Out of the Shadows

by Timothy Boyd

  But there were no people. Not anywhere.

  The world began spinning, but this time it was unrelated to alcohol. I fought back the urge to vomit again as I surveyed the scene. As the sun set, giving way to the night, only one thought crossed my mind. A frequent thought during my throes of self-pity, but in this moment, it was true:

  I was alone.

  Barren

  II

  As the remaining daylight faded into the horizon, giving way to the moonlit night, I stared at the police station, once a beacon of comfort in our small town. But now, with its bright landscape lighting casting a glow on the shrubs lining the walkway, and the grounded spotlights beaming bright cones up the tan-brick front of the station, it appeared ominous, as if an evil entity had taken up residence and spread its vile reach across the town.

  Stars twinkled false hope through the bruised sky, blue-black from the day’s abuse. I sat in my truck, parked haphazardly at the curb, softly trembling. I wasn’t sure whether it was my adrenaline finally fading, or the fact that I hadn’t had a drink in almost twelve hours.

  Or that the last time I stepped foot inside the building before me was when I was stripped of my gun and my badge…

  All of the above, maybe?

  I hadn’t known what to do next while standing in the middle of Main Street, feeling nauseous from the sight of the wrecked cars, billowing flames, and splattered blood stains on the pavement. I had thought about checking for survivors, but everything had been so eerily quiet that calling out for anyone seemed reckless. Not to mention that I had nothing on my person to defend myself in the event things went south. So, I went back to my original plan of heading to the police station.

  The breeze had grown quite cool, so I grabbed my grey hooded sweatshirt from the passenger seat and exited my truck, slipping my arms into the cotton sleeves that now no longer felt comforting. All of my senses were heightened with a dark intent. I didn’t feel like a local in my own town anymore.

  I stepped up onto the curb and glanced down to see a quarter-sized black spider scurry across the concrete and take refuge in the freshly mowed grass of the station’s yard. Despite my hoodie, I shivered, cramming my hands into the sweatshirt’s pockets as I walked down the pathway between the illuminated bushes toward the front glass doors.

  I entered the station slowly, my shoes quietly squeaking on the marble tile of the reception area. I felt too exposed in this two-story cavernous entry hall, even though I had no idea what the danger might be. The fluorescents above were off, which struck me as odd. Luckily, dim light seeped into the station from outside allowing me to see where I was going. I ignored the small stains of blood scattered about.

  The receptionist’s chair was empty, and the door leading into the station was unguarded. I stood still, breathing as deeply as I dared, listening for signs of life. After pushing the pounding of my heart from my head, I tuned in on the silence of the building. Somewhere beyond the door, a quiet creak escaped, the wooden beams in the walls settling into their nightly slumber. The faint clicking of bugs scurrying about their lives chittered within the drywall. The soft hum of the A/C unit reverberated through the air, pushing a chill into the place.

  It was far too quiet.

  Through the door and inside the main office space, darkness pervaded. Dozens of desks belonging to the officers filled the open area, personal memorabilia and family photos littering the many desktops. Most of it had been knocked over, chairs on their sides, papers strewn about. It looked as though a tornado had swept through the office. Nearly all of their desk phones had voicemail, the tiny red indicator lights casting a frightening, pulsing glow about the place. Along the back wall of the large room were a few offices cordoned off from the rest of the space with glass doors and walls, including the chief’s.

  Where the hell was everyone?

  My eyes scanned the workspace, intricately familiar with the layout. Two years ago, I’d worked here; not a thing had changed since. After Annie had been killed and Sarah had left me, I had moved away from our perfect suburbia and out into the woods, where I could be left alone to live the rest of my life in peace. The silence suited me, but now, it was suddenly unnerving and rattled my core. I wondered if I would be able to return home and endure the solitude after all of this – whatever this was.

