by Pawlik, Tom
Mitch shrugged. “What’s so funny about that? Nothing real long. Just a day or so. Just to get away for a bit. Y’know, go for a ride.”
Howard laughed and shook his head. “This ain’t no pleasure cruise you’re on, Hoss. Those aliens mean business. They’re everywhere. Whutch you gonna do at night? Fend ’em off with a flashlight?”
Mitch turned back to the window. “Don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m just getting cabin fever, y’know?”
“Plus we ain’t exactly in no position to go wasting gas willy-nilly like that. Just drivin’ around for the fun of it.”
“It’d be a good way to scout around. Who knows. Maybe there are other people out there like us. Holed up in compounds, thinking they’re the only ones left.”
Howard was still shaking his head. “That’s awful risky, goin’ off on your own like that. If you want a change of scenery, what say we load up the milk truck, bring along a couple generators and some lights. At least be smart about it.”
“Yeah . . .” Mitch felt his jaw tensing. “See, I was thinking it’d be nice to get away on my own.”
“On your own? It’s not like we’re fightin’ off crowds here, son. It’s just the two of us.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Mitch’s voiced softened. “Sometimes it’s nice to just get away by yourself. Don’t you ever feel that way?”
“Mmmm . . . not really, no. I’ve had enough bein’ alone.” Howard’s fingers drummed the steering wheel lightly. “You . . . uh, you ain’t mad at me or anything, are you? Did I do something to offend you?”
“No, I’m not mad.” Mitch sighed, thinking he’d better drop the subject for now. “I guess I just saw those Harleys back there and . . . y’know, got the itch to ride again. Forget I brought it up.”
“’Cuz if I did anything to get you mad . . .”
“Dude, I’m not mad.”
“I know I can be a little obnoxious sometimes. Least that’s what my wife used to say.”
“Look, just forget I brought it up.”
They turned into the quick mart, and Mitch took the flashlight and made his way inside. They had already picked the shelves pretty clean of food over the last year or so, but there were still plenty of auto supplies left: antifreeze, windshield cleaner, and several cases of Valvoline far back in the stockroom. Mitch slid the cases off the shelf and spotted another box shoved into the corner. An unopened box of ranch-flavored corn nuts. Twenty bags.
“Corn nuts.” He grinned. “Jackpot.”
He was reaching for the box when a deep moan rattled through the store as if a gust of wind had blown past the building. The stockroom door slammed shut, cutting off all the daylight from the store. Darkness fell around Mitch like a blanket, but he could sense someone . . . something else in the room with him. A soft rustling like a flutter of movement.
A chill rushed down his spine. A sensation he hadn’t felt in a while. A long while. It was the feeling he’d had during his hallucinations—the creepy visions he’d had when this whole nightmare had first begun nearly five years ago. But they had occurred with less frequency after Helen and Conner disappeared. And eventually, as he had settled into his dismal routine on the farm, they had ceased altogether.
Mitch dropped the cases of oil and reached for his flashlight. This couldn’t be happening again. Not again.
He snapped the light on and aimed it toward the doorway. And gasped.
The light fell onto the pale, gaunt face of a graying man. Mitch knew this face.
His mouth went dry. His throat felt like sandpaper as he tried to speak.
“Dad?”
10
IT WAS NINE THIRTY when Conner arrived at his office. His calendar displayed a relatively light schedule for the day, as it had for the last few weeks. Nancy had made a concerted effort to ease him into a full workload since he’d been back. Furthermore, her sarcasm and lawyer jokes had completely ceased. And she had gone out of her way to make sure he always had everything he needed, even before he knew he needed it. Files, faxes, phone numbers—it was uncanny and a little unnerving. But he wasn’t ready to complain just yet. He rather liked this new Nancy.
Conner poured a cup of coffee from the espresso machine in the lounge, then stopped by Gus Brady’s office to say good morning. Gus was one of those guys whose clothes never fit quite right and who always looked just a little too tall for ordinary furniture. He sat hunched at his desk, typing furiously.
He glanced up from his laptop and flashed a quick smile when Conner knocked on the door. “Hey, Connie.”
They had been friends since law school. In fact, it was Gus’s influence that had gotten Conner his chance to join the firm twelve years earlier.
Conner leaned against the doorjamb. “You’ll never guess who I saw this morning.”
Gus stared at him for a moment, his eyes shifting across the room. He shook his head.
“Jim Malone,” Conner said. “Remember the Malones?”
Gus’s forehead puckered, then released. “Oh yeah, the malpractice.” Then it puckered again. “They prayed themselves out of a fortune, as I recall. Us too.”
Conner chuckled. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
“Well . . .” Gus snorted and went back to his computer. “That’s how I look at it.”
Conner hesitated a moment, pondering whether or not to press a little further. “You know, there was a time I might have looked at it that way too. But these days, I’m tending to be a little more open-minded.”
Gus raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up. “Open-minded?”
“You know . . . about them praying about their decision. I guess I’m putting a little more stock in that sort of stuff these days.”
Gus didn’t answer and still wasn’t looking up. Conner could see a flush of red rising up his neck and across his cheeks. He ventured a little further. “I mean . . . you gotta admire that kind of faith, right?”
