Shatter the Darkness

With my desire for revenge against Elliot stifled at every turn, my presence here feels more useless every day. Add to that the fact that most communications have gone low-tech, making my hacking skills about as useful as roller skates at a nursing home.

Grumbling, I stash the satchel under my bed and lie back down. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind races away from this place, a common occurrence, lately.

As is most often the case, my thoughts drift to a small neighborhood north of here. There, I find a two bedroom/one bathroom house with a small porch and green siding. Across the street, a one-story rambler sits quiet and empty. A boy with red, fireman boots used to live there years ago. I don’t know why I revisit these places so often. There’s nothing left there for me, just old things and fraying memories. Yet, so much more than what I find here every day.

I long to go back.

Chapter 8

I stand in the middle of the street, eyes shut. The silence is overwhelming, unnatural, so unlike all the memories I have of this place. Evenings like this one used to be noisy with kids chasing balls or riding their bikes, neighbors playing their stereos too loudly, and noisy mufflers announcing the passage of the tough kids from down the street.

Now, there’s just the wind rustling the trees and crickets chirping louder than they ever have, two sounds that will never make me think of home.

Turning right, I face my house and open my eyes. At the sight of it, a hook embeds itself in my heart and tugs so fiercely that my knees tremble. Xave’s house is at my back, and I fear that laying eyes on it might hit me with an emotional blow that will knock me to the ground. I don’t look. Not yet, at least.

There are bad memories in my old house too. Last time I was here, Luke was inside, waiting for me. I had come home, reeling from Xave’s death, still believing I could count on my family. Instead, dear Luke tore my already-broken world into smaller pieces, stealing my mother in the worst imaginable way. An Eklyptor. They turned her into an Eklyptor. Bastards!

And even though some time later DNA evidence proved that Luke and Karen were nothing to me, that day, I lost my family and was left utterly alone and confused.

I lace my fingers behind my neck and squeeze my head between my arms, wishing I could evict those ugly memories and leave only the good ones. Karen brought me home from the hospital, thinking I was hers. She used to smile and feel proud of me. I was safe under this roof. I was happy, at least until Dad died when I was five.

Dad.

He’s a big reason I risked coming here. Traveling alone through the streets of Seattle is risky even for a Symbiot who can pass as an Eklyptor. Running into a member of a different faction—Hailstone in my case—would be a death sentence. They blame Whitehouse for the death of their leader, Zara Hailstone. I wonder what they would do if they knew it was an Igniter who shot her point blank.

I take one slow step at a time until I reach the white-painted door I remember so well. I’m aware of just how heavy it will feel when I push it open and how much force I’d need to slam it shut. God knows I did that enough.

I think of the narrow table in the foyer and the shoebox I placed on top of it. I wasn’t strong enough to open it then. But today, I’m ready to see the things Xave left at The Tank, things Oso gathered for me because the kind man thought I’d like to have them. I swallow and fight back the tears brought on by their memories.

My hand shakes as it moves toward the door knob. The key is in my pocket, but I’m certain Luke and Karen didn’t bother to lock last time they were here. A sinkhole could devour my home, and they wouldn’t bat an eye.

The metal is cold in my hand as the knob gives without opposition, just as I thought it would. Slowly and reluctantly, I turn it all the way, fearing what I may find inside. Human squatters? Eklyptor beasts? A ransacked mess? My heart picks up its pace.

As the door swings open one inch at a time, my right hand moves automatically to the gun at my hip. I hold my breath. Trapped air burns my lungs and throat as I wait. A gloomy interior reveals itself in stages. The house seems totally empty. I step inside. A musty smell greets me, making me feel I’ve walked into a foreign place, not the only home I’ve ever known.

My first instinct is to close the door behind me, but I don’t. An old habit makes me flip the switch on the wall, and when the lights don’t come on, I’m not surprised. Eklyptors control the power plants, and make sure only the necessary ones run. Only enough electricity is generated and delivered to downtown Seattle and its southern suburbs, where the bulk of Eklyptor factions are concentrated.

