by James Newman
“Don’t look at me,” says Rachel. A cold glance in Larry’s direction. “I lost mine this morning.”
Alex flips his open. “Same as before. Nothing but that weird screeching noise.”
“That’s all I get too,” says Ronnie, holding her phone to her ear. “It’s getting late. When was the last time we assessed the situation outside?”
Larry’s reply: “It’s been a while.”
He holds an ear to the door, listens.
“Anything?” says Micah.
“Shh.”
No one speaks. After another minute or so, Larry glances back towards the others. Slowly unlocks the door.
“Careful,” says Micah.
Larry rolls his eyes at the younger man, as if to say do you really think you have to tell me?
He eases the door open. Cautiously. A three- or four-inch gap, no more than that. Just enough to see what’s going on in the hallway.
The sounds outside instantly grow louder, once the door is ajar: the shuffling of shoes as they stalk the hallway… their feral grunts and moans… the wet slurp-smacking of their lips and gums as their mouths open and close without words. One of them – a very tall, gaunt octogenarian in a blood-spattered bathrobe, with a hook in place of his right hand – makes a strange barking noise every few seconds. It echoes up and down the corridor like some alien mating call.
Once upon a time they were the old, the infirm. Mothers, fathers. Grandparents. The ones society thought harmless. But something got inside them. And now they have become… something else.
Their shapes pass by the door in a slow, never-ending stream. They reach one end of the hallway, then turn around to traverse its length again. Their shadows invade the threshold, dart into the room then out again until Larry finally closes the door.
“Listen to them,” he whispers. “Jesus.”
“It’s like something out of a horror movie,” says Alex.
“Night of the Living Dead,” Micah suggests. He’s not trying to be funny. He says it with a little shudder.
“Then again,” says Ronnie, “it’s not like that at all, is it?”
“No,” says Alex. “They’re not dead.”
Ronnie adds, “And they don’t want to eat us. They just want to see us die.”
“They hate us,” said Micah. “You can see it in their eyes. Why?”
“You know what this is?” says Anita. “It’s a wake-up call.”
The others stare at her.
She speaks to no one in particular. In fact, Anita appears to be talking to herself. She stares at a spot on the floor in front of where she sits, Indian-style. She rubs vigorously at her wrist. Her curly brown bangs are stuck to her brow with sweat. Her voice is a numb monotone. “It’s their time. They’re getting back at us. We hide them away in these places like filthy secrets. We forget about them. We desert them. We push them off on someone else, and we leave them here to rot. But now… they’re making us take notice. They’re punishing us, for what we’ve done to them. They won’t stay quiet anymore. They won’t be ignored any longer.”
Rachel sits down beside Anita, puts an arm around her. Anita raises her head, looks at Rachel. But she seems to stare right through her.
“It’s their time.”
Rachel eases the older woman’s head down on her shoulder, holds her.
Ronnie moves over to Larry’s side. “So? What do you see? Are there less of them than before?”
“No,” says Larry. “More. There’s twice as many out there now.”
For once, there is an uncharacteristic hitch in Larry’s voice. As if he has finally given up on trying to impress the others. In fact, he sounds terrified.
He turns to Ronnie. “It’s odd, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been thinking. Notice how they’ve stopped gathering at the door? It’s been… three, four hours since they did that, at least. They’re too quiet. Too… calm. It’s like… they know we’re in here, but they’re not too concerned with getting inside anymore. Like they’re not in any big hurry.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you,” says Ronnie.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” says Larry. “But I can’t help thinking… it’s like they’re waiting for something. Waiting for whatever comes next.”
MICAH WORTHY, 18 (BEFORE)
“Unbelievable! Are you watching this?”
I shook my head. Looked down at my shiny white shoes. Tried to hide my smile.
“It’s embarrassing,” said Mr. Sharpe. “You would think I had never stepped foot on a course before today.”
It wasn’t that bad, I assured him. I had seen much worse.
