Dwellers of the Night: The Road West

By Anthony Barnhart

The final installment of the Dwellers of the Night Trilogy traces the perilous and horrifying journey of a handful of colony survivors on their westward journey across the United States. They soon find that the journey will cost them much more than they originally thought. The Man wrestles with his own demons and the waking nightmares that accost him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312828643

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Dwellers of the Night: The Road West

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Barnhart

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-312-82864-3

To request permissions, please direct queries to:

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Title Page

Dwellers

of the

night

Book Three

The Road West

being the third part of a

post-apocalyptic trilogy by

Anthony Barnhart

Dedication Page

this trilogy is dedicated

to my amazing little sister

Amanda D. Barnhart

No Parade, No Farewell

They crowded into the Explorer, the Man behind the wheel, and they left the house behind them. The sign reading Maranatha Street was speckled with dew. He rolled through the stop-sign at the intersection and ascended the hill leading to the highway and no one looked back.

Interstate 75 wound its way through the jagged hills north of Cincinnati.

Dilapidated houses, rusted-out gas stations, vacant factories.

Digital billboards, blank and faceless, reflected the morning sun.

The papered billboards were falling apart, ribbons hanging towards the ground and blowing listlessly in the stale breeze.

The sun rose above the eastern hills and splayed over the windshield in blinding arcs.

Not a year ago this highway had been clogged, bumper-to-bumper traffic, fumes choking the air and covering the city in a carcinogenic fog. Horns would’ve blared, impatient motorists cursing, radios blaring their songs.

Now the air was free of smog, the sky as blue as the Atlantic.

The road was empty except for a few wrecked vehicles; a semi had run off the road, its trailer flipped; the back doors had burst open, and wooden crates once laden with bottled beer now lie in rain-rotten heaps, the glass bottles shattered and reflecting the sunlight in a dazzling display.

The Explorer weaved between wrecked cars and the Man rolled down his window, heard nothing but the engine and the wind cutting around the vehicle.

A skeleton lie in the road, its bleached skull facing the sun, an orb in its own right. The bones crunched and disintegrated under the Explorer’s tires.

Near the city limits, the Man brought the Explorer to a stop. He leaned forward, staring out the windshield at the wrecked cars all along the shoulder, knocked apart, some broken.

A bridge a quarter mile down the road missed a large slab of concrete.

The iron poles that had driven through the cement poked out into the empty air, twisted and contorted, spindling in every direction.

The Man looked over at Mark in the passenger’s seat.

The boy shrugged. The Man continued on.

A few miles beyond the city limits the Man stopped the Explorer again.

Wreckage lie everywhere.

The Man drove slowly, recognized the destruction, the hewn metal.

The far right wing with its slat, spoiler, aileron and flaps lie to the side of the highway, giant gashes riddling the metal as if it’d been attacked by the talons of some fantastic beast. Farther down the road, the tail-end lie across the highway’s multiple lanes. The vertical stabilizer and elevator had corroded under the beating sun, and the rudder lie in pieces, one section driven into a decaying tree.

He maneuvered onto the shoulder.

The fuselage lie in the middle of the road farther down.

Gulf Airlines was stenciled along the side.

The windows were destroyed, the edges consumed with slick burn marks.

He didn’t see any remains, any skeletons, nothing.

All has burned away.

The plane’s nose mocked them as they drove past, and then came the blue-colored jet engines beaten apart during their attachment from the airplane’s body. One of the engines lie embedded into the side of an overturned bus containing a handful of skeletons crumpled together along the upended roof.

They left the wreckage behind and the Man imagined the plane descending in total radio silence, spiraling out of control, banking out, and then hitting the highway and bursting into flames, knocking death-stricken cars out of the way with the blast of its passing, tossing them to-and-fro as if they were no more than plastic models.

Forty minutes later the Man took Exit 36 off the highway. Right off the exit and under the shadow of the bridge was an old Marathon gas station. He pulled up beside one of the archaic pumps and turned off the engine. Everyone stepped out without speaking.

Anthony stretched his legs, headed towards a line of trees down the road.

Kyle asked the Man if he wanted help filling up; he didn’t. He joined the others, and they went inside the gas station. Katie unwrapped a candy bar and savored the chocolate-covered almonds. Sarah took a PayDay off the candy rack. Mark headed to the back of the store with Kyle, and they eyed the alcohol section. Beers and assorted wines.

