Darkness Follows

by L. A. Weatherly

  We started eating before we’d cooked all of it. “Screw it, I can’t wait any more,” Ingo muttered. His hands were trembling as he plucked hot, cooked meat from the skewer; he dropped it onto a piece of newspaper. “We’ll cook the rest later, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said fervently. The cabin had filled with the aroma of cooking; it smelled rich and gamey and utterly delicious.

  Neither of us would have won prizes for table manners. We wolfed down the small portions, licking our fingers. The meat tasted faintly greasy, but not bad. Wonderful, in fact.

  “More,” I gasped when I’d finished. Ingo was already loading up the skewer.

  I took it from him when he’d finished and held it over the fire, rotating it carefully. I watched as the pink meat shrivelled slightly, dropping grease onto the flames, making them sizzle and flare up. Already, the desperate hunger was receding a fraction. I could feel my body responding to the food with a whisper of strength.

  I grinned with pure joy. “It really is just like roasting marshmallows.”

  The taut look on Ingo’s face – the look that had been so ingrained that I hadn’t even noticed it; the look that all the prisoners shared – had relaxed slightly. It made his long, angular features appear younger, less forbidding. He lay propped on one elbow, gazing dreamily at the fire.

  “No songs though,” he said.

  “I’m not up to songs yet.”

  “Good, me neither. Is it done?”

  “Almost.”

  “You look different,” Ingo said abruptly. When I glanced at him, he was studying me. He shrugged. “Less haglike. More human. It’s a compliment this time.”

  I laughed. “Well, ‘less haglike’ is definitely the nicest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told I have a way with words. It’s true though,” he added. “Your face is softer, or something. You look better.”

  “So do you,” I said after a pause. “Look marginally more human, I mean. Amazing what a good home-made meal of cooked rat can do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, if one actually gets to eat it.” Ingo was gazing impatiently at the fire. He sat up and plucked the skewer from my hands. “Come on! It must be ready by now.”

  When we’d both had enough, there was still a little meat left. We slept in front of the stove, wrapped in our coats. It was the first night in months that I’d gone to sleep feeling warm and well fed. If I’d had a soft bed as well, it would almost have been too much. This was just right.

  This, I could believe in.

  I woke up slowly, blinking and gazing at the stove. The fire had burned down to embers but still gave off a friendly heat. Through the window, the pearly light of dawn shone. Snow still fell, gently now, just a few drifting flakes.

  Yawning, I pushed the coat aside and got to my feet. Ingo and I had put the remaining meat on the window sill where it was cold – under an empty coffee can with a brick over it, just in case the rat’s friends had no scruples.

  Ingo was still asleep, half-hidden under his coat. I went over and lifted the coffee can. The night before, we’d divided the meat into two piles. I selected a small piece from my own pile and ate it slowly, savouring the sensation of food – the taste of it, the feel of it. More than that: food at a time when I’d chosen to have it. Food that I could have just because, that I hadn’t had to wait in a line for, shivering and clutching a tin cup.

  I rested the coffee can back in place and studied the abandoned rock crusher outside. I smiled. No matter what happened, I would never have to be near one that worked ever again.

  I started to turn away from the window and then paused. A crease touched my forehead. Very faintly, I could see a shape moving in the grey sky. No, more than one. Hawks, maybe?

  Then I heard it: the dull thump, thump of rotors.

  My heart lurched. “Get the fire out!” I shouted. I ran back to the stove and yanked the metal door open, yelping as it burned my fingers. I grabbed a stick of firewood and jabbed frantically at the glowing embers, scattering them.

  Ingo awoke with a jolt. “What, what?”

  “Choppers!” I cried. “The smoke – we’ve got to get the fire out, now!”

  Ingo swore and lunged to his feet. The choppers’ vibrating beat was closer. He rushed for the pile of ash he’d cleaned from the stove. I scrambled to help; we flung handfuls over the still-red embers. They slowly winked and went out.

