A solid object, metal on wood, scraped on the table top above him, followed by faint footsteps moving away from the table.
Derek clenched his fists, ready to strike. His tongue flicked out to wet his dry lips and he swallowed hard past the dryness in his throat.
A whimper seeped through the black and someone gasped for air.
Derek sat up to listen. He searched for the source of the panic.
A sudden, yet soft, shriek of pain. The whimper turned into a quiet, lonely sob.
“Wake up,” Derek called to the others, loud enough to wake them yet careful not to shout. He didn’t want the lights to come on. Not again. “The girl. Get to the girl.”
The other three occupants stumbled through the darkness in search of the distressed girl, while Derek crawled towards the corner, the last place he recalled seeing her. He was careful not to bump into any of the furniture. Once the lights came on, there wouldn’t be time to rearrange.
“Where is she?” an adult woman asked somewhere behind him.
“Over here. I’m almost there.” Derek’s hand pressed into a moist spot on the carpet seconds before he found her squeezed into the corner of the room. “What have you -”
The lights flashed to life.
Derek shielded his eyes from the crushing brightness. A blurry vision of a white dress was all he could make out. That and the river of red staining her arms. His hands fumbled to find the teenage girl. He had to find the source of her injury within the torrent of blood—had to clog it before it could spill the last of her life blood.
The other two children cried through muffled screams. They’d bring the creatures, the pain and the true darkness. Times like these the light proved much worse than the dark; you could get used to the dark.
“Quickly,” Derek said.
“Oh, no,” the woman cried. “What do we do? What do we do?”
“What we always do. No matter what. Now get to your places.” Derek fumbled for a cloth or sheet to tie around the girl’s slit wrists. They had tried previously to hide the knives or other sharp objects from her, but the monotony of their everyday ritual made them all forgetful.
The kids cried louder, uncertain what to do or how to help.
Derek motioned them to the table. “To your chairs. Quickly.” He tore a piece of cloth from his shirt and bound it around the girl’s wrists like cuffs and pulled it tight, her arms pressing together at an awkward angle. He wiped as much blood from her skin as possible and carried her to the table. “Stay with me.” For a few moments he tried to recall her name. Since their capture, Derek had only had time to think of his own, real, daughter. “Don’t fall asleep.” He sat her in her usual spot, hands on her lap, angling her so she wouldn’t topple over or slip down the side.
The pretend wife of Derek’s pretend family tossed a rug over the crimson battlefield and took her seat at the table just in time. The machines within the walls rumbled to life.
Derek straightened his suit, clipped on the tie he kept in the breast pocket and took his place at the head of the table. “Wipe your tears, now. And remember to smile.”
The shutter shook with a screech of steel on steel. It inched towards the ceiling, allowing the rays of sun to stretch across the carpet towards them.
The final bang of the shutter settling into place forced Derek’s gaze to the plastic food before him. The sounds and shadows and vulnerability of being watched, like every day before it, pulled him back to the night it all started. Before he was turned into a window display.
He tried to recall the good times he had spent with Meghan before the invaders came, but his analytical mind insisted the story run its course. He . . .
***
. . . had stopped at the top of the stairs to listen for the position of a possible intruder.
He inched forward and peered into the first bedroom. A bright light, moving in irregular zig—zag patterns, flashed past the window. Derek jerked into motion and he ran down the hallway. At each side doorway he cringed away as if he expected something to rush out and grab him. One thing he knew for certain—they weren’t alone anymore.
More screams erupted throughout the neighbourhood. An explosion followed, setting off a series of eruptions, car alarms and more screams.
Derek’s fingers fumbled across the safe’s keypad. He grabbed his gun.
Meghan screamed downstairs.
He turned to run. He had to get to her before anything bad happened. The roof shook as if some unseen hand was trying to lift it like a doll’s house.
His heart thumped like fist blows against his chest.
He prepared himself to shoot whatever waited for him downstairs, but at the edge of the staircase an invisible force started to push Derek down, as if the intruders knew the gun was a threat.
Meghan’s screams rose up the staircase and willed him on.
He shoved against the intense gravity, refusing to be pushed down. With every inch he moved closer to the ground he forced himself onward, skimming his body down the staircase, pulling forward against the banister.
“Daddy!” Meghan yelled.
A last burst of energy sent him leaping to the bottom of the stairs, where he lay sprawled on the wooden floor.
Two dark beings, tall and skinny and naked, circled Meghan. She lunged at one with the other steak knife. The creature screeched in pain as the blade slashed across its slick grey skin, but did not relent. It merely raised an arm, equipped with blade-like bony fingers and slashed its nails into Meghan’s throat.
Derek screamed.
Gasping Meghan fell to the floor, bathed in crimson.
With the gun now too heavy to lift, Derek inched forward and reached for her hand, their eyes meeting. The creatures gouged at Derek’s back while he stared into his dying daughter’s eyes. His world plummeted into darkness, a darkness he would never escape.
