by S L Mason
I felt a warm breath on my ear. It was Arty. “The end. We should listen and wait; see if anything’s close by before exiting.”
I nodded my head, which was silly because we were in the dark. It wasn’t like he could even see me.
CHAPTER 4
The sound of rocks ground under their feet. They were close and speaking among themselves. I didn’t understand what they were saying. It came across garbled and indistinct. We also were too deep in the ground.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of light; it glinted off Arty’s glasses. Anyone looking down here would see the light reflecting off our skin. Trailing my fingers along the cold and slimy CBS block wall, I reached up to feel the ceiling, only to encounter more cold and slimy texture. I crouched down and my fingers slid across the floor. It was gritty, plain, old dirt. I rubbed my hands in it.
I’d seen pictures of my father from Afghanistan. At the time I didn’t recognize him. His entire face was covered in camouflage. It looked like a yellow and brown dirty mess. At the time, it was funny. Daddy was playing dress-up and trying to disguise himself. He’d been holding a big cigar between his teeth with a helmet under one arm. His buddies surrounded him. The only way I knew it was him was the hair.
I took the dirt from the floor and began rubbing it all over my face. I smeared it down my neck, over my shirt, and on to my arms. Recognition dawned on Arty’s face, and he shoved his glasses in his pocket. He grabbed a handful of dirt to rub over his face.
The muffled noises in the distance faded away. The only thing left was the sound of a dog’s sniffing. The neigh of a horse followed along with the clopping of hooves.
I glanced back into the black void behind me. The fear in my belly cinched into a tight ball. My father still hadn’t come. He had to be here. My hands moistened, and I rubbed them on my pant legs. My eyes searched the darkness, willing my parents to appear. Come on, come on you have to make it.
We waited for what seemed like forever, but the lack of traffic around us wouldn’t hold. Arty tapped me and pointed upward. It was quiet out. The tension in my belly said no, but my brain told me it wasn’t safe. There was no going back to the house, but my parents were still there. We couldn’t stay here in the open and exposed. What if somebody saw or heard us?
Arty moved his large frame up the ladder and gently pushed on the heavy iron grate. It swung open without a sound. Obviously, my father kept it oiled. He’d probably come out here today.
The rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire filled the air in the distance. Arty was out of the hole in a flash. Halfway up the ladder, Arty grabbed me by my backpack handle. He yanked me out of the hole. I hadn’t realized he was strong enough to do that with the way he carried himself hunched over. He wears glasses for god’s sake.
A lump took up residence in my throat. Everyone on our street was dead. My dad was the only one with an AR. Tears muddied my vision. Daddy, Mom.
Arty never released the backpack as he dragged me into the house. My feet stumbled and dragged. I saw my way through the tears burning their way down my face. Arty only let go to make sure the door didn’t slam as we went through.
Mrs. Vougher was a widow. Her husband died a couple of years ago. Mom took me to the funeral. Mrs. Vougher wore her widow’s weeds and carried around a hanky. Her hat sat back on her head with a little black mesh falling over her eyes. I felt sad as her husband had planted a flower garden every year.
The garden was long gone now. There hadn’t been a flower garden in her backyard since he died. I did bring her flowers once. She accepted them kindly, but I didn’t think she wanted them. I didn’t see her plant it. She probably chucked it in the trash.
The back door led into the kitchen. The house had that old, dried out peppermint BenGay scent with a hint of rose. At a glance, the loneliness reached out to me—the drainboard with one plate, one cup, and one saucer. She probably used the same utensils every day. Why take everything out or put it away? It was a three-bedroom house, but clearly, only one room was used. Everything else was covered with a thin layer of forgot.
We didn’t linger since the windows were right at ground level. Anyone walking by could look in and see us. Arty dragged me into the hallway. It was dog-legged with one window at the end, and a double-door closet in the middle. He yanked it open. Coats hung to one side, and a few shoeboxes underneath them. There was plenty of room for both of us. We hunkered down. The weight of my backpack pulled out my shoulders. I didn’t want to take it off. What if we had to get up and run?
