Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (73 page)

Tears began to crawl down Carla’s face. The girl that had been feasting on Adrian stood and approached her. The oil-lamp sitting in the corner cast light over her face: the eyes that read NO

VACANCY, the robust lips encircled with a mesh of blood, the freckles that were not really freckles but spots of splattered blood from some earlier victim. Carla shook her head, begging for mercy. A wicked smile spread over the zombie’s face, and the girl gripped Carla’s shoulders. Carla’s chest heaved with sobs growing in intensity. Thrill sketched over the girl’s face, and she tore the fabric of Carla’s shirt at the shoulder, revealing her bare skin. The creature pressed up against Carla, and the tongue—warm with Adrian’s blood—flickered over Carla’s cheeks, tasting her salty tears. Carla closed her eyes, began to beg louder; the zombie traced its tongue down the side of her cheek, to her neck, and Carla began shaking madly in her chains, screams echoing throughout the room, as the girl sank her teeth into her neck.

Kyle couldn’t hold the door much longer, even with the man’s help. Sarah stood at the railing, watching the zombies. There were not so many now, most having entered the church. The ones that had swarmed upon the dark-walker that had fallen from the roof had now departed; all that remained were scattered body parts, bones hewn of flesh, the grass stained ruby-red. She ran along the side of the railing, and she came to a spot on the roof that dropped five feet to a lower tin roof.
The garage
.

She turned and yelled at the others, told her their idea. They refused to accept it. She cursed, began crawling over the railing. She dropped down onto the roof, the thin aluminum roofing denting under her weight. It was slippery from the earlier rainfall, and she grabbed at the edges of the tin plates to keep from sliding off. She maneuvered herself to the edge and looked down: a ten-foot drop. No zombies had come to that side of the church. She swung her legs over the edge and swung them back and forth until her feet connected with the glass window, which shattered under the impact. She tried to figure out how to get into the tall window when the tin roof shuddered. She looked up to see Kyle and the man dropping from the railing; Kyle shouted, “Run!”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

337

She cursed and released her taught fingers from the edge of the roof; she fell, grasping at the air; a scream escaped her lips as her palms gripped the bottom edge of the shattered window, glass shards digging into her flesh. She grimaced, fighting the pain, and crawled into the window, submerged in the darkness. She dropped down onto a wooden bench laden with tools, felt splinters digging into her fingers. She hopped down onto the pavement of the garage, and in the moonlight coming through the window, she raised her hands and could see blood surrounding the deep tears and punctures from the glass. The moonlight was blocked, and the man entered through the window, followed by Kyle.

The cigarette’s ember had nearly reached the filter. Mark dropped it to the ground and crunched it underneath his shoe. He could hear the dark-walkers outside the door, in the hallway, scurrying around. He knelt down at the foot of the cot and felt around in the darkness. He lifted the small digital watch to his face, pressed the button that made it glow. 9:16 P.M. He did the math in his head:
Nearly eight or nine hours until daylight
. “Shit.” He immediately regretted speaking; he heard the scurrying in the hallway cease, and in the next moment the door handle twisted. The doorframe rattled against the lock. A howl came from the other side of the door.
He’s communicating with the
others
. The thought chilled him.

He climbed on top of the cot and reached for the window. He undid the latch as the zombies began throwing themselves against the door. He pulled himself through, and his legs banged against the frame just as the door burst open, the barricade of cots thrown to the side. The zombies burst into the room to see the boy’s tennis-shoes disappearing through the window. Their screams of rage carried out into the night as Mark landed in the grass.

He picked himself up and began running towards the fence. Several zombies huddled along the edge of the church, and they took off after him. Adrenalin surged through his veins, his leg muscles working like those of a race-horse; he jumped atop of a large stone near the fence and leapt through the air, grabbing the crisscrossing iron links. He began to climb as the zombies hit the fence beneath him. One reached up and grabbed his sneaker. He looked down, cursed, kicked his heel into the zombie’s face, drawing blood along the crest of its nose. Mark continued to climb, reaching the top. He ignored the barbed-wire, cutting up his hands and arms and chest as he pulled himself over the edge. His shirt ripped as he released the chain-links.

