by Brian Keene
“Well, shit.”
He glanced down at the dashboard gauges, but had trouble reading them in the dark. Stephen reached above him and flicked the switch for the dome light, but it was dead, as well. He leaned over the steering wheel, squinting at the gauges. They seemed fine. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a problem with the engine temperature. He put the truck in park and then turned the key. His attempts were fruitless. Nothing happened. He didn’t even hear the starter clicking. Apparently, he’d lost all power.
Stephen didn’t know much about fixing vehicles. He knew that he’d be up Shit Creek under the hood, but decided to give it a try anyway. Maybe it was something simple like a loose battery cable. He hoped so. Otherwise, he was screwed.
He reached down beneath the heater vent and tugged the hood release. Then he opened the door and hopped out of the truck. Stephen was immediately struck by the silence. He’d spent enough time on these rural back roads to become familiar with the sounds of the night—crickets and other insect songs, the chirping of spring peepers, the occasional call of an owl or whippoorwill, the barking of a dog or even just the sound of another car approaching on the road. He heard none of these things. It was almost as if Brinkley Springs existed in some sort of noiseless vacuum. Even the wind seemed nonexistent. Standing on the road next to the truck, with one hand on the open door, Stephen felt uneasy. For a moment, he considered reaching into the glove box and grabbing his SIG Sauer P225. He never left home without it. (Stephen’s thoughts on handguns were that he wasn’t on parole and didn’t live in New York, so fuck the permit.) He paused, and then decided against it. For one thing, he might need both hands to look at the engine. For another, if a cop or somebody pulled up, they’d be a lot less sympathetic to his plight if they saw him brandishing a weapon. Besides, he was just being silly. His unease was just a bad case of nerves. Nothing more. He’d been driving all day and needed some sleep.
Sleep. Not that he slept all that well anymore. Not since losing his job as a cabinetmaker, thanks to the disastrous economic policies of the last two presidents. He’d been suffering from bouts of insomnia and depression ever since. He was trying to be patient, of course. Trying to give this new presidential administration more time to fix things. After all, they’d been handed a shit sandwich. It was hard not to become disillusioned with something as inherently fucked-up from top to bottom as the American political system, but he’d given them a chance, hoping they could turn things around, hoping for the change that had been promised over and over again during the campaign. And he had to admit, things were starting to look and sound better. But at the end of the day, he was still unemployed. These days, there just weren’t many job openings for cabinetmakers and glassblowers. The only other thing Stephen had ever worked as was a blackjack and roulette dealer. At age fifty-five, with both his beard and his long black hair that hung to the middle of his back now shot with gray, he was too old to get back into that game. That’s why he was out here on the road. He’d been driving around with a book of sample pictures, trying to find craft markets and antique stores that would sell his woodworking and stained-glass wares. Stephen wasn’t much of a people person, and he disliked going from business to business, but he had no choice. His hope was that he could find enough outlets and sell enough goods to support his family full-time. If not, at least it would supplement his meager unemployment checks.
He’d been fortunate, and with his third marriage lasting twenty-three years now, Stephen considered himself a lucky guy. Things would turn around.
Things would get better again.
They had to.
“Look on the bright side,” he whispered. “At least you’ve still got your health.” And he did, too. Standing at a few inches over six feet tall and weighing about one hundred ninety-five pounds, Stephen was in remarkably good shape, especially considering the life he’d led. Granted, he wasn’t in prime workout shape. He didn’t have the physique of a bodybuilder, but he was still healthier than he’d ever thought he’d be at this age.
He walked around to the front of the truck and placed his palms on the hood. The metal was warm, but not hot. He didn’t see any steam or smoke drifting out from underneath. He felt around beneath the hood, found the latch and released it. Then he raised the hood and stared at the engine. Even if he’d known what to look for, it was hard for him to see anything clearly in the dark. He turned around and glanced at the welcome sign, and noticed that someone had peppered it with buckshot at some point. Shaking his head, he let his gaze wander toward town, and then it struck him that there were no lights on. Sure, it was nighttime, and most of the townspeople were probably asleep, but even so, there should have been some illumination. The streetlights weren’t functioning. There were no nightlights glowing in the windows of any of the houses. The entire town was dark. Maybe the power was out?
A flutter of motion caught his attention. A large black crow swung down out of the coal-colored sky and landed on one of the dead streetlights. It tilted its head and stared at him. Then it opened its beak and croaked. The sound reminded Stephen of rusty hinges. It didn’t sound like a normal birdcall. It sounded almost like some garbled, guttural language. The sound seemed very loud in the stillness.
“Hey buddy,” he said to the bird, “any chance you could call Triple A for me?”
The crow continued staring at him. It croaked again.
“No? I didn’t think so.”
The crow cawed a third time. If he hadn’t known better, Stephen would have thought he heard distinct syllables in the cry.
“Get the fuck out of here, you weird bird.”
Stephen turned his attention back to the motor.
