Darkness Follows

by Mike Dellosso

  “I just need to get out for a little bit. Got some things to do.”

  “At six in the morning?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “OK, six thirty.”

  “Yeah. I guess. So what?”

  Molly ran her hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face. “What’s that in your hand?”

  The manila folder containing the writings.

  “Nothing,” Sam said. “I’m just going out. I won’t be long.”

  He swung open the door and was about to step over the threshold when a different voice stopped him.

  “Momma, where’s Daddy going?”

  Eva had joined Molly on the landing. Molly’s hand was on Eva’s shoulder.

  “Where are you going, Daddy?”

  “Nowhere, sweetie. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Before I go to school?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.” He regretted the harsh tone he’d used.

  “Be careful. Jacob told me—”

  “Eva, please,” he said. “No more about Jacob, OK? He’s gotten you into enough trouble.” He could see the hurt on her face, the hurt he’d caused with his sharp words.

  “I love you, Daddy. Be careful.”

  Sam hesitated, one hand on the doorknob. He couldn’t look either his wife or daughter in the eyes. He needed to get away, get out of the house. For himself, yes—he felt he couldn’t stand being trapped between those four walls any longer—but more importantly, for them, for Molly and Eva. If he stayed, he’d only hurt them more.

  “I gotta go,” he said and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Thirty-One

  THAD LEWIS LIVED IN AN EARLY-MODEL MOBILE HOME TUCKED into a corner of his parents’ farm. It sat at the end of a dusty dirt lane lined with knee-high patches of witchgrass and ragweed. It wasn’t much to look at. The siding had long ago faded to a pasty stone color, the roof was rusting along the edges, and the skirting was gone, revealing the cinder blocks that supported the structure.

  Sam parked his truck alongside Thad’s custom van. A long wooden ramp carried him up two switchbacks to the flimsy foam-core door on which he knocked.

  A voice from the inside shouted, “Yeah, it’s open.”

  He stuck his head in. The place reeked of cigarettes and beer. “Hey, it’s Sam …”

  From somewhere in the back of the trailer Thad called out, “Hey, Sam. Come on in, man. I’m in the bedroom.”

  The lights were dim, the shades pulled, and Sam gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the hazy interior. Stacks of newspapers, magazines, appliance boxes, As Seen On TV gizmos, and a couple of guitar cases lined the walls and occupied the sofa. A big-screen TV sat in one corner, an overstuffed, worn-in-the-armrests recliner opposite it. On the nicotine-stained wall above the sofa a painting of a Civil War battle showed soldiers in gray uniforms clashing with those in blue. Thad had told him it was a depiction of Pickett’s Charge.

  “Follow the hallway back,” Thad said.

  Sam moved past a bathroom on the left and into the bedroom. Thad was in his wheelchair, facing a flat computer monitor. He spun the chair around, removed the cigarette from his lips, and grinned. “Hey, man. What’s cookin’? Long time no see.”

  Thad was a double amputee. He had worked in a machine shop, cutting open a steel drum with a blowtorch, when the gases in the drum ignited and took off both legs above the knees. That was two years ago. He’d lived in the wheelchair since. Said he could never get the hang of prosthetic limbs.

  Sam shook his hand. “Yeah, it’s been too long.”

  “How’re things comin’ with your … ?” Thad pointed at Sam’s head and wiggled his finger.

  Thad was a holdover from the 1970s. Sam guessed the man was in his early forties, though his leathered skin made him look older. He had shoulder-length hair, thinning on top, and a thick, handlebar mustache. He wore a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt and cutoff jeans tied at the end of each stump.

  “They’re coming,” Sam said. “Slowly, but coming.”

  “You back at work yet?”

  Sam shook his head. “Not yet. Just … not yet.”

  “I gotcha, man. And how’s the fam?”

  Thad had met Molly and Eva once at a reenactment in town, and every time he saw Sam, he asked how they were doing.

  Sam shrugged. “They’re great. You done any reenactments lately?”

