by Brian Keene
Springs—and had taken him to Wal-Mart and picked it out from the computers on display. Then they’d brought it home and made a big deal out of showing him how to work it. They said he’d be able to stay in touch more often, and that they could send him pictures of his grandkids instantly—he wouldn’t have to wait on the mail. He’d tried it a few times, but his curiosity had soon waned. Looking at pictures of his grandchildren on a computer screen just wasn’t the same as looking at them while paging through a photo album—and neither option compared to actually holding the kids in his arms or hearing them laugh and play in his backyard. Plus, staring at pictures of the grandkids just made his loneliness and sadness that much more complete.
TWO
At least once a day, Axel wished that he would die. If he’d had the nerve, he’d have killed himself. But he didn’t have the nerve. What if he messed up? What if he made a mistake? What if he lay there in his home, paralyzed or wounded and unable to call for help? Who would find him? The answer was nobody, because no one ever checked in on him. He was an old man living alone in an old house, with only his old, waning memories to keep him company.
He missed his wife, Diane—gone ten years now, not from cancer or a heart attack or diabetes or any of the other plagues that came with old age, but from a drunk driver. They’d taken a bus trip together to Washington, D.C., to see the cherry blossoms for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. On the way back home, a drunken driver had drifted into their lane and sideswiped the bus. The bus driver then swerved off the road and hit a tree. A few folks were injured, but most escaped without a scratch.
Except for Diane. She was thrown forward and banged her head against the seat in front of her— hard enough to cause her skull to separate from her spinal column. The doctor had called it internal decapitation. Axel had called it abandonment, and although he missed Diane every day and had been distraught over the loss, there were times when he grew angry with her for going off and leaving him behind to fend for himself. Learning to live on his own had been hard, and he still hadn’t mastered it. Even now, with a decade to get used to the idea, he still found himself opening his mouth to tell her something throughout the day, maybe a passing comment regarding something he’d read in a magazine, or a bit of gossip he’d heard down at Barry’s Market. Sometimes at night, he’d roll over and reach for her and wonder where she’d gone.
Still, he went on. He survived. What else was there to do?
Sitting on the porch at night, drinking a bottle of beer or hard cider (but never more than one; otherwise, he’d pay for it the next morning by spending an hour on the toilet) and listening to the spring peepers brought him peace and comfort—or at least as close to those things as he could get. The tiny frogs usually showed up in late March or early April. By the end of April, their nightly chorus was as ever present as the sky or the moon and stars. A million tiny chirp like croaks echoed from the riverbank and surrounding mountains. Sometimes, their song was muted, but it was never interrupted altogether. It would continue until fall, when the weather started to cool again.
A stray cat darted across the lawn. Axel called to it, but the wary animal kept running. He’d thought about getting a dog or a cat to help ease his loneliness, but had ultimately decided against it because he didn’t know who would take care of it if he passed on.
The chair creaked as Axel leaned back and stretched. He raised the bottle to his lips, took another swig and closed his eyes, letting the sound of the peepers wash over him. Diane had always enjoyed listening to them, too. Unlike most of the other things they’d shared, he didn’t get sad when listening to the frogs. Their sound seemed to buoy his spirits. Listening to them made him feel close to her.
“I miss you, darlin’. Wish you were here tonight.” Across the street, Bobby Sullivan sat on a pile of dirt in his front yard, playing with Matchbox cars. A plastic car carrier—one of the little ones that looked like a suitcase—was open before him, and more cars littered the ground around the six-year-old’s feet. He made vroom-vroom sounds as he guided the cars through the dirt. His mother, Jean, hollered for him through the screen door, telling him it was time to come inside. Smiling, Axel watched the boy linger, slowly putting his cars away, trying to milk as much time as possible before his mother called for him again. Sure enough, she did, her voice more insistent this time. Bobby shuffled toward the house, shoulders slumped dejectedly. He paused to wave at Axel. Still smiling, Axel waved back. Bobby went inside. The screen door banged shut behind him. The Sullivan’s porch light came on. The kitchen light glowed through the window. Inside, Jean and Bobby would be sitting down for supper. Occasionally, Jean brought a plate over to Axel. Most times, though, they ate as a family. Axel didn’t know anything about Bobby’s father, if he was alive or dead or if Jean even knew who he was. He guessed that didn’t matter. The two of them—mother and son—made a fine family.
