The Sound

by James Sperl

  Rachel peeled farther away amid stifling sobs. Then it was Valentina’s turn.

  “Dutch?” she said. She moved to get a better signal on the phone she two-hand cupped to her face. “It’s Val…No, I’m okay. I’m with my friends. We’re safe.” Valentina palmed a runner from her cheek. “Mom and dad?” She nodded profusely and walked off to find a corner of the porch.

  Andrew turned to Clarissa. “Dutch?”

  “Her brother. His real name’s Danny, but he never liked being called that so he started calling himself Dutch, like the 1920s gangster, Dutch Schultz. He said Danny made him sound like a little boy.”

  Andrew frowned contemplatively then noticed Clarissa without a phone in her hands.

  “Don’t you have a phone? You can use the landline inside if you’d like to call someone.”

  “No, I'm okay,” Clarissa said, producing an iPhone from her pocket. “I’ve got one.” She faced the burning horizon and ignored Andrew’s curious scowl. She was sure he had questions, and maybe she would have felt compelled to answer them were the world not in the throes of an apocalyptic nightmare. What did it matter if she had someone to call or not? What could a phone conversation do to ease the unsettling and ever-growing feeling that things were just beginning?

  Besides, gravestones didn’t hold the best conversations.

  CHAPTER 20

  The drive down to Tom and Helen Railley’s home the next morning, though relatively short at three miles, was a ride fraught with apprehension and anxiety.

  Andrew had decided that he wanted to pay his nearest neighbors a visit. The fires the previous evening had greatly concerned him, and he wouldn’t rest easy until he spoke to them face-to-face. It was a dual purpose trip. According to Andrew, the Railleys had borrowed something of his—a flatbed trailer—and he wanted it back, but to Clarissa, this felt like a smokescreen to mask the real reason he wanted to see them.

  They weren’t answering their phone.

  Clarissa rode in the passenger seat of Andrew’s truck, her foot tapping a nervous rhythm, as Andrew wended his way among serpentine roads and fragrant pines. The group encountered no less than six different vehicles along the brief route, all of which approached from the opposite direction. With each one, Andrew’s hands tightened on the wheel, his eyes boring into the oncoming vehicle. After each passed, he shifted to the rearview and watched it recede until it was out of sight.

  The scent of smoke lingered in the air. Clarissa smelled it as soon as she stepped outside this morning. On occasion, when the dense forest opened up and permitted her a view, she saw columns of gray-black clouds emanating from several locations in the distance. She didn’t want to know from which city—or cities—they originated.

  She sneaked a glance at Andrew and thought about last night. How strange it was to have someone stand guard over her. She was convinced—as was Rachel and a more than reluctant Valentina—that she was going to be unnerved at having a relative stranger sit in the same room with her as she slept, but exhaustion had the enviable quality of not giving a shit. After seven hours of sleep, everyone rose at six a.m. to allow Andrew some shut-eye. He managed four hours. Clarissa urged him to get some more rest, but he claimed—rather unconvincingly, she thought—that four hours was within his range of a typical night's sleep. They were on the road just before eleven.

  “Can we see if there’s something on the radio?” Rachel asked from the backseat.

  Andrew offered nothing in the way of disapproval, so Clarissa took it upon herself to check. She turned on the radio and tapped the scan button.

  The first three hits were static, the fourth a grainy station that played country music, followed by two more empty slots of air.

  “Why is there so much static?” asked Rachel.

  “Why do you think,” Valentina said, a little more harshly than necessary.

  Finally, the signal settled on a classic rock station where Pink Floyd sang about being numb.

  A bright orange mailbox drifted into view on the left side of the road. Clarissa made out the number “118” and the name “Railley” before Andrew slowed and pulled into the partially overgrown dirt drive.

  “What was it you're coming for again?” asked Valentina.

  Andrew straightened out of a turn.

  “I lent Tom and Helen a flatbed trailer a few months ago. I just want to get it back.”

  “A trailer? Why do you need a trailer all of a sudden?”

