What Happens in the Darkness

by Monica J. O'Rourke

***

  Martin picked him up and laid him on the leather sofa in the living room. It wasn’t precisely empathy he felt; that was not an emotion he was exactly capable of. Rather, it was a sort of sadness, feeling a sense of loyalty to the man. Jeff had been his friend, and Martin was as close to him as he was to any human. He wanted to protect him, and this was all he could think to do. Jeff clearly wasn’t taking him seriously. The situation had become dangerous, and the last thing Martin needed was Jeff in the way. He didn’t want to start worrying about the foolish man. He had enough on his mind.

  Martin knew Jeff was breathing. He would live. And now maybe he would listen.

  Chapter 11

  Patrick led his group, approximately twenty vampires, bloodlust in their eyes and in the empty pits that had once housed hearts. His was the first group out, and it was an experiment.

  Across fields he led them, through dense trees surrounded by sparse foliage, the heavy scent of pine filling lungs and nostrils. Winter sat heavily on the air in the form of snow threatening to fall, but this didn’t disturb them. None felt the effects of late-fall country weather. None cared about prevailing snow and gusting winds.

  Their mission was to deal with the enemy. Nothing more. No need to increase their numbers, from the enemy or from prisoners.

  For now, anyway.

  Martin clearly enjoyed his tight-fisted control, Patrick noticed, and didn’t necessarily agree with Martin’s methods of leadership. Still, there was that bothersome loyalty issue … although its stranglehold was lessening…. Patrick’s brain worked fervently as he led the group, searching for the enemy. Their time was limited—he had to keep close track of time, actually—and they had to do as much damage as possible before the hour grew too late. He needed to guard time and distance with equal importance.

  The smell of the humans ahead reached them before they were in sight.

  Patrick stopped the group at the crest of a hill and had a great vantage point in which to observe the camp. Hundreds of black-clad soldiers moved about the base, chatting in groups, leaning against military vehicles, wandering from tent to tent. There were prisoners as well, corralled like livestock in makeshift cells surrounded by barbed-wire fencing, exposed to the elements in clothing far from suitable for the conditions.

  There was laughter, shouting, and bottles freely passed from grubby paw to grubby paw as the soldiers fought the cold in their own way.

  “Remember,” Patrick instructed his group. “Leave the prisoners alone. Leave them imprisoned for now. We’re only after the soldiers. Do you understand?”

  They understood. And they were eager to get started. Eyes blazed fury, bloody crimson, and fangs dripping with saliva descended from gum lines. For all this was to be a first kill, and Patrick knew they ached for the taste of blood, for the feel of flesh giving beneath the pressure of their bite.

  “Kill them all!” Patrick cried, leading the charge down the hill and arriving at the compound moments later. They attacked, moving swiftly from victim to victim, unseen until it was too late.

  Patrick ripped the black hoods from their heads, tearing out throats, sinking his teeth in their necks, drinking quickly before dropping the dying or dead soldier to the ground and moving to the next. There were too many to kill for him to waste time, to be leisurely about the attack.

  Gunfire filled the air. A bullet whizzed past Patrick’s head.

  The storm of bullets that followed ended up embedded in the chest and shoulder of the vampire standing beside him. He expected the vamp to brush off the residue from his clothing as usual, to be unaffected by the bullets. Instead, the young recruit tipped to his knees, clutching his chest.

  Patrick stopped and cocked his head. “What happened?” He assumed for a second he was still too weak, that he needed to feed, but something else seemed to be going on.

  He looked up at Patrick. “I … I don’t know …” Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

  The world stood still for Patrick as he focused on this vampire. He no longer heard the shooting or the yelling, no longer witnessed his small army attacking the enemy soldiers. Bullets continued to fly past him, but they barely registered.

  Why was a bloodless creature who hadn’t yet fed suddenly leaking blood?

