Until... | Book 1 | Until The Sun Goes Down

by Hamill, Ike

  One of my favorite movies had a great line: “What do you mean, ‘they cut the power’? How could they cut the power, man? They’re animals.”

  Because they didn’t smash the window of the truck, I’ve been assuming that they’re not too bright. What if there’s another reason?

  Maybe they don’t like to break glass. Maybe the sound hurts their ears the same way that the light hurts their eyes.

  “Pieces,” I whisper.

  I’m thinking about the one on the front porch and how it was crouched under the bird feeder. Didn’t I read somewhere that a vampires are compelled to count spilled seeds? I think that’s the way it goes. People used to put a pile of seeds on their porch because a vampire would be compelled to count them before passing.

  Maybe it’s the same with shards of glass?

  This is all speculation. At least it’s occupying my brain and helping me stay awake.

  Suffice to say, there could be a logical reason that they haven’t smashed my window besides simple stupidity. If that’s true, I’m going to have to stay on my toes.

  I take a peek at the dash.

  The clock is still dead at three. The gas is holding out—more than half a tank.

  The Mountain of Pure Rock, WTOS, is fulfilling their promise of Soundgarden. I don’t recognize the song, but Chris Cornell’s voice is unmistakable. I wonder how many voices I’ve heard tonight are from dead people. Petty is dead. Cornell is dead. I’m pretty sure that the guy from Bad Company—Paul Rodgers?—is still alive. I wonder if there’s a correlation between how long a musician is remembered and the tragic circumstances of their death. If they just pass away from natural causes, does their music fade away fast? At the moment, I can’t think of any dead musicians who didn’t die in a horrific way.

  Mr. Engel didn’t die in a horrific way, at least not according to the hospital. They said it was a kind of anemia. I wonder if that’s what they will say about me. Will two cases of anemia be enough to trigger suspicion. I hate the idea that there’s a chance that they will kill me too and nobody will put two and two together.

  That’s one thing that I have control over.

  I reach past the shifter and feel across the dash until I find the glove compartment. Inside, there’s a notepad with a pencil through the spiral binding. For a long time, Uncle Walt wrote down the miles and gallons every time he filled the truck. He said that a sudden change in gas mileage was a good indicator that there was a problem brewing with the truck. I guess he gave up on the idea at some point because the last time I looked the notebook didn’t have any recent entries.

  It was about to get one. I crawl over to the passenger’s side and lower myself into the footwell.

  When I’m crouched low, I open my eyes.

  I can just see the notebook from the light of the dashboard.

  I flip to a blank page and start writing.

  I mention Mr. Engel and how I found him. The word “vampire” only appears in my narrative as a quote from Mr. Engel. I don’t want anyone to assume that I’m crazy. I only refer to them as predatory animals. It’s a simplification, but I’m trying to maintain the credibility of the narrative. I beseech anyone who finds my body to look into the possibility that I was a victim of these animals. I reiterate that I have no history of anemia. I donate blood all the time with no issues.

  My handwriting has deteriorated in the past couple of years.

  Kimberly and I used to leave notes for each other all the time. We had a certain style in these notes that’s hard to describe. You might call it Victorian Nonsensical Love Letter style. She started it, of course. I came home one day and found a note that said something like:

  Dearest, I pray this missive finds you well. The furry one—firm decision being unnatural to his bearing—is neither in nor out. He stood in the doorway mewling whilst I prepared my lunch and I fear I’ve lost track of him. Henceforth, I shall call him Schrödinger and wonder everlasting over his existence. On the morrow, we’re expected in Danforth. Until tonight, my heart beats for both of us.

  My replies were never as clever as hers, but I tried. With all that writing, my hand grew confident and the script was confident and legible. I’ve lost that skill apparently. I read over my note and make a few clarifying smudges where necessary.

  When she was pregnant, her body bulging and stretching, she trusted her doctor completely. Dr. Phan had four kids of her own and she was very honest about the experience of her own pregnancies. Dr. Phan would say, “You’re unlikely to experience anything more painful than your first birth, but don’t worry, you’re unlikely to remember it accurately.”

  Kimberly had laughed at that. Her memory was great. She took pride in it.

  Dr. Phan said, “It’s self defense, really. If women were honest with themselves over the pain, the human race would be extinct in a generation.”

  I was horrified by the idea and I wished that Dr. Phan would stop trying to frighten Kimberly. But Kimberly wasn’t scared by the warnings. She seemed glad that someone was being forthcoming and not trying to sugarcoat the upcoming trauma.

  I suppose that it’s the same way with any kind of pain. Our ability to feel is way more honed than our ability to remember. The best and the worst things in our lives are dulled when we try to imagine them. I hate that. I want to remember precisely the crushing weight of loss. To forget the pain of losing Kimberly and our baby is an insult to their monumental importance. The fact that I continue to breathe and my heart continues to beat is unthinkable. My entire world ended that day and yet my stubborn body continues to live. These sentiments would fit well in a Victorian Nonsensical Love Letter.