  Andrew’s eyes shot to the rearview to find Valentina before returning to the road.

  “I don’t ‘need’ it all of a sudden. I just…It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to the Railleys. With all that’s been going on, I haven’t checked to see how they’re doing. I guess you could say this is as much a courtesy call as it is an errand. They’re good people, and I just want…”

  …to make sure they’re still here, Clarissa said to herself, finishing the sentence in her head that Andrew couldn’t say aloud.

  The truck rolled lazily uphill through dense brush. Branches and overhanging limbs scraped the sides, but Andrew didn’t seem to care. After almost a minute of forest driving, a home finally emerged through the trees. Andrew continued forward until he reached the front of the house, where he parked and idled. He scanned the area before killing the engine.

  Clarissa peered through the windshield at the Railley’s home. While quaint, it was nothing like Andrew’s. Standard log cabin design stood in for the detail-rich features found in Andrew’s forest retreat. Architectural elements were at a minimum, function taking the lead over form. A utilitarian porch beset with potted plants and flowers led to a standard wood door. Along the side of the house was a garden, beside it, an aluminum shed so small it could only accommodate yard tools. Save the miscellaneous rusted-out antique plows and strategically placed rotting wood barrels, which the Railleys used as decorative lawn ornaments, the overgrown yard was largely vacant.

  Andrew got out of the truck.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Anyone home?”

  No one replied. Andrew took a pair of steps then stopped and placed his hands on his hips.

  “Tom? Helen?”

  “Maybe you should’ve called first,” Valentina said through the window of the truck.

  Andrew delivered her a brief but irksome look. “I did.” He walked around the side of the house and peered into the backyard and garden. Seeing no one, he headed for the front door, climbed the six-step rise, and knocked.

  Clarissa stepped to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Do they normally meet you when you visit?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Nine times out of ten they’re working in the yard when I pull up. But in the off-chance they’re inside, they usually come out to greet me. They say they can hear my truck coming up the drive.”

  Clarissa did a three-sixty to confirm she saw no one.

  Andrew walked to the edge of the porch and stared past his truck. Clarissa followed his gaze to a gravel parking area—a Toyota Tacoma and a flatbed trailer sat idle.

  “That’s their truck. So they’re here.”

  “Could they be sleeping?” Rachel said, her feet crunching rocks as she walked over.

  “I suppose it's possible.” Andrew scratched his head and regarded the house again before turning back around. “Well, I don’t think they’ll mind if I hooked up my trailer. Maybe they’ll rouse in the meantime.”

  While the reasoning was sound, Andrew didn’t seem very convinced of it. He crossed to his truck and climbed back behind the wheel, continuing to steal glances at the house. He searched the windows and craned his neck to peek into the side yards and nearby forest. But no one appeared. Even after the ten minutes it took him to hitch the trailer to his truck.

  “Something’s not right,” he said finally.

  Clarissa walked with him as he started back for the house.

  “Could they have gone into town?” she said. “Perhaps been caught by all that’s happening?”

  “I don�
�t see how,” Andrew replied. “The Tacoma’s their only vehicle.”

  “Could they be on a walk or a hike or whatever?” said Valentina. “Lots of trees up here.”

  Andrew shook his head. “Not likely. Helen’s got a bad hip, and Tom wouldn’t leave her and go solo.” He stomped back up the stairs to the door and knocked again. “Tom?” Knock! Knock! “Helen?”

  Still, no answer.

  Andrew placed his hand on the knob and turned. The door opened.

  “It’s unlocked?” Rachel said. “Is that bad?”

  “It’s always unlocked,” Andrew said, stepping inside. “Not much need for locks out here since there aren’t any neigh—” No sooner did his feet cross the threshold than he buried his face in the crook of his elbow.

  Clarissa and Rachel slammed their palms over their faces, as Valentina, who had just reached the porch, recoiled from the powerful, nauseating odor that wafted past everyone to reach her.

  “Jesus!” she exclaimed behind a partially covered grimace. “What the hell is that smell?”

