The Eye of Madness (10 page)

“Thank God … he is still breathing,” she thought as she pulled him close. This small assurance would have to suffice for now because the fire was spreading. The smoke swirled in the wind resembling small tornadoes, burning their eyes and throats. She scooped Malakhi up and half slid and half crawled down the stairs. A few moments later, they were lying in the green grass of the park. Rebekah lay on her back, trying to suppress the pain as she held her son close. She squinted up at the inferno that was their home for the last few years. She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved they escaped the dark, or to cry because everything they owned was going up in flames. The only thing she could do right now is hug her son and cry. When she ran out of tears, feeling hurt, lost, injured, and alone; she got to her feet. For the first time since they arrived outside, she noticed the chaos around them. People ran in panic, sirens wailed, crashes and explosions thundered in the distance. The smoke plumes towering in all directions suggested that not just their building was burning. Malakhi sat up and rubbed his terror-filled eyes.

“Momma?” he asked with pitiful hopelessness. Rebekah's heart melted.

“It's okay, sweetie,” she said as she reached down and helped him to his feet.

He stood and clutched the hem of her skirt for support. She massaged her sore back for a long time while she spoke comforting words to her son. She seemed to have only pulled a muscle and not ruptured or dislocated anything. She could deal with the inconvenience of a strained muscle, even though it hurt.

Rebekah scanned their surroundings, trying to make some sense of the world. There seemed to be no logic. Pandemonium and fear ruled. The one positive was that the surrounding fires had obliterated all the shaded areas nearby. The dark was gone in those areas, but where the smoke blacked out the sun it still raged. Rebekah gave a silent thanks that the wind was blowing away from them.

She grabbed Malakhi's hand and began walking in the direction of the market where she worked. The way was familiar and she knew there should be lots of people. The further they travelled the more she saw how right and how wrong she was. There were people, lots of them scattered here and there, but most of them were dead. Rebekah tried to keep Malakhi's eyes covered. It was no use, he saw. Her heart wilted each time Malakhi squeaked with terror. All she could do was hold on to him tight and keep moving.

After an eternity of walking through the corpse littered streets, they rounded a corner and stopped. About two blocks ahead, by a large soccer field, there was a line of flatbed military trucks. The vehicles were all crammed with as many civilians as they could carry. A solitary soldier in fatigues paced back and forth beside the trucks carrying a large megaphone.

“We need as many people on board as possible,” he called. “Everyone will be taken to safety where you will receive good care.”

“Where?” a man holding a little girl asked.

“Camp Anatot,” the soldier replied, and then went back to barking commands.

Rebekah knew this was the best opportunity for her and her son to survive. It would soon be dark and they wouldn't survive the night here, especially since a good deal of the power was out. Grabbing Malakhi's hand, she began to run towards the trucks. Her back tinged with each deep breath, but they finally made it as the last of a large family climbed on back of one of the trucks.

“Two more?” Rebekah asked, pulling Malakhi in front of her so the soldier could see both of them.

He studied them doubtfully and was about to turn them away when an old woman spoke up. “There's plenty of room here,” she said, scooting over about a foot. Her long white hair was disheveled; she looked as if she just rolled out of bed and then ran through a wind tunnel. Her wrinkled face was streaked with dirt and soot as well as her long blue cotton gown. She resembled someone who travelled to Hell and back. Despite her disturbing appearance, she was kind and empathetic.

“Okay,” the soldier said and motioned with his thumb over his shoulder for them to climb on.

He didn't help them, in fact nobody did. Everyone else refused to make eye contact. The refugees all displayed a haunted, drawn countenance. The old woman, who introduced herself as Ruth, was a light in a dark room. She beamed with the hopeful face of a child, as if the trucks were headed for Disneyland.

