Beyond the Night: An Anthology

by J. B. Havens

  Beyond the Night

  An Anthology

  by J.B. Havens

  Beyond the Night

  Copyright (c) 2016 J.B. Havens

  All Rights Reserved.

  Beyond the Night is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Connie Shingleton Miconi

  Front Cover Designed by Samantha A. Cole

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  The Stories Within Beyond the Night

  The Comforting Darkness

  Audri Price is a recluse and hasn’t spoken to anyone in months. But today, that changes. There’s a man at her front door, however, she has no idea what he is saying. Her mind is in limbo and has forgotten…everything. Will she ever remember? And if she does, can she bear it? Open the curtains and let the light in—it’s time to find out.

  Molly: Survivor

  My name is Molly Everett and this is the apocalypse. The world as I knew it is gone. Everything has changed and I’m hell bent on staying alive in this new era, no matter what it takes. Armed with nothing more than a modified Louisville Slugger and determination, I forge ahead. With an unlikely companion by my side, I’m forced to teach him about this new world and the dangers within. And I will do everything in my power to survive.

  A Steel Family Christmas

  On Christmas Eve, the snow is falling and cheerful lights brighten the darkness of night surrounding the covert agency’s compound. A band of brothers and the woman who leads them are the only family each other has. Staff Sergeant Bea ‘Mic’ Michaels and her men of Steel Corps put aside their ranks to celebrate the season—and another Christmas alive.

  Table of Contents

  Forward

  The Comforting Darkness

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Molly: A Survivor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  A Steel Family Christmas

  About the Author

  Other Books by J.B. Havens

  Connect With Me!

  Forward

  This being my first anthology, I decided I needed to explain these stories a bit. In most short story collections, the stories within relate to each other somehow, either by theme or character. Not so much for this anthology. Instead, in this collection is one of my earliest works—The Comforting Darkness. A sad tale of a woman who is so lost within her own mind that as the world around her is falling apart, she neither notices nor cares. It is a very personal work for me and I really struggled with even publishing it.

  Next up is Molly: Survivor. I’m a huge zombie book fan, I often reach for a horror novel over any other genre. So, of course, I had to try writing one. I had some help with this one. My good friend, Eric, helped me come up with an idea for the zombies, how to make them different. I didn’t want shambling dead or rage-filled meat sacks.

  So, Eric, Molly is for you. Thank you for your help and your wonderful ideas.

  Last, but certainly not least, is A Steel Family Christmas. This short story has been on my website for some time now. It’s more or less an introduction to all the characters of Steel Corps. In terms of the timeline of the Steel Corps books, this is the Christmas before Jordon’s arrival.

  I hope you find this small collection to your liking, and as always, thank you for reading.

  J.B.

  The Comforting Darkness

  Chapter 1

  My hand was jiggling the coffee pot as I poured yet another unnecessary cup. Coffee spilled on the countertop in a steaming, black pool. I watched as the hot liquid spread outward, off the edge of the counter and down onto the floor. Ignoring the mess, I walked away with the caffeine that already had my stomach in knots. My hands were shaky, not only from the caffeine overload, but also from the emotions that I refused to recognize or deal with. I passed the pile of bills and papers that needed my attention, ignoring them with the same careless attitude with which I ignored the spilled coffee. Just as I disregarded the pile of stinking dishes and dirty clothes that littered my apartment, the overflowing trash, and my own unwashed self. Nothing mattered right now. If I didn’t acknowledge it, it wasn’t real and didn’t happen.

  I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t see the problems all around me. In every dirty corner, in every closed drape, I saw it. I just didn’t care—couldn’t bring myself to. Denial felt like a warm blanket on a frosty night, something I could wrap myself in until the cold was chased away. Knowing that my behavior was unhealthy and worrisome didn’t make me hesitate in the least. If anything, it just made me embrace the darkness more.

  It had become an old friend, my only friend. This darkness understood me as I understood it. It was here to keep me safe and black out everything around me. Not a speck of light was allowed in, and if one did manage to squeeze in, it was quickly swallowed and consumed by the hungry darkness.

  The only contact I had with the outside world was the noise of my neighbors and food deliveries. There was an old couple who lived on one side of me and a young artist on the other. I was on the second, and top floor, so there was no one above me. The old couple, the Morrises, must have been in their late eighties. They were one of those couples who had been married forever, going everywhere and doing everything together. Which was probably why they were still together. Every night it was the same. I would hear the tea kettle whistle; then they would shout out the Jeopardy answers, interjected with lots of ‘What? I can’t hear you!’ I would hear Mrs. Morris yell at her husband to turn his hearing aid up, and he would call her a bossy old woman and they would laugh. I was so envious of that level of mutual comfort and companionship.

  The artist on the other side never made much noise unless she was painting. She would turn her music up and sing along. At least I wasn’t so far removed that I didn’t recognize the music. She favored Godsmack, Korn, and Theory of a Deadman. When she cranked it up, I would sit next to our shared wall and badly sing along with her.

