The Sound

by James Sperl

  “Sure there's nothing else I can get for you?” She looked at Evan, who perused the available merchandise from the counter. He hovered a moment too long on the shelf that contained condoms. Natty saw it.

  “You interested in some pickle skins, son?” Natty plucked an open box of Magnums from the shelf and tossed it in front of Evan. He blushed instantly. “It's good to be prepared. Especially nowadays when you don't know who's got what, and there's no easy way to fix things if you do get something. Go on, don't be shy. Grab a couple.”

  Jon pushed the box back across the counter.

  “Thanks, but we're good.”

  Natty pinched the cigar between her fingers. “You sure? Good looking boy like that? What are you, fifteen, sixteen? Those are prime fucking years. Better to gear up while you can.” She leaned in. “For an extra five gallons, I could set you up with Tori over at Orion's Belt. She owes me a favor. Then you could give these snake socks a test drive.”

  “I said we're fine,” Jon said emphatically, his face stern.

  Natty held up her hands. “Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. I don't care if the world is crashing down around us, the boy ain't gonna stay celibate forever.”

  Jon's patience wore thin. The transaction had taken far longer than he anticipated, and now Natty began to irritate him. How dare she try to drag Evan into her perverted little world. Jon wanted away from her and Orion, to get back on the road, but he had to find Valentina. He readied to ask Natty where she went when Valentina appeared from out of a narrow strait between two booths.

  Jon frowned. “Where'd you go? You were supposed to stay here.”

  “What are you, her father?” Natty said.

  Jon looked at Natty sharply. “Butt the fuck out. This doesn't concern you.”

  Natty's pudgy smile straightened to an even line. Her guards stepped forward and only stopped after Natty held up a hand.

  Jon saw their advance and dug in his heels. He wasn't looking for a fight, but he would give them one if it came down to it.

  “I'd watch yourself, Dad,” Natty warned. “Some people around here don't like to be disrespected. And by some people, I mean me.”

  Jon passed his eyes over the hulking men behind Natty. They glowered at him and stood at the ready; all Natty had to do was snap her fingers. On a good day—when he didn't tend a gimpy arm or tote along his son—Jon thought he could have taken at least one of the men, maybe even both. But he knew too little about his steely-eyed opponents. The bearded guy looked like ex-military, and his buddy didn't impress Jon as having a glass jaw. They could hold their own. Natty was clearly a person of import in Orion. She would surround herself with the best people, i. e., the people most comfortable with committing homicide. It was all the argument he needed to stow his pride and stand down.

  “No disrespect intended,” he said to Natty. “Just looking out for my people is all.”

  Natty jammed the cigar back between her plump lips. “That's admirable,” she said. “A bit of free advice, though: you won't always be around. Sometimes folks got to think and speak for themselves.” She shot a look to Valentina. “Ain't that right, honey?”

  Valentina looked up, startled. It was the first time Jon noticed that something about her seemed off. Her temperament was different. She slouched rather than stood straight. Her eyes were downcast, whereas before they were orbs of darting energy. Most noticeably, however, was how she held her hands. Clutching one another, they balled over her stomach and kneaded, as if trying to form something in her palms.

  “Val, you all right?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You don't look so hot.” He eyed Natty. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

  Natty lifted her brows in an expression of ignorance. Jon studied her. He had been prepared to avoid conflict and move on, to put Orion in the rearview, but if someone had messed with one of his friends, all bets were off. Though outnumbered, Jon knew all too well how to initiate war.

  “No,” Valentina croaked. “I'm okay. I had to go to the bathroom is all. Something...I don't know, something's not sitting well. I don't feel so good.”

  “You went to the bathroom? Here?” Evan said, appalled.

  “Ev,” Jon scolded.

  “I let her use mine,” Natty said, matter-of-fact. “Got a trailer parked nearby. She seemed to come down pretty hard and fast with whatever she's got, so I stepped in.”

  “You let all your customers use your private bathroom?” Jon said. He tried not to sound accusatory, but he didn't think it worked.

  “Nope. Just the ones I like.”

