Sunfall (Season 2): Episodes 7-12

by Tim Meyer

“HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” a voice blared through a speaker system.

  Keeping the purse over his shoulder, Jarvis pointed toward the sky. Sam and Chuck reluctantly obeyed, their eyes slowly adjusting to the light.

  “Please turn off the light!” Sam shouted.

  “DROP THE BAG, MISTER!” the voice boomed again.

  Jarvis didn't react immediately; he kept his arms raised, and looked to Sam.

  “DROP THE BAG!”

  Sam didn't move. He kept frozen, looking away from the blinding spotlight. Jarvis slowly reached for the strap on his shoulder. He let the bag fall on the concrete landing.

  A tall figure appeared in the light. Bending down to grab the bag, the man said, “Good.”

  Jarvis fought against the urge to bash the man in the head and take off with the drugs. Maybe it was the man's tall presence. Maybe it was his bulky, intimidating figure. Maybe it was the .38 in his left hand, the one pointed directly at Jarvis's chest.

  “Good,” the figure repeated, digging through the bag and examining its contents. His Jersey accent was deep and thick and reminded Jarvis of Tony Soprano. “My my. What do we have here? Looking to open up your own pharmacy?” The figure cocked his head back and laughed, a sinister howl making the hairs on Sam's arm stand. “Keep your hands up,” he barked. The figure hustled back to the squad car and killed the spotlight. This time the darkness blinded them. It took a minute for their eyes to readjust. “Looks like I got yous for Breaking and Entering. And we'll add Jaywalking to the charges,” the cop said. Once their eyes adjusted to the night, they could see the cop clearly. He wore a brown campaign hat displaying a shiny silver star. His cream-colored uniform looked perfectly ironed and clean, save for the little white dusting around his collar which had fallen off a delicious doughnut. With astounding clarity, Jarvis could make out his own reflection in the cop's Big-Texas sunglasses. A wiry handle-bar mustache that took a decade to grow and groom twitched as he spoke. The ends were slightly curled and Jarvis could tell the man twisted them using a super-hold styling product. “Yup, Jaywalking is a huge problem around these parts.”

  Chuck let his arms fall to his sides and laughed hysterically, so loud and obnoxious it sounded phony. “Jaywalking!” he yelled. “Oh, man. That's a good one!”

  The cop rushed forward and bashed Chuck in the mouth with his .38. He dropped to the ground, blood spurting from his mouth. A bloody tooth skipped across the concrete and rolled down the handicap ramp.

  “Motherfucker!” Chuck roared, rolling on the ground. He placed a hand over his mouth; blood seeped through his fingers and ran down his hand. “Fuck is wrong with you, man!” The words died behind his hand, but everyone understood what he had said.

  Jarvis and Sam rushed forward to help their friend, but Officer Quick-Draw aimed his weapon on them.

  “You fuckers stay exactly where you are and don't move a muscle unless you want to eat a bullet. Don't recommend it myself. Metal taste like shit.”

  Still holding the gun on them, the cop removed the cuffs from his hip and knelt. He rolled Chuck over, who surprisingly enough, went willingly. The officer cuffed him and yanked him to his feet with one hand.

  The brute waved his weapon in the air like a baton. “Turn around. Hands against the building.”

  Sam and Jarvis exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  “I said do it!” Officer Friendly bellowed, his voice thunderous.

  Slowly, they turned. Jarvis pressed his palms against the rough exterior of his old workplace. Sam did the same with an equal amount of reluctance.

  The two of them were cuffed and being escorted to the cruiser. Officer Friendly opened the back door and waved them on. Jarvis went first, Sam next, and the burly policeman tossed Chuck next to them like luggage.

  Before they took off, the cop pushed a CD into the disc player and cranked it to MAX volume. The opening to AC/DC's “Highway to Hell” blared through the speakers, so loud no one could hear themselves think. The crunchy guitars Sam ordinarily enjoyed rubbed against his eardrums like sandpaper. The crash symbols needled the center of his brain. Sweat leaked from every pore. A lump rose in his throat.

  Highway to Hell. As the cruiser sped down the dark road, Sam wondered if Hell was coming to them.

