Out of the Dark (Light & Dark #1) Read online

  How hard he must have fought, and for what? Nothing. He’s still dead, just like the rest of us. What are we even fighting for anymore? A butterfly beats its wings as it flies between Lilly and me, and we both look up from our respective staring spots. It is orange and black—nothing uncommon about its appearance. In fact, it’s a very average-looking butterfly. And yet it’s not. It is beauty, wrapped up in freedom. It can flap its wings and fly away in the blink of an eye, leaving behind every nightmare and demon that it comes across. Its life is a blip in the existence of mankind, and then it dies and is reborn once more.

  How I wish Lilly and I were butterflies.

  “Lilly,” I say, “I want you to put your hands over your ears and watch the butterfly. Watch the sun. Watch the sky and the clouds. And keep your hands over your ears, and do not turn around no matter what.”

  Lilly stares at me silently.

  “Okay?” I ask, knowing now what I must do.

  “Okay,” she says, and then her hands come up to cover her ears and she turns around, no doubt her eyes following the butterfly as it flits from flower to flower.

  I look back in the car, seeing the woman still staring back at me. Though now she looks different. Now her eyes glisten with dampness, and I understand how hard it must have been for her to produce those tears. I glance back at Lilly, checking that she isn’t looking, and then I bend down and retrieve the crowbar. I slide another wooden panel out of the way and I pull open the back door. The woman tries to turn her head to look at me, but she can’t move, her body has hardened in place and only a low, throaty sound like dead air escapes her dried lips. I hang the crowbar from my back pocket, feeling the metal, warmed by the rising sun, against my ass. I reach in to the woman, tucking one arm gently below her neck, and the other I hook under her legs. Then I lift her and clamber backwards out of the car. She weighs almost nothing—less than Lilly, it seems—and though I am weak, I don’t struggle to carry her.

  I look down at her, seeing a woman in my arms, and yet not. Her head is cradled against the crook of my arm and I see the string of pearls around her neck, almost like a sign of her perfect life before this terrible one. But now she is no more alive than the dead man on the ground.

  I turn to look at Lilly, seeing that she is still doing as I asked, and then I look down at the woman as I walk to the very back of the yard. Her cheeks are hollowed, her eyes gaunt and her skin gray and sickly. But the black veins are still so clear, slowly working their evil into this poor woman. Even as she starves to death, it is trying to change her. She blinks at me, her eyelids moving slowly, sluggishly, her pupils dilating painfully against the brightness of the day.

  At the back of the garden I set her down on a lonely and decrepit bench. Despite the ugliness of the bench, the view of the horizon is quite spectacular, and she stares at it in wonder. I even suspect a small smile gracing her lips as she blinks and stares at the sun hanging low and heavy.

  “I am sorry that we didn’t find you sooner,” I say, my words sounding rough in my mouth, like filthy lies. But sometimes you have to lie to make people feel better. “You can let go now, you can be with your family. In the sun.” I point to the sky for some inexplicable reason. Inexplicable because I don’t believe in a God, and if we were to try and touch the sun we would burn up before we even reached it. Much like the monsters we fear so much.

  She breathes heavily, her eyes still fixed on the distance. It’s now that I notice how little hair she has, how many black veins she has, how long her nails have grown on her elongated fingers, and I’m suddenly so very angry with her. She asked us to help her—she asked me to help her, yet she must know how close to turning she is. She could have even turned last night and killed both Lilly and me in that metal death trap. What is wrong with her? Why would she do that? Why is mankind so intent with destroying everything and everyone? I don’t understand people anymore.

  I reach in my back pocket, feeling the heavy metal of the crowbar beneath my fingertips and then I grip it and slowly I slide it out of my pocket. I’m not a murderer, but we have to do things we don’t like to protect the ones we love. And I love Lilly. This person could have harmed her, and for that reason alone she must die. This isn’t murder, this is self-preservation. After it is done, it will mean one less monster to try and kill us in the world. One less monster to destroy another person’s life. Yes, this is the best thing for everyone, even for them. I am putting them out of their misery.

