The Wide Game

by Michael West

  This was it. The meltdown Paul feared would happen if Sean died, and this was not the time or place for it. There was still a long way to go. “Danny, I’m sorry about Sean. He was one of my best friends too, but right now we gotta get outta this damn field.”

  Danny’s reflective eyes hardened in the dimness. “What was his favorite color?”

  “What?”

  “You were such good buds. What was Sean’s favorite color?”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t –”

  “It was red. Did he like McDonald’s or Burger King better?”

  Robby tried to step in. “Danny, what the fuck –?”

  “You two may have been his friends, but you didn’t know him. A few hours ago ... Jesus ... hours ...” His eyes traveled to another place and time for a moment then snapped back into the reality of the shed. “We were playin’ a game, laughin’ about who was getting what from what girl and what pranks we were gonna pull on the last day of school. I’ve known him since kindergarten. Twelve years, man. He’s been there practically my entire fuckin’ life and now he’s ... now he’s dead. He’s never gonna drink another beer, never gonna graduate –”

  Deidra’s face lifted from Paul’s shoulder. “Sean’s dead?”

  Paul nodded helplessly in reply.

  Her lip quivered and she shook her head. “Did Mick kill him?”

  “No.” Paul couldn’t hide his confusion. “Why would you think that?”

  Deidra answered through tears, “Because Mick had a knife.”

  ***

  Crows launched into the womb of light, and Mick’s first impulse was to fall onto the dusty earth and cower in a fetal position. Then, he saw his backpack and remembered Danny’s knife. With it, Mick could slice the crows as he sliced the corn leaves. This impulse gained strength, sprang forward to devour the first, and he reached out for the blade.

  Mick rose up, left arm thrown over his face, knife erect in his right hand, and the birds surged around him in a fast-flowing torrent of feathers. Their heads and bodies thudded against him like beanbags hurled by a pitching machine, nearly pushing him off balance. There were so many of them.

  Where did they all come from?

  Talons scratched Mick’s face, drew three lines of blood and scraped his glasses from their perch. It seemed to happen in slow motion. The thick lenses grew larger, the wire frames came into view, and then they tumbled end over end into a blurry haze. He didn’t hear them shatter – the flock was too loud in his ears – but, broke or not, there was no way he could stop to retrieve them. He was prisoner to the living current of crows.

  I’m like Velma in Scooby-Doo! he thought with an odd mix of amusement and horror. I can’t see!

  It was the last thing he allowed himself to think.

  Mick slashed at the fluttering, squawking crows. The knife did its work well. Bodies came apart like jigsaw puzzles of feathers and flesh; wings flew off by themselves, heads corkscrewed to the ground, disembodied beaks mouthed the words to the surviving flock’s shrill song. He bisected one of the birds, a red line of blood stretching out, tethering the pieces together; it flew back into Mick’s face, painted a stripe of war paint across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes slammed shut and his face contorted in disgust. He felt his stomach and privates twirl, fighting the urge to vomit as he hacked and slashed a path through the pecking congregation.

  And still the river of birds flowed undaunted.

  “Danny!” he called. If asked about the knife, Mick would simply say he took it as part of the game. Danny had been none the wiser, and, while Skip hiked with them, Mick felt protected.

  “Paul?”

  He heard the words echo through the caverns of his skull, but there was no way anyone else could hear them over the insane clamor of the birds.

  The knife in Mick’s hand resembled an Indian totem, painted red and covered in black feathers, but the blade remained sharp. He pushed forward, slashed blindly, and the ground became littered in plumed anatomy.

  They’re thinning out.

  Mick jumped at the sound of the voice in his mind. He peered beneath his scratched and pecked arm, watched the fog fade from white, to gray, to charcoal. His first thought was that the crows had smashed the light, then that the battery on Paul’s camcorder had gone dead. When he finally cleared the black cloud of feathers, however, he realized the light had not grown dark but distant.

  Someone had taken off with the camera.

