Dark: A Horror Anthology

by Steve Wands

  His vision swam; he saw gray. Blood flowed from the front and the back of his head. It filled his eyes; the last thing he could make out was a shape falling through the door. He heard something moving around at his feet. Was that the crinkling of plastic?

  Rolling onto his hands and knees, Trevor crawled down the hallway into the kitchen, still mostly blinded by the blood flowing from his forehead. Spinning around on the dirty linoleum kitchen floor, he dragged the back of his hand across his eyes to clear his vision. He gasped – he was surely hallucinating.

  Someone walked toward him from the hall – the boy he had just killed earlier that day. Still half-wrapped in plastic, the boy stumbled into the kitchen, falling onto the cracked linoleum with a wet thud.

  Two more rolled down the stairs, hitting the bottom and crunching against the wall, leaving red splats on the cracked white paint. These ones weren’t in their plastic anymore. They all rose to their feet again, their bodies contorted at sickening angles. Trevor’s asshole neighbor appeared next, managing to stay on his feet as he turned to face Trevor. His jaw hung slack and his eyes were closed; dark blood was crusted around his throat where Trevor had slit it.

  “Oh God!” Trevor screamed.

  At that moment it all became clear – they were coming back for revenge. His actions were so deplorable that God was punishing him right there and then. He deserved to die – none of the 10 kids or single adult he had killed deserved to come to that kind of an end. Trevor’s victims wouldn’t be able to rest until they were avenged – he had seen enough movies to know how it worked.

  Trevor dropped to his knees as the dead advanced, tears gushing down his cheeks, mixing with the blood. More dead children tumbled to the bloody carpet; the nearest two were a few feet away and getting closer.

  “Ahhh,” he sobbed. The closest dead boy shed the plastic from his head, stared at Trevor with empty eyes, and opened his mouth. His t-shirt, originally yellow, was stained red in front, and the two holes were Trevor had stabbed him were in the middle of the red splotch. The boy reached out a pale arm and lurched forward.

  Trevor peered through the blood and tears and screamed, toppling backwards into the kitchen table. Clambering to his feet, he shoved the kitchen table to the side and, without thinking, dove straight out the window, shattering the old glass easily. The frame caught his arm and flipped him forward. A man his size wouldn’t survive a 2-story drop onto asphalt, but Trevor didn’t care.

  But he didn’t drop onto the asphalt. The landlord had parked his 20-foot enclosed trailer in the alley just below the window, so the drop was cut to about 8 feet. Crashing to the roof, Trevor felt the metal deform under his weight. He sat upright, stunned, gazing into the street light at the end of the alley and listening to the traffic, watching the puffs of his breath drift up in the winter air.

  His pursuers came to the window above. Trevor broke his trance and looked up to see the boys crawling over each other to get out the window.

  “I’m sorry!” he screamed, crawling to the tiny ladder at the back of the trailer. A boy fell out the window, cracked his head off the trailer, broke his neck, and slumped to the alley with a gurgle. Another dropped down but missed the trailer all together, falling to the alley with a sickening thud.

  Trevor took one step down the ladder then jumped the rest of the way. His boots smacked the asphalt, sending waves of pain up his legs. He looked up again; three of the kids were trying to come through the window all at once, along with his asshole neighbor.

  There was movement behind the trailer. One of the kids limped toward him, her arm bent around at a strange angle. The top of her head was a mash of blood, brains and splintered bone.

  God was punishing Trevor, but didn’t want him to die yet – of this he was sure. God saved Trevor by putting that trailer in the alley, and had a plan for him yet.

  “Show me the way, God!” Trevor screamed, running the down the alley on throbbing legs.

  The kids followed.

  *

  “My wicked ways are finished. I’ll never kill again. And God brought me here to you guys,” Trevor said, turning to look over the parking lot again. Then he whispered: “Oh shit! Get down!”

