Our War with Molly Nayfack

by Chris Capps

  He pulled gently. The sheet slid immodestly, with the loud whisper of plastic and dust. They stared at him, eyes curious but bodies like stone. And then with slowness that sustained a dozen breaths, one of them looked to the other. They stood, the dust sheet pulled.

  In the center of the room was the bathtub. At its foot, the television. Mark moved to the rag pouch, eyes staring into the alien green of the tub, pulling from the pouch a stretching single sheet cut from an old red pair of Andrea's pantyhose. They snapped into his hand from where they stretched, elastic from the bag. With those footsteps, he carried the pantyhose from his tool bench back over to the television and leaned down.

  Four small picture nails at the corners of the screen had been driven in. He stretched the red porous material to each of the nails, feeling the eyes of those Mollys on him as he did. Of course he had an audience. Mr. Hades always sent someone to watch him work, to make sure he didn't lose his nerve. He stretched the fibrous material across the screen and breathed. The power cord at its base was unplugged, but he had run an extension cord down from upstairs. Andrea hadn't noticed.

  He pulled the extension cord away from the tub, combining it with the old television plug. Looking up at the Mollys he could see that they were closer now. They hadn't moved. He had moved nearer to them without noticing. He rose slowly,

  "I'm doing it."

  They didn't respond. That unnerved him.

  It took a lot to unnerve Mark. Two weeks ago he had been wandering out in the street staring at the ground. He had seen a pot hole in the center of the road. It had filled with water. There were rainbow swirls from the Sherriff's car mixing with it, dancing hypnotically. But at the edges of the pothole, as he leaned down on hands and knees in the road looking at it, he had felt with his finger something unmistakable.

  Teeth.

  They lined the circumference of the pothole. And he knew they were moving in and out of fleshy stone gums. In the swirling patterned water, he had heard muffled talking. It sounded almost like a game show. That had bothered him. That, and the time the sun blinked were the two that stood out in his mind. But after what Mr. Hades had shown him, they were nothing.

  The two girls stared down at him.

  Huffing, he picked up one end of the rubber hose and wrapped a kink in it, tying it off at the bend with a piece of twine. He dropped that end and started laying the hose behind him as he backed up the stairs into his house. In the darkened living room Mark could see the girls again, staring out at him and standing in silence. He shook his head, running the hose down the hallway into the bathroom. He turned on the sink's hot water. Not too hot.

  It steamed up, fogging the mirror, so he nudged the cold water handle ever so slightly. Pulling the rubber hose at its edges, he enveloped the faucet, then tied it off. The thin tube was inflating down the hallway, a warm black worm trailing down into the basement. Pushing past the new silent faces at the bathroom entrance, he trudged back downstairs where they stood again, watching. Always watching.

  He picked up the hose, lifting it up over the edge of the tub and pulling the twine off the end. Water flowed into the green basin and he stood, holding it slack in one hand. The television seemed impatient to Mark.

  When the tub had filled, Mark twisted the hose shut once again, tying off the end and dropping it. The tub was nearly full. He reached down, picking up handfuls of cellar dust and tossed them into the tub, staining the water and leaving thick pockets of dry dirt floating on the top. The tub darkened now, an enigmatic pool of primordial dirt and water, with still more floating at the top, drifting and swirling like a witch's cauldron.

  "What's in there now?" he said. At the tool bench again he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and put it in his mouth, biting down hard. He picked up a thick dowel rod and returned to the tub, shaking off the jitters as he raised a bare foot over the edge and let it rest on the rim.

  In one graceful movement he poured himself into the pool fully clothed, tensing up and bracing himself as he lay in the sloshing water, watching it spill over the edge onto the ground below. Nothing grabbed him.

  With the dowel rod still in his hand, he leaned forward and pressed the television's on switch. A thick sound deafened him. Static snow filled the room, betraying a history of cosmic significance. Stars died and emerged in the blink of an eye, singing their songs across a white screen that had been turned red by a simple modification.

  Time for Mr. Hades.

