1

Ichor Black

Eliot Cowens had been shot. It had not been the first time, but he sure as hell hoped it

would be the last. No matter how many times he copped a bullet, Eliot would never be prepared

for the relentless wave of emotion that followed. To Eliot, getting shot was a lot like falling in

love. At first there was surprise, unabashed confusion, then there was a skin-splitting inescapable

pain. The pain worked its way down his body, infecting him and consuming his every thought.

Eventually, that screaming all-encompassing agony would fade to a whisper. Life would

continue and the world would move on. Just as homeostasis was restored, Eliot would breathe

the wrong way or stand up too quickly and the deafening wail would begin anew. Each pump of

his telltale heart would bring a torrent of red-hot emotion (or blood) bubbling to the surface.

Eliot often found himself wondering which was worse: a bullet to the knee or an arrow to

the heart. On a normal day Eliot was just as likely to say one as he was to say the other, but it

was not a normal day. Eliot Cowens had been shot and as he felt his blood pooling beneath him

on the passenger seat of his Dodge Charger, he had to admit that he would take Cupid’s arrow

over a Glock’s .45 any day of the week.

“Love is messy, but a bullet hole is messier,” Eliot croaked half delirious.

“What was that?” Vic asked from the driver’s side.

Surprised by the response Eliot turned his head to stare at Vic. Outside the car the sun

had just begun to dip under the rocky California wasteland. The few rays that penetrated the

Dodge’s tinted windows outlined Vic’s thin frame in a murky gold and made his bone white

knuckles glow on the steering wheel.

“What do you mean?” Eliot slurred.

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“You said something about love and bullets.” Vic’s eyes flicked to the dark stain on

Eliot’s white button down before returning to the empty highway in front of him.

“Huh,” Eliot grunted. He hadn’t realized he had said that out loud. “Just giving you some

life advise before I kick the can.”

Vic grimaced and his grip on the wheel grew even tighter. Each one of his knuckles

protruded violently from under the thin skin that covered them.

“You aren’t going to die man,” Vic said gently. “Stevens is bringing a doctor with him to

the exchange. While I give the big man the haul, the Doc will patch you right up. Okay?”

“Hate to tell you,” Eliot tried to start, but a bolt of pain shot through his abdomen, cutting

his sentence short as he let out an ear shattering scream. Vic winced and his grip tightened once

again, but he did not turn his head. After a few minutes the pain subsided, and the scream died

away. Head drenched in sweat, Eliot let himself sink further down in his seat, his back almost

parallel with the ground.

“I hate to tell you,” Eliot started again, his voice horse and raw, “but I am not making it

to San Fran.”

“That’s why I told Stevens to meet us half way. Some shitty town called Fairfield.”

Eliot felt like even holding out hope for some podunk town two hours away was pushing

their luck (and his blood supply), but he kept his mouth shut and stared at the brown landscape

that flashed by his window. Eliot had almost been lulled to sleep by the hypnotic repetition of the

world around him when Vic spoke again.

 3

“What fucking luck do we have, right? I mean of all the places to get shot? Fucking

California? I thought this place bled blue. Why the fuck is some fucking geezer carrying a pistol

in a fucking jewelry store? I mean fuck man!” Vic took his hand off the wheel and began to

smash his fist into the dashboard. Eliot could see the hard-plastic shake with each vicious blow.

After a flurry of hits Vic pulled up his hand and began to gingerly shake out the pain. Eliot

watched as a few drops of blood flew off Vic’s stained knuckles and splattered on the ceiling.

“Fuck it all man,” Vic said his voice hollow and dead.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Eliot asked.

“No but I fuck yours with it,” Vic responded his face still grim.

“So that’s where her urn went,” Eliot said not skipping a beat.

Vic’s composure broke and he let out a roar of laughter. The car’s engine was drowned

out by his spasming guffaws and Eliot could not help but smile to himself. He closed his eyes

just as a stream of tears began to pour down Vic’s cheeks.

