Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (22 page)

His hand slides over the frigid wooden banister as he creeps up the carpeted steps. The carpet muffles his movement. He reaches the landing and walks ever-so-quietly towards the door leading to Cara’s room. There he sees the boy standing, with his back to the hallway, just staring at the bunkbed. The boy feels the man’s presence behind him, but he doesn’t turn. He simply stares at the bed and says, “We held one another naked on that bed. It was my first time. I’d never had sex before. She had, but I hadn’t. And we had talked about having sex. We wanted to wait for the right time. And that right time presented itself here. On this bed. We held one another.” A tear trickles down his cheek. “I thought… I knew… that we would be together for the rest of our lives. But life never works out the way you want it to, you know?”

“I know,” the man says. “Why don’t we go back downstairs.”

“I want to stay here.” He moves into the room, stepping over folders and binders and books and strewn clothes. He places his hand on the polished wooden frame of the bunk-bed. A stuffed turtle from the Disney movie FINDING NEMO slides off the top bunk and hits the floor. The boy bends down and picks it up. “I bought this for her on our one-month. She loved Disney. I always made fun of her for it. So we went to the Disney store in the Florence Mall, in Kentucky, and I bought this for her. She loved it.”

“We should go downstairs.”

“I wasn’t the best boyfriend. Sometimes I was selfish. A lot of the time I was selfish. But I cared for her so much. How can I tell her that now? How can I apologize for all the misplaced words, the Anthony Barnhart

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foul deeds, the way I sometimes made her cry because of my insensitivity? I’m not a bad person. I made mistakes. But the worst part isn’t the mistakes I made, but how I always refused to admit them, always attempted to explain them away. So that they weren’t mistakes anymore. I’ve thought about that a lot. Ever since all of this happened. I’ve thought about how I could have been different. I’ve thought about how I could have apologized. I just wish… There’s no closure.”

The man steps into the room. “We need to get some sleep.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the boy says. “Nothing matters anymore.”

“Mark…” His voice trails off.

Mark heard it, too.

They just look at one another.

The man reaches down to his side. Neither the gun or its holster is on his belt. Mark’s eyes go wide with another sound from below. Movement. “That’s her!” he exclaims. The man can only think about his gun. It’s downstairs.
Fuck
. The boy suddenly launches forward, screaming Cara’s name. The man is too surprised by Mark’s movements to intercept him; he tries, but he misses, and he stumbles against the dresser, knocking over picture-frames. He spins around to see Mark disappearing around the corner, into the hallway. He can hear Mark racing down the steps, taking them two at a time.

The steps creak underneath as he races down to the lower landing. He spins around and faces the kitchen. He sees Mark standing with his back to the far wall, staring into the living area with the lowburning coals. The man sprints up next to Mark, follows his gaze. In the semi-darkness amongst the wan flickers from the dying fire, a single figure can be seen standing beside the downstairs door to the back porch, glass shattered and lying all over the carpet. The man recognizes the torn face of the figure from the pictures found in the book-bag. Mark and the man are rooted in place, the boy frozen by shock and the man by fear, and the dark-walker stares at them with burning, bloodshot eyes. She sucks breaths in shallow gasps, her chest moving in and out. She is wearing absolutely nothing, and her body is covered with scars, some still bleeding. An image flashes before the man: Mark, naked, and she, the same, wrapped tight, kissing, exchanging sweet pillow talk as they are lost in one another’s warm and liquidating embrace. Now she stands, just as naked, but no longer beautiful, no longer a pleasure to behold, but a demon, bloodied and battered, and filled with an unidentifiable rage. She is a monster in disguise, a beast donning the costume of what had once been unscarred beauty.

“Cara…” Mark breathes, stepping forward, reaching out.

The man grabs his shoulder, squeezes, whispers, “Don’t move.”

His heart hammers in his chest.

Cara just watches, as if confused. Her eyes blink.

Mark cannot tear his eyes off her decrepit and malnourished form.

“Mark…” the man says. “Mark…”

“Cara,” Mark says. “It’s me.”

