by Katie French
“Come on,” Clay says, as he takes a step in.
What else can we do? We follow.
Chapter Fourteen
When I was young, Auntie used to tell me about picture shows they had when she was a kid. Back then there was enough electricity to run a local theater once a week. I’d sit on the warped porch boards and listen as she wove tales of adventure, love, laughter. I learned the plot to Cinderella by heart. But on nights when my mama went to bed early, and I could drag them out of Auntie, she’d tell me about horror movies. Horror movies with dark basements, raspy breathing coming from a bedroom closet, ax-murderers running after their victims who screamed into the night. I’d clutch my knees to my chest and listen, barely breathing. Those nights I’d be so scared, any sound would send me flying upstairs to sleep on my parents’ floor.
That is how taking our first few steps into this ghost town feels. Like any minute we’re going to die. In the twilight, shadows lean from every corner. The dark doorways remind me of rancid open mouths. When the wind whips through, paper rustles and gates squeak, making me sure an ax-murderer will come barreling toward us from an open doorway. Each shadow might hide any number of horrors.
We shuffle through the gate and stop just inside. My legs feel like lead. I can’t make myself leave the safety of the open road. What if we get inside the town and the gate slams shut? What if this is some horrible trap? What if there are monsters … Cut it out, I tell myself. I’m supposed to be brave. I look to Clay. His face locked up tight, his lips a white line, his eyes locked forward. Sweat beads beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Ethan, to my left, trembles like an eight-year-old should. His bug-eyes flit between doorway, alley, and an abandoned car. I grab his sweaty hand. I want to feel him next to me.
From here the town looks abandoned. There are no signs of a struggle. No dead bodies. No blast holes. There are a few vehicles parked on the side streets, but they look long abandoned. Not beat up, really, just left behind. That raises the hairs on my arms. No one leaves a good vehicle lying around.
To our left is a row of shops, all empty. Trash lies in clumps on the cracked sidewalks. I jump as a rat darts out from a pile of bricks, spots us and then scurries back. If animals can survive here, the water’s okay. Probably.
A howl from the road behind us shakes everyone into action. I look to Clay on my right and Ethan on my left. Nodding, we start forward down the desolate street. I grip Ethan’s hand in mine and feel Clay’s shoulder inches away. It takes all my will to keep my feet moving forward.
We pass a small grocery store and I point it out to Clay. I stare at the faded sign until I can puzzle out Top Shelf Groceries and Liquor. Inside it’s a mess of clotted paper, wet garbage, and crumpled drywall. A bird has built a nest in one of the top shelves where they used to display apples or peaches. From here it looks picked clean, no canned goods, no bottled water. I think of going in, scrounging around, but the light is so scarce it wouldn’t do much good. I swallow and turn away. So many shadowed doorways. And it just keeps getting darker.
More empty stores. Old traffic lights with busted glass dangle above our heads. The dryness in my throat seems to double as I spot a hydrant with the cap off. I look at the water jug that swings off Clay’s pack. Three, maybe four cups left. I turn my thoughts away from water and to each building we pass. We’ll have to pick a building soon and bed down. I can’t imagine huddling in a dark shop, not knowing what might lurk in the wings. Each building seems darker than the next. A shop that used to be a cafe has a large, brown stain covering most of the tile floor. Blood. It has to be.
Clay stops and stiffens beside me. I swing around and look where he’s staring. Between two shops is a dark, trash-strewn alley and something’s moving. I tighten my hand over the rifle and Clay raises his guns. The thing moves. It’s fury and too small to be human. The animal looks up at us. Four legs, round eyes, a dark muzzle. Coyote? I raise my gun. Then I see the patchy brown fur, the droopy ears, and tail. It’s a domestic dog. Sensing no real threat, it goes back to whatever it’s eating. I think about calling it over until Clay’s grips my arm.
“Get Ethan down the road. Now.” He pushes me forward as he turns toward the alley. “Wait for me at the corner.”
