Thunderland

by Brandon Massey

  “Maybe so. But I think sleeping in shifts is a good idea. In case something does happen.”

  “Anyway, it’s your turn to watch,” Shorty said. “Four o’clock, remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  Shorty handed him the flashlight and the sheathed knife. Jason clipped both items to his waistband.

  “Watch your back, don’t fall asleep, and if you see anything, holler,” Shorty said. “I’m taking my butt to bed.”

  Shorty slipped inside his sleeping bag, which lay beside Brains, who slept soundly on a pallet. Brains’s shift had been from ten o’clock until one; Shorty’s had been from one to four; and Jason’s ended at seven. Jason had slept six hours, but he felt as if he could use six more. His muscles ached from all of yesterday’s activities.

  According to their plan, the designated watcher had to make a circuit of the house every thirty minutes, checking all vacant rooms such as the living room, dining room, and kitchen, and enclosed spaces such as the laundry room, closets, and bathrooms. Shadowy niches were to be inspected with the flashlight, and close attention was to be given to all doors. Not knowing the true nature of their adversary, they had to guard themselves as though anticipating a physical threat. But if their nemesis proved to be something unearthly, their plan might be a waste of time: the stalker in his nightmare could walk through doors....

  Don’t think about it, Jason cautioned himself. It’s only a dream.

  He began his circuit. He went to the laundry room, which was located just off the den. He shone the flashlight within. He saw a clothesline from which dangled a few shirts and blouses. A washer and dryer. A large sink. Containers of Tide and Clorox standing on a small table. A plastic laundry basket. But no Stranger. He closed the door.

  He already had the feeling that he had a long shift ahead of him. He swept the flashlight beam across the dark corners of the den. Nothing.

  He climbed the stairs to the first floor, emerging in the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed. Raindrops drummed against the skylight. Flashlight in hand, he searched the area, pausing at the back door to see if there were any signs offorced entry. He found nothing suspicious.

  He sighed. He had a very long shift ahead of him.

  He checked the rest of the ground floor. The breakfast nook. The dining room. The living room. The bathroom. The coat closet. The front door. Nothing.

  He went upstairs. He trod quietly, not wanting to awake Brains’s parents or sister, none of whom had any idea what was going on, and all ofwhom thought the three boysjust wanted to hang out overnight, play video games, and eat pizza. He checked Brains’s bedroom. Couldn’t check his sister’s room, so scratch that one. Couldn’t enter his parents’ room, either, so forget that one, too. The bathroom. The guest room. The hallway closet.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  Although he should’ve been glad the Stranger had not visited them, he gritted his teeth in frustration. He should be sleeping, not searching for someone who would probably not appear. He could imagine the Stranger laughing at their wasted efforts.

  He clicked off the flashlight and took the stairs to the first floor. As he left the last step, the telephone rang.

  He jumped at the sound.

  He read his watch. Fifteen minutes past four. Who would call at this hour?

  The phone rang again.

  Worried that the ringing would wake everyone, he rushed into the living room. A telephone sat on the end table. A bright red light on the phone pulsed in unison with each ring.

  He snatched up the handset.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Dead silence.

  “Hello?” he said again, ready to hang up if the caller did not speak immediately.

  Silence.

  Then a deep, smooth voice: “I know what you need.”

  “What?” he said, convinced he had heard wrong.

  “I know what you need ... Jason.”

  His fingers tightened around the handset.

  “Who is this?” Jason said.

  A ripple of low laughter.

  “Hey, who are you?”

  “I know exactly what you need, Jason.”

  Jason was struck by something in the voice. Something ... familiar. But he couldn’t place what had ignited a spark in his memory.

  “What are you talking about?” Jason said. “How do you know what I need?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “But I don’t know you, “Jason said. “Who are you?”

  “Remember. “

  At the mention of that word, Jason’s heart began to jackhammer.

  “Yes, it’s me,” the voice said, the caller’s true identity still eluding Jason’s mental grasp. “The Stranger.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jason’s heart boomed so loudly, he was certain the noise would wake everyone in the house. The Stranger had called him. But where was he calling from?

  Brains’s family had Caller ID connected to their telephone. The small plastic display sat on the table, along with the lamp and the phone. Holding the handset to his ear with one hand, he clicked on the table lamp. He lifted the indicator device to the light.

  The digital display read, “UNAVAILABLE.”

  Jason bit his lip.

  As though aware of what Jason had tried to do, the Stranger chuckled.

  “You cannot trace the call, Jason. Not to where I am calling you from.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Fantasyland,” the Stranger said. He laughed.

  Fantasyland? Jason was not sure whether he was being honest or not. He was inclined to doubt him. Calling from Fantasyland? The idea was ridiculous.

  “I’m coming for you, Jason. Soon. We have some unfinished business to conclude.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tell me what’s going on. Who are you? Why are you messing with me? What do you want?”

  “Patience, patience. For now, I will give you one answer, Jason: I know you. I know what you need, I know what you want, and I’m going to give it to you.”

  “But what—”

  “I’m going to give it to you.”

