Kick at the Darkness (10 page)

“Did you always make movies and stuff?”

Adam’s gaze was unfocused, like he was far away. “After the accident, my shrink gave me a camera. Told me to record anything that interested me.”

“And what interested you?” Parker curled up again, tucking his feet under him. He dabbed at his nose. His head was so heavy.

“People. I’d record them when they weren’t watching. But sometimes when they were, and they’d talk.”

“There’s a camera on my phone. You could use it and—” He sprang to his feet, wobbling and grabbing the side of the love seat. “My phone. I need to check.” He shuffled to the kitchen, feeling his way down the hall in the darkness.

The phone was where he left it on the counter, plugged in to the charger. He tugged out the cord and went into the bathroom just in case the light from the screen could be seen from outside. There were no messages on his lock screen, and the bars at the top had disappeared. He tapped in his code and tried to dial his mom’s number. No connection. Parker closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It was okay. It would be okay.

Adam was leaning against the wall in the hallway when he came out. “Anything?”

“Uh-uh. No network. I guess we’re lucky there’s still power here. Probably won’t last for long.”

“Probably not.”

As if on cue, a scream tore through the stillness.

Without a word, they raced back to the living room and strapped on their gear and weapons. Parker’s head spun, and coughs wracked him.

More shrieks rang out. They inched the bookcase away from the front window, and Parker squinted into the night. The picture window jutted out from the house, and he kneeled on the ledge so he could look left and right. The street lights were still on, and groups of infected circled them. But two doors down, a light shone from inside, and infected streamed into the house, shattering windows and shoving in their desperation.

Parker and Adam shared a glance. Parker knew the options: hide, run, or help. “We could try going around the back. See if they’re still…”

Adam nodded. “But if not, we get out fast.”

He wheeled the bike out the back door and they peeked over the fence. Next door, all was quiet and dark, but the invaded house two down seemed to pulsate with the buzz of the chattering. It had to be too late, but as Parker opened his mouth to say that, a child’s wail pierced the terrible racket.

Before he could think twice, Parker scaled the fence. But when he reached the top, Adam was somehow ahead of him, already on the ground. He shouted as he ran.

“Get the bike and bring it around back!”

Parker flipped onto his belly and dropped back down to the Hendersons’ lawn. The backpack overbalanced him for a moment, and he swung his arms to stay on his feet. Past the swing set, he hopped on the motorcycle and looked for an exit. He couldn’t go the way they’d come, around the front of the house. Too many infected on the street. Fortunately there was a gate at the back of the yard, where the ground sloped down to a small ravine. Now he just had to figure out how to start the bike.

He twisted knobs desperately, trying anything that might work. “Key, key, key. There has to be a key, right? Fuck it.” He jumped off and tried to push it. “Jesus!” It felt like it weighed five hundred pounds. With a grunt, he dug in with his sneakers and wheeled the bike to the dry ravine, his muscles straining and his breath rattling as he panted. He couldn’t see any keys or a place to put them. Maybe Adam still had the keys and didn’t realize it?

There was a new, terrible sound from the house under siege—a growl that roared through the night.

Parker left the bike and squeezed through the gate into the dark yard of the house next door.

Adam, Adam, Adam
. Parker was almost to the top of the fence when a floodlight blinded him. He scrabbled for the wooden slats, but lost his grip and tumbled back onto the lawn. The air
whooshed
from his burning lungs. The machete handle dug into his neck, and his back arched where he sprawled like a turtle over his pack.

The floodlight snapped off, but a shadow jerked into view at the top of the fence. The light came back on, illuminating the bulging eyes and grasping bloody fingers of an infected man. Parker scrambled back, but it was too late. More contorted faces appeared, and then the infected were tumbling over the fence. On his feet again, Parker’s jello legs somehow moved and he raced around to the front of the dark house.

Too late he realized his route back to the motorcycle was cut off—not that he could even work the damn thing. There was nothing to do but keep going.

