Until... | Book 1 | Until The Sun Goes Down

by Hamill, Ike

  Back to vampires—what would we do if they were real?

  Polar bears hunt people, right? Mountain lions will sometimes kill a jogger. Sharks certainly don’t have any compunction about munching on a swimmer. We don’t go around trying to eradicate those species just because of their predation on humans.

  If vampires were real, would we respect their right to survive, or would we try our best to snuff them all out? What if they existed, but the lore was all wrong? In our fiction, vampires are created by converting a human. In some books and movies, a single bite is enough to infect a person and doom them to feast on blood. If one thinks about it that way, then vampirism is akin to a disease and we certainly don’t have any prohibition on trying to eliminate diseases.

  The other thing that Kimberly and I used to debate was the death penalty. She thought I was a hypocrite about that too, but I thought that my stance was remarkably consistent. I view the death penalty with the same point about self-ownership. Let’s say, in a fit of rage, you murder someone. You’ve violated someone else’s right to live. What should be the punishment? Ideally, we would be able to permanently eject you from our society. Since you violated our most sacred rule, you’ve demonstrated that you don’t belong with the rest of us. Unfortunately, we don’t have anywhere to send you. Therefore, we cast you off in the only way we know how—death.

  Kimberly would argue that education and rehabilitation are possible and therefore should be attempted. Kimberly would argue that the inevitability of a single innocent person being executed should nullify the practice. I don’t disagree with either of those ideas, but I think that they are unnecessarily cautious.

  Here’s where she calls me a hypocrite—as much as I believe in self-ownership, I don’t really have a strong opinion about the sanctity of life. In my mind, life just isn’t that precious.

  “That goes against everything you just said,” Kimberly told me.

  And then, less than a year after we had this debate, she was pregnant. My ideas about the sanctity of life began to shift dramatically as I watched her body change and saw the life growing inside her. Then, when she and the baby both died, I understood that my opinions didn’t matter at all. People can be ripped right out of our hearts before we even get to see the color of their eyes. We’re all connected, for better or worse. Most of the time it’s worse.

  I take another step down into the cellar.

  (It doesn't smell bad.)

  It doesn’t smell bad.

  In fact, it smells just fine. It smells a good bit like Mr. Engel did—like a towel fresh from the dryer. As I take another step down, I see why. His washer and dryer are installed right there at the bottom of the stairs. The house we rented in Virginia was like that. It had a basement laundry as well. I never really understood that. Why would you take your clothes down into the dirtiest room of the house in order to clean them?

  The temperature drops a few degrees with each step. The air is dry down here, too. It’s not at all what I would have expected. No spiders, no dust, fresh smell, and dry air—Mr. Engel should have set up a little bed down here and spent all of his time in this space. It’s a million times more comfortable than upstairs.

  Still, I want to get out of here.

  I want to find the electrical panel, do what I said I would do, and get home.

  There are two bulbs hanging from the ceiling. They do a decent job of lighting up the appliances and the shelves with all their jars. I sweep my flashlight around anyway, examining the concrete foundation, looking for a gray panel.

  I’m looking for other things too, but I don’t let myself think about that. Are there supposed to be coffins down here? If I had paid attention outside, this process would be easier. I could have noted which side of the house the power line was attached to. I could have spotted where the meter was mounted and where the electrical service entered the house. I didn’t do any of those things, so now I’m left to…

  “There,” I say. My flashlight reflects off the steel screws in the corners of the panel. It looks reasonably new compared to everything else in the house. The washing machine and dryer could be out of a Sears catalog from 1950. The furnace looks like it would have been right at home in the hold of the Titanic. But the electrical panel could be brand new.

  Before I focus my full attention on that, I have to make sure. I have to be one-hundred percent sure that there’s no truth behind what Mr. Engel said.

  My flashlight continues its sweep around the cellar.

  I see a couple of big vertical cylinders that I have come to understand have something to do with the water. One is probably a heater and the other stores the water that has been pumped? I don’t know for sure. I’ve mostly been an apartment dweller in my life. We don’t deal with that kind of thing. My understanding of basement utilities is just high enough that I’m able to condescend about the knowledge that Amber has of such matters.

  I recognize one thing that I see. There’s a big freezer tucked under the stairs.

  Uncle Walt had one of those too. He used to raise beef. Most of the animals, he sold. He would have one butchered and then freeze the meat in his cellar to use for the winter. Maybe Mr. Engel had a similar arrangement.

  If I shut off the power, Amber might have a giant mess of rotted meat to deal with.

  “Plus anything in the kitchen,” I whisper.

  I’ve seen the upstairs freezer. There was little in that except for ice. It would be kind of me to clean out the fridge though.

  I sigh, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

  My first inclination is to march back up the stairs, call Amber, and alert her to the food situation.

  That’s silly. She doesn’t need another headache on top of what she’s already dealing with. Besides, I don’t even know that there’s anything in the freezer.

  Before I turn off the breakers, I should check.

  (There's enough light from the bulb.)

