The Civil Dead (Dark Season IV)

  Dark Season IV: The Civil Dead

  by Amy Cross

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by Dark Season Books

  This edition released: December 2011

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome, either in the form of Amazon reviews or at the website listed above. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  Prologue

  I hate Los Angeles.

  I mean, I really hate it. How I ended up living out here, I'll never know. So far from home. So far from my kids. So far from everything I've ever known. Hell, I'm not even in the movie business: I sell real estate. Seriously, I could have moved anywhere. Why here?

  Monday night and I'm three hours late leaving work. I was supposed to meet Sharon for dinner, which I can just about still make. But I was also supposed to call my kids and speak to them for a bit, try to arrange for them to come out here and visit. This is going to be the second time I rearrange our chat, but I can't help it. That's what life's like out here. Just one rush after another.

  Heading to the restaurant, it takes me half an hour to drive a mile thanks to a series of traffic jams and roadworks. So I ditch the car at La Brea and decide to catch a 42 bus, which takes me much closer to the restaurant and avoids the worst of the bad roads. As I get off the bus, I'm only ten minutes late for dinner. Sharon will be waiting, but she's used to this. Of course, if I'd remembered my cell phone, I could call ahead and let her know I'm almost there...

  Somewhere between 5th and Charles St, I take a wrong turn. After a couple of minutes I realise I'm down some dark street I've never seen before. I could keep going and see where I come out, or I could just turn back and accept that I'll be even more late. Frustrated, I turn back.

  There's a man standing behind me. A tall man, completely in the shadow. Seriously, if this guy was trying to scare me, he couldn't do a better job.

  I try to walk past him, but he grabs my arm and holds me in place with a firm grip.

  I sigh. "Is this a mugging?" I ask. I've read about this kind of thing. It's actually not that big of a deal out here. All you do is hand over everything you've got, then phone up and cancel all your cards. You don't really lose much, and as long as you cooperate you don't even get hurt. So I pull my wallet out and thrust it into the guy's other hand. "Here," I say. "You're welcome".

  He holds the wallet in his hand for a moment, then drops it.

  "What do you want?" I ask, starting to get worried but trying to make sure I seem calm. "I don't have a car. If I had a car, do you think I'd be walking down here right now?" No answer. Okay, now I'm starting to panic a little, because I can't think of anything else this guy could possibly want. "I have a wife," I say. "And two kids. Okay? Please don't hurt me". I look up into this guy's dark face, which is still completely hidden by shadows. "You can just let go and I'll be off, okay?"

  At that moment, I launch my hardest punch, connecting straight with the guy's head. He loosens his grip on my arm just a little, but then pulls me close and I feel a terrible pain in my gut. Looking up at his dark face, I feel the blade of a knife grinding against my spine. The fucker's stabbed me in the back.

  As the knife is pulled out, I fall to my knees before the guy kicks me in the stomach and I collapse completely. Unable to move, I feel the knife slice into me half a dozen more times. I swear I can feel blood flooding through my body, rushing into places it shouldn't be. Then I feel his hands on me, and he rolls me onto my back. I still have no idea what he wants. I look at the dark sky for a moment before his looming dark face appears in my field of vision, looking down at me. He tilts his head slightly, the way a dog does when it's trying to understand something. And then I see his hand, holding the knife, come down directly into my face. I close my eyes but I can feel it - I can almost see it - slicing through my brain.

  You know what I'm thinking about as I die? My kids. I should've spent more time with my kids.

  One

  Morning comes. I slept badly last night; I always do when it's not raining. And now it's time. I shut the bathroom door and slide the lock across. Staring at my hands, I take a deep breath. Can I really do this?

  I walk over to the bathtub. There's no need to fill it. I set the two knives on the side, then I go to the cabinet and take out a couple of razor blades. They're not the sharpest, but they'll do. I go and set them next to the knives, before walking over to the window and pulling the curtains shut. I've already made sure my mother and brother are out, Adam and Shelley are both off doing their own things; I just have to make sure Patrick doesn't suddenly appear from out of nowhere.

  I pull my shirt off over my head, then I remove my bra, take off the rest of my clothes and climb into the dry bathtub. God, I really don't know if this is the best place to be doing this. But my bedroom would be so messy, and there's really nowhere else that's private. It has to be somewhere I know well. Somewhere I'm in control. Somewhere I can clean up properly afterwards.

  I feel the lower side of my left breast and quickly find what I'm looking for. The lump. It's about the size of a large pea, and I can't believe I only noticed it yesterday. Was it growing there unnoticed for weeks, months even? Or did it just appear recently? If I could afford to go to a doctor, maybe I'd be able to find out. As it is, I have to deal with this myself as best I can, and then hope the rest of the problem just goes away.

  I take one of the knives and touch the end with a finger. It's the sharpest knife I've ever felt. In any other situation, I'd be nervous of it. As things stand, though, I'm glad I've got it. A sharper knife should, in theory, make a cleaner cut, with less scarring, and should hurt less. I thought about getting drunk to do this, but I need to stay in control.

