"Stumble Into Darkness"

"Stumble Into Darkness"

9/3/2019

I.

Trudging up to the third floor landing with a paper bag of groceries in each hand, Foster Whitcomb felt hot and sweaty and grimy. It was after eleven at night, but the air was still so humid it felt like moving underwater. A cold shower and a glass of white wine might help. Timothy was supposed to call around midnight about coming up from Manhattan the next day, that was all which kept Foster from giving in to a severe grumpy attack.

Here on the top floor of the ancient brick building were two doors marked 3A and 3B. Living in 3A was an elderly woman who as far as he could tell never stepped outside her apartment. Not a day went by without some deliveryman knocking on her door or a home health care nurse stopping in to help out. You couldn't ask for a quieter neighbor and Foster had long ago decided he would run any errand that the old lady asked if she ever stuck her head out the door. He knew he was a friendly-looking big teddy bear of a man and that she would be comfortable talking to him.

Putting down the grocery bags on either side, Foster dug in his jeans pocket for his keys, then hesitated. That was odd. Was the door open just a crack? He knew he had locked it that morning, he was meticulous about details like that. Oh. Tim must have come up from the city early to surprise him. Great, they had been talking about going to see that movie THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES and now they could catch the seven o'clock showing!

"Hey, you!" he called out, stepping into the cool dark apartment and then freezing where he was as if suddenly paralyzed. At his feet, next to an overturned chair, Timothy Limbo was stretched out face up and covered in bright crimson blood. Foster's heart missed a few beats, then he dropped to his knees and touched his partner's face gingerly. "Tim... Tim?"

The familiar dark blue eyes flickered open but seemed out of focus. Foster could see three deep parallel gouges going down the left cheek and that side of the neck was chewed up. Tim's leather motorcycle jacket was open. The plain white T-shirt was in red-soaked tatters.

"Oh God, Oh God," Foster breathed. He dug in his hip pocket for his phone and fumbled it out. "Hang on, bubba, hang on, I'll call 911...!" He tapped in the four-digit security code to unlock his screen.

But, surprisingly, Tim's hand shot up and closed around the phone to stop him. Foster tried to tug it free but couldn't. He had known almost from their first meeting that Timothy Limbo was much stronger than he would seem to be, but this grip was like an iron clamp.

From the swollen lips came a whisper. "Wait. Hold on, Foster..."

"I HAVE to call an ambulance, Tim! Look at you! You look like you were ripped up by a bear."

"Heh. Close enough," Timothy managed, not letting go a bit. "Give me a second. Here. Look at my chest..."

Foster did bend closer. "I can see white, is that a rib?"

In a stronger voice, Tim said, "Watch. Just watch."

After a few seconds, Foster caught his breath. He brought his face down until it was almost touching the raw wounds. "This is crazy. It's impossible."

"The edges are closing up, right?"

"I can SEE it. I can see the wound sealing, and it's sealing faster. Tim, what's going on?"

In a voice that sounded almost normal, Timothy said, "I'm going to be all right. Trust me, Foster. Put away your phone and close the door before anybody sees what a mess I am right now."

Bringing the groceries in and slamming the door shut, Foster dropped down again to his knees. "I never heard of such a thing. Tim, these gouges on your face look much better than they did a few minutes ago."

"Foster, I should have explained a lot of things before. I'm still bleeding? Yeah, I can see it seeping through what's left of my shirt. Listen. I told you I work for the Kenneth Dred Foundation, right? We're a non-profit research organization that investigates the paranormal."

"Yeah, that's how I met you. I came to your group about that ghost girl I was seeing. But, Tim, what's that got to do with anything? Oh, your poor face, did you get clawed by a lion or what?"

Grunting, Timothy Limbo tried to get up on one elbow but sank back down again. "Need a little bit longer. Foster, you've met a few of my teammates. Sable. Josef. Jocelyn. We all have enhanced healing. We never get sick, we can't be poisoned, we can walk naked through a blizzard and be fine. You see for yourself. My injuries are closing up faster than medical science could explain."

"I'm going to get some wet cloths and clean you up." Foster hurried over to the sink in one corner of the three-room apartment, ran some warm water and came back with wet washclothes that he dabbed gently at his partner's face and chest. "This is unbelievable. What causes this healing? How does it work?"

"I can't.. I can't tell you, Foster. It's like classified information. If I could share it with you, believe me I would." Trying again, Timothy propped himself up against the couch behind him. "I just thought of something. Did you see any blood on the stairs outside?"

"What? No. I didn't notice any."

"This is life and death important, go look. If you see any blood at all, you have to scrub it off. Hurry. Please!"

"All right. I don't...." Not finishing the thought, he stepped out of the apartment and started slowly down the stairs. Nothing. On the way back up, two small splotches caught his eye on one step and he rubbed vigorously with the wet dishcloth until they were gone. His mind was racing so much it was hard to concentrate. It reminded him of how he had reacted after being in a car crash as a teen. The same sense of time slowing down, of the scene feeling unreal, of being numb rather than upset. Back in their apartment, he found Timothy had managed to get up on the couch. "I still want to get you to the ER," he said. "You look so much better but come on! What about infection? What about blood loss?"

"We try not to go to regular doctors," Timothy said easily enough, trying to tear the tatters of his shirt off. "They would want to run tests and do experiments and we'd be locked up like white rats."

"'We?' Who do you mean by we?"

Timothy finally got the shreds of blood-soaked white cloth off him and wadded them up. "I knew I would have to tell you sometime. You know about Tel Shai. I've heard you mention it on your podcast. The ancient Order of mystic knowledge that has trained Midnight War heroes for thousands of years."

"That's just a legend!"

"No, Foster. Tel Shai is real. The KDF members are knights of Tel Shai and I'm one of them."

Not knowing how to react to that, Foster finally said, "Tim, your color is so much better. When I saw you on the floor, your face was white."

Getting shakily to his feet, Timothy Limbo dropped back down again. "Ugh. Not yet. I need a little more time to heal. Foster, do me a favor. Get me another shirt and my pair of black jeans, okay?"

"If you insist." Remembering the groceries, he picked up both bags and put them on the counter by the sink. Their apartment didn't have a gas stove or oven, they made do with a microwave, hot plate and an electric rice cooker for the moment. Foster went into their bedroom and came out in a minute with a dark red T-shirt and some jeans.

"Thanks. Ow. Everything hurts." Timothy started changing clothes, checking his leather jacket and finding the blood had only gotten on one cuff. As he scrubbed it off, he said, "I'm going to have to ask you for a big favor."

"Like there is anything I wouldn't do for you."

"You're going to have to drive me to the city. To KDF base in Manhattan. I can't use my motorcycle, I'd be too exposed, so we have to take your car. Okay?"

"Not a problem, buddy. You still haven't told me what attacked you. I'm guessing a black bear, the way you were torn up."

Getting to his feet, seeming steady at last, Timothy Limbo zipped up his jacket half way. "I wish they were only bears."

( The )