Dark Hope

by Monica McGurk

  Then, his eyes never leaving mine, he reached across my chest and pulled the seat belt forward, clicking it firmly into place. His gloved hand trailed up the belt to where it had trapped my wayward hair. He fingered it appreciatively.

  I froze.

  “I have to make sure you’re safe and comfortable, if I’m to see you home,” he said softly, loosening my hair from under the belt. He let the hair cascade through his fingers, brushing my collar away to expose my neck.

  My heart was thudding so loud, I was certain he could hear it.

  “When the wind caught your hair out there, it was like a corona, you know. The sun caught it for just a moment and it shone. Beautiful.”

  I turned to see if I could get the door open, but as I did so, with a steady, practiced hand, he deftly tucked my hair behind my ear and slid his hand down the back of my neck.

  Instinctively, I pulled away, but not before I saw and heard the sharp intake of his breath. His hand stopped right over my Mark, tightening his hold.

  “What’s this?” he asked sharply.

  When I didn’t answer, he firmly gripped the base of my skull and gently pushed my face away, exposing the back of my head. With his other hand, he pushed down the collar of my fleece, giving him a full view of my neck.

  I lunged back, pushing him away and swinging for his face. “Get your hands off of me, Lucas.”

  He leaned back in his seat, arms and palms up in a declaration of innocence, a bemused expression on his face as he easily deflected my useless blows. But there was a dark glint in his eye and his voice was rough when he next spoke.

  “I can see what Michael sees in you now, Hope.” He laughed, a cold, hard sound that made me shudder.

  I scrabbled at the seat belt and then the door handle, desperate to get out. I stumbled away from the car, grabbing for my backpack at the last minute. Lucas made no move to stop me, leaving me to run into the falling darkness as the first rain began to come down.

  nine

  My cell phone rang that night, jarring me awake from a fitful sleep.

  I looked at the clock glowing beside my bed. Two a.m. I groaned. It was probably a prank call or a wrong number, but it just might be my mother calling from overseas.

  I swatted around my nightstand, trying to find the phone amid the tangle of teenage detritus. I knocked over the clock and a vase of flowers my mother’s cleaning lady had placed in a vain effort to “prettify” my room.

  There, under a book, I spied the phone, quivering with energy as it rang and rang.

  I scrambled to answer it. “Hello?” I croaked. But all I heard was silence. It had rolled to voice mail.

  Annoyed, I looked for the number, but it showed up as “not available.” Just then, the phone jumped to life in my hand. Quickly, I pressed the tiny green button.

  “Hello?” I demanded again, this time more awake as I sat up, pushing the hair out of my eyes.

  “Hope?” The voice on the other end sounded tinny and far away. “Hope, is that you?”

  “Who is this?” I stifled a yawn.

  There was a long pause. “It’s me. Maria.”

  I jolted awake with a rush of adrenaline, words and relief pouring out of me. “Maria? Are you okay? I’ve been so worried. Where are you?”

  “I went for my sister, like I told you.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “I did, but I need your help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  There was another pause. “She has a broken leg and broken ribs. She cannot walk. I need you to come and get us.”

  My heart seemed lodged in my throat. “Where?”

  “I’m not sure,” she whispered. “I was by a big … how do you call it? Camposanto? You know, with the dead people?”

  “A cemetery?”

  “Sí, a cemetery. Very old. And we are hiding in a big neighborhood, lots of old houses. But the building we are in, it is not a house. It is like a factory. It is broken. Everything in it is dirty and broken. Other broken houses, too.”

  I racked my brain, but being new to Atlanta myself, nothing rang a bell.

  “Is there anything else nearby? Any landmark?”

  The silence on the other end grew as she thought. In the background, I began to hear the distinct rumbling of a train.

  “Maria, is that the MARTA?”

  “I don’t know. What is MARTA?” she answered.

  “The noise—that machine that I am hearing—is there a train nearby?”

  “Sí,” she said, lapsing into Spanish in her excitement. “Muchos trenes cada hora.”

  I heard a noise on the line from somewhere near her.