He leaned down and sniffed, but the engine didn’t smell hot. He smelled antifreeze and oil, but neither seemed to be overpowering, as they would be if he had a leak. Clueless as to what else to do, he slammed the hood and moved back around the side of the truck again. He climbed into the cab and reached for his cell phone. Then he glanced at his watch and checked the time. His wife, Noralyn, was probably still awake, curled up on the couch with their two Siamese cats, Princess and Eddie (short for Edgar Allan Poernik). He’d call her, let her know what had happened, and then he’d call for a tow truck.
Except that when he flipped the cell phone open, it, like the Mazda and the lights in town, was dead. Stephen pressed the button twice, just to make sure, but there was no power. That didn’t make sense. He’d given it a full charge the night before, plugging it into a wall socket at a Motel 6 he’d stayed at in Walden, Virginia. He’d used it only a few times today— once to call Noralyn and tell her good morning, and twice to check his voice mail, to see if one of the antique stores or craft markets he’d stopped at had called him back. Both messages had been from automated telemarketing machines—one offering him an extended warranty on a car that he and Noralyn no longer owned and the other for some kind of ringtone service for his cell phone. He’d quickly hung up on both of them. Other than those three calls, he hadn’t used the phone all day. There was no way the battery should have been run down already. As if trying to prove this, he thumbed the power button again. The cell phone remained dead.
“Goddamn it!”
The crow squawked again, almost as if it were laughing at him. Stephen whirled around and raised his middle finger. The bird seemed nonplussed. It stepped off its perch and glided down to the ground, where it stood in the middle of the street, head cocked to one side, and continued to stare at him. Stephen stomped his foot at it.
“Go on. Get the hell out of here. Scat!”
The crow remained where it was. Defiant and aloof. Almost dismissive of him. It croaked again. He could have sworn it was laughing.
“Suit yourself, you stupid fucking bird.”
Stephen decided to walk into town and find some help. Even though the lights were out, there had to be somebody awake. A twenty-four-hour convenience store or a gas station. A cop making the rounds. The local insomniac, up late and listening
to Coast to Coast AM or maybe watching infomercials on the tube. Kids out partying. Someone. Anyone. He’d find out if there was a mechanic or towing service who could help him tonight. If not, he’d find a place to sleep— hopefully a hotel room or a bed-and-breakfast—call Noralyn from their phone and let her know what had happened and then take care of the truck first thing in the morning.
He leaned into the cab and grabbed his large duffel bag off the floor. Inside the bag were his clean clothes, toiletries, iPod, the sample book, which displayed pictures of his handiwork, and other assorted items he’d carried with him on this road trip. Next to the duffel bag was a black plastic garbage bag that held his dirty laundry. He decided to leave that in the truck but bring everything else along. If someone wanted to break into the Mazda and steal his dirty skivvies, then let them. Obviously, if they were that desperate, they needed underwear more than he did. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out the handgun. Then he grabbed the box of bullets. Stephen knew better than to drive around with the pistol loaded. If he ever did get caught with it, that would just make matters worse— the difference between a small fine and a possible felony charge, depending on which state he was driving through and who was in office at the time.
He also tossed the useless cell phone into the bag.
Stephen was suddenly overcome with an immense feeling of homesickness. He missed Noralyn and the cats. He wished he were there with them now instead of stranded along the side of the road in Bumfuck, West Virginia. Stephen had a fairly large personal library, well over two thousand books, most of which were horror, suspense or mystery fiction. What he wouldn’t give right now to be curled up and reading one of those, rather than here.
Before zipping the duffel bag shut, Stephen pulled out his iPod and inserted the headphones. He used it quite a bit back home, whenever he was watering or mowing the yard. The only reason he hadn’t been using it tonight was because he’d lost the cigarette lighter adapter that powered it, and he hadn’t wanted to run the battery down before he could recharge it again. Now, he didn’t care. He felt sad and dejected and more than a little angry at his current situation, and he needed some music to cheer him up. He didn’t care what kind. Stephen’s musical tastes had always been eclectic. As he went for help, he’d put the iPod on randomize and let the music carry him away—ride a wave of Fred Astaire, White Zombie, Steve Howe, Black Sabbath, Yes, King Crimson, Judas Priest, Blue Öyster Cult, Robert Fripp, AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses, Robin Trower, Jimi Hendrix or whatever else the iPod decided to surprise him with. Sometimes, Stephen forgot that he owned certain songs or albums until he heard them played back to him while the iPod was on randomize.
Stephen smiled. He felt better already. He stuck the tiny headphones into his ears, pressed play, and nothing happened.
“Oh, goddamn it! Not the iPod, too.”
He glanced down at the piece of equipment. Like the truck and the lights and the cell phone, it was powerless.
“What happened in this place? Did somebody set off an EMP or something?”
He stuffed the useless iPod and headphones back in the duffel bag, locked the truck, climbed down out of the cab and shut the door. Then he turned toward town and jumped, startled. The crow was gone. Standing in its place was a tall, thin man dressed entirely in black.
Or is he? Stephen thought. What kind of material are his clothes made out of? It looks almost like he’s wearing the night itself—like the darkness is reflecting off him. That can’t be right. I must be more tired than I thought.
