Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (16 page)

She lied down, and he crawled up beside her, kissing her sweetly on the lips. His fingers danced around the belt of her pants, and he tried to reach down inside, but it was too tight. She smiled and kissed him back, flattening herself out. He could get his fingers through the loose belt of her pants. He felt the strap of her panties, and he slid his fingers underneath. He felt the hair along the crest of her vagina, soft and warm. His fingers continued to crawl, and he felt the crevice. He reached inside, probing, and then he found it: his finger slid in, and he felt the warmth and the wetness. He slid his fingers in and out, felt her clit, tickled it with his finger. She gasped, and they continued to kiss. Her back arched, and she groaned in pleasure. He felt his fingers inside her, and his heart sprinted a marathon behind his ribs. She pressed her face into his cheek, her hair dappling around her face. Her chest quivered with each breath and with each heartbeat.

“God,” she breathed. “I love you so much…”

He kissed her. “I love you, too.”

She took several deep breaths of air. He laid down next to her on the blanket. The stars twinkled above Cincinnati.

She was not satisfied. “Do you want to?” she asked, kissing his neck. He stroked her bare stomach under her punk t-shirt. Her skin was so smooth, so delicate, and he felt her bellybutton rising and falling with her every succulent breath. “We can’t…” He wanted to. He wanted it more than anything. But he couldn’t… He couldn’t…

“Please,” she pleaded. “I can make you feel so good…”

He was breaking. He thought,
Why must she pressure me so much?

Her words were so tempting. “Please…”

His insides churned. He wanted it so badly. “Maybe we can just lie naked together…”

“Okay,” she said, sounding a little defeated.

They moved off into the bushes, laying out the blanket.

He sat down and pulled off his shirt. He began working on his pants and she began to undress. He found himself absolutely stunned at her beauty. She pulled off her shirt, revealing slender bare arms, her wonderful neck, the stomach that spoke volumes of temptations. Her breasts unfolded as she unsnapped the bra and laid it aside. She lied down next to him as he shimmied off his pants, revealing his bare legs. He began pulling down his boxers, finding his penis hard, and she undid the latch on her belt and kicked off her jeans. He could see the rise of her vagina underneath her panties as she pulled those off, sliding them from her legs.

She crawled up next to him, and they lied naked together.

He held her close, feeling her warmth, her breath on his neck.

She wrapped her leg around him. Her breasts pushed into his chest. Their bodies brushed against one another.

She bit her lip. “So… Now what?”

They began to kiss once more, bodies falling into the rhythm.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

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She saddled him.

He laid back, his hands upon her bare waist.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

He looked deep into her eyes. Their souls connected. “I’m ready if you are.”

She positioned herself, taking his penis into her hands, and slid it inside her. The warmth and wetness sent pleasure streaking through him.

The greatest thing he had ever felt.

Her lips trembled as she began to move atop of him.

Her breasts swayed back and forth as she rode him. She pressed her hands against his chest, squeezed, head back, spine arching. She whispers his name. He thrusts as well. His one hand strokes her bare arm, and with his other hand he strokes her cheek with his finger.

She moved faster. She hung her head down, staring at him, lips hung open, eyes wide in pleasure. She groaned and squeezed her legs tight against his waist. PLEASURE screamed in his ear. She let out a cry and lied down on top of him, breathing hard.

“Did you go?” he asked.

She nodded, continued to move.

He wrapped her arm around her back, felt her spine.

Her stomach lied on his, and her breasts fell upon his chest.

She pressed her face against his, and he could feel her sharp breathing. Their heartbeats whispered in synch.

He was now on top of her. She ran her fingers across the side of his stomach. Her breasts jiggled with each thrust. He would slide out slowly, then thrust in hard, and each time her back would arch, she would let out a faint cry, her eyelids would flutter. He lied down on top of her, propped up by his elbows, his fingers running through her chocolate hair. He kissed her lips tenderly, and their lips collided as she opened her mouth with yet another orgasm, thrusting her vagina harder and harder against him.

They experienced orgasm at the same time. He let out a cry and lied down on top of her, feeling her sweat, tasting her sweat as he kissed between her breasts—the most delicious taste. He lied his head upon her breasts and took several deep lungfulls of air. She stroked the curves of his back and kissed her forehead. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, void of all energy. He just wanted to lie there, to fall asleep naked in her magnificent arms.