Katie joined them and thrust a finger into the display case. They have Ale-8! she beamed. She pulled one out of the lukewarm fridge, screwed off the cap, handed it to Kyle. Have one.

He took it, sniffed. It smells awful.

It’s a non-alcoholic ale.

Non-alcoholic? Mark said.

Yeah.

Then what’s the point?

Just try it.

Kyle shrugged, took a sip.

So? Katie said.

Yeah, I don’t like it.

More for me. She searched for a basket to carry them in.

Don’t worry about it now, Kyle said. We can get some later.

They only bottle it in Kentucky. I’m surprised they have it up here. Elizabeth and I, we would always drink Ale-8 together. She got me addicted. She clutched a bottle close to her chest. Her face glowed. I can’t wait to see her. She’ll be so glad to see me! I’ll have to apologize for not going up there sooner… But she didn’t come to see me, so she can’t hold it against me. She lifted the bottle up and the sunlight from the dusty windows colored the bottle an olive green. I’ll bring her one of these. Then she won’t be mad, then she won’t be able to hold it against me.

Yeah, Kyle says, biting his bottom lip. I guess she can’t.

Mark moved to the checkout counter. A gate had been pulled over the front, locked from the inside. He moved around the entrance to the behind-the-counter, but the inside was partitioned by a locked door. He drove his foot into the door. Kyle came up behind him, asked what he was doing, but he didn’t answer, kicked the door again.

The fragile lock snapped and the door swung open.

They stared down at the floor.

The skeleton of the late-night attendant lie beneath a tattered uniform chewed-through by moths. Several mice that had been aimlessly gnawing on the bones scattered underneath the fragmented floorboards.

Mark grabbed a bag from underneath the register and began shoving it full of cigarette cartons, pushing the skeleton aside with his shoes. Kyle shook his head and left Mark alone.

Anthony pushed through the line of trees and stood in a clearing facing a parking lot wedged up against a whitewashed church. The weathered front sign read in fading paint: Franklin Primitive Baptist Church. Underneath were stenciled letters, some hanging loose as if on a thread: Free Coffee. Eternal Life. Membership Has Its Benefits.

In the days of his youth, he and his family had been members at Grace Baptist Fellowship Church. The rules had been endless: don’t drink, don’t swear, don’t smoke. And those are the only ways to deal with what’s happened.

He walked up the steps leading to the wide double doors, found the doors locked. He stepped down and moved around the side of the building.

Vaulted windows too high to read.

Wolf spiders clung to the flimsy paneling.

He returned to the church’s sign and lit a cigarette. The preacher always told them, There’s no salvation outside the church. He’d disagreed with the church’s doctrine on that particular point, found himself ostracized. His family left the church when the ordeal hit the fan.

I didn’t belong there. And I don’t belong here.

A pit in his stomach, a knot in his throat.

A sour feeling like curdled milk in the back of his mouth.

He stomped the cigarette underfoot and headed back the way he came.

They loaded back into the Explorer and continued heading north on Interstate 75. The highway narrowed and then widened, multiple lanes with accidents stretched about in some postmodern patchwork.

The Dayton skyline appeared, a jumble of large and stocky buildings rising up into the cerulean sky like monuments to a golden age no longer remembered. Towering moraines encircled the city, formed as ancient glaciers parked and spit out their refuse. The varied architecture greeted them on either side of the highway. Dayton’s melting-pot of styles—from Neoclassical to Tudor Revival, and from the English Gothic to Colonial—left no stone unturned.

The Man had always favored the Italianate-style buildings with their mansard roofs, sweeping rotundas, and marble porticoes. Kira had loved touring the simple Prairie homes, longed for the day when they’d have enough money to build their own in some secluded nest in the northern hills of Kentucky. As the city began to wrap around them, the Man remembered how he and Kira would attend concerts at the Pavilion and then grab burgers at the Wagon in the Square. Antique days and antique memories forged in an antique man, himself a relic of that golden age.

Katie bit her lip in the backseat, leaned forward. We’re almost there…

Sarah didn’t look at her, kept her eyes trained on the windows.

She couldn’t bear to see the excitement in the girl’s face: a fool’s errand.

Her apartment’s in the Oregon District, Katie said. The next exit.

