The Taking

by Becky Johnson

  Henry stood on the tiny porch. The shadows stretched long and dark. The street was deserted. Unease twisted his stomach and chills ran up his spine. He looked over his shoulder, even though he knew there was nothing behind him but the front door.

  “It’s just a street, stupid.”

  His words echoed back. “It’s just a street, stupid.” Henry took an involuntary step back.

  “Shit, stop being so scared.”

  He got a little thrill at saying shit.

  “Come on, man, do you think Bruce Wayne would be scared of a little dark? No way.”

  The first step forward was the hardest. It felt like the door was trying to hold onto him. Down the porch steps. Onto the sidewalk. He kept moving. Once he was away and walking further down the street his worry subsided, it was an adventure. In his head, he was Batman roaming the streets of Gotham. In his head he was safe.

  5:17 p.m.

  On the south side of town

  The room was dark. The damask curtains let in the last rays of light from the setting sun. Ruth Stevenson sat on her sagging full-size bed and watched the room darkening. Hands with knuckles warped and swollen from arthritis were twisted in her lap. The dark skin of her face was smooth with soft wrinkles that gave testimony to the life she'd lived. She could pass for someone twenty years younger. At least on the outside. On the inside, she felt every one of her years.

  As the room darkened, she stood and walked to her closet. There was very little light, but she could still see her wedding dress inside its white garment bag, hanging in the back of her closet. It’s been five years since her Sam died. Five years that she’d been alone. She ran her hand over the garment bag and said her goodbyes before walking back across to her bed and lowering herself to kneel beside it.

  The hard floor sent stabs of pain through her arthritic joints. She was used to it. The pain was nothing new. Kneeling by her bed and saying a prayer was a daily occurrence for Ruth Stevenson and today of all days the prayer was needed.

  She was old. Kneeling there with her knees aching and tender bones protesting she felt ancient. She had lived in Heritage for all her adult life. She’d buried her husband and her son. She was tired.

  Ruth folded her hands together and leaned over the bed, pressing her forehead into her knuckles.

  “Thank you, Lord, for the years you’ve given me. Thank you for the time with my precious Sam, Lord.” She had to pause and swallow. The weight of the night tightened her throat. “Give me strength for what is to come.”

  She didn’t bother saying Amen. What was the point? The night would not be easy. She looked over at the clock on the nightstand; it was a little after five. She had a couple of hours before she needed to get started.

  She pressed her hands against the bed for support and pushed herself up, groaning as her aging body protested. She was tired, but she was ready. Whatever the night wanted to bring, she was prepared to face it. She wasn’t afraid, but she did have much to do in the coming hours. She might as well take a nap before what was coming, came.

  5:17 p.m.

  The West Side of Town

  The battery was acting up, again. Matt Bryant reached his long arm under the hood and adjusted the light hanging from the edge of the propped open hood of the dark blue Chevy. It was the only light in the closed and dark garage. Matt fully intended to spend the entire night inside that locked garage. He hated the nights the Takers came. Everyone did, but Matt despised the hiding and the dark. He despised the waiting.

  In the pale light of the hanging lamp, he disconnected the battery and cleaned the connections. While he worked, Pink Floyd played quietly in the background. Not loud enough to be heard outside, but enough to sooth the anger pumping hot and furious through Matt’s blood.

  He stood upright and stretched, sighing a little as his back cracked. At nineteen he had a man’s body. Tall and sinewy with muscles that bunched under the plain white t-shirt he wore. He sipped the ice-cold soda sitting at his side and wished he was anywhere but Heritage, doing anything but waiting out the Takers.

  The door attaching the garage to the home cracked open.” Matt?” It was a whisper.

  A prematurely gray head slid around the door and peaked into the garage.

  “Matt, sweetie. Maybe you should come inside.”

  “I’m good, Mom.”

  “It’s getting dark out. Don’t you think you should be inside?”

  This exact same conversation happened the last Taking and the Taking before that. “I don’t want to be inside.” He saw her wince and felt the sick twist of guilt roll through his stomach. “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just better if I keep busy.”

  “Okay, well we're going to pray if you want to join us.”

  “Thanks, I’m good.”

  The door closed behind her with a quiet click, and safely away from his mother’s guilting gaze he couldn’t entirely suppress his eye roll.

  Matt turned back toward the truck and kicked the tire. He hated this town. He hated this night. And he hated how people pretended this was normal. He knew the world was bigger than this town. It had to be. He knew that ordinary people didn’t live in constant fear of being Taken. But every month, on every night that the Takers came, his family and community organized themselves to hide. As a group, they buried their heads deep in the sand. They would sit and pray, believing God must have a good reason for this.

  Meanwhile, every month the Takers came, and someone vanished. He kicked the tire again. He couldn’t take it anymore. It was wrong. He turned and walked toward the door from the garage to the driveway. He paused for one long moment with his hand on the doorknob.

  One heartbeat passed. Then another. His fingers gripped and began to turn.

  5:22 p.m.

