DarkWalker Page 2

  Another time, he decided he had to make something of himself. He moved with sideways intent, strolling casually, unarmed, unprepared, unconcerned, until something struck his interest. He confronted a beast disguised as a man. He stared the thing down. The thing stared back. The thing had a victim, a girl, whom it had been content to feed from without killing; it cracked her neck. It dropped her body at Jack’s feet. It hissed. Jack was paralyzed, not by fear, but by invisible chains suddenly weighing down every limb and constricting every muscle. He tried to move, struggled, and could not even retreat as the beast disguised as a man came closer and sniffed him, and licked his cheek with his rough, inhuman tongue. The saliva burned. The beast pulled back sharply, raised its claws, and appeared very close to ripping Jack’s insides out through his throat. It didn’t. It couldn’t. No more so than Jack could do anything to stop it. After the beast finally left him, Jack collapsed next to the dead girl and, silently and inside where it counted most, cried for her.

  Some nights were clean, completely uneventful, and he managed seven hours of sleep.

  No night had ever been like tonight. Not even midnight yet. A wink, a conversation, and a warning. Did it mean anything?

  Probably not. A real seer might give him answers, but they rarely said anything useful. “You can see, yes, so watch.” Watch. That’s all he did. Jack walked in the dark, watching, not knowing why, unable to choose any other path.

  Jack had left his car on Jefferson, away from the downtown area, between railroad tracks and the interstate.

  There was movement in the shadows.

  Damn. This was neither supernatural nor inexplicable. Teenagers. Knife-wielding, attitude-wearing, drugged-up little shits who had been getting high behind the fence when they saw Jack walking all alone and thought it’d be a good idea to hit him up for money. Beat him, kill him, whatever it took.

  Jack counted three of them. They were young and stupid, but that didn’t mean a fourth or fifth didn’t hide in the bushes.

  It was a useless fence, ending abruptly at the end of the parking lot; anyone could simply walk around it. Jack was already on the far side, away from the police station and downtown—and the street lamps that were popular there.

  The moon, waxing and nearly full, cast plenty of light. Despite the heat, the “leader” of this pack wore a leather jacket. He hadn’t bothered to hide his weapon, a pathetic switchblade he tossed from hand to hand. He paused, briefly, when he realized he’d been seen.

  Jack rolled his eyes.

  “M-m-maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” one of his followers said, blinking excessively and rubbing his palms down the sides of his jeans. “He-he ain’t a-scared.”

  Jack did not step away. Only the leader seemed fully intent on scoring this fight; the others trailed behind him, perhaps sensing the same thing that stopped vampires from taking Jack’s blood.

  “Yeah, I figure you got a wad of cash in them pockets, bro, and I figure you’re gonna just hand it over nice and friendly like, ain’t that right?” the lead kid asked. A pale scar streaked the side of his face, from the corner of his eye to his ear.

  Jack showed his empty palms. “Don’t want trouble,” he said.

  “Too late, ain’t that right boys?” He glanced to his left and right, but had to look back to see his support, his posse. Fled from the strangeness, the danger Jack exuded, the slight tint of dark he’d absorbed; it made him unpalatable even to mundane threats.

  They ran. “Fuckin’ wimps,” the leader said, turning back to Jack.

  “You don’t want me,” Jack said.

  “And why the fuck not?”

  “Got nothing for you,” Jack said. He hadn’t reached for a weapon, never puffed himself up. He could fight, if necessary. And maybe he counted on that mark, that ability to walk through seemingly anything. Or maybe he didn’t consider the kid a real threat. It wasn’t like they were an actual gang. A group of kids with more guts than brains, yes, and perhaps something more than blood coursing through their veins. But dangerous? Compared to the stranger with the shaved head and cane? Not a chance.

  “Aw, shit,” the guy said, finally turning and chasing after his friends.

  They disappeared behind the side of the fence, where hedges hid them from the street. They were noisy now, whispering, rustling the leaves, tripping on their own feet.

