The Shelter

by Peter Foley

  He takes the handle and pushes the door, but he’s denied entrance by virtue of a lock.

  “Hello.” Drew taps on the firm unvarnished wood.

  “Knock-knock!” he repeats louder, observing the darkness in the corridor.

  “Knock-knock!” he yells and bangs, followed by, “I’m having a heart attack, help!” He waits for someone to open the door. Nobody does, so he resorts to banging and kicking then waiting. After another bang-kick-pause he turns from the door and steps away, but with a shake of his head he halts himself and turns back to wrap his knuckles on the door again.

  Having banged, kicked, yelled and waited fruitlessly, he walks to the only other place he knows Tom might be; their shared sleeping quarters.

  Walking into the room, Drew sees Tom’s bed just as he had left it, disheveled and strewn with books. Perching himself on the edge of Tom’s bed, Drew checks his wristwatch, remembering his watch is broken he wonders what time it could be. Maybe nine, close to ten.

  “Oh, Tom. What is life?” he says to the empty bed. “I was waiting for you to ask for help back there, you know. I would’ve helped. I wish you’d have asked, I wish you would’ve.” He glances over one of Tom’s open textbooks. “Look, don’t feel bad, the Pastor will get over it, it’s no big deal. He’s a little insane, in fact, he’s probably doing something mental right now to somebody else. I bet he’s forgotten all about that fight, that test or whatever. What kind of bullshit was that anyway? It’s okay to fail that test. So, chin up, young Tom, you’re a good kid and you’ve got a lot going for you. It’s getting late and the lights are due out soon, I suppose. So, I’ll catch up with you in the morning, okay, champ?”

  Drew walks over to his bed and perches on the mattress. He looks over at Tom’s empty bed and wishes for a response from Tom, just one word would be reassurance enough.

  “Righto, Tom, I’m getting into bed. If there’s anything you want to talk about, let me know. Don’t be afraid to wake me if you come in late. Although, as you know, I’m a heavy sleeper.”

  Drew gets under the covers fully clothed. He’s used to this, sleeping dressed, due to the nights on tour when he got so drunk he couldn’t figure out how to take off his clothes, which was often.

  After Drew tucks himself in, he looks at Tom’s bed one last time. With a loud snap, the lights go out. Thoughts creep up on Drew, thoughts of Tom, the Pastor, Hazel. In the night-time black he remembers that these rooms were not built as bedrooms, but as prison cells. He drifts into a difficult sleep.

  Berlin. Darkness. Ringing in the ears; a whining, continuous, high-pitched oscillation. Worry, panic. Leaping out of bed in the hospital room confused, running around the room, clawing at the walls, looking for the off switch. Blind confusion. Ten years. Was it all worth it in the end? Is this the reward?

  Out of a hot blanket of sleep comes a shock of cold water and light. Drew is drenched. Water blocks his nose and forces his eyes shut, he gasps for air. Finally, he takes a deep breath and wonders where the hell he is. Rubbing his eyes, he staggers to his feet and walks across the room, feeling his way around the walls. The sound of an electronic alarm rings in his head, morphing into a high oscillating whine. Staggering back to his bed, he seeks shelter under its covers.

  “Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead!” Standing over him is Huxley, with an empty bucket in his hand and a large grin on his large face.

  “It’s 7:20, Drew. Breakfast time. Common Room. You’re late.”

  Drew is both soaked and speechless. His ears are still ringing. He has never been waterboarded, but if it’s anything like this, he would tell you everything he knows at the first sight of a bucket.

  Drew’s body is also unaccustomed to seven in the morning. Such an early hour causes confusion in his nervous system. Huxley leaves with a smile. Looking over at Tom’s bed, Drew finds it just as it was the night before, empty and littered with books.

  29

  Fear and courage are brothers

  Drew’s ears continue to ring long into breakfast. The noise is a high-pitched whine. It’s exactly the sound you’d get if you struck a six-foot A-above-middle-C tuning fork against a Carillon bell. The result is a limitless noise with perhaps enough strength to outlast the sun.

