Blackout: Book One (A Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller)

by Adam Drake

  I squinted at him. “Now why would a smart little boy like yourself do something so silly as get stuck up a tree?”

  The little boy scrunched his face with concern. This appeared to be more than a random adventure which resulted in his getting stuck.

  I frowned a little, more for emphasis than anything close to anger. “You wouldn't have done this on purpose now? You saw me sitting over there and thought being saved might be fun?”

  Penny held up her hands in alarm. “Oh, no Miss Beeweather. My lad wouldn't do such a thing. He likes exploring, is all. Like Kadmik the Adventurer.”

  “I like Kadmik,” Newlin said.

  I arched a suspicious brow at the two of them. “When Kadmik went exploring,” I said, “he had an army at his side. Accompanied by your own legion of soldiers helps when you're stuck up a tree.” I rummaged through my satchel.

  “Kadmik tamed beasts and was the friend to giants!” the boy declared.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, feeling annoyed to hear distorted myths from a child. “I'm sure that's the version taught to you. Ah, here we are.” I pulled out a tall knitting bag and set it on the ground.

  I sensed the eyes of the woman and child on it, eager to see what happens next.

  The knitting bag always got people's attention. Preceded by its reputation it had become an attraction. I wondered if I should charge a fee each time I brought it out. At least that would help pay for morning newspapers.

  The top opening of the knitting bag was closed with a knobbed clasp. Much to my relief the clasp was brass. If it were wooden, there would be no rescue. At least not by me. The bag's fabric was of a dull gray wool embroidery, with no obvious design, and gave no hints as to its actual contents.

  Suffice to mention this bag was not meant for knitting.

  As I reached forward, I glanced at Penny and Newlin. Anticipation created wide eyed masks of their faces.

  Fine, a copper piece each, I decided, and touched the clasp.

  With only a light tap the clasp snapped undone. Unaided, the knitting bag opened wide.

  I have to admit. No matter how many times I've done this throughout the years, I still get excited at opening it. The hairs on my arms stood up on end.

  The bag wiggled as if alive. In moments, the shaking intensified. Something was trying to climb out.

  Then, from within, a small furry head emerged. The head turned, surveying the outside surroundings, and settled on me. A gorgeous white cat matched my wide-eyed gaze.

  “Hello, there,” I said. I did not move, nor made any effort to approach or touch this new arrival. I knew from experience there might be unwanted results.

  “It's a cat, ma!” cried the boy.

  “Hold still,” Penny said. She looked at the cat with apprehension. Frightened, even. An almost universal reaction by most.

  “Help,” I said to the cat and pointed toward the little boy.

  The cat looked from me and up at Newlin. It blinked several times. Its irises appeared composed of brightly colored rainbows with countless hues. Its thick fur was as white as the first winter snow.

  As if finally deciding what to do, the cat hopped out of the bag. It paused, sat back on hind legs, and proceeded to clean a forepaw.

  It had been several months since I'd seen a white cat emerge from the bag. I could not tell if this was the same one as that time. There was no way to be certain by quick observation.

  But what this cat did would set it apart from any another.

  I felt a strong sense of pride looking at it. A different cat with almost every summoning. All the same indefinable breed, but of varying colors. Each unique in their own way. An infinite number of them. And all a welcome sight.

  “Is it going to save me now?” Newlin asked, his voice tinged with worry.

  “Hush, now, child,” I said. “Give her a moment.”

  Once the cat finished cleaning itself, it got down to business. With an almost imperious saunter, it strolled over to the tree and stopped right below the boy. It peered up at him. The distance that separated the two was twenty spans or more. If this did not work then a call to the fire department would be needed.

  As we all stood by with bated breath the cat tensed up as if ready to pounce. Its focus never wavered from the boy.

  Then, the cat vanished with an audible pop.

  Penny gasped, hands to her mouth.

  My heart beat quickened, and up I looked.

  The cat now sat on the tree branch, next to the little boy. It had somehow travelled the distance from the ground in an instant. Faster than a blink.

  The boy craned his neck around to look at the cat with wide-eyed apprehension.

  I said, “It's okay, child. She's going to help you.”

  The cat stood up and brushed against the boy. Even from a distance its purr could be heard.

  “Is it going to -,” Newlin said and both he and the cat were suddenly gone.

  At that same moment, with another loud pop, both cat and child appeared on the ground, safe.

  Penny gasped with relief, but when she rushed over to her child, she froze, uncertain what to do. The cat sat in the boy's lap rubbing against him.

  Newlin giggled and stroked the creature's fur.

  As if deciding its job finished the cat jumped onto the grass and walked away.

  Penny joined her child and scooped him into her arms. “Don't you ever do that again, young man! What would we have done if Miss Beeweather had not been here?”

