The Nightworld

by Jack Blaine

  After we rearrange all the boxes, Dad starts cooking some dinner. He’s not a bad cook, and tonight it looks like he’s going all out—steaks and fried mushrooms.

  “Don’t know when we’ll eat like this again,” he says while he splashes some cooking wine on the steaks.

  “What do you mean?” I’m doing the salad, like I always do. I try to focus on chopping the carrots so I don’t lose a finger.

  Dad shrugs. “I don’t know how things will be, Nick. Let’s eat first, and then we’ll talk.”

  We eat in front of the TV. It feels weird, sitting here acting like everything’s almost normal. Nothing is normal. But I really don’t know how else to act. I barely even know what to think, so I’m trying not to think at all.

  Dad keeps switching channels like I did, but finally he stops on CNN. Anderson Cooper stands in front of a green screen with a huge caption that reads SHOULD YOU BE AFRAID OF THE DARK? After about three minutes of listening to Anderson talk with his D.C. correspondent about how the government has no comment at this time, Dad hits the mute button. He heaves a huge sigh and picks at his steak.

  My phone vibrates. It’s Charlie.

  We r leaving soon. My stepdad knows some guy and he thinks we’ll b safer in

  That’s all there is. The display goes blank. I push the power button a couple of times, but nothing happens. “Dad.”

  “Hmm?” He doesn’t look up from his steak.

  “Does your phone work?” I hold up my blank display so he can see. He puts his plate on the coffee table and half stands, gets his phone from his back pocket. I can tell by his face that his display is blank too. He turns up the volume on the television, and I think we’re both relieved when Anderson Cooper’s voice resumes. We’re not so relieved when we hear what he’s saying, though.

  “. . . plans to restore cell service in those areas as soon as possible, but gives no indication what may have caused the disruption. New outages are being reported as we speak. Meanwhile, authorities claim that the curfews being imposed across the nation are merely precautionary and temporary in nature.”

  Dad and I just look at each other. He lets the television drone on for a few more seconds and then clicks it off.

  “Okay, Nick. We need to eat and then hit it. I’m going to be getting you up at the crack of . . .” He falters. There is no dawn anymore, it seems.

  “Where are we going?” I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here, in the house I grew up in, and spend the summer taking Lara Hanover to pizza. Instead, because my scientist dad did whatever the stupid government asked him without even wondering if it was right, the world’s going to end or something and who knows if I’ll even get to see Lara before school starts again.

  “I think we’ll head west.”

  This pisses me off in a way I can’t even explain. “You think we’ll head west? You think? For the guy who caused the whole mess, you don’t seem to be too sure about anything.”

  He doesn’t say anything to that. No “I didn’t cause this, so shut up about it,” no “Stop mouthing off to your father.” Nothing. He just looks tired. He finishes his steak and stands up to take his plate into the kitchen. On his way past me, he stops and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Get to sleep soon, Nick. We’ll be leaving very early.” He waits to see if I say anything, and when I don’t, he slowly walks away. I hear him rinse off his plate and set it in the sink.

  “Nick,” he calls.

  “What?” I don’t care how mad I sound.

  “Take the gun with you when you go upstairs.” He must have seen it lying on the counter, where I left it when he came home. I hear his footsteps on the stairs going down to the basement and then nothing.

  I push my steak around with my fork, but I’m not hungry. I try the phone again a couple of times, but service doesn’t come back. Finally I trudge into the kitchen and clatter my plate into the sink without rinsing it. I start up the stairs, but I turn around on the third step and go back for the gun. Better safe than sorry.

  Chapter 8

  I wake out of a sound sleep like I’ve been plunged into icy water, to the sounds of splintering wood. Disoriented, I blink my eyes furiously for a minute, trying to place the noise. It sounds like someone’s kicking down the back door. Then I hear low voices, men’s voices, first from the living room, then the kitchen. Before I can react, there’s a hand over my mouth.

  “Get up and get in the closet. Don’t make a sound.”

