Thunderland

by Brandon Massey

  “Before I tell you why, you better sit down,” Jason said, sitting on the porch swing. Looking puzzled, Brains sat beside him.

  Jason told him what the Stranger had done to Blake and the other boys. “Oh, my God,” Brains said, his eyes huge behind his glasses. “This guy is ... crazy. I can’t believe he killed those kids.”

  “It’s my fault,” Jason said. “If I’d jumped out of that tree yesterday, maybe—”

  Brains grabbed Jason by the arm. He shook him hard. “That’s bullshit, Jason. Do you hear me? So what if you didn’t take the fall out of that tree? You didn’t wish anyone dead, and you didn’t kill anyone. The Stranger used you to murder those guys, and he’ll have to answer for it. You won’t. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” Jason said. “But I feel sick. God, why did he have to kill them? I only wanted them to leave me alone. I didn’t want them dead!”

  Brains released Jason’s arm. “I know you didn’t. It’s the Stranger’s fault—he uses some kind of warped logic that I’ll never understand. You just stay tough, Jason. You’ve shown a lot more courage than most people would have. I respect you more now than I ever have before, and you were already high on my list of respectable people.”

  Jason smiled halfheartedly. “Thanks.”

  They sat in silence.

  Around them, the neighborhood geared up to celebrate the Fourth: barbecuing, cutting grass, blasting party music. People happily ignorant of the terror roaming within the town.

  Finally, Jason rose. “Come on, let’s call Shorty. I don’t know what we’re going to do next, but we’d better think of something. Soon.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Shorty’s mind was whirling when he finished talking to Jason on the telephone. The Stranger had killed Blake and his buddies. Man, that was sad. As he feared, the Stranger was starting to show them what he was really about. He was an evil, insane ... damn, Shorty didn’t know what to call him. He was just a thing that should not have been allowed into the world.

  Before Shorty had answered the phone in his bedroom, he had been munching on a barbecued rib that he’d sneaked off the backyard grill. He had been ravenous before, but now the sight of the half-stripped bone sickened him. He hadn’t liked Blake or either of his boys, but they were only kids. They had not deserved to die. Thinking of them gone forever spoiled his appetite.

  He slapped on his Chicago White Sox cap and went outside. Since Brains lived across town, it usually took about ten minutes to reach his house. As Shorty pedaled his bike across the city streets, he thought about his girlfriend. He wanted to see her. They had been going steady for a month, and they had kissed really kissed-only the week before, for the first time ever. The memory of her luscious lips had stayed with him, and he yearned to drop everything, visit her, and drown himself in her kisses. He was tired of this Stranger shit.

  But he had to stick with Brains and Jason. He could never desert them. They were like brothers to him.

  Five minutes into his trip, as he moved to cross Northern Road, he braked to a stop.

  He could not believe what he saw.

  Northern Road, a four-lane thoroughfare that formed the hub of Spring Harbor’s downtown, was completely deserted. No cars were parked in front of the stores; all of the restaurants, shops, and gas stations appeared to be closed; and not a single vehicle rolled along the blacktop. It resembled the business district of a modern-day ghost town.

  Although he suspected what he would see, he checked his watch. He was right. The digits were frozen.

  Damn.

  His hands tightened around the handlebars.

  He rarely had nightmares, but he had experienced several lately. The worst of them was exactly like this. Trapped in Thunderland. Isolated with the Stranger. Powerless.

  Charcoal clouds swarmed in the sky and amassed into a thick, bulging mantle. Like the footsteps of an approaching giant, thunder resounded.

  Was he really alone there? Or were Brains and Jason awaiting him at Brains’s house, as they were in the real world?

  One way to find out. Go there. Where else could he go, anyway?

  Steeling himself for the journey ahead, he started riding across Northern Road.

  When he neared the center of the street, explosive thunder cannonaded the clouds, and a freezing downpour gushed from the resulting breaches. The rain felt like frozen needles on his skin. He swore under his breath at the Stranger.

