by Hamill, Ike
After tearing out a few of the pages, I stuff the notebook into my back pocket.
In my lap, I have the box of matches. I stuck a bunch of matchsticks between the box and lid, lined up like little soldiers.
I open my eyes.
None of this is going to work unless I can see. With the lights on, I’m pretty sure that none of them are close enough to mesmerize me with their eyes, but who knows. There’s nothing to lose at this point.
I see the truck around me and the patch of grass that the headlights illuminate. In the rearview mirror, the red lights show me the general shapes of the dooryard. There are dark forms moving around in that space. I don’t see them precisely, but I see the moving shadows.
I shut off the truck’s engine and click off the radio. I push the keys into my pocket.
All I hear is the summer crickets and dripping fluid. That would be the last of the gasoline. The truck wasn’t going to run much longer anyway.
With the engine off, the light from the headlights is already looking a little yellow. I put the truck into R so the reverse lights come on. The shadows behind me evaporate, parting to the sides away from the new glow.
I roll down the window the rest of the way.
When I shift my weight, I hear the one below the truck. Maybe it’s moving to try to get a look at what I’m doing.
I pull myself through the window and onto the roof, leading the way with the box of matches. I have to work quickly and pray that everything goes perfectly. I have no right to hope. The scheme is outlandishly stupid.
Kneeling on the roof of my uncle’s truck, I ball up the paper and use it to prop the box of matches at an angle, right near the edge of the roof. When the paper burns away, I want the box to fall through the flames, catch one or more of the matches, and allow the whole burning box to plunge down into the fuel-soaked ditch.
My hands are shaking.
I focus completely on the task in front of my hands. It’s almost impossible to see in the ambient light of the headlights. The drifting shadows suggest that there might be several of them out there. It’s hard to tell from my peripheral vision.
The box is balanced precariously.
I’ve forgotten to save aside a match.
With trembling fingers I try to delicately pluck one of the soldiers from the seam of the box and I nearly topple the entire structure. That would have been an epic fail. Losing everything but a single match would doom me. Somehow, everything wobbles and then stays in place.
I take a deep breath—the duration of three imaginary strides—and let it out slowly.
I strike the match against the truck and it hisses to life. The glow reveals the mark I’ve just made on the paint. My uncle was so proud of the paint job on this truck. Even while the frame rusted away, he had washed and waxed the body. The match had made a big white mark. I am about to do much worse.
I hold the dancing flame to the piece of paper until it catches.
The flames grow immediately and I hurry away, nearly falling into the truck bed.
I watch the burning paper as I back across the truck bed and reach into my pocket. Folding the notebook in half, I hurl it as far as I can. I want it to be away from me and the truck. It lands in the darkness just as the box begins to tip. The soldier matches catch too early. They’re going to burn out before…
The box falls over the side of the truck.
I’m not ready.
In my silly plans, I should have already jumped down and started to run by now, but I’m frozen. I’m still convinced that nothing will happen.
Sparks jump from the box as it lands on the frame of the open window and balances there.
It’s not going to work. If the box falls into cab, nothing will happen.
This is my only chance. I have to take it.
(Failure was inevitable.)
Failure was inevitable.
My body is moving in slow motion as I plant my hands and jump over the tailgate to fall into darkness. By the time I hit stones and dirt, everything is moving at regular speed again.
I still hear the crickets, the dripping fuel, and the light crackle of the burning box of matches, precariously balanced on the window frame of the driver’s door.
I push off from the truck and my feet crunch once, twice, and three times before I breathe.
That’s when the world ends.
I’m not far enough away. The light reaches me before the sound. It’s a flash of brilliance, plastering my enormous shadow on the side of the house, and then I hear the whoomph. The shockwave hits me an instant later and I’m deaf before my feet leave the packed dirt.
My body flips in the air.
The truck is lifted by the explosion. A jet of flame shoots out from the end of the culvert. There’s a shape under there.
I smash and skid across the dooryard. The shape under the truck emits a horrible screaming squeal. It sounds like rusty metal grinding, fingers on a chalkboard, and the frantic whine of a dentist’s drill all at the same time. Burning, it pulls itself through the ditch as the truck rocks and settles back to rest.
I can’t look away. I want to, but I’m not in control of my body yet.
I hear a pop and it stops screaming and stops moving. It’s still burning as it freezes. It doesn’t have a human shape at all anymore.
I see a shadow streak at the edge of the firelight.
I have to get up.
My ears were stuffed with cotton a moment ago. Now they’re filled with a constant, high-pitched tone. It’s lucky that my hearing was deadened by the explosion. I think if I had heard the scream unmuffled, it would have driven me crazy.
I push up slowly, trying to get my balance as I rise to my knees.
My shadow is still huge against the side of the house, but it’s fading as the fire quickly dies. I stagger into a run. It seems like falling off the shed happened a million years ago, but my shoulder remembers quite well. The pain flares when I try to get the keys out of my pocket. I force my fingers to work and transfer the keys to the other hand as I fall into the door.
