Darkness Follows

by L. A. Weatherly

  Mac broke into a run.

  Collis stood alone in the middle of the vacated bar, surrounded by overturned tables, broken glass. He was swinging a chair around as if he were a lion tamer. “It wasn’t my fault!” he yelled into the empty space, and then let fly with the chair. It crashed against a table.

  As Mac closed in Collis staggered backwards, almost fell. He spun on Mac, his eyes wide with fury. “Leave me alone! Why can’t all you bastards just—”

  “Collis!” Mac ducked the wild swing Collis threw at him and then gripped him by the arms. “It’s me, Mac!” he shouted. “Calm down, all right? Just calm down!”

  Collis blinked. His face was damp. “Mac?” he whispered. All at once his wild mood seemed to leave him. Staring around them at the shattered bar, he swayed unsteadily. Mac’s grip on his arms tightened.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Collis murmured.

  He wiped his eyes, and Mac realized, startled, that it wasn’t perspiration dampening Collis’s cheeks. He gave a choking laugh and looked back at Mac. His glassy gaze was dark blue in the dim lights. “You never get a choice, do you, Mac?” His voice was thick, hard to make out.

  “Come on, back to my room.” Mac put his arm around Collis’s shoulders and led him out. He kicked aside a broken martini glass as they crossed the room. When they reached the manager, who stood anxiously by the door, Mac tucked a bill into the man’s jacket pocket.

  “This didn’t happen,” he said in an undertone. “My office will pay for the damages.”

  The man looked relieved. “Yes, sir, of course.” He glanced at Collis, now slumped inertly against Mac’s side. “Do you, ah…need some help?” he added.

  “Thanks, I’ve got him,” said Mac grimly. He had an idea what Collis had been bellowing about. The fewer people who heard him, the better.

  Collis was a head taller than Mac and more solidly built. Mac doubted once or twice that he was going to get the staggering ex-pilot all the way to his room.

  “Come on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Collis, if you pass out on me, I’ll murder you.”

  Finally the pair stumbled through Mac’s hotel room door. Mac slammed it shut and shoved Collis in the general direction of the sofa. He was damned if the guy was going to take his bed.

  He crossed to the phone. He could hear Collis groaning as he called room service. “Coffee,” he said. “Lots of it. And you’d better send some food too.”

  When Mac had finished placing the order, he hung up and turned around. Collis sat on the sofa with his head slumped in his hands. His hair glinted golden in the light of the desk lamp, reminding Mac why Gunnison called him “Sandy”.

  “Food’s coming,” said Mac. He pulled off his jacket and threw it onto the bed. “You’d better eat something, if you can keep it down.”

  Collis didn’t seem to hear him. “I fucked up,” he whispered. He raised his head. His face was streaked with tears. “Oh, Mac…it was the only thing I ever wanted. I fucked it up so bad.”

  “Here,” said Mac.

  It was eight hours later; he’d just given Collis’s inert form on the sofa a rough jostle. When Collis gazed blearily up at him, Mac put a cup of fresh coffee on the table – less an act of kindness than the fastest way to get him moving. “We’ve got a plane to catch soon,” he said shortly.

  He’d already had a shower and was wearing only his trousers. He went into the bathroom and filled the sink with hot water. As he was scraping a razor over his cheeks, he saw Collis appear in the mirror, wan and red-eyed, his clothes rumpled.

  “You look like hell,” said Mac.

  “Feel it.” Collis leaned against the doorway and rubbed his eyes. After claiming to have “fucked up” the night before he’d said little. For once, Mac hadn’t had the heart to try probing someone for information when they were down.

  Scrape, scrape, went the razor. Mac dipped it into the water and gave it a quick swirl. “Want to explain?” he said. “I bet you did a grand’s worth of damage down there. I don’t have that big of an expense account, pal. It’s coming out of your pocket.”

  Collis winced and stared at the floor.

  Mac studied him in the mirror. “You were yelling some pretty strange things, you know,” he said conversationally. “All about how it wasn’t your fault; it wasn’t your fault. You seemed pretty worked up.”

  Collis’s jaw tensed. Finally he looked up.

  “You’re with the Resistance, aren’t you?” he said softly.

