The Darkening

By Chris Sarantopoulos

Don't fear the dark. Fear the light.

The end came when light changed. It decimated humanity, leaving scattered bands of survivors stumbling in the dark.

Faced with saving himself or his family during the apocalypse, John Piscus made the wrong choice, and has been living with the guilt ever since.

When a glowing girl shows up at John's shelter begging for help, his instincts tell him to kill her. After all, light kills.

But when masked troopers tasked with capturing survivors come after them, it's up to John to protect himself and the girl. Not only may she hold the key to reversing the lethal effects of light, she could also be the one who can save his soul.

If you love dark settings and characters faced with tough choices that result in horrific and sinister outcomes, don't miss this post-apocalyptic horror read.

Discover the dangers in the world of The Darkening today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Sarantopoulos
• Release date: Oct 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9786180002225

Book preview

Chris Sarantopoulos

Copyright © 2018 Chris Sarantopoulos.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Request, at the address below.

ISBN: 978-618-00-0218-8 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-618-00-0222-5 (E-Book)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Front cover image by DreamIn Digital Dreams.

Book design by DreamIn Digital Dreams.

First printing edition 2018.

Chris Sarantopoulos

Unit F, Winston Business Park

Churchill Way 38738

Sheffield

United Kingdom

https://csarantopoulos.eu

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To Suzana and Lefteris

CHAPTER 1

In the end, everyone died no matter what they did, be it an injury, starvation, Raiders, or the light.

The dog upstairs had been barking for several minutes. Warning. John Piscus stood motionless in the dark basement, unable to pierce the darkness.

He cursed and clawed at the burning sensation the scars on his arm had left after the nightmare. He brought the creased photograph to his lips and kissed it. I’ll see you soon, Baby Bear, he whispered. You too, honey. I’ll be ready for your judgement in the afterlife. He put it in his pocket and brought the lighter out. His hand was shaking and was slick with sweat. Maybe even tonight. But not without a fight first. He nodded his head a fraction and steadied his shaking hand. Not without a fight. He flipped the lighter’s lid open.

He didn’t want to die, but if he were to meet death tonight, he would take as many Raiders with him as he could.

The derelict house groaned and creaked as it settled its beams and walls in a more comfortable position against the wind, and just like it, the visage of John’s family drained away, the soporific effect dissipating.

The dog continued barking. Raiders, no doubt. They were cowards, but savage nonetheless. They’d leave him alone once they realised he was carrying light. And if they risked to call his bluff … He patted his knife. He would not go down so easily.

Sweat stung his eye. He blinked it away and tried in vain to put some moisture at the back of his throat. The dog fell silent. What was happening up there? He should risk the world above, risk asking Robert for help. If the dog chased someone away, then it must be night outside, as safe a time as it could ever get for a survivor.

You know, you could always starve to death, the condemning and strident male voice in his head said. It may not be as grand or as satisfying as seeing you torn to shreds, but it’ll do.

Be the man you’ve always been. Whatever it takes, Johnny. Don’t give up, the wheezy and almost phlegmy man’s voice rattled in his brain.

John scoffed and cursed at his madness. The voices would leave him alone once he died. That was something to look forward to.

He followed the memorised path leading to the staircase and the world above. One, two, three steps forward, then two steps right, and then straight until the wooden beam. From there, six steps to the bottom of the staircase.

His hand brushed against the cool brick wall, and a critter, a roach or a maggot, perhaps, made its way up his arm. He flicked it away.

Stupid!

He snatched after it. What would he eat if he found no food? Where did it go? He fell on his knees, frantically clapped the floor with his hands left and right. He could almost hear it, almost see it from within the shadows mocking and taunting him, wiggling its antennae at him, a sign of superiority not only for the dark basement but for the world above.

Damn it.

It crawled near his slosh bucket, tiny feet scraping the floor, and that put an end to his hunt. There were limits John was unwilling to cross. For the time being, at least.

Lucky bastards.

Don’t blame them, the condemning voice said. People like you were the true pests on this planet.

Damn voices. Leave me alone.

He climbed the stairs carefully with the flameless lighter held before him, until his other hand traced the wooden door. His heart quickened in his chest, and sweaty dew formed that turned the skin where his brows met slightly cooler.

I bet there’s light behind it, murderer. I want to see you dead, crawling for mercy, like the worm you are.