Without removing my eyes from the dark depths of the house, I switch my backpack to the front, take out a flashlight and click it on. As the empty hall reveals itself, I exhale in relief. My heart quiets a bit, enough to let the thought of that shoebox jump to the forefront. I swing the beam of light to the foyer table to find nothing but a decorative set of candles and a thick layer of dust.

A stab of sharp pain goes through the middle of my chest.

Where is it? Where is Xave’s box?!

I shake my head, trying to recall. Did I put it somewhere else? Maybe it’s in the kitchen or my bedroom. I wasn’t thinking straight that day. Yeah, that must be it. I’m not remembering correctly.

I take two more steps forward and shine my light into the living room to my left. The sofas and bookshelves cast elongated shadows on the floor and the wall. Everything looks undisturbed, just the way it did the last time I was here. I press forward, but not without casting a quick glance over my shoulder. Past the front door, the evening melts into a deeper darkness.

On the right, the master bedroom door is closed. I have no desired to open it—none whatsoever, but I have to check every room if I want to keep my heart from hammering its way out of my chest. I push the door open and peer inside. After a quick inspection, I walk in and check the closet. For added peace of mind, I even check under the bed. Only dust.

Of its own accord, my hand points the flashlight to the night table. I inch closer toward the circular beam of light that spotlights a picture frame. I pick up the photo. My index finger caresses the side of the metal frame as my eyes drink the familiar image: a snapshot of Karen, Dad and me at the beach.

“Dad,” I say in a shaky murmur. There’s a broad smile on his face and his brown eyes sparkle as if he holds the secret to happiness. I stand in the middle, wearing a pink bathing suit, my smile so much like his. Karen looks happy, too, but out of place—more than ever before. Her wind-blown, light hair and blue eyes don’t belong. She never felt like my mother because she wasn’t. I wonder if she knew. I’m sure she felt it, but did she know?

Overtaken by a desire to set things right, I set the flashlight on the night table, hastily take the picture out of the frame, and rip Karen out. A tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off on my shoulder and try not to think about what Dad would say. Karen was the woman he loved and chose to marry. How can I blame her for being so much less without Dad? His loss was a blow that would have ruined better women. She was supposed to grow old beside him. Without his love, she grew bitter instead.

I let the torn piece flutter to the floor and slide the other into my jacket pocket. Having a picture of Dad gives me a strange sense of calm, like I could pull it out at any time and say: “See, that’s my Dad,” and people would reply “Oh, gosh, you look just like him.” It feels like insurance to my dogged resolve to call Brian Scott Guerrero my father, even when my origin has become a big question mark and I sometimes doubt I’m his daughter.

With a jerk, I press a hand to my breast pocket and affirm, “You are my father.”

Being no DNA match to a mother who never loved me and a brother who was nothing but fake doesn’t mean I’m no match to Dad. This whole situation is so convoluted anything is possible. Besides, if I was capable of seeing Karen and Luke as family when they gave me little reason to love them, I can definitely claim Dad. He at least cared for me the way only a real father can.

Hand pressed to my chest, I leave Karen’s room and shut the door behind me. If I ever get to live here again, I will gut this bedroom and leave no trace of her behind.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I move further down the hall. Next, on the left, is the kitchen. The flashlight shakes in my hand, casting a trembling light onto a fallen chair. Images of my fight with Luke and Karen flash before my eyes.

We want to help you, take away the pain. Give us a chance.

My teeth grind. What do they want with me? What is this “grand plan” Hailstone has? And how does it involve me? The questions whirl inside my head, even though I don’t want to know the answers.

The sweet smell of decay registers faintly. Dirty dishes in the sink? Spoiled food inside the fridge? Dead mouse? I don’t really want to know. Methodically and without stepping into the kitchen, I shine my light onto the table, the counters, the floor, looking for the shoebox. Not here either.

At the end of the hall is my bedroom. Directly overhead is a small attic with a pull-down ladder and a padlock to keep it off limits. I look at the dangling cord, wondering what might be left up there, maybe things that used to belong to Dad and Karen didn’t get rid of. I put the attic in the back of mind for now and, instead, step toward my bedroom door.

