Out of the Dark: An apocalyptic thriller (13 page)

     Small, slithery creatures had been worming their way from the crack in the woman’s head, sliding down her cheeks like grotesque living tears. Her teeth had broken or vanished, and in their places were bloody, oozing holes from which seeped some viscous black fluid. Her stomach had from one minute to the next become grossly distended, bloated like the belly of a many days dead corpse, but Shane knew the woman had been alive-was still alive?-not three minutes before. With insane certainty, Shane had known the woman’s stomach was going to burst and creatures much worse than those on her face would spew forth toward him.

     What he’d predicted hadn’t happen, because a weak ray of morning sunlight had lit upon the woman, sending her up in gouts of flame and smoke. She had squealed and screamed while she burned, and Shane had watched in horrified silence, clutching the baby protectively to his chest as her mother burned.

     When she was ash on the ground, Shane had crossed himself, sent a word of thanks to the man upstairs, and bolted up the long driveway. The world had gone insane, but Shane had still had a job to do.

     The door had not only been unlocked, but left wide open. Shane had entered the home cautiously, on the lookout for more people who could turn into nightmare freaks in a moment’s time. He’d seen no one on the first floor, and of specific details, only remembered how grateful he’d been for the heat of the place.

     Upstairs, Shane had found himself in the baby’s room. The walls had been decorated with love and flair; fairytale scenes depicted winged women and magical creatures all gathered around a fountain so expertly portrayed, the water almost seemed to shimmer and flow from the wall it covered from ceiling to floor.

     There had been a changing table against the far wall, white wood topped with a foam pad covered by a pink blanket. Shane had deposited the baby atop it and made short work of removing her soaked pajamas and water-logged diaper.

     With the wet clothes off, in the heated home and with Shane briskly rubbing her limbs, the baby had shaken off the lethargy imbued in her by the stinging cold and begun crying. Her voice was weak, but Shane had been nearly ecstatic to hear it. He’d felt cautiously confident that he’d gotten her out of the water in time to prevent any permanent damage.

     The name on the wall, spelled out with wooden letters wrapped craftily in pretty yarn was Leila. It was a beautiful name for an equally beautiful baby girl.

     As quickly as he could, Shane had re-dressed the girl in a new diaper, warm pajamas, booties, gloves and a hat. He’d then left her on her table, still in his sight, which he kept on her in case she decided to roll. He had three nephews from his sister’s two marriages, and all of them had gone through that stage of being unpredictable and dangerous to themselves. Shane was a very involved uncle, and therefore had handled baby Leila expertly from the get-go even though he had no children of his own.

     In the chocolate brown diaper bag he’d found in Leila’s closet, he quickly packed as many diapers as he saw, as many warm clothes as he could fit, the three re-sealable containers of wipes on her changing table, several tubes of diaper rash cream, four winter hats, two spare pairs of gloves and booties, and two bottles of baby hair and body wash. He’d also folded all of her blankets, some handmade, some store bought, and packed them in a large, sturdy, reusable grocery bag. Along with the blankets had gone five canisters of baby formula, a box full of bottles, the toys and pacifiers that littered the otherwise well-organized top of baby Leila’s dresser and three stuffed animals; an orange lion, a blue bear and a pink, long-eared rabbit.

     Looking around the room, he’d seen and taken two framed photo; one of baby Leila with her mother and what Shane assumed were her maternal grandparents, and then a similarly posed picture of who Shane presumed was Leila’s father and his parents.

     On impulse, he’d also taken a pink baby book, with Leila’s name handwritten in tall, scrawling script on the front cover. Not knowing at the time why he’d done so, he’d pretty much taken every reminder in the near area of the people who’d been involved in the small child’s short life until the current time. Shane had known in his bones that Leila would never see any of those people again.

     After bundling her in a snowsuit, Shane had foregone the baby seat for the car and had instead carried Leila with him as he’d investigated the rest of the house. It had been empty of living souls, and the only body he’d found was Leila’s father, dead of a single gunshot wound to the head. Shane hadn’t known if the wound was self-inflicted, or if Leila’s mother had ended his life before she’d sought to end the life of her child and herself. Shane hadn’t wanted to know, and after looking around for a short time, he hadn’t found the gun. It hadn’t upset him much; he wasn’t a fan of firearms.

       After he’d concluded the house was temporarily safe, Shane had raided the kitchen and basement for supplies. Leila’s father had been only a size or two bigger than Shane himself, and the borrowed clothes fit him comfortable, with the pants being cinched by a leather belt and the shirts being double layered. Shane had also found a Carhartt jacket, which he’d discarded his own soaked coat in favor of. The work boots he’d found fit just fine after Shane had donned a thick pair of insulated socks.

