Dark Rising

by Monica McGurk

  “Henri, what do I do now?”

  Whomever you find, remember to tell them you’re American. That still counts for something in some places. Good luck.

  “What do you mean, good luck?” I said, panicking. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  I have an appointment with the court, he responded mournfully. I was lucky they granted me this reprieve, so I could get you this far.

  I slumped in my seat, resting my head against the steering wheel.

  “They’re going to punish you.”

  Yes. And I deserve it. But at least I got you here, safe. He paused, letting me process this news. They won’t dispatch a replacement until after my trial. So the rest is up to you.

  I felt a lump growing in my throat. “I don’t want a replacement.” Despite everything he’d done, the thought of losing someone else now seemed unbearable.

  That will be as you wish. But you don’t have to decide that now. It is time for me to go. As it is for you, he added gently.

  The car door fell open as if of its own accord. He was kicking me out, a mama bird pushing her baby from the nest.

  Godspeed, Hope.

  “Goodbye,” I whispered. When he didn’t respond, I slid from behind the wheel, pulling my backpack from the seat, and took in the situation.

  The fence that separated us from the airfields was long. As far as I could see, black crows clustered along the top, murderous spectators of the scene. Grimly, I hitched my backpack up.

  Don’t think about them, I told myself. Maybe they’re just regular birds.

  Don’t think about Michael.

  Just focus on getting home. You can wait for him to return to you there.

  I picked my way through the smoking rubble toward what remained of the terminal entrance, keeping a close eye on the birds as I went. The extent of the violence wasn’t apparent until I got closer to the building. The doors had been blown off; exposed wires and steel beams dangled loose in the cratered cement. Stone-faced soldiers were patrolling up and down the sidewalks, Dobermans straining at their sides. A platoon ran double-time past me, machine guns in hand, but nobody stopped me. It was as if I didn’t exist. I clutched the strap of my backpack tighter and kept walking until I slipped inside the ruins.

  I flinched as the severed cables hissed and crackled above my head, giving off sparks. Abandoned luggage was strewn across the floor, a trail of clothing spilled out across the terminal. All of the electronic signs were disabled, blinking information for the same flights, over and over. The ropes and chains that once managed orderly lines of patient fliers were knocked over, lying twisted and useless against the dirty floor. Displaced travelers were huddled against walls and in corners—filling every possible open space. Mostly, they were quiet, their dead eyes staring, unseeing, at the wreckage around them, their fingers absently plucking at imagined loosened threads. Many still clutched their passports and tickets, as if this were only a temporary delay, a simple inconvenience. Here and there a harried mother soothed a crying child, using a last bit of cookie or a desperate story as a distraction. Soldiers patrolled, machine guns poised to challenge anyone who caused too much trouble. Waves of dissatisfaction rolled from the far reaches of the refugees, grumblings that vanished just as soon as they surfaced, their shifting presence suffusing the entire place with a continued threat.

  I started moving faster, sticking close to the walls, afraid of what had happened here. If the crowds were surly, the soldiers barely able to keep them under control, good enough. I could creep through the chaos as if I were invisible. I kept to myself, scanning the unfamiliar airline signs until I found one that listed an Atlanta flight.

  At first, I thought the counter seemed abandoned. But then I saw a flash of movement, a dark shape darting behind the desk.

  “Excuse me,” I called, walking around the length of the counter. I came around the back to see a lone flight attendant cowering against her printer. Crouched on the floor, she looked like a cornered animal. Her once impeccable uniform was filthy, giant rings of sweat staining the underarms of her starched shirt, the sheen on her forehead and her wild hair giving away the trials of her day.

  She looked up at me, her eyes growing wide with alarm as she began scrambling away on her hands and feet. I glanced down and realized with a start that I was covered with blood and dirt. I lifted my hands and saw the sticky grime on my fingers had dried to a dark rust color.

  I felt another pang as the memory of it all washed over me anew.

