The Sound

by James Sperl

  Clarissa smiled. “We’re fine, Andrew. Thanks.”

  He crossed to the kitchen. “I’ve got fresh milk if anyone’s up for a glass.”

  Valentina wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t you just get that from the goats?”

  “I did.” Andrew placed the containers in the refrigerator.

  “Ew.”

  “Where do you think the milk you buy comes from?”

  Valentina held up her hands dismissively. “Far as I know, it comes from the store. And that’s all I need to know.”

  Andrew chuckled, but it wasn’t at Valentina’s expense.

  “Andrew,” Clarissa began, “I don’t mean to sound like a spoiled house guest, but I don’t see a TV anywhere, and I kind of wondered what was going on in the news. You know, since the Sound.”

  Valentina’s eyes popped open. “There’s no TV? I may have to rethink my decision.”

  “Yeah, I moved that out of here years ago,” he said. “I couldn’t come up with a good reason to keep it around.”

  Rachel lifted an eyebrow. “So you don’t watch any shows? No HBO or anything?”

  “Not so much. Most of the programming started to feel tired and redundant: hyper-violent crime shows, sad doctor dramas, superhero fantasies, or self-absorbed, narcissistic reality shows—it was the same thing over and over again, everything steeped in cruelty and despair. And the media wasn’t much better. Always scrambling to air the most disturbing crimes and atrocities they could find. I’d…I’d just had enough of that sort of imagery.”

  “Do you still have your TV?” Clarissa asked.

  “I do,” Andrew replied. “It’s in the guest bedroom. Think it's time to bring it back out?”

  “Might be,” Clarissa said, grabbing her glass and plate and setting them in the sink. “Particularly if we're going to be here for awhile.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The world was in chaos—at least that’s how the media portrayed it. Given the way the citizens of Pastora had reacted to the Sound at Holsten’s earlier that afternoon, Clarissa didn’t think it was too far from the truth. But their reaction paled in comparison to the rest of the globe.

  Andrew had wrestled his forty-inch Panasonic flat-screen out of a back room and temporarily set it up in front of the fireplace. No sooner did he plug it in and power it on than the screen filled with disturbing imagery from a far-flung region of China. People rioted and fought in the streets of some city no one had ever heard of, the police and military able to do little against the number of folks losing their minds. Fires raged, and columns of smoke billowed throughout the city. Siren lights flickered amid swarming helicopters.

  It was the same all over the world.

  Station after station played endless coverage of the madness: MSNBC broadcast live from a surging crowd in Brooklyn; CNN received their feed from Tahrir Square in Cairo, where people stormed the vast space and battled the military, which tried to contain them using water cannons and brute force; CBS provided civilian drone footage from the skies over St. Louis, the downtown area a combat zone of looters and demolished storefronts. ABC relayed eyewitness social media posts and videos from around the world, each one seeming to up the horror ante over the previous piece of frightening media.

  And on and on it went. From Melbourne to Seoul to Moscow to Naples—every major metropolis on the planet seemed to have suffered a cataclysmic social meltdown. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Since the second Sound event, which had occurred only hours ago, reports of missing people had already increased.

  Clarissa sat on the floor in front of the sofa watching everything unfold. She picked at her nails absently, her eyes wide and unblinking.

  “How could they be increasing?” Rachel said from her spot in the center of the couch, her legs tucked underneath her. “I thought they said last night that missing person reports had gone down.”

  Valentina leaned onto an arm at one end of the couch. “Guess they got it wrong.”

  Everyone sat in silence and watched on-the-street coverage from an ABC affiliate reporter, as he tried to navigate a riot in progress near a shopping district in Houston. Individuals threw bottles and rocks at police, who formed protective barricades around themselves and private businesses that had yet to be destroyed. Some of the citizens caught up in the melee delivered emotional pleas for an end to the insanity; others grinned devilishly and looked as if they were having the time of their lives.

