Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (56 page)

He touched her arm, concerned. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she said. “We can talk later. It’s not important.”

She would never have that conversation.

∑Ω∑

“I’ve always wanted to have a kid,” Rachel says. “I’ve always dreamed of making pancakes for my kids before they go to school. I’ve dreamed of holding my baby and rocking her to sleep in my arms. I’ve longed for the day when I can yell at my daughter for being rebellious, and then boast about her to all my friends. But I’m afraid that day will never come. If I’m pregnant, then there are only two possible outcomes: the child is born healthy, but she is born into a world of despair and death, of terror and nightmares, a world where every day is either a blessing or a curse—a blessing because you’re still alive, a curse because you’re not yet dead.” She takes a deep breath, mind dancing upon the unthinkable. “Or she will become one of them. The germ will affect her, and she’ll become one of them—either in my womb or upon being born.”

Sarah takes Rachel’s hand, squeezes. “I don’t think that will happen.”

“You’re just trying to be nice. You don’t have a reason.”

“Actually,” Sarah says after a moment, “I do.”

∑Ω∑

He returned from work Friday evening, and he climbed the steps in the apartment complex with vigor, fueled with wicked anticipation. He reached the door to the apartment and pushed it open. He heard the television on in the next room, and he kicked off his boots in the kitchen—something Sarah Anthony Barnhart

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constantly chided him about—and leaned into the living room from the open doorway. She was sitting on the couch in a baggy t-shirt from her old work, feet propped up on the coffee table strewn with soda cans, the remote in her hands. Her eyes were glued to the television. He sat down next to her, leaned forward, began kissing her neck.

“You’re all sweaty and dirty,” she said, pulling away, eyes focused on the television. He chuckled and leaned even closer.

“Get a shower,” she said.

He pulled away. “Sorry. Are we going to play tonight?”

She didn’t answer, fixated on the glowing television screen.

He turned to the television, saw a news reporter talking about mass hysteria in Europe.

“It’s been on for the past couple hours,” she said. “Something’s happening in Asia.”

“There’s always something happening in Asia. Genocide. Nuclear weapons. Civil war.”

“This is different.”

“I’m going to go get a shower,” he said, standing.

He left her alone to watch the screen.

She didn’t even realize he’d left.

He entered the living room, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Still watching the news?”

“Something big is happening, Patrick. They’re saying it’s reached Saudi Arabia.”

“What’s reached Saudi Arabia?”

“They don’t know.”

“It’s a good thing we’re not living in Saudi Arabia.”

“It could spread here.”

“Stop worrying about it. An entire ocean separates us from them.”

“It’s a small world.”

He picked up the remote, turned off the television. “I think it’s play-time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can’t I just finish—”

He dropped the towel, revealing his toys.

She lost her train of thought. A smile crossed over her lips. “I think it can wait.”

By the time they reached the bedroom, he was just down to his underwear and socks. She wore only her bra and thong, and he hovered over her, tenderly kissing her lips. Her fingers playfully tracing circles over his chest. “Are you going to wear your socks again?”

“Of course,” he mused. “It’s business time, and they’re my business socks.”

They continued kissing, exploring each other’s bodies with their mouths. He reached down slowly and pulled down her thong as she slipped her fingers under the hem of the front of his underwear. In a few moments they are naked together, cuddling in the bed-sheets. They peered deep into one another’s eyes. He rested his arm on the pillow, and she rested her head atop of it, feeling his bulging muscles. One hand was wrapped around his neck, her palm stretched across the ridge of his spine. Her other hand crawled up and down his hairy chest. He ran his fingers along the smooth contours of her body.

“I love you, Patrick,” she whispered.

He was lost in those gorgeous cerulean eyes. “I love you, too, Sarah.”

She began stroking his penis, and he began fingering her warm vagina.

“I’m ready,” she said.

They started off slowly, but eventually he gained speed and momentum, thrusting his penis deep inside of her, withdrawing it until the head was just grazing the opening, and then slamming it Anthony Barnhart

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back inside, tickling her G-spot. Her vagina was tight at first, but it began to open up. He was positioned above her, and her hands gripped his upper arms, squeezing so tightly that her fingernails dug into his skin. He didn’t complain, the pain only enhancing the sensation. He could feel he was close to cumming, and he could tell by her rapid breathing, the fluttering of her eyelashes, and her quivering lips that she was on the verge, too. He gave one last push deep inside her, and he exploded; her body arched backwards, and she let out several yelps. She laid back down, sweat trickling down her neck, and he laid atop of her.

