After They Came

by Tom Kavanagh

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I tripped. Let me help you with your books.”

  I crouched down and began collecting books, attempting to save them from the mud.

  “You really scared me, Isabelle. I thought you were going to stab me or something.”

  “You heard?”

  “Are you serious? Everybody in school heard about what you did. Swinging a pair of scissors at a teacher with a pair of scissors isn’t exactly small news.”

  “I didn’t stab her.”

  “Well, why did you do it then?”

  “It was a warning shot.”

  “A warning shot?”

  “Yes, it was a warning shot. I just needed to distract her while I got away.”

  “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that your little ‘warning shot’ that helped you get away, scared the hell out of her.’

  “I just wanted to get away. Like I said, it was just a—”

  “Warning shot. Yes, you said that already.”

  He picked up the last piece of mud-smeared paper and looked at me with a less than pleased look.

  “So, what are you doing here? Are you on the run from the law?”

  “I’m on the run from them.”

  “Oh? So you need a getaway car?”

  “I need your help. I think they have taken more people than we thought.”

  “Is that why you swung the scissors at your teacher? Because you thought she was one of them? You were giving them a warning shot?”

  “Yes, she was one of them. That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She answered all of my questions wrong.”

  “Ah yes, your questionnaire. But why do you need my help again?”

  “I need somewhere to hide for a while.”

  He looked dubious.

  “For a while?”

  “Yes, just until I can find a way of making them leave.”

  “And how do you imagine you’ll do that?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to try.”

  “Okay. But I still don’t get where I come into all of this.”

  “I need to hide. And you have lots of outhouses.”

  “You want to hide in one of my dad’s outhouses?”

  “Yes.”

  “In with all the animal muck and rusty machinery?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  He shook his head, exhaling a little, obviously trying to hold in laughter.

  “Okay. Fine. But it’s your stinky, shit-filled funeral.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ve worked on a farm for my entire life. I’m used to a little muck.”

  * * * * *

  It turned out that my farm’s muck was a little different from Simon’s muck.

  My farm was pretty mucky and full of junk, but it was organized junk and muck. There was a system in place, however flawed it may have been.

  There was no such plan at Simon’s farm.

  He led me to an outhouse on the edge of the property, weaving his way through farm equipment and misshapen bales of hay. Through gaps in the tall grass, I could see that the ground was littered with old nuts and bolts, tools, and random planks of wood. The outhouse itself was in bad shape and looked as if it hadn’t been tended to for months. Its lock was rusty, and it took a few good thumps to free it from its loop.

  Once inside, I was greeted with just a small glimpse of the madness.

  It looked like the set of a horror film, from the rusty machinery to various tools hanging from the ceiling, clinking ominously as the wind caressed their sharp edges. With only one window in the outhouse, it was nearly impossible to know how far it stretched on for. On the outside, it seemed compact, but inside, a surreal feeling pervaded, as if it had turned into Mary Poppins’s handbag. Pickle was in sensory overload. She didn’t know what to smell first and was even less sure about what to lick. She weaved around the heavy-duty machinery and settled in the corner of the outhouse near a pile of rotten wood.

  “Will this do?” he grunted as he threw a large chunk of miscellaneous machinery towards the other side of the outhouse, making Pickle jump and then recede even farther into her corner.

  “Yeah, I can make this work. It’s not like I’m going to be staying here forever,” I replied unevenly, believing myself a little less with each word that left my mouth.

  “I wouldn’t want to stay in here for a night, let alone forever.”

  I trailed my finger along a spade hung on the wall, leaving a chasm in the dust and grime.

  “I don’t know; move around some of the junk and do a bit of dusting, it could be a lovely home,” I mumbled in full-blown sarcasm mode.

  “In all seriousness, how long do you think you’ll be here? I mean, your dad must be worried sick, and it won’t be long before my dad finds out. He doesn’t come in these outhouses often, but sometimes he goes searching for a spare part.”

  “My dad would have been worried sick, but that’s not my dad. And I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I don’t think it’ll be for very long. I just need to stay here until I can make a proper plan.”

  “A proper plan? You mean a plan to fight them?”

  “Yeah, a plan to fight them. You make it sound crazy.”

  “I just don’t know how much one person can do.”

  “I don’t think that’s what you mean. I think you meant to say, ‘I don’t know much you can do.’”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you meant.”

  “And how do you know that? Can you read minds? I didn’t say it; end of. All I was trying to say was that this may be a little bigger than any normal person can handle. I think you should try and think of a plan that involves other people, not just yourself.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind . . .”

  The dust was no longer the pervading substance in the outhouse. The tension was overwhelming, spreading through the outhouse and infecting everything it touched. The only sound came from Pickle as she chewed a chunk of wood.

  “Okay. I’ll be back with some food and water,” Simon muttered, probably wanting to escape the awkward situation he’d found himself in.

  He turned away and walking towards the door, his shoulders visibly tense with annoyance. He probably regretted helping me, and who could blame him.?