The Man slowed down, the city looming above them, the shadows drawn taught and small with the noonday sun. He took the exit, and they drove across an unpaved cobblestone street. Queen Anne architecture lined the road. The shocks protested as the Man headed down the empty street, a street once flooded with people, celebrations, parties, festivals. A street now dead and empty. Once-packed buildings lie vacant with tattered windows and peeling paint and doors hanging on the hinges, dark maws opened to a dark world. Cars rusting like ghosts. A city just as dead as any other.

Katie directed them farther down the road, past The Trolley Stop and Pacchia Café. It’s one of Elizabeth’s favorite restaurants, she said. It serves tapas-style food. You heard of it? And then there’s the Thai and sushi restaurants. She twisted in her seat, nearly elbowing Sarah in the cheek. Like that one, she said, a finger pointed out the window. She turned back to the Man, leaned forward, her head between the two front seats. Her apartment’s right beside the Emporium and Jazz Room.

He pulled up beside the Jazz Room, a chic building with an outdoor veranda, the tables and chairs thrown this way and that.  He parked at a parking meter.

Anyone have quarters? he mused.

No one laughed.

Katie crawled over Sarah and threw open the door.

Jesus, watch it, Sarah said, cramped up against the back of her seat.

Katie pointed to a five-story brick building laced with multiple windows and an array of closed doors. That’s her place. She began crawling out, but the Man unbuckled his seatbelt and did the reach-around, grabbing her by the arm.

She spun around, mouth open, ready to spout something, but he stopped her:

It’s probably dark in the there. We’ll sweep it clean first.

No bother. She wiggled free of his grasp. There’s a fire ladder along the side. It reaches right up to one of her windows. We always joked about sneaking in and out through there, thought it’d be kinky. Her face fell. But we never did. We should’ve done it. At least once.

The steel ladder protested under their weight, each step precautionary of a loose slip followed by a precarious plunge. Katie led the way, the Man behind her with the shotgun against his chest. Mark followed him with a pistol tucked into his loose khakis. The others waited below at the Explorer in case something awful happened.

Katie reached the third floor where the ladder connected with a grated metal platform. She pointed to a single window cushioned between the roughshod bricks with crumbling and half-patched mortar.

The Man wedged her out of the way with his elbow, brushed dust from the windowpane. Sunlight wove past his profile and outlined the room inside. He knocked a few times and there came no response.

Katie began to say something when he raised the shotgun, twirled it around, and smashed its stock into the window. The old glass shattered, the fragments spiraling down to his feet and falling between the grate’s patchwork. The Man swung the shotgun around and held it at the ready, but no response came from inside the room.

He crawled inside, Katie anxious on his heels.

Mark looked down at the others milling about the Explorer, and then he followed them inside.

The walls were whitewashed, the décor simple yet attractive. Katie lunged to the bedroom, shouting Elizabeth’s name, her bellows making Mark wince as he eyed the locked front door leading to the hallway outside. The Man shook his head, muttered something about yelping dogs as Katie’s excited shouts resounded through the apartment.

He moved into the living room, eyeing the walls.

Framed black-and-white posters of the Eiffel Tower, the Golden Gate Bridge, Big Ben, Time’s Square. Each picture had been arranged in perfect and unbroken symmetry. There was a cold and calculating feel to the room: spindly white chairs, a black bookshelf immaculately organized with books and monographs on American law stacked between empty white vases. A large snow-white sofa faced a coffee table littered with feminist magazines. He sat on the sofa, a cloud of dust rising to greet him. Hanging on the far wall was a portrait of two hardly-clad lovers clutching one another in Matisse form, face-to-face with the tips of their tongues touching.

He heard footsteps and Mark stood before him.

She’s not here, the boy said.

Did you expect her to be?

No. But Katie did.

Where is she?

She’s in the bedroom. Crying.

"That’s why it got quieter. Good. I’m glad she’s not shouting."

Maybe we should try to comfort her or something.

Great idea. You do that. He picked up one of the magazines.

The bedroom was undisturbed. A King-sized bed with white comforters and black pillows sat against the far wall, and flanking it was a mounted wide-screen plasma TV. The dresser held framed pictures of a beautiful woman and Katie in different locations and with goofy faces. On the bedside table was a half-consumed bottle of Castella Monaca Primitivo Piluna, long since oxidized. Katie sat on the bed, clutching one of the pictures, her thumb covered with a layer of dust from where she’d swiped the plate.