Suddenly the boy breaks free from the man’s grasp and runs after the girl. The man curses, ducks into the kitchen, nabs the pistol from the counter. He switches the safety to OFF as he swings back into the room. Mark’s arms are open wide as he is nearly upon her; and suddenly a switch flips, and the passivity in Cara becomes malevolent rage, and she responds, lurching forward; Mark gives out a shout; she grabs him roughly, spins him around, and hurls him onto the sofa where they would often cuddle and watch movies like THE 40-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN and THE BREAK UP. Mark tries to defend himself as Cara tries to tear him open; her sharp nails tear deep Anthony Barnhart

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gashes over his arms and hands as he shouts—”Cara, it’s me! It’s me! It’s me, your boyfriend! Cara!”

The man swings the gun back and forth, trying to get a shot. His heart is bleeding adrenaline and sweat burns his eyes; he doesn’t dare blink. Mark’s shouts continue. The man draws a deep breath, holds still, aims… “Cara!” Mark shouts. “Cara!” Tears stream down his face as blood crawls down his arms. The girl snarls, foam dripping from her mouth; she seems to be a rabid beast. “Cara!” the boy screams.

The gunshot rings out, shaking the house.

The back of Cara’s head explodes. Blood sprays in an arc, splattering like wild paint upon the walls and even upon the ceiling. Her body hovers as if frozen in space and time. And then she falls upon Mark, heavier than an anvil, her blood staining his chest.

The man rushes forward, grabs the corpse by the arm, and pulls it onto the floor. Mark’s eyes are wide, his lips quivering. He seems maniacal and deranged.

How does one cope with such a fate?

The man reaches down to help the boy to his feet.

The boy’s eyes glaze over, and a demon stares up at him.

“You killed her,” the boy mutters, dazed. “You fucking killed her.”

What should the man say? Should he apologize? Should he defend himself?

He

says

nothing.

Mark’s mouth opens, contorted as if stricken by rigor mortis, and he launches off the sofa, throwing himself at the man. He becomes a whirlwind of arms and hands and fingernails, blindly swinging and swiping at the man as bitter tears, a mixed wine of rage and sorrow, fall from his eyes like melting wax. The man does not fight back; he holds the boy at bay, lets the boy struggle, lets him seek sweet revenge; but then the boy becomes weak, and he collapses, and he clutches to the man’s sleeves as he weeps, “I loved her… I loved her… I loved her…”

The man only says, “I know.”

The boy cries some more. The man feels his weight pulling him down. The man suddenly feels weary, exhausted, absolutely drained.

The boy is now on the floor, curling into a fetal position, weeping.

Cara’s corpse with lifeless eyes stares like some medieval manikin. The man’s heart skips a pulse with a sudden intake of breath. “Did you hear that?”

Mark doesn’t answer.

“Wait here,” the man says. He walks back into the kitchen, into the family room strewn with boxes. He pulls back the heavy drapes over the window and peers out. The rains have stopped, and a stiff moonlight sparkles on the wet grass. The gravel drive leads up to the road, where he can see dozens of scattered and shifting shapes. They meander together, and then they grow still. The man bites his lip, trying to understand if what he is seeing really exists, or if it is some kind of horrid mirage. And then he knows it is no mirage, for he, too, hears it: the figures on the road arc their necks and open their mouths and cry into the night. Under the pale moonlight, they slowly shift until they are facing the house—orderly, with precision and tact, not like dumb brutes, not like cattle, but with elegance like that of swans or geese—and then they begin to run, straight for the house.

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III

The man wheels into the living room. “Mark!” He reaches down, grabs Mark by the arm, tears him onto his feet. Mark yanks away, eyes wild and bloodshot. A slur of obscenities escapes his mouth, and he tries to deliver a punch into the man’s face. The man dodges, grabs the boy’s arm, twists it; the boy lets out a shout and tumbles into the man’s chest; the man grips him tight, holds him from escape. The boy thrashes and fights. The man squeezes him tight. “Listen,” he growls. “Listen.” The boy draws a deep breath, arms roaring with exhaustion, and then he hears it, too: shouts and calls coming from the front of the house. They stand there, feet rooted to the ground, and then they hear scratching and clawing along all the outside of the home.