  The flight attendant looked wildly about, but she’d trapped herself in a corner. “Dis flight has been grounded,” she pronounced with a precise French accent, drawing on all the authority her uniform and years of experience could muster. But her voice was trembling slightly.

  I dug my passport out of my backpack and slapped it down. “Then put me on another flight. Any flight to the United States.”

  She shook her head, scrambling to her feet and looking about for help. “Dat is not possible. All flights are grounded. Dere will be no travel out of France today.” Warily, she stepped up to the counter and pushed my passport back toward me with one outstretched, perfectly manicured finger—barely touching it—as if the papers were infested. “Perhaps you can come back tomorrow.”

  Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed her by the lapels of her uniform. She gasped and tried to pull away, but I simply curled my fingers tighter. My hands were shaking as I began reasoning with her. “You don’t understand.” My voice sounded loud, even to my own ears. “I have to go. I have to go now. I have to go home. He won’t know where to find me if I’m not there.”

  “Terroriste!” someone shrieked. “Policier!”

  I heard the crowd surging to life, hours of frustration and impatience finally breaking through to the surface as the crowd watched the incident playing out before it. But I ignored it.

  “I have to go home today!” I wailed, my grip on the agent’s lapels growing ever tighter.

  Rough hands pulled me away. “Arrêtez!”

  The crowd erupted into screams of panic. The ticketing agent broke free, her hands flying to her neck as if to check if she were still in one piece.

  “Arrêtez-vous!”

  Cold steel clamped down on my wrists. Handcuffs. I was spun around to confront a large man in military uniform, waving a gun.

  I froze in place. What had Henri told me to do?

  “Je suis américaine,” I intoned slowly, the French words welling up from me unbidden, as I backed up. “Aidez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”

  The policeman raised the gun, pointing the barrel in my face with shaking hands.

  He mumbled something garbled at me and swung the gun. “Allez.” He shook the gun insistently. “Allez! Marchez.”

  “My passport,” I pleaded, looking over my shoulder to where I’d left it on the counter.

  “Non.” With a brusque shake of his head, he ruled that out. “Marchez.”

  I looked around. Where he wanted me to go, I had no idea, but with the gun pointed at my head, I turned away from the counter, abandoning my passport and backpack, along with any chance I had of getting out of here, and began walking.

  The crowd parted before me.

  Somewhere above me I heard a bird screech. I looked up and saw a crow, flying about the inside of the airport, its wings spread like a black flag of victory.

  Something inside of me slipped apart. I laughed, a crazy sound that mixed with the cries of the bird and my own sobs, a sound that was absorbed into the cacophony of the airport so that no one heard it.

  It was the sound of my heart breaking as I entered the first day of waiting, alone.

  eleven

  ALABAMA

  “The world is going crazy,” Don said, shaking his head as he ran through the store’s closing procedures in his head. His district manager had sent an urgent message, telling everyone to shut down early for the night. Something about gang violence. Nothing they’d ever had to worry about here before, but from t
he flickering images on the television in the dining area, he could see that the spasm of destruction that seemed to be swirling, mob-fed, around the world was making its presence felt even here in quiet Alabama. He couldn’t see it yet here, but orders were orders, so they were closing up, just waiting on the last diners to leave before turning out the lights.

  He handed Jared, one of his new crew members, a mop. “Start in the back. You can finish the front after that table leaves.”

  Jared looked at him sullenly, his swirly hair hanging in his eyes, before taking the mop and slowly beginning to move to the kitchen. Don sighed, watching him meander away. He didn’t understand young people today. Hope had been different. Then again, he’d pretty much kept her that way.

  He went back to the drive-through station to tidy up, pausing over the register. Taped to the wall was a picture of Hope, her school photo from last year. He picked it up to give it a good look.

