Tim Lebbon - 30 Days of Night - Fear of the Dark

“How long have you known?” Lee asked.

“Yesterday, when she saved me. They all saved me.”

“But your mother’s dead and your father’s been taken?”

Marty nodded. Being reminded by someone else seemed to bring it home even harder, and his vision blurred.

“Don’t fucking cry! So they rescued you but couldn’t help your folks. That tell you something?”

“Wh-what?” Marty asked. He wiped angrily at his eyes. I won’t let him see me weak .

“They want you; no need for them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No… no, you might not. But there’s something…” Lee turned from him and Marty felt immediately dismissed. Being woken like that, snapped out of dreams which even now were fading behind the fog of wakefulness, was shocking enough. But the man whose arms had cradled him as he’d cried himself to sleep was gone, replaced by this person.

Marty eyed the crossbow.

“Lee, I don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. “But Rose has watched over me ever since she went missing. She’s helped me more than once.”

“Because you’re important,” Lee said. “Because they’re looking for you.”

“ Who are?”

“The vampires!” He spun around and Marty saw something strange in his eyes. It almost looked like tears. “The other vampires.”

“Not me,” Marty said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing special about me.”

“I have to email someone. Go and get yourself a drink. Stay away from all the windows and doors downstairs. They’re locked, but stay away anyway. Bring me a beer from the fridge.” He half smiled. “Get yourself one. I have to figure this out.”

“You’ve known Rose for a long time?”

“Five years,” Lee said softly. “Five years.” He turned back to his desk and took a seat, and Marty saw him fire up several email accounts. Eyeing the crossbow one last time, he turned and left the room, heading downstairs to the large kitchen.

The light outside was changing. Marty had always liked dusk: the light softened, tempering the sometimes harsh London atmosphere, and the bustle in the air was heading toward a time of rest, not chaos. Through the wide window above the deep kitchen sink, he could see Lee’s small garden. It was bare and functional; no plants or flowers, just some stone paving and a few benches. But even that looked almost romantic in the fading light.

Now he wasn’t sure he’d ever like dusk again.

What have I done? he thought. He tricked me. I should have been sharper, faster, but he woke me from a nightmare and knew what he was doing . Marty thought he should run. The doors might be locked, but he could soon heave a stool through that wide window, climb the wall across the yard, then once out in the street he’d run until…

Until what? The sun would be setting soon, and Rose knew exactly where to come and find him. If he escaped here and ran, where would he hide when darkness came? Who would protect him?

He opened the fridge and pulled out two beers, twisting the tops off and swigging from one. It was nasty, cheap stuff, all gas and blandness—his dad was a real ale fan and had already introduced Marty to its delights—but he felt the alcohol hit straightaway. There were a few instant meals in the fridge, lots more beer, and a couple of pints of milk that looked distinctly lumpy. Lee was not a man who looked after himself in any way that normal people would recognize. His was a more heightened defense: personal protection against monsters that most people thought only existed in fiction. Marty wasn’t quite sure what that made him. Insane? Perhaps. But certainly dangerous. He was obsessed, and now his obsession had been blown wide open with a staggering revelation.

Marty knew what he had to do. Lee had worked with these people for years, and he had to convince him that nothing had changed. Yes, all your friends in your little vampire-hunting team are actually vampires, but they’re good vampires, honest . He wasn’t sure how that would go. But all he could do was try. Failing that, he had to make the house safe for Rose’s arrival in…

He looked outside. The sun was already behind a neighboring rooftop, and shadows were flexing their shoulders and limbs in readiness to emerge. He had maybe an hour.

Finishing the foul beer, he took another one from the fridge and went back upstairs to talk with Lee.

He was no longer in the office. Marty stood by the door, mildly confused, because the crossbow was still propped against the desk and the computer was open on an email. But the room was deserted and there was nowhere for him to hide.

“Lee?” he called. No answer. Moisture dripped from the beer bottles onto his bare feet; he glanced down, and that’s how he saw the shadow shifting behind him. He cried out as something encircled him, panic rising instantly and blindly as he recalled the attack that had started all this, and he could think only of that bloodied scrap of hair and scalp hanging from the hall light—his mother’s hair. He didn’t want to end up like that, and it wasn’t only survival instinct; it was his love for his dead mother. She’d hate to think of him in danger, and her grief, should something terrible befall him—

He lifted his right foot and stamped it back against his attacker’s shin. He’d read about that in a Joe R. Lansdale book he’d read once—and never really understood how it could hurt so much—but the voice that screamed in his ear spoke of the pain.

“Little fucker!” Lee shouted, and he stopped playing soft. The grip around Marty increased, squeezing the wind from him.

Wait! he tried to shout, but it came out as a gasp. He thrashed his head back, his shoulder-length hair whipping around his face, but felt no impact. He’s a fucking spy! he thought, images of James Bond and Jason Bourne inspiring unwelcome scenarios.

“Just chill!” Lee said between his teeth, squeezing so much harder that Marty thought his ribs would cave in. The arms wrapped tightly across his chest and stomach crushed the breath from him, and his struggles lessened. “Stop… That’s it… I’m not going to hurt you.”

“When my sister finds out about this—”

“Oh, now, that’s very much the wrong thing to say.”

Marty caught a whiff of something before the cloth was pressed over his mouth. He tried not to breathe in but Lee prodded him in the kidneys, making Marty draw a harsh breath, and then everything was fading away. He felt himself lowered and saw Lee’s face above him, watching him fall, already bagging whatever he’d used.

As Marty fell unconscious, he dreamed of the darkness to come.

EVEN AS A HUMAIN, Rose still felt a twinge of something every time she entered Lee’s affluent street. She couldn’t call it envy anymore, because she was beyond caring where she lived. Maybe it was a sense of unfairness. Not for her but for her family—Marty in particular—though this time the unfairness was prompted by something far more terrible than postal code and property.

The street was quite busy this evening. It was Friday, and people were heading out for the evening, lights burning in the homes they left behind where babysitters sat children in front of TVs and started texting their friends. Most were dressed well, their evenings destined to consist of fine meals, nights at the theater, and the best wines and champagnes.

Rose and Francesco drifted along the street. Francesco held her hand and their ruse was complete: strolling lovers from some other part of town. Rose wore dark jeans and boots, a black silk blouse, a casual jacket. Francesco’s long coat covered the scruffier clothes he wore beneath, but he knew how to carry himself: not so upright and cocky that he attracted unwanted attention, and not so slouched or aggressive that he looked like trouble. Attention fixed on them and then drifted away again, and when they reached Lee’s house they were as anonymous as ever.