by W. J. Lundy
He woke himself from his daydream and looked at the backpack and small tent. “Could I still make it?”
No, it was too late now; he would be stuck here until the worst of it ended. He opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. He cautiously sniffed at the air, not detecting anything. He pursed his lips and looked again to the black smoke in the distance. His gaze drifted to the empty houses along the street, everything quiet and vacant; everyone gone or hiding.
“What ya doin’, neighbor?” a voice called out.
Startled, Wyatt spun on the balls of his feet to see a broad shouldered elderly man in a dark, flannel shirt approaching from between the bushes that separated their yards. Herb Robinson. He had known the old man for almost a decade, since he’d first moved to Forest Park after college. That was when Wyatt still had dreams of becoming a big shot advertising executive. Long before, he settled for a job in a minor financial firm helping people with their tax returns.
Wyatt considered Herb a friend, even if he didn’t know him that well. Most of the neighbors ignored the eccentric old man that kept to himself, yet for some reason, Wyatt did not. It wasn’t out of sympathy; nobody would describe Herb as lonely; to the contrary, the man enjoyed his solitude. Wyatt would often laugh at catching a glimpse of his neighbor yelling to passing children or spraying a garden hose at a stray house cat.
For some reason, Wyatt got along with Herb and genuinely enjoyed the man’s company. Habits that would turn others away, kept him entertained. The old timer liked to talk about politics and rant about how the younger generation was destroying everything. Wyatt would laugh and let the old man lecture him on the old ways of doing things. On more than one occasion, he would spend an evening sitting on the porch draining one of Herb’s sixers of cold beer. As the old hermit had no family and Wyatt had no friends outside of work, they became the neighborhood odd couple.
“You didn’t leave with the rest of ‘em Herb?”
The old man laughed and stepped closer, reaching up a hand holding a string of beer cans still in the plastic ring. Wyatt nodded to him and welcomed the man onto his porch, knowing the man would come whether invited or not. Before he could turn to find a seat, the old man had an ice-cold can sailing in his direction. Wyatt caught it and pulled the tab. “So why you still here?” he asked again. “You’re always on top of all this disaster business, figured you’d be the first one out of town. Headed to that fishing lake of yours.”
“You can’t trust them commies on the news. Soon as we leave, they’ll be running up and down this street stealing all our stuff,” Herb paused to use his forearm to wipe away the sweat from his brow. “Next thing you know, we’re all living in FEMA trailers and they’re tearing our houses down to build a highway.”
Wyatt laughed. “Forest Park already has a highway,” he said.
“A train station then. Makes no difference; someone’s got to protect the neighborhood,” Herb said as he lifted a corner of his shirt, revealing an old six-shot revolver.
Herb took another chug of his beer. “You know it’s all a lie, right?” he said, turning to Wyatt. The younger man looked at him with a confused expression. Herb continued, “I’ve lived in this town all my life, there ain’t no damn chemical plant in Forest Park. They fed everyone a trough of bull.”
Wyatt took a pull from the can and squinted at the bitterness. “Really? But the news said it was on the north side of town; they had video of it burning.”
Herb moved across the porch and dropped into a battered lawn chair. “Ha, that video—I seen it; probably stock footage of a refinery fire in China. What’d I tell you about listening to the media?”
The younger man took another drink from his can and rolled his eyes. “I know, everyone is out to get us.”
“That’s right; they’re trying to get us all out of town for something. As I said, boy, I’m almost certain it’s so they can steal our houses and sell them to some fancy land developer. It’s never what they say it is.”
Wyatt shook his head and protested. “The news said we’re under curfew now, nobody is allowed to leave, and we’re supposed to stay indoors on account of the air quality.” He paused and pointed at the horizon. “If there’s no chemical plant, and no fire, then what’s that all about?” Wyatt asked indicating the clouds of smoke.
“Good question. I’m glad you asked. Do you know what’s out yonder that way?” Herb asked him, his tone turning dark.