“Did you like it?” she whispered in his ear.

He brought his head up, smiled at her. “Yes. Did you?”

“Yeah,” she said, biting her lip once more. “I did.”

They kissed once more.

She rubbed her fingers along his upper arm. “You’re amazing. Have I told you that before?”

“You’re so beautiful. It doesn’t matter how many times I say it. It never changes.”

They lied naked under the stars, wrapped in one another’s gentle embrace. She leaned onto her side, stroked his stomach. “Do you think we’ll be together forever?”

He ran his fingers through her hair. “I hope so. Or what the hell is this life all about?”

Anthony Barnhart

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VI

Daylight has returned.

He awakes, groggy, and the memory in his dream fades.

He is lying on the kitchen floor, the tile cold, body unyielding. He stares at the corpse beside the refrigerator, lying in a puddle of blood. Ravens call to one another outside.

He slowly gets to his feet, groans, leans over, vomits. Bile drips from his mouth. At first he doesn’t remember, and then it comes to him:

Kira.

He staggers to his feet and goes over to the door. He grabs the iron bar and slides it back. He pushes the door open and staggers outside. The day is clear, the sun blinding, and he winces; the brilliant sunlight sends shards of pain rippling through his head. He leans against the side of the house, takes several deep breaths.
You fucking fool. You FUCKING fool.
He looks back up to see what remains of Kira’s body: a few tattered clothes, some pieces of flesh, her torn blue dress. He walks across the yard, bends down, picks up the empty Mosin-Nagant. There are several muddied footprints throughout the yard, and he sees that mud has scraped over the fence where they climbed away from the desecrated grave. The dark-walker whom he had killed last night is gone; bloody smears run through the dry blades of grass, disappearing over the fence: the others had become cannibals, feasting on their own demonized kind.

He sits down atop the stump that had once been the oak tree.

He cradles the rifle and stares at the grave.

“I’m so sorry…” he murmurs. Tears begin to fall. “I’m so sorry…”

Vengeance.

It is all he can think about.

He loads all of the weapons and begins to contemplate how he can seek justice. He knows he cannot run out blindly at night and start shooting. They will only tear him limb-from-limb. Sacrificing himself foolishly in the memory of Kira is no vengeance at all. And he wants the creatures to experience the pain. They can feel pain—he remembers shooting one of them last night, hearing their pain-stricken howl. And they can die.
Kira died when you stabbed her
. He pushes that thought out of his mind. But it will be night soon, for the day has nearly passed—he did not wake up till nearly 3:00 in the afternoon. And he still has to dispose of that body. He wants to find one, make them suffer, but they only come out at night, and—And that is when the idea strikes him. He cradles the rifle, a whimsical, wild smile crossing his face.

He drags into the backyard the corpse from the kitchen. It is a man, perhaps thirty or forty years old, with browning hair and numerous cuts and scrapes. The clothes are tattered, and he is wearing only one shoe. The man carefully places Kira’s remains back in the grave—a difficult task—and buries her once more, shoveling the dirt back into the pit. He puts the body in the opposite corner of the yard, next to the fallen oak tree, the limbs splayed out. He works quickly, using rope and a pulley system for his garage, and when nightfall comes, he sneaks back inside, holds the fully-loaded MosinNagant, and he waits.

The scent of the dead dark-walker attracts them once more. At first come the howls, as the sun begins to make its ritualistic descent.
Their waking cries
, the man thinks grimly to himself, the rifle bringing Anthony Barnhart

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an odd comfort. The howls spread throughout the house, louder than ever, and he sees a framed picture of Kira sitting on a crudely-built shelf. It only serves to harden his resolution. As the sun finally sets and darkness wraps its cloak upon the city, the creatures emerge from their hidingplaces—none of which the man has ever found, though he has never sought to find them—and begin searching. They clamber over the fence and approach the body, tugging. One of them bends over and grabs the corpse’s head. The man holds his breath. A cold sweat pops over his brow. The creature pulls, and in the next moment comes the snap of crackling wood, whipping ropes, and the noose tightens around the figure’s ankle, ripping her into the limbs of the fallen tree. The creature lets out a shriek as one of the sharp limbs pierces its abdomen, thrusting out the opposite end. Blood trickles down. The man thrusts the gun out the open window and begins firing. He is sober now, and the bullets find their targets. The dark-walkers rush for the fence, but a few drop dead, brains imploded. A moment later the yard is clear. The man sits in the window and waits, watching, as the impaled dark-walker howls for help. But help never comes.

