by catt dahman
“Penelope is fine, Miss Joleen. She stays inside, and besides, we don’t know if animals are affected,” Annie said. She began wondering if animals might go mad as well and had a vision of a pasture of cows becoming angry and racing at them in a rage. Mad cow.
Chapter 2
At 3rd Street, they turned right at the grocery store. The lights were on, and the store was torn apart, the plate glass was in jagged pieces on the parking lot, cars were tangled into metal puzzles, and a truck had rammed right into the front door.
Dan drove slowly, and they were able to see inside where boxes, cans, and bottles were tossed onto the floor, displays were ripped apart, and cashier stations were torn and smashed. Dark stains that were probably blood covered the store.
“Looks like a bunch of people had a hell of a fight in there,” Pax noted.
“I don’t see anyone moving or anything,” Dana said, peering through the window. “That’s probably a good thing.”
Earlier, people coming into the store, had been rain-soaked and had attacked those in the store who were dry, chasing them down aisles, throwing cans, and smashing and slicing with whatever weapons they could find.
The dry people fought back but were no match for those infuriated with blood lust. After the effects wore off, those who had maimed and killed looked about the store with no interest or concern and wandered away.
“How do you think it feels?”
“What?” Annie asked Dana.
“Getting that rage and then going smooth?”
“Ed…that guy…said it was like worms in his brain, itching,” Annie said.
Pax nodded at Annie’s words. “It must feel like going crazy and being angry, and wanting to hurt people and then feeling itchy, I guess.”
“And then nothing,” Lydia said. “Ronnie didn’t have to do that. Chris would’ve been just nothing but not mean. He would have mellowed out, but Ronnie killed him,” cried Lydia, again.
“That wasn’t Chris any more. Chris wouldn’t hurt a flea. Lydia, you know he would be horrified and disgusted to walk around like…well…like Dana said…a zombie.”
“They aren’t zombies,” Pax said automatically.
“They’re empty. There’s nothing left…like it burns out. No, Chris wouldn’t wanna be like that, Lydia,” Dan added.
Charles gasped, “Ronnie shot Chris?”
“Well, he was stabbing people,” Lydia cried into her hands.
Pax and Annie shook their heads to indicate to Charles not to ask any more questions about it. “It was just very bad. We don’t know how long the calm lasts or if there’s another stage or something else. We don’t know anything about this.”
Dan made a left onto Hickory, and they all felt panicky as the water on the road rose dangerously high. In a while, the roads would be flooded, and the rain would come into cars, trying to get through. Involuntarily, they raised their feet although the water wasn’t coming inside.
“The river area may be flooded, Dana,” Dan warned, “we won’t be able to get down there if it is.”
“Hickory is always flooded; we can do it,” Dana argued.
Pax gripped Annie’s hand.
Dan turned right, and they were on Grande.
Dan went down the street, circled in the cul-de-sac, and came back, pausing at Charles’s house. Despite the rain and darkness, they could see the graffiti someone had scrawled all over the door and siding. “Coon” and “Nigger” were written clearly.
“Oh, my God, Charles,” Dana whispered, “that’s horrible.”
Charles made a little whining sound but then told Dan where to drive so they’d be closer. He was whispering the hateful words to himself over and over like a chant. Charles jumped from the Bronco, slammed the door as he waved to the rest, and ran to his home, calling for his mother.
In October, as a trick, kids might soap windows or toilet paper a house, but destroying property with graffiti wasn’t common at all; in Cold Springs, kids pulling a stunt like that wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week, would have to scrub the words off and repaint the building, be grounded half a year, and pay off any expenses by working. Children here were brought up the old-fashioned ways, for the most part, and parents didn’t spare the rod.
Dan felt for Miss Joleen, his elder, but not enough to run around in the rain for no good reason. After telling her his plan, he got close to her porch, and she gingerly got out, keeping her baggies close about her, and went inside.
“She looks so small even in baggies,” Dana said.
