by Sean Platt
“Anything else?”
Another second, then, “It was pretty. The sun was bright, and the day was breezy.”
“Do you remember running?”
Eva scrunched her nose as if trying to pull a thought from somewhere deep.
“No,” she finally said. “I kissed my daughter on the forehead, tied my hair in a scrunchie … then nothing.”
Sullivan colored the blanks in her memory, but Eva was screaming before he finished, calling him a liar and many things worse. Sullivan waited for her to calm down, then set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He looked in her eyes until he saw that she knew his words were true, then asked for permission to continue. Eva swallowed and nodded.
“Do you know this man?” Sullivan pointed to the glass and Dr. Simpson standing on the other side, holding a tablet against it. On the tablet was a picture of Boricio Wolfe, since they had no photos of Bishop. The image was doctored to show Boricio Wolfe bald, and wearing an eye patch. His eyes had been muted to an intelligent blaze rather than the one that gleamed with Wolfe’s insanity.
Eva studied the tablet, then after a minute slowly shook her head. Sullivan could tell she was lying. Could feel it.
“Are you sure?” Sullivan pushed.
Eva looked at the picture again. She shook her head, this time faster. Scared.
Sullivan said, “We know you’re lying, Mrs. Flores.” She said nothing, but her haunted eyes widened. He continued. “Unfortunately, we won’t be able to release you from custody until you’re straight with us. That means you won’t be seeing Maria or your husband.”
“I’m so sorry,” Eva said, her voice cracking to splinters. “I don’t know who that is, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Eva Flores started sobbing. “I don’t remember anything.”
Still calm, Sullivan took a step toward her. “You’re lying,” he repeated. “And as long as you continue to lie, we must consider you a danger to yourself and others. I’m sorry.”
Eva started to shake, softly at first, then her body fell into a horrible rhythm of violent bucking. As Sullivan fell a step back, Eva lunged at him, then growled and screamed as she slammed herself against a dam of air and the chain cuffing her to the wall clanged against the cot as she fell back.
Eva then yanked harder against the chain as Sullivan backed away farther from the rage, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. She yanked harder and growled louder, screaming in a curdle as her shoulder dislocated. She slobbered and snarled and chomped, lurching forward like a dog on a chain.
Eva then pulled hard so fast and hard, her arm ripped from its socket, and she was suddenly on Sullivan.
He fell back to the ground, drowning in panic as he tried pushing her from his body. The biosuit made it difficult to fight back. She was a demon unleashed, gnashing her teeth as if they were fangs and bearing her nails like claws.
She punched through his helmet, shattering the glass face. Sullivan screamed as shards collapsed through the mask. Even terrified, he felt thankful for his glasses, sparing his eyes from the lacerating glass falling into his flesh.
Sullivan lost his scream to a horrible choking as Eva’s mouth wrenched open, as if pried wide by the devil, and black, wet ropes of flesh billowed out from her mouth like tentacles searching for Sullivan’s.
He twisted his head away, looking for Dr. Simpson — no longer in sight.
“Help!” Sullivan cried out as The Darkness moved closer to his mouth. It touched his lips. He closed his mouth, clenching his teeth, desperate to keep it from infecting him.
The door opened, and a hot blast of fire swallowed Eva in a blaze. Fire spread to the front of Sullivan’s suit. He rolled, trying to douse it. Eva’s screams filled the chamber, echoing with her personal wail and the alien shriek he had heard too many times.
Ed Keenan stepped toward the woman, flamethrower in his hands, driving her back. Dr. Simpson ran in beside him and sprayed Sullivan’s suit with a fire hydrant, smothering the flames.
Sullivan stood, staring as the woman, now a dark husk in the fire, fell to the ground.
Keenan stepped out of the chamber, closed the door, and looked Sullivan up and down.
“Shit,” Keenan said, shaking his head. “You were right.”
Sullivan, for once, found no pleasure in victory.
