What Happens in the Darkness (11 page)

“But they haven’t attacked us.”

“They have, on a small scale. We’re not known as a major force, so I suppose that’s why they let a bomb handle it. This base was built here mainly to house you, and for some training purposes. But it won’t be long before they make their way up here. Before we lost radio communications, I learned those assholes are everywhere, taking prisoners.”

Martin nodded. “So their ultimate plan seems to be domination but not total destruction.”

“Resources are rich in this country. They’d be idiots not to want to take over. But like I said, we lost communications. I haven’t spoken to another base in days. And it’s not like I’ve been able to leave here. The last report I received, six more cities had been bombed, and each—”

Martin grabbed Jeff’s wrist and leaned into his ear.
“Join me,”
he said abruptly. “Join in this fight!”

Jeff took a step back and yanked his arm away from Martin’s grip. “I’m already in this fight.”

“No. Become one of
us
. You—”

“No! I’m not interested.” He stared at Martin as he took another step back. “I need some rest. See you in a few hours.” 

*** 

Bony rock structures pointed accusing stony fingers from ceiling to floor in the cave that was their sleeping quarters.

Martin listened to the raspy cacophony of the dozens of bodies that lay sprawled in the blackness, the light sleep-sounds of the undead.

For now they slept peacefully, all trace of fear and reservation gone. Of course, he reflected, they would no longer know love, but there was still loyalty and companionship. That would never change. So what were they giving up, really, for eternal life?

Loyalty. Martin crossed his arms over his chest, staring into the blackness but seeing well anyway, another benefit of his life. He closed his eyes and felt the energy, the
heart
of the group. They would die for him—again. They would die for the one who had changed them. And his family was loyal. Always had been, this small group going back hundreds of years.

Martin crossed to another room, a small cave with several beds. There was never a need for modesty, or privacy, and he and his small family had shared quarters since the beginning of their incarceration, when the military had first captured them, keeping them alive to study them like lab rats. He remembered how macabre—yet strangely funny—that they had first provided them with coffins.

He stretched out on a bed, the springs creaking lightly beneath his weight. He crossed his arms under his head and blinked up at the ceiling of rock, planning their strategy. 

*** 

Dazed, Janelle ambled along the city streets, still searching for survivors. Hours had passed and she’d seen no one, and she began to believe she was the last survivor. Maybe everyone else was dead. She knew this wasn’t true, had heard cries and screams and yelling in the distance, but she might as well have been alone. No one was there to save her. This was so unfair. How could life be so unfair to a kid?

She slept huddled in doorways, trying to keep warm. During the day she scavenged for food and basically just waited. There was nothing to do but wait. She had no plan, had no idea where to go, who to turn to, who to seek out for help.

Another day passed—another day spent crying, wandering aimlessly, doing nothing much at all.

She sat on the crumbling steps leading to what used to be Best Buy, pressed her head into her knees, and began to cry. She wished she was dead, because then at least this would be over. What was there to live for, really? If no one was alive … what was she supposed to do now?

She tried not to think about the attack, about people who ripped out kids’ throats, about people who moved so fast it made her dizzy, and about children, dead children, dead babies with their heads nearly torn from their shoulders.

She tried not to think about what kind of people those things really were.

There was no such thing, what she was thinking of. Last Halloween her dad brought home a pile of videos:
The Mummy, The Fly
, and
Dracula
. Her mom had been royally pissed. Janelle had only been eleven at the time. But Dad was a true horror fan, and he and Janelle had stayed up until three in the morning watching those terrifying movies, even though it had been a school night.

Janelle never told her mom, but she’d had nightmares for a week. For two days in a row, Brundle-Fly tried to scale the walls of their apartment building to get her, and for several days after that, Dracula had tried to claw his way in, staring at her from outside, hovering above the fire escape. Still, at the time she knew it was make-believe, and the nightmares had been worth it because it meant snuggling with her dad, a bowl of popcorn balanced on their knees, huddled on the sofa in a room where the only light was emitted by the picture on the TV screen.