Arty’s warm, moist breath filled my ear. “I don’t think they’re in the neighborhood anymore. We should be safe for tonight. Sleep in shifts. You go first.”
I whispered in the lowest voice possible, “You must be kidding, right? Not that I don’t trust you. I do. I just don’t think I’ll sleep. Didn’t you hear that semi-auto gunfire? That could be my parents.” He wrapped his arm around me.
I couldn’t remember the last time Arty and I hugged. We became teenagers, and it kind of made things weird. Arty was like my brother and my best friend all rolled into one. We had played in the mud together as children.
My heart was still beating a wild animal’s rage in my chest, but the shuttering of the chest behind me brought it all back. Hot tears leaked down my cheeks. My body pulled away from Arty’s, only to be brought back. My ears strained, listening for more weapons fire. The longer the silence stretched, the larger the pit in my belly grew. They were dead, and we were alone.
Light from the streetlight peeked through the cracks in the closet doors, cutting across space. He whispered in my ear, “Sleep, Sarah. I promise I’ll keep you safe.” He sniffed and shuttered but never made a another sound. Arty’s silent grieving silenced my own, we couldn’t both fall apart.
Maybe they weren’t dead. Maybe they fought them off. One AR sounds pretty much like another. Maybe it wasn’t my dad’s gun. I latched on to that, and I leaned back for the long night.
I messed up on the not sleeping thing. The last thing I remember was listening to the rhythm of Arty’s heart beating. I didn’t stay awake. It was my job, and I couldn’t do it. Arty was still asleep, and it was still dark outside. Something woke me. Crap.
The rise and fall of my diaphragm slowed. I slowed my breathing, hoping to stop the pounding in my chest. Funny how whenever you’re desperate to listen to something, every little thing sounds like it was on a megaphone.
I nudged my elbow into Arty’s belly. He jumped slightly. I waved my hand in front of his face, but he didn’t say anything.
There it was, the hiss of a cat. Mrs. Vougher had a cat. Why was it hissing? The hissing grew closer, along with scratching. A dog barked. It was in the house. My heart sped up, and all my muscles tensed. Next to me, Arty compressed all his muscles, like a spring ready to be freed. I heard clicking on the old hardwood floors, along with the sniffing and heavy breathing; it was indicative of a canine. The cat hissed, along with a low-throated yowl.
I heard one of them.
“Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, a cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such fun, and the dish was killed with a spoon.”
Why did they repeat fairytale nursery rhymes?
My hand wasn’t big enough to cover my mouth and hold back the scream waiting there. My fingernails dug into the side of my face as the liquid fear filled my chest, lighting it on fire.
A low-throated growl vibrated down the hallway, followed by hissing and yowling. The sick sound of flesh colliding with the closet door came next, followed by the sharp fall of a body.
We flinched as Arty’s hand pressed over mine on my lips. The footsteps retreated along with the clicking of dog nails on the linoleum floor in the kitchen. The back door clicked, and the screen door slammed shut behind them as laughter carried on outside.
“Wherever his daughter went, she has to be close.”
“The priest said she hangs out with the boy who lives next door. We should take them bot
h. He said the boy was strong.”
I sucked in a breath. They were talking about us. Arty pressed his hand tight over my mouth.
“Did you check this house?”
Adrenaline worked like liquid fire, engulfing my limbs, Arty’s arms tightened around my torso, forcing me to stay in place.
“Yes, nothing but one of those irritating felines. You know how I despise them.”
“Don’t let your hate for the animal life on the surface cloud your judgment. We are only here for one reason. Focus on the task at hand.”
“Deston said, find the girl and move on to the next.”
They want me. Why?
Their conversation continued, but they retreated. I could no longer make it out. I took a deep breath, and Arty moved his hand away from my mouth. His lips touched the sensitive outer edge of my ear.