***
There he sat, back in the room at the head of his fake family. A family filled with strangers he refused to accept: a wife who had no idea where her real family were; a young boy whose parents were slaughtered in front of him; a young girl who swore she’d died alongside her family but woke up here with them; and of course, the teenage girl struggling to get over the things the creatures had done to her and her friends before they were separated.
Here they would live, day in and day out, for who knows how long. They’d stare at their plastic food and cardboard cut—outs and put on their cardboard smiles, a window display for the new dominant species. With subservience came real food, served after dark with a pinch of salt and nothing else. It was a small reward for obediently displaying the same scene of an average human day.
A moan escaped the girl’s lips.
Derek bowed his head slightly. He kept his gaze on his replacement daughter and the bright light from the forgotten world outside. The creatures were already moving past the window.
A red shadow seeped through the cloth surrounding the girl’s wounds, her skin pale and dying.
A few window-shoppers moved closer as they seemed to notice the blood. Derek wondered if they could smell it.
The girl slid down her chair and the rest of the family started.
The long-limbed creatures outside roared in protest at this change in routine. Why wasn’t the human smiling anymore? Didn’t she enjoy sharing a meal with her family? What an ungrateful creature!
Derek shook his head at their pitiful exhibition. It had been weeks since they’d even looked at them, yet now they wanted to object. At first Derek and his fake family had been such an amazing display, one of thousands of different ones, yes, but they did what was required of them and they lived. Anything was better than the physical torture these creatures were capable of inflicting.
But then the creatures grew bored, they hardly seemed interested anymore, barely laughed or taunted as they fell into their own daily routine of whatever menial acts encompassed their lives.
More creatures gathered to examine the odd girl.
&
nbsp; Derek had contemplated suicide before. Who wanted to live in a world where even superior beings couldn’t live free? More than once he thought of murdering his new family. That’d be a show those freaks had never seen before. Or would it?
The crowd beyond the window drew closer, a large shadow eclipsing the sun.
The rest of Derek’s ‘family’ cried in horror, all but the girl, whose blood now flowed freely from her wounds as if there had never been a cloth to stop it. The blood ran down her thigh and plopped onto the off-white carpet.
Derek knew he had to do something to show these things he was more than just a window display, more than just a dressed-up mannequin representing a defeated race. He had to step up and become a new man.
He looked around the table and realised it was time he accepted these people as his new family. He thought back at the months they had spent together, recalled their names and what they had mentioned about their lives before the assault.
He pushed back his chair, fighting off his wife’s protesting hands. He slid his arms under the teenage girl’s body, cradling her as he raised her up. She rolled her head in the crook of his neck and moaned. Her name . . . was Carin.
“No, please!” his wife shouted.
His young children shrieked in horror, knowing their punishment would soon be administered.
Derek carried Carin to the window, shouting at them for everything that had gone wrong for himself and the human race. He flicked his hand at the window, sending drops of Carin’s blood flying towards the glass in defiance.
Carin’s body grew limp and heavy, her breathing shallow.
He doubted if they could hear him, since he couldn’t hear their screams of shock and anger. Most of them wanted to kill him, but he could see some of them were touched by his actions, those of them who somehow retained compassion. Hope. Perhaps they had learned something from observing humans for so long.
The shutter screeched to life. Sunlight retracted across the carpet. The shutter banged shut as it separated the two worlds.
A door slammed open behind him. Footsteps thundered towards Derek and his family. Their screams filled the room with fear and unrelenting torture.
Derek, refusing to turn, continued to stare into his daughter’s fading eyes, ignoring the sounds of tearing flesh and shattering bones behind him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me most.”
Her eyes glazed over as her final breath left her body.
Derek closed his eyes and waited for pain and death, hoping this time it would lead to a more permanent darkness, or at least a second chance.
Animal-like footsteps charged towards him and the creatures lashed their fury onto his back. Derek fell, drowning in the black sea of pain and death. He never let go of his daughter’s hand.
***
The abysmal darkness subsided.
Derek opened his eyes. It was dark, but he’d gotten used to this level of obscurity. He was back in the room.
He wondered how long he’d been awake, or if he was perhaps still sleeping. He brushed a hand over his shoulder and neck, feeling for any signs of the bones he knew had broken during the attack and the skin he’d seen peel off. Like before, there were no signs of abuse. Once again, like so many times before, the creatures had tortured them, likely killed them, and brought them back. In a way he was glad to see his family. It wasn’t too late to make the best of this life.
For the first time Derek realised why he couldn’t get over Meghan’s death—she was the only good memory in a sea of suffering, his Atlantis. Perhaps they did bring her back, and she was living with a new family, like his. That didn’t really matter any more, not under these circumstances. He hoped she accepted them.
The rest of his family, including Carin, slept in silence as they all waited for a saviour, someone or something to take them away from this prison.
Perhaps old age . . . ?
If they were lucky.
For now Derek would apologise for his actions, and make their lives as bearable as he possibly could.
ON A MIDNIGHT BLACK CHESSIE
—KEVIN LUCIA—
Now
Bradley once again turns onto that the strange road bathed in the moon’s eerie phosphorescent glow. He recognizes this place, now. Understands what it is, where it came from, and how it came to be.