Wyatt shook his head and looked at the skyline before shrugging. “You mean old town, the industrial district? I don’t know; just a bunch of shut down factories. Nobody goes out there anymore.”
The old man crushed the empty can in his hand before peeling another from the string and pulling the tab. “There’s an old mill out there, an incinerator to be exact. I used to watch it fill the sky with white smoke when I was a boy. My pa called it a cloud factory.” Herb paused to chuckle more than was necessary. “The skyline used to look a lot like that when I was a kid, lots of smoke, only in those days, the smoke wasn’t black. I reckon they started that incinerator back up a few days ago. And if I’m right, it ain’t pulp refuse they’s burning.” The old man stopped to replace the younger man’s empty can.
“Then what is it?” Wyatt asked before opening his beer and taking a big swallow.
“Burning bodies.”
Wyatt coughed, spitting beer from his nose. “Jesus, Herb! Bodies?! How many of this cheap booze you had today?”
Herb waved his can at the rows of abandoned cars. “That’s where all the people went; they killed ‘em all and now they’re getting rid of the evidence. They’ll send in the cleanup crews soon enough.”
Wyatt shook his head. “No, no, now, Herb, the people were evacuated; nobody’s being killed.”
“Nope, they were led to slaughter and like sheep they all lined up for it,” he pointed a thumb up at the sky. “Ain’t nothing wrong with the air. This been coming for a while now; population control, it is.”
“You’re losing it, old man. They got everyone out because of the air; they’ll be back once they get the fires out. There’s no secret highway, no train station, no conspiracy to make a town disappear.”
Herb crushed another can and started on a third. “Well, it’s more than just that… I was listening to the police scanner. The boys in blue? Yeah, I heard ‘em talking about pullin’ up stakes and headin’ to and barricading themselves someplace downtown. They know something. Come on, boy, you didn’t think it was strange that there weren’t any cops out here directing traffic yesterday? No military, no nothing, just those helicopters?”
Wyatt looked down into his can. “I just kinda figured they were all at the—”
Herb interrupted, his voice getting higher, “They’re gone. They took their families and left right before the government doctors showed up.”
“Doctors? What do you mean they left? The hell are you talking about?”
“Yup, been here over a week now. At first, I thought they were helping setup the FEMA camps, but now I’m thinking some order was given—probably to round everyone up—and the local cop shop refused. Or got wise to what was happening.”
Wyatt leaned forward and sat his empty can on the porch rail before reaching a hand out for another. “Herb, I think you’re losing it; you’ve said some crazy shit since I’ve known you, but this is a bit much. The news didn’t say anything about doctors, and even if they did, it’s probably just to help the injured at the plant fire.”
Herb shook his head. “You wouldn’t hear it on our news; it’s all been suppressed. They shut everything down, blocking signals to us. But I got my ways. I can guarantee you this town is under quarantine, only they didn’t bother to tell any of us. Probably didn’t want us getting into a panic and trying to escape.” He stopped and pointed a finger at the horizon, making a sweeping motion. “See that chopper; it’s stopping anyone trying to get out.”
Wyatt’s mouth fell open. “Why would they want to do that?”
“Witnesses… they can’t have any. They’ve done this sort of things before. You know, fertilizer plant explosions, earthquakes, tornadoes… all just a cover for population control. I was thinking that Forest Park was overdue for an adjustment.”
“You’re crazy, old man. You can’t even keep your stories straight,” he said. Cutting off his stare, Wyatt shifted in his seat and looked down at his hand clasped around the sweating can. Suddenly, he’d lost the taste for the beer, a sourness building in his stomach.
Herb leaned back in his chair and drained the last of his can then, tossing it over the rail, he said, “So, you didn’t say why you’re still here.”
“Missed my opportunity, I guess. Now that they’ve stopped the evacuations, guess I’m stuck.”
