The Eye of Madness (7 page)

“I'm going to check on Barbara,” he called, keeping his eyes on the house.

Burt handed his shovel to Sam. “I'll go get the ladies so we can have a service for the doctor,” he said and turned to follow his friend inside.

“Why bother,” Sam mumbled. “He was an jerk anyway.”

Without thought, Burt rounded on him with his uninjured arm and clocked him on the jaw. He had wanted to hit Andrews for a long time, but he immediately regretted it. The motion strained his injured arm sending a stabbing pain through his shoulder. However, the pain was secondary to his nausea as Andrews tumbled backward into the hole. He landed on top of Dr. Winder with a sickening smack.

Burt turned and headed back toward the house. He glanced at Derek who wore a strange expression of horror and amusement on his face. A stream of slurred curses flew from Andrews as he struggled to pull himself out of the hole. Burt couldn't help smiling.

Soon he was upstairs where Sally met him at the door in a tight embrace. Cecil had given the women the sad news and Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed crying. Barbara still lay unmoving with her eyes closed. She breathed in and out in an awkward, yet rhythmic, cadence. Cecil sat beside her and stroked her hair while whispering in her ear.

Cecil carried Barbara downstairs and placed her on the sofa. It was much brighter and he wanted to keep an eye on her. He left the front door open while they conducted a brief service for Dr. Winder. There was a clear view from the grave to the sofa. Cecil never took his eyes off of her, even when he said a few kind words about the former scientist. He found it hard to concentrate on his words as he watched his wife and listened to the inhuman hissing and clicking. They were a chorus of hellish insects and reptiles trying to form cruel words.

Cecil was so engrossed, he did not notice Andrews's irreverent behavior, but everyone else did. He stood by the grave taking long swigs of beer, while acting impatient and bored. He emphasized his boredom with an occasional belch. When the service was over he took his empty bottle and shoved it neck first into the soft dirt of Dr. Winder's grave.

“Have a drink,” he murmured.

Burt wanted to deck him again and moved in his direction, but Derek moved to intercept him. “Come on, let's go talk to the major,” he said, giving Burt a reassuring pat on his uninjured shoulder. “Maybe the lush will get drunk and stumble into the woods.”

Even though they both hated Andrews, Derek immediately wanted to take it back. The thought of anyone stumbling into the woods sent a clammy coldness through them.

They went into the kitchen and poured themselves a cup of coffee while they waited on Cecil to sit with Barbara. A few minutes later, Sally and Charlotte came in and sat with her so Cecil got up and trudged to the kitchen. He was a hollow shell of his former self. His gaunt and pale countenance resembled a man who just crawled to Hell and back. They couldn't imagine Hell being much worse than today.

“Where's Andrews?” Burt asked, glancing at the windows.

“On the front porch drinking another cold one,” Derek said, motioning toward the door. “You better hope he doesn't sober up,” he added with a grin. “He is liable to come looking for payback.”

“He probably won't even remember it,” Burt growled.

When Burt told Cecil the story, the dark cloud dominating the major's features seemed to break, if only for a moment or two. He grinned and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Damn, I wish I had been there to see it,” he said.

“Well it's obvious we can't count on him,” Burt said. “Especially as long as there is alcohol in the house … and even if he runs out, well, you remember what he was like at the camp.”

The three men agreed that any plans made would not include Sam Andrews in the discussions. They would take turns babysitting him to make sure he didn't do anything stupid to harm himself or someone else.

They also agreed that there were about three days of gasoline left, give or take a few hours. It was the take part that worried them. They must prepare a Plan B in case they were unable to get more gas. The problem was, there was no Plan B, at least not a feasible one. No gas meant no electricity, which meant no light, which meant no protection from the dark. They could make it through the days with caution, but the nights would be indefensible. Also, God forbid a thunderstorm came through in the middle of the day. The unanimous decision was that they must figure some way to get out and get gas. There was no alternative. In just three days, unless this phenomenon passed, they would all be taken by the dark.

