Point Pleasant

by Wood, Jen Archer

  “Think it’ll hold?”

  Tucker pulled his keys out of his pocket and sighed. “We’ll find out,” he said before he walked around to the other side of the truck and climbed inside.

  Ben stood back as the engine sputtered and rumbled to life. Tucker pushed down on the accelerator to move the truck forward at a slow crawl. The rope ran out of slack, and the truck stalled as the weight of the tree held it in place.

  “C’mon,” Tucker groused from inside the truck, and the engine revved a bit as he pushed down on the accelerator with more force. The truck jerked forward, and the slide of branches across the concrete floor indicated that Tucker’s plan was working.

  “You got it! Keep going,” Ben called out.

  Tucker’s truck moved onward. Its front nudged closer to the forest. The oak slid across the floor. The broken concrete was revealed inch-by-inch as the tree was hauled outside until Tucker had to stop and turn to reverse and aim the nose of the truck off to the right lest he drive straight into the tree line.

  When Tucker had dragged the tree as far as it could go, Ben sealed the final edge of the salt line now that the tree was out of the way. Tucker ambled out of the truck and examined the floor.

  The main impact had cracked open an area on the floor that was about ten feet wide. Ben had not considered how they would break through the concrete, so he supposed he could let the near-death experience slide for now.

  “All right,” Tucker said as he untied the rope and tossed it into the bed of the truck. “Let’s get to work.”

  Ben took off his coat. It was freezing in the factory in only a t-shirt, but he was sure that would change once they started digging. He draped the garment over the edge of the truck bed, grabbed his shovel, and strode over to the cracked floor.

  Ben and Tucker used their shovels as leverage to pry large chunks of broken concrete from the ground. They loosened as much as they could, and Ben finally pulled at pieces with his hands until they came free.

  Ben started a pile a few feet away. He moved the larger pieces of rubble over, mindful of the fact that Tucker’s back was probably best spared the job. Within twenty minutes, the two of them had cleared a large enough area on the floor to start digging.

  Ben wiped at his forehead with his forearm, and a film of sweat and blood smeared across his skin.

  “Now comes the hard work,” Tucker said and gripped the handle of his shovel.

  Three hours later, Tucker took a break and urged Ben to do the same. They stood in a hole that was almost six feet in depth and width. Tucker winced when he tried to climb out.

  “Here, I’ll give you a boost,” Ben said.

  He bent down and laced his fingers together. Tucker put his right foot into Ben’s palms and pulled himself up and out of the pit while Ben pushed. Ben gripped at the side and pulled himself up with a little help from Tucker. They stood on the concrete of the factory floor, panting for breath and wiping at their brows.

  “This is a young man’s game,” Tucker said after he took a draught of whiskey. “My back ain’t cut out for this.”

  “You take a while, I’ll keep going,” Ben said.

  Tucker flumped against one of the nearby machines and had another swig of whiskey. “Maybe Sheriff’ll show up, give you a break.” Tucker spoke the words with ease, but his tone was filled with a derisiveness that bristled at Ben’s nerves.

  Ben pulled out his phone. It was after one o’clock, and he scowled to see that he had no missed calls or messages.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Ben muttered as he dialed Nicholas’ number for the fourth time that day.

  Ben prepared to leave a message on the third ring, but Nicholas answered.

  “Ben??”

  “Nic, where the hell are you?”

  “I can’t talk, there’s a situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “Where are you?” Nicholas asked, ignoring Ben’s question.

  “The factory, we’ve been digging all morning. What’s happening?”

  “Explosion,” Nicholas replied. “I have to go but listen—” His words were severed as the line went dead.

  “Nic?”

  Ben checked his phone and saw he had lost signal. “Fuck!”

  “What’s happened?” Tucker asked, moving closer.

  Ben shook his head and held his phone up to try and get at least one bar. “He said there was an explosion.”

  “Where?” Tucker demanded.

