Dwellers of the Night: The City of Seven Hills

By Anthony Barnhart

The disease came suddenly and without warning. This first installment of the "Dwellers of the Night" trilogy begins with the disease’s outbreak. This is a story about tragedy, despair, and hopelessness in a world thrown askew. Covering the first six months of the disease’s rampage, this book explores the nature of “the dark-walkers” and The Man's struggle to preserve both his soul and his skin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312684652

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Dwellers of the Night: The City of Seven Hills

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Barnhart

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-312-68465-2

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Title Page

Dwellers

of the

night

Book One

The City of Seven Hills

being book one of a

post-apocalyptic trilogy by

Anthony Barnhart

Dedication Page

this trilogy is dedicated

to my amazing little sister

Amanda D. Barnhart

Prologue

THE BOY STOOD before the casket with its closed lid and tried to remember what he had been like. Framed photographs detailed moments in the man’s life, crème and yellowing snapshots offering but regal cinematic flashbacks absent a storyline, jumbled fragments to be drawn together with loose threads. All that remained of him. The boy’s eyes bore void of intent into the polished mahogany. All seemed and seems like a dream, some sort of nightmare from which there came no waking. He didn’t realize his eyes were closed until they opened at the hand’s weight on his shoulder. He looked up to see his grandfather with tears speckling his eyes, his rough and weathered hand the weight of a small bird squeezing his grandson’s shoulder.

Your father loved you, he said.

The boy didn’t say anything, looked back to the casket.

Don’t think otherwise.

His mother appeared, a shadow over the casket. Stop talking to him.

The wiry man’s neck turned in slow movements to look at her.

Not now, she said.

His lips trembled and he released, the faint touch gone, and he walked away.

The boy turned to see the mourners flooding into the sanctuary. His sister didn’t look at him. Sunken eyes alive with anger and set in a face cold and chiseled traced back to him. He turned back to the casket, could see it all over again, those last moments when his father grabbed him by the arms and pulled him underneath him. The boy bit his lip and walked over to his mother and hugged her. She put her arms around him, a mechanical gesture; there was no strength in her arms and her strength was as strong as her heart was filled with love.

- The Last Flight -

The man stood under the back porch’s overhang, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke taken by the wind and carried away. The hammering rain all but obscured his vision of the city in the valley below. The solitary oak tree straddling the backyard stood defiant in the face of the storm, its thick branches stoic as the wind hewed leaves from their feeble moorings. The rain drummed on the roof, filling the gutters, and the man heard a car engine blending with the thunder. He flicked his cigarette into the rain and stepped through the glass back door and saw her setting her grocery bags down on the kitchen counter.

He slid an arm around her waist. Can I kiss you?

She patted him on the chest and stepped back, crossing her arms. You know I don’t kiss you after you smoke.

I didn’t smoke, he said.

I can smell it on your clothes. She began pulling groceries from the paper bags. She always put them away. She called herself the Queen of the Kitchen; everything had its particular place, and her partner never much cared for such things. She was a quick study (he was not) and within a week of living with one another, she’d carved out this piece of the house as her domain. He was merely a guest. So the man stood by the kitchen island, asking her about her day, and she told him about customer complaints, memos that had been filed incorrectly, an excruciating staff meeting where she elbowed her coffee and spilled it all over her type-sheets because she hadn’t been paying attention as she doodled. He chided her about her doodles, and she told him it was scientifically proven that doodles accelerated memory retention.

She finished putting away the groceries, crumpling the paper bags and tossing them in the recycling bin. I need to shower, she said, and you do, too. Traffic’s bad because of the rain, we’ll need to leave a little earlier if we want to park near the theater.

It’d be quicker if we showered together, he suggested.

She smiled, cooed, You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

You need to make up for not kissing me.

She looked at her watch. Okay. But brush your teeth first.

Kira…

You know the rules.

