The Sound

by James Sperl

  “How's Elenora?” Clarissa asked Cesare. “It's a little weird that she's not here.”

  Cesare nodded his agreement. “I know. They said Nonna looked like she was in pretty good shape, but they suggested she take a few nights indoors to get some restful sleep. I couldn't believe how much room they had there for the elderly. Has anyone else been by yet?”

  Jon leaned back onto his hands. “Ev and I tried, but it started getting busy.”

  “Thankfully,” Evan sneered.

  Jon pulled Evan's stocking cap over his face before he returned to Cesare. “Decent?”

  “Better than I thought it would be. There's so much space. And they've done a pretty good job of acquiring supplies and creating private areas for patients. They've even got a section reserved for the elderly. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not perfect or anything, but all things considered, I'm pretty impressed. Plus, I feel better that Nonna gets to sleep indoors.”

  Clarissa curled her lip inquisitively. “Where is the clinic again?”

  Andrew thumbed to the west. “Right through there, at Kohl's.”

  Clarissa sat up and craned her neck to see down the narrow street that led away from the Sleep Zone, but the powerful rooftop lights blinded her against seeing beyond the surrounding stores.

  “And she's okay by herself?”

  Cesare considered this through a wince. “She wasn't at first, but once she started making some friends with people her age, I think she got more comfortable with the idea. I told her I'd be by first thing in the morning.”

  “Here we go,” Jon said, gazing up at the counter.

  Everyone twisted to stare up at the LED, where the number had switched from “228” to “229.” A single blink from the light followed.

  Rachel looked between Clarissa and Cesare. “That means only two spaces, right?” she said with a hint of apprehension.

  “Yes, so you and Cesare go,” Clarissa said, reading her friend's silent plight.

  Rachel climbed to her feet. “Are you sure?”

  Clarissa smiled. “Positive. Besides, I'll feel better if he's with you.”

  Rachel held out her hand to Cesare. He grabbed it but not before he gave Clarissa's shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks, Clar.”

  “Of course. Now get going before you lose your window.”

  “You should probably take this,” said Jon. He held up his pink Post-it with the number “230” written on it.

  Cesare gently whacked the side of his head with his palm. “Yeah, you're probably right.” He produced his own Post-it, which read “232,” and swapped it with Jon's.

  Rachel leaned over and hugged Clarissa then planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “I'll see you in the morning.”

  “You better.”

  Rachel pulled Cesare into the crowd. Both looked back and waved before it swallowed them. Not twenty seconds had passed before the counter moved on to number “231.” Again, a single blink followed.

  “We've got a winner,” Evan said, pushing himself up. “Come on, Dad.”

  “That's us,” Jon said. He looked at Andrew and Clarissa. “You guys good?”

  “We're fine,” said Andrew. He smiled, but Jon's reaction to it conveyed just how artificial it felt. Andrew followed with a thumbs up.

  Clarissa, feeling the need to fill the wordless gap that formed, threw an arm around Andrew's shoulders. “We'll be okay. And now with all you turkeys out of here, I can talk to Andrew about his new gig as a gardener.”

  Jon snapped his fingers and pointed at Andrew. “Hey, that's right. I totally forgot to ask you about that. We were all so busy talking about ourselves.”

  “Don't give it another thought,” Andrew said.

  He meant every word. When he and the others met back at Lowe's to claim their belongings—everything of which was there, sans food and weapons as promised—everyone had so many new experiences to share, so many interesting stories to tell, he couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise if he tried. Which was fine by him.

  Olivia had always told him that being an introvert was his one “fatal flaw.” For whatever reason, she used to say to him through that adorable, slanted smile of hers, people found him interesting and wanted to know about him. When they discovered he had spent the bulk of his twenties volunteering in orphanages in Southeast Asia, they wanted to find out more. When they learned he had co-founded a non-profit organization called Take Note, which provided music education and resources to underprivileged children, they leaned forward. And when they heard he had been appointed Department Head of Social Sciences at New Mexico State University at the relatively young age of forty-one, mouths fell open. Olivia had always been steadfast in her claim that Andrew was an interesting person—even if Andrew didn't believe it—but the only way anyone would ever know it was if he opened up.

  This wasn't an easy job.

  Andrew could no more be comfortable regaling folks with amusing or poignant anecdotes from his life than he could ask people to laugh through a screening of Schindler's List. He didn't do the things he had done in his life to impress people. He did them for one of three reasons: a project lit a fire in his soul, the injustice of not doing something weighed too heavily on his conscience, or because he straight up had to. Becoming a gardener for New Framingham fell with the third.

  “Let's go, Dad,” Evan said, as he tugged on Jon's sleeve. “We're going to miss our slot.”

  Jon stayed Evan with an open palm then returned to Andrew. “I want to hear all about what you're doing when we get together tomorrow. Then we should talk.” He looked at Clarissa. “All of us.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Jon,” Clarissa said. “You guys have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  With a nod and a final yank on his arm from Evan, Jon headed over to the sleep applicants desk to claim his two spots.

  “We're next,” Clarissa said, trying to sound chipper.

