And Darkness Fell
Authors: David Berardelli
By
David Berardelli
And Darkness Fell
Copyright © 2013 David Berardelli
All Rights Reserved
Published in ebook format
by D Street Books
a division of Mountain Lake Press
Mountain Lake Press
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information-storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who
may quote short excerpts in a review.
Contents
PART I: THE BATTLEFIELD
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When the light of life and happiness was destroyed, the darkness came, bringing
with it an insatiable lust for death and destruction.
All that will exist from now on will be despair, and a cold nothingness that
will forever chill the bones.
When the living can no longer feel the despair or the cold, they will know the
end has finally come.
ONE
Beneath the blood-red sunset, a six-car pileup forming a grotesque sculpture of
twisted metal and broken glass blocked the interstate.
I slowed the van and veered right until I reached the shoulder. The shortbarreled, .38 Special revolver rested on the console beside me. If someone
popped out of the wreckage and lunged, I could easily shoot him.
The bitter irony of it all nipped at my bones. Not long ago, I would have
called 911. But now, since there were no more ambulances, I handled all
emergencies with a gun.
I could see only three bodies. The others probably lay dead in the back seats
or beneath the vehicles. A woman slumped behind the wheel of the smashed
silver SUV, her long dark hair a heavy shroud covering her shoulder and arm.
Two men in light-colored sweat shirts and baggy sweat pants lay on their backs
on the pavement. Splotches of blood covered their faces and shirts. No one
moved.
A black handbag lay among the shattered glass, its contents strewn some
twenty yards from the crash site. A crushed tan suitcase jutted out beside a flat
tire. A shabby brown teddy bear sat in front of the SUV, gazing up at the
darkening sky.
Staying clear of the broken glass, I eased onto the shoulder and crept past,
until the bodies showed up in my side mirror. Just as I’d moved past the
wreckage, a glittering gun barrel directly to my left made me cringe.
A young man sprawled on his left side beneath the rear bumper of an
overturned sedan. He lay perfectly still, his left arm outstretched, a revolver
pointed in my direction.
Instinctively I reached for the .38 but thought better of it. I wouldn’t need it.
The boy’s glazed eyes were pointed in my direction but did not flicker or blink.
His hand was open. The gun barrel rested on the macadam. He was dead.
I accelerated, avoiding the mirrors until I was confident the tiny, glinting
nightmare behind me had disappeared from sight.
A couple of miles later, I decided it was safe to start breathing again.
Twenty miles north of Jacksonville, small towns and boroughs peppered the
wooded areas flanking the interstate. Years ago, many of these places were
reduced to shadows of what they once were, as progress stripped them of their
dignity. Their anorexic remains had become grim remnants of a time long past,
when the world was smaller and quieter and moved along at a much slower pace.
According to my grandparents, life was much more tolerable before the
computer age stepped in to change the world. Microwaves hadn’t been invented.
Cell phones weren’t even thought of. Television provided only a handful of
working channels. Telephones often had party lines to contend with, and office
workers frequently had to rely on their memories, common sense, and other skills
to get the work done.
Nevertheless, life trudged on, and people were content and happy with its
limitations.
My grandfather believed life began deteriorating when the huge, sprawling
monster called Interstate 95 bulled its way into our lives, slicing deeply into the
earth, leveling land and trees, destroying homes and farms, and burying this quiet
way of life beneath thousands of tons of pavement.
I’d never been a fan of the interstate. In the past, I’d avoid it whenever
possible, choosing country roads as a much more restful—and safer—alternative.
But when ninety percent of its traffic vanished, travel along the roadway changed
drastically, turning into something much more frightening.
I zipped through the Jacksonville area, drove for another ten minutes, and
took the first exit. I’d been driving for several hours and needed to stretch my
legs as well as take a whiz and hunt for money and weapons. I went straight up
the ramp and that dreaded highway quickly disappeared behind a cluster of dirty
brick buildings and a row of corroding tenement houses.
