Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology)

by Larsen, Christian A.

  Similarly, Billings and a select few questioned the man himself, but this yielded not a word. The man, who'd gained some celebrity, was boarded at the area's one motel as his handlers deliberated a course of action. All the while, the Lazarine drunk, Red Watts, was all about the town, spreading his tale like some renegade street preacher.

  The commonwealth was too small for a town council, or anything with the name. Instead, an unofficial coterie filled this role. Presided over by Billings himself, the group's meetings included the sheriff, the coroner, a wealthy plantation owner, and a senior civil servant who lacked a formal title. Until now, this stopgap had satisfied whatever issues its little electorate could throw at it.

  It was the coroner, of all people, who suggested a public hearing. "To clear the air about this whole business," he told his peers. The sheriff, who had experience of the public living rather than dead, was doubtful, but he was vetoed four-to-one.

  A hearing.

  When asked, the man was agreeable, the first he'd spoken in days.

  * * *

  If there were faces to go with the outlandish questions Billings had been asked, these were it.

  The hearing, held in the ramshackle town hall, was a stable of frightened and expectant people, perhaps the town in whole. Labor-scorched men stood with wives, children, and more distant relatives still. Red Watts was in attendance, fawning a steady audience and bearing witness like a disciple. The meeting hall itself proved woefully inadequate, the citizens filling it to capacity and then some. The bodies stood shoulder-to-shoulder before a refectory table manned by their authorities, just feet between it and them.

  The whole coterie was there, five in number, the man seated in their middle as though for protection. He contrasted their rigid postures and the anticipation clogging the room, perhaps seated in a calm meadow as the sun set. The officials' faces ranged from clinical to terrified; usually, the monthly town meetings drew few enough to be counted on both hands.

  Officials had a microphone set before them, but it was Billings who spoke. "Looks like everyone's here, so let's get this goin'," he said to the roomful, foregoing fanfare.

  Instantly, the room stopped, quiet except for creaking floorboards.

  Billings stood and indicated toward the man. "This here's the feller you been hearin' about, and we're here to tell ye what we know. He come into town last week, and set to doctorin' the crop. And yes, he's...corrected it. We don't know how, but he done it."

  The man showed no reaction to being discussed.

  This stirred the crowd. Billings was at the ready, soothing them with raised hands. A murmur rose up and died down as quick.

  "Now, we'll take some questions," was all Billings got out before an anonymous "Where he from?" erupted from the back of the room.

  "Now, now," Billings said, raising his hands again, but the gesture had staled. The questions came like thrown objects.

  "What's he's name?"

  "You 'n alien?"

  "I hear he come back from the dead. He come back from the dead?"

  "You do gardens?"

  When the man stayed silent, the catechism turned loutish, now mixed with insults and demands. A sharp-faced man at the front observed. “He don’t look like no wizard.”, "Is he Jesus?", was one-upped by, "Is he married?", which brought nervous laughter. "Why you here?" was the only one which received an answer.

  "I come to teach."

  It quieted the crowd, if only because he'd spoken. Billings exploited this to say, "One at a time, gol'durnit." If he'd had a gavel, it would've seen use. "Raise your hands," he added, sternly.

  The crowd obeyed, fabric rustling as a thousand hands came up. Billings' swift finger pointed out a smart-looking young lady at the vanguard.

  Her hand lowered with some satisfaction. "What's your name, sir?" she said, showing real respect.

  The man seemed to have difficulty with it. "Teach. Teacher," he answered. "I come to teach."

  This disciplined the crowd further, like the first note of a concert. The officials looked on with them. The hands rose back up.

  Billings recognized another, one of the farmers benefited by the man's abilities. "Would like to know how ye come to right my plants," the man said cautiously. "And, thank ye." He took a deferential step back.

  "God works through me."

  It sent fresh energy into the crowd, not all of it good. Billings clapped this time, again wanting for a gavel.

  Next up was a sly-faced young man who routed his question through Billings. "He really raise Red Watts from the dead?"

