GUILT (DARK PART II)

Written by Sean D Gregory

Grant downed the last half of his Jack & Coke in a single swig. His attempt to place the lowball glass on the bar that appeared to sway before him met with disaster before it started. The thick, faceted glass caught the bar rail, and the glass slipped from his hand, sending crushed ice across the polished wooden surface and onto the rubber mats on the other side. The glass rolled across the bar and Grant’s attempts to stop it only served to send it into the prep sink where it shattered on impact. He threw his hands up in exasperation as if the glass had behaved purely of its own accord.

Mickey, the Fire Captain at Fire Station 5 turned from his conversation to watch the commotion. He raised his eyebrows, less surprised by who had caused the ruckus than he would have been two days ago.

Grant’s head bobbed on his shoulders, his blue hoodie with “MPDC” on the left breast, dirty and wet from spilled drinks. His eyelids were barely able to stay open. Grant mumbled a few curse words that sounded more like slurred babble than anything.

Mickey began to rise and help the drunken man but a signal from Robby, the tall and handsome barkeeper, waved him back. Robby walked over with an exasperated look on his face, not interested in dealing with a sloppy-drunk Grant for the third night in a row. He dried his hands on a towel as he approached the far end of the bar where Grant barely stayed on his stool.

Just shy of his sixtieth birthday, Robby always looked forward to the day he retired from the MPDC and could work his bar full time. He never considered how exhausting the drunks could be. Especially those he considered close friends. He held a special closeness with Grant—a bond born of common history. He never said it out loud, but Grant was his favorite patron, and he was always glad to have the fellow officer frequent his establishment. But lately, it had become an issue. It had been a while since Grant had caused damage in the bar from drinking too much. But never had he done so three nights in a row.

Robby wanted to be easy on the guy, all things considered, but Grant was testing his patience.

“Come on, son,” Robby said. “I think you should go home. Let me get ya a cab. Or I can call Laurie.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Robby,” Grant said. “Just give me another.”

Robby shook his head. He couldn’t understand a word Grant said but he understood the tone and intent. Robby scrunched his face in response. Grant, frustrated, repeated himself.

“Tho dale motta dorby!” Grant said.

“Come on, Grant. Don’t make this hard. I can’t serve you any more tonight. You’re done.”

Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He “tinned” Robby with his badge. The engraving of the Capitol Building glinted in the dim light overhead. Robby sighed.

“Yeah, and mine’s up on the wall. Doesn’t give you carte blanche to trash the place.”

Grant shook his head, apologetic, not intending to flash his badge the way Robby took it. He slid off the barstool, extracted a hundred-dollar bill, and placed it on the bar.

“Sthry,” Grant said, tears in his eyes. “Kep thange”.

“Come on, man, that’s too much,” Robby said. “Why don’t you crash here tonight? You can’t walk out in the street like that. I’ve got the cot in the office already made up for you. You can sleep it off there.”

Grant shook his head, saluted Robby, and stumbled out the door.

“He gonna be okay?” Mickey asked.

“I don’t know, Mic,” Robby replied. “Today’s a bad day. It’s worse this time than usual.”

“Oh shit, that’s today, ain’t it?” Mickey replied.

“Yeah, fifteen years ago today,” Robby said. He turned to the register, cashed out Grant’s tab, counted out the change, and stuffed it in an envelope. He wrote Grant’s name on it and taped it to the mirror over the register.

_____________________

The lights on Oak Street were too bright. The dark things stepped through their portals and hid in the alley amongst the shadows, unable to reach their prey. They huddled in the darkness, quiet and unheard. With slow and deliberate motions, they climbed the walls of the buildings and slinked across the roofs, watching. Today was the day. This time, they’d succeed.

Only one thought persisted in their minds. This Grant must die. The cycle must end.

The man in a blue hoodie and sweatpants stumbled by the alley, too far out into the light for them to attack. The dark things, four of them, watched, and waited.

 ___________________________ 

Grant stumbled along North Oak Street, leaving The Twisted Shamrock Pub behind. The air was cool, as was typical in Washington D.C. this time of year. Cherry blossom season was just beginning, and the blooms had begun to show themselves after a long year of gloom. Soon tourists from all over the country would flood the nation’s capital and get in his way. Crime would also increase, the warmer weather bringing out all manner of folks now that winter was over. More so now that the lockdown was over. The last two years had been a bit different in DC, though the city seemed less locked down than the rest of the world.

Grant grumbled about the return of tourists as he scrapped his shoes across the sidewalk, barely able to lift his feet. In the distance he heard sirens. Somewhere someone did something that drew the attention of the blue bloods. At least today was his day off. He turned onto 14th Street and stopped to pull a Marlboro from his pocket. His feet struggled to keep him upright as he dug into his pocket for his Zippo. He almost dropped the lighter in his attempt to light it. It landed in his hand with the backside facing him. He studied the almost worn out emblem of the United States Coast Guard. Grant flipped the lighter and read the inscription, also faded from time and touch.

 Semper Paratus, asshole.

Fuck you for getting promoted over me.

I love you bro.

I’m proud of you.

Derek

“Fuck you, prick,” Grant mumbled, his cigarette bouncing in his mouth as he did. At least the Zippo was still trustworthy. It ignited with a single flick. He held it to the end of the papered cylinder which seemed to move every time he got close. After a few attempts he managed to steady himself and was rewarded with a bright amber glow at the end.

He took a long pull and held it in, feeling the burn on the back of his throat. He exhaled through his nose like a dragon and two large plumes clouded his vision, Still stumbling, he made his way toward the walking path that led to Arlington National Cemetery. He barely paid attention as he went, his feet long familiar with the way. He walked it several times a year since moving to D.C.

By the time he’d finished his cigarette, Grant had reached the Netherlands Carillon. As he passed the silent bells in the tower, he thought about the sacrifices made by his family over the years. His great-grandfather fought in the Battle of Overloon against the Nazi invaders. The old man had been awarded the Bronze Star for his efforts. Grant never learned what he’d done to earn the medal, but he knew that Gramps had been a tough son-of-a-bitch. He was a quiet old man and rarely spoke. Grant saluted the monument with a drunken wave of his hand.

