What Happens in the Darkness Read online

  Jeff’s disillusionment with the job shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Others before him—his own father included—had felt just as betrayed. None had ever moved on from the assignment. Somehow Jeff had thought it would be different. Somehow he thought he would transcend the disappointment, make them keep their word. After all that damned training … counterterrorism, interrogation … he’d become quite the expert in handling IEDs, C4s … fat lot of good that was doing him now.

  Jeff sat in the same chair that had been his father’s.

  The first time he’d met Martin was the day he’d arrived on the base sporting a fat lip and a bloody nose, a gift from a group of boys who’d stolen his bicycle.

  Guards knew he was Walter’s son and allowed him access to the base, to his father’s office.

  The painting on the office wall behind the desk was a gaudy splash of flowers and colors, an uncomfortable splotch of watercolors disguised as art. Sunk deeply in the chair, young Jeff swiveled around to stare at the eyesore, trying to imagine his father picking out this particular monstrosity to hang on the wall.

  He took a closer look. This was no painting. He leaned forward and touched the surface. It was cold and smooth. A mural rather than a picture in a frame. He ran his hand over it and realized it was glass. He groped a bit lower, and his fingers touched a doorknob. It was unlocked, and he slowly pushed open the door.

  It opened into a cavernous room.

  Several feet away, cell bars separated him from a tremendous living room. It was dimly lit, but he saw several sofas and a large television, an assortment of coffee tables and an entire wall of books.

  Jeff stepped inside. He expected to be stopped by a guard, or his father, but no one was around. He studied the room and wondered who lived inside.

  In a dark corner of the caged room a figure sat in an overstuffed armchair, feet stretched out on an ottoman. His features were undistinguishable in the inadequate light. The man’s head turned in Jeff’s direction.

  He sat up, dropping his feet to the floor. “Well now,” he said. His voice, though quiet, still managed to reverberate off the cavernous walls. “Who are you?”

  Jeff stepped away from the bars, backing up until he was pressed against the door he had come through.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m just saying hello.” He prowled across the living room, movements furtive, delicate, and he stopped several feet from the bars.

  Now Jeff could make out his features. Dark eyes. Or was that from the poor lighting? Long, aquiline nose, angular jaw. Blond hair, almost yellow, like Mountain Dew.

  “Are you Martin?” he whispered. His father had mentioned—barely—a prisoner named Martin, so Jeff assumed this was him. Jeff’s voice resonated off the walls, making him wince. “I-I’m Walter’s son Jeff.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “I’d better go.”

  “So soon?” He smiled. “Stay and chat for a moment. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?” He shook his head. “I should go wait for my dad.” He turned away.

  “Who beat you up?”

  Jeff faced the door, and his shoulders drooped. He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Bully, right? Bet you were outnumbered.”

  A sympathetic ear. Sometimes Walter didn’t have time for Jeff, even when Jeff desperately needed him. Like when Jeff got beaten up, which was often. Or worse, when Walter knew Jeff wasn’t defending himself and would get annoyed with his son for not trying. Sometimes Jeff wanted to cry on his father’s shoulder, and sometimes that shoulder wasn’t there.

  Jeff nodded, turning back to face the prisoner. “It’s stupid. These kids say I can’t go down their street. That I have to go around or pay them to use their street.”

  “Mmmm.” He approached the bars. “I am Martin. You guessed right. Your father’s mentioned you often.”

  “Really?”

  “I know all about you. Your baseball trophies, for instance.”

  There were no trophies. Jeff knew Walter wanted him to be more athletic, but Jeff had no interest in sports and preferred to paint and draw. He would rather practice piano than play ball, so Walter dragged out his own childhood trophies and passed them off as his son’s. He even bragged about them, and displayed them on the mantle in the den.

  “Trophies. Right.”

  “What position do you play?”

  Jeff was stumped. No one had ever asked him before. “Catcher,” he lied, shrugging, hoping Martin would change the subject.

