by Jaime Munt
So I knew it wasn't that these people hit a deer and hiked away from their accident—I knew I wasn't going to like what I saw.
No bars on the phone.
I reached out for the end of the gate. I was about to swing it closed when something cut through the light behind me. I turned to it—her, I guess, because I could see the shape of a skirt in the silhouette. Her steps were soggy. She must have been in the ditch.
I asked if she was okay. A high, thrilled kind of whine squeezed out of her throat. It sounded relieved. It kind of sounded like someone with emphysema airily delighting in a surprise.
I asked again.
Then something grabbed my foot. I instinctively yanked it and it came free. I looked down just in time to see a small hand recoil under the open station wagon gate.
I gave the door a shove to close it.
There was a child there—no more than 9. I'm guessing he was naturally that skinny. But he seemed too tiny to me. Like a board. With a head.
He reached out again. I stepped around him so I was at his side. That's when I noticed the blood. He was hurt really bad. His side looked like he'd slid on a giant kitchen grater. He couldn't talk.
By my left foot was a brown paisley printed faux leather purse. All its contents were scattered around my feet. I was sorry for stepping on, what I assumed, were her things. I lay my left hand between the small boy’s shoulders to calm him. I dialed 9-1-1 again.
I asked if this was her son. She'd come within arm's reach and covered me in her shadow. The boy was struggling weakly.
I was about to tell him he should lay still, when she lunged at me.
I stumbled back, only because she was in my personal space. The boy was making sounds like a pissed off cat. Roww Roww Roww. There were other garbled sounds involved, but these were the strongest.
I said "hey" or something, when she reached for me again.
Her arms didn't drop. They just kept reaching.
I backed up enough on ground level so I could stand without being right in her face.
"I said, are you okay?" I said. I heard alarm in my voice. I needed to get back to the kid.
So I went around the other side of the car and she started to come over it.
In the headlights I saw blood in her hair and on her flailing legs. And on the scrambling hands that looked like big bloody spiders tap dancing on the car hood. She'd got most of the way on top before she started to slide back.
"Watch out for the kid!" I yelled. "Sweet Jesus!"
I thought I'd hear her feet land softly—land softly on the kid. I was relieved when I heard them touch the pavement.
I got around to the back of the station wagon again. With the gate closed I could easily see the boy. But he'd pulled himself under the car and was starting under it very slowly. The woman just stood there—like when I first saw her. I dialed 9-1-1 again. I heard the computer.
"Are you okay?" I said firmly. I asked what happened. She kept wheezing and started out into the light. Her eyes were wrong. Really wrong. The boy was emerging from under the rear license plate. His eyes were wrong too.
I can't describe it. I probably don't have to, unless this was found well after this is over. If it's ever over. But I can't describe it anyway so it doesn't matter.
I'm not happy about what I did next, but I'm going to tell you.
I got back in my car and locked the doors. I dropped the remote in the cup holder behind my soft serve cup. I pressed on the brake and put the car in reverse when she slammed her face into the window beside me. She broke several of her front teeth out and kept chomping against the glass. Her tongue was free to flop where the teeth had been and in the chomping, she was licking and her bloody spider hands slapped the body between the driver's side window and the windshield. I heard her pull on the door handle.
I looked over my shoulder and stepped on the gas. I remember my neck felt so vulnerable--I imagined her breaking through the glass with her face. I imagined a mouth much bigger than hers clamping on my neck. I imagined the wound and texture being like that of a giant celery stick. All sinew and tissue. I didn't imagine blood. Just the feel of the bite.
I braked and put it in drive when I had room enough to do a U-turn.
My headlights ran across the two of them. She was running at me.
I was making my way back to where the state trooper pulled me over. I saw headlights in front of me and soon I saw the police car in the approach between the road and the everlasting plains.
I drove past, did a U-turn again and pulled onto the shoulder. I turned on my interior lights and got out. I didn't want to walk up to his car so I waved at him with both arms.
The International Distress Signal, as I was taught in Open Water.
The officer got out. This time I saw his partner. He looked "no bullshit" for sure.
Before he could say anything I yelled that I needed help. His partner must have heard because he pretty much jumped out. They both did a strange thing. They drew their guns. I assume that's strange to do to someone who's just called for help.
"Bit?"
I think I started to say, "What?"
"Are you bit?" the "easy speaking" officer yelled.
I just thought I heard him wrong so I took the opportunity to talk. My heart was racing. My blood pressure was making my ears ring—I felt a cold heavy pressure behind my ears. My upper arms were tingling. I felt ice water in my veins. I felt needles in my chest—the contrast in my vision was getting intense—his gun leveled with my head.
"There's a woman and child up that route you gave me. They must have been in an a—”
He yelled the question again—moving the gun with emphasis on each word.
"Bit? No-not bit. I couldn't get through to 9-1-1 so I didn't know what to do. The lady is moving around all right, but I'm worried about the boy," I explained.
He held a flashlight up over his gun and it seemed like forever until he said anything.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
I told him, "No."
"They need help. I don't know what happened to them—but they're hurt," I added.
