The Seventh Day

by Scott Shepherd

  The last thing he heard heading through stadium gates that would no longer welcome fans and families to America’s Pastime, was the catcher’s voice bouncing off the wrecked remains of the stadium.

  “Don’t leave me! Please—don’t leave me!”

  Sayers did everything in his power to ignore it.

  He had to get home.

  But there wasn’t any home to go to.

  By the time he reached what was once his street, he wasn’t even surprised.

  In shock, most definitely. But on the walk back, he’d realized the catcher hadn’t been so crazy after all.

  The world had changed in the time it took for an umpire to make a call—safe or out.

  In this case, Sayers would vote Game Over.

  The stadium parking lots had been deserted. Nothing flabbergasting there—the fans must have fled in their cars the moment the stadium was attacked. But when he didn’t see a single car on a city street, Sayers knew Coors Field hadn’t been an isolated incident.

  Most of the buildings between the ballpark and his home were gone. Not obliterated; they had literally disappeared from the face of the Earth. Seemingly the people too; he didn’t run into a solitary soul until he was halfway to his neighborhood. Unfortunately, it had been a heavy-set Mexican woman in her late sixties who spoke no English. She kept crossing herself and pointing toward the heavens. Sayers didn’t understand a single word, but it brought validation to the catcher’s rant about ships in the sky—along with a chill to Sayers’s spine.

  The power grid was out. None of the streetlights worked, and those were actually few and far between—they were missing from nine out of ten corners. Along with the overhead lamps and anything else that worked electrically. By the time he entered his neighborhood, Sayers no longer doubted the occurrence of something apocalyptic. He was simply wondering why and how he had survived it.

  His street looked like one of those half-finished developments on the outskirts of boomtowns. More than half the homes he’d driven past on the way to the ballgame that very morning were no longer there—all that remained were the pristine lots they’d been built on. It was as if a giant hand (maybe that one the catcher was going on about?) had swept out of the sky and gathered up the houses to put them down on Park Place because they’d outgrown Marvin Gardens.

  His house had been one of the few spared. (Actually it had been Naomi’s—he’d moved in so as not to uproot Laura). For an insane second, Sayers had been offended—what the hell was wrong with their place? Not good enough? Then he came to his senses and was thankful he’d made it back to find it in one piece.

  And was disabused of that notion when he stepped inside.

  It looked like a cockeyed spec house.

  Spec because there was basically nothing in it. The furniture was gone. Most of their belongings were missing—from photographs, to books, to all the silverware and china that Naomi had collected and displayed lovingly in the vanished kitchen cabinets.

  Cockeyed, because there had been stuff left behind. Loose papers, spare pennies and other coins, a few items of clothing. It looked like someone had done one massive walk-through, picked up everything in one big scoop, and dropped a few things on their way out the door.

  Most importantly, two other things were missing.

  Naomi and Laura. There was no sign of them having been there since he left that morning.

  He started to look at his watch, then realized for the first time it had disappeared along with his phone and wallet. All the clocks in the house were gone as well, but as dusk was settling outside, he figured it must be close to eight in the evening.

  He found what he was looking for on the ground where the refrigerator had been parked. It had been prominently displayed on the fridge door with some of Laura’s finger paintings. Sayers couldn’t help but notice that the youngster’s artwork was nowhere to be seen; only the invitation to her birthday party and a recipe Naomi was making for a sorbet cake had been scattered on the floor. It saddened him and also made him feel uneasy.

  The words on the invitation were written in daisy gray-blue, surrounded by Disney princesses, his stepdaughter’s specific design. Laura’s Turning Six. Come Celebrate at Funland.

  God, how he wished he had.

  He headed there now.

  28

  “What happened after that?”

  Sayers cleared his throat. Awaiting another gut-wrenching cough, he was surprised when it didn’t appear. Perhaps getting all this off his chest was helping in more ways than one. He hesitated before answering Laura’s question. Not knowing how much more he wanted to say, he responded with one of his own.