Parker yanked the machete out of its sheath on his back, praying he could outrun them. On the street, the infected milled around the streetlights and he angled toward another house, seeking the darkness. Through backyards and over fences he raced, with the infected gaining on him. At least a dozen chased him, their twitching limbs too quick.

Thoughts crashed through his mind, images and memories and fragments pushed out by the frenzy of panic and the need to survive.
Faster, faster, faster.

Gasping, he stumbled over a lawn chair and slammed to the grass, the machete still in his grip. The ground vibrated with the approach of the infected, and he forced his feet under him and ran on. When he glanced back over his shoulder, they were only ten feet away, and panic choked him
. No, no, no!

Then the ground disappeared.

AS HE PLUNGED into water, the breath
whooshed
from Parker’s lungs and he seized up in the unexpected cold. He plummeted beneath the surface in a heartbeat, flapping his arms and kicking his legs, the backpack a leaden weight dragging him down.
Dying, dying, dying!

His lungs burned, and he saw stars. Parker kicked desperately, and when his head broke the surface, he sucked in as much air as he could, coughs wracking him. For a moment, all he could do was tread water and try to breathe. As the spots of light behind his eyes faded, he focused again. He was in the middle of the deep end of a backyard pool, and fuck, where were the infected?

He blinked up at them streaming around the concrete deck, none of them even glancing his way. They seemed to bypass the water with some kind of instinct, giving a wide berth around the pool and leaving Parker behind. He treaded water as quietly as he could, careful not to splash. Perhaps they couldn’t see him in the dark pool? It seemed not. He kept only his face above the surface, trying to disappear as much as he could beneath the depths as he breathed through his mouth.

After a minute, he was alone.

Still taking care not to splash, he kicked his way to the side of the pool and grabbed the ledge. He realized he’d dropped his machete when he fell. In the dead of night, the water was utterly black. Cursing himself, he eased off the backpack and set it on the deck. The infected droned from the way he’d come, but he needed to go back. He needed to find Adam.

The panic swelled once more, and he fought it down. It had only been minutes since he and Adam had stood side by side, and now he felt a million miles away
. Adam could be dead
. The thought was a punch to his gut, and he took in a shaky breath. No. Adam had to be okay. He just needed to find him.

There were a hundred infected in that house
.

He shook his head as if he could physically banish the idea that Adam didn’t make it.
He made it.

Shivering, Parker tried to get himself together. His head was so full of snot that he could barely breathe, and as a coughing fit overtook him, he tried to muffle the sound in the soaking crook of his arm.

Finally it passed, and he drank a mouthful of the pool water to soothe his throat. He needed a weapon. Peering down, he couldn’t see a damn thing, but the machete had to be there.

It’s just like snorkeling off the boat in summer. Eric’s here, and we’re playing a game like we used to
.

Somehow the lie gave him the confidence he needed, and he dove down blindly, his arms outstretched. His fingers grazed the concrete bottom of the pool, and he swept his hands from side to side, praying he’d find the machete and nothing—no one—else. His eardrums felt like they were going to burst as the pressure built.

Lungs burning, he returned to the surface empty handed. It took four more tries before his fingers closed over the steel of the machete’s blade at the bottom of the pool. He hefted it onto the deck and hung on to the side as he gasped and coughed. Normally he’d push himself out of the water easily, but he trembled all over and had to haul himself up on the ladder.

It was quiet now, the chattering receded into the night. He slung on the sodden backpack and hurried back the way he’d come, the machete in hand. He muffled his coughs again in the crook of his elbow, helpless to stop them. As the minutes passed and he skulked by dark houses, he realized he had no idea how to find the Hendersons’ home again.

He’d zigzagged through countless yards, and as he hurried back in the shadows, all the houses and streets looked the same. He wanted to scream Adam’s name, but kept silent. What if it wasn’t just light that attracted the infected? What if he called them right to him?

He dragged himself onward, wondering if other survivors were watching from dark windows, unwilling to give refuge to a machete-wielding stranger. For a moment he actually reached for his phone to look up Ramblewood Lane on the map. He laughed, a high-pitched squawk that sounded far away.

