Darkness Falling

by Peter Crowther

  But somewhere in the back of his head, he knew the first thing was to head directly away from town and the road that he would eventually need to take. The road was exposed, that was the first thing. And Rick was very aware of the cars and trucks that the townsfolk already had in the air, maybe patrolling the open land. Here in the dense woodland he was safe from that at least.

  But the road held other dangers. The townsfolk may already be making their way back that way on foot, breaking off up the hillside to the forest path in little splinter groups, their arms outstretched before them.

  Branches tore at him, scratching his face and tearing his shirt, and he had the old familiar feeling of something coming up behind him, reaching out for him. This time, however, it wasn't the two cyclists he had run down. This time it was something altogether different.

  Every few steps, he tried to move to his right, aiming to travel in a wide circle that would eventually bring him out onto the bridge road that led back to the station. He heard himself moaning and couldn't stop it. Then the tears came and he replayed Geoff's death in his mind. "Stop it, stop it for Chrissakes!" he shouted, wiping snot from his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. "Got to keep moving," he said, "got to keep heading forward and right, forward and right… that'll do it. That'll be OK." But he wasn't too sure.

  He burst through a waist-high bank of gorse, grimacing as the thorns raked his thighs, and plunged head first down a steep incline. He closed his eyes and tried to turn himself around, swinging out with his right hand to grasp something, anything. But the only things there to grasp were far too busy tearing his clothes and his flesh.

  He bounced against trees, thankfully only glancing them, and was repeatedly spun around and over, lashed by branches and hit by rocks that tumbled after him. He eventually came to a halt in a narrow gully along which water trickled soundlessly. He waited, half-expecting to set off again, and opened his eyes. Miraculously, he didn't seem to have broken anything though both legs and his right arm felt almost numb with constant small collisions and, whenever he tried to move, a thick stabbing pain flashed across his lower back.

  "Got to… got to keep my head clear," Rick whispered to the night. "Got to get back to the station."

  He spat dirt and leaves and sat up, moaning when his back complained. He leaned forward and twisted his left arm around to rub the small of his back and to feel for protruding bones. There weren't any and, after a couple of minutes, his breathing became more regular. The image of his brother's eyeball plopping out flashed into his mind. He screwed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears, and leaned his head against his knees while he searched inside himself for strength.

  A rustle from somewhere nearby made him look up.

  Where normally he might have said, in a soft voice, "Geoff?" he had to bite his tongue. Geoff wasn't coming. Christ, Geoff was dead. What the hell was Mel going to say? How was he going to break it to her?

  The noise came again, somewhere over to the left. It sounded too small to be a person. And anyway, he figured it was in the wrong direction for it to be one of the townsfolk, or whatever they were now. Paradoxically, of course, it was the other direction – the one from which the townsfolk might be coming, all gloves and dark glasses – that he now needed to go.

  The rustle came again and something small scurried across a piece of open ground to his left before disappearing into a thick clump of bushes.

  The sound of a motor drifted into earshot and Rick looked up at the canopy of trees, delighted to see that the covering was so think nobody had any chance to see him.

  It was surprisingly light down here, with the real darkness beginning only three or four layers of trees in any direction. He took a deep breath and considered his plan.

  In order to get back to the station he had to go right, to follow the gully. If the gully veered off to the left, away from the station, then it must eventually hit the bridge road or at least run within sight of it. And morning couldn't be too far away now – he grimaced involuntarily at the thought: it was already morning, with only the light that was still yet to appear. He looked at his left wrist and saw a thick welt where his watch strap usually sat. He must have lost it on the way down.

  He looked up again in the hope that maybe he would see the first telltale signs of sunrise but there was only a dark sky overlaid with silhouettes of branches. That and the sound of a distant motor, quickly joined by a second, like a pair of dogs growling in annoyance that their prey had gone to ground.

  He leaned over to his right, resting his weak arm, and levered himself to a kneeling position. It was uncomfortable but not impossible. He pulled his left leg so that the foot was on the ground and pulled himself upright by holding onto a long branch that swept the ground from high up. The branch rustled like a reluctant horse letting its passenger know it had some reservations about carrying him, but eventually he was standing on both feet, albeit crouched over like an old man and shaking at the knees. He let go of the branch and straightened up, waiting for a stab of pain. The stab didn't come.

  Rick lifted each leg in turn and rubbed the calf muscles and the ankle, feeling for strains or lumps. Everything seemed to be intact. With a quick look around, he unzipped his pants and took a pee. The sound of the water pooling on the ground was familiar and reassuring. He zipped up, took a deep breath and moved off, carefully at first and then speeding up as he grew used to the terrain. He tried to concentrate on keeping his breathing even and deep, filling his lungs and breathing out, building his stamina and his reserve. Never mind whoever or whatever he might encounter on the way: he would need everything he could muster the time came for him to face Melanie.