  An hour later, the cop turned off the highway and pulled down a service road, overgrown foliage running its leafy arms across the windows. Springsteen's “Born to Run” played through the speakers and Sam knew what he had to do: RUN. It was the only thing he could think about. He played the scene out over and over again, examining each possible scenario. He imagined himself barreling into the cop as soon as the door opened, knocking him over, and running as far as his legs would take him. However, there were a few problems with that dream: the major being sunrise taking over the horizon, an orange glow beginning to eat away at the night sky. He might be able to hide from Officer Friendly but the sun would eventually find him. The man was armed and clearly not afraid to use his weapon.

  The road gave way to an open area, a small municipal building standing in the center. A few cars were parked out front and Sam wondered if the cop had friends and if they were as crazy as him.

  “We're here,” the cop said, turning Bruce down.

  “Officer, this is unnecessary,” Sam said.

  The cop jammed on the brakes and the cruiser skidded to a stop. Chuck surged forward and slammed his head against the clear bullet-proof divider. He cursed as an egg started to farm on his forehead. Jarvis swallowed hard. The cop craned his whole body toward them, his lips pursed, his eyebrows rising over the gold frames of his aviators.

  “Unnecessary?” he asked like it hurt to speak. “Unnecessary?”

  “Sir, with all due respect,” Jarvis said. “We really don't have time for this.”

  Sam saw anger flash across the cop's face and jumped in before Jarvis could make matters worse. “I think what Jarvis meant was we know we might have broken the law.”

  “You did break the law,” the cop grumbled, his mustache dancing above his lip.

  “We did break the law,” Sam admitted. “But we have to get back to the pharmacy in Havencrest. The medicine is for a teenage girl who is dying.”

  “Possession of narcotics,” the cop mumbled.

  Unable to fathom what was happening, Jarvis covered his mouth with his hand.

  “Do you understand?” Sam asked, his voice growing louder. The cop didn't care for his tone and let him know by wriggling his mustache. “A girl is dying. If you don't let us go, then she will die!”

  The cop stared at him, his expression remaining the same.

  “Don't worry, cupcake,” he told them. “You boys will be in and out. Guarantee it.”

  The cop threw open his door and stepped out, immediately going for the passenger's door. He escorted his prisoners out, the opposite order in which they entered.

  Twelve streetlights stood around them, circling the parking lot. A single rope had been tied to the top of each pole. Chuck saw what hung from them first. Jarvis muttered, “Holy shit” before Sam exited the cruiser. When Sam looked up, he spotted them swaying in the strong fall breeze. Twelve charred bodies dangled, one from each pole. Around their necks, the corpses donned necklaced placards that read “GUILTY” in red letters. As the wind blew, the stench of their burnt remains found their nostrils.

  The cop smiled. “In and out. Guaranteed.”

  “TUNNELS”

  EPISODE NINE

  -1-

  A city of rats.

  The sun hidden behind ripped tarps. Beams of light shooting down from the sky. People huddled in the streets. Dirty wanderers. Nothing but rats scurrying about, carrying filth and transmitting disease. A woman feeds her small child a slice of stale bread. Now she feeds her a rat, cooked of course, but the meat is squishy and rancid in her mouth. The girl's face twists as she eats but she continues to chew because it's the rat or go hungry. It's eat or die here. Eat or die.

  A man with a knife stalks the streets. P
apers tumble across the pavement as the wind kicks up. There's a deep chill in the air. Winter is coming. The man with the knife smiles. The dreamer has seen this face before. He's the man who searches for the BAD LITTLE BOYS, the one who keeps them locked in cages; who teaches them lessons by stripping the flesh off their backs. He's a bad man and he must be avoided. But the dreamer can't warn the little girl eating the rat. The dreamer has no voice, only eyes. Scared watchful eyes.

  People shuffle past, but the dreamer pays them no mind. The little girl fits the rest of the rat in her mouth and swallows. Sucks in the tail like a spaghetti noodle. She's disgusted, but nourished. She looks to her mother for more, but there is none. There's a city full of rats, but none for her to eat. Her mother tells her if she wants to eat, she must catch her own rats. She's almost an adult now, catch your own rats.