The jamb is splintered. Luke chased me in here and kicked in the door as I escaped through the window. I barely made it out with my laptop, a few hundred dollars in cash, and Dad’s copy of a Neruda book of poems. I blink the frantic memory away and sweep my bedroom with a quick arch of the flashlight. It’s empty. The hammering of my heart slows to a subdued drumming I can live with.

Again, I search for Xave’s shoebox, on the desk, the bed, the floor. It isn’t here.

Damn!

Luke must have taken it. It’s the only explanation. He probably threw it away out of spite. My spirit withers. I don’t even know what was in the box, surely nothing important, but they were Xave’s things.

For a long moment, I sit at the edge of my bed, moving my light from one spot to another, regarding, in wonder, all the things that once seemed so important to me. A pair of scuffed Harley boots. A top of the line gamer keyboard. Several pairs of protective motorcycle gauntlets. Xave was with me when I bought half those things.

I press a fist to my mouth until the pain distracts me from it all. I can’t think of the past. Not if I want to be able to put one foot in front of the other every day—even if my only reason for doing so is vengeance. Maybe it’s a good thing the shoebox is gone. I’m not strong enough to think of all those I’ve lost without disintegrating to pieces.

Shaking myself, I stand. I’m not here to dwell in the past. I’m here for a very different reason. I came to search the attic, to find something, anything, that might have Dad’s DNA on it. It’s a long shot after all these years, but I need this answer.

I go back into the hall and stand under the trap door. After setting my open backpack on the floor, I take out my gun, aim carefully, and shoot the lock. It comes apart with a metallic ding and thuds to the floor.

Good aim, Marci. I’ve gotten better. Target practice with Lyra has helped.

After holstering my gun, I jump, snatch the dangling string and pull it down. The trap door opens with a squeal as the springs stretch. I tug on the ladder, let it unfold to the floor, then take the steps two at a time. I stop halfway in and shine the flashlight into the small space. It reveals nothing but inch-thick layers of dust and cobwebs.

My heart sinks until I spot a lonely cardboard box in a dark corner. Hope surging, I climb the rest of the way and step lightly in its direction. The plywood groans under my weight, but it holds.

I shine my light on the box. I crouch and wipe a hand over the dusty top to expose the handwritten label. A million dust motes fly into the air, in and out of the light beam. I squint and pull the edge of my collar up to my nose. As the dust settles, block words etched in Sharpie take form: BRIAN’S THINGS.

My throat tightens, and it isn’t only from the dust that has worked itself in there. “Brian’s Things”? This is what Dad’s life is reduced to? What Karen deemed appropriate for the few belongings he left behind? God, I hate her more than ever. I should have had this box. She should have given it to me.

I take a knee, thinking of Xave’s shoebox and how it parallels to this. The two men I’ve loved the most are gone, and all I have left of them are two cardboard boxes.

With a fingernail, I work at the corner of the tape that keeps the flaps together. It comes off easily, its adhesive quality obliterated by years of heat and cold exposure in this space. After a deep inhale, I open it and shine my light inside. At first glance, the plainness of the contents is underwhelming. Dust has seeped inside and covers what seems to be a stack of manila folders. They look like medical records and probably are. Dad always brought work home. He cared that much about his patients.

I dig past them and discover a few other things underneath. My spirits lift. I take the files out and set them aside. A smile stretches over my lips as I do a quick reconnaissance. This is more like it.

I’m itching to take it all out and inspect it right there and then, but I stop myself. I want to savor this. I want to take my time and look at everything under better lighting.

The feeling that I’ve regained something—I’m not sure what—swells in my heart. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help it. All I have from Dad is that book of poems, when I’ve always wished for so much more, something to connect me to him. And, now, this might be it.

Quickly, I stuff the medical folders back into the box and, with some difficulty, take it down the rickety ladder. I set it down next to my backpack, fold the ladder into place and push the trap close. The spring whines again. The door clanks shut.

