Out of the Dark (Light & Dark #1) Page 7

  I gather some large towels and wipe the blood away as best as I can. It takes a long time—some of it has already started to dry—and when I stand back up and look along the hallway, I see that the floor still looks stained by the blood. But it’s the best I can do. My back aches as I gather the bloody towels and place them in a clothes hamper in one of the bedrooms, and before I come back down the stairs, I check on Sarah.

  She’s sleeping soundly, soft snores only punctuated by the occasional murmur. I click the door closed quietly and contemplate putting a chair under the handle just in case she is dangerous, but at the last minute I decide against it. I can protect Lilly and myself from this woman—of that I am sure.

  I clean my hands with some of the hand soap in the downstairs bathroom and stale water from the toilet cistern, watching mesmerized as the bloody water swirls away. There isn’t very much left in there, just enough to cup in my hands. I realize that neither of us have eaten since breakfast, and since our bodies have quickly gotten used to three meals a day since arriving here, I feel desperately hungry and presume that Lilly will feel the same way.

  The day is nearly over, and night will be falling soon. I hurry to make both Lilly and myself something to eat—spaghetti and canned Spam —because she likes spaghetti. I don’t use any tomato sauce today, though. I’ve seen enough red. We devour large bowlfuls with greedy smiles, both of us wishing for cheese to sprinkle on the top and make it even more perfect, but at least when we are finished, we are full. Our rumbly tummies are blissfully silent, and I’m once more left feeling like I’ve accomplished something by being able to fill Lilly’s stomach.

  Lilly moves back to the table and continues coloring her picture, and I set about cleaning our bowls—which involves wiping them out with a slightly damp cloth. I don’t want to waste what little water we have on properly washing things, but if I don’t clean things, at least a little, we could get sick from infection.

  When I’m done with cleaning them, I get the small map book and look at it again, wondering where we will go next. I hope that we can stay here for a little longer, but the time will come when we will have to leave. Of that I am certain.

  Sarah comes slowly into the kitchen with a shy smile on her face. She looks pale, but she’s moving easier now. She smiles wider when she sees Lilly, as if she had forgotten about her, or thought that maybe she was a dream. Her smile falls when she sees me watching her closely.

  “I smelled food?” She poses it as a question, and from across the room I can hear her stomach growling loudly.

  “Mama can make you something,” Lilly says, her words so soft, so innocent.

  They’re both looking at me expectantly now, and I incline my head to Sarah to sit at the stool at the end of the breakfast bar, far away from Lilly. She hobbles over and perches on the stool, and I boil her some of the spaghetti. The water bubbles in the pan, the spaghetti softening and dancing in the scorching water. I drain it into an empty pan, intending to use the water tomorrow for some more pasta. Pasta is great: it’s a good source of carbohydrates, it releases the energy slowly, and it’s filling even when you only have a little. But the best part is that we have lots of it. The worst part is that you need water to cook it. I open another can of Spam, chopping half of it and putting it in with the spaghetti, and then I push the bowl toward Sarah.

  She takes it with a “thanks,” diving in with her fingers. She’s noisy as she eats, sucking up the pasta with a slurp and licking her fingers hungrily as if she hasn’t eaten for weeks. I watch both transfixed and fascinated as she eats. Her cheekbones are jutting, her eyes hollow, and I don’t understand how I missed that she was quite obviously starving. Had this been us—Lilly and me—only last week? I suddenly feel guilty for withholding food from her and insisting that she sleep. Last week I couldn’t have waited another hour for food. I was weak and tired, aching all over, my head pounding…

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, giving her some of our flat orange pop.

  She eyes the glass warily, picking it up with greasy fingers and sniffing the contents.

  “It’s juice,” Lilly says matter-of-factly, startling both Sarah and me as she comes to stand with us.

  Lilly has been watching Sarah too, and she hands her a fork with a shy smile.