“Oh, man!” Gus glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. “Y’know . . . I forgot I have to jump on a conference call.” He reached for his phone. “Sorry, Connie, I totally forgot about it.”
“No problem.”
Conner nodded and backed out of Gus’s doorway, pulling the door shut. That seemed to be the way every conversation with Gus had gone since Conner had returned to work. Whenever Conner tried to steer their conversation toward his heart attack, or any religious topic for that matter, Gus would always manage to cut him off with some suddenly remembered meeting or call. It had gotten to the point where he wasn’t even trying to be creative anymore.
Though it wasn’t just Gus. Nearly everyone at the firm seemed to treat him differently since he’d been back. Conversations would fade the moment he turned a corner or walked into a room. People would gain a sudden interest in whatever folder or notepad they happened to be holding at the moment. Most would make furtive but hasty exits.
At first Conner thought he was just being paranoid, but lately he could sense genuine discomfort around him, as if no one knew quite how to treat him anymore. No one seemed to want to talk about the fact that he had nearly died. Maybe he’d been a little too forward about the whole thing. Or maybe he was just an unwelcome reminder of their mortality.
Conner had managed to share his story with nearly everyone at the firm over the last three weeks, though he hadn’t given them all the details. Only what he had already shared with Marta. And while he didn’t want to come across as macabre, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to share his newfound faith as well. After all, wasn’t that what he was supposed to be doing? At least he assumed that was one of the reasons he’d been spared.
It was serious business after all. Eternity. Conner was surprised—and saddened—at how little thought most people seemed to give the topic. Death was the one thing they could be certain of, yet they acted as though ignorance would make them live forever.
And he had been the same way. But no longer. He had witnessed the darkness firsthand. He had s
tood on the brink of eternity and gazed deep into the abyss. His pride and self-sufficiency were gone, and he desperately wanted his friends to know how his stoic agnosticism had finally melted away to faith.
Though not a blind faith. To his surprise, Conner had discovered plenty of evidence for this carpenter who had risen from the dead. It was there for anyone willing to examine it with an open mind. Yet for all his efforts, no one ever seemed very interested. No one responded with anything more than a polite smile and nod. And then an excuse to make a quick getaway.
It seemed the harder he tried, the more they avoided him.
It was just after ten o’clock when Henry Brandt called Conner into his office. Henry was the senior partner at the firm and a longtime mentor since college. He was semiretired, in the office three days a week. Though in his seventies, Henry still carried a lean, athletic build. He had just returned from a trip to Maui, and against his tanned skin, his neatly cropped white hair looked positively angelic.
Conner had always admired the man. Henry’s agnosticism had been deeply influential during Conner’s college years. Because of this, Henry Brandt was the one person with whom Conner had been too intimidated to discuss his faith. Not that he regretted his decision, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow he had let the man down.
Henry leaned back from his wide mahogany desk as Conner flopped into the leather armchair with a snort of exasperation. “How are you doing, Connie?”
“Fine.” Conner took a breath and held it a moment, not sure how to proceed. Then he puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. “Actually, I’ve never felt better.”
Henry nodded. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. But I didn’t ask how you were feeling; I asked how you were doing.”
This was typical Henry Brandt sophistry. Feeling. Doing. What was the difference? At length, Conner shrugged. “In that case, maybe not so good.”
Henry only smiled. “Having trouble getting back into the swing of things?”
“In a manner of speaking. Nancy’s turned into a Stepford secretary—not that I’m complaining, mind you. But I can’t help feeling that some people here are avoiding me.”
Henry gazed into the distance for a moment. Then he drew a breath. “Look, I’ll be frank with you.”
“Please.”
“I think you’re making some folks here a little . . . uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable? What do you mean?”
“Well . . .” Henry rubbed his jaw. Conner could see he was trying to choose his words carefully. “Some of them think you’re becoming a bit of a . . . well, a zealot.”
Conner blinked, then chuckled. “A zealot? C’mon, Henry . . .”
“Connie, you’ve gone from being a hard-core skeptic to the apostle Paul in a matter of weeks. Didn’t you think that might be a little disconcerting to some of your friends?”
“Look, maybe I’ve been a little overeager,” Conner said. “But I’m not trying to preach at anyone. I just want to share what I experienced that night. I almost died, Henry. It had a profound effect on me and my outlook on life. I think it’s a pretty important subject. I mean, we’re all going to die sooner or—”
“See . . .” Henry held up a hand. “That’s the thing. People don’t like to talk about death all the time.”
“I don’t talk about it all the time.”
“Well, they say you’re sounding obsessed.”
Conner frowned. “You’ve had complaints?”
Henry shook his head. “Just overheard bits of conversations.”
Conner sat back and folded his arms. “Well, I wouldn’t describe it as obsessed. I just think in general we should be more aware of the fact that none of us knows how much time we have.”
“We’re all aware of that, Connie. Most of us just try not to dwell on it so much. It’s a depressing subject.”
“Depressing isn’t quite how I would describe it. More like terrifying.”