  The phone clicked.

  The line had gone dead.

  Jason stood there gripping the handset. Sweat saturated his face. His mouth was dry.

  Rain ticked on the roof.

  In the distance, thunder rumbled.

  He replaced the handset on the cradle. Rational thought seemed impossible. He tried to organize his thoughts and failed. The Stranger’s oddly familiar voice kept playing in his mind, his ominous words repeating themselves over and over.

  I know what you need, I know what you want, and I’m going to give it to you.

  Jason gazed out the living room window at the stormy summer night, wondering what secrets awaited him-and wondering if he really wanted to know.

  I’m going to give it to you.

  Immediately after he hung up the telephone, Jason awoke Shorty and Brains. He told them what had happened.

  “Jesus,” Shorty said, his eyes wide. “If I’d gotten that call, I would’ve shit on myself. Were you scared?”

  “Of course, I was scared,” Jason said. He paced across the den, too wound up to sit. “I’m still scared. I can’t stop thinking of what he’s going to do next.”

  In fact, he could not stop asking himself a lot of questions about the Stranger. Who was he? Why was he bothering him? Was he a spirit, or was he something else? Why was he hiding his identity? Where had he called from? What was that “unfinished business” he had mentioned? What had he meant when he said he was going to give Jason what he needed and wanted? What was the ultimate purpose of this mystery he had sucked Jason into?

  On the sofa, Brains had been cleaning his glasses with his T-shirt. Clearing his throat, he slipped on his eyeglasses.

  “Well, Jason,” Brains said, “we might not know what the Stranger plans to do next, but I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to arm you with a better weapon. Have y
ou ever used a handgun?”

  Jason stopped pacing. “A gun? No way. You have one?”

  Rocking in the recliner, Shorty chuckled. “Man, Brains is a damn sharpshooter; he ain’t the clumsy nerd a lot of people think he is. You know his pops is in the army, right? He taught Brains how to shoot before he taught him how to read. And Brains was reading books at three.”

  “As usual, he exaggerates,” Brains said, rolling his eyes. “But my dad did give me some lessons about firearms, and I have access to a good pistol. I’ll teach you how to handle it. I think you need to start carrying a gun, Jason. There’s no telling what the Stranger is going to try.”

  “What if I get in trouble?” Jason said. “It’s against the law to carry a gun.”

  “Man, how’re the cops gonna find out?” Shorty said. “You plan on robbing a bank?”

  “No, but ... a gun?” Jason said. “That’s serious, fellas.”

  “I’ve thought about it quite a bit,” Brains said. “It is a serious step, which is why I didn’t suggest from the start that we carry firearms. I wanted to see how far this business with the Stranger would go first. I think it’s gotten serious enough. The Stranger is obviously going to continue his weird mission, and it promises to get more intense.”

  “Good point,” Jason said, the Stranger’s ominous promise echoing in his thoughts. I’m going to give it to you.

  “I honestly don’t know whether a gun will even matter against someone like the Stranger, but what other choice do we have?”

  Brains said. “Wooden stakes and holy water? I prefer a gun, thank you.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” Jason said. “But please make sure you teach me well. And it has to be a gun that’s small enough for me to hide in my clothes. Because if I get caught ...”

  “Your mama will wear your ass out,” Shorty said.

  “You know the deal,” Jason said.

  Brains smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you well. It’ll be a small gun that you can conceal, too.”

  “What about you guys?” Jason said. “Are both of you going to have guns?”

  “Damn right, we will,” Shorty said, and Brains nodded. “The Stranger seems to just care about you, but since we’re helping you, he might try some shit with one of us. We ain’t taking any chances.”

  “Exactly,” Brains said. “The biggest chance that I’ll be taking will be swiping three handguns-and ammo-from my Dad’s collection. I doubt that he’ll notice. He only cleans his firearms a couple of times a year, and he doesn’t go hunting anymore.”

  “I feel better knowing both of you are gonna be armed,” Jason said.

  “I have another idea, too,” Brains said. “I think it’ll be wise for us to change where we sleep each night. If we stay in one place, we might become careless from getting used to the same old routine. But if we move around, it’ll help us stay alert. We’ve already slept at my house. I figured we could sleep at yours next, Jason.”

  “Oh, no,” Jason said. “That’s a bad idea.”

  “What’s wrong with staying at your crib?” Shorty said. “You got giant cockroaches? Monster rats?”

  “Well ... never mind,” Jason said. He had never told them about his relationship with his parents, and he was in no mood to talk about it. “It should be okay, but I can’t promise that my mom will let you guys sleep over. She’s ... unpredictable.”

  “She’s fine; that’s what she is.” Shorty whistled. “Man, one day I came over there, and she was lying in the backyard in this skimpy swimsuit. I almost had a heart attack. I know she’s your mom and all, but she’s got a body on her that won’t quit.”

  “You don’t know her,” Jason said. Shorty had been infatuated with his mother since the first time he had seen her. If only he knew the truth.

  Shorty shrugged. “Anyway, if she says no, we can go to my crib. No big deal.”