  “I don’t know, the call was cut. Fuck you, AT&T!” Ben howled in frustration as he waved his phone around at varying heights without result.

  Tucker sported an uneasy frown, and Ben raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Just thinking, it’s been awful quiet ‘round here given what we came in expecting.”

  “I know,” Ben replied.

  “What if your friend out there’s keeping it away so we can work? And by the time we’re done, the thing we’re trying to stop will have already happened?”

  Ben shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know, Tucker.”

  Tucker passed the whiskey flask, and Ben took it with a curt but grateful smile.

  The heat of the whiskey as it rushed down his throat was a welcome respite from the cold that had burned his lungs since they first entered the factory. He tossed the flask to Tucker and returned to the pit. He dropped inside, picked up the shovel, and resumed digging while Tucker watched from above.

  “We’ve dug pretty deep,” Tucker observed.

  “Yep,” Ben replied as he heaved a shovelful of dirt upwards.

  “If it was buried five hundred years ago, I don’t even know how far we’ll have to dig. Considering the growth rate of vegetation from the forest and all the layers of decomposition…”

  The shovel crunched with satisfying ease into the loose soil as Ben continued to dig. “We’ll just keep going until we find it.”

  Tucker said nothing and took another swig from his flask. He disappeared out of sight toward the direction of the parked truck. Ben kept moving, though his muscles burned with every jerk and twist of his torso. When Tucker reappeared, he had the coil of rope. He tossed it into the hole and used it to climb down. Ben realized Tucker must have fixed the other end to something in the factory, a machine perhaps.

  Tucker grabbed his shovel, and they dug in silence.

  By three o’clock, Ben was weary. The rain started a few hours before, and the sunlight had diminished. They had managed to uncover another two feet, but it was almost impossible to heave the newly uncovered dirt out of the deep pit. Their work had slowed considerably, especially as Tucker took frequent breaks whenever his back seized.

  Ben doubled over with his hands on his knees. Tucker crouched in the opposite end of the hole as if in need of a moment to himself while he struggled to catch his breath.

  “I’m exhausted,” Ben admitted finally. Every joint in his body seemed to twitch in rebellion when he straightened.

  “I think we need to call it a day while we can still climb out,” Tucker said, tugging off his baseball cap to wipe at the sweat on his forehead.

  “You climb out,” Ben said.

  He helped Tucker stand and offered to boost the older man again. Tucker took hold of the rope, pulled himself up, and used Ben’s hands as a platform once more. Ben stood close and helped to steady Tucker while pushing him upward.

  Ben stepped back when Tucker scrambled over the ledge.

  “You okay?” Ben asked.

  Tucker’s hand waved from where he was apparently still lying on the concrete.

  Ben slumped against the wall of dirt behind him. He regarded the ground beneath him and sighed. “I’m gonna dig a bit more,” he called up. “Just a bit.”

  Tucker offered another wave of his hand, and Ben laughed a little. He grabbed the shovel and winced; his hands were red and raw. He brought the shovel down with force and was almost too stunned to react when it hit something hard, something that made a loud thud.

  “The h
ell?” Ben sank to his knees and tore at the dirt with his bare hands. Flecks of soil and rock particles lodged under his fingernails, but he continued despite the discomfort. When he connected with something cold and solid, Ben dug faster.

  “Tucker!” Ben called out when he saw it.

  As he brushed away the dirt, Ben let his fingertips trace the deep lines of the engravings on the object they had uncovered. It had a smooth, flat surface aside from the etchings. The texture was soft like a pebble on the beach after years of being tossed around by the buoyancy of the ocean. Its color was like nothing Ben had ever seen before; the object was metallic and opalescent all at once, and it seemed to be emanating a soft light. The more he unearthed, the more the object took shape: it was a shield.

  The exterior was covered in intricate patterns; a language, perhaps. The delicate beauty of the shield was tarnished by the markings that had been carved over the frontispiece. Ben realized it was the sigil that bound Raziel to the land.