  “My father and I used to play catch,” Martin said. “But that was a long time ago.”

  Jeff nodded. He was sure it must have been a long time ago, because this guy looked old, really old. He looked even older than Walter. Martin must have been at least thirty.

  “What are you going to do?” Martin asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The bullies. What’s your plan?” There was a lilting quality to his voice. It almost felt as though Martin was trying to hypnotize him. Or as if he was about to break into song.

  “I dunno … go around I guess.”

  “You can’t do that forever.”

  Jeff studied the floor and picked at a scab on his wrist. “They’re bigger. Really bigger.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ll get killed!”

  “Find the toughest one,” Martin said, grasping the bars, pressing his face against them. “That’s the one you fight. One fight is all it’ll take. One good punch. Simple.”

  “Simple? No way! These guys are tough.”

  “No, no, no. One punch. They’ll back down. Didn’t Walter ever teach you to fight?”

  “He tried. But I’m not very good at that either.”

  “Either?”

  Jeff’s cheeks burned and he coughed into his fist. “Never mind.”

  “I can show you. It’s simple.”

  “Show me what? Fight? You know how?”

  “Sure. All men can fight.”

  “Really?” He stepped a couple more feet toward the bars. “Martin? Can I ask …?” He studied the floor again, kicked at invisible pebbles.

  “You want to know why I’m in here?”

  Jeff cleared his throat and nodded, wiping mud and dried blood off his T-shirt.

  “This is a military base. There’s only one reason to keep men like me locked up.”

  Jeff looked up and met Martin’s stare.

  “I’m a political prisoner. Your government doesn’t believe in my … politics. Or that of my family.”

  “Family?”

  He gestured with his chin. “In the back.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re around.” Martin smiled. “I’d introduce you, but they’re not always in the mood for company.”

  Jeff nodded. “So what’d you do? Protest or something?”

  “Or something.” Martin laughed.

  Jeff enjoyed the sound—it sounded real. He also thought Martin’s black dungarees and white T-shirt were cool. Kind of like Fonzie, or Elvis before he got fat.

  “No, not a protestor, kid.” He leaned into the bars again. “You want to learn to fight or what?”

  “Yes!” Jeff approached the bars, facing Martin. He balled his hands into fists and held them in front of his face.

  “Not bad,” Martin said, holding up his own fists, mirroring Jeff’s. “Pull in your elbows. You’re leaving your stomach unprotected. That’s better.” Martin bobbed and weaved, shadowboxed with the bars. “Good job, kid. Pull those arms in tighter. No, not like that. Wait. Come over here, let me show you.”

  Jeff stepped up to he bars.

  “Turn around, kid. Face the other way.”

  Jeff turned his back on Martin.

  Martin grabbed Jeff’s arms, moved them in one or two jabs but then quickly pulled them through the bars and pinned them behind his back.

  Jeff cried out, and Martin pressed something sharp against Jeff’s throat.

  Martin lowered his mouth to Jef
f’s ear and whispered, “Rule number one, kid. Trust no one.” He twisted Jeff’s arm until the boy cried out. “Stupid kid,” he spat. “No wonder you get beat up all the time. You’d better toughen up or you’ll spend your entire life going around the long way. You hear me?”

  Jeff whimpered and nodded.

  “Why the fuck do you think I’m in here? For protesting? Use your fucking head, kid. I’m in here because I’m a killer.”

  He pressed the object further into Jeff’s neck, lightly piercing the flesh, dragging it from one side of his throat to the other.

  Jeff squeezed his eyes shut and willed his father to come through the door and save him. He wondered if his throat had been cut and if he was about to die. His heart thrummed in his ears and his legs quivered.

  “Stand up for yourself, kid, or you’ll regret it.”

  Martin let go and shoved him, hard. Jeff stumbled across the room and crashed into the wall. He picked himself up off the floor and grabbed his throat. A light smear of blood appeared on his palm, not the gush he’d expected.

