Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (34 page)

Dwellers of the Night

158

torn down and replaced with a retractable ladder; the ladder would be drawn up at night—in case of the event of a dark-walker break-in on ground level—but now the ladder is drawn down. The man shimmies down the ladder and hears more vomiting coming from the bathroom attached to the hallway. Meager, flickering light comes from underneath the closed door. He hears shuffling within, a groan, hacking. He raps his knuckles against the door. No response. He slowly pushes it open. The boy’s silhouette is cast against the shower curtains; a single oil lamp burns upon the bathroom sink, illuminating the boy who is buckled down over the toilet. His hair is matted to his pale-green face; the boy looks over at the man standing in the doorway, opens his mouth to say something, then jerks his head back around and pukes into the toilet.

“How many?” the man asks, rubbing his eyes.

The boy takes a breath. “Eleven.”

“Eleven beers?”

“Eleven shots.”

“Fuck,” the man mutters. “How are you feeling?”

The boy just glares at him.

The man asks, “How’s your heart-rate?”

“How the hell should I know?” He rests a hand upon the sink, steadying himself. The man moves forward. “How long have you been sick?” He kneels down beside the boy, places a finger behind the boy’s ear. “God. You’re heart’s racing. Can you stand?”

“Every time I try… I just get sick again.”

“I told you to stop drinking.”

“I’ve never gotten this sick before…”

“You’ve never drank this much before, either.”

The boy tries to steady himself, pukes again. Stumbling over his tongue, “I woke you up…”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

The man muses, “At least the stench will keep the dark-walkers away.”

“I just need a hot shower…”

“First of all, there’s no hot water. Second, that’s a horrible idea. You’ll send your body into shock.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing. Just ride it out.”

“I’ll probably be dead by morning.”

“Maybe, but doubtful.”

The boy stares at the man. “I never want to taste another shot of alcohol again.”

“Wait till you’re sober. You’ll be craving it. Believe me, I know.”

“You were an alcoholic?”

The man doesn’t say anything for a moment, looks into the mirror, sees bags hovering underneath his eyes. “After… After my father died, I didn’t really know how to deal with it. He always… He always drank at night. He still had some stuff left in the house. I would drink it, trying to be like him, maybe to stave away the memories… I didn’t know what I was doing to myself… I almost died one morning, but Mom rushed me to the hospital, and they pumped my stomach… But the alcohol was in my blood… They didn’t think I’d make it…”

“How old were you?”

“I was just a little boy.”

“How old?”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

159

“I was seven years old.”

The boy doesn’t say anything, just stares at the toilet mantle.

“I’m going to go back to bed,” the man says, and he leaves the bathroom.

He awakes early, just as the sun begins to rise. He crawls downstairs and finds the boy lying on the sofa. A pile of vomit lies on the floor beside him. He breathes shallowly, but he sleeps easy. The man makes a pot of coffee and pours himself a cup. He pulls back the boards from the back door, swings it open, and steps outside. He drinks his coffee in the bitter cold, smoking a cigarette. The sky is bright and clear, the sky shining a vivacious blue, the sun throbbing to the east, sending streamers of light between the towering and vacant skyscrapers. Footprints are scattered in the snow about the house, and the remains of yet another scavenged dark-walker lie beside the dead oak, bloodied bones scattered among the snow where the oak’s dead limbs embraced the earth like snaking tendrils from heaven. The man finishes his cigarette, extinguishes it in the coffee, and sets the mug on a folding chair now covered with snow.

