Echoes of Darkness (6 page)

She gave her life . . .

Long seconds passed as it clawed closer, nails splintering bloodlessly against the tarmac. The leg-stump flailed, scraping against the ground as the remaining leg kicked, leaving bits of itself behind in its unstoppable effort to reach him. Teeth clacked in mindless anticipation. Milky eyes stared.

Tears flowed, and then dried upon his cheeks.

“Goodbye, Mom.”

He lifted the machete as he stepped forward.

With slow steps, the boy approached the Kwik-Mart, the last place he’d seen the old man. His eyes felt swollen and hot, though they were dry. The sound in his head wouldn’t go away, a high buzz like a heat bug in the summertime. Maybe there was some water in the Kwik-Mart, something that had been missed by looters.

One could always hope.

“Nice work.”

The old man stepped in front of him, blocking his search for water. He didn’t carry the rifle—he’d probably run out of shells—but his revolvers sat on his hips, and his hat upon his head.

“Go away,” the boy said, voice deep and raspy from crying, and thirst.

“No, I mean it. Using the terrain to slow ’em down like that. Well done! I guess you
were
listening to all my jawin’.”

“Get out of my way.”

The boy sidestepped. The old man slid back into his path.

“Just a minute now, just a minute. After all that, I have a question for you. That all right?”

The boy said nothing, merely raised his gaze to meet the old man’s stare.

“How’d it feel?”

The old man smiled.

The boy stepped into the swing and hit the old man hard. They stood too close to use the blade, but the machete’s hilt made a damn fine addition to his fist and he smashed it into that grinning face. His left hand snapped out as his right made contact, snatching a revolver from its holster as the old man staggered back. His right foot came up high then stomped into the old man’s gut, pushing him away, creating room for him to swing the machete backhanded, an awkward follow-up to that roundhouse punch.

The old man flew back, blood flying from lips smashed against breaking teeth, the wind exploding out of him. He was lighter than the boy had expected, less substantial, and much easier to move: the machete barely reached its target, slashing across ribs instead of burying itself deep in the old man’s guts. The worn hat fluttered away as the rawboned old devil sprawled on his back, clutching his bloody side. The boy stepped in, stomping on one flailing arm to stop it from drawing a weapon, and aimed his captured revolver straight down at the old man’s eye.

The eye was crinkled about the outer edge. Not a wince of pain, but in a smile.

“Do it.”

The words were mushy, forced out between ruined lips and teeth.

“Just
 . . . 
do it. You’re
 . . . 
ready now.”

The words brought the boy up short, and he snorted.

What was that?

A breeze had sprung up, blowing off the plain, pushing away the stink of the parking lot carrion. He inhaled again, sniffing deep, picking up the scents of the old man: ancient body odor; coffee-powered halitosis; burnt gun oil. And under it
 . . .
something horribly familiar.

Studying the rent in the old man’s side, he used the tip of the machete to raise the tattered shirt from the skin. Beneath, just above the red gaping slice in the old flesh, a bandage wound about the lean torso, yellowed with sweat stains and stippled with the grime of long, hard travel.

Except across the ribs, where it was patinaed green and black with pus. The boy leaned down, the old man breathing hard, and sniffed. He rocked back in surprise.

Gangrene.

Rot.

Decay.

“What the hell is this?”

“T’other week. When we
 . . . 
lost the horse.”

“When we
 . . . 
you mean, when you rescued me.”

The old man nodded, too winded to continue. The boy shook his head, trying to make connections he
knew
were right in front of him, but the pieces wouldn’t fit together in his mind.

“You got, what? Scratched?”

A head shake. “Bit.”

“But then you’re infected with
 . . .
”

He trailed off, gazing at the parking lot covered with corpses that had arrived under their own power before the old man and his rifle had convinced them to finally lie down and stay there. A shaking finger pointed toward the field of meat that lay rotting in the sun.

“That was more than a week ago. You should be like—”

“Antibiotics slow the spread
 . . . 
you take enough of ’em. Won’t cure it. Won’t stop it. Slows it some.”

The boy thought of the pills, the rattle of the old man shaking out dose after dose as the week wore on.

“But I thought those were
 . . . 
what the hell was this all about, then? You’re just gonna—”

“Couldn’t do it myself. Put a bullet in my brain. Not when it happened.”

“But wh—”

“You’d never have made it.”

