Echoes of Darkness (11 page)

They all were. Everywhere.

She closed her eyes.

The cost is too high, Lord. Too high. I repent, Lord! It’s too high!

She was sitting on the floor again, though she was unaware of it.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Her hands were clapped over her ears, pressing as hard as they could to block out the crunching, chomping hiss of those tiny little mouths,
all
those tiny little mouths, all chewing and chewing, though she no longer heard it.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

She heard only her own voice, within her own head, as, rocking swiftly back and forth in that little house at the end of the world, Evangeline Clarke prayed her sanity away.

 . . .
 forgive us our trespasses
 . . .

Author’s note:

In July of 1874, the now extinct Rocky Mountain locust rose up to devastate the North American Plains. “The largest locust swarm in 1874, according to an 1880 U.S. Entomological Commission report, ‘covered a swath equal to the combined areas of Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island and Vermont.’” (Lyons, “1874: The Year of the Locust,” HistoryNet.com). When on the move, the swarm took more than five days to pass overhead, and when it landed it ate everything—crops in the fields, washing left out on the line, the clothesline itself, the handles from tools, even the manes and tails of horses and the wool from the backs of sheep. Witnesses compared the sound of their chewing to the roar of a hard rain or a prairie fire.

Many people thought it was the end of the world.

After eating its fill, the swarm rose up and simply dispersed, leaving the people to try to recover from its depredations: devastated crops, massive property damage, and, in many cases, financial ruin.

Then, in 1875, it happened again.

THOSE LITTLE BASTARDS

The way those little bastards
look at my house usually thrills my heart, you know? I should probably be used to it by now, but it’s still something to see. I watch them walking past—I know I don’t see
all
of them, but I see enough—all wide eyes and anxious faces. At least when they’re alone. See, that’s the thing about people, kids in particular: they’re all frightened when they’re alone.

In groups, though, it’s different. In groups they have that crowd mentality, and they’re suddenly capable of much more than when they were alone. That’s the bad thing about the holidays—Halloween in particular. The holidays bring people together, but Halloween brings the
children
together, and that’s when things get bad, in my opinion.

I peek out the window and see them on the sidewalk. Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
, complete with a stuffed dog. Superman. Can you believe kids still dress as Superman? A werewolf and some sort of machete-wielding fiend in a hockey mask round out the little discussion group standing in front of my gate.

I can’t hear a word, but I know what they’re doing. They’re daring each other to come through my gate and up the walk to knock on my door or ring the bell, then run like the chicken little bastards they are. It happens every damn year.

And this is only the beginning; the asshole appetizer, as it were. Later, after the younger kids have gone in for the night to empty out their candy bags and start eating themselves sick, the older kids come out to play. My windows have been soaped. My house and trees toilet-papered. My front porch and door have been pelted with eggs—both fresh and rotten—and occasionally smeared with what was hopefully dog feces.

I say
hopefully
because I wouldn’t put anything past those little bastards, and the thought of them saving up their own leavings to brownwash my door doesn’t seem completely crazy, especially after last year. Last year, they threw a rock through my pantry window, then fired some of those giant squirt guns they make nowadays through the hole in the glass. From the amount they used, and the absolutely
rancid
smell, I’d have to say they’d been saving their urine for quite some time.

It’s been a year now, and the pantry still isn’t what one would call
fresh
.

You’d think the police would do something, wouldn’t you? You’d think, after coming here and tromping through my house and yard, after seeing all the evidence left behind, they’d put a stop to it? Maybe arrest someone?

No.

They look at everything, and talk like I’m not here, and fill out their reports, but
nothing
happens. Not. One. Thing.

And you’d think, what with the way they look at my house the rest of the year, those little jerk-offs would leave me alone tonight, too. That’s what
gets
me! What happens to the fear? The respect? Gone—just
gone
—for one whole night.

And they look at the house that way, look at
me
that way, because they know. I know they know, and I know the
cops
know too. They know but they can’t
prove
. That’s why nothing’s ever done, no matter how many times they have to come out here. They couldn’t then, and they can’t now.

That’s why I got away with it.