  “Yep.” Andrew only stared into the noisy crowd.

  Clarissa leaned onto her crossed knees. “Is everything all right? I mean beyond having to take part in the world's largest sleepover.”

  “I'm fine.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  Andrew sighed. “We've already been down this road.”

  “Ah.”

  Andrew looked at Clarissa, who pretended to pick her nails. He knew she was only trying to be supportive, just as he knew she and everyone else looked to him as the unspoken leader. It wasn't a job Andrew wanted necessarily, but he supposed he came by it honestly. He had taken charge from the moment he rescued Clarissa, Rachel, and Valentina in the parking lot that day, so whether or not he desired the mantle didn't matter—it was his. And with that title came responsibilities, not the least of which was assuring his staunchest supporter that he hadn't checked out.

  “Look, Clarissa,” he began, “I know that my little outburst earlier may have left you feeling...less than confident about me.” Clarissa glanced up at him. “I was wrong to have exploded the way I did. I'm frustrated, as I'm sure we all are, but I handled it poorly. I'm sorry.”

  Clarissa put her hand on his forearm. “That means a lot. I know how disappointing these past few months have been, believe me. We've all felt it. But...” Clarissa glanced around to make sure no one was listening and lowered her voice to the point of near inaudibility. “But now that everyone's gone, there's something I wanted to talk to you about. Something I heard today that supports our belief about Rosenstein.”

  Andrew sat in rapt attention as Clarissa relayed what Dustin told her. At first, he thought she was going to tell him of personal accounts and eyewitness testimony, both of which he was more and more predisposed to write off as hearsay. Everyone always knew someone who knew someone who had heard something. Talk was cheap and rumors even cheaper.

  But that's not what Clarissa had to say.

  Andrew felt his pulse rise when he heard that not only had mercenaries been responsible for clearing and establishing New Framingham, but also
that Clarissa's source had worked side-by-side with them while they did it.

  It was a major piece of news. His mind spun like an overworked flywheel. Mercenaries? Here? Granted, her source hadn't referred to them as such, but if they weren't directly affiliated with the armed forces then what else could they have been? More than that, how could so many of them have been here simultaneously to take over Shopper's World if not hired to do so?

  A surge of optimism blindsided Andrew: It had to be Rosenstein. Suddenly, he was hyper aware of his surroundings. He leaned close to Clarissa.

  “Did your friend say if those same mercs were still around?”

  “I didn't ask. I just assumed they were.”

  “I'd say that's a safe assumption.”

  “If what Dustin told me is true—and I have no reason to believe he's lying—this changes everything.”

  Andrew looked at her sharply. “How so?”

  “Because instead of Rosenstein just being here, I'm starting to believe they are actively here.” Andrew canted his head. “You remember what Zane and Darlene said about this place? That people went missing a lot, never to be heard from again?”

  “Yes, but given the set of rules they have in place here, it's not as surprising as it once was.”

  “Right. But what if the rules were set up for the express purpose of having that ambiguity.” Clarissa searched the air to come up with an example. “Uh, Bob didn't show up for his shift today? He must've done something to get expelled. No one's seen Mark and Stephanie for a couple of days? Oh, they must've been kicked out or decided to move on. The system's rigged in favor of vagueness. Anyone can get removed from here at any time for any reason and no one will ask why because everyone's too afraid of getting kicked outside these walls.”

  Andrew's eyes flitted beneath a deep frown. “Okay, say you're right. Then what do you think is happening? Where is everyone going?”

  Clarissa looked around once again before continuing. “I think Rosenstein set this place up for the express purpose of drawing people here so they could have a population to pull from. I think that was the entire reason for the radio message. They weren't advertising a potential solution, they were recruiting, just like we thought.” She gaped at the people that teemed around in her every direction. “I think Zane had it right when he called this place a 'farm.' It is, and I think its crop is one that's used for a very dark purpose.”

  “Which is?”

  Clarissa exhaled and let her shoulders fall. “That I don't know. But I'd wager everything I have that it has to do with the Sound and the dreams some of us have had. There's a link to all of it. I just know it. And my guess is Rosenstein is behind it. That they're...they're taking people to somehow try to solve it. I don't know.”

  Andrew let Clarissa's theory permeate his thoughts. It was all speculation—every last bit of her theory—yet nothing about it rang as untrue.

  “Andrew,” Clarissa said, hopping to her feet.

  He followed her gaze to the counter where the number “234” glowed red. His number, “233,” had already come and gone.

  “Come on,” said Clarissa, who held out a hand and pulled Andrew to his feet. “I don't know how long that's been up. We better hurry.”

  Andrew panned over the crowd, as he made his way through it to the applicant desk. Every face he saw suddenly felt suspect, each a potential wolf in sheep's clothing. What does a mercenary look like? Ten minutes ago, he had all but written off New Framingham, but Clarissa's insightful theory had reinvigorated him. Maybe Rosenstein was here after all. And if they were, so was the potential to get some answers.

  They traded in their numbers at the applicant desk for a personal attendant, who escorted them into the maze of the Sleep Zone. The middle-aged woman, who called herself Eileen, and who wore a badge that read “SLEEP STAFF,” which was clipped to a Disney World lanyard, made only the smallest of small talk, as she weaved among the seemingly hundreds upon hundreds of sleeping New Framingham residents.

