by Graeme Hurry
Bean took a while to respond. When he did, he made sure to look me in the eyes. ‘Bob called when he was about a mile down. Said he hadn’t found anyone, but that it felt ‘wrong’ down there. And then…’ Bean closed his eyes, opened them again, and rushed the next words out in one breath: ‘And then he screamed.’
I waited. For a brief moment, I pictured Bob Hoagland, six-foot-three, broad shouldered, a linebacker in high school whose physique had only improved with age, worked out five days a week, ate healthy, was an accomplished rock climber, never lost a wrestling match in ten years, could hit harder than anyone on the force—I pictured Bob Hoagland screaming. I almost laughed. The only thing that kept me from it was that I knew Bean, and I knew he wasn’t lying. You didn’t make up stories about Hoagland; you didn’t have to.
‘Jesus,’ I said.
Bean nodded. ‘Yeah. High pitched. Almost like a whistle. Couldn’t hear it up here, of course, but coming over the radio…it was all distorted, but it was Bob, all right.’
‘Then why set up the barricade? Why not go down there and get him? Christ, Frank. You know better than that. Dennis knows better. Even Larry knows better.’
‘There was something else in the broadcast.’
The way he said it, I knew he didn’t want to say any more. Knew that, if I’d been there, then what he’d said would’ve made perfect sense to me. Something else. It’s the kind of phrase that, if you need to use it, you usually know exactly what you’re talking about, and you expect the other person to know as well. I also knew that Frank wouldn’t be able to explain it to me—you don’t say ‘something else’ unless you have no other way to talk about it.
‘A noise,’ he said. ‘Something like a scream, except it was also like a growl, and the wind. It sounded like something I heard a deer do once—I got too close to it, and it bleated, like a stuck pig. It sounded like that, too.’ I knew he was being straight with me. This wasn’t some practical joke. And I knew he believed he’d heard what he’d heard, and that Dennis Reinhardt believed it; that everyone who’d heard it believed it. I said, carefully, ‘You put up a barricade because of a noise you heard.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, Aaron. We did. Or Dennis did. But I didn’t stop him.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘We didn’t want people going down there, until we know…until we know what the situation is.’
That wasn’t what he meant to say. What he’d meant to say was: Until we know what else is down there.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay.’ I said it a couple more times, too, looking around at all the people who’d gathered, at the paramedics leaning against the ambulance, bored and confused. I said ‘okay’ again, and added, ‘We’re gonna have to go down there.’
‘Yeah.’ It took effort to say, but I could tell that he’d resigned himself to it long before I got there.
‘You, me, Dennis, and Larry. Leave the townies to man the barricade.’
‘I’ll tell Righter.’
The Chief was already walking our way again. Bean intercepted him, told him in a monotone what had to be done. Righter offered a couple of his men, but Bean and I turned him down. The Chief didn’t look pleased—he hated jurisdictional matters, like all townie cops—but he didn’t protest; I had the feeling he was genuinely concerned about what might be going on. Bean went to round up Larry Manning, and I joined Reinhardt at the barricade. He looked just as frightened as when I’d left him, and my explaining things didn’t improve his mood much. He didn’t argue, though; like I said, he had a good head on his shoulders, and had probably seen it coming, just like Bean.
Manning and Bean joined us a few minutes later. Both men had their pistols on, and flashlights as well. It got dark in Sunnydale Valley, if you were at the wrong spot at the wrong time. All of us had radios as well. I gave Chief Righter our emergency channel. He nodded. He had a chew in, was working it around nervously. He didn’t look at any of us.
The paramedics approached us, almost shyly. The one in front said, ‘You guys need help?’
Bean was about to say something, but I stopped him. ‘Only if you want to,’ I said.
The guy who spoke seemed to relax. He started to walk away, but stopped when he saw his friend wasn’t moving. ‘Pete, come on, man.’
Pete stayed his ground. ‘Don’t suppose I can get a gun, too?’
I didn’t even bother attempting to smile. I sent Larry to get him a spare flashlight. Pete’s friend merged with the crowd, not looking the least repentant.
