by Sean Platt
For the first time he also feel guilt and shame for his past. Not the murders so much as the rapes. He prayed that Rose would never find out, that Paola wouldn’t ever peek inside his mind and see what he’d really been. She knew he was a monster, but Boricio didn’t want her, or Mary, or Rose to know just how monstrous he’d been.
Hell, he even felt bad about some of the murders. Not all of them. Plenty of fuckers had deserved to die. But there were some, innocents who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He flashed on something — an image of a girl he’d beheaded.
Another flash — her father, finding Boricio, angry at him, wanting revenge.
What the hell? I don’t remember that.
Must be the drugs fucking with my head.
Lots of shit, still so fuzzy. Like he’d been dreaming for a long time and was awoken too early, still trying to untangle dream from reality.
He thought of Rose again and was so thankful that she was here with him, to help him through this. But even as he felt good, Boricio felt an unease he couldn’t explain — a fear that didn’t make sense.
Darkness is coming.
What the hell does that mean?
Love, for all the good it could do, was a weakness. And he was already weak enough, his body frozen in bed.
Boricio had to get better. Not just to get out off the fucking mattress, but so he could go back to protecting those he loved.
Yet, as he lay in the stillness of predawn, listening to the clock hum beside the bed and staring at its blue digital face, he couldn’t help but feel that love had somehow left him frail. Boricio wondered if now he wasn’t man enough to keep his family safe.
Fifty-Two
Marina Harmon
“How are you doing?” Father Acevedo asked from the bucket seat across from Marina in the back of the van as Luther drove north toward the final vial.
“OK.” She tried to smile, even though her ribs, jaw, and head were all throbbing, competing for which part of her body could claim the most pain.
“That should never have happened,” he said, not even trying to whisper.
Marina looked up to see Keenan meet her eyes in the rearview, then he looked straight, staring at the road and into the setting sun.
“It’s OK,” she said, “we got the vial. And Keenan did beat the hell out of Max Torrino.”
Acevedo sighed. “Well at least one good thing came out of it.”
They’d been driving for about four hours, mostly in silence, neither she nor Acevedo happy to be hostages. Marina felt like the priest was hatching some plan. While she didn’t know him well, Marina was familiar enough with Acevedo to be reasonably sure he had no intent to surrender. He’d given in, telling the agents where the vials were to keep Marina from harm, but she knew a temporary arrangement when she saw one. Acevedo wasn’t going to let the agents take the vials.
Though the more Marina considered it, the better the idea seemed.
While Keenan had threatened to hurt her if they didn’t cooperate and she wasn’t about to add the agent to her Christmas card list, he had saved her from Torrino and had seemed personally offended that the movie star had hurt her. And it hadn’t seemed like some macho-man-defending-a-woman sorta thing. Maybe a little, but there was definitely something else, too. Keenan seemed as outraged by entitled assholes as Marina was, particularly ones who abuse their power. There also seemed to be a genuine kindness just under his gruff exterior. He seemed like someone who had spent a long slice of his life battling assholes.
Marina wasn’t sure how she could mine so much from their limited exchanges, yet could feel it nonetheless. Keenan wasn’t a bad guy, even if half the pain in her jaw was from his punch.
Luther, on the other hand, Marina had yet to get a feel for. He seemed all muscle and little brains, but it was tough to glean much from his silence.
She looked back up at Acevedo, who was staring down at his handcuffs as if trying to figure a way to break free.
They were both cuffed to bars at seat level on either side of the van. The black metal appeared impossible to break without special equipment. There was a lock, which Marina figured a better criminal mind than hers could probably pick. She wondered if Acevedo had fashioned some sort of MacGyver way out, and was merely waiting for the right moment to break free.
She wished they weren’t so close to the two agents. Any attempts at conversation would be easily overheard, otherwise she’d try to persuade the priest from his plot, whatever it might be. She’d tell him that maybe the government ought to have the vials, so they could fight these damned aliens in ways that they couldn’t.
Sure, the government couldn’t be trusted on most things, but what other options did they have? It wasn’t like she and Acevedo had a plan or the ability to save the world, despite her father’s ghost, or whatever it was, urging her to do so. Marina had nearly been beaten to death by a short, pampered movie star. What hope did she have of waging war against the infected, or the aliens lying in wait to swallow the world?
Acevedo kept staring, the dark circles under his eyes blending with the van’s shadows to give him an almost sinister appearance.
Fifty-Three
Edward Keenan
The last name on their list was a woman named Kerri Sampson, an impressionist painter who was semi-well known among art circles before retiring to run an RV camp along a lake at the foot of the Santa Lucia mountains.
Marina wasn’t sure how her father had known the woman — he’d never expressed an interest in paintings to her. Marina also didn’t recognize the woman as a church member. Nor did the agency dig up anything that might suggest why the woman might be trusted with the vials.
Keenan was also entering the situation blind, but it had to go better than securing the other vials had.