  Patrick grabbed him by the arms, lifting him. Where the bullets had landed small holes had formed, but unlike regular bullets, these seemed to be making an impact. The vampire’s flesh sizzled and hissed behind the bullet holes. Smoke poured out of the wounds, which began to increase in size until they fully engulfed the vampire. Patrick jumped back. Moments later the vampire was a funeral pyre, screaming as his body was incinerated, finally disappearing in a puff of smoke and ash.

  Patrick stared at the pile of dust at his feet. “What the fuck?” The fight resumed, Patrick now fully aware of his surroundings.

  He heard the guards screaming in foreign languages, and Patrick watched his group descend on the gunmen and bludgeon them with their own guns.

  He wanted to warn them to stay away from the bullets, to avoid getting shot, but they seemed to have learned this for themselves, probably the same way he had.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, narrowing his eyes, his lips tight. What the hell had they done to the bullets? Vampires were no longer impervious to their weapons.

  Still—they could inflict damage of their own.

  He attacked every soldier unfortunate enough to be within striking distance. He used his hands to rip them apart, to pull the entrails out of their stomachs. Gore poured from their bodies from the force of his blows, and he loved watching their brain matter leak like runny Jell-O.

  He grabbed one soldier and punched him in the throat. The man’s eyes bulged in terror as the breath was ripped from his body. Patrick hovered and watched him slowly turn various shades of red and blue. Just before the man died, Patrick sliced him open from collarbone to groin, separating the quivering flesh, rubbing his hands together over the vapor rising from the man’s steaming body. The soldier watched in abject horror as Patrick severed the man’s testicles and shoved them down the dying soldier’s throat.

  The prisoners had formed a pile in the center of their open-air prison and were screaming and cowering, attempting somehow to get behind one another. Patrick noted with dismay that several small bodies were being trampled and crushed at the bottom of the pile in everyone’s panicked attempts to escape the bloodbath.

  “Please,” he said, moving toward the prisoners. The more he advanced, the more they retreated, until they were now huddled against the razor-sharp barbed wire, screams pouring from those being crushed against it, the trampled and blood-soaked bodies glistening beneath the moonlight.

  “No, stop!” He had reached the fence and they were hysterical, the smallest in their crowd being crushed against the razor fencing.

  “Stop!” he screamed, but their panic was overwhelming, and they were beyond hearing him, beyond comprehending his words.

  He raced to the exit and tore off the locks, throwing open the doors. “Go now! Get out! Go!” But no one moved.

  He tried talking to them, reasoning with them, figuring their mass hysteria would eventually have to end, that someone in the crowd would come to his or her senses. No one did. They cringed and cowered like whipped puppies, whimpering and crying and begging, while others were catatonic.

  Finally Patrick gave up and motioned the others to him.

  “That’s it?” one asked. “We just leave them here?”

  Patrick nodded. He led his group away, and they sat up on the hill for a while and watched. Eventually, a few of the prisoners ventured away from the safety of the huddle and wandered out of the cage. A few followed, then a few more, until all the surviving prisoners left the jail, stealing away into the night.

  ***

  Janelle sat in the dark room, which was so quiet it made her ears ring.

  The little blonde girl slept in the bed; Janelle heard the faint softness of the child’s breath. Cur
led up in a recliner she had pulled near the window, Janelle stared out at the deserted street. Occasionally there was movement: a dog investigating piles of trash or looking for remains in overturned cars or in mounds of concrete and rubble. The occasional pack of rats—rats the size of large, overfed housecats—scurried by.

  She leaned back in the chair, pulling a blanket over her legs, her eyes closing in exhaustion. The faint moonlight consoled her, felt warm somehow in spite of the terror she had witnessed. In spite of her fear she drifted off to the sleep she so desperately needed and had so bravely earned.

  ***

  The warmth from the sun felt good on her face. This was something no one had experienced in weeks, since the start of the war. So much ash and dust had kicked up into the atmosphere, forming a layer in the sky that acted as a barrier. It wasn’t that the sun wasn’t penetrating, but its rays had been hazy and dim.