  The question itself brought reaction, but when the man answered, "Yes," it ignited the crowd into fresh squirm. Billings was clapping at once, but it was futile.

  "You some kind'a prophet?" asked someone invisible in the crowds depths.

  "I come to teach," was the man's answer.

  "Is the Bible true?"

  "There is truth in it."

  "Why's there so much pain?"

  "We create our own pain."

  A child's piercing whine. "Why'd my gramma die?"

  "Nothing dies."

  There was a belligerent bark. "When's the end'a the world?"

  The man answered this with a date, inconveniently near. There was a stark pause as it filtered through the halls collective mind, and then no mouth was closed, the crowd plunged into anarchy.

  This raged on for some time, the officials crowding the man for his safety, Billings clapping as if on fire. The man continued answering any questions that could be heard. One came from a grinning young woman hanging from a boyfriend's arm—the daughter of the wealthy plantation owner sitting across from her, as it were.

  "When'm I gonna die?" she asked, insolent as her body language.

  "Tomorrow, after sunset," the man answered.

  It made the woman shrink and pale, her eyes changing. Her father heard and shifted in his seat. Several in the crowd gave pause, but the rest only upset further.

  It was the last the man said before being escorted quickly from the town hall, the uproar continuing in his wake.

  * * *

  It happened so fast, after.

  The young woman did, in fact, die and at the man's prescribed time. It was just after sunset in a motorcycle accident involving a corner with a bad reputation. It took mere hours for her survivors' mourning to become outrage.

  They came for him at the motel, and the charge was murder. Despite being no evidence beyond the man's prophecy, his accusers were not concerned with evidence. Billings and the coroner opposed this vehemently, but the sheriff was sympathetic. The town had been in bedlam since the hearing, and his job had become suddenly demanding.

  When Billings visited the accused in his cell, the man appeared unconcerned. "We'll get you outta here," Billings assured him through the bars. "Ain't none of this can stick." The man's only response was an incurious nod.

  And Billings was right. From his own pocket, he hired a competent lawyer from out of town, and his client was released before a day had passed. The sheriff gave the man and his party grudging looks, processing the release with quiet formality.

  The man was returned to his complimentary hotel, but by that night he would be gone again.

  * * *

  The voice said, Awaken.

  The man awoke in the comfortable motel bed, sitting up in the midnight gloom. Just after, there were noises at the door and it sliced open, bursting into the wall.

  Man shapes appeared, two big and two bigger, little more than shadow and gleams of belt buckle. They paused momentarily, gauging their target's reaction. Then, the two in front rushed forward.

  The voice said, Go with them.

  He allowed himself to be manhandled from the bed and out the door, in unnecessary handcuffs. One of the abductors was ducking about like a child, saying, "Got you, son of a bitch. Got you." He said it all the way out to the sheriff's cruiser.

  The man went up front with the sheriff, the other three crammed into the handle-less b
ack. Billings was amongst these, and the coroner, with the utmost reluctance. The dead woman's father made four; he was prominent enough to have strings to pull, and grief-stricken enough to pull them.

  The drive through town was liquid and sightless, the police cruiser passing darkened signs and empty windows. The whole way, the woman's father kept declaring, "Got you, son of a bitch." They parked at the local morgue. The sheriff brought his shotgun with him.

  They marched the man directly to the morgue's little freezer, pausing only for the coroner to unlock doors. Inside, their breath produced matching gouts of frost. There were two bodies set out, the woman and her boyfriend.

  The dead woman's father had only grown more erratic. A broad, sneering man with an alcoholic's ruddy cheeks, he shoved himself in front of the captive, close enough to be smelled. "Now," he said, jabbing a finger into an accepting chest. "Now, you son of a bitch..."

  "Gene," Billings said to him. "Come on, Gene."

  Gene responded to this, but hesitantly. He stepped back, with Billings and the coroner.

  The sheriff took his place, his shotgun across both hands. "Can you understand me, son?" he said to the man.

  The man said, "Yes."

  "Word is you raised a man from the dead."