  “Tom! Helen!” Andrew cried out. He stormed into the house.

  Clarissa started to follow him but stopped after a trio of steps when she noticed the state of the home's interior. Furniture had been smashed and tables upturned. Glass littered the floor, and the walls were peppered with holes that could have only come from gun blasts.

  “Oh, my God, Andrew,” she said, as she stumbled after him. “What happened here?”

  But Andrew didn’t answer. He stood motionless in the doorway of the kitchen and stared blankly ahead of him. Even from her obscured view of his expression, Clarissa knew things had just taken a turn in the most horrific way. The smell should have been enough to tell her all she needed to know, but she still moved up beside Andrew and peered into the kitchen.

  She whirled around instantly and dropped to a knee, but it still wasn’t fast enough. The image had already seared onto her brain. Her stomach threatened a complete evacuation. She gripped the door frame to keep herself from sinking any further.

  “Clar?” Rachel said, approaching. “What is it? What’s in there?”

  “Is it them?” Valentina said, her voice ratcheting in intensity. “It’s them, isn’t it? Oh my God, oh my God...”

  It took everything Clarissa had to gather her wits and push herself away from the door to intercept her friends. They didn’t need to see what she saw, didn’t need to have those images haunting them in their sleep for the rest of their lives.

  “Come on,” she said, tears brimming. “Let’s go outside.”

  “Clar, what is it?” Rachel insisted. “What’s in there?”

  Clarissa ensnared Rachel’s arm with her own and snatched Valentina by the hand. She led them forcefully out the front door then turned back to look at Andrew. He had stepped into the kitchen and pulled a tablecloth off the dining room table. He crossed the room with the bright, festive covering over to a place she couldn’t see then reappeared in the doorway without it.

  Shock set in.

  Clarissa released her friends and staggered sideways. If not for Valentina’s quick reaction and vise-like grip on her bicep, Clarissa would have tumbled down the stairs.

  “Sit over here,” Valentina said, leading Clarissa to a rustic wood bench made from the pieced-together remnants of durable sticks and branches. Clarissa sat heavily and felt the world sway beneath her.

  How could one human being do that to another? To an elderly couple? Worse yet, it looked as if the person or persons who had committed the atrocities enjoyed it. Clarissa tried to purge the images that cluttered her mind and twisted her stomach: the chairs, the rope, the terrible injuries, the blood…oh, Christ, she saw so much blood. But it was the vacant stares of fear and death that sought permanency behind her eyes, the visages of people she had neither known or met before who would forever cement themselves as poster children for a new age of violence and cruelty.

  “Just breathe,” Rachel whispered soothingly. Clarissa did everything she could to heed her friend’s advice.

  Andrew appeared in the doorway. His face was a carbon copy of Clarissa’s, the sadness in his eyes immeasurable.

  “We need to go,” he said. “Now.”

  “Just give Clar a sec,” said Valentina. “She’s really shaken u—”

  “Now, I said!”

  Andrew didn’t wait for Valentina’s response or give anyone the opportunity to engage him in a debate. He plodded for his truck, hopped in, and started the engine.

  “Asshole,” Valentina muttered. She placed an arm around Clarissa. “Think you can walk?”

  Clarissa spat and felt the tingling sensation that had hijacked her face begin to leave.

  “I think so. Yeah.”

  Valentina and Rachel helped her to her feet and down the stairs, but not before Clarissa took one final glance inside the house. The majority of her view into the kitchen was mercifully obstructed, but she saw enough to catch the tail end of the tablecloth Andrew had used to cover the bodies. She didn’t recall seeing any red in it before he removed it from the table.

  Andrew pulled forward. Rachel and Valentina met him in the drive and eased Clarissa into the truck. Rachel, who was the last to get in, had barely closed her door before Andrew tore away.

  “Take it easy, man!” Valentina barked. “Rach’s barely in the truck!”

  Andrew said nothing.

