Colony of the Lost

by Derik Cavignano

  Sarah liked staying home by herself. It felt grown up to be in an empty house. Plus, she got to do whatever she wanted. She could play out in the woods without being yelled at, she could play dress up with Jenny. That was her favorite game—putting on Mom’s make up and jewelry and walking around the house in high heels and dresses.

  But today she didn’t feel like playing games. Another kid had gone missing, this time an eleven-year-old boy who went to private school. She didn’t know him, but from the picture they showed on TV he looked nice enough. Not a big, mean jerk like Joey Cobb or Bobby Peterman. This boy looked like someone she could have been friends with. “Ben Wesley,” she told Jenny. “That was his name.”

  Jenny twirled her hair around her finger and nodded. “Do you think the monster killed him?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. I need to talk to Samuel.”

  Mr. Whiskers stretched his paws and spread his toes. “Sarah, I hope you don’t plan on searching for Samuel in the woods. You remember what he said, don’t you?”

  Sarah frowned. “He said we had to go because the monster sensed us.”

  Mr. Whiskers nodded. “Exactly.” He licked a paw and scrubbed his face. “If you go into the woods, it may find you.”

  “And then it would kill you,” Jenny said.

  Sarah nodded. “And then we’d all die. Well, except for you Mr. Whiskers, but you wouldn’t be able to talk anymore.”

  Mr. Whiskers scratched behind his ear and sneezed. “That’s okay. No one understands me besides you two anyway.” He sneezed again. “I hate this new flea powder.”

  Sarah and Jenny giggled. “Sorry,” Sarah said. “It was probably on sale.”

  Mr. Whiskers flipped his tail. “That certainly figures.”

  Sarah went back to her notebook and drew a dark shadow lurking in the trees. There were four kids missing now. And if someone didn’t stop the monster, there would be a lot more than that soon. She wondered what the man—what Jay—had found out. Did he know where the kids were? Had he told the police?

  She would have to talk to him soon.

  ***

  “Could you pass the butter?”

  “Sure, Daddy.” Sarah handed him the tub of margarine. He was sitting across from her, his tie loosened, his shirt untucked. When he hadn’t come home by 6:30, she began to worry that he might never come home, that maybe the monster had gotten him.

  “How was school today?”

  Sarah forced a smile. “Great.”

  “How was your day, Margaret?”

  But Mom didn’t answer. She was staring off into space and looked confused, almost lost. And that was strange because Mom was always in control.

  “Margaret?”

  “Huh?”

  “How was your day?”

  “Oh, okay. Same old story.” She smiled, but it looked fake.

  They finished dinner in silence. Sarah wondered if her parents had been fighting again. Sometimes they didn’t talk after a fight. She frowned at her plate and ate her mashed potatoes with her head down, the only sound the clinking of silverware.

  When dinner ended, Sarah helped with the dishes. As she rinsed the plates and stacked them beside the sink, she noticed Mom glancing out the window, her eyes scanning the edge of Washaka Woods.

  Does she see Samuel? Is that why she’s acting funny?

  Mom whirled around. “What did you say?”

  Dad wiped his hands on the dishtowel. “No one said anything. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  Mom glanced at the floor and massaged her forehead. “Yeah. Uh-huh. I’m fine.” But she didn’t look fine.

  He put the towel down and gave her a hug. “Maybe you should lie down. You don’t look so good.”

  She glanced left, then right, frowning. “Maybe you’re right. I think I’ll go upstairs.”

  ***

  By nine o’clock the rain had stopped, leaving behind a soupy gray fog that clung to the treetops. In the sky, a fuzzy yellow moon seeped through the clouds. Sarah watched TV to pass the time, the volume turned low so her parents wouldn’t know she was still awake. Every few minutes, she glanced out the window, keeping watch for Samuel.

  All her life her parents insisted there were no such things as ghosts, no such things as monsters. Whenever she couldn’t sleep because she saw a scary movie or heard a strange noise coming from the closet, Daddy would sit on her bed and tell her there was nothing to be afraid of, that monsters didn’t exist.