  So now, lying beneath it, Janelle smiled as she stretched her arms out. She remembered her plan to make her way south and find her family.

  There were people in the streets now, gazing at the sky, maneuvering around the concrete piles, heating food over makeshift campfires built over emptied trash cans.

  Janelle roused the blonde girl and got her out of bed. The child immediately started crying, digging into her eyes with her index fingers. Janelle ignored the tears. She understood why the girl had cried the night before, but this was getting stupid. Everyone had lost someone. Janelle had lost her entire family. What was this kid crying about? Was she ever going to stop?

  They wandered outside, Janelle pulling the girl along by her wrist, the child trying to break free. Janelle let go and the girl, from the force of her pulling in the opposite direction tumbled backward, head over heels, landing on her butt, and she promptly began to wail.

  Janelle shut her eyes, shaking her head. She was a child herself, not old enough to care for one so young. She didn’t know what to do.

  A woman rushed forward and scooped the hysterical girl up in her arms, rocking her, speaking soothingly to her. The child, to Janelle’s great relief, finally stopped crying.

  “Are you girls together?”

  Janelle shrugged. “Since last night. I saw her dad …” She licked her lips. “He died.”

  “Oh.” The woman glanced down at the girl in her arms. “What about her mother?”

  Janelle shrugged and raised her hands.

  The woman nodded. “What’s her name?”

  “She won’t tell me. I dunno. Do you wanna keep her?”

  The woman’s face brightened, her weary brown eyes showing signs of life. “What? Really?”

  “Well, yeah. I can’t take care of no little kid. ’Sides, she never stops crying.”

  “How about you? Who takes care of you?” The woman rocked again, looking for somewhere to sit. Janelle noticed the cuts on the woman’s arms and legs, the chunk of flesh missing from her chin.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, pointing at the woman’s face.

  “I was in a building that collapsed,” she said quietly. “My husband and …” Her eyes filled with tears. “My kids.” She was no longer able to speak. Her eyes fell and studied the ground. “They didn’t make it.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. Her parents hadn’t taught her the proper way to express her condolences. “Then you should keep her. Maybe you were meant to have her. She has no parents, I guess. And you need a kid.”

  The woman began to sob, covering her face with the hand not holding the child, shaking her head. Janelle didn’t know if it was in response, or just from crying.

  “You’d better feed her. I know she must be hungry. And she never stops crying!”

  “What about you?” she asked, wiping her eyes with her fingertips. “Where’s your family?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. You’re on your own?”

  Janelle nodded. She glanced around at the groups of people who had apparently found one another in their despair.

  “What about … at night? What do you do then?”

  Janelle knew what she was talking about. “I hide at night.”

  “Me too,” the woman said. “Have you seen …?”

  “Yeah. That’s how her dad died. Well, not died, exactly. I think he’s one of them now.”

  “Oh my God … I thought I was imagining them. I’d hoped I was.”

  “You weren’t. I saw them kill a bunch of soldiers.”

  “So did I. But sweetie, not everyone has seen them, you know? You should be careful who you mention them to.”

  “So … what are they, do you think?” Janelle asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear her say it.

  The woman shifted the girl, standing her up, brushing her long blonde hair out of her eyes. “They only come out at night. They kill people by … ripping out their throats. They move so fast that sometimes they’re a blur.” She paused and then quickly added, “But I don’t know what they are.”

  Janelle shook her head. “Yeah you do. Vampires, right?”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, no, honey! There’s no such thing. More likely they’re some kind of weapon the military created. Some kind of super soldier or something.”

  “Super soldier? Isn’t that kind of make-believe?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. No more make believe than vampires, right? But I guess it could be true. It has to be. There’s no other explanation.” There was a desperation in her eyes, a look of terror.

  “But you don’t believe in vampires?” Janelle asked wearily.

  “No! Of course not.”

  Janelle dusted off her knees and rubbed her hands together. “I’d better get going.”