  The glow of the shield ebbed like the light of a dying firefly trapped in a Mason jar. Ben entertained the fleeting thought that the shield was like a physical manifestation of the felled archangel’s grace. Ben, of course, had no point of comparison for what an angel’s grace looked like, but the way the shield shone with a spectral though tempered luster gave Ben a faint inkling.

  “Well, shit on me,” Tucker said from above. “Go on, pick it up. We’re burning daylight here.”

  Ben tugged at the upper edge of the shield, but it was stuck. He stood and grabbed the shovel. He forced it under the edge of the shield and used his weight on the handle as leverage. After a hard push on the shovel’s handle, then another, the shield broke free from the clutch of the earth.

  “Here, I’ll pull it up,” Tucker said.

  Ben braced himself before he lifted the heavy object above his head. His muscles burned in revolt, but the weight lessened when Tucker grabbed one side and hauled the shield up and out of the pit. Ben let go when it was safely over the ledge and stumbled backwards.

  He peered down at the indentation where the shield was embedded and stared at what had been hidden beneath it. There was a sword with a rounded handle and a sharp point in the dirt. Undeterred by its years underground, the sword shone with the same ethereal flare of the shield. It was smaller than he would have expected the blade of some heavenly warrior to be, though he supposed it was not so much a matter of the size of the sword but rather the angel who wielded it.

  Ben kneeled again and took hold of the handle. A shock of something coursed through his body not unlike the feeling he had experienced when Marietta had touched his hand in her sitting room. He shuddered until the sensation subsided.

  “Grab it and c’mon,” Tucker said from above. “We gotta figure out how to destroy this thing.”

  Ben stood and pitched the sword up over the side of the pit. He grabbed the two shovels and his flashlight and threw them over the ledge as well before he took hold of the rope, tugged on it to ensure it would hold his weight, and then balanced his feet against the dirt wall before him. His arms shook from exhaustion as he gripped the rope and edged higher. When he was near the top, Tucker offered his hand. Ben took it and was gracelessly yanked up the rest of the way.

  He collapsed on the cold concrete of the factory floor and relished the fact that he was no longer in what was essentially a grave.

  “Well, that’s that done,” he said.

  Tucker crouched beside the shield. Ben rolled over and glanced around for the sword. He spotted it a foot away. The shimmering light of the blade transfixed him. Ben tore his eyes from the sight and forced himself to his feet.

  “Pretty fancy, Raz!” he called out as he turned to the ruptured north wall that faced out onto the forest.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s a real beaut,” Tucker snickered. “So what do we do now that we found it?”

  Ben gave a weary laugh. “I’m gonna sit down for a minute.”

  “You do that,” Tucker said.

  Ben wandered over to one of the old machines, dropped down, and flopped against the cold, rusted metal. He wiped at his forehead and cringed when his hand brushed the injury from hours earlier.

  “Ugh,” he groaned. “It hurts to move.”

  Tucker offered the flask of whiskey. “Finish it off. You earned it, son.”

  Ben downed the rest of the whiskey and watched as Tucker examined the shield. Ben took another moment to himself before he rose and headed to the north wall.

  “Okay, so we got it. Now what?” he called out to the forest. He took out his phone and waited, but there was no response. “Raziel?”

  Still no response.

  Ben groaned. “Oh, what, you’re not talking now?”

  “Maybe he’s busy,” Tucker suggested.

  Ben thought of the town and Nicholas. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

  “Let’s load this into the truck,” Tucker said. “I don’t know about you, but I’d be pretty happy to get the hell outta here.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Ben agreed with a nod. “Might as well. Until he tells us what to do next.”

  Tucker gathered the supplies. He threw the shovels and duffel bags into the bed of the Ford and then opened the side door for Ben, who had lifted the shield.

  “Jeez, it’s heavy,” Ben muttered as he placed it on the floorboard of the passenger side of the truck.