I told Righter I’d radio our progress. If I didn’t check back in ten minutes, he was to assume the worst. I didn’t offer him any suggestions about what to do then—if he wanted to send more men in to die, that would be his decision, not mine.
But we weren’t going to die. Reinhardt clearly thought so, and Bean did too; even Manning, who usually didn’t care much about anything, seemed worried. Only the paramedic and I hadn’t heard the broadcast. That put us in the position of objective outsiders—we were the only two going in with clear heads. I almost said something, suggested that the other three deputies stay behind. I didn’t want them armed and nervous.
I held my tongue and stepped around the barricade. It was cooler. Nothing new about that—Sunnydale was always a few degrees cooler, typical for the forest. The sun was still there, but it was diluted, and became more so the further into the valley you went. I took a few more steps, waiting to feel something ‘wrong.’ Aside from the crowd gathered at my back, and the nervous way the deputies were walking, everything seemed normal.
‘Do we know what’s wrong down there?’ Pete said. He was up front, with me; the others lagged behind.
I shook my head. ‘No.’ I didn’t tell him about Hoagland screaming.
He had a flashlight in one hand, a First-Aid kit in the other. He was young, early twenties, clearly eager to assist us—one of the people who joins the profession because they truly want to help people. He was even grinning, as though this were the first real adventure of his life. I almost smiled myself, watching him; but then Manning walked up between us and said, ‘I hope you actually loaded your gun this time, Aaron.’
I had an aversion to firearms. Never fired my gun during my six years on the force. That’s not really saying much—Charleston County features a couple community colleges, but really, the worst we get are drunk drivers and domestic abuse. Occasional murders, or rabid animals, just like everywhere. We weren’t idyllic—the average income was too low. I still took pride, however, in my generally pacifistic approach to the job. I was good at talking people out of things. Of course, drawing the gun sometimes helped with that.
Manning, on the other hand, had almost gotten fired for discharging his weapon in public. He’d been justified in doing so—had to put a deer out of its misery—but he’d missed, hit the road instead; the bullet ricocheted and blew a tire. Manning was clumsy—overweight, he didn’t know how to balance himself, either physically or mentally. He was a good enough cop for a small, rural county—knew his job, was generally fair. But he wasn’t quite cut out for the Sheriff’s Department; had more people been clamoring for the job, Manning would have been politely let go. As it was, Hoagland only kept him on because they were somehow related. Second or third cousins, in the way those things usually go.
Pete was looking between me and Manning. I knew what he was really thinking—why do they need guns?—but I said, ‘Once, I forgot to load my gun when we went to the firing range. Just left the clip empty after I cleaned it.’
Manning added, ‘Don’t worry. Aaron’s an even worse shot when the gun’s loaded.’
The paramedic shook his head and fell back a couple steps.
Manning laughed; it was high and nervous, forced. He said, ‘Frank told you about the call we got.’
I nodded. ‘Someone said they heard a scream down here?’
‘Yeah. Well, they said it sounded like a scream. ‘Piercing’ was the word they used.’
‘Really.’
&
nbsp; ‘Hey. We have poets among us. Also said they smelled something smoky. Like charcoal.’
Reinhardt joined us. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ he said.
‘We gotta help Bob,’ I told him. ‘He’d do the same for us, and you know it.’
He nodded, too afraid to be ashamed. ‘Yeah. But Jesus.’
We were half a mile in now; the road was beginning to level out. The forest had closed in on either side; there was still ample sunlight, but it was restrained, as though it passed through a filter before reaching us. I tried to think of the last time I’d taken Sunnydale Drive; I used to drive through the countryside to relax, and Sunnydale was always good for a deer spotting in the evening. I’d also had to patrol it before; high school and college kids had the tendency to race out here, even though (or perhaps because) the road was barely wide enough for two cars. A few years back, before I actually joined the force, the then-Sheriff had led a meth raid out here. They were, I realized, the last people to live on Sunnydale. After that, no one had come out here; the last time I saw the house, it had been returned to the forest, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and dirt.
