The Sound

by James Sperl

“Who says they’re low rent?” replied the first man. “Now I’m not saying I firmly believe that terrorists are exclusively involved here, I’m just trotting out ideas, but I think you’re both woefully underestimating the reach of the twenty-first-century terrorist. They’ve got networks spread around the globe and have people who are willing to drop what they’re doing at a moment’s notice to join their cause, even though many of these people had never previously considered fighting a jihad.”

  Clarissa rolled her head toward Valentina.

  “I think this guy’s a little off his rocker.”

  Valentina squinched her face into a pucker. “Uh, yeah. Just a little. I’m open to theories, but come on, dude.”

  The woman DJ chortled. “So what, you think that some terror group put out word then thousands of covert operatives responded and acted uniformly to take people without a single person seeing them? Even if they could pull it off, what would be the point? Why not just kill people where they slept?”

  “Well, I would think that part’s obvious—to get inside our heads. You’ve seen how effectively the past few days have managed to shake our country. Look at Boston, look at Minneapolis, look at New York, Los Angeles, St. Louis—overnight things have deteriorated, which is to say nothing of what’s going in other parts of the world. And you just know it’s going to get worse.”

  Valentina cocked a finger at the radio. “Now that much I’ll agree with.”

  “That much I’ll agree with,” echoed the nasally DJ.

  Clarissa and Valentina snapped their heads to one another and smiled, their brows blossoming into raised lines of shared astonishment.

  “But that’s where I draw the line with what you’re saying,” he continued. “The reason Homeland Security is getting involved is just as Brian Stetford said.”

  Valentina’s amused expression crashed. “Who’s Brian Stetford?”

  Clarissa adjusted her moist palms on the steering wheel. “He’s the White House Press Secretary.”

  Clarissa’s exposure to the news was usually relegated to one of the several apps she had downloaded to her phone, and even when she was able to manage a couple of minutes to thumb swipe her way over the accumulated stories, she almost never paid attention to anything that had to do with politics. She considered herself part of the “Jaded Generation,” that expanding group of millennials who denounced religion and government and had convinced themselves that their voices didn’t matter. But Clarissa had heard of Brian Stetford.

  Widely considered to be one of the most stone-faced White House Press Secretaries to have graced the podium, Clarissa had stumbled upon a video clip of him when a headline that read “Stetford Humiliates Press Corps” grabbed her attention. At the time, she’d never heard of Stetford, and was, in fact, only drawn to the clip because of its lure of public-shaming the media, something for which Clarissa was always on board. By the time the clip was over, and Stetford had thoroughly admonished a roomful of White House correspondents for their lack of decorum during a particularly delicate Q & A regarding the president’s decision to send aid to war-torn regions of Africa, she had gained an appreciation for the man and his job—even if her respect for the institution he worked for still fell short of a thumbs up. That Brian Stetford had conducted a White House briefing on what was happening globally more than intrigued Clarissa. She tapped the volume knob up a few ticks, as the nasally DJ continued.

  “And that is,” he said, “because whatever’s happening right now is a direct threat to our national security. Any time entire populations of citizens can disappear without explanation, you can bet your bottom dollar Homeland’s gonna get involved, and it doesn’t mean terrorists have to be at the center of it.”

  “I want to ask you guys something,” began the woman, who sounded as if she paused to sip something. “What did you make of the exchange between Politico’s David Sharp and Mr. Stetford? Can we play that back? Nick, can you queue that? Yes? Okay, great. Because I wanted to get your feedback on it. As you both know, Stetford has a long-standing and well-earned reputation for being impossible to read.”

  The first DJ chuckled. “Now there’s the understatement of the year.”

  “But something happened in the briefing that I wanted—You have it? Okay, play it please, Nick. Listen up everybody, and tell me what you think.”