  There’s enough light from the bulb.

  I don’t need the flashlight for this. I tuck it in my back pocket and lift the lid on the freezer. It’s newer than the fridge upstairs. Instead of a mechanical latch, the lid is only kept in place with a rubber seal. It pops open, breaking the seal reluctantly, and white fog rolls out from inside.The mist is dense in there. I wave my hand to clear it away so I can…

  There are eyes looking up at me.

  I gasp and the lid slips from my hand. It slams shut as I’m taking a quick step back. With a hand pressed against my chest, I can feel my heartbeat slamming against my ribs. My breath is coming in short bursts. I back up two more steps and nearly trip over my own feet.

  Those eyes are burned into my brain.

  They were wide and almond-shaped, but I didn’t see any white. The pupils were vertical slits, surrounded by deep violet, threaded with lighter purple. I have to admit that the color was probably altered by the dim light from the overhead bulb.

  None of that matters though. What matters is getting up the stairs and away from the freezer. My body is so amped up on adrenaline that my legs might as well be a million miles away. They work just fine as they propel me up the stairs at lightning speed. I slam the cellar door shut and press my shoulder against it as my fingers fumble to put the hook into the eye. It’s such a feeble mechanism. The latch has already proven more than once its inability to stay locked.

  I brace myself against the door as I reach for the phone.

  My hand squeezes the receiver in a death grip as my trembling finger stabs into the nine hole. I get it around and wait forever as it dials back to the stop. Then I jerk out one, one.

  I try to get ahold of my breathing as the phone clicks and crackles in my ear.

  I swear I can feel pressure against the door.

  I lean harder into it.

  One of my shoes squeaks against the vinyl floor.

  “9-1-1 what’s your…”

  “GET OVER HERE NOW.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Help is on the w
ay, sir. Can you tell me the nature of…”

  “I’m back at Mr. Engel’s. You can get the address from the phone like the other day. There’s a body down in the cellar. It’s in the freezer.”

  “Sir? There’s a body?”

  This is not the angel from the other day. This man sounds mildly interested, but also frustrated at having to assist me. He also sounds like he’s about sixteen years old. He has that know-it-all tone of someone who hasn’t experienced a damn thing but acts like it’s all old hat.

  I’m pressing so hard against the door that the wood creaks. I imagine the wood splintering from the pressure, sending me tumbling down the stairs into the darkness.

  I pull out the flashlight to have it at the ready. As I repeat myself to the operator.

  The line crackles.

  My story is a little more detailed this time. I mention Amber and how she asked me to turn off the power. I mention checking the freezer to make sure it’s not filled with meat that will spoil. Words tumble from my mouth and into the phone like a frantic confession. I ask how long it will take for help to arrive.

  That’s when I start to rethink everything.

  Why didn’t I run? I could be back at Uncle Walt’s house right now, having this conversation while I mixed myself a Tom Collins at a safe distance. Instead, I have my ear pressed against the door. Something is moving down there.

  I hear a dry scrape of icy flesh against the worn stair treads. Maybe that part is my imagination, or maybe it’s just the ancient refrigerator behind me as it fires up. The thump is real though. I don’t just hear that—I feel it through the floor.

  Static barks down the phone line. I wonder if they still bother to maintain these things. At my uncle’s house—my house—the phone eventually plugs into the back of the cable box. Mr. Engel is the only person on this whole road who utilizes the copper phone lines. They might be barely operable.

  “Sir?”

  “Please come quickly,” I whisper.

  “Sir, is there someone in the house with you? Are you being threatened?”

  Now, I think I understand. A questionable report of a dead body might warrant a low-priority visit from a police officer. They’ll probably arrive in forty-five minutes, not even bothering to put on their lights or speed to the scene. I’m just guessing, of course. I’m no expert in emergency response. The other day, people arrived fast, but that was to save Mr. Engel’s life.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m afraid I am.”

  Perhaps that will light a fire, so to speak.

  “Stay on the line,” he says. He sounds excited now. The frustration is gone. “We will…”

  The phone clicks, goes silent, and then buzzes out a tone.

  A thump reverberates through the door.

  I ease the phone back into the cradle and shift my weight, pressing my back against the door and bracing my legs against the vinyl floor. This position feels strong, but I’m not sure how long I can hold it.

  (Each thump is followed by silence.)

  Each thump is followed by silence.

  I keep trying to remember what I saw in the freezer. The mist flowing out was clear. Was it cold though? Am I sure that the freezer was actually frozen, or was that mist more of a warm fog? I’m not entirely positive why it makes a difference to me. Whether or not the body was frozen, it was in that confined space and there couldn’t have been any oxygen. So how is it on the move now?

  More troubling than the temperature of the mist is what was around the body. The head had been really close to the top of the freezer, and that freezer was enormous. There could have been an entire cow’s worth of meat in that thing. How many human bodies would fit in a freezer that size? Three? Four? Did I see more bodies stacked below? How many things are climbing the stairs right now?

  My legs are beginning to tremble.

  The door creaks behind me.