  Sarah takes it with a soft blush. “I’m sorry, I was just so hungry,” she says by way of explanation. “It’s been days since I ate.” She drinks the flat pop down in one go, but I don’t give her any more. It’s Lilly’s favorite.

  Sarah starts to eat again, this time using her fork, though I can see how much it frustrates her to do so. Her stomach grumbles noisily, the food being digested easily as she eats. When the bowl is empty, she looks into it longingly, wanting more but not daring to ask me. I refuse to cook any more of the pasta, though. Things have to be rationed if we are to survive. Instead I grab a handful of the dry crackers from the pantry and let Sarah eat those. They are stale, but I have been eating them and they are better than nothing.

  “Thank you,” she mumbles, picking one up and biting down on it.

  I fill her glass up with water and watch her take sips in between mouthfuls of dry, stale crackers. She finishes them and looks up with a little more color to her cheeks than before. She gives me a tentative smile, which I don’t return. I want to, though, but I can’t. This woman makes me nervous, though she seems harmless enough and Lilly likes her.

  Lilly runs around the breakfast bar and pulls on my top. “I need to pee,” she whispers, glancing with embarrassment at Sarah.

  I smile down at her. “Okay.” I take her hand and we leave the kitchen. I give Sarah a wary glance as we go because I don’t like leaving her alone in this house—not with our food so close. I take Lilly to the downstairs bathroom and she quickly squats over the bucket. I do the same after her and pick up the bucket, bringing it back with us to the kitchen. Sarah hasn’t moved from her place at the breakfast bar, and she watches us as we enter. Lilly goes straight back to her coloring book and I go to the back door before glancing over at Lilly.

  “I’m going outside for a moment, Lilly.”

  She looks up at me and then nods once before returning to her coloring.

  I unlock the door, ready to take the bucket outside. I look over at Sarah as I leave, waiting for her to scoot off the stool and follow me.

  I pour the pee away and then pull my cigarettes from my pocket and light one up. I haven’t smoked once since we arrived here—I haven’t felt the need—but I feel stressed today. Worry is eating away at me like cancer. The sun will be setting any time now, and the long stretch of night will begin. The night is our death sentence, when the monsters come out, hunting, screaming, searching. There is no escape from them in the night.

  Sarah stands by my side and I turn to look at her, examining her features more carefully, trying to decide if I can trust her or not. I want to, but so many times I have been tricked, led to believe something that isn’t true. And now that I have Lilly, I don’t dare take any risks. I have only done that once since we have been together, and it turned out badly—very badly—and I vowed never to trust again.

  “I used to have a child,” Sarah says quietly. “A little boy called David.” Her eyes are far away. Though she’s looking directly at me, she sees through me as she speaks. She looks down suddenly, breaking our contact with a soft shake of her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  But I see her tears splat on the ground below, one landing on her white sneaker and loosening some of the dirt. I don’t want to hear about her little boy. I don’t want to learn anything about her. It doesn’t matter that she had a son, because he is dead, and I know that she probably let him die. That’s what most people did: they sacrificed their children for their own lives.

  “You have to leave tomorrow,” I say, still watching her. Still smoking. Still unsure.

  She nods, another tear falling. “I know.”

  “What will you do?” I ask, suddenly curious.

  Sh
e has no car—none that works, anyway. No vehicle to get from one place to another. We only have our car, mine and Lilly’s, already loaded up with our things in case of emergency, but she can’t take that. It’s ours.

  “Can I borrow your bike?” she says sarcastically with a bitter laugh.

  She kicks the wheel of the bike that’s leaning against the house. It’s rusty and old, but its tires are still inflated. Lilly had a brief go on it yesterday, though she was too small to reach the pedals. I pushed her around the garden until my back hurt. There’s a small basket on the front, it’s a light brown wicker and makes me think of my grandma and smile. Sarah looks up at me with a grimace.

  “No,” I say, feeling childish.

  Sarah looks up into the sky. “The sun is setting,” she says.

  “Where will you go?” I ask, curious. Because I know the sun is setting, but I don’t know where this woman will go when I send her away, and I’m curious.