  Mac’s hand stilled. After a moment it started moving again. His gaze met Collis’s in the mirror. “I could have you shot for that.”

  “I wish you would.”

  Mac finished shaving and swiped his face with a towel, his thoughts racing. He turned. “Collis, I’ll tell you frankly, I’m worried about you. First last night and now this. I think when we get back, you’d better—”

  “No.” Collis was beside Mac in a moment. He grabbed his wrist, almost trembling. “Mac, please. I know none of us are ever honest, but please be honest with me now.”

  Mac pulled away. “You’re still drunk.”

  “You are, aren’t you? I’ve suspected it for months.”

  “You’re losing it, buddy.” Mac’s amused snort gave no hint of tension. “What the holy hell gave you that idea?”

  Collis hesitated. “It was that night in The Ivy Room… look, it doesn’t matter! Please, Mac. I’ve got to know.”

  Shit, of course, thought Mac, remembering. He’d tried to hint that Russ Avery was in danger, hoping Collis might tip him off. It hadn’t happened. Avery had been killed for demanding more money.

  Now surprise stirred. Collis had suspected since March and hadn’t acted?

  Mac leaned against the sink and shrugged. “Well, you’re wrong, but you’ve got me curious now,” he said mildly. “Okay, fine, let’s say I’m a double agent and I really work for the Resistance. What exactly do you want? Think carefully, pal,” he added before Collis could answer. “I might go straight to Cain and report every word of this.”

  The same wild, agonized look as from the night before flashed in Collis’s eyes. “Fine, tell Cain! If I’m shot, I don’t care. I can’t do it any more. I’ve got to get out.”

  “Out?”

  “Of this. Of what we do.” Collis pressed a fist to his mouth and closed his eyes. Finally he spoke again.

  “It’s too late for some things,” he said. “I know that; I’ll always know it. But maybe not for everything. Mac, I’ll do whatever you say. Just let me join you. Please.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  November, 1941

  The day after I met with Ingo I stepped on my inflamed heel as seldom as possible. At the mine I was grimly unsurprised when they put me to work outside on the ore mounds: a whole day of walking in a half-tiptoeing tread, of needing to balance as I upended the wheelbarrow.

  At least I didn’t encounter Ingo. The day was grey, brooding. Nearby, workers dripped chemicals onto the heaps of raw ore. Smoke from the processing plant rose in the distance. As I limped from the mine with another load, I wondered wearily why my heel-less boot hadn’t occurred to me the night before. Escape was impossible even if there was something on the outside for me – I wouldn’t last a day on the run.

  Yet somehow the reason I’d given Ingo had felt like the only true one.

  I managed to steal a small rock from the mounds. That night back in the hut I sank onto my bed and closed my eyes for a moment, almost too tired to hope. The cloth in my boot was tattered now; the scrap of paper from Ingo’s note ripped to useless shreds. Finally I wrestled the boot off. With the small stone I shoved at the nail, trying to push it backwards or blunt it.

  “Work, damn you,” I muttered.

  The nail bent sideways. My pulse leaped…but when I felt the nail I realized I’d just locked it into place, its sharp tip angled upwards.

  In a sudden frenzy, I scraped at the nail again and again. Finally I had to give up. When I gingerly put the boot back on a
nd tested my weight, the nail still bit at my heel.

  Fleetingly, I thought of asking one of the others for help, but we all knew each other’s possessions as well as our own. No one had anything that would help for long – and when I went to the marketplace again later that evening and held whispered consultations in the shadows, showing the shard of glass, no one there did either.

  “I can still get you some cardboard for it,” said the same woman as before, her gaze knowing as she took in my awkward stance.

  I felt cold as I rubbed the glass. I’d risk it for one more day, I decided. Tomorrow night someone with boots might come to the marketplace. Meanwhile I’d refold the cloth against the nail and pray that it held.

  I put the shard in my pocket, trying to hide my apprehension. “Will you be here tomorrow?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. “Maybe. If you want to be sure of the cardboard, you’d better let me have the glass now.”

  “No…I need boots,” I said softly.

