Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (15 page)

I can’t quit smiling. I’m beaming ear-to-ear.

I feel like the luckiest boy in the world.

I’ve never felt like this before.

All I want to do is be with her.

Tears stream down his face. He chokes up.

Why are you doing this to yourself?

If I forget her, I forget everything.

You’re

killing

yourself.

I love her. I love her, and I will always love her.

He has written again in his journal:

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

73

MARCH 31, 2007

I have been spending much time with Kira. Ever since the beginning of February, when she invited me to go sledding with her and some friends, this girl and I have been hanging out nearly nonstop. I didn’t plan on falling for her. It just sort of happened. Both of us fell for one another, but both of us were afraid to tell the other person. A few nights ago we went to the Eden Park amphitheater, and lying out on a blanket under the stars, I asked her, “I wonder why both of us are afraid to admit what’s going on between us?” She said, “I don’t know.” The next day, she became my girlfriend.
Kira
. A wonderful name for a wonderful girl! I have been much happier as of late because, I believe, she is in my life. She’s funny, passionate, sensitive, has a wonderful personality, and I enjoy hanging out with her and spending time with her. She is adorable! Her eyes just suck me right in.

On April 9, 2007, he wrote in his journal:

She takes my breath away. She is my own precious little treasure, which I would sell all my possessions to attain. Every moment spent with her is fantastic, and when I don’t see her—even for just a day or two—it feels like an eternity. I can’t believe that I didn’t see how amazing she was before we met. Just peering into those wild blue and dove-like eyes takes my breath away; holding her hand as we drive down the interstate is mesmerizing; holding her close and smelling the sweet shampoo scent of her hair is breathtaking. Sitting in the park, walking around Newport, and everything else we do holds a sacred place within me. I look forward to classes just because she is in them. Wow. Seriously, this girl, one word: “Wow.”

He pours more Italian Spumante into the martini glass and lights another cigarette. He grabs the journal, quietly folds it up, and sets it down on the hardwood floor beside his bed. He crawls deeper into the corner, sitting atop his bed, and sips the Spumante as he smokes the BASIC FULL FLAVOR. He closes his eyes.
Why do you read those journals? It just makes you hurt more
. He downs the alcohol and begins setting his glass aside—only one drink a night—but instead he puts the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, grabs the warm SPUMANTE bottle, and pours himself another glass.
Another glass won’t
hurt. Just another glass
.

The Spumante is drained. He leans back, smoking. He feels lightheaded, happy, and he even laughs. He tosses the bottle against the wall; it cracks on impact, falls, shattered. Trickles of alcohol dribble out beside the Lee-Enfield stacked beside the shotgun. He laughs cheerily to himself and leans back on the bed, smoking. His heart flutters, but Kira is out of his mind, and that’s all that matters. He lies back and stares at the ceiling, watching the shadows flirt about the room in the flickering light of the Petromax. “Oh, Kira, I loved you. You know that, right? Oh, how I loved you! I’m sorry I had to kill you. I didn’t want to do it.” He breaks into laughter, leans onto his side, laughs harder. He can hear them outside, scrounging around, snarling. He doesn’t care. He snubs the cigarette out on the wall, stumbles from the bed, grabs a bottle of EverClear, screws off the lid. He staggers to the boarded up window, grabs the blanket, and rips it away. He peels back a piece of plywood; a splinter is lodged in his finger, but he doesn’t feel it. He takes a wild drink, bottom’s-up!, and downs several gulps. He leans out the window, screams, “Fuckers! Fuckers!” There Anthony Barnhart

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74

are none in the backyard. The moon is full and shining down on the quiet city. He can hear their howls. “Fuckers!” he shouts again. “Fuckers!”

A head pops up beside the fence, twin eyes staring at him, glinting in the moonlight.

“Hah! Fucker! Fucker!” He laughs hysterically. “Fucker! Fucker!” The word is filled with poisonous laughter. The eye stares at him. “Fucker!” he hollers again. Twin hands caress the top of the fence, and in the next moment the creature is pulling itself up. The man watches, eyes suddenly wide. “No!” he shouts. “No! Get back! Get back!”