  Mark reached up, averting his eyes from the brilliant screen and looked up at the two girls.

  "Do me a favor," he said, "When you leave, go ahead and turn out the light."

  The two girls walked out of sight and he stared at the screen. After a moment the light bulb above him went out. And he was alone in the room with the television, wrapped in the warm thickness of the water around him. He was surprised that they were able to turn off the light. Mr. Hades must be becoming more powerful. He stared at the red screen now in darkness, the white noise filling his ears and blocking everything else out. He barely had time to put the wallet back in his mouth before his eyes were watching the red screen expand. A shape was spilling out, spreading across the room in long roots. They were like tree roots, the color of crimson tv static.

  Chapter 13

  "Gone," the Sherriff said beside Jessica as she lay in the hospital, "Every fireman we have. We don't know if the vehicle was pushed into the fire afterward or if the grass underneath caught it."

  "How did it happen?" Jessica asked, leaning up nervously.

  "I don't know, Jessica," Rind said, his lip curling up the side of his face, "I guess maybe they cut their own throats and laid in the field together."

  "Paul," she said, "All of them?"

  "All of them," Mayor Sugarhill said entering the room, "We're putting together a volunteer fire brigade now, but the Marshall was in charge of training those."

  "She just ran out in front of me," Jessica said looking down and realizing she was still in uniform. It was the little things she knew to be grateful for these days. She looked up at the Sherriff, her mind clearing, "I tried to stop, but they were all there running out of the theater building."

  "Know what they were doing in there?" Rind asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Neither do we," Rind said, "Costume trunks were turned over, and that's it. Nothing seemed to be missing."

  Dr. Rosario appeared at the door, his tired face scanning the room cautiously. He knocked at the edge of the entrance,

  "Just coming in to check on you, Deputy Myers. How's the nausea?"

  "That's gone away," she said, "But the headache is still there."

  "Yeah, a concussion will do that to you," Rosario said, "But we've got something to help with that. I'll want you here for a day or so for observation."

  "Not an option, doc," Rind said, "I need her back on patrol immediately. That's why I'm here."

  Rosario turned, good humored eyes looking up at the Sherriff. When he saw that it wasn't a joke, his eyes looked evasively to the side, avoiding a stern glare. Rosario pulled an orange bottle of pills from his pocket,

  "She's been given a dose of acetylsalicylate. Given that and her condition, I don't recommend she return to work just yet."

  "That's cute," Rind said bringing his face down to glare in at Rosario, "Believe it or not I went to college too. I know what you gave her. Don't underestimate me, old man."

  "Rind," Sugarhill said patting his knuckles against Rind's arm, "The man's a professional. She's just been in an accident."

  "It's not that big of a deal," Jessica said leaning up, "I think I can shoot straight."

  "That's the Myers I know," Rind said brightening, clapping a hand across her back.

  The walk down the hallway was a long one, and it terminated wordlessly in the ding of an elevator. Inside was Ned Daffy holding his cane. He stretched his arms out wide, an exasperated look crossing his face as Jessica and Rind tried to pass. Beads of sweat were rolling down the sides
of his face as he shouted,

  "What the hell is this I hear about one of my grazing fields being burned up? Why do I even pay your salaries if you're going to sit on your hands and let something like this happen? A field fire isn't that hard to put out!"

  "Ned," Rind said as the fat man pushed his way through the closing elevator doors, "We're doing everything we can."

  "The hell you are," Ned said, waving the bull's head handle of his cane in front of Rind's face, "Cattle don't eat, they tend to shrink. And that's our food supply we're talking about. People aren't going to like it when I have to charge an arm and a leg after this. If you can't get the job done, we can find a new Sherriff who will."

  "Daffy," Rind said. His hand pressed against the cattle rancher's chest, pushing him back into the elevator. With Rind and Ned Daffy in the elevator, the doors closed behind them, leaving Jessica and Mayor Sugarhill in the hallway. Sugarhill glanced sideways at Jessica,

  "I guess take the stairs."