  "Yes."

  The sheriff hefted the shotgun, insinuating it. "You can do it again, then."

  The voice said, No.

  "No," the man replied.

  The woman's father reactivated. "No, sir. No no no." He crowded in. "You got a job to do. Now, do it."

  The man did not answer, but the woman's father went on as if he had.

  "Bull-shit," he spat. "You brought back Red Watts. That dirty drunk! You brought him back, but not my sweet little girl who you kilt?"

  No, the voice said.

  "No."

  "No." Incredulous, the face swelled red. Billings reached out in consolation and was swatted away.

  "Well why not?"

  "So you will learn."

  "Learn? Learn?" He shook and cried.

  "Learn love. There is only love."

  The woman's father stood fuming, his chest growing and shrinking like a frog’s. Then, with crazed agility, he swiped the shotgun.

  The sheriff made a grab for it, unsuccessfully. The gun was waved his way, then at Billings and the coroner, indiscriminately. The three repelled from it in concert.

  The shotgun swung back to the man. "Bring her back!" Spit flew. "Bring her back!"

  "No."

  "Do it!" The father's teeth were visible. "Do it!"

  Without a word, the man refused again.

  The gun rose up, compressing the man's cheek. "Won’t ask ye again!" the father squealed, amidst nervous pleas from the others.

  "I come to teach."

  They were the man's last words before the gun fired.

  * * *

  There were some days between this death and resurrection.

  The voice woke him as usual, in the very freezer of his murder. The man sat upright from the same cooling-board, his back cracking. The skin of his face was plush and gentle where it had been remade.

  This time when the man knocked on the door, the coroner appeared with a wide smile.

  * * *

  In the days that followed, several nighttime meetings occurred amongst men of influence, all involving Billings to some degree and all centered on the god in their custody. Elaborate schemes were hatched, many resembling old movies or vampire lore, but none came to be. They settled on the simplest of solutions.

  Billings, their delegate, was the one to approach the man. Seated with him in the motel, Billings asked, baldly, "What do you want?"

  The answer made his eyebrows rise.

  * * *

  The drive from town was without conversation. The man rode shotgun while Billings drove, the towns greenbelt of farmland scrolling by. It was a nice day, but neither man commented.

  It took three hours to reach the Tennessee town the man had named. They drove into a brick-and-mortar downtown, and Billings parked in the first available space. He killed the engine and sat studying his passenger.

  "You're just gonna go?" Billings asked.

  The man said, "I go where I'm told."

  Billings nodded respectfully. "You ain't gonna tell me what ye are, are ye? Your powers? The teaching?"

  "No."

  Billings laughed. "I didn't think so," he said, laughing again.

  The man smiled wanly. A sense of closure befell the car. Then, the door was opening and closing, and Billings was alone.

  Billings had gone some blocks before his brake lights flashed, and he turned around. He pulled alongside the man, who hadn't moved.

  Billings rolled down his window. "Thanks for my leg, and all," he said. "It was, well...Thanks."

  The man nodded stolidly.

  Billings waited a beat, the world buzzing around them. When there was nothing more, he drove off.

  Fallen Angel

  By Zoe Adams

  Today is the day I end it. There is nothing left for me in this life. It doesn’t matter that I won’t be able to do everything I’ve always wanted to do; my life has no meaning. Not anymore.

  I’m not a suicidal person. It’s just that there are things in my life I want to erase, and this is the only way out. I’ve thought about it long and hard.

  I’ve said my goodbyes to the people I love. I’ve said my goodbyes the places I visit. I’ve said my goodbyes to the streets I walk. Now, I’m sitting on the brick bridge that passes over the underground car park of the O2 Academy, a bass guitar drowning out my thoughts.

  I met my hero tonight. His name is Alexander, and he’s in the vocalist for the band Sniper Scope. He’s travelled from the U.S.A. for this show and all I had to do was take a tram. He and his band-mates arrived earlier in a muddy black van, the band’s logo scrawled in blood red paint along the side.