He glanced down the street. For-sale signs dotted many of the yards. The signs were as weathered and faded as the houses they advertised. Weeds grew up around them, the yards not mowed since the owners had left. Axel had known most of the people who lived in those homes at one time. They’d been his neighbors, and in many cases, his friends. Now they were gone, just like Diane—passed away or moved on, living in a retirement community or with their kids or, in the case of some of his younger neighbors, some place where the economy was better and taxes were lower and jobs still existed. He wondered what would happen to his house when he died. Would it sit here like all these others, dying slowly from wood rot and neglect?
These were supposed to be his golden years, but in Axel’s experience, the only thing ever gold in color was piss. He thought about how excited folks had been at the prospect of a new president and a new beginning for the country. All that excitement had waned now. The nation was back to business as usual. Same old story. Same old song and dance. The media said things were getting better, that the economy was improving and folks were happier again. Axel thought that the media wouldn’t know what things were like for the average American even if that average American were to walk up and bite them on the ass.
Sighing, Axel sat the bottle down and rubbed his arthritic hands. The spring peepers continued with their serenade, oblivious to his thoughts, concerns or mood.
Farther up the street, the porch light was on in front of Esther Laudry’s bed-and-breakfast. Axel assumed that Esther must be happy tonight. She had a boarder, after all. That in itself was rare these days. And this wasn’t just any boarder, either. If the buggy parked outside was any indication, her overnight guest was Amish. Axel had run into Greg Pheasant earlier, and Greg had confirmed this. The Amish fella had come into town around four in the afternoon and had stopped at the garage that Greg ran with his brother Gus. He’d asked Greg if there was a hotel nearby. Greg had steered him toward Esther’s, where he’d taken a room for the night. Greg said that the guy had seemed friendly enough. After parking his buggy along the street, he’d tied his horse down near the river. Axel didn’t know much about the Amish, other than what he’d seen in that movie with Harrison Ford, but he supposed they must travel just like other folks. He’d heard tell that there was an Amish community up near Punkin Center. Perhaps this guy was on his way there to visit kin. If so, then good for him. Family was important.
For a moment, Axel’s attention was distracted by another noise—a faint, far-away groan, the sound a tree might make as it fell over. There was a distant crash and then nothing, except for the sound of the peepers. He couldn’t be sure if he’d imagined the sounds or not. His hearing wasn’t as good as it had once been. He was just about to shrug it off when he noticed that Esther’s lights had gone off. Across the street, he heard Jean Sullivan’s holler, “Oh, come on! I paid the bill.” He glanced in that direction and saw that her lights were out, as well. Then Axel noticed something else.
The spring peepers had stopped singing.
He took a deep breath and counted, waiting for them to start again.
> One . . . two . . . three . . . come on, you crazy little things. Sing for me.
He shivered. The air was growing chillier. His skin prickled and the hair on his arms felt charged.
The Sullivans’ screen door banged open. Jean poked her head out.
“Axel,” she called. “Is your electricity off?”
“I believe it may be out all over, Jean. Looks like Esther’s is out, too. Reckon a line’s down somewhere.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I thought they’d turned my power off.”
Shaking her head, she went back inside. Axel strained his ears and heard her soothing Bobby. Then he went back to counting.
Four . . . five . . . six . . . come on, damn it. Peep!