Grant and his brother were the seventh generation of military combatants in their family. Their grandfather served in Korea as a glider pilot, delivering troops to the front lines. Their mother was a battle nurse in Vietnam. Rumor had it that their great-great-great-grandfather rode with the Rough Riders. Though, as a family, they were proud of the sacrifices they’d made through history, Grant and Derek had always been leery of digging too deep into the past. Both boys were savvy enough to know that if they went back far enough, they may not like what they found in some of the family lore. They didn’t focus so much on their line prior to the first world war.

Grant kept his eyes peeled for security and crossed Marshall Drive to the maple tree that he’d scoped out the day before. It had grown significantly over the years and finally reached a point where it was an easy ingress into the hallowed grounds.

The cemetery was closed at night and the powers-that-be decided to beef up security six years ago for no other reason than to make his life more difficult. If anyone had a right to sneak into Arlington National Cemetery after hours, as far as Grant was concerned, he did. And he couldn’t give two shits if his sense of entitlement angered anyone.

He patted the tree to test its firmness. Satisfied, he reached up for a branch and pulled himself up. Both hands on the branch, he pressed his feet against the trunk to give himself a little extra support, his fine motor skills gone and his rough motor skills seriously impaired.

A sharp pain gripped his side, like a hitch at first. Then it exploded into what felt like his appendix was about to burst. His back seized. In an effort to fight through the pain he lifted his head. But he did so with far more force than he intended and smashed his face into the branch. His nose started to bleed from the impact and his eyes began to water. He clenched his jaw to keep himself from crying out in pain, cursing under his breath. His hands slipped and he fell to the ground, landing flat on his back. The impact knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he gasped for air.

His head exploded into a burst of pain and his jaw clenched shut in response. A tooth cracked under the pressure, and he felt the shard fall loose in his mouth.

He curled into a ball, ready to cry out. The terror seized him once again. The seizure couldn’t come at a worse time. He fought against it, but the pain was too much. Everything hurt. It was like something was inside him, ripping him apart. The pain grew in intensity and his vision began to blur. The ringing in his ears grew so loud he thought his eardrums would pop. His breath came in ragged gasps. His back spasmed so hard he thought his spine would snap.

Just when he couldn’t take it anymore, he remembered his brother. He remembered the significance of the day. He begged for his brother to be alive with him. He begged to feel his presence, if only for a moment. Slowly, the pain subsided, and just as quickly as his panic started, it ended, and a new sense of calm came over him. He fought back the tears. He was utterly exhausted. He stretched out his limbs and faced the sky.

Grant lay there on the ground, out of breath for what felt like hours. The tree towered overhead. In his mind he heard his brother’s voice.

“You gonna pout all night? Don’t make me give you a wet willy.”

“God dammit,” Grant mumbled “What the fuck was that all about?”

He laid there a moment longer and stared up at the stars. There were no clouds in the sky and the stars were bright. But still, the D.C. light noise was too close to offer the kind of views he and his brother witnessed back on the Cutter Eurybia. Those skies were something to behold. With a grunt he rolled over and pushed himself up. He grabbed the metal bars of the fence to steady himself. Once he caught his breath and nodded to himself.

“Okay,” he slurred, “you got this.”

It took far longer than it should have, but he finally made it into the tree.

“In for a dance, in for the lap,” he said, repeating a saying his brother used all the time. “I still don’t get it. Goddamn idiot. Bro, it’s kinda rude.” 

He giggled in spite of himself at the stupid saying his brother repeated like he’d created some witty insight.

In the spirit of the saying, Grant heaved himself along the branch of the maple tree so that he was beyond the fence and the stone wall that surrounded the cemetery. With as much care as he could muster, he dropped onto the grass below and waited to see if he’d been noticed. In the distance he saw taillights from a military security vehicle. Satisfied it was moving away from him, Grant made his way behind the building that looked like a small mansion between sections 40 and 41. It was dark inside. He kept close to the trees as he moved.

Habit made him grab his box of Marlboros. He was about to light one when he remembered he was actually breaking the law by being on the grounds and the flash of a lighter could be seen from quite a distance. With a chagrined curse, he placed the cigarette back in the box and continued across the hallowed lawn of fellow service folk who’d made the ultimate sacrifice.

_____________________________

The dark things watched from a distance, their prey never leaving the light. As he passed the bell tower they chased after him, sure he’d leave himself vulnerable. With glee they followed, hidden in the darkness of the surrounding trees.

Soon he’d be right where they wanted him.

They couldn’t believe their luck when their prey made a run for the tree in the darkness. Without hesitation they surged at him. They watched as the man, drunken and determined, leapt up to pull himself into the tree. With a vengeance born of ages of fury and anger, they leapt at him. The first reached in and grabbed his spleen and squeezed. Another reached into his spine with both hands and pulled.

A third climbed the tree, its claws digging into the bark, unseen, and reached down to grab his head. With all its rage it yanked the man’s head and smashed his face into the branch. It screamed with glee as the man’s nose began to bleed.

The man fell to the ground, and they all laughed with sadistic satisfaction as a fourth began to beat the man about his head, massive strokes, claws ripping at his face.

The dark things didn’t notice they had a visitor. The counterattack came so quickly they had no time to react. The dark thing in the tree fell to the ground, its neck broken, its throat ripped out. The others stopped. Panic set in. They looked around for their assailant. They knew who it was, but they couldn’t see him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be fighting the others.

The first dark thing looked around. It never saw the attack come. It hissed into the night, daring for their attacker to show himself.

The second dark thing flew through the air, tackled from behind. It slashed at the Dark One that wrapped his arms around its waist, screaming in protest. But the hidden attacker lifted it and slammed it down on the spikes of the fence around the cemetery. With twisted anger and dismay, it screamed into the night as it died.

The Dark One turned to face the other two. He hissed at them. The remaining two dark things spread out, separating themselves—a pack maneuver. The Dark One stood straight up from his crouch, his long limbs sinewed and muscular. The dark things exchanged glances, black drops falling from their fangs and fingertips, soaking into the ground where it vanished into the nether.

They couldn’t be sure, but it appeared the Dark One had grown again. They didn’t understand how it was possible that he kept growing stronger.

They attacked as one, but the Dark One stepped forward into the attack of the leftmost dark thing, grabbed it by the arm and swung it into the other. In a panic, the other dark thing dodged as the Dark One threw his enemy across the road into the light. It vanished into the nether.