“Sure you have. I get the feeling you just don’t want to hurt my feelings. Mighty noble of you, Micah. Mighty noble indeed. Doesn’t mean you’re not full of shit, though.”
He winked at me.
It was a Saturday morning, this morning, a few minutes before nine a.m. For the last hour I had been following Mr. Sharpe around the Newbury Country Club’s vast golf course, hefting his bags, doing whatever he asked me to do. Basically, as my buddies had accused me more than once, I was hard at work being the old man’s nigga.
Whatever.
Thing is, I loved every single second of it.
Three months from now I’ll be graduating from high school, and I’ll be straight-up with you: I don’t have a damn clue what I plan to do next. It drives Mom and Terry Lee (that’s my stepdad) crazy. They keep telling me I oughta know by now what I want to be when I grow up. Ya know, considering I am a grown-up now. Terry Lee even mentioned something about the Army at one point.
Screw that, dawg.
I might not know where I wanna go just yet, what I wanna do with my life, but one thing I do know is that the Army ain’t for me. Closest I plan to get to the military is playing Call of Duty online with my homies Jamie, Trey, Emerill, and Alex three or four nights a week.
For now, I was enjoying this gig. I mean, really enjoying this gig.
And what was so wrong with that?
Since the summer before my junior year, I’d been working as a caddy at the country club during every free second of my time. A lot of the rich old white folks who frequented the place knew me by name. They liked me, even if I did look like the kind of guy that would scare the hell out of them if we ran into each other anywhere besides on their own turf.
Most importantly: those rich old white folks tipped well. They tipped very well.
I’d been saving my tips as much as possible, hoping I could enroll in some classes next year at the community college. Lately I’d been thinking I might even like to work in this field long-term. Get into golf-course management or something. That’d be pretty cool. Start off as this skinny black caddy with cornrows and baggy blue jeans, a diamond stud in one ear, eventually end up running the whole joint.
Yeah, I would have liked that. One day. I would’ve liked that just fine.
Little did I know that it soon wouldn’t matter whether I had any goals or not.
Mr. Sharpe… my fellow caddies… Mom and Terry Lee… everybody out there could be dead at this point.
So, anyway: Mr. Sharpe was having a terrible game this morning. A dozen over par, and we were barely even through the front nine? I couldn’t blame him for his mood; it darkened with every new hole, and about the time he dug himself out of another sandtrap, he was talking about packing it up and calling it a day.
“Goddamn pathetic,” I heard him curse beneath his breath. “That quack tells me this is how I ought to relax? Blood pressure’s never been higher….”
I couldn’t believe what came out of my mouth then. I wasn’t afraid of Mr. Sharpe, don’t get me wrong. But beyond a polite “thank you” or “yes, sir/no, sir” when necessary, I rarely spoke to the golfers at all. That’s just the way it was. The order of things, you might say.
“Um, Mr. Sharpe?” I said.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“From where I’m standing, I
think I can see what the problem is. I mean, I would never presume to tell you how to play your game, sir. But if you were to ask for my advice… not that you ever would… I’m just saying… maybe I could help?”
Mr. Sharpe turned to look at me. He flicked up his clip-on sunglasses so I could see his eyes. He had a long face, teeth that never failed to make me think of a horse’s mouth. Gray hairs sprouted from his wide nostrils. He resembled a walking, talking cartoon character in his loud yellow shirt and bright orange pants. But I liked the old man. I liked him a lot. He was hard not to like.
“Shoot, kid,” he said. “What do I have to lose? Something’s gotta change here. Tell you what. You get me outta this rut I’m in, you’ve got one hell of a tip coming. Gimme all you got.”
“For real?” I said.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, sir,” I said. “The problem is, you keep slicing the ball, right?”
“Right.”
“You’re not keeping your elbow tucked in when you swing.”
“Oh? Is that what I’m doing?”
