The Whispers: A Supernatural Apocalypse Novel

by Maxwell, Flint

  The Whispers

  A Supernatural Apocalypse Novel

  Flint Maxwell

  Copyright © 2021 by Flint Maxwell

  Cover Design © 2021 by Carmen DeVeau

  Edited by Sonya Bateman

  Special thanks to Sabrina Roote

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions email: fm@flintmaxwell.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work.

  For Avery,

  Again

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  Death doesn't exist. It never did, it never will. But we've drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it, we've got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy. All it is, however, is a stopped watch, a loss, an end, a darkness. Nothing.

  Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

  1

  I was checking my phone backstage when Tommy popped his head around the corner and told me we were on in less than half an hour.

  “Game face, Carter,” he said. “I know this isn’t exactly the big leagues, but every performance counts. All it takes is one bad viral video to tank our careers.”

  Same spiel, different night.

  “I’m focused,” I told him. “Don’t worry.”

  Tommy pointed at his eyes with two fingers, and then at me, as if to say, I’m watching you, buddy.

  To tell you the truth, I wasn’t focused. Not as focused as I should’ve been. My mind was elsewhere, far away from the concert, on the text I’d gotten the night before.

  When Tommy left, I opened the messaging app on my phone. None were unread. People didn’t text me much anyway, and when they did I didn’t leave them unread for very long. Call me old fashioned, I was more of a brrring-brrring kind of guy. But of the few texts in my inbox, only one of them was important. This was the one from my ex, Julia.

  It said: Fifteen minutes. That’s all. You give Clem her gift, tell her happy birthday, and then you leave. Got it?

  To tell you another truth, I didn’t get it, but I’d never tell Julia that. Instead, I had replied almost as soon as the message came through.

  I said: Got it. See you Saturday.

  Simple and to the point.

  Julia and I were once high school sweethearts. We met at a bonfire right before the Homecoming dance when I was a sophomore and she was a junior. Tommy had just gotten his driver’s license, so him, another friend of ours, Luke, and myself went bugging around that Thursday night. Naturally, we hit up a McDonald’s drive-thru and bought a dozen double cheeseburgers. This was back when the double cheeseburger was still on the dollar menu and you didn’t have to pay extra for a slice of cheese on top of the patties. The good ol’ days, you might call them.

  We parked in the far end of the school lot, near the garbage bins, and passed around a bottle of cheap gas station vodka. Well, Luke and me did most of the drinking on account of Tommy being our driver. I know, I know, we were irresponsible, but hey, we were young and dumb back then. Now, over a decade later, we’re not that young anymore, but we’re still dumb.

  Even without the liquor, Luke had a knack for chatting it up with girls, but Tommy and me froze if one even looked our way. At least for me, that wasn’t the case when we finally stumbled out of Tommy’s beater and made our way to the bonfire. I walked a little more upright. Made eye contact with the jocks and the cheerleaders (something I never would’ve done sober). I was feeling pretty confident.

  As we settled in with the crowd, some upperclassmen girl flagged Luke down. She was with two of her friends, girls I had seen walking the school halls but had never said a word to. Or made eye contact with, for that matter. But, like I said, I was feeling confident that night, and when one of the girls mentioned they were hungry, I pulled out an extra cheeseburger that I for some reason had stuffed into the pocket of my hoodie. That girl happened to be Julia.

  She didn’t take me up on my offer, but she did laugh. Her friends thought I was weird as hell, no doubt. It didn’t matter, though, because me offering her food had broken the ice, and I left the bonfire with her phone number written on my hand and a new lease on life.

  We didn’t officially go to the Homecoming dance together that year, but I was her partner for all but two slow dances, and she even gave me a kiss on the cheek when it was over. I remember the feeling of the butterflies in my stomach. I also remember throwing up what was left of the vodka out of Tommy’s car—yes, that cheap poison had made yet another appearance—and even though I felt like shit physically, I was practically on my way to the moon because of the time I had spent with Julia.

  Over the next couple of weekends, her and I went on a few dates. Movies, dinner, putt-putt golf—the usual stuff—and the next thing I knew I was asking my mom what kind of flowers girls liked best and thinking about a million rom-com ways I could propose to her when we were old enough.

  Then, a month later, we went official in December of that same year.

  There aren’t many things in life as wonderful as falling in love for the first time. That I can tell you with complete confidence.

  This wasn’t puppy love either. Julia and me, we dated for over eight years. Almost got married, almost bought a house, almost opened a joint checking account.

  Almost.

  Because life had other plans.

  At the age of twenty-two I became a father to a daughter we named Clementine, after Julia’s great-grandmother. Everything else we had planned for ourselves was thrown on the back burner. I have never been happier than I was during the first year we were a family. Sure, I worked a bunch of dead-end, shitty jobs to keep our heads above water, and I was tired as hell almost constantly, but I wouldn’t have traded my life for anyone else’s. Not even Jimmy Page’s—and I fucking love Led Zeppelin.

