Authors: Anthony Izzo
The Dark Ones (24 page)
Frank was vaguely aware of the blood and brains on his face. Lowering his head, he used his shirt to wipe off the carnage. Ruby did the same, although a streak of blood still decorated her cheek.
The wounded man leaned against the bumper, deep wheezes coming from inside him. The bike engines drew closer. Ruby stood up, peered over the hood. Coming fast, they whipped past and a blast echoed. Shotgun pellets struck the truck. Ruby ducked. The bikers tore down the road.
The truck would be damaged, if not useless. In the distance, the bikers stopped. Frank saw the silhouette of one reach into a saddlebag and pull something out. Then he opened the shotgun’s breech. He was loading shells.
“They aren’t getting another crack at us,” Ruby said, and walked out in the road.
“Get back here!” Frank said.
The gaunt man said, “Ruby, you listen to him.”
Now the bikers puttered forward, gaining speed. A gust of wind snuck under the truck tires and nipped Frank at the base of his spine.
Ruby flicked her hands toward the oncoming bikers. Twin streaks of Light crackled through the air. One biker—the one with the shotgun—flew backward off the bike. His Harley skidded, spitting sparks on the blacktop. The second one’s gas tank erupted and he was blown forward, over the bars. He cartwheeled on the blacktop with a disturbing array of pops and splats. Neither one of them got up.
You did what I couldn’t do
, Frank thought.
, Frank thought.
Ruby passed the men in silence. She got in the truck. The engine coughed as she tried to start it, but would not turn over. It had suffered the same fate as the truck back at the Warlord’s clubhouse. These guys really didn’t like anything with four wheels.
Ruby climbed from the truck.
Frank went into the road. He heard the sounds of the attack in the distance: crying, screaming, things being smashed.
“What do we do now?” Ruby asked.
“We walk. You and me.” He looked at the wounded man and his gaunt companion. “Stay here, in the truck. We’ll send someone.”
“You can’t leave him here,” Ruby said. “He’s hurt.”
“We need to get the Everlight there. We can’t very well carry him.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Time’s wasting. We’ll send help,” he said, and started down the road.
The bearded man, the one who took the buckshot, said weakly, “Just a few pellets, honey. I’ll be okay for a bit. Go take care of business.”
“I still don’t like it,” she said, but followed Frank down the road.
Jenny watched from the tower. In the streets, the black mass fanned out. Two groups split off and headed down the side streets and moved among the houses. The winged creatures periodically swooped low and snatched people from the sidewalks.
The main force, one she counted as several thousand strong, shambled up Main Street. They smashed windows, broke streetlights, and hacked parked cars to pieces with their dark weapons. The pattern of destruction was mindless, savage. It was as if not having flesh to cleave, they chose the nearest target.
Now, the mass of them came within a hundred feet of the armory’s front doors. Still no Frank. The group stopped. Overhead, Jenny heard the shrieks and whoops of the winged creatures. She looked up and saw dozens of them silhouetted against the clouds.
From her perch, she watched them. They held exotic-looking spears, axes, and swords, all forged from the darkness. One of them held a severed human arm over its head and shook it, as if in triumph. The ones around it grunted with pleasure.
Jenny turned to the others and said, “Get ready.”
From above came an ear-piercing shriek and Jenny looked up to see the winged creatures spiraling toward the roof. On the ground, footsteps roared against the pavement as the Dark Ones charged the armory.
Gunfire erupted below. It would slow but not stop them. It had begun.
CHAPTER 19
David pulled away from Laura’s apartment building. He hit Delaware Avenue, looked right, and saw a police car speed past, sirens blaring. The cop car turned down a side street, nearly going up on two wheels. David saw why. The cloud that hid the Dark Ones rolled down Delaware. It was blocking the way. He needed to get to Charles’s house.
Realizing he had to outrun it, he turned left on Delaware. In the rearview mirror, the cloud rolled ahead like a wave breaking onshore. It was fast, and it dawned on him the cloud would overtake the truck.
He spotted a two-story commercial building. He pulled the truck over, grabbed the keys and his revolver, and got out. He tried the building’s glass door and was not surprised to find it locked. He fired the gun. The glass blew out. Immediately an alarm blared from inside the building.
He kicked the remaining glass from the frame and, crouching low, moved into the lobby of the building. A reception desk was straight ahead, and to one side stood plush chairs and a coffee table covered with magazines. Next to the desk was a hallway and he hurried down it and found a door marked STAIRS. That door was unlocked, and he took the stairs to the second floor. The alarm howled, but he doubted any police would come. They would be busy with other emergencies.
He selected the first door he found and opened it. Inside was an office. Modest-size desk, two chairs in front of it. A large window behind the desk looked out at the cloud, which had thrown a curtain of darkness over Delaware Avenue. David shut the door behind him. It didn’t have a lock.
