by Sean Platt
She just wished Paola didn’t have to be part of the fight.
Mary looked down at her daughter, sleeping on the couch, seeming more like a child in slumber than the young woman she’d been forced to become. Mary wasn’t ready to let go of her little girl, ready for her daughter’s exposure to such horrible things. She couldn’t help but fear that while Paola was peeking into the minds of those infected by The Darkness, that the aliens were staring back into hers. She could be in greater danger than even Desmond could appreciate.
As if reading her thoughts, Desmond whispered in her ear.
“She’s going to be OK.”
“How do we know that?” Mary pulled away from the hug and met Desmond’s eyes. “How do we know that The Darkness isn’t getting into her head whenever she has one of these seizures?”
“She has The Light inside her. It wouldn’t allow such a thing.”
“Do you know that? Are you an expert on these aliens now? Or is that a guess?”
“Well, it’s gut more than anything. It’s hard to know what’s true of the aliens. Every now and then I get memories that aren’t mine, memories of the collective gathered by Luca. I have some of his memories, and some from people I don’t know. It’s difficult to assemble them with meaning. But there are things I do know, things The Light drip feeds to me as I need to know them. I have to trust my gut or the bit of The Light inside me.”
“But you don’t know she’s 100 percent safe, right?”
“You want me to lie to you? You want me to tell you that everything will be OK because we want it to be? You know as well as I do that life has no guarantees. We could defeat the aliens tomorrow and get hit by lightning on the way to the park. No, Mary, there are no 100 percents. Except if we do nothing, then there’s a 100 percent chance that The Darkness will destroy this Earth as It did the other.”
Mary looked down at Paola. “I just wish we could spare her from this.”
“We can’t control her seizures, Mary. Even if we wanted to. So why not take them for the gift that they are? They will help us find the vials. I can feel it. She’s onto something big. I know it. You’re a hell of a woman, Mary Olson. The strongest, bravest, biggest badass I’ve ever met. Now you need to let your daughter be strong. Show her the faith you have in her, not your fear for her safety. Trust yourself. And her. Believe also that I’ll do everything I can to keep us all safe. Can you do that?”
“Funny,” she said. “Before October 15, 2011, I never thought of myself as strong person. Sure, I was an independent businesswoman who managed to survive and thrive as a single mom, but I didn’t feel particularly strong. I just did what had to be done and coped when things went bad. Even after going through survival training and learning how to handle an assortment of weapons, I never felt particularly strong. Yeah, I can handle myself in a fight now, I’ve killed some aliens, but it’s hard to feel strong when so much is out of my control. I take one look at Paola having these seizures, knowing there’s an alien inside her, and there’s not a damned thing I can do. I think strong is an illusion we sell ourselves, but in reality we’re not strong at all. We’re at these aliens’ mercy. To tell ourselves anything different is a lie. We ought not to lie to ourselves and say we’re strong, when these things are light years ahead of us in every way that matters.”
Desmond pulled Mary back into his arms.
“And that right there is what makes you strong. That you’re not complacent. That you recognize the threat. That you’re open to training yourself to prepare, to do whatever’s necessary.”
Desmond hugged her, and while leaning into his strength felt good, Mary wondered if he wasn’t too optimistic and fearless about their chances. There was a distinction between strength and abandon, and Desmond had already died once at the hands of the aliens. Mary didn’t want to see a repeat performance. But there was comfort in having someone who believed in her so strongly, especially when she felt at the edge of falling apart.
Mary embraced him, looking down at her daughter, hoping that Paola was as strong as Desmond believed, and that it would be enough to keep her from The Darkness.
Thirteen
Marina Harmon
Marina stared at Father Thomas Acevedo, unable to turn away from his sewn lips. He lowered his cowl to reveal a thinner, balder, older man than she had imagined: mid-fifties or early sixties.
“Who did this to you?” Marina asked before realizing how stupid it was to query a man with his lips sewn shut.
He reached into his robe, withdrew a notepad and pen, scribbled something, then held it up to her.
“I did. Who are you?”
She thought to ask why, but felt it was too personal a question to ask upon meeting him.
“Marina Harmon. My father was J.L. Harmon. He said that you would help me if I came to you.”
Acevedo’s eyes widened. He scribbled something else and held it up for Marina.
“Help you with what?”
“These,” she said, opening the box.
Acevedo’s eyes looked like they might roll from his sockets at the sight of her vials. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen them. The man backed away as if she’d just opened a batch of Ebola virus.
“What’s wrong?”
Acevedo went to his bed, reached beneath the thin mattress, and pulled out a knife.
Marina backed up, putting herself closer to the door in case he attacked.
He brought the blade to his lips and began to cut the black threads. He cut too fast, the blade slipped and drew blood.
Acevedo kept cutting until the threads no longer bound his lips, even though the ends were still stuck, dangling in blood. He ignored it and words fell too fast from his mouth.
“What are you doing with those? How did you get them?”