Vic angled the car off the highway and watched the speedometer drop from eighty-five to

forty as he approached a tiny convenience store right off the main drag. He tried to gently pilot

the car into the parking lot, but his left tire clipped the curb and sent a shudder running down the

length of the machine. Eliot groaned weakly from the passenger’s side but did not say anything.

“You alright buddy?” Vic asked driving towards the back of the parking lot. Eliot did not

respond. Vic felt a cold hand reach down his throat and squeeze his heart.

“Come on Eliot,” Vic begged. “Say something man.”

 4

Eliot again remained silent. Vic whipped the car into the nearest parking space.

Clenching his fists, Vic turned to stare at his friend’s bloody husk. Eliot was slumped down in

his seat and his skin was sickly pale. Vic could not tell if his chest was rising under the stained

black suit-jacket. Tentatively, Vic unclenched his fist and placed his index and middle finger on

Eliot’s neck. Vic’s fingers shook against the clammy skin, but under his nervous vibrations he

could feel a faint rhythmic heartbeat.

“Oh, thank god.” Vic dropped his head onto the steering wheel and let out a labored sigh.

He took a minute to calm his racing heart, before he pushed himself up and stepped out into the

early twilight. Without any mountains obscuring the horizon, the setting sun still shone brightly

across the Californian sand. Scowling at the light, Vic turned and walked towards the front of the

convenience store.

As he passed through the store’s sliding glass doors, Vic noticed an outdated security

camera hanging in the back corner of the building. The thing looked like it was made before the

meteor killed dinosaurs, but Vic still ducked his head when it swiveled his way. There was little

chance anyone would recognize him from the robbery earlier that day, but there was always a

chance. Stevens had insisted that they wear suits and bandanas instead of the traditional jeans

and ski masks because as he put it, “You are not ordinary criminals Victor. You are a family, an

organization. You have class, you have dignity.”

“What a bunch of bullshit,” Vic thought as he grabbed a box of gauze and a roll of

medical tape off a metal shelf. Stevens was too showy for a mobster. He loved the game, the

ritual of crime too much. He put that above everything else and that was dangerous. It was going

to get someone killed if it had not already.

 5

Vic tried to push the thought of Eliot lying dead in the car out of his mind, but the image

was too strong. It crowded his thoughts and froze his heart. Vic sped up, ripping a roll of paper

towels from a shelf and half jogging to the check-out counter. The lady behind the register was

probably in her mid-fifties. Her graying hair was pulled back into a bun and her crooked nose

was buried in a Nora Roberts novel. She lowered the book just as Vic was about to say

something to get her attention.

“Will this be all?” The woman asked as Vic laid his supplies on the counter. Her voice

was sweet and had just a tinge of a Tennessee drawl. Vic grabbed two bottled waters from a

stand next to him and added them to his pile.

“That should be good,” Vic responded.

“Perfect.” The woman smiled and began to scan the items. “Hurt yourself, did you?” as

she swiped the gauze over the scanner’s red light. Vic held up his hand in response. The blood

had mostly dried, but the skin was still torn and dark.

“Oh my!” The woman cried nearly dropping the waters. “How on earth did you do that?”

“Hit a tree.” Vic shrugged.

“Why on earth would you do that?” The woman put all the items in a bag and held out

her hand for payment. Vic reached into his jacket and pulled out a twenty. He told the woman to

keep the change.

“I wanted to see if my karate classes had paid off.” The woman giggled like a mother and

slapped her hand on the counter.

 6

“Oh, you kidder,” She said beaming. “Well, whatever happened just make sure you are

looking presentable for your meeting.” Vic narrowed his eyes, but then remembered the black

suit he had on.

“I shouldn’t have any trouble, people are dying to buy.”

The woman smiled again and handed Vic his haul. They wished each other well and Vic

walked back outside. The sun had barely moved, but Vic could see the shadows beginning to

creep in. Night would be there soon. The Dodge was exactly where Vic had left it, parked

diagonally between two parking spaces. Vic jogged over to the passenger side and quietly

opened the door. Eliot did not move, but he did let out a small snore.

