The Sound

by James Sperl

  Silence strangled the room once again. Andrew started for the kitchen, his rant seemingly done, when he spun back around and jabbed a finger into the air.

  “You know what, maybe what's happening out there is a good thing. Maybe this is the universe's way of cleaning house, of clearing out all the violent, conscienceless people who would rather shit on you than say thank you. And if that's the case, then good. I'm all for it. Compassion and humility have gone the way of the dinosaur. Apathy is the new master, and narcissism and self-absorption are his mistresses. We've all become the pathetic center of our own meager universes, and it's choking what little remains of our humanity.” Andrew took a moment to breathe calmly as if he too recognized he was driving a runaway train of self-righteous indignation. “But I digress.”

  He walked to the front door and ripped it open.

  “If any of you are displeased with the arrangement, now's the time to say so. I cannot—will not—abide second-guessing and division in here, especially when there is so much godawful horror going on out there. If you don't like how things are, please, be my guest.”

  Andrew shot a rail-straight arm through the opening. But as he followed his finger out the door and peered into early night's darkness, his expression morphed from moderately ticked to deeply troubled. He whipped around suddenly and stared past the kitchen into the hall where a lone, red light blinked persistently. The glow from another one, which emanated from Andrew's bedroom on the second floor, mimicked the first, flash for flash.

  “Shit.” Slamming the door, he charged over to his laptop, which lay closed on the dining room table. He snapped open the lid with an aggressive, one-handed flick then swiped the system awake with a frenzied slash across the computer's touchpad. “Come on...”

  Rachel joined Clarissa and Valentina, who were already on their feet. Each exchanged nervous looks with the others: What the hell's going on?

  Clarissa walked around the sofa. “Andrew?”

  Andrew ignored her and fixed his gaze on the screen. He punched several buttons on the keyboard and leaned closer. His expression became even graver.

  “Well, I'll give your friend points for brazenness.”

  Clarissa scowled, but her look of confusion masked the much greater feeling of nauseating dread that clawed its way up from her insides.

  “Travis?” she said. Her fear-shocked look matched that of her friends, who clung to one another like Velcro. “He's here?”

  Without asking permission, she streamed for the nearest front-facing window and peeled back the curtain. A corona of light grew in intensity over the driveway's rise.

  “But why would he announce himself?” she said, releasing the curtain and wringing her hands. “Why wouldn't he sneak up on us? Come in the middle of the night?”

  “Because his ego won't permit it. Cut the lights.”

  Whatever disagreement or ill feelings that existed sixty seconds ago had evaporated in dry ice-like sublimation. Now it was a matter of self-preservation, of cooperation. Of survival.

  Rachel flew to the light switch panel along the wall beside the fireplace and killed the two hanging overheads. Valentina scurried over to an end table lamp and fumbled for its switch before finally managing to click it off. The house plunged into total darkness, yet headlamp light, which grew in strength with each passing second, flooded the front windows.

  Andrew hurried over to a full-length mirror in the dining room, which Clarissa had since learned doubled as a gun safe. Producing a powerful magnetic key, he placed it against the mirror's side and swiftly released an internal lock. He slid the entire mirror to a side then retrieved the two rifles and a handgun stored inside.

  The distinct sound of two different motors approached. Clutching the weapons, Andrew raced to the window and sneaked a glance outside. He nodded, but the nod was anything but agreeable. He backpedaled over to Clarissa and thrust a rifle at her.

  “Know how to use this?”

  Clarissa took the unwieldy—and somewhat anachronistic-looking—rifle. She gaped at Andrew curiously. He nodded again.

  “I know. It's not the most prudent weapon for this situation, but it'll do. It's the first one I bought when I moved up here, mostly for symbolic reasons. Reminded me of the Old West. It works just how it looks in the movies.” He reached over and fingered the safety to the Winchester lever-action rifle. “You're live. Grab a box of 30s from the safe.”

  Rachel was already a crying mess. She gripped Valentina's arm with both hands, her head tucked into her friend's shoulder. It didn't take Andrew long to determine who should get the handgun.

  “Here,” he said, forcing the Colt into Valentina's free hand.

  Valentina recoiled as if Andrew had just set a tarantula in her palm. The Colt clunked to the ground.

  “Goddammit!” Andrew exclaimed. He stooped and snatched up the weapon. “We don't have time for this! In two minutes we're going to be under attack by God knows how many psychopaths.” He checked the barrel to assure it was loaded then forced the gun into her palm. She winced but accepted it. “I need everyone here, now. Okay?”

  Valentina inhaled shakily, a lone tear jetting down her cheek. “Okay.”

  Andrew placed his hand on her shoulder. “We can get through this.”

  Valentina nodded furiously as if trying to convince herself that she believed him. He tried to smile at her, but the gesture felt disingenuous.

  “What do I do?” Rachel said, her lips trembling and her face already tear-streaked.

  Andrew looked past her into the house before returning to her.

  “I'm out of firearms, so you'll have to grab the biggest knife from the kitchen you can find. You're going to be my spotter. We're going to need someone to keep an eye on our blind areas in case he tries to outflank us. Watch the back rooms. You even think you see someone at a window, you scream holy hell.”