The gun and flashlight lowered. He looked like he was seeing me for the first time.
The car was in the middle of the road, I told him.
He turned to the radio on his shoulder and called something in.
"Do you need to get to Wisconsin?"
"I'm heading home."
His shoulders drooped and if he sighed it was too quiet for me to hear, but it was a "sigh" movement.
He told me to go back the way he told me to go and to drive around the car. He told me not to stop, that someone was on the way.
"I feel bad for leaving them. And I'm worried about the little boy. His mom was acting really weird."
Someone will take care of them, he said. The words were right, but the tone was wrong.
I didn't know if I could just drive by.
Okay—the lady freaked the hell out of me. She was obviously hysterical or something. But that fragile looking little boy—that bleeding, hurting, desperate little kid?
I was driving a lot slower when I came upon the luggage again. In the same moment the arch of the headlights lit the station wagon. The gate was slightly ajar. They were nowhere in sight. I wonder if someone else hadn't come along. A few different roads came out on the stretch behind me.
I cringe when I feel tires run over frogs on the road- I cringed the same way when I felt those people's things thump-thump under the car.
I never saw them or any reason for the car to have been left in the middle of the road.
I followed the officer's route back to I90-E.
I passed several vehicles on the shoulder. Most were also packed like sardines.
I went to the opposite side of the road to avoid a car that must have recently pulled over because there were several people there. I think I would have stopped if it had been a family stuck out there in the middle of the night, but they were all adults.
&n
bsp; And they looked like they were looting it.
And I went by pretty slow because I wanted to see what was going on. They all looked up in unison—their faces were blank and full of energy at the same time. Potential energy. I'd interrupted them; obviously, doing something that was probably illegal at about 2:30 in the morning. The looks said, "Do we want to do it to her too?"
My car was dark—I could see them in the headlights, but they saw me anyway—in the dark, with my lights in their eyes. They looked straight into my eyes.
I called 9-1-1 again, repeating the license plate so I wouldn’t forget it; until I called so many times that I gave up.
I pulled the audio cord out of my dash and turned on the radio. I got static, but I wasn't surprised—I was now four hours away from the radio station Carrie had tuned in back in Hill City. I pressed scan. It ran in circles like a gerbil and then stopped. There was a blip of sound, then nothing. I was going to press scan again, but decided not to. I knew there wasn't anything there. I put the audio cable back in. The speakers filled, somewhere in the first half of the song Darkness by Disturbed. I felt the knots start to loosen through my muscles and was submitting to the music.
I screamed when my phone rang. It was Marie again. I answered. She was there.
"Are you okay," I asked.
"How far are you?"
I told her I was about an hour from Sioux Falls.
Then she asked me if I was okay.
What a night I'd had! Ordinarily I would have been thrilled to tell the story of such a crazy night—if I wasn't afraid that the person I was about to tell might have a similar or worse experience to relate.
I said I was fine. I said my radio wasn't getting any stations. As if that summed it up.
She said her husband, Patrick, told her that he'd heard people weren't operating them or that they were being forced off the air.
I thought of one of my favorite actresses, Kathy Bates', character in Stephen King's The Stand movie/miniseries—when she gets shot down by soldiers when she tries to stay on the air and keep people informed. I've since thought about The Stand a lot.
"What's going on?" I felt stupid to ask.
She didn't know.
So before she answered I added that I felt like we'd slipped into some alternate reality.
She told me she thought all drunks were on the lamb.
I laughed.
I asked what else Patrick said.
She answered with a question.
How much had I seen?
I went blank. I didn't really know what I saw.
Then the phone starting cutting out—so she started talking about that. Said something about avoiding towns.
Then she said I should get gas even if I didn't need it. If it looked safe. She said she had less than a quarter of a tank. That she'd tried twice and got too scared to stay and wait.
Then I lost her signal.
"Damn," I said. If I'd had her on the line now and been cut off, that curse wouldn't have just laid there flat—like I dropped it. I would have been frantic.
I pulled over. When I put the car in park, all the doors automatically unlocked. I quickly pushed the lock button and tried to call everyone I could think of, even though it was late.
I thought I had a good enough reason, by then, to justify the call to anyone the early hours might upset.
In the end, the phone never rang anywhere.
No bars. No shirt. No service.
There was a gas station up ahead. I didn't need any—obviously. I drive a small car—not a hummer. But she didn’t say it for laughs.
The gas station was closed. Most would be at this hour. But Pay-At-The-Pump is a night traveler's friend. There were a lot of night travelers.
Lycanthropy? Vampires?
A lot of campers.
A lot of people away from home, enjoying the summer, blissfully unaware that a fiber of normalcy was loose. But we were the exception; few people go a day without checking their email, but maybe they're not the ones that go camping. I don't know. But all of us had cell phones we weren't answering or had shut off. I bet, from people's faces—that they knew a lot more than I did.
I decided not to stop.
I decided something else.
No more cities.
Once I got into Minnesota I'd know more of the roads. I'd skirt every city I could. There were plenty out in the boondocks gas stations with Pay-At-The-Pump. Why mess with the gas station version of Black Friday? You'd think gas had gone below three bucks.