Henry sighed. “These so-called near-death experiences are actually quite common for people in your situation. And easily explained…”
“Not mine.”
“Look, I’m not trying to repress your need to talk about what was obviously a very traumatic experience.”
“Henry . . .” Conner leaned forward. It was time to lay his cards on the table. “You don’t know the whole story. I mean of what I went through. This wasn’t some hallucination or a bunch of random brain synapses. And I can prove it.”
Henry blinked. Then frowned. “How?”
“When I was dying, this place where I found myself . . . I wasn’t alone there. I met five other people who were all dying too. All at the same time.”
“What people?”
“I had Nancy look them up. After the heart attack, I called from the hospital and gave her a list of names: Helen Krause, Mitch Kent, Devon Marshall, Ray Cahill, and Howard Bristol. These people are real. I had never met them before. Had no knowledge of them. But they were all dying too, at the exact time I was having my heart attack. And we all crossed paths in that . . . that place.”
“What are you talking about?”
Conner hesitated. It had been hard enough to share the details of his experience with Marta; how could he possibly let Henry know? For two months, he’d kept it secret. Bottled up. Afraid of what people might think. But maybe that was the point. Maybe God was wanting him to share it. No matter how crazy it made him look.
He took a breath… and a leap of faith. Then, starting from the beginning, he relayed all the details of his experience. The storm, the creatures, the seizures, the mysterious boy who had saved him. Everything. Henry listened without interruption. Almost without expression. He just sat there and stared at Conner.
When Conner had finished, Henry said nothing. His gaze lowered.
After a moment, Conner said, “Well? What do you think?”
Henry took a deep breath and shook his head. “I think I’d like you to take some more time off.”
Conner narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe me? Check with Nancy. I’ll give you the list. Check for yourself—”
“We can handle things here. I’ll put in a few more hours if I have to.”
Conner sat back and laughed. “Henry, I have evidence. Just check out the names. These people actually existed. You don’t hallucinate that type of stuff.”
“And I want you to see someone. A professional. Get some help, Connie.”
Conner’s jaw tightened. “I’m not crazy, Henry.”
“I’m not saying you are. But there’s obviously something seriously wrong. And as your friend, I’m asking you to get help.”
“What are you afraid of? That it might all be true?”
“This isn’t about me, Connie. This is about you. I want you to get some counseling.”
Conner now saw an older version of his former self in Henry Brandt. Denying the possibility that something might exist for which there was no scientific explanation. Not even willing to examine the evidence. For all his intellect, Henry really wasn’t open-minded at all.
Conner clenched the armrests of his chair. “Y’know, Henry, you’re going to be dead a lot longer than you’ve been alive. I just think you should know what you’re getting into.”
Henry fell silent again. This time he stared directly at Conner. So long, in fact, that Conner began to squirm. He lowered his gaze, feeling like an upstart wolf pup in the presence of the pack’s alpha male.
At length, Henry spoke. “This is obviously interfering with your ability to perform your job.”
“Henry, I don’t need—”
“Connie.” Henry Brandt wasn’t smiling. “As your boss, I’m telling you. Take another week. In fact, make it two. Give yourself some time to get your head right.”
11
MITCH STARED AT HIS FATHER in the darkness of the stockroom.
Walter Kent gazed back at him. His face was pale but darkened around his eyes. His lips seemed to tremble at the sight of Mitch.
Mitch ba
cked away, the flashlight shaking in his hands. But his fear was slowly surrendering to anger. What did the man want after all these years? Why had he invaded Mitch’s oasis? In some ways, Mitch had found a measure of peace in this dismal Indiana solitude. For while part of him hated the farm, still he found himself clinging to it like a tattered life preserver on the open ocean. He knew it wouldn’t keep him afloat forever, yet he didn’t dare think of letting go.
Mitch clenched his teeth. “What do you want?”
His father’s brow furrowed. He took a step toward Mitch, his eyes glaring. “Why did you do it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You killed her, Mitch. Why did you do it?”
An image flashed into Mitch’s memory like the muzzle flare of a gunshot. The sight of his mother—thin arms flailing, struggling to breathe—and Mitch as a fourteen-year-old boy, standing over her. Sobbing. Forcing the pillow over her face.
Mitch pressed himself against the wall of the stockroom. “Leave me alone!”
His father took another step. “She was your mother!”
Mitch straightened up. “She was already dead!”
“She gave birth to you! She loved you!”
“She was suffering. You couldn’t see that? How much pain she was in? No, you were too busy to notice! I put her out of her misery.”
His father’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His lips parted and he hissed, “That wasn’t your choice to make. You played God.”
“Somebody had to!”
In the beam of the flashlight, Mitch spotted a metal can on the shelf beside him. He grabbed it and hurled it at the image of his father, but it crashed against the door. Mitch swept the light across the room. His father—or whatever it was—was gone.
Mitch sank against the wall. His eyes stung as he fought his tears. He wouldn’t cry. Whatever these aliens were doing, he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. He wouldn’t let them manipulate him like this.
After a minute, his breathing slowed. He got to his feet, picked up the cases of oil, and brought them out to the truck.