  I close the notebook and reach up to put it on the dashboard. After a moment of reflection, I move it to the glove compartment.

  I settle back down into the footwell. My legs are threaded between the shift levers and I lean back against the passenger’s door. Down here, it feels safe to open my eyes and stare down at my hands.

  The Mountain of Pure Rock is playing a block of Heart. Ann Wilson sings like she’s trying to be Robert Plant and then plays the flute like she’s Ian Anderson. I wonder if Heart should be considered innovative because they were women who could match the best of the male rockers, or if they were simply derivative of the most popular trends of their time. I’ve been listening to this station for too long.

  (I've fallen into the well.)

  I’ve fallen into the well.

  My memories of Kimberly are a well. There are no rocks at the bottom. It’s only quicksand. Even if I drown, I’ll never stop sinking into them.

  Before her, I used to think that there were two types of people—pleasant people and interesting people. The ones I found pleasant were always operating on the surface. They were polite and upbeat, but not willing to open up to anything deeper. The interesting people were almost always a little bitter or unpleasant. I probably fall into that category. I try to be optimistic, but every time I allow myself to focus on the positive, something knocks me upside the head and forces me to see the bad side of things.

  Kimberly had layers.

  We met at a picnic. Her neighbors invited her over. I came with a friend from work. The three of us fell into a debate over potato chips. Right away, I could tell that she wasn’t interesting. She maintained the position that Ruffles were just as good as kettle cooked chips, while I argued the opposite.

  “They taste just as good, but you can eat more of them without hurting your mouth,” she said.

  “Hurting your… Are you twelve?” my friend asked. “Just chew the chips instead of mashing them into your cheeks and gums.”

  I waved him off. He was being way too aggressive for a casual picnic conversation.

  “Forget the texture,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve properly considered the question of taste. Try these two, side by side, and tell me that the taste of your Ruffles is just as good.”

  She raised her eyebrows and tried both. In deference to my friend’s point, she carefull
y crunched the chips between her teeth as she chewed.

  “I suppose you have a point,” she said when she was done.

  That’s when I thought the conversation was over. An interesting person would have found a way to continue the debate and get a few more laughs out of the conversation. Kimberly was too pleasant to be deep, or so I incorrectly concluded.

  Honestly, I didn’t even consider her beautiful that first time we met.

  Kimberly had layers.

  The next time I saw her, she was standing in line at the bagel shop next to the dealership where my car was being worked on. It had been a couple of months, so it took me a few minutes to remember where I had met her. I didn’t come up with a name. When she turned and walked towards me, I pointed and said, “Ruffles!”

  Immediately, she smiled and said, “Kettle chips.”

  “I’m waiting for my car,” I said, gesturing through the window that faced the dealership.

  “Join me,” she said. “I’m on my lunch break.”

  I nodded and she turned to find a table in the corner.

  Honestly, I was half annoyed as the line moved forward and I ordered a sandwich. It was presumptuous of her to assume that I would entertain her over her lunch just because I was waiting. Sometimes nice people do that—they make plans for you assuming that you’re a nice person too. What if I had just wanted to be alone? I had half a mind to make an excuse about how I wanted to be over at the dealership when my car was finished. By the time I got my sandwich and paid, she was looking down at a book, oblivious to me. I could have walked right by.

  “You must work for the insurance company,” I said as I sat down. Aside from the dealership and the bagel place, it was the only business around.

  She nodded and used her finger to wipe a dab of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. I don’t know what it was about that gesture. That was the first moment that I felt any attraction to her.

  “I do,” she said when she finished chewing. “You?”

  We went through the normal details—work, apartments, brief history, etc.

  Then, we reached layer two.

  Kimberly had layers.

  “Do you think life is short or long?” she asked.

  “Life is short. Suffering is long,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  She tapped the book as she shut it.

  “I used to think of books as little miniature lives that I could live for the price of a number of hours,” she said. “When I was a kid, I would dive into each new one and imagine that it had a particular lesson to impart to me, regardless of whether or not the author intended it. Dreams are simple rehashing of the day’s events, giving us a chance to regard them with a fresh perspective. But books are so much more powerful. They’re the rehashing of someone else’s experience. That’s a rare gift.”

  I’ve never been that into reading. I said as much. Narrative storytelling has moved on. We have movies now—literally and figuratively, they can show us so much more.

  “So you’re a ‘life is short’ person.”

  “Life is short. Suffering is long. Is this what you do on your lunch break? You contemplate the meaning of life?”

  She smiled.

  “Not the meaning. Just the duration. This book is long. Maybe it’s too long—I can’t tell yet.”

  I nodded.

  We ate in silence for a little while. I tried to think of something deep to say. I wasn’t trying to impress her. I just thought that she would appreciate something deep. My friends at work hated anything philosophical. It’s not that they were anti-intellectual, it’s just that… Actually, I suppose they were anti-intellectual. There was this whole thing with our pompous boss and it had… It’s not important to the story.

  “What do you think now?” I asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “You said that you used to think books were mini lives when you were a kid. What do you think of them now?”

