Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  “Tanks, bub. It’s all part of the challenging career of housewifery.”

  Will smiled. Becca bore the boredom and the chowder — but just barely.

  He followed her into the bedroom.

  Thinking it was best that he tell her now.

  He dumped the basket onto the bed and Becca started to sort the clothes into four piles. He stayed beside her to help.

  “I have to go out tonight.”

  His words hung there while he dug out his oversized shorts from the more petite articles of the rest of his family.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to do some research. For that case tomorrow. I lost time today, and the law library is open until twelve.”

  She shook her head. “I hope your kindly old professor will be moving on. He’s a nice old man and everything. But —”

  Will didn’t say anything, and he felt Becca turn and look at him.

  “He’s staying another night.” Will made his face look sheepish. “Just one more night. He’ll have someplace to go . . . tomorrow.”

  “Oh, brother. Well, thanks for the warning. He’s a nice man . . . but he kind of scares Beth.”

  Will listened. But he drew close to Becca and put his arms around her.

  “Hmmm . . .” she said. “In the mood for afternoon delight?”

  It wasn’t that, he thought. Not at all …

  He pushed her straight hair aside and kissed her neck.

  His hand went around to her front and cupped her breasts. She backed against him. He was already hard, and it felt so good to have Becca pressing against him.

  “Beth is just next door,” Becca whispered.

  He pulled her closer.

  “Shut the door,” he whispered. “Shut it and lock it.”

  Becca pushed against him once more and he felt that wonderful pressure, the perfect way her body moved against his.

  Then she moved away, to the door. Shutting it gently. Turning the lock.

  Then back to him.

  She unzipped her skirt. Kicked out of her shoes. She pulled her sweater over her head.

  “Can’t make too much noise,” she hissed. “There’s Beth … and Grandpa, downstairs …”

  He smiled.

  She came to him.

  He pulled her tight while she worked at his belt, pushing his pants down. Pulling him out. Stroking him, urging him to move more quickly now.

  Not knowing.

  Not ever suspecting, he thought, poor girl.

  That this was it.

  The last time.

  For them.

  Such a terrible thought, a thought to make his stomach sick with the pain. But then there was just her hand, working on him, and her lips searching his face, pressing against him, until they found his lips. And her tongue dancing wildly inside his mouth.

  And then that’s all there was, as they tumbled back onto the bed, strewn with clothes.

  For a few brief moments, that’s all there was . . .

  * * *

  38

  Beth was still up. Will knew that. He heard her chatting to herself, issuing severe instructions to the rambunctious crowd of softies that loitered on her bed.

  Will walked into the room, dark and heavy with the sleepy smell of a small girl’s bedtime.

  “Good night, sprout,” he whispered, leaning down close to her.

  For a second Beth didn’t answer — lost in her fantasy. But then she said sweetly —

  “Good night, Daddy.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. A few strands of her thin hair brushed his lips.

  “Daddy,” Beth said, “when will you be back?”

  Will made a fist and reached up to his mouth, covering it, nearly moaning, nearly crying out.

  Can’t. He thought. Can’t …

  He waited until it passed.

  “Soon, honey. Real —”

  A sudden lurch. The dark room exploded in a fireworks display. He touched the bed to get his balance.

  “Soon,” he whispered huskily.

  He backed out of the room. Wounded, bleeding, dying inside while his little girl snuggled against the pillow. She pulled her sheets up tight, safe and sound forever.

  In the hallway, he turned around.

  Will walked past Sharon’s room.

  He looked at her, bent over her schoolwork, the radio on low. Only the syncopated hiss of the rap music could be heard.

  But Sharon’s room was bright, and he couldn’t hide his feelings if he went in there. So he stayed in the shadows. “Good night, babe,” he said.

  Sharon looked out, into the darkness, and squinted. “Dad? Night.” Nice and casual. Just one of a thousand good-nights to come. She smiled and went back to her work.