  He didn’t ask for all of this.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m taking this out on you. I’m just tired and stressed. I didn’t mean to lash out.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not every day you stab a teacher and then run away from home. I think you’re allowed to lash out a little bit.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Goodnight, Isabelle.”

  “Goodnight. Oh, and another thing: thanks for helping me out.”

  “No problem. One last thing from me: try not to get hurt on all this stuff. Some of it looks pretty nasty and rusty.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up . . .”

  And then I was alone, save for Pickle, watching the light recede across the floor, casting long nightmarish shadows on the wall as it left.

  It didn’t take long for me to start freaking out at every little noise I heard. Wood creaking became the oncoming footsteps of them. The squeal of a fox in the distance became the distant cries of a loved one in distress, tortured by them to find the answer to where I was hiding. Every sound was taken hostage by my exhausted mind and was mutated into something sinister and horrifying.

  There was one particular sound that persisted. It sounded like a scratching at the door, most likely caused by a branch hitting the door. But with my exhaustion levels at their worst, I was convinced it was one of them trying to get in.

  I shone my torch towards the door, petrified that one of them would swing the door open at any time. My body hardened as I slowly moved towards the sound, darting m
y torch from left to right, searching for the source of the strange sound. Pickle growled, ready to pounce at anything that might cause me harm.

  Had one of them crept in while I wasn’t looking?

  Was it inside the outhouse with me?

  My hand wrapped itself around the door handle, gripping as tightly as possible to stop myself from shaking. As I turned the handle slowly, the door clicked open, and centimetre by centimetre, I pulled the door towards me.

  I was greeted with darkness and a few grey outlines of the main house and other outhouses. Either they had ran away, or they had hidden, waiting for me to open the door enough for them to force their way in.

  But I could still hear the scratching sound coming from somewhere outside.

  A second later, something brushed up against my leg as it darted inside the outhouse.

  It’s them! I screamed internally, unable to make a sound through sheer terror.

  My torch shot down towards the floor, ready to fight whatever was down there. But instead of one of them, my torch revealed the curious face of a small tabby cat.

  You stupid pest, I thought, angry about the stress that it had put me through.

  Putting my anger aside for a moment, I knelt down and rubbed the back of its ears, hearing that warm familiar purring sound. It was nice to be around another heartbeat that I could trust, even if it had just scared me half to death. Pickle didn’t seem to agree, and I could tell that she was close to ripping the cat apart.

  I decided that for the safety of the cat, it should escape before Pickle made it dinner, so I gave it a little nudge away from the door. After that, the scratching ceased and was replaced with a heavy silence. And within that silence, I dropped off to sleep, wedged in between an old engine and a bale of hay, keeping Pickle as close as I could, praying that they wouldn’t find me during the night.

  * * * * *

  “Psst. Psssst,” Simon whispered harshly, the sound echoing around the empty outhouse.

  I had dropped off to sleep for what seemed like only a few minutes before Simon had come in, and so I was caught off guard, convinced that this was the start of some sort of terrifying dream.

  “Simon, is that you? What time is it?” I asked out of the darkness, a knot already forming in my stomach just from the sound of his voice.

  “It’s one a.m. But that’s not important. I have to tell you something!”

  “What is it?”

  He grabbed my arm and dragged me away from the door, farther into the shadows of the outhouse.

  “They’re coming.”

  “What?” I said in a half daze.

  “I mean. . . he’s coming.”

  “Who?”

  “My dad is coming.”

  My hands instantly began to shake. If he came, there was no telling what he would do. I’d lied about being better so that I could get out of treatment, and then I had attacked a teacher and ran away. Even the most patient of people would have given up long ago.

  “What! How did he find out I was here?”

  And then there was a banging on the door.

  “Simon, are you in there? Open this door right now.”

  “You have to go. You don’t have long before he gets here,” he whispered desperately.

  “But how did he find me so quickly?”

  Simon visibly shook, quite obviously terrified that I would continue my line of questioning and come to the only logical conclusion there was.

  “You told him, didn’t you? You ratted me out?”

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  “How could you tell him?”

  “I’m worried about you, Isabelle. I mean, it was fine at first. It was just some innocent questioning. But now you’re going around stabbing teachers and running away from home. I didn’t want to tell him. I had to tell him.”

  “You had to tell him? Bullshit. You couldn’t wait to dob in the basket case.”

  “It’s not like that, Isabelle.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that? So you haven’t just been pretending? You haven’t just been making it seem like you believed me just to see how far the crazy person would go? Did you ever believe me? Or was this just a bit of fun?”

  “No, I swear it isn’t how it seems. It really isn’t.”

  “Whatever. Where the hell do I go now? He’ll find me. I know he will.”

  “Simon, open this door right now!” Mr. Wilson shouted, his voice full of indignation.

  “It doesn’t matter where you go right now. Just go anywhere but here.”

  He nudged me towards the door at the back of the outhouse, sweeping up my bag as he went.

  “Thanks for your help, Simon,” I murmured sarcastically as I pulled the window open.