  “I don’t get it,” Clarissa said, shaking her head. “Why is it that we resort to attacking one another in times of crisis? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I don’t think people can help it,” Andrew said from a standing position over Rachel's shoulder. “Our species is wired to react to stress in a definitive manner. This is classic fight-or-flight, though those who have chosen to fight are clearly misdirecting their aggression.” He walked around the couch and sat on the arm opposite Valentina. “People fear for their lives, but they don’t know how to manage that fear, so they react in a way that runs counter to our species’ survival. It’s just what we do. We think of ourselves first. All else is secondary.”

  “You didn’t,” Clarissa said.

  “I didn’t what?”

  “Think of yourself first. You stopped to help us this afternoon when you didn’t have to.”

  “That’s not entirely true. Don’t forget, I had a self-preservation angle.”

  Clarissa twisted around and looked up at him. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have stopped if it didn’t benefit you?”

  Andrew responded immediately. “Of course I would’ve still stopped.”

  “Then, see? Not everyone’s wired to trample over everyone else just to save their own skin.” Clarissa delivered a subtle look to Valentina, who rolled her eyes and nodded reluctantly: yeah yeah.

  Andrew shifted uncomfortably then cleared his throat. “Um, Rachel? Would you mind flipping around to see if we can find a local affiliate?”

  Rachel, who gripped the remote, pointed it at the TV. “Sure.”

  Channels ticked by, each one given a three count to assess its content before Rachel moved on to the next. Then a familiar face appeared onscreen. It was KPIC's Tabitha Cousins. And she’d looked better.

  On a typical evening, Tabitha, a prominent field reporter, could be found standing in front of some nondescript government building dressed in her sleekest news-appropriate attire, as she interviewed someone of local political import. But tonight she was behind the desk, the usual anchor, Dean Harske, nowhere in sight.

  Tabitha looked ragged, and Clarissa thought she was doing all she could to keep it together. Her clothes and hair held to the network standard, but it was her gaunt face and sagging eyes that told the tale of a woman pushed to her mental brink.

  Rachel turned up the volume on the TV.

  “…are recommending these areas be avoided for the time being.” Tabitha turned to a different camera. “The recent sound event has created a surge at local and surrounding shelters. All but three of Roseburg’s school shelters have been filled, and the remaining ones are rapidly approaching maximum capacity. For those residents still seeking a population point, you may still find availability at these locations…”

  Tabitha read the names of several schools. Valentina sat forward.

  “Population point? That’s what they’re calling them?”

  “Got to call them something, I guess,” Rachel said.

  Tabitha continued. “While the shelters will continue to accept people up to capacity, the mayor is strongly encouraging those who can to seek help from friends and neighbors. And while we have yet to confirm this, we here at KPIC are getting reports that disappearances…” She took a breath, but it seemed less a breath than a kept gasp. “…Disappearances have dramatically increased since the event, particularly in regions where the sound occurred overnight.”

  Clarissa spun around and locked eyes with Andrew. “While people were sleeping.”

  Andrew nodded, stone-faced.
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  “India, Russia, China, Australia, the EU—all are reporting elevated levels of missing person cases. In some locations…” Tabitha paused again, as if what she was about to read was too potent to say aloud. “…the rate of persons reported missing has nearly doubled.”

  Rachel lurched forward. “Doubled?”

  “Jesus Christ,” murmured Valentina.

  Clarissa faced everyone. “How could numbers have almost doubled? That doesn’t make any sense. If countries around the world were holding similar town meetings like the one we had last night, then people should have been able to make more informed decisions about what to do. Numbers should have gone down, not up.”

  “True,” Andrew said. “But look at the places she mentioned: China, Russia, India. Lots of remote regions in those countries. My guess is that the numbers probably didn’t surge as high as is claimed, but rather the reports for the missing from these remote areas didn’t start to trickle in until recently. Based on what I’m hearing over the air, I’ll bet things have remained fairly consistent.” Andrew pointed suddenly at the TV. “See? Look there.”

