by Al
For a few moments, there was only the moaning of the wind, the dry sound of ash washing against the front window.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t have stayed outside?” Mary asked abruptly. “I keep thinking of that mass of dust above us. If it comes down…”
Adam took a shuddering breath. “We did the right thing.”
“But—”
“I said we did the right thing!” He covered his face with his hands. “God, I hope we did…”
Outside, the wind and dust lashed mightily.
With a great rending groan, something above the ceiling was torn away.
The children awoke, screaming.
“My God!” Mary shouted, as Adam thrust himself up to go look outside. “Don’t go near the window!” she pleaded.
But he was already there, peering into the foggy swirls of dust. “I can’t see anything. It had to be part of the roof.”
Mary set about calming the children down. Lucy began to cry, and Cindy, the older, tried to go back to sleep.
“Adam, please, get away from the window!”
“I see…”
Another tearing groan from above.
“Adam!”
He shrank away from the window as something hard hit it. It rattled, but, somehow, it did not break.
“What was that?” Mary asked anxiously.
Adam moved cautiously to the window again. “I don’t know. But I thought I saw something moving out there. A light.”
“A car?” There was desperation edged by hope in Mary’s voice.
“I don’t see how it could be a car, with the road gone. Maybe some sort of plow or truck…”
Silence stretched between them, as Lucy again fell into a shuddering sleep.
“Mary, I have to go out there,” Adam said finally.
“No!”
“This place won’t last the night. I have to see what that light was.”
As if in answer, there came a great rumbling sound from above them on the mountain. Something huge and heavy-sounding slammed into the cottage.
Mary looked with fear from the shuddering back wall to her husband. “You won’t come back.”
“I…just have to know if there’s a safer place for us.” He looked down at the two fitfully sleeping children. “You want me to take the chance of not going?”
Mary was silent.
Adam retrieved his parka and began to shrug into it.
The wind and dust whipped into a fierce cacophony of sound, as if waiting hungrily for him to leave the cabin.
He hesitated a moment, looked back at his wife, then unbolted the door and stepped out.
~ * ~
Immediately, the wind tried to yank the door from his hands. Groaning with effort, he pulled the door shut behind him. He stood with his back plastered to it for a moment, trying to see through his dust-blinded glasses.
There was movement ahead of him.
Something…
Up where the road had been, the wall of dust was still held in check. Adam tried to pick up some hint of why so much silt could flow so fast so far and then suddenly stop. He knew that was the spot where the car had been washed over the cliff—he could see the vehicle canted on its side at the bottom, its headlights like beacons, dust duned slightly up one side—and he could swear there had been no natural obstruction, a wall or damn, to keep the wall of dust at bay.
Dry lightning flashed again.
In front of that wall, something did move. A lone figure in a dark parka, barely visible against the black background through the churning wind and dust, was moving along the heaving backdrop, making its way to the path down to the bottom of the valley and the cottage.
The figure made its way to the bottom of the slope.
It stood motionless.
“Hey!” Adam called, but he could feel the word ripped from his mouth and snuffed out by the storm. His lips were coated with dust.
The figure turned toward him.
Carefully, Adam stepped away from the cottage—and was immediately thrown down by the wind.
He nearly panicked. It felt as if hands had taken hold of him from below and were yanking him down into the dust, trying to suffocate him. There were little bits of something in the ash that broke apart—he remembered the chicken bone he had found before.
Then, abruptly, whatever had held him let go. He was up on his knees, panting into the wind.
Behind him he heard frantic tapping on a window and looked back to see Mary’s frightened face at the picture window, gesturing wildly with her hands—
There were hands on Adam, helping him up.
“Wha—?”
He looked up into a dark, hooded face. He could make out no features.
“Thank you!” he shouted into the wind, regaining his footing.
The figure made a gesture and the two of them made their way to the front door of the cottage.
Mary pulled the door open, then slammed it closed behind them.
“Are you all right?” she said frantically to Adam, clutching his arm.
Adam nodded, spitting dust, beginning to regain his breath.
The children had stirred, and sat up, rubbing their eyes. Lucy sobbed out, “I want my Harry doll!”
The newcomer, turning away from them, shrugged out of his coat and began to shake the dust out of it.
“Some night,” he said, matter-of-factly, turning around. He was tall, strong-looking, a weather-beaten, dark, almost cordovan color. His voice was deep and his large yet delicate hands looked as if they could pull a tree out of the ground without cracking any of the roots.
“That was your van that slid over the precipice?” the man asked. He was smiling, and he hung his parka over the back of one of the chairs at the small table.
“Yes, it was,” Adam replied, realizing that even with the mud and rain and what he had been through, it was nevertheless time for social conventions, including chitchat, to be adhered to. “You’re from around here?”
“You might say that,” the man said, laughing softly. “This place belongs to me.”
He thrust out his hand, so quickly that Adam nearly jumped.
“Please forgive me!” Adam said, taking the hand and noting the soft yet firm grip. “We just didn’t know. We never would have barged in if we’d known someone was living—”
The man’s laughter cut him off. “Did you have a choice?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” Adam answered. He gave a short laugh himself, then asked, “Have you ever had a storm like this before?”