The boy stared into the old man’s eyes, still fierce though the leathery face was creased with pain.

“Not the way you were. Not lasted a day
 . . . 
way you were.”

He lay back on the tarmac, eyes closed, breathing labored. The boy watched the ooze seeping through the filthy bandage, lost in thought.

“I’m tired.”

The words, wheezed from between dry lips, brought the boy’s attention up to the old man’s face. His eyes were open again, bright with what looked like fever.

“I’m so tired. It’s been a long damn week. I just want to rest. I just want to rest
 . . . 
and not get up.”

Those shining eyes found the boy’s face. Focused on his eyes.

“Think you’re ready
 . . . 
to help an old man out?”

The boy held his gaze a moment, then nodded.

He thumbed the hammer back.

He tamped down the loose soil, then cast the shovel aside. It was a snow shovel he’d found in the Kwik-Mart, but it had been a far sight better than nothing. He’d dug the graves deep, deep enough to discourage any scavengers from digging them up, especially with so much meat just lying in the parking lot out in front of the little building.

“’Bout time for me to go,” he said, standing at the foot of the three long humps of fresh earth. He turned and walked to where his saddlebags waited, and settled them on his shoulders, making certain not to tangle the straps on the rifle scope. Slipping the worn cowboy hat on in place of his long-lost Rockies cap, he turned back to the three graves.

“Guess this is goodbye.”

Leaving the four of them behind—the mother, the father, the old man, and the boy—the man set off toward the middle of town, searching for that gun shop the old man had spoken of. He needed ammunition.

And maybe a horse.

a night at the show

“My mom just has to check the calendar,”
Valerie Redfern said in school on Monday. “Once she double-checks the calendar she’ll make up her mind. I know she’ll let me, though. So, can you come?”

Checking the calendar seemed just silly to Hillary: what mom doesn’t know her own kid’s birthday? But Val came to her on Tuesday and told her it was on. The two of them, and Valerie’s mom, of course, were going to the movies on Friday night for Valerie’s ninth birthday.

When Friday came they went to see
Shrek 2
—not Hillary’s first choice, but
she
wasn’t the birthday girl—at the Palladium, the oldest theater in Spreewald. Hillary had never been to the Palladium before, and was surprised when Mrs. Redfern parked on a street with no theater in sight.

“The place is so old,” said Mrs. Redfern, “there’s no parking lot. You park where you can and walk the rest of the way. Come on.”

Hillary was nervous for three of the four blocks they walked to the theater. The street was dirty, the sidewalk cracked, the buildings to either side old and grubby. Spray paint and boarded windows. Alleys swathed in shadow. She was pretty sure this was what her mother referred to as “the wrong part of town.” She remained nervous until they rounded a corner and the Palladium came into view: even from a block away, Hillary was enchanted.

The Palladium was an ancient theater with bright lights and a brilliant marquee outside, and red carpeting and big, comfortable seats inside. The huge screen sat upon an old stage complete with an actual velvet curtain that opened to reveal the screen just before the movie, and closed after. The movie was even pretty good, both girls laughing and oohing along with each other as the story progressed. Valerie looked to be enjoying herself, while Hillary was having the time of her life.

Eventually, though, the show was over and it was time to go home. They left the theater and strolled down the street, the girls smelling of buttered popcorn, heads together, still giggling about their favorite scenes. Hillary’d had such a good time, was
still
having such a good time, she forgot all about being nervous as they walked along in the night air.

They were almost to the car when Mrs. Redfern stopped short, falling back a step to bump into the giggling girls. Peering around her, Hillary saw a big man leaning against the hood of Mrs. Redfern’s car, thick arms folded over his chest like he was waiting for a bus. Hillary didn’t think he was waiting for a bus, though. He was looking straight at them.

That must be the stranger Mom always warned me about
, Hillary thought.
I’m glad Valerie’s mom is here, she’ll—

“Uh, girls?” Mrs. Redfern turned, gripping their shoulders. “Why don’t we go back to the theater and—oh!”

She stared over the girls’ heads, looking at something behind them. Hillary craned about to see, and saw another man, also big, a little more than a block away. He, too, stared at them, and her heart froze when his eyes shifted to meet hers.

He smiled.

“Oh, no,” whispered Valerie’s mom. “No. No-no.”