     Baby Leila, dry and snug in her car seat, ready to leave and quickly recovering from her time in the frozen ditch, had watched Shane with equal parts wariness and exhaustion. She’d been sleepy, but she’d also been confused at the lack of familiar individuals in her near vicinity. Shane had wondered how quickly she’d forget the people who’d brought her into the world, and had become full of melancholy at the thought. His whirlwind of survivalist activity had ceased, and he had sat down heavily on the kitchen floor near Leila and surprised himself by crying for a good five minutes.

     After his tears had abated, Shane had discovered that Leila had slipped into sleep. Her head nodded forward, and Shane started thinking about how old she was. Suddenly, it had become very important to him to know that bit of information. He’d locked the door, left her sleeping comfortably and had returned to her room.

     He’d looked all around, and finally had found what he was looking for on one of the three pretty, handmade white shelves on the wall opposite the fountain mural. A glass bottle, inscribed with pink script, spelled out Leila’s full name (middle name Aria, last name Sweers), her birth weight (6lbs, 8oz) and her date of birth (May 9). She was seven months old.

     Shane had handled the bottle like the delicate treasure it was, and had wrapped it in a towel from the nearby linen cabinet for safe-keeping. This would be something of the life she should have had that Leila, when she was older, could keep with her and cherish. Feeling as though he had accomplished what he’d needed to for the baby girl, Shane had exited Leila’s room and closed the door, knowing in his heart that it wouldn’t be opened again for a very long time.

     He’d returned to the kitchen and begun the tedious task of packing all of the supplies in the van he’d decided to commandeer. The family that owned it would obviously not need it anymore. With Leila in hand, Shane had taken the keys from the key ring near the kitchen door, turned off the light and stepped into the garage. He’d set Leila down only momentarily, to lock and close the door, then he had secured her in the car, on the car seat base behind the passenger seat, claimed the driver’s seat for himself and driven away. He’d found a freeway, and had driven on, not really sure where he was heading, but mostly drawn in the direction that simply felt right.

     As they drove, Amy listened to Shane’s recounting of what had happened with sympathy and curiosity. It was both similar and different to what she and Ray had experienced, and it simultaneously frightened and heartened her. If Shane had made it through whatever was happening, and had saved a life on top of his own, surely everything wasn’t as bad as Amy had feared. There were always spots of light in the darkness, and she clung to that knowledge with all of her being.

     Ray had listened, as well, just as intently as Amy had. He wasn’t listening out of anything except suspicion, however. He was trying to deduce whether Shane had been lying as he recounted his experiences; if he was trying to lull them into false security so he could take the uncorrupted Amy as he had the small, pretty infant Leila.

     As soon as this thought had entered his mind, Ray had tuned out of the conversation, which had switched to hometowns and other topics unrelated to the current situation. He analyzed the data, which was something Ray was very good at. He was an expert at gathering information and examining it to come to a correct, or at least an intelligent conclusion. Amy’s safety depended momentarily on how attuned he was to the situation, and any information he could prove to be useful fact for her to take with her.

     Shane was uncorrupted, or he was a level of corrupted Ray couldn’t immediately identify. He didn’t honestly believe the other man was touched by the blight, because he felt the same in Ray’s head as Amy did, as the baby named Leila did. The creature wanted Shane just as much as Amy, if not more. With Shane gone, baby Leila would also become fair game for the hunters awaiting the night and the new world of prey they had been born into.

     They were driving toward Sam and Laura’s house, so Ray knew that Shane was helpful, or at least was pretending to be. If his story was true, he’d saved a baby’s life, which was no small matter. Too many children were going to be left alone or worse-would be or had already been killed by insane parents as the corruption took hold. Chances were good that Shane had found them for a reason, if only to be Amy’s ticket to potential safety.

     He was jealous of the other man, he admitted to himself. Not only was he safe to be around Amy and Ray was not, he was an attractive and obviously stalwart older man and Amy had definitely been enjoying talking with him as they drove to her cousin’s home. If jealousy was the only reason he had to want to find fault with Shane, he needed to step up his game and stop acting like a dick, Ray chastened himself.

     “Amy’s cousins are survivalist types,” Ray added to the conversation, as he’d become dimly aware it had switched to the people they were about to meet. “Sam even gave Amy a survival bag as a birthday gift last year.”

     “I guess you should thank him for that when we get there,” Shane told Amy, who nodded.

     “Oh, I intend to. It may not have helped much yet, but it’s been much better to have it. It made me think calmly when everything started going crazy, and it kept me sane. I knew I didn’t need to freak out, because as long as I could pack up and get to Laura and them, I’d be okay.”

     “I think the bag helped more than you know, then,” Ray said. “It was a lifeline of sanity when the world went nuts. And it may become more helpful yet. You’ve already got some good stuff in there, and you’ve added useful things from the road.”