  Then Will spun around. I’m going to fall down, he thought. I’ll stumble right down the stairs. Already the house was an alien thing, a lost place, a place he dimly remembered.

  He went down, the stairs. And —

  There’s no other way.

  No other . . .

  The bag was at the bottom of the stairs, right by the front door. Becca was doing something in the dining room. James stood by the door. The TV was on, masking what James whispered to Will.

  “Are you all right?” the man said. “You look —”

  Will grinned. “Yeah. I know. I look pretty bad.”

  James is worried. He’s worried that I’m falling apart, that everything might fall apart. James has done things like this before. What was the figure — 100, 120 exorcisms? He knows about this . . .

  But then Will looked in the man’s eyes, and he saw fear there too.

  “You’re shaking,” James said. He reached out and grabbed Will by the shoulders. “Steady, Will. Steady. It’s all right, Will. They’ll be fine. They’ll —”

  Will was too embarrassed to explain that it wasn’t his family — right then — that had him terrified.

  I don’t think — he thought — I don’t think I’m cut out for this … sacrifice.

  It’s just a variation of the runaway-truck scenario.

  Which went like this:

  A runaway truck is barreling down the street, careening out of control, right at your blue-eyed toddler. Your sweet little girl. Your darling blue-eyed boy.

  And you see that you can probably knock your kid out of the way. But that’s about it. You’d be stuck there while eighteen gigantic wheels rolled over you.

  So what do you do?

  Every parent knew the one, correct answer.

  You move. You save your kid. Without a thought for your own life.

  And here I am, Will thought.

  The truck roaring right toward my family.

  “Will —” James said quietly, still holding on to him. “You’re okay?”

  Will nodded. “I’m —”

  Becca came into the room.

  “Oh, I thought you left already,” she said. She looked confused seeing James standing there so close to him. He’s propping me up, babe. Getting me out the door.

  Then James backed away, smiling, and Becca came closer. “Drive carefully,” she said. “What time do you expect — ?”

  “Late,” Will said. “Don’t wait up.”

  She smiled, her eyes looking at him, the confusion fading. “Don’t worry. I’m beat. Are you — okay? You getting a cold?”

  Will forced a smile. “Sure. Maybe.” He shook his head. “Just tired.”

  He turned away. He looked at the bag. By the door.

  And walked over and picked it up. Then, like any traveling salesman, he walked over to Becca and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips.

  “Good night,” she said.

  Will said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. He nodded to her, then to James.

  And he turned and opened the door, a zombie-man walking as straight as his wobbly zombie-legs could carry him. He shivered as if he were braving a January morning dressed in just his underwear.

  Will kept walking. down the steps. not looking back.<
br />
  Out to his car. Which he was about to drive a block away, and leave it for the rental car.

  He looked at his block. This quiet street they lived on.

  Sleepy and safe, already the pumpkins glowing from people’s windows, trying to scare away winter.

  He got into his car and turned on the ignition.

  The digital clock flashed on.

  It was nine o’clock.

  And it was time he went to Manhattan.

  * * *

  1:15

  * * *

  39

  Will wouldn’t have recognized him.

  People change. We shed our high school images like butterflies emerging from a cocoon. Or flies screwing out of their maggoty pupas . . .

  Will’s wrist throbbed.

  But he knew the voice. It still had that clear, cutting edge. The perfect lawyer’s voice. A debater’s voice.

  Will said his name.

  Remember the power of names, James had said.

  “Tim . . .”

  Will backed up another step. The bag was heavy, dangling from his hand. His mangled wrist throbbed. He jabbed it into his leather jacket like Napoleon. He felt the wet sear, growing.

  “Pretty messy down there, eh, Will? You’re lucky —”

  Was there a smile? Will wondered. Was that a smile there?

  “Lucky no cops came by.” Tim Hanna looked around at the buildings, at the night sky. “There are a lot of cops on the streets. Looking for me, I guess.”

  Another laugh.