He unfastened the bolts securing the basement and opened the door no more than a crack. He put the lighter in his mouth, took the mirror fragment out of his back pocket, and peeked at the world beyond. It was night, and the hallway appeared empty.

He stepped outside and inhaled deeply. Behind him, a foul stench—sweat and excrement—wafted out of the basement. It was hard to ignore it now that fresh air coming through the smashed ground floor window touched his nose. The night’s chill swept through his crusty rags, and made the hairs on his body stand, as if they, too, hungered for it. He ran his hand across the wall. Paint flakes peeled off, and at places, the mortar between the bricks scraped his fingers. The wooden floorboards creaked and bent under his weight, and year-old broken glass crunched under his feet.

Moonlight barely outlined things. A curtain—no more than a rag, threadbare, dirt-stained—swayed from the shattered window ahead. A tilted picture frame remained nailed on the opposite wall, perhaps something the previous owners of the house found interesting.

When he reached the front door and turned the handle, a small laugh escaped him; there was no door in the world able to offer enough protection. From animals, perhaps. From Raiders, doubtful. From light? Starvation?

No.

He closed the lighter’s lid and opened the door. The growl from near his feet and the pair of glimmering eyes startled him. Hey. You’re not going to come at me again, are you? he said. He swallowed, reached out his hand to ruffle the dog’s head, hesitated, and then scratched it behind the ears.

Its eyes remained nailed on John. That dog could have easily had him for dinner, and given its temper, that was probably what happened to its former master.

The dog sniffed John’s left leg, and John stopped petting it.

You up for another round from last night’s fight, huh? I told you, you can’t have my leg, and I did apologise for disturbing you while you were gnawing on that bone. You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to share some of your food with me. Or at least stop seeing me as a walking meal. He stood up. So, another death-free sunshine for you, huh? John coughed and wheezed as if he were trying to dislodge something from his lungs.

It’s you who should be dead, the condemning voice said, and chilled his bones.

John clenched his fists. They were not real, he reminded himself. Survival instincts and guilt manifested them, nothing more. Death was real. And his madness. Oh yes, he had little doubt about his madness.

Who were you barking at earlier? he asked the dog, and scanned the dark world around him.

Everything the wind touched came to life. The metal swing to his right squeaked rhythmically. Trees and bushes around his shelter rustled. The house gave voice to the wind as it entered through its numerous cracks.

The dog remained calm but kept its eyes alert and its nose against the wind. If only John were like it and spotted the enemy beforehand. If Raiders waited for him, he wouldn’t know until it was too late. More than once, the dog had proved a formidable adversary to most threats, but there was always the possibility a band of Raiders hid in the bushes or lurked in the darkness, and the dog would simply refuse to acknowledge them, mostly out of spite for John. Still, if Raiders were near the house, the dog’s hair should have bristled. Were you barking to wake me up or warn me about something?

The dog didn’t reply, but merely sniffed his knee and licked its muzzle.

He put the lighter away but kept the knife Robert had gifted him just in case the dog wanted to see what John tasted like. His other hand coiled around the baton’s grip at the other side of his belt.

John dragged his feet on the three porch steps and crossed part of the thigh-high weeded garden. Myriads of twinkling lights dotted the sky above. To his left, a crescent moon was a few degrees over the horizon. He raised his chin towards it. You wouldn’t change on me without notice, would you? The moon didn’t reply. He nodded and took in as much light as possible, stored it in the vacant slot of his memory for later use. The dog stared at him, tongue lolling, its head tilted with a puzzled expression on its face. What? John asked it. You can’t be too sure about these things. Moonlight may change without us knowing and kill what’s left of us.

He tried to recall things from before the Darkening, but once more, it resulted in headache and emptiness. It was better to think nothing existed before the Darkening. Less pain and guilt that way.

He eyed the horizon to the east. C’mon, boy. Still a few hours before dawn. When the death of humans woke.

John’s stomach grumbled, demanding attention. When was the last time he ate? A week ago? He did not want to eat another roach or worm, he did not. This was no life worth living.

Perhaps the dog will let you have some of its leftovers, you pathetic maggot. Some survivor you are, the wheezy voice said, and then laughed.

Shut up! John smacked himself on the head. Shut the hell up! He pressed his fingers on his temples hard enough for pain to flare. Maybe he could reach into his skull, yank both voices out, and squeeze the life out of them. Then he would be free. Free to die alone and in peace. He giggled. Oh yes, that would be excellent. He would finally have his head all to himself.