The Dark One flexed and screamed a battle challenge, black ooze flying from its gaping fangs.

The remaining dark thing froze. It knew it wasn’t strong enough to beat its brother. It needed greater numbers. Slowly, they slipped back through their portals.

“You can’t resist us forever, Derek,” the first one said.

“But I’m willing to die trying…Derek,” the Dark One replied. “The question is, are you?”

When the dark things vanished, the Dark One approached the man splayed out on the ground.

“You gonna pout all night? Don’t make me give you a wet willy,” Derek said to his Grant.

He knew his brother couldn’t hear him, but he hoped beyond hope that he knew how much he still loved him.

________________________

Grant made it to the Military Women’s Memorial, and halfway again to the Coast Guard Memorial, when another security vehicle made its way along Grant Drive, the high-intensity beam of the passenger side spot lamp sweeping the grounds. Grant dropped to the ground and held his breath as the shadows of tombstones swept over him. He listened as the vehicle passed and headed back the way he’d come. When the darkness returned, he pressed himself up and hurried to his destination.

Today was a bad day.

It would forever be a bad day.

Fifteen years and today never got better. Deep down Grant knew Derek would be disappointed in what he’d become. But without the comforting presence of his brother, every day seemed a chore.

Fifteen years ago, in the dark night, far out on the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by fellow Coasties, yet utterly alone, Grant sat in the cabin of that boat and Derek lay motionless in his little brother’s arms, bleeding from a gunshot wound through his neck.

Not a night passed where a fragment of his final words didn’t echo in Grant’s ears. With rancid clarity, as clear as the tinnitus-fueled ring in his ears, Derek’s words reached out from the great beyond.

“I love you baby brother.”

A cool breeze pressed against Grant’s cheek as he sat with his head against the tombstone in section eight of Arlington National Cemetery. With the clarity that only sorrow could bring, he relived the internment ceremony as they folded the flag from his older brother’s casket. He flinched in real-time from the imaginary shots of his memory at the finality of Derek’s absence from his life.

He pulled his head away, lit a cigarette and stared at the headstone:

Derek S. Patterson

Petty Officer 2nd Class, USCG

Born May 29, 1981 – Died March 22, 2008

 “Brothers To The End”.

The coolness of the early spring air made the soft tears on his cheeks feel like a splash of cold sea spray. They ran down his cheeks and the salty bitterness added to the memory. He brushed away the tears with the back of one hand while he pulled a drag from the cigarette. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old flask. He’d given it to Derek after their first mission together. Derek had earned the Coast Guard Commendation Medal for action during their first boarding party. In reality, his older brother had acted brash and risked himself for nothing more than the sheer thrill of it. But his actions prevented three members of his party from taking rounds in their backs.

For his brother’s stupidity, Grant bought the flask and had the words “if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough” engraved on them. Grant opened the flask and poured a heavy dose of Jameson onto his brother’s grave. Derek loved Jameson. Grant never understood his obsession with it outside of it being Irish and they were of fifty-percent Irish descent. But Grant drank it every year to honor his elder brother who also was his best friend.

His older brother was dead and as far as Grant was concerned, he was to blame. They’d gambled against the system and lost. They both knew that they were in the wrong, but Grant was the NCO. His responsibility was to look out for those under his command, and that included Derek. But Derek had always protected Grant, and it was hard to leave the long established relationship roles behind, even though he outranked his older brother. Derek always deferred to Grant’s rank when it mattered. Certainly, somebody should have caught on that the brothers served together against regulations. If they had, Derek would still be alive. Brothers aren’t supposed to serve together. It’s the law.

Grant knew he should have asked to be reassigned. If not for the fact they didn’t share last names, they’d never have gotten away with their ruse. It only worked because when Derek and Grant’s parents divorced each took a child. Derek went with his mom and Grant with his dad. Mom changed Derek’s name to her maiden name, Patterson. Grant kept their father’s surname of McGregor. The brothers, who never lost their closeness regardless of circumstances, couldn’t believe their luck when they both were stationed on the USCGC Eurybia. They kept their relationship quiet.

Somebody wasn’t paying attention during background checks. It should have been flagged. Certainly, they should have been found out by their fellow sailors. One minute in a room with the two and everyone knew something was off. The familiarity, banter, and ingrained hierarchy in their relationship defied all logic to their respective ranks. They knew too much about each other to be a coincidence. Their instant camaraderie should have raised eyebrows.

All Grant had to do was tell someone.

But he didn’t. Selfishly, he liked having his brother watch his six. It felt safe. He trusted that safety extended both ways.

When anyone questioned their relationship they would say they were close childhood friends who grew up in the same neighborhood.

“Almost like brothers,” one would say.

Of course, their relationship came out when Derek was killed. In the aftermath of the event, Grant couldn’t hide his loss. Everyone was stunned by the news. Commander Michaels was furious. Grant was cleared of any procedural wrongdoing in the boarding that took Derek’s life, but the secret was out. Grant took a hit to his service record, as well as lost the trust of his commanding officer Commander Michaels.

He was summarily removed from the Eurybia and sent to the small boat station in Yorktown Virginia to finish his career in the Coast Guard. It was the last favor Commander Michaels would ever do for him. Well, second to last. Commander Michaels was the brother-in-law of Major Johansen. Commander Michaels did one more favor by using that relationship to keep Grant out of trouble. Apparently the Commander knew that certain genetic traits wouldn’t remain hidden for long.

Grant became more like Derek every day.

Commander Michaels wasn’t even angry about the truth. He was angry at the lack of trust the brothers placed in him. Michaels revealed that had he known the truth, he would have kept it quiet. Even though the revelation meant Derek may still have died that day, it didn’t absolve Grant of his guilt. In fact, it stung harder. Confiding in Michaels might have made things easier, but Grant wanted his brother with him and was too afraid to risk the alternative. His selfishness and desire to have his brother close cost Derek his life.

Worse, Grant still felt this lingering guilt that it could very well have been his bullet that killed his brother. Everything happened too fast.

At the end of the day, Derek was gone. His aloof and reckless elder brother preferred the life of excitement that came with LE Boardings. Grant meanwhile felt his dreams die. His desire to someday reach Master Chief Petty Officer of the Coast Guard died the day Derek took his last breath. 