Hillary looked up to see Mrs. Redfern’s head turning this way and that, eyes open wide, looking for help, but they were alone on the night-dark street. She saw the expression in those eyes and was shocked to realize that, grown-up or not, Mrs. Redfern was just as scared as she was. Valerie stiffened beside her.

“Mom? He’s coming.”

Mrs. Redfern turned back, and Hillary looked toward the car again. The man wasn’t leaning any more, but walking toward them. One hand reached into a pocket and came out holding something small, something Hillary couldn’t quite see, but it glittered in the light cast by the street lamps.

“Hey, lady,” called the man behind them, voice rough and loud. “Where you going?”

Mrs. Redfern’s fingers squeezed Hillary’s shoulder as the other man laughed. She suddenly dropped into a crouch, pointing. Hillary looked, followed the finger, and saw the mouth of an alley on the far side of the street. The grip on her shoulder became a sudden, hard shove. “Run!”

They ran.

Behind them, a pair of voices shouted:

“Hey!”

“I’ll go this way, you go that way! That way,
that
way!”

Hillary didn’t look back, just put her head down, sprinting hard as they entered the alley, the girls leading.

“Come
on
!” Mrs. Redfern moved ahead, catching each girl by a hand. She sped up, towing them along, pulling Hillary into a speed she never could have attained on her own. Tears streamed down the girl’s face, and she was already out of breath.
Strangers back there—go faster, go faster
echoed through her head as they approached the end of the alley and the relative brightness of the street beyond.

Through the sounds of their feet slapping the pavement and her own heart pounding in her ears, she heard Mrs. Redfern’s voice.

“Left! We’ll try to circle around to the car—go left!”

Hillary nodded with a sob, lacking the breath to say anything more. She was being pulled along, taking huge, vaulting steps, her feet only touching the ground every six or eight feet. She was absurdly reminded of her visit to the bouncy house when the fair had been in town a few months ago. That had been fun.

This was not.

A shout in the alley behind them, deep and threatening, chased all thoughts of the fair from Hillary’s mind, replacing them with the wish that she could fly.

They took the corner at a dead run. The towing hand banked Hillary into a full-speed curve out onto the sidewalk, inertia swinging her wide, missing a parked car by mere inches. She wanted to shout “Look out!” but she was crying far too hard to even try.

She was no athlete, and her legs already burned with fatigue, though she dared not slow down;
couldn’t
slow down. She was being helped along, but her exhausted legs were having a hard time keeping up. She urged her feet to move faster, but they wouldn’t listen, feeling instead like she was wading through peanut butter. One of her sneaker-clad toes caught the sidewalk. She fell, her knees slamming to the pavement, shocking pain forcing a breathless scream. Her free hand also hit the cement, the rough surface taking skin off her palm. She fell, but did not slow. Mrs. Redfern gripped her hand hard, dragging Hillary a couple of steps before yanking her upward.

“Come on, dear, please!”

Hillary shuffled her feet under her once more and staggered on. Some dim part of her was aware of the terrible pain from her knees, but she was too terrified to pay attention right now.

“Down here!”

Mrs. Redfern jerked her sideways and then they were running down an alley Hillary hadn’t even noticed, too focused on staying on her feet to keep track of her surroundings. They were passing a pair of dumpsters, the security light above them beating back the shadows that ruled the alley, when Mrs. Redfern drew up short with two hissed words. “Too late.”

Hillary looked up, panting, only to wish she hadn’t. A tall, dark shadow blocked the alley’s far mouth. A shadow that moved toward them with an easy, confident stride. Silhouetted as he was by the lights of the street beyond, she still made out the blade sprouting from one big fist.

Hillary’s head whip-snapped as Mrs. Redfern spun them all about, taking a half step back the way they had come.

“Going somewhere?”

Not ten paces away was the man who had been chasing them. His chest heaved, and he glared at them as if angry he’d been forced to run. His knife didn’t glint or shine, the blade a flat black as it thrust out of his white-knuckled grip.

“It’s too late,” repeated Mrs. Redfern, her head swiveling as she searched the alley. Hillary looked too, but saw nothing but steel security doors and barred windows: no escape. Though the men were in shadow, silhouetted against the streets at either end of this little space, the three of them were under the security lamp, as well-lit as the two dumpsters they stood next to. Mrs. Redfern grabbed their shoulders and thrust them between the dumpsters, into a six-foot-wide cave of moist stink. She knelt before them, whispering intensely, though Hillary barely heard her over the beating of her own heart.