The shower’s steam rose as their bodies entwined, and then they dressed and loaded into the purple Escort and left their home. Their house sat on the edge of a steep wooded hill that bottomed out into an abandoned industrial canal where the water ran stagnant in the summer and became a breeding ground for mosquitoes; every summer the man invested in mosquito traps that he hung from the branches of the oak tree, but they never seemed to work. The suburb of Lower Price Hill crowned a ring of hills overlooking the city nestled in the basin that had been carved out by Canadian glaciers thousands of years earlier. Price Hill had begun as an elitist society dwelling in ornate Victorian mansions lifted high above the gritty industry of early Cincinnati. The suburb had been accessible only by streetcar, but the advent of the automobile made it accessible to any and all. Soon the mansions were crowded out by shops, businesses, theaters, churches, schools, and community centers. Prostitutes began appearing on street corners at dusk; drug deals went down outside the police station. Last Halloween three youngsters had gone door-to-door, shouting Trick or Treat! as they gunned down the residents. More than once both the man and Kira had been lying in bed when they heard nearby gunshots followed by sirens.

I don’t feel safe living here, she would say.

You’re safe. I promise. I’ve lived here for, what, five years?

Why can’t we move to the east side? Mount Adams? There’s a nice bar there, The Blind Lemon, and that Catholic Church with… how many steps?

Eighty-nine, he told her.

"That church is beautiful, love."

You’re protestant, Kira.

But in name only, she would say.

He knew she wasn’t lying about that. No protestant knew how to use her legs the way she did.

They drove past the old railway station that had been converted into a children’s museum and then the road entered the heart of the city. Skyscrapers with lit windows rose around them, and the streetlights shined in the rain. The man had always found the city set against the Ohio River charming, at least in its own way. A handful of bridges spanned the river, linking Ohio and Kentucky; sports stadiums crowded the Ohio shoreline, mirrored by bars, clubs, and high-class restaurants across that dark and bloody river, as it had been called in the pioneer days. He parked the car in an outdoor lot and turned off the engine. He opened the door and stepped into the gentle rain. Kira unfurled her burgundy umbrella as she stepped out, and he hurried around the car to join her underneath its plume.

What’re we seeing again? he said.

Camelot. You bought the tickets and you don’t know?

I just wanted to surprise you, I didn’t even look at the show.

That’s definitely something you would do.

He took her hand and they walked through the rain to the theater.

During the Intermission he stepped out of the theater and stood under the entrance’s overhang and smoked a Marlboro. Cars passed by on the street, their headlights piercing the falling rain. He leaned against a marble pillar and mist wrapped around his ankles. He withdrew a purple satin box from his pocket and flipped it open, admired the ring. It’d been an expensive purchase from an online retailer, My Solitaire. A three-cut asscher diamond. He didn’t know how to pronounce that second word. Familiar footsteps came towards him, and he shut the box and slid it back into his pocket, careful to keep his back to her.

What’re you doing out here? She shivered under the thin dress.

Just thinking, he said, facing her. I’m not much of a theater person.

I know. But you did it for me. And I think that’s wonderful.

He shrugged, tossed the Marlboro. I do what I can.

She took his hand. Come inside. You’re going to catch a cold.

Camelot ended and exhaustion struck him as they left the theater and walked under the umbrella through the rain and to the car. They got inside, and he put the key in the ignition and leaned back, drew a haggard breath. That show wore me out.

The play was intense? she teased.

Something like that.

She reached across his lap, squeezed him through his pants.

He smiled without looking at her.

I bet I can find a way to wake you up.

I don’t think you can, he said, but I sure want you to try.

Raindrops rapped like delicate fingers on the bedroom windows. Lightning flickered, casting pure white onto the bed where they moved atop one another, the scattered sheets twisting around their ankles. Their lips glided together, his movements tender; her hair fell across her bare shoulders as he kissed her neck. Her shaking fingers gripped his shoulder-blades, and her back arched as he nibbled her earlobe. The dance was one they had danced many times before, an overture played to the notes of their hearts and manifested with each thrust and cry. He increased his tempo and she wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him hard against her, and she let out a muffled cry and collapsed quivering into the bed. Sweat crawled down her face and pooled between her cloven breasts, and he rested his head on her chest and could hear her heart beating full and vibrant beneath her collarbone.