When he tripped over the eviscerated remains of what looked to be a dog, its gnawed collar abandoned a few feet away, his stomach heaved and he vomited up what little was left in him.

The sky was lightening when he reached the edge of what might have been the preserve, but could have been a park for all he knew. He’d searched so many streets, and was hopelessly lost. He’d been in Palo Alto a month, and only knew which way was east from the rising of the sun. He walked on, machete in hand, his eyes flicking back and forth across the trees and bushes. The preserve and foothills were in the south, he thought.

The reality that he might never see Adam again was a lead ball in his gut, growing heavier with each step. They should have discussed a plan in case they got separated, but it was too fucking late now. For some reason, Parker thought Adam would go back to the preserve. He seemed more at home there amid the trees than on the Hendersons’ floral couch.

Parker’s eyes burned, and he shivered uncontrollably. He was really alone. He’d be grateful to see any other uninfected human, but he longed for Adam, and his scruff that was turning into a beard, his wry smile and infuriating calm.

It had taken only a blink of an eye and they’d been separated. Adam could be one of them now. Parker closed his eyes against the awful image of Adam transformed. He choked down a sob. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Pain flared in his knees, and he realized his legs had given out and he was on the ground. Fingers digging into the dirt, he fought the wave of nausea. There was a thick bush nearby, and he crawled toward it, the machete awkward in his right hand. He squeezed in amongst the brambles, finding a small hollow in the center of the bush where he could curl into a ball.

Behind the cover of the shrubbery, he trembled and coughed, his nose running
. I need to get it together. I need to survive
. Yet when he tried to move, his body didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Wet and freezing, but hot all over, he remained hidden in the bushes, his cheek pressing against the earth. He needed a plan if he was going to make it. He had to make it.

Why?

He tried to ignore the other voice in his head, but it persisted.

They’re all dead. Mom, Dad, Eric. Everyone. Adam. The world is fucked. It’s hopeless. Might as well give in now. There’s no point.

“No.” His voice sounded hoarse and foreign. “No,” he repeated. He couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t. He needed to figure out what to do next. He wasn’t sure what time it was. He instinctively reached to his pocket again for his phone, but it was in his pack, and soaked now. Grief returned, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it. His last connection to the world was gone. Intellectually he knew it had been gone before tripping into the pool, but the finality of it gutted him. He should have listened to his mother’s message again while he’d had the chance. His last piece of her.

“How is this real?”

Now he was talking to himself, although his voice sounded hoarse and foreign. He wondered how he would have done on his econ test had the world not gone insane. By now he would have gone ahead and dropped the film course. He probably would never have seen Adam again. It was a big campus, and their paths might never have crossed. Tears pricked his eyes, and he curled tighter into himself. Had he really only known Adam a few days? It was unfathomable.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he muttered. His mind was a jumble of thoughts and scenarios, and the images of Adam were unbearable. Parker had to leave everything behind. He was on his own now. He willed himself to uncurl and get moving, but he shivered and stayed put.

Just a few more minutes. Then he’d go…

The gray day was brighter when Parker realized the growing drone in his consciousness was real. Gripping the machete, he jolted his head up and got tangled in the bush. It didn’t sound like the calling of the infected, but his ears might have been playing tricks on him. He closed his eyes as the low noise grew louder.

It sounded like…a motorcycle.

His pulse raced. It couldn’t be Adam. It was impossible. Even if Adam had somehow survived, how would he find Parker? But maybe…
No
. He couldn’t get caught up in wishful thinking. Whoever was out there, odds were they were human, unless the infected had learned to ride motorcycles.
Jesus, let’s hope not
.

The bike neared. In a few moments it would be gone. He had to act now. Now! His soaked backpack caught on the bush branches as he clawed his way out, opening his mouth to shout for the driver’s attention. The words died on his tongue as the motorcycle screeched to a halt several feet away.