  As they descended the stairs, Jessica and Sugarhill shared an uneasy silence. They walked slowly, expecting Rind to meet them at the base, and waited. When the elevator finally slid open, Rind emerged alone, nodding once to them. They went out the front entrance. On the way out, Rind waved a hand with torn knuckles at the front desk secretary. She smiled sweetly.

  "Alright," he said as they emerged into the fog filled parking lot, "We're short on men, and we're short on time."

  He opened the door to his patrol car and picked up the radio,

  "Frankie, this is the Sherriff. Bring me the better half of the police force in front of the warehouse. Do not ask questions. Do as I say."

  "Affirmative," Frankie said on the other end of the radio, "Sherriff, have you seen or heard from Willard Nayfack?"

  "No," the Sherriff said, "And I don't want to. If you see anything walking around with the last name Nayfack I want its head ventilated. I'm done pissing upwind. I repeat. If you see Willard Nayfack or Molly Nayfack I want you to shoot them without hesitation. Watch each others' backs."

  "Gotcha, Sherriff," Frankie said, "I'll call everyone up right now."

  "One other thing," the Sherriff said pulling out a generic bottle of acetylsalicylate from his glove box and dropping the tiny white headache pill onto his hand, "Don't start any fires. As of today we no longer have a fire department. And if Molly's thinking the way she's been thinking, she's going to go after the warehouse next. That or the power station. These things I'm sure of. She's trying to incapacitate us. I want everyone on patrol, except the men in front of the warehouse."

  He dropped the radio, motioning for Jessica and the Sherriff to ride along. They entered the car uneasily, and Rind pulled a .38 revolver from the glove compartment, handing it back to the mayor. Sugarhill took the gun, checking the spinning chamber and the safety.

  They drove to the warehouse in silence. Already a small posse of volunteers and officers were milling about the entrance, three patrol cars flashing lights. Rind pulled the car to a halt and emerged into the small humming crowd.

  "Sherriff," Frankie called out, rushing to the car, "What's the story?"

  "Deputy Myers is fine. How many people do we have here?"

  "Twelve," Frankie said, "Six more are out patrolling the power station. We've had a few sightings, but they were on the east side of town."

  "Alright, listen up!" Rind called out stepping wobbling legs up onto the hood of his car, "I want men wandering around this building and looking through the inside constantly. Nobody gets in or out. I want trucks, volunteers with hoses, anything to keep this building secure."

  The building he had been talking about was the warehouse. Vast sections of sheet metal and concrete had been welded together during the first wave into the drop zone in the early days. The warehouse was designed to remain standing even if the rest of the town burned to the ground, and it contained everything needed for reconstruction and survival. It was also the cornucopia from which they had been eating since Cairo was built.

  Unfortunately, many of its contents were highly flammable, including the gas pump just outside that connected to the massive shelf stable mixing tanks beneath it. A fire in one of the pumps wasn't necessarily a problem, as the line was protected by dual emergency shut-off valves and a long stretch of concrete and pipe. Even if it ignited, unleashing Hell aboveground, it was unlikely to catch the tanks below.

  There was a tense, hollow silence.

  The Sherriff stared long at his men. They were uneasy, looking around at themselves, noticing that they weren't equipped to fight something like this. They shifted uneasily from one foot to another, eyeing the road around them, coughing, lighting up cigarettes, whispering. He dropped down off the hood of the car, walking between them toward the great front doors of the warehouse, and pulled them open. Stopping for a moment, he realized something,

  "Is Chance Cooper still at the jail unguarded?"

  "Yes sir," Deputy Myers said.

  "In a little bit I'll want him here. I don't want him to be out of sight for too long. I've got one more question to ask him."

  ***

  Steven Ritzer and Andrea Newmann were walking the empty plaza between the University Buildings. They sat next to each other on a stone bench, their eyes avoiding one another but their hands intertwined. The hands were heavy, electric, drawn to one another as if by a magnet. Steven was taking a long time to say what was on his mind, and Andrea's heart was sinking.