“I love you baby brother.”

“I love you too Derek” he whispered quietly. “I miss you. And I am so sorry I wasn’t able to protect you the way you did me.”

Grant sobbed for what seemed an eternity.

Footsteps approached behind him, and he tensed. But he knew who was there.

“Major,” Grant said.

“I really hoped I wouldn’t find you here tonight,” Major Johansen said.

“Well, it’s 23:40. I wasn’t going to miss it.”

“I thought I was pretty clear last year, and we worked this out. I said I’d bring you here after hours if you came through the gate.”

Grant waved the Major’s words away.

“How much have you had to drink, Sergeant McGregor?” Major Johansen asked.

“Not enough,” Grant sobbed.

Major Johansen placed a gentle hand on Grant’s shoulder. “You have to move on. He would have wanted you to move on.”

Grant choked back a sob. “I know. But I can’t. It should have been me.”

“That’s stinkin’ thinkin’, Sergeant,” the Major admonished.

The Major released a heavy sigh.

“Time to go,” he said.

Grant nodded, took another swig from the flask, doused his cigarette on the heel of his shoe, and placed both items in his pocket. With a not too subtle wobble, he stood, placed his hand on Derek’s tombstone, took a deep breath and kissed the cold surface.

“See you next year, bro,” he whispered. With the best smile he could muster he turned to the Major, his hand out, palms up. An army sergeant with the name Buttersmith on his nameplate stepped forward and cuffed Grant’s wrists.

“You’ll call my Lieutenant?” Grant asked.

The Major smiled. “Ramas is already here. You work like clockwork, Grant. I watched you when you went past the Military Women’s Memorial. I almost laughed when you dove behind the tombstones.”

“You didn’t stop me?”

“I didn’t have the heart.”

Grant burst into tears again as Sergeant Buttersmith eased him into the back of their waiting vehicle.

 __________________________

 The Dark One followed Grant as he stumbled, drunk and tired, through the cemetery. Derek was saddened by his brother’s pain. He wanted nothing more than to take that pain from him, make him whole again. Derek refused to leave his brother’s side through his ordeal. He followed him every year as his brother made the annual pilgrimage from the pub to the tombstone.

He wanted to stay by his brother’s side all the time. But there was a mystery to solve in the nether, one he couldn’t ignore. But tonight, of all nights, Grant needed him.

The Dark One followed Grant. A vehicle passed in the distance and a bright light shined out across the stones. The beam swept toward him and caught Derek in its path. Before Derek could hide, the world faded from sight. He cried out, trying to stay with Grant. The last thing he saw was Grant drop to the ground as the nether pulled Derek back in, the light breaking his connection to the living world.

 ______________________________

 Dawn came and went.

A few hours earlier the sun peaked through the slit between the heavy curtains and landed across Grant’s eyes. With a groan he’d flopped over and buried himself under the covers in an effort to delay the inevitable. The stench of whiskey sweats and his own flatulence grossed him out, but his head pounded too hard for him to care. With a stubborn fury, he dozed back into his still drunken sleep.

Several hours passed before he emerged from the hot box of his own stench. This time the smell was too much to handle, and he crawled out from under the cushioned cocoon he’d managed to tangle himself in. His mouth was dry and felt ready to crack apart. His throat ached, the uvula threatening to choke him, swollen from drunken mouth breathing in his unconscious state.

By mid-afternoon his body had enough sleep, and he forced himself out of bed. The sound of the refrigerator door closing indicated that his roommate was awake too. Grant stumbled his way into the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and climbed into the shower. He inhaled a deep breath, held it, and turned the knobs on the wall. The showerhead sputtered at first with spritzes of water before a final burst of the water pressure blasted him with ice cold water. It would have made him breathe in suddenly if not for his held breath.

With slow deliberation he exhaled and allowed the cold water to cascade down his body. His eyes closed, he lifted his face into the water and drank from the showerhead. The cool water soothed his dry mouth and began the work of relieving his liquor induced dehydration. Gradually the water began to warm up and his headache began to recede.

He stood there as the steam built in the room. He didn’t relish the thought of facing his Lieutenant this morning. There would be hell to pay for last night’s transgression. He never intended to get that drunk. Worse, he fully intended to take the Major up on his offer to escort him to Derek’s grave. They’d even texted earlier that day to confirm the time.

Why the fuck did I climb that tree?

“Because you’re dumbass,” he heard in his brother’s voice.

Grant choked back another bout of tears. In defiance of his own emotions, he reached to the soap on the tray in the corner. The motion caused him to wince.

Damn. My back hurts.

He tried to recall all of the events from the night before.

Did I fall out of that tree?

He couldn’t quite remember. Regardless, he was pretty sore. He’d have to nurse any motions today. With gentle motions, he lathered himself up, rinsed, and climbed out of the shower. The towel on the rack was still damp from the previous day so he only used it to remove the excess water and wrapped himself at the waist.

His stomach growled loud enough to be detected in space. The rumble continued far longer than he ever thought possible, and he remembered it had been almost twenty-four hours since his last meal. Still wrapped in a towel he headed out the bedroom door, down the hall and into the kitchen.

Laurie stood at the stove in a white tank and black panties. Her short black hair was wet, he assumed, from a shower. Her olive complexion was flawlessly unblemished outside of the long tattoo that ran from her ankle, up her leg and disappeared beneath her panties only to reappear again at her shoulder. He admired her for a moment. She turned with a pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. Braless under her white tank top, Grant had a hard time keeping his eyes up toward her face, her nipples on her small yet firm breasts were hard against the fabric. Grant admired her curves for a moment before realizing he was gawking.

She caught him cold, raised her eyebrows, and shattered his mistaken delusion that his quick glance would go unnoticed.

“Here, pervert. Have some eggs,” she said and scraped scrambled eggs onto each of two plates on the counter.

“How am I the pervert?” he asked. “You’re the one with your ass and tits out.”

“Last I checked, I lived here too, asshole,” she replied.

“I’ll never get used to it,” he replied with a smirk.

“It’s been seven fucking years, McGregor. Grow up. This ain’t the twentieth century anymore. You can’t eye fuck me just because you want to,” Laurie jested.