The boy continues to sleep. The man sits at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. His eyes keep drawing themselves to the book sitting upon the table, eyes creeping over the title again and again. Vampires: The Occult Truth. Garlic. Silver bullets. A stake through the heart.
Unable to come out during
the day
. Why would they be unable to come out during the day? He doesn’t buy into that garbage about Darkness being Evil and Light being Good, and these dark-walkers fearing Good and bathing in Evil. The superstitious, to him, is synonymous with bullshit. He can easily toss aside garlic, silver bullets, and a stake through the heart. Silver bullets and a stake through the heart, he knows, would kill them: they are just as fragile as human beings, needing food and shelter, and breaking—dying—

just as easily. But he still cannot explain the avoidance of sunlight. And he continues to think about the garlic. He has seen what happens when they come out in the daylight—their flesh, for lack of a better word, boils—but he has never seen their response to garlic. He can ignore the avoidance of daylight, but if they are allergic to garlic in some strange way… He must settle this. But how? He watches the boy sleep, and, though subtly, he hears Lindsey’s innocent laughter sprinkling in his ears.

III

The smells from the kitchen wake him. The boy slowly crawls into a sitting position on the sofa, takes a deep breath, stands… Falls back down. He turns his head and sees the man in the kitchen, stirring a pot upon the Bunsen burner. The boy rubs his eyes, asks the time.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” the man replies, not looking at him. “How do you feel?”

Mark winces, covering his eyes. “The sunlight is so
bright
.”

“Do you have a hangover?”

The boy groans. “Yeah…”

“How’s your heart-beat?”

“I don’t know…”

“Then feel your pulse. On your wrist or behind your ear.”

The man continues to stir the contents of the pot.

The boy says, “It’s fine… A little fast, but fine… Where are the cigarettes?”

“The cigarettes are a stimulant. Your heart will just beat even faster.”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

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“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, you do.” The man looks over at him. “I made lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“If I told you I spiked it with vodka, would you be interested?”

The boy flicks him off.

The man smiles. “It’s grilled cheese and tomato soup. You need food in your stomach.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” the man says. “More for me.”

Mark lies back down on the sofa.

“Do you still want to go get the girl today?”

The boy’s stomach curls. “Can we get her tomorrow?”

“I’m sure she’ll still be there.”

The boy writhes upon the sofa, pukes on the floor.

“You’re cleaning that up before sunset,” the man says.

Another day has passed. The sun is bright, and the snow reflects the sunlight as if it were a blanket of a million twinkling diamonds. The wind is tight, and they wrap their coats tight as they trudge through the snow, avoiding the snow-banks and abandoned cars as they head down the street. No one says anything. Fresh snow had fallen overnight, but the clouds had dissipated, and now the cerulean sky hung like a canopy above their heads. They weave their way between several abandoned trailers that had set in what had once been a construction site, and they begin the trek down the steep hill. Mark falls once, and the man helps him back to his feet. They continue onwards, pushing their way through brambles and thorns, and they emerge at the bank of the creek. The ice is thick, and water can be seen rushing underneath the thinner sheets. They pick up rocks and throw them upon the ice until it breaks, and Mark, grabbing a branch with one hand, kneels down and reaches out over the stream. He thrusts his hand into the chilled water, then quickly withdraws with a curse.

“What?” the man asks.

“It’s cold,” Mark says.

“I know. Did you feel it?”

“Yeah.”

“Pull it out.”

Mark’s heart hammers in his chest. He pulls himself back to the bank and stands in the snow. The man eyes him. “Now what?”

“Just give me a moment.”

The man watches the chilled water gurgling through the cracked ice like blood from a wound. The wind picks up, and snowflakes fall from the branches of the naked trees surrounding them.

“All right,” Mark says. “Give me the branch.” The man does; Mark leans back out over the creek, plunges his hand into the water; a grimace covers his face as he fights off the liquidating pain, and in a moment he groans and withdraws the sled from underneath the ice. It slips from his hands and chatters loudly in the snow at his feet. He stumbles back into one of the trees, gripping his hand and slowly massaging his palm and fingers. They both stare at the empty plastic. Mark’s breath crystallizes in the air as he speaks: “Where is she?”

“Probably still under the ice.”