  I’m almost certain that the strain on the wood is coming from the other side. I’m not pressing any harder than I was before. This is crazy—everything is going sideways. The last time everything went sideways on me, I wasn’t taking things seriously enough and I paid the price.

  There might be one perfect thing to do, and I’m determined to figure out what that is.

  I need to act like my father.

  Here’s why I say that: when I was a little kid my mom would get really frustrated or disappointed with me. She would always shake her head, sigh, and say, “You’re acting just like your father.” That, I knew, was her gravest insult. I had never met my father. The man had been long gone before I was born. From the way she spoke about him, I knew him to be the source of her deepest pain. Therefore, I understood that “acting like my father” meant that I was causing her the deepest possible amount of pain. As a little kid, that was devastating.

  I as grew older, I started to realize how unfair she was being. She was flogging me with my own genetics, like it was my decision who she had bred with. The only witness to my father’s lack of character was her. I had no way to dispute or even really understand. That’s when I decided that it was up to me to interpret the meaning. I decided that my father had been extremely smart and logical. Therefore, “acting like my father” was the highest compliment.

  I need to act like my father.

  There may or may not be something in the cellar, pressing against the other side of a thin door with a weak latch. It may or may not be a monster that was lifeless in the freezer until I woke it up. The police may or may not be rushing to my rescue.

  When the phone rings, the sound interrupts my analysis.

  I run.

  Home

  (I make it home by sunset.)

  I make it home by sunset.

  Technically, it’s before sunset, but the sun has descended below the hill. If I’m counting on direct sunlight for safety, that ship has sailed. I’m back in the house with the door slammed behind me before the dust has even settled in the driveway outside. I run from window to window, making sure that everything is shut and locked. This time, I don’t stop on the first floor. I close and lock everything upstairs as well. I even lock the hatch that leads up to the attic and close the chimney flue.

  In the back of the pantry, a door connects to the shed.

  The plank door on the shed—where I park the tractor—slides shut and I put a padlock through the hasp. David’s door is locked. I don’t know why Uncle Walt called it David’s door. It’s probably some inside joke. I continue on to the barn, making sure everything is shut tight before I climb up into the loft and then through the door to the roof deck.

  From up there, I can see down the road. I can’t see Mr. Engel’s entire house, but I can see the tops of the two trees that flank his house. I’m just in time to see the flashing police lights coming down the road. They cut through the amber glow that precedes sunset.

  “Good,” I whisper. There are two cars. They took me seriously.

  I could get the telescope from its case in the barn and get a better look. I play that out in my head—me watching from a distance, isolated and helpless.

  This is when the second-guessing starts. Should I call someone? Should I…

  “Be there,” I say.

  I should. I should be there.

  Did I tell the operator where the freezer was located? Did I give them my name?

  (I pull up and wait.)

  I pull up and wait.

  It’s a strange thing to hope for the worst. A big part of me wants to be vindicated. With the truck’s engine still idling and my hand on the gearshift, I almost want to see a bloody figure stagger out from the doorway, proving my panic justified. That would be terrible. How can I wish the worst for someone who has taken a job in service to the community?

  I shouldn’t just sit here. I should go in and…

  “Get shot,” I whisper.

  Good point. I should definitely not go inside unannounced.

  I lay my palm on the horn and get ready to signal my arrival.

  T
wo officers come through the front door of Mr. Engel’s house. Neither is covered with blood.

  One raises a radio and says something.

  I shut off the truck. Parked at the end of Mr. Engel’s driveway, I’m a good distance away, but not so far that I don’t see one of the officers tense up as he regards me. I slow down and he seems to relax a little.

  The one on the radio sounds like a woman. I wonder for a moment if she could be the angel who answered my call the other day. I shake away the thought—they wouldn’t make officers answer the phones.

  “Hi,” I call, raising a hand.

  The male officer raises his chin towards me. I guess it’s a greeting?

  “I’m the one who called about the freezer?”

  The woman starts towards me. I’ve seen her before, but I can’t think where.

  “Did you find it?” I ask.

  She takes one more step and I figure it out—she was one of the first people to arrive when Mr. Engel collapsed. She had assessed his condition before the ambulance arrived. In a police uniform, she looks totally different.

  “Can you describe what you saw?” she asks.

  Unembellished by my imagination, it doesn’t take me long to convey the details.

  “But I can just show you,” I say.

  She cuts a glance over to the other officer.

  He says, “Why don’t you do that.”

  (They don't share their opinion with me.)

  They don’t share their opinion with me.

  This is the part of a horror movie that always bugs me. There’s that part where the protagonist is the only one who understands what’s going on and they can’t convince anyone else of the danger.

  I’m Ellen Ripley, telling the rest of the crew that it’s unsafe to let Kane back on board with a face hugger attached to him. I’m Laurie Strode, trying to convince her teenage friends that a really tall gentleman has been following her around all day on October thirty-first. I’m Wendy Torrance, trying to convince her husband that they need to leave the Overlook hotel before the insanity there kills them all.