Dan and Pax cursed a little as the Bronco almost got stuck in the wet lawn and mud, but then the vehicle roared like a beast and lunged forward. The steering wheel spun in Dan’s hands, and the Bronco shot out of the mud onto solid ground. Even in these circumstances, they cheered. Dan grinned, “That’s my Bronco.” He stayed in one place a few seconds to let the adrenaline settle.
In fact, they were cheering and laughing with relief so much, they didn’t hear Miss Joleen. Going into her home, she immediately, carefully removed the baggies, all still dry and dropped them onto the floor. She went to her pristine kitchen for a drink of water, calling for her cat while she patted her hair into place. My, wasn’t she tired from the evening’s events? But finally she was home safely.
There on the white floor was her Penelope, lying in a pool of blood, one precious little foot seemingly gnawed off; the cat’s mouth and whiskers were bloody. Joleen stared at the scene for a second, thinking it couldn’t be real. It was too awful to be real.
A huge rattrap, like those in the attic to catch mice, rats, or squirrels, lay in the room and was snapped close; in it was one of poor Penelope’s little white (now red) paws. The cat was stiff with death; Joleen took in the scene and looked at all the blood, opened her mouth, and let out shrill scream after scream.
Joleen thought about how earlier, she had noticed something about Charles and asked him about it, curiously. Charles had small scratches all over his arms and face but claimed he had gotten into a thorn bush. Then, she had no reason not to believe him, but were they cat scratches? Maybe.
Gritting her big teeth, she looked down at the floor closely and thought she saw little curly hairs that, yes, could have been from anyone; right there next to Penny’s muzzle, weren’t those a few nappy hairs from that boy?
Joleen was livid. Charles had wanted to come home, too, not to see his mother as he said, but so he would be around when Joleen found Penelope. He was a sadist.
Across the street, Charles’ mother didn’t greet her son as he came in. Had she not been concerned? Had she not been hungry for the two entrees he was bringing home? Charles yanked away the baggies and tossed them to the side as he went room to room, looking for his momma.
Finally, on the front porch down on the boards, she sat, not making a noise behind the banisters covered in ivy. “Awe, Momma, did you see what they wrote?”
Mama looked up calmly. “I caught him. Ran out there in the rain while he wrote on the house and got that critter. He can’t write it no more.” She didn’t seem upset but explained with no emotion.
Her words hit Charles like a sledgehammer. “You went into the rain?”
“Sure did.”
Charles knelt and saw what was left of Drew. Most of him was slopped into a messy wheelbarrow, hacked by a big hatchet that sat beside his mother on the porch. Each of Drew’s fingers had been split down the center, each nail had been ripped away, and the nail beds had been stapled. Finally, each tip had been burned crispy black, and Charles somehow knew the arms and all had been attached when the pain was administered.
His sweet, loving mama, who tended injured birds, was as gentle as an angel. She had stepped into the rain, caught the prankster writing things on the siding and door, and had done this to him; Charles didn’t understand how she could have.
Charles sat in a small puddle of rainwater that his mother had dripped onto the porch, feeling a rising anger over this entire mess: the relentless rain, his mother�
�s uncaring attitude, and the dead, mutilated body in the wheelbarrow.
Across the street, Joleen had gathered her evidence as to who had killed her beloved Penelope, and she burst out her front door, screaming his name. “Charlesssssssssssssssssssssssss.” She was already hurt and angry before the rain touched her. “You killed my Penny, you rotten nigger.”
Now, she was beside herself with fury.
Charles looked up sharply. What had she called him? Was she insane? He had worse things to worry about than Miss Joleen right now; his mama was burned out, and there was nothing left of her personality and, well, Charles had a mutilated body on the porch. How inconsiderate was this old bat?
“Get back in your house, old Lady,” said Charles who was upset and worried for his mama. “Get off our yard.”
“Whoever wrote that is right, you nasty little coon. My daddy used to coon hunt; the bitches were mean.” Joleen kept walking, her face a mask of fury. She dramatically waved a fireplace poker as she walked though the rain.
