Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (97 page)

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

452

“Yeah,” the boy says. “Nothing.”

“Then you won’t mind if I look at it…” The man pushes past the boy and walks over to the counter. The book is actually a road atlas of the entire United States, and it is flipped open to western Colorado. The man shakes his head, perplexed, looks over his shoulder at Mark, who is still standing beside the broken window. “Colorado is a little out of our way. I’m not making anymore detours.”

Mark doesn’t say anything.

The man flips the book shut. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Wait,” Mark blurts.

“What?”

“It’s just… Alaska is a hell of a ways away, right? We’ve already lost… We’ve already lost more people than I care to think about. We’re only right outside Indianapolis! We’re not even an
eighth
of the way there. Do the math, all right? By the time we make it a
quarter
way there, only one of us will be alive.”

“We just need to be more fucking careful, not running after little boys.”

“Do the math, all right?” Mark pleads.

“Here’s the math: Cameron was bitten by a dark-walker. We were ambushed. We weren’t prepared. Carla flipped the switch on the lights, fucked us all over. Extenuating circumstances. At least the bitch got what she deserved. And Anthony? I didn’t much like the kid, but I didn’t want him to die. I’m not a fucking sadistic bastard. His death didn’t excite me. But he committed
suicide
. He took his own life—it wasn’t because of the trip, it was because of his inability to cope with his sister’s death. Kyle was shot by raiders. I’m not saying it’s your fault, but as long as we can avoid raiders, keep a better eye out, and be… wiser… in what we do, then we should be all right. We’ve hit a patch of bad luck, and I’m hoping it’s over. But there’s no statistical reason why we should abandon our only hope for survival.”

“I’m not asking us to abandon our only hope for survival,” Mark says.

“Mark…”

“Hear me out, all right? Remember the crazy man by the side of the road? Remember where he was headed? Aspen. We can get there in less than a week if we try.
Less than a week
. Alaska could take us several months. And the road to Aspen, it cuts through big cities. Lots of gas stations.”

“The radios from Aspen went quiet,” the man says. “You want to do some math? Do the math yourself on what that means.”

“I’m getting to that,” Mark says, speaking quickly. He takes a step towards the man, tentatively, not wishing to push him over the edge. “Those prisoners, in the old farmhouse?
They
were heading to Aspen. They said that before the radio went silent, the broadcasters said that the satellites were wobbling out of control, and they wouldn’t be able to deliver the signals. Which means that Aspen is still intact. They’re just silent. Not dead. Just silent.”

The man doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Mark reiterates, “Less than a week.”

The man runs his hand through his greasy hair. Suddenly he is aware of the awful taste in his mouth. The beard growing around his chin and the sides of his face.
How long has it been since I’ve
shaved? Since I’ve even taken a fucking shower?
“No.”

“Look…”

“We’re going to Alaska. We’ve decided on that.”

“
You
decided on that,” Mark says. “No one else had a say.”

“I’m the one in charge.”

“Really?” Mark asks. “Because Sarah’s been the one keeping us alive.”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

453

The man’s eye twitches. He’s uncomfortable.

“I already told Sarah and Katie about Aspen,” Mark says. “We were going to talk to you about it tonight. I’ve just been charting out the route. Everyone—except for you—wants to do this.”

“No.”

“If we get there,” Mark continues, “and it’s nothing but a wasteland, then we can head for Alaska. It’ll be the same net distance whether we go north on Interstate 65 or hike over to the Rockies first.”

The man is quiet, looks away.

“What are you thinking?” Mark asks.

The man doesn’t reply.

“I’ll tell them that you followed me here to express interest in Aspen.”

The man looks confused. “Why would you say that?”

“And I’ll say that you had been thinking about it more logically than I have been, and you were the one to promote the idea. This way it still looks like you’re in charge.”

“No.”

Mark shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“We’re going to Alaska.”

“Why can’t we just go through the Rockies, then? It’s scenic.”

“Bullshit.”

“Three of the four of us disagree with you.”

“I’m driving.”

“We all have a license. We all know how to drive.”

The man shakes his head. “This conversation is over, Mark.”