  Sour-faced, the girl bids her mother good-day and goes on her way. She pushes through the throng of people in the streets, some peddling merchandise, others trying to find safe passage from Point A to Point B. Everyone acts with haste. The girl spots a rat in the gutter, but it disappears behind the army of moving feet. She pursues the rat like Alice and the White Rabbit.

  The man with the knife hidden beneath his black cloak follows too.

  The girl squeezes between two people haggling over fruit. Apples. Apples are her favorite, but they cost too much and rats cost nothing. So, rats it is.

  The rat bounces behind a stand selling firecrackers. The man operating the stand has one eye and two fingers. He smiles at the girl oddly, and the girl thinks there are other rats in the world, and decides not to go anywhere near the man or his stand. The man waves his stunted hand at her, and she runs in the opposite direction.

  She doesn't know it, but girls go missing frequently in the city of rats.

  She comes to a clearing and there's a single rat in the middle of the street, nibbling on a slice of bread. She creeps forward, careful not to alert it. I'll get you, rat, she thinks. You'll be the tastiest rat I've ever had!

  The dreamer wishes to warn the girl, tell her she's the rat, but it's too late. The man in the cloak draws his knife and his shadow falls over her unnoticed. The city is bathed in shadows, and the shadows come and go as they please. The little girl sneaks behind the rat and crouches, ready to pounce. A man in the cloak reaches, grabs the girl by her hair and yanks her back. The rat hears her scream and flees, finding safety in the closest sewer. The man in the cloak puts the blade to her throat and whispers, “You've been a bad little girl,” in her ear. She tries to scream again but the man clamps his hand over her mouth. He digs the blade into her back, careful not to break her skin. “Quiet.”

  The dreamer watches. The man turns to the dreamer and smiles.

  He'll never forget the face.

  He never forgets a rat.

  -2-

  The convoy of vehicles four strong weaved between the permanent congestion on I-295 as the drivers scanned the green roadside signs for their exit. Soren looked in the rearview mirror and saw Shondra staring back at him. It had been like this much of the way; he could feel her gaze on the back of his neck and every time he looked in the mirror her eyes stared back. Soren guided the SUV around some wreckage and charred bodies strewn across the highway haphazardly. There had been instances over the past two days where they had to get out and move obstructions aside, but other than those few instances, the highway had been kind.

  If I could only do something about those eyes...

  Her stare never left him. He didn't trust her. Not for a moment. He didn't trust any of Sam's leftovers. He sensed Brian had a weak arm he could twist with ease. The Mouth talked a good game, but when it came down to it, he could be manipulated too. The girls were young and impressionable. Dana had already jumped the fence, and Becky wouldn't be too far behind once they realized their father was dead and no one was coming to rescue them. What purpose they would come to serve, Soren didn't exactly know. But they were pawns, and in a game where the stakes were high, in a world that demanded sacrifices, you could never have enough pawns. They'd come in handy, he was sure of it. They all would.

  He glanced at Susan in the mirror. She ran her fingers through Dana's hair, curling the ends. Dana didn't seem to mind, but wasn't overly joyed about being her pet either. Susan could muck this situation up. He knew it. She had that potential. So did Shondra. They both needed to go. Susan had done well back at the store, played her part perfectly, but since Soren's great unveiling, she changed. More confrontational. He didn't like it. He didn't need people to ask questions, he needed people to listen for answers.

  Soren glanced over at Brian. He was out cold, had been for the last twenty miles or so. He had been up most of the day, keeping lookout while they hunkered down in an empty office building several miles ago. Couldn't sleep, he remembered Brian saying, and there was something odd about the way he said it. Like not sleeping had been a regular occurrence. Soren hadn't thought much of it until now. The man's lips moved in his sleep, like he was having a casual conversation with someone. Eyebrows twitched. Nose wrinkled. A smile, a frown. The occasional whispered word, cryptic and labored.

  Soren faced the road, wondering if he missed the exit.

  “Stay on 295,” Shondra said, “over the bridge. We'll merge with 95 and it's straight all the way through.”

  Soren eyed her warily. She exchanged a similar look, continuing to bore into him. He checked the gas gauge and noticed it hovered above the big E.

