The Dark Ones

by Anthony Izzo

  The bartender, who was bent over, hands on knees, breathed heavily. Milo called to him, “This place have a basement?”

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the bartender straightened up. A green stain dotted the front of his T-shirt, but he didn’t take notice. The man’s bald head was the color of a lobster and a vein throbbed in his temple. “No way this crowd would fit.”

  “We’ll bring a shoehorn,” Milo said. The crowd remained mostly silent. Milo thought it a good time to address them and urge everyone to adjourn to the basement. They would have to be orderly. Didn’t need anyone causing a panic.

  He was about to speak when a cloud, darker than the surrounding night, rolled in front of the bar’s windows. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the cloud was deadly. Whether the mist was released by terrorists or from a chemical spill he didn’t know, but venturing into the cloud would mean an awful death.

  The crowd in the Alligator turned toward the windows. The bars on the other side of the street dissolved in the darkness. Milo squinted. A shape, roughly man-size, silhouetted in the fog, walked in front of the window, then stopped. Two more joined the first. The shape pulled back its arm, and something dark and heavy looking appeared in its hand. It was with sick dread Milo realized the man meant to smash out the glass.

  Milo looked back over his shoulder. A hallway ran off the main bar. There were doors on either side of the hall. One of them was bound to be the basement door.

  Returning to Debbie’s side, he took her arm and said, “We’re going to the basement.”

  Eyes wide, she nodded and said in a voice that broke his heart, “Whatever you say, Daddy.”

  They wound around the tables. Behind him, the glass was smashed, low cracking sounds followed by the higher ping of the shards being broken out. Someone screamed. Milo didn’t look back. He gave Debbie a gentle nudge and urged her forward.

  In the hallway, Milo twisted the knobs of the first two doors and found them locked. At the end of the hallway, a red exit sign glowed over a steel door. Next to that was the last door in the hall. If that wasn’t the basement, they were in trouble, for the only other option was to return to the bar area. He didn’t even want to think about going outside.

  They reached the door. He pulled and it opened to a staircase.

  As they began to descend the stairs, Milo saw two rough-looking guys emerge from one of the other doors. One of them had a shiny revolver in his hand. They seemed to pay Milo no notice, both of them streaking toward the bar area. Milo shut the basement door behind him, and they moved ahead, Debbie going first.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they came to a storeroom with all manners of beer cases stacked against the walls. Blood stained some of the cases and the concrete. What the hell happened down here?

  “Why is there blood? Why?” Debbie asked.

  The tremor in her voice indicated the verge of panic.

  Across the basement was another door. He would comfort her in a moment, but first he wanted to see where the door led. Before they had descended, Milo removed his flannel shirt and stuffed it under the door. It was possible the mist might eat through his shirt, but all he could do was hope to keep the fog out.

  Above them, the floorboards thudded. He heard screams and squeals, as if the patrons of the Alligator had seen a rat. From the sound of the commotion, it would have to be a rat of epic proportions to inspire such panic.

  Milo tried the other door. It was locked. He looked around the room. The walls were windowless, which would prevent the mist from seeping in that way. Not satisfied, he tugged on the doorknob again. To his surprise, a muffled voice on the other side said, “Go the fuck away!”

  Now, from upstairs, Milo heard the distinct pop of gunshots. The crash of furniture reverberated against the floor. It sounded as if a group of rhinos were charging through the bar.

  Encouraged by the presence of someone on the other side of the door, and hoping for an escape route, Milo kicked the paneled surface. To his surprise, the knob turned and he stepped back to avoid being hit with the door. It swung open, and he was nothing if not surprised. A tough-looking guy in a bloodstained poncho stood in the doorway, a claw hammer in his hand. Milo peered over the man’s shoulder. Inside the mattress-lined room, another man sat handcuffed to a chair. His shirtless chest dripped blood.

  The tough-looking guy said, “You’re not Ed.”

  “And I’m guessing you’re not the butler.”

  That seemed to set him off. The man raised the hammer to swing at Milo. Milo shoved the guy, who stumbled backward, but quickly regained his balance. The guy moved forward for another swing, raising his arm again. Milo lunged forward, hoping to close the distance and minimize the arc of the swing. The guy swung his arm.