  That night I woke up from a restless sleep, my heel throbbing. I lay awake, almost too scared to move. When the morning sirens finally went, I struggled the boots off and stumbled outside, my feet numb in the cold. On the screen, Gunnison was shouting, “We WILL prevail! The Discordant elements will not hold us back!”

  In the camp’s floodlights, I saw that my heel was angry and swollen. But my ankle had no red lines shooting up it, and I exhaled in relief. I scooped up a handful of snow and tried to clean the wound.

  I gritted my teeth as I stood in line for food later, trying not to touch my heel to the ground. At least Melody was nowhere in sight. Seeing my boots on her feet that morning would have been more than I could bear.

  I made it to the mine, though I was the last one in and struggling. When they put me on the ore mounds again I was tempted to let them shoot me.

  Twelve whole hours of trundling back and forth between the ore mounds and the crusher. Somehow I did it. On the way back to the camp, dizzy and limping badly, I realized I’d almost been better off pushing a wheelbarrow – it had taken some of the weight off my foot.

  It was nearly a replay of when I’d broken my boot’s heel. Suddenly a Gun roared past on his snowmobile, and I flinched. My heel slammed the ground. I yelped and stumbled.

  I fell. I must have blacked out. The next thing I knew I was lying in the snow. It was oddly peaceful…but then, as if from a great distance, I realized a Gun was shouting at me. It took a second for the words to coalesce into meaning.

  “Get up, you worthless scum! Get up!”

  The peacefulness vanished. I cried out as he kicked me in the ribs – and then I saw the pistol pointed at my head, stark black against the snow.

  A sharp click as the safety catch was taken off. From some reserve I hadn’t known existed, I staggered to my hands and knees. I paused, head hanging, breathing hard.

  He kicked me again. Clutching my side, I managed to rise, the world reeling in a blur of trees and barbed-wire fence. The Gun shoved me hard. “Get going!” I did…but not before fingering the glass in my pocket.

  I could drag its sharpness down my wrist and end all of this.

  I’m not sure why I didn’t, or how I made it back to camp. I almost didn’t stand in line for food. All I wanted was to curl up in bed and not move. Some small stubborn instinct wouldn’t allow it.

  Slumped against the hut to eat, I realized that I had no choice now. I had to hope that the woman from last night would be at the marketplace again, so I could barter the glass for the cardboard. And then in a few days, the nail would have worked through the cardboard. Only maybe this time, I wouldn’t be able to get up when the Gun was shouting at me.

  A shard of glass for a few days of life. It was almost funny.

  The film’s volume throbbed at the air. I watched blindly as Gunnison leaned back in an armchair, solid and pleasant-looking: “…just a poor farm boy, held back through no fault of my own. But Lady Harmony was smiling, Tom! And with the help of the stars, I…”

  I started as the sound went off completely. Gunnison’s mouth kept moving.

  The sirens began.

  It was the short double wail that we all dreaded more than anything. My blood chilled. As the sirens faded, the camp fell perfectly still. Along with everyone else, I looked at the high wooden platform near the gates.

  A Gun was climbing the floodlit stairs, with another pair of Guns behind him. Between them was a prisoner, head bowed, wrists bound behind her thin back.

  Claudia sidled up next to me. I smelled soup and realized with a wave of longing that she still had some left. She slowly licked her spoon, gazing at the scene unfolding in front of us.

  “I know where you went the other night,” she whispered.

  My pulse stuttered. Did she?

  She glanced at me, and I saw the smirk in her eyes. “But I got there with the information first.” She nodded towards the execution platform. “Thanks for letting me know. Double rations for a week.”

  The Guns had reached the top of the platform now, and I could see who their prisoner was.

  Melody.

  I froze. Then my heart went crazy; my gaze flew to her feet. She still wore my boots.

  “Move, Discordant scum!” shouted a Gun, and I didn’t hesitate – as if in a dream, I limped along with the others towards the platform, staring at Melody.

  I know where you went the other night. Claudia had whispered something to a Gun after the surprise counting that same night, before I’d gone to meet Ingo. What information was she talking about? What had she done?

  Does it matter? I thought wildly. My boots were about to be up for grabs. I edged to the front of the crowd.