  Clarissa watched him from the back seat. He fought against his emotions. Had he been alone, she thought he would have broken down and cried for the loss of his friends. But not now. Not in front of her, Rachel, and Valentina. He wouldn't allow weakness in this new era of savagery.

  As the truck fishtailed down the drive back to the main road, Clarissa felt certain of two disturbing truths: the first was that she, Rachel, and Valentina would likely never leave Andrew’s property again. The second was that Tom and Helen Railley’s mutilated bodies would not be the last ones she saw before it was all over.

  CHAPTER 21

  They ate dinner in silence. Not a single person spoke. Not during the meal. Not during its preparation. The clanking of cutlery on plates was the only thing that staved off absolute quiet.

  Andrew barely looked up from his dinner. Clarissa had been watching him, trying to assess the best way to aid him in his time of grief. But this was new territory. It was one thing to have a cordial relationship with someone where base pleasantries and idle chit-chat sufficed to fill out a conversation, but it was something else when that superficiality suddenly required emotional depth and understanding. Clarissa realized she possessed neither when it came to Andrew.

  He was upset and internalized his feelings. Was this his go-to coping mechanism? Did he always turn inward during traumatic events? Clarissa had no clue. But she knew sorrow when she saw it, and on a scale of 1-to-10, Andrew measured very near double digits.

  Valentina and Rachel felt it too. All through dinner, both exchanged worrisome glances with Clarissa. Is he going to snap now? Valentina’s expression seemed to say. Is there something we can do? Rachel’s raised eyebrows conveyed. Clarissa could only respond with shrugs. She just didn’t know, and as the sole person who had vouched for Andrew in the first place, everyone looked to her for cues on how to handle the situation.

  The problem was, Clarissa was still dealing with her own lingering shock. She had never seen a dead body before. Ever. Not like that. Torture and death as portrayed in movies were far more kind to their victims than what she witnessed today. What she saw existed beyond the realm of human understanding. And yet a human had done those things. Had taken the time to bind an aging couple to a pair of dining room chairs and inflict the sort of wounds that would make even the most diehard enthusiast of gore-porn movies wince. Perhaps on a subconscious, metaphorical level, that’s why she had passed on Andrew’s roast and stuck to vegetables tonight.

  “I’m sorry about your friends,” she said before she considered whether she should have.

  Andrew raised his
head but returned to staring at his plate. “Thank you.” He busied himself by cutting into his baked potato but ultimately gave up and set his knife and fork down. “They were decent people. They…they didn’t deserve what happened to them.” He sipped his wine, which he served in a juice glass.

  “Why would anyone have done that?” Rachel said, seizing the opportunity to participate. “What possible reason could they have had?”

  Andrew found her eyes. “Reason? There’s no ‘reason’ for what happened to Tom and Helen. Nothing could rationally explain why they were made to suffer and die.”

  “No, of course. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.” Rachel bowed her head and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

  “In times like these,” Andrew continued, “there’s never a reason for unrepentant violence. There’re only those who relish lawlessness and the people who pay the price for it.”

  Valentina cleared her throat. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience. Beyond today, I mean.”

  The look Andrew leveled at Valentina was so abrupt and incendiary, Clarissa thought his eyes might catch fire. But whatever rage had temporarily gripped him, he fought it off. Swallowing a slow, steady breath, he rose, collected his dishes, and deposited them in the sink.

  When he turned his back, Clarissa issued Valentina a swift, silent condemnation.

  What the fuck is wrong with you? she mouthed.

  Valentina lifted her shoulders innocently: What?

  He washed in silence for several minutes. It made Clarissa nervous. She was beginning to question this new living arrangement, but she reminded herself that Andrew had just suffered a terrible loss. Though tragic, it reinforced the notion of safety in numbers. For that, she could abide a lot.

  “You girls can take first sleep,” Andrew said abruptly, as he turned and faced the table. “I'll wake you around five or so. That work for everyone?”

  Clarissa, Valentina, and Rachel silently consulted one another before nodding.

  “If you want,” Clarissa said, “I could stay up with you. You know, so you didn’t have to do it alone.”