There’s another flash and blast from behind me. This explosion sends shrapnel raining down. I unlock the door and push inside just as a chunk hits the house beside me.
I press the door shut behind me and lock it.
My hearing is returning to normal. I hear a deep groan and I shuffle to my right through broken glass. Peering through the shattered panes, it takes me a moment to figure out the source of the sound. The telephone pole is creaking and swaying. Near the base, part of it is burning and a chunk is missing. The cables have picked up a swing and they’re wrenching the pole in two.
It lets out an enormous snap when it goes. I back up a pace as it falls. The pole slams down into the top of the burning truck. Sparks fly when the transformer smashes into the ground. The lights in the house dim, surge, and then extinguish. The kitchen is lit only by the dancing glow of the flames.
Out in the night, I hear another screech. This one doesn’t sound like a cry of pain. This sounds like a war cry. A chill runs down my back.
From the living room, I hear tapping.
They’re tapping on the glass and the walls. They won’t come in through the kitchen—I’m almost certain of that. I have an idea that the broken glass will discourage them. It won’t stop them, but it will discourage them. I have to retreat to the pantry. I’ve re-weighed my options that one is no longer as heavy on my heart as it was before. I’m forgetting something, but I’ll have time to think when I get to…
The door won’t open.
It takes me a moment.
I can’t believe it.
I wedged the door shut with a broom before I fled. It seemed like such a reasonable idea at the time.
With my jaw hanging, I turn. The truck fire is already burning down. The light coming through the broken window used to be yellow. Now it’s orange. Soon it will be little more than a campfire. How much can they endure?
I have to move fast.
> (How long has it been?)
How long has it been?
Uncle Walt used to call it David’s door. I never found out why. It’s a black door in the side of the shed and it probably went unlocked for decades before I turned the mechanism a few hours ago. I locked it from the inside. I never checked the outside to make sure that the keyway wasn’t jammed with dirt or rust or whatever. So, of course it is.
The smell of the burning truck is terrible. It scorches my nose and lungs.
I try to quietly work the key into the slot. The other keys are jingling with each movement. I can hear them tapping on the other side of the building, away from the firelight.
The key is halfway in and stuck.
I have no other options.
The truck fire will be gone before long. The power line is down. I had to jump over the dead wire just to get to David’s door.
Something is moving under the shed.
On the other side of the building, the crawlspace is open. On my side, there’s a loose stone foundation. Uncle Walt was planning on sealing up the whole space to keep the porcupines out, but he never got it finished.
In the dancing light, I see a slender finger emerge from between two rocks. Its long fingernail taps on the stone and then points to me. I’m frozen in fear as the process repeats.
I force myself to return my attention to the key. I’m on my tiptoes as I jerk the key loose and then shove it back in with enough force to bend metal.
The finger taps three times and then points. Could they somehow hear with their fingers? Is that even possible?
Another finger joins the first. They tap in a galloping cadence and pause.
I’m holding my breath and I’ve nearly forgotten about the key. The fingers are enduring the light from the truck fire. It’s not bright enough to keep me safe.
I twist the key hard enough to break it.
Somehow, I get lucky and the cylinder turns. The door swings inward.
I remember when I was chased across the roof. I had the distinct feeling that I was being herded towards the edge. What if that’s true now? What if the fingers are driving me inside towards something else that lurks in the darkness of the shed? There are no windows in this part.
Another long finger has emerged from a gap between different rocks. How many of them are down there?
That settles it—slip inside the shed and shut the door behind me, locking it again with the handle.
I’ve left the keys dangling from the outside knob. I’ll need those to get into the pantry. When I open the door again, the burning truck in the distance looks like safety compared to the dark shed. It’s difficult not to run across the dooryard and huddle by that fire. This must be how my ancestors survived predators, way back when. The allure is strong, but I ignore it. When I jerk the keys from the knob, I slam David’s door shut again.
There’s a tiny light down at the far end of the shed.
It has to be something battery operated, since the power is out. I don’t have anything electric down there though. The tractor is down that way, but it’s too old to have…
When the light shifts, I see that it’s actually two lights. They’re spaced apart the distance of eyes.
I turn and run for the pantry.
(In the darkness, they key finds the lock.)
In the darkness, the key finds the lock.
It’s pitch black and my hand finds the doorknob as my other hand drives the key in.
I couldn’t repeat that lucky move again if my life depended on it. I can hear something moving behind me as the key slips in, I turn the mechanism, and shove my way into the pantry. Ripping the keys out, I barely get my hand back through the gap before my body has slammed shut the door. It meets resistance before it latches. There’s something on the other side of the door, scratching its way down until it finds the knob. I’m trying to turn the latch as it’s trying to turn the knob. I can’t engage the lock until I get the knob spun back around.
