The Night Parade

by Ronald Malfi

  David considered mentioning this to Kathy now, adding one more piece to the peculiar and morbid puzzle that she was now so obviously assembling in her head, but he ultimately decided against it. A young girl had fallen ill at Ellie’s school today, coughing up blood while staggering around the playground during recess as if lost, before collapsing on the ground in a series of convulsions. Ellie’s teacher had told Kathy that a handful of students, including their daughter, had witnessed the whole thing. He didn’t need to frighten Kathy any further, augmenting her fear with reminders of all the strange events that had been happening over the past nine months. As it was, he could feel her trembling against him now.

  “Ellie’s teacher said Ellie wasn’t even that scared,” Kathy said. She was staring off into the distance. “In fact, she said Ellie even helped calm some of the other kids down.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign,” he said, trying to sound upbeat.

  In the kitchen, the telephone rang.

  “Jesus,” he said, startled.

  “I’m not in the mood,” Kathy sighed, not moving.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “No, I’ll get it,” she said, patting his thigh and getting up from the sofa. She disappeared into the kitchen and answered the phone with an exhausted, “Hello?”

  David turned his attention to the TV. It was an episode of The Big Bang Theory, one he and Kathy had seen half a dozen times. The show’s canned laughter irritated him, so he found the remote wedged between two sofa cushions and muted the volume. A scroll at the bottom of the screen read, Officials at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service are still puzzled over bird deaths and disappearances following unusual migratory patterns.

  He thought now of the students from the college, two of whom had exhibited symptoms similar to the girl in Ellie’s class. He hadn’t witnessed either episode, but had learned about them both from Burt Langstrom later in the English department’s office. Burt hadn’t witnessed the incidents either, but he had always been a veritable font of subversive knowledge on campus, and David had no reason to doubt the stories’ authenticity.

  Some girl, a freshman, had doubled over in the quad between the humanities building and the cafeteria and had begun convulsing on the ground. When blood started gushing from her mouth, witnesses assumed that she had bitten her tongue while having a seizure. But then the blood had spilled out of her nose, and people started to shout for campus security.

  A similar incident had occurred to a frat boy as he sat in class—he simply stiffened and tipped over, crashing to the floor. His legs began to jerk spasmodically, and when he coughed, blood sprayed along the linoleum floor tiles. Both students died at the hospital within days of their collapse. As far as David was aware, no cause of death had ever been stated.

  “It’s an illness,” Burt Langstrom had suggested over lunch. Just talking about it had stemmed David’s appetite, but Burt tore into his roast beef sandwich as if they’d been talking about nothing more gruesome than the upcoming Orioles game. “Probably some strain of meningitis or something like that.”

  “You’d think they’d notify the school if it was meningitis,” David had said. “Besides, what about the Sandoval kid? That certainly wasn’t meningitis.”

  Patrick Sandoval had been the third student to fall ill. He had been a junior, a basketball player, a good-looking kid who’d been in David’s literary criticism class the year before. As far as David was aware, and unlike what had happened with the two previous students, there hadn’t been any clear signs of a physical illness with Sandoval. There was no blood, no convulsing—only that he was spotted by a number of students wandering around campus in the middle of the night completely naked, and with a broad, sleepy smile stretched across his face. Someone even spotted Sandoval holding a conversation with thin air. Campus security showed up, approached him, and assumed he was intoxicated. They took him to the security office, where an officer administered a breathalyzer test. Yet despite his slurred speech and increasingly perplexing statements to the officers, Patrick Sandoval was stone-sober. Assuming he was under the influence of narcotics, he was taken to Mercy Medical Center in Baltimore. Whether or not a toxicology test was done at the hospital, David didn’t know, but the boy had returned to school the next day, apparently fine. Two days later, he found his way to the roof of his dormitory—a twenty-story tower at the east end of campus that everyone called the Fortress—where he walked right over the ledge to his death on the pavement below.

  Meningitis, David knew, most likely wouldn’t cause someone to do something like that. In fact, it was even possible that the thing with Sandoval was unrelated to what had happened to the two other students. Yet David couldn’t forget the bewildered look in Deke’s eyes that night, and how the poor guy must have, for some reason that would never be explained, set fire to his own house, where he had died in the inferno. How Sandoval had been wandering around campus naked, while Deke had been doing the same in his underwear outside in the street. Moreover, and even more disturbing to David, Patrick Sandoval had dropped right out of the sky like those geese that had rained down on the parking lot at the college the very night Deke died.

  This realization was chilling.

  David set his wineglass on the coffee table. His hands were trembling.

  “Jesus Christ,” he heard Kathy utter from the kitchen. “No. Oh no, Carly!”

  Carly Monroe’s daughter, Phoebe, went to Arnold Elementary with Ellie. The girls had been friends since preschool. David leaned forward on the couch, feeling sweat prickle the small hairs on the nape of his neck.

  “Okay, okay,” Kathy was saying in the kitchen.