  “What exactly do you remember?”

  “Nothing really.” Laura shut her eyes tight, as if hoping to bring up a memory. She shook her head in clear frustration. When she opened them back up, her eyes looked misty-sad. “I can’t even remember the party. Did I even have one?”

  Sayers nodded.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because someone told me. They said you had a terrific time.”

  “Who told you?”

  Sayers coughed. Figures, he thought. The moment he started to withhold, his body knew it. Talk about psychosomatic guilt. He wanted to tell Laura the rest, but seeing as how she remembered nothing about that day, it seemed brutal to open up that entire can of worms. He was worried they would devour her—just like they had been pulling at his soul ever since he walked away from the wreckage of Coors Field.

  “A very nice woman who was there.”

  “You came and got me? From?”

  She’d forgotten. Sayers wasn’t even sure he’d told her.

  “Funland. Then, I brought you back home.”

  “I remember the house. There was nothing there.”

  “It’s why we only stayed a few days. We needed to go find food. The local stores were all gone.”

  “I wish I could remember more.”

  “You were six, Laura. I don’t think I can recall anything from when I was six,” Sayers said, happy to be moving farther away from Funland.

  “That’s because it was ages ago.”

  Sayers grinned. “The Dark Ages.”

  “Prehistoric.” Laura smiled right back. But, then she returned to Sayers’s story—just when he’d hoped it had faded away.

  “What about that man?” Laura asked.

  “Which man is that?”

  “The one you left on the baseball field.”

  “The catcher? What about him?”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  Sayers shook his head. “No. And I feel awfully bad about that.”

  “Is that why you still dream about him?”

  “I guess so. I just hope he’s okay—wherever he is.”

  Sayers coughed once again.

  “You’re gonna be okay, right, Doc?”

  “I’m not going anywhere so fast,” Sayers said. “Afraid you’re stuck with me.”

  “That’s good,” said Laura, relief finally spreading over her face. “That’s real good.”

  Sayers couldn’t help but wonder if she’d feel the same way if he’d told her the whole story. He didn’t think so. More than likely Laura would never want to speak to him again. And after everything they’d been through—especially since Joad and the brothers had ridden into their lives, bringing with them the good and the bad—he thought that might be more than he could bear.

  Almost done.

  Fixer had to admit that it looked pretty damned cool. He thought it needed some kind of name. Something bitchin’ like—The Fixer. Too bad he didn’t ever get that chain of garages going he talked about with Tory. They could’ve built a showroom for it in each one. Okay, maybe he was getting carried away, but he did regard The Fixer with a healthy dose of fatherly pride.

  He couldn’t decide if it resembled a car or motorcycle. Big spoked wheels that would look super cool on any chopper. Shiny chrome trims fit for an Indy pace car. It was kind of a genetic co
mbo plate—like that movie where the scientist got trapped in the contraption with the fly and came out looking like something from a nightmare. Only The Fixer would actually work as planned—it was built to rock and roll.

  Too bad he was going to have to blow the thing up.

  Now he just had to get Primo in the driver’s seat.

  Fixer twisted a few more screws into place, then made a big production out of wiping the red dirt off his hands. He turned to face Primo and didn’t need to say a word—the eldest brother had been watching his every move.

  “Finished?”

  “The Fixer’s ready for a test drive.”

  Primo raised an eyebrow. He might have even cracked a smile. “You named it.”

  “We’ll split the profits,” joked Fixer.

  Primo stared at him for a moment. “You’re a peculiar little man.”

  “My mother used to say the same thing.” Anything to lighten the mood, thought Fixer. He just needed to get Primo onto The Fixer. Then it was a matter of focusing his Gift; electric charge meets gasoline-rigged engine, and it’d be Bye-Bye, Bad Guy.

  Hopefully Fixer would be more than ten steps away from the explosion.

