Blackwater Lights

by Michael M. Hughes

  “Don’t be afraid, Ray,” Micah said. “You’re a strong man. A good man. And that matters.”

  Ray grimaced. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Micah smiled. “All is not finished. While we live and breathe, there is hope.” Over his shoulder, orange light flickered in the church windows.

  “Get me away from this place,” Ray said. “Before I change my mind.”

  Micah bowed his head.

  Mantu turned to the church. “She’s burning. Let’s get moving.”

  Flames danced to the tops of the church windows now, and smoke snaked out of the doorway. They were burning it down. Burning everything. Leaving only ash for Crawford and Sheriff Morton to sift through.

  “Let’s go,” Alan shouted. “No time. Get inside.”

  Ray climbed into the back of the truck. Mantu lifted a metal lid and helped him squeeze into the freezer. “You knocked two of my teeth loose. I want you to remember that, and don’t think I’m gonna forget it. So I expect to see you again.”

  He covered Ray with the metallic panel.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Darkness.

  Ray lay pressed between the false bottom of the freezer and the floor of the truck, his knees curled against his chest. He remembered seeing photos of bones from Neolithic graves in a documentary, how the narrator had said that the dead were buried in a fetal position because they believed they would enter the womb of the earth.

  And I’m in the womb of an ice cream truck.

  The inside of the freezer quickly warmed, and within minutes—it was hard to tell time in the darkness—he was sure he was going to suffocate. He smelled his feet, his armpits, and his sour breath. Breathe slowly. Don’t use up all the oxygen. But the more he paid attention to his breath the faster it got. Slow down. Breathe slower.

  Mantu had said it was ventilated, but it didn’t feel like it.

  “You okay, Ray?” Alan’s muffled voice sounded like it was coming down a long hall.

  “No,” he yelled.

  “Hang on. Only a couple of hours and you’ll be out of there.”

  A couple of hours? He clenched his jaw. The vibrations from the truck’s motor numbed his face, and his head banged against the wall when the truck hit a bad bump. If he didn’t get out soon, he would start screaming. If he started screaming, he wouldn’t stop.

  Think of something—anything other than the fact that you might die in this box.

  Ellen.

  Where was she now? Tied up and waiting for Crawford and Lily to show up in their robes and creepy animal heads?

  And William. Poor William. If they so much as laid a finger on the boy, Ray would rip out Crawford and Lily’s throats like the brainwashed girl in the videotape. With his teeth.

  Breathe slower, dammit!

  If, of course, he didn’t die in this hot, cramped crypt.

  He could no longer tell if he was awake or asleep. He supposed he could be asphyxiating from carbon monoxide. His arms and legs had long since gone numb after losing circulation, and now they were starting to hurt again. Images flickered in front of his eyes, like bursts from a tachistoscope—vivid, bright flashes of things and people. Maybe it was Micah’s medicinal tea, still hiding in his neurons.

  Why are the Darkbots so evil? he had asked William.

  Because that’s just the way they are, William had explained. There’s good and there’s evil.

  He had wanted to tell the boy there wasn’t such a thing as evil. People were good and bad, and some people were just so messed up they turned really bad. But no one was evil.

  He was wrong.

  A shuddering of the vehicle yanked him out of his daydream. A loud thump, then the engine coughed twice and stopped vibrating. Thank God. They’d made it. His body ached all over, and he felt like he was breathing in a bucket of soup.

  Alan was talking to someone, but the voices were muffled.

  Someone screamed.

  Another scream, and something heavy thudded against the freezer. Male voices, shouting, and another thud. Someone laughed.

  The freezer lid opened. A rush of cold air surged in, and he fought the urge to breathe. Someone poked the metal panel with a hard object. Metal, from the sound of it, and every poke pushed the panel into his side. Poke, poke, poke.

  “Nothing in here,” a man said. West Virginia accent, deep voice.

  “I told you,” Alan said. His voice wavered. “I’m just driving home.”

  “Shut the fuck up, chink,” the man said. He shut the lid of the freezer.

