Out of the Dark (Light & Dark #1) (6 page)

Our journey has been long, but I’m grateful for that. This place has given us roots—roots that we didn’t have for a long time. We have been wandering the country for months and months, driving or walking from one place to another. Because no place stays safe for long. My thoughts drift back to our last location, with the light that still worked at the top of the hill, and I mark it on the map. I worry about staying here too long, especially since I could hear the monsters last night, yet the desire to stay here pulls strongly at me. What life is it if you are constantly running? So I think maybe another day here will be okay. I leave the map book on the table and go upstairs to look in on Lilly and see that she is playing a happier game than yesterday, her smile truer and broader, her voice more content.

“I’m going to check on the car,” I say from the doorway.

She looks up with happy eyes.

“Are you coming?” I ask.

She jumps up from her spot on the floor immediately and skips over to me, and we make our way down the stairs, taking them two at a time and giggling. When we get to the front door and I unlock it, and we stand in the doorway as I open it wide, the warm air rushing in to greet us. We wait, listening for sounds of the monsters, looking for signs of them everywhere, but there is nothing. Just the stillness of the day, and the sun hanging full and heavy in the sky.

She looks up at me expectantly, a huge grin on her face, and I forget where we are, the world in which we now live. I imagine that this is our life, our home, and that there is nothing to fear but the pettiness of each day. These are our things—our clothes, our toys, our furniture, our food. Food that I went into town on my bike with a wicker basket to get. I visited the butcher’s and the baker’s, and I sent a letter to my husband at the post office. He’s away at war, fighting and winning, but he’ll be home soon. And he and I and Lilly will live here happily, forever.

“Go on then,” I say, and gesture for Lilly to go and play.

She releases my hand and skips past me, heading straight to the circle of grass once more. Like yesterday, she rolls around on the grass happily, giggling in that way that is both addictive and alluring. A laugh that only children have. I stand and watch her, admiring her resilience to this world—this life—floating above myself to watch her innocence as she rolls around and around and around. Like yesterday, the dried grass clings to her hair, and I smile as her curls tangle and she looks up at me, begging me to come and play with her. But unlike yesterday we are not alone.

A loud crash sounds from the road—the one that is obscured by the trees—and the screech of metal can be heard. A minute passes and smoke begins to rise from over the tops of the trees. Lilly jumps up and scampers over to me, her eyes open so wide that I see the whites around her irises. I pull her up into my arms as we watch the smoke rise higher and higher and we listen to the soft cries of a woman’s voice for help.

Chapter Eight.

#8. There is truth in the unknown.

“What is it, Mama?” Lilly asks, her fingers curling against my skin and digging into me painfully.

I don’t stop her, though; I enjoy the pain she gives me. It keeps me alert, it stops me from folding in on myself and giving way to my fear…to her fear. What is it? I wonder that myself. I don’t want to go down there and see, but the cries are becoming more insistent, more urgent and pleading. We go into the house and lock the doors, and then we go upstairs and hide in one of the bedrooms. I stay by the window, looking out to see if the people find the road, to see if they come up it, to see if they find the house and us and…

Lilly cries in the closet. She doesn’t like it in there—it’s dark and stuffy—but she is safer hidden than not. People are bad. Monsters are bad. This world is bad. And I don’t know how to protect her and keep her safe. The cries from outside are quiet now. They must be trapped, I decide. Whoever is down there is growing tired, possibly dying, and I’m here, hiding away to protect Lilly and myself.

Lilly has stopped crying and a stillness has settled over the world. The air barely moves. I can hardly feel the pulsing of my heart within my chest, the ache of indecision gnawing at my gut. But I know that my heart still beats, that the breath still leaves my lungs, and that my indecision could kill someone. The smoke has dwindled, thankfully. At least there won’t be a fire that will burn away the trees, our cover and protection. I chew on my bottom lip, tasting copper and flesh, my eyes aching as I watch the trees for any movement.

I hear the creak of the closet door and I turn to see Lilly peeking out. Her cheeks are blotchy and red because she knows—she
know
—how dangerous other people can be. But she’s also good, her soul undamaged and still trusting. She knows that someone down there needs our help—my help.

“It’s dangerous, Honeybee,” I say softly, my patience with her as constant as ever.

She nods and blinks slowly, but the guilt eats away at me. She doesn’t need to voice the words for me to hear them. They are borne within me. I turn back to the window, looking for the smoke once more, but it’s gone now, and so are the cries for help. The silence is thick and oppressive. I look back to her, to Lilly, still feeling unsure. Her innocent face watches me with morbid curiosity.

“Are they dead?” She whispers so quietly I can barely hear her.

I avert my eyes. “I don’t know. Possibly.” I shrug and turn away from her sweet pools of brown. Her eyes make me feel like I’m drowning.