She studied him for a moment, the scars on his chest and stomach as familiar to her as his face. Well aware of the magnetism that yanked at them, she resisted the urge to run her fingers along those scars. This was the game they played at least once a month. Each pretending they weren’t really attracted to one another but always flirting in this weird dance of familiarity and distance. They’d each had at least one relationship soured by their strange living arrangement.

“Who’s eye fucking who now?” he replied as he walked to the coffee pot.

He opened the cabinet, searched through the contents, and with a mischievous grin, extracted a mug from the cabinet above. He looked at the image on it, smirked, and poured hot coffee into the porcelain container. With the moves of a teenager who thought himself more suave than he was, he spun and faced Laurie, the picture of the pinup girl on the mug facing her. He held it to his lips, and watched her over the lip of the mug, waiting.

She turned to face him, glanced at the mug, and pointed at it with the spatula, and laughed as the heat from the coffee caused the clothes on the pinup girl to disappear. Her brown eyes sparkled in the light and the corners of her eyes crinkled when she did. He found her particularly attractive this evening and if he was honest, a little horny.

“Nice,” she said. “Eat your goddamn eggs and get dressed. We got roll call in forty-five,”

Grant, getting the hint that there would be no skin-to-skin contact for a while, set his mug down. He grabbed four slices of bacon and plopped two on each of the plates while Laurie dropped slices of toast next to them. Grant slid the plates to the opposite side of the counter in front of two stools.

“You gonna be okay today?” Laurie asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“I’ll live,” Grant replied as he scooped a fork full of eggs into his mouth.

“Well, I’m taking the double shift today. Lieutenant Ramas asked if I’d cover for Mornet. I won’t be back till late tomorrow.”

Grant nodded and said, “Ramas wants me on patrol tonight. I won’t have the night shift check. They’re pretty shorthanded after..,” he didn’t finish the statement and his voice trailing off.

They both sat in silence, the only sound in the room besides their forks on plates and chewing, was the refrigerator compressor.

“You gonna make it to the funerals?” he asked her, his voice quiet.

“Yeah. I figure we’ll ride together?” she replied, equally somber.

“Of course. I’ll drive. The responsibility will keep me from drinking,” he said.

“Roger that,” she said and patted his hand. “If you want to talk later, let me know?”

“I’ll probably want to fuck,” he said with a smirk.

“Nice try, Casanova,” she replied.

“Yeah, I know. You’ve got a good thing with that Senator’s aide. Honestly I’m just fucking with ya. No pun intended,” Grant replied.

She snorted at the lame joke and said, “It’s not that serious. We’re just having a good time,” she said. “It’s definitely not permanent.”

“I don’t know. She seems pretty into you,” Grant replied.

She shrugged and silence fell over them again.

Grant finished his breakfast, downed the last of his coffee, placed the dishes in the dishwasher, and headed back to his room. Laurie watched him as he walked off. She wondered how he was still alive. He had just as many scars across his back as he did his front. Pink and white stripes ran in crisscross patterns over his skin. Some looked like he’d been attacked by a bear or a tiger, running in evenly spaced lines of four. Others looked like he’d been stabbed. A few were clearly from gunshots—triceps, calves, even forearms hadn’t made it through life unscathed. Most were long healed and faded. His body told a story that was too fantastical to believe. Life had been rough on Grant since he was born. If not for the scars, she’d never have believed one person could have been through so much.

The inside scars were worse. She wasn’t convinced he was as okay as he tried to make himself out to be. Her plan to keep him out of trouble last night had been foiled by a last minute accident and she didn’t get back from patrol in time to stop him from making a stupid decision.

After seven years as roommates, she knew him better than most people. In that time, they’d been beat partners, each other’s wingperson on dates, separated to different primary service areas, become friends again, had a couple romps in the sack when one of them needed just a little attention, and always dug each other out of trouble, even during that falling out that lasted almost six months a few years back.

Laurie knew last night would be bad for him and she felt guilty for not being there to keep him out of trouble.

Grant’s thoughts, on the other hand, were in a different place. He knew she’d watch him leave and just as he reached his door he let the towel fall, his bare ass showing.

“Damn McGregor, get your pasty ass to a tanning bed. Fuck. You blinded me!” she yelled at him.

He smacked himself on the ass and gave her the finger before closing his door to dress.

 ______________________________

 The Dark One crouched on the roof of the apartment building, his gaze on the two officers that exited. He approved of the female officer his Grant made his home with. She was bright and funny. And easy to look at.

The Dark One followed along on the roof tops, his long limbs extending like a cheetah, his claws gripping the stone as he sprinted high above. Ahead he saw more of the dark things emerge through their portals, nether oozing around them and vanishing into the air..

The Dark One sent out his battle cry and several dark things turned to face him. Others ran after the car that contained the two officers. With a feral scream, Derek slammed into the first dark thing, his fangs ripping into its face. The dark thing didn’t go down without a fight. It sacrificed itself as it raked its claws across Derek’s stomach.

Derek released the dead thing with a cry of pain as three more dark things landed atop him, and they all fell from the building into the well-lit street below.

_______________________

 The attitude during roll call was one of anger, sadness, and even fear. Rookies and veterans alike were nervous. That meant tempers would be short. During roll call, Grant made it clear that cool heads were required. He didn’t want any bad publicity from night shift officers, still reeling from the recent loss of three of their own, itching for answers with even itchier trigger fingers. After roll call, Lieutenant Ramas pulled Grant aside.

Tall and slim, his hair cut like J Jonah Jameson in the Spiderman comics, Ramas had all the presence of a career officer. In excellent shape, well-manicured, and his suit perfectly pressed, Ramas was one of the better lieutenants Grant had served under. The man was also a former Coastie, so he had an affinity for Grant. Regardless of the special treatment that Ramas afforded him, however, it was obvious to Grant that the events of last night didn’t sit well with his commanding officer.

“You gonna be good today, Sergeant?” Ramas asked, his tone cold.

“I’m good, L.T.,” Grant said, very aware that Ramas had saved his ass less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Well, you look like shit,” Ramas replied.

“You taking me to dinner or something?” Grant retorted.

“You’re lucky I didn't haul your ass up on charges after last night. Climbing over the fence? What the fuck is wrong with you? Damn lucky you have friends,” Ramas said.