He hit the ground hard on the other side and rolled through the thick grass, the blades slicing into his arm. He crossed the empty street, nearing a stone building. He glanced up either side of the street, saw some movement to his right, several dark-walkers moving about in the shadows, coming towards him. He cursed and darted into an alleyway lined with dumpsters and corroded cardboard boxes soggy from the day’s rain. The brick wills of the buildings closed in on either side; a window above shattered, and he glanced up, dodging falling glass, to see a zombie reaching out towards him, face open in an angry shriek.

He looked behind him, and in the shafts of moonlight cutting over the narrow rooftops and dappling into the rustic alleyway, he could see zombies following him into the narrow straight. Ahead was a large stone wall covered with faded graffiti.
Fuck!
He spun around on his heels. The zombies bumped into one another in their pursuit. He glanced down and saw a sewer manhole cover. He knelt down and gripped the handle. The adrenaline in his system gave him super-strength, and he was able to lift the manhole cover. He crawled inside, feet finding the rungs of a metal ladder. He dropped down several rungs and pulled the cover back over the manhole. He heard the zombies only inches above him, shouting and shrieking, clawing at the cover, insane with rage. Mark clung to the ladder, submerged in total, pitch-blackness.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

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His chest heaved in broken breaths.

He suddenly felt so weak.

Katie moved much slower now, the noises of the ungodly feast growing louder in her ears. She reached a fork in the staircase. She moved to the right, towards the friar’s office. The staircase spiraled, and she stepped over several more bodies. Her foot plunged into the bowels of a man whose abdomen had been ripped open. She muffled a shriek and stumbled against the wall, jerking her foot from the mush; his small intestines had coiled around her ankle, and she put a finger into her mouth and bit down hard to keep from screaming. Chills danced up her spine as she shook the entrails from her shoe. She gathered her composure and crept back down the stairs, unwilling to go any further.

The desk against the wall had kept them from getting inside, but now they lunged over the furniture, having totally shattered the upper portion of the door. They were all women, much to Harker’s surprise. He pressed his back up against a bookcase, knocking several Catholic liturgical encyclopedias to the floor. The zombies surrounded him in a half-circle. He gripped a metal lamp in his hand, having torn off the lamp’s concentric cover. He waved it in front of them, threatening any who drew close. He knew his end had come, but a certain peace was felt in that he could take a few with him. The female zombies glanced between one another, as if asking, “Who shall go first?” But Harker’s concentration fell; for in the darkness, moving between the legs of the dark-walkers, he saw his beautiful angel. She skipped around their legs, her flower skirt swaying around her dainty feet in pearl Sunday School high-heels. In her hand was a basket filled with Easter eggs, and she giggled as she watched her father. A smile crossed Harker’s face, and the lamp-post fell from his hand, clattering onto the floor. The zombies grinned in unison; they took a slow step, and they launched forward, grabbing Harker and hurling him to the ground. He landed on his side, and he could see his daughter sitting on the desk, swinging her legs, begging her daddy to come home. He didn’t even feel pain—only the warm rush of blood crawling down his neck—as the zombies began their victorious feast.

Mark descended the ladder in the shadows. The ladder abruptly ended; he looked down towards his feet but could see nothing. He took a deep breath and released his grip from the ladder. He fell several feet, let out a shout as his body was sucked into a deep vat of water. He was submerged, and he fought for the surface. He erupted from the murky water, spitting grime and mire from his mouth. Several grated manhole covers lined the length of the sewer, and moonlight filtered down. Mark waded through the filth, pushing away bits of trash from the days when mankind ruled in civilized form. He did the math in his head, managed to figure out which way went north, and he began moving in that direction. He continued his sluggish, cautious pace until he heard splashing coming from behind him. He turned and stared into the darkness, the pillars of moonlight splicing into the water at distant intervals. He heard the sound of rippling water, and nearly two hundred feet down the sewer, a shaft of moonlight illuminated the eyes of a dark-walker. The creature paused, let out a shriek, and began to move quicker through the water. Mark spun on his heels and tried to run, but the water formed a barrier against his legs. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He remembered something Rachel had told him a long time ago:
They can’t cross the Ohio River. I’ve always been a fan of the idea of just
getting a houseboat and floating along. If it weren’t for raiders prowling the waters, I’d be doing it right now
. Mark let his feet fall from underneath him, and he dove into the water, swimming furiously.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