His feet ached by the time they reached what once was a highway, where the rusty husks of vehicles stood motionless, one crashed into the other, their tires long since sank under their weight in a sea of dry and struggling long-stemmed weeds. Inside them, the moon outlined the silhouettes of the remains of their owners—men, women, and children waiting for time to turn them to dust. The Darkening made no distinction on who it claimed, but he endured—the world’s most unfit person for survival. John snickered.

He paused and put both hands on his waist. Not a single shred of manmade light across the horizon. Robert had told him the highway led to a city somewhere to the southeast not far from here.

Whatever you do, stay away from there, Robert had said. You’ll end up in a cannibal’s stomach. John never felt the need to verify. Robert knew better. Robert knew everything.

John gazed to the south and then the east. Somewhere out there, a survivor like him scavenged for food. Raiders would loot his refuge and kill his family while he was out, if he was lucky enough to have survived with his family.

Lucky or unlucky?

Wouldn’t death be better than this? he wondered. Was it not better to have perished in the first moments of the Darkening than end up a cannibal’s dinner?

Pauline’s and Carol’s screams swelled inside his head.

No, it wasn’t. Not if it meant dying the way they did.

The dog halted by his side, sniffed the rugs and hollow plastic bottles and bags John used for shoes, and then sniffed at the metal rim of a car nearby and wet it. Look around you, dog. This is a testament of what the human race used to be. We owned this rock. He stumbled on a rusted piece of metal and then kicked it away. It clattered with a deafening sound in the stillness of night until it hit the hanging front bumper of a convertible crashed between a minivan and another passenger car. John dragged himself on a vehicle’s hood. Now we are forced to live like cockroaches and rats in caves. Master race. He snorted.

His eyes followed the dog. It was scratching the smudged window of a car, probably after the owner’s remains. It was enough to remember how hungry he was. How he would love to sink his teeth into something bigger than insects or maggots. Perhaps a well-aimed blow to the dog’s head with a rock would bring it down, enough to daze it, before John gave it the final blow. How long would it last him if he were prudent not to eat it fast? A week? But who would warn him of approaching Raiders, or a wildcat? There was little doubt the dog would have a go at him should prey became scarcer. John wiped drool from the corners of his mouth. The dog, as if sensing what John was contemplating, turned at him, growled, and padded off towards Robert’s place. John climbed down and followed.

Robert’s outer fence was a wall of thorny bushes strewn with spikes, bear traps, and anything else able to cripple a Raider party. Beyond that, closer to the house and barn, rose a barbwire fence.

John shivered and instinctively scratched the parallel scars on his right arm. Who or what had made them? When? Could it have been Robert? It was hard to believe that. Robert had helped when hopelessness overwhelmed him, not once but on multiple occasions. It was Robert who had found him half dead with no memories out in the wild. If not for him, John would have died, although whether his life was worth saving was still debatable.

He prodded the ground underneath the bush fence with a stick and waded through it. His tattered sleeve caught on a branch and came off with a loud rip as he pulled free. John called for the dog. No sign of it. Some help you are.

It won’t do you any good, Raider, a voice from behind him said.

Something smashed the back of his head and rattled his brain. Flashes of irregular light behind his eyes appeared, and in the few fractions of a second it took for his brain to register the event and the pain before it shut down completely, what was up went down.

*      *      *

See? He’s coming round, a distorted and stretched voice said. Not far. Dogs barked and growled nearby as if the devil himself had made the mistake of crossing into their territory. The dissonant sound pierced John’s ears.

You hit him pretty hard, son, someone else replied.

John’s eyes refused to open. He tried to prop himself on his elbow, but the back of his head stung, and pain spread to his neck, spine, and shoulders. Heaviness dragged him down on the ground.

Yeah, you sure hit him hard. Hey, are you all right?

John groaned. Wh … what happened? Where am I? The world spun out of control.

At my farm. You tripped our alarm system. Jonathan mistook you for a Raider.

John’s hand touched the wound on his head. It bit and left a wet smear on his fingers. He tried to focus in the darkness, use the scant moonlight to identify the outlines of things.

Robert? Is that you?

Two figures loomed over John; one was crouched next to him, the other stood defiantly, arms crossed over the chest. Moonlight glinted off the crouching man’s eyes but wasn’t enough to make out their colour. A thick and bushy beard flourished in mockery to his bald, nearly reflecting, oily pate. Sweat stench trailed off his body. Father and son helped John back to his feet, but his legs gave way as though massive balls and chains bound them.