I crept down the debris-cluttered street, carefully avoiding bottles and broken
glass. A couple of skinny dogs trotted along the sidewalk, searching for food
scraps. Cars, vans, and pickups lined both sides of the cracked pavement. Some
were fairly new while others appeared much older, abandoned long enough to
begin their slow deterioration into misshapen husks of rust and grimy glass.
The two- and three-story houses lining the block had also begun their journey
into death and decay. It didn’t take long. Their windows were filthy, their paint
peeling. Shingles had pulled loose, some still clinging to sections of exposed tar
while others had simply given up and dropped to the ground. Trash, toys, rusty
lawn furniture, and skeletons of vehicles on blocks littered the overgrown front
yards.
Halfway down the street, I found a place to park. I wasn’t afraid of blocking
anybody—I hadn’t encountered another vehicle all evening. Still, I didn’t want to
bring attention to myself. People usually stop what they’re doing and stare if they
see something strange or unusual. And if they’ve never seen you before, they’re
bound to be suspicious if you show up in their neighborhood. I didn’t see anyone
wandering about, but I knew better than to lower my guard. I wasn’t about to risk
my life on the off-chance that someone might be lurking in the shadows.
As I pulled into the vacant space and switched off the engine, I realized at
once I’d been correct in my thinking. Two large, beefy guys sat watching me
from the now-tall grass in front of the brick house across the street. I hadn’t been
able to see them through the wild hedges obscuring the view at the corner, but as
soon as I’d passed the collapsed picket fence separating the properties, there they
were.
They were obviously brothers and close in age, maybe twenty-five. They
were fairly dark, their scraggly long hair the same color as their unkempt beards.
They wore bib overalls, and each gripped a beer can. They probably went close to
three hundred pounds apiece, and I doubted they’d have any trouble pounding me
into hamburger. On the other hand, if they’d been doped, I wouldn’t have to
worry; by the time they decided I was a threat, I’d be long gone.
I thought about trying a different house, but I really didn’t want to waste the
time—the pressure in my bladder had increased, and I squirmed in my seat.
I watched as they both hoisted their cans to coax some drink into their
mouths. The process was excruciating. They took at least ten seconds for each to
raise the can, another five to tilt it, nearly ten seconds to swallow the mouthful,
and another ten to lower the can. About thirty seconds after all that, they both
belched.
Nope. Nothing to worry about—at least from those two. The house could be
another story.
I twisted farther around toward Reed, who was sitting in the rear seat amid
the canned food, beer, and other stuff I’d stolen before leaving St. Cloud that
morning. He sat quietly, his head tilted to the side. He was probably listening to
his friend again.
“Reed?”
He turned and focused his small, light-blue eyes on me. Reed always gave me
the impression he’d just awoken, even if we’d been talking only seconds earlier.
That was okay. Reed wasn’t normal by any stretch. But that didn’t matter.
Abnormal had been the norm for some time.
“Reed, have him check out the house, the one over on the right, where those
two big guys are sitting.”
He turned and stared out the passenger window then went right back to his
listening mode. I should explain at this point that he was listening to someone
even though no one else was there. But as far as Reed was concerned, the voice
was real—just as real as I was.
“Well?”
No reply. When he listened, he blocked out everything else. Reed wasn’t a
moron. He was actually very intelligent and well-educated, but his attention
focused on things others couldn’t fathom. Like Elwood P. Dowd, that lovable
dipsomaniac played by Jimmy Stewart in the movie
Harvey
. Dowd claimed he
had an invisible friend, too, a six-foot rabbit. I had no idea who or what belonged
to the voice Reed heard. I didn’t know if he was listening to a leporine six-and-ahalf footer, a stacked blonde, or one of those voice-generating computers I saw on
an old TV show.
It didn’t matter; the voice was real. I’d seen clear evidence of it.
“It’s okay to go inside?”
