by Brian Keene
“I hate that rap shit,” Frank muttered. “Bunch a black guys singing about how much money they got, and how many bitches they got and this gun and that gun.”
Charlie threw a pebble over the guardrail. “It’s not just ‘black guys.’ There are plenty of white rappers.”
“What’s your point?”
“Well, no offense, Frank, but that’s kind of a racist statement.”
Frank scowled. “How is that racist?”
“You’re implying that all black people rap. That’s like saying all Asians are good at math, or that all gay men watch Will and Grace. It’s a stereotype. I’m gay, and I hate that fucking show.”
“I ain’t a racist.”
“You work in construction, right?”
Frank nodded.
“You mean to tell me you and your buddies never stood around on the site and told jokes about queers?”
“Don’t start with that politically-correct bullshit. Talk about stereotypes—you think all construction workers stand around and make fun of gay people and whistle at women? You think we’re all just a bunch of ignorant, uneducated rednecks?”
Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but Frank cut him off and continued.
“You ever tell a Polack joke?”
Charlie shrugged, then reluctantly nodded.
“So I could call you a racist, too, then. You’re making a joke—a stereotype—about how stupid my ancestors are supposed to be. Well, I ain’t stupid and I ain’t a racist. All I did was state a fact. Most rappers are black. That’s where it started, right?”
Charlie turned to me and changed the subject. “How far is it to Shrewsbury, you think?”
I took my tie off and wrapped it around my head for a sweatband. “About thirty more miles.”
“And how far have we gone?”
“One mile.”
“Shit.” He stood up. “At this rate, it’ll be morning before we get home. We’d better keep moving.”
I tried calling Terri again, but there was still no service, not even when we passed directly beneath a cell phone tower.
We stayed on the side of the road, trying to keep a steady pace. The tension eased between Charlie and Frank. We made small talk. Frank talked about his job, and we told him about ours. Then we came to a bridge. The guardrail forced us into traffic, and we walked between the cars. People leaned back in their seats with the windows rolled down, or lounged on the hoods. Some asked for news, or for help finding a companion, but we had time for neither.
As we passed the Shawan Road exit, I looked to my right at the shopping center, light rail station, hotel and convention center. People milled about in the parking lots. Cars moved on the streets, albeit slowly. The traffic lights at the bottom of the exit ramp still worked and, for the most part, drivers obeyed them. On the surface, things looked surprisingly normal, but I knew it was an illusion. I wondered how many people had vanished in the darkness of the movie theatre, or from the swimming pool at the hotel, or sitting on the train. Did their loved ones even know they were missing yet? Did they expect them to come home tonight?
Footsteps thudded on the macadam ahead of us. We looked up as a guy in a charcoal-colored business suit ran past us, shouting at the top of his lungs to nobody in particular that the stock market had crashed. His tie fluttered behind him as he dashed by. He skidded in the gravel, almost losing his balance. Then, without even glancing at Frank, Charlie or myself, he vaulted over the guardrail and slid down the embankment. A cloud of dust marked his passage.
We passed by a Cadillac with its driver’s door hanging open. The keys dangled from the ignition, and were turned to the accessory option. The radio was on, tuned to the news, and sure enough, the stock market had crashed, just like the man had been shouting. I wondered if this was his car. A cell phone lay on the passenger seat. The floor was littered with fast food bags and Styrofoam coffee cups.
“Should we take the car?” Charlie asked.
I stared at him in disbelief. “This isn’t fucking Thunderdome, man. Stealing cars is still against the law.”
“Well it ain’t like whoever left it here needs it. Maybe the driver vanished.”
“That’s not the point.”
Charlie glanced up the highway. “We’ve got a long walk home, Steve. We’d be there in an hour with the Caddy.”
“No.” Frank stepped forward. “Much as I hate to say it—believe me, my feet hurt already—but a car will just slow us down. Look how congested things are. Traffic’s not moving.”
