Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (10 page)

Dwellers of the Night

50

mind. He takes another drink and looks down. He sees that the glass has been shuffled. Something
had
come inside and brushed the glass aside. Suddenly he feels as if, indeed, he is being watched. He takes one more cautious drink, screws the plastic cap back onto the bottle, and heads for the hallway.
No. Wait. Grab some more. You’ll want it later
. And he doesn’t want to have to come back. He returns to the refrigerator and opens it up, reaches inside for another of the blue plastic bottles. The attack comes swiftly.

The refrigerator door slams into his arm, sending him careening against the kitchen cabinets with a shout. He spins around, the bottle tumbling from his grasp. A figure lurches at him, hands outstretched, emerging from the shadows. The man lets out a shout and kicks: his foot drives into the knees of the attacker, and the assailant stumbles into the kitchen table, sliding it against the wall with a loud scraping noise. The man lunges to his feet. The figure shrieks, its maw opening, and the man realizes with terror:
Ben Aldridge
. His neighbor’s eyes are wild and maniacal, bloodshot, ruby-red. Blood seeps from his neck where the dog had chewed.

“Ben!” the man shouts as the figure tries to get back to its feet. “Ben!”

The figure rushes him. The man leaps aside, thrusting his arms out, grabbing Ben by the bare arm, and hurling him into the refrigerator. Ben staggers against the fridge and turns.

“Ben! Ben, it’s me! It’s—”

But his neighbor doesn’t relent. He charges again. The man sidesteps. The figure slams into the wall, twists around, releases a bloodcurdling scream. Ben’s bare feet dribble with blood from where he has slid against the wall.

“God, Ben, your feet—”

Ben charges.

The man curses and turns, runs down the dark hallway.

Ben gains on him.

The man spins around into the hallway leading to the door.

The figure follows but doesn’t turn in time. He hurls into the wall of the next hallway, a framed picture falling on top of his head, shattering. The man spins around and sees Ben coming at him, shards of glass stuck in his scalp, blood crawling through his hair. The man turns and runs out the front door, into the cold rain. He trips over a root sticking out of the moist earth, tumbles, falls. He rolls onto his back and raises his hands to protect himself.

Ben is gone.

The man takes several deep breaths. His heart pounds in his chest. He props himself up on his elbows, looks at the front door.

He can see Ben in the shadows, watching him.
Salivating
.

“What the fuck…” the man murmurs, stumbling to his feet.

Ben just watches him.

“Ben!” he shouts. “Ben! It’s me! We play poker together! Fucking poker!”

Ben disappears into the shadows.

The man takes several deep breaths. The wind blows rain into his face.

“What the fuck…” he mutters once more, leaving the front lawn.

He doesn’t even have the GATORADE.

The purple Escort takes State Avenue to Queen City, and from Queen City goes onto Harrison Avenue. He had taken the keys from Kira’s purse on the kitchen counter, and now he is driving west. His hands are shaking. He keeps seeing Ben attacking him. Ben. The man with whom he had shared laughter, long talks, to whom he had lost tons of money, and who always had the best beer. Ben. Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

51

What the fuck?!
The windshield wipers streak back and forth. The rain patters on the window. He twists knobs and dials on the radio. Nothing. Only static or silence. All the radio stations have gone quiet. No one is alive.
No one but me
. And Ben. But he doesn’t want to think about that. So lost in the flashbacks of the events at Ben’s house, he doesn’t even notice for the longest time what is so obvious: the streets are deserted. Cars are wrecked, yes. But there are no bodies. He sees blood stains where bodies had fallen, even some dismembered limbs. But no bodies. Even the bodies from many of the car crashes are gone, the windows broken or doors open. The streets are deserted.
What the fuck?
he thinks again.

