by Anthony Puyo
“The outbreak of worldwide violence and murder has reached its sixteenth hour with no official cause at the moment. Reports have come in, stating the ones causing the violence are unresponsive and unsympathetic.
“Law enforcements agencies as well as many surviving victims, have proclaimed the killers seem to be in a sort of trance, since they do not communicate or act rationally.
“Research information given to us earlier, found most of the people committing the crimes do not have a criminal background or motives for their participation. There also has not been anything proving any affiliation to any terrorist groups or any other organized crime syndicates.
“Many people, people that we personally know here and throughout the country, have been affected by this unknown disturbance.
“We would like to take a quick moment to thank the people that came in today and helped with this broadcast. As many of you know, this channel has felt the hurt of this situation. The people that have come in, came in knowing we have a job to do: to serve the public by getting you the most up-to-date information as it comes in.”
The young woman straightens her blue suit-coat and sighs. Staying professional, she holds in a moment. She puts her manicured nail to her nose—clearly damming up her pain.
“Sorry about that,” she says, then goes through some papers. “Now, the question has been asked: how do you know who the assailants are, since they look the same as everyone else? The majority of reports suggest the assailants can distinctly be told apart by their speech which has an altered, some say, sadistic tone to it. Their actions are sporadic, and they show no regard for their bodies, lives, or even seem to feel pain. Another, and probably the most distinct characteristic, is the abnormally large darkened eyes, caused by their pupils being heavily dilated.
“If you come in contact with someone showing these characteristics, you are advised to stay away if at all possible.
“As more information becomes available, we will do our best to update you. In the meantime, people are urged to stay indoors until the situation is under control.”
Jerry changes the channel to another news broadcast: Images of downed aircrafts all over the world are shown in split screen with reporting at the bottom. More video comes on the screen showing large fires throughout major cities. The pandemonium on the street views are unfathomable.
Craig gapes at Jerry, “What the hell is going on?!”
Veering back at the reports, Jerry strokes his beard, nodding his head in shame.
Craig continues, “This is insane . . . Utterly insane! Do you have a phone, Jerry? I need to get a hold of my wife. “
Jerry reaches in his cell phone holster. “Signal has been acting up, but here you go; I hope it works out for you.”
Craig dials the number. The phone rings a few times then goes to voicemail.
“Hello! You have reached Melissa. Sorry I couldn’t take your call, but please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible,” says the soft, spunky voice on the other end of the phone.
Melissa’s spirited, full-of-life tone brought her image to the forefront of Craig’s mind. A moment of clarity comes over him. He soaks in her voice–missing it–appreciating it. He realizes he hadn’t, for some time, put so much thought into the sound of her words.
His stomach turns. Why didn’t she answer?
There is nothing he can do but leave a message.
“Melissa, it’s me. My phone is broken. If you're there, please call this number back. I hope you and Ryan are safe. I’m in Oakhurst. I don’t have my car at the moment, but I’m going to make my way back to you guys. Stay locked up in the condo till I get there . . . I love you both.”
Jerry saddens for Craig. He knows all too well what it’s like to lose a loved one.
Craig hangs up, his eyes move rapidly while he thinks. Fear sets in. Antsy, he starts to dial again. This time he calls his message box.
The automated voice asserts, “You have two messages. Message one, yesterday at 3:42 p.m.”
Melissa’s voice is heard heightened with fear. “Where are you?! I picked up Ryan from school, and on our way home, some man got out of his car and tried to get into ours. He was yelling awful things towards us. I got scared and sped off on a red light risking an accident. I was terrified, Craig! I’m still shaking.”
Craig could hear her trying to control her emotions as she talked.
“I’m parked on the road side. I called 911 but couldn’t get through. I don’t know what was wrong with that man. The look . . . in his eyes, I’ve never seen such emptiness. Such darkness.”
Ryan in the background can be heard asking Melissa if she’s alright.