  On the left side of the next road, the First Bank of Spring Harbor loomed, a rectangular brick building with a huge parking lot. The parking lot was empty except for a shiny black car that idled in front of the bank.

  Shorty stopped, staring.

  Similar to a BMW sedan yet bearing none of the markings of the famous auto, the sleek, jet-black vehicle faced the street, the urine-yellow headlamps burning holes in the sheeting rain. Tinting as dark as onyx filmed the windows, and the chrome grille gleamed. The windshield wipers swept slowly across the glass, in a hypnotic motion that beckoned him to come closer and take a look inside the car.

  He shook his head as if clearing away dust.

  It was obvious who sat inside the vehicle. He did not need to sneak up and peer through the window like some fool in a horror movie. Hell, if someone had offered him a million bucks to peek inside, Shorty would have told him to shove the money where the sun didn’t shine. Such a powerful aura of evil surrounded the sedan that Shorty would not have been surprised to see the Devil himself sitting behind the steering wheel.

  The car’s engine revved. Like a panther that had awoken with a big appetite.

  In what was probably a lame attempt to pacify the driver, Shorty took his feet off the pedals. He coasted slowly down the sloping road, dragging his shoes on the slick pavement, watching the car as he might watch a Doberman pinscher. When he passed through the headlight beams, he shielded his eyes, yet he felt a heat similar to that he experienced whenever he stood before a pile of burning leaves.

  Out of the hot glare at last, he slammed his feet onto the pedals and raced pell-mell down the street.

  The car roared and thundered after him.

  Thomas had not slept at all the previous night. He’d lain on the living room sofa, feeling worse than he’d ever felt in his pathetic life. He was scared to death that he would lose Linda. He had finally taken steps to assume control of his future, but it might be too late for him to keep one of the two people in his life who mattered the most.

  Linda did not speak to him during the rest of the evening, did not even look at him. The next morning, she was the same. It was as though he were invisible to her.

  He was invisible to his son, too. Earlier that morning, Jason had come downstairs and left the house without glancing at Thomas or saying a word. Thomas had no idea where the boy was going.

  He felt like a spirit walking among the living. The painful truth was that he deserved every bit of it. Nevertheless, he yearned to communicate with his family.

  In the past, he had kept The House of Soul open for business on the Fourth of July. This year, he allowed the restaurant to stay closed for the day. His staff were appreciative. He was in no mood to work.

  Late that morning, Linda was in the kitchen, preparing food for the family’s holiday cookout. He wanted to talk to her. He could not stew in silence any longer.

  He went to the kitchen doorway and watched her. She went about her business, fixing deviled eggs at the counter. She hummed a tune softly. She did not look at him.

  “Linda,” he said.

  She ignored him.

  “Linda, please. I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?” She continued to work on the eggs.

  “We can’t go on like this.”

  She said nothing. Her attention was focused on preparing food.

  “Jason needs us,” Thomas said. The words popped out of him, unplanned.

  Abruptly Linda stopped. She appeared to be surprised.

  “What made you realize all of a sudden that
our son needs us?” she said.

  Thomas shrugged. “He seems ... distant. He walks around the house like we’re not even here. Seems to come and go as he pleases.”

  “There’s a lot that you don’t understand about Jason,” she said. “I don’t understand him myself half the time. He’s smart and stays out of trouble, and he loves his granddad—he went to Dad’s house this morning for breakfast. But after you get past the basics, he’s an enigma. I still think that he’s up to something with his buddies, but it’s impossible to get him to share any information. “

  “It’s my fault that he behaves like that,” Thomas said. “If I’d been there for him when he was younger, like a father is supposed to, all of us would get along better.”

  “It’s not all your fault. I share the blame, too. I neglected Jason while you were neglecting me.” She looked away from him, but he caught a glimpse of shame in her eyes.

  Thomas entered the kitchen and sat at the dinette table. He buried his face in his hands.

