And Darkness Fell Read online

  And Darkness Fell

  By David Berardelli

  And Darkness Fell

  Copyright © 2013 David Berardelli All Rights Reserved

  Published in ebook format

  by D Street Books

  a division of Mountain Lake Press Mountain Lake Press

  Converted by eBookIt

  ISBN 978-0-9885919-2-9 No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information-storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  To the memory of Kylie, whose passing inspired me to write this.

  Contents

  PART I: THE BATTLEFIELD

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  PART TWO: THE WAR MACHINE

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  EPILOGUE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  When the light of life and happiness was destroyed, the darkness came, bringing with it an insatiable lust for death and destruction. All that will exist from now on will be despair, and a cold nothingness that will forever chill the bones.

  When the living can no longer feel the despair or the cold, they will know the end has finally come.

  PART I: THE BATTLEFIELD

  ONE

  Beneath the blood-red sunset, a six-car pileup forming a grotesque sculpture of twisted metal and broken glass blocked the interstate. I slowed the van and veered right until I reached the shoulder. The shortbarreled, .38 Special revolver rested on the console beside me. If someone popped out of the wreckage and lunged, I could easily shoot him.

  The bitter irony of it all nipped at my bones. Not long ago, I would have called 911. But now, since there were no more ambulances, I handled all emergencies with a gun.

  I could see only three bodies. The others probably lay dead in the back seats or beneath the vehicles. A woman slumped behind the wheel of the smashed silver SUV, her long dark hair a heavy shroud covering her shoulder and arm. Two men in light-colored sweat shirts and baggy sweat pants lay on their backs on the pavement. Splotches of blood covered their faces and shirts. No one moved.

  A black handbag lay among the shattered glass, its contents strewn some twenty yards from the crash site. A crushed tan suitcase jutted out beside a flat tire. A shabby brown teddy bear sat in front of the SUV, gazing up at the darkening sky.

  Staying clear of the broken glass, I eased onto the shoulder and crept past, until the bodies showed up in my side mirror. Just as I’d moved past the wreckage, a glittering gun barrel directly to my left made me cringe.

  A young man sprawled on his left side beneath the rear bumper of an overturned sedan. He lay perfectly still, his left arm outstretched, a revolver pointed in my direction.

  Instinctively I reached for the .38 but thought better of it. I wouldn’t need it. The boy’s glazed eyes were pointed in my direction but did not flicker or blink. His hand was open. The gun barrel rested on the macadam. He was dead.

  I accelerated, avoiding the mirrors until I was confident the tiny, glinting nightmare behind me had disappeared from sight.

  A couple of miles later, I decided it was safe to start breathing again.

  Twenty miles north of Jacksonville, small towns and boroughs peppered the wooded areas flanking the interstate. Years ago, many of these places were reduced to shadows of what they once were, as progress stripped them of their dignity. Their anorexic remains had become grim remnants of a time long past, when the world was smaller and quieter and moved along at a much slower pace.

  According to my grandparents, life was much more tolerable before the computer age stepped in to change the world. Microwaves hadn’t been invented. Cell phones weren’t even thought of. Television provided only a handful of working channels. Telephones often had party lines to contend with, and office workers frequently had to rely on their memories, common sense, and other skills to get the work done.

  Nevertheless, life trudged on, and people were content and happy with its limitations.

  My grandfather believed life began deteriorating when the huge, sprawling monster called Interstate 95 bulled its way into our lives, slicing deeply into the earth, leveling land and trees, destroying homes and farms, and burying this quiet way of life beneath thousands of tons of pavement.

  I’d never been a fan of the interstate. In the past, I’d avoid it whenever possible, choosing country roads as a much more restful—and safer—alternative. But when ninety percent of its traffic vanished, travel along the roadway changed drastically, turning into something much more frightening.

  I zipped through the Jacksonville area, drove for another ten minutes, and took the first exit. I’d been driving for several hours and needed to stretch my legs as well as take a whiz and hunt for money and weapons. I went straight up the ramp and that dreaded highway quickly disappeared behind a cluster of dirty brick buildings and a row of corroding tenement houses.

  I crept down the debris-cluttered street, carefully avoiding bottles and broken glass. A couple of skinny dogs trotted along the sidewalk, searching for food scraps. Cars, vans, and pickups lined both sides of the cracked pavement. Some were fairly new while others appeared much older, abandoned long enough to begin their slow deterioration into misshapen husks of rust and grimy glass.

  The two- and three-story houses lining the block had also begun their journey into death and decay. It didn’t take long. Their windows were filthy, their paint peeling. Shingles had pulled loose, some still clinging to sections of exposed tar while others had simply given up and dropped to the ground. Trash, toys, rusty lawn furniture, and skeletons of vehicles on blocks littered the overgrown front yards.