  Jon lingered on Natty's blank expression, but it was like trying to derive intentions and meaning from a mannequin.

  “All right,” he said to Valentina. “Let's get you back to the truck.” He took her by the arm and nodded to Natty, who returned it without saying a word.

  As he and Evan led her away, Jon thought he caught a brief exchange—a flick of the eyes, really—between Natty and Valentina, but it was too fleeting to draw any conclusions. It seemed strange that she should come down with such a crippling bout of whatever she had so rapidly, but Orion wasn't exactly the apex of sanitary. She could have touched any number of unclean surfaces and inadvertently put a finger in her mouth. Jon saw her chewing gum earlier.

  He thought drugs were out, even though his mind went there first. Asking to stay behind had initially felt like a ruse, a ploy to restock Valentina's cache out of sight from anyone who would try to talk her out of it, but she had nothing to trade for them. She had a bag of something, which he assumed were girl products Natty had gifted her as part of the sale. But drugs? It didn't seem possible. If she were on something, however, it would have been a supremely stupid move. Valentina was many things and had some problems, but she had never impressed him as stupid. Then again, he thought, didn't the very act of becoming a drug addict include at least one stupid decision?

  Jon and Evan guided Valentina through the congested streets of Orion back to the truck. They had to stop twice so she could vomit.

  CHAPTER 36

  “There it is!” Evan cried out.

  He pointed through the windshield at the street sign that emerged from behind a low-hanging branch. Jon leaned forward from his position behind the wheel and squinted at it.

  “Yep,” he said. “Looks like Tinder Road to me. Good eye, Ev.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jon turned onto the road and checked his side view to make sure Andrew followed.

  Tinder Road was just barely a two-lane street that climbed into the lower elevation of some random Pennsylvania foothills. He was sure they had a name; he just didn't know what it was. Houses were fewer and farther between out this way, which made sense. Jon supposed if he were an employee of a government research and development facility, he would live far removed from people as well. He couldn't justify the reasoning. Maybe he'd seen one too many movies. All he knew is that it would have felt inauthentic to find Kaplinsky—a reputed, high-ranking scientist—living in an apartment complex in town.

  Kaplinsky.

  The name already carried palpable weight, yet Jon couldn't come up with a valid reason for why it should. He and the others hadn't the first shred of evidence to support the claim that he had worked in a secret lab. For all they knew, he could have been some lonely guy that liked to build himself up by telling stories of an imaginary life. Hell, he could have worked the compressor line at a Chevy car factory for all they knew.

  Regardless of what the man did, they had to investigate the lead. And that investigation began in the three-stoplight town of Beauxville. They'd gotten a heaping helping of good fortune when they discovered a phone booth at the second of two gas stations. Not only did the dinky Exxon have one, but hanging from a grungy chain inside it was a physical copy of the phone book. Everyone had enjoyed a laugh when Evan asked what it was.

  The luck didn't end there. It had taken Clarissa a whopping twenty-two seconds to locate Kaplinsky's name in the pages. Just like t
hat, they had an address to Mr. J. Kaplinsky—the only Kaplinsky in the book.

  It was too easy.

  That's all Jon could think on the drive from the gas station to Kaplinsky's house. If he was some top-tier employee for a secret government R&D lab, why would he live so openly, making no attempt to hide his identity from the general public? Shouldn't he have taken some precautionary measures? Lived more clandestinely? The guy had a listed phone number for God's sake!

  Jon chuckled at his absurdity. Maybe he had seen too many movies. He only hoped that he and the others weren't wasting their time—and precious fuel—seeking out a man whose vocation had once been working for the post office or bagging groceries at the local market.

  Tinder Road continued to slope upward, hugging the side of a gentle hill populated with sugar maples and white oaks. Sunlight passed through the shimmering leaves, creating a grater effect on the road.

  A blue mailbox, which sat askew atop a weathered post, appeared over the rise. Again, Evan pointed it out.

  “I think that's it, Dad,” he said.

  Jon couldn't make out the writing on the box from his distance.

  “Is it?” he said, squinting.