  Did she look the same now? He strained to remember how she seemed the last time he talked with her in Atlanta, but it was hard to picture her features now. Everything about her seemed fuzzy, almost as if God, in his mercy, was preparing him for the loss of her, the sharpness of grief already being worn away by fading memory and time.

  Not so his memories of Mona.

  He closed his eyes, briefly allowing himself to linger on the image of her swollen lips, lips he’d kissed too fiercely in his need and love for her. He had waited ten years to see the look he’d seen in her eyes that night. He knew, now, that he might not see it again—that his admissions that night at the minister’s house might have closed the door once again on any chance he had to win her back.

  But he wouldn’t give up.

  A horn startled him. He opened his eyes and looked into the video monitor. A lone car, a long black sedan, was parked in front of the drive-through order unit outside. Don looked at the clock. Normally, they’d still be open. He knew he’d been ordered to close up, but he hadn’t counted his money and shut down the register yet.

  Another blare of the horn broke the quiet.

  He tucked Hope’s photo into his pocket, picked his earphones off the counter, and turned on the microphone.

  “Welcome to Taco Bell. What can I get you this evening?”

  There was a long pause. “Just a Coke.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, we serve Pepsi products here. Is Pepsi okay for you?”

  He always hated it when this happened. It seemed wrong to be serving Pepsi here, so close to Atlanta, the birthplace of Coca-Cola. Every good southerner knew there was only one Coca-Cola. The Real Thing, that’s what they’d called it in the commercial. Sometimes he had half a mind to sneak in his own stash of the red cans, so he could give them to the disappointed customers who would frown and say, no thanks, they’ll just have water. But corporate would disapprove. He had enough rebellion in his life, without having to worry about the company coming down on him. He needed to keep this job, to prove to Mona and Hope that he could change, that he could be relied upon.

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Don nodded to himself. From out of town, then. No accounting for taste, but fair enough.

  “What size, sir?”

  “Biggest you got. Easy on the ice.”

  “That’ll be $1.99. Pull around to the window.”

  He ducked out into the dining room after he put the cup on the machine to fill. The customers had left, but Jared was leaning against a table, mop propped up in a corner.

  “Jared, you can lock it up now.” Jared slid off the table, slumping his way to the front door. Kids today, Don thought, shaking his head as he watched Jared moving so slowly it seemed he was under water.

  Don walked back behind the counter. The sedan had pulled around and was waiting at the window. He quickly checked the drive-through camera to see if anyone else was in line and noted the screen had gone all fuzzy, full of static—he’d have to note that on his clipboard, so the day manager could check it out before the lunch rush. He swiped the cup off the machine and carefully pressed the lid down, sealing off the edges. He opened the window to pass the cup, paired with a neatly wrapped straw, through.

  The windows of the sedan were dark and still closed.

  “Sir?” Don called.

  The driver slowly lowered the blackened glass. He was Asian, dressed up in a fancy suit and tie. He stared coolly at Don, appraising him.

  “Sir? That’ll be $1.99.” Don pushed the drink farther out the window. The man took it and settled it into the cup holder next to him.

  Don tried to make small talk while he waited for the man to pay him. “You’re lucky to have caught us open. There’s something funny going on; all the stores are shutting down early tonight. You haven’t heard anything about it, have you?”

  Don shifted uncomfortably in the silence, waiting for the man to answer.

  The man looked at him, no expression on his face. Instead, he reached around to his side—Don thought for his wallet—and pulled something dark and heavy out of its hiding place, pointing it right at Don’s face.

  It was a gun.

  Don stared at it, frozen, unable to process what was happening.

  He blinked, his throat constricting.

  Two words cut through to his consciousness.

  Hope.

  Mona.

  The gun fired, a popping noise that was much quieter than Don expected.

  The car idled in front of the window for a moment. When the driver was sure the job was done, he pulled away, taking a long pull on the straw of his Pepsi, black windows ensconcing him in anonymity once again.