I’m gonna fix the alarm, Dad, Jonathan said when they reached the house. Though the way he moved, I doubt there’s much left of it. He shoved past John.

One of these days, he ought to ask the boy why he hated him so much. Last time he was here, Robert’s son took a swing at him for no reason.

John sat heavily on the porch’s single step with Robert’s help. His shirt clung to his skin where a thin rivulet of blood trickled down his back. Alarm system?

Yeah. Mel’s idea, he said, and pointed behind him.

The silhouette of a woman leaning against the doorframe stood out in the gloom. She had both hands on her round belly in a shielding embrace. Even through the dark, John could almost feel her eyes on him, and got the impression she wanted to drown him under an ice-cold lake, if she could find one. John wiped the sweat from his palms on his pants and averted his eyes. That woman could turn mountains to dust just by being close to them.

Now with the baby coming, Robert continued, she gets scared even if wild dogs come near the house. You are the first one to activate it. I nearly jumped in the air when the bells rang. He turned his head to Melanie and lingered on her silhouette for a while. It’s going to be a girl. I know it, Robert said in such a way as if to settle a previous unresolved argument between him and Melanie, one that John interrupted. There’s still hope in the world.

Hope was for the dreamers and the fools. John didn’t say it out loud. There was no hope for the survivors. Whether life was a curse or a boon was hard to tell, but perhaps those were questions people like Robert, who was amply suited for survival, never had to ask themselves.

John nodded a fraction and scratched his bearded chin. An alarm system. Why didn’t he think of it? He ran his fingers through his hair and winced once he encountered the wound.

Need to clean it up a bit, Robert said, and turned to his wife. Would you get us some antiseptic, hon?

She said nothing, nor did she move. Silver moon shadows made her lean and angular face appear as if carved from basalt. Not much to go around. She folded her arms over her bulging belly and tapped her foot.

Mel. Please, Robert said in a more resolute voice.

She shook her head, threw her hands in the air, and walked back inside.

The dog padded near them, a large bone sticking out of his jaws. John’s face lit up. What have you got there, boy? Probably some of Robert’s leftovers. The man always seemed to have enough food. He reached out to take it.

The dog growled at the back of its throat, dropped its prey, and snapped its jaws, nearly biting a chunk off his hand. John reeled. He cradled his hand, making sure nothing was missing from it. The dog fixed its eyes on him and waited for a reason to leap, its body between John and the bone.

Didn’t I tell you this dog meant trouble, Johnny? the wheezy voice said. Didn’t I tell you to kill and eat it? It will betray you. It already has betrayed you. It feasts on your food while you eat bugs. Everyone has betrayed you. The voice trailed off into a mutter and a wheezy cough.

Did you stockpile everything before it occurred, Robert? Were you prepared?

Robert drew a long breath. Thought I was, he said, and rubbed his ear. His eyes lost focus and drifted to a space far away from either of them, perhaps in the past, when things had been different. Lucky him. He had memories from before. But Robert never talked about his life before the Darkening. I should have known better, he mumbled to himself. I should have.

You couldn’t have known. No one could.

Robert snapped his attention to John, and he gave the impression he was barely holding himself back from attacking him. John sat up straight and moved a fraction away from him. Robert’s eyes gleamed like wet stars and held John’s gaze. He opened his mouth to say something, but then snapped it shut and chewed his lower lip. Whatever he was thinking faded away, as though he had noticed a neglected barrier he had accidentally crossed and went meekly behind it.

Robert stood up, rubbed ferociously at his ear once more, and then started scratching the vast bald space on his head. He eyed John, put both hands in his pockets, and turned his back on him. On occasion, Robert would reach this point, as though he were about to confide something important to John, but then he would go silent and barricade himself deeper in his own thoughts.

I often ask myself, Robert said at length, if I could have done something to prevent it. Don’t you? He sat next to John and pinned him with his eyes, as if he expected him to respond in some way. It’s a losing battle against one’s own soul. I wake up in fear of what tomorrow night will bring me, and the new baby is all that keeps me sane.

John blinked. The one man able to survive the Darkening thought he was losing his mind, that he could have done better where billions had failed, that he was somehow to blame. If Robert had a hard time coping, what chance did he have? The traps Robert had given him last time he came here had yielded nothing, not even a rat.

It’s the soul. Always the soul, Robert muttered.

