The Secret: A Thriller

by David Haywood Young

  George was back.

  * * *

  That night Rebecca came back and bustled Abby below, into the basement. As I watched, she cuddled my daughter. An inhumanly long and thin tongue extruded past her lips…and her fangs…to lick my daughter’s face. My right hand tightened on the shotgun I was carrying as I’d followed them inside.

  But Abby leaned into the creature. “Good night, Mommy,” she said, and settled herself in her sleeping bag.

  The Rebecca-thing turned, barely glancing my way—but she did give my injured leg a good sniff—and left the basement.

  I settled in next to my daughter, but sleep didn’t come easily. Twice during the night I heard helicopters and gunfire. Once, I heard screeching follow.

  I wasn’t sure what to think about that. I didn’t wish any harm to…the creature.

  I decided I would just call her Rebecca. She obviously still loved her daughter, and had even protected me from George—who was almost certainly her new mate.

  But Abby needed to be around actual people. I didn’t want to raise her in a hole in the ground in the woods, with her not even allowed to walk around.

  Not that I really expected our current situation to last—nothing, since the day this had all started, had remained stable. For any of us.

  But I still planned to get my daughter away. Not just away from Rebecca—but away from Henge entirely.

  If I could.

  * * *

  In the morning George was still hanging around. Was this normal, for whatever species they’d become? Did the females hunt and the males guard a nest? It didn’t seem likely to be a good division of labor, assuming pregnancy incapacitated the females at least partially, but on the other hand whatever they did couldn’t exactly be described as the product of evolution…if Tim was right, they were just doing whatever they wanted. Did they even have any instincts? If so, were they the same, or even similar, between one individual and another?

  I picked up a rock and threw it against a tree. George glanced my way.

  “Hey, buddy!” I called. “Raise your right hand if you understand a damn word I say!”

  George looked away.

  “Seriously, George—mind if I call you George?—how much of a person are you?”

  No answer.

  “George? Are you banging my wife? And either way—is she still in there? Her mind? You love her for her mind, don’t you man?”

  George shook his head irritably, yawned—displaying his fangs—and bounded away into the woods.

  “Yeah, right!” I called after him. “Run away! Coward!”

  I heard a giggle behind me, and turned. Abby stood in the doorway to the basement, covering her mouth with one hand. “He is banging your wife, Dad,” she told me.

  I stared at my daughter. I knew she knew what that meant—Abby had always been good at picking up things her mother and I would have preferred she didn’t—but why in the world did she think it was funny?

  It wasn’t because she was…changing…was it? Physically, or…well, she had to be reacting mentally to all the disruption, but…

  “Daddy?” she asked, after a moment. “Is this our home now?”

  “Maybe we can find a new home before too long,” I told her. “Meanwhile, want to read me a book?”

  Inside, while my daughter read to me from Harry Potter, I gathered some tools and some ammunition into a backpack, and stored it in a corner.

  When we got a chance to go, I wanted to be ready to leave immediately.

  * * *

  George gave a warning hoot.

  Just to test the waters, I’d left all supplies behind and gone on a walk with my daughter. I didn’t see George or Rebecca anywhere, but we’d wandered in ever-wider circles.

  Abby looked up at me. “This is as far as he lets me go,” she said.

  I hadn’t told her what we were doing, but I suppose it was obvious. “So let’s walk around some more, at about this distance,” I said. “Maybe he’ll relax eventually.”

  But he didn’t.

  * * *

  That night Rebecca seemed sullen. She didn’t look at me much, and stayed out of Abby’s reach too.

  I figured it was a good sign, as long as she didn’t decide to eat us.

  She’d brought us another rabbit. Abby offered her some cooked meat—and I almost laughed watching her roll her eyes and eat it. I guess it tasted pretty awful to her…for a moment our eyes met, and it was as if we were sharing a joke without speaking, as we’d always been able to do in front of the kids.