Marina wasn’t sure how much he knew or how long he’d been locked in the monastery. “My father is dead. You know that right?”
He nodded, still ignoring the dripping blood. She wished he would wipe it away. He looked like one of those crazy homeless people who sometimes harmed themselves outside of the church’s compound.
“He came back to me this morning. I don’t know how, but he did. He said to guard these with my life, and that you could help me.”
“Help you what?”
Acevedo asked as if he knew the answer but was terrified to ask.
“Save the world.”
“Oh God, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“It’s out there, isn’t it? I knew it was only a matter of time. I can feel It.”
“What are you talking about?” Images of the dark thing inside Steven flashed through Marina’s mind.
“It goes by many names, but is commonly called The Darkness. It came in those vials from somewhere far away. It came here to destroy us.”
“Father said the vials could save us. That you know where the others are.”
“Your father entrusted them to a few special people, people he felt wouldn’t be corruptible by their power. I’m afraid your father chose wrong.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he chose me, and I am not good. I thought I was. But if I, a man of God, couldn’t resist the temptation, what does that say for others?”
“Do you know where the other vials are?”
“Why? What are we going to do, assuming they’ve not been opened, and assuming these people will turn them over to us?”
Marina said, “I thought you would know what to do.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place. Please, leave, and show no one those vials.”
“I can’t just leave! I don’t know what to do. My father said you would help.”
“Sorry, I’m not the man your father believed me to be.”
Marina looked at the man’s spare bedroom, with no personal belongings save for whatever few items he could stuff into the trunk at the foot of his bed. She didn’t know much of other religions, but knew an ordinary man didn’t sew his lip
s shut or commit to a monastic life.
She had no clue as to the man’s committed sins, but clearly seemed to owe atonement for something.
“Why are you here? Why did you sew your lips shut.”
Acevedo looked down, as if ashamed to meet Marina’s eyes.
“Please,” she said. “I have nowhere else to go. My boyfriend, a man I thought loved me, who led the church alongside me, just tried to kill me. He’s got this Darkness you’re talking about inside him. If I return to the church, he will kill me. And he’ll take these vials. Is that what you want?”
He met her eyes, gravely. “No.”
“Then please, you must help me.”
Acevedo stared at her, his lips a mess of blood and hanging threads. He looked lost and defeated already. She wondered if he could help her. Wondered what he’d seen to bring him here, and make him sew his lips shut?
“Fine, I’ll help. But you must promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever I do, whatever I say, do not give me any of the vials. I cannot be trusted.”
“OK,” she said nervously, hoping her father wasn’t wrong to put his faith in this broken, beaten man.
“So, you’ll help me?”
“Under one condition,” Acevedo said.
“What’s that?”
“You must become pure of temptation. I need to know you’re not tainted.”
“What do you mean?”
“I means this … ”
Suddenly someone was behind Marina, grabbing her, putting a rag over her mouth. She tried to resist, but the rag was soaked with something that bleached the fight from her body and mind.
Fourteen
Boricio Wolfe
Boricio lay on the top bunk with his hands behind his head — the stingy fucks at Carlson County Correctional Center didn’t seem to believe in pillows. How the fuck were they supposed to “correct” criminals when they couldn’t even get the bedding right? He was doing his damndest not to show that he was feeling like a cracked-out cat in a cracker box of claustrophobia.
Boricio’s cell was a tiny six by eight, with a shitter/sink combo and a pair of bunks with yoga mats for mattresses. Boricio was fortunately alone in his cell for the moment. He couldn’t imagine sharing a space so small without his cellmate DOA. And he sure as shit wasn’t gonna have some cunt come in and demand the top bunk.
Boricio was not a fucking bottom.
He’d been awake for about an hour but hadn’t heard dick from the guards or anyone else.
The jail wasn’t like that shit on Oz where all the prisoners could see one another. Boricio’s cell had no bars — just concrete walls, what looked like an unbreakable window, and a locked door with safety glass. He could see another cell across from him, though Boricio didn’t know if it was empty or occupied. For that he was thankful. Making friends was the last thing he wanted to do in this shithole.
Boricio had barely slept since the cops picked him up. He’d yet to hear what he was being charged with, though murder seemed high on the list.
The irony was laughable. Of all the murders he’d committed, a number that had to climb high in the hundreds, Boricio had been nicked for what he’d argue was self-defense.
Karma wasn’t a bitch. She was a fucking cunt.
He wasn’t horribly concerned. Boricio had little doubt that he’d beat the rap. It was self-defense. Sure, he’d chased the fucker down, but he could easily argue that he did so in fear that the hillbilly would get to his gun then come back and shoot him. He could also argue that he wasn’t chasing the guy, but rather running to the gas station for help, then the guy said he would shoot him. Boricio wasn’t above lying for justice.
Hell, maybe there was even a camera or three that showed the cousin fuckers arriving with Boricio bound in the truck.
And on the off chance that he was convicted, well, Boricio would find a way to escape.