  After a moment, Jack resumed walking. He crossed the railroad tracks, following the curve of the road, and found his car where he’d left it.

  6.

  He officially became owner of the ‘69 Mustang when his mother died, but he’d already rebuilt the engine. The blue was faded, but there wasn’t a spot of rust. Mach I 428 CJ Fastback. Scoop on the hood. Almost looked mean when its four headlights stared you down. Only drawback was the automatic transmission.

  Everything Jack owned was in the car: a bag of clothes and the laptop.

  He spent some time recording tonight in the computer, omitting the kids at the parking lot, then slid the laptop under his seat. The Mustang roared to life when he turned the key. Lights blazed. It was a five-minute drive to the thirty-dollar motel where he’d bought three nights. This was the third.

  He hadn’t decided to leave, but delayed paying for another night because of money. Thirty bucks was thirty bucks, especially when your only jobs were menial, scattered, and generally cash at the end of the day. He hadn’t worked in almost two weeks. That whole stealing from the dead he’d told the ghost, that was rare. Like the ashed girl in the parking lot, victims usually took their money with them when they vanished without a trace.

  7.

  The room was typical of cheap motels: springy bed, mold in the shower stall, a 20-inch television that got HBO and ESPN. Pale beige carpeting, heavy brown drapes, a musty odor that outright refused to be vanquished despite the three scented candles Jack had scattered about the room. He’d bought those specifically because of the odor, eight bucks that could’ve been two meals.

  The bed was more comfortable than sleeping in the car, which he sometimes did. He usually slept dreamlessly, but he also rarely went to bed before four.

  Midnight came and went without incident.

  Half an hour later, still trying to get comfortable, Jack heard voices outside his room.

  Jack Harlow had heard a lot of voices. They didn’t always belong to people, living or dead; some seemed to be entities onto themselves, repeating phrases but not engaging a conversation. The whole “The Devil made me do it” syndrome could often be blamed on mental instability or outright insanity, but sometimes there were voices saying “Kill your neighbor’s dog” or “Go to the kitchen and get the butcher’s knife.”

  Jack didn’t trust voices. He didn’t listen to them. He sure as Hell didn’t question them.

  These voices probably belonged to regular, everyday people stumbling back to their motel room. There were two distinct males, one other that might’ve been female. Their whispers carried weight, pushing through the walls and into Jack’s ears. The words were unimportant.

  But they echoed, in a way words weren’t supposed to echo. As if caught within a bubble, bouncing back and forth, doubling and trebling over themselves so that, quite quickly, the words were unintelligible.

  Red numbers on the clock: 12:38.

  Jack turned over to look at the ghost sitting on the side of his bed.

  “Thought you were asleep,” the ghost said.

  “Not that lucky.”

  She was barely visible, a wisp on the air, facing away from Jack. Hands to either side, on the bed, bent at the elbows. She leaned forward, as if about to push herself to her feet.

  “And I can’t really scare you any, can I?” she asked. “Not like a regular person.”

  “Guess not,” Jack said.

  “Do you know the way out? To the light, I mean. I hear about it, and I’m told I should go there, but I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. I always thought, when I died, I’d be able to see again.” She paused. “Can’t.”
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  “Don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe it’s warm?”

  “You’re warm,” she said. “But I see what you mean. Well, not really see.” She forced a little laugh.

  She sounded young, not as annoying as the ghost in the bar. No notes of sadness or desperation tinged her voice, just acceptance. He felt sorry for her.

  “You died here?” Jack asked.

  “In this very bed.”

  Jack sighed, and unconsciously shifted.

  “It didn’t hurt,” she said. “Not really. It was just a little . . . surprising.”

  “I can’t help you,” Jack told her.

  The voices outside were gone. They’d rebounded within the ghost. Now, silence echoed within her. The distant night sounds from outside were too muted to have resilience.

  “I’ll go into the warmth. Like you said.” Then she faded, slowly, into nothingness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1.

