by Sean Platt
Still, Mary felt like she should’ve done more.
The weird thing was, that as they came under attack, the very thing that gave Mary strength — Paola — had weakened her. As she crouched behind the car, she found herself worrying what if she were killed? Who would take care of Paola?
The fear had paralyzed her.
She’d been fortunate that Boricio was there. But fortune didn’t usually favor the weak or unprepared. Next time, she had to act in spite of the fear.
She looked at her daughter again, wishing she could reach into the girl’s head and wake her.
“I’m still here, Honey,” she whispered. “We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Everything’s gonna be OK.”
As Mary promised that everything would be OK, two old, white men on the news were arguing over whether there should be more guns, or less. They each used the same evidence to support their theories, citing the recent tragedies. Their explanations were so vapid, Mary had to kill the TV.
Paola didn’t need to hear that crap, assuming she could hear anything in her state.
“Everything’s going to be OK, Baby,” Mary said, squeezing her daughter’s hand gently.
Mary wondered what she had done to upset karma like she had, wondered why things couldn’t be normal for her or Paola — why her daughter couldn’t have a normal childhood filled with school, puberty, a reluctant boyfriend, or a stupid cover song posted to YouTube.
She leaned onto her daughter’s bed, resting her head against Paola’s side. As she settled, a shock of thunder sent her leaping up and out of her seat.
Mary had probably heard more gunshots than any greeting card artist in history, and knew the sudden thunder wasn’t a car backfiring or fireworks lighting the sky: six even shots, followed by thick silence garnished with screams after it settled.
She heard another pair of shots, closer, definitely in the hospital. They sounded right outside the hall. Mary couldn’t afford to panic, so she didn’t, thinking about her bag of guns in the Volvo — again unprepared! — knowing she couldn’t get them and abandon Paola to whatever danger lurked in the halls.
Mary dipped her hand into her purse, wrapped her fingers around the knife’s handle — Well, I’ve got this, at least — then closed her eyes, drew three successive breaths, and drew the blade from its sheath.
She went to the door, pulled it opened it a crack, then slipped her head through the opening. She looked left and saw nothing, then turned her head right, let out a scream as a zombie stumbled down the hall, toward her room.
Mary knew no other word for someone so vacant, drenched in blood with his mouth drooped open, more plasma oozing from his low-hanging lip. While his expression was empty, his eyes were not. They were entirely black, yet seemed to be focused on her. As the creature drew closer, he reached out for her.
Mary managed to scream, “HELP!” before slamming the door and planting her back against it, bracing for the worst as she looked over at Paola, still oblivious to the world, inert in her bed.
The zombie slammed into the door, the heavy thud followed by an inhuman growl. While Mary wouldn’t have been surprised to see bleakers, the all-black, alien things that had hunted them on the other world, or even an infected person who was part human, part alien like Ryan had been, she didn’t expect this — a deceased man so obviously walking, trying to break down the door.
Mary pushed her shoulder harder against the door, staring through the small window at the top, which reminded her — horribly — of the small window at the top of The Capacitor — and saw the dead man’s face in the window, mashing his cheek to the glass and smearing drool in a rainbow of red.
The lever that served as a doorknob lowered with no way to lock it.
Mary’s mind raced trying to decide how to handle the thing once he broke through and into the room if someone didn’t come and shoot him first. Might be best to open the door and let the creature spill into the room, carried by momentum and falling to the ground. Then she could stab him in the neck.
Mary was probably fast enough, but what if she wasn’t? Or what if the creature didn’t stumble and fall? What if he just broke through and stayed perfectly upright?
The thing on the other side slammed the door harder, managing to nudge Mary a few inches. Before thinking, she threw her body back at the door, forcing the creature away. He hit the door harder, opening it an inch — just enough for the dead man to jam his fingers inside. Mary threw her weight against the door and crunched the zombie’s fingers with a loud snapping.
The dead man cried out, sounding almost alive in his rage.
He slammed harder into the door, forcing Mary back an inch before she could manage to reclaim the loss in some sort of unholy tug-of-war.
She tried to hold steady, but her shoes slipped along the slick linoleum, slowly losing the battle.
She let go of the door and jumped back, managing to stay on her feet and put a few inches between herself and the dead man, waving her knife in arcs before her.
The creature, ignoring the knife, moved forward to attack.
Mary swung, aiming for his left hand, but before she could connect, two more gunshots echoed through the room.
The man still stood, slowed and stunned, but not yet dead, until three more shots sent him to the ground.
An officer stepped through the open doorway, waved his gun through the room, left to right before letting it fall and offering a hand to Mary. “Are you OK?”
“No,” she said. “What the hell is happening?”
Mary looked at the mess of a man, twitching as blood poured from his wounds.
“No idea, Ma’am,” the officer, a young man with piercing, green eyes, said as he stepped in front of the dead man, away from the pooling blood. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mary said, turning quickly to Paola to make sure she wasn’t shot by the officer.
She leaned close to Paola, looking her up and down, but saw no sign of injuries.