He approached the desk, began moving pens, a stapler, a monitor and keyboard, setting them on the floor. A framed photo of an adorable blond girl stood on the corner. David picked it up, studied it for a moment, thinking of his own daughter. Where was she? How was she? With reverence, he set it in the corner. Its owner most likely wouldn’t be back to claim it, but he felt he somehow owed the photo respect.
After moving the chairs and clearing off the desk, he pushed the desk against the door. He planned to ride things out until daylight, then resume his search for Sara. If he ventured into the street, he would be slaughtered. Even if he could fire beams nonstop, the Dark Ones would overwhelm him.
He crouched at the window. In the mist, he saw something fly past at eye level. The thumps and thuds of footsteps slapped against the street. How many of them were there?
Deciding it was best to stay away from the window, he sat in the corner. He curled his knees against his chest and waited.
It was perhaps twenty minutes later when he heard the crash. The alarm had gone silent. From downstairs, the sounds of heavy furniture being tossed reached David. He stood beside the door, trying to listen. He heard no voices, only the continuing clatter of heavy items being strewn around.
As quickly as it had begun, the crashing stopped. Were they coming upstairs?
He clutched the revolver at his side. The thought of using the Light again, even on one of the demons, troubled him. If he concentrated hard, he could still smell that boy’s scorched flesh in the high school bathroom all those years ago.
But demons are different, aren’t they? And they want to tear your head off, David.
But demons are different, aren’t they? And they want to tear your head off, David.
In the hallway, a door opened and slammed. They must have found the stairs. David backed away from the door. He crouched on one knee, revolver pointed at the door.
The knob turned slowly.
They pushed on the door and it thumped against the desk. As if frustrated, they shoved harder. The desk skidded a bit. More shoves against the door.
Scooting across the floor, David sat and pressed his feet against the desk’s side, attempting to get leverage and hold the door shut. They shoved again, but this time the desk held.
He pressed hard, and his quads began to burn. This wasn’t a position he could hold for very long.
Another thud against the door.
David held the desk until his legs began to shake and he finally dropped them to the ground.
The door gave, and a wicked-looking ax, black as motor oil, splintered the wood. It was pulled back and thrust forward again and again, until a large hole was gouged in the door.
David stood up. Pressing his legs against the desk would be useless now. He leveled the gun, dropped into a shooter’s stance.
One of the demons thrust its head through the opening in the door. It stared at him with pale gray eyes that matched the pallor of its skin. It had a wild-eyed, crazy stare, and it took David a moment to realize it had no eyelids. They had most likely been cut off.
David fired. The demon’s head shattered, spraying black glop against the eggshell tinted walls. With half its head gone, it pulled back from the door, muttering and chattering to itself. Soon another took its place, jamming an arm through the hole, this one’s pale skin laced with scars and burn marks. Its clawed hand gripped the knob—at this point David could see only arm—and turned. The door opened and the desk skidded backward. The demon was thick in the shoulders and the chest. It entered the room. Flaps of skin hung from its chest, each piece pierced by a ring. A chain led from each ring to another set of rings hooked into the upper arms. That was a piercing you didn’t bring home to show Mom.
The pierced Dark One stepped through the door, a black dagger in its hand. The other one carried an ax with a curved edged and a spike protruding from the end of the handle.
David held the gun up. His hand shook. The one with the half-ruined head seemed to take no notice of its injuries. The gun was useless. It would come down to using the Light.
The larger one with the piercings spat out, “Guardian.”
That’s right, motherfucker
.
.
David tucked the gun back in his belt.
The larger demon thrust forward and jammed the knife into his upper arm. The demon twisted the blade. Nausea flooded his stomach and his head throbbed, the blood seeming to gush through the vessels and the room swirled and a feeling of something wrong, something dirty, filled him. He looked at the knife and then back at the grinning demon.
With his good arm he backhanded a flash of Light across the demon’s face. The Light struck and seared the skin black. The Dark One reeled back, pulling the dagger from David’s arm, and the sense of sickness and nausea immediately diminished. Still half-turned from David, it growled. Its partner, the one with the ax, glared at David with its wild eyes. Not hesitating, David unleashed a bolt at its head, and this time the remaining part of the skull disintegrated into a black tarlike substance.
David surged ahead, shoving past the wounded demon. The other one slumped across the desk, its soul returned to whatever evil place spawned it. David was out the door and on the run.
We’ll see what I find when I hit the street
, he thought.
, he thought.
His shoulder cold and aching, he reached the front doors. The cloud had receded, and the interior of the building bore no sign of the intruding mist. The sidewalk and street were empty. His truck remained intact at the sidewalk.
He looked behind him. The two Dark Ones that attacked him must have been the only ones that entered the building. They had done a thorough job of trashing the place: papers were scattered and furniture was strewn across the lobby.
