What Happens in the Darkness (4 page)

“He tried. But I’m not very good at that either.”

“Either?”

Jeff’s cheeks burned and he coughed into his fist. “Never mind.”

“I can show you. It’s simple.”

“Show me what? Fight? You know how?”

“Sure. All men can fight.”

“Really?” He stepped a couple more feet toward the bars. “Martin? Can I ask …?” He studied the floor again, kicked at invisible pebbles.

“You want to know why I’m in here?”

Jeff cleared his throat and nodded, wiping mud and dried blood off his T-shirt.

“This is a military base. There’s only one reason to keep men like me locked up.”

Jeff looked up and met Martin’s stare.

“I’m a political prisoner. Your government doesn’t believe in my … politics. Or that of my family.”

“Family?”

He gestured with his chin. “In the back.”

“Where are they?”

“They’re around.” Martin smiled. “I’d introduce you, but they’re not always in the mood for company.”

Jeff nodded. “So what’d you do? Protest or something?”

“Or something.” Martin laughed.

Jeff enjoyed the sound—it sounded real. He also thought Martin’s black dungarees and white T-shirt were cool. Kind of like Fonzie, or Elvis before he got fat.

“No, not a protestor, kid.” He leaned into the bars again. “You want to learn to fight or what?”

“Yes!” Jeff approached the bars, facing Martin. He balled his hands into fists and held them in front of his face.

“Not bad,” Martin said, holding up his own fists, mirroring Jeff’s. “Pull in your elbows. You’re leaving your stomach unprotected. That’s better.” Martin bobbed and weaved, shadowboxed with the bars. “Good job, kid. Pull those arms in tighter. No, not like that. Wait. Come over here, let me show you.”

Jeff stepped up to he bars.

“Turn around, kid. Face the other way.”

Jeff turned his back on Martin.

Martin grabbed Jeff’s arms, moved them in one or two jabs but then quickly pulled them through the bars and pinned them behind his back.

Jeff cried out, and Martin pressed something sharp against Jeff’s throat.

Martin lowered his mouth to Jeff’s ear and whispered, “Rule number one, kid. Trust no one.” He twisted Jeff’s arm until the boy cried out. “Stupid kid,” he spat. “No wonder you get beat up all the time. You’d better toughen up or you’ll spend your entire life going around the long way.
You hear me
?”

Jeff whimpered and nodded.

“Why the
fuck
do you think I’m in here? For
protesting
? Use your fucking head, kid. I’m in here because I’m a killer.”

He pressed the object further into Jeff’s neck, lightly piercing the flesh, dragging it from one side of his throat to the other.

Jeff squeezed his eyes shut and willed his father to come through the door and save him. He wondered if his throat had been cut and if he was about to die. His heart thrummed in his ears and his legs quivered.

“Stand up for yourself, kid, or you’ll regret it.”

Martin let go and shoved him, hard. Jeff stumbled across the room and crashed into the wall. He picked himself up off the floor and grabbed his throat. A light smear of blood appeared on his palm, not the gush he’d expected.

When he had glanced back, Martin was gone, having disappeared into the shadows, until all that remained was a faint silhouette in the distance of the room. 

***

That first encounter remained strong in Jeff’s mind. He glanced toward Martin’s cell, as if expecting the haunted memory of his childhood to be waiting on the other side. As if time would no longer matter, and things would be as they always had.

And sometimes he wondered why Martin hadn’t killed him that day, but he attributed that to Martin’s loyalty toward Walter. He had a hard time believing the bloodsucker would have compassion toward what would basically amount to a light snack.

As tempting as it was to set Martin free, it couldn’t happen. Releasing him would be too much of a risk. Too dangerous.

Though whatever was left of the world— and it was growing smaller every day—they deserved the chance to survive. Didn’t they?

But could he take the chance?

Very few had known about Martin, and of those only Jeff survived.

As far as the army was concerned, Martin didn’t exist. 

*** 

Janelle sat on the ground sipping water and listening to the grown-ups’ conversation. Listening to them discuss the devastation across the United States, the bombings and attacks and murders. They sat in a circle around a small fire one of them had built.

She wondered if her grandmother in South Carolina was still alive. She missed the woman, missed the smell of her perfume, missed her cooking. No one could beat Grandma’s hoecake. Janelle could practically taste the gritty cornmeal, the granules melting on her tongue. She could almost smell it, but when she came back from her fantasy, all she smelled was cement dust.

