by Brian Keene
He’d fallen asleep in the recliner during a segment about scientists training crows to pick up trash, and had slept until the sound of his dogs’ barking woke him, causing Paul to jerk upright and almost tumble out of the chair. That might have been bad. He certainly wasn’t old yet—at least, not what he considered old—but living alone; had he broken a leg or hip or knocked himself out, there’d have been no one to find him.
Since his retirement seven years earlier, Paul had spent every day out in the woods with his six bear dogs. They were mutts—crossbreed mixes of black and tans, beagles, German shepherds and Karelians, mostly. He loved the dogs and they loved and respected him. Each day, except on Christmas, Thanksgiving and Sundays, Paul got up at the crack of dawn, loaded the dogs into his pickup truck and headed up into the mountains. During bear season, he hunted. When black bears weren’t in season, he allowed the dogs to track and run them. They did this all day long, usually returning home just before sundown. Paul enjoyed it, and all of the walking across ridges and hills kept him in great shape. It kept the dogs healthy, too. Each one was equipped with a radio collar and GPS device so he could track them if they got lost in the mountains—which they often did, especially if a mother bear or her cubs gave them a long chase.
He knew the dogs better than he knew most people. He’d come to recognize the subtle changes in their barks and what the differences in tone meant, and that was how he knew upon waking that the dogs were upset by something. He’d stood there in the living room, yawning and blinking and wondering how long the power had been out, and realized that the dogs weren’t just distressed. They were absolutely terrified.
Wondering what had gotten them so riled up, Paul had hurried through his darkened home, grabbed the 12-gauge and rushed outside just as the dogs fell quiet. He checked the pen and found them huddling together at the back, trembling and frightened, their pink tongues lolling as they panted. He whispered soothing words to them and then crept around the property. He couldn’t find anything amiss. There were no signs of a trespasser—no footprints in the wet grass or evidence indicating someone had tried to break into the house. He was just about to go inside when the disturbance erupted again. This time, instead of the dogs howling in fright, it was his fellow townspeople. The cries and screams seemed to be coming from all four directions at once. An occasional gunshot peppered the commotion. Curiously, there were no sounds of car engines or screeching tires or sirens. “I don’t like this,” Paul told the cowering dogs. “I don’t like this one bit. Sounds like somebody’s done snapped and gone on a killing spree, like you see on the news. You boys stay here. I’ll go have a look.”
He tiptoed around to the front of the house and glanced both ways. As far as he could tell, the electrical outage wasn’t confined to his street or block. It seemed to have affected the entire town. The yells and other noises seemed distant, but as he stood there listening, they slowly began to draw closer.
Paul ran back into the house, found his cell phone and started to dial 911, only to discover that the phone wasn’t working. He stared at the blank, lifeless screen and then tossed it onto the counter in frustration. He hurried into the living room and went to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves he’d built into one wall. They were lined with paperback and hardcover books—western novels by Ray Slater, Ed Gorman, Al Sarrantonio, Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, history books about Vietnam, World Wars I and II, and the Korean Conflict, and nature books, including a massive, two-volume field guide to North American fish and game. In between the books were framed pictures of his wife (taken away from him by pancreatic cancer two months before his retirement) and their son and daughter-in-law (all grown now and living on the West Coast). A few dusty knickknacks occupied other empty spaces. On top of the shelf was a radio that played extreme weather alerts for Brinkley Springs from the National Weather Service, bulletins from the Department of Homeland Security and FEMA, and announcements from local law enforcement and emergency-response crews. He’d bought it on sale at the Radio Shack in Beckley several years before, and it had proven invaluable time and time again, especially during the winter months. One of Paul’s favorite features was the battery back-up, which kept the radio functioning during a power outage.
Except it wasn’t working now. Like the cell phone, the emergency radio sat lifeless.
“Well, if that don’t beat all. Cheap piece of Chinese junk. Don’t nothing work anymore the way things used to.”
Muttering to himself, Paul stalked back out of the house as the noises outside grew louder. Someone ran down the sidewalk as the screen door slammed shut behind him, but Paul couldn’t see who it was. He wondered if they were running to something or away from something. He noticed that the dogs were still cowering in their kennel. Hefting the shotgun, he approached it again. Being in their proximity made him feel more assured.
“That you, Paul?”
Startled, he jumped at the voice, nearly dropping the 12-gauge before he recognized the speaker as Gus Pheasant, who lived next door. Gus owned the local garage, along with his brother, Greg. Although both men were twenty years younger than Paul, he liked them very much and often got together with them in the evenings. Greg was divorced and Gus had never married, so they had their bachelorhood in common. They’d often invited Axel Perry— another widower—to join them, but the old man never did. Paul got the impression that Axel liked to be alone. It was a shame. He didn’t know what he was missing. Although he would have never said it aloud, Paul found that spending time with them made his own evenings a little less lonely. He liked the gruff companionship, liked playing cards and drinking a few beers and arguing sports and politics and women.