  I stare at the knife. I'm delaying things. Time to get started. I've already drawn a little black circle around the lump using a black marker. I put the tip of the knife against the circle, take a deep breath, prepare for the pain, then I push it in and slice. Except, the skin doesn't break. Fuck. This isn't going to be easy, is it? I put the tip back at the start, then I tilt it slightly and push until it bursts through the skin. There's not much pain, and just a single bead of blood which runs down the side of the breast and down the side of my belly onto my hip.

  I slice slowly along the line, and this time the skin parts as the knife passes. I complete the circle and realise with a little satisfaction that I've completed stage one. But it's stage two that's going to be the hardest, because I have no idea how deep this thing is or what's going to happen when I try to cut it out.

  Figuring that I might as well keep going and get this over with fast, I slip the tip of the knife into the cut and push it against the lump, and then I slice straight through. The pain is definitely there, but I've told myself to experience the pain as a positive thing, as something that shows I'm doing the job properly, so I keep going. I try to lift the limp out, but it's still firmly part of me. I slice around the other side, then under, and try to lift it again. It's still stuck. I pull the blade out and slide it in the other side, then I cut some more and try to pull. It still won't come. I turn the blade ninety degrees and make some more cuts, then I pull again. Still nothing, so I pull it as far as I can and then I run the blade under it. There's blood swamping out the top of the wound and running down my side. It tickles. I slice again, but still the lump won't come out, so I slice again. And again. And again. And finally it comes loose and I pull it from my body and throw it to the other end of the bath.

  There's more blood
than I expected, but still not enough to make me worry too much. I grab a load of toilet roll and start holding it against the hole to soak up as much of the blood as possible. I read about clotting online, and I reckon within a few minutes the flow should abate pretty much. So I just sit there and waiting, keeping my eyes fixed on the bloody little lump that's now next to the plughole by my feet. After a few minutes I pull the tissue away and although there's a little more blood, it definitely seems to be slowing. So far, everything's going according to plan.

  I lean forward and pick up the lump, taking a look at it, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. It just seems like a little rubbery lump, coloured bright red by the blood. Feeling a little morbid, I reach over and drop the lump into the toilet, pulling the handle to flush it away. Then, deciding I need to clean up as fast as possible, I stand up and start thinking about how best to cover up all the traces of what I've done before I can go through to my room and take a nap. A nap sounds good right now, and it's starting to rain outside. Why am I so tired all the time?

  Two

  The rain is so intense, I can barely breathe. When I open my mouth just slightly, rain starts to splash on the inner side of my lower lip. And all around me is the sound of rain falling on surfaces: on the roofs of buildings; on the tops of cars; on wet concrete; the sound of rain blown against windows. I've never known such rain, yet I must remain here outside her window, watching.

  It is gone midnight, and she is fast asleep. Her face is calm and peaceful, as if she is not dreaming at all, just resting. I have never seen anyone look so beautiful, and I find it hard to resist sliding her window open and entering her room, entering her bed, entering her embrace and becoming part of her.

  But I can't do any of that. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps not ever.

  I'm here to keep an eye on the horrific, hideous, hungry and dangerous red creature that sits carefully perched on top of her body while she sleeps. Its back is hunched over as it perches delicately, two dark red stab wounds for eyes, staring down at her face. She has no idea it is there yet, but she will learn soon enough if I do not find a way to stop it from slowly killing her, night after night.

  As I watch, the creature slowly opens its mouth, reaches in with a stringy red hand and pulls out a spit-covered black pebble that drips with slime. The creature then reaches down to Sophie's bare shoulder and with a razor-sharp fingertip, it makes a small cut in her skin. Finally it slips the black pebble through the cut and under her skin, after which the cut quickly heals.

  Then, it extends a long, thin, red straw from its face down to Sophie's body, and it slowly pushes the sharp tip of the straw into her flesh. It starts to drink.

  Sophie has no idea that this creature exists. But it is called a Tenderling, and it is slowly killing her. And as I watch, it slowly turns its head and looks at me. It should not be able to see me. It should not even know that I exist. But it does. And it looks at me with total confidence, because it knows that I am powerless to stop it.

  Three

  "Ghosts?"

  "Not ghosts," Shelley says. "A ghost. Singular. And a creepy, creepy fucker at that. Rob's friend was standing right here and he saw it at that window". She points, then looks at me. "Are you okay? You look exhausted".

  "I'm fine," I say, which is a bit of a lie. She's right. I'm exhausted. But I'm getting so used to being exhausted, I've learnt to deal with it. It's not that I'm not sleeping, it's more that it feels like I'm not sleeping properly.

  It's lunchtime. We're standing outside an abandoned house about five blocks from where I live. I've seen the house before, with its shuttered-up windows and overgrown lawn, but I never gave it a second thought until Shelley suddenly started trying to convince me that the place is haunted. Apparently a friend of her idiot boyfriend Rob thinks he saw 'something' at the window, and now Shelley wants to investigate. She's obviously been watching far too much Scooby-Doo, because it seems she's trying to get together her own Scooby Gang to stake the place out for a night. It's stupid, but at least it's a welcome distraction from other things I need to be thinking about...

  "There's no such things as ghosts," I say.

  "How do you know?" she asks.