  I hold the crowbar above my head, ready to slam it into her skull, my arms and shoulders feeling so heavy with the burden but the strong decision to do this. But then Lilly suddenly calls my name, and I’m not so certain anymore.

  “Mama?”

  I turn and see her walking toward me, her eyes on me and not the crowbar above my head, though it’s obvious that she’s seen it. How could she not? She reaches me and slips her skinny arms around my equally skinny waist, hugging me as hard as she can. I slowly lower the crowbar and then hug Lilly back. The bile that has risen in my throat slips back down the way it came without making a full appearance.

  “I’m sorry, Lilly,” I murmur.

  “I’m hungry,” she whispers back, ignoring my apology and what I was about to do.

  I kiss the top of her head, her curls soft beneath my dry lips. Then I take one last look at the woman—who has turned to look at me, the sunlight glinting off the string of pearls around her neck—and then we turn and leave. I think I hear her say something, but I ignore her, like I had done all night, and we leave. My hand finds Lilly’s as we make our way back to the car. I climb in the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition. It splutters and whines, smoke coughs out of the exhaust, and then it goes dead.

  “Try it again,” Lilly says.

  So I do. I try it three more times, with the same result: a splutter, a whine, and then some black smoke. I slam my hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

  “Try it again,” Lilly asks softly.

  “It’s dead. It’s no good to us,” I say, trying to not let my frustrations into my voice. I reach down to the footwell of the car to get Lilly’s backpack and hat.

  “Just try,” she pleads, her bottom lip quivering.

  I huff out a breath and straighten my back. I look over to Lilly, keeping her gaze so that she knows I am serious. “Just one more time,” I say, and then I try the key again. But of course it doesn’t work. “Sometimes, Lilly, you have to know when to let go,” I say and look away, feeling guilty, though none of this is my fault.

  She stares at me, her forehead creased in disappointment. But she doesn’t complain or whine. She accepts the decision as she always does. “Okay” is all she says in response, her sad eyes looking downward to her feet.

  I grab our meager supplies and then help Lilly put her backpack on. I take her hand in mine as we leave this wretched place and continue to walk.

  Chapter Twenty.

  #20. Luck will find you in the end.

  We walk for miles, the road long and winding. We never know what will be around the next twisty bend, so we make it into a game, trying to guess what could be around the next one. A windmill, a boat, a man, a cow. We of course find none of these things, but Lilly enjoys the game, and she smiles frequently. Her smile lightens my heavy heart. We come across a ripe blackberry bush heavy with fruit and we put all of our belongings from the ratty carrier bag into Lily’s backpack and then fill the carrier bag with as many berries as it will hold. We eat while we scavenge, plucking fat berries from thorny branches and chewing them contentedly. The juices sate our thirst and our hunger, and I can almost feel myself being revitalized with each mouthful.

  Lilly’s hands are purple from the berries, her lips and chin also, and I smile for the first time in days as she eats and eats and eats. There was a day like this, long ago, where we ate berries and she sang to me. Her voice was sweet and carried in the wind. Yet today I hope that she doesn’t sing. I think the silence would be best today.

  I
suck on my forefinger as I prick it on a thorn, the copper taste of my blood mixing with the berries, and I wonder if a well-fed human tastes better to the monsters than a starving one. If they can taste our ripeness, much like we taste the juiciness of the berries. Or if when we are starving and weak we taste of bland pinto beans. I frown at my morbidity and push away the horrible thoughts.

  When our tummies are full and our bag is heavy with the fruit, we begin to walk again, our steps happier now that we’ve eaten. Lilly’s hand is clasped in mine and she swings them back and forth as we walk.

  “A robot,” she says as we near another bend in the road. She looks up at me, her eyes shining happily.

  I feel happy today. Happy because she is happy.

  “A can of Spam,” I say. And she giggles because she knows that I hate Spam.