  Tim Hanna took a step forward. Another. Will backed up. “Which is a waste of time, of course.” Another smile. Another step. Will wished his wrist would stop throbbing. Damn, if only it would just stop throbbing.

  The pain flashing on and off, hot and cold, driving any chance for a clear thought away.

  “But I guess you see how impossible that is, don’t you?”

  Will nodded.

  At nothing.

  Tim Hanna had disappeared.

  Will heard movement from behind him. He turned around.

  And there was Tim Hanna behind him.

  “Impossible, Will. They’re dealing with a” — a pause, a grin that caught the light —”a higher power here. The only fly in the ointment, the only bug in the plan, the only —”

  Tim walked toward him again, and Will backed up. But then he stopped.

  What does it matter? What the hell does it matter? If he can just appear behind or in front of me anywhere? What the hell difference does it make?

  “The only little kink in the plan is you. The others all carried their weight, their burden, like good little soldiers. You — you escaped free —”

  “What — what are you talking about?”

  The bag, Will felt it hanging down, heavy, useless.

  But he listened, and tried to think about what he was going to do . . .

  Got to remember . . .

  “I knew that Narrio’s ride would end prematurely. I saw the fucking rail, Will. No surprises there. None at all. And so did Whalen, and Kiff —”

  “They knew?”

  Tim Hanna nodded. “Sure did, my boy.”

  And Will thought: Were they too drunk to stop him? Or maybe drunk enough to want to see what would happen.

  The bag. Got to get it. Pull it up. Open it.

  He looked at Tim.

  “But why do you want me?” It sounded pathetic, a pitiful plea.

  Tim Hanna laughed. “You were part of it from the beginning . . .” Hanna took a step. “You’re not so innocent — never bullshit a bullshitter. And you had a family, children. Untainted. They would finish it. That was part of it.” Another smile. “From the beginning.”

  Will nodded. He knew that.

  Now, thought Will, I’ve got to do it now, before he comes closer and —

  He yanked the bag up, pulled it tight against his body. The latch was still open. He locked the bag in the crook of his bad arm.

  My bag of tricks.

  Watch the signs, James had said. Watch for the stench, the noise, the signals —

  He reached into the bag and touched the jar. The lid was loose and Will fiddled with the cap while it was still inside the bag, trying to twist it off.

  Fiddling crazily, he looked up at Tim Hanna — a man with golden hair, piercing eyes. Dressed in a dark suit. His skin smooth and tan even under the crime-stopper tungsten lamps. He was right there, in front of Will.

  The lid fell off. Will pulled out the jar.

  “By the power . . . of God —” Will muttered.

  Like some deranged idiot.

  Will went to toss the water.

  Only feet away, at Tim.

  But the jar grew warm, then hot, hotter, and a plume of steam erupted from the open mouth. The water bubbled and Will had to let the jar, so damn hot, slip through his fingers.

  ‘‘‘You didn’t really think that would work, did you?” Tim Hanna laughed. Then he said, “By the power of Mickey and Donald, Goofy and Pluto, Goobers with peanuts, a Penis for Venus, and Walla-walla Bing-Bang!”

  The words echoed off the asphalt, off the concrete, off the buildings.

  Will pulled out the cross, shaking it free of its velvety wrappings.

  Again, he yelled, “By the power of God, all evil shall go, all- —”

  Hanna sneered. And Will thought he smelled something. A wind that blew across his face, filled with the gaseous odor of methane, a sticky warm gust of foul air.

  “Don’t say that fucking name!” Tim Hanna screamed. He raised his fist. “You will never say that name to me!”

  Will held the cross up, pathetically. His bad arm holding the bag, the other holding the cross aloft.

  Then it burned. Grew hot. It’s a trick, thought Will. Just a trick. It’s not really hot, and I can —

  Hotter, until the metal creaked, bending, and it went soft in his hand. Will cried.

  His fingertips burned. He tried saying the words.