  The Civil War was Thad’s obsession. He lived off his disability income and what little he’d won in a lawsuit, and he spent his time either reading about the war or reenacting battles up and down the East Coast. Thad’s claim to fame was being the Union infantryman who gets his legs blown off by a mortar shell. He had a whole system he’d designed, complete with an exploding pair of legs, which made it look quite authentic.

  “Yeah, man. In September I did Antietam, and the end of this month we head down to Chattanooga.”

  “Keeps you busy, huh?”

  Thad turned both palms up. “It’s a life. Know what I mean?”

  “Sure do.” Sam pulled the manila folder from under his arm and opened it. “Hey, you got a minute to look at something?”

  “Man, I got all the time in the world. I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

  Sam handed over the papers, the ones with his writing on them.

  “Wait a sec,” Thad said. He snatched a pair of oval, wire-rimmed glasses from the desk. “OK, let’s see whatcha got here.”

  Sam stood, arms crossed, and watched his friend’s eyes rove over the paper.

  Midway through the first page Thad peered over the top of his glasses. “You gonna stand there and stare at me the whole time?”

  “I was planning on it, yeah,” Sam said, smiling.

  Thad motioned to a folding chair along the wall. “You can have a seat, you know.”

  Sam sat, and Thad went back to reading.

  It took him no more than five minutes to get through all four entries. When he finished, he handed the papers back. “Cool stuff. You wrote it?”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Thought you didn’t dig the war?”

  “I don’t. Never been into it.”

  Thad set his glasses back on the desk. “Man, you’re losing me.” He pointed at the papers in Sam’s hand. “That was written by someone who understands the war, who digs what it was like to be on either side, behind a wall of gunfire.”

  “That’s why I wanted you to read it,” Sam said.

  He wasn’t sure if he should dump the truth on Thad or not. He’d only known him a short time. They had met while Sam was doing some work for Thad’s parents, and for reasons beyond either of them, they’d immediately connected. After Sam’s accident, Thad visited him in the rehab center several times, and a bond of sorts, maybe the mutual respect of the disabled, formed. Sam had come here to unload, to get an honest opinion. No backing off now.

  He shook the papers. “I don’t understand a bit of this. Over the past few days I’ve written this stuff in my sleep.”

  “Man, you’re like, givin’ me the creepies here. What’re you talking about?”

  “I don’t remember. I either fall asleep or black out, and when I come to, this stuff is sitting in front of me.”

  Thad raised both hands and leaned back in his chair. “Whoa, now you’re scaring me.”

  “Scaring myself. I don’t know who this Samuel Whiting is, I know nothing about the First Minnesota, and I have no idea what spiking a cannon is. None of it makes any sense to me.” He omitted the parts about the voice of his deceased brother visiting him in the still of the night and the increasing despair taking up residence in his mind. Thad didn’t need to know everything.

  “That’s some freaky stuff, man.” Thad crossed his arms. “Well, for starters, they’d spike a cannon and leave it behind when they retreated, most of the time because a wheel was busted or something like that. They’d drive a nail or anything else they could find into the vent hole to put the cannon out of commission. That way
the enemy couldn’t turn it on them and light up their butts with their own gun.”

  “How would I even know that?” Sam said. “I’ve never heard that term in my life. How could I write about it?”

  “In your sleep, no less.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Weird, man. Just weird. You sure you didn’t read about this guy somewhere or watch a movie? You ever see the Gettysburg flick? Something that would sit in your subconscious and maybe, with all that’s happened in your head, manifest itself this way?”

  “No. I’ve never seen the movie, never read the book, never watched any sort of documentary. Nothing.”

  “And you call yourself an American? And live in Gettysburg, no less?”

  “That’s low, man. Low.”

  Thad smiled and smoothed his mustache. “What about high school? You had to learn something about the battle then.”

  Sam tilted his head. “Really? High school? That was twenty years ago. I remember there was a battle that took place in Gettysburg, and that’s it.”

  “Dude, something’s going on here. You shootin’ straight with me?”