  She raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her drink before she answered.

  “I think that very few books are intentionally about anything. That’s not to say that they’re empty of meaning. People sit down to write a book that’s interesting to them. When they’re done, maybe they go back and strengthen the obvious congruencies into a coherent theme. Maybe they just punch up the plot so that it moves well.”

  “So why are you still reading? Why haven’t you given up on books?”

  “What’s interesting to the author is also interesting to me a lot of times. It makes me think. When I’m done, I’ve learned something just by the process. Whether the lesson was preconceived or not, a book still has something to teach.”

  “That could apply to any art,” I said. “Why books?”

  She picked the book up and waved it. “Portable.”

  We laughed.

  Kimberly had layers.

  It wasn’t that she knew a lot of stuff—she did, but it wasn’t about that. It was that she was curious and always trying to learn new things. I had become pretty cynical and mistrustful of the world by then. Pessimism works because it’s almost always correct. You’re not going to win the lottery. Studying hard is not going to make you ace the exam. Staying away from cigarettes doesn’t mean that you won’t die of lung cancer.

  Optimism takes too much strength. You have to learn to live with being wrong most of the time.

  Kimberly was strong, curious, and thoughtful.

  She was also really interesting.

  That’s the part that I didn’t expect.

  Every day we were together, I felt myself becoming more and more optimistic. Every bad thing that had ever happened was fine. It all served to help me understand how blessed I was to be with her. Even the bad days we had together were just the shadows that helped the highlights sparkle even brighter.

  When she died, I finally understood what had really been happening. I wasn’t learning to be an optimist, I was poisoning her with my negativity. Light can’t last forever. Darkness always wins.

  I pledged the opposite the last time I held her hand. She had no idea what I was saying, I’m sure. I told her that I was going to raise our child to be happy and positive all the time. I was never going to let our child go to sleep upset. Every morning the sun would shine new light into their life. This was before I found out that our child was dead as well. Things took somewhat of a sour swing at that point, as you might imagine. I had no more promises to give and nobody to protect.

  Coming

  (It's three o'clock.)

  It’s three o’clock.

  The woman on the Mountain of Pure Rock tells me so. I think that her shift has just begun. She sounds both chipper and weary, if that’s a thing. We’re about to kick things off with some Judas Priest and Black Sabbath to ring in the witching hour. Underneath her voice and the background music that accompanies her, I hear a scratching sound. When I reach up and turn down the radio, I realize that the scratching sound is coming from beneath me.

  The truck lights are still on. I can see that the knob is pulled out.

  I awkwardly roll over so I can press my ear against the rubber mat.

  It’s a rhythmic grinding sound that vibrates in the metal.

  A horrible image pops into my head. Something approached through the weeds that have grown up in the opposite side of the culvert. Slowly, it squeezed into the tube of metal and pulled itself under the driveway, arching its back to stay above the stagnant water collected in the corrugated bottom. It emerged under the truck, safe from the light.

  And now it’s sabotaging something under the…

  “Fuel line,” I whisper.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and extract myself from the footwell.

  Sitting upright in the driver’s seat feels unnatural now.

  I lean forward and cup my hands around my face as I lean towards the dash. When I open my eyes, I blink at the green gauges until I can read them.

  The gas is below half and I can actually see it falling. Once the engine stalls, how l
ong will the lights stay on? The battery has always had enough juice to start the truck, but the starter does seem to slow down if it takes more than a few seconds to catch. I remember talking to Uncle Walt on the phone one time. He was angry because he had left the door slightly ajar and the truck’s battery had been killed by the interior lights. How long had that taken? Had he replaced the battery since? I might have an hour or two of headlights—probably less.

  “Then what?” I whisper.

  Even without lights, they didn’t do anything more than tap on the windows. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe the lights will go out, they will approach, tap, and I’ll just ignore it until dawn. I could tie my shirt around my eyes so that even if I accidentally open them, it won’t matter.

  “Smarter,” I whisper.

  Right—or maybe they’re getting smarter.

  Anything that could figure out how to cut a gas line could surely figure out how to get into the truck, right? If they’re getting smarter and they’re this determined, I’m in trouble.

  Makes me wonder why they’re this determined.

  I took away Mr. Engel. I flushed them from their hiding place. I brought the police into the matter. It could be that they’re just starving and I’m the only food source around.

  The gas gauge is now descending towards a quarter of a tank. I imagine that the fuel is spilling out into the ditch and flowing into the culvert.

  Mr. Engel said that they don’t like heat.

  From my experience, they don’t like light.

  I can extrapolate that they really don’t enjoy…

  “Fire.”

  PART FOUR:

  Redemption

  Explosion

  (Any doubt is gone.)

  Any doubt is gone.

  When I roll down the window an inch, the smell of gasoline greets me. This is a really stupid idea. It’s also a really compelling idea. There’s a whole, “Blaze of Glory,” theme to it that I might have picked up from the Mountain of Pure Rock. We had a Bon Jovi block a few minutes ago.