  Tucker grabbed the rope and the sword from the ground. He tossed the latter to Ben. “Quit your bellyaching. Hard work’ll do you good.”

  Ben scoffed as he inspected the sword in his hands. “You sound like my dad.”

  Tucker paused and eyed Ben for a long moment. “All right, let’s go,” he said finally, his tone softer than before.

  Ben pulled his coat off the side of the truck and climbed inside. He adjusted his position to compensate for the fact that the shield now took up the majority of his legroom and propped the sword beside him on the seat. He enjoyed being able to sit down, but he kept that to himself and thought of Andrew.

  Don’t be such a baby, Benji.

  Tucker hauled himself in behind the wheel and started the engine. The windshield wipers screeched while Tucker reversed out to the road they had entered from several hours before.

  They drove in silence, and Ben pulled his phone out of his pocket once more. There was still no signal. The digital clock read 4:19 P.M. His stomach growled, and he knew he would need to rectify the fact that he had not eaten since breakfast.

  Tucker navigated the rocky, derelict lane. The factory disappeared from view in the side mirror. Ben had no idea what he had expected out of the day, but it had passed with relative ease. He wondered what had happened in town and if it had happened at the expense of the town’s resident angelic protector keeping him and Tucker safe while they worked in the factory.

  “I think we should drive to Main Street,” Ben said. “See what happened, you know?”

  “I need a rest if you don’t mind,” Tucker replied with a tired sigh.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll drop you off by your car, you can load up your goodies. No offense, but I ain’t keeping them.”

  “Yeah, no worries.”

  When Tucker pulled into his driveway, he parked beside the Camaro. Ben got out and pulled on his coat as he walked to the trunk and popped it open. He transferred the sword and shield along with the unused shotgun and other supplies.

  “I might drive into town a bit later,” Tucker said after Ben slammed the trunk shut. “Where can I find you if I do? At home?”

  Ben shook his head. “Sheriff’s.”

  Tucker raised an eyebrow. Ben raised one in return.

  “All right,” Tucker said. “You go get some food in you. And wash off all that muck.”

  Ben assessed himself; he was filthy and caked in a layer of dirt and sweat that mixed like mud on his skin. “You too. See you later.”

  With his Remington cradled in his arms, Tucker headed toward his front porch. Ben sank into the Ca
maro and winced at the burn in his shoulders when he secured his seatbelt. He cranked the engine and fantasized about a glass—or three—of something strong and dark. When you don’t see the point, go to The Point.

  Ben checked his phone as he drove down River Bend Road. Though his signal had returned, he had no messages.

  “Where the hell are you, Nic?” he asked aloud.

  When Ben made the turn into town, he slowed at the blockade of police officers who were directing traffic away from Main Street. Ben recognized a few of them from his afternoon in lockup.

  Ben sat at the end of a long line of cars waiting to go through. He rolled down the driver’s side window and was overcome by the smell of smoke. An officer on the road finally granted him entry. Ben followed the detour signs that looped him around Main Street and took a side road that led to the other end of Dunmore. He turned onto the road and parked the Camaro in front of Nicholas’ house.

  The square teemed with spectators. They milled around and stared at the charred remnants of the Gazette’s office building on the other side of the quad. Fire trucks still lined Main Street despite the fact that the blaze had apparently been contained. Police and firefighters stood around to cordon off the entire block.

  Ben wove through the crowd of townspeople and saw that the buildings on both sides of the Gazette had also caught fire. The damage was considerable. It had been a hell of an explosion. He glanced down the block and saw that Duvall’s remained untouched by the destruction.

  Near the fountain, Ben spotted a familiar face. Grant Harper stared blankly at the ruin of the Gazette. Ben moved closer and caught Harper’s attention.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Gas line explosion,” Harper said. “At least that’s what they’re saying.”

  He twisted to face Ben, and the hair on the nape of Ben’s neck bristled at the sight of the younger man’s empty gray eyes.

  “Jesus. Anyone hurt?”