What Happens in the Darkness

by Monica J. O'Rourke

  Panting heavily, coughing from the dust assaulting her lungs, Janelle slid out from beneath the dead child, unable to stay there another second. Gasping, she pulled herself out of the car, stumbling over huge chunks of rock that hadn’t been there before.

  She retrieved her flashlight from the back of the car and searched the area when she could finally see again.

  Chunks of brick and rock had fallen, crushing the soldier, pinning him against the caved in wall. The moron must have shot his own cave-in. She couldn’t tell if he was dead and didn’t care, but it was time to get out.

  She stopped at the car where she had been hiding and glanced inside, seeing flashes of the dead family that had saved her life. The smell of their death had become embedded in her skin; she didn’t want the visual to go along with it.

  She turned abruptly to flee but stopped short. That … man … was back … grinning at her like he knew the world’s best joke. Her brain tried to work this out. How had he found her?

  “Little girl,” he crooned, his syrupy voice an assault on her senses.

  She looked over her shoulder, as if expecting an opening in the solid wall of debris, as if somehow one had just opened up to allow her to escape.

  “What do you want?” she whispered, facing him again. He’d inched slightly forward. “Leave me alone!” she cried, swallowing back the taste of dust and rot.

  Behind her the soldier stirred, cursed quietly in some language unknown to her. He shouted, “You!”

  She looked back. The soldier was struggling to his knees and searching for something—his gun, she was sure.

  If she stayed, it would surely mean her death. But she had to get past.

  “Screw this,” she muttered, running full speed at the man blocking her path, no longer afraid of him, realizing she had faced far worse than him and not wanting to have her head blown off by some moronic soldier.

  She charged the skeletal figure and ran right through him. She glanced back and watched him evaporate into a wisp of smoke. No time to reflect on whatever the hell all that had been …

  The flashlight beam led the way toward the exit, and up ahead she heard voices. Foreign voices. Foreign words. Janelle hid beneath a car as more soldiers rushed past her, searching for the missing soldier, she guessed. They must have heard the gunshots.

  The soldier’s cries still deep inside the tunnel sent the other soldiers following his voice.

  She waited another minute and then left, this time making it out.

  Oh great. Dusk.

  Janelle wondered if she would be safer inside the tunnel.

  Chapter 13

  Patrick traveled as far south as Delaware before halting his procession, instructing them to go on without him.

  They looked confused and upset, still unsure of themselves and how to proceed, despite their thorough instructions.

  Patrick ran his fingers through his slick dark hair, shaking his head. He looked at the ground for a moment, as if fascinated by the dirt. “Listen to me,” he spat. “You’re not children, for Christ’s sake.”

  No one responded.

  He pointed to one. “You. What’s your name?”

  “Paula,” the young woman—who would forever remain a young woman in her thirties—answered quietly. Her fingers twisted in the ends of her long, dark, kinky hair, and her skin, pale now in death, was once similar in color to her hair. Her African heritage gave her a regal ebony tone, and even now it stood out, as if protesting the night.

  “Paula, you’re the leader now. You know where to take them. You know what your mission is.”

  Chewing on a cuticle, she nodded.

  Patrick threw up his arms. “You’re vampires. React—do something!”

  They were afraid, and he was impatient. He’d forgotten how it felt to be a new vampire—forgot the terror, the knowledge that life no longer existed and death would never come. Not the death they had once known. To be immortal … he now took it for granted, yet two hundred years earlier it had terrified him as well.

  But the passage of time had made him forget. And it had made him hard.

  Paula yelled for the group to follow, and they fled into the southern darkness, and all that remained beside Patrick was the wind whipping through the trees.

  He headed back north. Close to the home base, a small outfit of soldiers sat huddled over a campfire, roasting marshmallows on birch sticks like they were on a family outing.

  Patrick approached them so quickly and quietly that he had attacked one, his fangs finding the man’s throat, and then severing the carotid artery of the other before the third even dropped her marshmallow into the flames.

  She threw her hands up like shields before she remembered her gun. But it was too late.

  He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him, sinking his teeth into her throat, blood gushing from her fresh wound, drenching her uniform, pouring down her neck and chest.

  Her body dropped to the ground, toppling across the other two.

  Patrick sat in front of the fire and crossed his legs. The marshmallow stick still dangled above the flames, so he picked it up, examining it, and popped the toasted candy into his mouth. Food wasn’t the sensory pleasure it had once been—once upon a time he had even studied to be a chef—but he remembered the pleasure it had once given him.

  The three dead guards finally began to stir.

  Patrick realized he had tripled the odds against him, that the enemy soldiers would probably be as unpredictable as Natasha had been. And there was no reason to believe she wasn’t the norm, that her disloyal, erratic behavior was simply the way enemy vampires would act. Vampires being fiercely loyal, he believed his new group, changed by the blood pulsing through Patrick’s veins, would be loyal to him. This was the way it was supposed to work. He had to hope he was right about that.

  They slowly struggled into sitting or kneeling positions, each examining his or her body for the source of blood covering their clothing and their skin.