  “I was headed to Colorado. I met some people a month or so back. That’s where they were heading.” She looks up, and this time it’s her examining me, seeing if I’m trustworthy. She must decide I am, because she continues talking. “There’s talk of a safe place, without the monsters. My husband was too sick, though. I couldn’t leave him and they wouldn’t let him come with us.” She frowns as she says it, as if she herself doesn’t believe her own words. “But he’s gone now, and if there’s safety, well, I’d be stupid not to go.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve heard all this before.” I stamp out my cigarette, already wanting another. I’m not angry, not even a little, but it’s the truth: I have heard all of this before. I risked everything to find a safe place, and it got everyone I knew killed.

  “Me too.” She shrugs in agreement. “But at least it’s a destination.” She looks away from me, across the yard, squinting directly into the sun hanging low in the sky. “It’s hope at least.” Her last words are a murmur, but I hear them all the same.

  “Hope is what gets you killed,” I reply, softly yet defensively.

  Sarah turns back to me. “No, hope is what keeps us alive.”

  I laugh, a dark, low chuckle. “If you say so.” I light another cigarette, needing the nicotine to get me through this conversation.

  “I can write down where it is for you, if you like. Just in case.”

  I shake my head. “No, we’ll be fine here. We have our car out front packed with supplies, enough food in the house to last us a couple of weeks, and we have each other.” I shrug on a smile.

  This is all I need to survive—not false hope and promises of safety.

  Just Lilly. Just my car, and our supplies.

  “But aren’t you at least curious?” she asks, looking genuinely confused.

  I shake my head. “No. Not even a little bit.”

  Chapter Ten.

  #10. I don’t want to say I told you so…

  The sun has begun to set, its orange glow dipping over the tops of the green trees, and worry has begun pooling in my tummy. We are all nervous, but we are all prepared—as we are every nightfall. We keep our weapons close and our shoes on, because you just never know.

  Lilly has fallen asleep on the big bed, her soft curls splayed around her head like a halo. She sleeps fitfully tonight, and I hate that—hate that her only escape has been stolen from her. A child should be able to dream of faraway lands and fairies. Instead, her dreams are invaded by monsters with red eyes and nails as sharp as knives. I hate that.

  I stand by the window. The curtains are closed, but I stare out of a small crack on one side. I haven’t heard their calls yet, their angry screams of hunger and hate. But I will, anytime now. Sarah is at the other end of the window, looking out of another small crack. She, too, seems nervous, and for the first time I’m grateful to have her here. Grateful that I don’t have to do this alone. The nighttime hours are long and frightening. They can drive you insane if you listen too intently, if you let the screams and growls of the monsters get inside of you. At least tonight I will have someone to share that burden with.

  “Do you ever think where they came from?” she asks, still staring out the window. “Or how the virus started?”

  I shake my head no, but then realize that she can’t see me. “No. Not anymore,” I answer. “Because it doesn’t matter.”

  Silence, and then: “I do. It’s in my nature to be curious, though, to try to find the pieces of a puzzle. I often wonder if we knew, if we could end it—end them.”

  Her last words sound angry and bitter, and I understand that. I can make sense of the misplaced anger and bitterness that eats a person up. I have been there, and I have come out of the other side until I am now indifferent. I hate them, but without emotion, because I understand that it isn’t their fault. They don’t like this any more than we do.

  But things are the way they are. And there is no changing that.

  “I’m going to check the other windows,” she says, and turns to leave.

  We have been taking it in shifts to check the windows, and it’s another thing that I’m glad to have help with. I wonder about asking her to stay with us longer, but then I change my mind.

  “Keep quiet,” I say, without turning away from the window.

  “Not like I’m going to be blasting music or revving the engine on your car,” she says back, and I hear the humor in her voice.

  I like her humor. I like that she makes Lilly laugh and smile.

