Dark Inside (11 page)

He should go back and get her. There was a shovel in the garage; he could bury her in the garden. It might not be as glamorous or sacred as a cemetery, but his options were slim. He couldn’t bear to see her body again, though. What if it was already bloated? What if he’d been wrong and she’d still been alive? What if she was dying right now and calling out his name and he was selfishly pissing away her only bottle of whiskey? No, he couldn’t go back. He just wanted to stop thinking. It was easier that way. The numbness hadn’t left him; if anything it was spreading. When he looked at the pictures, there was no emotion, even though he knew there should be. He should be sad.

But he wasn’t.

He felt nothing.

The drinking didn’t help.

Somewhere in the darkest recess of his brain, a button was pushed. Everything he cared about simply vanished. He’d malfunctioned.

It was better this way, or at least that’s what he told himself. Caring only led to heartbreak. He’d probably be curled up on the floor in his bedroom, crying like a baby, if it weren’t
for the numbness. This way he was able to still function, or he would tomorrow morning once he sobered up.

He was done mourning.

It was time to act. Whatever was happening was going to continue. He needed to find someplace safe if he was going to survive, a nice rustic cabin in the mountains where he could silently wait the whole thing out. Maybe he could find a beach, become a castaway where the sun could warm his body. He’d do it alone; he didn’t want people around. They’d only hold him back. He didn’t need anyone.

All he had to do was burn his bridges.

There was a gasoline can in the garage for the lawn mower. Drunkenly, he stumbled out to find it in the corner underneath some tarps. Back in the house he started with his bedroom. A clean start would make everything better. There was nothing he wanted. He sprinkled his bed with a healthy dose of the flammable liquid and then moved on. Next were the guest room and the bathroom. He passed his mother’s bedroom—no need to go in there. He briefly considered taking her jewelry but then decided against it. It’s not like he’d be able to sell it. The odds that the pawn shops might be open during this crisis were laughable. Downstairs he soaked the television and the couch. In the kitchen he baptized the microwave, table, and curtains. Methodically he moved from room to room until he finally ran out of gasoline. It was enough; he’d managed to do sufficient damage. When he lit the match the entire house would burn. Maybe he could roast marshmallows.

Back in the living room, he dropped the canister on the floor and looked around for the whiskey bottle. He found it, but somehow he’d tipped it over and the last remaining liquid had spilled out and stained the carpet. His brain became
assaulted with white noise. Darkness clouded his vision. He couldn’t even think straight enough to try and step back and figure out where the rage came from. Picking the bottle up off the floor, he blindly hurled it at the wall. It smashed against the television, cracking the screen and sending bits of glass across the floor.

It wasn’t enough. Over at the wall he tore down the pictures. One by one, he slammed them to the floor, stomping on the frames and grinding the glass into dust beneath his heel. The bookshelves were next: Mom’s paperback collection. He pulled them down, tearing the covers off and crushing the contents inside. The vase he’d given her was thrown at the fireplace, her plate collection used like Frisbees. In the kitchen he toppled the refrigerator, hurled the chairs out the window, uprooted the plants, and used the silverware for target practice.

He began to cry. Big whooping sobs that consumed him, blinded him, but still he carried on. He almost made it to the bedrooms but collapsed on the stairs when his legs refused to keep moving. Closing his eyes, he felt the rage disappear as quickly as it had come, and he was left there sobbing on the carpet, his back against the railing, completely unsure of what he’d just done.

When there was nothing left inside, he laid his head down on the carpet and stared at the wooden railing. He was even emptier than before. How was it possible that hollowness could dig so deep?

Breathing heavily, he wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve.

It was late and he was tired. He couldn’t remember what he was going to do. The smell of gasoline was strong, but there was no memory of why.

Eyes closed, his body gained a few hundred pounds. It was too much effort to do anything except lie there awkwardly. All he needed was a few minutes, and then he’d get back up and do whatever he was supposed to do.

He slept. There were no dreams.