And here comes the moke with the machete, opening my gate and coming up the walk. I want to rip open the door and run out there, scare the
hell
out of him, but I don’t. There’s something else I want to do, have wanted to do for such a long time.

I look down at the straight razor in my hand, the light glinting along the edge as my old friend beckons me, wanting to be used again. I hear the masked idiot on the steps and move to stand at the front door, placing the razor between my teeth like some sort of pirate, freeing up both hands. He’s going to knock or ring, and if I’m quick enough—and I know that I am—I can tear open the door at the first sound and grab his outstretched arm. I can snatch him in here; snatch him bald-headed as my mother used to say. Then, once he’s in here, he’s
mine
.

It was a long time ago, but I got away with it once. I can do it again.

I hear his footsteps, wait for the knock, the ring, my heart just
pounding
in anticipation . . . but instead of a knock or ring, the knob begins to turn.

He’s coming in!

I take my old friend from between my teeth as the door edges open, slipping behind it, out of sight. I nearly laugh aloud at the quavery “Hello?” he sends into my foyer. He’s not in a crowd now, and the fear is back, so big I can see his eyes right through the holes in that ridiculous mask, huge and round, as he passes the door.

I slam the door behind him as my first fluid strike takes him across the throat, cutting deep, silencing any cry. I rip two slashes—one across his chest, one on the belly—opening him before he can fall, and I drop to my knees, eyes closed, listening for the pitter-pat of hot blood spattering the hardwood floor . . .

 . . . but all I hear is his boots scuffing my floor as he turns, oblivious to me, and fifty-four years of this impotent frustration—no, fifty-five now—well up inside me. I begin to sob and swing my blade in ineffectual swipes that pass harmlessly through his legs as he shouts down the walkway to his friends.

“See? I told you! There’s no such thing as the ghost of Old Man Peterson!”

My God, you little bastard, I wish you were right.

I wish you were right.

MAXWELL’S SILVER HAMMER

“Damn water damage!
I can’t make this out—Ben, can you decipher this?”

Dr. Maxwell thrust the travel-stained note across the desk at him. Dr. Benjamin Binder took it, glancing at the weather-beaten package on the desk, its brown paper wrapping torn at the top like a Christmas present given to an excited child. He focused on the note in his hand.

“Let’s see . . . you’re right, this really
is
a mess.”

Maxwell made an impatient gesture. “Yes, but can you
read
any of it?”

Ben held the paper up to the light.

“Well, there’s a whole section right in the middle that’s nothing but a blur—wait, there are a few words here. ‘Powerful.’ And this says ‘never seen before.’ Toward the end it’s talking about ‘controlling the heart,’ and ‘absolutely amazing,’ and then just this last line: ‘beyond our wildest dreams.’”

He held the limp note out to his mentor, who took it with a trembling hand.

“That’s about what I could get out of it, too,” said Dr. Maxwell, gazing into the open package. “But do I dare use it, without knowing the whole story?”

That last was a murmur, more to himself than to Ben.

“Sir,” said Ben, resisting the urge to just lean over and look in the open box. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s all this about?”

The old physician looked at Ben with an expression of surprise, then nodded.

“That’s right, you don’t know anything about this, do you? Of course, we weren’t supposed to tell anyone anyway. Let’s see . . . do you know Bill Harrison?”

“Dr. Harrison? Yes, I met him when I started here, but he went on sabbatical shortly after I arrived. I’ve never actually worked with him. Rumor is he’s looking into retirement, using his sabbatical to see what it’s like to not work for a while.”

Dr. Maxwell waggled a hand.

“Yes and no. People came to that conclusion on their own, and I haven’t dissuaded them, but it’s really the opposite of that.”

Ben’s eyebrows climbed skyward.

“Beg pardon?”

Dr. Maxwell paused, smoothing a hand over his shock of white hair. His cheeks darkened, and Ben realized the old sawbones was actually embarrassed.

“Look, Ben . . . I know what everyone thinks of me. I’m the oldest doc on staff, and Bill’s right behind me. We were in med school together, and that was back before you were born. We know everyone’s just waiting for us to retire—looking forward to it, even. The thing is—” he took a deep breath, then sighed. “We don’t want to.”

