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Authors: Anthony Barnhart
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bodies are smashed and crunched from the impacts. He doesn’t want to look. Smoking his cigarette, he walks along the catwalk on the side of the bridge, avoiding the crashed cars. It’s only a two-mile walk home from the bridge. He can easily walk it, despite the pain in each step. His ankle is swelling.
He climbs over a wrecked van and descends down the other side. He looks into the tinted side window and sees an infant in the back, its car-seat facing the rear of the vehicle. Its mouth is open in a tiny scream as rivulets of dried blood course down its rosy cheeks. It looks just like a porcelain doll in some HOUSE OF HORRORS freak-show. The mother is thrust into the back of her seat, the airbag pressing against her, partly deflated. The Radisson Hotel of Covington rises to his right, off the highway. The circular hotel rises 18 floors from the street, including a revolving diner—The Riverview Restaurant—at the top with wide bay windows affording beautiful views of downtown Cincinnati, the wooded hills of northern Kentucky, and the sweeping currents of the Ohio River. Now, he imagines, it has ceased rotating, and men and women in suits and dresses are pitched forward with their heads in bowls of fettuccini alfredo and Italian spaghetti. He ate there with Kira once. They had been able to see their house from atop the rotating restaurant. He can’t wait to see her again.
As he crosses the bridge, he looks at the city. It rests quietly. Whispers of smoke rise from one of the windows of a skyscraper, though he can see no fire. Most of the streets of downtown—at least, those he can see—are abandoned of cars. Downtown nightlife is nothing to be appreciated in Cincinnati. He has driven through it many times at night and seen barely any cars. This helps confirm that the plague struck at night. Most people were at home. And those in the city were mainly in their offices, perhaps curled at their desks in grotesque postures of pain and agony. Minutes pass. He tosses the cigarette, considers grabbing another, shakes his head. No . Not now . As he nears the end of the bridge, he looks down at the boat ramps along the Ohio shore of the river. Bodies are washing up with the current, perhaps thrown from the bridge when their cars crashed. He doesn’t feel anything. It’s just the shock. I’ve been in shock this whole time, and the car accident didn’t help . Now he’ll have another cigarette as he reaches Ohio and takes the OH-50 West ramp.
He hijacks a car that had drifted into the shoulder. The entire right side of the car is scraped clean of paint, and the side mirror is completely lost. He pulls the young man’s body from the seat and sets him by the concrete shoulder wall. He throws his bag and flowers into the passenger’s seat and tries Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
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to start the engine. It won’t work. He curses, tries a few more times. It sputters to life. A faint smile crosses his lips—the first in what seems like an eternity, though he knows it has only been around twelve hours since the nightmare began over the Atlantic. He shuts his door and puts the car in Drive. The engine makes sputtering sounds as he takes the exit to West 8th Street and turns right, then left. Through the back mirrors, the skyline can be seen as he meanders around a car accident in the intersection and takes Glenway Avenue up Price Hill—he can’t go right on State Avenue; it’s blocked by an overturned Cincinnati Police patrol car.
His house is not far. Forest hangs over the sidewalk on his left and rigid buildings stand straight and quiet to his right. He passes a college campus—Cincinnati Bible College—and then takes a right on Grand Avenue. He takes it up a hill, passing several houses, and goes left onto Lehman Avenue. He knows this street well: he crashed his first Jeep into the telephone pole at the base of the hill. He passes the Christian college on his right, with its freshly-mowed soccer field on
He climbs over a wrecked van and descends down the other side. He looks into the tinted side window and sees an infant in the back, its car-seat facing the rear of the vehicle. Its mouth is open in a tiny scream as rivulets of dried blood course down its rosy cheeks. It looks just like a porcelain doll in some HOUSE OF HORRORS freak-show. The mother is thrust into the back of her seat, the airbag pressing against her, partly deflated. The Radisson Hotel of Covington rises to his right, off the highway. The circular hotel rises 18 floors from the street, including a revolving diner—The Riverview Restaurant—at the top with wide bay windows affording beautiful views of downtown Cincinnati, the wooded hills of northern Kentucky, and the sweeping currents of the Ohio River. Now, he imagines, it has ceased rotating, and men and women in suits and dresses are pitched forward with their heads in bowls of fettuccini alfredo and Italian spaghetti. He ate there with Kira once. They had been able to see their house from atop the rotating restaurant. He can’t wait to see her again.
As he crosses the bridge, he looks at the city. It rests quietly. Whispers of smoke rise from one of the windows of a skyscraper, though he can see no fire. Most of the streets of downtown—at least, those he can see—are abandoned of cars. Downtown nightlife is nothing to be appreciated in Cincinnati. He has driven through it many times at night and seen barely any cars. This helps confirm that the plague struck at night. Most people were at home. And those in the city were mainly in their offices, perhaps curled at their desks in grotesque postures of pain and agony. Minutes pass. He tosses the cigarette, considers grabbing another, shakes his head. No . Not now . As he nears the end of the bridge, he looks down at the boat ramps along the Ohio shore of the river. Bodies are washing up with the current, perhaps thrown from the bridge when their cars crashed. He doesn’t feel anything. It’s just the shock. I’ve been in shock this whole time, and the car accident didn’t help . Now he’ll have another cigarette as he reaches Ohio and takes the OH-50 West ramp.
He hijacks a car that had drifted into the shoulder. The entire right side of the car is scraped clean of paint, and the side mirror is completely lost. He pulls the young man’s body from the seat and sets him by the concrete shoulder wall. He throws his bag and flowers into the passenger’s seat and tries Anthony Barnhart
Dwellers of the Night
39
to start the engine. It won’t work. He curses, tries a few more times. It sputters to life. A faint smile crosses his lips—the first in what seems like an eternity, though he knows it has only been around twelve hours since the nightmare began over the Atlantic. He shuts his door and puts the car in Drive. The engine makes sputtering sounds as he takes the exit to West 8th Street and turns right, then left. Through the back mirrors, the skyline can be seen as he meanders around a car accident in the intersection and takes Glenway Avenue up Price Hill—he can’t go right on State Avenue; it’s blocked by an overturned Cincinnati Police patrol car.
His house is not far. Forest hangs over the sidewalk on his left and rigid buildings stand straight and quiet to his right. He passes a college campus—Cincinnati Bible College—and then takes a right on Grand Avenue. He takes it up a hill, passing several houses, and goes left onto Lehman Avenue. He knows this street well: he crashed his first Jeep into the telephone pole at the base of the hill. He passes the Christian college on his right, with its freshly-mowed soccer field on
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