Slowly, the man in black began walking toward him. The figure kept his head lowered, and Stephen had trouble making out any distinguishing characteristics. He wore a large, floppy-brimmed black hat, and it concealed his features. All that Stephen could see was a shock of jet-black hair sticking out beneath the brim of the hat, a long, pointed chin with a cleft in the center and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth.
“Excuse me,” Stephen called. “Any chance you have a cell phone on you? I broke down, and mine’s not working. Hell, nothing’s working.”
The man didn’t respond.
Stephen tried to meet his eyes as he drew closer, but the stranger’s face remained hidden in shadow.
“Or maybe you could tell me where the closest gas station is?”
Still the man didn’t respond. He moved in silence, swiftly closing the distance between them. Stephen’s heart began to beat faster. There was something wrong with this guy. Stephen had seen some odd things in his life. He wasn’t necessarily a believer in the supernatural, but he’d experienced enough not to discount it either. He didn’t count anything out— including this dark man. Maybe the guy was a serial killer. Or maybe he was possessed.
Oh, stop being stupid, he thought. You’re freaked out and now you’re putting it on this guy. He’s probably just deaf. Or has special needs. Or doesn’t speak English.
“Hey, friend,” he tried again, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. “You’re kind of creeping me out here. How about we try this again?”
The man did not respond.
“Do you speak English? Habla español?” The man shrugged.
“Okay, so you can hear me. What’s with the attitude, man? I just want some help. I broke down.”
The stranger stopped in front of him, only a few feet away, and raised his head. Despite his proximity, Stephen still couldn’t get a good look at his face. He did see the man’s eyes, however. They were set deep in his face and glinted in the dark like embers on coal.
But there’s no light, Stephen thought. That’s weird.
What am I seeing reflected in them if there’s no light?
The man smiled, revealing white, even teeth. Stephen couldn’t be sure, but he thought they might be pointed. He took a half step backward.
“What do you want?”
“To kill you,” the man said simply.
“W-what? Hey, what are you . . . ? Shit.”
Stephen wasn’t much of a survivalist. He’d just lucked out in the lottery drawing for the Vietnam fiasco and had always considered himself fortunate that he didn’t have to face that horror. He’d known people that had served, of course. Guys who’d been less fortunate, and even a few who’d volunteered. Some of them had talked about their experiences in Vietnam. Most hadn’t. While Stephen knew full well that he’d never truly understand what it had been like, he knew himself well enough to understand that if he had gone to Vietnam, he’d have been one of those guys who came home irreparably damaged—if he survived at all. But he was no coward, either. He might not have been a badass, but he could handle himself just fine. He didn’t know any martial arts, but that didn’t matter. In Stephen’s opinion, fights by definition weren’t fair. Plus, he had another advantage. Stephen’s father had been a cop, and as a result, though he wasn’t much of a hunter, he could shoot the shit out of a handgun.
“Seriously,” Stephen said, “quit fucking around. I’m not in the mood, buddy. Not tonight.”
The man stepped closer. Stephen caught a whiff of him, and winced at the stench. The smell was bad enough to make his eyes water. The stranger reeked of roadkill, like he’d just rolled around in a five-daydead possum or something.
“Jesus Christ—”
“Is not here right now,” the man in black replied.
“And even if he were, he could not save you.”
Stephen stopped, setting his feet shoulder width apart and facing his opponent. He held his breath so he wouldn’t get nauseous from the stranger’s awful stench. The man hadn’t displayed a weapon. He didn’t seem to be carrying a knife or a handgun. Still, there was no telling what he might have hidden beneath the folds of that long coat. The man was only an arm’s length away now, and Stephen decided that there was no time to open the bag and pull out the SIG Sauer P225. He had three choices—try to talk the guy down, run away or rely on his fists. Stephen decided to go with the first and follow with the last. Running away wasn’t an option. This stranger was obviously mentally ill
, and if he abandoned the truck, the guy might vandalize it instead.
“That’s far enough,” he said, fighting to keep his tone firm but even. “I’m warning you, freak.”
The man in black ignored him and continued to draw closer.
Stephen decided that, if forced, he’d lead with an elbow to the nose and then follow it up with a quick kick to the outside of his opponent’s knee. That should make the guy think twice about continuing to fuck with him.
And then, before Stephen could do any of these things, the man in black raised one hand and wiggled his fingers. As Stephen watched, the stranger’s fingernails began to stretch and grow, turning into long black talons. Stephen blinked, and the man laughed hoarsely. The sound was like dry leaves rustling in the wind.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” In truth, it had, but Stephen wasn’t about to let the guy know that.
“No,” the man replied. “It’s not supposed to scare you. It’s supposed to distract you.”
“What do you—?”
The man leaned forward and, with his other hand, punched Stephen just below his chest. Stephen grunted, more from surprise at the unexpected blow than from pain. In truth, there wasn’t much pain. Instead, there was just a cold sensation that spread rapidly across his chest and abdomen. His eyes filled up with water.
“Now that,” the stranger said, “is supposed to scare you.”
The man’s arm was still extended. Stephen tried to pull away from him and found that he couldn’t.