Mark stood awkwardly in the doorway.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks drawn taught. We used to hold one another in this bed, she said.

I’m sorry, he said.

She clutched the photograph tighter, looked up at the ceiling.

She’s not here, she said.

I know.

She always worked late. She was probably working late.

If you know where she worked…

No, she said, her voice harsh. "If she were alive, she’d have come back here. She felt safe here. We felt safe here."

She looked to the window, sunlight pouring between the blinds.

She set the picture back on the bedside table. I was stupid for thinking she might still be alive.

No, Mark said, you weren’t.

He left Katie in the room, went back out to the Man.

The Man was perusing the books on the shelves. He looked over, said, We ready to go now?

She’s fine, Mark said. Thanks for your concern.

I didn’t want to come here in the first place.

No. But you did. You’re a decent human being, perhaps.

The only reason I came is because I can’t make the trip alone.

He shrugged. She wants some time alone.

How long?

I don’t know. She needs to mourn.

She can sob her heart out in the car.

Let’s give her an hour or two. All right? Jesus.

This is fucking ridiculous, the Man growled.

Three stories below, Anthony abandoned the Explorer, knowing Katie would be in the apartment alone for a few hours, mourning the late loss of her beloved, a matter of fact that spread quickly to those gathered on the street.

He was irritated, agreed with the Man’s sentiments: Katie could mourn in the car. He wanted to get to Anderson University as soon as possible, wanted to find his sister, hoped to find her alive. But he must wait, be patient, unselfish; Katie was hurting, and she needed to grieve.

But how long did she deserve to grieve?

How long must it be till he’s given the chance to find his sister—or, likewise, grief?

He left the Oregon District and made his way towards one of the winding rivers that cut through and around the city. It was a mere trickle compared to the Ohio River. A pang of fear rippled through him, knowing he’d probably never see that dark and bloody river ever again.

He wished his sister would be able to join them on this, their quest, and he knew Mark’s sister survived, at least for a while.

The chances were good that Amanda may have survived, as well.

A handful of ruddy ducks frolicked in the water.

He sat down on the grassy and uncut bank, watched them swim in concentric circles. He thought this might be the Great Miami. He’d been to Dayton only a few times, and then only as a child. He came down for a Walk for Breast Cancer with his parents years ago. The path had wound down beside a river, and he saw the path on the opposite bank. There’d been lots of people, stands of bottled water and salted pretzels, pink ribbons galore. Breast cancer will be the death of us! they’d wailed. An ironic statement now considering the times.

Something fluttered close to him, dancing in the breeze.

It whirled past, and he grabbed it from the air.

A Milky Way candy bar wrapper.

He pondered it history, its past and future, and he released the wrapper and watched the wind whisk it into oblivion.

Moments passed.

The ducks had moved farther downriver.

He imagined standing on this bank, fishing with his sons. He’d teach him how to cast the line, how to watch the bobber, how to discern if the bait was getting a bite, how to wrestle with the fish. And he’d take his son to the big lake by the old house where the northerns would fight to the death to get free of the hook. The thought brought him momentary happiness, but the in-broken reality shattered it like a sledgehammer against an antique Chinese vase.

There is nothing to hope for.

Your son died with your love.

This world is not a world where hopes and dreams can be acquired.

You don’t live anymore. You survive.

And then, A child would just be a burden.

The thought brought tears to his eyes, and he didn’t dare bat them away as the sun reached its zenith in the cerulean sky.

The Man left the apartment and descended the fire-escape and said nothing to those gathered around the Explorer. He headed north into downtown.

The streets were broad and straight, designed in such a manner to enable wagons, drawn by teams of three or four pairs of oxen, to turn around in the middle of the road. Some of the larger streets had once been barge canals flanked by draw-paths. The buildings were economical in design, and he was lost in their taught shadows.

He looked inside the windshield of a police cruiser, saw a skeleton with its skull half-wedged through the broken windshield. The cruiser’s front end had connected with a lamp-post that had bent and twisted under the car’s weight, and the lamp hung awkwardly to the side.

He continued walking and stood before the old courthouse. Farther down was the newer courthouse flanked with a park and memorials to war veterans. He strode through the park, ran his hands over the large barrel of a World War Two-era howitzer.