  The low rumble of voices in the crowded community room was a roar inside Paul’s head. Folding chairs set up in rows held people in groups of two or three clumped together and whispered to each other. The room was plain, painted beige with a brown carpet. There were no paintings on the wall or flags hanging in the front of the room. The windows were boarded over and painted black, not allowing light to escape, and the sickly glow of fluorescent lights made the room dim like a smoky haze was permanently suspended in the air. Paul kept his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes on the ground as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The seats on either side of him were vacant.

  He knew what he had to do. Why he was here. It suddenly seemed so crystal clear. The perfect solution to the craptastic situation in which he found himself.

  Golden hair brushing his cheek. Green eyes smiling at him. A scream as she was pulled away.

  Paul squeezed his eyes shut. No, not now. This wasn’t the time to think of Claire. He had a mission. One on which he needed to focus.

  He couldn’t wait for the meeting to start. His knee bounced outside of his control as his fingers twitched. He raised his hand to smooth his graying mustache as his head played out the coming scene. The meeting would start. The Mayor would take center stage and Paul would stand up and say what he should have said last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, and probably every time he had ever sat in this room waiting for the inevitable.

  5:26 p.m.

  Ruth lay in bed for a while before giving up on rest. Her mind would not quiet enough to let her sleep. She sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at the dark curtains built to block out the light. This was it. The moment for which she had been waiting.

  She stood and stretched, feeling every one of her 78 years. She shuffled over to the closet and pulled out thick pants, hiking boots, and her dear Sam’s heavy coat. It was going to be cold tonight. Not only from the fall air, but it was always cold when the Takers came.

  Ruth’s mind wandered to what the coming night would bring as she bent over to tie the rugged hiking boots on her feet. Would it hurt? Would they take her someplace or would she cease to exist when she vanished? No one knew precisely how the Takers did what they did. No one had
seen it happen and lived to tell the story. No one alive had ever seen them, or if someone had seen them, that person didn’t want to draw attention to that fact. It was better to pretend the Takers didn’t exist. Better to pretend that the world was safe and good, that everyone would be okay.

  Ruth checked the house, locking windows and giving her plants one last water. She didn’t intend to come back here, and she didn’t want it to be a mess when people came in to clean the house. She paused in her small blue kitchen with its scarred round table. She checked her pockets, then grabbed a small flashlight from one of the kitchen drawers. Everything else she left in place. She didn’t need it. With one last sad look around, saying goodbye to a lifetime of memories, she opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the dark.

  Out into the dark

  5:41 p.m.

  Sarah was in a panic. Henry wasn’t here. And it was already dark. So dark. She peered out at the street from behind a curtain. The night seemed darker than usual; reality or her own imagination? She didn’t know and would prefer never to find out, but Henry was missing. His house was close. Heritage was laid out in a series of square blocks. Everyone’s backyards collided in the center of the block. A couple of hundred feet through her backyard and the neighbors, then she would be there.

  She paced the mudroom for a moment debating, questioning. No other options presented themselves in the midst of the chaos that was her mind.

  “You have to go. A few steps and you’ll be safe at his door.” She whispered to herself.

  “Come on.” She stopped in the pantry to grab the keys to Henry’s house kept there for nights just like this when the younger boy was home alone and might need someone to check up on him.

  With the keys tight in her fist and her gray sweatshirt wrapped around her, she stepped to the door and peered out around the curtain before taking a deep breath, opening the door, and stepping outside.

  The back door opened to an ordinary yard. A yard where she had spent many summer days growing up, playing with her best friend, Matt. A yard filled with good memories. Even though it was the same yard, the happy memories were absent from the tableau in front of her. The faint light from the stars and moon illuminated neatly mowed grass and two oak trees. Just like every other yard in Heritage. There were no porch lights. No strategically placed spotlights to showcase a flag or flowers. No one in Heritage dared to have extra lights outside. There was nothing in the small block of grass that showed any personality. Looking at this yard, it would be impossible to guess anything about the owners. Like all of Heritage, character was not nearly as crucial as conformity.

  Leaves in the trees above rustled in the crisp night air. Sarah froze. A noise from her right jerked her attention to the side. Listening, heart racing, another sound had her swinging back to the left. Her throat tightened. Panic soured her stomach. She took one step back and then another before bumping into the closed back door. Forcing herself to move, she inched to her left, walking toward Henry’s house with her back pressed against the siding. Dry leaves, pushed by the breeze, rolled on the grass with a rustle that sounded loud in the silence. Sarah stayed glued to the house for a long moment. Too afraid to move forward. Too scared to step back.

  Come on Sarah. Move.

  It didn’t work. She couldn’t take another step.

  An owl hooted and jolted Sarah out of her numb state. She pushed off the side of the house and ran. Through her backyard, across the neighbors, and into Henry’s. Her heart thudded in time with her feet as she raced up the steps and to Henry’s back door. Her shaking fingers struggled to fit the key to the hole.

  Come on come on.

  Yes.

  She stumbled inside, slammed the door shut, and slumped back against it with her heart pounding away in her chest and a faint sheen of nervous sweat blanketing her forehead.

