The Music Man

by Amy Cross

  I have had vivid dreams before, but this particular dream was something else. I can still taste the egg-like sand in my mouth, and I can feel those tiny dark teeth ripping in my skin. I check my pulse and find that it's racing, but after a moment I tell myself that it really was just a dream. At the same time, I glance once again at the window and stare for a few seconds at the distant forest. For a moment I feel as if something is staring back at me, but then I'm woken from this thought by the realization that I can hear something much closer to home.

  In another part of the house, voices are shouting.

  ***

  “No, you're going to sit down and shut up!” Sharon is saying as I reach the kitchen, and when I look through I see that she's holding onto Jessie's arm and trying to pull her away from the front door. “This isn't helping anyone!”

  “Let go of me, you bitch!” Jessie yells, twisting this way and that in her increasingly violent attempt to get free. “I'm not staying here! I have to go and find some music!”

  “Get a grip,” her brother Adam mutters from his seat at the table, clearly unimpressed.

  “What did you say to me?” Jessie snaps, turning to him.

  “You heard,” he replies. “The rest of us are -”

  “Go to Hell!” she shouts, rushing at him and trying to pull him from his chair, and then she starts pummeling him with her fists.

  He pulls away and stumbles out of her reach, and then Sharon grabs the girl and holds her back.

  “How can you all be so calm?” Jessie screams, with tears running down her cheeks. “I can't stand it anymore! I'd rather die!”

  “Don't say things like that,” Sharon replies, clearly struggling to stay calm. “Jessie, we're all finding this hard, but we need you to stay strong. We can't keep arguing like this.”

  “We've been sitting around here since forever!”

  “It's been just over a week. That's really not so long.”

  “We have to go and get help,” Jessie continues manically. “I'm not going to just sit around and wait to die! We have to go somewhere else. They have to have fixed this somewhere!”

  Behind her, Donald hurries into the room carrying a metal box, which he hands to Sharon before stepping past her and grabbing Jessie firmly from behind.

  “No!” Jessie screams, suddenly flailing wildly as if she knows what's about to happen to her. She turns and tries to bite her father, but her mother has already taken a syringe from the box and quickly uses it to inject the girl.

  Jessie struggles for a moment longer, before suddenly falling limp. Her father helps her into the nearest chair, where she slumps forward and bumps her forehead against the table.

  “We have to do it sometimes,” Sharon says pleadingly, turning to me with tears running down her face. “Please don't think that we're bad parents, it's just that she's struggling so badly. The injection calms her down for a few days, that's all.”

  “I'm sure you're doing what's right,” I reply, although I can't help feeling sorry for the girl as she remains slouched at the table. “I've seen many people who find it hard to deal with the loss of music. Indeed, I would imagine that those of us in this room are in the minority when it comes to surviving. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm certainly finding it very difficult to keep my head straight.”

  “I'll find something for us to eat,” Sharon says, heading over to the counter.

  “What were you dreaming about?” Craig asks.

  I turn to him and see that he's eyeing me with a hint of suspicion.

  “You were mumbling in your sleep,” he continues. “I could hear you from the next room. I didn't want to come and disturb you, but it sounded like you were having some kind of nightmare.”

  “It was nothing,” I reply, as I glance at the window and see torrential rain falling across the yard. “Nothing at all. Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine.”

  “We're going to have to make some decisions today,” Dean says as he sets plates on the table. “I know everyone wants to hope for the best, but Craig's right when he says that we should be prepared for things to get worse.”

  “How could they get worse?” Donald asks. “Look at us, we're already struggling to keep going. By my reckoning, we've got food for about two more weeks.”

  “And that's if we don't take in more strays,” Adam mutters darkly.

  Hearing a clanking sound nearby, I turn and watch as Sharon tries several times to get water from the tap. She turns the handle first one way, then the other, and finally she turns to us with a fearful expression.

  “Let me try,” Donald says, hurrying over and grabbing the handle.

  He tries several times, before stepping back and staring at the empty sink.

  “The water's gone,” Craig says, looking around the room before turning to me. “I told you. That means things aren't getting better. No-one's fixing things. It's getting worse.”

  Sixteen

  “We have water in these barrels,” Donald explains, raising his voice to be heard over the rain as we head into the barn. “I'll put a few extra out while the weather's bad.”

  He stops in front of a set of large plastic barrels, and then he carefully removes the lid of one.

  “Damn it,” he mutters suddenly.

  Stepping forward, I peer inside and see that there are hundreds of small, wriggling worm-like creatures in the water.

  “Mosquito larvae,” Dean says, peering over my shoulder. “Nothing a few drops of soap won't get rid of.”

  “But it means the water isn't drinkable, doesn't it?” Adam asks. “Or that it's contaminated, something like that?”

  “It's drinkable,” Donald says, although he sounds concerned. “I'm going to need to come up with a better system, though. If these things can get in, then other things can too.”

  “Without water, we're really screwed,” Dean adds. “A man can go a week without food, probably longer. But even three days without water is too much.”