Ben felt awkward about this conversation. Maxwell was right: the entire staff was anticipating his retirement, but Ben didn’t think it politic to confirm that right now. He settled for nodding, and saying “I see.”

“We both love the work. That’s why neither of us ever went into administration—we wanted to stay in the field. But medicine is changing fast. Years ago, we were the hotshot young docs on the floor, but now we’re falling behind the times. There’s still a lot of good we can do, but not while people are treating us like a couple of broken-down horses, ready for the glue factory. We were discussing this when Bill came up with the plan.”

Ben pointed to the package on the blotter. “This is part of the plan?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute. Bill’s idea was to try to get our edge back. New techniques come out every day; there’s no way we could keep up. He wanted to go old school.”

“Old school?”

“He went on sabbatical so he could travel to places where they look at medicine differently. He was hoping to find something so old it had been discounted by modern medicine, but so effective that it would look like a miracle to you young docs.”

Ben pointed again. “And that would be this?”

“It’s got to be—I’ve gotten letters, occasional phone calls, but now he’s actually
sent
something!”

Maxwell reached into the box and withdrew a jar holding about a pint of pearlescent gray liquid. As the light glinted off the glass, the fluid roiled in response to Maxwell’s motion. Ben thought it looked somehow organic.

“What is it?”

Maxwell shook his head, his attention fixed on the jar. “I have no idea. It’s from Haiti, according to the postal markings, but it got soaked somewhere along the way. That note we can’t read is the only explanation Bill sent, but it
has
to be something special! According to the note, it seems to have something to do with the heart, but I just don’t know . . .”

He put the jar back into its nest, then swept the box from Haiti into a lower desk drawer. “Well, Ben, it’s time. Are you ready for tonight’s festivities?”

Ben smiled. Though he
had
been anticipating Dr. Maxwell’s resignation sometime soon, he still admired the man’s love of the job.

I hope I still look at a night working in the ER as “festivities” when I’m his age
, he thought.

But all he said was “yes, sir,” as the two of them walked out of Maxwell’s office, and toward the emergency room.

“Her MedicAlert bracelet says she has a congenital heart defect,” shouted the EMT squeezing the bag valve mask.

“How long has he been at it?” Ben gestured to the man riding the gurney side-rail as it rolled, counting aloud as he continued chest compressions.

“Six minutes!”

Dr. Maxwell looked at Ben as they rolled the woman into ER-1. “I don’t know how much good we’re doing, Ben. She’s cyanotic. Even with help, her heart’s not doing what it’s supposed to.”

“We’ll keep working her until you call it, Doc,” said the man compressing her chest. “You guys do what you have to do.”

“Options?” Ben was looking at Dr. Maxwell, automatically deferring to the more experienced man.

“I have an idea,” Maxwell said, turning from the dying woman and opening one of the many drawers in the ER. He withdrew a syringe, then reached into one of the voluminous pockets in his lab coat and drew forth a container of a familiar milky liquid.

“What are you doing?” Ben’s voice was a shocked hiss.

“Whatever I can,” Maxwell said, unscrewing the lid from the jar and thrusting both into Ben’s hands. “Hold this.”

“What? No!” Ben glanced at the center of the room where the team still worked.

Maxwell stripped the sterile cover from the syringe. “It’s perfect! According to the note, this stuff is amazing for the heart.”

“We don’t know
what
that note says, remember? We don’t even know what this
is
, never mind dosages, possible drug interactions—”

Maxwell thrust the tip of the syringe into the fluid and pulled back on the plunger, drawing some into the barrel. The smell of the stuff rose up to fill Ben’s nostrils. It smelled like old gym socks tinged with meat gone bad and . . . something else. It smelled somehow
warm
, although that thought made no sense to Ben. Warm, and organic, and he turned his face away before he gagged. The old doctor gave no sign the smell even registered as he continued speaking in hushed tones.

“Ben, this came from a country where they still slaughter chickens to ward off bad juju. I don’t think they’re too concerned with precise dosages. As for everything else, well, look at it this way: she’s dying. I can’t make her any worse.”