  Mick broke into a clumsy sprint, the mist on his skin like cold rain, his heart throbbing in time with his feet. He had to strain to see the light now, and, a moment later, it disappeared into the fog.

  He was alone, lost in shadow.

  Mick froze in his tracks. Feathers fell from the knife and he bent over, hands on his knees, his labored breaths coming in puffs of white smoke. He looked around, wondered what he should do, then shot upright.

  There, in the distance, another light.

  At first, it was as small and as dim as the glow of a lightning bug. Then it came closer, swinging back and forth like a lantern on a rope. Above the light were three pale, glowing faces made fuzzy by Mick’s naked eyes. Despite the cold, he began to sweat. No one in their group had brought a flashlight, and Paul’s camcorder spot just ran off in the opposite direction.

  A familiar voice called out, “Hello! Can anybody hear me?”

  It sounded like Mr. Cupello – teacher, head of the Harmony High Music Department, and leader of the Marching Rebels. A long, loud sigh escaped Mick’s lips and became a nervous chuckle of relief. He waved his arms in the thick air.

  “Over here!”

  The glowing faces jerked in Mick’s direction and the light below them swung faster. Soon, they were within a few feet of him. Blurry or not, he knew that it was Mr. Cupello. The man looked like Groucho Marx, black-framed eyeglasses firmly anchored to a bulbous nose, and, below that, a bushy black mustache. His hair was slicked back to form a dark skullcap, and he wore the same suit he’d worn to all of their performances. Although there was no way to see the pattern of the man’s tie without glasses, Mick was certain it would be musical notes.

  The other faces had to belong to Sheriff Carter and Deputy Oates. Mick could tell both were in full uniform, their badges shining smudges in the aura of the flashlight. Their faces were glowing blobs to Mick, and there was no way for him to know what expressions they held.

  Mr. Cupello shined his flashlight beam in Mick’s unfocussed eyes. “Mr. Slatton, is that you?”

  Mick suddenly realized he must look like a kid from The Lord of the Flies, covered from head to toe in dirt, gore, and feathers; he still held the knife. “Yes, sir.”

  One of the uniformed blurs spoke. “What the hell happened to you, son?”

  It was Sheriff Carter.

  Mick pointed off into the fog. “Sean Roche got hurt diving into the old quarry –”

  Carter held up an indistinct blob for a hand. “We know all that. The whole town knows about it by now. We’ve had kids calling the station for hours. As soon as we figured out it wasn’t some senior prank, we started lookin’ for you kids.”

  Thank God, Mick thought. Deidra’s plan worked. The others had called for help. Now they would all be safe. They would all be going home.

  Suddenly, he remembered what Danny had said about Dale Brightman. “Sheriff, somebody’s been killed out here.”

  Carter nodded. “We found the bodies.”

  Bodies? Plural?

  The third blur spoke up. “It’s Skip Williamson.”

  Mick’s heart raced again, his hand squeezed the slick handle of the knife.

  “We’ve got a warrant for his arrest.” It was Deputy Oates. “He’s a dangerous son of a bitch. We’ve got orders to shoot him on sight.”

  Carter nodded the smudge that was his head. “Killin’ Skip’d make us heroes all right.”

  Mick blinked, wiped blood and feathers from his

  face with the back of his hand, and tried to f
ocus. He wanted to see their expressions. Their voices were serious, but they had to be joking. Police didn’t still give “shoot to kill” orders, did they?

  For Skip they would, his tired mind was convinced. It’d be self-defense.

  The Oates blur nodded at Mick as if he’d heard the boy’s thoughts. “This town’d be better off without Williamson, that’s for damn sure.”

  The shape that was Mr. Cupello nodded at the policemen, then turned back to Mick. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, Mr. Slatton?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it’s almost over now.”

  And then, filtered through his corrupt vision, Mick saw Mr. Cupello smile. It would be the same smile he’d flash when no one missed a note, full of joy, confidence, and pride. Mick could not help but smile back.