  Don heard the whirring of the machines—the refrigerator, deep fryer, and lights now a symphony, so loud he could barely hear himself think. The tile was cold beneath him. He shifted, trying to free his hand. His arm flopped awkwardly, his fingers trailing across the floor.

  Sticky, he thought. Is that grease or blood, he wondered idly, as if he were assessing something disconnected and unrelated to his broken body. I’ll have to have Jared clean it before he goes.

  With effort, he heaved his arm back around so that his fumbling fingers could reach his pocket. Carefully, not wanting to get blood on it, he pulled out the picture he’d stashed away.

  “Hope,” he whispered, trailing his thumb across her photograph. He’d not noticed before how much she looked like her mother in her eyes. Knowing eyes. Eyes that really saw people.

  He had always loved that about Mona.

  He smiled, thinking of his wife, and let his eyes flutter closed, just for a minute.

  He coughed, a trickle of blood running out of his mouth as his heart gushed, spilling his life out onto the tacky floor of the kitchen.

  Somewhere, far away, he heard someone scream, a high shrieking sound.

  He opened his eyes, smiling at his daughter’s, and his wife’s, eyes.

  Mona was right, after all.

  “Be free,” he murmured, his words a whispered gurgle as he choked on his own blood. His eyes, unseeing now, rolled back in his head. His hand fell to the floor, still gripping Hope’s photograph, a bloody thumbprint now marring the image of her face.

  twelve

  GEORGIA

  Mona snapped the newspaper.

  It was the seventh time she’d read it, trying to decipher the meager bits she could glean from it. It, along with the coverage of the television reporters who hovered around her house like vultures, was her only source of information since the investigators had shut her out of the details in her daughter’s case.

  It was her own fault, she knew. She’d gone over the line, contacting witnesses directly. And she’d alienated Clayton. But still.

  She sighed and shook the paper again, willing the wrinkles away.

  Yesterday’s paper had contained no updates on the search for Hope, but it had featured, way back with the human interest stories, an article about a little town in Mexico that had been harboring a great network of human traffickers.

  Mona had read and re-read that
story, searching for clues. It was the same town the FBI had mentioned—it had to be. It even quoted a young girl who claimed to have been abducted and taken to Atlanta, then Las Vegas. Was this the Maria that Tabitha had spoken of?

  She trailed her finger, already stained with ink, under the lines of it now. “Without hope, I would have been lost,” the article quoted the girl, whose name, much to Mona’s disappointment, appeared to be Ana, not Maria.

  Without hope, or Without Hope? Mona wondered.

  She looked out the window. The sun was up now. It had to be past seven o’clock. Her obsessive refreshing of the various online news sites had yielded nothing of interest pertaining to her daughter. Just alarming reports of a wave of violence sweeping the globe—terrorists and protestors and gangs, corrupt police forces and the angry dispossessed. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but somehow, something had finally gnawed away the restraining ropes of civility and law so that all at once, the grievances and greed that simmered beneath the surface had finally risen up, unrestrained and insistent. It was spreading from city to city, as if by unspoken agreement the rejected and hurt and lawless of the world had responded to a signal, spurring each other on to unstoppable violence.

  Today’s paper—her last chance for more news of Hope—was probably lying in the driveway. She hadn’t dared to go out to retrieve it, not after the police had been stationed at the entrances to her neighborhood and the mayor had sent out the message to stay indoors.

  Mona tucked her feet into her slippers and went to the front door, wondering if it was safe to duck out to grab the paper before any of the media arrived. She cracked the door open to peek out.

  A man in police uniform stood at the door, hand raised as if to knock. He looked startled to see her there, embarrassed even.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, looking discreetly down at his feet.

  She clutched at her robe, pulling it close about her neck.

  “You startled me, officer,” she said, pulling on her most genteel southern manners. “But I thank you for the courtesy of checking in on me. I can assure you, nothing unusual has happened overnight. Nothing has disturbed me or my neighbors, as far as I can see.”