  I picked up Pickle and placed her down outside, and then followed, trying my best not to break the fragile, rotten wood that made up the windowsill.

  “Good luck,” Simon whispered as he closed the window behind me.

  I could hear the front door swing open, followed by the feverish yelling of his father. Mr. Wilson seemed worried about my safety, but for all I knew, he could have been one of them.

  I couldn’t risk it.

  They would probably interrogate Simon for god knows how long, and all I could do was hope that he wouldn’t tell them of my whereabouts. I’d told him that the only other safe place in the area was an old abandoned barn on the edge of town. It hadn’t fared well during the last two storms and had become derelict.

  I sprinted across pitch-black fields, guided only by a small torch I had taken from home to ensure I didn’t have another tumble. Pickle followed beside me, thinking that this was just another one of her walks, ready to fetch a ball or a twig or any other object that might be thrown. As we made our way through a field, pinpoints of light came in and out of view over the hills as cars made their way into town.

  Harsh winds began to whip at my body and whistle savagely in my ears. A storm was coming, and for all I knew it could be the last I’d ever see. I almost savoured the unrelenting attack, knowing that at that moment, nature was the only thing that made me feel connected with the world. But that didn’t make things any easier. My trousers became heavy with rain as the tall grass surrounding me dumped water at the lightest tough. There was no way of avoiding it, so I pushed through harder than before, determined to get to a safe haven.

  After a few uneven steps and equally as many wrong turns, I came across the barn.

  It looked even worse than I had imagined.

  Its roof had been practically destroyed, stripped of most of its tin and wood. The whole thing was leaning slightly to the right, like a dilapidated Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  I sat with my back against a rotten post, hoping that the whole thing wouldn’t come crashing down around me. Pickle was drenched and shook violently as the temperature continued to drop; I pulled her close and tried as best I could to wrap my coat around her.

  I looked up to the sky above through the crumbling wood of the roof—although you couldn’t really call it a roof anymore. For a moment, there was a break in the clouds. Stars hung still in the night sky above, uninterested and unknowing of the wind roaring through the valley, battering the side of the barn with a magnificent intensity.

  But the serene sky didn’t last for long. Huge dark clouds hurtled into view, smothering the midnight blue of the sky and piercing light of the stars.

  Once again, the rain came slowly at first, pattering lightly against the swollen wood of the barn. I could barely hear it. It sounded like the water was hitting a dense rug, as if the earth had soundproofed itself.

  At least that’s what it sounded like for a very short time.

  The sound came rumbling from the east. A thick wall of water advanced and hit the barn shortly after the sound began. Torrential rain barraged the barn, ricocheting off the bits of tin still left on the roof. I picked up my bag and quickly retreated to the other side of the barn, sheltering under a section of roof that had managed to stay intact.

&n
bsp; The rain continued to fall, sometimes growing in intensity, other times dropping, but never ceasing. Mesmerised by the sound of rain, I lost track of time and sank into myself.

  * * * * *

  I was woken abruptly by the sound of thunder. Lightning lit up the murky grey sky with dazzling splashes of light, splintering clouds into fragments as if it were trying to break through from above, like a rock hitting the top of a frozen lake.

  They were sending more.

  I needed to stop them.

  I ran out of the barn and into the blanket of rain, unsure of what I would do next. I could see lighting striking the top of a hill not far away, so I pursued as quickly as I could.

  Who knew how many they had sent down already?

  The clouds retreated faster than I could run, making it impossible for me to keep up with the lightning. I hurdled over a fence and into a nearby field, running down the lines of barley. Water fell from each stem, drenching my trousers, leaving little seeds dotted on me like chicken pox.

  Lightning continued to strike. A wondrous fork of lightning punctured through the clouds above, assaulting the ground ten metres away from me. The ground fizzled as I approached, a slight steam rising from the epicentre of the strike. If it had been a dry night, the whole field might have been ignited.

  I stopped for a moment to wait for the next strike of lightning. But as I waited, another cloud descended within my own head, firing off lightning behind my eyes. Voices came through thick and fast. I could barely hear Pickle barking in the distance as she tried to find me in the darkness.

  “Leave us alone!” I shouted at the sky, trying to be heard over the rain and thunder.

  But the force of my voice caused me to launch into a coughing fit. It was so violent that I could barely breathe. After only a few seconds, I could feel myself becoming light-headed.

  “Leave us alone! Go back to where you came from!” I continued to yell, knowing that I needed to stop shouting but unable to stop myself.

  My voice was raspy, and I could barely breathe.

  “Go back . . . go back to where . . . go back to where you came fr—”

  And then everything went black.

  A short time later, I managed to open and close my eyes, but I don’t know how much time had passed in between. Rain fell on my face, keeping me mildly awake. In the distance, I could hear the familiar spluttering of my dad’s clunky four-by-four. I thought I was hallucinating. Beams of light moved erratically over my head, illuminating sections of barley that surrounded me. I could hear voices calling my name, but I couldn’t trust that they were real anymore. They could have sprung forth from my own mind or been a trick from them.