by Justin Bell
Harris loved his little town, but sometimes longed for some of the benefits of larger city living. Every year, his wife made an annual Black Friday trip to the same shopping mall, and while the mayor didn’t fully understand the appeal of that particular trip, he sometimes wished for the convenience those stores offered.
Wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead, he bent over the ornate sculpted mountain range and peered down close at the small engine parked on the track. One of his few non-essential addictions, Bruce Harris was an avid train collector, and had converted a large shed in the backyard into a huge HO scale diorama and train track, and on those rare mornings when he wasn’t in the office and didn’t have a mountain of work to do, he’d retreat to the shed to tinker. Today was a rare occasion when Mrs. Greene, their babysitter, was spending the afternoon tending to his children, while the Mayor allowed himself some time with his hobby. At ages nine and six, the girl and boy loved their babysitter and were only too happy to spend the afternoon playing with her instead of dealing with their often too-strict father.
His train track resembled his life in many ways. Meticulously designed, organized, and displayed to his own exacting standards, everything on the train table was where it belonged and operated how it was expected to. Cable management kept all cords neatly clustered and wound out of view, and after every session, each train car was picked up and packed in styrofoam, set in its properly sized and labeled box and placed on a shelf high on the wall to the left of the track itself. Every two weeks he cleaned the mountains and checked the track, spending more time caring for his hobby than he did actually enjoying the trains progression throughout the tunnels and hills of his manufactured mountain range.
Standing by the tallest peak, he smiled at the small figurines of the waving crowd, all standing at the sculpted train station, saying good-bye to miniature friends and relatives boarding the train. Everything was just right. There was this moment of bliss before actually pressing the button where each car, each person, each decoration was set in precisely the right place and precisely the right position, a brief moment of pure display transcendence before he pushed that red button and sent the train chugging around the track. This was the best part of the entire hobby, the minute he pressed that button, nothing was quite as perfect as it was at this exact moment.
His finger hovered over the red button, not quite wanting to push it yet, wanting to extend that feeling of perfection just a little bit longer, sweat running down the sides of his head and stinging his eyes slightly. Turning away from the train he took a step toward the small space heater and turned it down, feeling the heat radiating from the cylindrical device. As the heater eased its whirring fan, he thought he heard something. A swift bark or yell of some kind? Maybe a screech?
Probably the kids playing, he thought to himself, but he walked to the narrow window facing the house and glanced out anyway. He looked out upon the rear deck of his house, squinting toward the back door, but he could see no movement beyond the windows. Immediately he disregarded the bark idea, he didn’t even have a dog, and the sound had been more frantic than the sound of his kids playing. Looking back at the train display for a moment, he hesitated, feeling like he should go inside, but feeling antsy about leaving the train set out. He could feel his body battling against itself, his heart wanting to go check on the house, but the wild, untamed squirrels inside of his head wanting to clean up the train first, not leave it out, not leave it unorganized, he had to straighten it up, he couldn’t just leave—
He heard another noise from the house. Another swift screech and clatter, the sound of something falling to the hard floor.
Harris sighed, drawing his shoulders up toward his jawline, then moving out through the door, crossing the snow flecked lawn toward the back deck. It was considerably colder out in the yard than it had been in the shed, his breath blasting from his mouth in cold, smoky puffs. Walking up the stairs, he crossed the smooth wood of the back porch, then slid open the sliding glass door leading into the kitchen of his two-floor home. As he opened the door he listened, waiting to hear any sign of life within, but heard nothing. His house was silent with the exception of the low chatter of television news in the distant background. With two young children, it was a rare occurrence that the house was this quiet, especially in the middle of the day with Mrs. Greene. Nothing fired his kids up more than spending the afternoon with Mrs. Greene, and as he slid the door closed behind him, his mind raced with different possibilities.
Bruce Harris’s mind was almost always racing, darting from one thought to another, turning a swift left to a different, random idea from the dark recesses of his busy mind. The medication helped some, and his hobby helped even more, which is why he was so disoriented as he walked through the kitchen and his mind kept on spiraling to all of these possible outcomes, all of these graphic, dangerous, catastrophic possibilities for why the house was so silent. Surely it was his own overactive mind that was fostering these outcomes, spinning an innocent, quiet afternoon into potential disaster.
His lips worked as he moved through the kitchen, whispering to himself, convincing himself that everything was okay, even as he made his way around the large island that took up the majority of the space in the spacious kitchen. His foot struck something, and he stumbled, barely catching his balance.
Mrs. Greene was there, on the floor, stomach down, face plastered into the linoleum. Harris looked at her curiously, tipping his head to an odd angle, regarding her as he might a strange crayon mark on the white wall. It was an oddity. She didn’t belong there, but through the crazed chaos of his mind he couldn’t quite piece together where she did belong. A congealed wad of red goo was splayed over the thick carpet where the kitchen met the dining area.