Time became lost as he continued his tour of downtown, walking aimlessly and absent purpose. A large truck had ramped up the stone steps of the local theater, and the theater’s wide front windows were shattered outwards, the insides dark and channel-like in design. He wagered that the plague struck during a late-night play, and when the dead resurrected, they burst from the theater and flooded the city streets.

He continued on and came to another theater—the Victoria—where Kira had dragged him once to watch ballet. He pushed her from his mind. No need to dwell on the past.

He noticed the sun’s rays refracting off the skyscraper windows.

The sun was beginning to set.

He wasn’t worried: they had a few more hours of daylight.

Kyle and Sarah sat on the patio outside Sloopy’s karaoke bar, the shade from the umbrella dappling over them. A yellow sign over the entrance portrayed a long-eared dog clutching a surfboard. A placard behind one of the windows announced Girl’s Night on Saturday, complete with 93-cent cosmos, appletinis, and Long Island Iced Teas. Sounds came from inside the bar as Mark rummaged through the liquor selection.

How do you think she’s doing? Sarah said.

Katie? Kyle said. I don’t know.

Maybe someone should check on her.

He scratched at his arm. Yeah. Maybe.

Katie sat alone in the bedroom, the silence engulfing. Elizabeth had always been a clean-freak. The apartment looked as if it’d come right out of an article from a home-decorating magazine. Katie hadn’t moved from the side of the bed, hadn’t turned her eyes from the whitewashed wall, knew nothing except the blank void in her heart. Memories of Elizabeth replayed in her mind’s eye, splayed about upon the wall as if it were a canvas and her eyes a projector. Walking the Oregon District at night, playing chess and taking shots with each knock of a pawn. How they’d fall asleep in each other’s arms, naked limbs entwined and stomachs touching with each peaceful and rhythmic breath. It was with Elizabeth that she’d discovered love was real, and that love was beautiful—even when forbidden. Her mother had disowned her for her sexual orientation, though she never perceived it as a choice: something within her was wired for loving other women, and only in the arms of Elizabeth did she ever feel truly alive.

There’s nothing wrong with forbidden love, she’d told her mother, who had persisted in denouncing her relationship with Elizabeth as nothing but a farce, an ungodly delusion.

You’re hurting yourself, her mother had said, and you’re going to end up hurting Elizabeth. Katie didn’t believe her.

I never hurt her. And then: She died too early for me to hurt her.

The pain of her actions tore through her like a knife through rotted fruit.

She clutched the photograph and moaned behind tear-soaked eyes and half-choked sobs, I always loved you… I always loved you… I never stopped loving you… And I never will. The tears build and she remembered one of the last conversations they’d ever had.

∑Ω∑

They lie together, coiled as one beneath the sheets, their heart spinning, bodies wracked and weak. Moonlight poured through the window, the downtown lights twinkling. Arced headlights flashed for brief moments as cars rolled down the cobbled road. Elizabeth lie on her side facing the window, Katie spooned up behind her, her twin breasts touching Elizabeth’s shoulder-blades. Her one arm was underneath Elizabeth’s head, the other wrapped around her side, and they held one another’s hands. Elizabeth’s warmth formed an ethereal cocoon, provoking contemplations, both daring and violent.

What do you think will happen to us? she said.

Elizabeth didn’t answer for a moment, then, What do you mean?

The two of us. What do you think will happen?

She stroked Katie’s fingers. Do you love me?

Yes. You know that.

Do you think I love you?

Her heart fluttered for a moment, insecurities rising. Do you?

Yes, she said matter-of-factly. I love you.

Okay. Relief in her voice.

You know what, Katie? People who love one another stay with one another.

But it doesn’t always work out that way.

She stared at the window, the moonlight tiptoeing across her face and pooling like diamonds in her eyes. Are you afraid I’m going to leave you?

No.

Are you afraid I’m going to cheat on you?

A brief silence.

She rolled onto her other side, faced her. Katie. Delicate fingertips stroking cherried cheeks. You know that I love you. We’ve been together for a while now. You remember when we first met? We decided we weren’t going to be sexual right off the bat, because we wanted our relationship to be more than that. And do you remember how it felt to hold one another naked for the first time, to explore one another, to discover one another?

She wrapped one of her legs around Katie’s waist, pulled her close.

Katie rested her head on Elizabeth’s bare breast, said that she remembered.