  I saw that movie last year, he’d say, and no monster ever ate me.

  But he was wrong. Monsters did exist. And ghosts too. All those nights she had listened to his comforting words, there really could’ve been a monster hiding in her room. Eyes watching from the closet…arms reaching from underneath the bed.

  Until a few days ago, she’d never doubted anything he said. Now she doubted everything. What else was he wrong about? Death? God? Santa Claus?

  Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe Dad was right about there being no such thing as ghosts. She could have dreamed it, could have imagined Samuel the way she imagined Jenny. Was it possible to imagine something so clearly that you couldn’t tell if it was real or not?

  It’s not my imagination. Samuel is a ghost. I saw him—and so did Jay and that boy, Tim.

  She knew she was right. She’d seen Jay a couple times in the neighborhood. One of those times, Dad was with her and he had waved to Jay as he walked by. So if Dad had seen Jay, that meant Jay was real. And if Jay had seen Samuel, then that meant Samuel was real.

  It was a circle of logic she couldn’t deny. Samuel was real. And so was the monster he’d warned them about. It lived in the woods somewhere and had already killed a bunch of kids. Who would be next? Her? Tim?

  It made sense—they knew about the monster, and if it had really sensed them in the woods, then it might know who they were. Maybe it had even followed them home that night, creeping behind them in the dark. Or maybe it had picked up their scent and could follow it to them at any time.

  You’re being silly. Daddy would laugh if he heard the way you’re thinking. He’d give you a hug and tell you it’s time to start acting like a big girl.

  She glanced at the clock awhile later: 12:03, and still no Samuel. Maybe she’d imagined him after all. It was probably best if she had. Sure she might be crazy, sure Mom might be right, but at least it would mean there were no monsters out there.

  A breeze blew through the open window, puffing out the curtains and blowing back her hair. The air smelled of moss and wildflowers, the scent of the woods after a rain. When the wind stilled, the night fell silent, and all Sarah could hear was her blinds knocking against the window frame.

  A few moments passed before she heard another noise. It sounded like it came from out back. She sat up straight and waited for the sound to repeat itself. It wasn’t until she heard the creak of stairs that she realized it had been the back door.

  Her heart raced. Had someone come in?

  Maybe Daddy let Mr. Whiskers out. Or maybe it’s—

  Take it easy. Don’t jump to conclusions. It was Dad’s voice, but it didn’t give her any comfort.

  She drew a deep breath and peered over the side of her bed. Mr. Whiskers sat crouched on the floor, his ears spinning round on his head.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the approaching footfalls.

  Please be Mommy. Please be Daddy.

  Whoever it was paused in the hallway, then continued toward her parents’ bedroom.

  She clenched the sheets in her hands. A minute passed. It felt like a year. She held her breath. What if the monster was in the house? What if it had sneaked into her parents’ bedroom?

  She imagined a monster standing over her parents, something that was all claws, scales, and teeth. She had to know what was going on, had to prove to herself that everything was okay.

  She slipped out of bed and crept to her bedroom door, which stood open a crack. A slant of light from the hallway filtered into her
room. She opened the door wider and peered out, glancing in both directions.

  But the hallway was deserted.

  She stole a glance at Mr. Whiskers, then stepped into the hall. A railing overlooked the darkened living room below. She crept alongside it, walking on tiptoes.

  A floorboard creaked. She stopped short, one foot suspended in the air. Over her shoulder, she could see the stairs as they wound up to the second floor. A trail of muddy footprints led up them, the color a deep, glistening brown. The trail veered right at the top of the stairs and ended at her parents’ doorstep.

  Sarah drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Maybe there's a good reason for it. Maybe Daddy took out the trash and forgot to wipe his feet.

  That got her going again… but just barely. As her hand folded around the doorknob to her parents’ room, her mind screamed for her to run away. But she couldn’t leave without knowing what happened.

  The knob turned in her hand, and the door swung in with a groan.

