Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection by Anthony Barnhart
Authors: Anthony Barnhart
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Cincinnati. He thinks he should probably slow down, but he can’t seem to take his foot off the pedal, and he—
Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
34
Something flashes in front of him, rushing across the road.
He slams on the brakes. The car screams and fishtails. He grips the steering wheel and throws himself into his seat, teeth clenched together, face ashen as snow, knuckles white. The left wheels reach off the ground; not even a scream comes from him as the Prizm flips onto its hood. He feels himself jerked against his seatbelt as he hangs upside-down. His ears are filled with the sounds of shrieking metal. The windows blow out, glass flying into his face, tearing at his skin. Now he opens his mouth to scream, but he is cut off as the Prizm slams into the guardrail. The last thing he sees is a figment of his imagination: Kira reaching out to him, so close—” Please come home ,” she whispers, “ I’m scared .” And then… nothing.
II
Raindrops wake him. He opens his eyes and is immediately aware of the pulsating migraine shrieking behind his eyes. He reaches up with feeble hands and unlatches his seatbelt; he crumples onto the hood of the car, rolls over onto his side—splitting pain—and vomits. He opens his eyes, and the sunlight coming through the shattered windows crawls into the deep recesses of his brains and takes a painful stranglehold. He takes several deep breath, feels his entire face screaming in agony. He reaches up and feels his face, winces; glass is embedded in his skin, adorned with dried blood. Thank God none of them struck an artery. He grits his teeth and crawls backwards out of the flipped car. He tries to stand on the pavement, but he is too weak: he slides down against the car, sitting on the pavement, legs sprawled out, his back against the front tire. He stares forward at the 8-lane highway split down the middle with the grassy median and the forest-covered slopes rising on the opposite side of the highway. Park Hills. He knows the area. One of his friends used to live there before he moved to Las Vegas.
He sits there for what feels like an eternity, feeling off-and-on rain. He looks up and sees scattered clouds passing across the rising sun. Ribbons of light float down onto the highway and dance over the city of Cincinnati off to his right, down the highway. He turns his head—the movement makes his neck throb—and sees the sleeping city, unmoving and still: the skyscrapers, the sports stadiums, the hills ringed with college campuses and state parks. He swallows. The movement hurts. He needs water.
And bandages , he thinks, touching his face. God, it hurt.
He begins searching for another car. Any that he sees have crashed, the drivers dying at the wheels. And going at the tremendous speeds of the highway, none are now in operating condition. He curses under his breath as he pulls a corpse out of a minivan and tries the key. It doesn’t work. He shakes his head, sits in the seat, feels insurmountable rage flushing through him. Anger at the driver for crashing. A SOCCER MOM decal is plastered beside the wheel. He grabs it and rips it off. He gets out of the car and steps over the body, cursing it. He makes it halfway across to the other side of the street before he realizes what he has done. He turns and heads back. Gingerly, he picks up the corpse and puts it back inside. “Sorry,” he mutters, surprised at the care and tenderness in his own voice. He closes the door, pauses, opens it, reaches over the body, picks up the torn sticker, and does his best to put it back. “Sorry,” he says again as he shuts the door. The corpse doesn’t stare back: her eyes gaze lifelessly at the empty city. The empty world.
Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
35
He finds a car that works. An old and beaten Chevy pickup truck. He looks at the gas needle. Empty. Figures. Just enough to get back. He shuts the door and puts it in gear. A thought occurs to him, and he slams the
Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
34
Something flashes in front of him, rushing across the road.
He slams on the brakes. The car screams and fishtails. He grips the steering wheel and throws himself into his seat, teeth clenched together, face ashen as snow, knuckles white. The left wheels reach off the ground; not even a scream comes from him as the Prizm flips onto its hood. He feels himself jerked against his seatbelt as he hangs upside-down. His ears are filled with the sounds of shrieking metal. The windows blow out, glass flying into his face, tearing at his skin. Now he opens his mouth to scream, but he is cut off as the Prizm slams into the guardrail. The last thing he sees is a figment of his imagination: Kira reaching out to him, so close—” Please come home ,” she whispers, “ I’m scared .” And then… nothing.
II
Raindrops wake him. He opens his eyes and is immediately aware of the pulsating migraine shrieking behind his eyes. He reaches up with feeble hands and unlatches his seatbelt; he crumples onto the hood of the car, rolls over onto his side—splitting pain—and vomits. He opens his eyes, and the sunlight coming through the shattered windows crawls into the deep recesses of his brains and takes a painful stranglehold. He takes several deep breath, feels his entire face screaming in agony. He reaches up and feels his face, winces; glass is embedded in his skin, adorned with dried blood. Thank God none of them struck an artery. He grits his teeth and crawls backwards out of the flipped car. He tries to stand on the pavement, but he is too weak: he slides down against the car, sitting on the pavement, legs sprawled out, his back against the front tire. He stares forward at the 8-lane highway split down the middle with the grassy median and the forest-covered slopes rising on the opposite side of the highway. Park Hills. He knows the area. One of his friends used to live there before he moved to Las Vegas.
He sits there for what feels like an eternity, feeling off-and-on rain. He looks up and sees scattered clouds passing across the rising sun. Ribbons of light float down onto the highway and dance over the city of Cincinnati off to his right, down the highway. He turns his head—the movement makes his neck throb—and sees the sleeping city, unmoving and still: the skyscrapers, the sports stadiums, the hills ringed with college campuses and state parks. He swallows. The movement hurts. He needs water.
And bandages , he thinks, touching his face. God, it hurt.
He begins searching for another car. Any that he sees have crashed, the drivers dying at the wheels. And going at the tremendous speeds of the highway, none are now in operating condition. He curses under his breath as he pulls a corpse out of a minivan and tries the key. It doesn’t work. He shakes his head, sits in the seat, feels insurmountable rage flushing through him. Anger at the driver for crashing. A SOCCER MOM decal is plastered beside the wheel. He grabs it and rips it off. He gets out of the car and steps over the body, cursing it. He makes it halfway across to the other side of the street before he realizes what he has done. He turns and heads back. Gingerly, he picks up the corpse and puts it back inside. “Sorry,” he mutters, surprised at the care and tenderness in his own voice. He closes the door, pauses, opens it, reaches over the body, picks up the torn sticker, and does his best to put it back. “Sorry,” he says again as he shuts the door. The corpse doesn’t stare back: her eyes gaze lifelessly at the empty city. The empty world.
Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
35
He finds a car that works. An old and beaten Chevy pickup truck. He looks at the gas needle. Empty. Figures. Just enough to get back. He shuts the door and puts it in gear. A thought occurs to him, and he slams the
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