  For a moment, everyone stands in silence, as if we're each contemplating this worsening of our situation. I can't help staring down at the larvae. Mankind might be struggling in the present circumstances, but I suppose the impending collapse of civilization will be a boon for other creatures. These mosquito larvae, for example, certainly seem to be thriving. I suppose they know nothing of music, so to them it's as if nothing has changed.

  “Perhaps music was a curse,” I whisper.

  “What was that?” Dean asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “The power went out a while ago,” Donald says as he starts opening the other barrels, revealing more and more of the larvae. “The gas too, and the internet and TV. Water was the last thing left, the last thing that made it feel like someone somewhere was keeping things ticking over. Now that's gone, I think we have to assume that there's nobody at the wheel of this ship. We're on our own.”

  “Which means we have to look after our own,” Adam adds, in what is presumably a dig at my presence.

  “I can carry my weight,” I say, turning to him. “And if I'm no longer welcome, I can always -”

  “You're staying, my friend,” Donald says, patting me on the shoulder as he steps past. “We're all in this together, although Adam has a point. We probably can't afford to take in anyone else.”

  Adam glares at me, and it's most clear that he's irked by the fact that I'm here at all. Indeed, after a moment he mumbles something under his breath and storms away, heading back out into the driving rain and then hurrying toward the farmhouse. I should like to go after him and say something that will defend my position, but I suppose there's not much that I could say. The boy seems set against me.

  “We need to find a reliable source of food,” Donald says after a moment. “I went out into the forest the other day, on my own. I thought I could catch some rabbits, something like that, but there was nothing out there. I don't know if I was looking in the wrong places, or if I was scaring them away.”

  “Or something was s
caring them away,” Dean suggests.

  “When I was a boy,” I interject, “my friends and I used to catch rabbits. We made these little traps using some wire and a few other bits and bobs.”

  “And that worked?”

  “We were only catching them for fun, to keep as pets,” I explain. “Occasionally the wire would cut a little too deep, and hurt the rabbits, but I suppose that wouldn't be a problem right now. It's not the most humane method in the world, but in the present circumstances it would be wise to start building a few of these traps. Then, when the rain ends, we can put them out and hope for the best.”

  “You'd better lead the way and show us how to do it,” Donald replies. “Right now, it's either that or we start coming up with recipes for mosquito larvae soup.”

  ***

  “No, you loop this around the section here,” I explain, taking Craig's half completed trap and turning it around to show him. “You create a kind of slide lock that'll trap the rabbit more once it starts struggling.”

  “And then that other part attached to the post.”

  “You're starting to get it,” I tell him. “Just make sure that the main section is at least five inches wide at every point, otherwise the rabbit will be less likely to put its head through.”

  “You really grew up on a farm, huh?”

  “That was a long time ago,” I admit, as I set the trap down and take another length of wire. “I grew up in the 1950's, in a small village in Wales. Then again, I suppose some things haven't changed so much. Rabbits, for one thing. Wire traps for another.”

  “I guess you had to be smart back then,” he replies. “It must have been difficult to keep busy without electricity.”

  “We had electricity,” I point out. “I'm not that old.”

  “And is that when you first started to play the guitar?”

  “The guitar came a little later. It was my -”

  Stopping myself just in time, I realize that there's no need to go into all the details. Nobody wants to hear a sob story about a dead mother and an inherited instrument.

  We work in silence for a moment.

  “So you can still play a little?” he asks finally. “After what happened, I mean.”

  “I believe so.”

  “You could play something right now?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Do you think...” His voice trails off for a moment. “Do you think you'd run out too, if you played for a few minutes?”

  “I don't know,” I reply, feeling a little uncomfortable with this topic. “I prefer to sit the whole thing out and wait for some grand, miraculous resolution.”

  “What if there isn't one? What if the music never comes back?”

  “I can't imagine a world like that,” I tell him.

  “Sometimes I want to be like Jessie,” he replies. “I want to yell and shout. She's always been kind of a drama queen, but for once I can see where she's coming from. I keep having to force myself to be sensible. I went home when this madness first happened and there was no sign of my parents, but there was damage in the house. I wanted to go looking for them, but I told myself that the sensible thing would be to come back here.”

  “And you haven't seen or heard from them since?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I'm sure they're fine,” I add, although I feel rather foolish for offering such feeble promises.

  “I'm not sure at all,” he says darkly. “People have been going crazy.”

  “Oh, I know that,” I reply. “Just two nights ago, I saw...”

  I hesitate, thinking back to the moment when I saw poor Sarah's body. I haven't told anyone what happened to her, and I'm not sure I can bring myself to utter the words. Then again, I suppose it might be good to share, even if I end up traumatizing the poor chap.

  And then, just as I'm about to mention Sarah's name and start telling her story, someone starts yelling outside. Craig and I both turn and look to the window, and it's clear that something's happening in the barn.