  Primo called Secundo over. The blond brother had been half-snoozing up against a tree. He rose in a flash, and joined his brother. “How much longer do we have to sit and watch this idiot screw around?” Secundo asked.

  “This idiot is finished,” answered Fixer. “Just waiting for one of you to take it out for a spin. “Who wants the honor?”

  Fixer focused his attention on Primo, presuming the alpha dog would want first dibs. But it was Secundo who stepped forward.

  “How fast will it go?”

  Not Fixer’s first choice, but one dead brother was one less brother. “Whole lot faster than you can run.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Fixer’s dare did the trick. Secundo shoved him aside and started toward the hand-built mutant of a vehicle.

  “Not so fast.”

  Primo blocked his brother’s path and grabbed Fixer’s shoulder.

  “I think you should go first,” said Primo.

  Fixer shook his head. “Thanks, but that’d be a mistake. It’s a lot to do. Kinda like walking and chewing gum at the same time. You know, steering while powering the thing up.”

  Primo tightened his grip. It hurt. A lot.

  “I insist.”

  This didn’t look good.

  Primo had either gotten pissed off at Fixer or was getting set to do something unpleasant. Neither would surprise Joad.

  Too bad. Joad had been mesmerized watching Fixer work. By the time he’d finished building his contraption, Joad was convinced the man was not without talent. Before The Seventh Day, a person with Fixer’s skills would’ve gone quite far.

  But right now it seemed Fixer’s building days were about to come to a swift end. Joad had noticed the special care the man had used on the makeshift engine casing. If there was one thing Joad knew, it was Fixer always had a scheme cooking. In this case there was only one possibility—turning the tables on his captor.

  From Primo’s expression, it looked like that idea had blown up in Fixer’s face.

  Joad removed the slingshot from his pocket.

  Then, he stopped.

  Blown up.

  Suddenly, things fell into place.

  Joad looked around until his eyes landed on a fallen branch from a tree.

  He put the slingshot back in his pocket and moved for the branch.

  Figuring that one good turn deserved another.

  So much for best-laid plans, thought Fixer.

  Primo was pushing him toward the driver’s seat. Fixer knew he wouldn’t be able to fight the man off, especially when his blond brute of a brother got into the act.

  All he could hope was to keep his emotions in check. Fixer had been able to control his Gift pretty well over the past couple of years. But when things got a little hairy, it would sometimes kick in without him willing it. And Fixer couldn’t imagine anything more precarious than the hot seat he was about to get shoved onto.

  He tried to keep calm. But he already felt the building tension and rhythmic beating inside his head.

  “You hear something?”

  The question came from Secundo. Primo eased the pressure on Fixer’s shoulder to turn and respond. “Hear what?”

  “That pounding,” said Secundo.

  Fixer realized the sound wasn’t inside his head. It was coming from somewhere on the periphery of the debris field.

  And he recognized it.

  Morse Code.

  Four letters. Repeated over and over.

  D-U-C-K.

  Which Fixer did—catching Primo by surprise. Before the eldest brother could grab him, he was struck in the side of the head by a flying object.

  Fixer knew exactly what it was: a slingshot pellet.

  Primo tumbled to the red loam. Secundo whirled and raced to his brother’s aid. There was another whoosh as Secundo was hit in the neck by a second pellet—and fell down to join his brother.

  Fixer straightened up just as Joad yelled from the trees.

  “Whatever you’re doing, do it now!”

  Sometimes his Gift was like a light switch. You flicked it on and it did the trick. This was one of those cases. It certainly helped that Fixer was wound tighter than the proverbial drum.

  Fixer raced away from the fallen brothers and his invented namesake.

  He concentrated. His nose gushed blood.

  And The Fixer exploded into smithereens.

  Joad had taken one of the brother’s horses while giving his own mount to Fixer, knowing the man wasn’t half the horseman he was. Joad made certain they moved at a good clip; they’d been gone close to two days and he wanted to get back to Laura and her stepfather. Doc hadn’t looked so hot when he’d left, and Joad feared what he might find when they returned.