  His family was a mess. He despised his father, his wife had lost faith in him, and his son ignored both of them. How had he ever let this happen? He wished he could travel into the past and correct every misguided decision of his that had led to these circumstances.

  Linda came to the table. “We can’t dwell on the past, Thomas. As hard as it is to overcome our mistakes, we have to let them go and think about the present.”

  He looked in her eyes, and he almost asked if she had forgiven him. But he kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t push her. In time, she would forgive him. They had to concentrate on the member of their family with whom both of them needed to rebuild ties: Jason.

  “We’ll work with Jason,” he said. “He needs to be our top priority.”

  “It won’t be easy. You can’t imagine how far away he is from us. Sometimes it scares me. It’s like he has no use for us.”

  “We’ll bring him around, no matter what it takes. I have to believe that, deep down, he wants to have a relationship with us. He doesn’t want to be hurt anymore. We have to prove to him that we want to save our family. That’s the only way he’ll let us in.”

  “I hope you’re right. I really, really do.” She smiled briefly. At the sight of even a small smile from her, his heart picked up speed.

  Things were going to get better. Perhaps not today, but one day.

  * * *

  Lightning blazed the sky, almost bright enough to blind Shorty as he furiously pumped the bike pedals.

  He urged himself on: Ride, man. Ride your ass off. Get to Brains’s place, so the three of you can face the Stranger. Don’t worry that Brains and Jason might not be there, because they should be; they will be; they have to be.

  As if he were a fugitive fleeing across a prison yard, the car’s headlights captured him.

  Shorty skidded around a corner, almost smacking into a telephone pole. He regained his balance and stole a glance behind him.

  The sedan careened around the corner, tipping sideways like a car in an action movie, the two tires that remained on the pavement spinning and smoking. After the vehicle completed the turn, the airborne wheels banged back onto the street. The searing headlights found him again.

  He bounded onto the sidewalk.

  The pursuing car vaulted the curb and tore across the ground, dodging trees and fences as deftly as a motorcycle. The sidewalk on which they raced trembled, the vibrations rattling through the handlebars and into his hands.

  Shorty cycled into a front yard, then into the backyard of the same property. The Stranger did not follow, but Shorty kept moving. He cut across several backyards, entered an alley, followed that gravel path for a few blocks, went through more backyards, crossed a street, rode across another alley, another backyard, and then stopped under a vacant carport beside a large Victorian house, which was as dark as every home he had seen there.

  Heart thudding, he listened closely.

  Other than the sound of rain drizzling onto the roof of the carport, he heard nothing.

  Although terror coursed like kerosene through his veins, he could think clearly enough to recognize his location. He was about two blocks from Brains’s. Roll onto the street ahead, turn left, pass two stop signs, go a little farther, and he would be at the door. That wasn’t far, was it? He could make it. He was fast. Too fast for the Stranger.

  Okay, if you’re so fast, get your ass out there.

  He crept down the driveway until he had a clear view of the road. He peered right, left. No sign of the Stranger.

  Maybe he had lost him. Or maybe the Stranger was playing with him, letting him enjoy a fake sense of security before he stomped him. The asshole loved to play games. He was worse than a bratty kid.

  But Shorty sensed that waiting for something to happen would be a bad idea, so he got moving. After checking both ways again, and again seeing no one, he shot toward Brains’s.

  He had Brains’s house—where lights shone—in sight when he heard the Stranger’s car, roaring louder than ever. He looked behind him. The black car screeched around the corner, in the same stunt-car fashion that it had earlier.

  He pumped his legs hard, splashing through cold puddles. The Stranger’s hated headlamps found him. Shorty rode harder. He could not die, not here, not like this. He was too young to die; he had years and years of living left, and he had never treated anyone badly, so life could not be this cruel to him. God would have mercy on him and deliver him from this monster.

  He bounced across a flooded gutter and jumped over the curb. Brains’s well-lighted home stood three houses away.