  But then George gave a dissatisfied grunt, and Rebecca turned to face him. Giving me another sly glance, she grabbed some of my cooked rabbit and took it to her mate.

  He eyed her for a moment, then ate it. And his hand rubbed his belly in a circular motion. “Mmm,” he said.

  Abby broke up. Rebecca hooted and jumped up into the trees, and George followed.

  I chewed more rabbit.

  Okay. They weren’t just animals. Were they people?

  * * *

  The next day I got the manual pump for Great-Granddad’s well to function. Not that I knew anything about the mechanism—basically I figured I had nothing to lose, so I alternated prying on it with a crowbar and beating it with a hammer. It worked fine. Eventually.

  George had followed me, and stuck close, though he grunted irritably about the noise I made.

  I filled all our water jugs and offered him one. He jumped down from the tree, walked over to me, and took it from my hand.

  I watched, fascinated—I still didn’t trust him not to eat me. Or otherwise dispose of me. Wasn’t I a rival?

  Or maybe I was giving myself too much credit. Maybe, from his point of view, I was just his mate’s annoying housepet.

  Rebecca, being a dog person—um, before, I mean—hadn’t really liked Mr. Claws. But she hadn’t eaten him. So that boded well, didn’t it?

  Well. I grinned in spite of myself as George poured water on his head, then took a swig. As far as I knew she hadn’t eaten my cat. He’d just gone into the woods—these woods—one day, and hadn’t come back. Rebecca had clearly had repressed carnivorous tendencies all along. So…maybe…also, what the hell was up with her trying to tell me we should become vegans anyway? Seriously? Repressed much?

  George splashed the last of the water from the jug on my face, hooted in derision, tossed the jug back to the pump, and ambled off.

  “Asshole!” I yelled, grinning in spite of myself.

  George looked back, flipped me off, and hooted laughter again as he leapt into a tree and bounded away.

  I stared after him.

  Okay. They no longer spoke English—although for all I knew George had only spoken Latvian or something before the change anyway—but they clearly had at least some memories left over from their human existence.

  I still missed my wife, by which I meant the version of her I’d married. But maybe…maybe she was still mostly here.

  If so, I’d been an ass. Hadn’t I?

  * * *

  That night I tried smiling at Rebecca. She seemed startled, then happy. Abby laughed a lot all night, and I could see I’d been making the situation…however bizarre…harder on my daughter than had been strictly necessary.

  George grumbled a little. But I didn’t think he was too serious about it.

  After Abby went to sleep, I unwrapped my bandage again. The bullet wound still throbbed from time to time…and seemed redder, more inflamed.

  I limped over to our medical supplies, thinking I’d try hydrogen peroxide. But the basement door opened.

  I stared as Rebecca poked her head in, eyed my naked body, sniffed the air and gave a sort of disgusted cough.

  She came closer, still sniffing the air.

  Oh God…what was she going to…?

  I picked up a blanket to cover myself, but she reached out and moved it aside. She lowered her head—fangs and all—to my inner thigh and began to lick the wound clean.

  I stood very, ver
y still. And let her do it.

  Finally, she gave a satisfied grunt, flicked the end of my situationally shriveled penis with the side of the two-inch claw on her forefinger, and hooted softly in laughter.

  Then she left.

  Hey, I told myself, trying to wrap my head around what had become of my life. Dog saliva is supposed to be antibacterial. Hadn’t I been thinking she was a dog person?

  I used the peroxide anyway. And had very odd dreams.

  But the wound looked better in the morning.

  * * *

  Two days later I was walking in the woods, still trying to come to terms with my own bizarre—to my way of thinking—willingness to adapt to this new world, when I spotted a couple of kids.

  They were probably half a mile away, on a nearby mountain and crossing a field—but I froze anyway.

  They moved normally, like teenagers, and were even holding hands. But I wasn’t willing to assume they weren’t dangerous. Possibly even from a distance, without coming closer to me. I stood watching the mountain long after they’d disappeared, thinking of the boy with faceted eyes who had allowed wasps to climb inside his mouth.