I'm gonna have to call it a day, it's getting late. I haven't really been paying attention. So. No more long stories short.
Oct 25 6:42am
Spitting snow today. I'm getting things in order. I plan to walk into town today and find a muzzle for Mr. Ages. I plan to be gone no more than 10 hours.
It puts everything into perspective, how far can I go in a certain amount of time? How far will I have to go to escape a winter I can't survive?
7:03am
I have to leave Mr. Ages inside, because I'd be too afraid he'd follow me and if he didn't I'd lose my mind worrying about him.
But if something happens to me I'd be sentencing him to death. A horrible and long death. And I don't know what he'd do worrying about me.
7:10am
I'm going to get my car back.
5:50pm
It was almost 10am when I got back from Hill City. I stopped at my mailbox. I asked for a mail hold, it'd come the next day, but my newspapers were there.
My driveway wouldn't have had to be very long if it didn't have a wide curve in it. Aesthetics, I guess. A wimpy tree, about 4 feet tall, stood in the enclosed grass center of the curve. My plum tree.
The garage door was nearly open when I reached it. I only had to wait a second. It was attached to the house. I took my purse and newspapers in one hand and had my house keys ready before I got out of the car. I locked it behind me. I'd get my luggage later.
I didn't have to look to unlock the door. I only clinked outside the lock twice before the key went in. My eyes were busy with the newspapers.
I stepped over a FedEx box as I entered.
I locked the door and deadbolt. I put my keys in my jeans' pocket. I never do that. Countertop, by the microwave, every time. Every time. Maybe once in every four months would I set them somewhere else. I don't pocket them.
I turned on the TV to try to catch the news. No signal. I was dialing home—the other "home", where parents live.
The answering machine picked up. I hate that their message says they're not home. I had urged my mom not to say things like that because you never know who's calling.
At the beep, I almost wailed, "Where are you?!?"
"Hi mom or dad. I'm home early. Call me as soon as you get this."
Then I said "please" in a voice I hardly recognized. It was throaty and I felt my nerves failing. My mind was reeling. If I cried, I didn't know if I could stop. I needed to keep my shit together.
My thoughts were then, the same as now.
What's going on? Is everyone okay?
And, of course, "everyone" is each by name. When you know who "everyone" implies—you just feel each name. The word is made of each name.
I don't know why, but I called my job.
I got the answering service. Closed at 10am on a Friday?
I dialed again. Same.
I started dialing every person I could think of, again, while spreading out the newspapers in order. It should have been 8 days of papers. I only had four, but someone could have taken them.
Chronologically the headlines and other front page articles were reading like this—oldest to newest:
SICKNESS CONGESTS LOCAL HOSPITALS
BIZARRE: ER Doc Bit by Pulseless Patient
Sheriff's Department Urges Extra Precautions From Home Invaders
CDC ISSUES HIGHEST ALERT
Nat'l Guard and Police Coop to Control Violence
Missouri Doctor Finds Fever in Primates
AIRPORTS AND GOVERNMENT OFFICES CLOSE
Hospital Leaks: Number of Reported Deaths - Tip of the Iceberg
Doctors Say, "Fever cause of hallucinations and hysteria”
GOVERNOR TEMPLE: "We have it under control."
Doctors Now Say: “Just new kind of Rabies”
Government Facilities to Reopen
...Is this the way the world ends? Not with a whimper, but a scream?
I mouthed "Christ" and tried to absorb words that were blurring.
On the phone, the first number, I heard the end of a message, "...as dialed. Please check your number and dial again." The next, "...no longer in service..." The phone rattled against me. The ends of the paper made a fluttering sound in the tips of my fingers. My eyes were burning.
I looked up from the papers. I let go and carried the phone to the kitchen window. I opened the one over the sink, too high for anyone outside of the NBA to reach without a ladder.
I could faintly hear the tornado sirens in town.
Out of the corner of my left eye I saw someone cutting across my yard. I could tell he noticed the distant siren too.
I knocked the metal stopper in the sink when I moved to see him better.
He tried to see me better too. He turned—half his face was gone and the left side of his body was soaked in blood. I couldn't or wouldn't register what he was holding in that hand.
He started for the house. I left the front garage door unlocked for a parcel, the FedEx, that I was expecting to arrive while I was gone.
I threw open the locks and reached the garage door just as he did. He stared into my eyes. I flipped the lock and ran to the back garage door. It was already locked. I just had to be sure.
He was trying the knob. He clawed at the glass. His eyes bugged out as he fought with the knob that wouldn’t turn. Then blood started running from them—his eyes were starting to pop out.
I locked the screen door and locked myself inside.
I don't remember a lot of what happened next. I realized it was later because the sun was on the other side of the house. The underside of my right wrist was pressed into my right eye and my elbow felt like it had pierced my knee. I was sitting by the door.
My right eye ached and had a hard time focusing after having pressure on it so long. My face was wet and sticky with drying tears. I wasn't crying anymore. I just needed a tissue.