  It’s Dad. He’s crouching next to my bed, holding a gun in front of him. When I don’t move, he turns to look at me, and his eyes are scary—so intense and focused. This is not a joke. I scramble out of bed and grab the gun on the nightstand. I’m not going to hide in some closet—I’ll fight right next to Dad.

  “No!” Dad hisses at me in the dark, and I feel his hand grip my biceps hard. “Get in the fucking closet. And don’t come out, Nick, no matter what you hear.”

  I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m still groggy from sleep and the way my dad’s talking to me—it doesn’t even seem real. If it weren’t for the slightly sour smell of his breath, I’d think it was a dream.

  The voices downstairs get more intense, and Dad shoves me toward the closet.

  “Dad!” I whisper. I want to say something else, anything, and I can tell he wants to as well, but he just puts a finger to his lips and pushes me backward.

  I pull the door closed and try to bury myself behind the coats and junk. It’s still not much cover. Then I hear feet pounding up the stairs, and then Dad’s door being kicked open. They sound like they’re tearing the room apart.

  And then they kick in my door. I hear them sort of stumble against each other when they see Dad—it sounds like there are at least three.

  “Drop your weapon,” says one.

  “Watch yourself. Don’t forget we need him alive, genius,” says another.

  “Why do you need me? Do you think I would go with you?” Dad asks. “So I can help you destroy the world? Not a chance.”

  “Don’t get smart,” the first voice says. “You know why.”

  “The light will come back,” Dad says firmly. “If I can’t bring it back, someone else will.”

  Then I hear him shoot. His gun sounds like a bomb going off in the room. One of them screams; Dad must have hit somebody. When they shoot, which they do right away, the phffft of silencers is all I hear. That, and the sound of impact when the bullets hit my father. I can’t breathe. I know if I make a sound, I’m dead.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it! Orders were alive.”

  “He was shooting at me!”

  “Search the place, see if there’s anything—”

  I hear the crackle of a two-way radio. I can’t make out the words, but they sound urgent.

  “Over.” One of the guys in my bedroom responds to the radio voice. “You heard him, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “But what about the device? His son—he was supposed to be here tonight.”

  “We don’t have time. We’ll get him as soon as he goes to the cops. They’re always so predictable. As far as the device—”

  I hear more radio crackling. Something about “central,” and “abort.” Then the guy who must be in charge says, “All right, we’ve got our orders. We’re done here.”

  I hear their feet on the stairs again, and then nothing.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, huddled on the closet floor, gripping the gun so tight that my knuckles are bloodless. My face is wet. I realize I’m shaking, and I try to take some deep breaths to calm myself. I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand.

  I’ve got to think. Think straight.

  Dad’s gun made a lot of noise. I know the Robinsons, our neighbors to the north, are on vacation for the week, because they asked me to take in their newspapers while they’re gone. I think the neighbors on the west side, the Johanssons, are gone too, but I’m not sure. If they’re not, there’s no way they missed that shot. I’
m going to have to go look out a window and see if there are any lights on at their place. Maybe they could help—maybe they already called the police.

  But that means opening this closet door. And going out into my bedroom, where I know without a doubt that my father lies dead on the floor. When I open this door, everything changes, forever.

  Some part of me understands that it has already changed. But another part resists while I turn the knob, while I crack the door open just enough to confirm that the men have gone. Let it not be changed. Let the world go back to what it was just a day ago. I want to scream when I see him, crumpled in the shadowy room, lit only by the baseball nightlight he got me the year Mom died, when I started being afraid of the dark. I don’t know why I kept it; I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.

  He’s sitting by the side of the bed, slumped forward. I pull him up and see the three stains on his shirt, still spreading. He’s not breathing, and it’s so clear that he won’t, ever again. I’ve never seen a dead person before, but all the things I’ve read about how you can tell right away are true. My dad isn’t here anymore. There’s no life in him, no rise and fall of his chest, no light in his eyes. There’s just a body. I settle him against the side of the mattress and close his eyes.