The sun had begun to rise when the alarm clock went off. Its rings echoed in a dream where he stood on a Mediterranean beach, the sand burning so white it hurt his eyes. She stood beside him and they held one another close, the spray of the surf tickling their faces. The moon eclipsed the sun and they were found in the breach. Stars twinkled in the sky and pale crabs scurried at their feet. The ringing grew louder and he rubbed tired eyes. Soft sunlight came in between the drawn shades.

He lumbered out of bed, careful not to wake her.

She lie wrapped up in the sheets, her head buried in the pillow.

He donned his uniform and walked over to his dresser and opened the top drawer. He moved several pairs of socks aside and pulled out the satin flip-top box. He set it on the dresser and looked back at her sleeping figure. He’d propose tomorrow when he returned from Germany; they’d go to their favorite overlook at Eden Park, and there he would fall on one knee beside the duck pond and she’d be overwhelmed with joy.

He knelt down beside the bed, kissed her tender on the cheek and told her he loved her.

She stirred but didn’t wake.

He told her again, and a faint smile traversed her lips, and her eyes fluttered behind closed eyelids.

He kissed her on the forehead. I love you, he said one last time.

She didn’t respond.

Sleep well, Kira.

That would be the last time he’d talk to her.

He drove his olive green Jeep Cherokee south on the highway and crossed the traffic-clogged bridge spanning the dark and muddy river. He rapped his fingers on the steering wheel, impatient behind a semi-trailer splotched with How Am I Driving? stickers. The hills of northern Kentucky wrapped around the highway, and he took his exit and drove down the road leading to the airport, going five over in an attempt to make up for lost time in traffic. He rolled down his window and smoked a Marlboro, and between the cherry trees lining the road he could hear the roar of twin engines as an airliner took off. The trees ended and he could see the three-level Cincinnati & Northern Kentucky International Airport spread out before him.

He parked in the employee lot, looked at the gas gauge.

Barely above an eighth of a tank. He’d have to refuel on the drive home.

He locked the Jeep and latched the keys to his belt and straightened his uniform. He grabbed his briefcase and half-walked, half-ran through the revolving glass doors into the airport.

The baggage claim sat nearly abandoned, a few poor lost souls mingling about, eyes bloodshot, checking their watches and grumbling as they waited on their bags. A little girl with braided ponytails tried climbing onto the revolving platforms; her mother yelled at her to get down. She giggled, and her father, seeing the man in the pilot’s uniform approaching, hurried to scoop up his daughter. His face blushed as he looked at the pilot who could only smile at the child’s innocence. He wished such playful curiosity were contagious; he’d outgrown it years ago.

On past the baggage claim he took the escalator up to the security checkpoint. He stepped through the scanners and his briefcase went through the machine. One of the security officers attempted small talk but the man excused himself: I’m running late, I can’t miss my flight. The guard nodded and the man went on his way, taking a second escalator to Terminal 3.

Travelers crowded the vending machines and clustered about the Bridgeworks Deli. He ducked into the bathroom to take a quick leak and then ran across the corridor to the airport’s Starbucks and ordered a Pike Place in his personal mug.

He handed the barista the money and glanced over at the 24-Hour Flower Shop. He considered buying Kira some purple flowers, she loved those flowers, and he promised himself he’d get some for her when he got back.

Holding his coffee mug in one hand and his briefcase in the other, he hurried to the gate.

I thought you weren’t going to make it, the gate attendant said.

He raised his mug. I had to get my coffee.

God forbid you fly without it.

No one wants a crash on their hands, do they?

Her brow furrowed. You know you can’t talk like that.

Thanks for not reporting me, Jenny.

Just don’t say it anymore. You’ll scare the passengers.

He went down the connecting corridor and stepped onto the Boeing 777 with Air France stenciled along its fuselage. The wide-bodied commercial airliner could carry up to 365 passengers in 1st, 2nd, and 3rd class., but this morning they only had 152 passengers onboard. The man nodded to the lovely Latina flight attendant (Maria’s her name? Right?) and ducked into the cockpit.

Richard sat in the copilot’s seat going over the preflight checklist; he looked up as the man locked down his briefcase and set his coffee inside a custom-made holder. Richard shook his head, said, I thought I was going to have to fly this damned thing by myself this morning. Long night?