  Everyone glanced at the screen. A rudimentary bar graph comparing the cases of reported missing against the population of selected cities in Australia had replaced Tabitha onscreen. Clarissa’s mouth fell open when she saw the numbers. Sydney claimed 14,454 missing persons since the first Sound event, Melbourne, 14,412, and Perth, 6,241. Given current census records, the graph claimed the number of missing persons comprised between .0034 - .0037% of each city’s population. What’s more, the daily tally of reported missing person cases had maintained a relatively steady rate of roughly .495% since the first Sound event.

  “Are those big numbers people?” Rachel asked. “Like missing people?”

  No one responded. No one had to.

  A different graph appeared, replacing the first. This one called out lesser-known Australian locations. Cities with populations of less than 2,000 people and which boasted curious-sounding names such as Gilter (pop. 1745, 14 missing), West Cue (pop. 1298, 11 missing), and Anders (pop. 1403, 12 missing) had been selected to illustrate the disproportionate rise of disappearances in remote areas. The graph, which looked exactly like the one used for the larger more metropolitan cities, painted a clear picture of the disparity between urban centers and outlying regions. Still, the horror of it escaped Valentina.

  “I don’t get it,” she said.

  “Don’t get what?” said Clarissa.

  “Well, I don’t mean to sound like a cold bitch, but the number of people missing from those tiny towns is a drop in the bucket compared to Sydney and the others. I mean, come on. Fourteen people missing from Gilter? Eleven from that West Cue place? I’m not saying that it doesn’t suck for them and their families, but those numbers are hardly significant compared to the big cities.”

  “Actually, they’re very significant,” Andrew said.

  Valentina looked down the sofa at him. “What, those? How so?”

  “You need to do the math. According to the first graph, the larger cities were showing a population loss of somewhere between, what was it, .0034 and .0037%?”

  “Yes,” Clarissa said.

  “Okay. Now look at the rate of the more rural areas.” Andrew squinted at the TV. “According to the graph, Gilter’s got a population of 1745, but is reporting fourteen people missing.”

  Valentina wrinkled her nose. “Yeah?”

  “That makes…” Andrew looked at the ceiling as he calculated. “…somewhere around 0.008% of their population.” He looked at Valentina for a reaction, but when all he got was a blank stare, he turned to Clarissa.

  “Val was never much of a, uh…mathlete if you know what I’m saying,” she deadpanned.

  “No, I suck at math, okay? Now can someone please tell me what the hell those numbers mean?”

  “They mean,” Andrew continued, “that even though the actual numbers of the missing seem small, in relation to the population of the city, they’re twice what the big cities are seeing.”

  “All right,” Rachel said, sitting forward, “so what does that mean?”

  “Well, to me it says something very important.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that we may be on to something that can beat whatever this thing is. Obviously, urban regions are more connected and news travels quicker than it might in rural areas, so it’s easier to get word out so people can take action and protect themselves by grouping together. And I think town hall meetings, like the one we had last night, are a great way to disseminate information. Technology is great, but nothing beats hearing news straight from the source. That said, I think that these town hall meetings, whether live or televised, are probably only happening in a fraction of places. If you factor out third-world and developing nations—some of which have governments that are corrupt at best and don’t have their citizens’ best interests at heart—and consider industrialized nations, whose views likely differ on what’s been happening—because let’s face it: no way is there worldwide unanimity on the Sound or what’s causing the disappearances—you’re left with only a fraction of the world’s population getting the most current, and as far as I’m concerned, accurate information.”

  Clarissa winced in disagreement. “Do you really believe that? It’s the twenty-first century after all. Everyone’s got a cell phone. Surely people in outlying areas or those in poorer nations are getting the same information we are even if they don’t have the advantage of a government-organized town hall meeting.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Recent reports put the number of people in the world who own a cell phone between 75-80%. And while that number is staggering from a growth standpoint, it still leaves potentially 25% of Earth’s population without a means of mobile communication or connection to the outside world. That’s upwards of two billion people.”

