DARK
By SEAN D GREGORY
Derek knew little about the world around him. How could he? He wasn’t even two yet. He didn’t understand the dark things that hid in plain sight as they meandered through the atoms that made up the world. In fact, he knew nothing of atoms, molecules, energy, light, or dark. The world, for all his experience, was a place of wonder, bright colors, loud sounds, and the darkness that came with sleep. Or with loneliness.
He knew when his mommy looked at him, she smiled and made funny noises. She held him close and did funny things to make him laugh. He liked to laugh—he did that quite often, to his mommy’s delight.
He had yet to learn of life, death, sickness, or health. He understood happy. He knew that when his tummy grumbled it meant he was hungry and that if he cried, his mommy would take the hunger away with yummy things. He knew pain, though he didn’t understand it—or like it. Right now, his mouth hurt inside.
Most times his mommy gave him a soft cold toy to chew on that made it feel better. She hadn’t given him one lately, though. That made him sad. She hadn’t given him a lot of things that she used to. She held him rarely anymore. She shushed him more often, too. Sometimes she went forever without a glance in his direction.
That’s why he barely recognized her now. Ever since she brought the thing home, she was different. It cried nearly all the time. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it made her sad, and he didn’t like that. Not one bit. When she looked at the small noisy thing in her arms, he saw her cry, and that made him not like the thing. The thing was bad.
He watched, from his playpen, through the soft stretchy wall that held him in place. He pressed his face against it and stuck his tongue out. He rubbed his tongue against his soft material cage; the strange roughness of the edges of holes offered solace. He liked how they felt. His tongue tingled from the metallic twinge of dirt, dust, and salt—more things he didn’t understand beyond the pleasure they brought him.
The thing in his mother’s arms didn’t bring him joy though. It took up too much of her attention. It kept her from what she wanted, which was to play with him. Ever since it came into the house, Derek felt alone. Arms that used to be his, now no longer were. Instead, they held the tiny thing that moved only occasionally. And cried often. He didn’t know what it was that stole his mommy from him, but he disliked it with a fervor his fourteen-month-old mind couldn’t reason through. Whatever it was, it made awful noises all the time. It made his nice mommy mean. Like his daddy. That made Derek angry, yet another thing he didn’t understand.
“Should we call the paramedics again?” the deep voice that was his father’s sounded out.
“I don’t know,” his mother cried, her voice a soft whisper.
“I’m going to call,” the deep voice said.
He feared that deep voice. It was mean. It yelled all the time. Yelled at his mommy for all kinds of things. It yelled at Derek if he got tired before the light went away or was awake when the light was gone. It threw water at him if he wanted to sleep in the light and visit that weird place that was so different from this one—a place where toys came to life and flight was possible. Not that he knew what flying was. He liked to visit that dark place. Most times it didn’t frighten him the way the dark places did when he was awake.
That thing in his mommy’s arms made that horrible sound again—loud, high-pitched. Derek’s ears hurt. His mommy rocked back and forth. She whispered words Derek couldn’t hear. She used to whisper to him like that. But not anymore. He could feel a fire ignite inside his mind. It burned hot and boiled over. Derek cried out to get her attention.
“Derek, hush,” she said. “Your brother needs me.”
All of a sudden the crying stopped, and his mother rose, frantic.
“John!” she cried. A loud bang echoed from the kitchen, accompanied by the long soft bell ring. Large, loud footsteps approached. Derek felt the floor shake in response.
“No, no, no.” His father’s deep voice reverberated in the small trailer they called home. The voice cracked in a way Derek never heard before. Like when the box his mommy liked to look at would go all grey and hiss. He’d never heard such a sound in the deep voice and that scared him more than when it yelled.
“Grant, no!”
It wasn’t long before bright colored lights flashed outside and filled the room—colors he didn’t understand beyond their difference from the ones that kept the dark away in the house. Swaths of red and blue swept across the walls. The lights created scary shadows and turned objects Derek found familiar into strange and unfriendly shapes. It frightened him and he whimpered in response. But no one noticed. They only noticed it. They always only noticed it.
The front door to the trailer opened and Derek looked toward the big hole in the wall where the men in strange jackets with big funny hats always entered whenever the lights flashed. He liked the men. They were nice, though they rarely paid attention to him.
“He stopped crying,” his mother cried to the man that entered. “He’s barely breathing!”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Patterson, we’ll take care of him. Let’s get him to the ambulance and the paramedics will take you to the emergency room.”
Derek pressed his hands on his net cage and stood up in his playpen. He peeked over the top of the rail at the man in the funny jacket and hat, and cried out. But the man paid no heed. Derek watched as the man took the now quiet thing from his mother’s arms and carried it outside.
“We have a Papa-2-8-dot-5,” he heard the man say. “Get him to Broward General. We’ve called it in. They know we’re Code Blue en route.”
Derek watched as his mommy and daddy the man outside. The room was now silent. Neither looked back at him. When they were no longer in sight, he glanced around and realized, once again, he was alone. And the room was darker than it should be. He began to cry. He knew what was about to happen.
And he grew frightened.
They came. They always did when he was alone in the dark. Black shadows emerged from nowhere, deformed and cruel. They slid into existence. They made no sound when they moved, had no smell. Derek could only hear them when they spoke, which wasn’t often. Mostly, he could see them.
