All Dark, All the Time

by Brian Keene

  Bullets slammed into the wave, spraying droplets of black water into the air, but they had no effect. The wave paused, and then churned towards this new threat. The Japanese continued firing, but as the wave bore down on them, they gunned their engines and fled for the safety of their fleet. The boats skipped across the ocean, bobbing up and down in the surf. The wave picked up speed. It swallowed the first boat whole, and then made quick work of the others. Its size increased again, and by the time the last boat was obliterated, the wave was nearly thirty feet high. Without pausing, it stormed after the bigger Japanese ships.

  “Now’s our chance,” Brady said. “Wachowski, help me row!”

  “It’s no use. You saw how fast it is.”

  Roberts’s voice finally gave out. He kept screaming, but the only sound he made was a harsh wheeze.

  Brady rowed harder. “Help me!”

  Wachowski wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and then grabbed the spare oar. It was slick with Chief Michaels’s blood, but he didn’t seem to notice. He paused, watching as the black wave decimated the Japanese fleet. The water crashed into the side of a large frigate, turning steel to liquid in a heartbeat. The ship tilted, and the wave flowed up onto the deck.

  “It’s getting bigger,” Wachowski gasped. “The more it eats, the bigger it gets.”

  “So row!”

  “We’ve got to be faster, Brady.” He dropped the oar, bent over, and grabbed the Chief’s shoulders. Grunting, Wachowski picked up the Chief’s limp form and dragged him to the side.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making us faster.”

  “Wachowski, don’t—”

  There was a splash. Grinning, Wachowski turned to Selman.

  “You too. Sorry about this. Hopefully, you’ll sleep right through it.”

  Brady gritted his teeth. Tears rolled down his raw cheeks. Wachowski was right. It didn’t make it any easier, but he was right. Brady thought about survival; thought about Rachel. He’d do anything to get home safely. He stared straight ahead as Wachowski lifted Selman’s body and carried him to the side. There was a second splash, and Wachowski breathed a heavy sigh. Wood clattered against metal as he retrieved the oar. Brady continued looking forward, not wanting to see the bodies floating on the tide.

  Roberts suddenly grew quiet, and there was a third splash.

  Frowning, Brady heard Wachowski come up behind him.

  “Got to be faster,” the fat man whispered.

  Brady turned just as Wachowski swung. There was a tremendous, hot pain as the oar slammed into the side of his face. Brady crumpled. Warmth ran down his cheek and ear. His vision blurred.

  “Faster...”

  Brady felt rough hands on him and then he was falling. He heard another splash, but he didn’t care. He was suddenly surrounded with a wonderful cool wetness, and nothing else mattered. Brady took a deep breath and held it.

  Then he closed his eyes and thought of Rachel.

  As he sank beneath the waves, he heard Wachowski screaming louder than Roberts had been.

  • • •

  Brady opened his eyes. Above him, he saw the dim, shadowy outline of the lifeboat’s hull. Below him were the ocean depths. They seemed to go on forever.

  The water was so beautiful.

  Blue.

  Then it turned black.

  STORY NOTE: This was written for a themed-anthology of weird war stories. I’ve been on lifeboats during my time in the Navy, and let me tell you, it ain’t no picnic. This story stemmed out of those experiences. Comparisons to Stephen King’s “The Raft” are unavoidable, although the similarities didn’t occur to me until I was halfway through editing the final draft of this tale. At that time, I hadn’t read “The Raft” since high school, but in retrospect, it obviously influenced me. In any case, though the monsters are similar, the stories are quite different.

  ALONE

  For Jack Haringa

  “The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

  Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

  And as imagination bodies forth

  The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

  Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

  A local habitation and a name.

  Such tricks hath strong imagination,

  That if it would but apprehend some joy,

  It comprehends some bringer of that joy;

  Or in the night, imagining some fear ...”

  — WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  “These burning skies, dark as a plague of flies, forever and ever and ever together illuminate you and I.”