What does he see? I pull Ethan away. Luckily he’s got his eyes on some collapsed movie theater down the block. I take him to check out the busted marquee. Just before I slip past the alley, I glance at the dog. A bright piece of fabric lies on the ground beneath the dog. A t-shirt? Then I see the arm, pale, bloated with crooked fingers. A body. That’s what the dog’s been eating. I clutch my hand to my mouth and fight the urge to vomit.
Ethan looks up at me as I pull him down the street. “What is it?” His hand squeezes the blood out of mine.
“Nothing.” Oh God, my head screams. We’re going to die!
He watches the alley where Clay disappeared with wide eyes.
The dog skitters out of the alley. Clay follows. When he meets us, his face is the color of uncooked dough. He nods at me and keeps walking. I want to ask him about the body. How did it die? Will we end up like it? Yet, Ethan’s here and my imagination’s supplying enough details on its own. I look up the street at more shops and dark alleys. What do I have to do to get out of here?
“Let’s go,” Clay says. “We need to get someplace safe.”
Safe? Nowhere here is safe. We speed-walk down the street. I don’t scan the shops. I’m too afraid I’ll spot another body.
We find a long driveway at the end of the block. A two-story brick building looms large at the end of it. In the dark, I can barely make out the words etched into the concrete sign covered with bird droppings: Magdalena Christian Academy. Three graying wood crosses lean on the weed-filled front lawn. At the entrance stands the greening sculpture of a woman, one arm outstretched, palm up. The other arm lies in a few shattered pieces at her feet. Her face, though, turned to the sky as if seeking forgiveness, is the first welcoming thing I’ve seen.
“Let’s sleep in there,” I say, pointing to the building.
Clay arches his eyebrows up at me.
I shrug. “Looks less scary than the rest of this God-forsaken place.”
Clay nods. “Sure. We need to get inside anyway. Can’t see a damn thing.”
We stride up the busted blacktop to the front doors. A thick, rusted chain slinks through the handles on the big wooden doors. I yank on them and scowl. Nothing in this town comes easy. I scan either side of the brick building. The glass windows are long gone, but they’re high off the ground with nothing to climb but flat, slippery brick.
Clay nods to the first window on the right. “Come on. I’ll give you a boost.”
A boost? That means Clay putting his hands on me, pushing me upward. At any point, his hand could slip and feel something that would solve the mystery of my gender once and for all. I follow him, biting my lip. I could suggest Ethan, but he’s too short to reach the ledge and besides, I’d be sending him into a dark creepy building alone.
Clay stands at the base of the window and looks up. He hands Ethan a revolver and tells him to watch the road. Then he laces his fingers together and nods at me. Facing him, I can see the stubble that’s grown on his normally smooth chin. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot from exhaustion. I remind myself that he could be at home right now, soaking in a tub of warm water while Auntie rubs his feet. Instead, he’s here in the third circle of hell with us.
I put my hands on his shoulders. His muscles tense as he looks deep into my eyes.
“I got you.” His face is calming, reassuring. “On the count of three. Okay?”
I’m so close to him, I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. I grip his shoulders. He stills smells like aftershave.
“Okay,” he says. “One. Two. Three.”
I put my foot in his hand and push up. As he hoists me, my body brushes past his, but I think I’ve avoided him noticing anything suspicious. Then I realize my inseam is hovering near his face as he l
ifts me. Oh, God. I wobble.
“Grab. The. Ledge,” he grunts. His hand grips around my feet, pushing upward.
My fingers find purchase on the cool stone ledge. Being this close to Clay has tingles going in all the wrong regions of my body. All I can think is his hands on my body. My fingers slip. We rock backward and almost topple. I gotta focus. Dark, scary building, I think. My thoughts fly off Clay’s hand cupping my calf. I pull up and tumble into the dark room.
I bash into something hard. It crashes and goes skittering. I lie on the floor, panting in the dark silent room. Please God, don’t let there be anything in here to eat me.