  He hunched down; Jim didn’t move. He was entranced by the images running through his mind – Trevor killing kids; packing them in plastic in the attic; the bodies getting up again and coming after him. Jim was terrified that he had let this man live with him and his daughter – and his wife, originally. It was completely irresponsible of him. Trevor was capable of being a monster, and they were all at risk.

  “I -” Jim breathed, finally crouching with trembling legs.

  Trevor gripped his shotgun with both hands and pressed his back against the wall. “He’s coming from the river,” he said.

  Jim’s shaking hand raised the pistol, and he began to stand up again. He spotted the figure right away – a tall man shambling along the riverbank. His long shadow danced across the grassy area and up onto an aging picnic table.

  “No!” Trevor whispered loudly, grabbing Jim’s elbow. Jim froze. His arm shook in Trevor’s grasp.

  “You stay up here and cover me – I’m going down to smash him,” Trevor said, releasing Jim’s elbow and crawling toward the ladder.

  Gunfire would draw attention to them, and more walking dead people would come. Carelessly firing guns had almost been their death sentence the first time Jim and Sara went out looking for food – they learned that lesson quickly. One gunshot drew dozens of zombies from a supposedly empty area within seconds. They had managed to remain silent while they had lived at the apartment, and had very little trouble with the dead finding them.

  But Jim was on edge now that he knew who Trevor really was. As he watched Trevor drag his belly to the other end of the roof, he remembered they were running out of food, and planned to make another run tomorrow. How could he trust Trevor the murderer with their lives? He wasn’t about to buy the religious awakening story – once a killer, always a killer.

  Trevor pulled himself over the top of the ladder and climbed down. Jim had never wished harm on anyone during his 39 years, but he hoped Trevor didn’t survive down in the parking lot. Sure, he was big and strong and could toss the shambling corpses around with his bare hands, but if the mood caught him right, he very well may slice them both up.

  The rusty ladder squeaked as Trevor’s weight stressed it. Jim closed his eyes, breathed deeply and gripped his pistol tight with both hands. In another minute he heard Trevor’s footsteps tap down the fire escape and into the alley; his hard boots echoed off the buildings as he approached the parking lot.

  Jim peered up over the ledge, trying to spot the wandering man again. He saw no one. Trevor’s shape appeared on the edge of the grass where the last bits of light fuzzed out to darkness. Creeping into the light, Trevor suddenly raised the butt of the gun and sprinted to the other end of the lot. It was the fastest Jim had ever seen him move, and he almost laughed at the sight.

  There was only one hit—a sickening crunch that seemed louder than it should have been. In another moment Trevor reappeared in the light, catching his breath, running the butt of the gun through the dewy grass. Satisfied, he walked back around to the alley, glancing around for any more visitors.

  Jim felt sick. He couldn’t help but picture Trevor killing all those kids. Sara could very well be his next victim. So could Jim.

  I should just shoot him now and tell Sara he had been bitten, Jim thought. The bite was a sure way of dying a coming back again – Tammy found that out firsthand.

  Jim immediately felt horrible for thinking such a thing, and for wishing that Trevor would be killed in the parking lot. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, and he ran a trembling hand through his greasy hair. What was he becoming?

  Trevor’s footsteps echoed in the alley again. The pistol never left Jim’s sweaty grip as he crouch-walked to the ladder, drying his eyes with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Trevor was already in the alley below, and
they met up on the fire escape at the back door.

  “Got him,” Trevor grinned, opening the door.

  “Good job.” Jim faked a smile and followed Trevor back inside. Sara was wrapped in a blanket on the couch, and snapped her head up when the two of them came in.

  Jim rushed to her. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  She nodded, sniffling and rubbing her eyes. Jim sat down beside her and wrapped his long arms around her, watching Trevor as he re-secured the door.

  Trevor knew he was taking a risk when he told Jim about his past. He saw right away that it bothered Jim, but that was to be expected. He didn’t care; God brought him here for a reason, and he knew for sure that this was where he was supposed to be. He had to be completely up front with everyone – it was the right thing to do. It was worth the risk.