  Cesare leaned forward from the backseat. He followed Evan's finger. “Looks like 'Kaplinsky' to me,” he said.

  Indeed it was. As Jon neared, the name, which had been spelled out using haphazardly placed letter stickers, became apparent. The number “29” sat above it.

  “Call it in,” Jon said to Evan.

  Evan reached for a walkie-talkie. The radio was one-half of a pair of Garmin Rinos, a high-quality find plundered from the same Cabela's that had equipped the group with so many of their supplies. With a GPS, altimeter, compass, and a unique technology that allowed peer-to-peer location sharing between Rino users only, the walkie-talkies were a significant addition. The only problem with them was power. With no electricity to charge the 14-hour lithium-ion battery, the radios required an adaptive AA battery pack. But batteries were becoming scarce. Next to food and water, they ran a close second to pharmaceuticals among difficult-to-find items, so they powered on the radios only in extreme circumstances. Like now.

  Evan put it to his lips. “We're here.”

  Clarissa's voice responded immediately. “Okay. Lead the way.”

  Jon slowed then eased the SUV onto a dirt track that climbed then disappeared over a rise more than a hundred yards away. He saw no gate nor a sign warning people to beware of dog or that they were trespassing.

  He followed the drive to the hilltop. Cresting it revealed a tiny white two-story half a football field away nestled in a grove of trees like some forest cul-de-sac. A white pickup truck parked in front of it.

  Evan leaned forward. “That's a secret scientist's house? Remind me to pursue acting if things ever go back to normal.”

  “Yes,” said Elenora, who peered over Evan's shoulder from the backseat. “It does sort of leave a little to be desired, doesn't it?”

  Jon nodded absently. “Just a skosh.”

  As the SUV neared, the more evident it became to everyone that not only was the Kaplinsky house on 29 Tinder Road likely abandoned, it had been that way for some time. Weeds and brush overran what looked to have been a previously cleared front yard, and in the areas where Mother Nature hadn't yet reclaimed her land, evidence of man was abundant.

  Garbage and debris littered the ground. Splintered furniture wood lay scattered, empty cans and plastic bottles dotting the property alongside ratty clothing and shredded plastic bags. Balls of tin foil, decomposed TV dinner boxes, soda bottles and jars, beer cans—all of it added to the scene. To Jon, it looked as if someone had upended trash bins during a tornado.

  The house was in an equal state of disrepair. Shingles were missing. Screens were damaged, and some windows were cracked. Filth smeared over the decaying siding, and cobwebs had been allowed to flourish wherever an angle existed. It wasn't a home. It was a relic.

  Jon navigated the drive and maneuvered the SUV into the most trash-free spot he could find. He cut the engine. Andrew pulled up beside him. Everyone got out of the vehicles.

  Jon exited carrying Andrew's Winchester, Andrew and Cesare each wielding their respective weapon. It felt like overkill to descend upon a would-be scientist with three armed men, but nothing in the world was assured. If Jon had his way, he'd put a gun in the hand of every person in his group and tip the scales in their favor.

  Andrew took three steps before he stopped and called out, “Hello?”

  Jon shot him a frustrated sideways glance and shook his head. So much for the element of surprise.

  “This place looks totally deserted,” Valentina said, hugging herself.

  “For real,” added Evan. “Or dude's just in serious need of a landscaper.”

  Elenora edged up beside Cesare, who offered her a hand. “I certainly wouldn't want to live here.”

  “Nonna, si?” Cesare said. “You wouldn't want a dream home like this?”

  Elenora delivered an eyeful at her grandson, who pinched off a grin and got one in return.

  Clarissa sidestepped a derelict radiator on her way to the front porch.

  “Clarissa!” Rachel hissed, her eyes darting worriedly over the house's facade. “What're you doing?”

  Clarissa stopped on the first step of a three-stair rise. “I'm going to have a look.”

  “Be careful,” Andrew called out. He backpedaled to glance along the side of the house.

  Clarissa climbed the steps to the porch and walked gingerly to the nearest window. Rotting wood creaked beneath her feet. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered inside.