We saw Camelot, the man said.

You hate the theater.

You asked if it was a long night. How’re we doing?

Everything’s reading right. We’re good to go.

The cockpit’s Honeywell LCD was lit up, the fiber optic avionics network pulsing information to the glowing screens.

The pilot reached into his pocket, pulled out the satin box. Take a look.

Richard leaned over, admired it. Three month’s salary? he asked.

Hell no. More than that. Check it out, just don’t drop it.

He took the satin box and opened it. Shit. This is nice.

Quite unlike the price.

Had I bought Emily one of these, she wouldn’t have divorced me. This probably cost more than what she gained out of the prenup. He grinned, flipped the box shut. I got her ring off E-Bay. Forty-nine dollars.

The man took the box back, said, You deserved to be divorced.

Are you still taking her to that park? What’s it called?

Eden Park. I’ll take her tomorrow evening, around sunset, I think.

You say they have a duck pond?

Yeah, with a bridge and everything, right by an overlook of the river.

I’ll bet Clara would like it. She wants to take the dog out more.

Your little girl would like it.

Maria appeared in the cockpit doorway. So are we going to Germany or what?

All right, geez, the man said. Let’s get the hell out of here.

I hear the Atlantic is pretty at dawn, Richard cooed.

Their flight reached the Munich airport around 4:00 PM Eastern Standard Time. The man had refilled his personal mug with airline coffee four times, the nine-hour flight dragging on him. The Atlantic hadn’t been as pretty as Richard estimated; a better description would be dull, stretching blue water for as far as the human eye could see, no break on the horizon for hours at a time. The fact that they had made this flight countless times before didn’t help.

After seeing the passengers off, the man headed to one of his favorite in-port restaurants, a German grill just down the terminal. He stood in line, glancing at his watch every couple minutes. He only had forty-five minutes before the return flight home.

He looked up at a mounted television and followed along with the German broadcast. He followed the news of a meteor strike somewhere in Russia.

A few stories later, the beautiful woman on the screen spoke in a thick German accent about power outages sweeping through Russian territory and spreading into northern China and segments of Old Russia. He thought nothing of it as he ordered a deli sandwich.

The news was lost in the back of his head as he ate, used the bathroom, and rushed back to the plane. He entered the cockpit and slid a pair of sunglasses over his eyes to ward off the sun’s glare. Richard watched him as he fumbled with the controls. They were flying 40,000 feet over mainland Germany, nearing France.

New sunglasses? Richard said.

I bought them in Frankfurt a few days ago.

The copilot eyed the engraved typing along the sunglasses’ frame. Handmade in West Germany. How much did those cost?

Not as much as the engagement ring. But close to it.

How can you afford those? They’re Alpino.

Don’t worry about it. Have you gotten her on autopilot?

Yeah, we’re flying-by-wire. It’s free flying from here to home.

Good. He unbuckled, stood and stretched.

Richard thumbed through a Grisham novel. Doing some rounds?

Just going to the shitter. I’ve had to go since we took off.

He sat in the cramped lavatory and overheard conversation coming from the other side of the door. Two flight attendants, and they sounded nervous. He wiped, washed, flushed, and exited the bathroom to find them standing beside the cockpit door. He asked what they were talking about, and they exchanged anxious glances. Maria said, One of Air France’s planes went down in southern China a few minutes ago. Richard told us about it. The man told her to serve the drinks and hurried into the cockpit, asked Richard about the plane.

They’ve no idea why it went down, he said, a Grisham novel lying on its side beside his chair. Their radio connection with the plane went dead. And then it crashed. Went right off the map.

Probably a malfunction, the man said. Who was the pilot?

No one we know. Some Chinaman.

Okay. You told the flight attendants?

I figured they should know. They work for Air France just like we do.

"They’re women, Richard. They’ll tell the whole crew. We don’t need panic engulfing our plane. Go back there and tell them to be quiet about it. They were talking about it outside the bathroom, for God’s sake."

Richard stood to go out, said, Why would anyone panic? It’s not our plane, we’re fine.

You know how people get when they’re onboard.