“Yeah,” the boy replies after a moment. “This conversation is over. Sarah, Katie and I, we’re not asking you if we can go. We’re asking if you want to come with us.”

II

They leave Monroe the next morning, heading south on Interstate 65. They hit Interstate 465, which loops around Indianapolis, and passing the towering buildings of the city, Mark—holding the atlas in his hands—directs them back onto Interstate 70 West. They leave the city behind them, and the sprawling suburbs are once more replaced with abandoned cornfields stretching to the horizon on either side of the road. They pass through several quiet, sleeping towns—Plainsfield and Terre Haute—before driving underneath a THANKS FOR VISITING INDIANA, WELCOME TO ILLINOIS highway sign. The cornfields begin to dissipate after several hours of driving, and they are in the suburbs once more. The man pulls off an exit in Effingham, Illinois to get gas. After filling the RAV4, they head back onto the road. The sun has crested the sky, and 1:00 is approaching. Mark follows their path along the map, flipping through the pages, a great black circle around Aspen, Colorado. He begins to feel hope once more.

The sun begins its last dying stretch as the skyscrapers of Saint Louis, Missouri become visible in the far distance. The man presses the gas pedal down harder, and weaving around wrecked cars, they follow Interstate 70 as it bends around a curve, descends a hill, and opens up with a spectacular view of the dead city.

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

454

“When did we reach Missouri?” Katie asks.

The man shakes his head; there wasn’t a sign. They’d passed a few that were faded, worn down by the weather and neglect, and he figures one of those may had been the state-transition billboard. The interstate passes over the cantilever-truss Martin Luther King Bridge, and on the bridge is a sign for Missouri.

“I guess the river is the boundary line,” the man says to no one in particular.

“Look,” Katie says, pointing. Along the steel girders of the bridge are several large nests, and bald eagles watch the travelers from their perches.

“I’ve never seen one of those before,” Sarah says.

“Neither have I,” Katie says. “They’re so… beautiful. Majestic.”

The Mississippi River rages beneath the bridge, its currents sweeping over the rising slopes of the banks, churned forth by wild rains earlier in the week. The bridge opens up into downtown, and the man stops the RAV4. The streets are deserted of movement, but cars are everywhere. The city was known for great parties, and in the heat of August, when the plague struck, the downtown bars and theaters and fanfares would have been packed. The man rolls down his window and lights a cigarette.

Mark takes one for himself, asks, “Now what?”

The man leans forward, stares out the windshield.

The sun’s rays cut between two skyscrapers.

“Now we find a place to spend the night.”

“Downtown is probably crowded,” Mark says. “With dark-walkers, I mean.”

“I know,” the man says.

He turns the car left, passes underneath a dead stoplight, and heads south. The sun’s rays continue to sink behind the towering buildings.

They drive past JEFFERSON EXPANSION MEMORIAL, the downtown riverfront park. Within the park is the GATEWAY ARCH, 630 feet tall, the tallest manmade monument in the United States. Mark remembers his history class in high school, learning about the adventures of Lewis and Clark. The GATEWAY ARCH symbolized the beginning of the west, praising the Westward Expansion inaugurated by president Thomas Jefferson. Their journey takes them west, and now the monument stands as a symbol for their own adventure, their own seeking of discovery. He wonders what they will discover in Aspen. Lewis and Clark didn’t know what to expect, and neither do the travelers. But Lewis and Clark made it to their goal, despite tragedies and setbacks and opposition.
We have
experienced all of that,
Mark thinks to himself.
Hopefully we’ll be as successful as they were.
His thoughts are shattered by the man’s voice: “In a thousand years, that arch will be gone. We may be the last people to ever see it.” Mark forgets about Lewis and Clark. Suddenly the gnawing fear of the future builds within his gut once more. They continue driving.

“It’s a stampede,” Mark says.