  — SHOOTER JENNINGS,

  “The Illuminated”

  ONE

  Daniel Miller woke up alone; something he hadn’t done since he and Jerry had moved in together after buying this house six years ago.

  The first thing he was aware of when he woke each morning was Jerry’s presence. Dan could always sense his partner, even without opening his eyes. He could always hear Jerry breathing, smell his scent, feel his weight on the mattress, or the sheets shifting as Jerry stirred. But there was none of that this morning. There was no gentle snoring or faint hint of yesterday’s cologne or rustling of their flannel sheets. The bedroom was silent and Jerry was gone. Dan listened for the telltale sounds of his partner making coffee downstairs, or fixing breakfast for Danielle, their adoptive daughter (named after him), or maybe the sound of the shower running, or Jerry bustling around getting ready for work, but there was only more silence.

  Yawning, Dan opened his eyes. He rubbed sleep from them, scratched, and yawned again. Something felt ... off. He lay there for a minute, trying to figure out what it was, and then it dawned on him. The light in the room was different this morning. Gray murk had replaced the usual sunlight that filtered through the closed curtains and blinds. The bedroom was quiet. No, not just quiet. ‘Still’ seemed a more apt description, Dan thought. It almost felt as if he’d gone deaf. Surely there should have been a noise from somewhere in the house, or from the street? Wondering what time it was, he turned to the nightstand and squinted at the alarm clock.

  “Shit.”

  The digital clock’s face was blank. Dan assumed that the power must have gone out sometime in the night. He fumbled for his Rolex watch on the nightstand. It was a gift from Jerry for their fifth anniversary. Although he could have afforded one, Dan would have never purchased such an expensive watch on his own. He accidentally knocked his wallet and keys to the floor in the process of grabbing the watch. The keys made a curiously muted sound as they hit the uncarpeted wood floor. Dan held the watch up and squinted again. The watch had stopped running too; its hands frozen at 1:46 am.

  “Keeps on ticking, my ass.”

  He wondered why he bothered to still rely on the Rolex. His cell phone displayed the time whenever he needed it. The watch was more decorative and sentimental, than anything.

  “I don’t need you anymore,” he said to the Rolex. “The only reason I keep you around is because I’m a softie. Settling down does that to a man, I guess.”

  Yawning again, he seized the alarm clock again, and shook it, thinking perhaps it had an electrical short. Despite the shaking, the display still didn’t light up. All he succeeded in doing was yanking the cord from the outlet.

  “Damn it.”

  Angered, Dan flung the clock across the room and stumbled out of bed. He had a flash of annoyance when the clock hit the wall with a dull thud, rather than the destructive crash he’d been hoping for. With the annoyance came shame that he had acted so thoughtlessly and impulsively. Sure, he was successful now, but he’d grown up poor. Had he really become one of those guys who simply broke things in fits of anger and then went out and bought a replacement? He hoped not. But still—he didn’t like being late. Today was going to be a busy one, and this wasn’t a good start. And where the hell were Jerry and Danielle?

  “Jerry?” His shout w
as garbled, hoarse. He’d quit smoking three years earlier, after the doctor had warned him about his heart, but the tobacco’s effects lingered. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Hey, Jerry? Hon? The power’s out! What time is it?”

  There was no answer. His words hung in the air like balloons.

  “Jerry?”

  Barefoot and clad only in a pair of black, worn-out silk boxer shorts, Dan shuffled into the hall. His ears rang in the silence.

  “Helloooooo!”

  Dan scratched beneath his waistband and peeked into Danielle’s room. The bed was unmade, and the sheets still showed the impression from where she’d slept. His daughter’s stuffed animals were silent and dour. Two-dozen glass button eyes stared back at him.

  “Danielle? Punkin’?”

  No answer.

  Dan frowned, thinking. Apparently, Jerry had taken Danielle somewhere this morning. Probably to daycare. He must have known that the power was out. Why hadn’t he woken him up before they left? Now he’d be late for work. It was uncharacteristic of Jerry to be so inconsiderate, and it pissed him off the more he thought about it. Sure, Dan was the owner of his own company. But that didn’t mean he could just stroll in whenever he felt like it—especially when he only had five other employees, all of whom would be there waiting for him to open.