“Don’t know,” he said in his soft, high-pitched voice.
“What did your friend say?”
“He doesn’t hear anything.”
“He can’t tell if anyone’s in the house?”
He shook his head.
I tried evaluating the situation. Judging by their actions, the two out on the
grass probably had been doped. Families usually ate the same foods and took the
same medications, so anyone inside the house probably would be in this same
condition.
“I guess I’ll go in, then. I need to make a pit stop. How about you?”
Reed shook his head.
That was another thing I couldn’t understand about Reed. He seldom had to
use the bathroom or stretch his legs. He’d rather sit back there and listen to the
voice. Reed didn’t eat or drink much, either, but you expected him to use the
bathroom once in a while. I’d only seen him slip into the john once since we’d
hooked up, but that was only because I’d done something that made him sick to
his stomach.
“Want anything special if they’ve got food?”
“An apple would be nice.”
“Anything else?”
“A peach. Or maybe a banana.”
“You having a regularity issue?”
He frowned. Reed wasn’t the best audience for the casual one-liner.
“It was a joke, Reed.”
He didn’t reply, and his silence made me wary. I didn’t think he’d keep
anything from me, but his blank expression made me wonder if I should even
bother with this place. I could just piss in the bushes, and I could always look for
guns and money somewhere else.
On the other hand, it was getting dark, and I didn’t want to be caught in a
strange place at night. Some sections still had working street lights; this one
didn’t. If they’d been working, they would already be on, and those guys sitting
in the front yard probably wouldn’t mind if I just took a leak at the corner. Still, I
needed to do some hunting while I was there. I needed stuff that could substitute
for cash.
When most of the ATMs went down, cash became the only form of money
acceptable—cash or something of intrinsic value. If I found another gun, for
example, that could substitute. Of course, you could never have enough guns.
Gas stations had become the most dangerous places in the country. Luckily, I
wouldn’t have to stop for a while. I’d filled up the tank south of Jacksonville and
still had plenty left.
Which brings me back to that house. I thought it would be a safe bet. Two of
its occupants were obviously doped and getting drunk out in the front yard. They
wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to catch me. Also, I wouldn’t have to worry
about encountering a locked back door. A flickering light showed in the side
window. I assumed it was from a kerosene lamp.
Reed suddenly looked worried.
“What’s the voice saying now?”
“You might wanna take a gun with you.”
I stiffened. “Trouble?”
“He saw something move inside, but says it’s small.”
Small? That could mean anything from a cockroach to a baby pit bull
.
My pulse raced as I grabbed the .38, which I’d found in a house I’d raided in
St. Cloud. I hadn’t fired it yet but was familiar with the caliber.
I shoved it in my back pocket and hoped I wouldn’t need it. I hated killing
people. I hadn’t done it in years and promised myself long ago I’d never do it
again. I didn’t know certain grisly events beyond my control would soon prevent
me from keeping that promise.
My heart thumped as I climbed out of the van.
The jumbo twins watched me as I circled in front of the van, stepped over the
collapsed fence, and trudged through the weeds. The one closest to me lowered
his hand in the grass.
I froze. My imagination went crazy. He might have been reaching for a gun
he’d brought with him. Or, maybe he was bracing his arm so he could get up and
rush toward me. He might even have rigged some sort of homemade booby trap
for trespassers, and was about to toss it at me.
I hoped I was being ridiculous, but I had good reason to be scared and
confused. It had been weeks since I’d encountered anything remotely normal.
Judging by the events of the previous six months, I strongly suspected nothing
would be normal ever again.
I forced myself to stay calm. If they came at me, I’d sprint back to the van
and get the hell out of there. If they were doped, I’d have plenty of time to drive
away. Even if they drew guns, their slowness and lack of coordination would
prevent them from getting a clear shot.