It’s a battle that takes seconds. It feels like an epic struggle.
When the lock clicks and the knob freezes, I press my shoulder against the door to make sure it’s really shut. Pain shoots down my arm and throbs in my shoulder. Adrenaline keeps making me forget about the injury. Each time the pain comes back, it’s worse.
On the other side of the door, the scratching ends and tapping begins.
The shed felt like complete darkness. This is so much darker. I almost want to reach up and touch my face because it seems like there must be something covering my eyes.
The tapping descends.
It’s moving around the door, tracing the perimeter.
I move forward and to my right with my hands extended until I find the kitchen door and the broom that’s wedged in to keep it shut. I’m terrified that I might kick it loose and not be able to block the door again in the darkness.
What else is in here? I picture the pantry, taking a mental inventory of the space.
There’s a small stepladder against the opposite wall, hung on a hook. When I was a kid, Uncle Walt could reach most of the lightbulbs just by elevating to his toes. Towards the end of his life, he became hunched over and had to use a ladder to even get to stuff on the top shelf. Mom sometimes teased him about his posture.
I fumble my way over to the ladder and lift it from the hook. Careful not to disturb the broom, I discover that the ladder will fit on the floor between the door and the far wall with only an inch to spare. The door normally swings inward—if the broom breaks, the ladder will act as a stop.
With that done, I settle to the floor, press my back against the door to the shed, and drape my legs over the ladder. The tapping slows and then stops.
My eyes are open so wide that they sting. I force myself to blink and then I see a tiny glimmer. There’s a trace of orange light visible under the door to the kitchen. That’s the last of the truck fire burning down. That little crack beneath the door is my connection to the outside world. If morning ever comes, that’s how I’ll know. The kitchen gets the sunrise first.
I reach up to the shelf and feel around until I find a box of graham crackers. Uncle Walt used to have them on hand for his “sweet tooth.” When I was a kid, I thought they tasted like eating the cardboard of an old shoe box.
Uncle Walt would say, “The taste buds of an adult are less sensitive because they’re tempered by a million disappointments.”
He passed along a lot of wisdom over the years. He never once addressed what to do if I was trapped in the pantry by an unknown number of ravenous vampires.
I smile to myself in the dark.
Dark
(Sleep would be awesome.)
Sleep would be awesome.
It’s out of the question though. I have to pee so bad that my bladder throbs with every heartbeat. I’ve been over my mental inventory of this place a dozen times and I can’t think of anything that I could pee into. There’s a big jar of pickles on one of the shelves, but then what will I do with the pickles?
Here’s my plan so far: fish the pickles out of the jar, put the pickles into the empty graham cracker box, drink the pickle juice, and then pee into the pickle jar.
It’s a terrible plan.
When I started first grade, I didn’t know a single other kid in the school. Mom had picked us up and moved us in the middle of August. I spent weeks sitting on curbs while she went around and tried to find a job. Then one day she took me to a big brick building and announced that I would be going to school there. It was horrible.
I had been to school before, of course. My preschool was at a nice church, and my kindergarten had been at this really pretty old farmhouse in the country. We had learned the alphabet out in the garden. Math was taught in the kitchen.
In comparison, my new school looked like a prison.
Mom dropped me off and then strode away fast, swinging her purse and turning the corner before I could even start to cry. The kids all shunned me and my puffy face. Who could blame them? We had
a small break after lunch and before we had to sit down for our next lesson. I was at the water fountain when one kid finally approached. I thought he wanted to be my friend.
He asked, “What’s the right word for pee?”
“Huh?”
“What do you say when you mean pee?”
“Huh?”
“The real word.”
I looked up and down the hall, trying to figure out what to do. All I could think was that this was a new way to make fun of me. This kid had grown tired of making fun of my snotty nose and decided that he would ask me nonsense questions until I went crazy.
“What?” I asked.
“Urinate?”
“That’s a word,” I said.
“So I say there’s urinate on the floor?”
I finally figured out what he meant. My mom was big into the proper names of things, or I never would have been able to come up with the answer.
“Urine,” I said. “You say that there’s urine on the floor.”
“Right,” he said. He walked away.
I overheard him talking to the teacher when I went back to my seat. He said, “Someone had an accident in the bathroom. There’s urine all over the floor.”
Mrs. Baker said, “Thank you, Ted. That’s a very polite way to tell me that.”
I wanted to take credit. Ted was getting praise for using my word. Without me, he would have said the wrong thing. I wisely decided to keep my mouth shut. Ted never really became my friend. He tried to steal my baseball later that year and I fought him to get it back. In the movies, the fight would have caused us to respect each other and form a friendship. In reality, he waited until the next day and then smeared dog poop on my jacket. I never got any hard evidence, but I knew it was him. A kid name Jack said he had seen Ted hanging out near the jackets after recess.