  Rachel's eyes darted around the room, her brain racing to process the frightening directive Andrew issued her.

  “Okay...okay, got it.”

  “They're coming,” Clarissa called from the window.

  Andrew started to turn, but before he did, he displayed a level of tenderness Clarissa would have considered even more touching were it not for the imminent threat of violence. Reaching for Rachel, he took her head gently in his hand and rested his palm comfortingly against her cheek. Rachel's eyes swelled in surprise. Andrew nodded to her reassuringly then trotted over to the front door to take up position opposite Clarissa.

  The cars rumbled straight for the house.

  Clarissa fought tears of intimidation, her hands working the walnut stock of the rifle Andrew had placed in her hands. Her mind could barely acknowledge the lunacy of what was about to happen, to compare notes from her mundane, week-ago life to the one currently burning an ulcer into her stomach.

  Glancing into the living room, she found Valentina hunkered down behind the far end of the sofa. Rachel was even farther back, crouched alongside the kitchen island. Clarissa tried to offer each of her friends a smile, but she couldn't coax her lips into pretending. With a final nod, she faced forward and looked through the glass. The cars approached within 100 feet then slowed.

  “Andrew?” Clarissa said, drawing a sideways glance from him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Just so we're clear. Don't call Travis my friend.”

  “What?”

  “Earlier today, you asked how I knew 'our friend, Travis.' He's not my friend.”

  Andrew chambered a round. “Duly noted.”

  * * *

  Two cars pulled up side by side in front of the house. Both pairs of hi-beams washed over the exterior in a brilliant sheet of yellow-white. The engines continued to run for a moment longer when one cut off, the other dying seconds later.

  Clarissa edged an eye around the window casing. She didn't dare stick her head out any farther lest she give away her position, but she suspected Travis was already keenly aware that she and the others laid in wait.

&
nbsp; Car doors opened.

  “Get ready!” Andrew whispered loudly to the room, as the first people climbed from the vehicles. He leveled his rifle through a gap in the curtains. Clarissa followed suit and situated the barrel of the Winchester on the lower corner of the window casing.

  Clarissa counted five figures milling about in the light. She supposed there could be more people inside either vehicle, but for a reason she couldn't explain, she didn't think so.

  No one made a sound. Then...

  “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  Clarissa snapped her head to Andrew. He lifted his eyes from the rifle site. Valentina and Rachel cocked their heads simultaneously as if choreographed.

  “Anyone?” the distinctively male voice called out again.

  Another voice, this one female. “You think there's a chance no one's home?”

  A third: “In a place like this? With this location? I don't know...”

  Clarissa lowered her Winchester. “It's not Travis.”

  Valentina and Rachel stood, but Andrew kept his rifle trained through the glass.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Clarissa asked.

  “I heard you.”

  “So...shouldn't we say something?”

  Andrew glanced at her briefly. “These people may not be our guy, but they're still unwelcome. We don't know anything about them.”

  Somebody stomped up the porch stairs. Andrew pulled away from the window and sidestepped to the door, pointing his rifle directly at it. Clarissa intercepted him, forcing Andrew to drop the barrel to the floor.

  “We've got to at least try to talk to them,” she whispered vehemently.

  “What if you're wrong?” Andrew shot back. “What if these people are no better than your fr—what if they're like Travis and the others?”

  Clarissa had already considered this.

  “If they're like Travis, then there won't be much we can do about it. But we can't run from everybody. My God, Andrew, it's only been a week since this all started. Do you seriously believe everyone's willing to turn on each other so quickly? We got to have faith that there're still good people out there.”

  The door knob jiggled quietly. A hushed voice called out, “It's locked. I think someone's still here.”

  Andrew's eyes flashed from Clarissa to the doorknob and back. “I wish I shared your optimism.” He stepped to a side, raised his rifle, then said with a full voice, “You should know that a gun is pointed at you.”

  A barely audible “shit” sounded from the other side of the door.

  “Set any weapons you have at the top of the stairs,” Andrew continued. “You have thirty seconds.”

  “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!. We...we don't have any weapons.”

  Andrew frowned. “Bullshit. Twenty-five sec—”

  “I swear, it's true!” the voice pleaded. “It's just the five of us. My husband, our son, and a guy and his grandmother. That's it! We don't have any guns. We don't want any trouble. We're just looking for someplace safe.”

  Clarissa could almost see the gears churn behind Andrew's eyes. This was uncomfortable territory for him. He was asked to defy reason and go against his instincts. Nearly ten seconds passed before he finally said to Clarissa, “Open the door.”

  Clarissa snapped back the deadbolt and yanked open the door. Andrew charged through the opening, gun raised, and brought the end of the barrel within a foot of the man who stood on the other side.

  The man threw his hands in the air, compliant. He kept his eyes pinned to Andrew, but nothing about his stare came across as threatening. The man, who looked as if he spent significant time at the gym, maintained his cool and poise under pressure. The same, however, could not be said of his companions.