The figure topples over the fence, into the dry grass. It stumbles to its feet, stares right at him. The man ducks away from the window. The EverClear bottle slides from his hand, lands dully on the floor. Alcohol pours out. He takes several deep breaths, shaking. He peers back out the window. He doesn’t see the figure. It must have gone back over—No. There it is. In the shadows in the far corner.

By Kira’s grave
.

The figure hunkers down, hands brushing over the headstone.

Kira’s name is engraved onto the tombstone. It took him a while to do it. The figure looks up at the man.

“Stop it!” he shouts. His voice is painfully loud. “Get the fuck outta here!”

The figure watches him, inquisitive.

Then it looks away, down at the fresh soil of Kira’s grave.

And it starts to dig.

He can only watch, heart frozen in fear: it feels as if his chest is encased in ice. Two more have joined the lone creature.

Their hands spray dirt to the side as they dig madly and cruelly.
Like animals
.

Their hands flash in the moonlight, and they growl and hiss at one another.
Monsters
.

The man stumbles away from the window, runs a hand through his greasy, matted hair.
Kira.
Kira. Kira. Kira
. He rushes over to the far wall, nearly tripping over the corner of the bed. He snatches the Lee-Enfield British rifle and rushes over to the window. He numbly makes sure the magazine is loaded and thrusts the long barrel out the window. Tears cascade down his face as he wraps his finger around the trigger. The gun-blast echoes in the small room, bounces off the hills. His ears burn. The bullet tears into the ramshackle wooden fence, spitting splinters. He curses and fires again. The gun swings madly, and the bullet disappears towards the city. Another curse.
You drunken ass
. He tries to aim, but he can barely keep his balance. The next shot ripples past the ear of one of the darkwalkers. The creature’s ear perks up, it looks warily at the man in the upper window, then resumes digging. The others show no reaction. The man screams insults and fires several more rounds. None reach their target. He loads another magazine and fires again. The next bullet slaps into the shoulder of one of the newcomers. A spurt of blood drapes over Kira’s disturbed grave. The creature snarls and stands, begins walking towards the house, blood flowing from the wound. A maniacal smile crosses the man’s lips. “Come here, you
fucker
!” he curses under his breath. Another bullet, this one into the creature’s knee.

The creature stumbles, falls. It lies in the grass for a moment, tries to stand, collapses. The man aims again.

It tries to stand, but the next bullet smashes into the back of its skull. The creature lies still, blood gushing in a small fountain from its fractured head. Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

75

The others give no attention to their fallen comrade. Piles of dirt are hastily thrown to the side. They dig like wild animals, hyenas, jackals. One of them laughs hysterically, reaches into the shadowshrouded grave. The other moves in front of the man’s view. The man begins reloading another magazine.

The creatures are tumbling over one another.

The one blocking his view moves to the side.

They are dragging out her body.

He sees the tattered sheets in which he had wrapped her. An arm falls limp, stained with dirt and rot. The man fires. The bullet arcs through the air, doesn’t connect. He fires again. The creatures are dragging her body towards the fence.

You’re going to lose her.

You drunken fool, you’re going to lose her.

And it’s all your fault
.

He is wildly shaking as another round cuts through the air.

This bullet hits one of the creatures in the chest. The creature lets out a howl of pain and drops the body. The other looks back at the window, shrieks. The wounded creature bends down, grabs Kira’s arm, pulls. There is a ripping, sucking sound, and the figure stumbles backwards, trips over one of the oak’s old roots, and falls onto its back, Kira’s arm in his hand. He scrambles to his feet. The man shouts insanities and fires again. The bullet splashes at the figure’s feet. The other figure grabs Kira’s head and twists. The head pops off.

The man turns around, dizzy, lightheaded. He bends over and vomits.
Kira. Kira. Kira.

He turns back to the window, sticks the rifle out between two plywood boards. The figure with the head is already scaling the fence.

The other is right behind it.

Moonlight falls upon the arm in its hands. Something glints.

The man feels a horror like nothing else.
The engagement ring.