They stop the car between two large gated business complexes. At the intersection in front of them, nearly forty or fifty whitetail deer storm down the street, the antlers of the bucks casting shadows against the cracked asphalt. The ground shakes beneath the S.U.V. One of the deer is straggling behind, limping on a leg swollen with blood. The deer pass. The man puts the vehicle in gear and presses the gas. He hits the brakes as four or five wolves stream past, yapping at one another, bodies streamlined, tails rigid. The travelers make it through the intersection, and the man pulls the car forward. They enter the intersection, and off to the left, they see the straggling deer taken down, a wolf sinking its fanged teeth into its neck. Katie presses her face against the window, Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

455

eyes stricken with a panicked sorrow. The deer lets out a mournful cry and sags, and the wolves fall upon it, tearing at its flesh. Geysers of blood shoot into the air, and the wolves’ maws are stained with blood. The deer’s body is hidden beneath the feasting hunters.

“The poor deer…” Katie moans.

The man says, “The wolves, they’re just trying to survive.”

“Just like us,” Sarah says.

“No,” the man says quietly. “We’re the deer. We’re the prey now, not the hunters.”

III

The MISSOURI BOTANICAL GARDEN, also called SHAW’S GARDEN, is located along the southwestern side of Saint Louis. It is one of the world’s largest botanical research centers with countless greenhouses and research facilities. The rest of the park is shaped immaculately, with sweeping monuments and majestic lakes. They follow the road through the Garden, and they find a street facing the garden. The road is lined with massive stone buildings, once built as palaces for heads of state visiting the 1904 World’s Affair. Now they have become apartment complexes. There are several other buildings along the adjacent street, bungalows and loft districts. The man parks the RAV4 outside one of the stone buildings. He and Mark take the two M16s they’ve brought along and enter the building through a sliding window. They follow the stone steps up to the highest floor, and they try the doorknobs on the apartment doors until one opens. The man pushes it open, and Mark enters, scanning the entryway with a flashlight. The beam falls upon a person on the floor, curled into a fetal position. The woman is dressed in rags, emaciated, the washboard-ribs slowly moving with each breath. At the sound of their entrance, it raises its head and stares at them with feeble eyes. It had once been a dashing young woman, a great actor starring in A-rated films. Now the creature can barely move, starving. It tries to crawl towards them, reaching out with gnarled fingers.

“Shoot her,” the man says.

Mark doesn’t move, watching the woman slinking towards him.

“Shoot her,” the man repeats.

The boy shakes his head. “I can’t… She’s so… helpless.”

“She’s one of them.” The man moves past Mark and sends a single bullet into her head. She goes still, body sagging to the floor, her fingers expanding from their clawed positions. Blood pools on the floor underneath her head.

Mark takes a deep breath. “Let’s find another room.”

“All right,” the man says.

An unlocked apartment is found on the floor beneath them. They gather their weapons, and everyone joins inside. No dark-walkers are to be found anywhere. The sheets on the beds are coiled upon the floor. The room stinks of mildew. There is a single window overlooking the park, facing the Japanese gardens and the manmade lake filled with koi fish. The rose garden beside the lake is speckled with weeds, and the roses have a difficult time facing the sunlight. The sun continues to set, and the howls of the dark-walkers greet them as they barricade the front door. There are two bedrooms, and the man gives one to Sarah and Katie. He and Mark will take the other. Sarah and Katie retire early, and the man lies in bed, closes his eyes. He can’t sleep. He gets up and walks out into the living area. He Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

456

sees Mark standing beside the window facing the park, smoking a cigarette. The man stands next to him.

“You got anymore?” he asks.

“The pack is in the kitchen,” Mark says. “The lighter’s next to it.”

The man leaves, returns, brandishing his own MARLBORO RED.

“You out of cigarettes?” Mark asks.

“Yeah. I have to get some more tomorrow.”

The boy points out the window. “Isn’t that something?”

In the pale moonlight, they can see several dark-walkers wading into the shallow lake, swishing their hands through the stagnant water, groping about in their own blindness. Others stand along the bank, underneath the flowering dogwoods, rocking back and forth on their haunches, staring at their own pallid reflection in the murky water.

“They’re fishing,” Mark says.

“Have they caught anything?”

“No.”

“Maybe the fish are dead.”

“They’re koi fish. I saw the sign. They don’t need to be fed during the winter. Their digestive tracts shut down. They just hibernate. I’m sure the pollen from the roses spills into the lake, giving them something to eat. And insects, too. The mosquitoes are horrible. I got bit several times just unloading our weapons from the car.”