He looks at his watch. Daybreak is nearly upon the city. In the east, the sun is beginning to rise, casting ribbons of light against the sulking skyscrapers. He leaves the upper room and lowers the ladder, climbing down to the bottom floor. He swings the shoulder strap of the rifle around him and unlocks the bolt on the back door. He steps into the yard. It is deathly quiet. The dark-walkers are returning to their hives. His feet crunch in the dry grass as he approaches the creature pinned against the fallen oak. He unshoulders the rifle and aims it at the creature. He looks out over the city, over the fence, and can feel the bitter warmth of the mid-September morning. He sets the rifle down at his feet, pulls out the pack of BASIC FULL FLAVOR, and withdraws his upside-down Lucky. He lights it with a cheap lighter from a gas station on Glenway Avenue and lets the smoke fill his lungs. The creature lets out a shriek. The man exhales, nods, smiles. “Top o’ the morning, to ya,” he says in an Irish accent. Ravens circle above, squawking and cawing, big and black and gruesome, eyeing the bleeding figure. “They’re here for you, you know,” the man says. The creature is panicky, eyes wild. He picks up the rifle in one hand and aims the gun at the creature; he holds the cigarette in the other hand and sits down on the stump. Several bodies lie littered across the yard. Sunlight begins to push away the shadows. The creature begins to scream and shout, eyes wide with… Yes, the man pinpoints it:
fear
.

The twisted and gnarled limbs of the oak tree have cast the figure in shadow, but now the sunlight begins to penetrate, and cascading rays fall upon the figure. The man is drawn by curiosity, and he stands, and tossing the cigarette, approaches and watches. The creature is a girl, about nineteen or twenty years old, wearing nothing but pajama bottoms and a bra. The sunlight falls upon the figure’s hand, and it snatches it from the light, howling in excruciating agony. The man leans forward, staring at the hand, seeing blotched swelling. The sunlight moves across the figure’s face, and it wrenches its head back and screams: the skin swells, blotched and red, and a yellow puss begins to stream from the eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. The figure shakes its head back and forth, eyes clenched shut, squirming against the limb thrust through its abdomen. The man smiles, enjoying this, seeing its pain, reveling in it. He doesn’t feel the least bit heartless.
These bastards deserve it. They deserve to suffer
. The skin bubbles and boils. A bubble pops, and warm liquid squirts over the man’s cheek. He rubs it away and disgust and hatred. The figure’s eyes open, and the eyes convey the greatest sense of sadness and hopelessness that the man has ever seen. Suddenly a switch turns on in his mind, and he sees this girl for a moment, and the vision strikes him with an agonizing guilt and shame:

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

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The digital clock mounted on the wall ticked back and forth. Her legs dangled from the rolling desk chair, and she hung her head back, blond hair falling down over her shoulders. She stared at the ceiling, slowly kicking her legs, moving the chair in concentric circles. Her pupils widened and narrowed as she studied the evolving shapes in the ceiling plaster. She eyed the digital clock, cursed, felt her stomach rumble. She leaned forward in the chair and positioned herself by the desk. The geometry book lied wide open. She picked up the wooden pencil and let it dance between her fingers. Geometric shapes leapt out, but she could only think of her stomach. She pushed away from the desk and scooted the chair across the room to her refrigerator. Atop the compact fridge sat a large bucket filled with peanut butter pretzels. She twisted open the plastic lid and popped a few in her mouth. She decided to open the blinds and gaze out the window as she ate her pretzels. Several students ran about in the courtyard below, between the trees, throwing a Frisbee. She opened the window and felt the warm spring breeze crawling across her arms. She smiled to herself and screwed the cap back onto the pretzel jug, stood from her chair, and waltzed out the door. A moment later she appeared beneath the window, running to her friends, intercepting the Frisbee. The geometry homework lied open on her desk.