That first day at the beach resort, that first day with you, was perfect, Elizabeth said. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. And do you know why? She knew Katie would have no reply; she kissed her sweat-soaked hair, said, It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced because it was with the most beautiful girl whom I’ve ever met: you. She took a breath, drawing in Katie’s sweet and dreamlike scent. I’m never ever going to cheat on you. You’re the girl I love. And we’re going to be together until we get old and wrinkly—and then we’ll sleep eternally beside one another’s grave.

∑Ω∑

Her hands shook.

That memory, that flashback, had been on this very bed.

Upon this very bed they last spoke.

They’d fallen asleep together.

And when she woke up, Elizabeth was gone, off to work.

Katie had gathered her things, got into her car, and driven back to Cincinnati.

Elizabeth’s words rung over and over: I’m never going to cheat on you.

She curled up on the bed, her chest heaving with each violent sob.

The Man was furious that Katie was taking so long to mourn. Mark didn’t say anything to counteract his insensitivity; he expected it now, and there was no point on wasting breath on the subject. They couldn’t make the journey to Anderson with the sun setting, so they resigned to staying at Elizabeth’s apartment. The Man parked the Explorer in a parking garage, hoping nothing would happen to it, and everyone ascended the fire-escape ladder and entered the apartment through the broken window. Katie, Sarah, and Anthony barricaded the door leading to the hallway with the majority of Elizabeth’s sparse and minimalistic furniture; Katie’s only demand was that the bedroom remain untouched. Mark found a way to raise the ladder so that it wasn’t touching the ground.

What if they get onto the ladder through another window? Kyle said.

Then we’re fucked, the Man said.

They would have guards posted all night long. Katie was exempt from guard duty: she didn’t want to leave the bedroom, and she wanted to be there alone.

Mark broke open a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and mixed it with half-and-half packets he’d found at the Emporium coffee shop. It’s called a Nutty Irishman. Usually it’s cold, with some hazelnut liquor, but this will do the trick. Because he wouldn’t be driving any that night, the Man decided to partake.

The dark-walkers came out on schedule, spilling out from darkened buildings and flooding the streets. Their cries rose like incense into the night sky, and it wasn’t long before they crowded along the building’s foundation below, knocking shoulder-to-shoulder.

Mark and the man stood out on the steel grate smoking cigarettes.

They stared at the dark-walkers below, molded together rank-and-file, unmoving except for their rapid breathing, chests expanding and deflating with lightning intensity. Shadowy eyes, empty and baleful, heads swiveling back-and-forth upon emaciated necks. Mark remembered when they’d clamber over one another, snapping at one other like frenzied hyenas.

Now their emotions were cold. Calculating. Mechanical.

They moved together as a single unit.

They’re evolving, he said under his breath.

I know. The Man dashes ash on the cold steel banister.

They’re more and more like birds.

I know.

They’re working together, as a single entity. They’ve gone from ragtag bands to consistent packs. Their craze and madness has become swift precision.

Harker was a damned fool, the Man muttered under his breath. "He didn’t factor evolution into the equation. He didn’t factor in the fact that these creatures are animals, that they struggle for survival, and that they will survive, they’ll evolve. There were billions of people on this planet when the plague struck. Almost all of them became, well... He swept a hand down below. Many of the dark-walkers have died, yes. But the strongest, they’ve survived, and they’re learning that if they work together as a tribe, they face better odds. It isn’t long before their cleverness outsmarts us. He took a hit off the cigarette, cast a wary look to the boy. Then we’re really fucked."

Something I keep thinking about, Mark said. Cameron. She came back.

Yeah. I know. I was there, remember?

But we didn’t see any bites on her.

That doesn’t mean she wasn’t bitten.

What if this plague is inside us, and when we become too weak, and when our bodies begin shutting down, it has a chance to replicate and take over? What if Lindsey didn’t turn into one of them because she was bitten, but because she grew so weak that the germ or virus or whatever it is was able to overcome her immune system and do to her what it did to everyone else?

The Man had no answer.

Inside the apartment Sarah held a tea-light candle in the palm of her hand. She pushed open the door to the bedroom. Katie sat on the bed with her own candle half-withered in its vase, a six-pack of unopened Ale-8 at her feet. She looked up and Sarah asked if she could come inside. Katie didn’t say anything, and Sarah said, Sorry for interrupting, and began to back out.

No, Katie said. No, you can come in.

She paused and then entered, pulling the door shut. She sat down on the bed and the candles cast their shadows on the whitewashed walls. The two of them sat quiet and alone.