  “There's definitely no one here,” she said, turning back to the group. “It's ransacked.”

  Jon wanted to see for himself. He quick-checked his flanks then stomped up the stairs to stand beside Clarissa. She winced at the noise and raised her shoulders in protest.

  “Jesus, Jon.”

  “Sorry. A ballerina I am not.” He shielded his eyes against the window to look through a two-inch gap in the curtains. Clarissa wasn't kidding. Destroyed didn't begin to describe the place. Upended furniture, broken dishes, graffiti, more trash—Jon couldn't imagine anyone, let alone an alleged top scientist, living in a hovel like this.

  “How's it look?” Andrew said.

  “Like someone set off a bomb,” Jon replied. He skirted Clarissa to stand at the front door.

  “Yeah,” said Clarissa, “If this guy was here, he's been gone for a long time.”

  “Agreed.” Jon put his hand on the door knob. “But maybe he's got some stuff we can use. We're here. We should at least take a look.” He gave the knob a twist—it didn't budge.

  His brows plummeted. The door was locked? Why would the door be locked—how would the door be locked—when the house had sustained so much damage?

  Jon suddenly felt something wasn't right.

  He pulled the rifle to his chest, reared back, and raised a leg, prepared to send his foot crashing through the door when...

  “I'll thank you not to demolish my door,” a voice said. A voice, Jon noted in the microsecond after he heard it, that he didn't recognize.

  Everyone fumbled and turned, completely caught off guard. Jon and Andrew instinctively raised their rifles in the direction of the voice, but they were too late. A man stood in the middle of the yard, and he already pointed a rifle at them.

  At least, Jon thought it was a man.

  Wearing a yellow floral print dress and pantyhose, the man glared at the group behind a face thick with hastily applied makeup. Garish blue eyeshadow smeared the area below his brows, and he had outlined his chocolate-brown eyes in dense lines of black mascara. Raspberry-colored rouge dabbed each of his cheeks in babydoll styling, and his long and oily satin-gray hair, which he gathered into two pigtails, sprouted from either side of his head like limp broccoli stalks. The sight already begged a double take, but the man's scraggly beard, which tapered to the middle of his chest, ratche
ted up the surreal image even more.

  “Folks usually take one look at the yard and keep on moving,” said the man, who stood still as a statue. “The more curious ones will venture onto the porch, just as you did, but most times one glance inside is enough for them to realize they should move along.”

  Andrew lowered his rifle and held up his free hand in the universal gesture of peace.

  “We're not looking for any trouble,” he said.

  “That's a curious statement to make,” said the man. “Tell me, do you often not look for trouble while brandishing a rifle?”

  The group exchanged nervous glances with one another.

  The man looked at Jon and Cesare. “Hand your weapons to this fellow here.” He nudged his chin toward Andrew. “Then I'd like you to bring them all to me.”

  Jon eyed Andrew from the porch: What do we do?

  Andrew contemplated the situation. If Jon had come to know him even a little after so many weeks together, he probably thought as Jon did at the moment, which was that they outnumbered the man. He lacked physical bodies as well as firepower. Any one of them could probably draw on him before he got off a shot.

  The gamble was, of course, what if they missed?

  The man had Andrew dead to rights not twenty yards from where he stood. The slightest flinch from either Jon or Cesare could be enough reason for him to squeeze the trigger. The problem was, no one had the slightest idea what sort of shot the man was or how he handled himself under pressure. They could chance it and fire off a shot, hope to get lucky, and end this standoff, or things could go the other way. If that happened, they could end up fleeing minus a man or two.

  The risk didn't seem worth it.

  “Okay,” Jon said, not waiting for Andrew's silently conveyed reply. “I'm coming down.”

  The man held fast, as Jon climbed down from the porch. Along with Cesare, he relinquished his firearm to Andrew. Andrew walked the weapons over to the man and laid them on the ground from five feet away.

  “Step on back,” the man said to Andrew.

  Andrew rejoined his group, which had clustered at the bottom of the porch stairs.