Domino Falls

by Steven Barnes

  “Sir,” Ursalina said, “is there any reason we wouldn’t want to stay?”

  Myles seemed surprised by the question, hesitated. His eyes flickered to his wife. Kendra’s heart jumped. She wished they could take this family aside privately.

  “Domino Falls has been a godsend to a whole lot of folks,” Myles said evenly. “But staying’s a decision you’ll have to make for yourselves.”

  He hadn’t answered the question. Kendra glanced at Ursalina; she’d noticed too. Good news: if they could decide to stay, they could decide to leave, too.

  Since there was no paperwork, the man outstretched his hand. “Like you heard, my name’s Myles. Myles Bennett. My wife’s Deirdre. That’s our son, Jason.”

  Deirdre smiled. “Call me Mom. Everyone does.”

  Kendra nodded. The river of energy flowing from this woman brought Kendra within a hair of saying “Okay, Mom” before the words choked her throat.

  They all shook hands, one by one, even Jason, who had a firm, well-trained pump. But Deirdre was staring at Kendra the way Jackie had eyes only for the Twins.

  Suddenly, Kendra recognized the look on the woman’s face. A memory seized her with so much vividness that she felt transported back to Longview, having dinner with her parents at the burger shack they had only visited once, when they first moved to town and hadn’t known any better.

  They’d run into a man at the restaurant with a big belly and an unkempt black beard, a stereotypical biker or long-haul trucker type sitting alone with his cheeseburger. He’d stared at her family like they were a movie screen. Dad had started getting agitated, muttering under his breath, and Mom shushed him.

  Then they’d all noticed that he wasn’t staring at them all—only Kendra. He turned away when Kendra locked eyes with him, but she would peek back and find him looking again. It was the first time she’d thought her father might physically confront someone, a whole new side to Dad.

  Then the biker had come to their table. Kendra had watched her father’s hands tighten, seen him ready to rise to stand between his family and this mountainous stranger.

  “Excuse me,” the stranger had said in a sad, polite voice at odds with his biker demeanor. “The Karate Kid?”

  Kendra blinked. Her dad blinked. “What?”

  “The shirt,” Mom said softly.

  Kendra looked down. She’d forgotten that she was wearing her Karate Kid T-shirt, with the silhouette of little Jaden Smith throwing an impossibly high kick with perfect form and balance. She’d loved that movie. The shirt was faded now. It had once hung loose on her, and then it was almost too small.

  “Love it,” Kendra said.

  The big man had smiled but blinked, as if his eyes stung him. “I … uh … my son loved that movie too. He got into Red Dragon Tae Kwon Do after that, did nothing but kick things all day long. Well, sorry. He used to have that shirt. Loved that shirt. That’s all.” He turned around and was gone before they’d had time to consider that he’d spoken of his son in the past tense.

  That was what Deirdre’s stare was like.

  The woman who called herself Mom was staring at a ghost.

  By the time Terry was stark naked and shivering, he wondered what he’d traded away for entrance into Domino Falls. He hadn’t been strip-searched since his arrest, and he’d sworn he would never stand still for another man’s prodding again.

  But here he was lined up with Piranha and the Twins while a physician and a swarm of guards in yellow shirts studied them—everywhere—for bite marks and hidden injuries. Terry hadn’t realized that Dean’s wrist had been cut by flying glass during the shoot-out, just as Piranha seemed surprised by the deep cut on Terry’s shoulder, which bled fresh when he moved the wrong way.

  Somehow, despite his adventure helping Terry clear the stalled bus from the road, Piranha didn’t have a scratch on him. Lucky SOB. And that wasn’t Piranha’s only luck. They’d never been fully undressed in front of one another, and Terry and the Twins could barely keep from gawking at Piranha. Too Much Information.

  “You may get dressed again,” the reedy man who’d identified himself as Dr. Meyer told Piranha.

  The receiving room—a converted family room in the quarantine house—was too cold, and Dr. Meyer was examining Terry’s cut shoulder as if he thought something would crawl out and bite him if he missed a single angle. Terry was shivering.