  “Technically. But there are lots of people in first-world nations—America, for example—who simply choose not to own a phone. But they still get the news. They’re still aware of what’s going on.”

  Andrew shrugged, unconvinced. “I think if we could see data for this, we’d find that the majority of people who don’t own phones are either too poor to buy one or live in an area so remote a cell signal can’t reach them. Either way, I believe it’s the folks in these places who make up the surge in the missing. The pertinent information just can’t reach them in a time—”

  “Hold up you guys!” Valentina barked, as she edged closer to the TV. “Listen!”

  Everyone refocused attention on the television. Tabitha had returned.

  “…are encouraged to continue reporting any and all missing persons to your local authorities. But, I repeat, due to the overwhelming number of currently active cases, no further investigations will be conducted at this time by the police departments of the following cities: Dillard, Glide, Green, Lookingglass, Melrose, Myrtle Creek, Pastora, Tenmile…”

  “There!” Valentina blurted, thrusting a finger at the TV. “Did you hear that? The police have stopped investigating in Pastora!”

  Rachel hugged herself. “So no one’s even going to be looking for these people now?”

  Clarissa got up from the floor and sat beside Rachel on the couch, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

  “I share your concern, Rach. But where else could the police look? Last I heard, not one person reported missing since the first sound event has been seen again. Not one.”

  “She’s right,” Andrew said. “I’ve been talking to folks all around the world, from Edmonton to Little Rock to Bristol to Hamburg—all are hearing the same thing. When a person goes missing, they stay gone.”

  Rachel shot out from Clarissa’s embrace and scrambled to her feet.

  “I need to call my parents,” she said, making a beeline for her purse and plunging a hand into it. “I haven’t spoken to them since this morning.”

  Val dug in her pocket. “Yeah, me too,” she said, as she produced her phone and swiped
it awake.

  “You can all try,” said Andrew. “But I can’t guarantee you’ll get great reception. It can get pretty spotty out here, especially on cloudy days like today.” Andrew flung an arm toward the front window. The gesture was intended to be a throw-away, but he ended up holding his gaze there. He canted his head, curious, and walked toward the front door.

  “Andrew?” Clarissa said, watching him. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. “Something…”

  He trailed off as he opened the door and stepped outside. Clarissa, Valentina, and Rachel traipsed up behind him.

  At first, Clarissa wondered if Andrew had just shut down, that the strong and stoic man she thought she knew had just slipped a gear. But then she looked past him to the overcast horizon and understood what had captured his attention.

  Splotches of color dotted the otherwise blue-gray sky. Clarissa counted three distinctive patches of deep orange, which glowed with subdued warmth on the low-hanging clouds.

  “What is that?” she said, as she stepped up beside Andrew. Valentina and Rachel joined her.

  Andrew surveyed the sky from horizon to horizon, eyeing each of the smudgy patches of color, which smoldered. He sighed then said with confidence, “They’re fires.” He pointed to an area of rusty discoloration farthest to the left. “That’s Roseburg over there.” He swung his arm forward. “There’s Myrtle Creek, and over here on the right…that’s Pastora.”

  “What?” Rachel said.

  Valentina’s face dropped. “Are you saying Pastora’s on fire? Like, the whole city?”

  Andrew didn’t look at her. “I don’t know about the whole city. But enough of it to cast a glow.”

  Rachel swiped a tear from her eye and turned away.

  “Andrew, are you sure?” Clarissa said, though she already knew the answer.

  “Mom?” Rachel said loudly, drawing everyone's attention. She hunched over her phone and pressed it to an ear. “Mom, are you there? Can you hear m—…Yeah, no, I’m okay. I’m with Clar and Val…Yeah,” she said, her voice cracking, “it’s really good to hear your voice too…”