  “I have the keys to the car with me, so no, you wouldn’t.” I turn to her and I jangle the keys in the air between us. There’s humor in my words—not much, but a little. And I’m shocked at myself.

  Sarah smiles back, happy, I think, to see some other form of emotion from me than just indifference or distrust. She leaves the room without another word and I turn back to the window and continue to stare into the darkness.

  It’s not long before the growls start—the long, drawn-out, piercing screams that punctuate nightmares. I imagine them running around in the night, their bodies glorifying themselves in the darkness, rolling around and embracing the touch of the black night upon their leathery skin. I look back toward Lilly and see her sitting up and staring at me.

  “Are they here?” she whispers, her words carrying across the room to me.

  “They are awake outside somewhere, yes,” I reply solemnly, hating that I have to say this to her. Just once I would like to say no. Just once.

  I hear her swallow. The sound is loud in our darkness until another scream and growl cuts through it. I look back toward the darkness, hating the noise, hating that they fill each nighttime hour with dread. The darkness is everlasting, enveloping the house in its blanket of blackness, and even here doesn’t feel safe.

  But we are.

  Here is safe.

  They can’t find us here.

  I stare at the shadows outside, seeing them moving, and knowing that it’s just me—my imagination. Just the wind in the trees, blowing the branches and making the shadows move. The eyes glowing red are not real; the monsters creeping up the long path from the road are just my mind’s resurrection of my nightmares.

  I stare into the darkness…

  Staring, staring, staring.

  Lilly’s hand touches upon mine, her warm fingers slipping between my cold ones.

  “Mama?” she asks, looking out, and I pray that she never gets to see the demons that live inside my head. “Mama?” She shakes my arm, squeezing on my hand, her voice more urgent.

  Teeth as sharp as knives, biting, tearing, stretching. The night brings everything to life. My visions burn my eyes and I want to join in the chorus of screaming outside.

  “Mama?!”

  I look down into Lilly’s face, reaching to pull her up into my arms. I kiss the top of her head, feeling guilty for my morbid thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, Honeybee.” I kiss her again. “I’m sorry.”

  She wriggles to free herself. “They’re here,” she whispers, and I stare into her face, my own
features contorting in confusion. “They’re here.” She grips my face and forcibly turns my head to look out of the window.

  I stare into the darkness, seeing the shapes moving, the red eyes glowing, and my heart freezes. They are here. They have found us. But how? I think of earlier, of helping to free Sarah from her car. I remember the pool of blood at her feet, and the way it had trailed down the hallway downstairs. The way it had dripped on the steps outside, across the lawn and down the path.

  “Mama, they are here,” Lilly sobs.

  “They are here,” I say back numbly.

  I hear Sarah coming up the stairs. She rushes into the room, and I know that she has seen them too. She stares at me and Lilly, her eyes panicked, her breathing shallow.

  “They’re everywhere,” she says on a whisper.

  “My car—we need to get to my car,” I reply matter-of-factly.

  “But how? They’re at the front.” She rushes to the window, as if to confirm the fact.

  “We need to distract them, to draw them to the back of the house so we can get to the car.”

  Sarah nods, her fingers gripping her knife carefully.

  I look down at Lilly, her chubby face staring at me full of innocence and hope, and then I look at Sarah. I walk forward, Lilly feeling like the lightest thing in the world, but my heavy burden.

  “Take her. I’ll distract them.” I try to hand Lilly over but she clings to me fiercely, her whimpers growing louder. “Lilly, you have to. I’ll distract them and run to the road, and you and Sarah will be there, waiting for me in the car. I’ll get in and we’ll drive away.” I look at Sarah to confirm and she nods.

  I have to do this. Because I know that Sarah will not. And I will not risk Lilly. Sarah had a son, and she cares for Lilly. She’ll protect her as best she can. But if it came down to a choice between herself and Lilly, she would save herself. So I need to guide the danger away from us all. This is what I tell myself. The screeching outside gets louder as more monsters join the first ones. All drawn by the same thing: blood. Sarah’s blood.