Twisted, long, black creatures, oozed into the room from out of the nether. Their green eyes intent on Derek as first their faces, then their bodies, turned toward him. Thin, bent, long, and lithe, they moved about the room. They lurked outside his playpen. Macabre faces bared their sharp white teeth, twisted in anger and hatred, sorrow and despair, on heads at the end of long necks. The contorted their mouths in soundless hisses. Derek cried as they drew close. Soft, frightened cries that went unheard by anyone—except the monsters.
He backed away, the plastic mat on which he sat—stuck to the fat rolls on his little thighs—peeled away with a crackle as he moved. A set of long pointy fingers stretched toward the playpen. Derek stared, wide-eyed, frozen in fear, as one dark form flicked the metal bar that held the playpen’s frame. The corner fell free with a loud pop that shook his protective cage. Derek watched as another of the black things walked behind the first and around his cage, its movements slow and graceful. The monster smiled as it flicked the other metal brace on the other side. The far end of the playpen collapsed, and Derek peed in his diaper from fear.
A soft, gentle voice, completely different from the appearance of the dark monster’s sinister smile, hissed from the mouth lined with sharp teeth that glistened in the dim light.
“Come out, little one,” the second monster said. Its voice was different from the mean voice of his father. Almost friendly.
Derek didn’t want to come out. The things scared him. But he didn’t want to stay here alone, either. He wanted to crawl to his mommy. He looked out the door where she went, his cries unheard. The flash of red and blue lights grew dimmer as he watched and he knew she’d left him. They’d all left him; he was alone with the dark things again.
He whined softly as he crawled to the open end of his playpen. With a frightened glance at the black things, Derek crawled down to the floor and hurried toward the open door as fast as his tiny limbs would allow. His whines quickly grew into frightened tears as he made his way across the room. He could feel the dark things close in on him. The light around him diminished in their presence. Nether emanated off of them in a smokey cloud that disappeared back into the netherworld in long tendrils of smoke. The dim light in the house seemed to pull away from the darkness that flowed from them. He crawled away from the monsters in haste and cried for his mommy. But she didn’t come.
“Yes, little one. Time to go," one of them said.
The words confused him, and he stopped and looked back, one hand suspended in the air mid-stride. The black things drew nearer and a long finger reached for his face. A dark and thick liquid dripped from the tip onto the floor, soundless as it splashed. It shimmered as it soaked into the sculpted olive-green carpet and vanished into nothing. Derek stopped crying, his sobs frozen from new fear. The finger didn’t touch him, though. It just hovered close before it turned and pointed to a chair with a floor lamp next to it—the chair his mother had always sat in with the noisy thing. He crawled along the wall like a mouse avoiding the open spaces. He tried to stay away from the scary things and made his way behind the chair. He didn’t know for sure, but he sensed that the chair offered safety. Without a thought, he crawled as fast as he could, the beaten down carpet rough on his knees.
Behind the chair he saw the long thin black ‘no-no’ on the ground. He always wanted to play with it, but the mean voice of his father always yelled ‘no-no’ at him when he tried. He focused on it as curiosity overruled his fear. It looked interesting—and tasty.
“Take a bite,” one of the black things said.
He liked the idea, so he grabbed the long black thing. The playpen always tasted good, so maybe this tasted good too. He put it in his mouth. It also tasted like dirt—and something else. He liked the new flavor. It was warm—pleasantly so. A sensation like the one from the yummy stuff mommy put in his mouth when she made those funny “choo-choo” noises.
“Derek! What are you doing?” that deep angry voice cried out. There was a familiar tone to the voice. Like before, when it stopped crying earlier. Derek didn’t know what it meant, but he wasn’t listening. He just liked the taste of the long black thing in his mouth.
But the voice scared him more than the dark things. Heavy footsteps came toward him. He looked up while the dark black things hissed and disappeared back to where they came. They vanished between the atoms and molecules and light and dark spaces of the universe. In their place, his father appeared, arms outstretched, his face flushed with panic. His daddy rushed to where Derek sat. Derek watched his father approached, his face strained with fear. It was the same look that Derek’s mother gave earlier.
“No!” his father yelled as large hands came toward him.
In the years after this moment, Derek would never remember he biting down on it. He’d only remember the flash of light, the heat, the strange tingle followed by the awful sting—he’d forever remember the pain. So much pain. He’d always remember the pain.
Derek had no words to explain it. He just knew it hurt worse than any pain he’d ever felt. His body tensed— limbs, stomach, neck, and shoulders all locked into a rigid statue. His jaw tightened, teeth clamped hard on the cord in his mouth. He couldn’t stop. He began to drool uncontrollably. Heavy hands grabbed him under his arms, and he was lifted from the ground, violently.
Then everything went black.
“Smile,” his mother said as she held up the Polaroid camera.
“I can’t, mommy,” Derek said. “It hurts.”
“Oh, just give me a smile before you blow out the candles,” she said.
He gave his best smile, but it would only go so far. It frustrated him that she didn’t understand. The tight scar on his lip caused pain when he smiled. Try as he might, his lower lip would only move so far before the scar he earned from the electrical cord pulled painfully. But he hated to upset his mommy, so he gave his usual half-smile. It looked more like a smirk, which always made his brother giggle in response.
“Mommy,” Grant said, “it hurts him.” It sounded whiny, even though Grant giggled.
Derek looked at Grant and shook his head. His little brother always stuck up for him, which annoyed Derek. Derek could complain all he wanted, and she’d still pressure him. But because his mother would give Grant the benefit of the doubt, she relented. A benefit that she never gave Derek. Once again, the little snot hogged the attention. It was Derek’s birthday, but he always had to share the light with his brother. Most days he loved his younger sibling. Grant was his second best friend. But some days, like today, he wished he was an only child.