  George met me halfway back to the basement. I’d only been a mile or so away. He only got so close, and sniffed the air, then stopped and gazed at me reproachfully.

  “Hey,” I told him. “I was scared. People smell bad when they get scared.”

  He bared his teeth in agreement, then ambled off in the direction from which I’d come.

  “Be careful, man!” I called after him. George waved a hand in the air—responding to my words, or my tone? I still wasn’t sure.

  * * *

  George didn’t join us at the basement that night. We’d developed a sort of evening ritual involving a campfire and cooking. Rebecca and I would both try to make Abby laugh.

  Rebecca seemed fretful. Did she know where George was? I tried asking her, but she ignored the question. Still…“No fire tonight,” I told Abby. “Let’s get inside.”

  My kid had picked up on the tension, and nodded. Rebecca gave an approving grunt and wandered off.

  It was the first time since I’d arrived that she skipped giving Abby a goodnight slobber.

  Later that night I heard them. Hooting individually, seeming to chant together in groups, occasionally giving voice to a howl I could feel in my bones, more of the Hunters—what I’d decided to call people like Rebecca and George—were moving through the woods. They passed near our basement. I barred the door from the inside and sat in utter darkness listening to my daughter’s even breathing.

  An hour after, I heard explosions. Then helicopters overhead and automatic weapons—not close, thankfully.

  Abby woke up and crawled into my lap as I sat listening.

  “Dad?” she asked me quietly. “Do you think Mommy and George are okay?”

  I hugged her, and stroked her hair. “I hope so,” I told her.

  I was startled at how strongly I meant that. I didn’t know where we were going, what the world would throw at us next. But however odd we’d become, we were a family.

  Which reminded me of Robbie. Where was he? I couldn’t imagine he’d have chosen not to come back to us, if he’d been capable.

  In the dark, I tried to find a way to believe my son was still alive. And then realized I was mostly thinking about him at that moment because I was so worried about Rebecca—and even George.

  Morning was a long time coming. Several times I wanted to open the door and peer out, just to see if I’d spot one of our two Hunters crouched nearby.

  But I didn’t do it.

  * * *

  A scratching sound outside the basement, but nearby, woke me. That, and a subdued, querulous hooting. I scrambled to the door, unbarred it, then shoved it open and peered out.

  George stood there. He seemed—indecisive? I’d become used to his stoic acceptance of fate. But today he flicked his eyes and ears around as if wary of attack.

  “Hon?” I called back into the basement. “Time to get up.”

  George nodded approvingly at this, then shouldered me aside to pick up the pack I’d readied in case Abby and I got a chance to leave. I’d spent hours staring at it over the last few days. I’d come to doubt I would ever be ready to use it.

  George tossed my pack onto the dirt and leaves outside the basement door, gave me an unreadable glance, and left the basement. I followed, and saw he’d jumped up into his favorite live oak. He wasn’t looking at me. As he crouched, I could see his knees were shaking.

  I swallowed. “Abby? Hurry, please.”

  I propped the door open and stepped out into the day. I didn’t see Rebecca anywhere.

  By itself that was fairly normal—what a word—these days. But I could feel that things had changed. George, visibly split between worry and anger, twisted around to face me. He bared his fangs and screeched…quietly, but I got the gist of it.

  Time for us to go.

  George was no longer wearing his jockey shorts. I knew what that meant, no matter how much I didn’t want to.

  * * *

  “Dad? Are you sure he’ll let us leave?”

  Abby was eying George in his perch. I put a hand on her shoulder. “I think so, Abs,” I told her, and winced. Rebecca had called her “Abs” during the pregnancy, after we’d decided on a name.

  “Where do you think Mom is?”

  I shrugged and tried to keep my voice light. “Out scouting, maybe.”