  “You’re infected,” Dr. Meyer pronounced to Terry, and guards reached for their guns. Red-faced, the doctor went on quickly. “I mean the cut’s infected. It’s clearly a cut, not a bite. You could probably use some antibiotics. You’re lucky it’s not worse.” Like all doctors, he spoke in chides.

  “Yeah, well, the line at the free clinic was too long,” Terry said, winding his arm to stretch his sore shoulder. The injury throbbed and might spring another leak, but he’d barely had time to notice it.

  The doctor patched up his injury, and Dean’s, and they were allowed to dress. Dean looked more pissed about the strip search than Terry. The guys in yellow shirts never left them alone, but they had an ounce of privacy and distance while they dressed behind a curtain. Terry still smarted from the thorough search. At least he’d been promised a chance to shower.

  “Maybe the worst is over,” Terry said.

  “Better be,” Dean said. “Or I’m outta here.”

  “Better not go without me,” Piranha said.

  The quarantine house was an L-shaped ranch model with four bedrooms, a basement, and an attached garage. They would each get a separate room, they were told at the orientation in the kitchen—since if anyone was infected, it would be risky to bunk them together. In addition to their group, there was one other thin, bleary-eyed white guy in his fifties Terry never heard mutter a word. He looked like he’d passed Weirdo Manor quite a ways back, accelerating straight on into Crazy Town.

  “This is a voluntary quarantine,” said the crew-cut guy in the yellow shirt who was in charge of the house. “Anyone who doesn’t want to be here, you’ll be escorted back to the perimeter. Those of us in these yellow shirts are part of Domino Falls’s security details—we’re called Gold Shirts, or just ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ This is a community built on mutual respect. We work in partnership with D.F.’s Citizens Patrol. Some of us are assigned to monitor the quarantine houses—this is one of four. As you’ll see, your windows are barred. That’s for your protection. You can stay in the common areas like the kitchen and living room until dark. Watch a DVD, read a book. Once you’re in the room for the night, your rooms will be locked until six a.m.”

  Dean sighed loudly. This just gets better and better, Terry thought.

  “The locks are freakproof,” Crew Cut continued. “Keys get lost, so we don’t use ’em. Any human with a brain cell can open your door from the outside, but freaks can’t figure ’em out. If you’re not infected, you’ll live through quarantine fine.”

  “You see freaks here?” Piranha said. “Past the fences?”

  “There’s freaks everywhere,” he said. “Fences keep most of ’em out, but once in a blue moon, one gets in. This town smells like dinner to them.”

  “Is there a Lisa Whittaker here?” Terry blurted suddenly. The question had been in the back of his mind since the checkpoint. Lisa probably hadn’t come so far north from Los Angeles, but he had come a long way too. “She’s my sister.”

  “There’s a lot of people here. I don’t keep a roster,” he said. “Make it past quarantine … and you’ll get your questions answered.” His tone was a thinly veiled Shut up and let me do the talking. He went on: “Chili’s on the stove, so if you’re hungry—”

  Suddenly the quiet white guy pushed his way past Darius toward the front door, where a Gold Shirt was posted with his arms crossed. The stranger muttered under his breath.

  “Help you, sir?” Crew Cut said. His voice rose. “Excuse me? Can I help you?”

  The stranger was gaunt. He looked like he could use a meal, or two or three. His shoulders sagged inside
too-big clothing he’d picked up who knew where, grimy enough to be his only clothes. “Take me back to my rig,” he said. “I’m hittin’ the road.”

  The Gold Shirts didn’t look surprised. Crew Cut gestured, and the man at the door stepped aside to open the door and walk him out. Apparently people had walked out of orientation before. But why walk now? Why not before the strip search? Was he bitten or somehow infected? Could the doctor have missed it?

  The stranger looked over his shoulder at the rest of them, as if in apology. “I spent six years in San Quentin. I ain’t goin’ back to prison,” he said. “No thanks.”

  The locked rooms had been the final straw.

  “He won’t last out there,” Sonia whispered, saying what they were all thinking.

  He was ushered out quickly, without any attempts to change his mind. Kendra looked like she wanted to say something to him, but the door was closed in a heartbeat.