Behind us, I could hear Bean and Pete whispering to each other. I realized that Reinhardt, Manning, and I had been whispering as well. Sunnydale does that to you. Most forests do. You’re alone, you won’t possibly disturb anyone—yet you still feel the need to speak as quietly as you can. Even the silence that we resorted to, as we walked further down the road, felt natural. Conversation slowly trailed off. A large part of it was worry, of course, but mostly, it’s just what you do when you’re in the forest.
At about the half-mile mark, I noticed an odor in the air. My first thought was of summer—hot, muggy afternoons, the sun baking the asphalt. I turned to see if the others noticed it; they all had their noses wrinkled, and were frowning slightly.
‘Something burning,’ Reinhardt said.
Not quite—but close enough. The odor had been stronger earlier; it was receding. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.
Pete seemed to be regretting his bravado. He had shrunk in on himself, and was glancing around nervously. I wondered if he’d ever spent much time on Sunnydale before. There weren’t any bears or cougars in the area, but this looked like the type of forest they would thrive in. The trees were close together, tall and dark. The road itself was cracked in spots; the County had made a habit of forgetting road repairs out here for years. Everything had a slightly primordial feel to it, a sense that we were no longer just a few miles from civilization.
I decided to radio our progress. I hailed Chief Righter; after a couple of attempts, he replied, ‘How far are you?’
‘Three quarters of a mile,’ I said. ‘That old meth lab should be just around the next corner.’
‘Let us know what you find.’
It was such an obligatory statement, I had to wonder how much stress Righter was under. With the Sheriff in potential jeopardy, that left Righter technically in charge of the situation, until the State boys arrived. I asked Bean, ‘Hey, you notify State?’
He shook his head. ‘Shit. Didn’t think of it.’
I lifted the radio. ‘Hey, Chief. You notify State?’
‘They’re on their way. E.T.A. forty minutes.’
Forty minutes before jurisdiction was taken from us. I wasn’t too concerned about it—losing jurisdiction meant less work—but I still hoped we didn’t. There would be no need for State to take control if we found Hoagland alive and well.
As we were about to the point where Hoagland had radioed—and screamed—I drew my pistol. I kept the flashlight on my belt; it was still light enough to see. The other deputies followed suit, and I heard Pete breathe deeply. Bean said, mostly to the paramedic, ‘Don’t worry, kid.’
We rounded the next bend in the road, approaching the abandoned meth lab. It was a small house, still mostly intact, though overgrown with stray foliage. All the windows were broken, both the front and back doors busted from their hinges. It looked as though it had never been capable of habitation. The house had occupied one of the few breaks in the forest, with a small backyard and an even smaller spot out front. Once, I knew, two or three cars had rested there. They’d been towed away when the house was repossessed. Now, there were just weeds and grass.
Reinhardt, perhaps the most frightened of all of us, was the first to notice it. He took a sharp intake of breath, and I turned to him. He was as pale as before, but now he was sweating too, and his gun hand was trembling too much for my comfort. I said, ‘Hey, Dennis,’ but I don’t think he heard me. He was looking around, not at any one place in particular.
‘Hey, Dennis.’
I glanced at Bean, who also looked uncomfortable. He saw my gaze and said, ‘Can’t you feel it?’
Manning was nodding. Pete had stopped in the middle of the road; he dropped his flashlight, creating a loud rapport that echoed among the trees. I bit my lip, stared towards the house, and felt it.
Wrong. We use the word in everyday conversation; this is wrong, that is wrong. The word means what it means in any given situation—no explanation necessary. If something isn’t right, it’s wrong. Never before had I felt it necessary to apply the word to reality itself. Reality is never wrong, we think, precisely because it is reality. How can our existence be incorrect? How can the world around us suddenly not be what it’s meant to be?
Sunnydale Drive was wrong in that fundamental way that undermined its existence. It wasn’t the air, although I thought I could feel every molecule brushing against me. It wasn’t the asphalt beneath my feet, though it suddenly seemed insubstantial, as though it could turn to liquid at any moment. It wasn’t the trees, which seemed swollen and ripe. It wasn’t me, or the men with me, though I had the feeling that none of us really existed in that moment, that if someone were to drive by, we would be mere shadows, transparent and forgotten. It was everything, every bit of reality seemed to be new, strange, altered—wrong.