Still feeling weak from the wound, he staggered on to the sidewalk. Down Delaware, at Niagara Square, a troop of them rounded the McKinley monument. Perhaps a couple hundred, their steps booming like drums. Soon they would pass City Hall, which was empty at this time of night. The attack occurring at night had saved thousands. Downtown’s businesses and government offices were closed, sparing the lives of workers.
He got in the truck and started it up. He made a U-turn on the deserted street and headed back toward Charles’s house. The wound in his shoulder felt as if it were packed with ice. Strangely, there was little blood, and he found this troubling.
In the basement, huddled on the couch, Sara heard glass break. They were coming inside, and she couldn’t bear sitting any longer, so she rose.
Laura moved to the edge of the couch. “What is it?”
“Just a storm, right?”
“I said I suspected.”
“You were wrong.”
She couldn’t get too mad at Laura. The story of her pursuers was difficult for anyone to believe. Nevertheless, they were here and had to be dealt with.
“It could be the wind,” Laura said.
“Wind doesn’t break windows like that unless it’s hurricane force.”
The floorboards creaked. Multiple pairs of footsteps. Sara waited at the foot of the stairs. Looking at the door, she prayed they wouldn’t come down here. That was a futile prayer.
The basement door swung open. A dark shape appeared.
Behind her, Laura gasped. “What is it?”
“They’ve come for me.”
This time, she gave it very little thought. A quick image of a sunny beach flashed through her mind. She cast a beam up the stairs and it hit the shape at the top. A noise like meat frying filled the basement, followed by a baleful hissing noise. A pale body, naked save for a dirty loincloth, tumbled down the stairs. With it clattered a black dagger. Sara dodged the tumbling corpse. She had blown a hole through its gut, the flesh now crispy and black from the wound.
Laura stood up and said, “Oh my God. You were right. It’s not a man, is it?”
“I don’t know what they are.”
“Can you do that again? Kill them like that?”
“I think so.”
“I’m an idiot for bringing us down here. We have to leave.”
But before they could move, two more entered the doorway. Sara fired, scoring two hits, and two more grotesque bodies fell down the stairs. How many would come? Enough to fill the stairway?
If Robbie were here, he wouldn’t believe this. It would be a fuck-daddy of a thing, as he was fond of saying.
The two women joined hands, Laura stepping over the bodies and taking the lead up the steps. Sara tugged on her hand. Laura turned, an impatient look on her face and said, “What is it?”
“I can kill them. You can’t. Let me take the lead.”
Together they climbed the stairs, Sara prepared to face the darkness with her newfound mother.
Charles’s house was built across the street from a children’s hospital. The neighborhood had been prominent, even elegant in its day, and the houses remained impressive. Many were turreted Victorians or Tudors with lush gardens.
David did not like what he found. On the lawn outside the Tudor-style home, several demons had gathered, all of them armed. A winged creature perched at the peak of the roof. It looked like some horrible gargoyle statue come to life. He stopped the truck a hundred feet from Charles’s place.
The tall windows were broken, and now more Dark Ones climbed inside. If Sara was in there, they would drag her out. Drag her out and deliver her to Engel. He would never see her again, never have the chance to explain.
I’m sorry I lied about your mother. Those false photos weren’t too disappointing to you, were they sweetheart?
She would have every right to hate him, even more right to punch him in the nose, if that’s what she felt like doing.
I’m sorry I lied about your mother. Those false photos weren’t too disappointing to you, were they sweetheart?
She would have every right to hate him, even more right to punch him in the nose, if that’s what she felt like doing.
He stopped the truck. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he jumped out. A trio of the demons dragged a screaming woman from the house next to Charles’s. Two of them held her arms. The third raised an ax above its head and with a swift stroke chopped off her arm. The woman slumped to the ground. The other demon let go of her remaining arm.
Move, Dresser. Or that’s what’ll happen to Sara
.
.
As he approached the curb, the winged beast perched on the roof spotted him. It spread its wings and dove, gliding lazily off the roof. Without hesitation, David fired, striking its right wing. It screeched and angled off to one side, flapping the smoldering wing and trying to remain in the air, but the blast had left a hole and the demon dropped, landing on the driveway. It rose, shaking the bad wing. Now, the other demons turned and spotted him. They moved forward, a black mass of stinking, rotting flesh.
He considered his options: seek shelter in the hospital; get in the truck and run them down; grit his teeth, scream, and become a one-man banzai charge. He chose none of them, instead standing his ground. He fired two quick beams, turning two of them into smoking wrecks. There were too many, however.
They plowed into him and rough, cold hands seized his arms and legs. He was lifted off his feet and carried toward the house. Then they dumped him on the lawn, the host of them surrounding him in a circle. The crowd parted and the winged creature he had wounded stepped into the center. It planted a clawed foot on his chest. Drawing breath became an adventure.
It pressed harder, and he felt his ribs start to compress. The creature kept pressing. His sternum felt as if it were being forced out his back. He tried to draw breath, tried to make his chest move. His arms and legs flailed. A group of them broke from the circle and pinned his extremities to the ground.
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