  I loved the music, but I would always wait for her to play it. I have a stereo and the same CDs that I refused to play because I would lose the magic and illusion of sharing a moment with someone, even though I simply sang along with her. I didn’t know her name and had never seen or spoken to her. I only knew that she was an artist from the paint fumes and her talking and yelling to herself about lines and proportion. I imagined her as someone with a punk haircut, tattoos, and ripped jeans covered in paint stains. I didn’t want to see her and have the reality ruin the fantasy.

  I have wondered what my neighbors thought of me. Did they know I was here? Even when you don’t know the person living next to you, on some level, you must be aware of them, if only in an abstract manner. A smell, a footstep, or just a feeling. The subtle awareness of my neighbors made me feel not quite so alone. It was contact with people in a way that I could handle—consciousness of their presence without having to actually interact with them. I was comforted by the small everyday sounds of the people on either side of me, but the thought of talking to or meeting them closed my throat and made me tremble and sweat.

  I couldn’t say how long I’d been like this. Weeks, months, I had no idea. It felt like years, though I know it hadn’t been that long. It couldn’t have been, could it? I unplugged my phone ages ago and only
opened the door for deliveries. People used to come: friends and the few family members that I had left. I’ve driven everyone away, and the door no longer opens.

  When I heard pounding on my door, I jumped in both fear and surprise. I stared blankly at it as the banging continued, growing louder and more insistent with each shaking knock. Answering it didn’t occur to me. I hadn’t ordered any food, so whoever was out there could bloody well leave. As I walked away, I could hear the lock click open. Fear choked my throat and curled my hand around my coffee mug like a claw. I was frozen in place as the door opened one slow inch at a time.

  A voice called out, the sound strange and grating to my ears. I felt like a deer caught in high beams. I could see the danger coming, but I was unable to move away. Panic welled inside me like a storm spiraling out of control, bile rising in my throat in a fast burn. I started to sweat and couldn’t breathe. My heart beat frantically, faster and faster, until it felt like it was going to burst from my chest.

  I continued to choke on panic and fear as the voice sounded again and the door swung wide. This time, the voice registered in my brain; it was saying something familiar—I couldn’t grasp what it was. The dense fog in my head was beginning to clear as I tried in vain to cling to it, grasping and pulling it toward me in a fruitless struggle to remain in the dark blank void where existence was tolerable. I wanted to stay there in the peaceful quiet with the hungry darkness.

  Light spilled across the dirty floor and dust swirled in the air with every step this massive stranger took toward me. My brain was fighting to register and process what he was saying. I shook my head back and forth over and over, my dirty hair flying around my face. My hands opened and closed into fists, and I realized that I’d dropped the mug of coffee, shattering it on the floor in a spectacular mess. His hands gripped my arms hard, shaking me gently. He was saying something, over and over, growing louder and more earnest.

  “Can you hear me? Ms. Price! Are you okay?” His voice cracked with disbelief. His eyes took in the filth and disorder around us. I could see him gulping, swallowing hard and trying to get past the sight and smell of despair surrounding us like a shroud.

  His face was white with shock. Things were coming through now, getting clearer by the second. The fog wasn’t just drifting away, it was being blown away by a giant gust of fresh air coming from the man in front of me.

  “What?” I asked, my voice low and hoarse with disuse. He leaned closer to me to hear and as he did, I saw his nostrils flare. I stiffened in response, jerking my arms from his touch. The warm quilt of denial was gone now, replaced by a cold grasp of guilt and shame.

  “Who are you? What the fuck do you want?” I was unreasonably defensive and knew it. I shoved him hard with both hands, needing some space. Too much was happening too quickly. My voice was coming back, my heart slowing to normal and my throat opening up enough to allow air to reach my starved lungs. I retreated backward, further into the dark apartment. The backs of my knees hit something, stopping my retreat.

  Who is this guy and what the fuck is he doing in my apartment? Is he here to hurt me? Rob me? Unlikely. His posture and body language weren’t threatening; he seemed wary and hesitant. His head was turning back and forth, trying in vain to take it all in.

  “My name is Mark Fisher. I’m your new landlord and building manager. You haven’t paid your rent for two months.” His face was getting its color back, flushing red with anger. It moved like a wave up his square jaw, to his broad forehead and inky black hair. Hot Italian temper perhaps? He raised his wide hands up at his sides in a calming gesture, as if to say, ‘keep calm crazy person, I’m not going to hurt you.’

  “Rent? What?” I was so confused. The fog had lifted, but not enough. Didn’t he understand? Rent was something other people had to worry about. Damn him for intruding on me.

  “Yes, rent. You pay rent to live here, and when you don’t pay it, you can’t live here anymore. Rent is the least of your problems right now, though. This place is disgusting. When did you last open a window?” He walked through the kitchen to the attached living room and the closed drapes, jerking them open. A cloud of dust floated through the air, making him cough. Waving a hand in front of his face, he flung the windows open in an efficient movement that also conveyed his anger. Fresh air blew in, making the heavy drapes float and billow.