  Halfway down the street, I found a place to park. I wasn’t afraid of blocking anybody—I hadn’t encountered another vehicle all evening. Still, I didn’t want to bring attention to myself. People usually stop what they’re doing and stare if they see something strange or unusual. And if they’ve never seen you before, they’re bound to be suspicious if you show up in their neighborhood. I didn’t see anyone wandering about, but I knew better than to lower my guard. I wasn’t about to risk my life on the off-chance that someone might be lurking in the shadows.

  As I pulled into the vacant space and switched off the engine, I realized at once I’d been correct in my thinking. Two large, beefy guys sat watching me from the now-tall grass in front of the brick house across the street. I hadn’t been able to see them through the wild hedges obscuring the view at the corner, but as soon as I’d passed the collapsed picket fence separating the properties, there they were.

  They were obviously brothers and close in age, maybe twenty-five. They were fairly dark, their scraggly long hair the same color as their unkempt beards. They wore bib overalls, and each gripped a beer can. They probably went close to three hundred pounds apiece, and I doubted they’d have any trouble pounding me into hamburger. On the other hand, if they’d been doped, I wouldn’t have to worry; by the time they decided I was a threat, I’d be long gone.

  I thought about trying a different house, but I really didn’t want to waste the time—the pressure in my bladder had increased, and I squirmed in my seat.

  I watched as they both hoisted their cans to coax some drink into their mouths. The process was excruciating. They took at least ten seconds for each to raise th
e can, another five to tilt it, nearly ten seconds to swallow the mouthful, and another ten to lower the can. About thirty seconds after all that, they both belched.

  Nope. Nothing to worry about—at least from those two. The house could be another story.

  I twisted farther around toward Reed, who was sitting in the rear seat amid the canned food, beer, and other stuff I’d stolen before leaving St. Cloud that morning. He sat quietly, his head tilted to the side. He was probably listening to his friend again.

  “Reed?”

  He turned and focused his small, light-blue eyes on me. Reed always gave me the impression he’d just awoken, even if we’d been talking only seconds earlier. That was okay. Reed wasn’t normal by any stretch. But that didn’t matter. Abnormal had been the norm for some time.

  “Reed, have him check out the house, the one over on the right, where those two big guys are sitting.”

  He turned and stared out the passenger window then went right back to his listening mode. I should explain at this point that he was listening to someone even though no one else was there. But as far as Reed was concerned, the voice was real—just as real as I was.

  “Well?”

  No reply. When he listened, he blocked out everything else. Reed wasn’t a moron. He was actually very intelligent and well-educated, but his attention focused on things others couldn’t fathom. Like Elwood P. Dowd, that lovable dipsomaniac played by Jimmy Stewart in the movie Harvey. Dowd claimed he had an invisible friend, too, a six-foot rabbit. I had no idea who or what belonged to the voice Reed heard. I didn’t know if he was listening to a leporine six-and-ahalf footer, a stacked blonde, or one of those voice-generating computers I saw on an old TV show.

  It didn’t matter; the voice was real. I’d seen clear evidence of it.

  “It’s okay to go inside?”

  “Don’t know,” he said in his soft, high-pitched voice.

  “What did your friend say?”

  “He doesn’t hear anything.”

  “He can’t tell if anyone’s in the house?”

  He shook his head.

  I tried evaluating the situation. Judging by their actions, the two out on the grass probably had been doped. Families usually ate the same foods and took the same medications, so anyone inside the house probably would be in this same condition.

  “I guess I’ll go in, then. I need to make a pit stop. How about you?”

  Reed shook his head.

  That was another thing I couldn’t understand about Reed. He seldom had to use the bathroom or stretch his legs. He’d rather sit back there and listen to the voice. Reed didn’t eat or drink much, either, but you expected him to use the bathroom once in a while. I’d only seen him slip into the john once since we’d hooked up, but that was only because I’d done something that made him sick to his stomach.

  “Want anything special if they’ve got food?”

  “An apple would be nice.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A peach. Or maybe a banana.”

  “You having a regularity issue?”

  He frowned. Reed wasn’t the best audience for the casual one-liner.

  “It was a joke, Reed.”

  He didn’t reply, and his silence made me wary. I didn’t think he’d keep anything from me, but his blank expression made me wonder if I should even bother with this place. I could just piss in the bushes, and I could always look for guns and money somewhere else.

  On the other hand, it was getting dark, and I didn’t want to be caught in a strange place at night. Some sections still had working street lights; this one didn’t. If they’d been working, they would already be on, and those guys sitting in the front yard probably wouldn’t mind if I just took a leak at the corner. Still, I needed to do some hunting while I was there. I needed stuff that could substitute for cash.

  When most of the ATMs went down, cash became the only form of money acceptable—cash or something of intrinsic value. If I found another gun, for example, that could substitute. Of course, you could never have enough guns. Gas stations had become the most dangerous places in the country. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to stop for a while. I’d filled up the tank south of Jacksonville and still had plenty left.

  Which brings me back to that house. I thought it would be a safe bet. Two of its occupants were obviously doped and getting drunk out in the front yard. They wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to catch me. Also, I wouldn’t have to worry about encountering a locked back door. A flickering light showed in the side window. I assumed it was from a kerosene lamp.