  I swallowed and backed away a step, staring at the window. Ingo stood breathing hard, his eyes locked on it too. I’d knocked over the pail we’d used as a chamber pot when I raced to the stove – the smell of urine hung in the air.

  The choppers kept coming. The sound filled my senses. One swooped across our field of vision and I flinched; as one, we darted for the wall and pressed against it, trying to flatten ourselves into nothing.

  My gaze flicked to the door. We’d bolted it the night before, though it had felt as if we were the only people in the world.

  “What do you think?” muttered Ingo. “Did they see?”

  “I – I don’t know. It’s still snowing a little.”

  “Good, so maybe they didn’t notice the smoke. Maybe they’re just…” Ingo trailed off as a chopper grew louder. Its vibrating thuds beat through me. I caught my breath – it was right outside.

  It was landing.

  I burst away from the wall and snatched up our coats from the floor; kicked the bony remains of our dinner away into the corner. The floor was damp beside the overturned bucket – in a panic I flung old newspapers over it.

  “Here, here!” hissed Ingo. He was clawing a space in the pile of clutter. I bolted over and we crawled into it, between the rusting hulk of the bedsprings and sheets of corrugated metal.

  The chopper’s blades stopped. Ingo and I huddled together, hardly breathing. I could smell the sharp sourness of his unwashed body, knew mine was the same – and thought feverishly that if they got close enough, they’d smell us.

  I had a peephole through a corner of the bed frame, though I didn’t want one. I stared at the cabin’s small window, craning to hear. It sounded as if they were fanning out, searching the area.

  I was just daring to hope that they might pass us by, when two Guns in their long wool coats came into view, heading straight towards us. The Harmony symbol was stamped over their hearts.

  I started to shake. No, they’ll see! I closed my eyes and pressed against Ingo, trying to still my body’s tremors. I felt a jolt of pure hatred towards them that I’d been reduced to this.

  “Do you still have that piece of glass?” murmured Ingo against my ear. I could feel his heart beating: a wild, caged thing.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve got it here.”

  “I will not let myself be taken,” he said.

  I licked my lips. “Me neither.”

  We exchanged a look. We both knew exactly what we meant. “Another pact,” I said softly, and Ingo nodded.

  The Guns’ steady tread drew closer. One appeared at the window, peering in with cupped hands.

  Neither of us breathed as the man slowly scanned the room. Everything looked incriminating: the angle of the chair, the open drawers. My mouth felt like parchment. If they entered, they’d smell the urine. They’d search – they’d find us in seconds.

  Someone tried the door. “Locked,” a disgusted voice said, then a dull thump as he kicked it. “Should we break in? Wood’s half rotted.”

  “Yeah, we’d better. They said check all buildings.” The man at the window turned away, glancing over his shoulder. “Look’s like the captain’s in a bad mood.”

  “Who the hell isn’t?”

  A moment later rhythmic thuds started echoing through the room.

  Ingo swallowed. “Get the glass ready.”

  I was already drawing it from my pocket. I felt hyper-alert – oddly calm despite my heart’s frenzied beat.

  “I’ll break it in half,” I whispered.

  “Yes, good.”

  As the door s
huddered with each blow, I struggled frantically with the glass. “I can’t break it, it’s too thick!”

  Ingo was already groping at the floor, his hands scrabbling like spiders. He held up a lethal-looking scrap of metal. “All right?” he gasped out.

  I nodded. Flashes of light showed with each blow now.

  “Right here,” Ingo muttered, and touched the pulse point of his throat. “We’ll do each other at the same time.”

  “On three when they get in,” I whispered. “Do it quick.”

  “You too,” he said hoarsely.

  A faint splintering sound came from the door frame.

  We were both shaking. Our eyes stayed locked – Ingo’s were as dark as night. Sweat glinted through the grime of his face.