When he woke the next morning, his head was pulsating from the whiskey and the fumes. Picking himself up off the stairs, he couldn’t remember how he got there. All he could remember was taking the whiskey bottle from its hiding spot and the first few swigs. His back was all messed up from sleeping crooked; he must have pinched a nerve. His shoulder throbbed; he could barely move his arm. Stumbling, wincing, grabbing his head with his good hand, he made his way into the bathroom to find some medicine.

In the mirror a worn-out person stared back at him. There were black circles under his eyes and his hair was tangled. Taking off his shirt, he winced when he saw the black-and-purple pattern across his shoulder. He splashed some water on his face, and the coolness quenched his skin. He chewed down two Tylenol without taking a drink.

The living room was a disaster. Everything was destroyed or lying on the ground. He was pretty sure he’d done it. But he couldn’t remember exactly.

Did he pour the gasoline?

The Stanley Park picture was on the ground, and he picked it up, turning it over in his hands so he didn’t have to see the smiling faces. Folding it carefully, he tucked it into his back pocket.

Mom and Mason in Stanley Park.

He’d felt safe there.

It would be nice to see Vancouver again.

The kitchen was worse. He wandered from room to room trying to retrace the steps he’d taken, but his mind was a blank slate. In his bedroom he tried turning on the television, but none of the channels were working. His cell phone said there was no signal.

The world was in chaos. He remembered that much. In the hospital his mother was rotting on a bed. Had anyone come to take her away?

He grabbed his jacket and car keys. If he was going to survive this, he needed to be where he could get news. The whole world couldn’t be cut off. There had to be other normal people out there. He’d find them.

But he wouldn’t care. Never again would he get close to someone. They’d only leave him, and he was going to do whatever it took to outlive this war. This sickness. Apocalypse? Who cared what it was. Out of sheer defiance he’d beat it.

He paused at the front steps before he left. The match lit on the first strike. The flame hurt his eyes, made his heartbeat throb at the back of his brain. He set the packet ablaze and dropped it in the closest gasoline puddle.

From the safety of the car he watched the flames eat away at the living room blinds. The street was completely empty; no one witnessed his crime. He didn’t know if his neighbors were hiding away behind closed doors or if they’d fled like he was about to do. He didn’t really care.

Something was happening to him. Mason didn’t know what it was, but deep down inside his soul, he was changing. A tiny voice in the farthest corners of his mind was whispering things he wanted to hear, forcing him to behave in a way that was foreign to him. A new Mason.

“I’m going crazy,” he said. The words echoed through the car.

He floored the gas pedal and, tires peeling, backed out into the street. As he drove off he didn’t bother to take one last look at his house going up in flames.

She stood in the hallway and wondered what to do next. Now that Daniel was gone, bravery leaked right out of her body and onto the cold tiled floor. The theater was only a few steps away, but her feet no longer wanted to move. They were stuck to the floor by all the panicky substances discharging from her pores.

He’d promised he wouldn’t leave her.

What else did he lie about?

How long had she continued talking once he sneaked off? She’d been babbling away for a while, trying to avoid a horrendous panic attack. It took all the self-control she had to keep from screaming or bursting into tears. But it was better than the alternative. There was something terrifying about all the silence, and filling it with sound was her way of keeping sane. Now that she had no one to talk with, she could hear the stillness creeping in at her from all directions. Taking a deep breath, she continued on toward the theater. If there were people there, she’d become calmer. Daniel had lectured on the dangers of groups, but he’d forgotten about the comfort level of friends. It cut down on the silence. Someone would know what to do.

Right?

But somehow, deep down inside she knew Daniel was correct. Bad things were happening. They were going to get worse.

There were six people in the theater. They were huddled together in the first two rows. All eyes turned to Aries as she descended the steps. At least the emergency lighting was still working. The theater was dim and heavily coated with shadows, but she could make out the faces of her classmates.

“Aries?” Jack King stood up from his chair to get a better view, his sandy brown hair illuminated by the emergency lighting above him. He had the role of the White Rabbit.