I’m about to pick up my stuff when the sound of steps freezes me on the spot. My heart takes a leap and a surge of adrenaline bursts through my system like jets of fire.

Without thinking, I drop the flashlight and let my hand fly to my hip. My gun goes up as I turn to face the danger.

Chapter 9

I’ve only turned halfway when someone kicks my arm so hard that my hand opens on reflex. The gun crashes against the wall and clatters to the floor, right on the path of the fallen flashlight. The loss of my weapon sends my already surging adrenaline to new levels, spurring my survival instincts to the max. If my powers were reliable, I would order my attacker’s brains into next week, but for the moment, I have nothing but my own fists to defend myself.

I jump back, doubling the distance between us, giving me a fighting chance.

The flashlight illuminates the gun and casts a faint light on a pair of man boots. I squint, trying to see a face, but all I see is a dark silhouette.

“Hello, Marci.”

Recognition thrills through my body in a sickening wave.

“Luke!” My voice is a hateful growl.

“I knew you would find your way here sooner or later,” he says in a conversational tone that could make someone think we’re friends. Except we are not. What little used to be between us, whatever that was, never even came close to friendship.

My eyes dart around, looking for his Hailstone cronies. He seems to be alone, though I highly doubt it. They’ve probably surrounded the house by now.

Careless. So careless and stupid.

He must have left a trigger behind, something to let him know the second someone crossed the front door. I should have guessed that, but I clearly underestimated how badly he wants me.

Now, how the hell do I get out of this one?

I look to my backpack, which is closer than the gun. I try to remember what I packed. Could any of it help me escape? Extra bullets, a few of the surveillance gadgets Lyra gave me, and some food. That’s it. Shit! Why didn’t I pack a grenade? That would have been useful. Now my only hope is to club him to death with a protein bar, then snatch the gun and run out of here, bullets blazing.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Screw you, Luke!” If words could kill, mine carry the weight of an Avada Kedavra.

I wish him dead and reach for his heart with my powers. I wait for my vision to tunnel, for that clarity and awareness to flood. Nothing. I quest for the gun next, imagine it flying into my hand, but it’s the same. Nothing happens. I feel empty, as powerless as an infant. There isn’t the slightest surge of energy within me. I’m useless.

He chuckles sadly. “I know I’m not your favorite person, but it can’t be that bad. Can it? I’ve never harmed you, Marci”

“Your faction killed Xave. Trust me, it is much worse than you think.”

“Him?” he scoffs with dry amusement. “That was an accident. He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and with the wrong crowd. Besides … you must know, he wasn’t good enough for you.”

“Shut up! You’re the one who’s not good enough, even to speak his name.”

Fuck this! I don’t have to sit here and make small talk just because I’m a good-for-nothing Symbiot whose powers won’t kick into heart-crushing mode. I have my own hands to do the job.

I crouch low, a smile suddenly stretching my lips as I realize something. He doesn’t want me dead. If he did, I’d already be lying on the floor with a bullet hole between my eyes. I guess that means he needs me.

For my part, I have no intention of falling into his web, plus I do want him dead. And, I’m not afraid of him. He might be big and muscular, but he has no sparring training, at least not at my level. I can take him.

Without warning, I sprint at his dark shape, accidentally kicking the flashlight. Shadows revolve in the narrow hall as it spins.

Dark. Gloom. Dark.

It’s like fighting my agent. My thoughts begin to jump as I close in, slamming my shoulder into Luke’s stomach.

He staggers back, hands flying to his middle, bending forward, gasping to catch the air I just forced from his lungs.

The spinning flashlight and shadows slow down.

Dark … Gloom … Dark.

It stops and goes out.

Pitch black.

Quickly planting my feet on the floor, I throw a front kick to his head. He surprises me by lifting an arm and blocking it—quicker than I thought he could move.

Damn! Where’s the gun? Eyes flickering downward, I search for it. Luke finds it first and, again, moves faster that I expect him to. He kicks the heel of his boot backward, sends the weapon spinning into the darkness.