  Abby nodded and finished packing her clothes, a couple of books, and a stuffed porpoise into her bag. “Or maybe she’s dead.”

  She wasn’t looking at me. Standing completely still, with her back straight and her chin up. I rested a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s hope not, baby girl.”

  But I knew she was right. So did she.

  We originally tried setting out in the direction of our house. George didn’t like the idea. He stood in front of us lifting his arms…looking like he couldn’t quite decide whether to screech or curl into a ball.

  I walked up to him and offered a hand. “I can tell you’re hurting, pal. And I get that you’re trying to protect us. It’s not safe here anymore, right?”

  Of course he didn’t answer. Or take my hand either. But after a moment he reached up to ruffle my hair, then ambled over to Abby and did the same.

  My daughter turned her tearful face to watch George walk—no bounding today—away from us, then sit leaning against a tree.

  I took her hand, my own face damp, and walked north.

  I figured we’d try to get out of town entirely. And find out what stories the outside world had been told about us.

  George didn’t follow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Dad? Where are we going?”

  I cocked my head to the left, glad Abby was behind me and couldn’t see my face. “We’ll circle around and check the house first,” I told her. “See if…well, we’ll see what we find. Then go on from there.”

  She trudged along behind me for a while. Then: “Do you think Robbie will be there?”

  “Oh, honey.” I found a fallen tree and sat, then patted the bark next to me. “Come here for a minute.”

  When she leaned into me I put my arm around her. “Abby, I don’t know where your brother is. But I promise you, we’ll keep looking. And we’ll look for your mom too, when we can. But…George wanted us to leave, and I think that means the area’s too dangerous for us. So we can’t stay. Okay?”

  She nodded, still leaning. I wished we could sit there longer, but…“Come on. We need to get moving.”

  * * *

  Standing in the trees in the Conways’ yard, I wondered whether I was doing the right thing to take Abby with me to the house. Should I leave her in the cover of the trees?

  If she went with me, she’d be exposed to whatever dangers I found. And maybe more—something was off about the kids here in Henge, and I had no idea when or how it might affect her. But if I left her behind…well, what would she do if so
mething happened to me and left her on her own, anyway? Probably come try to find me.

  And if anyone (or anything) saw me come out of the trees, would he—or she, or it—investigate to see what I’d left behind?

  I had no idea. But I didn’t want her out of my sight. I decided we were in this together. “Okay, hon,” I said. “Just follow me. Stay close, and don’t say anything unless you see danger. If you want to talk, put a hand on my arm and I’ll lean over so we can whisper as soon as it’s safe. Got it?”

  She nodded. “Got it!”

  She sounded just as she had before all this happened, back when I’d been negotiating with her about bedtime or allowable snacks, and her voice went straight to my heart. I nodded, gave her a little hug, and started across the yard.

  The bodies in our front yard had been…gnawed. Various pieces were missing. Carried away, I supposed. The stench was what I’d come to expect from scenes like this. I wanted to say something apologetic to Abby, but forced myself to focus on being watchful instead.

  Besides, my irritating inner voice told me calmly, this was nothing compared to the reek of the food Abby’s mother had left to rot outside the old basement before I’d cleaned up the area. “Food” that was in fact rotting animal flesh. They hadn’t been cooking any of it until my return, and Abby had come through that reasonably intact. Given that Rebecca had probably often licked her daughter’s innocent nine-year-old face clean with her carrion-eating tongue, as for the smell…maybe my daughter had learned to find it comforting by now.

  I decided not to ask.

  Instead I told the inner voice to shut the hell up right now, and walked up to what used to be my front door. I figured property rights, if any, meant something different now—meaning nothing at all without an armed owner present and ready to enforce them. Yawning wide, the door invited me in…said the spider to the fly, I thought pointlessly, and I accepted the invitation because I needed to see what was inside no matter what. Abby stayed close, which still worried me but how was her waiting out front any safer?