  I doubted any trees would have been climbed without my presence. Yet, with the child safe now, it didn't matter.

  I watched the beautiful white cat trot across the ground straight back to the knitting bag. And, without a glance back at any of us, it leapt into the bag's opening and was gone in an instant. The opening closed on its own, and the clasp snapped shut. Now, instead of brass, the clasp was of a polished wood.

  I exhaled my breath. Astounding. Simply astounding. Anytime I needed to open the bag was a moment an old woman like me looked forward too.

  Penny held the boy tight and kissed him. “Thank you so much, Miss Beeweather. I apologize for bothering you.”

  With a curt nod I put the knitting bag back into the satchel and walked back to my seat. I hoped my manner indicated a repeat of this child's escapade would not be tolerated. But noticing how Newlin's eyes followed the satchel, I suspected he would be in need of aid again.

  I returned to the bench and grabbed up my newspaper intent on resuming my morning read.

  Movement caught my eye.

  A uniformed policeman walked up the path toward me and I instantly recognized him. Constable Fairfax. His bushy walrus mustache could make him identifiable even from a thousand paces. From his somber expression I knew this morning's distractions would be amplified.

  “Good morning, Miss Beeweather,” said Fairfax and tipped his cap as he approached to stand before me, his voice deep and somber.

  “Good morning, Constable,” I said. “Did you, by chance, bring me any biscuits?”

  “Beg pardon, ma'am?”

  “Biscuits? I have a strong craving for them this morning.”

  “I'm afraid not,” Fairfax said, looking uncertain. “My apologies.”

  “Then I take it this interruption is not a social call?”

  “No ma'am, it is not.” The constable cleared his throat. “The Chief Constable is requesting your assistance on a matter.”

  “I see,” I said. “What is it this time?” Assisting the Chief Constable had become a more frequent event than helping adventurous little boys. In many ways, they were almost one and the same.

  “There has been a murder,” Fairfax said. He delivered this line as if describing the cloudy weather.

  I sighed and fingered my neglected newspaper. “I am retired, Constable.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Murder falls well under the purview of Detective Constable Radley Oswall. And he will not be retiring for many years. Am I correct?”

 
; “Yes, ma'am. But - “ Fairfax said before I interrupted him.

  I said, “Is Oswall on vacation, perhaps? Or did he fall deep into his cups again?” I felt my annoyance growing. Oswall was a good detective but his vices had become greater than his sense of duty.

  Fairfax's expression rippled with emotion. A rare and unusual event given his perpetual dourness.

  This got my attention. “Fairfax,” I said, concerned now. “What is it?”

  “That's the thing ma'am,” Fairfax managed. “It's Detective Oswall who was murdered.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  We walked through the park to the spot on the road where Fairfax had parked his buggy. The vehicle was a sad looking contraption with dents and scrapes along its paneling, and little cracks in the windows. I plunked myself into the passenger seat which squeaked and rattled.

  “It's the only vehicle issue available,” Fairfax said by way of apology as he got behind the wheel.

  “Has any new ones been issued to the Constabulary since I left?” I asked. The town council, notoriously stingy when it came to budgeting, seemed to make it a point that the Protection and Investigation services always suffered the most when it came to financing.

  “No,” Fairfax said, and frowned. The motion caused his thick mustache to bristle like an agitated porcupine. “Nothing.”

  I was stunned. “All these years?”

  His embarrassed silence was answer enough.

  I huffed, but did not prod. The political fighting between the town council and the impoverished police force was now legendary. Even throughout my tenure it never reached a point of resolve.

  I shook my head. Why should this matter to me now? I'm retired.

  Fairfax tried to start the buggy, but it refused to cooperate. After a few tries, and some grumbling from Fairfax, it sputtered to life. We pulled out into the street and drove toward the edge of town.

  Through the passenger window I watched the trees of the park zip past. I did not want to be in this situation. Not again. But Oswall was dead...

  “Tell me more, please,” I said. “Where was he found?”

  Eyes on the road, Fairfax said, “Under a bridge along Muddy Way. A couple found him early this morning.”

  I knew the area. “Why would they be walking along Muddy Way in the early morning? The place is devoid of anything of note. Other than trees, mud and the risk of being robbed by bandits.”

  “I don't know,” he said with a shrug. “We can ask them.”

  “No, you can ask them,” I said. “You are the acting detective now, after all. With Oswall gone, you are next in seniority.”

  Fairfax took a moment to digest this. He said, “I thought you would assist with the investigation.”

  “I said I would take a look, nothing more. If I can help with the initial survey, then I will. But I am through with detective work.”

  Quiet now, Fairfax gripped the wheel a little tighter.

  “Oh, I'm sorry Fairfax,” I said. “But I cannot let myself get dragged into another case. Not again.”