He’d go cunt crazy if cooped up too long. Of course, if he were convicted, he’d likely be sent to Oz, a place packed with skinheads and other factions that would all have to learn about Team Boricio.
After what seemed like his life’s longest morning, a prison guard approached Boricio’s cell and peeked through the security glass. He was a pig, fat, late forties, with shoe polish-black hair and a fat gray caterpillar mustache. He also had that slow look that suggested his parents were siblings.
Guard Tard told Boricio to sit on the bed with his back to the wall. He took his sweet time but complied.
Guard Tard stepped inside Boricio’s cell and crossed his arms over his ample chest. “So, your name is John Doe, eh?”
Boricio smiled, remembering how much shit the booking officer gave him while taking his prints and purty picture while Boricio refused to say shit. Let ‘em look — they wouldn’t find dick with Boricio’s name. Even his driver’s license was a decoy.
“Yeah.” Boricio smiled.
“You think you’re a real smart ass, eh? Walkin’ around like your shit don’t stink.”
“I’m new, and we’ve yet to share the pleasure of a proper introduction. I suggest you take it down a notch, hoss.” Boricio winked. “That way you’ll have less regrets later.”
Guard Tard looked as if Boricio had pulled out his pecker and pissed on Old Glory while using the bible to wipe his ass.
“Excuse me, boy?”
“Boy?” Boricio laughed. “Do I look like I want a trip to Chuck E. Cheese?”
Guard Tard’s face turned bright red.
He reached for his nightstick and stepped toward Boricio, looking hungry for an excuse to whip it from his belt.
Boricio stared at the man without flinching, and smiled. “You touch your sister with that stick? She ask you to shove it up her poop chute, or does she prefer it in her purty little slit?”
Guard Tard responded as predicted — he leaped at Boricio, swinging.
Boricio kicked the man hard, just missing his knee and striking right below it. Rather than breaking his leg as planned, the man merely fell forward, nightstick hitting Boricio twice in the ribs.
Guard Tard raised the stick and swung at his head.
Boricio threw his left arm up to deflect the blow.
Unfortunately, his arm didn’t fare as well.
Something cracked. An unholy pain streaked through Boricio’s forearm.
He screamed out, surprised by how much pain the fat, fucking retard had managed to inflict.
Guard Tard stopped his attack, eyes wide, realizing he’d gone too far and would have shit to explain.
“Help!” Boricio yelled.
Another guard appeared, a heavyset black dude with a graying beard and thick black glasses. His name badge read: BOYLE.
Boyle yelled at Guard Tard. “What the hell, Sanders?”
Guard Tard withdrew from the cell, whining. “He hit me, sir!”
“Bullshit! He got pissed 'cuz I asked if he fucks his sister with his nightstick.”
Boyle looked at Boricio as if to ask: What? Did you just say what I thought you said?
Boyle might’ve smiled. It was hard to focus through the pain.
The guard looked down at Boricio’s arm, saw the huge swelling welt.
“Hang tight, I’ll get a doc to check you out.” He turned to Guard Tard. “You, out here, now.”
Guard Tard left with his tail between his legs.
Boricio held his clucking and smiled, hoping the fucker’s superiors would turn his ass into burger. He wasn’t sure how long his stay in ButtFuck County Lockup would be, but Boricio was no one’s bitch to beat on.
Sharks, bears, and Boricio: top of the fucking chain.
Fifteen
Marina Harmon
Marina woke in a dimly lit room not unlike Acevedo’s chamber — a bed, dresser, and trunk. An open door revealed a bathroom with a shower.
A single bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. The bare stone walls bore no windows.
Marina stood, her head still dizzy
, then went to the door and jiggled the knob, trying to open it.
It was locked.
“Hello?” she yelled.
No response.
“Hey!” she yelled again, louder.
Still no answer.
“Let me out of here!” Marina screamed, wondering what the hell Acevedo had done to her. She vaguely recalled him saying something about her purity, whatever the hell that meant. If the man meant virginity, her dress hadn’t been white for a while.
Wait a second. Where’s—
She searched the room: trunk, dresser, and under the bed, but couldn’t find the vials.
They took the vials!
I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him!
“Where are the vials?!” Marina cried out to whoever might be listening. Acevedo had to be somewhere nearby.
His taking the vials didn’t make sense. He told her not to surrender them under any circumstance — so why would he take them?
Marina paced her cell.
A folded blue paper slid beneath the door.
She picked it up.
It read: 21 days. Training starts tomorrow.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
No response.
The next morning Marina woke to the sound of a bell ringing from above.
She snapped awake and saw an old man standing over her. He, like Acevedo, was wearing robes. He was skinny, bald, and his face and hands, the only areas not concealed by robes, were covered in intricate tattoos with designs she couldn’t quite place.
“Who are you?” She sat up in bed, remembering that the note had said that training — whatever that meant — started today.
Is this my trainer?
“My name is Seven. I’m here to strengthen your mind.”
“My mind is strong enough, thank you. I’d like to leave.”