In the Bronco, everyone stared out the window; all the yelling and movement in the rain had stunned Dan so that he didn’t drive away. They could only watch as the action unfolded before them.
“Shut up,” Charles yelled.
“Coon.”
“Get off my yard.” Charles hefted the hatchet and without thinking, bolted down the walkway. “Go on, you crazy old bitch.” The rain felt warm as it covered his skin, warm and heavy, like a weight pressed against him. Why had they feared this? It was wonderful. It was much better than the little puddle he had sat in; this was amazing.
Charles felt strong, fast, and angry.
“Dirty Coon.” They met In Charles’s yard, and for an old lady, Joleen looked tough and ready to fight. She smacked the iron poker across his arm and chest something fierce before he could say another word or react.
Charles felt raw indignation and a rush of fury; who was she to name-call and come into his yard and hit him? It hurt, too. For an old woman, she hit very hard.
He brought the hatchet up and slammed it down on her shoulder so that it all but severed her right arm. Blood splashed all over her, and as he raised his arm back, blood fell onto his shirt as well. That would teach her a lesson.
Joleen backed up a few paces, shocked that Charles had done that, and then she snagged the poker with her left hand and ran at him, sticking it right through his chest. It was stuck for a second but then slid right into Charles.
Watching, his mother hardly blinked. She had no cares in the world.
The combatants on the soaked lawn tussled a few seconds, but the hatchet was lodged firmly in Joleen’s shoulder, keeping her from fighting as well as she would have liked. The pain blazed enormously in her arm, shoulder, and up into her head as the nerves screamed.
Had the blade fallen out, blood would have flooded down her arm, and she would have passed out, but the blade held some of the vessels closed.
Joleen kept pushing at the iron poker, shoving, driving it deeper into Charles, and he howled with pain, wondering how the pain could keep getting worse.
When the poker was shoved in all the way to the hilt, Charles made his big move, his final move. He lunged at Joleen, grabbed the hatchet, and with all his strength, yanked it back, causing her to stagger forward and the poker to shift, making every organ and nerve in Charles roar with agony; blood rushed out in a crimson sheet, running down the old woman’s arm. Charles managed to lift the hatchet over his head and slammed it right into Joleen’s skull.
Both collapsed into the falling rain; the fury and anger slowly were replaced with complacency and a Zen-like calm. There, in the mud of the yard, both would slowly bleed to death, but neither cared, for neither feared death nor struggled against the pain.
Joleen and Charles lay in the rain and accepted death calmly. A philosopher might expound on the fact that both Joleen and Charles had been infuriated but had cared much less than one normally would about the pain they suffered. They didn’t die with fear and dread, clouding their minds, but with peaceful acceptance.
Some people might say that this was best, not to fight death but to let go. Poets might say it was best to fight and not go gently into that good night.
Although it was raining and dark, everyone in the car watched the battle across the street, wondering why it was happening and why the two people sank so peacefully into the mud.
Dan and Pax almost jumped out of the Bronco and went after the pair to stop the fight, but the angry people had weapons that would rip the baggies and possibly stab them. Dan kept saying that he couldn’t believe Joleen was using a fireplace poker on anyone.
Dana thumped the car seat with frustration, wondering how Charles could chop at an old lady. “We could get them now; they’re down.”
“What if they aren’t finished and they use those on us? Whatever this is, they have it,” Annie argued. “We don’t know what happens next.” She buried her face for a second against Pax’s shoulder.
“We have to go do something….” Dan started, but he didn’t finish his sentence as he saw them sink into the mud. The fight was over. How could they risk themselves if everyone in town were acting this way?
Annie rubbed her face, and Dana sniffled back tears.
Chapter 3
“I just need to get to Sam,” Lydia reminded them of why they were out here. “Can we just go?” {She was as selfish as she had to be in order to get to her child}.
Dan put the vehicle back into drive and drove to the end of the street where Lydia lived, on the corner of Grande and Hickory. The houses there were older homes, with three and four bedrooms, two or three floors, not enormous, but roomy and well kept. They had been re-done over the years, and most had siding or were neatly painted, had modest yards filled with large, old trees, roses and flowering bushes, and lush lawns.