  He thought about the possibilities. Danielle was late for daycare and Jerry had forgotten about waking him. Or perhaps the power had gone off after Jerry and Danielle had left the house. Or maybe something terrible had happened, and Jerry had to rush her to the doctor. Or maybe Jerry had left him—moved out while he was still asleep. Maybe he’d been having an affair with another guy ...

  Quit being paranoid. Jerry probably just went out for something—maybe we need coffee—and he left a note downstairs.

  Dan stomped down the hallway and into the bathroom. He assured himself that he was just being silly and paranoid. He needed to wake up. Then everything would become clear.

  He wished, not for the first time, that they’d bought a newer house with room for a second bathroom. Instead, they’d bought this Civil War-era home with limited space. Still, it was a home filled with love and laughter—except for this morning.

  Fumbling for his limp penis through the fly of his boxers, he thought about this new sign of approaching middle age. Gone was the raging morning wood of his twenties and early thirties. He stared down at his potbelly, another sign, one that had come to visit him around his thirty-second birthday, and refused to leave no matter how much time he spent at the gym or how much healthy food Jerry forced him to eat.

  He stood there, willing himself to piss, but nothing happened. He concentrated, focusing on the act at hand—or in hand. Still nothing. His penis had stage fright. The first few gray pubic hairs (another unwelcome and disturbing sign of impending middle-age, one that had shown up only a few months ago) poked out from his boxers. More gray peppered his temples and beard. Dan hated the gray hairs. Jerry often told him they were sexy, and that they made him look distinguished, but Dan knew he was lying. It was one of those things you said out of love, rather than sincerity—like telling someone a particular pair of jeans didn’t make them look fat when in fact, they did.

  Muttering, Dan released his flaccid, uncooperative member and shuffled back to the bedroom. He shrugged into his blue bathrobe, mildly surprised that his joints didn’t pop and his muscles didn’t ache this morning like they usually did. That was a good sign.

  The silence began to annoy him. It felt uncomfortable. Yawning once again, he grabbed the stereo remote control and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Then Dan remembered that there was no electricity.

  “Must ... have ... coffee ... Can’t think straight.”

  He fastened the bathrobe shut, and started down the stairs, mentally taking stock as he went.

  My name is Daniel Miller. I own a web design and hosting company that helped pay for this house. I have a wonderful partner, Jerry, who works as a mortgage research analyst, and a beautiful daughter, Danielle, and I love them both very much, even if they did forget to wake me up for work this morning. I am officially middle aged now, and somebody must have made a mistake somewhere, because I graduated in 1990, which wasn’t really that long ago, and I’ve already got a pot belly and gray fucking pubic hair and no morning hard on. This makes me angry. The power is out, and this makes me even angrier. And even if the power was on, the classic rock station out of Harrisburg is playing Def Leppard and Bon Jovi these days. When did Def fucking Leppard become classic rock anyway? Classic rock is Jimi Hendrix and Led Zepplin. And Bon Jovi? That was what straight guys listened to when they wanted to get laid back in the Eighties. It certainly isn’t something I want to wake up to in the morning.

  “Hello,” he called again as he entered the living room, not really expecting a response. “Anybody home? Come out, come out wherever you are.”

  He made his way into the kitchen, and looked for a note on the refrigerator, but found none. The appliance was covered with the same old magnets and take-out menus. Hanging from the center of the door was a crayon drawing Danielle had made of the three of them. He’d hung it up there only a few weeks ago, and the three of them had decorated it with gold stars and glitter. Sighing, Dan opened the cupboard, and noticed that the hinges on the cupboard door didn’t squeak like normal.

  Jerry must have oiled them yesterday. Probably got sick of waiting for me to do it. But that’s not my fault. He knows how busy I’ve been with work.