  I told the band that I was a huge fan, and they gave me autographs. We even had our photos taken, and for the first time in what feels like a century, I smiled. I can still remember how firmly Alex’s arm gripped my shoulder and how his lips were soft as they touched the top of my hair.

  The first support band is on now. They’re terrible, screeching into the microphones and playing out-of-tune guitars.

  My phone rings. A thunderous drum beats, followed by a harsh male growl. I check the ID—Mum. I ignore her. The phone continues to ring in my hand. I think about dropping it, letting it smash on the ground below me into a million tiny pieces. Like my own fragile body will be when I lean over, close my eyes, forget about every little thing, apart from the cool air hitting my face on the way down.

  “It’s too cold to be sitting out here.”

  My heart leaps out of my mouth. Shakily, I turn to face him. He’s even more handsome as he stands in the lamplight. His honey-colored hair falls in his face. Snake green eyes stare deep into my soul, and for once he doesn’t have a cigarette in his hands.

  He steps toward me, and I freeze.

  I watch as he carefully climbs up onto the bridge beside me. The scrapings of a silver chain along the brickwork unnerve me. Finally, he settles and delves into the top pocket of his blazer. He produces a crushed cigarette packet.

  Ripping the cellophane from the pack, I take notice of his tattoos. “LOVE” on one knuckle and “PAIN” on the other. I notice those more than anything.

  I hear him light up and inhale.

  He nudges me with his elbow. “Do you want one, Hayley?”

  He remembers my name. His voice is deep and almost thrums with power, power so dangerous it could cripple anyone in a five-foot radius. I nod shyly. He proffers the packet, and I slip one out. The butt of the cigarette is firm between my lips and I cup under the tip as he lights it for me. The cigarette smoke heads straight up my nose, and I splutter.

  “Careful.”

  I remove the cigarette from my lips and exhale a sloppy smoke ring. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. If yo
u don’t mind me asking, what are you doing out here? I thought you were coming to the gig?” He looks at me with his head on the side, almost like a dog.

  “It’s hard to explain.” I can’t help but shiver as cool wind whips my hair into a tangled frenzy.

  “Hey, are you all right?” He rests his hand on my shoulder; I glance down and see chipped black nail polish.

  “Yeah, I-I’m fine.”

  He pulls me tighter to him, and his next words send a shiver up my spine.

  “You look as if you need a coffee. There’s a twenty-four hour place just down the road. Come on. It’s my treat.”

  “But your gig—”

  “Ah, shit!” He takes a long drag of his cigarette. The smoke slips from his lips, spiraling upward in hypnotic patterns.

  He keeps an arm around me as I raise my own cigarette. This time, I take a drag properly. Warmth floods me, and the feeling of satisfaction builds. It makes me forget everything for a second.

  “So…what are you doing out here all alone?” he asks again.

  I knock the ash from the tip of my cigarette, and it drifts away.

  “It’s a long story…”

  “Come on. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be upset.”

  My cheeks flush and I find myself relaxing in his hold. It’s comforting, knowing that someone wants to hold me and keep me safe from the big, bad world, even if he doesn’t love me.

  “I’m not gonna let you freeze. It’ll be warmer inside.”

  As soon as he takes his arm away from my shoulder, I feel disappointed. He doesn’t want to help me at all. Nobody wants to. Nobody ever has.

  He climbs backward and hops onto the ground. He shakes his legs, letting the creases fall out of his jeans. My heart beats wildly as he touches my wrist. He’s tugging slightly, in an effort to make me move. It hurts where his fingers press. He can probably feel the marks where I’ve used a razor blade to slice into my wrist, a hallucinating smile drifting onto my face as the blood seeps out.

  I shake my head and face him. He’s holding out his hand, expectantly.

  Taking one last look down, I think about the jump. I think about letting it all fall away from underneath me. If I do, I’ll die happy, but it will do nothing for Alex. He’ll blame himself for the death of a fan and become withdrawn from his music. My death will haunt his dreams, and every time he closes his eyes, he will see my cold, lifeless body.