“Did the kids spill juice there, Judy?” he asked Mrs. Greene, but she remained laying there, face down. “Kids?” he shouted to the silent house. “Who had juice in the dining room? Juice only belongs in the kitchen!”
There was no reply from anywhere in the house, just the constant, empty quiet, the frantic prattle of the television in the background.
“Jules?” he asked. “Tommy?” he asked, a little bit louder. He stepped onto the carpet, completely forgetting to take his shoes off, turning right down a squat hallway toward the living room. The voice on the TV was getting louder as he made his way toward the large living area, and he narrowed his eyes toward the room, trying to see what was inside.
“Tommy!” he shouted. “No more hide and seek!”
The living room emerged on his left and he reached it within a couple of strides, looking at the large room, full of life.
Normally it was full of life. Today, there was a different feel.
Harris looked at the television curiously, seeing the smoldering Boston skyline in the background, staged behind an excitable television reporter, mouth working, hands gesturing, talking about something that he couldn’t quite understand.
Jules was on her side on the couch, her arm outstretched, a cup full of dried cereal upturned onto the rug, Cheerios scattered in a wide arc from the open mouth of the container. Her eyes were open as if she was watching the news, but her mouth was also open to match, her lips caked in dark red, spilling out onto the couch cushion. The breath caught in Bruce’s throat as he saw her, and he took a step toward her, then spotted Tommy on the floor on the other side of the ottoman. He was on his back, looking up at the ceiling, the same strange pallor to his face, the same dark red lips and crimson skin from his nose down.
Harris opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. His sweet children were so tired from their busy day. Little Jules had fallen asleep right there on the couch and poor Tommy hadn’t even made it there. He was so exhausted, he fell asleep right there on the floor. His heart swelled inside his chest as he looked at his wonderful kids, his two reasons for living, the only things that kept him somewhat grounded to this strange, frenetic reality. He walked over toward the couch and slipped his arms under her li
feless form, and he scooped her up into his arms. Barely struggling, he carried her down the hall toward her bedroom, and let her rest down on the thick cushion of her bed. Slowly, meticulously, Bruce kissed her bare forehead and shut her eyes with two fingers, reaching down and pulling her quilt up to her chin.
“It’s chilly out,” he said softly. “You need to be warm, Julie-bear.”
Turning, he walked from her room and retrieved Tommy from the floor, a bit more of a struggle with his son’s extra weight, but he slumped him over his shoulder and walked down the hall, turning left and placing him in his own bed in the room across the hall. After a few moments, Tommy was also tucked in tight, his head turned to the side, his eyelids closed.
“Good,” Harris whispered. “Very good.”
Easing both of their doors closed, he walked down the hall and back into the living room, easing himself down to sit on the ottoman, watching the news reporter carry on about what was going on in the world. His busy mind only caught every few words, something about a virus, something about a plane, Boston was on fire. It was all very interesting, and he’d have to watch it again after he took his medication, things always made more sense after his medication.
The front door creaked open and banged shut, frantic footfalls thudding down the entry way hall.
“Bruce?” a voice cried out. “Bruce have you seen the news?”
“Hi, honey,” Bruce replied in a faint voice, his eyes clearly focused on the television.
“Bruce! People are dying! Everywhere! Where are Jules and Tommy, are they okay?”
He turned and looked at her, his head cocked a little to the side, a blank look in his eyes, his mouth partially open as if just realizing that she existed.
“Bruce?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
He nodded softly. “Sleeping,” he said simply. “Quiet.”
“Who’s sleeping?”
“Everyone.”
She took a step toward him and held out a hand. “Bruce are you feeling all right? Did you take your medicine this morning?”
Of course he hadn’t taken his medicine this morning. He wanted to take advantage of the day and get started with his trains. He was just planning on taking it at lunch.
He didn’t say any of these things, he just smiled at her. “Everyone’s sleeping.”
His wife shook her head softly and headed toward the kitchen. “Julie?” she cried out. “Tom?”
“Don’t step on Mrs. Greene,” he said after her in a strange, vacant monotone.
She screamed shortly thereafter. Bruce threw himself to his feet, walking briskly toward the kitchen.
“Stop!” he hissed. “Stop screaming you’ll wake them!”
“Where are the children?” she screeched at him as he approached. “For the love of God, Bruce, what’s happened to the children?”
“They are sleeping!” he screamed back, stepping toward her. She shook her head frantically, realization sparking a fright in her eyes. Looking at her husband, she saw someone she didn’t recognize, a man fully consumed by his disease, one final shock sending him spiraling down into the depths.
“Bruce, please let me see the children right now!”
“I said they’re sleeping,” he mumbled through clenched lips. “You need to be quiet!” He surged forward, wrapping his hands around her neck. She was going to wake them, he had to make her be quiet, he had to shut her up, he had to make sure they slept or he’d never get to go clean up his trains.
His wife gasped and choked, her eyes widened, hands clutching at the air, grasping at his thick forearms. She tried to speak but couldn’t, her voice hoarse and gagging.