  “Drew!” shouts Hazel, breaking him out of a trance.

  “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you? Have you?” She exaggerates her words.

  “Sorry,” Drew says. “But being waterboarded at 7am is hard. Have you seen Tom this morning? That lad, brown hair, brown eyes. Yay big? He was at breakfast with me yesterday? He didn’t come home last night after–”

  “For fuck’s sake, Drew!” Hazel bangs her fork on the table.

  “What?” Drew looks down at his plate of mushy breakfast.

  “I said, I’m going to talk to the…” She lowers her voice to a whisper and glances down at the table. “I’m going to talk to the Pastor. I think you should join me.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Drew scrapes his fork through his food.

  A small voice three seats away interjects. “You want to leave…?”

  Hazel recognizes the girl in yellow as Karis Fletcher, the singer. Today, Karis has added matching yellow wristbands to her yellow dress.

  “Yes, we do,” Hazel says. “We want to leave. I enjoyed your singing last night, little girl – Karis, is it? But, excuse me, we’re having a private conversation, so…”

  “Okay,” Karis is toying with her breakfast, “but, if you leave you won’t see me sing later. I’m singing in the sermon again for Father.” She lifts her fork to her mouth and takes a slow bite.

  Drew smiles. “Aren’t you as cute as a button, maybe we’ll stick around for that.”

  “Plus… Father won’t want you to leave,” Karis says.

  “I’m sure he won’t, honey,” Hazel says.

  The little girl sighs. “And if you try to leave, the Blue-eyed Monster will get you.”

  Intrigued, Drew asks, “Have you seen the Blue-eyed Monster?”

  “No. Mom says it comes out in the dark. She says it hurts and it’s very scary. She says my Uncle Joe saw the Blue-eyed Monster once and it nearly killed him. She told me I need to be good or one day it might get me. Some say that when it bites you it hurts you so bad it can kill you.” She takes another bite from her fork.

  “It’s an old legend, a tall tale about a monster that’s supposed to haunt this place,” Drew explains to Hazel as he examines the room. “There’s no Tom, but look, here comes Moody. I think she’s one of us.”

  “Who?” asks Hazel.

  Tall, gaunt and still dressed in black, the woman Drew met in the waterlogged streets floats across the room and takes a seat beside him.

  “Hi, my name’s Hazel–”

  “Don’t bother,” Drew says. “She doesn’t say a word. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’d give more than a penny for her thoughts, but it’s no good trying.”

  The woman in black reaches out for the ketchup bottle and stares at its F-Mart’s own brand tag.

  “She can come with us,” Drew says emphatically. “Yes. Okay. Good. We have a plan. Let’s have a chat with the Pastor today, then we’ll find Tom, and we can take the man I hit with my car with us. I think it’s only fair to him, although I did only ding him, he’ll be fine. Then you can make a call to your science buddies and they can come and pick us up, probably in some special helicopter or something. I’m sure your government science people will figure it out.”

  Hazel scoops some food onto her fork and lifts it to her mouth, but the weight of worry lowers it back to her plate. “And if they don’t? What if they can’t get here, or…” She leans in. “What if we’re trapped here? What if the Pastor won’t let us go and we’re locked up in here like prisoners? Remember what Judy said to us last night? She said we need to get out of here, and she gave me that weird look. I wish I could find Judy and find out what she knows. This place isn’t right. And what if the hurricane lasts for three weeks? And we are trapped here with him
and them? I hate doubting my own research, but–”

  “Does this food taste weird to you? Does it smell like chemicals?” Drew asks.

  Hazel picks up her plate and smells the food. “It’s mush made from powder, I’m not sure how it’s supposed to smell.” She then tries to reassure herself. “Three days, that’s all. Three days, then this hurricane is over, that’s what the data said. I can lay low for that, if it comes to it.”

  Drew watches the furrows grow on Hazel’s brow. He lowers his fork and addresses her directly. “Look, Hazel, don’t worry, I’ve fucked up bigger gigs than this.”