Fighter jets rumbled overhead, and she wondered whose side they were on. She looked up and covered her ears, expecting the sonic boom but lowered them again when it didn’t come.

The three men beside her were having a conversation about … well, everything.

The first man looked like her building’s superintendent. This man was taller and thinner but had the same broad, flat face and thick moustache. He was also the guy who had first spoken to her earlier. He said his name was Pete. He’d been talking about finding shelter, and he cursed a lot.

Now they were on to a different topic. They did that a lot, too.

“You know it’s fuckin’ China,” Pete said, his head bobbing like he was agreeing with himself.

“No, it’s the Russians. They never completely gave up Communism. It was all an act,” the second man said. His name was Warren. He scratched his gray-white beard and pushed his glasses back on his nose. He reminded Janelle of her math teacher. Old, white, and a little strange. She wasn’t sure why her teacher was considered strange—maybe it had something to do with a white guy teaching at a black school in Harlem.

They argued, over-shouting one another, and Janelle covered her ears again. She couldn’t drown them out, but at least she could dim the volume.

“Keep it down,” the third man said, taking Janelle’s hands in his. “You okay, sweetie? Do you know where your family is?” He seemed most like her—even his skin color was like hers, only darker. And he had no hair, just like her dad. She felt a strange attachment to him, felt compelled to throw her arms around his neck. He’d said his name was Harry.

The men discussed shelter (or the lack thereof), food, rats, pant size, cigarettes versus cigars, and survivors. But when the topic of war came up, they seemed reluctant to discuss it in front of the C-H-I-L-D. Janelle was a little annoyed they thought she couldn’t spell, or thought perhaps that because she was a child she didn’t have a fully formed brain. Janelle was small—thin and short—and looked young for her twelve years. But how young did they think she was? They would be amazed, she thought, at her math and science skills, and that she’d aced every English and history test she’d ever taken.

“How are we supposed to get messages out? I’ve heard all exits out are blocked.” Pete rocked like he had to use the bathroom. “No radio, no papers, no TV. What are we supposed to do, use Pony Express?”

The conversation grew loud again.

“We need shelter,” Harry said. “I’m sick of wandering the streets, fighting off the roaches and rats. And I don’t trust these buildings. Even if they don’t fall, they’re prime targets for another bomb. Just bein’ in the street like this, we’re like sittin’ ducks, man.”

Warren leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Fellas. We have to get out of this city. See who else has survived. See if the military—”

“Fuck the military,” Pete said. “Where the hell are they? Middle East? Asia? Shitload of good they’re doing over there. They haven’t done jack shit to get us out of this mess. And guess what, guys? Rumor is, foreign troops are on their way here. To New York.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Harry asked. “That’s rumors, man. A load of crap. There’s no more communication. No cell phone signals. No nothing! Nothing but rumors now.”

Pete shook his head. “Guys with CB radios and long-range radio equipment. There’s communication.”

“Oh yeah? So where are they?” Harry snapped.

“Dead.”

“Oh. Sorry, man.” Harry turned away, looking embarrassed.

“They’re here,” Janelle said. “I’ve seen them. They’ve taken away a lot of people.”

“What?” Harry said. “You’ve seen who? The military?”

Janelle nodded. “They all wear black. And dark helmets that cover their faces.”

“You sure they’re not our guys?” Pete asked.

Janelle nodded. “The way they spoke … how they acted and stuff. They’re not from here.”

“Why haven’t I seen them?” Harry asked. “Where are they?”

She shrugged. “I think they move around a lot. But they have a camp uptown. I think it was on Ninety-Eighth Street. Somethin’ like that.”

“Oh, that’s great … just great. I had no idea. I was pretty much hiding out in my apartment until it got too dangerous to stay. I thought we’d been nuked, but I guess it was just bombs.”

“
Just
bombs,” Warren said. “Right.”

“You know what I meant,” Harry said. “If it was nukes we’d all be dead.”

“It’s getting dark,” Pete said. “We have to find shelter. I don’t trust the buildings, but what choice do we have? We can’t stay out here. My building was leveled, man.”

“Same here,” Warren said. “Nothing but a pile of rubble now.”