  When Andrew burst onto the porch, it caused everyone at the bottom of the stairs to cry out. One person, however, barely reacted. Because of this, Clarissa pegged the man standing twelve inches from the end of Andrew's rifle as the Guy In Charge. Whether he had accepted the role was another question.

  “How many of you are there?” Andrew said.

  “Five,” the man replied.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I find out you're lying to me, you get the first bullet.”

  “I'm not.”

  “It's just us, sir,” said a deep male voice.

  Andrew looked past the man on the porch and called out to the people clustered in front of the cars. “Turn those headlights off.” He subtly nudged his chin toward his shoulder. “Clarissa, hit the porch lights.”

  Clarissa palmed the two-switch panel beside the door. The porch flooded with light. Not two seconds later, one car then the other cut its headlamps. Both shrank back into blackness.

  “Step forward everyone,” the man on the porch said.

  Andrew inched to the side to improve his field of vision but kept his rifle pointed firmly at the man. Out of the shadows materialized four other people—just as the man on the porch had claimed.

  The first to emerge was a rather well-dressed gentleman considering the situation. His suit jacket and tie were missing, but the rolled up sleeves of his Paul Frederick button-down shirt suggested he had been wearing each up until recently. His brown hair was short and expertly trimmed but still long enough to see that it was curly, and his manicured brows and perpetual five-o'clock shadow, which formed perfectly edged lines along his jaw and cheek, screamed a “metrosexual” stereotype.

  He wrapped his arm around the shoulders of a teenage boy, whose own stereotype veered wildly in the opposite direction. Long black bangs transitioned to dirty blond tips from underneath a Skrillex baseball cap. The bright white skull of his Misfits t-shirt glowed in the subdued light and nearly pulled attention away from his skin-tight lavender jeans and Doc Marten low boots. He lifted a wrist that clinked from a glut of bracelets to brush hair out of his eyes.

  “Please,” said an elderly woman, who had a wisp of an Italian accent. She shuffled forward, one arm gently ensnared through the crook of a handsome man's elbow. Easily closing out her years as an octogenarian, she looked up at Andrew with decades' worth of acquired sincerity. “There's no need for your gun. We're not violent people. We're just tired and scared and need help.”

  Clarissa watched the interplay between the woman and the model-ready stud who escorted her and deduced the pair were likely grandmother and grandson. It was in the respectful way he looked at her as she spoke, the trustful way in which she held onto his arm as if his presence assured her. They shared mutual love and admiration; anyone could see it. Clarissa wagered the two were very close.

  She tried to get a read on Andrew—it was hard to tell what he was thinking. He had barely moved or said a word, only passed his eyes from person to person in the most scrutinizing manner possible. He was so deep inside his mind, he didn't budge when Valentina and Rachel scuttled to a noisy stop in the doorway behind him, and he was certainly unaware of how their eyes nearly popped out of their heads at the sight of the handsome man, who patted his grandmother's hand lovingly.

  “She's right,” the man on the porch said, drawing Andrew back to him. “We're not a threat. We're just looking for a place to hole up. That's all.”

  Andrew didn't flinch. “Turn around. Everyone. All the way.”

  Confused glances passed among the recent arrivals before each twirled in a graceless circle without protest.

  “See?” said the man on the porch. “No guns.”

  Andrew dropped the barrel of his rifle—but only slightly. “Where're you coming from?”

  The man on the porch slowly lowered his arms. When it was clear Andrew wasn't going to force him to keep them raised, he thumbed over his shoulder at the well-dressed man and the boy before he let them fall the rest of the way to his sides.

  “Me, my husband, Sean, and our son, Evan, are out of Portland. We hit the road early this morning when things started getting really bad there. We ran into Cesare and Elenora along the way.”

  Andrew sh
ifted his attention to the handsome young man.

  “Yeah,” Cesare said, picking up where the man on the porch left off, “that's right. We left Bend yesterday hoping to make it to Bozeman. Got some family there. But the twenty was closed just before Riley so we had to double back and try to loop around to the twenty-six.” He shook his head. “But gas stations were either out, or there were lines so long we would have burned whatever fuel that remained waiting to try to get some. So we just drove until we couldn't anymore. Fortunately, we ran into Jon and his family.”

  Andrew flashed to the man on the porch at the mention of the name “Jon.”

  “If wasn't for him, we'd still be sitting on the side of the road. But he gave us enough fuel to keep moving.”

  “Wait,” Clarissa began, “so you guys don't know each other?”

  “Not before today,” said Cesare. “But I'm glad we do now.”

  “That makes two of us,” the elderly woman chimed in. She craned her wrinkly neck and leaned forward. “Thank you, Jon.”

  Jon grinned ever so slightly. “You're welcome, Elenora.”

  Andrew lowered his weapon further. He made no attempt to hide his incredulity. “You gave them your gas?”

  Jon frowned. “You seem surprised that someone would do that.”

  “No, I'm surprised that someone would do that now.”

  “Uh, speaking of now,” Sean said, releasing Evan so he could talk with his hands, “could we talk about now? As in, could we talk about why we're here on your property now?”

  Andrew took a step forward. “Seems pretty clear. You were looking for a place to hide out and stumbled across mine hoping no one was here.”