“Yeah,” he called, “it’s me, Gus. What in the hell is going on?”
“I don’t rightly know. Sounds like World War Three’s done started though, don’t it?”
Gus stepped out of the shadows. He looked shaken. His complexion was pale and his eyes were wide and frightened. His hair stuck up askew, and his pajamas were soaked with sweat and stuck to his body, including his prodigious beer gut. Paul’s gaze settled on Gus’s feet. The man wore a pair of fuzzy Spider-Man slippers. The costumed character’s big red head adorned the toe of each and seemed to stare up at Paul.
“Gus, what in the world are you wearing?”
The mechanic glanced down at his feet and then shrugged, clearly embarrassed.
“Oh, shoot. Forgot I had those on. I rushed out of the house so quick . . .”
“What are they?”
“Bedroom slippers.”
“I can see that. But they seem a little—”
“I didn’t buy them,” Gus interrupted. “Lacey Rogers bought them for me.”
“Lacey Rogers is eight years old, Gus.”
“I know that. Do you really think these are the type of slippers an adult would buy for me?”
“Well, what’s Lacey Rogers doing buying you a present, anyway? That don’t seem right.”
“Remember last year when they did the Secret Santa thing at church?”
Paul nodded. Each member of the congregation had pulled a slip of paper out of the offering plate. Written on the slip was the name of a fellow parishioner. They then purchased a gift—under twenty dollars—for that person. Paul’s Secret Santa had been Jean Sullivan, who’d bought him two pairs of wool socks for hunting.
“Lacey pulled my name,” Gus explained. “Her parents said she picked these out herself down at the Wal-Mart. I couldn’t very well return them, now could I?”
“No, I don’t guess so. That would have broke her little heart.”
“Exactly. And I have to say, they do keep my feet warm at night.”
“Well, you look like a damned fool.” Paul’s voice was gruff, but his grin nearly split his face in half.
“Your phone working?” Gus asked, clearly anxious to change the subject.
Paul shook his head. “Nope. Ain’t nothing working. My cell phone and emergency radio are dead, too. The cell I can understa
nd. Service ain’t never been that reliable around here. But the radio should still be working. It’s got a battery back-up. I don’t understand why it would quit like that.”
“Same here,” Gus confirmed. “It ain’t just your radio. Everything in my place is dead. It’s like something fried all of the electronics. Hell, I couldn’t even get my damned flashlight to work. How’s that for weird?”
“It’s something, alright.”
“What do you suppose it means?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Paul said, “but whatever it is, it ain’t good.”
Another gunshot echoed across town, followed by an explosion.
“Holy mother of God,” Paul said, jumping. “What was that?”
“I don’t know. All I know is it’s been a weird day and it just keeps getting stranger.”
“How do you mean?”
Gus paused. “Well, first there was this Amish fella come riding into town on a horse and buggy. Real pretty horse. Very gentle, but very big. She’d be a prize mare. He’s got her tied up down by the river tonight. He asked me and Greg if there was a hotel in town and we sent him over to Esther’s place.”
“Amish?” Paul grunted. He’d known a few Brethren in his life—Amish, Mennonites and Moldavians. All of them had been good people. Hard workers. Very handy with a hammer and a saw. “I don’t see how that would be connected to what’s happing now, though.”
“I don’t reckon it is, but you never know. Maybe it’s—”
Paul paused as a man ran by them, weaving around parked cars on the street and tottering back and forth. Paul recognized him as one of the cashiers at the local convenience store, but he didn’t know the man’s name. At first, Paul assumed the guy must be drunk, but then he noticed the man’s torn trouser leg and the blood on his calf, and realized he was injured.
“Hey,” Gus called, apparently not knowing the cashier’s name either. “You okay, fella? What’s going on?”
The fleeing man didn’t stop. He shuffled past them, not even bothering to look in their direction as he answered. “Dark men . . . they’re going house to house . . . killing folks. Killing everybody. Even the pets.”
Paul took a step forward. “What do you mean?”
“No time! If you’re smart, you’ll run now. I mean it. They’re killing everyone.”
“Who?”
“The dark men. Run!”
“What was that explosion?” Paul asked.
“Someone shot the propane tank behind the fire hall. Now get going, if you know what’s good for you. I ain’t waiting around for the dark men.”
“Hey! Just wait a goddamn minute, fella. We don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
Without another word, the man fled on, trailing dark spots of blood on the asphalt. Gus and Paul looked at each other.
“Dark men?” Gus arched one eyebrow. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“I don’t know. Black folks, maybe?”