“It would be hard to blame you if you did charge me,” Grant replied, remorseful.

“Damnit, McGregor, this is why I can’t make myself be hard on you. I should suspend your ass and have I.A. rip you apart. You make my fucking job hard sometimes.”

Chagrined, Grant nodded.

“Sergeant Waters is taking over your squad today. I want you on the streets. Something about this shit in Lincoln Park stinks. You have a knack for detective work. Homicide has your call sign as Rover-one,” Ramas said.

“Why me?” Grant asked, curious, not defiant.

“Because of all my flatfoots, you’re the one with any real investigative skill,” Grant replied.

“That hardly seems true,” Grant said, “but if you say so.”

“I do. On your way…and stay out of trouble. If you do see anything, you call it in. No cowboy shit.

“Relax, L.T. I’m not gonna go all John McClain out there.

Ramas snorted and wagged a finger between himself and Grant. “I’ve seen this Chevy Chase movie one too many times to fall for that shit. No. Solo. Shit.”

“Understood,” Grant said.

“Whatever is going on in the one-oh-seven, the brass is nervous. Commander Olsen’s been getting calls from distraught Congress folk and Senators all day. The residents are screaming for answers. The only thing keeping the place from blowing up now is that officers lost their lives too. The community and the MPDC are in this mess together now and the community knows we won’t sit back and let our own be picked off.”

“Relax, sir. I get it,” Grant replied.

Ramas nodded as he eyed Grant up and down.

“For the love of Christ, be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name,” Grant said.

“Like hell it is,” Ramas retorted and then waved down another lieutenant.

With a nod, Grant adjusted his utility belt, hefted his cruiser keys in his hand, and headed out to the lot to his brand new white SUV with the red stripes, blue “Police”, and MPDC shield decals recently applied. He located the new cruiser awaiting its maiden voyage at the back end of the lot.

Grant climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at himself in the rearview mirror. He studied his face. He looked tired. The bags under his eyes weren’t good. Barely contained anger brewed behind the dark circles. If Ramas knew just how much anger lurked inside, the Lieutenant would never send Grant to assist detectives in an investigation into fellow officers’ deaths. Whoever this murderer was, they were in for a world of hurt.

Ever since Derek’s death Grant had become the hot head his older brother had always been. It had only gotten worse over time. The cool demeanor and propensity toward patience that Derek relied on died a little more with each passing anniversary of Derek’s death.

Derek’s words on that last mission came to him like a slap in the face.

“I’m not gonna John McClain myself over the side and start shooting.”

Grant said to the image in the mirror, “Yippee Ki-Yay, motherfucker. Like you always said, bro, someone’s gotta do it.”

He squeezed his shoulder mic and said, “Bravo-four-zero to Alpha-six-niner, tac-one and hold.” Grant tuned his radio to tactical channel one and waited.

The voice of Sergeant Gonzalez came over his radio. “Go for Alpha-six-niner.”

“What’s your location?” Grant asked.

“Thirteenth Street. Mary McCleod. I found something interesting,” she replied.

“Be there in ten,” Grant said.

“Roger, out.”

Grant let out a heavy sigh.

“What the hell are you doing, Grant?” he said to his reflection in the mirror.

He flipped the ignition, put the vehicle in drive and did a burnout onto Delaware Street. There’d be hell to pay later but he didn’t care. Lights flashing and sirens blaring, he made his way north toward Lincoln Park, ever more curious what he’d find.

 __________________________

 The dark things watched as the white SUV sped off out of the well-lit parking lot. They didn’t fear the Dark One this time. The others had taken care of that. This time, they had a plan. This time, they had worked together.

Tonight, they’d finally succeed.

 _________________________

 Grant wasn’t a big fan of Washington D.C. It was the kind of place his brother loved, but Grant hated the city life. His whole life, Grant wanted a farm, horses, and a bunch of dogs. That had been his plan prior to that awful day. When asked “Why Washington D.C. of all places?,” Grant simply said that living here kept him close to his mother who had recently retired and was getting on in years. She’d moved to the District over three decades ago and made her life there. Now a little slower, she needed help often enough that it was better and easier for everyone if he lived here.

But those close to him knew the real answer, it kept him close to Arlington National Cemetery—close to Derek. He could visit him every week. He could talk to him. Grant felt his presence often. He wasn’t sure he would if he didn’t stay close.

That was enough to put up with the city.

Grant flew through the late night DC streets, his siren quiet now, red and blue lights and the sound of his engine enough of a disturbance. Consisting mostly of residential brownstones, Capitol Hill was quiet this time of night, especially around Lincoln Park. Mostly inhabited by young professionals and families of means, the area was not a hotbed of crime. Most folks were in for the night. More so now after the events of the last several weeks. Another body in the area would increase the pressure on everyone. The accusations against minorities would grow with the current political climate.

Grant had a different concern. One he was afraid to voice.

Last year there’d been only two homicides in the one-oh-seven. March wasn’t even over and there had already been three civilians and three officers murdered. It was bad enough that any civilian died in the affluent and normally safe haven of Lincoln Park. The death of just one officer alone would have inflamed the one-oh-seven. Police didn’t die in the one-oh-seven. Six deaths in ten weeks within the one-square mile area was more than a statistical anomaly. Something was happening. Everyone was frightened and tucked away before the sun went down. One more death would send the place into total meltdown. In the current political climate of rancid partisanship, blatant racism, and fear mongering, all of D.C. was about to turn into a powder keg.

The Police Commissioner, already living off a healthy diet of Tums, would come down hard on MPDC leadership. Since shit always rolled down hill, the rank and file uniformed street officers would not be immune to the pressure. Once again, he thought about how he never wanted to lead people again. Ramas had insisted, even pressured Grant every year to take the Lieutenant’s exam but Grant’s taste for leadership had soured. He’d only taken the Sergeant’s Exam to appease his now ex-wife. Grant pulled up to Lincoln Park.

Capitol Hill was quiet. Not as quiet as last year, but still, it was quiet. The COVID-19 pandemic seemed to be at an end, but many people still locked in during the night. He walked toward Mary McLeod Bethune Statue. As he drew close, he saw a person up against the base of the statue, sitting, legs out like they were relaxing. The pants and boots looked like a fellow officer.