  Sam looked at the writings. Save the familiarity of his own handwriting, they were still so foreign to him. Like seeing his hands attached to someone else’s arms. “Yeah, I’m shooting straight. What else can you tell me? What about this First Minnesota?”

  Thad smiled wide, and excitement sparked in his eyes. “Oh man, now you’re talkin’. The First Minnesota were some bad dudes. They were crazy warriors. OK, here’s the situation. You know where Cemetery Ridge is, right?”

  “Of course. I do live in Gettysburg.”

  “Hey, I don’t know what you know and what you don’t know. Look, on the second day of fighting, the rebels advanced against the ridge. See, if they could knock the Union troops off that ridge, they could swing in around their rear and shut ’em down, take the town, and wham-o, battle over. Now there was one section along the ridge where the Union troops were thin, and that’s where the rebs concentrated their force. Sickles, a Union general, called in reinforcements, but it’d be a good five minutes before they could get there. They needed five minutes. So Hancock ordered the First Minnesota to advance on the rebs. Now, you talk about being outnumbered. This was two hundred sixty-two Minnesotans against almost eleven thousand rebs. It was suicide, and everyone knew it, but it had to be done or the battle would be lost. No doubt about it. So they did it, and you know what? Mission accomplished. They held ’em for ten full minutes.” Thad paused and thinned his lips. “But at a cost. Of the two hundred sixty-two men that charged the rebs, you know how many survived to fight again?”

  “Not a clue,” Sam said. He’d never heard this story before.

  “Forty-seven. That’s an eighty-three percent casualty rate, highest in the history of American warfare. But their action saved the battle. Those were some bad dudes.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson. It’s all very interesting, but I still don’t know what it has to do with me. Why am I writing about it? How do I even know about it?”

  Thad snorted. “Man, I’m not a shrink, just a history buff. If you came looking for a sofa and free advice, you picked the wrong joint, but if you’re looking to find out what that”—he pointed at the papers in Sam’s hand—”means, I can do that. As for the whys and hows, beats me. You must be drinkin’ some freaky juice.”

  Freaky juice was right. Sam’s realization that he had written about actual Civil War events made the journal entries all the more sinister, all the more cryptic. “Can you at least tell me who Samuel Whiting was?”

  “Nope. Never heard of him. I doubt he was with the PA battery, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Atwell was the lieutenant of the battery during Gettysburg. Now, it’s possible Whiting was with another battery, got separated, and joined up with the PA Independent. That wasn’t unheard of. I’ll do some investigating and see if I can dig up anything.”

  Sam shook his friend’s hand. “Thanks, Thad. For your time and the history lesson. Really.”

  Thad pointed again. “You mind if I make a quick copy of those?”

  “Not at all.” Sam gave him the writings.

  Thad scanned them into his computer before returning them. “I hope you find what it is you’re lookin’ for, man. I’m here for you, you know that, right?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  And then Sam left the trailer, but not to go home.

  Thirty-Two

  IT WAS NEAR LUNCHTIME WHEN SAM PULLED HIS TRUCK ONTO Hancock Avenue and rolled down the windows. This late in November there weren’t many tourists around, so the road was all but abandoned. A navy Suburban with Virginia plates was parked up ahead. On either side of the road sat granite and concrete monuments and lines of restored cannons. This was Cemetery Ridge, where the fighting had taken place, where the 1st Minnesota had committed their suicide charge to save the battle and probably the war. They were crazy warriors.

  Stopping the truck in front of a large monument with the word “Minnesota” on it, Sam cut the engine and breathed in the fresh air. On top of the marker a statue depicted a running Union soldier, an infantryman from the 1st Minnesota, rifle held at his waist, bayonet in place. Down the road a few hundred yards stood the huge, four-columned memorial for the Pennsylvania troops. A kid on the steps, a teenager, appeared to be looking Sam’s way. Probably at the Minnesotan in full stride.