“Yes Ryan, I’m fine.” She put her attention back to the phone call. Sounds of sirens are heard in the background. “Something’s happening. I just saw cops speed off behind us. Craig, I know you’re busy, but I just want to hear your voice—”
The message cuts out abruptly.
The automated voice sounds again, “Second message at 4:55 p.m.”
Melissa’s voice is heard once more. This time she’s frantic. “Honey, I don’t know!
Something is really wrong! I’m leaving the condo.” She begins to cry her words. “I heard some loud yelling next door at Sandy and Herold’s followed by gun shots. I believe Sandy shot Herold. She was screaming and laughing horribly, as if she was enjoying herself. It freaked me out. Then the news reports. I don’t know if you’ve seen them. I don’t feel safe, Craig. I didn’t think it was safe in the condo for Ryan and me. So we ran down to the car. Sandy yelled at us from our window, pointing the gun at us. I thought we were going to—”
The call beeped, cutting the final message.
Craig’s body deflates. He’s in a tailspin now, feeling terrible and helpless. He puts his hand to his head trying to think. Something has to be done!
Craig gives the phone back to Jerry with a stillness of emotion. “Can you give me a ride to the Kesburg’s house? I need to get my car.”
Jerry gives a scoffed look at the idea of going out there. “That is not a good idea. We can’t risk it. You heard the news, we need to stay inside.”
“Please, Jerry?”
Jerry sighs.
Craig sees the man is at odds with the suggestion, but he desperately needs his help. There must be a way to sway his mind.
Craig suddenly, and with regained enthusiasm, points at the photos of Jerry and Helen. He takes a shot in the dark, “Wouldn't you want to get back to your wife if she were out there amongst those people?”
Jerry doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. His face gives it away. With one arm around his belly and his other hand pulling at his beard, he listens. His eyes squint as he follows Craig.
Craig paces around the many pictures, glancing back at Jerry. “I just need you to take me to my car. That’s it. I need to get to my family. Will you help me? . . . Please, Jerry?”
Jerry gazes down, acknowledging Craig’s desperation. His mouth tightens back, and he hits the sofa with a soft punch.
A moment passes.
Looking into Craig’s eyes, Jerry gives a slight grin. “Alright, Craig, I’ll take you.”
“Thank you Jerry! Thank you.”
Jerry nods, “You should go clean up. And toss that shirt and those pants when you get a chance. I reckon it won’t look good if the cops see you out there like that. You're liable to be put down.”
Craig examines himself over, “You're right.”
“Bathroom is down the hall. When it curves, it’s the second door to the right.”
Craig washes the dirt and dried blood from his head, face and hands. He takes a moment to look over himself. He notices the gash above his left eye has engraved pieces of dirt specs. Craig pinches his fingertips together, slowly pulling the filth out and dropping it into the sink.
Too late for stitches. This is going to be a nasty scar.
Something catches the corner of his eye. He stares down at
the sink. A couple of dried blood drops spot the counter.
That can’t be mine? Craig questions.
Following with his eyes, he sees a trail on the tile leading towards the door. It’s strange, but not enough to sidetrack him. He leaves the issue alone and goes back to straightening himself out.
Strolling out of the restroom, Craig happens to glance at the doorknob to the room directly across from him. He does a double take.
Weird, he thinks; referring to blood smudges on the brass knob. It’s none of my business.
About to walk away, curiosity pulls at him. He observes for a moment. “What happened here?” he whispers, debating whether he wants to turn that knob and see behind the door.
What if there’s something there I’m not supposed to . . . What if I open it and Jerry finds out? He could get angry.
Jerry trusted him enough to let him in his house. He’s also about to take him out in the unknown to fetch his car.
Craig sees Melissa and Ryan in his mind: they look afraid. The moment reminds him where he’s at.
Jerry has done plenty for someone he just met. I can’t betray him.
He shakes his head no and takes his eyes off the knob. He stares down the hallway.