  “What happened?” one of the men asked, unfastening the Velcro closures of his flak jacket. He brushed his spiky black hair with his palm. His round Asian face was strikingly pale in the moonlight, his almond-shaped eyes red-rimmed, crimson slits.

  “You speak English,” Patrick said.

  The soldier nodded. “We all do. Part of the training for the Global Dominion.” He glanced at the other soldiers and shook his head. “Some of us are better at it.” He barely had an accent.

  “Names.”

  “Rank and—”

  “Just names,” Patrick said. “And where you’re from. I don’t care about your rank.”

  “Kem Lee. China.”

  “Narin,” the woman said. “Korea.”

  The third soldier looked up from the ground. “Amdallah Sayed. Saudi Arabia. People call me Sayed.”

  Patrick told them his name and then said, “My children … each of you has been given a gift, a most special gift. You have been reborn into life eternal.”

  They exchanged glances and smiled, powder-white teeth reflecting the starlight.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Patrick said, squatting beside them. “Tell me how much I mean to you!” He pointed at Kem. “Tell me how much you love me.”

  Kem took Patrick’s hand and held it to his cheek. “I would die for you,” he whispered, nearly falling flat because of his weakened state. “You have given me life. You are my god!”

  Narin and Sayed did the same, clutching at Patrick’s arms or caressing his boots.

  Patrick was pleased with this conversion.

  He hid them in an abandoned apartment complex, leaving them in the windowless laundry room in the basement. The rest of the night he spent gathering his fresh kills, increasing the numbers in his small army, bringing them back to the laundry room as well.

  About an hour before sunup he instructed them all to rest, telling them to remain in hiding, although he knew it was instinctual to rest during the day and avoid sunlight at all cos
ts. He put Kem in charge of the group.

  “But where are you going?” Kem asked, his small eyes troubled. “Why are you leaving us?”

  “I’ll be back. I have a few things I need to take care of. Just obey me, Kem, don’t question me. You have to trust that I’ll come back.”

  Kem nodded and sighed.

  “Don’t let them out of this room. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. As you wish.”

  “For anything, Kem. They’re not to leave. Not to take a piss, not to get a drink.”

  “A piss?”

  “A joke, Kem. Since we no longer need—never mind. Just do as I say.”

  Patrick faced the rest of the group. “Kem is in charge. You will do exactly as he says. Any questions?”

  None.

  “Get some rest. Under no circumstances are you to leave this room. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and you’ll all feed then. Is this clear?”

  It was clear.

  Later Patrick would ditch Narin and Amdallah when they became too unstable. Kem, however, would prove to be a terrific right hand.

  Patrick left, heading north once more, his internal clock telling him there were forty-five minutes left before sunrise. The trip back would only take ten.

  ***

  Janelle decided she was through with tunnels.

  Train, river, canoe across the Hudson River—it didn’t matter. There had to be another way off the island of Manhattan. And with those—whatevers—running around the streets at night, there was no way she was staying there.

  She found a ten-speed bike, which made traveling uptown from the Holland Tunnel a lot easier than walking. It was still dark, but she watched the sun creep up bit by bit.

  The bike rode her quietly along avenues and side streets, and she carefully pedaled, avoiding signs of life, fearful of soldiers. The victims of the bombings littered the streets, and they were rotting away, more slowly than normal because of the cool temperatures, but the smell was thickening. Before the soldiers came, the survivors had attempted to move the bodies into piles, to store them in basements or build funeral pyres, but they hadn’t gotten far. Body parts jutted out from beneath fallen rubble as skyscrapers had toppled, piles of ground concrete and metal girders decorating the streets like enormous Tinker Toys.

  Even worse, the number of soldiers seemed to be increasing; groups of them, huddled around campfires or resting in trucks, seemed to be everywhere. Janelle had hoped to be saved by the police or the army, but she saw dead cops and soldiers everywhere, even saw them being held as prisoners along with everyone else. There were just too many enemy soldiers to be able to fight and win.

  In compound after compound, hundreds of prisoners were being herded into makeshift jails, their light clothing offering poor protection against the cold of early November.

  Janelle wanted to help but knew she would be captured—or killed.

  Screams in the night chilled her far worse than the late-fall air. Gunfire followed the screams, and Janelle cried out, afraid of the carnage, grateful she couldn’t see what was happening. She dropped the bike and crouched against a wall, her hands pushed against her ears, tears streaming down her face, her knees quivering.

  She was so tired and so alone. She wanted this to be over.

  A sudden noise made her jump. She peered around the corner of the building and saw yet another prisoner holding pen.

  There was a terrible commotion as the guards, who seemed upset, exploded into frenetic activity, running everywhere at once, screaming into their walkie-talkies.

  Janelle couldn’t make out what they were saying—there was too much static, too much jumbled yelling and shouting. The soldier with the radio kept jamming it under his chin, screaming into it, “Over! Repeat! Repeat! Over!” What she thought she understood was that they were under attack at a different location, and the other soldiers were screaming for help.

  Truckloads of soldiers took off, uptown. The street signs here stated Madison Avenue and Eighteenth Street, although the signs were badly damaged and hanging by metal threads. This was a quiet area—had been once, anyway. Banks and offices had lined the streets where hollowed-out, annihilated shells of buildings now stood.