  “You two get some rest,” Trevor said, sitting on the wicker chair in the corner of the living room. “I got first shift tonight, I’ll wake you up in five hours. We have to go out tomorrow.”

  *

  The sun threw its first rays down the river and Jim hoped he could get some sleep before they went out for food. He hadn’t slept at all while Trevor was on watch. He was desperate to protect his daughter – the only family he had left, the most precious thing in the world to him. She was the only reason he clung to life after he saw his wife succumb to the infection and then come after them. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill the thing that his wife had become – she still roamed around out there somewhere. But without Sara to love and protect, Jim would probably have let his wife take him with her.

  He was petrified with indecision. Trevor had it in him to kill innocent people for no reason at all; at the same he time was extremely valuable for survival – smart, strong, focused. He didn’t get rattled easily or make many mistakes. Jim’s 160-pound physique was barely adequate to protect himself, let alone his daughter.

  Jim couldn’t sleep while all these thoughts rolled around his head.

  All three of them would go out that day. It was unsafe to go out alone, and Jim wanted Sara with him at all times, even though he hated putting her in that kind of danger. The more people that went together, the safer everyone was.

  Light gradually filled the valley of the tainted town of Walker, and Jim did one final groggy check of the surrounding alleys and parking lot before checking on Sara. He eased the door open and stuck his head in. Curled up on the only bed in the apartment, she slowly inhaled and exhaled, her mind in a place far better than where her body lay.

  A board creaked behind him. Jim spun around, kicking the door and waking Sara, who sprang upright. It was Trevor, up with the sun as usual.

  “Morning,” Trevor grunted.

  Sara was already out of bed, pushing past them and walking to the bathroom.

  “You scared me,” Jim admitted, leaning against the wall.

  “We should get this food run out of the way as early as we can,” Trevor said.

  Jim said nothing, crossing through the kitchen and collapsing on the couch, exhausted. Could he sleep while Trevor and Sara were both awake? No – he had to stay up and keep an eye on Trevor.

  “Sara gets a gun,” Jim said as he sat up on the couch, avoiding Trevor’s eyes.

  Trevor was stunned by Jim’s forwardness, but wasn’t about to change his stance on giving a young girl a deadly weapon. They had been over this twice before. “No, she doesn’t,” he said, calmly leaning on the kitchen chair.

  Jim got up and walked into the kitchen and retrieved the spare 9mm from a drawer under the counter. He pocketed it and walked back into the living room.

  Trevor raised his voice. “The baseball bat is good enough, it’s a lot safer.”

  “Be quiet!” Jim snapped in a hushed yell. “Do you want to draw a mob of those dead people right before we go out?”

  Trevor didn’t know how to react – Jim had never talked to Trevor that way. He was speechless.

  “I’m giving her a gun. She’s all I have.” Jim walked to the single window in the living room and parted the thick blankets hanging over it.

  Trevor rose and took a step towards Jim. “We’re not giving —”

  Sara came out of the bathroom. Trevor saw her and froze.

  “I wish you guys would stop arguing about me,” she said, slamming her glass on the kitchen counter and filling it with water from a pitcher by the sink. She drank the entire glass in one gulp.

  “Honey, I’m giving you a gun when we go out,” Jim said, taking a step in her direction.

  Trevor wanted to stop him. He wanted to grab the gun and knock Jim sideways for encouraging a sixteen-year-old girl to wave a gun around while they were trying to gather supplies. It was much safer if she used the bat like she did the first night. But Trevor restrained himself – he was a different man now. These were dangerous times, and they couldn’t afford to let squabbles like this endanger their safety.

  Jim handed Sara the gun. “This is the safety,” he told her, pointing.

  “I know,” she cut him off. “Can we just get this over with?” she huffed.

  “Um, okay.” Surprised Sara knew anything at all about guns. Jim turned to Trevor and looked him in the eye for the first time that day. “Are you ready?”

  Trevor snatched his shotgun from the table. “We need a plan. Let’s go up to the roof.” He looked at Sara, who held her new weapon at her side, and took a deep breath.