A heavy knocking came on the wall, from the apartment next door.

A man’s voice: “Not everyone has a girl to fuck, so keep it down, will ya?!”

They both laughed together, holding one another tightly, chests heaving, exhausted.

Both enjoyed sex several more times that night. Patrick had said, in an attempt to explain away his incredible horniness, “We need to make sure we get you full enough so that the chances of you getting pregnant are higher.” 3:00 a.m. rolled around, and both were exhausted, physically and emotionally drained. They lied under the sheets holding one another, and Sarah joked that she was surprised he hadn’t fallen asleep after the first round. “How can I possibly fall asleep with such a beautiful angel lying next to me?” he had crooned.

With Patrick in her arms, Sarah said, “You’re so good to me.”

“And you’re good to me, Sarah.”

“I don’t deserve you. You treat me like a princess.”

“And why don’t you deserve that? You
are
a princess, after all.”

“But sometimes the princess doesn’t deserve the prince.”

“Sarah,” he pleaded, stroking her cheek. “You know I don’t like it when you talk like this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you so hard on yourself all the time?”

She didn’t say anything.

“You’re not a bad person, Sarah, but sometimes you act like you are.”

“Maybe it’s because I know myself better than you do.”

“I know your faults. There are things that you do that throw me up a wall.”

She managed a smile. “At least I don’t leave my boots in the kitchen.”

He laughed. “I was just too excited to see you. I’ll go move them.”

He began to get up; she grabbed his arm. “You don’t have to.”

“No,” he said. “You’re right.” He rolled out of the bed and headed for the door. She propped herself up under the sheets. “Patrick. Come back.”

“It’ll just be a minute,” he said. “I need to get some aspirin, anyway.”

“Why?” she asked. “Did I wear you out?”

“I just have a small headache. Nothing to worry about.”

She lied in the bed, heard him moving about in the kitchen. The sound of him opening the cap to the aspirin greeted her, the shutting of the cabinet door following as he put the bottle away. He came into the room still popping the pills into his mouth. The light from a streetlamp entered through a crack in one of the window’s blinds, and her eyes tried to make sense of what she saw. “Patrick. You’re bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” he asked.

“You have a nosebleed.”

He put a finger under his nose, held it up in the meager light. “I guess you
did
wear me out.”

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“Go clean it up before getting in bed. I don’t want your blood all over the sheets.”

“I thought my blood turned you on,” he joked, moving towards the adjoining bathroom. She grinned. “Only when it’s keeping your penis hard.”

He went into the bathroom, turned on the light, shut the door.

She laid her head on the pillow, rapped her fingers against the warm mattress.

“Sarah?” Patrick called from the bathroom.

“What?” she asked.

“You’d better get in here.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, crawling from the bed. Her naked body glistened in the shaft of lamplight as she moved towards the door. She grabbed the handle, tried to open it. “You locked the door, Patrick.”

She heard him moaning from beyond the door. “
Shit
, it hurts.”

“Patrick?” she asked, feeling her heart accelerate. “What’s wrong?”

“My head is
killing
me. And my ears… Fuck.”

“Patrick? What’s wrong? Open the door.”

“I’m bleeding from my ears.”

“Patrick. Open the door. Let me see.”

“I can’t…
Fuck
!”

She grappled with the door-handle. “Patrick. Open the door
now
.”

She heard it unlock. She pulled open the door, the light blinding her. She held a hand up to her face, could see blood splattered on the kitchen sink.

“Oh my God…”

Her husband turned towards her, and her heart lodged itself in her throat. Blood streamed from nearly every opening on his face.

“Patrick… Just sit down, okay?” She moved away from the door, keeping herself facing the bathroom. “I’m going to call an ambulance…”

“No,” he growled.

“What? Patrick. You’re bleeding, and your head is killing you.”

His voice was cold, resolute. “It’s just a little blood and a migraine.”