He raised the syringe and gave it a flick and squirt to get rid of any air bubbles trapped in the barrel. Their eyes locked, and Ben saw determination coupled with excitement in the old doc’s eyes.

“Cap that,” Maxwell said, pointing at the jar with his chin, “and keep it out of sight. If anything goes wrong, I’ll keep you out of it.”

Without hesitation he turned and stepped to the gurney, swabbed his spot, and plunged the needle into the patient’s arm. Ben screwed the cap on the jar, then put it in his pocket as they waited.

“Stop compressions,” Maxwell commanded after thirty seconds. The paramedic stared at him for a moment, then leaned back and gave his arms a rest, shaking out his hands. Maxwell looked only at the EKG readout. The woman’s heart beat twice, nice and strong, then jittered. The beat became irregular, the heart racing.

“Tachycardia,” reported the nurse.

“I can see that,” snapped Maxwell. “Just wait.”

The haywire rhythm continued for a few seconds, then leveled suddenly into one long flat note.

“She’s crashing!” said the paramedic, already positioning his hands to resume CPR. The watching doctor barked an order.

“Wait!”

“But she’s—”

“Just wait.”

Maxwell sounded commanding, his stance rigid and authoritative. Ben was the only one in the room who could see his hands locked behind his back, fingers twiddling nervously. As the seconds ticked by, Ben moved up to stand next to Dr. Maxwell. Though his eyes were on the girl who was gradually turning a lovely shade of blue, his ears caught the muttered words from the doctor next to him.

“Come on . . . come on . . .”

A nurse turned to Dr. Maxwell. “Are you going to call time of death, Doctor?” Her voice was flat.

“I—” Maxwell began, but was interrupted by the EKG bursting into a rhythm again. No stuttering transition, no slow build; one moment that horrible flatline, the next a nice, steady beat.

“Yes!” Maxwell gave a small, controlled fist pump of victory. The nurse got busy checking vitals as the EMT stepped down. They all watched the EKG bounce across the screen for almost a minute, waiting for it to falter again, but the beat remained strong and steady.

“Wow, Doc,” said the paramedic. “Good call. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I thought she was gone.”

The man gave an impressed snort, collected his partner, and walked out. Another nurse entered with an orderly in tow, the two of them preparing to move the patient to recovery, should she prove stable enough.

She did.

Maxwell ordered a battery of tests. To everyone else in the room he may have seemed merely thorough, but Ben knew what Maxwell was doing: searching for possible effects from the unknown drug with which he had injected the girl.

When Maxwell left ER-1, Ben followed, putting a hand on the older man’s arm.

“That was risky as hell,” he said. “What were you thinking, using that stuff?” He looked up and down the hall, making sure they were not overheard.

“Did you see that?” Maxwell’s voice was filled with wonder.

“Yes,” Ben said, “I saw it. I saw you using a drug that hasn’t been tested or approved. Hell, we don’t even know what it is!”

“But it worked!” Maxwell’s eyes grew bright, almost manic. “It worked like a charm! Did you hear that man? ‘Never seen anything like that before’!”

“Yes, I heard—” Ben began.

“This is just what we were looking for! It’s . . . it’s just what the doctor ordered!”

He grinned, oblivious to Ben’s concern. He held out a hand. “Give me the jar.”

“What? No!” Ben was surprised, having forgotten he now carried the jar in his pocket.

Maxwell straightened, his voice commanding again, though he still spoke in low tones.

“Yes. Give it here. I need to draw up a few syringes so next time I won’t be fumbling at the back of the room. That was almost a disaster.”

“You can’t keep using this stuff,” Ben hissed. “It’s not safe!”

Maxwell was calm. “I
can
keep using it, and I’ll be on my own hook if I get caught.”

His stare became icy, and Ben wondered who this was, this hard uncaring man who, just an hour earlier, had been his gentle mentor in this place.

“I’ll be on my own
then
, but right
now
I have an accomplice.”

Ben’s own heart stuttered. “What?”

“You knew what I was doing in there. You even helped fill the syringe, so you can’t say you had no idea what was going on.”

“But—”