It was make-believe then, and it had to be make-believe now. The Mummy was fake. Brundle-Fly was fake. Freddie and Jason were fake. Dracula was fake too. Every kid knew that.

So what the hell had attacked last night?

Shouting a few blocks away startled her, and she ran off in the direction of the voices.

And suddenly she knew where everyone was.

People had been herded like cattle onto the backs of trucks, poked and prodded by sexless guards in dark-green uniforms. The uniform of the Global Dominion.

Janelle had never seen the enemy before but knew who they were. There was no mistaking this uniform from the rumors and descriptions, although country of origin was impossible to know until a guard spoke or removed his or her helmet. Russian, Iraqi, Chinese, Greek … it didn’t matter. Practically every nation on the planet had united against America. Now they were collecting their prisoners.

She ducked into a doorway and hoped she hadn’t been seen.

Guards barked at the prisoners, people who looked tired and terrified. They were being dragged from their hiding places, from inside burnt-out buildings and bank-vault basements, pulled from upside-down cars and bombed-out bodegas.

For a moment she wondered where the police were—why weren’t they helping?—and then spotted a man wearing the NYPD uniform being pushed onto the back of the truck.

Why wasn’t anyone saving them? Truck after truck was being loaded with tired, dirty, and wounded people, even kids Janelle’s age. Why wasn’t anyone helping? She knew she wasn’t alone in this and figured they were hiding as well. No one was helping!

Her great-aunt Mabel would be pounding the side of the truck with her cane. Janelle had heard Great-Aunt Mabel used to be close friends with Rosa Parks, and that she taught Miss Parks everything she knew. Aunt Mabel would dip a Zwieback into her tea, gumming it, and she would proclaim to anyone within earshot that if she hadn’t chose to walk that day because the damned bus had been too full, then Miss Mabel Brown would be the one being celebrated by history and not Miss Rosa Parks. Of course when it was pointed out to Great-Aunt Mabel that she had been living in Vermont that year and not Alabama, the woman would suddenly excuse herself to use the toilet.

Janelle missed her great-aunt Mabel and hoped she was okay. She was scared for her whole family, who were scattered across the country. Somehow she would make her way to see them, to escape New York. If no one was going to rescue her—and rescue seemed less and less likely with each passing day—she would have to rescue herself. Somehow she would make her way down to Georgia or Florida.

First she had to get past the guards.

Chapter 8 

Patrick led the second strike, his group again making their way to Manhattan.

Martin remained behind to begin training his new extended family, as he preferred to think of them. They were weak, still too weak to join in the hunt, but it wasn’t too soon to describe the plan of action. They would be receptive, he knew. Loyal. They would do what he demanded.

Of course there were exceptions.

The woman with the dark curly hair stood up during Martin’s speech on loyalty and honor. Doe-eyed listeners, yawning and stretching and trying to retain the information with some semblance of understanding stared at him.

But the process had been quicker for her, the rebirth of knowledge and wisdom—the use of undiscovered parts of her brain. She raised her arms over her head, reaching toward the ceiling that was almost fifty feet away, elongating her lithe body.

“And us,” she said casually. “What about us?”

“You have a question?” Martin asked calmly. “The proper behavior is to raise your hand and—”

“Proper behavior?” she cried, turning to face the crowd, now standing beside a stone-faced Martin. “You did this to us! Now I want to know—what’s in it for us? Are you a god? Why should we obey you?”

The crowd stared in silent shock, unable yet to respond, to know
how
to respond.

“What happens when this is over?” she demanded.

“Sit down,” Martin said quietly. “You have valid questions, but this isn’t—”

She wheeled on him, rushing him, now standing toe to toe, facing him. He smelled the fresh death on her breath, the fetid soil, rotting flesh. “We want
answers
!”

His hand snapped out so quickly she didn’t have a chance to react. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled her in, sinking his teeth into the nape of her neck, tearing it out.