“Of course,” Vic said kneeling beside the car and spinning the top off one of the water

bottles. “I am out here trying to save your ass and you fall asleep. Just typical.”

Vic gingerly unbuttoned Eliot’s white shirt and pulled the sticky fabric away from the

other man’s abdomen. As ugly as the blood had been under the shirt, it was even worse in the

open. Eliot’s entire midsection was a covered in dried blood and at the center was a deep well of

red. Fighting back the desire to puke, Vic poured half the bottle of water over Eliot’s stomach.

Eliot shifted, but his eyes did not open. Vic grabbed the paper towels and began to wipe the

wound clean.

As he worked off the putrid red, Vic’s mind was drawn back to earlier that day. The

morning had started just as Stevens had promised in the briefing. The jewelry store was nearly

empty with only one cashier working the register, three costumers milling about and one pudgy

security guard lounging in the back. The guard had dropped his gun as soon as Vic and Eliot

pulled their pistols and the cashier unlocked the cases without a struggle. No alarm was
 7

triggered, no cops were called. They were just about to make their dashing escape when one of

the customers, a decrepit skeleton of a man, pulled a revolver and opened fire. He only got off

one shot before the gun’s kick back knocked him off his feet, but it had been enough.

“Fucking geezer,” Vic whispered to himself. The blood was almost all mopped up, now

came the hard part. Vic unboxed the gauze and unspooled five feet of bandages. He tore the

material off with his teeth and began to wrap it around Eliot’s wound. He pulled the gauze tight,

covering the wound and trapping the warm blood beneath six layers of padding. When he felt

satisfied with his work, Vic pulled out the medical tape and plastered his handiwork down. Vic

was by no means a doctor, but as he looked at his creation, he felt a tiny swell of pride.

“Paging Doctor Salvage,” Vic said to himself walking to the driver’s side. “You are a

fucking badass.”

When Eliot opened his eyes the waning sun had disappeared below the horizon and the

sky was a uniform inky black.

“Where are we?” Eliot asked, blinking rapidly to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his

eyes.

“Twenty miles outside of the drop point,” Vic responded. “We are almost there.”

Eliot could not see his partner through the darkness, but he thought he was smiling. They

had almost made it, all Eliot had to do was hold on.

Eliot pushed himself up in his seat so he could see over the dash. His abdomen felt tight,

but the pain was only a dull ache. Peering beneath his shirt Eliot saw the gauze that covered his
 8

midriff. Eliot smiled and patted Vic on the shoulder before turning his attention to the world

beyond the car’s metal frame.

Outside barren wastes had given way to the scraggly outskirts of American suburbia.

Lonely one-stories dotted the land on both sides of the pockmarked street and Eliot thought he

could see the skeletal outline of a jungle gym looming somewhere out in the darkness.

“None of the lights are on,” Eliot said suddenly, his voice light and confused. Vic’s eyes

narrowed and he cast a quick glance over to the houses on his left. Eliot was right, none of the

squat buildings glowed with the soft yellow light of home. Every porch lamp sat derelict and

dark, each window was a black maw that led to the unending fields of night.

“What time is it?” Vic asked his eyes returning to the road. After the absolute darkness of

the houses, the car’s white headlights seemed alien and strange on the asphalt in front of him.

“Only eight,” Eliot read off the car’s dash. Vic clicked his tongue a couple times and

drummed his fingers on the wheel.

“Maybe its national telescope day or some shit,” Vic said at last. “Or maybe this is just a

model neighborhood.”

Eliot nodded, but continued to stare out the window at the unflinching darkness. He could

feel something out there. He could feel the darkness staring back.

Five miles from the meeting place the car’s fuel gauge dropped into the red and Vic

yelled at his phone to find the nearest gas station. Eliot protested, arguing that they could get gas
 9

after the exchange, but Vic reminded him that if the cops caught on, they would be driving on

fumes.

“Better to spend five minutes paying for gas than spend thirty-five years in the hole,” Vic

said, flipping a U-turn in the middle of the deserted street.