Katie looked at her profile. Do you think I’m a bad person?

What? she countered, surprised at the question. No. I mean… Why would I think that?

I don’t know. Then, quietly, Because I’m…

A lesbian? She switched the tea-light to her other hand and took Katie’s hand in hers. Just because I’m not doesn’t mean that I look down on you because you are. I don’t care what the hell your sexual orientation is. Whether we’re attracted to members of the opposite sex or members of the same sex, that’s not what makes us good—or bad—people. What makes us good people is whether we put others before ourselves, whether we’re willing to sacrifice ourselves for other people, whether we’re kind and compassionate and generous.

Do you think I’m… those things?

She sighed. "I don’t really know you that well, you know? But what I do know is that you loved Elizabeth very deeply. That you were willing to do anything to come and see her. I saw how your face lit up when we got close. And I can see from your grief not only that you miss her but that you loved her. And you still love her."

She looked away, said, I’m not crying because I miss her.

Her brows rose as she tried to understand.

"I mean. I do miss her. It’s just… That’s not why I’m crying. I’ve missed her for months."

I know. But you’re crying because there’s no hope of being with her again. She wondered if that weren’t putting it too bluntly.

No… No, I’m crying because I’m a bitch.

∑Ω∑

The wall clock ran slow as usual. Time crept by, and each step to the liquor cabinet made her feet yelp in pain. The air conditioners had broken and the loud shouting of the people outside and the juke box playing Led Zeppelin and the cracks of pool tips against the balls only made the bitter heat more nauseating. Her replacement came in ten minutes after her shift ended and waiting made her more miserable, rage tickling at the back of her throat. When Brian finally arrived, she threw the cleaning cloth in his hands and didn’t say anything. She stepped out of the bar and stood in the cool night air with the stars twinkling overhead, a canopy of diamonds. She took several breaths and leaned against the brick wall. She missed Elizabeth, always missed her late at night, and crawling into the empty bed without her warmth to keep her company just made it all the worse. The emptiest nights were the crisp ones, when the air filled your lungs with crackling intensity. Despite it being August and despite the heat, the air felt somehow crisp with each taste. She turned and saw a man standing close to her, saying nothing, smoking a menthol cigarette. That’s why, she thought to herself. She reached down for her keys and realized they were still behind the counter. Fuck. She went inside and walked back behind the bar to grab her keys. Brian apologized in blabbering sentiments for being late, offered to buy her a drink. Fine. She sat down at the bar and he asked what she’d have. Two shots of tequila. He asked if she was driving home. Yes. And put big grains of salt on the glass. Better make it damned good. He poured the first shot and she threw it back, felt it inching its way down her throat in its fiery, mind-numbing intensity.

Anyone sitting here?

She turned and saw a thin girl with jet-black hair and a porcelain face, as if it’d been snatched right off some Victorian doll.

No, she said. She looked away. It’s open.

Okay. The porcelain girl sat down and ordered a Budweiser.

Brian poured her another shot and she threw it back.

The girl beside her leaned over the counter and looked at her profile. Rough day?

I just got off work.

Oh? Where do you work?

She rapped her knuckles on the counter engraved with the names of drunken lovers and forgotten sentiments. Here.

I bet it’s fun. Serving alcohol and everything.

Try it sometime. It’s actually quite disenchanting.

The porcelain girl didn’t say anything.

Katie buried her head on the counter, felt the alcohol in her blood.

The warmth spreading through her face and tingling in her fingertips.

The world going dark and slow.

She looked up. Brian? Another shot.

Seriously? he said. You know you’ve had two already, right?

I can fucking count.

Two. In two minutes.

I can fucking tell time, too. Give me another shot.

He sighed and poured the shot, ran the rim with salt. Want lime this time?

I don’t need a fucking lime. She took the shot, set the empty glass on the counter. A customer wagged for Brian and he looked at the empty shot and she leaned over the counter, propped up on her elbows, and told him with tequila-combed breath, Stay close.

The girl bit her lip, giggled. You’re a feisty one.

She eyeballed her. Excuse me?

Feisty.

I heard you. She stared at the liquor cabinet against the wall.

My name’s Jasmine.

She didn’t respond.

Jasmine, the girl said again.

Okay.

