This Darkness Got To Give

by Dave Housley

  Chapter 67

  July 9, 1995. Chicago, IL. Soldier Field

  Padma felt the connection wane, a thin pop in the line of what she thought of as static, even though she knew it was something entirely different, something there wasn’t a scientific word for yet because the research had been conducted entirely off the books. The biker was down. The folklore wasn’t always right, but it was right about silver bullets, and she knew he would not be getting back up.

  There was that thin pop, a break in the line, and then what she could only think of as a roar. It happened so fast, the two of them connecting on one another, both of their energy so strong, and then all of a sudden it was gone altogether. She expected an explosion, a massive cleansing fire to be raging through the parking lot, the stadium, the city itself. But all she saw was the two men lying on the ground some thirty yards from one another, each bleeding out of the eyes, ears, and nose.

  She saw it all vanish in an instant and knew it had all been folly, the whole thing. It had started as peace, love, and understanding, expanding consciousness, putting the mind past the limits of the body and using science to explore and push through boundaries, and somehow it had all gone terribly wrong, twisted in on itself, morphed, and maybe even evolved into something ugly, petty, and mean-spirited.

  She wondered again that Peter had just up and left. It was amazing. She looked at the bodies, the man who had managed to control minds and the one who had carried Project MKUltra off the books and through decades of dark service. And Peter had just walked away.

  She thought of Hunter S. Thompson riding his Vincent Black Shadow that night some thirty years ago and feeling like he could see the place where the tide had turned and the sixties had fallen back, like a wave into the ocean. She thought she could see that place now.

  EPILOGUE

  If I knew the way, I would take you home…

  Garcia/Hunter, “Ripple”

  August 9, 1995. Ocean City, Maryland.

  “Peter!” He could tell from her voice that something was wrong.

  He finished drying the plate and put it in on the counter. “Sunny?” She was standing in the doorway, still in her waitress shirt and apron, tears streaming down her face. “He’s dead,” she said.

  Pete flashed on all the people she could have meant: her father, grandfather, either one of her brothers, even their new friends from the restaurant. Somehow he knew it wasn’t any of these of these people. “Jerry is dead,” he said.

  She answered with more sobs, fell into his arms. He held her and cried his own tears, surprised at the emotion welling up and unsure whether it was a real reaction to the news of Jerry’s passing, or whether he was responding to her reaction. He loved her. They loved each other, and these sudden bursts of emotion—a sharp pang of love as he watched her brush her hair or talk to her mother on the phone, a deep worry that she was going to wake up and realize how screwed up he was, how much better she could do—still caught him by surprise. He had never really realized how alone he was until he wasn’t alone anymore.

  “I think we should go to the Reef,” she said. He had been looking forward to a quiet night alone, a movie and a bottle of wine and a joint, but he knew also that she would need to be with other people, to feel for maybe the last time that she was a part of the community.

  They walked hand-in-hand in silence through the rental properties, and then the convenience stores and beach supply places. Rosko’s Reef was a one-story dive bar beneath a dingy realtor’s office. “They Love Each Other” was blaring on the stereo and when they entered they saw that Rosko had placed a keg in the middle of the room with a hand tap and a sign that said FREE.

  They filled up a few beers and Pete shuffled to the side while Sunny embraced her friend Paige. “He’s gone,” she said, and they both laughed at the song reference, even as they cried, and then hugged. Pete sipped his beer and stayed to himself and watched Sunny. He was constantly amazed at how deeply she felt things. He wondered if this was how it was for normal people, or if Sunny just felt things a little more deeply. Their friend Stella came into the bar and Sunny embraced her and the two of them cried and wiped tears and then cried again.

  “Hey, Pete,” Stella said. Pete nodded. “How you holding up, man?”

  “He’s a rock,” Sunny said. “Thank God.” She squeezed his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’m okay,” Pete said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. Here, in this beach town dive bar, with people weeping and hugging and quoting lyrics, smoking and drinking and dancing and all of them mourning the loss of a man they had never met, after all that had happened and everything it had revealed, after every step that led him to be in this place at this time with these people, he was finally okay.

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, falettinme be mice elf agin...

  – Sly Stone

  I’m truly lucky to be in a position to give so many well deserved thank-yous!

  Thanks to everybody at Pandamoon Publishing for taking on such a very strange project and making it so much better in the process. Thanks especially to Zara Kramer, who opened our first phone conversation by saying “it’s such a weird book!” in the most cheerful way possible, and never stopped believing in that weird book, and to Rachel Shoenbauer for such thoughtful and wise editing. Thanks to Laura Ellen Scott for opening the Panda door for me and encouraging me to walk through it.

  Thanks to my Barrelhouse family for making such a warm, fun, productive writing community. I love all you good weirdos.

  Thanks to Aaron Burch and Alex Higley for reading early, worse versions of this book and providing insight and tough love. Thanks to Sheila Squillante, Becky Barnard, and Matt Perez for all the steady support and laughs that you didn’t even know were keeping me going.

  Thanks to my parents, Don and Grace Housley, and my sister, Debbie Cooper, for, well, everything.

  The only vampire book I’ve ever read is The Passage by Justin Cronin and the character name of Crabtree is a small tip of the hat to that great book.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t at least say thank you to the Grateful Dead for all the wonderful music and the good times. Thanks to Dave Longaker, Scott Robertson, and Drew Cockley for being my show buddies way back in the day.

  Finally, thanks to my wife, Lori Wieder, and my son, Benny Housley. Writing is such a weird, frequently useless, almost always selfish project and I literally could not have written a thing without Lori’s love and support and boundless patience. I love you both with all my heart and I’m so lucky we’re walking down this road together.

  About the Author

  Dave Housley is the author of four collections of short fiction, including Massive Cleansing Fire, If I Knew the Way, I Would Take You Home, Commercial Fiction, and Ryan Seacrest is Famous. He is one of the Founding Editors of Barrelhouse, a literary magazine, small press, and nonprofit literary organization, and is the primary organizer of the Conversations and Connections writer’s conference, which is held in DC in the Spring and Pittsburgh in the Fall. He lives in State College, PA with his wife Lori and son Ben. This Darkness Got to Give is his first novel.

  Thank you for purchasing this copy of This Darkness Got To Give by Dave Housley. If you enjoyed this book, please let Dave know by posting a review.

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