“Let them sleep let them sleep let them sleep.”
He fell forward as she slumped back, falling in a heap on the floor, just next to Mrs. Greene, the full weight of him down on top of her, his fingers closing tightly, squeezing, crushing, making her finally shut up so they could—
***
“—sleep!” Harris shouted, his body jerking in the chair, his eyes flying open. He was sitting in a soft, plush chair in the small play room in the back corner of the town hall, a room that had occasionally served as a daycare center for the children of town employees. A basket with various toys sat spilled over in the corner, and Melinda was on the floor, surrounded by scattered items, talking lightly to herself as she played with a few fashion dolls she’d liberated from the wicker prison. She seemed oblivious to his shout, and in fact to his presence entirely, completely absorbed by the toys on the floor, focused on the adventures of the dolls, and immediately he thought back to the days spent in the shed in his backyard, the days focused only on the trains.
Sadly he wondered if he’d ever get that opportunity again. Would life ever get back to the point where he could relax for a day with his trains rather than be worried about the state of his town and the state of his people? There were so many more important things now, things that required his attention and wouldn’t allow him to devote so much time and energy to his hobbies. It was simultaneously upsetting and exhilarating to consider the level of responsibility he now held. The lives of the entire town’s population resting completely within the palm of his hand.
Her life, too. Melinda Silva, she said her name was. Ten years old, sitting on the floor playing with the fashion dolls as if she’d never seen one before. Perhaps she hadn’t? As she sat there with them, she spoke to herself in quiet voices, three dolls acting out whatever little fantasy was taking place inside her young head.
She reminded him of Julia. Little Jules. She used to love playing with her Barbie dolls, only she didn’t have the knock off fashion variety, she had the official stuff. Official stuff that cost an arm and a leg, especially at Christmas. There was no way Jules would have accepted these knock off dolls; she would have been able to tell immediately that they weren’t actually Barbies. He could see her already, turning her nose up at them, pushing them aside, scoffing at them.
Poor little Jules. She’d been so tired. So tired she might still be sleeping. Jules, Tommy, even his wife. They were all sleeping the sleep of angels, tucked in bed, laying still.
He wondered if Melinda was tired, too. It had been a rough few days for her, too, on the road, escaping the burning city, leaving her dead parents behind. A very difficult situation even for the strongest of them, but for a ten-year-old girl? Yes, he decided, she must be tired. She really should go to sleep.
Slowly he stood, smiling at her. His motion caught her eye and she looked up toward him.
“I don’t want to go back in,” she said quietly. “I can play. I’ll be good.”
“You look tired,” he said. “I have some very comfortable beds at home. Do you want to go take a nap?”
Mel shook her head uncertainly. Her expression shifted, a twist of resistance on her face, unwillingness to listen to whatever he was saying.
“I’m not tired,” she whispered. “I’m fine.”
He pressed his hands together. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You’ve been on the move for days. You must be tired. Come with me, sweetheart, we’ll get you tucked into bed. My daughter is home sleeping right now. She’s about your age, I think you’d like her.”
“I’m not tired.”
Harris took a step toward her, unclasping his hands and holding them out toward her as if he might grasp her under the arms and lift her up in a rough embrace.
She stood there, still, not sure what to do next, taking a curious step backwards as he approached, arms outstretched.
“Little Melinda,” he said. “Come with me. You’ll feel better. Go to sleep, let all of your worries fade away.”
She took another step back and glanced behind her, realizing how close she already was to the wall.
“I’ll go back inside if that’s what you want,” she said quickly. “I’ll go back to Javier. It’s okay.”
Harris shook his head. “No. They’re no good for you. Come with me. Get some rest.” He took one more long step toward her a
nd she lunged, bringing an object from behind her back. It was a little green wooden block in the shape of a triangle, an innocuous looking toy, but as she lunged toward him she drove it, pointed side down, toward his foot, ramming the jagged angle of the wood into the top of his thin shoe.
The pain was intense, a sharp stab of agony, right in the tender spot at the top of his foot, a flare and burn of swift pain. He bit off a curse, not wanting to swear in front of the child, but he stumbled backwards, mouth twisting into a snarl. She was already moving, charging forward, angling around his leg, sprinting toward the open door of the day care. Turning, he clenched his fists and shouted at her back as she vanished through the door.
“Hey!” he screamed. “Hey, you miserable little girl! Stop!”
Already out in the hallway he could hear the frantic tapping of shoes scrambling down wooden stairs and he knew she was already at the bottom level, likely already at the tall, double front doors, the heavy wood squealing as she pushed it open.
“Don’t!” he yelled after her, half running, half limping toward the exit, but he reached the door just in time to see the front entrance slam shut, closing her from his view and she burst out into the fresh air of daylight and was gone.
Mayor Harris stumbled out into the hallway, looking down the short flight of stairs, then glanced to his right seeing the small office belonging to the Chief of Police. He strode into the small room and found just what he was looking for.