  We turn the next bend, the trees overhead blowing in the breeze, shading us just enough to stop us from getting too hot in the early afternoon heat, but not enough to offer shelter to the monsters. Today is a good day, I think.

  The road straightens and I see a car up ahead. It’s old, of course, but its door is wide open and it looks like it might not be totally useless.

  “Look, Lilly,” I say, and she looks to where I point.

  “Will it work?” she asks.

  I shrug, unsure.

  I almost jog to the car, and then I remember that I’m still weak from lack of food and I’m tired since I didn’t sleep all night. And, well, of course, the car isn’t going anywhere, and it’s not like anyone is around to steal it from us. So we walk to it—slowly, sure-footed and cautious as I look around, checking that nobody is going to jump out at us.

  The car is a mixture of brown rust and white paint, though I’m sure at one time it was a handsome car—a car someone would have been very proud driving, with its long hood and chrome rims. The driver’s door hangs open, and I see why now: there’s a shoe trapped in the doorway. And when I look closely, I see the bones of a foot still in the shoe. I sit in the driver’s seat, but the keys aren’t in the ignition so I check behind the visor and under the seat, but they aren’t there either. I’m ready to give up when Lilly squeals, and I jump out of the car sharply, clutching at my crowbar.

  “I found them!” she says excitedly, and stands up.

  I hadn’t noticed her getting down on her hands and knees, but that’s where she found the keys: under the car. She hands them to me proudly, her chin raised, and I take them and smile.

  “Well done, Honeybee,” I say, and then I put the metal key in the ignition, watching for a second as the little key ring of a Hawaiian doll dangles from it, before turning the key.

  It starts immediately.

  There’s no choke or struggle or black fumes. Just a strong healthy, growl from the engine. I grin as I look at Lilly, seeing that she is looking decidedly like the child that she is today. Some days I find that she is growing up right before my eyes. I can look at her—this sweet, curly-haired child—and then blink to find that she is all of a sudden a terrified teenager with no one left in the world. That thought scares me as much as the realization that she will never get to become a teenager.

  “Get in,” I say, reaching around and putting the carrier bag of berries in the back of the car. She doesn’t bother to run around the car and get in through the passenger seat. Instead she climbs right over my knee and into her seat. I help her with her seatbelt, hating that she doesn’t have her car seat anymore, because they are so much safer for her. She’s only small, smaller than she should be for her age, and the seatbelt is close to her ear instead of across her shoulder, making it dangerous if I have to brake suddenly. But then, I guess I should just be happy that we have a car that works.

  “Where to?” I tease. “The fairground? School?” I reach down and push the shoe out of the doorway, and then slam the door closed.

  “We should go find the safe place.”

  I turn to look at her, the idling engine the sound to our background. “What safe place?” I ask.

  Lilly looks away, her smile faltering. “The one Sarah told you about.”

  I clamp my mouth shut, keeping my immediate reaction to the name Sarah trapped inside me. Those are not words for a child to hear. I count to ten in my head before I reply.

  “There is no safe place, Lilly. You know that.”

  “But Sarah said—”

  “Stop. Don’t do this to yourself, or me. There is no safe place. Sarah was wrong, and she was a bad person.” I reach out and turn her face to look at me. I need her to see me, not just to hear me. This is important. “Lilly, we know not to trust bad people, don’t we?”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “And Sarah was bad, wasn’t she?”

  Lilly looks uncertain, so I carry on.

  “She left you behind. You could have died.”

  She frowns and purses her lips, and then nods in agreement that Sarah was a bad person. I feel bad as her chin trembles beneath my fingertips. I don’t want to upset her or make her feel bad, but she has to know who to trust if I go before her. I don’t want her last days to be filled with fear, or pain, and that’s all bad people will ever give her.

  “Okay,” I say, and I let go of her face.

  Her eyes stay on me. I feel her stare as I pull the car out of its position and around the next bend.