  Mom sat Indian-style on the bed, her hair wet and tangled, her face streaked with mud. Her nightgown was filthy, the sheets too, everything covered in mud.

  Her head jerked up as the door opened and she glared at Sarah. “What’re you doing? Go back to bed!”

  Sarah scanned the room. She didn’t see any monsters. But something was wrong, just the same. “Mom, are you okay?”

  “Yes, fine. Everything’s just ... fine. Now go back to bed.”

  Sarah lingered for a moment longer. “Okay,” she said. “Goodnight.” But as she turned to leave, she could see Mom watching her, and maybe it was just her imagination, or maybe just a trick of the light, but she could have sworn that for just one second Mom’s eyes blazed a brilliant red.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  For a moment Tim just sat there and stared at the paper Mr. Tuscardi placed face down on his desk. Everything swam out of focus and suddenly he was no longer looking at the paper, but through it.

  He imagined himself back at the library, hunched over his laptop on the second floor, pecking at the keys while the other kids packed up and went home, leaving him alone to face a man who wasn’t really a man at all.

  He leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath.

  Try to forget it.

  He sighed, wishing he could, and flipped the paper over.

  Scrawled across the top in a looping red script was a C-. It would’ve been a B-, but Tuscardi dropped him a full letter grade for turning the paper in late. He probably could’ve avoided the penalty if he’d told Tuscardi that his laptop was locked overnight in a building roped off by yellow police tape. But instead he opted to keep a low profile. Students weren’t the only ones who gossiped.

  Talk at the school had already shifted from the murder in the library to the shooting late last night. It hadn’t even been twelve hours and already the whole school seemed to know everything about it. Of course, part of that had to do with the fact that the guy whose house was broken into used to teach here.

  Mr. G—that’s what the kids called him. But to Tim, he was Jay Gallagher—the drunk guy from Washaka Woods. No wonder the guy looked so familiar—he’d probably walked past him in the halls a dozen times since transferring here.

  According to the rumors, Jay was drunk when the man broke in. Big surprise there. The guy’s breath had reeked of alcohol that night in the woods. What he found most surprising was that the students loved him and had protested his firing. But they’d never seen him drunk, never seen him make promises to a little girl that he couldn’t keep.

  I promise I’ll find the kids.

  Sure you will, Tim thought. You’ll search every liquor store in the county, poke your head around the toilet when you’re puking, see if maybe they’d accidentally flushed themselves.

  Like the guy or not, he needed to talk to him. They had to figure out what to do, how to protect Sarah. He was certain that she was its next target. But why was it so eager to learn what Samuel had told them? Did it think Samuel knew how to kill it?

  The bell signaled the end of class. He grabbed his paper and headed into the hall.

  “Hi Tim.”

  Maria stood just outside the door. God, she was sexy.

  “Hi, Maria.” He was suddenly very conscious of how he was standing, where his hands were. Was he smiling too much?

  God, I’m such a dork.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced over his shoulder. How many of his classmates were friends with Randy? Was it too soon for another beating? Maybe he could work something out with Randy, perhaps schedule the pummeling for some time later in the week.

  “So how’d you do?” She brushed a lock of wavy brown hair behind one ear.

  “What?”

  “On the paper.”

  “Oh. All right. I passed it in a day late, got a C-.”

  “That’s pretty good. Tuscardi’s a tough grader.”

  “How about you?”

  “B+.”

  Wow, smart and sexy. Very nice. So what was she doing with Randy? “Not bad,” he said. “Not as good as an A, I guess, but ... um ... better than a C.”

  Not exactly a smooth talker, are you?

  Maria grinned, one eyebrow lifting in what he hoped was amusement. She inched closer, put her hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been avoiding me, Tim. Why?”

  “Well, for starters, your boyfriend is a psychopath.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend anymore. I broke up with him yesterday. I was so sick of his jealousy.”

  “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t too fond of it either.”

  Maria caressed his cheek. “Your bruises are healing. I’m so sorry about what he did to you.”

