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by Matthew Costello

  Christie heard the gunshots, now sporadic, the occasional blast in the distance.

  “We’ll talk later,” Helen said.

  Christie nodded.

  “Be safe.”

  Then she led Simon upstairs.

  * * *

  The gunshots had ended. Someone had come around to say that there would be no dinner tonight.

  But everyone was safe.

  No one got hurt.

  Hurt.

  Guess no one would ever say the word eaten.

  You wanted to avoid that image.

  After sitting quietly, she decided to talk to her two kids, placing them side by side on the big bed in the guest room. She pulled up a chair so she faced them.

  First, she took Simon’s hand, then Kate’s, who reacted by looking away.

  “You hungry, guys? I have some of those crackers they make here.”

  Both of them shook their heads.

  “I guess,” Christie said, smiling, “we can wait until breakfast then.”

  Both nodding.

  Then, after a pause: “But I need to talk to you about something. What happened today. With both of you.”

  Simon started defending himself right away.

  “I didn’t want to. The other kids made it like … like a dare!”

  A squeeze of his hand, Kate still looking away.

  “I know. It’s something boys do. But you see—” Her voice caught on this, remembering her scramble up the hill, the sight of Simon trapped—Can Heads below.

  “You see how dangerous it could have been … how dangerous it was. You see that, don’t you?”

  She felt that Simon maybe wanted to tell her something about his climb, something she didn’t know.

  But when he didn’t volunteer anything more …

  “I need you to stay here. In only the safe areas. I need to know where you are, all the time, that you’re safe. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  She saw in Simon’s eyes what looked like the beginning of tears, the light glistening.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “Good.” Then a smile for him.

  Before she turned to Kate. Another squeeze to indicate that it was her turn.

  Christie thinking then …

  The two of them. Both going where they shouldn’t, both having bad things happen.

  Would those bad things end today?

  Or was it only the beginning?

  “Kate, what happened with you? I mean … you’re not supposed to go down to the basement and garage. Off-limits, right?”

  Still looking away, Kate nodded.

  Simon had his eyes on her, not knowing what had occurred with his sister. And Christie knowing she wanted to be very careful here.

  To warn Kate. About this place. The boys.

  The men.

  But also to not scare Simon any more than he already was.

  So she cut to the chase.

  “Kate.” Waiting for her daughter to slowly turn and look at her. “I need you to promise me that you won’t go anywhere you shouldn’t. That, like Simon, I’ll always, always—” her voice rising a bit—“know where you are.”

  Then looking at the two of them, trying with her gaze to tie her family together after being so scared for them.

  Two final squeezes of their hands.

  And Christie let her words of concern and caution fade.

  She smiled. “How about a few rounds of hearts?”

  And Kate, sweet Kate, ever more willing to be by her side, to help her through these terrible and dark days, said, with a touch of forced brightness in her voice, “Sure.”

  * * *

  A few hands later, and there was a knock at the door.

  Thinking it was Helen, and that it would be great to have a fourth for the card game, she went to the door.

  Where the Colonel stood.

  “Christie, could I have a word?”

  His voice made it sound like more of an order than a request.

  And having “a word” with the Colonel was something on her agenda as well.

  To talk about today.

  The way this place was run.

  “Yes, do you want to come in—?”

  “Out here, if you don’t mind.”

  Christie looked at her kids, Simon dealing cards.

  “I’ll be right out here.”

  And she stepped out into the shadowy hallway.

  “You know, Colonel, I wanted—”

  He put up a hand.

  “Your son broke a very important rule. He endangered the lives of my men.”

  Ever the military man …

  “The rules are for safety, and he—”

  “Hold on,” Kate said, cutting him off. “Other kids were with him.”

  “Their parents have been spoken to as well.”

  “And how did your guard, standing right at the front door, miss those kids going out, sneaking off to the—”

  “That—will be looked into. But this, for now, is a warning to you.”

  A warning?

  “Make sure your kids stay where they’re supposed to. That they, and you, obey the rules.”

  “And what about your guards?”

  Christie wanted to tell the Colonel about Tom, how he lured her daughter down there, and actually tried to pin her in some dark tunnel under the building.

  To kiss her. And who knows what else.

  Kate. A kid.

  But that might only trigger more warnings. And maybe it was better that the Colonel didn’t know any more about what Kate had done.

  How she had seen the subterranean cavern of rooms and the garage under the building. All the things she had told Christie about.

  Information.

  And sometimes, it was better if people didn’t know you had information.

  “Are we on the same page?”

  Christie nodded.

  “Good. Then I’ll expect no other incidents like this one.”

  Christie turned to the door, grabbed the knob.

  “Good night,” the Colonel said.

  “Right,” Christie said, going back to the room, to her kids.

  To the only two people in the world she gave a damn about.

  * * *

  Night.