I sit with my back against the wall and will my eyes to adjust. The air’s musty despite the open window, like no one’s stepped foot into this space for a long time. I smell mold, dust, the thick scent of all things man-made crumbling to particles. Soon I can see faint outlines of chairs, tables, the remains of a classroom. The tiny desks and chairs are thrown together in random upturned piles. The one I smashed lies upside-down, its legs in the air like a dead insect. Rotting papers that disintegrate at the touch of a finger lie scattered on the floor. Some of the ceiling lies crumpled by the door. From first glance, I don’t see anything too frightening. No bodies at least.
“What’s going on in there?” Clay calls from below.
I swing over and peer down at him. Both their faces stare up at me. “A classroom.”
“Right,” he says. “What else?”
“Not much. I think it’s okay so far.”
Clay nods. “Ethan’s coming up. I’ll hand him to you.”
Clay picks up Ethan and lifts him to the window. I pull.
Ethan tumbles in and looks around. “Cool,” he whispers.
I hear Clay trying to scramble up the wall. That kid really thinks there’s nothing he can’t do. I grab a little desk and carry it to the window. “Watch out,” I yell down to Clay. He backs up and I chuck the desk out the window. Luckily it survives the fall. He grabs the desk, places it under the window and stands on it. I pull him up and he almost falls on top of me when I drag him over the window ledge.
The three of us sit in the little classroom, taking it in. Ethan peeks in a few cupboards. I want to stop him, but they’re too small to house any real threat other than rodents or insects. He finds a few broken pencils and a coffee mug.
Clay holds it up to the light from the window. “I prayed for hope and God sent you,” he reads. “Huh. Don’t think hittin’ their knees really paid off for these folks, or they’d still be around.” He frowns and sets the mug on a tiny desk.
“All clear,” Clay says, scanning the room. “But no water. Let’s make sure the rest of the place is safe.”
I look out the window nestled in the door that leads to the pitch-black hallway. “Can’t we just sleep here for the night? There’s only one door to defend and we can take turns on watch.”
Clay removes his hat and musses his damp hair. “We’ll use up the last of our water tonight. I’d feel better if we made sure there’s more, but I guess you’re right. Wouldn’t do any good to go skulking in the dark like a bunch of blind fools. And we’re wore out, right, bud?” Clay runs his hand over Ethan’s hair. Ethan sags into Clay.
I pick up a couple plastic orange chairs with rusted metal legs and start stacking them in a pile by the door. It won’t stop someone who wants to come in, but it’ll slow them down. Then we make camp. In the back corner, I find a decaying beanbag and offer it to Ethan. He’s the only one tiny enough to curl into it. Yet the thick dust that swirls up every time we move is getting to him. He coughs until his cheeks are crimson, until his eyes bulge. Clay glances at me and then we give him the rest of the water. He gulps it down between coughs.
I sit back against a buckling closet door and dig into my pack. I find a can of Spam, open it and pass it around. Clay cracks a can of peaches and we each take one with our fingers until they’re gone. He and I take turns with the juice. My stomach’s still seizing with hunger and my mouth feels like the desert floor, but weariness is winning this battle.
“Can you take first watch?” I ask Clay. He nods. I lie on the musty carpet and shuffle around for a comfortable position. On the closet door above me, a faded and curling poster pressed in some sort of plastic shows a decorated evergreen tree. It takes me a while but I finally read, “Jesus is the reason.” As I drift off I wonder what he is the reason for.
Daylight. I sit upright. Clay should’ve woken me for my turn at watch. I see that he’s fallen asleep sitting up against the warped plaster wall next to the door. His revolver rests in his lap. Ethan’s still curled in his dusty beanbag chair. I feel surprisingly well rested except for a kink in my neck. When was the last time I had a good night’s sleep that wasn’t induced by horse tranquilizers? It’s been a while.
My tongue feels thick and sluggish in my mouth. My throat burns for water. I stand up slowly, letting my spine crack into place. Then I tackle removing the chairs as quietly as possible so not to disturb the boys. Twice they bang against each other, but the boys never stir. They must be dead tired. I think about how happy they’ll be when I wake them with a big glass of water. If I find it.