  I don’t know what else to do.

  It doesn’t feel like I thought it would either. After my mom died, I was terrified that I’d somehow lose my dad, too. I’d lie in bed imagining a million different nightmares: Dad getting in a car accident, Dad getting in a plane crash, Dad getting cancer, Dad falling out an open window. I know it’s sick, but I was testing myself, trying to see how I would feel if it really happened.

  And now it’s happened and I realize I never imagined him getting murdered.

  When I reach up and rub my eyes, I realize that my face is wet. I’ve been crying this whole time and I didn’t even feel it. Because it feels like nothing.

  There’s no time to dwell on saying good-bye. I have to get out of here. If I’m lucky, nobody heard the gunshot, but I don’t feel very lucky right now. And even if the neighbors didn’t hear, who knows if those men are coming back.

  Think.

  The cord around my dad’s neck catches my eye. The key to the lab cabinet, the one Dad labeled OPTIMUS PRIME. Whatever’s in there is important, so I better grab it. I reach out and touch the cord, and the act of taking it off his neck breaks me. The sobs catch me by surprise, hard, retching heaves that double me over. I can’t look at Dad. I can’t, because if I do this will all be real. I force myself to move, to get the key and his gun. A quick peek out the window reveals only darkness at the Johanssons’, and no other signs of life on the street. I go to my dresser, grab some underwear and shirts, a pair of jeans, and shove them all in my backpack. I pull on another pair of jeans and lace up my tennis shoes. I can’t bring myself to look back when I leave the room.

  I know I have to go to Dad’s room—he keeps the key to the basement in a magnetic key hider under his bed. I wonder if he knew that I know that. I cross the hall and push the door, already ajar, open wider. His room has been tossed—the mattress is upended and the drawers in his dresser are all pulled out. When I grope under the bed, I find his magnetic key holder still stuck to the bed frame—they must not have had time to look under there. I grab it and get up to go, and hear a crunch. I look down, and see that I’ve stepped on a picture frame. It’s the framed print of Dad and Mom on their honeymoon. They went to Hawaii, and they’re standing on a beach, the sun shining down on them, big smiles on their faces, their arms around each other. They look young and happy. I shake off the broken glass and slide the photo out of the frame. I want it. I stick it in my back pocket for now.

  I practically fall down the stairs to the lab and head straight for the cabinet Dad showed me earlier. I jam the key into the padlock, but it sticks. Forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, I remove the key and reinsert it carefully. This time it turns. The cabinet door opens smoothly. Inside, it’s empty—save for a small box. It’s made of some sort of metal with a complicated latch on the side of it. I try to figure it out, but I can’t get it open and I don’t feel like I have time to waste right now. I shut the cabinet back up and lock the padlock. If someone comes looking, maybe it will buy me some time if they think something is still in there.

  The closet full of supplies is calling my name. I eye the water, wondering how many cases I can get upstairs fast. There’s a duffel bag hanging on a hook inside the door, and I fill it with as many packs of dried meat and fruit as I can fit. I shove one of the sleeping bags on top and tuck the box with Dad’s gizmo in its folds. Then I haul six cases of water upstairs and stow them in the car. I start to lock up the house, but then I realize there’s really no point. I shove the garage door open by hand so there’s less noise and check the street. Nothing. The Subaru starts, its engine loud in the dark night, and I ease out of the garage into the street.

  That’s when I realize I have no idea where I’m going.

  Chapter 9

  For the longest time, I just sit in the car in the middle of the street, engine idling, no idea what to do. I think I must be in shock or something. Everything feels far away. My house looks totally normal. There’s isn’t anything about it that would indicate a man was just shot to death in it. Our street looks the same as it always does at night, lit by the safe glow of suburban street lights. But nothing is normal, or safe.