The three men walked out onto the front porch and scanned the woods and the road leading to the house. The whole area was pocked with dark patches.

“How many flashlights do we have?” Burt asked.

“Not enough,” Derek replied. “Maybe three or so and I'm not sure the batteries are good on all of those. I found a fourth one upstairs, but it did not even have any batteries in it.”

“Well, damn,” Burt muttered. “The ones we have don't put out enough light to find a shiny penny in a shadow.”

They pondered their dilemma. Would the overhead light in the vehicle be enough to protect them if it was subsidized by a few discount store flashlights? Cecil was hopeful, but he didn't truly believe they had a chance to make it out. There were too many dark patches in the woods. No, the only safe option was to wait a month and let fall do its thing. Of course, they didn't have a month and fall was far behind this year. In spite of several cool spells the last couple of weeks, not a single leaf had changed color yet.

“We're going to have to try,” Derek said, breaking the tense silence.

“I'll do it,” Cecil said.

“The hell you will!” Burt shouted. “You have a wife and daugh—daughter who needs you!” He stopped himself from saying daughters because Abigail Garrison, Abbs, had been killed yesterday. She disappeared with the other Impals around the world that morning. Cecil's youngest daughter was in the clutches of General Garrison. Whether he went on this mission or not would not help her. He couldn't get to her even if he knew where she was.

“You have a wife, Burt!” Cecil snapped. “Besides, I'm the ranking person here and it's my decision!”

“With all due respect,
major
. I'm not sure our ranks mean a whole hell of a lot right now!' Burt retorted. “I'm the logical choice.”

Cecil glanced over his shoulder and saw Charlotte and Sally watching them. He jerked his head towards Burt, indicating they needed to tone the volume down.

“I don't care what the ranks are here; I'm a civilian in any case,” Derek said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I'm not married, I have no kids, and I have a mother I haven't seen since before I graduated high school. You want to talk about logical choices? Well I am the clear cut choice to do this!”

The argument of who was the most qualified to die continued for several minutes before it was broken up by Sally and Charlotte. The women insisted that nobody was going, not until certain it would be safe. This was their official, public stance, but deep down they knew the men were right. Safe or not, somebody was going to have to attempt it.

Everyone had become so involved in the argument; nobody took notice of Andrews who lounged a few feet away. They didn't notice when he rolled off the glider swing after he drained the remainder of a six-pack. He lay face down on the edge of the porch, one arm dangling mere inches from the dark underside of the porch. If he were awake, if he were sober, he might hear the faint clicking and hissing noise coming from the darkness beneath.

The women went back inside and started to prepare lunch. Nobody was hungry, however they had to eat. Ranking person or not, Major Garrison ordered it so. He felt like a jerk telling everyone to eat now, but he knew it was important they all keep their strength up. Most of all, he worried about Barbara. She couldn't eat.

Cecil sat down and gently rubbed her throat. He wasn't sure if she was in shock or a coma. She didn't appear to have any outward signs of injury, which was good. If her comatose state was psychological, it would be easier to deal with. The one thing he did know was that she could not eat or drink in her current nonresponsive state. To Cecil, this was as bad as anything else they faced. He knew Barbara could go for weeks without food, but she would only last a few days without drinking.

He thought about sitting her up and trying to get her to sip on a glass of water, but the last thing he needed to do was pour water down her lungs. Remembering his Army medical training, he went back into the kitchen and put several ice cubes into a metal mixing bowl. He then found a meat-tenderizing hammer and crushed them into a fine icy powder. He then took the bowl back into the living room and sat down beside her. Taking a pinch of ice between his thumb and forefinger with one hand, he parted Barbara's lips with the other. He then placed the pinch of ice between her cheek and gums. Cecil grabbed another pinch and repeated the process. After a few attempts, he sat back and watched with hopeful anticipation.

At first, she did not move and Cecil's heart began to sink. He tried to fight back the tears when the reaction he hoped for didn't occur, yet just before he lost hope, it happened. Barbara's throat moved ever so slightly; she swallowed the melted ice. Cecil's tears turned to tears of joy as he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. He then sat back down beside her and began the slow process of feeding her ice.