Somehow survival seems possible today. The sun looks warm and upbeat coming in the open window, and the classroom is way less creepy in the daylight. It drastically improves my mood. Making sure I’ve got my hunting knife in my pants just in case, I slip out the classroom door and pull it closed.
On the other side of the door, my mood dims. There are piles of papers strewn about, broken desks and dried-out rodent droppings. Ceiling tiles hang in saggy fragments or lie in bloated piles on the cracked tile. In one corner I see a small rib cage. Some rat, long dead and forgotten. Each doorway could hide any number of horrors. My eyes trace down the long dark halls. I could turn back to my quiet classroom, but my burning throat won’t let me.
I slip down the creepy hallways, peeking in each room. The classrooms look just like ours with small differences. One has larger desks for older kids. Our cute posters are replaced with faded charts and graphs pressed in that same plastic covering. One room has no desks, just piles and piles of wet and rotting garbage. Another looks like it had once been a music room. A tilting, three-legged piano grimaces at me with its black and white teeth strewn on the floor. I pass a room with a fallen roof, exposing one corner to the sky. Each room is coated in undisturbed layers of dust or mildew. No one’s been in here in some time.
I should go in the classrooms and dig through the cupboards, but I’m a coward. Maybe with Ethan and Clay behind me, I could brave pulling open those doors to see what’s behind. Animal nest, bugs, spiders, or worse. I think about the body Clay found. I can’t face something like that on my own.
I turn the corner and spot a cracked porcelain water fountain. It’s a long shot, but I hit the button. Nothing. I push open the door labeled Ladies’ Room. Inside, there are no windows, so it’s pitch black, and besides, if there’s no plumbing, there’s no water in there anyway. I let the door slip shut and turn down another dark, garbage-filled hall.
Near the front of the building, I find what used to be the greeting center. Though it takes me a while, I sound out the word Office on the sign. With big windows facing the front, there’s enough light to see in. Disheveled chairs, their fabric turning to dust, line the wall leading up to a receiving counter. A dust-encrusted crystal dish still perches delicately on the countertop, but whatever was in it has long since been carted off by mice. Another chair lies wheels up behind a paper-covered desk.
My eyes lock on a black rectangle sitting on a desk in the back. I walk in and touch my finger to the dusty screen. On the table next to it is another black rectangular gadget with rows of lettered keys. I tap a few with the pads of my fingers. Arn said these were called computers. Long ago people used them for communication. I trace my initials in the dust on the screen. Then something catches my eye.
A big blue jug attached to a white base sits in the very bac
k of the office. Liquid was once stored in these. I thumb down the little spigot. In a dispenser, I find a stack of rotting paper cups that fall apart at my touch. Could there be more jugs? A slim door sits next to the water dispenser. The wood is warped so I have to yank on the handle for a while until the thing pops open. I cross my fingers and peer in.
No bodies, just rows of pencils, clips, paper, folders, more paper cups and on the floor … a big jug of water. Full.
I clap once and the sound startles a mouse. He shoots from a paper nest in the corner to a hole in the floor. I wrap my hands around the lip of the water jug. The boys will be so happy.
It takes me five minutes to carry the jug back to our classroom. I underestimated how heavy the jug was and how weak I am from travel. Still, I half drag, half carry the prize in and plunk it down on the floor in front of Clay. Clay raises the revolver, but then the recognition dawns on his face.
“Riley,” he says, “What the hell?”
“Water,” I say with a triumphant wave of my hand.
They both blink at me and rub their eyes. I was expecting more fanfare than blank stares.
“Well, I’m thirsty.” I start working on the cap. When I finally get it open and figure out how to pour it in one of our jugs without dumping the whole thing over, I take the first drink. Water’s never tasted so good. I sigh in relief.
“Nice job, ace,” Clay says, stretching and reaching for the jug. I hand it over and he drinks. “Tastes like plastic,” he says as he smiles. “Where’d you get it?”