  Confidence washed over Jim with the small victory. Trevor arrived and took control so quickly, Jim felt like he and Sara were just along for the ride. Even though Trevor was big and strong and could level a dozen walking dead without much thought, Jim had suspected that something was up with him from the very beginning. Now Jim was completely disgusted with the man.

  The three climbed to the roof. From the far corner they could see the top of the town’s only large grocery store a few blocks away. The presence of the walking dead drifted through the air, and the stench of death was stronger than ever. The only sound was the gentle flow of the river. Walker was a skeleton of a town where the dead roamed freely.

  “We can’t go roof-to-roof, can we?” Jim asked.

  Trevor watched how Sara handled her gun. “There’s no way,” he said. “And we shouldn’t go through the alleys. I don’t want to be surprised if we need to run down an alley and it’s blocked.”

  “I don’t see any of those dead people at all,” Sara said, standing on the ledge and tucking the gun in the back of her pants. She pointed north. “If we run up along the river and turn up Elk Street, it’ll be 2 blocks to the parking lot.”

  Trevor raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Good,” he said. “You lead us there.”

  Jim couldn’t believe what he just heard. “Sara -”

  “It’ll be easy,” Sara said, shrugging. “We’ll just have to be quiet.”

  With that, Sara led them down to the alley. There they stopped, studying each direction.

  Jim was shocked. This was a completely different Sara than he had known in the prior weeks. Overnight, she changed from the fragile, sobbing teenager to a confident leader. As she stood against the wall in the alley, Jim felt a lump in his throat, realizing that she looked like her mother – every bit as beautiful and strong.

  She started down the alley toward the river, staying close to the grimy brick wall. Trevor and Jim pushed themselves to keep up with the teenager’s quick pace as she paused at the junction of the alley and Elk Street. Pressing her back against the wall and holding her breath, Sara gripped her gun with one hand and peered around the corner.

  Sara gasped and hopped back.

  “Two,” she whispered, catching her breath. “Or three.”

  Trevor moved up past Sara and looked around the corner. And there they were – three shamblers in single file headed the other way. All three were on the sidewalk just in front of the Lutheran church, and suddenly one of them stepped off the curb and came crashing down to the oil-stained street. The other two didn’t seem to notic
e.

  Bringing the shotgun up to his chest, Trevor looked back at Sara and Jim. “Three of them right in front of the church,” he said. “If we run past them, they could follow us to the store.”

  Sara pulled the gun from her back.

  “No Sara!” Jim snapped, immediately regretting his harshness. He rubbed his forehead and put the other hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, only in an emergency.”

  “I know, dad,” Sara said with a textbook teenager eye roll. “It makes me feel safer if I’m holding it.”

  “I can smash them with my gun,” Trevor said, keeping an eye on Sara’s gun. “You two look around for more.”

  He didn’t wait for their approval – he ran down the street. The walking corpses heard the clop-clop-clop of Trevor’s boots coming toward them and turned just in time for Trevor to smash the first one on the nose with the butt of his gun. Bone crunched and thick dark blood oozed from the hole in its rotten face. It raised its hands, grabbing for Trevor as he dislodged the gun.

  The second corpse came around the first and Trevor took a step back. This one wasn’t as rotten as the first, but was just as repulsive. A woman in a gray business suit covered in bloody gore, she hobbled because a huge chunk of her left thigh was missing. Bites were taken out of her chest and abdomen, and when she raised a hand up toward Trevor, two of the five fingers were snapped at the second knuckle, dangling loosely. He shoved the woman away for the moment, coating his hand with her blood. With the other hand, he swung the shotgun upward at the first corpse, connecting underneath its chin and snapping its head back so hard that its neck cracked. The head did not snap forward again – it stuck, the neck bulging strangely. The corpse could only stare upward, and it lost its balance, collapsing to the sidewalk.

  The woman came for him again, and this time Trevor swung the shotgun like a baseball bat, obliterating her skull, sending red bits of skull and mush through the air.