As they drove towards their destination, the town populated around them. The

inconsistent houses multiplied, growing closer together with each passing mile. By the time they

reached the town proper, the buildings sat nearly on top of each other. With the added

infrastructure came light. Between every third house, a streetlamp grew from the earth, bathing

the surrounding sidewalk in a sickly orange light. At first, the streetlamps soothed Eliot and

driven away his fear, but that comfort had been short lived. The houses that lined the street in

neat rows were as dead as the one-stories Eliot had seen miles before. Their windows were

empty, soulless gaps that seemed to absorb the meager light that surrounded them.

“Where is everyone?” Eliot asked under his breath. Like the houses that made it, the town

was dead. Not a single car crawled through the darkness, no one stood under the orange circles

of light.

“I don’t know,” Vic said. His voice was calm, but his white knuckled grip on the wheel

betrayed him.

“I don’t like this,” Eliot said. “It feels like there is someone out there, waiting for us to

step out of the light.”

“I think the blood loss is getting to you.” Vic tried to grin, but the corners of his lips

refused to curve.
 10

Before Eliot could respond, Vic turned the car off the street and into a gas station parking

lot. As Vic piloted the car through the lot, his headlights shone brightly against a row of rusted

gas pumps that stood monolithically large in the middle of the deserted station. Each pump (all

three of them) had their own light dangling from the steel awning above them which illuminated

the parking lot with a harsh florescent glow. Unconsciously, Vic pulled the car up to the middle

pump, placing himself as far from the dark rim that circled the station as possible.

“Let’s hope this place doesn’t have cameras,” Vic said putting the car in park.

“I have a baseball cap in the back,” Eliot said gesturing weakly towards the mess of

shirts, receipts and DVD cases that covered the ground behind them.

“Smart,” Vic responded turning around to paw through the mess. As he searched, Eliot

rolled down his window and took in a breath of the outside air. The oxygen that Eliot sucked in

smelled of gasoline and burned rubber, but Eliot did not mind. Anything was better than the

metallic tang of dried blood he had been huffing for the last four hours.

“Found it!” Vic called triumphantly as he pulled a wide brimmed Dodgers hat from

underneath a copy of The Shining. Without complaint Vic pulled the blue cap down over his

well-manicured chestnut hair.

“Looking good Billy Ray,” Eliot quoted.

“Feeling good Luis.” Vic killed the engine and flipped off the headlights. Even under the

protective dome of brilliant florescence, without the headlights shining into the void in front of

them, the darkness seemed to crawl closer. Vic hesitated for a second as he stared out into the

unblinking black. He could feel it now, that someone Eliot had mentioned earlier. That figure

waiting on the edge of the night. There was someone there, someone watching. Vic clenched his
 11

teeth and dropped his hand to the gun handle that protruded from his waistband before he swung

open his door and stepped out into the unknown.

Vic had expected as soon as his feet touched the ground someone would reach from the

shadows under the Dodge and pull him into the sunless world beyond, but when his dress shoes

hit the hard earth, they remained planted and firm. Letting out a sigh, Vic pulled himself out of

the car and approached the pump. Besides the flaking rust that covered the outside aluminum

hull and the $3.55 per gallon, price tag the pump was a standard issue American gas dispensary.

For a moment Vic forgot the suffocating darkness as he slipped into the comforting familiarity of

mundanity. He took out his wallet, unsheathed his credit card (registered under a pseudonym of

course) and swiped through the machine’s card reader. Vic could feel a smile starting to form on

his lips when the machine’s screen flashed a message that made Vic’s blood run cold.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Vic said his hand cold and clammy around his credit.

“What’s wrong?” Eliot asked from the car.

“It says I have to go pay inside.” Vic turned to stare hopelessly at the small building at

the edge of the parking lot. The store was a rundown Circle K/ gas station hybrid with white

pealing plaster walls and a slab of cardboard replacing a missing window. The store was only a

few feet away from the pumps, but it was far enough away that light from the awning did not

penetrate its cloud of darkness. Like everything else in the town, the windows were hollow and

foreboding.