What do souls have to do with an—

Don’t waste too much on him. Melanie thrust a vial into Robert’s hand. Peter, their second boy, was next to her. She put a protective arm around him and drew him close to her when he neared John, as if he had a contagious disease.

John hissed painfully when Robert poured some of the antiseptic on the wound. If Jonathan had hit him any harder, he would have taken half his head off.

Why are you here? Melanie asked.

John lowered his head and tried to control the rising temperature on his face. He couldn’t stand their eyes, their scornful stares. They reflected his ineptitude. I … I need some food. It’s been a week, I think, since the last time I ate, and—

What? Melanie snapped, hands on her hips. Bobby showed you how to make traps. He gave you some of our own, and some of our food, and don’t you dare deny it, Bobby Threstle. She pointed a rigid and bony finger at the big man before he had any chance to say otherwise. Why can’t you get your own food?

John clenched his teeth and tightened his fists. How would she feel if things were the other way around? What would she say if she were in his place?

What would he have done if things were the other way around?

He hung his head. He would have let her die. He was a survivor, and survivors had to look out for themselves.

Melanie loomed over him like a killer shadow, a demon spawned of hate, spewed from hell. We hardly have enough for us here, and with the baby coming, we—

Robert stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders. Please, hon. Go inside. I’ll handle this.

John’s hand went to his back pocket where the lighter was. If he brandished it, she would be on hands and knees, begging him. Both of them would. The metallic coldness felt almost real in his hand, the scrape of the flint wheel against his finger, the spark that would light a way to death, perhaps salvation from everything that plagued him—the voices, his guilt, the repeating nightmarish memory. Then, oh yes, then she would grovel to spare her. Then she would realise what it meant to struggle for survival. What did she know of survival? She had it easy.

Keep your priorities straight, Bobby, she said, and jabbed a finger on his chest. He owes more than he can ever repay. She stormed away with Peter trailing after her.

Robert cleared his throat. He scratched the top of his head, changed his mind, put his hands in his pockets, walked to John’s side, and let out a weary breath. No yield?

John shook his head. It’s roaches and maggots from here on. He could not stand the prospect. He would not stand it.

Robert rubbed his forehead and moved his hand up to his bald crest again. Listen. He scratched his ear. I’d be willing to help you out if I could, but she’s right. There’s hardly any food for us.

Lies! Lies! Everything he says is a lie, the wheezy voice said.

Robert glanced over his shoulder to where Melanie had gone, then to the west. You know, there’s a settlement on the other side of the forest. It might be better for you to live with them instead of struggling on your own.

Settlement? Where? Robert had never mentioned it before, and John had never found such a place, but then again, he never ventured beyond Robert’s place, and that happened only when death was knocking on his door. More survivors meant more access to help, but less available food.

Yeah, it’s west of here, to—

Are you sure they are not Raiders? John asked, and sprung to his feet, searching the darkness.

Robert put his hand on John’s arm. No. They’re like us. People who learned they can’t survive on their own. They help each other. He exhaled and paused for a moment. But you’re right to worry about Raiders. Have you come across any of them near our area?

John shook his head.

They’ve increased their activity from the north. Now, they can’t get much from me, but they can and will move on to other survivors. Isolated ones, like you. That’s what they do. There’s safety in numbers.

John’s gaze wandered. Other people. What settlement would have him? He couldn’t even feed himself. What could he possibly offer them? His nightmares? His lack of memories? His incompetence? His madness, perhaps? Besides, why should he trust them? The world preyed on the weak and preferred to slit throats than help. He had no illusions about it; they would be as bad as he was, for only the wicked survived the apocalypse. Those who needed to atone for past sins. Murderers like him. Deranged like him.

I’m sure they would welcome an extra man, Robert continued. Make no mistake; they get attacked by Raiders like everyone when they are out hunting. In the first days after the apocalypse, they even tried to shoot some. They came to me and asked for guns. I told them no, but they wouldn’t listen. I needed the food they brought for trade, so I gave them the guns. I warned them. A fool tried his rifle out near the fence. He pointed to a spot in the dark and kept his finger in the air as if he could almost see it happening. The flash lasted less than a second. One shot. One moment they were there, the next … all four got torn. He paused and cleared his throat. Anyway, that was then. They’ve learned their lesson like the rest of us. You can both benefit from each other. I won’t be able to help you much from now on. If I were you, I’d leave in a heartbeat. He rubbed the summit of his