Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  The rear door stood ajar. Although he heard only his own breathing as he moved through the kitchen toward the bedrooms, he could not mistake the presence of another. Quick glances through the first couple doors showed the children’s rooms. Toys littering the floor didn’t surprise him. However, the clothes and mattresses in every room had been shredded. Feathers, foam, and bits of cloth lay over all surfaces in both rooms, with smaller bits hanging in the air circling gently in the breeze of slow moving ceiling fans.

  Grunting and growling came from the end of the passage. With a deep breath, Ryan turned the knob to the last bedroom. He eased the door open, bracing for an attack. The noises issuing from a shadow in the far corner stopped.

  “You.” A gravelly voice sounded from the massive, rising shadow.

  Trying to step into the room, Ryan pushed harder against the door. Rags and foam, obvious remnants of the bed, caught against the wood and bunched behind the door. Unlike the children’s rooms, this one reeked of blood, sweat, and urine.

  “Hank.” Ryan nodded respectfully, using Jacobs’ first name to try to put him at ease. “I want to help you.” He waded through the debris and shut the door behind him.

  “You stole my wife,” the gravely shadow accused.

  “She needed a doctor, Hank.” Ryan leaned casually against the doorframe, thumbs hooked in his pockets.

  “She’s mine, fucker!” Jacobs bounded across the room.

  Ryan stepped to the right at the last minute and the lunging man dove, headfirst, into the frame. Jacobs crumpled to the floor, groaning, spittle bubbling in his throat.

  “She loves you.” Ryan moved from the form and the scent of decaying meat emanating from the man struggling to rise. “She’s hurt.” He shifted his weight at the sound of a projectile whipping through the air, and avoided a book winging by his head.

  “Hank Jacobs, you’ve been beating your wife.”

  The man–beast stood and roared at him.

  “I know it’s not you, not who you are. You’re a police officer, Hank. You can beat this. Control it.”

  With another roar, Jacobs started slowly toward him. Light from street lamps streaked through the window, illuminating Jacobs’ face.

  His hair and beard tufted in places, like he’d been pulling at it. Prominent brows shadowed wild, wide eyes that watched Ryan’s every move, almost glowing when the light caught them right. His mouth gaped, rotting breath whistling past sharp teeth, and foaming drool sliding around the corners.

  “Control it, Hank,” Ryan said again.

  The creature tilted his head and something moved in the hair. Ears that had grown larger and more pointed twisted toward Ryan, who could only hope he reached the man inside. Got his attention, though. Ryan continued to speak soothingly while Jacobs approached.

  Jacobs stood directly in front of him now, fetid breath wafting across the short distance between them.

  Ryan removed his hands from his pockets. “I think I can help you, Hank.” He searched the twisted face for some sign of humanity. “Trust me. Let me help you.”

  Hank stared through Ryan, tilting his head slowly to one side, as if the words would somehow collide within and make sense. After a pregnant pause, his eyes focused again, and slowly, the warped face bent into a grin. Not a pleasant smile of happiness. The expression shot a cold chill down Ryan’s spine.

  As the lips parted, white pointy teeth ground against one another until finally, they parted and a short barking laugh emerged. “Get out of my house,” Jacobs wailed. Gripping Ryan’s shirtfront in a lightning move, he threw him into the door, which splintered the paneled wood on impact.

  Ryan rolled to his feet, stumbling slightly over the remnants of the door. Jacobs — no not Jacobs anymore — a creature that lunged, its fingers extended like claws. Ryan stepped aside at the last second, gripped its charging back, and pushed. It sprawled head first into the shattered remains of a dresser.

  “Damn.” Ryan cursed his inability to get through to the once respected cop. He glanced around for something to use to defend himself. His gaze alighted on a fallen picture. A happy family smiled, surrounded by a silver frame, which seemed to glow in the faint light from the street.

  Ryan ripped the side of the frame from the rest, shaking glass from the silver bar.