  “Let me find my checkbook and I’ll take care of it.” I scrambled to remember where it was or even if I had any money. I must have had some because I’d been buying take out for a long time. If I got the checkbook, he would go away and maybe the darkness would return. I could close the windows and drapes and go back…back to the warm, familiar darkness.

  “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Price.” He grabbed my arm again, stopping my progress. “The thing is, I’m not a bastard. You obviously need some help. I’ll make you a deal. You have a week to clean this place and yourself up. You do that, and I’ll give you a free month’s rent. If you don’t get things cleaned up, you’ll be out on the street faster than you can blink. This is your wake-up call, Ms. Price. Don’t blow it.” His words were short and clipped, anger snapping at the end of each one.

  What is he so angry about?

  “I’ll see you in a week.” Then he was gone. The door slamming behind him raised yet another cloud of dust into the already thick air. His heavy boots left footprints in the dirt on the floor. Such a small thing, but a sure sign that the inevitable was coming, approaching as fast as a freight train, ready to mow me and my darkness down.

  I collapsed onto the dirty floor in a heap and cried out my heart and anguish. Giant sobs wracked my overly thin body, shaking me to my core. Reality had returned in the form of an imposing Italian, crashing back in unwanted. I let go, crying my shame and guilt into my sticky hands until there were no tears left. Only memories that I had thought were long buried in the darkness remained, memories I wanted no part of. I was helpless against the wave; they rose to the surface and pulled me under. I was drowning in sorrow as the panic came yet again.

  We are in the car. Always in the car. Laughter and music surround me. Smiles and joy as infectious as a disease. I look to my left and there he is: the light of my life, the apple of my eye. Any cliché you can think of—he’s it. His broad grin and flashing white teeth compliment his sparkling green eyes. I can feel the happiness pouring out of him, out of me. This is the happiest day of our lives. News we’ve been waiting years for has finally arrived. I laugh again at something he is saying. I see him talking, his familiar mouth forming familiar words. But I can’t hear him. Why can’t I hear him? He reaches forward and turns up the radio, playing with the buttons. Too late, he looks back to the road. Too late to swerve, too late to avoid the fate screaming down on top of us.

  Chapter 2

  Mark slammed the door open and stormed out into the fresh air and light. He felt as if he’d been running; he was bent at the waist gulping giant lungfuls of crisp air. Never had he seen anything like that; never had he smelled or tasted such complete sorrow and despair. It hung in the air like a sickness; it was in every corner, dripping off that woman like a cloak.

  A week? Is a week enough time?

  It had to be enough time. She owed back rent, and he was being kinder than most landlords would be. Even thinking such a thing made him feel like a giant bastard and a bully. What could he do, though? Rent had to be paid, and that hell hole had to be cleaned. It was a fucking health hazard if nothing else—pizza boxes and papers littering the floor, unwashed clothes in piles and heaps, tissues and all manner of junk everywhere. Then there was Ms. Price herself. Her hair dark with oil and dirt hanging down around a face etched not with age, but with shame. Her grey eyes were dull and lifeless, only sparking with anger for an instant when she pushed him. So there was some life in there still.

  Mark paced back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the building. What the hell was he going to do? He couldn’t evict her in the state that she was in. He might be a tough son of a bit
ch, but he wasn’t cruel. He, more than most, could see when someone needed help. He ran his hands through his hair trying to think what to do. Calling the police wasn’t an option. He had seen the fear gripping her when he opened the door. He wanted to help her, not give her a fucking heart attack. Indecision pulled at him, tugging him in a direction he didn’t want to go. A place he didn’t want to revisit—with a wound he didn’t want to reopen. Even as he was thinking about it, he could feel the edges of the scar pulling back, memories and pain leaking out.

  “Fuck!” He shouted as he stomped to his truck. He jerked the door open, hating what he was going to do even as he did it. Gritting his teeth, he started his truck and slammed it into gear.

  Mark drove across town to the hardware store, cursing all the while. He uttered foul tempered obscenities that should have made him feel better but didn’t. Why him? Why did he have to find this shell of a woman and take on yet one more responsibility he didn’t need?

  Not finding any answers, he parked at the store and stomped inside, muttering under his breath all the while. He grabbed a cart and took a deep breath. Calm; he needed calm. Ms. Price’s eyes were haunting him. Shaking the image loose with a jerk of his head, he began to shop.

  He stocked the cart with rubber gloves, masks, rags, garbage bags, disinfectants, a mop, and a sturdy broom. At the checkout, he grimaced at the total, but vowed to add it to her rent. He loaded everything into the back of his truck with care he didn’t want to feel and proceeded to the dollar store where he bought shampoo, conditioner, a hairbrush, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. For good measure, he threw in some cosmetics and a lotion that smelled like fresh peaches.

  He berated himself the entire way back to the complex. His anger was the stick he beat himself with. How could he be letting this happen to him again? Caring for people, especially for people with such glaring mental problems, didn’t lead to anything but trouble.