     “Like what?” Shane asked, mostly to keep the conversation going, but also because he was genuinely interested in what the kid considered useful.

     “We found some Penicillin and prescription Motrin,” Amy recalled. “Ray suggested I put them in the pack. He also had me take a couple of lighters and some easy to carry stuff from a first aid kit.”

     “I figured you can never have too much first aid equipment,” Ray added.

     “Definitely,” Shane agreed. “And Penicillin is a great addition to a survival pack. You’re lucky to have found it, and lucky Ray knew it would be a smart thing to take along. It’s a powerful antibiotic and I don’t think hospital services are going to be back up and running for a while…”  

     Ray knew Shane was both trying to clandestinely put him at ease and also to compliment him for keeping Amy safe when they’d been alone. Things could have gone far worse, Shane’s expression said as he caught Ray’s expression in the rearview mirror, and he believed Ray was a good man for making sure they hadn’t. It did put Ray at ease, and he did feel complimented. He was incredibly relieved that Amy would be taken care of, even if they couldn’t reach Sam and Laura’s by the time dark came. It was a weight off his shoulders and a load off his mind that he hadn’t even realized had been giving him a headache.

     “I brought some food from the house,” Shane told them. “Nothing open that could have been contaminated, but some bags of chips, some canned meat, crackers, granola bars and a bag of mini candy bars. Help yourself if you want, Ray. I put all the food in those garbage bags.”

     “It’s nothing like a germ or a biological weapon,” Ray commented as he pulled one of the bags from the floor and opened it. “No illness, no terrorist attack. You’ve seen several full corrupted. Something has infected most of us, but it isn’t a sickness. It’s alive. It’s sentient.”

     “Us?” Shane asked warily. “You mean you’re like the other crazies that I’ve seen?” He looked at Amy. “And you, too?”

     “No,” Ray exclaimed quickly, forgetting the crackers he’d been about to see if he could stomach and shaking his head vehemently. “No, no. Amy is uncorrupted. She’s got no touch of the blight, like you, like the baby. I have something inside of me, but I haven’t let it win. It’s fighting me, but I still have control. That’s why I plan to leave Amy before nightfall. These things, they came in the dark last night. I know they’re going to be stronger when night comes again.”

     “That’s noble of you,” Shane said. His tone was uneasy, but the hostility in his eyes had receded greatly. “Why is she uncorrupted and you aren’t? You don’t seem much different. It obviously doesn’t have a preference on gender. Race doesn’t seem to play a role. What makes someone prone to corruption?”

     “Nothing that I can tell offhand,” Ray answered, and he sounded frustrated by the fact. “As I told Amy, corruption seems as random as the lottery.”

     “Not a lottery I’d like to win,” Shane murmured as he maneuvered around a stalled vehicle. There had been far fewer cars on this side of the freeway.

     “Agreed,” Ray said. “But it looks like I’m stuck with it.”

     “Shitty, man,” Shane said, and he sounded genuinely sympathetic. Ray nodded and his expression was grim.

     “Don’t I know it,” Ray said, then turned to stare out the window.

     All of a sudden, Ray didn’t feel much like contributing to the conversation anymore. Amy frowned sadly and looked out her own window. Shane maintained a respectful silence as he drove, and baby Leila continued to sleep.

Chapter Eleven

     There was something in the attic.

     Sam had known as soon as he’d heard the noises that it wasn’t natural settling of the house, or even an animal having made its way into the attic to hide out from the frigid winter weather. The sounds were sneaky, muffled, as though someone was picking very slowly and cautiously through the well-organized collection of dusty furniture, boxed mementos, summer supplies and boxes of donations Laura kept forgetting to take to church.

     Gesturing to the enclosed patio, which was warmed by a space heater during the winter and cooled by several powerful fans during the hot months of summer and autumn, Sam ushered the children and his wife that way. He would have them go inside and lock the door. If something happened to him, they could leave via the backyard, double back around the house, get into the Aveo or the truck and drive away.

     At Sam’s urging, everyone had kept at least their shoes on, and Sam made motions for them to take and don their jackets, which they’d all draped over their chairs as they ate, while they moved quietly toward the patio. He didn’t know if it was safe to put Trevor with them, but he wasn’t going to risk his son while he went up to explore the attic. He used one hand to gingerly take both sets of car keys from the table, holding them tightly so they didn’t clink together. He handed them to Laura before she pulled Melissa into the enclosed patio, and she took them carefully to avoid making noise.