Grant was fourteen months younger than Derek, and always sick. If it wasn’t asthma, it was the flu, if it wasn’t the flu, it was his hernia, if it wasn’t his hernia, it was an ear infection. Every time he got sick, Grant got all the attention. When he wasn’t sick, Grant got all the attention, too.
Today was Derek’s day and Grant still got a present.
“You know he’s sickly, honey,” his mother would say whenever he complained.
“But it’s my birthday. I don’t get a present on his birthday.”
It didn’t matter, his mother would tell him later. Grant needed the attention. He didn’t have friends like Derek did.
“He’s your only brother. You are the oldest. You have to look out for him,” she said.
Derek just wanted to punch him. Hard. He resisted the urge, however. People were around. He looked at the candles on his cake. Eight candles. He looked over at his best friend, Jimmy Verathaller, whose eyes were wide with anticipation. The cake was a pineapple upside-down cake. Derek and Jimmy shared an affinity for it.
“Blow out the candles, Derek,” Jimmy said. “Hurry!”
“Now you just hold your horses,” Derek’s mother said. “We have to sing.”
Derek’s friends and brother rapidly broke into “Happy Birthday” while the adults, lost in various conversations, slowly joined in the song. As they sang, Derek glanced around the table at his friends. Dianne Chang smiled at him. He felt his face flush so he turned to look out the window, afraid she’d see and realize he had a crush on her. Derek was glad he wasn’t alone, and that it was light out when he looked out the window.
The dark things weren’t there.
The song ended and they all yelled “Make a wish!”, bringing his thoughts back to the party and his friends.
He closed his eyes and thought a moment. He began to stack wishes. Sure, there was a rule that said you couldn’t stack wishes, but he paid no head to stupid rules. He wished Dianne would kiss him and then changed his mind. Then Derek wished he was the sick one. He wished the dark things wouldn’t come back. He wished that his brother had never been born. He wish his brother wasn’t so needy. He immediately felt bad for the wishes, so he gathered them all and locked them away. He opened his eyes and smiled at his little brother, and wished Grant wouldn’t be sick anymore. Derek wished for his own mean streak that made him pick on his little brother all the time would disappear. He wished he didn’t feel the way he did inside. He wished he wasn’t always afraid that his brother wouldn’t always be around. He wished he wasn’t afraid of the dark things. He wished he could be braver and kinder than he was.
He gathered those wishes, wrapped them in good thoughts, and sent them out to the world. Derek then blew out all the candles in a single breath and smiled his signature half-smile.
He reached over to Grant and mussed his little brother’s hair with a gentle hand. Grant smiled at him with his big doofy grin.
“I love you, Derek,” Grant said.
Derek felt bad for being so mean all the time and hugged his little brother.
Derek and his friends spent the rest of the day together. They ate cake, played with their lightsabers, and played in their grandparents’ pool. They got a little sunburned, had too much sugar, and made too much noise. It turned out to be a good day, even if he had to share presents with his brother.
Just before sundown, the little family of four headed home. The sun had completely set by the time Derek’s father pulled the 1979 Ford LTD into the driveway. He and his brother had fallen asleep in the car, crashed from the sugar high and too much sun. Derek’s father carried him inside and Derek let himself go limp, too tired to wake up. He felt his father’s quiet laugh in his chest.
“He’s out like a light,” his father whispered. Derek snuggled into his father’s neck, happy in the safety of his father’s arms. He felt his body float along and then fall, gently, onto the bed—the sheets cool to the touch.
He snuggled in and sighed as he felt the comforting weight of the covers carress his body and he slipped easily back into the dark void of sleep. He dreamed of his new toys. In his dreams he flew the Millennium Falcon, blasted his laser pistol while his best friend Jimmy, covered in fur like a Wookie, yelled the Wookie yell. Then Derek dreamed he was a superhero. He scanned the world for evil doers as he flew high above the city. He landed to fight bad guys with feats of great strength and speed. The dream transitioned as little boy’s dreams often did, and Derek found himself on a flying motorcycle. Grant rode next to him on his own flying bike. They fired lasers at monsters and flew in perfect unison to protect one another from flanking maneuvers—best friends battling the evils of the world together.
They flew home after the battle and landed in the backyard. Derek walked through their townhouse into his bedroom. As he passed his favorite toy, a Weeble Wobble two truck, he pushed it aside with is foot. He turned his back to the toy and felt a sharp painful bite in his calf. The tow truck threw its little yellow winch out and stung his leg. He cried out and tried to use The Force to send it away, but it didn’t work. It latched on and started to drag him through the bedroom door. He fought with all his might, but the other toys scattered about stood up and attacked. Voltron punched Derek in the mouth. His stuffed skunk sprayed his face. Derek gripped the bottom rung of the ladder to the top bunk, crying for help. But no help came to him. They had him again, the terrible dreams. The fun dreams changed into horrors he couldn’t escape. Toy soldiers with bayonets on their rifles stabbed him all over like a hundred bee stings. He struggled and fought but they buried him in a relentless assault. Blood poured out of him and he felt himself dying.
Derek wakened with a start. The residual fear caused by the night terrors clung to him. He looked to his brother in panic, well aware of what he’d find. The black nether monsters were back. They stood over Grant’s bed, their green eyes intent on his little brother. One of them squatted on the bed, crouched over his brother, its fingers inside Grant’s chest. Derek’s fear from the dreams turned to real life terror. The toys that had attacked him were gone, replaced by the black creatures who attacked his brother.