“You going in?” Eliot asked turning to stare at the cavernous maw of the store’s double

doors.
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“We need gas, don’t we?” Vic drew in a deep breath and took his first steps towards the

store.

Vic’s heart raced in his chest, the beating becoming faster and faster with each

subsequent step. Trying to remain calm, Vic forced himself to make each step slow and

deliberate. A lengthy rise, a gentle fall. A lengthy rise, a gentle fall. Vic repeated the pattern over

and over again, until he stood millimeters from the precipice. The light from the pumps drew a

stark line in front of him, separating him from the sea of black. Vic gazed into the pit for a

moment, before he clenched his fists and stepped out of the light.

Without the lamp’s firm guiding hand Vic could no longer keep his nerves at bay. He

reached the store’s door in four galloping strides, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

Without hesitation Vic grabbed the door’s handle and gave a herculean pull. The door rattled in

its frame but did not open.

“Oh fuck,” Vic whispered to himself as he tried the door’s other half. It too rattled but did

not open.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Vic hissed as he grabed both handles and pulled like a

rower who had just begun his set. Vic felt the deadbolts smash violently against the doorframe

and saw the cardboard windowpane wobble in place, but the doors refused to give.

“Damnit all!” Vic harshly kicked the door with the soul of his shoe.

“Just one minute,” came an airy voice from inside the store. Vic froze and stared as one

of the many shadows within pealed itself off the wall and worked its way towards the locked

door. As it grew closer Vic could begin to pick out features through the glass. The shadow was a

girl, about 5’6 dressed in a stripped dress. Her hair was drawn back into a messy bun with a few
 13

strands of wavy hair bouncing with every step. Despite the window obscuring the finer details

Vic could immediately tell that something was… off about the girl. Her steps were too ridged,

too mechanical. Her knees barely bent when she brought up her legs, making each movement

more a shuffle than an actual step. Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, not moving with the rest of

her body. Instinctually Vic’s right hand found the handle of pistol as the girl unlocked the doors.

“Good evening sir,” the girl said swinging the door open wide. Without the glass

clouding his vision Vic could see that the girl was no older than nineteen with a small red pimple

camouflaged amongst her freckles. A nametag on her dress read Paige.

“Uh, hi Paige,” Vic responded.

“How can I help you today?” Paige asked and smiled, or at least she tried to. Paige’s

smile was too wide, and it stretched her skin too taught. Vic thought that even under the freckled

cheeks he could still see the jagged outline of Paige’s skull.

“I just want some gas on the middle pump please.”

“Of course, sir,” Paige’s smile widened revealing the fleshy pink gum at the back of her

mouth. “How will you be paying tonight? American dollars, credit card or debit card?”

“Cash,” Vic said before she had finished the sentence, but Paige continued unabated.

When she finished her question, she stared expectantly up into Vic’s eyes. In the shadow of the

door Paige’s eyes seemed as lifeless as the windows in the town.

“Cash,” Vic repeated.

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“Very good. How much would you like?” Vic pulled his wallet out of his pocket and

flipped through the bills. There was nothing smaller than a fifty, so he pulled out a crisp one-

hundred.

“As much as this will get me.” Paige stared at the one-hundred before pulling her head

back and letting out a sound somewhere between a bark and the crunch of breaking glass. When

her “laughing” had finally subsided Paige turned her eyes back to Vic.

“That is far too much sir. Will you come into the store with me so that I may properly

compensate you?” Vic cast his eyes past Paige’s auburn bun and into the depths of the store. The

light from the far away pumps sent long shadows spilling across the ceiling in sharp, lopsided

patterns. In the far corner of the room Vic was certain he could see the silhouette of a man

standing inhumanly still. To Vic it looked like the man was not even breathing. Vic’s grip on his

pistole tightened.

“No, I think I am alright,” Vic said firmly his gaze returning to Paige. The girl’s smile

seemed to falter, but it may have just been the light.

“But this will afford too much gasoline for your vehicle.”