We listened to the frantic reporter for a minute. The news was bad, getting worse by the second, and the reporter’s voice kept breaking. The world’s financial markets were in an uproar. Millions were reported missing, including politicians, C.E.O.’s, world leaders, religious figures and celebrities. They’d vanished from their homes, their cars and their places of business. According to NASA, a Russian cosmonaut had even gone missing off the International Space Station, leaving one countryman and an American astronaut behind. Planes fell from the sky. Trains crashed. The highways were deathtraps. A nuclear reactor at a power plant in China was reportedly in meltdown. Fires and rioting had broken out in just about every major city on Earth, and there were dozens of reports of authorities shooting looters and declaring martial law amidst the unrest. Religious fighting swept through Asia and the Middle East, with the worst of it centered in Israel. All of this within a few hours. I wondered how much worse things would get before it was over.
Charlie gave one last, lingering look at the Cadillac, and then we continued on, trying to ignore the screams and plaintive calls for loved ones from those left behind. I saw surreal signs of the missing as well: an abandoned baby doll in the middle lane, an empty wheelchair, a pair of empty shoes, a castaway purse, and a cluster of roadside construction vehicles—steamroller, bulldozer, and dump trucks. Judging by the path of destruction, it looked like the steamroller had kept going after its operator disappeared, flattening orange traffic cones and toolboxes.
A few minutes later, we came across a tractor-trailer. The seal on the back door had been broken and a gang of youths was looting it, hauling away televisions and DVD players. Most of the teens were armed. Stranded motorists minded their own business, pretending they didn’t see it happening. Charlie, Frank and I did the same. There were no cops around. Not even the distant sound of sirens. The last thing we needed right now was more trouble, and besides, stopping would just slow us down even more and impede me getting home to Terri. So they were stealing electronics. It wasn’t our problem. It was somebody else’s.
The construction ended after Shawan Road and the lanes expanded again, making it easier for us to navigate. Traffic was less snarled here, and although there were still plenty of wrecked cars with missing, injured, or dead occupants, many more had driven on. Several passed slowly by us, and Frank choked on the exhaust fumes.
“Maybe it’s clearing up,” Charlie said.
I nodded, doubtful.
Charlie grabbed my arm. “Let’s go back and get the Caddy. There’s no sense walking anymore. Traffic’s moving.”
“We’re not stealing a car,” I said. “That would make us no better than those kids ripping off that home electronics rig.”
The driver of an ice delivery van was handing out his melting inventory for free to passersby. We stopped and got a bag, and sucked on ice cubes as we walked. It started to get dark about 6:30 p.m., and though the sun was still clinging to the horizon, the air grew chilly. More cars passed us, but nobody offered a ride. We saw other people walking, too.
“Maybe we should have waited with our vehicles after all,” Frank said. “Charlie’s right. Looks like things are starting to move again.”
I shook my head. “It’ll be hours—maybe even morning—before they get this mess sorted out. They’re moving, but I bet it gets blocked up again around the turn. I’m going on. If we can hitch a ride later on, then that’s all the better, but I’m not stealing a car.”
&nb
sp; Down in the valley, on the north side of the highway, a church burned. It looked deserted.
Charlie asked, “I wonder if Stephanie ever found Britney?”
“I doubt it,” Frank said. “I think there’s a lot of people who aren’t coming home tonight.”
“Maybe not,” I said, “but I am.”
Charlie and Frank stopped, and looked back the way we’d come.
I thought about Terri, and how we’d parted that morning. It wasn’t bad, not at all. No fighting or arguing or anything. It just wasn’t—special. The same daily routine we’d both grown used to. The alarm went off at five. I got up. She hit snooze. I took a shower while she hit snooze two more times. Then I tickled her to get her moving. While she showered, I made a pot of coffee—always something good, Columbian or Kenyan, usually. We’d never been big breakfast eaters, so we sat in the living room and watched the news and drank our coffee. We didn’t say much. We never did. Neither one of us were what you’d call morning people, and conversation wasn’t first on our list until the caffeine kicked in. Then Hector pulled up out front and honked the horn. I gave Terri a quick kiss on the lips, and told her I loved her, and hurried for the door. She’d told me she loved me and that it was my turn to cook dinner when I got home, and then shut the door behind me. In a few minutes she’d start work as well. Luckily for Terri, she worked from our home.