  David stood. He was halfway across the living room when Kathy appeared in the entranceway, the portable phone still to her ear. The look on her face was enough to cause David to freeze in midstep. He knew right then and there that the little girl from Ellie’s school was dead.

  “Okay,” Kathy said into the phone. Her voice wavered, unsteady. “Yes, hon. You, too. Please. Okay. Okay. Thank you, Carly. Good night.” She lowered the phone and stared at him, her eyes impossibly wide. David had never seen her look more fearful, more terrified in her life.

  “It’s not good,” he said.

  “That was Carly Monroe. She just got a call and wanted to pass along the info. Jesus, David, she died,” Kathy said. “The poor kid died.”

  “God.” David went to her, hugged her. She shuddered against him. “Did Carly say what caused it? Was the girl sick?”

  “No one knows anything yet,” Kathy said, not sobbing now, but just resting against his chest. David smelled her hair, fresh with lavender shampoo, and savored the warmth of her face against the crook of his collarbone. “Mostly rumors. But she’s dead, David. That poor kid. And Eleanor . . .”

  “Ellie’s fine. Let’s not overreact. It’s a horrible thing that’s happened, but let’s not lose sight of the fact that our daughter is absolutely fine.”

  She pulled away from him, stared up at him. There was a hint of conspiracy behind her eyes now. “What if she’s not?”

  “Hon—”

  “What if it’s contagious?”

  “No one knows what it is,” he told her.

  “Which means,” she said, “that no one knows whether it’s contagious or not.”

  “We’ll take Ellie to see the pediatrician, if it’ll ease your mind.”

  “I don’t know if it will. I don’t know if anyone even knows what to look for. Don’t you watch the news? This is happening all over.”

  “I think we just need to stay calm.”

  “I’m scared to death, David.”

  He nodded, then told her things would be all right. But in his head, all he could hear was Burt’s final comment from that afternoon in the teachers’ lounge, clanging now like a death knell: “It’s some epidemic, some new disease, David. That’s my take, anyway. And the reason no one’s got answers is because it’s like the first appearance of the Black Plague—no one’s ever seen it bef
ore.”

  14

  He pulled off the road and bumped along the uneven shoulder until he spun the wheel and cut across a swath of grass. A large billboard advertising new homes stood in the weeds and faced the highway; some joker had spray-painted END-OF-TIMES PLAGUE SALE—ALL HOUSES ARE FREE! across the billboard in bloody red letters. David pulled the Olds directly behind the billboard, hoping that he’d angled it in a way that would make it invisible to any passing traffic, and shut it down.

  In the passenger seat, Ellie continued to sob. He stared at her profile for a while, watching the tears stream down her cheeks, unsure what he could possibly do to comfort her. Her face was a mottled red. He reached over and removed the ball cap from her head. With her freshly cut hair, she still looked like someone else beneath the hat, and David couldn’t help but marvel at how much someone’s haircut defined their entire look.

  When he reached out to caress her face, she slapped his hand away. Her eyes blazed on him.

  “What’d you do?” she shrieked at him. “What’d you do? What’d you do?”

  “Baby,” he said, and reached out for her again.

  This time she grabbed his wrist. Her eyes flared . . . and David felt a sudden tingling sensation radiate up his arm and flood through his body. A moment later, something like a surge of electricity rocketed through his body, so powerful he jerked in his seat and yanked his wrist from his daughter’s grasp.

  “You’re a liar!” She gritted her teeth and threw her head back against the headrest. A solitary sob ratcheted up her throat before she turned and stared at him again, her face blotchy and red but radiant, her eyes both angry and imploring. “Is she dead? Is it true?”

  “Ellie . . .”

  “Tell me!” She slammed one small, pink hand against the console.

  “Yes,” he said. “Mom’s dead.”

  A high-pitched keening sounded from her. But then she quickly regained control of herself. “On the news . . . they said . . .” She fought back another sob. “What did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything, baby.”

  “It was on the news! The news wouldn’t lie! You’re the liar! What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything to her. I would never hurt your mother in a million years, Ellie. It was the doctors. They said she would be okay, and that they would take care of her, but they were wrong—Ellie, they were the liars—and now she’s gone. They killed her.” And now he was crying freely, too. His grief was suddenly so great he was unable to keep it together, even for the sake of his daughter.

  Ellie just stared at him, her whole body shaking as her eyes welled up with fresh tears. “Those doctors wouldn’t kill Mom. They said she was special. They said her blood . . . what she had inside her . . . that she might even be able to cure what’s happening . . .”

  “They broke her, Ellie. There were tests and they worked her too hard. Your mother got weak. That’s why I stopped taking you to see her. She got so weak, Ellie, and I didn’t want you to see her like that. And those doctors, they never stopped, they never let up. They wanted your mom to be the cure for this thing so badly that they used her up until there was nothing left.”

  “But the police are looking for you,” she said. “It has nothing to do with back home, does it? There is no quarantine back home, is there?”

  “No,” he said.

  “If you didn’t do anything, then why are the police looking for you?”