“Then you can keep the change.” Vic tried to smile but he knew it was as drawn as

Paige’s. The girl’s hand moved up in a jerky movement and grabbed the one-hundred from Vic’s

slimy fingers.

“That is very kind of your sir. Will you require a receipt tonight?”

“No thank you,” Vic said taking a half step backwards towards the car.
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“Very well,” Paige said turning into the darkness of the store. “I hope you have a

wonderful evening.”

“You too,” Vic said taking another step back towards the car. Once Paige had

disappeared into the depth of the store, Vic turned and sprinted back to the pumps. After the long

glimpse into the dark, the light from above seemed almost blinding.

“In a hurry?” Eliot asked as Vic threw open the Dodge’s fuel tank and slammed the pump

into place.

“Like a quarterback at a kegger.” Vic jabbed the lowest gas selection and squeezed the

pump’s metal handle. Within seconds Vic could feel the pump vibrate in his sweaty palm as the

gas flowed down into the car’s steel stomach. When finally the pump lost its pressure, Vic

slammed it back into position and threw himself into the driver’s seat.

“Let’s get our money and get the hell out of here,” Vic hooted starting the engine and

flipping on the headlights.

“Had enough of this place?”

“More than you can imagine.” Vic threw the car into gear and roared out of the parking

lot. In spite of himself, Vic looked back through the rearview mirror just as the tires touched the

street’s rocky asphalt. Drowning in the darkness, Vic could just make out Paige’s small form

standing in the store’s open-doorway, watching as the car charged out into the night.

Stevens was a man of class and dignity even in undignified situations. That was why

when Vic called to change the meeting place to some backwater Californian suburb, he had
 16

chosen to meet outside of said backwater’s condemned church. It was symbolic. An allegory for

the work he did in San Francisco, a metaphor for the fallibility of man. This depth was lost on

Eliot and Vic.

“Isn’t it a little sacrilegious to do this in a church?” Eliot asked.

“I guess that’s why we are doing it in the parking lot,” Vic responded.

“Oh, blessed is the soul of man, and damned is the motor of the machine.”

“Amen.”

The two had been waiting in the church’s overgrown parking lot for the last fifteen

minutes and their resolve was wearing thin. Even with the car’s brights eliminating the broadside

of the church’s dilapidated exterior, they could still feel the tendrils of night swirling around

them, waiting for the light to fade so they could strike. Just as Vic prepared to cut their losses

and drive to the nearest hospital, a cherry red Mercedes pulled into the parking lot beside them.

“Fina-fucking-ly,” Vic said pumping the air with his fist.

“Looks like they forgot their lights,” Eliot said squinting his eyes.

“That’s why Stevens usually has a chauffeur. Old man drives like he’s legally blind.”

The Mercedes’ front doors opened in unison as Vic tore off the Dodgers cap and fussed

with his hair.

“Sit tight Eliot, we are in the clear.” Vic pushed open his door and calmly stepped out

into the night. Eliot watched as Vic pushed his shoulders back and walked through the Dodge’s

headlights to Stevens. Stevens was an old man, about seventy-five if Eliot had to guess, but he
 17

carried himself with the confidence of a man a third his age. His plum tuxedo looked immaculate

next to Vic’s rumpled black two-piece suit.

Eliot could not hear anything over the Dodge’s idling engine, but he saw Eliot gesture his

way and Stevens nod in response. A middle-aged man appeared from behind the other car and

jogged quickly over to the Dodge. Eliot could tell from the man’s jerky steps that he did not run

frequently. When at last the man reached the car’s passenger side, a thin line of sweat dotted his

brow. Through the car’s window the sweat looked like black splotches of ink, but the man

whipped them away with the back of his palm before pulling open the car’s door.

“Eliot Cowens?” The man asked formally.

“That’s me,” Eliot responded.

“I am Doctor Sienkiewicz, I was informed that you have been shot.”

“Yes sir.”

“May I examine the wound?”

Eliot nodded and unbuttoned his shirt. The dried blood made the cotton sticky and stiff,

but the shirt opened without much complaint. Doctor Sienkiewicz kneeled down next to Eliot

and pealed off the gauze.

