After Darkness Fell

by David Berardelli

  Gasping, Fields rushed past me.

  As I followed her, I heard the old man talking to Don, telling him to get out of the bed to greet their guests.

  ***

  Fields and I sat in stunned silence as I got back onto the main road. No words could justify—or lessen—the image of the old man’s son lying dead in the bed. The bone-white face. The dull eyes, frozen in death, staring at the ceiling. The maggots feasting on the man’s cold, bloated flesh. The dead cat lying next to the corpse’s arm.

  I imagined that the old man was still trying to coax his son out of the bed. Then, after several horrifying moments, the dark cloud in the old man’s muddled head would clear and he’d realize the boy was dead. Remnants of memory would flicker among the darkness. The images would stay there just within his grasp, if only temporarily. The darkness would then dissipate, revealing glittering shards of reality.

  He’d sit on the edge of the bed, holding the boy’s cold, lifeless hand and sobbing quietly. Fond memories would seep out of the fog, and confusion would thunder through him. The clouds would come back, smothering the memories, and he’d realize that his son needed his rest. He’d get up quietly and tiptoe from the room. He might want to talk to his dead wife Betsy, perhaps to clear up a few things. But he’d gradually remember that the house was empty, and then he’d have to take a few moments to recall where she was the last time he saw her.

  She could be lying in their bed, taking a nap ... or sprawled in a chair in a spare room ... She might even be out in the garden, tending to her flowers.

  As he went through the house, trying not to panic, a photo would catch his eye. He’d pick it up and stare at it for a few minutes, tears gathering in his eyes moments before his mind betrayed him again by clouding up. He’d put down the photo and stand there, wondering what he was trying to remember. As he did so, a cat would rush by, and his thoughts would clear. Yes. The cats needed to be fed. And he’d be off to the kitchen.

  Fields sat forward in her seat, her face buried in her hands. She hadn’t said a word. As I pulled onto the main road and headed east, she remained bent forward. I didn’t know if she was trying to hide from what she’d just seen, from reality itself, or from me. It was the first time I’d seen her break down like that. Fields was strong and generally unshakable by nature. She’d survived an assault by three roving TABs when I first met her in Breezewood. She not only got away from them, she’d also found a place of refuge and a gun, and was able to gain the advantage when I stumbled into the gas station office and posed a viable threat.

  This last event had been too horrible for either of us to easily dismiss. Although I’d seen death in many different forms, I fully expected nightmares from this, possibly for years to come. There was no reason why Fields, a former RN who’d no doubt seen just as much death as I had, should feel any differently.

  I left her be, partly because I understood and also because I needed to tend to my own quiet reflection. This plague had reared its ugly head once again, revealing yet another page in its lengthy tome of unspeakable horrors. It had been months since Reed, Fields and I had escaped the underground government facility. We’d deleted their programs, which, as a result, destroyed their last-ditch attempt at mass genocide, but the results of their corrupt legacy lived on. I sincerely hoped the time would come when we could safely say we’d seen the last of it.

  “That poor man.” Fields lowered her hands. “I know how cruel this sounds, but I honestly hope he doesn’t last much longer.”

  “If the cigarettes don’t get him, the rotten food will. I’m surprised the stench of the cat urine hasn’t already damaged his lungs.”

  “I counted eight cats. From what I’ve learned in the health profession, the more severe cases—those causing lung and respiratory disease and failure—usually result from constant exposure to a substantially higher number. I didn’t see mouse or rat droppings anywhere, so at least he’s safe in that area. But even so, daily exposure to cat feces is deadly.”

  “There are probably more than eight. Cats breed a lot. I saw two kittens, so there might be a lot more hiding. There could also be a few dead ones lying around. Don’t forget the one on the bed with Don.”

  Fields shivered. “That’s something I could have lived without.”

  “Actually, I think the old man’s mind is already pretty well gone. He was really distracted—especially when he tried remembering things. I’ll give him another couple of weeks before he stops using the toilet and forgets to eat, or feed the cats. Then he’ll probably curl up in the bed with his son and stay there.”