  Hazel lifts the fork to her mouth and finally manages to take a bite.

  “Plus,” he continues, “if there’s any funny business we can just walk out the front door. The bus driver must have a key to the entrance. It’s the only door in or out that I’ve seen in this place. The driver opened the door when we arrived, remember? At the very worst, we’ll just steal the key from him and bail out of here.”

  “And where are you going to find the driver?” Hazel asks indignantly.

  Drew gestures with his fork. “He’s right there, in the kitchen making the breakfast. He’s the one with all the tattoos. I wonder what it all means, all that strange tribal stuff all over his arms.”

  Hazel’s gaze lingers at the kitchen door, she watches Sid stir a large stainless-steel pot. Drew stares idly at the same spot, but Megan comes striding into his view.

  “Shit.” He lowers his head. Megan approaches the table with a beaming smile and a plate piled high with runny lukewarm breakfast.

  “Hi, Drew, Hazel. Don’t the two of you look like a happy couple? I heard sleepyhead here had a hard time getting out of bed this morning. Awww! Well, I hope you’re ready for today,” she says in a baby’s voice. To Drew’s relief, Megan is interrupted by the crack of a loudspeaker, followed by the fuzzy sound of amplified breathing across the grill of a cheap microphone. A slow, slurred and disjointed announcement comes from the Pastor:

  “Good morning and salutations to everybody… I know you are not accustomed to hearing me like this… I, I have been up all night. Someone, someone, someone tried to poison my food. Do not worry, if you’re guilty we will find you. I want everybody to be extra vigilant to people and their nef… narfa… naff… nasty intentions. Be vigilant, spies are among us. Report all negative conversations. In more positive news the laundry room is in full operation. In your room you will find a change of clothes. Please report to your room and get changed into these new clothes. Drop off your dirty laundry at the laundry room and wear the new clothes. Sermon will be early today, at 9am. Don’t worry, I’m in Nurse Chamberlin’s care and I am rapidly recovering. Be vigilant. That is all…”

  “Screw that. I’m not doing laundry here or changing my clothes. Not for me, no thanks. I don’t plan on moving in.” Hazel takes another bite of pale breakfast. “I can sweat it out until I leave here.”

  “Oh shit! I’m so sorry!” Megan says, as she feints a misstep and empties the runny magnolia-colored mush from her plate down the front of Hazel’s white blouse. Hazel inhales deeply and raises both arms in shock.

  “Awww! It looks like you’ll be doing laundry today after all.” Megan turns her back and walks away.

  Hazel’s eyes boil and Drew sits nodding in agreement. “Yeah, she’s the town bitch… that is a shame though, I liked that blouse, it was kind of see-through. Still, it’s probably about time we got you out of it…”

  Hazel picks up a handful of spilled food from her chest and shows Drew a smile.

  “Don’t!” Drew recoils. “Calm down and eat your gruel…”

  “It’s not gruel! It’s egg!” She winds up her throwing arm and whips the mush across the table.

  “Wow, thanks!” He wipes the splatter from his cheek and chin. “The yokes on me, I suppose…”

  Hazel rolls her eyes. “You’re such an ass and she’s a total dick.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Who said that?” Drew says, looking around. “She’s alive!” Drew declares, realizing the words have come from none other than his erstwhile road companion. The delicate woman, still clutching the F-Mart ketchup bottle, says, “My name is Courtney Weaver. I’ll get the keys to the front entrance. I’ll take care of the cook in the kitchen.” She puts down the red bottle she found so captivating. Then, just as she was once silent, she falls silent again.

  Conversation disappears completely when Hazel leaves to change her clothes and, as the morning matures, the quiet clinking of cutlery takes over.

  30

  Enter the village; obey the village

  Drew returns to his sleeping quarters, wiping the last smear of Hazel’s breakfast from his chin. On his bed he discovers a neatly folded garment and notices the bed has been made. Drew, who hasn’t straightened as much as a towel in ten years, presumes whoever set the clothes down wanted to do so on a properly made bed, like an invisible insistent mother. The garment before him is both nylon and red – very red, so much so it practically glows. Drew unfurls the material and holds it up to the light. With his head cocked, he takes a moment to scan it from a safe arm’s length.