“Go to sleep, little one,” one of them said, their pale green eyes devoid of concern for him. “It will be over soon.”
Derek screamed. He screamed like his body was under attack by the toy soldiers. The electrocution scar on his mouth pulled and ripped open. He tasted the blood, metallic like copper, as it began to fill his mouth. He didn’t care. He screamed through the pain as tears flowed down his cheeks. The black things all turned toward him and began to approach, arms outstretched. The black ooze dripped from their fingertips. Their teeth bared in malicious intent as they hissed at him. He focused on his little brother whose eyes were closed. Tears streamed from the tight folds at the corners of his baby brother’s eyes as Grant struggled to breathe.
Derek screamed louder as the black things drew closer.
“Shhh, child. It’s for you,” one whispered.
The bedroom door flew open and slammed against the wall. Light from the hall flooded the dark room. A dark shadow stood in the doorway.
“What’s wrong!” his dad cried, his voice panicked and tired.
Derek pointed at his brother as his dad flicked on the bedroom light. The black things hissed and slithered back to the nether and once again disappeared as they ran from the light and the presence of others. His father never saw them, his attention focused on Grant, whose breath came in rasps.
“Sharon!” his father yelled. “Call 911!” He picked up Grant and hurried from the room.
“It’ll be okay, Grant,” his father said as he left Derek alone. He never noticed that Derek had wet the bed or that his mouth was filled with blood. Derek was too afraid to speak. He sat in the light of the bedroom and waited for the inevitable return of the nether monsters.
“I win!” Derek said and punched Grant in the shoulder as his brother pulled up alongside him.
“Ow! Not so hard!” Grant said as he rubbed his arm. “Dick.”
“Cry-baby,” Derek said.
They both killed the engines and sat on their motorcycles, Derek with his helmet in his hand, on the berm of the winding road of US27, far from their house. The matching black 1978 Honda Rebel 250s were beat-up and old but they were theirs and that was all either brother cared about. They’d each bought the run-down motorcycles from a guy their grandfather knew. Neither bike operated nor was in rideable condition when their grandfather gave them the money to purchase the vehicles. His only condition was that the brothers work to rebuild the bikes themselves.
Grandpa only had two grandkids and didn’t make much money, but what money he did have, he and his wife used to spoil the only two boys he ever had. Derek and Grant loved their grandparents more than anyone in the world and Grandpa was their personal hero.
Derek reminisced about the weeks they spent with Grandpa while they worked on the bikes, side-by-side with the old man. Grandpa didn’t do the work; he simply told “his boys” what to do. The old man was a master mechanic, an excellent wood worker, and the nicest guy in the neighborhood. And he loved his grandsons, finally happy to have “sons of his own” like his own siblings had. But Grandpa expected his boys to be self-sufficient, which meant he didn’t do the work for them. He taught them to do things for themselves.
“See those bolts right there?” Gandpa would ask as he pointed with his funny middle and index fingers, fused together since the day of his birth, a filter-less Pall-Mall cigarette held between the ring and middle fingers. “Take that wrench and remove them. Good. Now take that screwdriver there, and you see that spring?” He pointed with the fused fingers again and smoke twirled into the air from the long ash that hung there. “Stick the screwdriver against the little tongue and lift. Watch your fingers.”
Grandpa was awesome. And now, thanks to him, the brothers had bikes to ride together.
Grant tapped Derek’s arm, bringing his attention back from the memory Derek had lost himself in.
“Here,” Grant said, a pack of Marlboro reds held out toward his older brother. Derek took one, then pulled out his Zippo lighter and flicked it open. He snapped his fingers against the flint wheel and sparks flew into the wet wick. The lighter came to life and a light blue flame danced in the metal screen of the Zippo.
“Nice,” Grant said, “you’re getting the hang of that.”
Derek nodded, cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Yeah, I can’t believe you learned it before I did. It’s cool.”
Derek lit his cigarette and then held the Zippo to Grant’s, who pulled with a big drag. Derek flicked the lighter shut on his leg, the signature snap loud in the quiet night air. The light disappeared with the extinguished the flame.
“You ever notice that they taste better when lit with a Zippo?” Grant asked.
“Yeah, they really do,” Derek said. It was a conversation they’d had many times before and would likely have many times again. He leaned back, stretched out over the seat, and admired the twilight Florida sky.
“You didn’t beat me, you know?” Grant said. “You cheated.”
Derek looked at his brother with his signature smirk. “Yeah, well. You had it comin’. How about we go again?”
“No. You’ll just hit my kill switch again,” Grant said, dejected.
“No, I won’t. I promise. In fact, I’ll get on the left this time.”
Grant shook his head. “No. You’ll just pull my hair or somethin’. I don’t trust you.”
“Aw come on, you big baby. I was just teasing. We can go again.”
“No. You’ll cheat. You always cheat.”
Derek sighed. “I won’t pull your hair. That’s what girls do. I promise. I’ll sit on the left. That way your kill switch will be out of reach.”
Grant nodded. “You promise?”
“I promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
Grant smiled. “Okay. I’m gonna beat you this time, you know? My bike is faster than yours.”
“Not by much.”
“Fast enough,” Grant said and flicked his cigarette onto the road. Sparks danced in the soft swamp breeze, a trail of embers tracing the path of the cigarette as it bounced. Grant put his helmet on with a smirk. “Besides, I weigh less than you. Double advantage.”
Derek turned around and stuck his helmet on the seat back he’d installed on his bike for his girlfriend so she wouldn’t fall off when she rode with him.