  As I drove, I kept my eye out for the light-blue compact, but there was no sign of anyone else on the road or in any of the yards. We passed a few dead bodies and the carcasses of three dogs lying in the high grass near the road, but no one else still moving. But I continued to be cautious, and decided to stick with my plan of driving to Saxonburg, taking the loop around, and coming back on Deer Creek Road.

  “I’d like to stop at the store at the Saxonburg crossroads,” I said. “Since they had propane the last time we checked, I think we should take anything that’s left. This way, we’ll have enough to last us through the winter.”

  “How’s the fuel tank for the truck? You haven’t filled up in a while.”

  It read slightly below three-quarters, which was more than enough. We had twenty gallons stored in the garage, so we weren’t hurting. But it made sense to build up the stockpile. We had no idea what awaited us. The power grid servicing the County continued to produce intermittent trickles, but it wouldn’t last much longer. Once the station went dark, the pumps would no longer work, and the only gas left in the tanks would go bad and turn useless in just a few weeks.

  It took us about ten minutes to reach the crossroads. I pulled off the main road, where the side entrance led to the rear lot, which held about two dozen vehicles. Abandoned trucks, cars, ATVs and SUVs sat along the curb and in the gravel lot behind the store. I eased past a dirt-covered van sitting off the curb, the driver slumped over the wheel. Two more bodies lay on the ground across the street, in the front yard of a small one-story brick house with its windows broken out. Weeds had taken over. A rusty push mower stood just a few feet from one of the bodies.

  I eased into the rear lot of the store and parked a fair distance from the block building, between an old Ford pickup and a rusty El Camino. I parked there in case we had to hide out. I’d learned long ago about anonymity, and always thought of ways of keeping hidden, or at least inconspicuous. The best place I knew of to hide a truck was to park it among other trucks.

  We got out and went up the gravel lot to the back of the store. The cool breeze drifted across the road, bringing with it some sourness. It wasn’t very strong, so I assumed the bodies hadn’t been dead very long. I carried my .357, Fields her .45. The propane tanks sat on a concrete slab on the far side of the building, inside a small chain-link pen that had been forced open some time ago.

  “Do you want to check the tanks first?” Fields asked.

  “Whatever we do, we need to do it quickly.”

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “I’m still a little uneasy since this morning. Besides, I expect that damned light-blue compact to pop up again.”

  “So I guess we’ll check the tanks.”

  “If they’re full, I’ll find a cart or dolly, wheel out the tanks and set them out here. I’ll go back for the truck, bring it over, and we can load them onto the bed.”

  “What do you want me to do while you’re checking for propane?”

  “You can go around the front to see if the pumps are working.”

  “Sounds like a plan. What’s the strategy if we spot that compact again?”

  “We can hide out in the store. If someone pulls in and starts looking around, that’s when we’ll have to...”

  I stopped talking when I heard the harsh sound. Fields spun on her heel in its direction.

  Motorcycles. Several of them. Their roar g
rew louder by the second.

  FIVE

  A display of lawn mowers and farming implements covered a concrete slab across the aisle from the propane tanks. Beyond it, the loading dock doorway opened into a large area around two thousand square feet. Ten feet from the doorway, 55-gallon metal barrels sat upright in four rows of twelve, covering the wall on the right. A few from the front row had been knocked over, and lay in the aisle amongst strewn candy and food wrappers, broken palettes, forty-pound sacks of concrete and a carton of rat poison that had been broken open, its tiny blue pellets scattered all over the floor.

  The angry roar of the motorcycles increased as the riders drew closer.

  “The barrels.” I pointed behind Fields. “We can hide behind them.”

  We ran for the loading dock, jumping over rolls of fencing and dodging a manure spreader. I led the way, with Fields close behind me. We reached the barrels just as the first chopper pulled off the main road and coasted down the gravel slope, to the rear lot. The last row of barrels sat close to the wall, but we were able to squeeze behind two at the far end. We ducked down, lowering our butts to the concrete floor and wedging ourselves into the triangular spaces between them.