Luther exited the dark highway and made a left onto a darker dirt road where a sign read: New Moon Lake Recreational Vehicle Campgrounds.
The van jostled as they drove through the dark woods. Ed surveyed the area, seeing lights from a handful of RVs among the trees as they passed. A sign with an arrow pointing ahead read: OFFICE.
Ed hoped the office was still open and that’s where he’d find Sampson. If not, her address was listed at the camp site, but how the hell he’d find her among the forty or so campers spread out in the woods, Ed had no idea. He didn’t want to go door-to-door and risk someone alerting Sampson that the feds were looking for her. If the woman knew what she had in the vial, and it stood to reason that she knew it was something special even if not exactly what, then Sampson could become a ghost, impossible to track.
Keenan noticed a building ahead, the only permanent structure aside from a few pavilions and bathrooms. It was blue and wooden with the word OFFICE on a black sign over the front door. Beneath the sign, two windows and a light on inside.
“Pull up to the parking spot,” Keenan said, figuring the direct route was least suspicious.
“Wait here,” he said to Luther.
The woods were alive with a symphony of insects, birds, and frogs as Keenan hopped out of the van and stepped out into the cool night air.
An old Pepsi machine’s light flickered on and off promising liquid refreshment for a few quarters on his way to the office. He spotted a woman in her late fifties with an auburn bob and big brown glasses through the window, sitting at a desk, tapping away on a laptop.
He recognized the woman from her file’s driver’s license photo — Kerri Sampson.
So far, so good.
As Ed reached the front door, he saw Sampson look up from her desk, suspicious at this newcomer arriving after dark.
He opened the door, tinkling a bell as he entered.
“Good evening,” she said, standing, eying Ed up and down. He’d changed from the suit back to his Guardsman gear. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Edward Keenan, with Homeland Security. I need to talk to you about the vial given to you by J.L. Harmon.”
The door closed behind him, again tinkling the bell.
Ed saw the truth in her eyes: Sampson knew exactly what he was talking about.
“What about it?”
“I understand that Mr. Harmon trusted you to hold onto the vial. Did he tell you what it contained?”
“No, he just made me promise not to open it until the right time, and assured me that I’d know when that was.”
“So you’ve never opened it?”
“No,” Sampson said, concern clear on her face. She seemed so much easier to deal with than the prior two custodians. Ed was thankful that some people still believed in actually helping the authorities, rather than viewing them all as the bad guys.
“Good,” Ed said. “It’s a lethal material, and we need to get it from you.”
“Oh gosh, what is it?”
Ed noticed a small TV sitting on top of a filing cabinet, streaming CNN’s coverage of the school shooting.
He pointed at the screen. “You’ve been seeing all the recent violence on the news, right?”
“Yes. It’s so awful. So glad we’re here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yeah, this is a good place to be,” Ed agreed, hoping to foster a calm rapport. “Nice campgrounds.”
“Thank you. So, um, what does the vial have to do with the news?”
“Seems this isn’t the only vial. There are quite a few out there, and they’re causing horrible things to happen.”
“Oh my. Is it like some sort of toxin?”
“Worse than you can imagine.”
“Why would Mr. Harmon have them? Why would he want me to open it?”
“How did you know Mr. Harmon?”
Sampson looked down, her first bit of hesitancy.
“Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble, Ms. Sampson. We just need the vial, then we’ll be on our way. We’re trying to get as many as we can before things get worse.”
“Josh was a friend. We met in Narcotics Anonymous many years ago.”
Keenan nodded, letting her continue.
“We were friends … good friends, if you catch my meaning, for a while. It was great while it lasted, but then he got into that weird religious stuff.”
“So you weren’t a member of his church?”
“Oh gosh, no,” she said. “I always knew Josh was a bit off, but who among us isn’t a little weird? But it got worse over time, and he started talking about all these dreams he was having, and this New Age pseudo-religious stuff. I tried not to be critical, and even let him try and convince me of what he was talking about, but I just couldn’t buy into it. And I think when you’re with someone you ought to be honest about everything. So I broke it off.”
“Ah,” Keenan nodded.
“A few years ago, Josh appeared on my doorstep. No call, nothing. He gave me the vial and said I was one of a few people he could truly trust. After all, I’d been honest with him rather than lie to maintain our relationship. So apparently, I had earned his trust. He wouldn’t tell me what was in the vial. He just made me promise not to open it until it was time. When I asked how I’d know when the time was, he said I wouldn’t have any doubt, then he left, promising to call so we could catch up soon. But Josh never called.”
Keenan nodded. “And you’re sure you never opened the vial?”
“Oh Lord, no,” Sampson said, seeming in no way insulted by Keenan repeating the query. “I didn’t know what it was. Part of me thought it was some figment of his religion — like holy water, or something Josh thought was important but wasn’t really. But I have to tell you, the longer I’ve had that thing, the weirder it’s felt. I even have dreams about it — like it wants me to open it. I thought maybe I was going nuts. I was tempted to throw it in the trash, but there was this little voice in the back of my head that remembered when Josh was a sweet, normal guy. Haunted by something, but sweet. I could never bring myself to toss it.”