“Thank God you’re here.” That was Becka Philips. She was the Mad Hatter. Colin had pitched a fit when she was given the part. It was the role he wanted, and he couldn’t handle the idea that a girl was taking the other lead. He’d spent the whole week mumbling about sexism.

Speaking of Colin, he was sitting in the first row, being comforted by Amanda Steeves, the lighting technician. Aries’s first reaction was to do something dramatic: walk up to him and slap him for leaving her to find Sara. But she managed to retain her calm. It wouldn’t bring Sara back, and all she’d do was make a scene. She knew his character; it was exactly what she’d have expected of him. Sara may have overlooked his obvious flaws, but Aries wasn’t fooled. Colin was not someone she could trust.

“Are you hurt?” That was Ms. Darcy, the drama teacher.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Were you in it?” Becka asked as she came over to give Aries a hug. “We were in here when it happened. The whole building shook. Ms. Darcy wouldn’t let us go outside to check. Did you see the cars in the parking lot? They’re all trashed. And no one’s phones are working.”

“I was on the bus. It’s a mess out there. Lots of people are hurt. There’s no power and the roads are wrecked. The ambulances can’t get through.”

“You were with Colin?” Becka looked back at Colin incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell us you were with Aries? Where’s Sara?”

Aries glared at Colin. He refused to look back at her. Instead he conveniently found something fascinating with the stage lights.

“Sara’s dead,” Aries said. “A lot of people died. I would have been here sooner, but I stayed behind to help. Well, sort of.”

“Oh.” Joy Woo, the Caterpillar, put her hands up to her mouth.

Colin stayed in his seat as he listened, an unreadable expression on his face.

No, there was pain in his eyes. He was trying to hide it, but she caught a glimpse. It was good to see he did care, even if he’d been all about saving his own skin at the time.

Ms. Darcy approached Aries, a pained expression on her face. Reaching out, she took Aries’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine. I was lucky.”

Becka started to cry. She’d been as close to Sara as Aries was. They’d grown up next door to each other. Joy immediately put her arms around her. The others sat numbly, unable to respond. There was a long silence that followed, broken up by the occasional sniffle as Becka buried her face in her jacket.

“What do we do now?” Amanda muttered.

Colin stood up from his chair. “I’m going home.”

“We should stay here,” Aries said. “It’s not safe outside.”

“We’re sitting ducks,” Colin snapped. “What about aftershocks? This whole building could go down.”

“I don’t want to get crushed,” Joy said.

“No one’s going to get crushed,” Aries said. “On the way over here I met this guy. He told me the safest place to be is the school, and I agree. Our parents know we’re here. They’ll come for us when this is over. We just need to be patient and stay put.”

A lot of people are going to die, and it’s only the beginning.

Daniel’s words. She couldn’t tell them he said that. It sounded crazy. But she’d seen it; the mob of darkened shadows tearing people apart on the street. She knew she should warn everyone, but Becka looked like she might fall apart. She didn’t see the point in terrorizing her more. Besides, they were safe in the school. It was very unlikely that anyone would come searching for them as long as they kept hidden in the theater.

“I agree,” Ms. Darcy said. “I think we should wait for your parents to come pick you up. It shouldn’t take long once the roads are cleared.”

“If they’re okay,” Becka said. “How do we know they’re not dead?”

“I think right now we need to be more positive,” Ms. Darcy said. “Until we’re given a reason to believe otherwise.”

The decision was made. No one dared question the teacher. She was the only adult and technically in charge. She was supposed to know what to do in these situations. But there was an anxious expression on her face and something odd with the way she tilted her head when she spoke. She was trying hard to hide it, and none of the other students noticed, but Aries saw through her fake demeanor. There was no mistaking it. Ms. Darcy didn’t believe her own words. She knew.

“So where is this guy, then?” Colin said. “If he thought it was so safe here, then where is he?”

“There were others to save,” Aries said. “It was more important to him than running like a coward with his tail between his legs.”

Colin gave her a hard smile.