“Migraines don’t do that to you, Patrick.” She was near the bed now, facing the bathroom; her hand searched the bedside table for the phone. She found it, cradled it in her hand, began lifting it up. He spun around from facing the mirror. “I don’t need a fucking ambulance!” he shrieked. Three words escaped her shaking lips: “Oh my God…”

Blood streamed from under his eyes, forming a cross around the bridge of his nose. His face was contorted into a mask of pain, into a mask of…

something she had never seen before.

“Patrick…”

He launched forward, rushing at her. She dropped the phone, screamed; he grabbed her by the arms and hurled her onto the bed, the sheets wrapping around her bare shoulders. He pressed her down into the bed, his blood dripping onto her naked breasts. She let out a shout, screamed for him to stop. His fingers wrapped tightly around her arms, bursting blood vessels underneath the skin. He let one arm up, and he reached down for her throat, began to throttle her. With her free hand, she tried to pull his clenched hand from around her throat. He pressed down her other hand with his other arm snarled, “Bitch! Whore! Slut! You fucking cunt-sucker!” His insults echoed throughout the room. Her eyes bulged. Her world began to spin. She kicked her legs wildly, but they collided only with his rigid body. “Bitch!” Her eyes began to roll into the back of her head, strength evaporating…

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And then he released, tumbling down beside her.

She kicked at the bed, rolled onto the floor, writhed in pain, gasped for air. Oxygen flooded into her system like a broken dam, her head searing with pain. She let out a gargled scream, rolled onto her side, vomited blood all over the carpet. With weak arms she pulled against the bed-sheets, tried to pick herself up. She collapsed onto the floor.

Her vision returned, and she could see the bed shaking.

Sucking in deep and excruciating breaths of air, she scooted up against the wall, saw her husband on the bed, fingers clenched into contorted fists, his stark naked body convulsing in the bedsheets, blood coursing down the sides of his face in rivers, staining the satin pillows a brilliant red.

She threw on her robe, not realizing she had put it on backwards, and stumbled out of the apartment. She screamed for help in the cool silence of the dark corridor with its peeling paint and the rank stench of mildew in the walls. She staggered to the door to the apartment next door, slammed her fists against the wood. Tears streamed down her face, and each knock took so much strength out of her that she felt ready to collapse. She leaned against the door, drawing in painful breaths, her throat still contracting. With her weight against the door, it slowly opened, and she staggered into the apartment. One of the lights was on, and she could see the doorway at the end of the hall open, two feet sticking out. Her voice quivered as she called out Mr. Lambert’s name. She made her way down the hallway, balancing herself against the wall, knees knocking and leg muscles wobbling like rubber. She reached the doorway and peered inside. Mr. Lambert lay on his back, pants pulled down, his penis lying limp with semen dripping out. Blood covered his face, and the television in the corner played a VHS lesbian porn. She stared at his face with those empty eyes filled with blood, twin rubies set into barren sockets.

She swooned as she pulled herself down the steps; her legs gave out; she tumbled against the wall, fell down the stairs, twisting and turning, ankles banging against the stairwell railing. She fell into a heap at the foot of the steps, leaned forward, grabbed her burning and scalding ankles. She managed to stand, one of her ankles splintering with pain. She hobbled towards the door and pushed it open, swaggered into the parking lot. Cars sat quietly in their spaces. A dog barked in the distance. She leaned against one of the cars, took several breaths, closed her eyes, tried to compose herself. She found herself moving again, and she reached her car. She pressed her thumb against the electric key opener against the car door, heard it unlock. She grabbed the door handle just as headlights flooded across her. She turned towards the light, was blinded, raised her hand against her eyes. The headlights veered away, and she watched as the truck ramped up the front entryway to the apartment lobby, crashed through the railing, and slammed into the entrance, shattering glass and tearing off the door. She fell against her car and watched the truck come to a stop, its back tires held up over the ground, the wheels spinning, engine chugging. She hobbled over to the Dodge, which stank of gasoline, and she didn’t feel the shards of glass cutting into her good foot as she leaned against the passenger’s window. She gazed inside, saw the driver hunched over the wheel, blood dripping onto his pants. In the passenger’s seat was a little boy, his hands held rigid against the sides of his face, his fingernails having dug deep into his skin, cutting away strips of flesh that hung limp, pale skull revealed in the flickering lamplights. Nausea overcame her, the world overpowered her, and she fell at the feet of the truck, consciousness slipping away, the only sound that of her ragged breaths and the truck engine idling.