  “Power . . . God . . . commands Lucifer, commands all evil, every spirit . . . put to . . .”

  He had to let the cross slide through his fingers, crying out as it turned cartwheels in the air, spinning to the ground, splattering to the sidewalk.

  Will cried.

  He heard the noises.

  The chattering, the clicking sounds.

  Listen for them, James had said. Take hope from them.

  His control is not perfect. Then it’s time.

  “I saved the worst for you, Will. The absolute fucking worst. For you. And your goddamn family.”

  The clicking filled his ears, but beneath that he heard another sound.

  And he looked to the side of the buildings. To where the noise, the cracking sounds, were coming from.

  He saw long, blackish things moving back and forth, hugging close to the crack of the building.

  No, Will thought, not blackish, brown. He saw a line of them emerge into the purplish light.

  “Big, aren’t they? The biggest fucking cockroaches, Will. Do you know how a cockroach eats? They’re maniacs, absolute monsters. They tear at their food, eating everything.” Tim smiled. “I’ll let them save your brain for last.

  As above so below, thought Will.

  It’s all scripted. He heard James . . .

  We can change the script. It’s about time, Will, time and power . . .

  He knew that he really shouldn’t look at the building, to the sounds that now circled him. But God, he had to, couldn’t avoid looking down, around —

  At the sea of brown. At these giant roaches, moving fast, excited, climbing over each other, surrounding him, hundreds, thousands, millions.

  Waiting for a signal.

  “There’s just one thing I have to add,” Tim Hanna said, “before we begin —”

  Now, thought Will. Turn away. Don’t listen.

  You must act, James had said. When you see the signs, smell them, hear them, you must act then. He won’t expect it.

  Will dug into the b
ag and pulled out the book. It had a black binding, and ribbons dangled from it.

  James’s own Bible.

  Been through a lot, he’d said. A lot of battles.

  You’ve got to wrestle with the devil . . . not in your name, but God’s.

  Will held it up. Tim Hanna seemed unalarmed.

  The rest had been a lure. Show him that I have no weapons. That I’m defenseless.

  Then the words. Memorized, repeated at almost unintelligible speed. The book held out. Keeping me focused on where the power, the strength come from.

  Telling Tim Hanna. It’s not me.

  Telling his master.

  Because . . . because that’s who the game was all about.

  The roaches seemed directionless, moving over his feet, suddenly unleashed from any control.

  Will sputtered, babbling quietly, but loud enough to be heard over the clicking noise, the sound of teeth gnashing, eager for their earthly feast.

  “I command you, whoever you are . . . unclean spirit, and all your companions who possess this child of God —”

  Will kept his eyes on the book, off Hanna, away from his face. Can’t get distracted. And then faster, running the words together at high speed, but louder now, starting to yell —

  “By the mystery of the Incarnation. The Passion. And Resurrection and Ascension. Of Our Lord Jesus Christ!”

  A howl. A mind-numbing scream. From just ahead. Will kept looking at the book.

  He felt cold. A million voices hissed at him.

  You don’t believe anything, you shit. You goddamn atheist fornicating sonuvabitch. You don’t believe anything and —

  Right. That’s right. And this won’t work. This is nonsense.

  And it means nothing because there’s no God, no life, no —

  No.

  He made himself say the words. “By the Holy Spirit, be summoned to judgment, leave this soul. Leave and obey the word of God.”

  He screamed the last words again.

  “Obey the word of God. By the power of Lord Jesus Christ, leave and —”

  Will took his eyes off the book. He looked at Tim Hanna.

  Hanna backed up, staggering now, oh, yes, reeling like a fighter taking another smash to the head.

  Will intoned the words again.

  The book felt cool in his hand, impervious to anything Hanna would do. Will walked forward, through the sea of roaches. He heard them crunch and crack under his steps. Some crawled absently and undirected onto his shoes, a few big ones up to his pants leg, but Will just kept repeating the words.