  Ray exhaled, his heart threatening to explode. He gasped—the air grew hot again instantly and his lungs contracted. They’d hear him, for sure. If not his gasping breath, his pounding heart would give him away like the murderer in Poe’s story.

  The engine started again, and the truck lurched forward.

  Ray prayed. He hadn’t really prayed since he was a kid, and he didn’t know who to direct his prayers to anymore. It didn’t matter. He prayed for Ellen and William’s safety, for his own safety, for a future that seemed to be more a faint wish than a possibility. He prayed to no one, to no god, but to the hope that the simple act of begging for mercy could change things and save two beautiful beings he’d come to love. Maybe something in the blackness would listen.

  While we live and breathe, there is hope, Micah had said.

  If only it were true.

  The truck drove on, maybe twenty minutes, maybe two hours. Time was a continuum of pain and blackness. But the vehicle stopped, idled, and moved again. It came to rest a few minutes later, and more voices erupted. More laughter.

  Alan screamed. He was pleading or cursing in Chinese.

  A loud crack, like a branch snapping. A rattling of the truck’s metal walls, then a thud as something hit the floor.

  More laughter. Another thump. Laughter again.

  And then the truck doors slammed shut.

  Silence. He waited. If he could move his limbs—which was questionable—he might be able to push the panel up and open the freezer lid. If it opened from the inside. If it wasn’t latched.

  Still no sound, no movement, just his breathing, his heart, the blood coursing in his ears.

  He waited until he knew he was on the edge of panic. He pushed, and the metal panel budged. Slightly. He pushed again. Tears rolled down the side of his face.

  He pushed again. More pain, but this time the panel scraped loudly and moved an inch. He pushed again, and it moved another inch.

  Finally it gave way. Grunting, he sat up and pushed the lid up on its hinges. It was bright—light shone through the dirty windows. He climbed out of the freezer and slipped. The floor was wet, and he fell to his knees. His hands were sticky and warm. He held his forearm to his mouth, gagging.

  Alan’s crumpled body faced him. His head was split open, exposing pink bone, his face drenched in blood, his mouth open.

  He closed his eyes, holding his breath to keep his stomach from hurling its contents. He lifted his head to look out of the back windows. The lights outside were bright. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was, and when he did, he lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Of course. Crawford’s house.

  He could jump out and run. He might be able to make it to the fence, then out into the woods, then catch a ride from a trucker or some kids.

  Covered in blood? As crazed as he was?

  No. And it didn’t matter—he couldn’t leave, especially if they had gotten Ellen and William. Sometimes when we’re out of choices, Micah had said, it means we’ve been given a rare opportunity to do what we were meant to do.

  He looked out the window again. There were at least six other vehicles in the driveway, including two Blackwater police cruisers, a limo, and a white Escalade. If he could make it to the tree line without being seen, he might be able to sneak around the back of the house and through the gardens.

  And then what? Storm the barricades? Stab Crawford with a pointy stick?

  One thin
g was certain—he couldn’t stay in the truck with Alan’s corpse. The hot, coppery stench of the blood was making him sick. And they could return any moment to dispose of the body. Him against Crawford’s assassins.

  He stood and pushed the door open slowly. It creaked, and Ray froze. He waited. Nothing. He stepped out into the brisk air, crouching down in the shadows.

  Headlights. From the gate.

  Shit.

  He closed the door quietly and scurried behind the truck.

  A white van rolled up on the other side of the ice cream truck. Ray flattened himself in the gravel. Two men climbed out. Ray saw their feet—black leather boots and white leather high-top sneakers. They opened the back door of the van.

  “Time to join the party,” White Sneakers said. His voice was high-pitched and reedy.

  Black Boots laughed. A deep, smoker’s voice. “Get out. Get up. Stand the fuck up.”

  “She can’t. Look at her. I think she pissed her pants.”

  She? Were they talking about Ellen?

  “Make sure she’s still breathing. He said to make sure she isn’t banged up. She’s been in there a long time.”