  By day, Lisa Sparrow worked in an office in Winter Park. Through her window, she had an obscured view of the interstate, so she could judge the flow of traffic and opt for back roads to get home.

  It was a good job, in that it never came home, rarely required overtime, and paid well. She took late lunches so the second half of the day was almost over before it began. She worked at a computer most of the time, editing reports, changing the same words and adding the same commas daily. The reports changed, but the mistakes never did.

  They gave her time off when she needed it. She was never alone in the office. She played CDs at her desk, low so no one else really heard them. She had an actual office, not a cubicle, though half her space doubled as the copy room and mail bin.

  It was thoroughly unfulfilling.

  She lived in a small apartment downtown. The rent was high but affordable. Her car was a few years old; she hoped to keep it long enough to save the money to make a sizable down payment on a Mercedes.

  Paintings hung on the walls, real oils on canvases done by some of the better local artists. She didn’t hate prints; she just didn’t see the point. Keeping Monet and Picasso on the wall only reminded her she’d never afford the originals.

  Her bedroom was just large enough for her king-sized bed, a dresser, and enough walking space to reach her closet.

  The kitchen, dining room, and living room were lumped into a single, multifunctional area. Big enough for one. She never threw parties.

  On the coffee table, where she propped her feet in the morning while sipping cream and sugar (with a splash of coffee), a single magazine could be found. Sometimes Entertainment Weekly, sometimes The New Yorker, just as often something like Weird Tales or Popular Science. She kept maybe two dozen books on the shelf, but borrowed most of what she read from the library.

  She loved her apartment. Three walls were red. The short hall to the front door was silver. Her L-shaped couch was stacked with comfortable, usable pillows. A stereo sat on an entertainment stand where a television might be; more than five hundred CDs lined the shelves.

  She went out regularly. Dancing. But if she disappeared, the office would notice first.

  Shortly after midnight, she slept fitfully. She kicked, flailed her arms more than once, and whimpered. By dawn, she’d have forgotten the nature of her dreams, but the sheets would need to be fixed. Again.

  2.

  Lisa kept a dream journal by her bed and scribbled down what few images remained when she woke. Fields of flowers, rainbows, horses . . . typical, non-nightmarish things. And when she dreamt of the dark, she was surrounded by cats and owls, friends and lovers. The moon was always bright; the lights never failed.

  She sometimes dreamt about men who worked in her office, but when her dreams turned sexual her partners were always anonymous strangers, someone she’d seen while dancing, or passed on the highway—a guy she’d never met, often the same guy, or someone like him. She wished she had those dreams more often, and recorded every possible detail in her journal.

  The nightmares sometimes woke her. She’d turn on the light, get a drink of water, look at the clock and wonder why in hell she was up at 5:00 a.m.

  This was one of those mornings. The time was 4:47.

  Lisa Sparrow yawned and filled a glass from the tap. She’d been dancing till late. If she believed every guy who ever tried to get in her pants, she was beautiful. But before dawn, without make-up, her hair askew, she didn’t feel beautiful.

  She rinsed her face, swallowed two gulps of water, and looked out the window.

  It was like a painting. The window was almost as big as the wall—three panes, separated by thin black strips, looking down on Lake Eola. She saw trees, other buildings, but no streets. Not from her fifth floor apartment. It was as much landscape as cityscape from here, and she was able to forget the troubles of the world—and the troubles of unremembered nightmares.

  She was awake. There was no going back to bed, not for just another sixty minutes. She started the coffee machine, removed her robe, and stretched on the hardwood floor.

  She lowered into a full split, then bent at the waist to touch her toes on either side. She worked her arms and neck, did a few dozen crunches, then changed into jogging clothes.

  The path around the lake was almost one mile exactly. She could circle it four times before coming back to shower and get ready for work. She’d pay for it later; she should have been sleeping, but she could always get to bed early tonight.

  At least, that’s how she planned it.

  3.