Her hands flew to her throat, trying to staunch the flow of blood, a flow that would have ceased to be in another day, after her transformation was complete. She collapsed to her knees, staring up at Martin, gurgling a message that would never be understood, eyes large and frightened and pleading.

Martin nodded toward Lana, who had stayed behind to assist with the training, and she dragged the woman’s body out of the room.

Moments later Martin heard the pounding and knew Lana was completing the necessary task.

Her blood still dripped from his muzzle. He absently wiped it away with the back of his hand. The stunned people in the crowd stared at him with those crazed doe-eyed expressions, but now they were tinged with fear and awe.

Just as he’d planned. There was nothing better than a sacrificial lamb.

It was a shame, having to waste anyone that way, but he couldn’t allow insubordination. It could be dangerous in such a crowd. Who knows what damage she might have been able to do? She was too much of a leader and too much trouble for Martin. He had enough on his hands handling the enemy.

And she’d made a fine example. Chances were good no one else would try anything like that.

He nodded to the crowd. “Shall we try again?” He resumed his speech, and this time he had their rapt attention. 

*** 

Luke, one of the twins sired by Patrick hundreds of years earlier, followed him on the scouting expedition. They moved unseen across highways and countryside, undetectable by human eye, until they arrived again in Manhattan.

Patrick’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled, which unfortunately wasn’t often. His black hair was short-cropped, almost military.

He smiled now, revealing white teeth that glistened under the moonlight, and he leaned against a lamppost on the corner of Fourteenth Street.

Luke—chronologically hundreds of years old but looking not a day over his death age of twenty—watched Patrick’s lead. He hadn’t experienced much before his incarceration, and he was relishing this.

Patrick closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath, expanding his ample chest. “Can you
smell
them?”

“No,” Luke said, sniffing hard. “I smell soil. And … something bad. Something
like
dirt. Only spoiled.”

“That’s them,” Patrick said. “You didn’t notice this the other night?”

Luke shook his head and then jumped up on the post, hanging from the dangling sign. “I was just following Martin. Didn’t try to smell anything.”

Patrick nodded. “I smell it too. Something like sulfur. Gunpowder maybe?”

“You think they have weapons?” Luke asked.

“Let’s go ask.” Patrick led them down Second Avenue.

A short while later they came across the first internment camp.

Patrick stopped abruptly and ducked into the nearest doorway, signaling Luke to do the same. Face after face of terrified prisoners—tired, soulless eyes—stared out at nothing. They huddled together behind multiple layers of barbed-wire fencing.

The soldiers carried the guns, of course, not the survivors as Patrick had assumed moments earlier. No one had guessed just how pervasive the enemy attack had become.

He quickly guessed there to be about fifty soldiers and several hundred prisoners. How many could he and Luke safely overtake? If they attacked the soldiers head-on there would certainly be gunfire. He couldn’t get to the prisoners first because that would likely lead to hysteria.

Of course he also had to consider this was a fact-finding mission, and he had orders not to get involved. Period.

But he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not that Patrick was terribly altruistic, but this sort of bullying annoyed the hell out of him. He was hoping to find a way to distract the guards but couldn’t think how. He said, “Any ideas?”

“Ideas?” Luke asked. “For what?”

“Rescue mission.”

“What? But Martin said—”

“I don’t
care
what Martin said. I’m in charge here.”

Silence. Luke seemed interested in his shoes. Then he said, “We have to get the soldiers. Have some dinner …” He smirked. “Then free the prisoners. Right?”

Patrick nodded, staring ahead at the compound. “They’ll panic. Soldiers and prisoners. The prisoners may even trample one another. And there’s that barbed wire. It might get messy.”

“Then why don’t we wait? Like Martin said.”

Holding up his finger, pointing it in Luke’s face, Patrick snarled. “Enough!”

Luke sighed and then nodded. “We have the darkness as an advantage,” he whispered. “We scatter their fires, and if we move quickly enough, they won’t know what hit them.”