  I take out my phone and start to text Charlie, but I can’t get a signal. Then I remember his text about how they were leaving. I look at it again. Leaving soon, it says. Maybe he’s still home, and I can go with him and his parents to wherever they’re headed. I try to text again, but there’s still no signal, so I put the Subaru in gear and drive the seven blocks to Charlie’s house. It’s seven blocks I’ve walked, biked, and driven so many times in my life I don’t even look at the houses I pass anymore. But tonight I do. Tonight I wonder how long these houses will be like this—when I look at them I flash on shaggy lawns gone to seed, chipped paint, smashed windows.

  The house looks dark, but they could just be in bed. It is the middle of the night, after all. At least that’s what I tell myself. I park in their driveway and try to be silent when I shut the car door. The neighboring houses look just like they should at this time of night—interior lights off, porch lights on. I slip up the steps to the front door of Charlie’s and ring the bell. I can hear it inside, but nobody comes.

  The garage door is shut, so I can’t tell if the car is there. I sneak around back and open the gate to the backyard. It’s so dark back here that I almost fall over a huge bag of dog food someone’s left on the ground, torn open. I hear a low growl, and in the dimness I can see a pair of eyes glittering up at me.

  Tank’s here.

  Tank, a hundred-pound mutt who looks like a cross between a German shepherd and a bloodhound, is seven now. He’s been Charlie’s steadfast companion since he was nine years old—the year Charlie’s mom divorced his real dad. The fact that Tank’s locked in the backyard with a food supply tells me that something is really wrong. Tank’s not a backyard sort of dog. He’s a spoiled house dog, who sleeps in Charlie’s room on a huge dog bed that is as thick as my mattress at home. Mrs. Bradley says he needs the support because he’s “big boned.” Mr. Holzer, Charlie’s stepdad, isn’t as crazy about Tank, but I can’t believe they left him like this. I bet Charlie is pissed.

  “Tank.” I don’t like the sound of the growl, but I’ve known Tank since I was nine, too, so I’m hoping he’ll be happy once he knows it’s me. “It’s me, buddy, Nick. C’mere.” I grab a handful of dog food from the bag and crouch down, holding it out to him. He noses the air and I say a few more encouraging words. Finally he walks up to sniff my hand, and I see that his back legs are trembling.

  “Oh, Tank. Poor guy.” I smooth his fur and scratch him on the chest, his favorite place in the world to get scratched. This seems to make him feel a little better. “What happened, buddy? Why’d they just leave yo
u here?” He looks up at me with those sad brown eyes, and I swear he’s trying to tell me. “Well, let’s see if we can get in the house, Tank.”

  I check the sliding door in back, but it’s locked. So I swing up onto the half shed that sits under Charlie’s second-floor bedroom and try his window. Unlocked, of course. We sneak in and out of Charlie’s house all the time, ever since his mom married Mr. Holzer. He’s pretty much a control freak, so we’ve had to get by on sneakiness in order to do anything.

  I switch on the light and check out Charlie’s room. He has a bunk bed and the top bunk, where he sleeps, is unmade, but that’s how it always is, no matter how many times his mom tells him to make it. Some of his drawers are half open, but it’s more like he was in a hurry grabbing stuff, not like somebody was searching his room. I don’t see his jacket in the closet—he wears an old army jacket that has a name patch embroidered with the word Tiny. I never got the joke, but he loves it. I check his other stuff. Laptop, phone, iPod, all missing. Underwear and sock drawers, empty.

  They are definitely gone.

  I go downstairs to the sliding glass door where Tank is waiting and let him in. I lock it after him. He seems to be relieved to be back in the house, but he keeps looking around, like he wonders where the family is now.

  “Aw, buddy. They had to go, I guess. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” Tank follows me around the house, whining softly while I look for some sort of clue to where Charlie’s family might have been headed. I don’t see anything that would tip me off. Just a lot more evidence that they left in a hurry—dinner dishes half empty and still on the table, the kitchen sort of a mess. His mom is a little anal about things being clean, and she never would have left it like this if there had been time to clean up. I check the garage from the door off the kitchen: no car.