  He cradled the back of her head, rubbed his thumb through her hair.

  “They’re not looking for me, baby,” he said. “They’re looking for you. That special thing about your mom, that one-ina-trillion resistance she had against the disease that made her immune . . . you’ve got it, too. It’s in you, too. You’re immune, Ellie.” He pulled her close to him so that their foreheads touched. “But I’m not going to let them take you. I’m not going to let them find you.”

  Trembling, she pushed him away from her.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “I’m gonna be sick.” She shoved open the passenger door and staggered out into the grass. She braced herself against the back of the billboard with one hand and bent at the waist.

  “Honey.” He slid across the seats and got out the passenger side. He reached her, rubbed her back, bent down to her level. She didn’t get sick; she just stared absently at the ground, at the incongruous bursts of wildflowers that surrounded them, spitting occasionally into the weeds. Gnats orbited around their heads.

  After a time, she straightened herself. She wiped the tears from her eyes as her chest hitched one last time. Then she looked up at him, wincing in the blaze of the sun that was at his back.

  He grabbed her, held her tight against him. He inhaled the scent of her hair, her clothes, her skin. He felt the gentle undulation of her ribs as he rubbed his hands along her sides. Faintly, he was aware of insects chirping in the trees, of the heat from the sun baking the nape of his neck, of the occasional shush of a vehicle trolling down the highway on the other side of the billboard.

  He squeezed her more tightly.

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear.

  “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, letting her go. “For now, let’s get back in the car.”

  Wordlessly, she crawled back into the car, her shadow rippling across the overgrown grass behind the billboard.

  That news broadcast had punched him in the gut, and he knew he would have to shift things into a higher gear from here on out. I can’t believe they’ve started looking for us so soon, he thought as he pulled back out onto the highway. They were the only car straight out to either horizon. They reported that we’re driving the Bronco. That’s something, at least. It may take them a while to realize we’re in a different car. Hell, they may never figure that out.

  So all hope wasn’t lost.

  “Put your hat back on,” he instructed her.

  She did so without uttering a word. Then she turned and stared out the window. This time, she cried in silence.

  15

  David drove for about an hour, piloted by the foolish compulsion that the more distance he created between themselves and the diner, the safer they were. The highway was eerily empty, and they were joined by only a few cars every once in a while. David did his best to avoid running alongside them, leaving a wide berth of glistening pavement between them, but occasionally a car would sidle up beside the Olds and trot there for a minute or two. When this happened, David couldn’t help but glance at the vehicle’s occupants, terrified that they might look at him and recognize him. But these people—these strangers—possessed the expressionless faces of alien life forms, and rarely did someone even return his glance through the barrier of windows that separated them.

  When a police cruiser appeared in the rearview mirror, David felt a tightening in his chest. He wondered if the waitress had been paying too close attention in the diner after all. He decided to take the next exit and see if the cruiser followed him before he started to panic. When the ramp appeared on the right-hand shoulder, David turned on his blinker and took it. Holding his breath, he kept his eyes trained on the cruiser in the rearview mirror. Ellie’s crying had eventually lulled her to sleep, but the car’s quick movements jolted her awake. Startled, she looked at him, then turned around in her seat to peer through the rear windshield.

  “Don’t do that,” he said sharply. “Turn around.”

  Without a word, she turned around.

  The cruiser followed them down the exit ramp.

  Christ, no.

  Still, he wouldn’t panic. Suddenly, the bulge of the Glock against the small of his back was all he could feel. Yet he wondered if he’d actually be able to use it on another person.

  I won’t let them take her from me, he thought, slowing down as he approached the first in a series of traffic lights. The light was red, and so he stopped, the only car at the intersection. Up ahead was a grid of urban streets, a few people bustling up and
down the sidewalks. There were a few other cars at the next intersection, too.

  The cop pulled up alongside them in the right-hand lane.

  He was grateful that Ellie didn’t turn to look at the cop. He did, however—a casual glance just to see if the cop was staring back at him.

  The cop was.

  The guy had a meaty face with ruddy cheeks and dark hair buzzed to bristles atop his head.

  David averted his gaze, staring once again at the traffic lights that lined the boulevard ahead of them. He reminded himself that the cops were still searching for the Bronco—according to the news report, anyway—and that they were safe in the Olds. For now, he thought. How long until someone goes to the Langstroms’ house and finds the Bronco in their garage? How long before they realize I swapped cars and there’s an APB out on Burt’s Oldsmobile? How long before authorities enter his house and find—

  A car horn blared. David blinked his eyes, then peered over at the police car. But the police car was already cruising through the intersection. David glanced over his shoulder and saw the chrome grille of a large pickup truck filling the Oldsmobile’s rear windshield. The pickup’s horn sounded a second time.

  Ellie said, “Daddy?”

  David took his foot off the brake and eased through the intersection. Behind him, the truck cut over to the next lane, sped up, and swerved in front of them. The driver’s window rolled down, and then there was a meaty forearm with its middle finger extended.