  Here it comes, Milo thought.

  The hammer swung down and clipped him on the shoulder. Milo drove through it, plowed into the man, and wrapped his arms around the guy, pinning one arm to his side.

  The man in the chair yelled, “Kill him!”

  The guy shifted his weight. Milo shifted with him, the two of them partners in a crazy dance. They wound up on the floor, Milo taking in the coppery smell of blood on the poncho. They rolled around, Milo squeezing the man’s arm and attempting to keep it at his side. The guy wound up on top of him.

  From the corner of his eye, Milo saw Debbie hurry around the two combatants. She picked something up off the table of tools. Milo looked up at the man, who raised the hammer. With his blood-slicked poncho and his wild eyes, he looked as if he’d gone mad. Milo raised his arms to block the coming blow.

  Instead of getting pummeled, he saw Debbie swing a handheld sledge that hit the guy’s head with a thwock. The man’s eyes glazed, he dropped his hammer, which fell to the ground, and he slumped over. Milo managed to shove the unconscious man off him. He stood up.

  His daughter stood with the sledge gripped in two hands the way a samurai warrior might wield a sword. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Blood flecked the hammer’s head.

  “Deb, honey, put it down.”

  She looked at him and for a moment, she didn’t seem to recognize Milo. Then the hammer slipped from her hands and banged on the concrete. Milo went to her, embraced her. She buried her head in his chest, sobbing. He stroked her hair and said, “You did the only thing you could’ve done. It’s okay.”

  In a muffled voice she said, “I killed him, didn’t I?”

  Milo looked down at the man. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. “He’s alive. Don’t know what that shot to his melon did, but he’s alive.”

  From behind Debbie, the guy chained to the chair said, “Can we have a family reunion some other time and get me out of here?”

  “You going to be the next one that comes at me with a hammer?”

  “I don’t give two shits about you, buddy. Look at me. I need to get out of here and clean out these wounds.”

  Two nails jutted out from his shoulders, and a host of scratches and cuts leaked blood onto the man’s arms. Milo eyed the tools spread out on the table and figured the man in the rain poncho had even worse things planned for his captive.

  Milo gently pushed Debbie away. “I’m going to help this guy, okay?”

  She wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. Then she nodded, apparently satisfied that Milo was not going far.

  “Who is he?” Milo asked.

  “Name’s Hark. Involved in some heavy shit. Once in a while grabs someone off the street, tortures them for sport.”

  Milo looked at the man in the chair. He had trouble believing Hark would snatch someone off the street at random. No doubt the man in the chair was a business partner, most likely in crime. He couldn’t bear to leave the guy sitting there. Regardless of Hark’s beef with the man, he didn’t deserve to be tortured. It made Milo’s stomach roll.

  Deciding the man in the chair would not cause them harm, Milo said, “Keys?”

  The man in the chair nodded, indicating Hark. “Check his pockets
.”

  Milo crouched down and dug through Hark’s pockets until he felt the key. He removed the key and unlocked the man’s handcuffs, asking, “You have a name?”

  “Mike,” he said, not moving his arms. Milo realized why he didn’t move: nails still jutted out of his triceps.

  Looking at the nails, and the blood that dribbled down, Milo said, “You must’ve really pissed this Hark guy off.”

  Mike winced. “You think?”

  “Let’s get those nails out of your arms. Hopefully they’re not too deep.”

  Milo brushed past Debbie, who leaned against the table, arms crossed. She kept sneaking glances at Hark, as if he might jump up and yell boo. She had struck Hark in order to help Milo—self-defense if ever there was a case—but he could see the effect of her actions weighing on her. As he searched the table and found a pair of pliers, he patted her on the arm. “How you doing, kiddo?”

  “Is he going to be okay?” Debbie asked, indicating Hark.

  “Don’t know,” Milo said. “Give me a hand?”

  She joined him at Mike’s right side. Milo examined the nail. It didn’t appear to be driven too far into the skin. It still must have hurt like hell, though. “Deb, hold his arm.”