Herb shot up a hand, silencing him. The bushes in a neighboring yard rustled, a twig snapped. Wyatt turned just in time to see a group of dogs break from the foliage. The animals’ heads darted side to side. They looked up at the men on the porch, whimpering as they moved away with their tails tucked. They turned to look back behind them again. Wyatt noticed a large Rottweiler with the group, the fur on its back torn and bloodied. The dogs’ heads darted nervously then the pack turned away and ran onto the road, disappearing among the cars.
“What the hell was that?” Wyatt asked.
Turning back, he saw Herb now on his feet, his right hand resting on the grip of the revolver. “Grab your backpack; I think we should hang out at my place for a while.”
Chapter Two
For all the years he knew him, Wyatt had never once been in the old man’s house. In reality, he’d never wanted or had the need to venture into the place. The layout was identical to his own home in the cookie-cutter neighborhood, but that was where the similarities ended.
Herb’s place was decorated in a sixties lumberyard and oilcan motif, with well-worn burgundy shag carpet and plaid furniture to match. Open cardboard boxes overflowing with magazines and newspapers lined the walls. In a corner was an oak cabinet console television, an empty fish bowl resting on top. Wyatt looked from room to room and found every shade pulled, leaving the house in an eerier darkness as the afternoon sun began its decent.
“You gotta get me the name of your decorator, Herb; really love what you’ve done with the place,” Wyatt said.
The old man grouched as he moved into the kitchen and flipped a switch on the wall. When no light came on, he shook his head and moved back into the living room. “Power is out again,” he said before disappearing into another room. “Go on and have a seat.”
Wyatt dropped his pack at his feet and moved toward the sofa. Pushing aside stacks of unopened mail while attempting to make a space. Before sitting, he stopped and scanned the sitting room. He could see that all the windows facing the backyard were covered with heavy shutters, padlocks on the inside securing them shut.
He began to second-guess himself for following the old man here. Wyatt considered taking his pack and leaving. Maybe get to bed early and take his chances at walking out of the city first thing in the morning. Those dogs, however, still worried him. The way they looked at them, it was obvious they were afraid. Wyatt watched as Herb frantically moved from room to room, locking windows and bolting doors. “So, Herb, tell me again why it wasn’t safe for me to stay at my own place?” he asked, seeming to already know the answer.
Herb returned with a long barreled rifle in his hands. He sat it on the coffee table before opening a drawer on an end table stuffed with items. “Come on now, son, I’m sure you saw it too.”
“Saw it?” Wyatt asked.
“The dog, that big one, the cuts on his back.”
“Well, yeah I saw it, but those were strays; probably got into a fight, right? With another dog maybe?” Wyatt said.
Herb looked up at the ceiling like he was searching for an answer before he shook his head no. He pushed away junk in the drawer and, finding what he was looking for, he dropped a cardboard box full of rifle cartridges onto the table. “No, something else. Those were domestics, not a pack. Family dogs. They all had collars, but they looked at us in fear. You can learn a lot from a dog. That’s one thing for certain I know about dogs…”
Wyatt shook his head, knowing another crazy-time lesson was on the way. “And what’s that, Herb? Please tell me what it is you know about dogs.”
Herb stood straight, looked Wyatt in the eye, and said, “Well, when a dog gets to fearing people, you know something bad is going on.”
Wyatt grinned. “What do you mean something bad?”
Herb opened the box and took a handful of rifle cartridges before dropping into an overstuffed chair with the weapon. “Usually when you find a lost dog with a collar, you know it’s someone’s pet; they’ll approach you looking for food, or just a friendly pat on the head. Most dogs love people; they trust us. Man’s best friend and all of that.
“Back in the war, over in Korea, it was different. Dogs over there used to run from us; they were always afraid… scared we’d shoot ‘em, or beat ‘em. Hell, some of them boys on the other side would even eat ‘em. We gave them dogs a reason to be scared of us. Those animals we just saw, they were afraid of people... afraid of something.”
Wyatt shook his head, the frustration building as the old man’s behavior was beginning to wear on him. “What are they afraid of, Herb?”