  Seventeen

  “It's back!” Adam snarls, hurrying out ahead of us across the yard, carrying the shotgun. “That damn thing thinks it can come and steal our stuff in broad daylight!”

  “It's never come during the day before,” Craig says. “It's never been that bold.”

  By the time we reach the entrance to the barn, we're already soaked. The huge wooden doors are open, and the barn's interior feels dreadfully cold as we make our way past the shelves of farming equipment. I wipe water from my face, but already there's more water dripping down from gaps in the barn's high wooden roof.

  Ahead, Donald is examining the coop where the chickens are kept.

  “Did it get any of them?” Craig calls out.

  “No, they're all still here,” he replies, turning to us. “It's almost as if it's more interested in the eggs than the chickens themselves.”

  “I'm gonna get it this time,” Adam says, raising the gun and slowly turning to look around the barn. “I'm sick of some dumb monster trying to steal our stuff!”

  “Steady!” Craig hisses, as Adam aims his gun in our direction.

  “Don't worry,” he replies, “I know what I'm doing.”

  He turns and aims toward the open door, just as Sharon and Dean run through to join us.

  “Give me the gun,” Donald says firmly.

  “You always miss!” Adam snaps.

  “It's probably not even here anymore,” Craig suggests. “It always retreats to the forest when it's challenged. Whatever it is, it's either scared of us or it's weak. It's never come near the actual farmhouse. Then again, it's never come out in the day before. It must be getting really desperate.”

  I step over to the chicken coop and see cracked eggs on the ground.

  “Or hungry,” I whisper, and for a moment I think back to the orange sand that I tasted in my dream, and to the sense of extreme hunger that I felt.

  “Can you please put that gun down, Adam?” Sharon says nearby. “You're making me nervous. You're going to end up shooting someone by accident!”

  “The only thing I'm going to shoot is that creature,” he says firmly, with the gun still raised. “Dad's had enough shots, and he's never managed to take the damn thing down. It's my turn now, and you know I've got a better aim. My hands don't shake like his.”

  For a few seconds, nobody speaks. Adam continues to slowly turn, aiming the gun at the far corners of the barn, while the rest of us wait. All I can hear is the sound of rain crashing down outside, and the occasional splatter of drops that manage to slip between the slats in the roof. It's as if we're all waiting for the creature to suddenly rush at us from its hiding place, although I'm starting to think that perhaps the creature isn't actually here at all. And in my mind's eye, I've already begun to assume that the creature in the barn is the same as the creature from my dream.

  Suddenly there's a crashing sound, and we all turn and look back toward the barn's farthest end.

  “It broke out again!” Adam yells. He starts running in the direction of the sound, before changing his mind and instead racing out into the yard with the gun still raised.

  Dean and I follow, with Craig right behind us, and we stop next to Adam just as he turns and fires.

  To my astonishment, I see a dark figure running toward the forest. Even from this distance, I can tell that it's exactly the same figure from my dream.

  Adam fires again, and this time he hits his target. The creature lets out a howl of pain as it falls to the ground, and a chunk of its body – including its left arm – is blasted clean away.

  “I got it!” Adam gasps, before starting to hurriedly re-load the shotgun.

  “What is that thing?” Dean whispers, as the creature stumbles to its feet and starts limping away toward the forest. “It doesn't look human.”

  Suddenly another shot rings out, and the creature drops again. It was already a couple of hundred meters away, almost as far as the forest, and now it's slowly getting back onto i
ts feet, albeit clearly wounded.

  “Come on,” Adam mutters, still aiming the shotgun. “Stay down.”

  He fires again, and again his shot hits its target. The creature lets out a louder scream than before and slumps down onto the muddy field. And then, as Adam starts re-loading again, the creature stands and starts stumbling toward the treeline.

  “I hit it three times already!” Adam snaps. “How can it still be moving?”

  He aims again, but the figure has disappeared into the forest now.

  “It's hurt,” Adam says firmly, lowering the gun. “Time to finish it off for good!”

  With that, he starts running toward the forest, racing out across the mud.

  “Wait!” Donald calls after him. “It's dangerous!”

  “We can't let him go alone,” Dean points out. “We need to at least find out what this thing is.”

  He hurries out across the field, and after a moment Craig and I follow too. I'm already a little breathless, and running through all this mud isn't exactly easy, but I have to get closer to that creature and see what it really looks like.

  As Adam gets to the treeline and follows the creature into the forest, Craig and I stop as we find part of the creature's body on the ground. There's a dark, glistening arm, and some trailing sections that seem to have been blasted away from its chest.

  “It looks like oil,” Craig says, crouching down in the rain to get a closer look.

  “It looks exactly like my dream,” I whisper, stepping closer and peering down.

  Sure enough, the edges of the torn arm are ringed with tiny, sharp black shapes, like the teeth that seemed to form the creature's entire body. I only caught a glimpse of the creature last night when it escaped from the barn, so it's impossible that I could have picked up enough detail for the dream, yet now it's as if every aspect of that dream is starting to become real.