  Mike turned his head away. Debbie pressed on Mike’s arm and Milo squeezed the nail head with the pliers. He pulled and as it came out, Mike stifled a yelp. They did the other side, and Mike sprang from the chair, saying, “Bastard Hark, hope you killed him.” He then snatched a short piece of pipe from the table and headed for the door.

  Milo set the pliers back on the table. He didn’t want to touch them any longer than he had to, for they felt tainted.

  “Don’t go up there,” Milo said.

  Still walking, Mike said, “They’ve got my mother up there. Thanks, but I’m going.”

  Debbie said, “All hell’s broken loose up there.”

  That stopped Mike. Shirtless and pipe in hand, he looked like some crazed barbarian warrior off to storm the gates. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a cloud—something toxic—sweeping through the city,” Milo said. “And someone attacked the bar, smashed the windows. We ran down here.”

  Mike studied Milo for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to believe him. “Screw it. I’ve got to find her.”

  “Don’t go,” Debbie said, but he was already on his way upstairs.

  After Mike disappeared upstairs, Milo ventured to where the beer cases were stored. He retrieved his shirt. Debbie followed him, and the two stood at the bottom of the stairs, Milo cocking his head as if it would help him hear. Floorboards creaked overhead. A dusky, rotten smell wafted down the stairs. Smelled like something died up there.

  After Mike had been gone a few minutes, he reappeared in the doorway. His arms dripped blood. Milo was worried he might keel over from blood loss, so he climbed the stairs and stopped near the top. He watched Mike, prepared to catch him if he collapsed.

  On closer inspection, Mike’s face had gone gray. “You need to sit down,” Milo said.

  Debbie, who had joined Milo on the stairs said, “I think he’s in shock.”

  “You will be, too,” Mike said. “Come have a look.”

  Milo followed him and entered the hallway. What he saw made his heart kick against his ribs. Four bodies, piled on top of one another, some of them belly to back, lay on the floor. A puddle of blood soaked the floor beneath them. More blood had been splashed on the walls in gaudy strokes. The corpse on top, a woman in a white T-shirt, was the worst. Her throat was gashed and the head hung backward, as if someone had pushed it past its natural angle. The tipped-back head reminded Milo of a Pez dispenser. Try selling that model in the stores.

  “Did you find your mom?” Milo asked.

  “She’s in the office,” Mike said, jerking his head to indicate the door behind him. “She’s alive, but I need to get her out of here. Her meds are at home and she’s in wicked pain.”

  Behind Milo, Debbie said, “Who could have done this?”

  Fighting the nausea increasing in his stomach, Milo moved closer to the bodies. He noticed more of them in the bar, but wasn’t quite ready to venture in there just yet. He stood over the corpses. Tugging the collar of his shirt, he pulled it up over his nose and mouth, hoping to quell the stink of the dead.

  Limbs twisted, sprawled over one another, they had run and been struck down. The fingers on one of the hands were bloody stumps. Another corpse had a bloodied nub where an ear had been taken off.

  From behind a door, a woman moaned, deep and long. It was the sound of someone suffering. Suffering had been the order of the night. Milo glanced down the hallway. Another corpse was sprawled over a table. A plate of half-eaten chicken wings rested next to the corpse’s head. Blood had mingled with the hot sauce that coated the wings. If they got out of here, Milo didn’t think he would eat wings for a long time, if ever again.

  The shirt over his mouth and nose provided little relief from the smell, so he lowered it.

  “You got a vehicle?” Mike asked.

  “My truck’s out back.”

  “Give me a lift,” Mike said. “Mom, too.”

  “We’re not going out there,” Milo said. “Not now.”

  “She needs to get home. Her meds are there.”

  “We don’t know what’s out there,” Milo said, “so we should stay put.”

  “Give me your keys,” Mike said.

  Milo’s blood pressure went up a notch. “Take it easy.”

  Mike took a step forward. He slowly raised the pipe. Milo balled up his fists. “Don’t do it.”