Cecil was so engrossed with Barbara, he did not notice Andrews come in from the porch and now stood a few feet away. He remained quite steady for a man who put away a half case of beer. The strange thing was that his countenance was lucid; one might even say he was stone sober. Andrews stood as rigid as a statue, watching until Burt entered the room.

“What the hell are you staring at?” Burt snapped.

Andrews's body remained still while his head swiveled ninety degrees until his eyes fell on Burt. The unnatural movement gave both men a moment of pause.

Terror flooded over them when they saw his eyes. Those were not the eyes of the temperamental jerk and alcoholic they knew. There was somebody else staring out through Sam Andrews's eyes. Someone calm, someone sober, someone calculating … someone who called the dark their home.

“What … what the hell?” Cecil stammered, moving to protect Barbara.

“Who the hell are you?” Burt demanded as he snatched a fireplace poker from the hearth.

Four words came out of the mouth of Andrews's. These four words were in his voice, but annunciated in such a way there was no doubt that Sam Andrews was not the one doing the speaking.

“My name is Musial.”

CHAPTER 8

REBEKAH AND MALAKHI

“In Israel, in order to be a realist you must believe in miracles.”

~David Ben-Gurion

Rebekah held her son in her lap for what seemed like hours. The world outside was a faraway and distant concept. The only thing they were conscious of was their hammering hearts, and the hideous hissing of the dark. Emergency vehicle sirens wailed outside. The living darkness was responsible for it all.

They were shaken out of their terrified state when another scream rang out from somewhere below. Even though it was muted by distance and walls, it drowned out the high pitched wail of the sirens. Someone else was in the dark.

Rebekah poked her head up and peered down into the street. She took a deep, shuddering breath when she beheld the chaos. People ran, jumped, climbed, crawled and drove over one another in a mad dash to escape the dark. It was a bright sunny day, but it didn't matter because the dark was everywhere. It was in every shade and shadow. The darkness waited for the next person to stumble into the shadows like an insect in a web.

Rebekah clutched Malakhi as another blood curdling cry erupted from the street. A woman crawled about in the darkness beneath a large city bus. She shuffled on all fours from one tire to the next, screaming and throwing her head from side to side. She finally settled on the right rear tire. With a sudden serene calm, she laid her head in front of it as if taking a nap, letting the massive bus drive over her head. Rebekah gasped and ducked under the window. She still heard the sickening crunch and pop of the poor woman's skull in spite of the other noise.

“Momma, what is it?” Malakhi wailed. “Where did grandpa go?”

“I don't know baby, I'm sure he is fine,” she lied. She wasn't sure about anything.

Sensing movement, she turned back towards the closet. Had the door opened more? She could have sworn it was only open a couple of inches, but now the dark slit was at least a foot wide. The volume of the dark chorus grew. It seemed to both echo and permeate from the walls around them. They must get out, but she did not know how.

The hallway was the only direct route to the stairs and elevator, yet it was completely dark and windowless. The only other way was air vents, which were too small for both of them, not to mention they were dark inside. The building had no fire escapes; however there was an exterior metal staircase at the end of the hall past the elevator. The problem was they needed to traverse about sixty feet of dark hallway to get there.

There was only one small flashlight in the apartment and it was not bright enough to search for loose change under the sofa cushions. The one thing they had an abundance of was candles. Being a waitress was not a lucrative profession. It was not uncommon for them to have power shut off for a day or two before Rebekah could scrape up the money for their bill. Candles and a small battery powered radio helped then to get through those times. They owned a large Menorah they kept for Hanukah which held nine candles. She also had two regular seven candle menorahs. There were enough candles to fill all of those with several to spare.

It just might provide them the light they needed to make it down the hallway. A spark of hope started to grow until she remembered the candles
and
the menorahs were in the closet. Their tiny flashlight would not make a dent in the closet's dark interior.