  “I have to go, Hope,” she whispered, a note of panic creeping into her voice. “You will come tonight?”

  “I … yes. I will find you tonight. Watch for me. I will have my phone on.”

  “You will find us, Hope, I know it.” Her whispered confidence heartened me.

  I threw down the phone and went to my computer. A quick search turned up Oakland Cemetery. Apparently it was one of the largest cemeteries in Atlanta and extremely old, dating from before the Civil War. But the neighborhood next to it—Oakland—was far too small to be the place Maria had mentioned. Buried deeper in the text was a mention of a tornado that had ripped through Atlanta and damaged the cemetery. I clicked on that link.

  My eyes raced through the text. Bingo. Cabbagetown, a historic district that had grown up around an old mill, was right next to the cemetery and had suffered extensive damage during the tornado, some of it still not repaired. Rail lines—including the MARTA commuter rail—ran along the north of the neighborhood. It had to be the spot. I jotted down the address of the cemetery entrance. It would be enough to navigate my way to the neighborhood.

  Not stopping to think how I would find Maria and Jimena amid all the wreckage, I threw on some running pants and my fleece, and I tucked my hair under a baseball cap. I flew down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen to grab Ace bandages, gauze, and ice packs, and then I headed into the garage.

  My mom’s car, almost her only self-indulgence, sat waiting for her return. I looked at the industrial clock mounted to the garage wall. Two-thirty. I didn’t have much time. Without thinking twice, I tossed my makeshift medical supplies into the front seat. Then I shimmied past the car to the tool shelf and reached behind the coffee can of nails to where Mom’s spare set of keys hung.

  She would never know I’d used it, I told myself as I wrapped my fingers around the key. But my stomach gave a queasy lurch when I came to the driver’s side door.

  I paused, unsure if what I was about to do was such a good idea.

  Go. Henri’s urgent voice whispered in my head. That voice, silent for all this time, was all I needed to prod me on.

  Climbing behind the wheel, I scanned the dashboard. It was a lot more complicated than my dad’s, full of bells and whistles I didn’t know how to use.

  “Wish me luck,” I said softly to no one, hoping that the weeks that had passed since I’d last gone driving for “emergency preparedness” with my dad hadn’t made me rusty. I turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. Slowly, I eased the Audi out of the garage, praying that Mrs. Bibeau was not a night owl. I punched the address into my mom’s GPS as I inched out of the driveway, and I accelerated past the neighbors.

  I had to get to Maria and her sister before it was too late.

  The roads were nearly deserted, my only company the big rigs hauling their freight like the dependable army they were. I sailed through the 400 toll and into downtown, quickly finding the GPS steering me toward unfamiliar territory.

  Out of the restaurants, liquor stores, and pawn shops, a clearing spotted with trees and rocks suddenly emerged. Across from it, etched against the night sky, loomed the white granite arches of the Oakland Cemetery.

  I pulled the car over and parked. I was close, but in the middle of the city, it wasn’t obvious where Cabbagetown lay. I cursed myself for not bringing a m
ap with me.

  I swung one leg out the door and then, with a second thought, opened up the glove compartment. Good old Mom, I thought as I spied the flashlight. Always prepared. Sliding from the car, I looked around again for any sign of an old factory, but nothing stood out. Maybe I’d notice something from inside the cemetery, I thought. I darted across the street, the slender beam of light from the flashlight my only guide.

  The iron jaws of the gate were closed against intruders. I pushed at them, hoping they might be loose, but they just clanged in protest, refusing me entry. Along the brick wall, however, I found a foothold and managed to shimmy up and over. A short jump found me inside the graveyard.

  A paved path rose before me, leading straight uphill through row upon row of grave markers and trees. I began to climb the rise, clutching my fleece about me. The monuments seemed to press in on me, a swarming thicket of marble and granite. I tried to ignore them but their eerie forms demanded my attention. These were no simple slabs. Tree trunks, effigies, baby lambs, artfully draped sheets and flags, Roman figures holding emblems of salvation and remembrance: all of them sparkled in the moonlight, the sheen of spent rain lending mystery to the stone, the glance of my flashlight’s beam making them dance. Angels, wings spread over their dead in one last gesture of protection, mingled with the rest. I turned my collar up and continued on.