  Whoever the philosopher was that said all good things come to an end, I just want you to know that you’re a dick for being right.

  My good thing came to an end about a month or two after Clem’s first birthday…when Julia met someone else.

  Julia had been working evening shifts at a Bob Evans a few miles from our apartment, which was where Steve, an investment banker old enough to be her father, swept her off her feet. Just like that, she was gone, and she took Clem with her.

  I won’t bother telling you all the messy details, all the fighting or hurtful words we said to one another. I’m sure you can imagine. Heartbreak is never easy, but, like love, it’s just another part of life. You win some and you lose some.

  Now I’m twenty-seven-going-on-twenty-eight. My heart has, for the most part, healed, but all that’s holding it together is a row of loose stitches and a couple of rotting bandages. And let me be honest with you, I still miss Julia. Despite everything, I miss the hell out of her. She was my best friend. I had never pictured myself with anyone else. I guess I’ll always love her.

  My mom says you never really get over that first love because that love is tattooed on your heart forever. See, I think that love is actually more of a scar than it is a tattoo. But then again, my mom used to get knocked around by almost every one of her boyfriends when I was growing up
, and now she’s down in South Carolina, married and madly in love with a guy who treats her like the queen she is.

  So hey, maybe there’s hope for me yet.

  Anyway, let me continue.

  Julia and Clem moved over an hour away, knowing I didn’t have the money to take her to court and fight for custody. I still tried. Believe me, I did. I’m not one who gives up easily, and eventually my tenacity paid off.

  We worked something out where I got to see Clem every other weekend. I’d make the drive down there, pick her up, take her out for ice cream and a movie or whatever, and then drop her back off. Not exactly quality time, but it was better than nothing. At least she saw me and knew who I was. That’s more than I can say about my own pops.

  As the years passed, the weekend visits grew less frequent. Julia would make an excuse and promise I could come during the week or something along those lines. Then the weekday we planned on would arrive and she’d suddenly remember Clem had a doctor’s appointment or a preschool thing, blah-blah-blah. The excuses eventually stopped, so did Julia answering my calls and texts. Slowly, it seemed, she was trying to push me out of my own daughter’s life.

  When I got Julia’s message, I almost didn’t believe it. She was letting me show up to Clem’s birthday party. She was letting me stop in, give my daughter a present, a hug and a kiss, and then leave. If not, she’d most likely have me escorted off the property. I’d risk that, though, because Clem was turning five. Which meant she’d be starting kindergarten that coming fall. Which meant my little girl was growing up.

  I stared at the message.

  Fifteen minutes. That’s all. You give Clem her gift, tell her happy birthday, and then you leave. Got it?

  Music pumped over the speakers of the venue, muffled lyrics I didn’t understand and a beat I didn’t recognize. Tommy and me were due to play in a matter of minutes. I took a deep breath and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke drifting inside from the cracked open window of the “dressing room,” which was just a little roped off area to the side of the main stage.

  Outside, beyond the curtains, there were hundreds of people—and counting—packed into this little bar. This would be the biggest crowd I’d ever played in front of, but that was the last thing on my mind.

  All I could think about was what I could get Clem. I had no idea. I knew she liked Minnie Mouse, Paw Patrol, and the fat cat from the Secret Life of Pets movies, but, toy-wise, she wasn’t lacking in any of those departments. And there was always a chance she had grown out of liking those things. I was worried I’d get her something she already had or something she hated. Worse, something Steve had already bought her.

  “Carter Westman,” a voice called from behind, tearing me from my weak brainstorm. “I was wondering when your tall ass would get here.”

  I turned around and saw the owner of the venue, which was called The Last Call Bar & Lounge, standing in the doorway. Ruby Wilhelm was a woman in her late forties who dressed like the lead singer of a punk rock band. Leather jacket, dark jeans, platform boots—the whole getup.

  “Ruby,” I said, smiling. “I missed ya.”

  “Now don’t get all sappy on me, Westman.” She was holding a sweaty glass in her right hand. As she passed it my way, she raised her eyebrows. “Here, I brought you your favorite. Something to calm the nerves.”

  It was a Long Island iced tea. Not the manliest sounding drink, but since it had about twelve different shots in it, it got you buzzing pretty fast.

  “Thanks, Rube. How are Chuck and Norris?”

  “As sweet as ever.” She dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out her smartphone. “I’ve got pictures. Took ‘em for a photoshoot as soon as the cold weather broke. The theme was ‘Meowton Abbey,’ you know, like the show Downton Abbey. Snapped pics of them in nouveau-inspired dresses and wedding suits.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus. Aren’t they both males?”

  “Yeah, technically, but I like to think of them as gender fluid. It’s 2021. Wake up, Carter!”

  I raised my eyebrows this time. “Whatever floats your boat.”

  “Yeah, okay, I might have a problem or two.”

  “We all do,” I said. “No big deal.”