  “Don’t be sad,” I say.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. I know you are.” I chance a glance at her, but she’s not looking at me now and I feel even worse. The day was going so well and I’ve ruined it. “What do you think is around this next bend?” I ask.

  “I’m tired,” Lilly replies. She pulls her feet up onto the seat and turns slightly so that she is faced away from me. So she doesn’t have to look at me.

  “Okay,” I say.

  The car lapses into silence as Lilly pretends to sleep, and then eventually she does fall asleep. I drive for miles, listening to her soft snores and the roar of the engine. The day is coming to an end. There is not much daylight left, and I begin to worry that we won’t find somewhere to sleep by nightfall. My body is exhausted now, and my eyelids drop every now and then until I jerk myself awake.

  I finally pull over at the side of the road and turn the engine off before climbing out. I need a break from driving, and then I need a drink, or perhaps some more berries that will both hydrate and give me a little energy.

  We are on a long and lonely stretch of highway with only dust for miles around. There is nothing here. We haven’t even passed any abandoned cars in a long time, and this is beginning to stress me out. I pace back and forth at the side of the highway, trying to gather my thoughts on what to do and where to go as anger and resentment burn a wicked path through my body.

  I put my hand in my pocket, finding my cigarettes, my lighter, and a folded piece of paper. I light my cigarette and put the pack and lighter back into my pocket. With the cigarette between my lips and one eye closed to stop any smoke from getting in it, I unfold the piece of paper, confusion furrowing my brow for a moment as I try to work out what it is.

  It is a piece of map with blue crayon marks scribbled on it, and I stare at it dumbfounded for several minutes, recognizing it, but also not. This was the map from the house, from mine and Lilly’s safe haven, our place in the sun. It shows all the places that we have been, the hard journey that we have taken so far, across savage landscapes and ruined towns, running and hiding from everyone and everything. But there are marks on the map that I didn’t put there, and I don’t remember how the map got to be in my pocket. I scrunch the bit of paper up and throw it to the ground because none of it matters. Not where we’ve been, or where we go.

  I finish my cigarette and stub it out under my shoe but I’m still no closer to making a decision on where to go, so I light up another one in the hopes that it will bring me some clarity. The minutes tick by, and I decide to get back in the car and just keep on driving. That really is the only solution. Keep on driving and see where w
e get to. I feel more alert now, and less likely to crash the car.

  I climb in and shut the door, looking across at Lilly. I see that she is still sleeping soundly, and I’m glad. She is more peaceful when she sleeps, and I smile and hope that she’s dreaming of something nice. I look out my window and see the scrunched-up piece of paper rolling in the breeze, and for some reason that I cannot explain, I open the door, get out, and go and get it. I unfold the paper and look at it more closely, finally seeing what is different about it.

  There is a line of green through the middle. I follow the line all the way down the page until I reach a small green crayon circle. In the green circle is a large field and the name of a town. I can’t read the town name because there is a word crayoned over the top of it, but I see the other word, crudely written.

  The word is SAFE.

  I scowl down at the piece of paper, at its false promise, at the hopefulness it alights in me, at the death that it will more than likely bring upon us. The last time we went to one of these supposed safe zones, we were almost killed—not by monsters, but by men. Yet seeing the word circled in the crude green crayon, I can’t help the small flutter in my stomach, the surge of something invigorating inside of me.

  Hope. That’s what the word SAFE gives me: hope. But it’s false hope. It’s always false hope. Yet like a moth to the light, fluttering out of the blackness, I have seen that word and I know that we must go. Because really, what other choice do we have? What choice do I have? I promised to protect her at all costs, even if that means losing my sanity to the possibility of hope. Even if that possibility is only so very slim.

  I find us on the map and estimate the journey to be three days, as long as we don’t hit any problems along the way. I fold the piece of paper back up, deciding not to tell Lilly. I might have false hope, but I can handle it. However, I don’t want her fragile heart to be broken when we find that this place isn’t actually safe. So I’ll take us there, but I won’t tell her where we are going.