The boy imagines the little girl: a purple icicle, eyes still wide from their state in death.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

161

The man forces Mark to stop hitting the bottle, and he even resorts to locking the boy in the den and refusing to let him come out until he detoxes. “I’m not going to let you get me killed because you’re a drunken mess.” And so the boy spends the days locked in the den, hollering his voice dry, but the man ignores him throughout the house. One afternoon Mark, enraged, kicks the door open; it splinters and falls upon the mattress that had once been his bed. He stumbles out into the hallway and descends the ladder. Afternoon sunlight comes through the rectangular window on the front door, which is shut with the boards taken down. Mark slowly moves around the empty house, searching, but finding nothing. The man has gone. All he can hear is his own breathing and the whistling of the wind outside. He enters the kitchen and gingerly opens the refrigerator. There is a half-empty bottle of cognac sitting on the shelf; he pulls it out and unscrews the lid, takes a swig of the warm drink. It bubbles in his throat and feels so soothing. He prepares to take another drink when he hears a sound out in the driveway. He quickly screws the cap back onto the drink, tosses it into the fridge, and slams the door. He hears the truck engine die down and creeps towards the doorway. He peers out to see the man getting out of the truck. One of his sleeves is bloody, and he has a scowl written over his façade.

Mark throws open the door, stumbles into the snow.

The man spins around, frightened.

“What happened?” Mark asks.

The man glares at him. “Nothing.”

“Is that your blood?”

“No. I was attacked.”

“Where the hell did you get attacked?”

“Nowhere,” the man lies.

The boy is staring at the sleeve. “God, there’s a lot of blood…”

“How do you feel?” the man asks as he stirs a pot of green beans on the stove.

“Fine,” the boy says, sitting at the table. “How long did you lock me up?”

“Only three or four days.”

“Were you planning on letting me out?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t been at the house, have you?”

“I’ve been looking for supplies.”

The boy is quiet for a moment. “Uh-huh.”

“They haven’t been around much lately,” the man says the next morning.

“I presume you’re talking about the dark-walkers,” Mark says, sipping his coffee.

“Yeah. I’ve been watching… They’re thinning out. Disappearing.”

“You think they’re dying off?”

“No. I wouldn’t get too excited about that idea.”

“They’re hiding.”

“Exactly. And surviving off one another.”

Mark caresses the tip of his coffee mug. “What happens when spring comes?”

“When the snow melts?” the man shakes his head. “God knows.”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

162

She stands in a meadow of tall grass, the stalks blooming with flowers a myriad of colors. The sun is setting beyond the distant pines, its light cutting through the spiny branches in pillars of brilliant light. Her chocolate hair falls in bangs before her beautiful eyes, and Mark senses a detached peace. He wants to move forward, to embrace her, to hold her, to kiss her… But he is rooted in place, frozen as if locked in a block of impenetrable ice.

“Where are we?” he asks, his voice nearly inaudible but raging at the same time.

“We’re where we need to be,” Cara says.

“And where is that?” Mark asks, refusing to tear his eyes from her. She doesn’t answer his question. Her voice is beautiful yet deadly: “I’m not part of your life anymore, Mark.”

A tear builds behind his eye. “But I want you to be.”

“I
can’t
be. I’m not here anymore. You need to stop thinking about me and look after yourself.”

“I wanted to grow old together, Cara,” he says, the tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. “I wanted us to be rich and living in a high-rise apartment. I wanted us to have babies, lots of them. I wanted you to be the mother of my children. I wanted us to go to concerts and county fairs and festivals together. I wanted to win you big stuffed animals. I wanted to fall asleep in your arms every night. I wanted to love you, to be loved.”

“You did love me, Mark. And I loved you.”

“Then why did it have to end like this?”

She shrugs. “Who can say? But this isn’t how is has to end up. You can decide to continue.”

“How can I continue without you?”

“You survive. You survive each day. And everything will be okay.”

He shakes his head, stubborn. “Things won’t be okay. If you were here… If we were together…”

“You can’t think like that, Mark.”

“I can’t
not
think like that. You infect my dreams. My thoughts. My every waking and sleeping moment.”

“It’s time for me to go, Mark. The sun is setting. I’ll see you soon.”

“No… Cara…”

“I’ll be waiting for you. When you come here, you’ll find me waiting by the brook.”