Ruth talked with great excitement to Rebekah and Malakhi. She didn't divulge a lot of personal information other than she lived in an old neighborhood of Jerusalem. Rebekah thought it odd because she remembered seeing where Ruth's neighborhood was now a grand office complex. She didn't question it. Rebekah had never been to Ruth's section of the city and she didn't want to hurt her feelings. Judging by her appearance, she could well be a homeless person residing there, sleeping under a bridge or on a park bench. Rebekah was polite and nodded at Ruth's stories.

“Did you hear that this eye … this storm, center thing, didn't hit the world at the same time?” Ruth said. “It kind of spread over the planet like thick glue.” She held her hands out in front of her, palms facing down, and wriggled her fingers to demonstrate something oozing over a sphere.

After a while, Ruth tired of talking, which was okay because Rebekah zoned her out a long time ago. By the time they reached Camp Anatot, a drive normally taking a little over thirty minutes, more than five hours had passed. The convoy took dozens of detours while avoiding the streets choked with debris, bodies, and shade. When they pulled through the gates of Camp Anatot, the sun was hanging low in the west. It would be dark in less than an hour

The road coming into the base and all open areas were illuminated by dozens of Powermoon portable lights. These lights were fed by a series of generators buzzing and humming every hundred feet or so.

They sat on the truck until after dark in the middle of a large, well-lit field. They slipped away from the needy grasp of Ruth and made their way to a group of white linen tents a short distance away. Each tent was lit up by the portable lights and a battery powered lantern inside. The cloth on the tents was so light and thin, the lanterns were probably not necessary. With the powerful lights around them, Rebekah and Malakhi did not even realize that night had fallen. Not until they travelled a short distance from the chattering diesel engines of the trucks and generators did they hear the dark beyond the perimeter. It was night in Jerusalem and soon it would be in England. Nightfall would arrive in the United States a short time later.

A piercing pain ran through Private Abernathy's skull as he sat up in the floor.

“Where am I?” he thought as he rubbed the back of his head.

Suddenly, it hit him. He was at home, knocked out by the stupid skank in the cage. As he slowly opened his eyes the final realization sunk in … it was dark. This chilling fact was reinforced by the hissing and clicking chorus surrounding him. He sat up and saw the dark moving and pulsing like a living thing. It was not just one place; it was everywhere … beside him, above him, under him, beneath every piece of furniture, and in every corner. It covered the entire volume of the room. It was an omnipotent entity focused on malice. He should be terrified, in truth, he should be dead … but he wasn't. Then the strangest thing happened, a calm peace settled over him. His breathing slowed and he regarded the room as serenely as if he were observing a school of fish underwater.

“Is this what happens when I die?” he thought.

Of course, he wasn't dead. He could tell by the stabbing pain in the back of his head. He sat up and gingerly touched it with his fingertips. His hair was matted and sticky from dried blood. The wooden surface of the footstool he fell on was smeared with a red glob of blood.

“Damn her!” he muttered and then glared at the closet.

He could see the outline of the cage as his eyes began to adjust. There was something lying in the bottom. He retrieved one of the flashlights off his dresser. Flicking it on, he shone it at the closet. In spite of the grotesque atrocities he had enjoyed his entire life, an involuntary gasp of horror spewed from his lips. He saw the form, rather what the form was. The old woman had shoved her head through the narrow bars. Her head was compacted into a deformed lump of jelly as the sides of her skull were crushed in. She was dead; there was no doubt about it. Jack experienced a sudden twinge of regret. Not because the old lady was dead. He regretted he was not the one who enjoyed the pleasure of killing her.

CHAPTER 11

SECRETS IN THE DARK

“People find meaning and redemption in the most unusual human connections.”

~Khaled Hosseini

The mid-afternoon sun shone through the rear windows of the cabin. A large field separated them from the woods allowing plenty of light inside. A light shone through to the living room and onto the unconscious Andrews, giving him an angelic appearance. Of course, Andrews was no angel. The thing inside him was even further from righteousness.