She joins me by the window, her hand finding mine and clutching it tightly. Her skin is warm and soft, and my hands are cold. “I feel bad,” she says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it will be my fault if they die, won’t it?”

I frown and look down into her face, before pulling her up into my arms. “No, Lilly, no it will not be your fault. Nothing is ever your fault. This world is what’s wrong, other people are what is wrong. Not you, never you.”

“You would go and help them, if it weren’t for me,” she says, speaking the truth that she knows so well.

My heart is racing, my words bubbling to escape from my lips. I don’t want her to feel the heavy responsibility of someone’s death. That would be worse than letting someone physically harm her. Because those scars—the ones that burrow deep down into your veins—they never go away. Those scars will grow vicious, crude bumps across them to try to disguise themselves. But they won’t be hidden. They’ll be ugly, and I’ll see them every time I look at her, every time she cries, every time she wakes screaming from a nightmare about the person that I let die. I’ll know that she blames herself for someone dying, and it is those feelings that will destroy my sweet, innocent Lilly. She continues to stare into my face, blinking every once in a while, her eyes telling me a story.

“If I go see, you’ll have to stay here, on your own.” I wait for her reaction but she tucks in her bottom lip and nods at me. “Okay, I’ll go see,” I say with an almost inaudible sigh. I put her down and urgently gesture her back to the closet I pause.

She turns to look at me. “Will you tell them about me? Will you bring them here?” she asks.

“I don’t know, Lilly. I’ll see if I think they are good or not.”

She climbs inside the closet, pulling the thick coats up around herself and wrapping her arms around Mr. Bear tightly. “Will you be able to see? Can you tell if they are good or bad?” she asks me innocently.

“I hope so” is all I can say.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Lilly?”

“Am I good?” Her question hurts, and I answer her without missing a beat, because the answer is the most truthful thing I will ever say.

“Yes. You are good.”

She nods and I close the door on her, trapping her into the darkness that I know she hates so much. I leave the bedroom, shutting that door also. I wish it had a lock on it. I’d lock and shut every door in this house if I had to, to keep her safe, to protect her from whatever and whoever is out there. I make my way down the stairs, and I unlock the front door and leave, locking it behind me and placing the key in my pocket. I grip my kitchen knife tightly in my hand, holding it in front of me as I walk straight across the middle of the circular island, across the green grass that offered Lilly so much happiness, and straight onto the gravelly path that we drove up over a week ago—a path I had hoped to avoid going back down.

The road is long, longer than I remember, and my heart beats heavily with each step I make. As I draw close to the hidden exit, I can hear quiet sobbing, murmurs of someone down here, and the ticking of an engine. I slow my pace, eager to see who is there but not eager to welcome them into our lives. I want to go through the dense trees, using the undergrowth as my camouflage, but I don’t dare. It’s dark in there, and the monsters may be hiding in them—though it’s unlikely, given that they haven’t come for us.

I take careful, cautious steps to the end of the road and look out to my right, not seeing anything, but to my left is a mangled car. It has crashed into a tree, the metal twisted and crushed. The hood has been flung open from the impact, and the windshield is no longer intact. I can see someone moving inside. I can hear them crying. I squeeze my eyes closed, listening to their soft murmurs, and recognize that they are praying, wishing for death before nightfall.

I open my eyes back up and move toward the car silently, cautiously, carefully. Watching, always watching. I can tell from the back of the person that it is a woman in the car. Her hair is long and light, a soft brown that reminds me of honey and caramel. It hangs in a low ponytail, dangling between her bony shoulder blades.

“Please, please…” Her soft murmurs make me swallow, thick emotions making my mouth dry. ”…let me go, let me die…please, please…” She begs and begs, because everyone knows that death is better than the monsters getting to you. Much better than the violent death that they will thrust upon you.

My shadow falls across her window and she stills, her whispers abruptly stopping. Slowly she turns her head, her face pinched with worry and possible acceptance of her forthcoming death. Her eyes meet mine. Gray eyes, dead eyes, remorseful, sorrowful eyes, which flood with relief when they see me.

She looks me over, her dead gray eyes examining my skin, my fingers, my face for any sign that I am one of
them.
I try to speak, but my throat feels tight and dry and my words come out choked.

“Are you infected?” I finally ask through her closed window, my words direct and to the point. There’s no point in being anything but.

She slowly shakes her head no, her ponytail swaying behind her, and I step closer to the car. She is trapped inside. The airbag has deployed, the dashboard crumpled and pinning her legs in place. There’s blood coming from her nose, thick and red, an invitation for the monsters.

“Are you?” she asks, and a dry laugh leaves my throat.

“Aren’t we all,” I say. Not a question.

She stares blankly at me, accepting my answer for what it is: fact. I’m alive right now, and I’m me, that’s what matters. If I was one of them, I wouldn’t be able to talk to her, because they don’t talk.