  Reaching a pair of stained mattresses wrapped in plastic, she gestured with a welcoming arm, as if presenting a Presidential Suite.

  “This is you,” she said. “Seven-hour clock begins now.”

  “What happens if we oversleep?” Clarissa said.

  Eileen gave a thin smile. “You won't. Sweet dreams.” Turning on her heels, she left Andrew and Clarissa to situate themselves.

  This is the stuff of nightmares, Andrew thought. Not three feet to his left, a plump woman wearing a sleep mask snored, and the foot of his bed butt up against another one, whose occupant tossed and turned so restlessly Andrew felt assured he was having a nightmare.

  Clarissa sat on the crinkly, plastic-wrapped mattress then passed her eyes over the field of sleeping strangers.

  “Temporary,” she said aloud. Andrew didn't think she meant the comment for him.

  Each had brought a sleeping bag and a backpack stuffed with soft clothing to use as a pillow. Clarissa wasted no time laying out her bag and crawling inside.

  “I think I may just use every minute of this seven hours,” she said. “I'm wiped.”

  Andrew felt the first sparks of sleep in his eyes too. He glanced at the clock beside the LED and understood why: it was almost ten o'clock—a good thirty minutes past his usual time, back when he had a home with goats and chickens to tend to.

  Clarissa laid her head down but sprang onto on elbow suddenly.

  “I almost forgot to tell you,” she whispered. “I named the baby.”

  Andrew paused from unrolling his sleeping bag. “Yeah? What did you decide on?”

  “Naomi.”

  Andrew doubted Clarissa had chosen the name based on its heritage or meaning—it was a traditional Jewish name that meant “pleasant” or “pleasantness,” something he had learned from an Israeli transfer student almost twenty years ago—but he couldn't think of a more appropriate name to capture the baby's disposition or how she affected the rest of the group.

  “I think it's great.”

  “Yeah?” Clarissa said. “I was hoping you'd like it.”

  “Does it feel strange not having her nearby? I know it's only been a couple of days since she joined us, but...”

  Clarissa looked up guiltily. “It does. It's so weird. I was so thankful when Dustin told me that babies were allowed to sleep in the daycare center, but now that she's not here, I feel like, I don't know, something's missing.”

  “You're mother material, that's for sure.”

  Andrew slipped into his sleeping bag and adjusted his pack under his head.

  “Andrew, can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  Clarissa hesitated. “In your wallet, there was a picture. A, uh...a screen grab, actually.”

  Andrew looked at her sharply then let his eyes fall to the ground. “I had a feeling you saw that.”

  Clarissa seemed to deliberate whether she should apologize for snooping and discovering the ultrasound image, but she abandoned any attempt at a defense. Mercifully, she also decided against expressing sympathy for the loss of his unborn child.

  “When Olivia was pregnant,” she continued, “did...did you have a name already picked out?”

  The question came at Andrew like a runaway freight train.

  “Uh, did we have a name picked out? Yes. And no.”

  Clarissa lay down and waited for Andrew to elaborate.

  “I'd always liked the name Sonja. I don't know why. It just felt like a little girl's name to me. But Liv preferred something a bit more elegant in Evangeline.” He edged forward. “I hated Evangeline,” he muttered behind a chuckle. “But she hated Sonja. In the end I think we would have decided on another name altogether, but the internal debate between the two helps me to keep her and the baby's memories alive.”

  Andrew had to pause. The conversation was churning up deep emotions. He was surprised to admit that he hadn't thought about his unborn daughter's name in some time. Not after Clarissa had found his wallet with the ultr
asound photo. Not even after they discovered a live, wriggling baby stranded in a shopping cart in an abandoned market.

  Sonja.

  It would have been a good name. A fitting name. Just like Naomi.

  “Well, you ask me,” Clarissa began, drawing him back to her, “had things turned out differently, and no matter what name you eventually decided on, that child would have been one lucky girl to have had a papa like you.”

  Andrew forced a smile that took every bit of his will. “Thanks, Clarissa. Get some sleep.”

  “Okay. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Crawling inside his sleeping bag, Andrew zipped it shut and rolled onto his side so that he faced away from Clarissa. He almost didn't make it before the first tear charged down his face.

  CHAPTER 53

  The sound started as a buzzing, like a beehive incited to action. It grew and became suffused with harder noises, thumps and shuffling, which replaced the steady drone. Voices were next, overlapping and confused and peppered by the occasional shout.

  Clarissa opened her eyes.

  Andrew sat on his bed across from her, his attention calm and focused on people and places past her.

  She pushed herself onto an arm, the disorientation of waking suddenly from profound sleep hanging over her like a dense fog. She gaped blankly at others as they woke, their faces screwed into expressions of utter bafflement and concern.

  A group of people wandered past. More followed, everyone consumed with urgency, though most didn't seem to be heading anywhere with purpose. They only flocked. People all around her roused and knuckled sleep from their eyes, and soon the Sleep Zone was awake.