I mimed what his stance should look like every time he teed off. “You don’t keep your elbow tucked in, it’s putting that spin on the ball, sends it slicing to the right every time.”
Several seconds passed during which he said nothing. He just nodded, letting my advice sink in. Birds chirped in a thin copse of trees off to our right. A horn honked somewhere out on the highway that ran adjacent to the course.
“Micah,” Mr. Sharpe said finally, “you might be on to something.”
He teed up. Addressed the ball, taking his time.
And then he swung, keeping his elbow tucked in as I had advised.
The ball soared over the green. His shot was perfect this time. Not the slightest hint of a curve. Landed exactly where he wanted it on the far end of the fairway.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“Are we happy, Mr. Sharpe?” I asked him.
“Oh, we’re happy, Micah. We’re really happy. You sure know what you’re talking about, ay?”
I couldn’t have stopped the cheesy grin that stretched across my face if I tried. “Well, sir, I’ve been doing this for a couple of years now. You watch enough golf, even if you don’t play, you get a feel for what works and what doesn’t.”
“Makes sense.”
“Glad I could help, sir.”
“I hope you’ve got a pretty little lady you’re planning to take out tonight. ’Cause that tip I promised, it’s gonna come in handy.”
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a crumpled bill and placed it in my palm.
My eyes must have gone as wide as… well, as wide as golf balls.
It was a hundred-dollar bill.
“Are you playing with me, dawg—” I corrected myself. “Er, I mean, seriously, Mr. Sharpe? This is—”
“I don’t joke around when it comes to my game, Micah. You should know that by now.”
“Wow,” I said. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Sharpe.”
“Plenty more where that came from, son. You earned it. Now let’s get my game back on track, whaddaya say?”
I hefted his bag, and we started walking across the green.
“It sure is gonna be a beautiful day,” said Mr. Sharpe.
“That it is, sir.”
“I’ve got an idea,” he said then. “Whaddaya say we put this ‘sir’ shit to bed once and for all?”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“I’ve been using your services – how long has it been now, Micah? A couple of years?”
“That’s right.”
“I’d say it’s time we retired the formalities.”
“Well, um, sure,” I said. “If that’s the way you want it, Mr.—”
“Can the ‘mister’ shit too. Makes me feel like I oughta be hobbling around in one o’ God’s waiting rooms. Ain’t ready for somebody else to start wiping my ass just yet, lemme tell ya. Look at me. I’m only sixty-nine, for Chrissake. I feel like a million dollars! So how about you call me Frank from now on? I think you’ve earned that right.”
“Okay. Anything you say, Mr.—”
“Frank.”
“Frank.” It didn’t feel right. But I’d call him King Mofo if it kept the big tips coming.
I really did like this guy. Never thought I’d consider some rich, old, white Republican a friend. But damned if I didn’t feel that way about Mr. Sharpe.
Frank.
“Good,” he said. “Now let’s see what else you’ve got to help me with my game… dawg.”
I laughed.
What a beautiful day it was shaping up to be, indeed.
But then my laughter died in my throat as something caught my eye.
What the fuck?
I frowned, peered across the rolling hills of the golf course to a section of tree-shaded green somewhere near the next bunker.
This time, I’m pretty sure I said the words aloud: “What the fuck?”
The sun was in my eyes. I squinted beneath my shades. I couldn’t be sure if was seeing what I thought I was seeing….
No way.
Out there a few feet from our next teeing ground, an old man in checkered pants stood over a younger pony-tailed man in a white shirt and yellow shorts. The younger man was sprawled on the ground, not moving.
The older man hefted a golf club over his head, and as I watched he brought it down again and again on the other guy’s body.
Then the attacker dropped his weapon, and slammed his spiked golf shoe down into his victim’s face.
Mr. Sharpe’s golf bag slid from my grip.
“Holy shit!” My cry echoed out across the green.