  “Where?”

  “South. Got family in Georgia. Do you know how to get there, by the way?”

  The woman’s mouth fell open. “You can’t go by yourself, sweetie. You’re too young.”

  “I’m not young, I’m twelve! Nearly thirteen.” She thought for a moment about the date, forgetting what day or even what month it was. October. But October what?

  “I have to go look for my gramma.”

  “Why don’t you stay with me?”

  Janelle shook her head. “You can tell me how to get there, or not. But I’m goin’.”

  “How? Do you plan to walk?”

  “Well … I don’t know how to drive! And I don’t think the buses are running.” She grinned.

  “It’s hundreds of miles at least.”

  Janelle shrugged. “I’ll find a map. We learned how to read maps in social studies.”

  “Wait.” The woman grabbed Janelle’s arm. “Please be careful, sweetheart. Make sure you carry a big stick. Or better yet, a knife. And a cross. And a stake. And keep off the roads. Keep away from the soldiers.”

  “Wow. I will. I’ll be careful. You be careful too!”

  “I really wish you’d change your mind.” She pulled Janelle close and hugged her. The blonde girl started crying again and stuck her pinky in her nose.

  “I have to find my family. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  The woman sighed, releasing Janelle. “Get a map. I don’t know how to get there, unfortunately. My husband always made our travel plans. All I know is that you have to go through Jersey, which means going through one of the tunnels, or over the GW Bridge. I think. But I have no idea how else to get off this island.”

  Janelle nodded. Island. She’d forgotten Manhattan was an island. Her sense of direction was good, something she’d picked up from her camping days. She’d make her way south.

  “Why don’t you at least find a bicycle?”

  “That’s a good idea.” She turned and started to walk away.

  “Be careful, honey!”

  ***

  Patrick went out alone the following night.

  He sat beneath a three-quarter moon, its thin light penetrating a few dark clouds. Closing his eyes he could imagine it was the sun, and he could almost feel its heat. But be
ing anywhere near the sun would mean death for him. Or any vampire.

  He harbored no hatred for Martin, who was responsible for Patrick becoming what he was. Occasionally he longed for his humanity but never shared those feelings with the others. He knew he was in the minority on that subject and discovered it almost taboo to fondly recall your past life. It was considered a travesty, an admission of sorts that your loyalty was misplaced because the only thing on your mind should be the one who shared his gift with you.

  Ah, gift. This was how the zealots felt. That vampirism was a gift and not the dreaded curse Patrick felt it was.

  He lay back in the tall grass, not feeling the chill wind, feeling instead the blades dancing on his skin, caressing his face. If he could feel remorse … if he could feel anger, or hatred … but he no longer felt these things. This thought pattern was destructive. Vampires didn’t feel.

  That’s what he’d been told, anyway.

  They didn’t feel love and hate and anger and jealousy and remorse or any other emotion. To feel was human. Vampires are feral; they survived, and they existed.

  Yet …

  He knew better. He could see, in Martin’s behavior alone, that everything he had believed to be true wasn’t. Martin chose friendships, something Patrick had always marveled over. Maybe that was the reason Martin kept the others away from Jeff … to protect himself, ultimately. So no one else would see Martin expressing his feelings.

  Patrick had often wondered about that. Loyalty made sense, but friendship was foreign to him. He could recall that feeling from his childhood, now so long ago, the camaraderie among his friends. But those feelings were fleeting, if they’d been there at all, just phantom wisps of memory. If he were to actually call anyone friend, it would be Dagan perhaps, or a member of his small family. But not Martin. Theirs was not a friendship.

  Hatred, however, was a feeling he remembered well. It was the one emotion he had never let go of, and one he practiced daily, knowing someday it would be useful.

  Hatred for Jeff. A burning claw, hooking itself into his intestines, ripping around in his chest, buried where his heart once rested, beating a bloodless path through his veins. Now sat a coldness, consuming the echoing emptiness with its strangling hold.