  When he had glanced back, Martin was gone, having disappeared into the shadows, until all that remained was a faint silhouette in the distance of the room.

  ***

  That first encounter remained strong in Jeff’s mind. He glanced toward Martin’s cell, as if expecting the haunted memory of his childhood to be waiting on the other side. As if time would no longer matter, and things would be as they always had.

  And sometimes he wondered why Martin hadn’t killed him that day, but he attributed that to Martin’s loyalty toward Walter. He had a hard time believing the bloodsucker would have compassion toward what would basically amount to a light snack.

  As tempting as it was to set Martin free, it couldn’t happen. Releasing him would be too much of a risk. Too dangerous.

  Though whatever was left of the world— and it was growing smaller every day—they deserved the chance to survive. Didn’t they?

  But could he take the chance?

  Very few had known about Martin, and of those only Jeff survived.

  As far as the army was concerned, Martin didn’t exist.

  ***

  Janelle sat on the ground sipping water and listening to the grown-ups’ conversation. Listening to them discuss the devastation across the United States, the bombings and attacks and murders. They sat in a circle around a small fire one of them had built.

  She wondered if her grandmother in South Carolina was still alive. She missed the woman, missed the smell of her perfume, missed her cooking. No one could beat Grandma’s hoecake. Janelle could practically taste the gritty cornmeal, the granules melting on her tongue. She could almost smell it, but when she came back from her fantasy, all she smelled was cement dust.

  Fighter jets rumbled overhead, and she wondered whose side they were on. She looked up and covered her ears, expecting the sonic boom but lowered them again when it didn’t come.

  The three men beside her were having a conversation about … well, everything.

  The first man looked like her building’s superintendent. This man was taller and thinner but had the same broad, flat face and thick moustache. He was also the guy who had first spoken to her earlier. He said his name was Pete. He’d been talking about finding shelter, and he cursed a lot.

  Now they were on to a different topic. They did that a lot, too.

  “You know it’s fuckin’ China,” Pete said, his head bobbing like he was agreeing with himself.

  “No, it’s the Russians. They never completely gave up Communism. It was all an act,” the second man said. His name was Warren. He scratched his gray-white beard and pushed his glasses back on his nose. He reminded Janelle of her math teacher. Old, white, and a little strange. She wasn’t sure why her teacher was considered strange—maybe it had something to do with a white guy teaching at a black school in Harlem.

  They argued, over-shouting one another, and Janelle covered her ears again. She couldn’t drown them out, but at least she could dim the volume.

  “Keep it down,” the third man said, taking Janelle’s hands in his. “You okay, sweetie? Do you know where your family is?” He seemed most like her—even his skin color was like hers, only darker. And he had no hair, just like her dad. She felt a strange attachment to him, felt compelled to throw her arms around his neck. He’d said his name was Harry.

  The men discussed shelter (or the lack thereof), food, rats, pant size, cigarettes versus cigars, and survivors. But when the topic of war came up, they seemed reluctant to discuss it in front of the C-H-I-L-D. Janelle was a little annoyed they thought she couldn’t spell, or thought perhaps that because she was a child she didn’t have a fully formed brain. Janelle was small—thin and short—and looked young for her twelve years. But how young did they think she was? They would be amazed, she thought, at her math and science skills, and that she’d aced every English and history test she’d ever taken.

  “How are we supposed to get messages out? I’ve heard all exits out are blocked.” Pete rocked like he had to use the bathroom. “No radio, no papers, no TV. What are we supposed to do, use Pony Express?”

  The conversation grew loud again.

  “We need shelter,” Harry said. “I’m sick of wandering the streets, fighting off the roaches and rats. And I don’t trust these buildings. Even if they don’t fall, they’re prime targets for another bomb. Just bein’ in the street like this, we’re like sittin’ ducks, man.”