  Silence.

  High-top sneakers spoke. “She’s awake.”

  They pulled her out of the van, and she stumbled when she hit the gravel.

  Thin ankles, black socks. Neon blue running shoes.

  Sara. Now he had three people to worry about.

  Ray leaned around the truck. He could finally see them, or at least their backs. The two men carried her. Black Boots was tall and dressed in black. White Sneakers was shorter and wore acid-washed jeans and a matching jacket. Sara’s feet dragged in the gravel. They rang the doorbell. Waited. A uniformed cop opened the door for them, looked around after they entered, and went back inside.

  When the door shut, Ray rolled onto his knees. He scurried, as low as he could, to the elaborately manicured bushes on the side of the house.

  The gardens were empty, at least as far as he could see. There were no windows on the side of the house. Just impenetrable wall. The back entrance was obscured by trees.

  He moved closer. The back door was solid steel. If it was locked, he’d have to wait until someone came out before trying to sneak inside.

  He could try the door. Maybe it wasn’t locked.

  He moved closer, keeping his back close to the wall. A few steps more and his hand would be on the doorknob.

  He stopped short, blinking his eyes. The entire backyard was flooded in light. Motion-sensitive lights. Or someone had switched them on from inside. Shit.

  He glanced around. Nowhere to hide except a clump of bushes. He dove, scurrying into the shrubs as the back door opened and slammed against the house. He held his breath. A sharp branch had lodged against his ribs, but he couldn’t move. He was facing away from the door, too afraid to turn around. Were his shoes hanging out of the bushes?

  Two sets of footsteps.

  “Check the garden,” a man said.

  A click—probably a gun’s safety clicking off. Or a trigger cocking.

  Footsteps approached. Something crawled across the back of his neck—a spider. Christ, it felt huge.

  “Nothing here,” the voice said, almost directly beside him.

  Ray’s lungs ached. He couldn’t hold his breath much longer.

  “Check the woods,” another voice said, farther away. The footsteps next to him moved away.

  He let out his breath and swatted the bug on his neck. It wriggled in his hand, and he slapped it away. That had been close. His entire body quivered as if electrified. Now was the time to move. He’d have a minute or so to get inside before they returned.

  And then what?

  It didn’t matter. Inside the door he’d be that much closer to Ellen. And William. And Sara.

  And Crawford. And Lily.

  He ran to the door. The handle was cold. He twisted, and it opened.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The room was empty, save for the paintings and tapestries on the walls, a leather couch, and the statue of goat-footed Pan at the base of the stairs. Ray pulled the door shut behind him, closing it gently.

  The marble Pan leered at him from the shadows.

  Footsteps from the other room.

  There was only one way to flee: up the stairs. He bounded up, two steps at a time, and crouched on the landing. A long hallway stretched in front of him, and at its end a doorway glowed with red light.

  He peered down the stairs.

  A cop stepped into the room. He was young, his head almost shaved. His radio squawked and Ray jumped. He held his breath.

  “Finster, you there?” Loud and distorted.

  The cop answered. “Yeah.”

  More static. “Take a look around back there. In the house.”

  “Ten-four,” Finster said.

  He was coming up the stairs. Ray looked behind him down the hall. He could make it to the open door if he got lucky.

  Finster’s feet echoed on the steps.

  Ray hunched low and ran down the hall, into the bedroom. The red light came from two ornate lamps. Everything in the room—carpet, curtains, bed coverings—was a deep shade of crimson.

  A door down the hall opened and closed. Then another. The cop would find him if he didn’t hide. He ducked behind the enormous bed. The room smelled familiar.

  More feedback on the cop’s radio. “Finster, get down here. Back door.”

  The cop in the hall cursed. “I hear you.”

  A reprieve. At least for the moment.

