“You bunch of idiots,” Axel said. “You darn near gave me a heart attack. And I think little Bobby Sullivan might have just peed himself. What were you thinking?”
“We were thinking about you,” Paul said as Axel let them into the house. “How you holding up, oldtimer?”
Axel shut the door behind them and locked it. “We’re scared and we don’t know what’s going on. Any news?”
“Yeah,” Paul replied, “but none of it is any good.”
“Come down to the basement and tell us about it. It’s safe there, if a little chilly. Damn kerosene heater is on the fritz, just like everything else tonight.”
Paul hesitated. “We can’t stay, Axel. We saw your light and thought to check on you. Maybe you should blow out the candles, by the way. You can see them from the street. But like I said, we can’t stay. We’re going for help.”
“I’ve got a bottle of whiskey down there. Don’t usually drink it myself, but I might be so inclined if you boys would do a shot with me.”
Gus grinned. “I reckon we can stay for a little bit, at least. Right, Paul?”
Sighing, Paul shrugged and followed the others down into the basement. He thought, not for the first time, of his dogs and hoped that they were okay.
***
Joel Winkler sat cross-legged in his big, plush recliner and looked around his darkened living room. It seemed so different, so strange, without the lights on. Joel always had at least one light on twenty-four hours a day, even if it was just the small night-light in the bathroom next to the master bedroom. He didn’t like stumbling around in the dark.
The lights had been just one of the things Richard liked to complain about.
He missed Richard. Not a day went by that Joel didn’t think about him, but right now, he was thinking about him more than ever.
They’d met in college. Before his freshman year, Joel had never been out of Brinkley Springs and the surrounding vicinity. Richard was from California and had traveled all around the world. They sat next to each other in psych class, formed a friendship and began spending time together. Within days, that friendship had turned romantic. After graduation, Richard had gone back to California and Joel, unable to find a job, had ended up back in Brinkley Springs. He’d been depressed and despondent until two months later, when Richard showed up at his door. The moving van was parked outside.
They’d lived together for just over a decade. Joel knew what people said behind their backs, but he didn’t care. Yes, some of the people in town were blatantly homophobic, even in this day and age, but most were just curious. As far as he knew, Brinkley Springs didn’t have any other gay couples. Not that they’d let it officially be known that they were indeed a couple. Joel had balked at revealing that, preferring instead to tell people that Richard was just his roommate. In the end, that was why Richard had left a second time—Joel’s steadfast refusal to come out of the closet and openly embrace and acknowledge their relationship.
Joel died a little more each day without him.
Feeling melancholy, Joel began humming Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind.” It had been their song.
He stared at the picture on the end table. It had been taken four years ago at the beautiful Cass Scenic Railroad State Park, near Bald Knob. In it, he and Richard were smiling, arms around each other. Behind them was a colorful kaleidoscope of fall foliage. Joel had taken the picture himself, using the timer on his camera. They’d been laughing about the mountain’s name—Bald Knob—and it had led to playful innuendos that lasted throughout the day and ended in a slow, passionate bout of lovemaking in a rented cabin atop the mountain later that night.
The shadows swallowed everything else in the living room. Once-familiar objects like the grandfather clock and the potted plants and the coffee table became unidentifiable shapes. The book he’d been reading, a lurid paperback called
Depraved
, was all but invisible in the darkness. Everything had changed. Muted. But the picture remained clear. Richard’s smile, his hair, his eyes, were unaffected by the gloom. Joel buried his face in his hands and could still see his lover’s face.
The town had fallen silent. The screams and gunshots had subsided. Somehow, the silence was worse. Joel hoped that it would all be over soon.
“The feeling’s gone,” he whispered, “and I just can’t get it back.”
When the window shattered and a dark-cloaked man leaped into the room, Richard didn’t jump or scream or try to run away. He simply looked up, wiped the tears from his eyes and sighed.
“You are not afraid?” The figure loomed over him, arms outstretched.
Joel shook his head. “I’m too tired to be afraid. I saw what was happening. Earlier, out in the street. I watched two of you pull a family from their car. Nobody came to help them.”
“Nobody could.”
“Is this the end of the world?”
The intruder laughed. The sound reminded Joel of a whistling tea kettle.
“No. Merely the end of
your
world.”
“Will it hurt?”
“I could make it very painful indeed. Agonizing and slow. Now are you afraid?”
Joel shook his head.
The man’s shoulders slumped. “It is better when you are afraid. It improves the taste of your soul. But no matter.”
The man in black reached for him and Joel leaned forward into the embrace.
“Thank you,” he whispered as the darkness engulfed him.
***
Kirby Fox cowered in his tree house, reading his Bible (a red, faux-leather-cover King James version that he’d been given at church after completing catechism classes a year before) and begging the Lord not to let what had just happened to his parents happen to him, as well.
He’d been camping out in the backyard, sleeping in the tree house—or at least that was what his parents had thought. In truth, there had been very little sleeping, as Kirby’s tree house contained a folder full of pictures printed off from a porno site. He kept the folder in the middle of an old Trapper Keeper left over from elementary school, and hid the Trapper Keeper inside a long white box of comic books. His parents had never been inside the tree house—at least, not that he knew of—but Kirby saw no reason not to be cautious at all times.