Some years before, most families had added garages that would open up to the houses via doors. Lydia pushed a button on a pad in her purse, and the one-car garage door rolled up so that Dan could drive inside. Lydia led the way, and Pax, Dana, Annie, and Dan got out of the Bronco, sighing with relief.
Annie got Lydia stripped of the plastic, and Lydia opened the door. Carefully, Pax stripped the bags off of Annie and the Dana so that they could also go into the house. Lastly, the men yanked away the coverings, took a last glance around, and slid into the house, locking the door behind them as Lydia lowered the garage door.
Like most of the homes, Lydia’s house had old, wooden floors that gleamed with wax and were covered here and there with rugs. Ancient wallpaper had been stripped so the walls were covered with smooth paint and wainscoting. Here was a stone fireplace, there was a stained glass window, and over there was a tidy built-in shelf of knick-knacks. A small, but beautifully redone kitchen and a dining area with a bay window were nearby.
“Sam? Sammy? Baby?” Lydia’s voice cracked with emotion. By feel, she went in, felt for matches, and lit a small candle that smelled of peaches. The little light helped chase away some of the darkest shadows.
There wasn’t an answer.
“Sammy, Hey, it’s me, Annie. I’m with your mom, and we came to get you. We are perfectly dry. Can you hear how normal I sound?”
“Baby? Come on, baby, come to Mama, please…it’s safe….”
A small pajama-wearing figure darted down the stairs, paused to look at her mother’s eyes, then slammed into her arms, crying, “Mama….”
“I’m here. I came as soon as I could. Are you okay? Talk to me now,” Lydia sounded a little stronger now that she was holding her daughter in her arms.
Sammy raised her head. “I’m okay. I was scared though. I hid.”
“Good. That’s my smart girl.”
“Uncle Chris came by, and he beat on the door a while, but he sounded mean and mad, so I didn’t say a word.”
Lydia wept harder. “You did the right thing.” Chris, in his fury, had been here, first, trying to get her baby? Lydia’s stomach dropped. “You did
the smart thing.”
Annie rubbed Lydia’s back, knowing how close of a call that had been; had Chris gotten in, he would have killed Sammy.
“It was on the Internet, Mama.”
Pax scooted closer. He saw Lydia shaking. “Annie, can you get us drinks? Let’s sit here a second and get our heads clear.” He smiled kindly and said, “Hi, Samantha. I’m Pax, Annie’s friend. I came all this way to meet her, and boy, did I pick a weird day for it. I met Annie on the Internet. Can you believe it?”
Sammy peeked at him. Her mother slipped to the floor to sit next to her and gave Sammy a nod to say Pax was an okay fellow, but then Sammy had believed Uncle Chris was okay as well until tonight.
“Sam, or Sammy. That’s what people call me.”
“Sammy, you knew what was going on? What exactly was on the Internet? We haven’t heard much.”
“Not a lot. People, at first, it was like a joke that everyone was doing…saying that it was raining and that everyone who got wet, got mad, and hurt others. They made little jokes.
But then people got scared and said it was true, and some of the news places talked about the rain. Everyone was posting things…horrible things.” She began to cry softly as Lydia stroked her hair.
“Is it…just around here in Cold Springs?” Pax asked, confused, wondering what Internet sites the girl might have looked at and how reliable they were.
Sammy shook her head and answered, “No.”
“Is it like part of the state?” He watched her shake her head. “No? Is it in Texas and Arkansas?”
“More.”
Dana made a choking sound and went to help Annie. Dan sank into a chair, dejected. “More? My God, Sammy….”
Sammy wiped away a tear. “Before the Internet and T.V. went down, it was raining in California and all across the map and also was starting in Florida and going all the way to Maine. They said it was an Emergency State.”
“They declared a State of Emergency?” Pax asked. Sammy nodded. “You are doing awesome at giving us the information, Honey. I have a few more questions for you, okay? Because so far, you have been the best of all at knowing anything…better than the police.”