He watched as the last of the creature’s skin ripped into ashy, black crinkles, wondering how many more were out there, hiding in humans.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7 — Luca Harding
Luca sat in the back of the Maxima, silent. Anna sat beside him, relentlessly trying to get him to talk or play. She was holding her stuffed “Boo” — supposedly the cutest dog in the world — along with a second, tinier Boo. The two stuffed animals were having a long conversation that consisted of nothing but baby talk blended with the occasional barking. She was trying her hardest to get Luca to join her. Sometimes he would, but he had to be in the mood, and right now he wasn’t at all.
Luca was depressed, and didn’t like how Mom kept glancing back at him in the rearview, so obviously worried. He wondered if Dad had told her anything about Johnny Thomas, or if she was just worried because she could see the upset all over his face.
Luca hated Johnny Thomas so, so much, but was still surprised when, for only a second, he wished Johnny would die.
Dad was home when Mom pulled into the driveway, which meant Luca’s afternoon would be awful, not because Dad would be mad — he wouldn’t be — but because he would ask what had happened at school with Johnny Thomas, and Luca would have to tell him, even though he didn’t want to.
Sure enough, Luca had only taken a single lick from his Fudgsicle when Dad asked, “So, what happened at school? Anything you want to talk about?”
Luca looked for Mom or Anna, but they were nowhere in the dining room or kitchen. Dad smiled and nodded, understanding like he always did, then went over to Luca, wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and led him upstairs to his bedroom. He eased Luca to the bed, then sat beside him, like he had been that morning.
“So?” Dad said.
Luca took a minute to chew, wondering if he should tell a half truth or a whole one, then opened up and let everything spill.
“I tried not to let them bother me, Dad. I read the comic at recess, and stayed on the steps. I didn’t even play with Mason, since I knew Johnny Thomas and his stupid friends, Gus and Kiyor, would bother me. I even made it through lunch and gym. Then, after soccer, I tried to get out of the locker room as fast as I could so there wouldn’t be any trouble. I grabbed my clothes then went to the bathroom across the hall and got dressed, but when I was leaving, Johnny Thomas was there. So were Gus and Kiyor.”
Luca’s voice cracked, his lip quivered.
“And what happened?”
Luca broke down. “They took the comic and put it in the toilet. Then Johnny Thomas peed on it.”
Dad’s jaw twitched. Luca could tell he was trying to stay not mad. He knew that even if Dad lost it, he wouldn’t be mad at him. He pulled his son toward him, then held their embrace, rocking back and forth until Luca stopped crying. Once soothed, he said, “You’re OK?”
Luca nodded.
“All that stuff I said this morning, that’s good advice. But I have some other advice, too. Would you like to hear it?”
He nodded again.
“Never allow yourself to be bullied, Luca. Sometimes, the best way to deal with a bully, the only way, is to take them down. Sometimes, if a bully’s picking on you, the best thing you can do is to make a tight fist, then hit them as hard as you can, right on the bridge of their big, fat, bully nose in front of a crowd of kids and without any teachers around. With most bullies, you’ll only have to do this once.”
Luca cried some more, but only because he was happy and knew his father was right. He was a little scared to fight, but excited to be tough and not run away. “Thanks,” he said.
Dad smiled. “Anytime, Son. Wanna practice after dinner?”
&n
bsp; “What,” he asked, “things to say, or punching?” Luca couldn’t help but laugh; it was tiny and felt good when leaving his mouth.
“Both,” Dad said. He stood, tousled Luca’s hair, then left the room.
The rest of the evening was better. Anna came in just before dinner, hungry for Luca’s attention. They played with Boo, and Anna even let Luca have the larger puppy. They did baby talk and barking for about 10 minutes until Luca was ready to end it, then Anna talked him into playing for another 10 minutes, this time My Little Pony, which he pretended to mind, though Luca didn’t really mind at all (and never did). He still didn’t know what Dad had told Mom, but she made hot dogs and hamburgers — Luca’s favorite — even though it wasn’t hot dog and hamburger night, so he figured she had to know something. After dinner, Luca went outside with Dad, and they practiced saying things and punching.