339

∑Ω∑

Mark sets the shovel in the moist grass. He and Sarah stand side-by-side, staring at the crude grave. They both know that it is not worth it: the dark-walkers will just dig her up. In the morning, both are sure, there will be nothing here but strewn dirt and an empty hole, perhaps a gnawed femur or some discarded cartilage. They stand together, watching the sun rising to the east, over the rooftops of the squat rural-style homes. The subdivision at one time would have been wonderfully nice, with frontlawn gardens and street-lights at every block. There is a wooden fence propped against the back of the house’s lawn; Mark walks over and pulls himself up. A swimming pool, long green with algae and littered with clumps of dead weeds. There is a swing-set, the plastic swings with their chains creaking in a stale wind. He drops back down to the ground. Sarah is behind him.

“You should get a change of clothes,” Sarah says.

“What?” Mark asks.

“You smell. You smell… No offense, but you smell like shit.”

“Oh,” Mark says. “Well. I
was
in a sewer.”

Her eyes open in shock. “How the hell did you end up in the sewer?”

He walks past her, towards the house. “I’ll find a change of clothes.”

Sarah turns on her heels. “And disinfect those cuts!”

“I will,” he calls back, aware of the soreness from the barbed-wire.

“They’ll get infected! Especially since you were in the sewer!”

“I’ll disinfect them,” Mark promises, and he reenters the house.

Mark finds Katie and Anthony standing in the kitchen.

“You cleaned it up,” Mark says.

Anthony nods. “Yeah.”

“Who lived here?” Mark asks, walking to the refrigerator, looking for pictures.

“Does it matter?” Anthony asks.

“It does right now.”

Katie says, “I saw pictures in the living room. It’s a man and a wife.”

“It
was
a man and a wife,” Anthony corrects. “They’re not here anymore.”

“Good,” Mark says. “I’m going to change some clothes.”

Anthony leaps forward. “You’re going to wear their clothes?”

Mark eyes him, standing at the entrance of the hallway. “Yeah. Why?”

“Isn’t that… sacrilegious… or something?”

Katie glares at him. “I thought it didn’t matter?”

“We can debate ethics later,” Mark says, moving down the hallway and towards the bedrooms. He spins on his heels, holds up a finger. “One more thing: find me some antiseptic, could you?

Maybe some hydrogen peroxide or something?”

“All they have is soap,” Katie says.

“Soap…” He thinks for a moment. “Soap will work.” He looks over at Anthony. “And you need to get a bath. You’re covered in blood. There’s no water in the pumps, obviously, but there’s a swimming pool behind the neighbor’s house, out back. Kinda murky, but it’ll work. And let the others know in case they want to bathe.”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

340

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

341

Chapter Twenty-Three

They Own the Night

“Oh, Death, rock me asleep!

Bring me to quiet and rest.

Let me pass my weary, guiltless life

out of my careful breast.

Toll on the passing bell, ring out for my doleful knell;

Let thy sound by Death tell;

Death doth draw me, Death doth draw me;

There is no remedy.

- Anne Boleyn (A.D. 1501-1536)

Anthony reached the fence, having descended the steep hill. He quickly began to climb, thanking God that no dark-walkers accosted him from around the opposite side of the church building. His shirt received only a few tears from the curled barbed wire at the top of the fence, and he climbed down the other side of the fence, reaching the pavement. He made his way across the street, keeping low in the darkness. He reached the overhang of a MISS PETUNIA’S FLOWER SHOP. He grabbed the front door’s handle, twisted the knob, pushed the door open. He glanced over his shoulder, and across the street and up the hill, he could see dark-walkers moving about behind the windows, their silhouettes cast by the burning candles. He entered the flower shop and shut the door. Moonlight came through several dusty windows. He moved past the cash register, which was strewn with cobwebs. Several pots sat stacked in aisles along the wall. Bags of fertilizers. Pesticide. Racks of flower seeds. He could barely read the seed labels in the darkness: AMARYLLIS, SNAPDRAGON, QUEEN