  Clarissa tightened her hands on the wheel in anticipation. She watched as Valentina leaned toward the dashboard, head cocked and eyes fixed, her face so perilously close to the radio, Clarissa feared even just a minor fender bender would be enough to wreck her friend’s good looks.

  Audio from the briefing cut in, Stetford having just finished answering a question.

  “Yes, David,” Stetford’s replayed voice said. Clarissa thought he was likely a smoker based on his low-end growl, and he could have used a lesson or two in intonation—his voice teetered dangerously close to monotone.

  A man cleared his throat before speaking, his speech clipped and enunciated. “Brian, you mentioned that DHS has been alerted. What exactly does that mean? Has the president ordered any specific actions, and if so, what are they?”

  Brian Stetford didn’t skip a beat in his response.

  “What that means is that the relevant agencies working in conjunction with the Department of Homeland Security have been notified to expand and intensify their vigilance. The events we’re all seeing play out across the globe require international cooperation, not just the fine-honed efforts of the United States. To my knowledge, the president has not made any special requests of our law enforcement or armed forces, but top officials are standing by to receive such orders if the president deems them necessary.”

  The room erupted in a barrage of questions too unintelligible to make out. Clarissa imagined Brian Stetford directing a poised finger to someone else in the room, but David wasn’t finished.

  “Well, what orders would those be?” David said, the precision of his question quieting the room. “The number of missing persons has been growing steadily for nearly two days with a vast majority of them still remaining unaccounted for. Surely, the president has implemented a strategy to deal with such a tremendous, uh…misplacement of citizens.”

  “The president is well aware of what’s happening,” Brian responded. “And I can assure you, he is taking every measure to deal with these most inexplicable circumstances.”

  “Right here, guys,” murmured the female DJ. “Listen.”

  The audio of the briefing once again burst into a frenzy of competing voices, but David still had one final question.

  “Has anyone from the White House gone missing, Brian?”

  The shift from noise to silence was so dramatic, Clarissa momentarily thought she had lost the radio signal. Then Brian Stetford cleared his throat.

  “To my knowledge,” he began, “no.”

  “There!” the female DJ said, cutting off the briefing. “Did you hear what I heard?”

  “What?” the first DJ remarked. “You mean that two to three seconds of crippling silence before Stetson answered? Unconvincingly, I might add.”

  The nasally DJ chuckled humorlessly. “Yeah, I think anyone with half a brain will read that there have been losses in the upper echelons of our government. Just who and how many are something I don’t think we’ll know for some time.”

  “Agreed,” chimed in the female DJ. “Whatever’s happening, whatever this…mass disappearance is, it appears to be indiscriminate. Terrorists or no, everyone seems to be equally at risk—”

  “Okay,” Clarissa said, snapping off the radio. “Enough.”

  “Thank you,” Valentina said, settling back into her seat. “It’s like a car wreck or bad TV—you just can’t look away.”

  “I know. Only it’s not TV. It’s real.”

  Valentina looked over at her. “Are you scared?”

  Clarissa’s eyes flitted from the road to her friend. She held out her hand. Valentina took it and gripped it powerfully.

  “Ye
s,” Clarissa said. “I’m scared.”

  Valentina nodded as if Clarissa’s admission of fear helped rationalize what she felt, which was good. Her friend needed to know it was okay to be frightened. Clarissa suspected a vast majority of the world experienced similar emotions. And why shouldn’t they? The situation was as terrifying as it was confounding. But if Valentina knew just how scared Clarissa really was, Clarissa worried it would put her jittery friend over the top.

  A BP gas station drifted into view. Prompted by its sight, Clarissa glanced at her gas gauge: half full. Typically, she would wait until she was down to a third of a tank, maybe even a quarter, before filling up, but she thought it prudent to top off now before the shit hit the fan and people began storming fuel depots and food markets in an apocalyptic bid for survival. It sounded extreme when she said it in her head, but what did she know? It’s what they did in the movies.