Luca felt better than he had in days. Still, as he slowly drifted to sleep, his thoughts returned to where they’d been in the car:
Life would be so much better if Johnny Thomas was dead.
**
Luca slept, cycling through many dreams that he didn’t understand.
He was him, but not him.
Anna was her, but not her.
Mom and Dad were them, though they weren’t his parents at all.
Nothing made sense.
Everything was black, then white.
There were too many colors, then nothing at all.
There was a terrible car accident, the worst kind; it left a long, yellow car crumpled like foil on the roadside, where Luca kneeled in damp grass sobbing, wiping his eyes, all alone. His parents and sister looked like smashed pumpkins in the burning car a few feet away.
Luca woke screaming, terrified and covered in sweat.
He lay in bed, nursing his whimper, unsure if he was still sleeping. He felt some of the dream’s nothingness follow him back to the waking side.
Some of the feelings from other Anna and Mom and Dad (and other Luca) felt so real that they scared him from bed.
He slowly shoved his terror down, past his throat and chest and stomach, until it was near his toes. Then he wiggled them away, tore the covers from bed, and plopped his feet onto the carpet. Luca crept toward the door, stepping on a Lego on the way and biting into his lip to hold the scream in his mouth.
I want Daddy.
He crept out into the hall and felt like praying when he saw the light in Dad’s office. Luca slowly walked the hallway, trying not to run, then opened the door at the end and spilled yellow light into the mostly black hallway, then slipped inside his dad’s office.
A man sat in Dad’s tall office chair, but it wasn’t his father. The man was old, and stroking the head of a large husky.
Luca was still terrified, but felt happy to know this wasn’t real; he had to be dreaming.
“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
The old man smiled, stroked his beard, then looked down at the dog, who whined. The man smiled at the dog, and the dog smiled back. Then he turned back to Luca. “Well, yes, of course.”
Luca swallowed. “Who are you?”
“My name is Will. Do you remember me?”
“Should I?” Luca asked. Every cell inside him said he absolutely should.
I know this man.
“No, I suppose not,” Will said.
Luca stood through the silence, waiting for the old man to say something else. But he said nothing. Luca was about to ask the old man how he knew him, and why he was in his house, or at least inside his dream, but before he could say anything, the husky opened its wide jaw and made words instead.
“What about me?” the dog asked, startling Luca.
He fell back three steps until he was standing in the doorway. Even in a dream, the talking dog seemed odd, and like Will’s smile (and the other Anna and Mom and Dad) it seemed eerily familiar.
The husky wined again, then added, “Do you remember me?”
Luca didn’t, until he did.
Suddenly, with more certainty than he had ever found in a dream, Luca knew. For a second he saw everything, then the everything disappeared. It left a name on Luca’s lips. He said it out loud before his brain took it away. “Dog Vader?”
“Yes,” the dog said. “But you can call me Kick.”
The everything returned to take it all away.
Luca’s world disappeared.
The boy opened his eyes in the pitch black of his bedroom, terrified.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — Marina Harmon
Malibu, California
September 2013
Marina stood on the pier, staring out at the setting sun and leaning into the cool breeze as it whipped at her long, blonde hair and sent a cold chill stirring inside her. She lifted her hand and took a sip of hot Starbucks, allowing the warmth to do its work, and give her a spark of the energy she burned through too fast.
She liked walking out to the pier every so often. It was worth it for the sunset. There was something calming about the sea, and the sun dipping down to claim it. It always brought peace to her mind.
This evening, however, the setting sun only reminded Marina of the phrase that wouldn’t leave her mind.
“The Darkness is coming.”
It had been her father’s final words, a message from the Great All Seeing two years before.