“You aren’t gonna wear your helmet?” Grant said.
“Nope. I’m eighteen. Law says I don’t hafta. You do, kid.”
“You’re not even two years older than me,” Grant huffed.
“Law says I’m an adult. You ain’t. Sucks to be you.”
Grant strapped his helmet on, his mouth tightened into a frown, unconvinced. They started their bikes, checked for traffic on the nearly deserted two lane road, and pulled into the lane. The brothers lined up, side-by-side, and gave each other their mean faces. Grant nodded and Derek held up his hand.
“Okay, the race is to the Sugarland Farms entrance. First one there, wins.”
Grant nodded. “Fine. No cheating.”
“I’m not gonnna cheat!” Derek exclaimed. “When I say ‘go’, we go. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“On your mark!” Derek could feel the smirk form on his face and fought the urge. “Get set!” Grant turned away from his brother, a determined look in his eyes, and glared down the road that wound through the swamp ahead. They started the bikes and revved their engines. Both knew their bikes didn’t have a lot of power, but the sound still gave them a thrill.
Derek almost laughed,. He knew that Grant’s helmet limited his peripheral vision and blocked his brother’s ability to notice Derek reach over and flip the fuel lever on Grant’s bike to the off position.
“Go!”
Grant gunned his bike and lifted his hand off the clutch. The transmission popped and his bike launched forward at the same time as Derek’s. Derek giggled even though he got off the line with a slower start. They shifted gears into second almost at the same time. By the time they were in second gear, Grant was already a full bike length ahead. Grant held up a middle finger in victorious glee as he shifted into third. Derek matched the shift just as Grant’s bike lurched and Grant look down. Derek laughed, secure in the knowledge Grant wouldn’t catch on fast enough. Grant glanced at his brother, wide-eyed and concerned. Derek gave him the middle finger as he passed, a wicked grin on his face. Grant’s engine sputtered, the bike jerked one last time, and the engine died as the carburetor spit out the last of the fuel in the bowl. Derek surged past and left Grant behind struggling to figure out what was wrong.
“Sucker!” Derek called out as he shifted into fourth gear and leaned into the turn ahead. After a quarter mile, he slowed down to wait for his brother. He didn’t really want to win by cheating a second time. Grant just made it too easy. He looked in his left mirror and caught a glimpse of Grant’s headlamp beam shift through the turns hotter than usual. He could tell his little brother leaned into the turns, first one way, then the next by the way the light swayed in the curves. Derek let his brother catch up and smiled, but Grant didn’t slow as he passed. He returned Derek’s middle finger salute with a scowl.
“Shit!” Derek said and dropped down a gear. He gunned the throttle to catch up.
The sky began to turn black as the sun set and twilight edged closer to total darkness. Derek could see Grant’s headlight continue its sway through the turns a few hundred yards ahead. Derek rolled the throttle fully and pushed the little bike as hard as it would go, but Grant’s bike really was just a touch faster. He watched his brother’s lights disappear around a curve and behind trees. Derek raced to catch up. His foot peg scraped on the road and another trail of sparks flew from the metal on asphalt.
Two turns later Derek lifted up out of the curve onto the straight-away and slowed down, confused. Grant’s lights were nowhere to be seen. For two straight miles he could see the road ahead but there were no lights. Derek brought the bike to a stop and looked around, expectant. Grant was hiding somewhere, and Derek wasn’t about to fall for it.
“Nice one, dickhead! Where you hidin’?” he called out, but no answer came. Derek peered into the darkness all around.
“Well fine,” he said to himself. “I’ll just sit here and wait for you.” He looked at his Timex Ironman watch and pressed the light button. It was 8:14 p.m. Grant would stop at the farm entrance to gloat. Derek refused to give him the satisfaction. Grant would sit a while and when Derek didn’t show, Grant would panic and think something bad happened. Worried, he’d rush back and find Derek in deep enjoyment of a cigarette, without a care in the world. Grant had to come back this way anyway because they’d need gas soon, and the only gas station for miles was behind them.
Derek turned his bike around and faced the way home. He withdrew a cigarette from his own pack, performed a double swipe with the Zippo against his thigh and lit the cylindrical stick of joy. With a deep breath he filled his lungs with the smoke from his Marlboro, snapped the lighter shut, and hummed Negative Creep while he waited for Grant’s return. Derek sulked a bit, mad that his brother had turned the tables on him. As a distraction, he fondled the Zippo and looked behind him down the road. Grant waited him out. Derek smirked. That was an easy win. Grant would get worried long before Derek gave in to his brother’s game.
The peaceful area felt safe—as long as gators weren’t on the road.
Or panthers.
Derek returned to face back the way they had come. Not far in the distance he noticed on odd illumination in the middle of the marshy wilderness beyond the last turn. He squinted to try and make out what was there. He’d never seen lights in the marsh there before.
He heard the voice before he saw the speaker.
“Soon, little one. Soon.”
He turned to his left and saw the familiar pale green eyes. The lone form of a dark nether monster stood there, the glow of its green eyes intent on him. The dark saliva dripped from its maw. Moonlight glistened in the wet grin. Derek’s eyes shot back to the light in the marsh and his skin grew cold. In a panic he flung his cigarette onto the road, hopped back onto his bike, and shot off toward where he saw the lights. He leaned into the first curve and skid the bike to a stop where the road was closest to the illuminated marsh. The bike crashed to the ground as he hopped off, forgetting to kill the engine or put the kickstand in place. He could hear another engine echo in a high pitched, full-throttle whine in the darkness.