Sally and Charlotte sat on the opposite side of the room. They had been keeping an eye on Barbara as much they were watching the thing bound to the chair. Cecil, Derek, and Burt discussed plans and scouted the perimeter of the cabin. There was one subject which they were all in total agreement. They either needed to get to a safer location or they would need several more gallons of gas for the generator. Neither one seemed to be an easy or realistic task.

They could follow the driveway for about a half mile as it wound down the hillside and through the woods. There were several clear areas where the sun shone through. The problem is there were also an equal number of dark areas alive with murderous living shadows. There were not enough flashlights on hand to light up all the dark areas in a vehicle. Derek suggested they go in a group with each of them holding a flashlight in a different direction as they moved. However, when they examined their inventory, they decided it would not be feasible.

“We only have three workable flashlights,” Cecil said. “Only one of those is bright enough to do us much good in the really dark areas.”

They assessed the gas inventory again and did another calculation. The news was not good. They only had enough for less than three days. It was hard for any of them to keep their minds on the dilemma with the potential danger bound in the house. Charlotte and Sally both owned guns and knew how to use them. Andrews was also trussed up so tight, the only part of his body he would be able to move is his head. Nevertheless, this provided little comfort given their circumstances.

A little over an hour before nightfall, Andrews stirred and stared at them. They weren't sure who awakened in the chair until he spoke.

“I almost forgot what an uncomfortable nuisance a body is,” Musial said. He shook his head from side to side as a wry grin spread over his face.

“Musial?” Cecil asked, stepping forward and crossing his arms.

The smile did not falter as he replied. “Ah … yes, I did introduce myself, didn't I?”

“Who the hell are you?” Cecil demanded.

Musial regarded him with an exasperated frown, which soon morphed to a bemused grin. “You mean who
was
I. Right, major?”

“How did you know I am a major?”

He shook his head and shrugged as if to say it didn't matter. He then addressed Charlotte. “Would you mind untying me sweetheart?” he asked in a sappy, yet polite tone. “I find this an undignified way to carry on a conversation.”

Charlotte glanced at Cecil and Burt, before shaking her head. “No, I'm sorry,” she squeaked.

His mouth leveled to an indifferent thin line. “Never hurts to ask,” he said.

“Why did you ask her?” Burt demanded, stepping forward and standing shoulder to shoulder with Cecil.

“I thought I would pay her the respect you do not offer,” he said, staring into their eyes. “This
is
her house, is it not?”

Everyone turned to Charlotte. She ducked her head and nodded. She said
‘yes'
but it was so quiet, no one heard her, except for maybe Musial.

Musial smirked. “You have this poor girl so submissive, so down trodden, she seems afraid of her own shadow,” he said, then paused and smiled. “Of course, right now it is not an unhealthy fear,” he said nodding at the window towards a dark area of the woods.

“Is that where you come from?” Cecil asked.

He nodded and smiled. His expression was awkward, as if embarrassed by the admission.

“What the hell
are
you?” Burt demanded.

“Am I a shade, specter, spirit, soul, essence, phantom, vision, apparition, wraith, ghost? Is that what you are asking?”

“Are you an Impal?” Cecil asked, his stomach turning in knots. He was afraid of the answer.

Musial's eyes narrowed for several long and torturous moments.

“Yes and no,” he answered.

Cecil's heart stretched in two different directions. The
no
was encouraging, but the
yes
worried him.

“What the hell? What kind of answer is that?” Burt snapped.

“The most honest answer I can give so you might understand. I guess …” he began then trailed off as if in deep thought. “I guess what you refer to as “Impal” is what I strive to be.”

“Are you a demon?” Sally asked.

Musial broke into laughter, albeit polite laughter.

“No … no, my dear … demons are much more subtle than my bloodthirsty lot,” he chuckled. “And demons were never human.”

“You were human?” Burt spat.

“As human as you,” he said in a matter of fact tone.

“But are you an Impal?” Cecil insisted, taking a step closer.

Again he stared at Cecil for a while. The frustration was about to rise to a crescendo when Musial finally replied. “Yes, but not like the nice ones you knew for the past three months. We're different.”