The murderer quickly glanced from left to right – my heart skipped a beat at first, as I thought he had heard me, but it seemed to be a nervous, involuntary twitch more than anything – and then the old man took off running across the fairway.
I watched him go until he disappeared from sight over a hill.
“Mr. Sharpe?” I said. “Did you see that? Do you have your cell on you? We have to call nine one o—”
I turned back toward Mr. Sharpe just in time to see his pitching wedge swinging at my face.
It struck me across my left jaw. I heard something crack.
Flashing colors filled my vision, like the time I smoked some bad weed with my buddies and only found out after a few tokes that the chronic had been laced with PCP. I staggered, nearly went down, but somehow stayed on my feet.
Blood dripped from my lips, down my chin. I spat out a tooth.
“Mr. Sharpe,” I said, only partially aware of the words coming out of my busted mouth, “W-Why?”
He growled at me. Like a rabid dog.
“Mr. Sharpe?”
His eyes were wide, bloodshot. He barely looked like himself.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” I screamed, as he swung his club at me again.
This time I ducked. I felt the club cut through the air just an inch or two above my head.
While he was still off-balance from his swing, I shoved him.
Even with what was happening, although I knew I acted in self-defense, it felt wrong. Putting my hands on one of the golfers. I could be fired. I would be fired. Such ridiculous thoughts, but they popped into my head nonetheless, the second my hands made contact with Mr. Sharpe’s bony chest. Have to go work at McDonald’s after this!
He brought the golf club around again, in an overhead arc this time. It struck my left shoulder.
“Gahh!”
I feinted to the right, dodged another blow.
I collided with his bag behind me. It spilled over, and I wasted no time gripping the first club I could reach.
Nine-iron. Perfect.
Without thinking about what I was doing, just running on pure adrenaline at this point, I slammed it into the side of Mr. Sharpe’s head.
Hs glasses went flying off into the grass. He roared. A river of blood gushed from his ear.
“I’m so
rry, I’m sorry,” I babbled, still not quite sure what I was saying.
Mr. Sharpe stumbled backward, holding his free hand to his head. With his other hand, he brought his golf club around again, aiming for my face.
I blocked it with the nine-iron, weakly. My shoulder throbbed with pain.
For several seconds, we stared into one another’s eyes. His were watery, bloodshot.
I gripped my club horizontally with both hands then, pushed off of his, putting some space between us. Trying to buy myself just a second or two in which I could figure out what was going on, make sense of Mr. Sharpe’s behavior.
He swung at me again. Missed.
“Stop!” I yelled.
And that’s when I heard the low putter of an engine behind me. Growing louder.
I spun around, just in time to see a golf cart coming at me. Behind the wheel was another old man, one I did not know. He looked to be at least eighty years old, wore a yellow hat with a little ball on top of it that jiggled along with his bulldog-like jowls as the golf cart careened across the green toward Mr. Sharpe and me.
The man in the cart, just like Mr. Sharpe, wore an expression of hatred on his face. Murder.
As if he wanted nothing more than to see me die.
“Shit!” I jumped out of the way, just in time.
Mr. Sharpe wasn’t so lucky. The golf cart struck him. He fell beneath it.
I gasped for breath. My heart slammed violently in my chest as I watched the cart bounce over Mr. Sharpe’s body.
It rolled over his face, kept going down the hill toward a small pond. But the old man who had been driving it jumped out from behind the wheel.
He came for me, his wet gray dentures bared, his liver-spotted hands curled into claws.
I ran.
My grip on the nine-iron was stronger than ever, but still I ran.
I fled from the course as screams and sirens sounded in the distance (and… Jesus… was that a gunshot I heard, from somewhere near the club’s parking lot?). I did not think about where I was going, or try to come up with a plan. I just ran across the fairway as fast as I could.
Had to find help. A phone. My cell was back at the club.
I crested the hill, approached the highway.
Past the line of dogwoods that bordered the course, I could see a building on the opposite side of the road.