  Warren leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Fellas. We have to get out of this city. See who else has survived. See if the military—”

  “Fuck the military,” Pete said. “Where the hell are they? Middle East? Asia? Shitload of good they’re doing over there. They haven’t done jack shit to get us out of this mess. And guess what, guys? Rumor is, foreign troops are on their way here. To New York.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Harry asked. “That’s rumors, man. A load of crap. There’s no more communication. No cell phone signals. No nothing! Nothing but rumors now.”

  Pete shook his head. “Guys with CB radios and long-range radio equipment. There’s communication.”

  “Oh yeah? So where are they?” Harry snapped.

  “Dead.”

  “Oh. Sorry, man.” Harry turned away, looking embarrassed.

  “They’re here,” Janelle said. “I’ve seen them. They’ve taken away a lot of people.”

  “What?” Harry said. “You’ve seen who? The military?”

  Janelle nodded. “They all wear black. And dark helmets that cover their faces.”

  “You sure they’re not our guys?” Pete asked.

  Janelle nodded. “The way they spoke … how they acted and stuff. They’re not from here.”

  “Why haven’t I seen them?” Harry asked. “Where are they?”

  She shrugged. “I think they move around a lot. But they have a camp uptown. I think it was on Ninety-Eighth Street. Somethin’ like that.”

  “Oh, that’s great … just great. I had no idea. I was pretty much hiding out in my apartment until it got too dangerous to stay. I thought we’d been nuked, but I guess it was just bombs.”

  “Just bombs,” Warren said. “Right.”

  “You know what I meant,” Harry said. “If it was nukes we’d all be dead.”

  “It’s getting dark,” Pete said. “We have to find shelter. I don’t trust the buildings, but what choice do we have? We can’t stay out here. My building was leveled, man.”

  “Same here,” Warren said. “Nothing but a pile of rubble now.”

  “We have to find a safe place,” Harry said. He looked around, and Janelle shook her head. There were no safe buildings. Not any more.

  She muttered something, and Warren asked her to repeat it.

  “Subway,” she said, picking dirt from under a fingernail. “That’s where I’ve been living. I got some blankets and a lantern. And a flashlight. There’s food, like chips. So far the rats didn’t get it all.”


  Warren shook his head. “I’m not hiding in the subway. Do you know what will happen if there’s another bomb? I’d rather take my chances out here. I’ll go find a brownstone or something. Low floors, maybe even a basement. Supermarket maybe.”

  “Do you know what’s living in the storerooms of supermarkets?” Janelle asked. “You don’t wanna go down inside them.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m with Warren,” Pete said. “Maybe I won’t go to a supermarket, but sorry, guys. Count me out. There’s buildings ain’t been hit yet.”

  “Yet being the operative word, I’m afraid,” Warren said.

  Harry nodded. “I’m not leaving her. We’ll try the subway. Seventy-Seventh maybe, or Eighty-Sixth.”

  “We’ll meet up with you sometime tomorrow, back here,” Warren said. “If we make it back alive.”

  Harry laughed. “So dramatic. But yeah, you’re right. Tomorrow we’ll make a plan to get off this island. Maybe hide out in Jersey or something. Till this all blows over.”

  “What do you mean, hook up tomorrow?” Pete said. “What makes you think I’m traveling with you?”

  “I don’t care what you do,” Harry said. “I figured there’s safety in numbers. Do what you want.”

  “I plan to,” Pete said. “Rulacho.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Warren said, “but it didn’t sound pleasant.”

  “It means ‘asshole,’” Harry said, rubbing his hands over his bald head as if trying to summon a genie.

  Pete shrugged and looked away.

  “You got issues, man,” Harry said. “Vete al carajo, my friend.”

  “And that means?” Warren’s head snapped back and forth like he was watching a tennis match.

  “Go to hell,” Pete and Harry said together.

  Warren nodded. “Nice.”

  “Why are you guys fighting?” Janelle cried. “I mean, I don’t even know if anyone else’s alive anymore. We may be the only ones left. And you guys like, what? hate each other? That’s stupid.”

  “We don’t hate each other,” Pete said. “We’re just tired and angry.”