  To my right against the wall, the fax machine whirred loudly, and I jumped, falling backward into someone’s desk, knocking over paperweights and photos. The machine had come alive and now beeped, indicating an incoming message. Hoping it would contain any snippet of information that might clue me in on what was happening, I waited impatiently for the paper to push through, glancing around with keen awareness, worried that the noise might attract… something.

  Just before the sheet released itself, I snatched it from the machine, which quieted once again. It was a typed memo from the county’s Police Headquarters in Franklin, the nearest metropolis, about twenty minutes south of my abandoned nightmare town: Please advise – Shady Heights has fallen. Fifth station in county to go dark. Report your status.

  “What the hell?” I mumbled quietly, my brow furrowed with concern for the fallen city to the west. I continued down the list of stations that had gone dark, allegedly from the same problem that currently plagued my town. If there were a connection among them, I failed to see it. I scrawled a quick reply: This is Nick Barren. Angelwood has fallen – no other survivors yet. What’s going on? Send instruction.

  Now heading through a side door toward the armory, I crept down the short hall past the evidence vault and interrogation rooms. When I approached the weapon storage door, I was surprised to find it unlocked. Concerned, I cautiously peeked into the room’s darkness, slowly pushing the door open.

  I knew that guns, ammo, and protective gear lined the walls of the small room, but it was too dark to see anything. I stood at the threshold, holding my breath, listening for sounds that would reveal what lurked in the shadows. But after a minute passed with no incident, I considered it safe to flip the light switch.

  Once inside, I strapped on a flak jacket under my hoodie and attached a holster around my waist, fitted with a SIG Sauer P228 (my preferred handgun) and another pouch to carry extra clips for the gun. It felt oddly soothing to be back in my old work gear, but that was a Nick Barren of the past. This new Nick was no longer a cop and was therefore not held under certain rules and scrutiny. On my way out of the armory, I also swiped a black Maglite. I still had no idea what I might be up against, but if it was going to go down at night, I thought it better to be able to see what I was firing at.

  I headed back past the fax machine – no response from HQ – and headed toward the holding rooms. I opened the door, entering the perpendicular hall containing the ten secured cells, five on either side of the door, my weapon raised to bring a certain level of comfort I had lacked up to now. As the door quietly closed behind me, a man’s voice said, “So, I reckon you’re the asshole makin’ all the noise out there?”

  I spun quickly on my heels, gun trained on the person who had spoken. He was locked in the cell on the end, wearing black pants and a black button-up shirt with a gold badge on the breast pocket. His scrawny figure and fresh face revealed his youth, not possibly more than twenty years old – probably a cadet straight out of the local community college. If the thickness of his drawl was any indication, he was born and raised right here in Angelwood. “Who are you?”

  The guy scoffed slightly. “I work here! Who the hell’re you?”

  I hesitated but quickly realized he couldn’t possibly hurt me while locked behind bars – not that his wiry frame would be any match for my brawn. I lowered my weapon. “Nick Barren.”

  His eyes narrowed, and a slight smirk crossed his lips. “So, you’re the famous Nick Barren?”

  If it had been well lit in the room, he would have seen my face go white. It’s thoroughly embarrassing to know that tales of my legendary fall from grace were still getting around at the precinct. “What’s t
hat supposed to mean?” I spat.

  The man shrugged. “Nothin’. Heard you was a great cop ‘fore your…” but the man wisely stopped himself from continuing. “Well… I’m Billy Townsend.” He reached his hand through the bars, and I reluctantly accepted his greeting. “Your vest ain’t gonna save you, by the way,” he mentioned of the flak jacket under my hoodie.

  I considered him a moment and then said, “I suppose I should get you out of there.”

  Billy reached into his pocket and retrieved a small ring of keys, dangling them from his thumb and forefinger.

  “You don’t want out?”

  “Hell no! This here’s the safest place to be right now! Least until all this… passes.”

  “What the hell is going on? I woke up maybe two hours ago, and now the world’s gone to shit!”

  “Wow,” Billy shook his head incredulously. “You got no idea?”

  I didn’t dignify his condescension with a response, so I just continued staring, awaiting his explanation.