  More soldiers disappeared on foot, leaving a half dozen or so behind to guard the small compound.

  Janelle crept closer, hiding behind the one remaining truck.

  The air crackled with radio static. The soldier stared at it like it was a lump of crap in his hand. “Should we kill them?” he asked the other soldiers. “Let’s just kill them! I can’t stand this anymore.”

  “Shut the hell up and pull yourself together,” another soldier yelled, stepping up and grabbing the panicked man’s arm. “Take a deep breath or something.”

  With shaking hands, the panicked guard grabbed a pack of smokes from his pocket, pulled one out, and spent several seconds trying to light it.

  Another soldier finally grabbed the matches and lit the man’s cigarette for him. “Don’t be such a pussy,” he was told. “See? It’s quiet up there now. They have it under control. I’m sure they’ve—”

  Screams and gunfire cut him off mid-sentence.

  Three of the five remaining soldiers took off in the opposite direction, running downtown along the avenue, disappearing into Madison Square Park.

  “Now where the fuck are they going?”

  Two remained, including the high-strung soldier with the cigarette. “Maybe it’s a goddamn ambush. Maybe they drew everyone away and plan to attack!”

  “Fuck you. They who? There is no they. We’re in command here. This is our land now!”

  “We should do this,” he cried, smoke circling his head. “We should kill the prisoners and get the hell out of here. What if … what if it’s those monsters?”

  “Those what?” He laughed, and leaned against the truck. “Oh, fuck you already! Yeah, right, monsters. Well if it’s monsters, comrade, we’ll blow their fucking heads off.”

  “Regular bullets can’t kill them,” he said fiercely, throwing the cigarette down and crushing it beneath his heel. “That’s why they’ve been swapping out our bullets.”

  “Bullshit,” he spat. “Bullets can kill anything.”

  “No. They say they’re vampires. They can only be killed with special wood bullets, or a wooden stake.”

  “A stake?” He laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Through the heart. Haven’t you ever seen Dracula?”

  He waved his hand and scowled. “I like Chuck Norris.”

  The panicked soldier raised his Glock and aimed it at the crowd.

  “No, goddammit, not yet! You’re gonna get us in deep shit if you do that.”

  Janelle sneaked behind the soldiers and climbed into the back of the covered truck. The floor was littered with an assortment of guns, but she had no way of knowing if they worked, or how to use them. She picked up a gun that was almost as big as her. Checking it for ammo was out of the question. The only way to test it would be to fire it. And as much as they might deserve it, Janelle didn’t think she could kill anyone, not even the enemy.

  Still, she might be able to scare them. Just long enough to free the prisoners. They didn’t have to know Janelle was clueless about guns.

  She cautiously climbed back out of the truck with the enormous gun cradled in her arms. It weighed a ton. When she hit the ground, she hoisted it to shoulder level and crept up behind the soldiers.

  Several prisoners spotted her but wisely remained quiet, although they did look rather worried at the size of their would-be rescuer.

  “Freeze!” she screamed. “Hands up!”

  The soldiers slowly raised their hands, and just as slowly turned to face their captor.

  Tiny twelve-year-old Janelle, all of five feet, stared them down. Crap. What would Denzel do?

  The high-strung guard began to laugh, and he dropped his gun to his side.

  The other guard lowered his weapon as well.

  “I’l
l shoot you if I have to!” she cried, lip trembling, tears clouding her vision. “I don’t want to but I will!” She moved toward the prisoners, feeling for a lock. She found a padlock. “Give me the key!”

  “Mmmm,” the panicked guard said, ignoring her, arms crossed over his chest. “You know how to fire one of those?”

  “Yuh-yes. ’Course.”

  He nodded and licked his lips. “Hard to fire with the safety on.”

  Safety? No, he was bluffing … she’d seen too many TV shows. She knew he was trying to trick her. “Let them out,” she demanded. “And I won’t shoot you.”

  Shaking his head, the calmer guard approached Janelle. She quickly aimed at his head and pulled the trigger—and nothing happened.

  He plucked the gun from her hands and grabbed her by the hair. “I wasn’t lying,” he said with a smirk. “Little idiot.”

  She screamed and punched at him.

  “Knock it off!” he yelled, slapping her across the mouth, knocking her to the ground. She quickly climbed to her feet.

  “Brave little nigger,” the nervous guard said. “Cute, too.”

  “Keep it in your pants, comrade.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Maybe she should shoot these prisoners.”

  “That’s rotten, Demitri. But I love it. As soon as I’m done with her.”

  Demitri laughed and shook his head. “First you call her a nigger, and now you wanna fuck her?”

  The nervous guard shrugged and kicked Janelle’s feet out from under her, knocking her to the ground. She landed solidly on her tailbone and clamped painfully on her bottom lip, crying out in pain.

  The prisoners began to scream as the guard lowered himself on top of the hysterical child, but Demitri smashed the butt of his gun into the fence, yelling for them to shut up.

  “No,” Janelle cried, pushing at him, fighting his hands, trying to match his movements.