     Sam hoped whatever creature currently residing within his son wouldn’t reclaim him as soon as Sam stopped touching him. He released Trevor’s hand and pushed him gently through the patio door. No darkness flooded his eyes; no change in his personality was immediately evident. The creature seemed content to sit and wait for the moment. Sam didn’t know if he trusted it, but he did know he didn’t have a choice except to turn away from Trevor and the others and head toward the attic door in the far hallway. He held out his hand toward Laura with all fingers spread out. The gesture meant, “five minutes.” He was telling her not to wait any longer than that. If he took more than the allotted amount of time, she was to take the children and Austin and leave.

     Sam walked silently away from the patio and toward the attic, the soles of his work boots making no sound on the hardwood floor. The noises in the attic had ceased, but the silence had the quality of an intruder holding his breath, hoping he wasn’t found out. When Sam on an instinctive impulse turned on a CD player to allow Laura’s latest pop obsession to pour from the speakers, the threat in the attic deemed itself undetected and began moving again. If Sam hadn’t been listening with every on edge ounce of himself, he wouldn’t have caught the surreptitious sounds.

     Sam reached the attic door around the same time who or whatever inhabited the space above found the way out. The latch released with a very identifiable click, and the stairs began to descend silently. Sam backed into a doorway, the entrance to Trevor’s room, standing just out of the range of vision of anyone who might possibly come down the stairs. He didn’t have a weapon in hand, and suddenly wanted one very badly.

     Nothing came out of the attic.

     Tense with anticipation, Sam looked quickly around Trevor’s room for something he could use to defend himself with. A metal baseball bat, the shorter variety made for children, was the only thing Sam found that could be useful in any way. He picked it up and bounced it lightly in one hand, getting a grip on the wrapped handle. He took a deep breath, and left the room.

     Nothing had come down yet, and Sam worried he’d been spotted somehow. If whatever was above was lying in wait for him, he’d be at an extreme disadvantage when his head popped up into the attic. He had a moment to weigh the odds of the situation, and then he saw a booted foot on the first stair. Whoever had gotten inside was finally making his way into the main body of the house.

     Not wanting to injure a friendly party, but not willing to assume someone who would break in instead of knocking first meant them no harm, Sam quickly ascended the first two steps, took hold of the man’s boot and pulled hard.

     The man lost his balance immediately, and Sam jumped out of the way as he crashed down the steps. His face slammed against one of them, sending a gush of blood from what Sam believed was probably a broken noise onto the lightly stained wood.

     While the man scrabbled for a hold to prevent himself from falling to the floor, he turned glaring, feral eyes toward Sam and snarled at him. Blood was on his bared teeth, pouring from his ruptured noise, yet he looked more normal than the girl Sam had seen transformed. If he was a victim of the darkness, it hadn’t fully claimed him yet.

     “Mother fucker,” the man spat and Sam sensed the shift in him a mere fraction of a second before the creature beneath the skin launched itself at Sam.

     Learning from his previous experience, Sam dodged to the left and swung the bat in the same instant. It connected solidly with the man’s temple, and he went down. The shadow thing had missed taking a bite out of Sam, and it receded into the skin of its host when the burly, bleeding man collapsed to the ground, eyes glazed and focus muddled. It had been a good hit.

     “Are you alone?” Sam asked in a low voice. The other man didn’t even look at him. Sam squatted down and smacked him. That got his attention. “Hey! Are you alone? If you’ve got a buddy up there, you better tell me right now or the next swing I take at you is going to do a lot more damage than the first.”

     The man spat out a tooth. Doing more damage with the next swing would probably leave him unconscious or disfigured.

     “Is anyone else up there?” Sam yelled into the yawning maw of the attic door. Sam saw the man twitch out of the corner of his eye, and tapped him on his injured temple with the bat. “Don’t fucking move,” he warned.

     “I’m alone,” he said gruffly, wincing from even the slight contact from the bat. “I was just…looking for somewhere to stay.”

     “Now why don’t I believe any of the shit coming out of your mouth?” Sam questioned in nearly a nonchalant voice. The man glowered, said nothing.

     Sam peered into the darkness of the attic, frowning. He was back to his original conundrum.

     “Laura, it’s okay,” he shouted, half-turning so his voice carried to where his family was waiting on his word. “Come back into the house.”

     He heard the patio door open again, and the tromping of feet as his family re-entered the kitchen. The man on the ground looked toward where they were and though he could not actually see any of them, his gaze sharpened, filled with acute interest. Sam was uncomfortable with it. The look made him strangely certain that allowing this man to live would be a huge mistake.
     “You don’t want to convince me further to beat the shit out of you,” Sam cautioned the man, who seemed to have forgotten about him.

     “You don’t scare me, man,” the intruder said with a sneer. “You got the devil in your house; the demon on your doorstep just has to wait.”

     “Well, you aren’t on my doorstep, are you, dumbass?” Sam retorted, lifting the bat menacingly. “You’re in my hallway, about to get your skull split open if you don’t can your bullshit.”