  By this time, two more choppers had entered the rear lot, their rough, loud engines making the walls of the loading dock vibrate. From our cramped quarters, we couldn’t see anything but horse feed and dog food sitting on palettes piled ten feet high, against the back wall.

  I carefully adjusted my position, until I was sitting with my knees against my chest, my right side mashed against the wall, my left shoulder pressing the barrel. I kept the .357 pressed tightly against my chest, its barrel pointing at the ceiling. Fields sat in a similar hunched-over position, her back just inches from my knees. I couldn’t see how she held the .45 but was confident she could get it blasting away immediately.

  The deafening idling of the choppers prevented us from communicating with one another. I didn’t want to shout at her and risk being heard if the machines were suddenly switched off. To reassure her, I gently squeezed her shoulder. Although she was warm and trembled a little, she nodded slightly, reassuring me that she was okay. I honestly felt we would survive this, provided no one came in to search the barrels.

  But we had no idea what these people would do, how many there were, what they wanted, or if they were armed. All we did know was that if they were able to operate their choppers, they weren’t doped. Hopefully they’d come here strictly for supplies. Or gas. They might not even be interested in hurting anyone, for that matter.

  I knew right off that my reasoning was seriously flawed. For some stupid, inexplicable reason, I was still holding fast to the idea that not everyone left was a potential killer. What was wrong with me? After what had happened in Orlando, St. Cloud, and on the trip up here, I still found myself struggling to remain optimistic. And after escaping the underground government facility, I still held out hope for the survival of the human race.

  Even after this morning’s events, I still felt this way. I knew I shouldn’t, but I did. And though Fields and I were hiding from a gang of bikers, I struggled to convince myself that it might be possible to walk out there and talk to them.

  I quickly dismissed that notion, knowing full well that it would be certain suicide to show ourselves. Nothing and no one was safe anymore. No matter how anything looked or felt or seemed, we had to assume the worst. These were bikers, and everyone knew what they were like. In this new age of death and destruction, we faced roving gangs doing whatever they wanted. I could only assume this group was heavily armed, and would not hesitate to kill us.

  Except something told me they might not want to kill Fields.

  Not right off, anyway.

  The choppers stopped idling. In moments, a heavy, eerie silence dropped over us like a smothering blanket.

  My nerves twitched as Fields and I heard heavy footsteps.

  “Hey! Anyone hangin’ around?”

  The footfalls sounded like heavy boots. The sounds grew louder and stopped abruptly near the loading dock doorway. I heard what sounded like glass being broken farther down, in the back lot. Someone chuckled. Someone else coughed wetly and spat. The heavy footfalls resumed, growing louder before stopping again. “Anyone here?”

  More glass shattering. It sounded like someone was smashing bottles onto the concrete. Another cough; someone hawked loudly. The clicking of a gun hammer issued near the doorway, making us both shudder, and we heard another cough.

  The heavy footfalls resumed, moving toward us. Several steps later they stopped, around twenty feet away. A hissing sound, followed by a loud, barking cough resonated so loudly that it hurt my ears. A loud hawking sound preceded a splat! onto the concrete floor in front of the barrels. Another cough, then the clearing of someone’s voice.

  “Hey, Trapper! Where the fuck didja find this shit? Jammed up a dead dog’s ass?”

  “You’re smokin’ it, ain’tcha?” came the distant reply.

  “Only ’cause we can’t find nothin’ better!”

  A heavy whiff of marijuana smoke drifted our way as it crawled over the barrels. I lowered my head so I wouldn‘t sneeze. Fields lowered her head as well.

  “Ya don’t like it?” The distant voice grew louder as the second biker approached the dock. “Take a dump and snort it instead.”

  “Funny, asshole. Real funny.”

  A different voice out back said, “Anything in there worth takin’?”

  The footfalls started up again. It sounded like whoever was in the room with us was looking around. A loud bang resonated, and something slammed into the barrels. Fields stiffened. The biker had probably kicked one of the barrels lying on its side. “Just horse feed, dog food, straw—nothin’ but farm shit.”