  “Well, I don’t know much. We got a call that a riot had broke out downtown. We get there, and it’s pandemonium. People runnin’ ‘round everywhere, flailin’ their arms, smackin’ at themselves. Others dropped to the ground like they was dead, but then they’d hop right back up, calm as ever.

  “My partner drove us outta there ‘fore I even had the chance to get out of the car. And when we got back here, same thing was goin’ on inside. It was total chaos. People was bitin’ each other, goin’ crazy, screamin’ ‘get ‘em off me!’ I decided there’s no use in dyin’, so I locked myself in here.”

  My mind was racing with thoughts of disbelief, trying to come to grips with everything Billy was explaining. Part of me wanted to call his bluff, like this was all some cruel practical joke to play on “the famous Nick Barren.” Poor old drunk, he wouldn’t know the difference!

  “Well, you can come out now,” I said. “There’s no one out there. Everyone is gone.”

  Billy shook his head, a slight terror forming in his eyes. “No. No, they ain’t. They’re out there. And they won’t stop ‘til they got us all.”

  “What? Who’s ‘they?’”

  Billy looked hesitant, as if he were debating whether he should rat out his brother for stealing from the cookie jar or something. “I thought back through everything I seen. The flailin’, the bitin’, droppin’ to the ground, suddenly gettin’ up like everything’s all right.” He paused, his eyes flicking back and forth erratically, thoughts swirling through his dark mind. “Whatever’s happenin’ to these people, it’s spreadin’. Prob’ly through the bites.”

  Now he had crossed a line of weirdness that I couldn’t logically accept. “You mean like vampires?”

  Billy laughed uneasily. “Vampires ain’t real.”

  “Then what? Like… zombies or something?”

  His gaze fell into the distance as his mind focused on some far-away thought. “Or somethin’,” he mumbled. “These people ain’t dead. They’re just… different.”

  A long silence passed between us, and I felt a slight shiver crawl up my spine. “You know this all sounds crazy, right?”

  “Yeah.” Billy held out the keys to me. “Want the cell next to mine?”

  My mind became muddled with thoughts of the only two people in town I held any kind of significant feelings for – my ex-wife Sarah and the Gravedigger’s bartender Deb – and I needed to know that they were safe. I wanted to get out of Angelwood. Maybe head to Franklin. They seemed to have things under control there. But I couldn’t leave town before seeing Sarah and Deb.

  “D’ya hear that?” Billy asked, dread slowly washing over him.

  I strained my ears to listen. Sure enough, outside in the main office space, I heard the main door swing and latch closed. I heard mumbled voices, calm and collected. Multiple sets of footsteps. A door opened, then closed. Then another door.

  “Survivors?!” I whispered with wide eyes, ecstatic that other people were alive.

  Billy contorted his face in anger, shushing me with his finger to his lips.

  His aggressive reaction forced my brow to furrow, and as I watched the sincere terror flood into his eyes, my own pulse began pounding, and I wondered if maybe his story were true after all. I suddenly felt unsafe and exposed, and I thought it best to let these intruders make their intentions known before I immediately decided to trust them.

  I backed quietly into the shadowed corner near Billy’s cell, eyes and weapon trained on the door that led into the office space. My muscles locked when I saw the doorknob gently move.

  Not zombies. Not vampires. What the hell are they? What’s going on? I thought.

  The knob turned torturously slowly until finally a quiet click sounded, and it swung open inch by inch, just as leisurely as the knob had spun. Billy gasped and clasped his hands over his mouth, like his breathing might give away his position. My finger trembled on the trigger of my gun, and cold sweat trickled down my face.

  As if the current circumstances weren’t frightening enough, an eerie emotionless voice asked from the dark, open doorway:

  “Hello?”

  Barren

  III

  My instincts told me that the man at the door was a threat in some way, even though he had not yet stepped over the threshold. I felt the urge to assert myself, to display my authority over him, to make him respect me and the weapon I wielded, forcing him to stand still and answer any questions I had.