“Where is it now?”
“It’s in my camper. Hold on, just let me save this document. I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you, Ms. Sampson. We appreciate your cooperation.”
Sampson saved her doc then led Ed out of the office.
“I’m a ways down the path,” she said. “I usually ride my bike to the office, but today I had a flat with no time to fix it. Would you like to walk with me, or — ?”
Sampson looked at the van.
“We’ll give you a ride, Ms. Sampson.”
“Thank you.”
Ed opened the side door, waved his hand, directing Sampson to one of the back seats.
She stepped into the van, looked at Marina and Acevedo, and must’ve noticed their cuffs. She turned to Keenan. “Don’t worry, they won’t bite,” he said, then closed the door.
They drove down a long path in silence, took a couple of turns at Ms. Sampson’s direction, and found themselves at a clearing with four campers along the lake, each surrounded by about five hundred feet of yard. It seemed like a nice place to retire from the rat race. Keenan couldn’t wait until he could retire from this life, settle somewhere with Jade, and maybe Teagan and Becca if they wanted to come along. Hell, he’d even bring Brent and Ben, make it one big hippie commune.
Ed stifled a laugh at the thought of them all living in the woods then stepped out of the van and let Ms. Sampson out.
“Right this way.” She led Ed past her small garden, festooned with whimsically painted bird feeders, garden gnomes, and a few dream catchers hanging from the branches of a small tree.
Sampson opened her front door, which Ed was surprised to see wasn’t locked. Man, she must really trust her neighbors. He couldn’t decide if it was nice to live in that sort of community or if she was simply too naive to realize that you could never truly trust anyone.
“Just this way.”
Keenan closed the front door behind him as Ms. Sampson flicked on lights to illuminate a small, but well-decorated space.
“It’s just inside my bedroom,” Sampson said making her way down the small hall.
Ed followed, even though she seemed like she wanted him to wait in the living room. Sampson had seemed cooperative so far, but he couldn’t take the chance that she might sneak into the room, grab the vial, then open it. She didn’t seem like one of the cult kooks in Harmon’s church, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t. Hell, Harmon’s daughter, Marina, seemed like a perfectly reasonable, normal person, not at all someone who would buy into J.L. Harmon’s homespun bullshit. You never could tell who was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
Sampson clicked on her bedroom light and gasped.
Ed, immediately behind her, shotgun in hand, saw two people, a man and woman in their mid-forties standing in her bedroom, blank eyed and slack jawed.
“Carol? Kevin? What are you doing in here?”
“Give us the vials,” her apparent neighbors said together in voices that belonged to neither of them — the voices of hundreds braying through their mouths.
The Darkness was here.
Fifty-Four
Marina Harmon
Marina stared at Acevedo, wondering what his mind might be concocting. Part of her was hoping he wasn’t going to do anything. Another part longed for an escape plan.
He was staring at his handcuffs, as they were parked in front of the woman’s camper with time for action evaporating. Soon, Keenan would come out with the final vial, then one of three things would happen: Keenan and Luther would bring them somewhere safe as they’d promised, the agents would send them to some secret prison for God knows how long, or the agents would simply kill them and dump them in the middle of nowhere.
Luther, sitting up front, was impatiently bouncing his leg like he had to use the bathroom.
Or maybe he’s itching to kill us.
Acevedo looked up, eyes wide.“Something’s wrong.”
“What’s that?” Luther asked.
“Something bad is about to happen. I can feel it.”
Marina’s heart began to pound as she wondered wha
t Acevedo was up to. Was this his move? If so, what was he hoping to do? He was selling his anxiety well. His eyes were going back and forth, like he was trying to see through the van’s walls into the darkness. And if he wasn’t faking, what was he sensing?
Luther turned in his seat, looking back at Acevedo, and grabbed one of the two shotguns resting in a rack in front of the van’s center console.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We’re in danger. You need to tell Keenan to get out of there. Now.”
Luther’s brow furrowed.
Gunshots erupted from inside the camper.
Luther turned and hopped out of the van, shotgun in hand, slamming the door closed behind him.
“What’s happening?” Marina asked Acevedo.
The priest shook his head. “It’s coming.”
“Who is coming?”
“It!”
Marina heard an odd animal-like clicking coming from outside the van, though it didn’t sound like any animal she’d ever heard before. And it wasn’t a single clicking, it sounded like several, surrounding them.
Her heart raced in anticipation of the unimaginable.
Something thumped the van’s side, hard, as if a wild animal had barreled into it. The van shook violently in the wake of the crash.
Startled, Marina let out a yelp.
She looked up front to the van’s only windows but could only see Kerri Sampson’s camper in the dark, along with the tangled shadows behind lit curtains, suggesting something awful inside.
Acevedo pulled hard on his cuffs, frantic as something kept slamming the van.
“No,” he said to himself. “Focus.”