Gus shook his head. “No. I’ve talked to him plenty of times down at the shop. He’s brought his car in to be serviced, though I can’t remember his name. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Never struck me as a racist.”
“Just because a fella ain’t telling nigger jokes or wearing a Klan robe don’t mean they’re not racist.
You can never tell.”
“I still don’t buy it,” Gus said. “And besides, even if he was racist, it still doesn’t make any sense. Why would a bunch of black folks want to shoot up Brinkley Springs?”
“Not saying they are. I’m just trying to figure out what he meant. He said dark men.”
“Well, if we stand out here long enough, I reckon we’re liable to find out the hard way what he meant.”
Paul nodded. “I suspect you’re right. Not sure what to do, though. Don’t hear any sirens or anything. Just screaming.”
They paused, listening. Gus shuddered.
“I hope my brother is okay.”
“Where is Greg, anyway?” Paul asked him.
“At home sleeping, I guess. Wish I could call him and find out.”
Paul glanced at his cowering dogs and then out into the street. The breeze shifted, bringing with it the unmistakable smell of smoke. It made his eyes water. He hesitated, weighing his options. On the one hand, he should stay here and look after the dogs and his belongings. The fleeing cashier had mentioned that pets were being killed. But on the other hand, it sounded like there were a lot of people out there who needed help. People that he knew. Some that he’d known his whole life. It didn’t seem right to hunker down here while they were in trouble. He turned back to Gus.
“Want to go check on your brother?”
“I’d like to. Do you think it’s safe?”
“No. But it beats standing around here waiting for whatever is happening to find its way to us. We’ll make sure he’s okay. Then I’ll come back here and watch over my dogs.”
Nodding, Gus squared his shoulder and straightened up. “Sure. Just let me change my shoes.”
“Yeah,” Paul replied, glancing back down at the bedroom slippers. “I reckon you might want to do that first. Might want to put some clothes on over those pajamas, too. And Gus?”
“What?”
“Might be best if you bring along a gun.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
***
Artie Prater slept, which was exactly what he’d been afraid of. His wife of five years, Laura, was out of town. She worked for the bank in Roncefort, and once a year, all of the bank’s employees went on a mandatory week-long retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Artie liked to tease Laura about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He’d been unable to find work for over a year, and it bothered him that he couldn’t provide for his wife or their new son, Artie Junior. The upside was that while she was at work every day, he’d been able to stay home and take care of Little Artie. Laura reciprocated by getting up with the baby at night, which relieved Artie to no end.
Artie had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. He’d slept through 9/11, waking up in his college dorm room later that night and wondering why everyone was staring at the television and crying. Since becoming a father, Artie’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Laura was there to get up with Artie Junior at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.
They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above Little Artie’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Laura out of town, Artie had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and played a video game. It was early— too early to sleep—but Little Artie had been tired and cranky, and Artie knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of the game, he’d sleep lightly.
Except that he hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep playing the game, barely having the presence of mind to sit the laptop aside before passing out. He slept through the power outage, and did not wake when both the laptop and the television shut off, as well as the baby monitor. He slept through the howling dogs and the terrified screams and the numerous gunshots. He slept through the explosion. He slept as his neighbors were murdered in their homes and out on the street. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly as two shadowy figures entered his home. He slept, unaware that in Artie Junior’s nursery, a large black crow had perched on the edge of his son’s crib. He slept as the crow changed shape. He remained asleep as the bedroom door opened and a s
hadow fell across him, as well.
He didn’t wake up until the baby screamed, and by then it was too late.
The last thing he saw was the figure in the room with him. The baby’s screams turned to high-pitched, terrified shrieks. Artie bolted upright and flung the sheets off his legs, but before he could get out of bed, the intruder rushed to the bedside and loomed over him. The man’s face was concealed in darkness. It shoved his chest with one cold hand and forced him back down on the bed. In the nursery, the baby’s screams abruptly ceased.
“W-who . . . ?”
“Scream,” the shadow told Artie. “It’s better when you scream.”
The pounding on Axel’s door grew louder and more insistent. The chain lock rattled and the door shook in its frame. Candlelight flickered, casting strange shapes on the walls. The pounding came again. Gripping his walking stick like a club, Axel tiptoed into the living room and peeked through the curtains. Jean Sullivan stood on his porch, holding Bobby in one arm and beating on the door with her fist. Breathing a sigh of relief, Axel lowered the stick and hurried to the door. He fumbled with the locks as Jean hammered again.
“Mr. Perry? Axel? It’s Jean from next door. Please let us in!”
She sounded frantic. Releasing the chain from its hasp, Axel turned the knob and yanked the door open.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What is it?”
Jean stumbled into the house and slammed the door shut behind her. Bobby held tight, his arms and legs wrapped around his mother. The boy looked terrified. Axel stared at them both in concern.