  “Listen,” she said. “I’m going to stop and fill up. Why don’t you run inside and grab us a couple of industrial-sized buckets of mocha java. If that doesn’t help us, nothing will.”

  Clarissa smiled. Valentina tried, but she struggled.

  “Okay. Because nothing does more to calm frayed nerves than a pail full of caffeine.”

  Clarissa burst out laughing, Valentina joining despite herself.

  “Now there’s the Valentina I know and love.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Clarissa squeezed her friend's hand.

  “Who knows?” Clarissa said. “Maybe all that caffeine will obliterate our anxiety.”

  “That would have to be one super strong cup of coffee.”

  Clarissa grinned as she pulled into the gas station. Her smile faded when she noticed the startling lack of activity. She pulled behind a Dodge Durango. A middle-aged man in a Cubs ball cap had just placed a gas nozzle back into its pump’s holder.

  “Good luck,” said the man, as Clarissa exited her car. “Pumps aren’t on, and no one’s inside.”

  Clarissa walked to the front of her car. “No one’s here? Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. The screens on the pumps are blank, and no one answered when I knocked. Thought I’d try and see if I could still get things to work, but that was apparently wishful thinking.”

  Valentina got out of the car. “There’s no one here? Is that normal?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. I don’t live too far from here,” said the man. “I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever seen this placed closed.”

  “Me either,” said Clarissa, who scratched her scalp even though it didn’t itch. “I live just down the street and drive by here almost every day. It’s always open.”

  The man grunted. “Like I said.”

  A woman Clarissa hadn’t known was even there jutted her head out of the passenger window of the Durango. Her hair was a tangle of fiery orange, wispy locks.

  “They been sayin’ on the news that some stations have sold out already. That folks are lining up to buy gas in some places.”

  “That’s more in the metropolitan areas,” the man scoffed. “We’re not seeing that here. At least not yet.”

  “So, if that’s not it,” Valentina said, “where is everyone? And wouldn’t they put up signs or something saying they’re out of gas if they were?”

  “It’d be the polite thing to do,” said the man, who toggled the pump actuator switch a final time before pressing random buttons on the control panel. “Doesn’t mean they have—”

  A thunderous clang! sounded from across the lot, startling Clarissa and drawing everyone’s attention. They weren’t the only ones there.

  Another man, bearded and heavy-set and wearing a blood-red flannel shirt, whacked at a locked cage door with a hammer. The padlock securing it danced with each impact.

  “What’s he doing?” Valentina asked. Clarissa knew the answer before the man beside her said it aloud.

  “He’s looting propane tanks.”

  The bearded man struck at the lock until it broke free and clattered to the ground. He ripped open the door and glanced around then froze when he spied Clarissa and the others looking at him. He regarded them for a brief moment before he commenced loading the tanks into the back of his truck.

  The man beside Clarissa shook his head.

  “This is how it begins. People just looking out for themselves and to hell with everyone else. It’s not right.”

  The man took a step toward the thief, but his wife, who had lurched through the window of the truck to grab a handful of her husband’s shirt collar, held him back.

  “Paul, no!”

  “Well, someone’s got to do something! He can’t just go taking what he wants because he’s scared. We’re all scared!” Clarissa and Valentina exchanged knowing glances. “Someone needs to let him know the world can’t work this way, no matter how scary things get.”

  The woman intensified her grip.

  “Michelle, goddammit,” the man said, spinning and wrenching himself free, “let go of me.”

  “Paul, he’s got a gun.”

  All eyes shot to the bearded man and the concealed holster that peeked out from under his grease-stained flannel.

  Paul adjusted his shirt, as Valentina moved beside Clarissa and took her arm. All watched the bearded man hoist tank after tank into his truck.

  “What you’re doing ain’t right!” Paul called to him via a cupped hand. “You hear me? It ain’t right!”

  The bearded man looked over but didn’t pause.

  Michelle reached for Paul again but stopped short of touching him.

  “Paul, please. Let’s just go.”