  Reed suddenly looked worried.

  “What’s the voice saying now?”

  “You might wanna take a gun with you.”

  I stiffened. “Trouble?”

  “He saw something move inside, but says it’s small.”

  Small? That could mean anything from a cockroach to a baby pit bull.

  My pulse raced as I grabbed the .38, which I’d found in a house I’d raided in St. Cloud. I hadn’t fired it yet but was familiar with the caliber.

  I shoved it in my back pocket and hoped I wouldn’t need it. I hated killing people. I hadn’t done it in years and promised myself long ago I’d never do it again. I didn’t know certain grisly events beyond my control would soon prevent me from keeping that promise.

  My heart thumped as I climbed out of the van.

  The jumbo twins watched me as I circled in front of the van, stepped over the collapsed fence, and trudged through the weeds. The one closest to me lowered his hand in the grass.

  I froze. My imagination went crazy. He might have been reaching for a gun he’d brought with him. Or, maybe he was bracing his arm so he could get up and rush toward me. He might even have rigged some sort of homemade booby trap for trespassers, and was about to toss it at me.

  I hoped I was being ridiculous, but I had good reason to be scared and confused. It had been weeks since I’d encountered anything remotely normal. Judging by the events of the previous six months, I strongly suspected nothing would be normal ever again.

  I forced myself to stay calm. If they came at me, I’d sprint back to the van and get the hell out of there. If they were doped, I’d have plenty of time to drive away. Even if they drew guns, their slowness and lack of coordination would prevent them from getting a clear shot.

  Still, I’d be in real trouble if I’d mistaken their condition. I’d already stumbled across several people who appeared doped but actually weren’t. I’d seen this many times in the work force, under normal conditions. People came to work hung over and strung out all the time. Some managed nicely, getting their job done and leaving at the end of the day without suffering any consequences. Others didn’t do so well, stumbling about and spending most of the workday hiding, or in the john.

  Nowadays, being doped meant the difference between life and death.

  Heads tilted, the jumbo boys continued watching me in confusion.

  Reasoning is nearly impossible when you’re doped. Getting one’s brain to function becomes a horrendously slow, painful process. It’s like getting a car to fire up on only one spark plug.

  One of them slowly hoisted his arm again, coaxing more beer into his mouth. He belched, lowered his arm, and continued watching me.

  I waved. No response.

  Keeping my eye on them, I trudged through the weeds. Just as I reached the corner of the house, they both hoisted their arms and waved slowly and awkwardly, as if their arms weighed half a ton.

  I veered around the corner, cautiously climbed the loose wooden steps of the deteriorating porch, and stepped through the front door.

  Kerosene lamps sent flickering shadows that danced across the walls of the foul-smelling kitchen. An old woman sat in a rocker in the corner beside the stove, crocheting. She wore a stained flowery dress, white socks, and smudged white tennis shoes. Her head was lowered. Her matted, curly white hair obscured her face. She didn’t look up when I walked in.

  “Hello,” I said softly.


  No reply.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I used your bathroom, would you?”

  Although I could barely see her arthritic fingers moving, the old woman continued her work. Gaps and holes ruined the center of the afghan in her lap. Yarn hung in loose loops all over the works. She’d obviously been at it a while. She probably had been thinking clearly when she started but began failing as time went on. The bottom section of the afghan, neat and uniform, did not match her recent efforts. I guessed she’d remain in the rocker until she could no longer function and die before anyone noticed.

  One of the kerosene lamps lit up the wooden table in the center of the room. A loaf of moldy bread and a few tins of sardines covered a small section of its stained surface. Something had spilled recently. Flies feasted on it.

  I saw no fruit on the table or on the kitchen counter. Reed would have to wait a little longer for his fructose fix.

  Stepping over hordes of busy roaches, I crossed the filthy linoleum floor and opened the fridge. The pungent smell assaulted my nostrils. The food on the shelves had already reached the beginning stages of putrefaction. The temperature inside matched that of the kitchen. I should have realized by the dead street lamps that this family had lost power. Finding food would become increasingly difficult. The people who could still function would use coolers or freezers, loading up with any ice they could find. Reed and I would have to be content with canned stuff.

  I slammed the fridge door, but the old woman didn’t flinch. She was either deaf or would react to the sudden noise after I’d gone. Or, maybe she was just so engrossed in her work she didn’t care. I took a few deep breaths to rid my lungs of the foulness, but the air in the kitchen was only slightly better. I had to get out of there shortly or I’d be sick.

  Then I heard a soft noise and turned to it.

  A little girl stared up at me, her large brown eyes glazed.

  Small--just like Reed said.

  About ten years old, she was dressed only in a stained pink tee shirt and filthy white undershorts. She was also barefoot. Her greasy dark brown hair clung to her forehead and cheeks. Her face was smudged with dirt, her nose glossy with snot. She obviously hadn’t been near bathwater in a while. It figured. Their water had also been shut off.