  I broached the crest and gasped. From the top of the hill, I had an uninterrupted view of the cemetery, fields of graves falling away from me and spreading out at my feet like a patchwork quilt of stone. The ghostly fingers of trees, leaves long taken by the trespasses of winter, reached up into the sky, guiding my gaze to where monumental spires mingled with the skyscrapers of downtown Atlanta.

  “A city of the dead,” I whispered in awe. I couldn’t help but feel an intruder.

  I turned around, shining my meager light. A solitary train whistle split the night and I wheeled toward it eagerly. There, outlined against the moon, rose two smokestacks.

  It took only a few minutes to navigate my way back to the car and then around the block to where Cabbagetown lay nestled into the city. I turned into a narrow street and pulled over. The streets were close, their tidy, plain box houses pressing right to the curb with barely any space between them. I didn’t want to attract attention by driving through. I would be better off on foot, I thought, turning the engine off. The headlights extinguished themselves and the night seemed to settle even deeper into its quiet. In the moonlight, the dark pavement shone, slick from the rain that had swept through the city. I stashed all the medical supplies in my pockets. Then, flashlight in hand, I set out into Cabbagetown.

  The sameness of the buildings here gave away their origin as mill town row houses. But as the neighborhood had gentrified, residents had tried to put their own individual stamp on things. Here and there, crazy artistry burst forth: sculptures forged from odds and ends that others would call junk, funky kaleidoscopes, aggressive murals that dared you to look again, gardens crisscrossed by fountains and arches and pathways that tumbled into the yards of neighbors who always seemed so close.

  It would be hard to hide a secret in a neighborhood like this, I thought, with everyone on top of one another.

  I shivered as a gust of wind tore through the deserted street, and I pulled my fleece closer. As I passed under a lonely streetlight, I caught a glimpse of my shadow, misshapen and lumpy from all of the things I carried with me. Unsettled, I walked faster, straining to find a building that did not look like a house or anything that looked like the aftermath of a storm.

  I turned a corner, and suddenly the mill emerged, lurking beyond the row of homes. I ran toward it. As I drew closer to the dark shape, I began to make out its outline. It was not a monolithic building but a compound of sorts, bookended by two large brick structures. Fences surrounded it, gating in the buildings to protect the fancy condos that had claimed them.

  My heart fell. I leaned against the fence, twining my fingers through the chain link and shaking it in frustration. This couldn’t be the place. The parking lot was lushly landscaped and full of fancy cars. A pool, closed for the winter, radiated a turquoise blue. Here and there, in the dark expanses of brick, lonely lights twinkled in windows.

  She’d said it was in ruins. Where else could they be?

  But then, in the shadows of one of the factories, something caught my eye. A two-story warehouse or machine shed—one of the few mill buildings that had not been converted into condos—rose ahead of me, its entire roof collapsed in on one side. Even in the dark, I could see the rusted hulk of machinery inside of it. I heard the sounds of an express train rolling through town behind the factory and knew Maria and her sister had to be inside.

  I rattled the chain-link fence. How to get inside? I had no better idea than to walk the length of it, hoping for a break big enough for me to slide through. Instead, I found a back entrance that someone had left open, allowing me to walk right through.

  I moved in closer to the abandoned building. Supporting arches made of concrete stood skeletal in the night, leading to what seemed like the old entrance. Above me I saw grimy windows with cracked panes, but they were too high up to allow anyone to get in, let alone for someone with broken bones to get out. With the beam of the flashlight as my guide, I picked my way around broken glass, pieces of brick, and empty cans until I found two big doors. The handles were draped in chains, the padlock binding them conspicuously dangling open. A huge sign leaned up against the outer wall, screaming “Danger” in neon orange.

  No kidding, I thought to myself. Moving silently, I pushed the door handle and let it swing open.