  “Yeah,” Clarissa said. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  Paul eyed the bearded man a moment longer before tearing himself away. He looked at Clarissa and Valentina. “You girls be safe. If things don’t improve, you can expect more stuff like this and worse. Take care and best of luck to you ladies.”

  “Thanks. Same to you,” Clarissa said.

  She and Valentina didn't waste a second climbing back into Clarissa’s car. Clarissa started the engine and drove around Paul’s Durango. She looked at Valentina, their silent exchange conveying more than words ever could. Before she pulled out of the gas station, Clarissa stole a glimpse in the rearview mirror. The bearded man’s reflected image continued to load pilfered propane tanks into his truck. He glanced in her direction then was swiped sideways when Clarissa turned out of the station back onto the street.

  CHAPTER 8

  Andrew had a busy day ahead of him.

  He hadn’t planned on beginning his morning in the storeroom, but after listening to story after story from cable news and talk radio outlets, he became convinced that he should spend some time reevaluating his supplies in light of what was going on. Because something most assuredly was.

  He’d hopped between CNN and ABC on his laptop over breakfast then shifted to an Internet news radio station while he cleaned up. But after ten minutes of frantic journalists reporting the same unsettling information, he decided he couldn’t listen to anymore, so he shut it off. Which was fine.

  He had a lot to do.

  Andrew had shelved the morning’s originally scheduled task of repairing a section of the chicken coop fencing in favor of, well, shelves. After reorganizing and consolidating his existing food supplies, Andrew was able to free up two and a half empty shelves. The extra space would accommodate plenty of extra canned items—but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. But he also needed room.

  Emptying the shelving units so he could rearrange them into a more compact layout was a time-consuming process, but it turned out to be worth the effort—he discovered he could fit two additional units into the space. This was great news. That bought him another eight shelves upon which he could stock a variety of supplies. He already had more than enough food to last him months, probably years, but the past forty-eight hours were starting to give him doubt.

  What was going on?

  The sentence played
in a silent loop in his mind, a rhetorical question for which Andrew had no answer. Where had everyone gone? Why had they gone? And if they hadn’t left of their volition, then who took them? Every media outlet he consulted for answers asked the same questions. Only there were no answers—no one knew anything.

  This was troubling.

  How could no one have any information? How could so many people simply vanish without a ghost of a trace? Andrew had learned the hard way many years ago that the world was a dangerous place filled with violent people. This belief—no, fact—was the driving force behind his new life. But what was happening now? That was something else. That was something he couldn’t qualify, which frightened him like nothing had before. It wasn’t the Sound that held his heart in the grip of fear. It was how people acted in response to it. He knew what unbridled anxiety brought out in man. When fear combined with ignorance, only bad things happened.

  So, shelves.

  The easiest way to obtain them would have been to hit up one of Pastora’s dinky hardware stores. The national chains had bypassed the small town, so Wilfred and Sons and the Toolbarn stood in for more recognizable brands, such as Ace Hardware, but the pickings at the local places were always slim and never a sure bet. The Home Depot usually fit the bill, but the nearest store was a good clip away, though that wasn’t the issue keeping Andrew from going. If even a fraction of a percentage of people thought like him—and he suspected a handful most certainly did—the trip there could be a wasted one once he discovered select supplies (i.e., shelves) had already been cleared out. He didn’t have that sort of time to lose.

  No, the shelves he could make. He had enough plywood and two-by-fours in the shed to make ten shelves if need be. Building them and placing them in the storage room would take up the better part of his day, but they were a necessity. After that, he would consolidate whatever fuel he had into non-approved containers so he could free up the legal gas cans for a fill-up. His propane tank was full, and his water supply was on-property, so he could check those items off his preparedness list. All that was left to do was make a trip into town to buy whatever remaining supplies he needed. He had to consider carefully what those were, for the upcoming trip into Pastora would be his last for a very long time.