"Traveling by airplane is far safer than traveling by car—’’

But people are desensitized to car crashes, and hundreds of people don’t die at once when there’s an automobile accident. Go back there and tell the attendants to keep their mouths shut or we’ll have chaos on our hands.

Richard nodded, left the cockpit.

The man yawned and slid into the pilot’s chair, looked over the controls. Everything was in tune, nothing malfunctioning. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, promising himself he wouldn’t fall asleep, the sun coming through the view-screen warm on his cheeks.

The man woke to Richard tapping him on the shoulder. Shit. He bucked forward. Where are we?

Over the Atlantic. The ocean far below was sprawled out like a solid carpet smooth as glass, and dark. The sun had begun to set in the distance and stars began to appear high above them.

How long did I sleep? he said, reaching for his lukewarm coffee. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.

The copilot didn’t answer. More planes have gone down.

The man didn’t need the coffee anymore. More? he croaked. Air France?

Not just Air France. Anything over southern China and northern Korea is falling out of the skies.

Thank God we’re not flying over there.

I’ve kept my eye on the instruments. Everything’s normal.

How could all those planes malfunction?

I don’t think it’s a mechanical malfunction.

"It has to be."

A malfunction so widespread? There’s no way.

There’s no other reason.

I know that. But it can’t be malfunction.

So you’re saying all the pilots, despite years of training and experience, are losing control of their planes without any malfunctions?

I don’t know. But it’s making me want to shit myself.

Did you tell the flight attendants?

No. But it’ll be all over the news when we get back.

Then let them learn about it then. I don’t want anyone panicking. He paused. What’s playing in first class?

A movie. I don’t know the name. Audrey Hepburn.

Good. Make sure no one starts watching the news.

The man perched upright in the pilot’s chair as the copilot spoke with their Air France controller in Europe. A few moments later he looked over to the pilot with a grim look. It’s spreading. Planes are crashing in India and the Middle East. Eight Air France planes have gone down. Hundreds of others from other companies, too.

It has to be a mistake. Someone’s messing with us.

I thought that, too, but then I checked the news frequencies. The media’s all over it.

The man rubbed wearied eyes. Kira’s going to be freaking out.

She’ll be thankful when you land. And think of it this way: once we touch ground, flights will probably be grounded for a while. You’ll have lots of time to celebrate your engagement.

You’re morbid, the man said.

The man made his ritualistic pass through the cabin, introducing himself to the passengers and assuring them everything was going well. Sometimes he would invite children to come look at the cockpit, but not today. Some of the passengers could read the grim façade he sought to hide behind a smile and jovial demeanor. He kept looking at the attendants, forcing a smile, telling them in a subtle way to smile, too. They didn’t know about the mass plane crashes, only the first reported one in China, and for this he was thankful.

He was in 3rd class when Richard appeared behind him.

What is it? the man said, almost afraid to ask.

We need to talk, he said, smiling to a young maiden with two girls.

The pilot nodded and looked to the woman, said, ‘Enjoy the flight."

They returned to the cockpit and shut the door. The copilot said, We’ve just lost contact with Europe.

How do you mean?

I mean one minute they were talking to me and the next minute they weren’t.

What were they saying?

Planes were going down over eastern Germany.

Have you tried different frequencies?

Yes. The British won’t talk.

They won’t talk?

Well, he grunted after a pause. "They’re not talking to us, anyhow. They say they’re only talking to their planes. That it’s confidential."

What’s confidential?

Hell if I know. It’s confidential, so they wouldn’t say.

Did you check our communications equipment?

Yes. Everything’s perfectly fine. Golden, even.

What’s the United States saying?

Nothing specific. Just telling us to hurry on home.

All right. I’ll log it in the book.

Crazy flight, eh?

The stars shone bright above them and the sea spread out dark, refusing to reflect the stars. The Boeing cruised at 39,000 feet and the digital display read 9:08 PM. The man walked down the cabin aisles. Most passengers slept; some read by nightlight; others listened to IPODs or typed on their Mac books. The man nodded and smiled to the few who were awake, concealing his growing concern. The man used the restroom and enjoyed idle chat with Maria, and when he returned to the cockpit, he found Richard sitting straight up in his chair, the John Grisham novel in