You need to leave.
But it won’t let him. Craig watches the knob again, remembering Jerry has a shotgun. This could be a deadly choice if he follows through.
Why risk it?
His heart rate begins to climb. Craig’s not a snooper. But sometimes curiosity can be an overwhelming force. He looks down the hall—listening for Jerry. He braces up to the door, hoping this will eliminate some of the noise. He slowly turns the doorknob with a tight grip.
The door gently opens.
Craig’s eyes widen in horror. The first thing he sees is blood and skin tissue splattered on the wall. At the sight of it, his mind goes into a frenzy. Feeling his heart in his throat, Craig takes a deep breath and tries to swallow past it.
“Please don’t be what I think.”
He closes his eyes and pushes the door fully open. Tightening his jaw muscles, he braces himself for what he’s about to perceive.
He couldn’t believe it! Fazed for a moment, Craig stands still. It wasn’t long, but it felt as if time stopped. The grisly scene is more than he could handle. He finds himself winded, trying to make sense of what he is witnessing. Placing his hand on his hip, he bends at the waist for a moment. Hurling didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
On the light brown rug, lying with her head next to a wall surrounded in soaked blood, is a partially covered body of a woman. The blond woman with soft eyes from the photos flashes in Craig’s mind.
His wife? It’s got to be.
She’s covered with a blue bedding sheet that has settled and molded to her face and body. On her torso area, the sheet is wet with a tremendous amount of blood. Her right arm sticks out in a 90 degree up position. Near her blood speckled forearm is a rusted worn hatchet.
Craig focuses on Helen’s face; he could almost see her. Then something almost impossible for him to believe happens. The sheet under her nostrils begins to track and retract.
She’s dead. She’s has to be!
Slowly, the sheet around her mouth begins to circle and indent. The hairs on Craig’s neck and arms rise. He tightens his eyes.
This is not happening!
Taking a step back, he shakes his head then reopens his eyes. This time—he sees nothing.
It seems Craig’s imagination has gotten the best of him. Helen is dead alright, and he now knows it.
Why else did Jerry not mention it. Well, it couldn’t have been easy doing what he did.
Not that Craig could say he knew Jerry, but he assumed he cared for this person. He had to. It’s what Craig wants to believe. The evidence seemed clear to him in the pictures he saw.
It had to be pretty hard to explain. It was for me. That’s why he didn’t tell me. The horror and despair of it all, for having to kill his own wife. Christ.
From the appearance of the bloody scene, Helen hadn’t been deceased for very long. A day at the most. In that time, the sheet had settled and made a fine outline of the body.
Having enough of the gruesome sight, Craig begins to turn around to leave. He flinches while staring towards the doorway. Startled and slowly gaping his mouth, he utters to himself, “Shit.”
Jerry stands there—blocking the way out.
Craig never heard him walk in. He glances down Jerry’s left hand almost instantly. Dangling in it, is the shotgun. The same weapon that looked to be used on Helen.
A bit unnerved, Craig uses all his prowess to stay calm. He begins to worry he may have worn out his welcome—in a deathly way.
He shifts his focus onto Jerry’s face, but can’t help but glance back at the gun every other second. Craig puts his hands up in front of his chest in a stopping gesture.
“I’m sorry, Jerry,” he pleads.
Jerry has a monotone stare, seeming to look into the soul of Craig, making him even more nervous, then he expressions past him, not answering or even saying a word. Peering at the body of his deceased wife, Jerry displays grief. He seems to be taken back. He slowly starts to whimper.
It’s obvious to Craig, Jerry’s mind is somewhere else, and as harsh as it sounds, it makes him feel somewhat relieved. But he wonders the state of Jerry’s mind. He doesn’t want to say, or do anything that could make this situation go south in a hurry.
Jerry, gazing at the body, begins to talk tenderly. His words carry over his sobs. “I didn’t want to do it you know? But Helen wasn’t herself . . . she . . . she was crazy. Like one of them on television.”