Derek ran into the marsh ahead and the sound of Grant’s engine grew louder. Derek’s feet sunk ankle deep in the muck, forcing his legs to pump hard. As he drew close, he saw his brother’s bike twisted and dented. It’s engine screamed at full power, threatening to burn itself up, the headlight half in the muck. He pressed the little red kill button, and the engine sputtered into silence. Frozen in place, he listened. Grunts of effort, hollow and evil, echoed in the distance. He called out.
“Grant!” he screamed, but no one answered. A dark thing passed him. It’s green eyes studied Derek as it kept its head turned toward him while it walked by, holding his gaze. Derek recognized the monster as the one that spoke earlier.
“Grant!” Derek called, frantic.
“Why do you fight this? Let us have him,” the dark thing said to him.
“No!” Derek snapped. “Leave him alone!”
But the dark mishappen monster cared little for Derek’s wishes or commands. Derek followed it with his eyes. That’s when he saw the others, a hundred feet ahead. Three dark forms, their elongated arms a blur of angry strikes, tore at some unseen object on the ground. They gathered like a pack of lions on a helpless gazelle. Violent strikes, noiseless yet brutal, ripped at the dark body in the muck and mire. Derek’s heart sank and his adrenaline surged. He knew what they had.
He knew—Grant was dying.
Derek turned back to his brother’s bike and fought to lift it from the muck. Tears formed in his eyes and his vision blurred. His feet struggled to find purchase in the slick wet ground, the wetlands refusing to offer any support. He knew what he had to do. He couldn’t rush to his brother’s aide. He had to make the dark things leave. He fought the wet soggy ground, found his strength, and muscled the frame of the bike into position.
Mosquitoes tore at his flesh—hundreds of bites stung his face, his neck, his hands. His foot slipped and he fell overtop the bike. He extended his arm to catch himself and his palms came to rest on the hot tailpipe. As he pulled them away, his hands seared to the hot metal. He screamed in pain and anger as the layers of skin stayed behind. The smell of burned flesh singed his nostrils. Derek fought through the pain. Tears flowed hard as he stood, determined. With a manic cry, he finally pulled the bike upright and steered its light toward his brother.
The headlamp shined brightly still. With all of his strength, he pushed the bike to face the dark things and heaved it forward just a few feet. The humid south Florida air caused sweat to pour down his brow and drip from his nose and chin. It mixed with his tears and stung his eyes. Salty beads reached his mouth, and he could taste the bitterness in them. His eyes burned, but he couldn’t let go of the bike. His boots slipped in the mud, but he pushed, driving the bike, inch-by-inch, closer to where he knew his brother lay dying, the dark things relentless.
With a final, primordial yell, he pushed the bike close enough. The dark things screamed as the light shone on them, too bright for them to hide. In the field, twenty feet in front of him, Grant lay, his body twisted. The dark things slinked away as they sought shelter in the dark beyond the bright light Grant had installed on his bike. The light that Derek had teased him for installing was now the only weapon Derek had against the creatures from the nether.
Derek laid the bike on its side, handlebar angled so the light remained on his little brother’s broken body and hurried to him. Grant’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. His right arm was bent backwards at the elbow, his left leg broken mid shin, twisted so his foot faced backward. The visor of Grant’s helmet was covered in blood from the inside. Derek cried as he fell to his knees.
“Grant,” he cried, “please don’t die.” He screamed into the night till his voice could no longer sustain the volume. Moments passed as his cries turned into hoarse wails of lamentation. Derek wailed in the light of the motorcycle, not able to maintain his composure any longer. He wailed into the darkness, desperate for help. He raged against God and his lack of presence or care. He raged at himself for being such a bully to his little brother who only wanted to be his equal and friend.
“Hey!” a voice called, “is anyone out there?”
“Help!” Derek cried, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He pulled out his Zippo and struck it, the small flame barely noticeable in the light of the motorcycle’s headlamp. Loathing to leave his brother, he made sure the light of the motorcycle remained on Grant and stepped into the darkness and waved his lighter in the hope that whoever called could see.
The dark things circled, their green eyes focused on the brothers. They didn’t leave, they lurked just outside the perimeter of the light.
“Why do you always fight us?” one asked. “He took everything from you. If he lives, they will just blame you. If he dies, they will blame you. Let him die. Then you will have it all.”
“I don’t want him to die!” he yelled, his voice finding a last bit of strength.
“We’re coming!” shouted a voice while flashlights waved toward him from the road.
“Thirty-nine Foot Coronado, this is United States Coast Guard Cutter Eurybia. You have entered US Sovereign waters and have been identified for boarding and inspection. Kill your engines and prepare to be boarded,” Lt. Junior Grade Michaels announced out over the loudspeaker.
The spotlight from the crow’s nest cast a wide swath of light against the black nighttime waters. The small vessel ran with its running lights dark, a typical sign that the vessel could be up to no good. The captain of the small vessel must have known it couldn’t outrun the Eurybia, because the vessel’s engines shut down and the smaller boat slowed. Two men on the deck of the Coronado, dressed in track suits, ran about the cabin, their bodies only partly in view through the wheel house windows.
The small boat decelerated, and the Eurybia’s Captain delivered commands to his team.
“Bring us alongside, Lieutenant Michaels” Captain Starks called.
“Aye, Aye, Captain,” the X.O. replied. “Helmsman, bring us alongside, port.”
“Aye, Aye, Lieutenant. Bringing us alongside, port side,” the helmsman said.