Twenty minutes later and she’d taken two more shots, and she and the porcelain girl struck up conversation. Jasmine had been persistent and Katie’s resolve had weakened with the subsequent shots. She didn’t like the girl much, had already forgotten her name, but it was nice having someone to talk to. She had few friends in the area, and it was better than sitting in her own kitchen taking shots. As they talked the strap of her tank-top fell off her arm. Jasmine, without flinching, reached forward and slid it back onto her shoulder. The touch of her fingers against her shoulder sent electrifying bursts through her veins. She was stunned for a moment, as if a switch had been flipped, and she felt herself getting tight, her heart beginning to flutter. She pushed it down.

Thanks, she told her weakly.

Jasmine smiled, her eyes playful.

Katie began to stand, said, I’d better go… and then fell backwards. She hit the ground hard, landing on her back, the stool tottering for a moment and then falling down across her. The girl reached down to help her up. A crowd gathered and Brian came from around the bar, apologizing again in an unbroken blabbering chain. Katie cursed and told everyone to mind their own business, she was okay. Jasmine helped her up and she pulled herself away, half-walked and half-hobbled out of the bar and into the warm night with its buzzing cicadas and crickets and the roar of a nearby airplane.

The porcelain girl followed her out of the bar. Wait!

She spun around, nearly fell, gripped a tree for balance. What?

I just…

It was good talking to you. But I do need to go. I have to work in the morning.

You’ve had, what, five shots? Six shots? Maybe seven.

I know. I don’t know. What the hell. It doesn’t matter. She turned and fumbled into the parking lot, leaning against the other cars for balance as she neared her own.

Jasmine stayed on her tail. You can’t drive home, she protested. You’ll get pulled over. Or killed.

I’ll be okay. She reached her car and pulled out her keys.

The roads in every direction are crazy. You know that. Twists and turns.

And I drive them all the time. She tried inserting the keys into the lock, missed.

She touched her shoulder. Katie. Please. Let me take you home.

A strange sensation, something she’d only felt with one girl.

I’m fine, she insisted.

No. You’re not.

Jasmine’s hand didn’t move.

She imagined the hand elsewhere.

Tracing from her shoulder down her back, around her side, between her legs.

Okay, she said, stumbling over the vowels.

I’ll take you to my place. She snatched Katie’s keys with her other hand. I’ll bring you here in the morning. I don’t work tomorrow. And, hey, you’ll save gas money. At $4.20 a gallon, that’s a decent deal.

She knew what was happening. Intoxication deprives the human faculties of common sense, shattering inhibitions, but the drunk person, even if unable to remember what took place overnight when the next morning comes, isn’t lacking in free will, lies not under the spell of intoxication, unable to make decisions. And she knew what was happening when they reached Jasmine’s apartment on the fringes of the city, and she knew what was happening when they were standing in the living room, and she knew what was happening when Jasmine leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. Katie had never tasted lips so soft, not even on Elizabeth; and the porcelain girl’s hand slid down her neck and shoulder. She returned the kiss and their tongues entwined. She reached up and stroked her fingers against Jasmine’s ghost-white face, could feel her jet-black hair tickling the back of her hand.

Jasmine pulled away, eyes afire, coals set deep in this smoky-white face.

Want to go to the bedroom? she moaned.

Her world spun, a concoction of drunken euphoria and forbidden excitement.

Okay, she said.

∑Ω∑

Katie wept and Sarah sat beside her and the dark-walkers echoed her cries.

I cheated on her, she choked, clutching the photograph in trembling claws.

Katie…

I got drunk. I let down my guard. I cheated on her.

Everyone cheats.

She stared at her, tears fogging her vision. No, they don’t.

Sarah tried to hug her, but Katie writhed away.

Don’t touch me, she snarled.

Sorry, she quickly said. I didn’t mean…

She interrupted her: "I told everyone that I was at work when the plague hit. I’ve lied to them all. I was with that girl, that girl I hardly remember, except for the guilt that’s cemented her in my mind. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, and I didn’t even think about Elizabeth that night… When I woke up in the morning, the girl… She was dead. Like all the others. I didn’t even hear it happen. I didn’t think about Elizabeth when I fell asleep that night, but she’s been all I can think about. Every damned day I’ve wished that I could take back what I did, that I could’ve come up here to Dayton, that I could’ve been with her when it happened. It would’ve been somewhat… romantic. But that didn’t happen. The night she died, she had no idea that I was with another woman. I can never