Still, I’d be in real trouble if I’d mistaken their condition. I’d already
stumbled across several people who appeared doped but actually weren’t. I’d
seen this many times in the work force, under normal conditions. People came to
work hung over and strung out all the time. Some managed nicely, getting their
job done and leaving at the end of the day without suffering any consequences.
Others didn’t do so well, stumbling about and spending most of the workday
hiding, or in the john.
Nowadays, being doped meant the difference between life and death.
Heads tilted, the jumbo boys continued watching me in confusion.
Reasoning is nearly impossible when you’re doped. Getting one’s brain to
function becomes a horrendously slow, painful process. It’s like getting a car to
fire up on only one spark plug.
One of them slowly hoisted his arm again, coaxing more beer into his mouth.
He belched, lowered his arm, and continued watching me.
I waved. No response.
Keeping my eye on them, I trudged through the weeds. Just as I reached the
corner of the house, they both hoisted their arms and waved slowly and
awkwardly, as if their arms weighed half a ton.
I veered around the corner, cautiously climbed the loose wooden steps of the
deteriorating porch, and stepped through the front door.
Kerosene lamps sent flickering shadows that danced across the walls of the
foul-smelling kitchen. An old woman sat in a rocker in the corner beside the
stove, crocheting. She wore a stained flowery dress, white socks, and smudged
white tennis shoes. Her head was lowered. Her matted, curly white hair obscured
her face. She didn’t look up when I walked in.
“Hello,” I said softly.
No reply.
“You wouldn’t mind if I used your bathroom, would you?”
Although I could barely see her arthritic fingers moving, the old woman
continued her work. Gaps and holes ruined the center of the afghan in her lap.
Yarn hung in loose loops all over the works. She’d obviously been at it a while.
She probably had been thinking clearly when she started but began failing as time
went on. The bottom section of the afghan, neat and uniform, did not match her
recent efforts. I guessed she’d remain in the rocker until she could no longer
function and die before anyone noticed.
One of the kerosene lamps lit up the wooden table in the center of the room.
A loaf of moldy bread and a few tins of sardines covered a small section of its
stained surface. Something had spilled recently. Flies feasted on it.
I saw no fruit on the table or on the kitchen counter. Reed would have to wait
a little longer for his fructose fix.
Stepping over hordes of busy roaches, I crossed the filthy linoleum floor and
opened the fridge. The pungent smell assaulted my nostrils. The food on the
shelves had already reached the beginning stages of putrefaction. The
temperature inside matched that of the kitchen. I should have realized by the dead
street lamps that this family had lost power. Finding food would become
increasingly difficult. The people who could still function would use coolers or
freezers, loading up with any ice they could find. Reed and I would have to be
content with canned stuff.
I slammed the fridge door, but the old woman didn’t flinch. She was either
deaf or would react to the sudden noise after I’d gone. Or, maybe she was just so
engrossed in her work she didn’t care. I took a few deep breaths to rid my lungs
of the foulness, but the air in the kitchen was only slightly better. I had to get out
of there shortly or I’d be sick.
Then I heard a soft noise and turned to it.
A little girl stared up at me, her large brown eyes glazed.
Small--just like Reed said
.
About ten years old, she was dressed only in a stained pink tee shirt and filthy
white undershorts. She was also barefoot. Her greasy dark brown hair clung to
her forehead and cheeks. Her face was smudged with dirt, her nose glossy with
snot. She obviously hadn’t been near bathwater in a while. It figured. Their water
had also been shut off.
“Mind if I use your toilet?”
She slowly raised a bony arm and extended it toward the archway beyond the
cabinets.
Dodging more roaches and a mouse nibbling on something, I took a kerosene
lamp down the hall. Dirty clothes and food wrappers littered the carpet. The foul
odor followed me from the kitchen.
The bathroom was the first room on the left. I went in, closed the door, and
gagged at the stench. The toilet lid and seat were up, the basin brimming with
feces. Holding my breath, I depressed the flush handle. Nothing. I tried again.
Silence.