  (22)

  Johnny smacked his head against one of the high cupboards, the one with the door that wouldn't close properly. Everyone in the station knew it didn't close properly but the advantage they usually had was that they could see the damned thing hanging out there, right at head height. Rick had been promising to fit a new magnetic catch switch on it but, like so many little things, it hadn't been done.

  He rubbed his head and cursed.

  "Damned thing could've put my fucking eye out."

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  More thuds echoed through the station. The visitors were getting impatient.

  Mel's voice chimed in and Johnny could hear it now. "Just hold your horses for a second will you?" That meant two things: one was that he was closing the distance and the other was that Mel hadn't yet managed to shift the deadbolt.

  He reached across and ran his hand along the wall until he found the light switch and flicked it. The overhead tubes sprang to life, their light flickering on in stages and humming. The hum sounded good.

  Johnny reached the end of the corridor and opened the door.

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  The thuds were louder now and it sounded for all the world as though they were already inside, big feet stomping up the stairs towards him.

  "Mel?"

  He flicked on the switch for the staircase and started down.

  "Yeah? Ah… this goddam bolt!"

  "Mel, don't open the door."

  There was a pause. "What?"

  He rounded the bend in the stairs and started down to the ground floor, taking them two at a time. The darkness ahead looked threatening.

  "I said–"

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  "Jesus Christ, what's the matter with those guys! Will you–"

  "Mel, don't open the fucking door!"

  Johnny skidded into the corridor alongside the spare studio downstairs and hit the light switch. As he ran past the studio window he glanced in. Everything looked so normal in there: stacks of CDs – even though the studio had not been used for more than a year – playing decks, microphone. What the hell had happened to the world, and how had it happened in so short a time? Maybe they were all going to wake–

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  Then again, maybe they weren't.

  He pulled the door open
at the end of the corridor and came face to face with Melanie. She was standing between the door that led into the garage and the main door, frowning. Johnny saw fear in her eyes.

  He glanced at the bolt and saw that it was almost clear of the housing and her hand was still on it. He stopped and looked at her, raised his arms. "Mel, don't open the door." He felt the indescribable and completely incomprehensible urge to laugh.

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  "Why not?"

  He was ten maybe fifteen yards away from her. If she decided to pull the bolt – he couldn't see whether the key had already been turned but he suspected that it had – then he may not get to her in time.

  "Mel, trust me on this, OK?"

  "Johnny, you're… you're frightening me."

  He took a step forward.

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  "Mel, I don't mean to frighten you–"

  The hell you don't, a tiny voice said in the back of Johnny's head, you mean to scare her shitless, cos if she opens that fucking door you've got a whole heap of trouble, compadre, and you can take that to the bank.

  "–but I don't think we should open the door until we figure out what they want. That's all I'm saying."

  "What they want! Jesus Christ, Johnny–" Melanie pulled the bolt and it slipped out of the housing. "–it's Gram and Troy…"

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum! the barrage sounded, as though to confirm.

  "… Gram and Troy!" She nodded to the door. "Listen to them! What the hell's the matter with you?"

  Melanie reached down to the key as Johnny gave a shrug and walked quickly towards her. Hey, OK, you're right, the shrug said. What is the hell matter with me… gee, I dunno, maybe I'm coming down with an attack of anxiety.

  Melanie's face softened when she saw Johnny's apparent resignation. She shook her head, muttering, and turned the key.

  Thuuuum!

  Johnny leapt forward.

  Melanie let go of the key and started to turn the handle.

  Thuuuum!

  "Mel! Get out–"

  The throaty growl of an engine slowly grew outside but it sounded like it was coming from above, like a helicopter maybe.

  "–of the way!"

  Melanie started to turn in shock, letting go of the door handle.

  Thuuuum! Thuuu–

  But the door was already ajar.

  Silence settled on the scene and it settled awkwardly.

  Johnny stopped dead, watching the open door and expecting to see it burst fully open, expecting to see Gram and Troy standing there, looking like a cross between the Blues Brothers and a couple of Herman Munster lookalikes, complete with axes and chainsaws.

  Melanie looked at the door and then at Johnny, her initial smile faltering a little. "What?"

  Johnny waved for her to move back.

  Melanie did as she was told but repeated her question. "What?"

  Outside, the helicopter was beginning to sound as though it was about to land on the roof.