  I glanced at the fellow officer, and I saw the terrible fear in his eyes, clasping his hands over his mouth as if he would be unable to keep quiet without the self-applied gag. I crouched in the shadowed corner of the dark, moonlit room, staring unblinking at the open doorway, following Billy’s lead and staying quiet.

  I remained, my P228 trained on the threshold’s blackness, afraid to lower my gun for fear the silent movement of muscle would alert him of my presence. Even though my eyes had adjusted to the near darkness, it still took a minute for me to notice it:

  Dangling, slowly lowering itself mere inches from my face, a small black spider rappelled down its silky filament, its rear legs lackadaisically releasing the strand from its sack, closing the distance between itself and my outstretched arm.

  Despite my blue jeans and gray hoodie, I shivered. I’m not one to be afraid of bugs; I am accustomed to squashing them when they’re in my house. But that doesn’t mean I’m fond of them and welcome them crawling on my body. The presence of this arachnid was a nuisance, and I wanted it gone. My shallow breaths made it sway to and fro as it continued to lower itself and land on my arm.

  And then it turned and crawled toward my face.

  I’ve seen the incredible speeds at which insects like this could travel, but this one moseyed, toying with me, testing me to see how long I could hold still in the face of danger.

  “Hello?” the hollow voice rang out once more from beyond the open doorway.

  “There’s no one here. Let’s go,” came a female’s voice from deeper within the office. There was something wrong with her tone, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint the oddity. It was like there was no feeling, no subtext.

  The man stood silent, not responding to the woman’s request. The spider was now only six inches away, tiptoeing one leg at a time – all eight of them – leisurely strolling toward my cold and clammy face.

  In the same emotionless manner as before, the man said, “I know he’s here. Somewhere. His truck is outside.”

  A chill cascaded down my spine. My truck? I thought, wondering what they could possibly want with a drunken bum like me.

  Darting my eyes over toward Billy, I was afraid he was in the process of giving himself a heart attack, or shitting himself at the very least. He was frozen, leaning back against his cell wall, and from what I could make out, he looked as though he hadn’t taken a single breath since the door had crawled open and the man had uttered his questioned salutation.

  An excruciating few seconds of silence passed before the man s
aid, “Let’s look upstairs.” And he pulled the door closed.

  As quickly as I dared, for fear of making too much noise and drawing the man back, I swatted the spider away from my face and exhaled forcefully, gasping for large breaths that I dared not take a moment before. I flipped on my flashlight and caught up with the insect, smashing it vengefully under my shoe.

  “Jesus Christ, Billy,” I panted in a whisper. “Who are these people?!”

  When he didn’t immediately respond, I turned toward him and flashed my light at his face. His eyes were open wide, his hands clasped against his mouth, his skin gray and bloodless.

  “Billy?” I inched closer to his cell bars.

  His eyelids slowly lowered, and his hands released, falling limply to his sides, and then his body crumpled to the ground in an unmoving heap. My panicked heart leapt into my throat when it dawned on me: a minute ago, when I saw him frozen and leaning against the wall, he wasn’t remaining still from fright.

  He was dead.

  What the hell killed him? I wondered. I had been in the room the whole time. There’s no way it was a heart attack; cops have to do intense physicals before they’re hired. I wanted to get in there and investigate, but looped on his fingers far from my reach were the keys to his cell.

  Dumbfounded, I lowered my gun toward the floor and stared at nothing. My brain filled with thoughts of nonsense, unable to make sense of anything that had happened in the past couple of hours. I was coming unhinged, knowing that this couldn’t possibly be real.

  Suddenly, I slapped myself hard across the face. When nothing happened, I did it again. And again. I was convinced that this was all some sort of bad whiskey dream, or the world’s worst hangover. Or maybe this was what happened when you went through intense alcohol withdrawal. Regardless, I decided it would be best not to have a drink until I knew I was safe. Maybe I would quit drinking altogether, but probably not.