  Ruby tap-tap-tapped her screen and scrolled through her photos. I was leaning over her shoulder, looking down. Almost every picture on her camera roll was of one or both of her cats. This didn’t surprise me either. What did get me was the one that wasn’t a feline. It was taken at a park on a nice, sunny day. Ruby’s short hair, which was usually spiky, was combed over and held off her brow with a pink bow. She wasn’t dressed in her usual grunge metal black and gray, either. She was wearing a sundress and holding a picnic basket in one hand, and the hand of a woman of about her age in the other. They were both smiling.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I said. “Rewind.” I went for her phone, but Ruby snapped it out of my reach.

  “Hey now, that’s none of your business. I don’t go poking through your phone to see all the dudes you’ve been banging.”

  “For the last time, Ruby, I’m not gay. I have a daughter.”

  “Uh-huh.” She coughed and said, “Cover-up,” under her breath.

  I shook my head, grinned at her. “Who is it? Why haven’t I met this mystery woman? I thought you and I were close, man.”

  “Well, if you must know, dingus, she’s my girlfriend. Her name’s Paisley.”

  “Pretty name. Is it serious?”

  “Aren’t I a bit too old for you, pal?”

  “Wait, I thought I was gay?”

  “Yeah, true.”

  “Come on, Rube.”

  She steepled her hands, placed her fingertips against her chin, tilted her head down, and smiled menacingly. “Yeah, it’s serious.”

  “How serious?” I asked.

  Ruby rummaged through the pockets of her worn leather jacket. At a quarter to eight p.m. on this June evening, it was still eighty degrees outside, but that never stopped her from wearing that old thing. She was now holding a jewelry box. She peeled it open. The diamond ring inside gleamed so brightly I had to squint.

  “Wow,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, thank you. It was my great-aunt’s. I got it all serviced at Zale’s. Cleaned, diamonds reset, polished, the whole shebang. It cost about as much as I was planning to spend on a new ring, but at least this way the damn thing has special meaning.”

  “And you were talking about me getting sappy…”

  “Chicks dig sentimental crap. You should know that, Carter.”

  I chuckled. “I’m sure she’s going to love it.”

  “Assuming she says yes, would you wanna come to the wedding?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied.

  “You’re a sweetheart, Carter.”

  “Oh, stop it, you’re gonna make me blush,” I said.

  Ruby laughed, and then she glanced at her phone. “Almost showtime. Did you see the size of the crowd?”

  I had snuck a peek, yes, but even if I hadn’t, I could’ve figured it out by the murmur of what seemed like a thousand voices. That wasn’t something I wanted to think about, though, because the nerves were starting to creep up on me.

  Ruby patted me on the shoulder, like she knew the anxiety was building. “I will say this: you two are more popular than I thought.”

  “Things…have been going good, yeah,” I agreed.

  “I’m not one for folksy, weird music,” she said, “especially folksy music that incorporates a ukulele into ninety percent of their songs. But hey, it’s making me money tonight, and I’m grateful for that. So I wanted to say thanks again for agreeing to play at my little dive.”

  “No problem. And thank you for having us. We owe this place more than we could ever repay you for helping us get through college.”

  Ruby laughed. “Yeah, you two were quite the regulars, weren’t you? I think the vomit stains Tommy left by the dumpster out back will be there long after I go out of business. Hey, if you tw
o hit the big time, I’ll frame that patch of concrete and charge all the crazy fangirls five bucks a pop to take a pic next to it.”

  “Genius.”

  The curtains on my right side shook. “Knock, knock,” said a deep voice.

  “Yeah?” Ruby answered.

  A buff black guy slid into the room. He had on a tight white t-shirt with The Last Call logo printed on it—an eyepatch-wearing parakeet perched on a foaming keg.

  “Everything’s set up and ready to go, Ruby,” he said.

  “Thanks, Brock.”

  Brock turned to me, his eyes wide. “Oh snap, are you—?”

  “Carter,” I said, sticking my hand out and rising from the folding chair I was sitting on.

  “My sister’s a big fan, man. Would you—would you mind signing something for me? And maybe taking a picture together? She’ll never believe this.”

  “Brock,” Ruby said, scowling.

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind.” Then to Brock: “Is your sister here?”

  “Nah, she couldn’t make it. She’s doing summer classes down at OSU. Gonna be a hotshot lawyer.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said.

  “I’m a proud big bro, that’s for sure.”

  I reached into my gig bag and pulled out one of the event cards. “Got a pen?”

  Ruby handed me one.

  “What’s your sister’s name, Brock?”

  “Angelina, but we call her Angel.”

  I scribbled my signature and a nice note to Angel on the card and passed it to him. He was grinning ear to ear. Then Ruby took his phone and snapped a few pics.

  The whole thing was surreal. It always was when people recognized me. At first, when the band was just picking up steam, the autographs and pictures were few and far between, but then one of our songs went viral and it happened more and more.

  Ruby showed us the photos. I looked like a stick next to Brock, but I towered over the guy. At six-four, I towered over most people. Brock still had about thirty pounds of muscle on me, though.