  More footfalls. A second biker climbed the slab leading into the dock. Fields pressed her right side against the wall.

  “There’s gotta be a chick around here somewhere. I’m so fuckin’ horny, my balls are gettin’ all swollen and fucked up, rubbin’ against my knees.”

  “Use your fuckin’ hand, ya wuss.”

  “Tired of that shit.”

  “Get used to it, dude. Ain’t no fuckin’ chicks around here. We been lookin’ for two days.”

  “Got to be...” More footfalls.

  Fields tensed up, pressing harder against the wall. I felt badly that I couldn’t reassure her. I didn’t want to jump up and start blasting away. I had no idea how many bikers were out there or where they were, and didn’t want to start up a firefight. The .357 carried six; Fields’ .45 held eight. The Beretta in my pocket also had eight, but was useless for anything beyond ten or twelve feet, and would probably take most of the mag to stop one big biker wearing heavy leather.

  The footfalls stopped. Someone was sniffing. “I can always tell when there’s pussy around.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “What the fuck’s that have to do with anything?”

  “You’re losin’ it, dude. Suck it up.”

  “That last bitch wasn’t worth the trouble, couldn’t even remember she even had a pussy.”

  A chuckle. “She just needed reminded. Didn’t take much.”

  “Ain’t no fun doin’ a chick when she don’t even know what’s happenin’”

  “The way it is, dude. Gotta nail what we find while it’s fresh. Wait too long and they get so fuckin’ stupid, they ain’t even worth the time.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ fresh no more, goddammit.”

  More coughing and hacking somewhere out in the back lot.

  “That fucker Morgan’s gettin’ it bad.”

  “Leave ’im alone. He don’t have long.”

  “I say cap ’im now, before we head for Pittsburgh. Excess baggage.”

  “Then they’ll only be four of us.”

  “So? He ain’t no good no more, and he’s gettin’ worse. Pissed his pants last night, didn’t even know it. I had to tell ’im, smelled so bad.”

  “So? It ha
ppens.”

  “Ain’t happenin’ to this boy.” A snort.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Hey, I piss my pants? That’s when I eat a bullet.”

  “Lemme know when you’re ready for chow, dude. I’ll serve it up for ya.”

  “You’re all fart, Trapper.”

  More coughing and hawking out back.

  “Fucker’s gross. Real gross, coughin’ up his insides so much.”

  “C’mon, we gotta check the store. Then we’ll get some gas and head on back to camp.”

  “What about Morgan?”

  “What about ’im? He’s a brother, dude.”

  “He craps his pants, you’re the one beddin’ down with ’im.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” The footfalls resumed.

  “Gonna have to. No fuckin’ chicks around no more.”

  “Stop your whinin’. They’ll be chicks in Pittsburgh.”

  “Ya sure?”

  “Course I’m not fuckin’ sure, dude. Who the fuck ya think I am? One of those fuckin’ mental dudes they used to show on the TV?”

  The footfalls grew fainter.

  About a minute after the two left the dock, someone came back and tossed something at the palettes of horse feed. I couldn’t make out what it was but decided it was something large and fairly heavy, like a strip of rebar, or a piece of fencing. Then silence. We waited tensely, but no one else came back.

  Outside, the bikers yelled to one another near the gas pumps.

  “Hey, Trapper ... What the fuck’s this?”

  “No tellin’, dude. If ya can’t eat it or smoke it, leave it be.”

  “Looks like a strip of beef jerky some dickhead tossed in the dirt.”

  “Eat it, then.”

  “Kinda funky.”

  “Then don’t eat it.”

  “Where ya goin’ Morgan? Get back here.”

  A loud, wet cough. “Wanna check out those trucks in the back!”

  Fields and I tensed up.

  “Forget it, dude. We gotta get back to camp.”

  “Pops, you gotta quit tellin’ me what to do. I don’t wanna go to school no more!”

  “I ain’t your old man, Morgan. How many times I gotta tell ya?”