  On the platform, Melody stood motionless, the expression on her bruised face dull. The Gun read out from a piece of paper:

  “Two days ago, this prisoner stole a sandwich from one of President Gunnison’s esteemed representatives here at Harmony Five. She has confessed to it. The crime of thievery is contrary to the precepts of Harmony and is punishable by death…”

  I stood rooted at a sudden memory. Three ravens, so notorious for stealing food, had been flapping overhead when the Gun put his sandwich down.

  Soon after, I’d told Claudia that Melody was a thief. She must have heard about the missing sandwich and thought I’d seen Melody take it.

  This was happening because of me.

  The Gun’s declaration went on and on. No one stirred. A crescent moon hung in the sky, oddly beautiful behind the faded grey wood of the platform. My fists were rigid. Would a word from me save Melody…or just get me shot too, for interfering?

  I didn’t know. The Guns might even find it amusing to free one prisoner at the last moment and shoot another – their boredom up here was legendary. But no matter what she’d done to me, Melody hadn’t committed this crime.

  Then my gaze dropped to her feet. In the harsh floodlights, I could see my boots so clearly. The scuffed brown leather was still thick and solid. The soles were firmly in place. Melody had tied the laces in neat bows.

  I studied the boots for a long moment. I didn’t shake. I didn’t move.

  Finally I lifted my eyes to Melody’s face again…and I didn’t say a word.

  The Gun finished his proclamation. He motioned to the band, who had been standing shivering nearby. They roused themselves and started to play “Happy Days are Here Again”. The tune bounced on the cold air.

  “Do you repent your crime?” barked out the Gun.

  Melody whispered something inaudible.

  The Gun raised his arm. The other two snapped their rifles to chest level. They flicked the safeties off and paused, with the head Gun’s arm still raised. Melody started to shake.

  It seemed to spiral endlessly. I watched Melody close her eyes and twist her head away, her mouth trembling. And I felt again the Gun kicking me when I’d fallen in the snow…recalled the moment when I’d wanted to drag the glass down my wrist and let myself bleed to death. My mouth felt carved in stone.


  The rifles went off. Melody’s body jerked backwards and fell. One of her legs twitched convulsively. A Gun strode over to her and shot again. The rifle’s retort battled briefly with the music.

  Her leg went still.

  I swallowed, suddenly feeling colder. The head Gun gazed out at us and smirked. He motioned to the band and they stopped playing.

  Silence, apart from the slight rustle of the wind through the trees beyond the gate. Around me, the crowd had perked up a little, expectant now, those in the front staring at Melody’s body.

  I was too.

  The Gun grinned. Very deliberately, he prodded Melody’s inert form with his boot. She rolled, bloodying the already-stained platform. He prodded her again, until she lay on her side just on the edge.

  My heart racketed in my chest. I’d never been involved in this before – but nothing would stop me this time. Nothing.

  “Enjoy yourselves, Discordant scum,” called the Gun. He shoved Melody’s body hard with his boot. She rolled off the platform and fell with a lifeless thud onto the snowy ground.

  Adrenalin surged. I bolted from the crowd, sprinting towards her. Suddenly I was in a chaos of screaming and shouting – of flailing fists and kicks.

  I battled my way to Melody’s body. Mine. Mine. Someone else was near her boots and I shoved her roughly away; I got to the boots first and fell bodily across them, clutching them to my chest even as they were still on Melody’s feet.

  I held on grimly. I was jostled from all sides as others pulled and tugged, taking her other clothes. Somewhere overhead, the Guns were laughing. The band started up again, obviously at the Guns’ direction, playing a rollicking tune you might hear at a sporting event.

  I crouched there, rigid, hanging on with all I had. At long last others began drifting away. A hot, swelling silence descended, full of my own heartbeat and nothing else. I realized I was the only one left. I sat up cautiously. My upper arm throbbed where I’d been punched; another bruise was forming on my kicked thigh. It didn’t matter.

  My boots.

  My cold fingers fumbled feverishly with the damp, knotted laces. I got them loosened and tugged the boots off Melody’s unresisting feet. Her socks were grimy, but far more intact than mine. I took them too. Her bare feet looked pale, the toes relaxed as if she were only sleeping.