  Gently, I pressed the glass’s sharp point to the vulnerable spot on his neck. He did the same to me. The strange thought hit me that I wouldn’t have wanted to die alone…and that Ingo wasn’t a bad person to die with. His fingers groped for mine; our free hands squeezed each other hard.

  A distant voice shouted something.

  The thudding stopped.

  “What?” called back one of the Guns.

  We froze; I gasped out loud. My pulse was hammering so hard I was certain the Guns would hear it.

  The voice drew closer. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

  “What about ‘search all the buildings’?”

  “Nah. No one’s been in this shithole for decades. Captain’s orders, there’s another storm coming. This is nuts anyway – they’ve already frozen to death somewhere.”

  A fed-up snort. “I bet we’ll still be looking after the storm, though.”

  “Yeah, Sector Six. Man, at this rate we’ll be looking for the scum till we’re dead ourselves…”

  Through the peephole, the Guns’ grey backs had appeared. Their three wool coats grew smaller, stirring around their heels with each receding crunch, crunch of their footsteps. A smudge stained the window where the first one’s hands had been.

  The murmur of voices – even some laughter. Soon the choppers exploded into life again. The motorised hums grew louder and louder, until I thought the roof of the office would blow off.

  They faded.

  Neither of us had moved. It was as if we’d forgotten how. At last Ingo let out a gasp; the metal dropped from his fingers with a clatter. He slumped against the wall, eyes closed, breathing hard.

  I was trembling. I crawled out of our hiding space and got up, stumbling; my knees felt as if they were made of water. I crept to the window, keeping flat to the wall, in case it was a trap. Finally I risked a peek.

  Snow. The rock crusher. That was all.

  I clutched the sill with both hands. “They’re gone!” I cried. “Ingo, they’re really gone!”

  He appeared beside me. We stared out at the snowy emptiness.

  Ingo wiped an unsteady hand over his face. Without speaking, he went and found the whiskey bottle and came back. He took a quick gulp and then handed it to me.

  I took a swig too. The whiskey blazed through me, made my hands stop shaking. False courage, but I’d take any courage I could get just then.

  “They’re still looking for us,” I murmured, gazing at the rock crusher’s skeletal form. “It sounds like they’re not going to stop.”

  Ingo was sitting on the floor against the desk now, his head tipped back and his eyes closed.

  “Concise,” he said. “Depressing. But concise.”

  I went and sat beside him and gave him the whiskey again. He took another pull and then looked at me, rolling the bottle between his hands. His normal colour was coming back. I felt as if mine might be too.

  “Would you have done it?” he asked finally. His dark eyes were unwavering.

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation.

  He gave a slight smile. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I’d have done it too.”

  “I know,” I said…and realized to my faint surprise that I did know.

  Outside, it had started to snow again, thick and hard. It made the light in the room seem greyish and streaky.

  We sat in silence, finishing the bottle, passing it back and forth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  December, 1941

  “It won’t be easy,” said Mac with a frown.

  He and Collis sat in a Topeka diner; Mac was studying a map Collis had given him, hidden in a newspaper. It showed a neighbourhood in the Western Quarter with a few houses marked.

  Collis sat tensely, leaning on his forearms, watching Mac’s reaction. Since he’d joined the Resistance three months ago, Mac had used Collis in many missions: he’d escorted people to the border; delivered crucial maps and papers; planted false birth charts in the Records Office. In every instance, Mac had found him cool-headed, reliable. A good man to have on your side.

  Finally Mac folded up the newspaper and passed it back to Collis. He signalled the waitress for more coffee.

  “What if I say no?” he said.

  Collis’s fist clenched but his voice stayed level. “Then I’ll accept that and keep working for you.”

  The waitress appeared and refilled their mugs. “Catch the game last night?” Mac asked Collis, stretching an arm out along the top of the booth.

  “Oh, man – Mitchell, boy,” said Collis, and chuckled. “Wish I could have seen that touchdown in person.”

  When the waitress had left, Mac motioned to the newspaper. “Destroy that,” he said.