“I can’t get out,” she sobs, her voice breaking on the last word. Her chin trembles. “I’m stuck.” She says this as if I can’t see her predicament.

“Where did you come from?” I ask, startling myself with the cold edge to my voice. “Who are you?”

She pauses, looking confused, and this should have put me at ease. The fact that she seems so confused by my questions. Who are you? Where did you come from? Such simple questions in such difficult times.

“I came from Oklahoma. I was a human rights lawyer,” she states, wiping at the blood under her nose with trembling hands. “Most of my family died after the first attack, and I—,”

I shake my head. “No, who are you…now? Where have you been?”

It’s important that I know this truth of hers, because I’ll leave her here to die if she doesn’t tell me. Her past is not relevant to me or this situation, but who she is now is key to her survival. And ours. Is she a murderer? A cannibal? A helper? Has she been with a group—will they come for her? Was she a loner? These are the things that are important to me now. Because I don’t trust people. No one but Lilly.

“I’m Sarah. My husband died a month ago.” She says her words short and staccato, and then looks down into her lap. “I’m alone now.”

I believe her. I don’t know if I can trust her, but I believe her. Lilly would want me to help her, because she would think that this woman—this Sarah—is good. I don’t know if she’s good, but I believe that she’s telling me the truth. I walk to her door and try to pull it open, and she looks up at me sharply, her eyes meeting mine in a silent
thank you
. The door is stuck, the metal jammed into itself. I move to the passenger side and that door opens with a loud groan. I climb in and use my knife to cut her seatbelt off her. The steering wheel is pressed up against her chest painfully, and I wonder if it has done any internal damage to her. I look down, seeing the black plastic from the dashboard and steering wheel column cutting into her legs. Blood is pooling around her feet, but she is unaware of it, of the jagged black plastic slicing into her flesh.

I push on some of it to try and give her room to free herself, but she screams loudly so I stop. I sit back in my chair, unsure of what to do next, of how to free her, and she begins to cry again.

“Don’t leave me here, please don’t leave me here for them.”

I watch her carefully, her deep gray eyes looking at me and my knife in pleading desperation. I know what she is saying—what she wants from me—with that one look. Death. She wants me to kill her so that
they
can’t take her. I blink sadly. I’m not a killer, this isn’t me, but I don’t want her to become one of them either. I don’t want her to suffer at the mercy of their teeth and claws and their red, red eyes. And because she will be just one more monster to add to their growing horde. I breathe out softly, the whooshing of my blood loud in my ears.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please.” Tears bleed from her eyes, and I know that I should feel something for her, but I don’t. I can’t. And yet…

I bite my lip and reach down between her legs again, pushing on the plastic more carefully this time. It scrapes against her skin, peeling some of it back like sandwich meat to reveal the redness of tender flesh underneath. She hisses through her teeth in pain, but she doesn’t ask me to stop, and she doesn’t scream this time. I reach further between her legs, underneath the seat, my fingers grasping on the metal lever that moves the chair backwards and forwards. They slip from it and I lean down further, my shoulder pressing against the wheel and making her gasp in pain, but I finally press it down and push with everything I have. Her chair screeches as it moves fractionally. The metal wheels have come off their runners, but at least it moves.

Slowly by slowly, inch by inch, the chair moves, the grind of metal upon metal making me nervous, but there is eventually enough of a space for her to get out. I climb back out of the car and she moves her bloody and damaged body out of the wreck, almost falling to her knees as she escapes the confines of that metal coffin. I catch her before she falls, and hoist her upwards, and she leans heavily on me.

“Thank you, thank you,” she sobs out repeatedly. “Thank you so much.”

Blood is escaping from her wounds—not pumping or spurting violently, but a slow trickle coming from somewhere on her. I consider leaving her to escape on foot, to get herself as far away from here—from Lilly and me—as possible, but with her wound I know she won’t make it very far. And come nightfall, the monsters will find her body. With a heavy heart I decide to bring her back to the house. To our safety, our sanctuary. To Lilly.

We begin to walk, her leaning heavily on me and grunting with every step, and me keeping look all around us. The day is still bright, the sun burning high in the sky, yet still I worry, still I panic. She doesn’t question where we are going; she only seems glad to be free of the car wreck, glad to be moving out of the shadows and into the bright, burning sunlight.

We escape up the path, the house coming into view, and my nerves build in the pit of my stomach. My frown deepens the closer we get. However, Sarah doesn’t look up. Her head hangs low to her chest, each step making her face contort in pain. The cut on her leg is bad; blood is still trickling from where the skin now hangs loose on her calf like sliced lunchmeat. I should feel sick at the sight, but I don’t. I have seen too much in this life to get queasy over blood or a little flayed skin.