Up the street, the Marshalls’ mangy old beagle began to howl. The sudden noise startled Axel, and he jumped in his chair. The dog howled again. It was a lonely, mournful sound—not anything like the happy call a beagle made when it was chasing a rabbit. A moment later, it was joined by Paul Crowley’s bear dogs in the kennel behind Paul’s house. Then, one by one, all of the dogs in Brinkley Springs joined in. The sound was unsettling, to say the least.
“What the hell is going on?”
Then Axel remembered that there was nobody around to answer him.
He waited for the spring peepers to resume their chorus, but they didn’t. Their silence was unsettlingly loud—much louder than the dogs were. Axel rubbed his hands some more and wondered what was happening. The aching grew more severe. He thought of Diane again, but this time, he wasn’t sure why.
***
Jean Sullivan returned to the kitchen table, where her son, Bobby, sat in the dark. His eyes were big and round, and he had the tip of one index finger stuck in his mouth—something he’d done since he was a toddler whenever he was scared or nervous. She assured him that everything was okay, and then fumbled around in one of the drawers beside the sink until she found some half-burned candles and a box of wooden matches. She lit a candle, blew out the match and tossed the smoldering stick in the sink, and then walked around the first floor of their home, lighting all of the other candles she could find. Since she’d bought most of them at craft stores, the home soon smelled of competing fragrances—vanilla and strawberries and lavender and potpourri. The soft glow slowly filled the house, chasing away her discomfort. Jean wasn’t sure why, but the sudden power outage had left her unsettled. The flickering candlelight made her feel better. She walked back into the kitchen and smiled at Bobby. He smiled back, clearly feeling better too, now that they had light again.
“What happened, Mommy?”
“I don’t know, baby. Somebody probably crashed their car into a pole somewhere. Or maybe a tree limb fell down on one of the lines. I’m sure they’ll have it up and running again soon.”
“Can I watch a movie?”
“Not while the electricity is off. Maybe we can read a book tonight instead.”
Bobby frowned. “But we never read books.”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to fix that. Maybe this is a good time to start. Now finish eating. Mommy’s got to call the power company and report the outage.”
“Okay.”
Bobby used his fork to move his meatloaf and peas around on his plate while Jean reached for the phone. Normally, she was resentful of the old rotary unit. She longed to have a cell phone, but simply couldn’t afford it—not on welfare and WIC. Nor could she afford one of those digital electronic units she’d seen at Wal-Mart. For Jean, her old rotary phone with its antiquated dial had always been a reminder of all the things she couldn’t give her son. Now, it was a lifeline. The folks with digital phones wouldn’t be able to make calls because they had no power. She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear and then paused with her index finger hovering over the dial.
There was no dial tone.
“Shit.”
Bobby gasped, then grinned. “You said a bad word, Mommy.”
“Mommy’s allowed to say a bad word when the phone lines are down.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the phone isn’t working, just like the electricity.”
“Does it mean I can say a bad word, too?”
“No. And eat your peas. I’ve told you before, moving your food around on the plate doesn’t make it look like you’ve eaten any more. All it does is—”
A long, plaintive howl cut her off. Jean and Bobby glanced at the window and then at each other. Another howl joined the first, then several more.
“Why are all the dogs barking, Mommy?”
Jean shook her head. “I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”
“Maybe there’s a bear outside. Can I go see?”
“No, Bobby. Now I’m not telling you again. Eat your dinner.”
Jean moved to the kitchen window and peered outside. The barks and howls were louder now, seeming to fill the air. Outside, the street was dark, and she couldn’t see much of anything. For a moment, Jean considered going over to Axel’s house and checking on him, but then she decided against it. She didn’t want to leave Bobby alone. Jean didn’t know why, but her disquiet had returned, and this time no amount of candlelight would chase it away.
When Bobby began to playfully howl along with the dogs, she almost screamed.