  She leaned against the door and caught her breath as her pulse gradually slowed. After what felt like hours, but was probably only seconds, Sarah collected herself and looked around. The hallway was quiet and dark. Surely Henry heard her come in, right?

  “Henry,” her voice was a whisper.

  No answer.

  Sarah fished her flashlight out of her pocket and headed down the hall towards Henry’s room. Maybe he was playing a video game or had on headphones.

  Right. That had to be the reason.

  Sarah knocked softly before pushing open the door, “Henry?”

  Nothing.

  Her stomach in knots, Sarah anxiously searched the whole house, a sick feeling growing in her stomach. After searching the house twice, she had to admit defeat. He wasn’t there. And he wasn’t at her home, either.

  Sarah flicked her flashlight off and peeled the curtain back a bare inch to see outside. Not here, not at home. There was only one place he could be. Outside.

  “Henry, where are you?”

  Of course, no one answered.

  5:58 p.m.

  Matt stood in the doorway. Illuminated by the faint light from the garage behind him. His eyes probed the shadows for any sign of the Takers, for any sign of something different, something off. It looked the same as always; the same driveway sloped down to the same street he’d lived on all his whole life. Same neighbors residing inside their same homes. Nothing was different, except that not one porch light was on. It was as if everyone in the whole world was gone, vanished inside their homes, hiding under their beds.

  Matt’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated it here. He hated everything about it, but mostly he hated that people pretended that their lives were normal.

  His foot hovered above the driveway, about to take that step, a step he wanted to make every time the Taking occurred. An action that would tear him away from everything he’d been taught his whole life. As much as he hated the restrictions of his family and neighborhood, stepping out and defying what he’d believed his whole life was a little harder than just his foot touching the pavement.

  Matt’s foot touched the ground outside the garage. Adrenaline rushed through his veins; this was it, he was doing it. A buzz behind him caught his attention. He glanced over his shoulder. The faint light of his cell phone called to him. Someone was texting or calling him. It was unusual enough that he couldn’t let it go.

  Tonight, of all nights, no one used their phone. Reaching out would just draw attention. Not that people in Heritage reached out very often. It’s hard to connect with others when everything is a lie. In the mind of Heritage’s citizens, it was better to bunker down and keep quiet. It was better to pretend.

  Matt looked back outside before shutting the door and going over to his phone.

  He had one missed call. Sarah.

  Matt’s forehead creased with worry as he picked the phone up. With his finger hovering over the call back button, the phone in his hand started to buzz again.

  6:00 p.m.

  Crickets in the grass chirped and then suddenly went silent. The owl hooting in a tree cut off abruptly. A sizzle and soft electric buzz filled the air. In the woods just outside of town a figure appeared and then disappeared before solidifying. It gazed toward the town, a black hood covering its face. In the next instant, it was surrounded by caped figures.

  They didn’t speak or look at each other. All ten stared down at the small town before them. They were barely visible under the dark sky. The robes were so black they seemed to absorb the night. Long moments passed with no movement. The figures didn’t move or make a sound. The air around them was so still and silent that it almost seemed like the whole world was frozen. Then there was a ripple in the air, like a stone hitting a pond, and in a blink, the figures vanished, but the night stayed silent.

  6:00 p.m.

  “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Sarah muttered to herself as the phone rang again. She didn’t know what to do. Henry was missing. Her dad was at the Town Hall meeting, and tonight was the Taking. With the phone pressed to her ear, she pushed the kitchen door curtain aside enough to look across the adjoining backyards and
to her own kitchen door just a dozen yards away. It might as well have been miles. She didn’t think she could take another trip out into the open.

  On the other end, the phone rang again before a quick click signaled that someone picked up.

  “Sarah?” Matt’s voice was cautious. And no wonder, tonight of all nights was not a time for Sarah to break the rules.

  “Matt,” her voice shook.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Sarah opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The words stuck in her throat.

  “Sarah?” Matt’s voice held a hint of worry.

  It took several long seconds for Sarah to force the words out past the lump in her throat. “It’s Henry. He’s missing. I think he went outside.” The words rushed out like a river bursting through a dam.

  “Outside? Tonight?”

  “Yes. I was supposed to watch him, but he never came over, and when I went to his house he was gone. Matt, what do we do? He can’t be outside. Not tonight.”

  Sarah couldn’t contain the panic in her voice. She couldn’t do this, not again. She couldn’t lose someone else to the Takers.

  “Okay. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at Henry’s house.”

  Silence. She could practically hear him thinking.

  “I’ll go out and look for him.” The sentence fell like a rock between them. A simple statement with endless ripples.

  “Matt … no, don’t,” she couldn’t finish the thought. Don’t go out? Don’t save Henry? Don’t die? Please, please don’t die.

  “Look,” he paused searching for the right words. “All you have to do is hang in there for a little bit and everything will okay.”

  The words struck, burrowing deep. Hang in there for a little bit. Sarah snuck a peek through the curtain. Matt’s words merged with what she already knew to form a mantra on repeat in her head. Just be brave for a little bit.