“We have to find a safe place,” Harry said. He looked around, and Janelle shook her head. There were no safe buildings. Not any more.

She muttered something, and Warren asked her to repeat it.

“Subway,” she said, picking dirt from under a fingernail. “That’s where I’ve been living. I got some blankets and a lantern. And a flashlight. There’s food, like chips. So far the rats didn’t get it all.”

Warren shook his head. “I’m not hiding in the subway. Do you know what will happen if there’s another bomb? I’d rather take my chances out here. I’ll go find a brownstone or something. Low floors, maybe even a basement. Supermarket maybe.”

“Do you know what’s living in the storerooms of supermarkets?” Janelle asked. “You don’t wanna go down inside them.”

“Yeah, well, I’m with Warren,” Pete said. “Maybe I won’t go to a supermarket, but sorry, guys. Count me out. There’s buildings ain’t been hit yet.”

“
Yet
being the operative word, I’m afraid,” Warren said.

Harry nodded. “I’m not leaving her. We’ll try the subway. Seventy-Seventh maybe, or Eighty-Sixth.”

“We’ll meet up with you sometime tomorrow, back here,” Warren said. “If we make it back alive.”

Harry laughed. “So dramatic. But yeah, you’re right. Tomorrow we’ll make a plan to get off this island. Maybe hide out in Jersey or something. Till this all blows over.”

“What do you mean, hook up tomorrow?” Pete said. “What makes you think I’m traveling with you?”

“I don’t care what you do,” Harry said. “I figured there’s safety in numbers. Do what you want.”

“I plan to,” Pete said. “
Rulacho
.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Warren said, “but it didn’t sound pleasant.”

“It means ‘asshole,’” Harry said, rubbing his hands over his bald head as if trying to summon a genie.

Pete shrugged and looked away.

“You got issues, man,” Harry said. “
Vete al carajo
, my friend.”

“And that means?” Warren’s head snapped back and forth like he was watching a tennis match.

“Go to hell,” Pete and Harry said together.

Warren nodded. “Nice.”

“Why are you guys fighting?” Janelle cried. “I mean, I don’t even know if anyone else’s alive anymore. We may be the only ones left. And you guys like, what? hate each other? That’s stupid.”

“We don’t hate each other,” Pete said. “We’re just tired and angry.”

“Me too,” she said. “But you don’t hear me telling you to
bésame culo
.”

Pete and Harry burst out laughing, and Warren scratched his head.

“Dare I ask what that means?” Warren said.

“It means ‘kiss my ass,’” Pete said, still laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said to Janelle. “You’re right. It was wrong of me.
Perdóneme, chica
?”

Janelle smiled. “Uh huh, okay. I forgive you.”

“Okay, Ms. Winfield,” Harry said. “Care to lead the way?” 

*** 

Dead bodies littered the streets around the subway. Janelle covered her mouth and stifled a gag from the pungent, sickening smell of their slow decomposition.

Around the entrance, the buildings, restaurants, bodegas, and street vendors’ tables had been decimated. Harry closely followed her down a small opening to the Eighty-Sixth Street and Lexington Avenue line of the underground subway.

Janelle groped in the darkness of the platform until her hand found the stashed lantern, and she ignited the wick using the matches in her pocket. The lantern and flashlight were the only items she’d managed to salvage from the sporting goods store on 128th Street. There hadn’t been much left, and what was there she’d had to fight for, dozens of hands groping along with hers, people shoving her out of the way, looking for anything useful. Janelle had snatched the Coleman lantern and heavy-duty Streamlight flashlight. At least the flashlight fit in her backpack despite it being long, thick, and heavy.

“You’re a resourceful girl,” Harry said, following her inside the tunnel, brushing plaster off his clothes. The entrance had been small for her and was barely penetrable for him.

She didn’t think of herself as resourceful. Her brothers liked to camp in their tiny backyard and she tagged along when they let her. Lying in her sleeping bag, listening to the sirens from the police cars racing up Third Avenue, watching the city spotlights filling the skies. Stars? She never knew what one looked like until she visited cousins at the Jersey shore.

A newspaper stand remained embedded in the wall, candy and chips, bottled water, and cigarettes scattered everywhere. Hundreds of cockroaches scuttled for cover the minute the light hit them.