  The creature stood with a grunt, swaying a bit and shaking its head, flecks of spit flinging from its hairy mouth.

  Ryan shifted the weapon from one hand to the other and crouched. Bracing for the imminent attack, with the piece of picture frame extended, he waited for the freight train of fur.

  The impact rocked Ryan to his heels. His hand vibrated with the crunch and slide of the silver fragment into the beast’s body. Roaring filled Ryan’s ears then went silent. The body of what was once Hank Jacobs slipped from his arms to the floor, a surprised expression across its now bare face.

  Standing there, shaking with adrenaline, Ryan peered closer at the man. The frame piece protruded from Officer Hank Jacobs’ chest. Yes, he had transformed back. All signs of the animal had gone, leaving a peaceful–looking man in his mid–thirties, face relaxed as if in sleep.

  He took a piece of shredded cloth from the floor to wipe away prints from the silver frame. A cold voice within him told him nothing else could have been done. And yet, as he walked from the house into the night, he silently mourned for the life he’d had to end and for the family forever changed by a horror they would never understand.

  • • •

  Realizing she knew more medical examiners than physicians in this hospital, Lydia wandered to a nurses’ station for directions to the infectious disease specialist. The haggard–looking nurses did not notice her, and understanding working long hours in a thankless job, she tried to wait patiently. She leaned on the counter and tented her fingers, resting her chin on the tips.

  The three women wore scrubs in bright colors. The one closest to her had yellow covered in cartoon characters in what seemed an attempt at a cheerful appearance, marred only slightly by the residue of a brownish substance streaked like a sash across her front. This one left the station and walked down the hall without so much as a glance in Lydia’s direction.

  A deep breath and five seconds with her eyes shut allowed Lydia to keep her composure. She cleared her throat.

  Finally, a nurse with short black hair, wearing blaring bright pink scrubs, turned and leveled weary eyes at her. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak to a doctor who specializes in infectious disease. Can you please give me a room number?” Lydia held up her badge and ID for the nurse’s inspection. “I realize you’re busy tonight, but I’d appreciate your help.”

  The nurse nodded at the badge, shuffled a couple more files, whispered something to the nurse in aqua scrubs, and motioned Lydia to follow.

  “Detective Davis.” Lydia offered a hand while they rode to the third floor.

  “Annalyn Murry. Sorry if I seemed short. Things have been hopping tonight.” At Lydia’s nod, she seemed to want to say more. “Actually, I needed to step away for a sec.” A smile lit her exhausted features. “I may get to use the bathroom on the way back.”

  “Five minutes to breathe can feel like a two-week vacation,” Lydia replied from experience. “Even if they are spent in a quiet bathroom.”

  The nurse led the way off the elevator. “That’s the truth.” Annalyn showed her down a hallway, then opened a door and stuck her head in. “Dr. Sutton?” After a mumbled reply, the nurse pushed the door wider and motioned Lydia to enter.

  “Enjoy your vacation,” Lydia said by way of a thank-you, and received a grin in return.

  A glass wall sectioned the office. In front, the doctor displayed all the trappings of a successful physician. Large wooden desk, probably mahogany. Diplomas and certificates matted and framed. And of course, the doctor himself, a man in hi
s mid–forties. He had brown eyes and hair, save for a silvering at the temples, and skin the color of milk chocolate. His rich, deep voice, despite his standing and extending a hand, belied aggravation at being disturbed. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, doctor.” When he remained standing, she pursed her lips and sat anyway. “I only have a few questions pertaining to a case I’m working.”

  “Yes, I know the case you’re working. I watched your interview the other day.” He sat and folded fingers across his stomach. “Ask your questions.”

  Attempting to ignore the urge to smack the arrogant expression off his face, she spoke directly. “Is there a disease, infection of some kind, transmitted through a bite or wound that can cause irrational behavior in humans?”

  “You mean aside from the obvious, rabies?”