  "I want a divorce," she said. He looked up, his eyes shining and dark, reflecting the mist that surrounded them. Steven told himself not to smile. Promised he wouldn't. And then he did. He couldn't help it. Those words from Andrea Newmann were all he had wanted to hear.

  His mind drifted to poor Mark Newmann. Neither he, nor Andrea knew it, but at that moment Mark was sitting in a mud filled bathtub staring into the red foaming eyes of Mr. Hades, his hallucination.

  Ritzer squeezed Andrea's hand.

  "If you get a divorce," he said, "I'll move out of the rectory. We'll build a life together."

  "But no children," Andrea said, "It'll just be us."

  He nodded.

  At the edge of the fog they could hear a noise. Someone was approaching. The university didn't get many visitors, except on sports days. Aside from the half-dozen chemists in the lab room, the facility was more or less abandoned. The two lovers looked into the fog where feet were rustling the tall overgrown grass lining the edges of the sidewalk. And there was a gentle voice singing.

  "Steven," Andrea said uneasily, moving her hand into his and squeezing.

  The voice grew louder, more bold. It didn't sound anything like Molly Nayfack, and yet it was so bold in this quiet space. It chilled them both. Soon they saw the sauntering shape of Melissa Novak. Her eyes were on the ground, projecting her voice into the echoing sidewalk and then up against the walls around them. There weren't any words to the tune. She had a powerful voice, operatic. For a moment, the chilling sound turned in Andrea's mind, soothing her now. Melissa looked up, momentarily surprised.

  "Steven Ritzer and Andrea Newmann," she said simply, looking between them, "What are you two doing out here?"

  "Sitting," Andrea said simply, "You?"

  "I don't know," Melissa said, "I never come here, really. I just thought it would be a nice place to go before tonight."

  "We don't come here that often either," Andrea said, "But it is very peaceful. Very quiet."

  Melissa looked once again between them, standing still now like a cat surprised to see strangers approaching. She looked for a moment like she might walk away then without another word, but before she could, Steven said,

  "What was the song you were just singing?"

  "From the play," Melissa said, "It's a musical."

  "It's beautiful," Andrea said.

  Melissa stopped, cocking her head to the side and narrowing her eyes. She was staring at Andrea, trying to divine if she was telling the truth. Despite the oddness of the feeling she had complimenting the
gruff Melissa Novak, it had been genuine. Melissa could tell, too. Somehow in her mind, she knew that Andrea wasn't playing any sort of game.

  "And you sang it beautifully," Steven said.

  Melissa's throat started closing, but she banished it away with a cough, instead just letting a very real smile beam out,

  "Thank you both. Thank you so much."

  "You're going to be performing that on stage at Christmas?" Andrea asked, "I'd like to hear it again."

  Of the people there, only Melissa knew why it was taking so long to respond to that question. She stared long at the two of them sitting on the stone bench, then at the dark glass opposite them. She turned to the window, staring into the darkened building. No. She was staring at her own reflection. It looked back, into her.

  "Melissa?" Andrea said, "Are you alright?"

  "Yeah," Melissa said, her voice growing more distant by the moment, "I'll be there."

  ***

  Chance Cooper sat in his cell, trying to get his dry lips to conjure up a whistle. In his hand was the plastic pen he had been handed earlier when the Sherriff asked him to sign a sworn statement that he wouldn't tell anyone about the nature of the island, or of the girl he had seen there. And in big red letters, bolded and underlined, the document had made him promise not to talk about anyone he had seen on the island. Not anyone. That was strange, considering Chance had heard the Sherriff's voice on the island shortly before takeoff.

  It had been screaming.

  But that hadn't been the only sound he had heard. It had been a chattering, ecstatic swelling of one voice from many directions. It had broken the fog, torn into him. One moment he's standing talking to the girl, the next moment he looks around and she's gone. Had he really been spontaneously pulled from that moment, only to be created once again on the very ground he shivered on before his escape?

  That's what everyone was saying, as if they'd lost their minds. He fiddled with a bottle cap in his shirt pocket as he pulled it out. He scraped it on the material he was sitting on, bending the cap straight between the seams of his mattress.