  “Thanks,” Jason said. He turned to Brains. “So. When do we begin target practice?”

  For the first time in months, Thomas dropped by his house during the afternoon. He felt guilty about leaving The House of Soul—in his thoughts, he could hear Big George threatening him-but he had to speak to Linda.

  He parked his car in the garage. He took a long pull off his cigarette, ground it out in the ashtray. If he followed through on his plan for this conversation with Linda, that would be his last smoke.

  He pressed the remote control clipped to the sun visor. The big garage door thumped shut behind him.

  He stared at the door that led to the kitchen.

  He had spent last night on the living room couch, searching for an answer to his dilemma, and when dawn arrived, he knew what he had to do: tell Linda about his affair. Living with the secret was impossible. He viewed himself as an imperfect but honest man; if he hid his adultery, he would not be able to look in the mirror without hating what he saw. Big George’s piercing remark—“Like father, like son”—had snapped him out of his delusional belief that the affair was good for his mental health. Big George’s words presented a challenge, too. Would he tell Linda the truth and prove himself a better man than his father? Or would he keep his secrets, as Big George would have, and continue to cower under his father’s shadow?

  He was a better man than his father. He had to be; he couldn’t tolerate the thought that he was on the same level as Big George. He had to do the right thing. A real man lived by a code of honesty. It was time for him to prove his manhood-to himself.

  He got out of the car and entered the house.

  Linda stood near the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a mug. Wearing a summery white blouse and peach shorts, she was as lovely as she had been when they first met in high school. He wished he had more time to spend with her. But there was always the restaurant sitting on his shoulders like a stone gorilla, demanding all of his attention, time, and energy. One of these days, he vowed, he would show Linda how much he loved and appreciated her. One of these days.

  She turned. “Am I dreaming, or have you come home from work before midnight?”

  “I have to talk to you. The restaurant isn’t going anywhere.”

  “If you’re saying that about your job, I must be dreaming.” She motioned to her coffee. “Want some?”

  “Sure.” Why was she being so cordial? For a couple of days after an argument, she was usually moody, and yesterday they’d had a real nasty fight. Her friendly demeanor seemed odd.

  She handed him a brimming mug of java. She wrinkled her nose. “Have you been smoking?”

  “A little.”

  She studied him. “Whatever you plan to tell me must be bothering you. You only smoke when you’re stressed out.”

  “It is important, Linda.”

  “Then let’s sit down. I have a few things I need to say, too.” They sat at the dinette table. He gazed into his coffee, pondering how to begin. Unable to summon words immediately, he glanced at her.

  Her brown eyes were clear, her gaze forthright, as though she had tapped some well of inner peace since their confrontation yesterday. She had never reacted like this. He looked away from her, shifting in his chair. What was going on here?

  “What’s bugging you?” she said.

  Now was the time to tell her the truth.

  But as he regarded her, he suddenly knew he was not going to confess. Not right now. He had to mull over this strange transformation in her attitude, determine a different approach to exposing his infidelity. If he spoke prematurely, before he understood her unusual behavior, he might regret it.

  Or maybe he was only making excuses for himself. No matter how carefully he worded his confession, it would not alter the terrible truth. He had cheated on her, plain and simple. Was there actually a tactful way to tell your wife that you’ve been sleeping around?

  She watched him expectantly. He had to say something. He launched into the obvious.

  “I want to apologize for yesterday,” he said. “I made a big mistake when I grabbed you. I lost control of myself, an
d I’m sorry. You had every right to slap me. I promise that I’ll never lay a hand on you again. Can you please forgive me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “First, I have a few promises of my own to make.”

  He pushed the cup aside. ‘What are you talking about?”

  She didn’t stop to explain. “Number one: I promise to show you, in every way I can, that I love you.”

  He frowned. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

  “Number two: I promise to support your career.”

  “Now I must be dreaming,” he said.

  “Number three, and this is the big one: if you don’t start treating me and our son the way you should’ve been treating us all along, I promise to divorce you.”

  He reared back. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Ten years of misery, baby.” She folded her arms. “Now that you have my promises, I forgive you.”

  “Wait a minute, that’s bullshit, Linda. You can’t force me into anything.”

  “I’m not forcing you. The choice is yours. More than anything, I want us to become the family we used to be. But if you don’t get your act together, it won’t happen, and there’s no sense in us being married.”

  “You’re putting the blame on me, like you always do.” He pushed away from the table and walked to the door. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m going back to work.”

  She got up. “Hold on, listen. I’m not blaming you for everything. I admit, some of our problems are my fault. But I’m committed to doing better, Thomas. For us to get back on track, you have to do your share, too.”

  He spun around. “Woman, what do you want me to do? I bust my ass trying to support us, I don’t have time to live a normal life. If I get lazy, that place’ll go to hell so fast it won’t be funny, and we’ll lose everything.”

  “We’ve already come close to losing everything. I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about our family.”

  “You’re not hearing me. I can’t risk changing my work habits.”

  “I see. Then you value your work above your family.”

  “Hell, no. You and Jason are the reasons why I work so hard.”