  The sheriff spoke up again, “We’ll get the others and bring them back here so the helicopter can pick us all up.” The black blots of his eyes went to Mick. “Will you be okay here alone for a few minutes?”

  Mick nodded. It’s over, he kept thinking. It’s all over.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “But Sean’s in real bad shape.”

  “Don’t you worry about your friend,” Carter told him. “We’re here now.”

  Mick drew in a relieved breath. Thank God. Thank God.

  “Just don’t go wandering off,” Oates warned. “We wouldn’t want you getting lost in this damned fog.”

  And with that, the hazy figures moved off in the direction Mick pointed out to them, became one with the rest of Mick’s foggy surroundings, and he was alone again. The fear had faded from him, however. Soon they would be out of this mist, out of these cornfields, and away from the crows. Better still, Skip would no longer be a part of his life.

  Skip Williamson would be dead or in prison.

  ***

  Deidra’s eyes darted across the walls of the shed. It looked as if they’d somehow come loose from their moorings and now rolled around in their sockets.

  She’s in shock, Paul realized. She’s confused. After all, why would Mick have a knife? If anybody had a knife it’d be ... Skip.

  Skip. Now that made sense. Skip kills Dale, hangs him in some mockery of a crucifix, then throws away his blood-soaked jacket before meeting up with Danny and the others, just like Danny said. Then tonight, when he realized they were close to the scene of his crime, Skip retrieved the murder weapon.

  Elementary, my dear Deidra. Elementary.

  Danny went to the door and opened it, allowed eddies of razor-fine haze to swirl into the shed.

  “What the hell are you doin’, Fields?” Robby asked in an explosive cloud of breath.

  “Nancy’s still out there,” he answered with surprising calm.

  “So are the crows.” Robby crossed his arms over his chest for warmth. “So’s whoever killed Dale.”

  Deidra’s eyes floated over to him. “Mondamin’s out there.”

  “Give me a fuckin’ break, Deidra.”

  “Give her a fuckin’ break,” Paul said.

  “Great.” Robby looked at the tin roof and shook his head. “That’s just beautiful. I can’t believe we’re having a serious conversation about Miami mojo bullshit!”

  “You’re the medic.” Paul nodded at Deidra. “Can’t you see she’s in shock?”

  Folded canvas drop cloths sat stacked on the floor behind the lawnmower. Robby snatched one up, flicked it open, and handed it to Paul. “Wrap this around her. It’ll keep her warm.”

  “Thanks.” Paul wrapped the canvas around Deidra, then held the camcorder out for Danny. “If you’re going, you’d better take the light.”

  “I’ll try and make it fast.”

  Paul shrugged. “Just bring back our friends.”

  Robby jumped up and down in the dirt, rubbing his arms. “Since I’ll freeze my nads off just standin’ here, I’ll go with you.”

  Danny gave him a slight nod.

  “We can’t stay here alone in the dark,” Deidra moaned, her gaze drifting.

  Paul held her chin in his hand, forced her to look at him. “Do you trust me?”

  Tears sloshed over the rims of her eyes. “Yes.”

  “I’m gonna be right here with you. Nothing’s going to happen. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  She nodded in his hand.

  Paul ushered her over to the corner of the shed. There were cardboard boxes there, each containing two large bottles of weed killer according to the stencil on the side. Paul placed his hand on one and pressed down, made certain the box was full and would hold their weight, then he sat Deidra down and knelt in front of her.

  “I’m gonna lock the door behind these guys so nothing can get in, then I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded, still trembling beneath the blanket.

  Paul backed away from Deidra with great reluctance, counting how many steps it took to get to the door so that he could find his way back to her in the dark. One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... and six.

  Robby rubbed his arms and hopped. “You could’ve offered me the jacket, Rice.”

  Paul gave him a harsh glance. “It had Dale’s blood on it.”

  “Blood I can handle,” Robby replied. “This cold sucks.”

  “Sorry.” Paul turned his attention to Danny. “Good luck.”