“When the sun rises, we’re out of here,” Arty said. “We walk as far as we can for as long as we can.”
I nodded my head. But what about my parents? He was right; we had to get out of this neighborhood. They were looking for us here, and someone at the church told them about us in hopes of saving themselves. People always sell each other out when the shit hits the fan.
The muscles in my body ached and groaned from being forced into a crouching position all night. When the time came to get up, I was going to be physically fucked.
The streetlights went out, and the color of the sun blazed its fiery oranges and reds across the sky. We were already out of the closet, and I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept much the night before, and I didn’t sleep last night. Now, Arty and I were going to walk god knows how far today.
Outside the closet, I looked down at our savior, Mrs. Vougher’s dead cat. That thing kicked it so hard it killed him.
I choked on the pain in my chest. I went into Mrs. Vougher’s bedroom and pulled out one of her many scarves. I wrapped it around the cat and put him in a shoebox.
“What are you doing?” Arty was impatient.
“If Mr. Wiggles hadn’t been here, ‘he’ might’ve opened the closet door. You don’t know, maybe this cat saved our lives. Mr. Wiggles didn’t deserve to die because he was defending his house. The least we can do is give him a decent burial.”
Arty didn’t like Mr. Wiggles. He never liked cats. Always said they were backstabbing, two timers. I thought he was making it all up. Maybe he had an ax to grind? Based on an animation we saw as kids.
Out front, I scanned the street on both sides, looking for movement. It was only about 6:20 a.m. The likelihood that people were already out and in our neighborhood was pretty low.
There were more bodies on Mrs. Vougher’s street. They were in front of almost every house, including hers. None of the bodies were of children. There weren’t many kids in our neighborhood.
Wildflowers grew in Mrs. Vougher’s front flower bed. They must’ve reseeded themselves after her husband had died. I set Mr. Wiggles down next to the flowers. He was probably the only one in the neighborhood to get a burial. Hot tears spilled down my face. I looked up at the carnage all over the road, sidewalk, and yards. Unshed tears burned in my eyes as they swallowed down the pressure in my throat.
“Should we go?” Arty’s hand hung in the air, large and welcoming. I took it. For a moment, we could have been seven years old, walking to the park to play on the swings. Safe.
“I was thinking maybe we should head toward the city.”
“Or check for my parents first.” My reply was instant.
“The cities have more people to help keep us safe. Your dad said don’t come back. I’m not going back, and neither are you.” It’s not like Arty to be bossy, and fresh tears welled in my eyes.
The world was pear-shaped. People didn’t help each other.
“We need to find a town that looks like everybody in it is dead. Then we hide out in some building.” His eyes scanned the other end of the street.
“And what if somebody else had the same idea?” I asked in a weak voice. He ran his fingers through his hair and released my hand.
I kicked at the dirt. My face turned to the fence in the backyard. I wanted to run across the grass and tear open my back door and…I didn’t know what. What would Dad want me to do?
Live.
“I just think being in big city centers is a bad idea. My dad always said to stay away from the big cities. They’ll run out of food fast, and people get violent.” I crossed my arms holding my elbows.
He knew I was right. He just didn’t want to go to some strange town. “All right, we’ll go to Athens, but if I don’t like it, I want to leave. It’s a good idea to keep moving. Maybe we’ll stay alive that way.” He scratched the back of his neck and then looked around, letting both hands fall to his sides.
“I want to do one thing before we leave. I want to go to church. Somebody there ratted us out.”
Arty nodded his head. The only people who knew I had been at home or even where I lived was the youth group. And the only reason they knew I was home was Arty.
There was no way they would’ve known I’d made it home. They could’ve assumed that I had been snatched up or killed. I could’ve been hiding anywhere. Arty called, and then Arty left. Someone there had to have ratted us out. The question was why?
We walked the few blocks to the church, past all the dead bodies. We should’ve taken the alleyways.