  “It’s okay. It’s nice to get beat up every once in awhile. The body produces new blood; it’s very invigorating.”

  She laughed. “I like you, Tim. You’re funny.”

  “Thanks. I like you too. It hurts, but I like you.”

  She pressed a button on her iPhone and glanced at the display. “Uh-oh, I’d better get to Chemistry. I’ve got to do some last minute cramming for a quiz.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.

  He stood there, too stunned to speak, and watched her hurry down the hall.

  “It’s official,” he muttered. “I’m a dead man.”

  ***

  Jay leaned against the headrest and massaged his temples. He’d had his share of hangover headaches before, but this one seemed destined for the history books. The pressure was so intense he thought his eyes might pop right out of his skull. He wondered briefly if he’d be able to pop them back in like they did in the Tom and Jerry cartoons he used to watch as a kid.

  “You okay over there?” Steve asked.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to puke on your leather seats.”

  “That’s not what I meant…though I am relieved to hear it.”

  Jay glanced out the window. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

  “No problem.”

  But Jay knew it was a lie. Steve and Gloria probably fought over it. And bitterly, at that. Poor guy would probably be sleeping on the couch for the rest of the week.

  “I can’t believe they arrested me. Guy breaks into my house, pulls a knife on me, and I’m the one who spends the night in jail.”

  “You fired an unlicensed weapon.”

  “It was licensed to my father.”

  “Yes, but he’s dead now and you don’t have a permit.” He hesitated, as if considering whether to continue. “Besides, I don’t think your being drunk helped matters any.”

  Jay shook his head. “I knew that was coming.” He rubbed his lower back. “God, I’ve slept on curbstones more comfortable than that bunk.”

  “Just be happy you didn’t share a cell with anyone—your back wouldn’t be the only thing that’s sore.”

  Jay groaned. “I can always count on you to see the bright side.” He settled back into the seat and closed
his eyes. His thoughts drifted back to last night.

  The first cop to arrive at the scene barged into Jay’s living room with his gun drawn, his face backlit by the stroboscopic blue of the police flashers. It took the cop a moment to register Jay sitting on the couch, and when Jay tipped him a wave, the cop nearly pumped him full of lead.

  When the second cop arrived, they ushered Jay into the back of a cruiser and drove him to the station. For the first hour, he sat in a cracked plastic chair while a plainclothes detective with a bad hairpiece typed a report at the desk next to him.

  The questioning didn’t commence until his interrogators strode into the station dressed in expensive suits. Even in his drunken state, Jay knew they weren’t cops. They steered him into the interrogation room and introduced themselves as Special Agents Calhoun and Murdock. FBI.

  A wiry man in his mid-thirties, Calhoun had pale skin and angular features, and wore his hair slicked back like he’d watched one too many reruns of Miami Vice. Murdock seemed a few years older and had the athletic build of a guy who might have played football in college. They got right to business, peppering Jay with questions, barely giving him time enough time to respond before firing off the next question.

  Did he know the man who broke in? Was there anything missing from his house? What was the man wearing? Where did he shoot the man? Which direction did the man run? Did the man say anything about the recent disappearances or the librarian’s murder? Whose gun was it? Who was it licensed to? Why did he have a packed suitcase on his bed?

  He answered the questions as best as he could, but he must have been slurring his words because they gave him an impromptu sobriety test. Surprisingly, it was the first time he’d ever been put through the routine.

  “Congratulations,” Murdock said, “You’re drunk.”

  Instead of letting him go, they charged him with discharging an unlicensed weapon and possession of a firearm without a permit. They read him his rights, printed him, stripped him of his belongings—keys, wallet, gum—and then threw him into a tiny cell.

  Just before dawn, they woke him for another round of questioning. When he asked if he should have an attorney present, Murdock shrugged and said he could if he wanted to, but he wasn’t a suspect in any crime other than the weapons charge. The agent told him he could go home once they were through with their questions and he paid a fine for the gun violation. There would be no court date, no bail set, no further time served.