  The explosion had transformed the debris field into a blazing inferno. The force of the explosion had thrown Fixer at least thirty yards through the air. It was a good thing the force had propelled him away from the blast center and that he’d landed on the soft red loam. Otherwise, Fixer’s cuts and scrapes could’ve been a whole lot worse.

  As for the brothers, their screams had risen amidst the flames and still echoed in Joad’s ears, even after riding east for a few hours. It was impossible to check on them because of the raging fire—and neither Fixer nor Joad had any inclination to do so. No good could come from it if the siblings were still alive; Joad and Fixer ran the risk of being drawn into the rising circle of fire. So they jumped on their mounts and hightailed it away from the debris field, figuring Primo and Secundo had finally succumbed to the overwhelming flames or were so much the worse for wear that they’d be licking their wounds and burns for days to come.

  All Joad could think about was putting as much distance as possible between himself and the brothers, and finally getting home to Nemo.

  Which was definitely better than listening to Fixer’s insane story about following some gigantic Husky from the campsite straight into the brothers’ waiting arms. Joad had a husky when he was a child—normal-looking and pure white. He’d never seen one with red hair. Certainly not one that could talk.

  “It didn’t actually speak,” corrected Fixer. “I just felt its voice. Coming from inside me.”

  “Whatever.” Joad just shook his head. “Don’t go wandering off again. I’m getting tired of saving your ass.”

  “But you do it so well.”

  Joad harrumphed. Fixer’s expression showed that he knew it was time to shut up.

  For a little while.

  “Smart,” Fixer finally said, as if losing his fight to control himself.

  “What’s that?”

  “Using the Morse Code to warn me.”

  “You’re the one who came up with it. I figured the brothers didn’t catch on the first time. Might as well take advantage.” Joad motioned in front of them. “Watc
h where you’re going. Terrain’s tricky.”

  Fixer nodded and kept his eye straight ahead. “You make it hard to say thanks.”

  “I know.”

  Fixer chuckled.

  They kept riding east, heading toward the darkness.

  Doc was dreaming of nothing.

  As far as Laura could tell. She still wasn’t exactly sure how the reading-dreams thing worked. Joad had called it a Gift, but she mostly saw it as one big pain. She knew she didn’t see everyone’s dreams all the time. Thank goodness—otherwise she wouldn’t have slept a wink. She figured she got an inside peek only when something really occupied the person’s mind—when they were having trouble dealing with stuff.

  Some Gift.

  At least she wasn’t worried Doc was going to up and die on her. He’d explained about the drinking. Laura knew people liked alcohol because it made them feel good. Doc said it hadn’t been that way for him. He’d done it to forget things. Stuff like the catcher and Coors Field. But he had told Laura the brothers had actually done him a favor.

  “How’s that?” she had asked as they’d huddled around the small fire she’d built.

  “By destroying that still. It made me face everything I’d been running away from.” He coughed once more, but it was no longer as vicious and heavy. “This … sick stuff … is the price I had to pay. It’s what I have to go through before I get better.”

  “But you are getting better, Doc?”

  “I will. If I do the right things.”

  “Like taking care of yourself?”

  “That. And remembering what’s important.”

  Laura had felt his gaze land directly on her, and was happy to see that it was kind.

  “Now, get some sleep. We’re going to have to decide what to do in the morning.”

  Doc rolled over and was out in an instant. But Laura remained wide awake. She couldn’t help thinking about what they would have to do if dawn rolled around without Joad or Fixer.

  The sun had barely poked its head above the horizon when Laura was awakened by horse hooves. She couldn’t remember having fallen asleep, but was thrilled to be woken by the return of Joad on yet another jet-black horse, with Fixer alongside.

  She jumped up the moment she saw them and raced over to throw her arms around Joad. She even hugged and kissed Fixer, though he was so dirty he looked like he’d been stuck inside a chimney.