“Do you want me to turn on the car light?” Eliot asked.

“No, I can see perfectly,” Doctor Sienkiewicz responded as he laid his cold bare hands on

Eliot’s stained chest. “Tell me Mr. Cowens are you a religious man?”

“No, but if you are asking it sounds like I should be.” Eliot shivered as Doctor

Sienkiewicz’s hands slid across his exposed abdomen. “Am I going to die Doc?”
 18

“Quiet the opposite actually,” Doctor Sienkiewicz said without looking up.

“What does that mean?” Eliot’s eyes stared down at the older man’s hands. Between the

wrinkles he could see a dark smear on the back of the doctor’s palm.

“It means that you will live eternal in the endless fields of night.” Doctor Sienkiewicz

plunged his index finger into Eliot’s wound. The pain was like nothing had ever felt before. The

finger pealed apart his skin like a knife, but it was so cold it seemed to freeze Eliot’s blood in his

veins. Eliot let out a tortured scream that was swallowed by the darkness around them. Eliot

thought he heard Vic shout something in the distance, but he could not be sure.

Just as Eliot thought he could take no more, Doctor Sienkiewicz shoved his finger deeper

into the bullet hole. The pain redoubled and Eliot let out an even louder shriek. Eliot tried to pull

his pistol from his waistband, but the doctor’s free hand caught his wrist in an icy grip.

“You will be one with the many, you will roam the everlasting hinterlands of the dark,

the night will flow through your heart and you will-” a sound like a cannon went off and Doctor

Sienkiewicz crumpled to the floor. As he fell back, gravity ripped his finger from Eliot’s wound

and drew an icy line down his thigh. Blinking tears from his eyes, Eliot turned to see Vic

standing above Doctor Sienkiewicz’s motionless body, his gun hanging loosely at his side.

“Watch him,” Vic said shortly as he reached his hand over his shoulder and began to tug

at something Eliot could not see.

“W-what do you mean?” Eliot sputtered. The pain was making it hard to focus.

“Him! Watch him!” Vic gestured at Doctor Sienkiewicz with his gun. Confused, Eliot

stared at the doctor’s crumpled body. Just as Eliot was about to turn his eyes away from the dead
 19

man’s stationary form, Doctor Sienkiewicz began to writhe. His arms shook back and forth, and

his head lulled in frantic circles. Before Eliot’s eyes Doctor Sienkiewicz’ skin began to wither,

pealing back from the bone in strips of blackened flesh. After they fell from the body, the

charred sinews melted into an inky puddle of sludge. Within seconds, Doctor Sienkiewicz’ skin

had entirely pealed away leaving only a glistening white skeleton floating in a gurgling river of

black.

“What the hell?” Eliot felt like he was going to be sick.

“I don’t know, but the same thing happened to Stevens.” Vic grunted as he pulled a small

carving knife out of the back of his shoulder. Even in the dim light Eliot recognized the knife

Stevens’ wife had given him for their fiftieth anniversary.

“You shot Stevens?” Eliot asked. His voice shook, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the

pain or the fear.

“He stabbed me.” Vic dropped the knife next to Doctor Sienkiewicz’ grinning skull.

“Well… what do we do now?”

“You join us,” an airy voice came from somewhere behind them. Vic whipped around

pulling his gun up, ready to fire. In the darkness he could just make out the outline of Paige’s

frizzy curls.

“Please I must insist you put that down,” a deeper voice came from somewhere to their

left. Eliot pulled out his pistol and aimed it through the car’s driver side window.

“Can you see anyone?” Vic asked his eyes still locked on the darkness in front of him.

“No, I am aiming blind.”

 20

“You are all blind,” bellowed another voice from over towards the Mercedes. “You walk

in the light but cannot understand the darkness.”

“You are weak,” the first voice said, closer now.

“You are blind,” the second voice again.

“But the night will flow through your heart and you will be one,” a chorus of voice rang

out from all directions. “You will see.”

The Dodge’s engine caught, and the headlights blinked out. The world went black.