  Debbie brushed past Milo. She got between the two men and spreading her hands apart said, “This gets us nowhere.” Looking at Mike, she continued, “We saved your life down there. I may have killed someone because of you, so just take it easy and we’ll find a way out. Your mother will get the help she needs.”

  “I’ll say it again. We need to go.”

  Outside, another large bang sounded. It was followed by a chorus of screams. Mike turned his head in the direction of the noise. He seemed to ponder things for a moment. “Maybe we should at least take a look. I’m not exactly thinking straight.”

  “Your mom in there?” Debbie said, pointing to the cherry-stained door behind Mike.

  Mike nodded.

  Debbie said, “I’ll look in on her. Why don’t you two take a look up front? I’ll try and find a first-aid kit somewhere, too.”

  Something told Milo Hark wouldn’t keep first-aid supplies around for his intended victims, but it was kind of Deb to offer. They did need to get Mike patched up sooner or later.

  Milo said to him, “How you feeling? Woozy at all?”

  “My arms ache like hell, but I’ll make it.”

  “What’d you do to piss this guy off so bad?”

  Mike ignored the question. “Let’s look up front.”

  Debbie went into the room to check on Mike’s mother. Milo and Mike stepped around the pile of bodies and entered the main bar. Corpses lay everywhere, their blood staining the hardwood floor. One of them was draped across the bar, a solid black knife of a type Milo had never seen jutting from its chest. The front windows had been smashed out, and the broken glass had been scattered across the floor. Outside, the wrecked pickup truck remained across the street. The cloud that had rolled down the street appeared to have dissipated.

  The knife in the chest of the victim on the bar intrigued Milo. He hated to get closer to the corpse, but he wanted to check out the knife. He went to the bar.

  “What are you doing?”

  “This knife,” Milo said. “Never seen anything like it.”

  “What the hell happened here? They’ve been butchered.”

  Ignoring Mike’s question, Milo approached the corpse. It was a college-age guy. He stared glassily at the ceiling, arms and legs draped over the edges of the bar. The poor bastard probably had nothing more in mind than slamming a few beers, maybe picking up a girl. Milo peered at the
knife. It was as large as a short sword. Solid black, it didn’t appear to be made of any metal Milo recognized. Wicked-looking serrated barbs were cut into the blade. The hilt likewise had sharp edges jutting from both ends. The tip of the handle curved into a point.

  There were no markings. The blade reflected no light.

  “Come look at this knife.”

  Mike joined him at the bar. He studied the knife for a moment and said, “Must be foreign. Looks old, too.”

  “It’s solid, but it doesn’t appear to be made of metal.”

  “Touch it.”

  “That’s morbid.”

  “He won’t mind.”

  Milo reached his hand out. With his index finger. He touched the flat side of the blade. He expected to feel something like cool metal. Instead, a wave of revulsion and nausea so severe swept over him, he immediately jerked his hand away. He turned from the body. Hands trembling, he bent over, stomach swirling, head now pounding. His heart kicked in his chest and a feeling of shame washed over him, as if he’d done something horribly wrong. He closed his eyes, and after a moment, the feeling subsided. It was as if he had touched something unclean, terrible.

  “Hey man, you okay? What was it?”

  “It made me feel horrible, touching it.”

  “It hurt your feelings? It’s just a knife.”

  Milo shook his head. “Something’s wrong with it. Like the damn thing is evil or something. Like it was somehow alive.”

  “Haunted knife. Right.”

  “Touch it, then, if you don’t believe me.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. He still reached his hand out and instead of touching the blade, he grabbed the hilt. Almost immediately, he jerked his hand away. He stumbled sideways and leaned on the bar, head nearly against the rail. His breath came in shallow gasps.

  “See?”

  “What the fuck is that thing?” he asked, still hunched over the bar.

  “Let’s leave it be. You all right?”

  Straightening up, Mike nodded. Milo went to the front door. Stepping outside seemed crazy at this point, but he wanted to get a quick view of the street. The black fog was gone, and it hadn’t appeared to enter the bar. None of the victims seemed to have the skin trauma that the driver of the truck had displayed. Milo gripped the door handle.