She’d been waiting ever since for her own message from the Great All Seeing, ever since she’d taken over the Church of Original Design. Her father, the late self-help author J.L. Harmon, had first heard the Great All Seeing then founded the church in the 1980s. While Marina had been meditating daily as instructed, she had yet to receive a message from the Great All Seeing herself.
Before, the being had only spoken to her father. It was through J.L. Harmon that the being’s messages were interpreted and passed out to their followers. But now, two years after his death, Marina was feeling the pressure — of both heading the multinational, multi-billion-dollar church at age 37, and for delivering the Great All Seeing’s messages to their eager followers.
Some within the church had even called for her removal, saying that she was no prophet. No leader. And if she were being honest with herself, and her fellow church leaders, she would agree. Hell, she didn’t even believe in the religion a few years ago.
While she’d been the church’s vice president for four years, and the face of the religion for the last two, Marina wasn’t comfortable with the church’s many aspects of management, nor the politics of running it, especially when it came to dealing with the church’s leaders in other states and countries. It was too much, and at times, it felt that perhaps this was The Darkness the Great All Seeing had warned of. If Marina failed to navigate her position’s politics, she was doomed to crash upon the rocks.
The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint her father in whatever his next form would be. Marina wanted Daddy to be proud whenever she met him again, wanted him to know she wasn’t the fuck-up she’d been in her 20s. That she’d found her way back to the light and true way of being.
Marina’s phone rang. She reached into her pocket, hoping it was her boyfriend, Steven. It wasn’t. Instead, it was the agent Veronica Barrow.
She considered letting the call go to voice mail, but hadn’t heard from Veronica in a while and was curious why she was calling, hoping that someone in the church hadn’t done something stupid to leave it with another black eye.
Marina took a deep breath and picked up the phone, “Hello.”
“Marina! How are you?”
“I’m good,” Marina said, inviting no banter, wanting Veronica to get to the point. Fortunately, Veronica was a blunt woman who preferred not to dawdle, but would, if she had to, for the sake of politics. Hearing no need for banter, she said “Hey, I need a favor.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to give your blessing to a writer I work with, Rose McCallister. The Maris Brothers are interested in optioning a book she wrote, T
he Billfold, and I know they consult with you before working with anyone … to see if the potential partner meets your standards. I want you to vouch for her.”
“You know I can’t vouch for someone I’ve not met.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I want you to meet Rose, and the sooner the better. I want you to see how amazing she is. I want you to give her your blessing.”
“I don’t know,” Marina said, not wanting to add another meeting to her already full schedule. “I need to check with Carrie. When do you need to know by?”
“She’s only in town for a few days, so the sooner the better. Please, Marina, this book is a scorching-hot property. The Maris Brothers will hate themselves if this book goes to Epic.”
Veronica was suave enough not to finish her following thought: They’d be even more pissed if they learned that Marina could have brokered the deal, but didn’t. Marina normally had little patience for power brokers and influence peddlers, but Veronica was good and Marina liked her — she was a loyal rarity in Hollywood, and had helped more than a few Original Design members by quashing some ugly incidents that had happened through the years.
“OK,” Marina said, trying not to sigh or seem inconvenienced. “How about lunch tomorrow, my house?”
“Perfect!” Veronica said. “We’ll see you then. Thank you, Marina.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, then killed the call. She texted her assistant, Carrie, to let her know of her lunch plans.
Marina checked her voice mail to see if Steven had called, then hung up disappointed.
They had planned to meet for dinner at the Bouchard down the road at 8 p.m., but Steven was supposed to call once finished with his meetings for the day.
He had joined Marina’s church six months ago, entering her life at the perfect moment, as if sent by fate to help her manage the day-to-day she found so tiresome. Marina had met Steven at an ayahuasca ceremony, introduced to her as “especially enlightened” by their mutual shaman, Master Puissant. She was amazed at how quickly they had hit it off.