***
Donny Osborne put the last box—marked on the side with black Magic Marker as PHOTO ALBUMS—in the back of his blue Ford pickup truck, grunting with the effort. Sighing, he slammed the tailgate shut. Both sounds, the sigh and the slam, had the tone of finality. He glanced down and noticed that one of his bootlaces was untied. Resting his foot on the rear bumper, he tied it again. The lace was damp from the dew on the grass. Despite the coolness in the air, Donny was sweating. After tying the lace and wiping his brow with the bottom of his T-shirt, Donny leaned back against the truck and sighed again. He tried not to look at the house because doing so filled him with sadness, but he couldn’t help himself. As he stood there, catching his breath, his eyes were drawn back to it once more.
The house seemed smaller somehow. Maybe that was because he was an adult now. Everything seemed smaller these days. His childhood home. This street. Brinkley Springs. The mountains. Hell, even the whole damned state of West Virginia seemed to have shrunk. As he stood there, Donny wondered why this was so. Was it just a matter of perspective, that he remembered these things through a child’s eyes but was looking at them now as a man? Or was it because he’d seen the rest of the world and understood now just how big it was, and how small this little section of the planet was? Was it because unlike percent of his classmates and childhood friends, he’d gone beyond the state borders and discovered that there was a whole wide world out there, a world full of different cultures and people and outlooks and beliefs that were nothing like what they’d grown up knowing? That there were towns other than Brinkley Springs, populated with people totally unlike themselves—and yet sharing similar hopes and dreams and wants and needs?
Places like Iraq, for instance.
Donny snickered. It was a humorless, spiteful sound.
Maybe Iraq wasn’t such a good example, although he had to admit, his second tour of duty in that godforsaken place had been much better than his first. By his second tour of duty, the much-maligned troop surge had worked, and as a result, he and the rest of his platoon spent more time interacting with the civilians or watching movies and playing video games back at Camp Basra than they did out on patrol. That first tour had been hell—going from house to house, searching for insurgents, never knowing when you were going to get shot. And it was hard to tell the insurgents from everyone else. They blended with the populace. In Iraq, everyone looked like a civilian, and all of them—friendly or otherwise— had weapons. Just because a family had an old Kalashnikov tucked away inside their cupboard, it didn’t mean they were the enemy. That would have been like rounding up and arresting every hunter in Brinkley Springs who owned a deer rifle. But even the house-to-house searches weren’t as bad as dealing w
ith the suicide bombers and the IEDs. Many of Donny’s friends had lost their legs, arms or eyes to roadside bombs. One minute, they’d been sitting in a transport, and the next . . .
Well, what could you say about a country where you could get your legs blown off while just driving down the fucking road?
The thing that most amazed Donny now was how much he actually missed the place sometimes. Oh, not Iraq itself. Iraq was a cesspool. Iran could move in overnight and nuke Iraq, reducing it to a radioactive crater, and Donny would be just fine with that. But he missed his friends. His fellow soldiers. His brothers. It was funny. Donny had spent six years in the military just marking the days on his shorttimer’s calendar, counting the minutes until he was a civilian again. But now that he was out and back in the world, all he could think about was the time he’d served and the guys he’d served it with. Some of them had never made it back home, like Tyler Henry from York, Pennsylvania, killed when their convoy hit an IED while crossing through the desert; Will McCann from central Ohio, killed by a sniper inside the Green Zone; or Don Bloom from Trenton, New Jersey, who’d been captured by the renegade remnants of Saddam Hussein’s fedayeen, tortured and then, after being rescued, had gone AWOL somewhere inside the country. Nobody was sure why, or where he’d gone, or what had happened to him. The rumors ran the gamut, each one wilder than the previous. Bloom had fallen in love with an Iraqi girl and was hiding with her family. Bloom had crossed the border into Jordan and became a smuggler. Bloom had crossed the border into Syria or Iran and was selling them military secrets. Bloom was working for a private security contractor. Bloom had joined up with Black Lodge, the paranormal paramilitary group that didn’t even exist but was the wet dream of conspiracy theorists all across the Internet. All kinds of crazy theories, and Donny was pretty sure that none of them were true.