“Captain,” Grant called from the weather deck.
“Petty Officer McGregor, get your team ready. And have the PMOTs in position just in case.”
“Aye, Aye, Captain,” Grant said. Dressed in a dark blue utility uniform, tactical vest, and high-top sneakers, Grant turned to his team and signaled them to move out. He pointed at two junior members of his team, “Riggins. Masterson. You two man the fifties.”
“Aye, Aye,” they replied in unison and split up, one to the foredeck, the other to the aft deck, where the fifty-caliber machine guns were mounted. Grant signaled the other four members of his team. “Let’s give Ariel some love, ladies,” he commanded with a wave of his hand.
The five-man team quick-timed down the ladder well. On the way, Grant grabbed Derek’s elbow. His older brother peeked over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
“Hey, can you not go in all John Wayne this time? I have a bad feeling about this boat. And you can’t take another 3307 entry. Just remember, Riggins idolizes you. Last time almost earned him a Purple Heart.”
Derek smirks “Aye, Aye, Petty Officer McGregor.” He winked at his brother.
“Seriously, bro. Don’t be stupid.”
“Relax, dude. I’m not gonna John McClain myself over the railing and start shooting.”
With a heavy sigh, Grant shoved his brother down the ladder well onto the main deck. Derek turned his cover backwards on his head as the team double timed it to the twenty-two-foot, rigid hull inflatable they lovingly nicknamed Ariel after the mermaid.
The Eurybia cut hard to the starboard side in a direct intercept course of the smaller civilian vessel as the team launched Ariel from the slip at the stern. Twin two hundred horse power Mercury Vorado engines roared to life and the pilot steered the boat port side and raised the throttle full. Derek leaned against the gunwale and pointed to the small vessel as they came around the bow of the cutter.
“I see two on deck, but I swear there were three on that boat a minute ago,” Derek yelled over the sound of waves splashing against the hull and the roar of the twin Mercurys.
The Ariel bounced on the waves, and Grant rolled forward, placing a steady hand against Derek’s shoulder.
“You think someone jumped overboard?” Grant asked.
“In these waters? That water’s in the forties. Not a chance.”
“Roger that. You cover the cabin, and I’ll sweep the deck with Shaw.”
“Aye, Aye, Skipper,” Derek quipped.
“Damn it, knock it off, man,” Grant said, unamused.
“Roger that, Chief.”
“You’re such a dick,” Grant laughed.
“I’m telling mom you said that!” Derek replied, smiling.
“Go ahead! She’d agree with me!”
The both laughed.
“Seaman Shaw?” Grant yelled over the noise.
“Yes, Petty Officer?” Shaw replied.
“You follow me. Evans, you stay here and keep us covered!”
“Aye, Aye!” the two replied.
The eighty-seven foot Eurybia slowed as the Ariel approached the suspicious boat on the port side. Grant tapped Derek on the shoulder and with a nod, Derek leapt over the gunwale of both boats onto the deck of the cabin cruiser. He aimed his Mossberg M590A-1 shotgun at the two men on deck. Both men raised their hands.
“Whoa!” one of the men yelled, his accent thickly Russian.
“Don’t move!” Derek commanded as he stepped forward. The thumps of feet onto the deck behind him, followed by a double tap on the shoulder and the appearance of a carbine barrel in his periphery confirmed Grant had him covered. Confident he didn’t have to worry about the two men on the deck, Derek stepped to the entry into the lower cabin.
“Gentlemen,” Grant said over Derek’s shoulder, “Please step to the aft of the vessel. Keep your hands up nice and high.”
“Deck is clear!” Seaman Shaw called out.
Derek nodded and headed down into the cabin bellow. Keeping the barrel of his shotgun forward, he peered into the dark space. He made his way down into the belly of the boat with only the light from the cutter to guide him. He took a shuddering breath as he stepped into the darkness fully aware what came next. He heard the monsters breath before he saw the motion. The dark things slithered in from the ethereal plane from which they hid. Derek tried to ignore them and stay focused. Every time they showed up, someone got hurt.
“Everything okay down there, Petty Officer?” Grant called out.
“I’m Oscar Mike. Keep your eyes peeled up there,” Derek replied.
“Let him come down here,” the dark thing hissed.
“Shut up,” Derek whispered.
Shadows played tricks on him as he scanned the small boat. The interior of the boat was little more than a recreational galley, a bench with a table for two, and the bed under the draft hatch which allowed faint rays of light from the Eurybia’s spotlight to shine through.
The only other hatch beside the one he entered through was the closed door to the head.
“United States Coast Guard,” he said, “come out with your hands up. The second time I ask will be with a twelve gage through the door.” Derek never gave a second warning.
Silence. He heard Grant request identification and ship’s records topside.
“Why do you stop us?” a man asked with a thick Russian accent.
“You’re running at night with no lights,” Derek heard Grant say. “That’s against the law in United Sates Waters. And your boat is registered in the Bahamas. Do you have any contraband or weapons on board?” he asks.
“You need a warrant,” the man says. “We know our rights.”
“Clearly you don’t,” Grant replies. “We have permission to board any vessel within United States Sovereign waters. And since you are three miles within those waters, I can board your vessel.”
Derek smiled at the leadership of his little brother. Grant proved to be a better sailor and tactician than his older brother. Derek used brawn and force of will, where Grant used patience and intellect. He was proud of his little brother and, though he always gave the kid a hard time, he secretly admired him.