  “My understanding of the virus is limited, but I thought a person with rabies could only live for a couple weeks without treatment once they’ve been infected.”

  “Ah, no, that’s a common misconception. A person can live anywhere from weeks to years without developing symptoms, however, once symptoms start most people die within ten days.”

  “People have survived it, though.” Lydia fisted her hands together on her lap.

  “Yes, most have severe brain damage. One person recently lived and is doing well after being put into an induced coma. It’s a fascinating case really. A fifteen–year–old — ”

  “Dr. Sutton,” Lydia interrupted. “In this instance, the suspect, who I believe is the initial carrier, has not had medical treatment and has been what you would call symptomatic for at least six months.”

  “Ah, then rabies would be a long shot.” He glanced up as a woman in a lab coat slid aside the door in the glass partition and tugged a mask off her nose and mouth.

  “Doctor, the sample is ready for you to view.”

  “Ah, yes. Thank you.” He looked to Lydia. “Well, detective, do you have any further questions?”

  “A few.”

  “Then you can talk to me while I review my results.” He handed her a mask, then tied on his own. “We received a cadaver this morning whose bowel exploded, and the coroner doing the autopsy found a growth that needed further analysis.”

  They walked into Dr Sutton’s lab where the low temperature made goose bumps form on her arms. The body lay naked on an autopsy table, open for inspection, but the doctor walked to a lab station and reviewed a report on the screen.

  “You needed the entire body?” She approached the corpse and peeked inside. Most of the organs had been removed, and those in the chest were reinserted while the lower half remained empty.

  “Clues can be found anywhere.” He studied the screen. “Your other questions, detective?”

  “Yes.” She inhaled sharply. Staring into the cavity, she wanted to touch the emptiness and had, in fact, reached a finger toward the body.

  Misinterpreting her gasp, the assistant apologized, “The smell is distracting. I have a cream here.” She handed a tube to Lydia. “Just spread it on your upper lip.”

  “Thank you.” She held the tube until the assistant walked away, then set it on a counter. The smell didn’t bother her. Something about it seemed rather alluring.

  She shook her head to clear it. Where had that come from?

  Just question the doctor and get out of here.

  “What about a disease that can change DNA? Perhaps disguise it to appear like that of an animal?”

  “Nothing can do that aside from deliberate engineering, of course.”

  “Of course.” She stood over the cadaver again. Her pulse raced, her breath came in shallow gasps, and she struggled to swallow the excess saliva pooling around her tongue.

  “Detective?” Arms pulled her from the table. “Detective, are you all right?” Dr. Sutton stared into her eyes and snapped his fingers.

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. Sorry, I must have gotten dizzy. I think I’m done for now.” She reached to shake his hand. “May I contact you if I have further questions?”

  Still appearing concerned, he nodded. “Sure.” He caught his assistant’s eye over his shoulder. “Please give the detective my card.”

  “Get something to eat in the cafeteria before you leave,” the assistant advised as she walked Lydia to the hall.

  Chapter 12

  After running out of the hospital to her car, Lydia rested against the smooth surface. What was going on with her? What was up with that body? And what the hell possessed her to lean in like that? She shuddered at her behavior.

  Tilting her head back against the car, she stared at the night sky. Light pollution of the city blocked all but the brightest stars. The red star, Betelgeuse, glinted and winked hypnotically.

  It put her at the campsite, staring at the fire when the creature lunged from the bushes.

  She screamed and crouched beside her vehicle, her gun finding its way into her hand. Panting, she scanned around. Parking lot.

  “Holy shit. What’s wrong with me?” she asked into the night.

  “You should watch your language, young lady.” An elderly woman carefully picked her way between a gap in the cars.

  “Sorry.” Embarrassed, Lydia holstered her weapon and climbed into her sedan. “I’m just tired,” she muttered to herself.

  When she backed out of the parking space, she tried to focus on getting to Ryan’s apartment, pulling those fantastic smelling covers over her face and slipping into oblivion.