  The beam of my flashlight caught dust motes as I walked in. It was like a cavern inside. Naked, rusting bolts studded the steel walls, and row upon row of abandoned machines strung together with cables and wire stood silent guard. The floor beneath me creaked as I stepped forward, turning in circles to scan the entire room.

  “Maria?” I whispered. “Are you here?”

  My question echoed back to me. Nothing.

  Cautiously, I moved forward. A heavy rubber curtain—the kind that, as a child, seemed to smother our windshield and bury us in soap when we went through the car wash—covered the entrance to another part of the building. Grease and dust coated the rubber. Setting aside my squeamishness, I pushed through its fringe and stepped into the next room.

  I was at the bottom of a decrepit metal staircase, a large expanse of open space dropping away and up from its rail. The building had a basement, something I hadn’t noticed on my walk, but it was so dark and deep I couldn’t see what was in it. I shone the flashlight down. The steps to the basement all seemed intact, though the metal was red and pockmarked, eroded from neglect and the elements, making it seem as delicate as lace. Gripping the rusty rail, I started my descent. The air in this part of the building was colder, and it had a funny smell I couldn’t quite place, the tang of iron and something else.

  I looked up and saw the gaping hole in the roof through which the stars winked.

  “Maria?” The darkness seemed to swallow my voice as I called out her name once again.

  Clinging to the rough, cold steel, I felt my way past a slick patch where the rain had hit the stairs until I was on a stable—albeit earthen—floor. From this vantage point, I could just make out the large bins that loomed in the dark, bins which could have held water, or grain, or gas.

  I caught a whiff of the strange smell in the air and recognition flooded through me.

  Sulfur.

  “Maria!” I shouted her name, now, more afraid of being killed in a gas-leak fueled explosion than being caught by a bunch of criminals.

  “You have to come out now. It’s me, Hope.” I ran through the basement, swinging my flashlight in hopes of finding her hidden in the corners as I ran through the basement. “It’s not safe here, Maria. We need to move, now.”

  I heard a soft flutter behind me and wheeled around. “Maria?”

  The darkness began to
shift as the flutter grew more insistent, the lightless space where it came from growing and stretching into a mass that seemed to breathe with life. The flutter turned into a roar and the dark cloud came rushing at me until I found myself absorbed, battered by wings and claws that pummeled me into the unforgiving ground. Every time I tried to move, the cloud whirled and turned, the birds that comprised it moving together with one mind, barreling against me and pinning me down. I huddled on the dirt floor, covering my ears against the shrieking and rushing of wind.

  Eventually, I realized that the blackness had subsided. The only sound was my own screaming. I stopped, gasping for breath, afraid to lift my head.

  “She’s not here, Hope.”

  The voice gripped my heart in its icy fist, striking new fear in me. I had lost my flashlight, but I didn’t need it to know that it was Lucas who stood in the shadows.

  I heard his step echo as he moved closer toward me, and then I heard a soft skidding sound. My flashlight rolled gently toward me, coming to a stop as it bumped against my fist. I grasped it, raising my head and scuttling back as I shone the beam wildly into the night. Lucas stepped into the ray, his eyes glittering with an emotion I didn’t recognize.

  “You don’t seem happy to see me, Hope,” he continued, smiling a taut, brittle smile. He was no longer in his customary letter jacket. Instead, he’d wrapped his body in a dark leather jacket and denim that showed his every muscle, making me realize how small I was in comparison.

  I tried to speak, but all that came out was a whimpering squeak. He laughed, taking one step closer to me.

  “No,” I managed to splutter, trying to keep the distance between us. I found myself backed into a wall stacked full of baskets which teetered and fell about me.

  Determined that he would not make me feel helpless, I glanced around for anything, anything at all that I could use as a weapon, settling for an old wooden broom. I turned it around and wielded it in front of me like a pike.

  “That’s no way to greet a friend,” Lucas purred with his oily voice, obviously amused, and a wave of revulsion rippled through my body. “I just hope that you can be more gracious with my colleagues.”