In the split second it takes me to consider what to do next, Luke’s huge, dark figure lunges forward and tackles me. I stagger backward, trying to keep my balance, but he’s too heavy.

My legs give. We fall to the floor, knocking my backpack on its side. My neck snaps. My head hits hard tile. Pain. Specters awaken in my mind, ready to take advantage of this awful moment.

Agony crawls up my spine. I desperately shake my head. I can’t fight the agent and Luke at the same time. I can’t. The fear sends my mind into overdrive, and I imagine Luke’s Eklyptors outside the house, swarming like fluid shadows, swaying and shifting, creating shapes more monstrous than Azrael can.

They’re swallowing the house whole, their inky essence climbing up the siding, covering the windows until there’s no light left in the world.

God, no!

I need a light.

A flame.

Anything to shatter this awful darkness.

Luke tries to pin me down.

I jam a knee against his crotch. He rolls off to the side, groaning. I wriggle out of his grasp, scramble to my feet, and desperately reach for the flashlight.

Luke clasps my ankle, and I go down. Both hands out, I brace my fall. The side of my face hits something. I panic for an instant until I realize it’s my backpack.

Terror still scratching its way up my throat, I jerk my leg to yank it free, but Luke’s grip is strong. I try again, this time twisting my body and, at the same time, kicking at his knuckles with my free leg. He lets go.

“Would you stop?” Luke says between his teeth.

With a furious growl in the back of my throat, I jump to my feet again, the backpack in my clutches. Making a big show, I dig inside of it, causing the impermeable fabric rustle.

“Stay where you are or I’ll shoot you,” I say, my voice firm in spite of the lie. I squeeze the handheld surveillance receiver in my hand and point it at him. It’s too dark in here for him to realize I couldn’t kill a roach with this thing.

“Call your men off or I swear you won’t make it out of here alive.” I take a few steps back, feeling for the real gun with my feet, but it’s hopeless.

“My men?” Luke moves. I squint at his dark silhouette. He just sat up, I think.

“Don’t move,” I yell.

“I won’t. I’ll just sit here. I promise. I’m just … ow … seeing if my balls are broken.”

“I sure hope so.” My breaths pump in and out.

Calm down, Marci. Calm down. Think!

My fear subsides a notch, but I’m drunk on adrenaline. My body tingles. My fingers twitch, and I’m sure that if I really had a gun, Luke would be dead by now.

“Don’t be so mean. I’ll need them one day.” Luke moans.

I ignore his revolting comment. “You’re gonna tell your men to leave unless you want me to kill you,” I repeat. “I’d have no problem facing them, knowing you’re nice and dead.”

He sighs. “I’m alone, Marci. There’s no one else here.”

What? Is he serious? There’s no one out there to stop me from racing away on my bike. Why would he come alone?

“I don’t believe you,” I say. “You’re a coward. You wouldn’t come here on your own.”

“A coward? That’s what you think of me?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Another sigh. “No point in arguing your misconceptions. But I did come alone. You can go check if you want. I’ll wait right here.”

Something in the tired and resigned tone of his voice lets me know he’s telling the truth. I relax a little more, but don’t let down my defenses by any means.

“All right, don’t move. I’m going to pick up the flashlight.” I take a sideways step and snatch it off the floor. I’m afraid it’s broken, but it’s only switched off. I flick the button and light pierces through the darkness, creating looming shadows too similar to my own specters for comfort. Better than the alternative, tough.

I shine the light on Luke. He turns his face away and places a hand in front of his eyes. “Do you mind?”

Taking advantage of the deer-and-the-headlights effect, I shine the light to the floor and quickly look for the gun. Nothing.

Where the hell did it go?

I bring the light back to Luke’s face, just out of meanness.

“Seriously? Don’t be childish?” He places his hand over his eyes, blocking them completely. In this light, his features look strange, too sharp and savage.

I ignore his comment and take several backward steps to the still-opened, front door. The evening outside has fallen into full night. I lean backward, stick my head out and look right, then left. No one is out on the porch, so I move outside to take a better look. The street is empty, and the only difference since I came in is the large car parked behind my bike.