  Collis nodded and drew it silently towards him. He looked down, his broad shoulders slumped, stirring cream into his coffee.

  Mac said, “If you can find a reason to travel out there, I won’t stop you. We’ll help in any way we can.”

  Collis went still; his head snapped up. A beat later, shocked joy flowered over his face. “Really?”

  “Yep.” Mac stirred cream into his own coffee. “It’s risky, but we don’t want to abandon them any more than you do. And I think you’ll be more useful to us if you can get this off your mind.”

  Collis sat grinning, jubilant. “Have I told you lately that I love you, Mac?” he said. “I’m serious, pal. The way I feel right now, I could lean across the table and kiss you.”

  Mac laughed. “Please don’t. I’ve got a girlfriend, remember? Things might get confusing.” After a pause, he added, “Hope you can pull it off. It’d be nice as hell for something to go right for a change.”

  Collis’s happiness visibly dimmed. “Still no luck with Pierce?”

  Mac shook his head. Kay Pierce had so far resisted his hints about hiring Sephy. He thought he was making progress, but to be too obvious could be fatal.

  Easy does it, Walter had said. Don’t push it and spook her.

  Mac had to remind himself of that daily, so great was the urgency. The official annexing of Appalachia was going ahead in February – and without Sephy, Gunnison remained ignorant of the comet that might make him rethink the Day of Three Suns.

  If they lost those eastern ports, the entire continent would go dark.

  The diner bustled around them. Finally Mac sighed and said, “Listen, don’t get caught, buddy. I’d hate to lose you.”

  The next day, Mac went to Kay’s office bearing home-made cookies. Her secretary just waved him past now; he and Kay talked daily.

  Mac started to knock at Kay’s door and then paused, listening. She was on the phone, her voice a low hiss.

  “Don’t give me that! This is your fault – your people let Vancour escape! Don’t you dare let on to him, or it’ll be your head on a fence – do you understand?”

  A pause. “All right. Good. Yes, of course you should keep searching!” A slam as she hung up.

  Vancour. For a moment Mac stood where he was, his mind ticking. Then he knocked and opened the door. He stuck his head around it.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Kay was sitting at her desk with her hands over her face. She looked up quickly, trying to compose herself. She was pale as they gazed at each other.
/>   “Come in and shut the door,” she said finally. “Lock it.”

  Mac did. He went and sat across from her. He placed the cookies on her desk and Kay stared down at them as if not recognizing what they were.

  “You heard, didn’t you?” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mac said softly. “Listen, pal, I’m on your side. Whatever’s going on, you can trust me.”

  Kay gave a half-sob. “I wish I could really believe that. Mac, look – we are friends, aren’t we? A little bit?”

  Mac felt a twinge of guilt and squelched it. Kay Pierce was directly responsible for the deaths of some of his friends in the Resistance. Their severed heads now perched on those same fences that she’d mentioned.

  He reached across the desk and took her hand. “Yes,” he said simply.

  Kay’s eyes filled. She held his hand between both of hers and dropped her head onto it, her slim shoulders trembling. Mac gently stroked her hair.

  Finally Kay straightened. She sniffed, and Mac reached for his handkerchief. He handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said. She blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, look at me, charming…”

  He gently jostled her arm. “Come on, have a cookie. They work wonders.”

  Kay reached obediently for one but didn’t bite into it. She turned it over in her hands. “Sephy?”

  “Me, actually.”

  She gave a wan smile. “Really?”

  He brushed a stray tear from her cheek and shrugged. “What can I say? I like to bake.” It was true; it relaxed him. Two o’clock in the morning often found Mac messing around in the kitchen while his brain refused to turn off.

  “Sephy’s a lucky woman.” Kay put the cookie down. She cleared her throat. “So…I suppose you’re wondering about what you just heard.”

  Mac leaned back and studied her. “I’ll tell you, kid, I’m a little concerned. It sounded like Vancour’s escaped…and that you were telling someone to keep it from Johnny.”