  Ray looked around. It was clearly a woman’s room, with a powder room or bathroom joined to it. Red sheets—satin, it looked like—deep red curtains, an intricately carved headboard, red candles next to a silver cup on a bedside table. A full-length antique mirror against one wall. An oil painting of a buxom woman combing her long red hair and gazing into a hand mirror. Her skin alabaster white, like a rare, fragile seashell.

  His breath caught in his chest.

  Someone stepped from the adjoining room, casting him in shadow.

  “Hello, Ray. So glad you could come.”

  She was dressed in a short red nightgown, her hair hanging loose over her shoulders, her pale, round breasts accentuated by the low neck. Her legs and feet were bare.

  Ray stood, his hands curled into fists. “Where are my friends?” He’d rip the head off her shoulders if any of them had been hurt. Crush that vile face.

  “Billy,” she called out. “Come here for a minute.”

  A man stepped into the room from behind her. Ray had seen him before: it was Black Boots. All in black—tight jeans and a squeaky leather jacket that rode high above his belt. His hair was slicked back, his eyes wild and feverish. He held a handgun with a long barrel. He pointed it at Ray’s face.

  “Billy, shoot him in the balls if he tries anything.”

  Billy laughed and lowered the barrel. “My pleasure, Mother.”

  Mother?

  Lily rubbed his greasy hair. “Billy’s a good boy, aren’t you, Billy?”

  He laughed again. His face flushed.

  Ray raised his hands slowly. “Let Ellen go. Keep me, and I’ll talk. Just let her go.”

  Lily rolled her eyes.

  “Please. It’s me you want. She has nothing to do with this.”

  Lily laughed. Her laughter was like broken glass. “Oh, Ray, you didn’t think it would be that easy, now, did you?”

  He swallowed.

  “Sit down. On the bed.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Billy, if Ray doesn’t do what I say, shoot him. Okay?”

  Billy giggled. “Fuck yeah.”

  Ray sat on the bed. Lily sat next to him. She curled her legs under herself, and her gown rode up her thighs.

  “That’s much better,” she said.

  “Please. Let me see Ellen.”

  She shook her head. “First we have to have a little talk. But take that bloody shirt off—it doesn’t suit you.”


  Ray took off his shirt and dropped it on the floor.

  “That’s better. He has a nice chest, doesn’t he?”

  Billy nodded. His teeth were yellowed and jagged, and his eyes wiggled in their sockets.

  Lily moved her face close to his. “I’m so sorry it had to turn out this way. I offered you so much, Ray. Pleasures. Knowledge. A partnership.”

  He looked away, fighting the pull of her eyes. Her breath was hot on the side of his face.

  “And you said no. You could have been the prince of all my consorts. You don’t know how many men would kill to have the things I could give you. It’s puzzling to me. Truly.”

  He spoke through clenched teeth. “Just let Ellen go. That’s all.” His voice quavered, and he hated himself for it.

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Not until you cooperate. If you had only done that in the beginning, we could have avoided all this.” She shook her head. “But this was your selfish little choice. You’re the reason the poor girl is here. And that cute-as-a-button little boy.”

  Ray felt his body tensing. Maybe he could snatch the gun from Billy without getting himself shot. Just throw himself into Billy and grab for it.

  “My, my, what do we have here? An early morning visitor?”

  Ray’s insides turned to ice. Crawford stood in the hall doorway.

  “Ray, was that you sneaking around in the bushes out there? And look at your pants and your hands—you’re covered in blood!” He opened his mouth in mock horror. “Well, I am happy you decided to drop by, bloody or not. It sure saved us a lot of trouble. And your girlfriend will be grateful, I’m sure.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In time, Ray. Don’t be so anxious.”

  “Fuck you,” Ray said.

  Crawford looked at Lily and they both burst into laughter. “Oh, you’re going to be fun. You’re a card, Ray Simon. And your girlfriend is a real whippersnapper, too. I can see why you two hit it off.”

  Ray spat in his face. A gob of saliva dripped down Crawford’s cheek. Crawford sneered. He wiped the spit away with a flick of his hand. He drew his hand back and jabbed his long pinky fingernail into Ray’s eye. In and out.