  “We're going to need to stop for gas,” he said.

  “Brian has the map,” Shondra said. “If I remember correctly, there should be a rest stop on the highway up ahead before the bridge.”

  Soren didn't want to wake Brian, but with the map tucked under his right thigh and out of reach, he had no choice. He nudged Brian's shoulder.

  “Wake up,” he said softly.

  Brian didn't budge.

  Soren pushed him harder.

  “The rats will get us,” Brian muttered, barely audible.

  “What?” Soren said, whipping his head toward the unconscious man.

  “The rats are here,” he said, louder this time. “And they will get us.”

  Brian's body twitched. Once. Twice. Three times. Then a series of spastic thrashing. His arms flailed and legs kicked wildly, slamming into the dashboard. Foam sputtered from his lips. His eyes opened, but his pupils disappeared behind clouds of pure white. Shondra reached over the seat and tried to subdue him, to prevent him from hurting himself. Soren reached over him as well while trying to keep his eyes on the road, swerving past the abandoned obstacles scattered before them. He turned to Brian in time to catch him cough up a foamy white substance. It ran down the man's chin, staining the Hawaiian shirt he had stolen from Waldo-Mart.

  “I got him!” Shondra said, pointing toward the road.

  “Soren!” Dana yelled. “Look out!”

  Soren whipped his head forward and gripped the wheel. A deer flashed in front of the SUV and Soren reacted, yanking the wheel to the right. It was too late. The deer stopped, gawking at the headlights, seemingly open to impact. Instead of jamming on the brakes and losing control, Soren stomped on the gas pedal. The SUV surged forward. The deer mewled as the bumper leveled it, its bones snapping underneath the weight of the tires. The SUV jerked violently as they rolled over Bambi

  THUD THUD

  and once the ruined cadaver was behind them, nothing more than a bloody tumbling shadow in the rearview mirror, they resumed normal speed.

  Soren's heart slowly climbed down to its usual beat. He watched Mouth guide his vehicle around the carcass effortlessly. Deciding he should check to see if there was any substantial damage to the SUV, Soren pulled over and parked on a clear stretch of highway.

  Shondra slapped Brian's cheek as Soren pulled the SUV to a complete stop.

  “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up!”

  The fog in his eyes finally lifted and Brian returned to the conscious world.

  It ski
pped across the pavement in front of them, tossing bloody gobbets in the air as it tumbled. Mouth saw the accident unfold and slowed. “Christ on a Christmas tree!” he shouted as he careened the car around the mutilated animal. Becky pushed her face against the window and looked down at the squirming creature as it lived out its last agonizing moments. By the time Mouth stopped and climbed out, the deer was dead. “Un-fucking-real.”

  He jogged over to the carcass. Becky opened the passenger's door and stood up, her nose and mouth reaching for each other, pulling her face tight. She wanted to puke. Death controlled the air and she found it difficult to breathe. Putting a hand over her nose, she stepped away from the vehicle they had stolen back at the old folk's community.

  “Dead,” Mouth said, standing over it.

  The other two vehicles stopped behind them. One of the drivers stuck his head out of the window and asked Mouth what the hell was going on. He pointed down at the deer and explained.

  “You guys hold tight,” he told them. “I'm going to check on the others.”

  Mouth walked toward Soren's SUV and Becky trailed him, keeping his pace.

  “Why don't you stay back.”

  “No,” Becky replied.

  He rolled his eyes.“You ever going to listen to me?”

  “Not likely.”

  Ain't that the truth.

  “Fine,” Mouth said sharply; a battle not worth the fight. “But keep a safe distance.”

  “I want to make sure Dana is okay.”

  Mouth understood. “Me too.”

  When they reached the SUV, Soren was standing outside the open passenger's side door. He was yelling and Mouth couldn't make out exactly what had his cock in a knot. Whatever it was had him concerned and breathing heavily. Standing on the backseat floor, Shondra leaned over the door, hovering above Soren. She was calling Brian's name and Mouth didn't hear him answer.

  “What's going on?” he asked.

  No one answered.

  “Brian,” he heard Soren say. “Wake up you bastard.”