Typical suburban morning, and I’d gotten the chance to tell her I loved her. But I hadn’t really said it. I’d mouthed the words, and I’d meant them, of course, but that’s all they were—perfunctory words, just like the kiss and the coffee and the snooze button on the alarm clock. They were ritual. I needed to tell her from my heart, to say more than just “I love you.” I needed to hold her in my arms and make sure she understood me; that she knew I really meant it, and wasn’t just going through the motions. Needed her to know I was okay.
Needed to know that she was okay.
“Steve?” Charlie interrupted my thoughts. “What about Hector’s body? Are we doing the right thing, leaving him behind like that?”
I turned. “Look, if you guys want to go back, I understand. But I’ve got to get home to Terri.”
I kept walking. After a moment, they followed me.
We reached the overpass for Thornton Mill Road by 8:00 p.m., and that was when things started to get worse. The interstate crossed over Western Run Creek. Darkness had fallen by then, throwing everything into shadow. As we tromped over the bridge, I heard the creek trickling below us, but couldn’t see it. The sound was eerie. Ghostly, as if the creek had vanished too and its spirit was haunting this place. Traffic was blocked again. A tanker truck lay on its side in front of the overpass. Those with four-wheel drive vehicles and motorcycles went around it, driving up over the embankment and onto the road above. Others parked their cars and milled about, exchanging gossip and small talk. I noticed that nobody was getting too close to the wrecked tanker, and when I saw the HazMat markings on its side, and the dark stains where liquid had spilled out onto the road, I understood why.
Away from the wreckage, someone had started a bonfire in a rusty fifty-five gallon drum and several people were gathered around it, warming themselves by the fire. Many of them stared upward, and when we got closer, we did the same.
A man hung from the overpass, the rope around his neck twisting slowly in the night breeze. A piece of cardboard had been stapled to his chest, the words ‘CHILD MOLESTER’ scrawled on it with black magic marker in big block letters. His face looked strange in the flickering firelight. Weird shadows danced across his skin. His bowels had let go, and shit had rolled down his legs and splattered onto the pavement beneath him. The crowd kept its distance from this, too.
4
Charlie made a noise like someone had punched him in the stomach. He turned his head and threw up all over the road.
Frank said, “What the fuck happened here?”
Cautiously, we approached the group gathered around the fire. They eyed us suspiciously. One of them, an older Hispanic man with a silver beard, nodded.
“How you doing?”
“As good as can be expected,” Frank said. “We walked from Timonium. You folks care if we rest here for a minute?”
“Help yourself.”
The man moved aside, and the others followed his lead, making room for us. They seemed to relax a bit. They were a weird assortment, business suits and blue jeans, silk and denim, gold jewelry and dirty flannel.
“I’m Tony,” the guy with the silver beard said. “Was on my way to work when it happened. Guess I’ll have to use a sick day. I work nights at the McCormick plant.”
I introduced Charlie, Frank and myself. Nods were exchanged, but nobody shook hands or traded business cards.
Tony studied us. “You guys walked all the way from Timonium?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Traffic’s at a standstill down there.”
“It’s not moving too quickly here, either,” a middle-aged black woman noted. “Not with that overturned truck blocking the road.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, “but at least it’s still moving here. The four-wheel drives and the motorcycles are getting through. Down there, the only thing moving is the wind.”
“Lots of accidents?” Tony asked.
I warmed my hands over the open flames. “Yeah, a bunch of wrecks and lots of people hurt or dead. How about here?”
“Here, too. Lots of dead—and even more missing.”
