean to say all that stuff. Its dark dwon here & Im having trouble thinking. The last of my detale just died and guess what? I realized I dont know how to leave! Place designed to be the most secure in the entire world, but itʹs nothing but a huge lead and concretecoffin now.

  Can you find meee?

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Thursday, May 31 8:13 PM

  Subject: RE: Iʹm sorry

  Of course. I always will. Youʹll have to wait a bit and be patient, but Iʹll come for you. I promise. We can still salvage this.

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 8:14 PM

  Subject: RE: RE: Iʹm sorry

  Will try. I keep hearing things. Everyones dead, all the lights are out but the computer screen, but I keep hearing things moving and its scaring me.

  ***

  There was nothing beside the church but more mist. Isaiah barely managed to care. When they got out of their dead vehicle Melville drew close to him and Isaiah immediately pulled away.

  ʺWhat the hell, Batman?ʺ he said. The man was such an egomaniac he couldnʹt conceive of a world–of a single moment–where he wasnʹt both the center of attention and the focus of all affection. Then, surly: ʺWhatever.ʺ

  Isaiah didnʹt want to be anywhere near the scumbag. This was a truly evil human, and he had no desire to stain his soul further than it already had been. But more than that, he feared the spines rising up Melvilleʹs neck, the scales appearing in shining patches here and there under his chin and below his ears.

  Then he realized being worried about catching the disease was ridiculous at this point. Theyʹd been driving together in close quarters for hours. If he was going to catch it, he already had.

  So maybe Iʹm immune. I can keep taking care of Katherine.

  That gave him hope. Because implicit in the thought was not merely his survival, but hers. That was all that mattered.

  They walked around the back of the church. A short trek, unsurprising given the humble aspect of the place. It was old, a bit rundown, but it reminded Isaiah of Nicholasʹ church, the place he thought of as his own first church, the place he had been rescued–if only for a time–from his sins and their consequences.

  It was hard walking so close to a place that reminded him of his dead friend. Especially when that place was a church. The night before presenting himself for what would be his too-short incarceration he had gone to Nicholasʹ church and prayed that justice would be done. That was also the last time he had gone in a church.

  Justice could not be found kneeling at pews or reading the Gospel from the pulpit. It could only be found in violence. In the destruction of the wicked. In righteous murder, and, eventually, in his own death.

  Now he walked again beside a church, holiness on his right side and a man whose inner and outer forms epitomized corruption on his left. A tug-of-war that he knew he had already lost.

  There was no gas at the back of the church. Just more mist. He thought he saw something in the darkness, a shape that might have been a car. Maybe they could siphon it?

  ʺIf I find the person who lied about the gas, Iʹll pull his eyes out and make him watch me feed them to his kids,ʺ rasped Melville.

  Isaiah didnʹt point out the obvious problems with that threat. He did look at his companion/keeper, however. The growths on Melvilleʹs neck were larger. They had spread to his chin. And the man seemed…shorter. His tall, gaunt form had curled slightly, drawing down as though a weight had been tied to his neck.

  ʺThereʹs nothing here,ʺ said the other man.

  ʺNo,ʺ agreed Isaiah. ʺBut maybe thereʹs a car parked some–ʺ

  Something crashed inside the rectory.

  Isaiah didnʹt bother looking at Melville before springing toward the closed door. It was them. John and Serafina. It had to be.

  They could end this. Perhaps he could save the world. Katherine.

  Melville was close behind him. But his gait sounded odd. Not the even thump-thump-thump-thump of a person running, it was more a thump-THUD, thump-THUD. Like something was wrong with one of the other manʹs legs.

  Isaiah wondered what he might see if Melville were to roll up his pants legs.

  Then he was through the door. It wasnʹt locked, wasnʹt even fully closed. It flew open under his hand and slammed back against the wall.

  It was dark inside. Not much to see. A small room, nearly empty. A door to the side that would no doubt lead to a bedroom. Another door that would lead to the sacristy.