  "Because if there were," I say, "someone who have proved it by now. You don't think it's odd that there are loads of people out there looking for ghosts, but no-one's ever been able to prove that they're real? There's a reason for that". I'm feeling slightly frustrated that someone as smart and (usually) sensible as Shelley has managed to get herself all worked up over something so stupid. "These people who claim to have seen ghosts - have you seen what they're like? They're always nutters".

  "I've seen a ghost," Shelley counters.

  "Exactly," I say. She frowns. "Sorry, but you know what I mean. You have to be pretty gullible to believe in stuff like that. It's just wishful thinking on the part of people who can't accept reality. You live. You die. End of". I turn to Shelley. "You really want to waste your life believing in ghosts?"

  "So you don't believe in any of it?" she asks. "Ghosts? The supernatural? Vampires, and of it?"

  I open my mouth to argue back, but then I realise I'm in a difficult position. After all, I'm pretty well acquainted with an actual, real-life vampire. Not that I can tell Shelley about him, but still, I'd feel a little hypocritical if I went off on a rant about ghosts not being real. "I believe there are things we don't understand," I say, a little weakly.

  "So you're in?" she asks.

  "In what?"

  "A night in a haunted house!" She stares at me expectantly.

  "How old are you?" I ask. "Twelve? I'm not breaking into an old house to sit around waiting for a door to creak".

  "Me and Rob are," Shelley says, excitedly. "Friday night. Come on, it'll be fun. It won't be the same without you".

  "We're not kids!" I say.

  "I know," she replies. "This is the kind of stuff we should have been doing when we were kids. We need to catch up. Relive our youth".

  I think about it for a moment. "I hope you and Rob have a good time," I say eventually. "And I'm looking forward to hearing all about it, okay?" I check my watch. "I have to go," I say. "My dad's calling tonight".

  "Alright, Daddy's Girl," she says. "You know, if it makes any difference, I could ditch Rob on Friday and just you and me could spend the night in this place? I've got a double sleeping bag".

  "No thanks," I say. "At least with Rob, you can just start fucking when you get bored".

  She stares at me for a moment. "Okay," she says. "At least Rob's not chicken".

  "Chicken?" If only I could tell her: so far this year, I've been nearly killed by a vampire-obsessed local journalist, attacked by a possessed pensioner, and dragged into the woods to confront the king of the werewolves. And those aren't even the least of my worries right now. So I really don't think 'chicken' is a term that suits me at all. "Whatever," I say. "I'll see you at the weekend, okay?"

  She nods. I turn to walk away, but I stop as Shelley just stands there, staring at the house. "Are you just going to stand here?" I ask.

  "I'm psyching out the house," she says.

  "What -" I start to say, but then I think better of it. "You know what, I don't want to know. Good luck, and make sure you don't waste away". And with that, I walk away. But I'm not going home. Not just yet. Sure, my dad really is calling. But not for a while. First, I have someone else to visit.

  "Patrick?" asks Vincent, looking at me with an expression of surprise on his face. "I have no idea. I haven't seen him today, I believe he's out somewhere". We're standing in Patrick's study in the underground house, and he's examining an old, leathery book filled with yellowing pages.

  "Are you sure he's not here?" I ask. I glance over at the stairs that lead up to the next floor. "Do you mind if I check his room?"

  "His room?" asks Patrick. "What room?"

  "Doesn't he have his own room?"

  Patrick shakes his head. "No," he says. "Not really. If Patrick wants to be alone, he jus
t leaves for a while. Days, sometimes. Weeks, even. He goes off, God knows where, and he comes back when he's ready. Not before".

  Damn. I really need to find Patrick, to ask him something. "Do you know where he goes?" I ask tentatively. "I'm sorry," he says. "I have no idea. He doesn't really talk about his day when he gets home". He stares at me. "Are you okay, Sophie?"

  "Yeah," I say. "Totally okay!"

  "Okay," he says. He nods at something on my shirt. I look down and see a small spot of blood has leaked from the wound on my breast and has left a red spot in the fabric. "That's nothing," I say. "I think it's paint or something like that". I'm a terrible liar, really bad, and I know Vincent doesn't believe me for a second.

  Vincent nods. He's clearly not convinced, but he's willing to let it go. "I'll tell Patrick you were here," he says cordially.

  "Thanks," I say. "I'm sure he'll rush straight over when he gets back".

  "Do you need him to rush over?"

  I think about it for a moment. "No," I say. "I guess not".

  "And it's not something I can help with?"

  I think about it for a moment. Can I talk to Vincent about something like this? It's tempting, but no. I can't. It needs to be Patrick. So I just smile weakly, shakes my head and leave.

  Four

  Once Sophie has left, I step into the room. I don't like deceiving her, but sometimes things have to be done a certain way, and personal feelings have to be put to one side.

  My father and I exchange a glance. He doesn't approve of how I'm handling this, but he has no alternatives. He knows that I am working to find a way to resolve the problem. But deep down, I think my father believes it would be acceptable to let Sophie die and wait for another girl to come along who can fulfil the prophecy. But that's not how it works. Sophie is the one. She is different to all the others. And she has to be protected until the time is right for her to be sacrificed.