Jerry kneels, putting the gun down. He caresses the exposed chubby hand with his own stubby fingers.
Craig, seeing the man who’s in obvious pain, stands there and listens. He feels Jerry needs to talk; he needs some closure. It would later cross Craig’s mind that maybe fate had put him there for that reason.
Jerry continues. “I was out back working on a leaky faucet when I heard her walk up behind me. I said, ‘good afternoon, love. Did you bring the old man something to drink?’ She said, ‘I got a surprise for you.’ It didn’t sound right when she said it. It was odd to be honest. Her voice . . . it was . . . it was different. So I turned around. I saw her with her arms behind her back. I didn’t think much of it at first, but she was grinning—a grin I never saw from her before. I looked into her eyes; they were so dark. Completely black. She brought her hand forward, slowly, as if she wanted to see my reaction to what she had. I was confused when I saw the old hatchet.
“I asked her what she was doing. She said, ‘I’m going to cut your head in two and bathe in your blood.’
“I was puzzled. She never talked that way . . . and that look. I can’t rid of it no matter how hard I try.
“She lifted her hand to swing, but I fell to avoid it. Knowing my life was in danger, I reacted. I kicked her leg while I was on my back. I was lucky the kick knocked her over. I got up and ran towards the house. All I could hear was her rage as she screamed behind me. She was so close, I couldn’t even lock her out. I ran in and ran towards the room where I kept my gun. I believe she fell over in the kitchen. I barely had time to put one shell in. My mind was moving fast, I didn’t even think it through. It was as if instinct took over. I was in fear for my life.
“She ran in the doorway staring me down. It didn’t feel like my wife . . . It wasn’t my wife. She looked at me as if I was an obstacle—a means to some sort of bloody end. I said, ‘Helen, honey, what are you doing?’ with the gun pointed right at her belly. Didn’t think I would have to use it. Didn’t even know if I could. Helen just smiled and said, ‘I can’t wait to see what it feels like when this axe goes into your body.’ She charged at me after them words . . . so I shot.”
Jerry begins to weep heavier. Running his fingers through his thick wavy hair, he turns to Craig.
“It took a while to realize what had happened. When it hit
me, I just sat there on the bed, crying till past nightfall sometime. I just don’t—can’t—couldn’t understand, you know? We loved each other, and she never spoke that way to me. Forty-two years of marriage, never once.”
Craig, awkwardly and with a bit of stiffness, puts his hand on Jerry’s shoulder to comfort him.
After a few silent moments, Jerry says, “Let’s go get your car so you can get back to your family.”
Jerry stands up with his shotgun in hand. “You make me a promise; you hear? When you get back to your family, you hold them like the sun isn’t gonna come up again, because for all we know—it won’t.”
Feeling heartfelt compassion for Jerry, and feeling evermore grateful for his help, Craig nods in agreement.
2
The Scene of the Crime
A loud squeak followed by the rattle of metal—the old, brown Ford truck pulls up to the secluded Kesburg’s house with an abrupt stop. A trail of dust catches up and engulfs the vehicle. The radio is playing a loop of the Emergency Broadcast System, informing people to stock up goods and stay inside along with other safekeeping information.
The mood is somber upon arrival. Jerry and Craig glance at each other without saying a word. There isn’t much to say. There wasn’t even much conversation taking place on the way to the Kesburg’s. Both men had unforeseeable tragic accidents happen to them. What they did to survive was difficult to swallow. And now that a little time had passed, and the scope of the situation is being uncovered, it left little room for cheery conversation. The magnitude of the event is forcing them, along with many others, to get passed what happened in the last twenty-four hours—whether they like it or not.
The most troubling part to understand, is the why. Why is this happening? There was no answer near the horizon. The only certainty given to Craig, Jerry, and the rest of the terrorized world, is that the enemy itself is lurking, and its characteristics are evil and unforgiving.