My answers came pretty quickly. Pastor Rollins’ body knelt on the ground with an arrow through his chest, and the shaft was holding him up in a prone position. His white shirt had a dried blood color cascading down the front.
I hadn’t eaten anything since the day before, but my diaphragm convulsed, and the acid bile clawed its way up my throat. I wanted to free the wrenching in my gut, but there was nothing. We hadn’t bothered to eat any of Mrs. Vougher’s food.
And there they were, or at least most of them.
Arty bit down on his knuckles as he tried to shove his fist down his throat.
“There’s nothing you could’ve done. If you’d been here, you would be dead too.” My face felt like a mask of fire, tears flowing like liquid magma. The ache in my throat spread down to my belly. I reached out for Arty’s hand. He snatched it and dragged me into a tight hug.
“I know.” His muffled whisper barely reached my ears.
I didn’t want to bring myself to look Pastor Rollins over. His collar lay on the ground in front of him, and his shirt was torn open at the throat. Blood ran down from his eyes and his lips, and one of his eyes was swollen shut.
“I don’t think our pastor would rat us out.” Arty was always so kind and thought the best of people.
Arty released me, but we stayed close to each other.
“I don’t think so either, but look, a couple of the kids are missing body parts. I think they did that to make him talk.” The saliva pooled in my mouth again, giving me the swallows—the kind you get before you throw up.
Most of the kids were missing their hands, and they weren’t close to their bodies. They’d bled to death. I whipped my head around searching, but the extremities weren’t there. All the hands were gone.
All that pressure in my chest, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I screamed.
All those kids, they were my friends. None of us were religious. My youth group wasn’t about God and praying. We met every week to hang out; it was fun. The church was our safe hang out.
If I’d left earlier, I would’ve been home with Mom and Dad. I couldn’t warn them. Would we be alive? But if I’d stayed here with the youth group, I still wouldn’t be alive.
How did I get so lucky?
“Camille’s gone. So is Nina. And Brad.” Arty’s tone told me what he thought. He hated Camille.
“Maybe they got away; maybe they left like you did.” I moved to go inside, but I changed my mind. The fae had called them all out.
“No, Nina wouldn’t have gone home. Her parents are out of town. Camille’s dating Brad, and his car is still here. They should be here.
Brad wouldn’t leave without his car.” Arty waved his arms around, desperate for an answer.
It dawned on me; they must’ve taken them. “All those missing kids, I think they’re taking them. They were looking for us, right?”
“Did you see all those kids on the news? Every single one of them was gorgeous, a jock superstar, strong and good-looking. Why do you think they’re looking for us?”
Arty was strong, and when he wasn’t wearing his glasses and hunching over, he was good-looking. Had he better coordination, I’m sure he’d be a jock. That wasn’t how he saw himself.
“I’m not one of the beautiful people. I’m just boring old me.” I shrugged my shoulders.
“You really are thick, Sarah. You probably gotta be one of the most beautiful girls in the entire school, and you’re nice, which makes you pretty special. How do you think I’ve been friends with you for so many years? You’re cool and smoking hot, and now you’re wondering why they are looking for you? I’m sure Pastor Rollins told them where all the kids in the neighborhood live to save the few that were lying on the ground, missing their hands. And if I knew Camille, she probably told them who was pretty and who wasn’t. She is a self-centered harpy who would say anything to save her own skin.”
I didn’t think I was pretty. Arty was mistaken and need new eyeglasses. What he said about Camille was true. She was a snob and totally stuck-up. She’d always been a bitch to me, except when we were at youth group and she became a real person.
“Brad’s car is still here, and they are not. Maybe his keys are still here.” Arty wanted to drive Brad’s car. It was a classic 1978 Camaro, drove fast, and had terrible gas mileage. I thought it made a lot of noise.
“Actually, I think we might be better off with Pastor Rollins’ Jeep. If Brad’s not here, neither are his keys.” I said.