A few minutes later he pulls the car to the side of the road. The barred windows of ARMS & ACCESSORIES are impenetrable. He tries to get inside but cannot. The doors are locked too well. He goes around back, walking around a dumpster and several overturned trash cans. A stray cat hisses at him and darts away. The back door is locked, too, and all the windows are barred. He returns to the side of the building and climbs onto the dumpster. He grabs the downspout and gingerly pulls himself up. The loose aluminum shudders under his weight. He wraps his hand around the lip of the roof and begins pulling himself up just as the downspout groans and dislodges, falling with a crash onto the dumpster. The noise echoes in the side alley. He hefts himself onto the roof and finds an entrance hatch. He swings it open and crawls inside.

A few moments later he is in the belly of the store. All of the glass cases holding rifles, shotguns, swords, and handguns are locked. He tries to open them and an alarm begins to blare. At first it scares him, but then he finds it comforting. It doesn’t matter. And if anyone else has survived, they may be drawn to it—and he won’t be alone anymore. He finds a crowbar in the maintenance room at the back of the building and smashes open the glass panes. He reaches inside and grabs the first handgun he sees. A Glock Model 20 10mm. He uses a manual behind the counter to figure out what bullets he needs, and he grabs a single cartridge. It’s all he needs. One bullet will do the job. He smashes the lock on the front door and exits into the street. As he gets into his car, he notices a sign hanging inside the front barred window: 30-DAY LAY AWAY AND FINANCING SPECIAL.

He loads the gun and stands in front of Ben’s house. He can’t get it out of his mind. He calls out Ben’s name. Nothing. He curses and steps forward. Each step in front of the other feels momentous. He enters the house. The shadows surround him. He holds the gun in his hand, the barrel pointed away.
Safety off? Check
. He has only fired a gun once or twice. His father used to take him out before the accident.

“Ben?” His voice is low and quiet, but it sounds so loud in the silence. No response.

“Ben. It’s me. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Nothing.

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too. I forgive you for attacking me. I know… I know what you must have thought. That I was a burglar or something. A looter. But I’m not. Okay? Why don’t you just come out? I came here to see if you were okay…”

Nothing.

Just leave. Just leave and don’t come back
.

But he can’t. Someone else is alive. Someone he
knows
.

“Ben? Please, Ben. Just come out. Where are you?” He looks up the flight of steps. “Are you up there, Ben?”

A noise. Something falling. A footstep?

“Ben? I’m coming up. It’s all right. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

52

You’re going up there? Are you crazy?

Ben’s

alive.

He’s not alive. You saw him yesterday. Dead. On the road.

He wasn’t dead. He was unconscious. I just didn’t check.

He takes each step carefully. The stairs creak underfoot. He reaches the top landing. All is dark. It frightens him. He can feel his heart playing metal music in his chest, beating hard against his ribs. Adrenaline courses through his system. He hears movement. A scuffling. Slurping. “Ben?” His voice catches in his throat, comes out as a meager whisper, barely audible over his hammering heart. The door to Ben’s bedroom is closed. The man places his hand on the cold bronze doorknob and turns. The locking mechanism creaks, and the door groans as it opens. He stares into the blackness, steps into the room. The sounds are very close, on the opposite side of the King-sized bed. He stands beside one of the windows with the shades drawn.

“Ben?” Now his voice works.

The sounds stop.

Images come into focus.

“Oh my God…”

Ben’s beady red eyes stare at him from the other side of the bed. The dog lies on the covers, abdomen ripped open, blood crawling over the sides. In one of Ben’s hands is the dog’s intestines. The other is raised to his mouth as he feasts on the liver. Blood trails down his chin. The man says, almost without emotion, “That’s fucked up.”

Ben shrieks, leaping to his feet, tossing the liver and intestines to the side. The man grabs the shades and yanks. The bar holding the shades at the top of the window snaps. They fall to the ground, sunlight coursing through the room. Ben shrieks in pain, raising a hand to his face. The man holds the gun out, shaking wildly, pointed right at him. “Ben… Ben…

What the fuck, Man? What the
fuck
?”

Ben throws himself over the bed, reaching out for the man.