  Actually, she still should run by her office and file a report on what happened at the Jacobs’ house. But then, she would enjoy it more if she wrote from her laptop with a glass of wine in her hand while curled on Ryan’s couch. She passed the turn for the precinct.

  For so long, she’d never found it possible to call a place home. She’d lived in her apartment for years and could never shake the feeling of eminent departure. No collections, not many personal items, no attachments, because she never knew when she’d leave.

  Ryan’s apartment was different. The mismatched furniture and shag carpet comforted, as if the apartment wrapped her in an aura of safety and warmth. She smiled over that for a minute.

  Then her mind wandered to the scene at the hospital. What had she thought when she leaned over the body? Succulent. Appetizing. It smelled so heavenly. She ran her left hand through her hair.

  “Oh God, I wanted to rub my hair in it.” A retching noise escaped her throat.

  She’d experienced filthy situations before, and on several occasions, been covered in blood from wound spatter. She’d wrestled suspects in alleys where all matter of foul things found their way into her hair. But never before had she considered putting them there on purpose.

  “Oh, that’s just gross.” She shuddered.

  Flexing her fingers on the steering wheel, she glimpsed her nails. They extended a good quarter inch longer than before, and the tips appeared as white as a French manicure.

  Bile rose again. Oh, this isn’t right.

  What if she’d caught it? She grew more convinced than ever her serial killer attacked to spread a disease. The doctor confirmed nothing existed that fit this description. Of course, that didn’t mean all possible diseases were known. Maybe something from the rainforest, something that got away from a government lab.

  Scenes of The Stand flashed in her mind. Not all that likely. And the movie had it right, the military would swarm if something got away from them. Homeland Security would have caught wind of the case and forced her off it weeks ago.

  The highway she traveled stretched into the darkness. Headlights only illuminated a small patch of asphalt. This stretch of road cut through the last bit of nature left in the city — a wildlife preserve.

  Not much wildlife lived there. The only residents seemed to be squirrels, raccoons,
and rabbits. Deer or other larger animals would have to traverse much of the city to live in the preserve.

  Suddenly, a squirrel darted into the pool of headlights and froze. Slamming the horn and jerking the wheel, she barely avoided the petrified animal. The right front tire caught the road’s soft shoulder and skidded. She spun the wheel the other way and immediately started to fishtail. In vain, she pumped the break, tugging the steering wheel one way, then the other.

  For a second, she thought she recovered control, but both passenger side tires caught gravel, and the car went onto two wheels. She screamed. The gravel under the tires gave way, slamming the car to the ground and bouncing her head hard against the ceiling. She gripped the door handle while the car slid down an embankment.

  She fought for breath as the car crashed into one tree after another. The airbag deployed. The car spun like a top, and finally came to a rest with the hood burrowed into a tree trunk.

  Moments lasted hours after the world stopped whirling. Lydia lay against the deflated airbag. The white powder packed with the bag to prevent rotting settled lightly on her cheek. She blinked, and groaning with effort, tried to sit up.

  As all nerves reported injury, pain like fire filled her senses. She gasped and managed to lean back. Panting with anguish and unable to wrap her mind around what just happened, she stared dully out the windshield at the bark of the tree. The word oak floated from the depths of her memory.

  She registered a faint movement to her left. She snapped her head around at the crack of a twig and the rustle of leaves. Something came closer.

  Moving as quickly as she dared, she unbuckled her seatbelt and drew her weapon. She thought perhaps someone witnessed her go off the road, and maybe came to help. Or maybe the Butcher readied to finish her off.

  At a thud on the hood, she aimed her gun over the steering wheel. It took her a millisecond to recognize the cause of the noise. A squirrel munched his acorn and watched her with black beady eyes. She saw the little critter clearly. Moonlight? Glancing out her window at the canopy of branches above. The moon sent its illumination through the leaves. Magical.