  The headlights intensified, burning his back. He heard the car growl hungrily. He could not look behind him. He could only ride and hope.

  He rode into Brains’s yard. He could feel the car at his back, the heat from its grille spewing like flames from the nostrils of a dragon. The porch beckoned, twenty feet away but seemingly much farther. He lowered his head, gritted his teeth, and forced every ounce of strength he had remaining into his throbbing legs.

  When he was about ten feet away from the steps, he felt the car smash into the bike’s rear tire. Thrown off balance, he flew over the handlebars, sailed through the air, and smacked onto the hard ground and rolled like a crash-test dummy across the lawn.

  He blinked slowly. His body was a snarl of pain. Blood, grass, and mud obscured his vision. He wiped his eyes with one scraped, bleeding hand ... and wished he had left the grime over his eyes.

  The black sedan rumbled toward him.

  He tried to scramble away but could not move. His body felt broken, useless.

  He gnashed his teeth. Suddenly, he was not frightened anymore. He was pissed off at God. Why did he have to die like this?

  As the car rolled over him, crushing the life out of his body, darkness enveloped him, and his enraged question fell on the deaf ears of a great void.

  Jason and Brains sat on the veranda swing, waiting for Shorty to arrive. As they waited, they did not speak much. The death of an acquaintance, whether loved or disliked, influenced you to sit still and quietly contemplate life—and how abruptly it could end. Jason had seen many mysterious happenings, but death was the greatest mystery of all, and he could not understand why God had let Blake and his friends fall into that unfathomable void.

  Immersed in those thoughts, he contemplated the wooden strips of the porch floor.

  Brains tapped his arm.

  Jason jerked up. “What?”

  “Did you hear that?” Brains said.

  “Hear what?”

  Closing his eyes, Brains paused, listening. He said, “A weird noise. Like a jet flying somewhere far away, but different, somehow.”

  Jason listened.

  “I hear it,” he said. “What is that?”

  Brains shrugged, but his eyes remained attentive. The noise grew louder. It sounded like an approaching airplane. An unusually loud airplane.

  “It’s probably a military jet,” Jason said. “This is the Fourth of July,
Brains. You know they have air shows and stuff today. I bet that’s all it is.”

  “Yes,” Brains said. “You’re probably—”

  A powerful gale arose, stopping Brains in midsentence. Cold and sharp, the wind tore across the veranda, whipping the bench from side to side and rocking the hanging plants. The odd, jetlike roar doubled in volume.

  Jason and Brains jumped up. Expecting the worst, Jason looked at his watch. The digits ticked steadily.

  They leaped onto the sidewalk. They scanned the crystalline blue sky. No airplanes flew overhead.

  “What’s going on?” Brains turned in circles, gazing skyward.

  “What is that noise?”

  A premonition grabbed Jason’s stomach. “Shorty.”

  Before Brains could ask what he meant, the roar escalated into an eardrum-piercing scream, the gust swirled like a mad dervish around them, and then Jason heard a deafening whoosh!

  Covering their heads, they dropped to the grass.

  Less than ten feet away from the porch, a few feet above the ground, an invisible force ripped open an aperture in the air, as if the real world were merely fabric that could be torn apart. The otherworldly hole was a ragged circle the diameter of a garbage can. It pulsed and glimmered, the surrounding air charged with alien energy that raised the hairs at the nape of Jason’s neck.

  Although fear prevented Jason from getting to his feet, he gazed into that supernatural portal, and it was like viewing a storm through a window. He realized that he was looking into Thunderland.

  Beside him, Brains, too, stared raptly at the spectacle before them.

  Just as Jason wondered if the Stranger might emerge from the hole and slay them, a Chicago White Sox cap whirled out like a Frisbee.

  Shorty ...

  Bile rose in the back of Jason’s throat. He tasted it, as bitter as grief, and choked it down.

  The spinning baseball cap plopped onto the steps. Instantly, the shimmering door to Thunderland closed. The wind and the strange noise ceased. Silence reclaimed the day.