Before the old man could answer, there was a thumping and dragging on the front porch. Herb held a finger to his lips and slowly tuned to face the entrance. Wyatt held his breath, listening intently. A dull thud rattled the heavy wooden door. It was not the hard knock of a knuckle, but more a plodding thud.
“Shhhh,” Herb whispered. “They’re here.”
Wyatt pushed himself to his feet. Reaching out, he put a hand on Herb’s shoulder. “Who?”
“Them. Whoever it is the dogs were so afraid of.” Herb got to his feet and turned toward the door.
“Wait, dammit. If the dogs were afraid, then just stay away from the door! Maybe they’ll go away,” Wyatt whispered.
Herb waved him off and crept forward. “Yeah, maybe, but I want to take a look first.”
The man edged toward the door, the rifle in his left hand. He moved beyond the bolted entrance to a covered window that overlooked the front yard. The drapes were heavy and pressed tight to the wall, blocking out the light. Herb peeled them away with his free hand; tightly grabbing the fabric, he began to pull back.
“Herb, please,” Wyatt whispered again. “Let’s think about this.”
Herb ignored him; he pressed his eye close to the window’s case and cautiously drew back the drapes. A sliver of moonlight crept into the room as he pulled back. Without warning, Herb yelped and stumbled back. His hands still gripping the curtains, he fell, taking them to the floor with him.
With the curtains removed from the wall; Wyatt froze. Through the plate glass window, looking back at him, were pale faces coated in blood and gore, their eyes darting wildly, trying to see inside. They pressed against the glass, their pale flesh sticking and creating a sickly hiss as it pushed across it.
The figures became frenzied at catching the motion inside the house. They pressed together and forced themselves against window, greasy, blood-filled ooze smearing against the glass. Fists scraped and pounded against the window, causing cracks to form at the base.
Herb crawled back, his boot heels scraping the shag carpet. He fumbled with the rifle and rolled to his feet, yelping for Wyatt to run. The old man stood and ran for the kitchen, grabbing his stunned friend as he passed. Wyatt barely had the forethought to reach down for his pack as he was dragged away. Herb swung open a narrow door leading into a closet; in the ceiling was a closed hatch.
Shoved ahead and into the small space, Wyatt looked up and watched as Herb yanked a cord, dropping a long ladder that led into the now open ceiling. This was different from Wyatt’s own house. “You have an attic?” he asked, recognizing the stupidity of the question as the words left his lips.
“Just go,” Herb said, pushing him up the stairs.
Wyatt stepped onto the first rung, leading the way with his pack. His head cleared the narrow entrance and he found himself moving into a darkened space filled with hot, dry air. Below, he could hear splintering wood and the breaking of glass.
“They’re coming,” Herb shouted.
He pushed up behind him, shoving Wyatt over the edge and causing him to spill over onto the hard, wooden floor. He rolled to his side, looking back at the opening and the only light. Herb grabbed a cable and yanked; the spring-assisted ladder rose and slammed shut, closing the space in complete darkness.
Wyatt heard the click and rattle of a lock falling into place, the shuffling of feet below, furniture being knocked over. He opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly shushed by Herb. “They’re in the house,” the man whispered. “We have to be quiet.”
The roars from below filled the attic as the things packed in, occupying every space. Wyatt could hear screams and moaning, scratching and clawing at the walls of the home. Furniture broke, and the floor beneath him shook as the things collided with walls while searching for them. Wyatt crawled forward away from the hatch and willed himself into a seated position. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and he panned his head, seeing a small window at the end of the room. Wyatt flinched when he saw movement pass in front of him, quickly relaxing as he recognized the silhouette of Herb.
Another crash below caused him to jump and gasp. His heart racing now, he was sure Herb could hear it over the noise. Herb clicked on a small, low-voltage light and a soft glow filed the room. Wyatt could now see that the attic was a fully furnished space. Unlike below, this room was clean and well organized. A set of chairs on one end, three walls lined with pantry shelves filled with goods. The remaining wall held a cot and a green army footlocker.