“It’s OK,” she said, leaning forward and kissing her daughter’s head. “Everything’s OK, Baby.”
Mary turned back to the cop, just in time to notice something black hanging in the air behind him, floating almost like smoke.
“What the?” she said, confused.
“What?” the cop said turning around and looking into the hallway.
The smoke moved fast, three ways at once — toward a second cop just behind the first, and then right and left down the hall.
Mary’s eyes were fixed on the second cop, watching as his face shifted — like a hundred bugs beneath the skin — then settled. His eyes drained until they looked as empty as the creature kissing blood on the floor. Before Mary could do anything to stop it — though she should have seen it coming — the hollow-eyed cop lifted his gun and fired twice at the one in front of her.
The officer fell to the already-bloody, sticky floor as his partner pulled the trigger again, blasting him in the face.
The possessed cop’s gun clicked three times, ammo empty, and Mary found both heartbeat and breath. She used it to scream on her way toward the door.
She jumped over the two dead men, slammed the door shut, then held her shoulder to it, again, muttering prayers, and begging any god from either world to hear her.
Forty-Six
Paola Olson
Paola was confused.
She woke in warmth, wondering how she got outside. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she realized she was no longer in Malibu. The streets, mansions, and oceanfront land had exploded in a million tiny pixels, then settled into endless miles of sand.
Something was wrong.
Why aren’t I awake yet?
Am I still in the machine? Still dreaming?
Paola turned in a circle searching for any sign of anything. She wanted to call out, “Hello?” But a cold chill ran through her, warning her of The Darkness still behind her.
Is it here, too?
Endless sky mirrored the sand below, not a single c
loud to mar its blue.
Paola’s shoes had gone missing, warm sand slipped between her toes with a pleasant burn.
Not knowing what to do or where to go, she began walking, figuring things would make sense soon enough.
This is a dream, right? Things always work out.
Paola trudged through the desert, walking for what felt like hours before she saw something dot the horizon.
Luca!
She wasn’t sure how she knew it was him, but it had to be.
Paola pushed herself to walk faster, despite the heat bearing down hard enough to soak her shirt.
Luca will help me get out of here.
I have to catch up.
Paola smiled as she ran after Luca, burning her ankles as she closed the distance between them. She was surprised how much of the gap she had managed to narrow in only a few minutes, and used the wonder to fuel herself faster.
Just as she was near enough to call for Luca, a second Luca appeared in front of her, bathed in brilliant light.
The Light looked less like the Luca trudging ahead, and felt more like the Luca who saved her the first time. He was an old man again.
He spoke in an almost musical hum, “No, Paola.”
She froze.
“He’s not who you’re looking for,” The Light told Paola what she suddenly already knew. “He’s an impostor.”
“I know, but what can I do?” Paola leaned into The Light, wanting its warmth, despite the hot blazing keeping them under its heel. “Can you help me?”
“You don’t need me, you need The Light.”
“But you are The Light!” Paola knew it was true because she saw it in her dreams.
“No,” The Light said. “You have misunderstood. Your dreams show you The Light, not where it shines.”
Paola knew what was coming; felt it inside her before The Light said it.
“You are The Light now, Paola, only you can shine for us all.”
The desert disappeared and took her with it.
Paola found herself on a dark street along the shoreline, though whether it was real or imagined she did not know. For some reason, everything was bathed in an odd and ugly red. She looked up and saw it was because of the moon.
A cold breeze forced her farther inland, near a cluster of houses. A light was on in one: a beacon for just her.
She raced forward, eager to reach it.
He’s in there. Waiting for you.
She wasn’t sure who he was, but the voice seemed more promise than threat.
Somewhere in the distance, a shriek — the all-too-familiar voice of a bleaker.
Paola picked up her pace and raced ahead, finally reaching the house. She saw that while the window was lit, there were black, iron bars over it. And several claw marks in the rotting wood around the window.
Shelter for someone: a survivor.
Paola walked up three stairs and knocked on the door, hoping she was making the right choice, and not walking into her enemy’s camp.
The door opened. Paola fell back two of the stairs.
“You?”
Forty-Seven
Edward Keenan
Avondale, New York
It took nearly seven hours to drive from Manhattan to the Canadian border where Ed had a safe house nestled in the tiny town of Avondale.
They arrived at night. Ed stopped the car in front of a diner and turned to Brent and Ben in the back seat. “I want you guys to go inside and eat. I’ll head to the house on foot. If I’m not back in an hour, things went bad. Take the car and go.”
“Then what?” Brent asked. “Where do we go? Who do we trust?”
“I don’t know,” Ed said, wishing he had a better answer. “Find somewhere safe and live off-grid. Use false names. No phones, no Internet except in public places, and nothing that can be used to trace you specifically. Don’t give the government anything they can use to track you. Hell, you’re resourceful, Brent. I’m sure you’ll manage. I’ve got some cash in an envelope in the trunk. If I don’t come back take it. Use it to set yourself up somewhere.”
“Do you think they’re waiting for you here? Do you think it’s a trap?”