“Sergeant Gonzalez, that you?” he called out.

“McGregor?” a woman called out, her voice desperate.

Grant ran forward, his heart racing. As he circled the statue dedicated to the famous civil rights activist, educator, and philanthropist, Grant saw streaks of blood. He raced to the body. Gonzales bled from lacerations to her face. She gripped her neck with a white knuckled grip. Her eyes were wide with terror.

Grant grabbed his mic and yelled into it.

“Rover-one to all units. I got a ten-zero-zero, officer needs immediate assistance. Officer down! Lincoln Park, Mcleod Memorial! I repeat, ten-zero-zero!

He released the mic and unzipped the first aide pouch on his service vest. He ripped a gauze and pressed it against Gonzalez’s neck.

“Hold on Gonzalez," he cried. “Why didn’t you put out a call?”

She glanced down at her radio, a signal to him to look. Grant glanced where she indicated. Her radio cable had been slashed. Several lacerations bleed through her uniform as if she’d been attacked by a tiger or bear.

“What did this to you?” Grant asked, terrified.

“I…never…saw…” she said.

“Where?” Grant asked.

Gonzalez indicated deeper into the park.

Sirens blared all around.

“Stay with me, Sergeant,” Grant said. But it was no use. Gonzalez’s eyes closed as she let out her last breath. Her body went limp, and the blood flow slowed to a trickle as her heart stopped beating. Grant screamed with rage. He turned and looked into the darkness of the park behind him, looking for any sign. He looked at the ground and followed the blood trail back where Gonzalez indicated. Either someone drugged her, or she made it to the memorial on her own to be easily found.

He glanced into the darkness. A shadow moved. He couldn’t make it out, but he was certain he saw it. Whoever it was wanted to lure him in. Well, they were in for a rude awakening. He’d fought far worse than anything D.C. could throw at him. He stepped forward, daring the person in the darkness to come forward.

He keyed his mic.

“Alpha-six-niner is gone. I repeat, Gonzalez is dead. Rover-one in pursuit of suspect.”

“Say again, Rover-one,” the dispatch called.

Grant ignored the call and ran into the darkness, his Sig-Sauer .40 caliber drawn and ready.

__________________________

 The dark things watched as he approached. The woman in uniform gripped her throat, eyes wide with panic. They found no pleasure in harming the innocent woman. In fact, they’d found no pleasure in any of the deaths they’d caused. Desperation caused them to reevaluate their tactics. They fought only for their right to exist, to be whole. Grant prevented that.

The Dark One had a way of showing up unexpectedly. Moreover, he rarely left their prey alone, always vigilant, always protective. There were many other Grants that needed their attention, much easier to eliminate, but this one seemed important.

They tried to get the Dark One to understand, to join them. But he refused to listen, his love for Grant outshined the necessary hatred. He refused to grasp that the death of the other was necessary. Ill omens across the nether foretold of the danger if the younger was left alive.

The older had thwarted them for decades. This was the only way. To save the many Dereks, the Grants needed to be sacrificed. The dark things finally found a way. They’d unlocked the secret to manifest themselves in the physical realm. The innocents died in the process, but this time the Dark One couldn’t stop them.

The dark things huddled together in the darkness of the park, hidden amongst the trees as one of their kind held a young man captive. Both the young man and the dark thing would die from the process, but now, the dark thing was physical, his life energy inside the unwilling victim. It felt the boy resist, but he wasn’t strong enough to push out the power of the nether. His body was theirs to control.

The boy screamed inside, begging to be released. But they had greater need of him than he did of the world. Theirs was a mission of survival, enacted through deeds of horror.

They watched as their prey approached the body of the woman who bled to death. They watched as he tended to her wounds in a vain attempt to save her.

They watched, and they waited.

Their prey looked over his shoulder in their direction and the boy whom they controlled took several steps out from where he hid before returning to the darkness of the trees.

They watched as their prey rose, drew his weapon, and approached.

“Good,” one dark thing said. “Now come to use, Grant.”

 __________________________

 Grant searched the dark. He was certain he saw movement in the unlit portion of the park. Whoever it was wanted him to come. He knew he should’ve waited for backup, but this shit had to stop. He drew his mini flashlight and twisted it so that the light was off but hyper sensitive to touch on the power button. He left the light off, scanning the darkness with his eyes. He kept his body low, the flash light held under his pistol arm in a cross. He advanced quickly but with methodical precision, checking behind trees as he passed. Step by step with meticulous attention, he moved. He wished his brother was alive to help. Together they were unstoppable.

No, that wasn’t true. Otherwise, his brother would be alive.

He never saw it coming. From the darkness, someone grabbed him from behind and caught him in a choke hold. He immediately rotated his hips to throw off his attacker, twisting his wrist so that his pistol aimed where their head should be. He fired.

The smell of sulfur and gun oil filled the air. The gunshot deafened his left ear, the ringing loud and real life sounds hollow and distant. 

But the killer held him fast. Somehow the round missed. Certain of the killer’s location, Grant reached the gun around his right side, rested it against his ribcage, aimed toward his own back and fired again.

Still the perpetrator choked him. The world grew dim as he began to lose consciousness. He fought like his life depended on it but nothing he did would break the hold of the killer. Grant began to drive his elbows back into the person who clung to him with superhuman strength. But he couldn’t make contact.

His chest exploded in pain, and he felt his heart seize.

How in the hell did this guy get past him? Grant thought he was, no… he knew he was better than this. Grant reached up for the perps arms. They were lithe, slender, and oddly covered in slime. Their mass was negligible, but somehow the strength of the attacker was inhuman. He couldn’t break free. He couldn’t breathe. 

As he slipped away, tires screeched to a halt all around him. In one last desperate effort, he twisted the back of his flashlight, and the light blared to life. In front of him stood a black monster, fangs dripping black saliva. It screamed as it disappeared into nothing. Grant fell to the ground, no longer able to stay conscious and the weight on his neck released. The last thing he was aware of were footsteps running away.

 _____________________________

 They watched as their prey scanned the dark spaces in the park. They held the boy back and waited till their prey passed. Together they lifted the boy from the ground, just enough to keep him silent as they moved.