  Crew Cut shrugged. “Prison tats gave him away,” he said. “Probably never would’ve gotten past the Council, but he coulda had a couple days’ harbor. Idiot. You got a record? Keep it to yourself.”

  Terry’s heart raced, and he fought not to glance at Piranha and Darius. Good thing the town couldn’t just go to a computer and check them out. He hoped.

  Kendra slipped her hand into Terry’s, squeezing gently, sign language for Relax. He felt an impulse to pull away for reasons he didn’t understand, something to do with the eyes of so many men he didn’t know. But he held on, if only because somebody might think twice about bothering Kendra if he did. Sonia was standing close to Piranha too, and Crew Cut noted the pairings with a gleam in his eye Terry couldn’t place.

  “I see you kids like to play a little mix ’n’ match,” Crew Cut said, and Terry suddenly realized what he’d seen in his eyes: mockery. None of them said anything, although Terry could practically feel the wave of irritation rolling through Kendra’s hand.

  Let’s just get through the night, Terry thought.

  The chili was fresh, with what tasted like real ground beef, although there wasn’t much meat. Terry and Piranha had at least three helpings apiece. Within five minutes, Terry’s stomach hurt. Ursalina went to a recliner in the corner, covered her face with an old magazine, and was snoring softly in ninety seconds. Darius tried firing up the DVD player, but even The Hangover was too hard to watch: a time capsule to the world they’d come from. Piranha turned it off without a word.

  “How about Threadrunner Apocalypse,” Sonia said, waving a DVD over her head. “It’s not bad. It’s about—”

  Piranha rolled his eyes. “Don’t get her started,” he muttered, glancing toward the Gold Shirt watching a small TV in the kitchen.

  “Nothing with the word Apocalypse in the title, please,” Kendra said, but Sonia had already inserted the disc, and the FBI was threatening them with fines or jail if they made copies or charged friends to watch. Sonia clicked ahead to the opening scene, which reminded Terry of The Shining. From above, a bright red sports car navigated a secluded mountain road. Seeing the road put a bad taste in Terry’s mouth. The pass ahead of the car looked like the perfect hiding place for pirates.

  Darius snatched the remote from Sonia, and the movie skipped ahead. A wild-eyed Joseph “Josey” Wales pushed a sheriff against the wall, holding him by the collar. “What if it’s your virgin daughter they take as their next offering?” Wales growled on the screen, just before Darius clicked it off. Terry was glad for the quiet.

  “Are you seriously a Threadie?” Dean whispered to Sonia.

  “Man, she can quote whole speeches,” Piranha said.

  Sonia made a face. “People make fun of what they don’t understand. The movies might seem cheesy on the surface …”

  “Might?” Piranha said.

  “On the surface?” Darius said.

  “… but they’re really kind of deep. Don’t you believe we all have a connection?”

  “Do they have Threadie versus Jason?” Darius said.

  Piranha snickered. “The Hunt for Thread October?”

  Even Dean cracked a rare joke. “Where Angels Fear to Thread?”

  Terry smothered a laugh, glanced nervously at the Gold Shirt in the kitchen. The more he tried to stop, the harder he laughed, until finally his ribs hurt. Terry and Piranha literally fell to the floor. Sonia threw the DVD case at Piranha, but that only made him howl harder.

  Ursalina stirred, snapping her magazine to get their attention. She gestured toward the Gold Shirt in the kitchen, who was ignoring them … or seemed to be. “Use your brains. You think he’s not listening to every word you say?”

  “Yes, mamacita,” Darius said, and made a kissing noise.

  But that killed the laughter. Afterward, Terry could barely remember why it had seemed so funny.

  But it had felt good to laugh.

  Lights were out at eight o’clock, so Kendra went to her room, which looked like it might have been a sewing room before Freak Day, with lacy curtains and framed prints of kittens on the walls. The daybed with a gold-colored frame waited beneath her barred windows, and the mattress was firm. Even her bed at Grandpa Joe’s had been old, musty, and lumpy—this was the first good bed she’d slept in since she left home. Was she dreaming?

