Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (5 page)

He climbs onto the wing of the plane, feeling the cold steel beneath his fingertips as he pulls himself up. He moves over the fuselage, feet thudding dumbly on the metal plates. The terminal wing juts out, and he slides down the fuselage until he is on top. He moves along, leaving the plane behind, the bulk of the airport dark before him. Light flickers in the bay windows; the power is Anthony Barnhart

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shorting out, but it hasn’t yet lost its grip. He grabs a ladder on the side of the terminal wing and climbs down until he is beside a door. He twists the knob and kicks it with his foot, then leaps from the ladder and into a maintenance room. Odd equipment and hoses lines the shelves, vacuum cleaners thrown haphazardly to fall wherever they will. He stumbles ahead in the darkness and finds the door; he tries to open it, but it’s locked. He stands alone and frightened, and for a moment he considers just crawling into a fetal position and waiting till morning. But it’s the thought of Kira that pushes him forward. He steps back and kicks at the door. It swings open with a rush, and flickering light floods the maintenance room. He cautiously steps out into the waiting area for Terminal C3 and looks around.

The terminal is all but vacant. All he sees, upon swiveling his head upon his shoulders, is a single flight attendant crumpled in the corner, head hung low, dried blood crusting over her face. All of the seats in the waiting area by the large bay windows are abandoned.
Makes sense
, he thinks:
Everyone
who was here is now on that plane outside.
The flickering lights cast oblong shadows against the walls as he moves forward. A motorized security buggy sits crashed against the wall, the driver hunched against the wheel, foot pressing against the gas pedal; the buggy’s engine chugs, breaking the silence, pressing its nose into the wall. The man continues walking. The airport seems abandoned; of course, by the time the—what should he call it? a disease? a virus? a plague?—struck the airport, it was probably 11:30 or so at night. He passes another gate—D3—and sees men, women and children—

sparse, but present—in the chairs and sprawled upon the floor.

His eyes fall upon a little girl. Her head is split open, the foot of a chair having been driven into the top of her skull. Her head lies in a pool of blood and brain. He swivels on his feet, writhes over, and vomits all over his shoes. He steadies himself with a hand upon the wall.

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. The light above flickers on-and-off. His eyes are sunken, his hair matted upon his head. His pilot’s cap had been lost hours ago when the madness began. He brings his hands up to rub his temples and sees that they are covered in blood. He doesn’t know how blood got on them, but he doesn’t care. It’s not surprising. He twists the sink valve but no water comes out.
But of course
, he thinks sarcastically before opening the stall to a toilet. A figure sits on the toilet seat, pants down. His mouth is opened in a silent scream. Dried blood clings to his flesh. His arms are outstretched, white-knuckled fingers wrapped stiff around the handicap bars on either side of the stall. The man closes his eyes, quietly steps out, and shuts the door to the stall.
Rest in peace
. A random thought. So grim and depressing. The other toilet is empty.

He washes his hands and dries them with toilet paper.

The escalators have stopped moving. He walks his way up the frozen electric stairwell and enters Concourse A. The restaurants are closed-down for the night, their signs dull and lifeless: MOE’S BAR

& GRILL (he has eaten there several times), PEET’S COFFEE & TEA (good coffee, but more expensive than Starbucks), PANDA EXPRESS (Chinese cuisine, he never did like it). Iron gates have closed off the various shops—BUCKEYES AND BLUEGRASS APPAREL AND GIFTS and VERA BRADLEY GIFTS sit coolly in their recesses in the walls.

He once bought a paperweight with a replica airline inside for Kira from VERA BRADLEY. The thought turns his stomach sour. What is he doing? Why is he going
up
in the airport instead of
down
?

Why isn’t he going to his Jeep? Why isn’t he returning to Cincinnati? Why isn’t he seeking Kira? He Anthony Barnhart

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doesn’t have the answers to these questions. He doesn’t know why he searches; he doesn’t know
what
he is searching for. Answers? He knows he won’t find them.

He calls out: “Hello!” His voice seems foreign and strange as it echoes throughout the twisting chambers and corridors of Concourse A. He opens his mouth and shouts again. One more time? No. Twice is enough. No one has answered. He is alone.