“Never anything quite like this,” the man answered. He glanced out the picture window, then back at Adam. “Shall we have some tea?”
“I grew up here, and never heard of a dust storm in North Carolina before,” Mary said suddenly, almost belligerently.
The man turned his eyes on her, and smiled.
“And for that matter,” Mary continued, “I don’t remember there ever being a cabin down here.”
There came a loud banging, which made Mary gasp: it sounded like something living was being ripped away from the roof.
“Don’t you think—?” Adam began.
The man waved a hand in dismissal. “Nothing can be done, now. Come, have some hot tea.” He was already drawing water into a pot and laying out utensils and cups on the table.
The two girls had risen; Cindy padded over to Adam and tugged at his sleeve.
Her voice was small: “Daddy, are we going to slide away like the car?”
Adam was about to answer when Mary spoke up. She had wandered to the picture window, and was staring out through the swirling dust to the top of the valley where the road had been.
“Why hasn’t the wall of dust come down on us?” she said, in a careful, even voice.
There was sudden silence in the room.
“Come, don’t be bothered with that,” the man said after a moment. He put his hand out to Mary, seeking to draw her away from the window. “Best not to think about it.”
<
br /> “Why not?” Mary replied quickly.
“It’s just that, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” the man said, smiling.
“When we found this cabin,” Adam said, “we saw that the dust that had come down from the mountain was in some way impeded from coming into this valley. You must have noticed it, you came down that way. Is there some sort of natural wall or outcropping up there that’s holding it back?”
“No,” the man said simply. “But I really don’t think you should worry about it.”
“The dust can’t come pouring down on us?” Mary asked.
“It hasn’t yet, has it?”
Something was ripped from the roof and whipped away by the wind.
“Come,” the man continued, “have something hot to drink. It will calm you.”
Mary was staring around, over the ceiling and down the walls. Adam couldn’t help following her eyes with his own as another loud rip sounded somewhere up above.
“What were you doing outside?” Mary asked. A subtly suspicious tone had crept into her voice. Adam almost scolded her, but held his tongue.
He spread his hands wide. “This all belongs to me.” He held out his hand to Mary again, but she stared at it and he gently lowered it.
“I don’t like this,” Mary said, turning to Adam. “I grew up here, and I know this cabin was not here.”
“Mary!” Adam said, shocked. “How can you talk that way? The man lives here. This is his home.” He was suddenly aware of his social obligation again. “Please forgive—” he began, turning to the man.
“It’s nothing. Please.” He gestured toward the steaming tea, set neatly at the table.
Mary stood with her arms folded staring out the picture window as Adam sat uneasily at the table, with the two girls in dainty chairs to either side of him.
Mary said quietly, “I read a story once, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, about a visitor to an inn on a mountainside. During the night, there was an avalanche, and everyone ran out and was killed. The inn was left untouched.” She turned her head slowly from the window to face the four figures sitting at the table. Adam was staring at her as though she were mad.
“What do those signs out on the road mean—G, and 2, and 7?” she asked sharply.
“Mary—”
“Like I said,” she continued, “ there never was a cabin here. And the more I think about it, the more sure I am that there wasn’t even a valley here.” She turned back to look out the window. “I think this cabin is a trap.”
The cabin’s owner smiled evenly. “Then what about your story? If you leave, won’t the dust come down on you in an avalanche and smother you?”
“I think if we stay that’s what will happen.”
“What if I told you it made no difference?”
Now Adam looked at the man, who only shrugged, smiling enigmatically. “Hawthorne was something of a philosopher. I’ve always enjoyed philosophy. It tries to explain so many unexplainable things.”
There was a tentative rip at the roof above them, which cut off as the wind suddenly wound down a few notches. The dust storm was not beating quite as hard on the picture window, which now showed the first tints of a sallow dawn.
Mary turned back to look outside.
“The dust is moving,” she gasped, terrified.
“Is it?” the man said, still sitting at his table, smiling.
Adam got up. He could not be sure, but it did look as though the wall of ash was closer, roiling up, looming larger.
“I don’t know—”
“We have to get out of here now!” Mary insisted.
She made a sudden movement toward the children, who began to cry. She thrust them into their coats.
She pushed the children toward the front door and opened it. Though it had abated, the dust storm was still fierce; the wind that met her nearly drove her back into the little bungalow.
“Mary, don’t!”
But she was outside, the two howling, frightened girls in tow.
Adam looked at the man, who hadn’t moved from his chair.
“You said it made no difference,” Adam said, making it a question.
The man, who looked older, browner, larger and at the same time less distinct, said, “Your wife fears it has to do with this valley. It’s much more than that. Read her Aunt Clara’s bible.” He added: “The G is for Genesis.”
His smile was gone, replaced by something truly unreadable.
At his wife’s sudden cry out in the storm, Adam turned toward her. Night had given way completely, the sky was filled with a sickly yellow cast, and he could see that she had fallen. The two girls were struggling to help her up.