He rushes out of the room, leaving the rifle, and runs down the hall. The ladder is lying on the floor. He doesn’t think as he throws himself off the top of the destroyed staircase. He falls and lands hard amidst broken boards and torn carpet. His ankles scream. He rolls onto his side, coughs. The MosinNagant is beside the back door. He picks it up without checking to see if the magazine is registered. He pulls back the iron bar and wrenches open the door, rushing out onto the patio. He is standing in the backyard. Kira’s remains are tattered and torn, lying abandoned. The figure with the arm is beginning to climb the fence. It looks back, sees the man, begins to climb faster, Kira’s arm in hand. The man shouts, raises the gun, pulls the trigger.

Click
.

He looks down at the gun, mortified. It isn’t loaded.

The figure is almost over the fence.

The man swears, tosses the gun aside, and runs towards the fence. The creature’s legs are dangling when he reaches the fence. He reaches up, grabs at one of the feet. The figure kicks madly, and its dirt-smothered foot connects with the man’s jaw. He tumbles back and falls onto the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He coughs, staring up at the clear sky, the moon lazily throbbing with reflected sunlight.

Anthony Barnhart

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He scrambles to his feet and leaps up, grabbing the fence with his hands. He pulls himself up. His eyes pass the top of the fence, and he sees fifteen or twenty of the creatures mingling about in the ruins of the burnt-down house. Several are fighting over Kira’s remains. He watches as her arm is snatched back-and-forth between the monsters, and he loses it as he sees one of the animals bite into what had once been Kira’s cheek. A bloated piece of flesh hangs from the woman’s mouth. The man loses his grip and falls, landing hard.

He turns onto his side and gets to his feet, running for the gate fence.
Don’t do this
, his mind screams.
Don’t do this
.

He refuses to listen.

Don’t do this
.

He hears something behind him.

He spins around. One of the creatures has toppled over the fence. Its eyes dart between the man and Kira’s desecrated corpse.

It lets out a scream and charges, running after the man.

The man turns and sprints towards the back door. He throws himself inside, slips on the linoleum in the kitchen, falls. He rolls onto his back just as the creature hurls itself in at him. He rolls away, into the counter. The figure slides over the tiled floor and slams into the lifeless refrigerator. It topples to the ground. The man wrenches open a drawer filled with cutting knifes, grabs one, and throws himself onto the creature. The creature bites and snaps in rage, but the man’s rage is greater: he screams obscenities over and over, the house shaking with his cries, as he drives the blade of the knife into the creature’s face. Blood pours over his hand, and he wails and pants even after the assailant has gone limp.

He then staggers back, the figure’s face a mask of torn flesh and blood. He leans against the refrigerator, heart pounding, head searing, lungs heaving. The last thing he remembers is crawling towards the door, sliding it shut, and bringing down the iron bar just as more infected clamber over the fence and begin to fight over Kira’s remains.

V

The city of Cincinnati was spread out before them. The trees ripe with spring leaves swayed back and forth in the calm breeze, and the moon smiled upon their infatuation. He held her in his arms as they sat upon the blanket. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair. She turned, looked at him, eyes seductive and yet reassuring:
“You are safe with me,”
she seemed to say. They began to kiss. Quietly. Gently. And then more passionate. Their lips danced and entwined. He sucked on her lip, then moved to her neck, wonderfully nibbling. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight.

She pulled away, pressed her forehead against his, their noses touching, her eyes sparkling. “No one’s around. We can do it, if you want.”

Her offer, so tempting. “I don’t want you to think that I’m like the other boys.”

“I don’t think that,” she said. “You’ve already proven you’re not like all the others.”

They continued to kiss.

She begged him. “Please? I can show you so much.”

His mouth went dry at the idea. “I want to… I really do… But I don’t want you to hurt.”

She ran a finger across her cheek. “I know you’re not like the others.”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

77

He grinned, kissed her.

She began to rub his groin. He could feel her hand through his pants. The pleasure…

He could not control himself. The desire… Too great. He rubbed her slender legs. She squeezed her legs tight around his hand. It felt so warm between her legs. The rough jean fabric sent shivers through his hand.