  She’d scrubbed her body raw in the tepid shower, crying the whole while. Any moments of rest let her sadness in. But she’d been thrilled to find clean underwear in a plastic bag on the bathroom counter; pink granny panties that were nearly too big, but handily beat the alternative. She hadn’t had time to do laundry on the road and had barely realized how filthy she was. She had taken two pairs, leaving at least six behind for others who might need them. She’d also grabbed a handful of tampons and pads. Hallelujah!

  Whatever else Threadville might be, it had hospitality down to a science.

  Kendra no longer believed the quarantine was about waiting for the infection to show up; this was a time for observation and learning on both sides, judging how they might fit in. If you weren’t willing to give yourself completely to the town and its rules, you wouldn’t fit in. And maybe they caught a few freaks in the process.

  Maybe that was all. If they were lucky.

  Kendra tensed up when she heard footsteps in the hall, relieved when they passed. What if someone came in while she was alone in the dark? Were the others close enough to hear her screams? Faint tremors began in her bent knees. Kendra’s imagination played such tricks on her in the dim lighting, especially near the shadowed window, that she finally closed her eyes, preferring visions of her imaginary demons.

  Mom’s worried face. Dad’s shock and surprise. Grandpa Joe’s irreparable bite mark. The suddenness of losing them was mild compared with the horror on their faces at the end—their worry for her.

  “We’ll be all right,” she whispered to her family, or maybe just to herself. She breathed, yoga-style, deep in her belly the way Mom had taught her. Counting her exhalations.

  The muted shaking in her limbs stopped. With the sole light from a battery-operated lamp she discovered after about twenty minutes, Kendra saw a stack of Thread literature piled neatly on a night table—a strong suggestion. She picked up Thread War and flipped through it, although she couldn’t make out a word until she pressed the page to her nose and held it directly in the dim light.

  It sounded like a science fiction story: “… and the threads fell like clumps of luminous snowfall across the mountains and flatlands alike, knitting and binding, scouring the vast Oneness for the unifying ties that create universal transcendence …” Did Sonia swallow this stuff without chewing? Kendra could hardly believe that a whole town had genuflected to Wales’s ramblings.

  Kendra stared out of her window at the pitch-dark night. She saw a few twinkles, campfires or flashlights, but otherwise the entire town was dark, still a mystery. She’d have to wait to see the rest of Threadville.

  Kendra hated to admit it, but it was worth it. The locked door. The strip search. She might have done far more for a bed
and a freakproof lock for the night. She didn’t feel locked in—she felt safe. And Terry was safe too, just down the hall.

  A smile flickered to Kendra’s face, and her palm sizzled with the memory of sitting beside him on the sofa, holding his hand. She wished Terry were in her room, that she could settle against his chest. Maybe one day soon? The idea fascinated her. And then what? You’ll have to tell him you’re a virgin, like Wales said in the movie. Or are you ready for a change?

  It seemed absurd: only hours ago, she’d been afraid of getting bitten or shot, and now she was fantasizing about a boy like she was back in high school in the normal world; as if she and Terry were on the beach again, listening to the song of the waves. Kendra planned to use the lamplight to write in her journal.

  About Terry. About Threadville.

  Instead, as soon as she lay on her stomach across her bed, still fully clothed, pen in hand, she rested her head on her clean, fluffy pillow … just for a few minutes.

  Almost before her eyes closed, Kendra tumbled into a deep tunnel of slumber.

  She dreamed vividly of falling red threads. Distantly, she remembered that she’d had the dream before she knew anything about Josey Wales, his town, or his Threadies.

  She’d had the same dream right before the end of the world.

  Five

  December 20

  Terry was awake by five a.m., before daylight, and couldn’t get back to sleep after the rooster began its throaty calls. His bed was fine, and the room was bigger than the one in his real house with his mother and sister, but it felt like a cell. He’d never slept well in lockdown.

  An unfamiliar bark in the hall made Terry shiver. Sniff test time. He hadn’t been bitten. Not that he remembered. But what if infection blurred the memory?

  Two Gold Shirts, including Crew Cut, entered his room without knocking, bringing three leashed dogs—two burly German shepherds and Hipshot. Hipshot jumped up on Terry, licking his face, happily christening his human. When the other dogs only ignored him, Terry breathed with relief. He didn’t want to sleep away from Hippy again.