  Dan pulled out a jar of instant coffee, and dropped two spoonfuls into a mug. He hated how instant coffee tasted, but with no power, he had little choice. Then he turned on the hot water tap. Nothing happened.

  “Oh, for crying out loud! There’s no water either?”

  He slammed the mug down on the counter. The noise was quiet, muted, and not at all satisfying, so he slammed it down again. It still wasn’t loud enough to express his anger. The mug didn’t rattle or crack. The impact seemed suppressed, as if both the counter and the mug were made of rubber. It occurred to him that his alarm clock had made a similar sound when he’d tossed it across the bedroom minutes before. Dan stuck the tip of his pinky finger in each ear and wiggled it around, thinking that perhaps his ears were plugged. The sensation felt good, but when he pulled his finger out and examined it, there was very little wax, and his hearing hadn’t changed.

  Shrugging, Dan decided to call time and temperature, find out how late he was, and then call the power and water companies before he left for work. Luckily, the kitchen phone wasn’t a cordless, and it didn’t need electricity to work. He lifted the phone from its cradle and brought it to his ear. All he heard was more silence. Dan toyed with it, trying to get a dial tone, but to no avail. The phone slipped from his hand, and tumbled to the floor without a sound. The first twinge of unease gnawed at him. The dead utilities and his missing family ... What the hell was going on? Had there been an accident or something? A terrorist attack? No, he was just being silly. There had to be a logical explanation. He just needed to wake up. Then things would make sense.

  He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. Still pondering the situation, he brought the carton to his lips, drank, grimaced, and then spit the juice out in the sink. It had no taste. It wasn’t rancid. It was just—tasteless. The milk and soda had the same effect when he tried them. Even the bottled water tasted strange—flat. He grabbed a cold chicken drumstick, and took a bite.

  “Ugh!”

  Disgusted, he threw it into the garbage can. The chicken was also tasteless. Like chewing on a piece of paper. Could the stuff in the fridge have gone bad already? Just how long had the power been out? How long had he been asleep? And for that matter, where had the chicken come from? As far as Dan remembered, they’d had lasagna last night. Where were those leftovers?

  “Jerry?” He called out again, not expecting an answer. “Danielle? Are you guys here?”

  No response.


  Sighing, he tightened the belt of his robe and decided to get the newspaper. Maybe there had been a thunderstorm overnight, and he’d slept through it. Maybe it had knocked down the power lines or something. That would explain the utility outage, at the very least.

  Dan walked to the front door, his bare feet swishing on the carpet. Normally the sound was very loud, but this morning, it too seemed quieter. He wondered again about his ears. Was there something wrong with his hearing? First sign of an oncoming sinus infection, perhaps?

  He opened the door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and noticed that the light outside was different, as well. He stared up at the dark and overcast sky. It looked strange. There was no sun, and no clouds. Instead, there was only a bleak, gray curtain. It didn’t billow. Didn’t move. He’d never seen anything like it before. The haze was like fog, but seemed ... denser, somehow. Too thick. It obscured everything. He could see a few of his neighbor’s houses—the Kresby’s and the Lopez’s—in each direction, and some of the trees lining the street, but after that there was nothing but more gray haze. Dan frowned. It was as if the rest of the neighborhood had been swallowed up by the weird fog.

  He was annoyed to discover that the newspaper wasn’t on the sidewalk. The delivery boy was usually pretty good about throwing it there. The kid had an arm like a major league player and the precision of an Army sniper. Dan took a few more steps, searching for the paper. Then he looked at the driveway—and froze.

  “Oh no ...”

  Jerry’s silver Lexus was still in the driveway, parked in front of Dan’s brand new Ford Explorer.

  Tiny pangs of real fear blossomed inside of him now, replacing his anger. He stood there, his pulse quickening as panic set in. Where the hell was his family? Could Danielle have been abducted, like other children in the news? Kidnapped—and Jerry killed, trying to protect her? Or a hate crime, perhaps? Maybe some sick fuck had them right now! His partner and daughter could be out there, and—