  "What the hell is the matter with you?" Melanie shouted to be heard over the noise. She jerked a finger upwards. "Hear that? We're gonna be rescued and you're behaving paranoid."

  Johnny took a faltering step forward and then another.

  Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe the guys in town had decided to give them an early Halloween scare, making out they were pod people or something.

  Yeah, and maybe you'll win the lottery next week and there's something in your genes that'll mean you live till you're a thousand, the small voice said in Johnny's head, but don't take that to the bank.

  Two more steps took him right up to the door.

  Holding his arms straight out, and flattening his hands against the door, he stooped to look out of the peephole.

  As he looked, the noise of the engine changed into a thundering crash of splintered stone, fractured metal and breaking glass, coming from directly overhead.

  Melanie screamed as dust and fragments of plaster showered down on them. But Johnny didn't turn around. He was too busy looking into the face of Troy Vilawsky. He was standing right up against the other side of the door, pulling off his gloves. Johnny couldn't see Troy's eyes – the dark glasses were still firmly in place, flashy-looking things, wraparound with strange markings – but he knew–

  Here come de Lizard Man, the small voice whispered, and he mighty pissed at all this work he's had to do just to get inside to meet you.

  –that it wasn't the Troy Vilawsky he'd known these past years. Aside from the gut feeling that he had, Troy's face was smashed and bleeding, his shirt stained black, as though someone had pounded his head with a bar–

  Or maybe he been pounding his head on something else, the voice chuckled, like the door, f'rinstance…

  "But the glasses…" Johnny said softly. "They're not even scratched."

  "Johnny!"

  From upstairs came the sound of things falling over.

  Johnny started to push the door forward as gently as he could.

  Then, from just to Troy's side, Gram Kramer stepped into view, his arm held out in front of him. Gram's lower jaw was hanging down, the teeth broken and the gums dripping blood. Gram's arm was heading for the gap in the doorway.

  Pushing as hard as he could, Johnny shouted, "Mel, get out of the way."

  A gloved hand snaked through the gap and around the door, the fingers grasping.

  The door hit the arm close to the elbow. Johnny leaned to the side and looked through the peephole. Gram was reaching up with his free hand, holding it palm out ready to push. He didn't seem to be in any pain.

  Melanie screamed again.

  Something crashed upstairs, something in the corridor leading to the staircase, and fresh clouds of dust fell around them.

  Johnny took hold of the door handle and, with his other hand primed to push, he pulled the door off Gram's arm, waited a second until the arm fell a little – it didn't seem to be visibly damaged but at least only one of the fingers was still grasping, and grasping feebly. Then he pushed with all of his might.

  The door knocked the arm back out of sight and hit firmly into the jamb.

  He turned the key. And slid the deadbolt home.

  Outside, something crashed to the ground from upstairs.

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum! Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  Melanie was crying. "Johnny… what's happ–"

  A crash of breaking glass from upstairs drowned out her question.

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  Johnny looked out of the peephole and saw Gram and Troy calmly smashing their heads against the door. Pieces of bone and tissue flecked their shirts and hung from their faces, but the expressions showed no pain or fear or anger or even intent. There was just nothing there at all. He turned around and took hold of Melanie's shoulders.

  "Mel, we have to get out."

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  Melanie looked up at him, her face a mask of terror. All she could think of to say was, "Where's Geoff?"

  "Mel–"

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  "Johnnyohjohnnyjohnnyjohnny." She gulped in air. "Where's Geoff? I'm so frightened. Geoffgeoffgeoffgeoffgeoffgeoff–" As she wailed, saliva flecked her anguished mouth in thin strands, the words merging into and even becoming each other, so that her cry was more a mantra of grief and regret and fear than the simple question it had set out to pose. "–geoffgeoffgeo–"

  Johnny slapped her hard across the face and, momentarily silenced, she slipped from the grasp of his left hand, sagging to her hands and knees on the floor, where she began to sob.

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  "Mel."

  Johnny looked down the corridor to where the stairs led upstairs – or, more importantly, to where the stairs led down from upstairs – half-expecting to see feet descending slowly towards them.

  Thuuuum! Thuuuum!

  "Mel," he said, as softly as he could, crouching down in front of her and gently taking hold of her shoulder. "First off, I think that the helicopter or whatever it was has crashed into the st
ation. Numero deux, they're inside, and I don't think they're here to rescue us." He held up three fingers in front of her face. "And three, we have to get the hell out of here pronto, yeah?"

  Mel continued to sob and Johnny took a look around.

  There was a single Thuuuum! on the door and then silence, broken only by a solitary rattle of some small object falling to the floor upstairs.