  A cross on the wall ahead of him drew his attention. Isaiah had to resist the urge to genuflect. He shook himself.

  Focus.

  The sacristy door clicked as its lock engaged.

  Isaiah realized he hadnʹt brought his gun with him but had left it in the SUV–a lapse brought about by the sight of Melvilleʹs infection. Melville didnʹt have his shotgun, either. Otherwise Isaiah was sure the other man would have just aimed and fired at the door to blast it open. Instead, Melville ran at it full-tilt. Hit it with his shoulder.

  Bounced off.

  Melville fell to the floor with a bone-shuddering thud and a screamed curse. Isaiah ignored both and knocked lightly on the door. The sound came back so muted as to be nearly inaudible. It wasnʹt some cheap door, but a thick security door to protect the sacristy.

  The front door was nothing special. But this one had been chosen to withstand nearly anything but its keys. The priest of this place had valued himself less than the accoutrements of worship. Had seemed by this architectural choice to say, ʺDo what you will to my body, but leave the body of Christ alone.ʺ

  It was exactly the kind of decision that Nicholas would have made. Isaiah smiled in spite of himself.

  Melville leaped to his feet, moving to the front door. Isaiah tried to ignore the weird gait–

  (thump-THUD, thump-THUD)

  –just as he tried to ignore the fact that the other man was now bent nearly double. Spines poked through his hair.

  ʺWhere you going?ʺ he said.

  ʺTo get the gun,ʺ said Melville. His voice sounded wrong. Jagged, like he was speaking through a mouthful of tacks. Broken glass and broken teeth.

  ʺIt wonʹt work,ʺ said Isaiah. ʺThe doorʹs too thick, the knob is designed to–ʺ

  ʺHow the hell else you suggest we get in then?ʺ snarled Melville.

  ʺI believe I can help with that.ʺ

  The new voice made Isaiah start. He had been so intent on watching Melvilleʹs form, both curious to see his face and fearful of what he might see, that he hadnʹt noticed the ne
wcomer who now stood at the open doorway to the rectory.

  Melvilleʹs voice still sounded strange, rasping through a mouth whose structure was shifting. But there was no mistaking his joy. ʺMr. Dominic!ʺ

  ʺHello, Mr. Melville,ʺ said the man. He stood framed in the doorway, rimmed by mist, hands clasped like a particularly well-dressed monk about to take up residency here.

  Isaiah gaped. ʺHow did you–?ʺ

  Dominic shook his head slowly and tsk-tsked like a British Dame at tea. ʺDo you really think I would simply track your cars alone? With so much at stake?ʺ He put his hand to his cheek, thumb extended to ear, pinky to mouth. ʺMr. Melvilleʹs phone lets me know where you are at all times.ʺ He looked around the interior of the sacristy. ʺRather filthy in here.ʺ He turned on his heel. Walked away. ʺFollow me, please.ʺ

  Melville loped after his master. Isaiah followed as well. ʺWhere are we going?ʺ he said.

  Dominic didnʹt answer, just walked silently through the mist, with Melville padding along behind him on legs that seemed to curve in all the wrong places. The manʹs knees had relocated to a point a full six inches lower, and a strange outcropping that reminded Isaiah of the jutting tarsals of a dog now strained at the confines of the killerʹs pants.

  Melvilleʹs form drooped lower and lower, his back arching more and more. Finally he simply dropped to all fours. The back of his jacket split open. Spines and scales slashed through the fabric.

  Melville had always been a monster, but at least before his monstrousness had been internal. Now it was apparent for all to see.

  Dominic looked back at Isaiah sadly. ʺSee whatʹs happening? See what we have to stop?ʺ

  Melville laughed. If sanity had ever been within his grasp, it had flown far beyond the manʹs fingerless reach.

  They walked perhaps a hundred feet. Far enough that the church became nothing but a shadow behind them. Isaiah looked back. ʺWe wonʹt see it if they run,ʺ he said.