They watched as the man’s weapon scanned, his body crouched low. With the silence of the nether, they surrounded him. Before he could react they placed the boy on the ground and forced him to attack. The boy’s arm wrapped around Grant’s neck and his other arm locked it in place. The boy squeezed with everything he had, no mercy. This needed to be a quick death.

But their prey fought hard, and the boy wasn’t as strong as they needed. The dark things swarmed and began to attack with vicious swipes. They reached in and gripped vital organs like the others before them. They held tight as their prey fought for his life.

The boy cried out inside his mind as loud pops rang out. Blood gushed from his neck and then again from his side. But the dark things refused to relent. The one inside the boy squeezed harder, its connection with the nether running out, like sands in an hourglass.

Like the blood of the boy.

A bright light flashed and one of the dark things screamed in protest as the nether claimed him back. Then the area was flooded with light. The dark things couldn’t withstand the light. They fled back whence they came, their portals opening and claiming them once more.

 ___________________________

 Randy didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t want to hurt the police officers. The voices left and he held the officer. He didn’t want to. The officer began to go limp and the boy let go.

Randy ran.

But he was light headed and his side hurt. Warm fluid ran down his neck. But he ran away from the sirens and lights. He ran from the two dead officers. Officers he’d killed but didn’t want to.

He didn’t make it far. He collapsed in the darkness, a few hundred yards from where the officer lay. The voices were gone but it was too late.

What will mom think of me? It wasn’t me!

Randy died, tears streaming down his face.

 _______________________________

 The ground rumbled all around him, vibrations that started in the distance and picked up amplitude like a stampede headed right for him. He wanted to move out of the way of whatever it was but couldn’t feel his limbs. All around him the world was dark. Voices cried out in the distance, familiar ones but somehow different, changed. Like they were muffled behind a glass partition, locked away somehow. A sound, like shifting gravel, surrounded him, the crunch soft, like pea gravel.

Something heavy thumbed near his head, still the sound was far away. Familiar clicks, like latches, again, muffled, drew him back to the familiarity of the world.

The touch of someone’s hand startled him and he flinched.

“Easy, there, Sergeant. Don’t move,” a woman said.

Grant’s chest hurt. His throat was dry. His head throbbed.

“McGregor! You okay?!” Lieutenant Ramas called.

Grant tried to open his eyes. There was a bright light in his face, and he winced at it.

“Pupils responsive,” the woman who spoke earlier said.

They rolled him onto his back. The texture of the ground changed. He felt something constrain his chest and legs and for a moment he panicked and fought against them. But a gentle hand rested on his chest. A familiar scent triggered a memory of white tanks and black underwear.

Laurie leaned over.

“Grant,” she whispered, “It’s okay. We’ve got you.”

The presence of that familiar voice and scent calmed him.

“On three?” the female paramedic said, and Grant felt himself lift into the air. They placed him on a gurney and began to wheel him toward the ambulance. Lights flashed everywhere.

“Gonzalez…” Grant croaked out.

“We couldn’t resuscitate her,” Ramas replied, his voice bitter. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Sergeant? Why didn’t you wait for backup?”

Grant tried to speak but his throat hurt. All that escaped his lips was a cough. He tried to move but Ramas held him down.

“Don’t answer. We’ll get your statement later.”

“Di…di…,” Grant tried to speak.

“You got him, Sergeant. The perp. He’s dead about three hundred yards away. Young white male, about eighteen. He bled out from a gunshot to the neck before we found him,” Ramas replied. Then to the paramedic, “Get our man here to MedStar. I want the trauma team on him.” Then back to Grant he says, “You may have had a heart attack or a seizure. We saw you convulse and collapse. But you did good. The citizens of Lincoln Park can sleep easier tonight thanks to you.”

Grant was confused by Ramas’ words. He saw one of his attackers. There were definitely two of them. And they weren’t human. How didn’t they see him?

The paramedics slid him into the ambulance. Laurie climbed in next to him and grabbed his hand. She said nothing. He closed his eyes and saw the monster that attacked him in his memory. He shuddered at the thought.

How do I explain what I saw?

 _________________________________

 The hospital room was dark. Grant slept. His face and body were bruised from the events of the past two nights. Tubes ran from his wrist, wires ran from sensors on his chest and arm. Beeps and clicks filled the room from machines that monitored his heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels. An IV drip filled him with saline due to dehydration induced by lack of water and excessive drinking over the last several days.

Derek hung in the shadows, afraid to approach due to the possibility that light might enter the room from a nurse opening the door. Grant had been through hell and back.

Derek had been through it too. While the simultaneous attacks almost succeeded in taking Grant’s life, the dark things had done quite a bit of harm to Derek too. Pieces of himself hung loose, like flesh flayed to the side. He hurt in a different way, deep in the soul. It wasn’t something he could explain or even reason through, but he hurt none-the-less.

Still, his concern was for his brother, not himself. He’d give everything he had to protect the mortal Grant from the dangers that sought to harm him. Derek feared he couldn’t always be there. The dark things only needed to succeed once. Derek had to succeed every time. But, this time, Grant did the work and managed to keep himself alive. Derek was grateful it all worked out. He watched and waited in the shadows for the dark things to arrive. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t as long as he stayed here, in the shadows. Nobody was going to hurt his brother. Not while he had lifeforce left in him.

Derek had learned a few things since he’d passed from the mortal world into the nether. He knew what they were now. Versions of himself from other planes. All bent on the death of their own Grants. They moved through the multi-verse, bent on killing the Grants in every plane.

Derek didn’t know why yet. But at least he knew what. And who.

And he’d learned he wasn’t the only Derek who loved his brother more than the petty jealousy of his childhood. He’d learned something else too. He’d learned that the Derek’s like him were more powerful together than the others.

Their love made them stronger. Their love gave them an advantage over the hate that fueled the others. Now he just needed to learn why they existed. And keep his own Grant safe.

Derek couldn’t solve both problems at once. So, he left Grant in the daytime to solve the mystery of why. And at night, he stayed close, as much as he could.

The door to the room opened and light burst into the room. As the door swung wide and exposed more of the room to light, Derek whispered to his little brother.

“I love you, Grant. I’ll never let them get you.”

The Dark One slipped back into the nether, away from the light that wouldn’t let him stay.

He had more Derek’s to find.