“Stay here, out of sight, all right? I’ll try to lead them away—when they follow me, you girls
run
, you understand? Run and get somewhere safe. Find the police.”

Valerie was visibly trembling, shaking her head, murmuring “No, no, no, no.” Mrs. Redfern took her daughter’s face in her hands.

“It’ll be all right. Just stay calm, okay? You can
do
this. Just try to stay calm and quiet. For Hillary. It’ll be fine, honey. We’ll keep Hillary safe.”

A big hand fell on Mrs. Redfern’s shoulder, yanking her away from the girls. She didn’t fall, but spun to her feet, stepping away from the dumpsters, out of Hillary’s sight.

“I asked you a question, bitch. You going somewhere?”

“Just seeing a movie is all,” came Mrs. Redfern’s voice, frightened but in control. “I don’t want any trouble, okay? No trouble.”

“Sorry lady,” came another voice; the man who’d blocked the other end of the alley. “That’s all we
got
is trouble.”

Hillary listened, wide-eyed, trembling, heart still pounding in her ears. Through all that, even through the drama unfolding just out of sight around those dumpsters, she became aware of Valerie’s voice. Despite her mother’s admonishment to keep quiet, Valerie was standing with her head bowed and still shaking from side to side, repeating the same word with each jerk of the dark curtain of hair that hid her face from the world.

“No-no-no-no—”

Val was trembling so hard she looked like a marionette being worked by a palsied puppeteer, chest bouncing back and forth, shoulders jerking this way and that. Had Hillary ever even heard of a seizure, she would have thought of the word now. She hadn’t; all she knew was the way Valerie was moving looked
wrong
, and frightened her as much as everything else that was going on. She almost called out to Valerie’s mother for help, but the sound of male voices rising in anger was a forceful reminder that she needed to keep quiet.
They
needed to keep quiet.

Wanting to reassure her, Hillary reached out to Valerie. She searched for something to say that might comfort her friend, might silence her, but could think of nothing but the here and now, and the fear. She laid a gentle hand upon Valerie’s twitching shoulder and the shaking and muttering stopped like a machine seizing up, the sudden stillness itself startling Hillary. She had one quick moment to think
there, I helped her, everything’s gonna be okay.

Valerie’s head snapped around so fast Hillary gasped—then reeled backward, shoulders and head striking the dumpster behind her with enough force to stun, though she barely noticed the impact.

Valerie . . . wasn’t Valerie.

What stared out at Hillary when the rippling barrier of hair was flung aside wasn’t the familiar smiling face of her dark-eyed schoolmate: it was a monster, a demon from Hell, like she’d seen in the stained glass the few times she’d been to church.

The face—if she could call it a face—was elongated, stretched, the mouth and nose pushing forward, black lips pulled taut as the mouth widened.
Expanded
. The skin stretched and moved as things beneath it flexed and writhed. There was a series of cracks and snaps, like when the school bully had broken all her colored pencils one by one, but this was faster. Sharper.

The mouth surged forward as she watched, straining the face still further, and there was a moment where she thought
something’s in there, something’s in her head and it’s trying to get out
before the black, flattened lips parted, spread wide, and Hillary could see what was trying to get out, what was filling that face to overflowing, forcing it to expand just to make room.

Teeth.

The lips skinned back to reveal a tangled forest of teeth, long and sharp and white against gums of red and black. So many teeth, even
that
great maw seemed crowded, packed with canines, incisors and molars. The mouth
had
to open, was
forced
to open by this terrible multitude of tooth and fang.

And she could swear they were lengthening before her eyes.

Hillary inhaled to scream, her gaze rising past the blackened, distended nose, so pushed and distorted the nostrils faced her rather than the ground. Coarse, tufted hair surrounded that mouth and nose—thickening and spreading even as she watched—to cover the cheeks, and the scream died in her throat when she found the thing’s eyes.

Valerie’s eyes peered out at her from that hideous mask of growing horror. Valerie’s eyes: dark with anger, bright with rage, and filled with a terrible sorrow. It was that sadness, so strong it was nearly tangible, that closed Hillary’s throat against the scream that welled up within her like magma from a venting volcano. The scream rose, choked off, and died, the breath leaving Hillary in a whisper, raised brows turning the quiet sound into a question.