  At 5:30 in the morning, well before sunrise, Jack Harlow slept. It would be his last night in the seedy motel. The ghost of a girl fluttered nearby, unable to see him but comforted by his warmth.

  4.

  Frank Thompson, delivering newspapers to drugstores and supermarkets, paused briefly to glance at the clock on his dashboard. His unshaven face itched. The truck smelled of news ink.

  His route was the same every morning, seven days a week. He worked early, starting his day at four and getting home by ten, which gave him plenty of time to watch games, bet horses, or play with nine-year-old Frankie Junior.

  He made lunch for his wife Gina every afternoon. They lived comfortably and never wanted for anything. He lost many afternoons to paperwork, but that was a small price to pay for the wonderful, simple life he’d built. They owned the house, something his parents never managed, and owed nothing on either car. They vacationed one week a year, no further than they could drive. They kept no secrets from each other.

  He hauled a bundle of papers out of the back of the truck and lugged it to the card shop. Since the supermarket next door had closed, this corner of the shopping center was dark. The shop wouldn’t open for hours.

  Frank Thompson wouldn’t live to see dawn.

  The thing waiting in the shadows for Frank Thompson was small, skinny, unthreatening . . . but fast. Its razor claws slashed paper and clothing and flesh, catching on the bones. It didn’t care; by then, it had already champed its teeth on the newspaperman.

  Frank was big enough a man to push the thing off him. Once. It rolled on the ground like a ball, and popped back, claws extended, teeth bared. Yellow, feral eyes were the last thing Frank saw.

  5.

  After leaving his room, Jack Harlow spent the morning moving lumber. It was a job, day labor, a few hours and enough money for a couple more nights at the motel. He didn’t yet know where he’d be going next.

  He earned a good deal of sweat and got his blood pumping. He always felt better after an honest day’s labor. This type of job was like a workout; he’d be sore the next day. But it also cleared his mind. Whatever thoughts plagued him, whatever concerns manifested during the day, physical effort often chased them away.

  It wasn’t that he no longer thought about things. Rather, his subconscious did the work. At the end of the day, after sharing a beer with his fellow laborers, Jack’s mind would meander back to those things he’d tried to put aside.

  Long ago, he’d ceased feeling horror. The de
ath of innocents didn’t affect him as much as it used to. The first time he saw blood, he’d vomited and shook and nearly passed out. He still felt pity. But he’d learned there was no such thing as innocent: the slaughtered waitress might have been diverting hundreds of dollars from her till, the devoured stock broker probably cheated on his wife.

  Anyhow, he rarely saw deaths.

  Phantoms were common—and many creatures, having taken what they needed, left their victims disoriented, maybe with a blank spot in their memory, but very much alive.

  The thing in the parking lot last night, however, had burnt that girl to ash so quickly. There’d been no time for pain. She might have even felt safe, locked in his eyes. And maybe, for her, death was a release. Maybe.

  Physical exhaustion was a blessing. When the body shut down, the mind followed. No rattling of chains or echoing of voices would stir him. He could sleep the whole night through dreamlessly, wake refreshed and invigorated, and face whatever the night threw his way.

  6.

  Lisa Sparrow’s day at work was typical. She spent most of it at her computer, starting at the screen, reading and correcting someone else’s words. The printer broke while most of the office was out to lunch, giving her a fifteen-minute respite. She’d brought lunch and ate in the break room while reading the newspaper.

  She didn’t really read the newspaper. She checked the funnies, which were never as funny as she remembered from childhood (she wished Calvin & Hobbes would reemerge), and worked the crossword. Usually, she solved all but maybe ten scattered letters.

  Today, she finished it with time to spare.

  As the day neared its end, traffic seemed light enough for her to take the interstate. She preferred that; the back roads were no shortcut.

  The phone rang a few minutes before quitting time.

  It was Liz, who constantly dragged Lisa out until all hours of the night seeking new bars, new clubs, new experiences . . . and new men. “Come out and play tonight,” Liz said. “There’s a band tonight at The Precipice.