  Sam got out of the truck and gazed up at the monument. It stood fifteen, twenty feet high, and towered over the area. He wondered what it must have been like to make that charge. The adrenaline-laced fear, the anger, the rage, even the pride those men no doubt felt. They had to have known they were making their last charge, their last stand. That was it for them. They would never kiss their wives again, never hold their children. What made a man willingly do such a thing? Bravery? Fear? Insanity? Dumb obedience? His thoughts turned to Samuel Whiting, the mystery man. In the latest journal entry, Whiting was fed up with the war and blamed the whole thing on Lincoln. Why not point a finger at the most powerful man in the country, the man responsible for the conflict, the man who had ripped the nation apart and pitted brother against brother?

  Sam stopped himself there. He was thinking like a crazy man, thinking like this Samuel Whiting was a real person and these writings were really his journal entries. They weren’t. They were a hiccup in Sam’s brain, a misfire between neurons. Nothing more. He must have read something in the past about the war. Thad was right; he’d certainly learned about it in high school. His less-thanhealthy brain was concocting scenarios and playing games with his memories. Digging deep, finding information long buried and forgotten.

  He probably should see a shrink.

  Another thought entered his mind: what if the country broke out in war now? A modern-day civil war over one of the hot-button issues. Sam was no political junkie, but he read the newspaper and watched the evening news. He knew what was hot and controversial. And he knew this Stephen Lincoln was the latest lightning rod to hit the political scene.

  Some said he was a front-runner for the next presidential election. Some hated him. The papers reported that he’d cosponsored a bill to amend the Constitution, outlawing abortions once and for all. Those on the left cried foul and warned that if he got away with this and won the presidency he wouldn’t stop there. They said the country would be divided, ripped right down the middle.

  How many lives would have been saved if someone had assassinated Lincoln before the war rather than after?

  Sam had no idea where that thought came from.

  He pushed it from his mind. It was nonsense anyway.

  He walked around the monument and noticed the kid on the steps of the Pennsylvania memorial still looking in his direction. The teen was tall and lanky, with a head of shaggy brown hair. His round-shouldered posture reminded him of …

  Sam’s breath caught in his throat, and he coughed once. It couldn’t be. It was impossible, ridiculous. The
n again, much of what had happened in the past two days was impossible, and yet it had happened. He took three steps toward the memorial and stopped. The kid raised a hand to shoulder height and waved it back and forth. And that’s when Sam noticed the black, shimmery, anti-glow surrounding him.

  Goose bumps ran up and down Sam’s arm and tightened the flesh on the back of his neck. A sick feeling cramped his stomach. The scar, the blasted scar, began aching again. He ran his fingers along its length.

  He knew that wave, that dark halo.

  It was Tommy. No doubt about it. His brother. His dead brother.

  Sam shoved both his hands into his pockets lest he be tempted to wave back. There was no one else around. The Suburban was gone. He was alone. He looked back and saw Tommy still standing on the steps. He looked about seventeen, the age he was the last time Sam saw him. The time he …

  You did what you had to do, son.

  In the distance, in town, a car horn squawked. But here, in the midst of these stone memorials, in the midst of death, the silence resonated. Sam and the Tommy-image stared at each other like two gunfighters in the Old West.

  “Why are you back?” Sam said, not nearly loud enough for a person at Tommy’s distance to hear. That did it. He was certifiably insane, talking to a hallucination, a trick his brain was playing on his optic nerves.

  Regardless, he said it again, louder this time. “Why are you back?”

  “You’re the one, Sammy.” It was Tommy’s voice, close, as if he were standing just feet away instead of a hundred yards or more, and having a casual conversation.

  You’re the one, Sammy.

  Those words rushed back from the past like a winter wind, buckling Sam’s knees. He went down, head buried in his hands. The grass was cool and the ground hard. He shut his eyes and plugged his ears. He wanted no part of this, no part of his past, no part of Tommy, no part of Samuel Whiting. But, unbidden, the memory came back. He was in his bedroom in the old farmhouse and …

  Mom and Dad started yelling downstairs. They were at it again, and once again it was about Tommy. Something had happened at school. Something bad.