  “It’s a bright red muumuu…” he says, addressing the gown with a waggish smile as it sways in front of him.

  He takes off his shirt and sits on his bed to remove his muddy sneakers. He pauses. Tom’s bed has also been neatly made, but his books and bag are gone and no red gown is waiting for him. A pang of guilt hits. Drew has, in the space of hours, lost track of Tom completely. He couldn’t even vouch for Tom’s whereabouts, let alone his well-being.

  Poor tough young Tom. He’s probably changed rooms, Drew reasons, or maybe he’s being looked after in the medical bay. A shudder runs through him as he dwells on what could happen to a man in this place once the Pastor takes a dislike to him.

  Drew addresses the empty bed again. “Tom, what’s happened? I want to know that you’re okay, okay? Maybe just for selfish reasons, I don’t know. I’m the first to admit that I don’t handle guilt well.”

  The loudspeakers crack into life.

  “The morning sermon will be in thirty minutes. All must be in attendance. I repeat, all must be in attendance. That is all.”

  Hazel, having grabbed Drew while he was wandering the corridors, joins the line outside the Sermon Hall. Drew spies her curiously.

  “Why does your muumuu look better than mine? Most people look like a bright red sack of potatoes in this thing, but yours is…” Drew’s thoughts run out. A long line of people have gathered in the corridor, in lockstep and move like segments of a centipede. Everyone is throat-to-foot in the same red nylon gown. Some wear it well while others look like lobsters.

  “You know where we are, right?” Hazel says to Drew in a loud whisper.

  “Some concrete box in the middle of the ocean?” Drew replies. He looks up and down at her gown; it’s tight around her waist and full around her breasts. Looking at his own gown, he says, “Why does my gown look like a sack hanging from my shoulders?” He inspects her again.

  “Wait! You’ve had your muumuu tailored, haven’t you?!” he says.

  “So what? I want to look good, what’s wrong with that? You could use a bit more pride in your appearance. Darlene from the sewing club took it in for me. Stop looking at my tits!” she says, slapping his chest. “And I asked you a question! Do you know where we are?” she repeats the earlier question in a slow, deliberate voice, the way people do when they hate repeating themselves. Then, after a brief look over her shoulder she lowers her voice and spells out the answer for Drew, “Look! Can’t you see? We are in a C-U-L-T…”

  Drew looks at her inquisitively.

  “A cult!” she whispers with a tight jaw and a creased brow. “Take this seriously, Drew. Look around! This place… It’s not right, it’s weird. If we don’t get out of here soon I don’t know what we’re going to do. I’m scared.” She folds her arms around her waist.

  Drew says nothing but he giv
es her a hopeful yet slightly vacant smile as they walk through the Sermon Hall’s entrance.

  “We’re sitting at the back,” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a pew.

  The walls of the Sermon Hall seem smaller than yesterday, cracks that had not been there before run from ceiling to floor, the light is dimmer and the temperature is colder, it chills Hazel’s arms. Drew sits upright, craning his neck above the crowd, scanning it for a sight of Tom. “Ah! It’s impossible, everybody’s red!” he complains.

  An elderly lady sits at the piano, little Karis stands in front. The songbird has swapped her yellow dress for a red gown like everyone else, but she holds on to a piece of her identity, thanks to the slender yellow band she wears in her hair. She waits for the audience, the sea of red shapes, to take their seats so she can sing. From the lectern, the Pastor nods to Karis.

  She sings and the piano plays. Drew continues to search the crowd and Hazel continues to worry. Karis’ song ends.

  “Yesterday, I showed you miracles,” the Pastor says, “and there will be many more, many more, great, great miracles. But today I have to address some unpleasantness. We all must realize that in this time of much trouble the only safe place is with Father, so we’ve got to put an end to any rebellious or nervous talk, or we won’t be able to rebuild civilization. You see, lately–”