  Fairfax glanced at me, his expression unreadable. I sensed his frustration. From what I knew he only started his detective training and trial period. It would be a good year before he would earn a Detective Constable's badge.

  I felt sorry for him. I did. By refusing to help I put him in a lurch. The pressure to solve Oswall's murder, or any murders, would be all his. But I refused to get involved any more. That part of my life was finished. Now I rescued stranded children, which suited me fine.

  “I understand, ma'am,” Fairfax said. “And I respect it. Thank you for coming, anyway.”

  Inspecting the murder scene was the most I wanted to do. I tried to not let a swell of guilt overcome me but failed. This would not be easy.

  “Here we are,” Fairfax said, indicating the road ahead.

  There were several police buggies parked along the road side next to the entrance of a bridge. The bridge itself was of a stone construction from an era long gone. A rickety wooden roof covered its length and looked to be in severe disrepair.

  Fairfax parked us next to the other buggies. I felt a fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. Whenever I arrived at a crime scene, murder or otherwise, it always gave me a shot of energy. I tried to ignore it.

  When I exited the vehicle another constable approached me with a grin. “Miss Beeweather. Glad to see you're here. How are you doing these days?”

  “Fit and fine, Constable Webster, thank you,” I said. Better than Detective Oswall, I thought, then frowned. When had I become such a bitter old fool?

  A man and woman skulked nearby in the shade of a tree and were talking with a constable who scribbled notes on a pad. The couple shot concerned glances in our direction.

  “They are the ones who found Oswall?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Webster said.

  “They look nervous,” I said.

  Webster looked at them. “Yes, but I don't think they have the ability to have done it.”

  “Why is that, Constable?” First rule at the start of a murder investigation is that everyone is a suspect. Everyone.

  “Only that I don't know who or what could have killed Oswall in such an... odd manner.”

  Intrigued now, I said, “Lead the way, please, if you will.”

  I followed the constables to the river embankment. From its edge I looked down at the sluggish river rippling past. Its slate gray water reflected the morning sun.

  “He's under there,” Fairfax said, pointing toward the bank below the bridge. From this angle nothing appeared amiss.

  As we climbed down the rocky embankment Fairfax offered me his hand. I declined with a polite smile and made it to the bottom on my own without tumbling fanny-over-teakettle.

  We crossed the shadowed terminus of the bridge, and I spotted Detective Oswall.

  I stopped, agog.

  It was Oswall. He stood upright which, for a dead body, indicated something obviously strange. Cloaked in shadow and facing away from me I saw one arm extended before him.

  I took a few steps closer. Stock still, the man made no movement. The breeze here did not so much as disturb a hair on his head, nor did it ruffle his pullover coat.

  As I drew up to him I gasped in disbelief.

  “He's been turned to stone!” I said, amazed.

  “So it would appear,” Fairfax said.

  I looked closer, and nodded. Definitely Oswall, right done to the last detail. If I didn't know that he was solid stone I would have sworn he had been completely painted a rocky brownish color. Even his eyes, wide in shock, had been affected.

  For several moments I only stared at him. I knew him, I'd worked with him, and I helped train him. But now?

  He was a statue. Caught in a pose of warding someone or something away. His other hand gripped the pistol at his hip, still holstered, and all stone.

  “I have a strong dislike for these magic cases,” Webster said, keeping his distance from Oswall.

  “They can be challenging,” Fairfax said. I sensed he disapproved of the younger constable a little. Then he said, “Oh, Chief Constable's direct order is that no one is to mention what has befallen Oswall. Not without his say so. Doesn't want to create a panic.”

  I nodded, then said, “Someone caught him off guard,” noting Oswall's stance.

  “Snuck up on him,” Webster said.

  I shook my head and tried to figure the angle of Oswall's eyes. “It doesn't appear so. See how he is facing directly ahead. Not toward the edge of the bridge foundation where a person might jump out. It looks like he was perhaps speaking with someone. Or someone approached him from along the river bank.”

  The two constables mumbled their agreement.

  I blinked out of my thoughts and realized I had forgotten to ask the obvious. “We are certain this is Oswall, yes? Not a carved statue placed here as a joke? Oswall is not at home sick in bed while we fiddle about in the mud?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Fairfax said. “I went to spe
ak with his wife just before coming to you. She'd been beside herself with worry as Oswall had not returned home last night, or this morning. She thought he was on an extended stake out, but upon seeing me coming up the walk she started to cry.” He frowned.

  I nodded. To tell a person that a loved one was dead had always been the worst part of working this job.

  I wanted to ask Fairfax how he explained Oswall's manner of death to his wife, but refrained. Not my affair. Instead, I asked, “When was the last time anyone saw him?”