Derek stepped up to the hatch into the head. With the barrel of the shotgun, he pushed the hatch open. A shadow appeared overhead, blocking the light from the stair well. Derek’s breath caught as the shadow distracted him. Another man in a dark track suit lunged out from the head with a revolver aimed at the only target he could see—the dark shadow at the top of the stairs.
The man’s momentum knocked Derek’s shotgun aside and the explosion from the barrel blasted a hole in the hull of the boat. Voices rang out and Derek reached up and grabbed the dark figure by the shoulder just as the pistol went off. His shot missed Grant by a foot.
“Tango below deck!” Grant called and fired his carbine into the fugitive.
The shot caught the fugitive in the shoulder and spun the man’s pistol around toward Derek as the round exploded from the barrel.
Two more shots rang out accompanied by bright flashes followed closely by the distinct sound of Grant’s carbine. Derek wasn’t sure who else fired but he watched as the man with the pistol fell to the ground. Derek’s grip weakened and the shotgun fell from his grasp, its heavy mass loud against the hard deck of the cabin.
Hot pain burned in Derek’s neck, and he clutched his throat in response. The dark thing approached him. Its intense green eyes bored into Derek’s. The monster’s eyes appeared to droop, almost sorrowful. It bared it’s teeth and hissed it’s words. Saliva dripped from its mouth when it spoke and formed a pool that shimmered as it vanished into the nether.
“Such a shame,” it hissed. It sounded disappointed. “You should have let us have him.”
Derek fell to the deck as blood poured from the hole in his neck, his carotid artery severed. He fought to maintain consciousness.
“It was never going to happen,” Derek hissed back. “Never.”
“No!” Grant screamed. “Friendly down!” he cried as he ran to his older brother. The cabin’s lights flicked on, and Derek squinted against them.
If Grant saw the dark things, he never acknowledged. He ripped his helmet off and fell to his knees next to Derek. Derek noticed Grant pass through the dark thing that didn’t run from the light this time.
“Derek!” Grant cried, his voice choked.
Derek held his throat as blood filled his mouth, his teeth-stained red. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes as he looked at his little brother.
“Hey man,” he coughed, his voice faint. “Sorry he got passed me.”
“No, please Derek. Hold on!” He turned over his shoulder and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Corpsman!”
Frantic voices rang out topside, commands relayed to the Cutter. Two heavy objects fell to the deck above. Boots echoed as more fellow Coasties boarded the smaller vessel. Grant pulled a trauma pack from his cargo pocket and ripped it open. He pressed it to his brother’s neck, the force of his grip causing Derek to wince.
Derek reached up and touched his brother’s cheek. Blood stains streaked the younger one’s face.
Tears fell from Grants eyes and ran into the bloody marks, clearing trails in their path.
“I love you, baby brother,” Derek said. “I’m sorry I was such a dick.”
“NO! You stay with me! You hear me!” Grant yelled. “That’s an order! You do not have my permission to die.”
Derek never heard the words. He sank into darkness as his last breath passed his lips.
Grant cried, the sound guttural, broken, and filled with rage.
Derek’s limbs hurt, almost as if an interrogator stretched him on an ancient rack. He gripped his throat to stop the blood flow, but he wasn’t bleeding anymore. He opened his eyes, relieved that it was a bad dream. All around him the world was an eerie gray. As he tried to wake from the nightmare he noticed the color of the world seemed off, like he was caught in a black and white film. Low, soft hisses sounded all around him. Familiar sounds, yet somehow different, less ominous, almost native. He rose at the waist and eased himself into a seated position. But it felt awkward, like his joints were in the wrong place. He glanced down at his legs and gasped. His legs were changed. Once stocky, wide, tanned, and muscular, like thick tree trunks, there were now, long, mishappen, and black.
Like the dark things.
He leapt up to with a surge to get away from the dark legs, but when he moved, the legs moved with him. He looked at his hands. They too were long, dark, and as mishappen as his legs.
“What is this?” he yelled. The words died when he heard them. They sounded like the hiss of the dark things. The dark things that haunted him his whole life.
“You are one of us now,” a hiss sounded behind him.
Derek spun around to confront the voice.
Five dark things gathered in the grayness, expectant as they watched him, teeth bared into macabre smiles. Saliva dripped from their mouths and the familiar green glow of their eyes studied him.
“We tried to save you from this fate,” the one if the middle said. “It always ends the same. It never changes. If you’d let us have him, you’d live.”
“I have no desire for him to die,” Derek hissed.
“And you have no desire to live,” the one on the left hissed. “Hence your presence here.”
“Where is here?”
“Here is here,” the one on the right said.
“What does that mean?” Derek hissed as saliva flew from his mouth.
“The ethereal nether,” the middle one hissed. “You always end up here.”
“Explain,” Derek demanded.
“Countless timelines, countless universes, countless attempts to save you. All fail.”
“We are you,” the one on the right adds.
“You are me?”
“We are you,” they all say. “You are us. The cycle began and never ends. It never changes. We must end this cycle. That is why we attack the sick one.”
Derek eyed them all, his lips curled into a wicked grin. “You should have stayed away,” he hissed. “I’m not you.”
“You are us,” they all hissed. “You must join us in the next universe. We must stop the cycle.”
“Never,” Derek hissed.
“You must,” they said. “We must keep trying.”
Derek didn’t hesitate. He lunged across the dark space, his claws a blur of motion as he attached the dark things that had tormented him his whole life. Rage, pure, and cleansing, released from him in a primordial scream as he attacked.
If it took eternity, he’d kill them all.
And spend his days ensuring nothing ever happened to Grant.