“Do they know what caused it?” Frank rubbed the back of his neck.
“So far, we’ve heard everything from terrorists to aliens. Somebody even said it was some kind of hallucinogen, sprayed through the air by a crop duster or something. Chem-trails, the guy said. I don’t know about that, though.”
Tony looked up at the moon. I noticed his eyes avoided the hanging man.
“There’s all kinds of rumors and speculation,” he said, “but no real news. We had our car radios on for a while, but none of us wanted to kill our batteries or run out of gas. Last we heard, nobody knew the cause. Only thing we know for sure is that everybody heard that trumpet noise.”
“Us, too,” I confirmed.
The black woman laughed, but there was no humor in it. “They heard it around the world. Toronto, Los Angeles, Paris, Beijing—and soon as it happened, millions of people vanished in an instant.”
Frank stepped back from the fire and mopped his brow. “What’s the government doing about it?”
Tony snorted. “Right now? Nothing.”
“But they’ve got to do something,” Frank said. “The Department of Homeland Security and F.E.M.A.—that’s what they’re for. At the very least, they should mobilize the National Guard. What the hell’s the President doing? Hiding on Air Force One again while everything turns to shit?”
“No,” Tony whispered. “The President’s among the missing.”
I shook my head. The guy we’d encountered earlier, the one who’d pissed himself, had been right after all. I wondered if he’d been right about the gray aliens part, too.
Conversation died after that. One man produced a bottle of diet soda, and another had a whiskey flask. Both were passed around, along with cigarettes. The group drank and smoked in silence.
Finally, Charlie broke the quiet. “So, anybody want to tell us what happened to the guy hanging from the noose?”
The group shifted uneasily. Charlie pointed but none of them would look directly at the swinging corpse. Nobody answered him, so Charlie tried again.
“He’s like the proverbial elephant in the corner, isn’t he? Aren’t any of you going to tell us what happened?”
They glanced at one another.
“Skinheads,” Tony said. “A gang of skinheads; six of them. There was a little girl. Both her parents were missing. That guy—” he cocked a thumb at the swinging dead man, “tried to coax her inside his car. A lot of us saw it, and it was clear that the girl didn’t know him. She started yelling and ran away. So we all confro
nted him. He denied it at first, but the girl swore she didn’t know him, and that he’d shown her his ‘wee wee.’ That was all it took. Before we could do anything about it, the skinheads jumped him.”
The black woman pulled her hands back from the fire. “Beat the hell out of him is what they did.”
“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “They did that, too. Then they put that sign on him and strung him up. After that, they torched his car.” He pointed to the far lane and, sure enough, there was a burned out steel shell sitting on four heat-warped tires.
Charlie shuddered. “And you people just let them?”
“Hey,” Tony said, “there were seven of them.”
“I thought you said there were six?”
“Six. Seven. What’s the difference? They all had guns. A few of us tried calling the cops, but our cell phones aren’t working. And besides…”
“What?”
Tony shrugged. “The guy deserved it. I mean, think about what he did. He was going to kidnap and rape a little girl who’d lost her parents. He’d have probably killed her after he was done. You see it every day on the news.”
Charlie looked around. “Where’s the little girl? Is she okay?”
The black woman pointed. “She’s asleep in the back of that van over there. She’s safe. We’re watching over her, until . . .”
“Until what?”
She stared Charlie in the eyes. “Until things get back to normal. Until someone comes along and tells us what to do.”
Frank took a sip of whiskey as it passed by him. He closed his eyes and a look of sheer bliss crossed his face.
“Besides,” Tony said, “better him than us, right? They were skinheads. They could just have easily turned on us.”
“That’s right,” the black woman agreed.
“So where are these skinheads now?” I asked.
The black woman pointed up the highway. “They moved on when it was over. Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“Guess they didn’t want to hang around.” Tony smiled at his own gallows humor.
“I don’t believe this shit,” Charlie said. “Skinheads, my ass.”