Ned sits on the passenger side, still drunk, forehead pressing against the window as he gazes at the glowing scenery. “Wow. Am I awake, or dreamin?”
“Neither,” Bradley whispers. “Or maybe both.”
Towards Ned, he feels a resolved sadness. Bradley no longer hates him so much, but rather pities him, for he’s caught up in something much larger than himself, much larger than Bradley, or anything else. And Ned’s completely helpless in the face of it.
And as they drive down this softly glowing road, Ned continues to stare. “Geez. Don’ recognize this at all. You take a wrong turn? We lost?”
“No,” Bradley says as he slowly pulls up to the glowing church at the road’s end. “Not at all.
“I’m home.”
Three Days Ago
Friday afternoon
Bradley Sanders had just pulled his office door shut and was in the process of locking it when he heard: “Hey, Brad. What’s up?”
He breathed deep.
Feeling his insides warm.
And he turned, smiling at Emma Hatcher, a colleague in the Mythology Department at Web County Community College. Young and vivacious but also highly intelligent, Emma didn’t fit the role of musty old Mythology professor. Fiery, brimming with energy, she’d proven very stimulating company this past year or so.
Very stimulating, indeed.
He regarded Emma’s approach with surreptitious appraisal. She glided towards him. Not swinging her hips, exactly. But swaying in a graceful way that couldn’t be so plainly described as “walking.” She seemed more suited to Broadway than a backwater community college in the Adirondacks.
She smiled. “Heading home?”
He shuffled books and office keys and his satchel. “Well. Urm. Yes. And you . . ?” He nodded towards the exit, feeling both foolish and wonderful.
“Yeah. SO done with this place for now. Especially with summer session starting Monday.” She smiled. “Walk with me?”
He grinned like an idiot but didn’t care. “My pleasure.”
She fell in step with him. “Y’know, some folks from other departments are meeting at the White Lake Inn tonight. An ‘end of the semester’ mixer. Around nine.”
She paused.
Offering him a gentle grin. “Of course, you’ll probably be too busy playing with your trains, I suppose.”
He snorted good-naturedly and looked down, heat rising past his collar. “I’ll have you know, I enjoy many other stimulating pursuits besides model railroading.”
Eyebrows raised.
Glistening, playful lips curved upwards. “Such as?”
“Well. Er. There’s perusing yard sales. Thrift shops. Of course, my studies. And . . . well . . .”
“Hah!” She bumped shoulders with him. He shivered, even at this platonic gesture. “Admit it. At heart, you’re a big kid obsessed with his train set.”
“Layout, Emma. It’s a model scale layout of Clifton Heights. A set is something you put under a Christmas tree for children to play with.”
She chuckled. “Methinks you’ve been working too hard on your layout. Bit overprotective, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s addictive, really. Like building my own world.”
“Well, Maestro . . . if you’re not too busy building your own world . . . tonight. Nine. See you, maybe?”
And with that, they pushed through the exit into the sunny afternoon. Emma glided off towards her white Mazda Miata, looking over her shoulder, smiling, her eyes dancing.
He waved.
Grinning like a fool.
She grinned, waved back, gliding toward her car. She opened the door, tossed
her purse and books and satchel inside, and flicked him one more jaunty half-wave.
She got into her car, started it up and drove off.
While he stood there, staring, satchel in one hand, books pinned under his arm, cursing himself delightfully for being a thousand times an idiot.
But a happy idiot.
Until he considered her parting rejoinder, and felt his joy recede.
if you’re not too busy
building your own world
Subdued, Bradley shuffled to his car.
Friday Evening
Bradley’s train layout filled over half his basement, its wooden tablework skirted with blue cloth that just touched the floor. Underneath he stored his supplies, extra parts and unused rolling stock: boxcars, flat cars, oil tankers, engines and cabooses. Boxes of automobiles. Unassembled houses, gas stations, stores and warehouses. Miles of track, assorted spare parts (organized into rectangular sorters), shakers filled with powdered terrain of all kinds: grass, dirt and gravel. Bags of shrubs and pre-assembled trees of every size and shape and color. Rolls of plaster, tubs of clay for landscaping. Miniature lights for homes and stores and churches.
Everything he needed.
Packed into green totes, stored neatly under the layout, behind the royal blue curtain.
Over the last few years, he’d spent hours casting plaster streets and roads and sidewalks, stringing electrical lines, aligning buildings to scale and landscaping hills and knolls, applying grass and dirt and gravel, bushes and trees where needed.
He’d spent hours down here.
Cocooned in the peace of his basement, every night. On afternoons like this one, weather regardless. On holidays. Weekends. Next to teaching and studying, modeling trains had become his love. An obsession, he freely admitted. He loved every inch of his layout, this version of Clifton Heights that only existed here. Loved it, as a Creator must love His world.
He smiled.
Claiming godship of a model train layout might be petty, but he’d take it.
What else did he have?
But he forced himself not think about that as he poured plaster into the roadbed he’d outlined with molding tape, branching a new road off Front Street, one that didn’t exist in real life, advancing into the layout’s last bare section, the final thing he needed to finish in his world.
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