Like now, for example. He looked up from the book of Psalms, his finger frozen over a random passage. He’d had to squint to read it because his flashlight wasn’t working. The tree-house roof had a hole in it so that he could stick his telescope out of it on clear nights. Each spring, his father trimmed the branches away from the hole, providing an unobstructed view of the stars. Kirby kept a five-gallon bucket beneath the hole to catch rainwater and had a tarp he could pull over the top of it. He realized now that he’d forgotten to pull the tarp closed. The leaves rustled softly as the breeze picked up. Wind gusted down through the hole, ruffling the naked pictures, his comics and the Bible pages. The printouts fluttered across the floor. Naked women stared up at him from a dozen different poses. Kirby felt sick and guilty. The pictures had been provided by Gary Thompson. Kirby had given him ten bucks and his copy of Modern Warfare 2 in exchange for them. Gary’s parents had a color printer and unlimited Internet access. The kid had a nice business as a middle-school pornographer.
Kirby had beat off twice, guiltily wiping himself with paper towels and then tossing the evidence in the corner, and then snuggled into his sleeping bag and read some back issues of
Gold Digger, Naruto, Green Lantern
and
Ultimate Spider-Man
. At some point, probably during the issue where Doctor Octopus proposes to Peter Parker’s Aunt May, Kirby had fallen asleep.
His father’s screams were what woke him, although Kirby hadn’t realized it actually was his father at first. The cries were too high-pitched. Too strange. It was only when his father was flung through the bedroom window and landed in the yard, shards of glass sticking out of his face, that Kirby had realized the shrieks belonged to him. His father had lain there, thrashing and quivering and squealing. Then parts of Kirby’s mother had followed him out of the broken window. First had come her head. Then her arm. Then something from inside of her. Then another arm.
Kirby had been too frightened to scream. He’d simply cowered there in the tree-house door, watching in shock and horror as his father bled to death with his mother’s decapitated head and various internal organs lying upon his chest. The ground around him was soaked with blood.
After his father fell quiet and quit moving, Kirby became aware of the screams from elsewhere in town. There were too many of them. He’d sat with his back to the wood-plank wall, pulled his knees up to his chest, grabbed the Bible—and prayed. His mother had insisted he keep the Bible in the tree house; it was her idea of good luck. In hindsight, maybe she’d been right. His parents were dead but Kirby was still alive. He turned his attention back to the book and focused on a random psalm.
“He giveth to the beast his food, and to the young ravens which cry . . .”
Kirby was unaware that he was reading aloud and equally oblivious that he was crying.
“He delighteth not in the strength of the horse: he taketh not pleasure in the legs of a man. The Lord taketh pleasure in them that fear Him, in those that—”
Something warm and wet plopped onto the page and splattered against the crook of skin between Kirby’s thumb and index finger. A raindrop? Frowning, he looked up and saw two eyes staring back at him through the hole. It was a crow, he realized. A big black crow—the biggest he’d ever seen. The bird had shit right through the hole and onto the Bible.
Kirby wiped the offending substance away with his shirttail. Sniffling, he turned his attention upward again, but the bird was gone. In its place was a man, perched on the roof of the tree house and grinning wide enough that his teeth flashed white in the darkness.
Then the darkness flowed through the hole, and whatever good luck Kirby’s Bible had brought him finally ran out.
***
“Is that yours?”
Levi glanced up and saw that Donny was pointing at the buggy.
“Yes, it’s mine.”
“Where’s your horse?”
“She is safe. I have her stabled down near the river.”
“How do you know they haven’t fucked with her, too?”
“Dee has certain protections. Similar to mine. No harm will come to her.”
Marsha smiled. “Your horse is named Dee?”
Levi nodded. “Yes. And my dog, who is back home in Pennsylvania, is named Crowley.”
“Those are unusual names. Don’t get me wrong—I like them, but they’re not ones you hear every day. Around here, not too many people even bother to name their horses or dogs.”
“I named them after old friends of my family.” He paused, surveying the street. “It looks okay to cross. We’ll be safe once we get inside Esther’s house.”
“How?” Donny asked. “I mean, no offense, Levi, but I don’t see how we’re any better off inside that old bed-and-breakfast. We ought to get the hell out of town.”
“I don’t think we can leave. I don’t think they’ll let us. And as for the house, I can protect us once we’re inside.”
“The way you protected us back there, you mean?”
Marsha gasped. “Donny!”
“It’s okay.” Levi raised his hand. “He’s right. I did miserably back there. I almost failed. That won’t happen again.”
“But how are you going to protect us? I mean, no offense, Levi, but how can I be sure that Marsha is going to be safe?”
Levi smiled. “You’re a soldier. So am I. The only difference is our methods and the weapons we choose. I give you my word that she’ll be safe inside. Now come on. Let’s go, while the coast is clear.”
They hurried across the street. Marsha and Donny trotted behind Levi, hand in hand. They had just made it to the opposite side when a truck engine shattered the silence. Marsha and Donny jumped, startled by the sudden noise. Levi merely turned in the direction of the disturbance.