A sudden noise makes them jump; they spin around to see a dark-walker coming through the broken glass window, mouth wide and stained with fresh blood, eyes thirsting. The man shouts and tosses Mark to the side, raises the gun, squeezes the trigger. The bullet drills a clean hole through the elderly attacker, and the dark-walker slumps to the ground. Two more appear behind him; Mark is already running out of the room. The man raises the gun to fire but stops. The dark-walkers do not attack, but rather turn upon their fallen comrade. The man turns and nearly vomits as he rushes after Mark, hearing the sound of flesh being torn and innards greedily consumed. They sound like sharks in a feeding frenzy, thrashing and biting and fighting for superiority. The man finds Mark standing in front of the wooden front door. It shakes and shudders as darkwalkers throw their bodies against the heavy oak. The man thinks they can’t get in from there, but a hinge snaps, and the door bulges outwards, and hands reach through the narrow opening, swiping through the air as their owners snarl and bicker. Mark sprints up the stairwell. The man follows after. They reach the upper landing just as the door is broken off its hinges and the creatures swarm inside, several pursuing the uninfected up the stairwell. The man turns on the upper step and fires several rounds; two dark-walkers collapse with bullets in their chests, and another is hurled over the stairwell banister, landing hard below with a shriek. The man abandons them and runs after Mark, who is in Cara’s room. The man rushes inside, trips over a large stuffed Tigger from WINNIE-THEPOOH, and as he lands, the gun skitters from his hands, under the bed. He looks up to see Mark wedging his feet against the dresser and his back to the door, trying to hold it shut as dark-walkers beat on the other side like mad dogs. The dresser is sliding. A crack is opening in the door. The man scrambles to his feet and pushes against the dresser. The dresser rocks back and forth, and several books and framed pictures fall to the floor. But the man is not stronger than the dark-walkers behind the door, and the door continues to creak open. And then it is still.

Both the boy and the man are breathing harshly.

Dark-walkers can be heard below, tearing the house to pieces, searching. Mark’s eyes are wide, his chest thundering with each heartbeat. “Have they forgotten?”

Before the man can answer, the door splinters to Mark’s right and left, and a pair of hands reaches through, wrapping around his shoulders. Mark lets out a shout and tries to get away, but more hands reach through and grab at him. The door splinters around his legs, and they grab his calves with shredded fingers. The door heaves and sighs. The man abandons his post and looks around. The room spins. He wants to vomit. His eyes land upon what he is seeking. He rushes to the closet and kicks it open. Mark is screaming for him. He reaches inside, grabs the iron baseball bat. He runs over to the door and begins smashing the fingers of the dark-walkers. The hands around Mark’s shoulder wither away; he tries to flee, but the hands around his legs remain, and he topples to the ground. He kicks savagely, punching larger holes into the door, and his foot connects with the face of Anthony Barnhart

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a dark-walker. He shimmies away as the dark-walkers outside scream and rant, clawing at their bodies to eradicate the pain.

The man grabs the dresser, calls out for help. Mark joins him, and they shove the dresser against the door. They step away just as the dark-walkers return their incessant beatings. The door splinters some more, and the hinges are shorn; but the door refuses to budge with the dresser shoved against it.

The man and the boy exchange glances.

“It won’t hold forever,” Mark says, drawing deep breaths.

The man nods, biting his lip. “My gun…” He ducks down and scurries underneath the bed. There is too much junk, and the darkness doesn’t aid his cause. “Fuck,” he murmurs, cobwebs sticking to his cheek. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The boy just stares at the door. “Did you find the gun?”

“I’m looking for it. There’s too much shit down here.”

“You need to find the gun.”

“I know.”

“They’re going to get in. The door won’t—”

“Damn it, Mark, I know!” Then, “Fuck!” He shimmies out. “Fuck the gun.”

“Fuck the gun?!”

“I can’t find it!”

“What do you mean you can’t find it?!”

“There’s too much shit down there and I can’t see a damn—”

The dresser suddenly thrusts away from the door, knocking Mark backwards; he stumbles over strewn clothes and falls against the window, and he collapses through, out of the room. The man shouts, tumbling after him; he looks out the window and sees Mark on the porch overhang, gripping the roof tiles, legs dangling down, eyes wide, mortified. The man looks back to the door. The dresser moves again. One of the dark-walkers is trying to squeeze through a crack in the door. The man curses under his breath and crawls out through the window. On the overhang, he kneels down, grabs the boy’s hands, pulls him up. Just as the boy is on the porch roof, several dark-walkers appear below, in the grass, leaping up, snapping their jaws.