  The inn quiet.

  Simon sleeping on the small couch in the room.

  Kate beside her, also already asleep even as Christie stared up at the dark ceiling.

  She thought of them, and the responsibility she had. To keep them safe. Yes.

  But also—to give them a life.

  Could that ever be here?

  She closed her eyes again, hoping that would cut off the stream of thoughts, her doubts, her feeling that somehow they were trapped here.

  She tried counting backward from 100 in her head.

  99 … 98 …

  An image of Kate cornered.

  97 … 96 …

  Simon on that ledge, caught by the rock.

  95 … 94 … The sight of Can Heads moving around the grounds missed—

  (Missed!)

  —by the guards, all those swaggering men with guns running this place as if it was a throwback to some medieval castle. Women kept in their place, and men had guns.

  93 … 92 …

  Running into the inn while the Can Heads approached, fast.

  91 … 90.

  And how—

  (She opened her eyes.)

  How the Can Heads seemed to be acting together. Like someone told them what to do.

  She thought of the conversation she’d had with Helen.

  Was it changing? Did what happened at Paterville Family Camp mean that there could be different Can Heads, some who still seem human?

  Or was it simply, in the end, all about choice?

  That choice: how the hell do you survive?

  The counting … now failed.

  When suddenly, there was a noise.

  From below, outside, down on the open courtyard to the side of
the building.

  Christie and Kate’s room was at a far right corner, one of the last before reaching a sealed wing of the building.

  A laugh.

  Another. Mumbled words carrying through the night air.

  She got up out of bed and walked to the window.

  * * *

  Christie pushed the curtain aside. A quarter moon hung in the sky, shedding light on the area below.

  She saw the path that ran to the front and trailed off to the right. And off to the side, she saw a small courtyard, like a servant’s entrance into the building, but with no overhang, nothing to protect it from rain, snow, not that it did much of that anymore.

  So she could see and hear.

  First—the sounds.

  Men standing in a circle, all dark spindly figures. Laughing. Talking. Most of them holding things.

  Guns, a few holding their rifles.

  But others holding—what?

  One man raised the object above his head.

  A few hoots from the other men.

  Then Christie knew what it was.

  A baseball bat.

  Waving it over his head, crazy, insane.

  Something smaller passed between two men.

  Something to drink.

  So there is booze here after all.

  A secret homemade stash for the medieval men guarding the castle.

  The group of men moved a bit, in a circle, weaving this way and that, until Christie could see the rest of the scene.

  The men—many with bats, good old baseball bats. The all-American sport.

  And a rope that went from one pair of men to the center, and then onto another pair at the opposite side of the circle.

  And at the center.

  Someone with that rope tied around its neck, staggering this way and that.

  Not someone, Christie saw.

  A Can Head.

  A live Can Head.

  What the hell was going on?

  One man came close to the roped Can Head and, with a great windup, smashed a bat into its body.

  The thing doubled up to the laughs and cheers of the men.

  The Can Head still stood though.

  But now another man came and, making a gesture with his hand—

  Some famous baseball gesture.

  Pointing up, to the stands, to the bleachers—

  He slammed at the thing’s head, and the Can Head reeled back onto the ground.

  Lying there.

  The men’s voices, the words indistinguishable, but taunting.

  Christie had to watch.

  The horror of it, the sickness … when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  * * *

  Christie spun around. Her heart racing.

  To see:

  Kate. Standing there, in the shadows. Not looking out the window.

  Not yet.

  But looking at her mother.

  “Mom. What is it? What’s happening?”

  She thought of telling her not to look, to go back to bed.

  But those days were over.

  She nodded in the direction of the window.

  And Kate came and stood beside her.

  The Can Head had staggered to its feet, swinging its neck left and right, as if it could shake off the nooselike rope that held him.

  Another swing of the bat to the thing’s midsection, and now when it doubled up, someone else came and performed a golf swing with his bat, sending the thing flying immediately erect.

  The laughs so clear. The circle of horror moving as the thing stumbled around, still held by the ropes, as each man came and swung the bat at the thing.

  Over and over and over …

  Christie let the curtain close, put a hand on Kate’s shoulder, and gently pulled her away.

  As a tidal wave of thoughts, a jumble of concern and doubt and even fear, suddenly became clear.

  Suddenly coalesced into one very clear thought.

  One idea …

  We have to get out of here.

  the capture

  35

  Whispers

  Christie pulled Kate a few more feet away from the window, the sounds still clear, but now they couldn’t see.

  Didn’t have to see.

  “Mom—what were they doing?”

  Christie didn’t answer right away.

  “Mom?”

  She looked over at Simon, then making her voice low, modeling the quiet she wanted Kate to pick up on.

  “Kate—I don’t know. They must have caught a live one. And—”

  “Why not kill it?”