The gun sings. The bullet slams into the wall. Fragments of drywall fly. Ben isn’t fazed. He trips over the dog’s carcass and rolls off the bed, onto the floor. The man turns to run and slams into the wall. Blinding pain races up his nose. He turns just as Ben is upon him. He swings the gun up and fires. The bullet arcs through Ben’s neck, a spray of blood hitting the man in the face. Ben tumbles to the ground, grasping at his throat, blood seeping between his fingers. The man turns.

And runs.

He staggers into the street, the cold rain igniting his senses. He falls to the ground, mud soaking through the pants on his knees. He drops the gun into the earth and lets out a choking sob. He falls onto his side and rolls onto his back, staring up at the gray sky. Rain falls into his mouth as he gasps for air among the horrendous tears. He dry heaves and twists onto his side, vomiting. His stomach empties itself, then he rolls onto his back and lies in the rain. The gunshot continues to echo in his ears.

III

He throws the gun onto the floor in his own house.

Blood covers his hands.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

53

Ben’s blood
.

He rushes up the steps, knowing only one thing: the blood must come off. An old line from an ancient Shakespeare text rushes through his mind: “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.”
Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.
He throws open the door to the bedroom.

He stops in his tracks. “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

It wasn’t a dream.

Kira’s body lies entangled in the bed-sheets, bloodied and mangled. Her blue LA FEMME gown is stained with dirt and blood, riddled with multiple stab wounds. The kitchen knife lies on the wrangled, bloodied bed-sheets. He stands in the doorway, staring at her. Her head is twisted to the side, drools of blood hanging from her lips. Those lifeless eyes stare at him, mocking him. He can almost see the lips moving: “Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.”

He falls beside the bed. “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

He takes her hand in his. Cold. Stiff.

“What have I done?” he moans. “What have I done?”

He kisses her cryptic hand. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”

What kind of monster have I become?

He hopes and prays he is in an insane asylum, drugged up, hallucinating.

Because then none of this is real.

And Kira is alive.

And the world is at peace.

“Oh God… Please let it be true… Please let it be true…”

He receives no answer: only the tapping rain on the windowpanes.

He cries and cries, and he drifts into sleep.

∑Ω∑

He sat across from her, rice pilaf cradled in his spoon. She dabbed a fry in her ketchup, each move slow and labored. The conversation was absent, as it had been the entire meal—and the entire drive to the diner, despite his attempts to spark a little chit-chat. The sounds of the diner—clinking silverware, peels of laughter, muffled conversations—surrounded them. He nodded at her food. “It’s going to get cold.”

“I’m not hungry.” A swift, sure answer.

“Then why did you want to come here?”

She didn’t reply. He tried to read her face: the unkempt frown, the averting eyes, the awkward movements, ever-so-subtle. She hadn’t said much of anything, and she had only eaten a quarter of her cheeseburger.

“How was work?” he asked, yet another futile attempt at conversation.

“It was fine.”

“Was it busy?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Moments passed. He spooned the rice into his mouth. “What did you want to talk about?”

She didn’t look at him, continued playing with her food. “Do we have to talk about it now?”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

54

“You said you wanted to talk…”

“I did.”

“Do you still want to?”

“Not right now.”

A pause. “I think we should.”

“Look…” She raised her eyes. A tear speckled.

He froze. A random thought, followed by a bare whisper: “Are you pregnant?”

“What?”

“The condom was old, but I didn’t think…”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, I’m not pregnant.” She took a deep breath, forced her lips to move. “I don’t think we should be together anymore.”

His heart stopped. His eyes went blurry. The din of the diner faded. All he could hear were those words, echoing like a gong in the back of his head. She hung her head low. His voice was dry; he suddenly felt parched: “Are… Are you serious?”

She nodded, looked up at him. “Yes.” Tears crawled down her cheeks.

“But… But last night… Just last night you said you could see us being together… forever. I don’t…”

“I’m sorry.”

“How can you go from saying that to saying… to saying this?”

“I was confused…”

“You were confused, so you sank your teeth right into my vulnerabilities?” His voice was rising, fueled by a malevolent concoction of desperation and anger.

“I feel horrible… I didn’t want to hurt you…”

Too fucking late for that
, he thought. “Why?”