CNBC News & Gifts is open. The lights flicker. He enters, passing racks of books and magazines. A stand of USA Today and Cincinnati Enquirer newspapers sits against the wall. He brushes into a stand of key-chains. They jingle against one another. The sound makes him jump. He leans over the counter. An older woman is lying on the floor, surrounded by dollar bills. The cash register is open. He pulls away and exits. He pauses, looks back, curses, walks over to the newspaper rack. He opens up a USA Today and reads the front cover:

That last headline, near the bottom of the paper, stares at him.

He wonders if this is some kind of terrorist attack. 9/11 on a global scale. Biological warfare to reap vengeance on the West for years of capitalistic crimes. He shakes his head.
No
. This is worldwide. At least, he thinks it’s worldwide. If it were terrorists, wouldn’t it be secluded to certain parts of the world they wanted to attack? But then again, how smart
are
terrorists? What if they
did
unleash this, not knowing its capability? He realizes he is grasping at straws, searching for answers that don’t exist.

He drops the paper at his feet and continues on.

Concourse B is above Concourse A, the highest level of the airport. The escalators, being dead, force him to take them manually. He stands at the crest of the decaying escalator and gazes out across the plaza. Several figures are hunched over near the window. Otherwise, it is deserted. He walks carefully, too aware of the echoing thuds his feet makes—
What are you afraid of? You’ve survived.
You’re a survivor. You’re a hero
. A hero? What makes him a hero? “Hero”. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.

The restaurants, like those below, are closed—CARVEL ICE CREAM & SHAKES, MAX & ERMA’S, SBARRO ITALIAN PIZZA. Even the golden arches of the hole-in-the-wall MCDONALD’S are dead and lifeless, something he never thought he would see. He stops by the CINNABON and considers reaching in for a pretzel. He loves their pretzels. But his appetite is hung-over, and any remnants of hunger have been trashed by the sight of a young baker who had slit his throat with a carving knife. He wonders if the baker were a survivor, and seeing the devastation, had killed himself?
No.
The man had seen what the people did when they got sick. First they bled from their noses. Then their eyes. And then their ears. And then they went crazy. Screaming gibberish. Stabbing pencils in their eyes. Crushing their own children’s heads between their heads. Strangling loved ones. They went crazy. They went mad. This man had gone mad and slit his own throat. It is easier to believe that—he doesn’t want to think of a survivor committing suicide. The thought of suicide hasn’t occurred to him yet. His mind is too preoccupied with Kira.

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He turns to go back downstairs when his eyes catch the DUTY FREE store in their peripheral. He pauses, walks over. The gate is down. He tries to pull it open, but it’s locked. He doesn’t have a key. He considers finding a security guard and taking his keys. But he doesn’t feel like searching all the corpses till he finds the one he wants. He tries to get in again, kicks the steel gate. It rattles under the force of his foot, the creaking metal echoing through the concourse. He kicks it again, and again, with shouts of rage. Energy courses through him, and then he stumbles backwards and falls onto a metal bench, staring at the store, the tobacco just within reach, all he can ever want.
You’re an addict
, he tells himself.

He just wants a pack of cigarettes. He needs a smoke.

God, I need a smoke
.

The metal grate mocks him.

And that’s when he hears it:

voices

He runs between the abandoned tables of the dining plaza, the sounds growing louder. He leaps over a fallen body, oblivious. A chair is knocked over in his wake; he nearly trips. He turns down a corridor and sees a door with a foggy glass window straight ahead. The sounds are coming from there. He tries to open it, but it’s locked. He stands back and kicks it in, then rushes inside. It’s a security office. The television monitors are black. The room stinks of burnt flesh. He turns his head and sees a security guard who had driven his head into one of the monitors. Glass had cut up his scalp and blood had dribbled all over the keyboard. His body stank of electrified flesh. The man reaches for his keys, stops. Won’t he get electrocuted?
Fuck it
. He reaches and grabs them. Nothing. Of course. The power is off.

He turns his attention to the radio.

The voice is a man’s. He is speaking frantically. Urging everyone to stay in their homes. Hope flares within the poor man’s soul. Others are alive! Others are alive, and they are being given instructions!