“Only one way to know,” Ed said. He got out of the car, grabbed a bag from the back seat, stashed with weapons taken from one of the Black Island vans before leaving the city.
“Be careful,” Brent said.
Ed looked at his watch and made sure the time matched the car’s — two minutes off at 8:20 p.m. “It’s 8:20. If I’m not back by 9:20 p.m., get out of here. Got it?”
“Yes,” Brent nodded. “And thanks … for coming back.”
“Yeah,” Ed said, wanting to add that he wished he’d come sooner, but knew it wasn’t necessary.
He left Brent and his son, attempting to stitch their family of two together in the long shadow of Gina’s death.
The girls’ car was in the driveway and lights were on behind the blinds: good signs, though far from any sort of guarantee.
Ed slowly walked the roadside, like a neighbor strolling, carrying a big bag of weapons. He’d thrown a red and blue Bills jacket over his Black Island Guardsman shirt and Kevlar vest, though he didn’t bother to disguise his black pants or boots.
So far, Ed had only passed a handful of people. He pretended to be on his phone to avoid conversations and eye contact. So far, none of the people he passed seemed like agents of either Black Island or his former agency, and he saw no sign of surveillance vehicles.
If Ed was stepping into a trap, it was the most low-profile trap he’d ever seen.
Ed passed his daughter’s house once, keeping an eye on the blinds to see if they fluttered. They didn’t. He also watched the neighboring houses and cars in the driveways. Four of the five closest houses had lights on inside, two with curtains or blinds drawn. One house was dark, which could have meant his enemy waited there, or, just as likely, nobody was home or already asleep.
Ed kept walking to the corner, then turned down a side street to head back up the next block. He would hit his daughter’s house from the back, cutting through neighboring lawns.
Ed found the third house from the end of the street and cut through the yard, approaching Jade’s from behind. The rear had a back door and kitchen window that looked into the yard. Both had curtains drawn over their windows.
He looked back to see the house that backed up to Jade’s, two stories, also lit with shades drawn. No one could see him unless there was someone upstairs in one of the darkened windows looking down. If that was so, there was nothing Ed could do to stay invisible, except hope for the best and prepare for an ambush.
Gun in hand, he approached the back of Jade’s house, ears perked. He heard the faint sound of a television, but not the girls or Becca. Maybe Becca was already in bed, and the girls were relaxing, watching the glow.
Ed grabbed his phone again and dialed Jade.
He couldn’t hear it ringing inside the house, and she wasn’t answering.
Ed softly reached for the knob on the back door, not sure what to expect. He was surprised when it twisted in his hand.
No way they leave their back door unlocked!
My daughter isn’t that stupid.
Rather than step through the doorway, Ed fell back, reconsidering his next move. A gun pressed to his head.
Shit.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Sullivan’s voice said from behind. “Drop the bag, and your gun.”
“You better not have hurt my family,” Ed said, dropping both gun and bag of weapons to the cold ground.
“Inside,” Sullivan said, pushing the gun against Ed’s head for emphasis.
Ed began calculating escape the second he felt the muzzle pressed to his head. There were ways to counter your enemy, distract them, gain the upper hand and wrest the weapon away, even when the gun was barrel to head. However, there were too many variables, chiefly what kind of backup Sullivan had behind him. There was also the question of whether the girls were a) still
alive or b) still here. Maybe they’d already been taken off site, which meant Ed’s escape would bring him no closer.
He had to assume that Sullivan didn’t want him dead, or he would’ve simply shot him. So Ed would play — for now.
He stepped into the house, relieved to see Jade and Teagan sitting on the sofa, surprisingly not bound or gagged.
“Daddy!” Jade said, looking like she wanted to jump from the couch.
“It’s going to be OK,” Ed said to the girls, both crying. “Where’s Becca?”
Teagan said, “Upstairs, sleeping.”
Ed tried to divine their stress level from expression, body language, and voices, hoping to determine what Sullivan had done or threatened already. They were scared, but didn’t seem traumatized.
“Have a seat with your girls,” Sullivan said.
Ed was surprised he wasn’t trying to tie him.
There must be others, upstairs or on their way.
Ed took a seat as instructed, while Jade and Teagan covered him in hugs. He wanted to cry, grateful that they were alive. He sank into the comfort of their hugs, but kept emotion from leaving his body. First, he had to see what he was dealing with.
“What do you want?” Ed asked.
Sullivan looked different. Normally, the young man was impeccably dressed, pinstriped, and tidy, hair slicked back. This Sullivan looked like he was barely surviving after a three-night bender — hair unkempt, white dress shirt untucked and wrinkled, tie unknotted and limp. His eyes had dark circles beneath them, and he wasn’t wearing his black hipster glasses.
Ed wasn’t sure if the man sometimes wore contacts, if the glasses were misplaced fashion statement, or if something else was happening entirely, though just what that might be, Ed had no idea. But something was definitely wrong with Sullivan.
He took a seat in a chair opposite the couch with only a coffee table between them. Ed considered ways he could use the coffee table to his advantage, but kept his eyes on Sullivan while waiting for his answer.