  Danny nodded, his eyes still on the fog; he gave Paul a rough pat on the shoulder. “We’ll be right back.”

  “Just don’t bring the crows back with you.”

  Robby stepped outside. “If you get bored, you can start us a fire.”

  “I’ll just take our shelter apart for the wood.”

  At that, they both chuckled uneasily.

  In one quick motion, Paul pushed the door closed, swung the latch shut, and turned to face Deidra. When people talked about coming darkness, he’d always heard them say it fell. It wasn’t like that at all. Paul watched as it filled the interior of the shed like an oil spill, flooded over the tire tracks and lawnmower, washed across the walls and ceiling before it finally swept the boxes and doused Deidra’s shivering form in its cold, black embrace.

  “Paul?” she called out, her voice shaky.

  “I’m right here.”

  Paul took his first step.

  One ...

  The darkness was total, absolute. There should have been moonlight, but the fog blotted it out, diffused it. Even if there had been no fog, the greasy windows would not have allowed light in.

  Two ... three ... four ...

  A scraping sound, like someone dragged nails across the wall, followed by a loud clang of metal against metal.

  Paul nearly lost control of his bladder. He froze in place and searched the dark, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. There was a beat of silence and then Deidra called out for him.

  “I’m okay,” he whispered back.

  “There’s something in here with us.”

  “No, there’s not.”

  The shed had been empty. He was sure of it. There had been four walls, a lawn mower and ...

  The tools on the wall.

  Of course. The rake or the pitchfork had fallen from its peg and banged into the shovel. That’s all it had been.

  “Something just fell off the wall,” he said aloud.

  “What fell?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What fell?”

  There was real terror in her voice now.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated calmly, trying to hide his own escalating fear, trying to remember what step he’d been on. Was it four? Or was it five? If he said four and it had really been five, he’d just bump into the boxes a little early, but if he said five and it had really been four ... he didn’t want to reach out and feel nothing there.

  Four ... five ...

  Another sound: the pitter-patter of paws accompanied by the squeak of an animal. It could’ve been a mouse, a rat, or even a bat, something small that had hidden itself away from the Sony’s light. If the state of affair
s had been different, being locked in a totally dark room with Ben would have been a horrible thought. As things were, however, Paul felt great comfort in the fact that there was no knife-wielding bogeyman lurking in the shadows with them.

  “It’s just a mouse,” he told Deidra.

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah ... a little.”

  Her voice was very close now.

  Paul took another step, and, when he reached out, he felt the canvas blanket and Deidra beneath it. He moved quickly into its protective fold, and she hugged him so hard he thought one of his ribs might have broken.

  “It’s all right,” he told her, trying to calm himself at the same time.

  Paul pulled the canvas tight around them and Deidra rested her head on his shoulder. It felt good to have her body against his, and the warmth they generated fought off the cold, at least for the time being.

  “Are you scared?” she whispered with quivering lips.

  Paul kissed her forehead. “Yes.”

  “Remember what you said this afternoon? About wanting to be together at the end?”

  “This isn’t the end,” he assured her. “Just rest a minute. The birds will all be gone soon, and Danny’ll find everybody safe and sound. Just rest.”

  “Paul ... when I tell you I love you, you know I’m not just saying it right? You know I mean it?”

  “I know,” he said. “I mean it too.”

  As he sat with Deidra in the dark, Paul looked through the nothingness toward where he knew the door sat locked, thinking about Danny and Robby. He hoped they would find Mick and the girls, hoped they would all get home safe. Most of all, he hoped they would bring back the light.

  ***

  The light abandoned Cindi, left her in a black world where the air was alive with feathers, claws, and beaks. Her fingers raked the soil, gathered it beneath her pink-painted nails as she tried to crawl away. Two of the birds became tangled in her hair; their talons pulled, sent bursts of pain across her scalp and squeezed tears from her eyes. She shrieked into the ground, pushed a cloud of vapor and loose dirt into the air around her face.

  “Let go!” She reached up and slapped at the birds with her hands. “Let go of me!”