  “Guess they do that … for fun.”

  Kate’s eyes went wide. The horror immediately clear to her.

  “They take it out and beat it, over and over?”

  Christie nodded.

  “Why? Why not just—just kill it?”

  Christie looked at her daughter.

  Killing them … yes …

  That was something they both accepted in this new world.

  But what was happening outside, in the courtyard?

  What was that?

  The thought occurred to Christie … if humans do that, then who are the monsters?

  And with all the thoughts and doubt, she had turned a corner.

  Then Kate confirmed the reaction.

  Because part of Christie could think, almost accept … after all, they’re only Can Heads, only monsters that should be destroyed … why not have some fun with them?

  “It’s sick.”

  She noticed that the laughter had subsided from outside.

  Did everyone here know that this was a game the men played, the good old boys with their rifles and grain alcohol?

  Did the Colonel know?

  Approve?

  “It’s one thing to kill them, Mom. But that—” Kate pointed to the window.

  She shook her head.

  “This place. Maybe this whole place is sick.”

  Christie nodded.

  She debated telling Kate her decision, now, when things were still unclear … when they would leave, how.

  Maybe even …

  If.

  But she raised a hand to her daughter’s cheek.

  “Yeah. You’re right. I’m not feeling … so safe anymore.”

  She didn’t say that it was mostly her concern for her kids.

  Kate took a breath. “Me either.”

  “I think we have to leave.”

  Kate held her mother’s gaze even as her hand came away from the smooth skin of her daughter’s cheek.

  “Leave.” Kate nodded. “But where can we—”

  Christie cut her off with a shake of her head, reminding herself to keep her voice as low as possible.

  It wouldn’t make sense to have Simon join this discussion.

  “I don’t … know. I have to think about it. But this, here—it isn’t the place for us.”

  “Okay,” Kate said as if getting an order.

  “Can’t tell anyone—”

  “Helen?”

  “Maybe Helen. Who knows—she might want to come.”

  “I like her.”

  Christie smiled at that.

  Now only silence from outside.

  “I’ll do some thinking. Make a plan.” Another smile. “Talk to Helen. Tomorrow. Okay?”

  Kate nodded.

  And at that end point, Christie led Kate back to her bed, the night turned quiet, a bit of milky white from the moon lighting the window, the curtains.

  And Christie doubted she would sleep at all.

  * * *

  Morning.

  Everyone had filled into the dining room for breakfast, the noise level loud—Christie figured—as everyone buzzed about what had happened yesterday.

  But she didn’t see Helen.

  Sleeping in? Working? Skipping breakfast?

  She felt that first tug of fear.

  Like the meal at the camp when the Blairs just didn’t show up.

  Then she saw her f
riend hurrying down the hallway, head down, lost in her thoughts.

  For a moment, Christie could look at her without being seen, wondering … what is this place like for her?

  At least I have my kids.

  With her husband gone, in this place, this world, she’s alone.

  But then Christie thought: no, that’s not actually true. It’ll be important to tell her that.

  She has us.

  Finally, Helen looked up. A smile slowly appeared as whatever thoughts had been preoccupying her vanished.

  “Morning,” Helen said brightly.

  But then that smile faded as she looked at Christie.

  Instinctively knowing that something was wrong.

  “Helen—you got a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  Christie looked over her shoulder.

  “Maybe over there.”

  Helen looked at the open doors leading into the dining room.

  A private conversation where no one could see.

  “Lead on,” she said.

  And Christie walked down the hallway to the closed wing of the building until they were well out of earshot of anyone, unlikely to be seen even if someone quickly inhaled their breakfast and came out.

  * * *

  “I need to tell you some things. I don’t know who else to tell.”

  Helen’s hand shot out and gently closed on her wrist.

  “Anything, Christie. Go on.” Another smile. “We’re family.”

  Christie thought: yes, we are.

  “Okay—last night. I saw something. Kate, too.”

  Helen nodded.

  And Christie told her what she had watched from the window of her room.

  Helen nodded, listening.

  Christie struggled to keep her voice low. Describing the circle of men bashing away at the Can Head … it was hard not to let that memory make her voice rise.

  Finally, the question to Helen.

  “Have you ever seen that?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “No. But I’ve heard the men talk about it.”

  “It?”

  A nod. “Yeah. Something they do. When they capture a live one. They don’t just kill it. They do … exactly what you saw.”

  “It’s sick.”

  “They call it ‘Kick the Can.’ And yes, it is sick.”

  “I mean, even Kate said it. My own daughter who lost her dad to them. She said … ‘why not just kill them?’ But to do that, smashing it over and over.”

  Another hand to Christie’s arm.

  “Easy.”

  Christie nodded.

  “Guess if you’ve lost friends, maybe it’s a release.”

  She could hear in Helen’s voice that she herself didn’t buy into that.