“I have to go—”
When he looked back into the cabin it was empty.
He turned back into the storm, and soon reached Mary, who was back on her feet. Lucy had charged ahead, toward the fallen Windstar, whose headlights stabbed out of the swirling dust.
“My Harry doll!” she cried.
Mary gasped, “Catch up with her!”
Adam forged ahead, with Mary and Cindy close behind.
Lucy had mounted the van’s grill and was climbing up toward the open sliding door, which now faced the sky.
Adam grabbed her, but she wriggled away from him and dropped into the interior.
As Adam tried to hoist himself up after her, he felt Mary’s hands dig into him like claws.
“Oh, God, Adam! Look!”
Her voice held a note of terror he had never heard in a human voice before.
He turned toward the mountain, and gasped with disbelief. Nearly on top of them, moving like a tsunami, was a monstrous wall of dust. As it grew closer it grew higher, and there were things swirling in it that broke apart as they watched.
“Lord God Almighty…”
Mary was already pushing Cindy up and into the open door of the van, and now Adam helped Mary to follow. The ground began to tremble, and there was a sound like a freight train bearing down on them.
Adam pulled himself into the opening, and then struggled with the sliding door. The wall was right on top of them. Debris began to swirl in, dust and what looked to be bits of brittle bone, and just as Adam slammed the door shut the Windstar rocked as if a wave of water hit it. It nearly rolled over onto its roof, then slowly settled back into position on its side.
It became very dark in the van, and Adam switched on the interior lights.
Lucy was in the back seat, nestled next to the blanket chest they had bought for the hall, which was broken, holding her Harry doll, rocking it tightly against her, her eyes closed.
“Do you think—” Mary began.
“Find your Aunt Clara’s bible,” Adam said, leaving no room for discussion in his voice.
Mary looked at him for a moment, and then made her way into the back seat to rummage in the box of keepsakes they had taken from her Aunt’s home.
The radio was still on, low, though there was no longer light rock playing. A voice was droning, and Adam, his fingers shaking, turned up the volume.
“Can we go home soon?” Cindy asked, with a young child’s innocence bordering on incomprehension.
“…the entire planet,” the voice on the radio was saying in a monotone. It sounded very tired, or drunk. “Reports from every corner of the globe of massive dust storms…”
Mary held up the bible. “What—”
“Look up Genesis, chapter 2, verse 7,” Adam said. His voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes glued to the radio, it’s readout glowing green.
The car rocked, an underwater wave.
“…and this dust is not being whipped up by the wind—it is not dust from the earth or falling from the sky…”
Mary angled the bible closer to the van’s dome light, which was to her back.
“Here it is,” she said. “It says, ‘And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living soul.” She looked up, perplexed.
“Wha—”
Adam held up his hand; his eyes were on the radio with a fixed look.
“…humans. I repeat: the dust itself is composed of human bone and flesh. Every human on earth, apparently, one by one, is disintegrating into the dust from which we were made…”
The tired voice said: “I think…” and then there was a small gasp and then nothing but static from the radio.
Adam looked at Mary, whose eyes were impossibly wide with fright; she was clutching Cindy to her. She seemed to be fighting for breath.
“I—”
But already she was changed, turning to something brittle and dry before Adam’s eyes, and Cindy, and Lucy, who was hugging her Harry doll in the farthest reaches of the rear seat, the same.
And then they broke into dust and bone and more dust, and were gone.
Adam reached out, and gave a choked cry, and watched his arm fall into dust from the fingertips back.
“But—”
He felt the breath sucked back out of his lungs, which went hot and dry and collapsed.
And then, at the last, he heard a voice, filled not with rage, or spite, or even wrath, but with mortification—
“Go back.”
THE PUMPKIN BOY
1
Jody Wendt, five years old, saw the Pumpkin Boy through the window over the kitchen sink, outlined against the huge rising moon like a silhouette against a white screen. Jody had climbed up onto the counter next to the basin to reach the cereal in an overhead cabinet. Now he stood transfixed with a box of corn flakes in his hands, mouth agape.
The Pumpkin Boy had a bright orange pumpkin head with cold night steam puffing out of the eyes, nose and mouth cutouts, and a body consisting of a bright metal barrel chest and jointed legs and arms that looked like stainless steel rails. Even through the closed window Jody could hear the creaking noises he made. He moved stiffly, like he was unused to walking: his feet were two flat ovoid pads, slightly rounded and raised on top, made of shiny metal. As Jody watched, one of the feet stuck in place in the muddy ground; the Pumpkin Boy, oblivious, walked on, and then toppled over with a sound like rusting machinery. He lay on the ground like a turtle on its back, making a hollow chuffing noise like Saaaafe, saaaafe, saaaafe. Then he slowly righted himself, rising to a sitting position and then turned slowly to search for his lost foot. Finding it, he fell forward and clawed his way toward it. He closed his hands around it. His head fell forward and hit the ground, rolling away from the body, and the hands immediately let go of the foot and grabbed the head, realigning it on the stilt body with a ffffffmp.