Joy floods into him. He knows he is not alone. The voice instructs the survivors that no one really knows what is happening. Scientists believe it to be some kind of airborne virus. The man sits in one of the security chairs and listens, twiddling the keys on his fingers. Energy rushes into him. All he can think of is Kira, and the possibility that she is alive and listening to the radio at the same time. He knows she is alive. He
knows beyond a doubt
that she is alive. The voice instructs survivor’s to stay in their homes.

And then the voice says: “Scientists believe it is a virus…”

The man’s heart freezes.

The voice repeats everything once more.

A recording. A damn, fucking recording. Not a live broadcast.

Hope dies down. All he can see is Kira lying bloodied in bed.

He stands and leaves.

VII

He grabs a bag from under the counter at the DUTY FREE outlet and opens the tobacco cases—he has unlocked and raised the gate using the security guard’s key. He hurls carton after carton of cigarettes into the bag. MARLBORO REDS. CAMEL LIGHTS. WINSTON FULL-FLAVOR. VIRGINIA SLIMS. BASIC FULLAnthony Barnhart Dwellers of the Night

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FLAVOR. NEWPORT MENTHOL. He steps outside the shop, into the flickering light of the corridor, and lights one of the cigarettes—a Camel Light—and lets the smoke fill his lungs, calming his nerves. He takes a few more drags.
You can’t stay here
. He crunches the cigarette under his shoe and heads back for the escalators, security keys latched to his belt and tobacco-filled bag in his hand.

He returns to Terminal 3. He passes the Starbucks where he had purchased his coffee only… what?... twenty hours before? The Starbucks was open 24/7. Coffee beans are scattered over the floor. A table is overturned, for no apparent reason. The café is empty. He walks past 24-HOUR FLOWER.
I should get
a flower for Kira
. He opens the gate with the security keys and peruses the flowers. A sign above him reads in bold letters:

FLOWERS AND ROMANCE ARE INSEPARABLE. EVER SINCE THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS USED

FLOWERS AS SYMBOLS OF LOVE, FLOWERS HAVE COME TO SYMBOLIZE ROMANCE, PASSION

AND DESIRE.

He browses the different flowers. Red and pink roses, flowered daisies, tulips, lilies, carnations; and gardenias, orchids, lilacs, even sunflowers and some bouquets of wildflowers. Roses symbolize love; he knows this. But the first flower he ever gave her, when they first started dating years ago, was a purple lily. He grabs one—no, he grabs several—and bonds them together with a twisty-tie. He can’t wait to give them to her, to hold her, to tell her that everything will be okay.

He is nearing the escalator down to the security checkpoint when he hears a crash come from an open door off to his left. He sets down the bag of tobacco and the flowers, and he moves forward cautiously. Flickering light comes from the arched doorway. The chapel. He steps inside. The cross lies on its side—an omen. And even more horrifying, upon that cross is a naked man, his feet and hands nailed to the crossing beams. His face is covered in blood. The weight of his body had yanked the cross from its bolted moorings, and now the man’s face lay bashed against the back-ridge of a pew. The man shrugs nonchalantly and leaves.

A security guard lies on the floor, a bullet wound arching through his head. The pistol lies in his hand. The man steps through the security checkpoint, stolen goods in his hands, and avoids the body, meandering around it. He looks to his left and sees several bullet holes in the wall. An older man lies against the wall, his cheek blown out. A little girl lies a few feet away, her body riddled with bullet wounds. He looks back at the security guard.
Crazy bastard
. Everyone is crazy. He wonders for a moment if he isn’t hallucinating, locked in some insane asylum somewhere, sedated under morphine and Ketamine. His eyes fall again to the little girl. His heart doesn’t throb. He is growing accustomed to it.

Accustomed to it
. The thought makes him sick.

I’m not accustomed to it
.
I’m just in shock
.

That thought offers some comfort.

He doesn’t feel so vile and evil anymore.

Only a sick man can become accustomed to such horrors.

He walks past the baggage claim and exits the airport. The air is cold and still. Not even a gentle wind blows. The sidewalk is clear, except for a single car. He walks over and peeks inside the window. The driver’s door is open and the seat abandoned. He walks around and gets in, tossing the Anthony Barnhart