None of us spoke. None of us moved, except Reinhardt, who turned in a quickening circle. His mouth was open, but he wasn’t speaking. He may have been gasping—I couldn’t tell. The blood was roaring in my head, my ears ached, my mouth was dry. A back injury that hadn’t bothered me since high school kicked in; I felt twenty pounds overweight, I felt brittle and decayed. I was sweating profusely, but I was so cold I expected my breath to frost. Nothing was what it was. Not even my own thoughts, which were jumbled, incoherent. It was a dream, but with the inimitable bite of reality.
We would’ve stayed there, in a daze. We would’ve stood there until the world fell apart around us. But a noise came from the house, a high-pitched whine that almost sounded like a busted motor. We all turned to it.
The noise slowly vanished, fading away. It didn’t echo, I realized—when Pete dropped his flashlight, there had been an echo, but there wasn’t now.
‘What the hell is going on,’ Manning said. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement of fact. What the hell is going on.
‘Bob!’ I yelled. My voice felt alien, not my own, not even human.
‘Don’t do that,’ Reinhardt said.
I didn’t ask him why I shouldn’t. I had the feeling he was right.
‘Aaron,’ Bean said. He stepped up beside me. ‘I know you’re in charge here, but…I don’t think we should be here. I think it’d be best to head back. Right now.’
‘Yeah,’ Pete said.
I stared at Bean. He wasn’t a coward; next to Hoagland, Bean was probably the bravest man on the force. He was also the only one of us who’d been shot before; like Hoagland, Bean was a veteran, except Bean had received a Purple Heart in the second Iraq war. Shot through the side. He’d shown us the scars.
‘We can’t,’ I said. ‘We have to find Bob.’
I wanted him to talk me out of it. Instead, he just looked at me a little longer, then nodded slowly. When he spoke, his voice was emotionless, except for a twinge of fear that hung on the dying syllables of his words.
‘We should check the house first, then.’
We walked over to the house, standing in what used to be the front yard. I kicked aside a beer can; the movement seemed sluggish to me, as though the air hardened as I pressed against it. The house itself was dark; you couldn’t see beyond the busted windows and the vacant doorway. It looked as though there was nothing—literally nothing—inside.
‘I’ll go,’ I said. I unclipped my flashlight. ‘I need one more volunteer.’
Bean didn’t hesitate, or say anything. He stepped up beside me, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.
I nodded at him, then turned to the other three. ‘Wait out here.’ After a moment, I said, ‘Shout if you see anything. And keep your fingers off your triggers.’
They watched Bean and I walk up to the house, almost as though they couldn’t believe we were doing it. We took positions on either side of the doorway, as though conducting a raid. I closed my eyes, offering an aimless prayer that nobody was waiting inside—especially not Hoagland’s mangled corpse. I gave a brief thought to the noise we’d heard—how I couldn’t tell if it was mechanical or biological—and then I swung myself outward, aimed my gun through the doorway, and stepped inside.
Bean was right behind me. Our flashlights didn’t illuminate much, just enough to give us a general idea of where we were: a small family room. Torn, bug-eaten carpet, rotten walls and furniture. No one had ever bothered to empty the house. I could tell, after a few slow steps, that there was a basement beneath us—presumably where the lab had been. The house itself was small; even from here, I could see out the back window, straight into the forest.
The wrong feeling that had suddenly come upon us was intensified here, perhaps a product of confinement within the walls. I felt bile rise to the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down before it could get the better of me. I saw Bean, from the corner of my eye, double over, though nothing came out. I thought of burning tires, road kill, radiation poisoning. I tasted something bitter in my mouth.
I called for Bob again, softly at first. Bean did the same, but louder. Then we called for Jasper, then Dr. Clemmens. No one answered us, but something shifted in the basement. It was a slinking sound, like a sofa being dragged across a thick carpet. Bean and I looked at each other; his face was half in shadow, and his eyes looked preternaturally white. Fear. I suppose mine looked the same.
