Darkness Falling

by Peter Crowther

  "Why?"

  Good question, he thought. He shrugged and said, "Some folks just don't like people to be able to call them back by hitting star-sixty-nine."

  Angel sat on the edge of the next desk from the one where Ronnie was and started swinging her legs. "So what now?"

  Another shrug. If he kept this up he was going to be deformed. "We wait? We go? I just don't know."

  He lifted some papers, flicked through them, left them be. Then he sniffed the air.

  "What is it? You smell something?"

  Without answering, Ronnie bent forward and rested his nose against the desk, right where his arms had been, and he sniffed some more.

  "Perfume," he said.

  "Is that good?"

  "Uh uh. Not in itself, it isn't good. But it's started me thinking."

  He started pulling open side drawers, found a pair of Scholl sandals with the wooden bases, a small box of Earl Gray teabags, a mug with World's Best Mom stenciled on the side of it, a crumpled pair of women's underwear, an old newspaper – just two sheets of it, carefully folded – a paperback novel (B For Burglar by Sue Grafton), spine badly creased, some grocery store bags, all neatly folded and in a small pile, and a couple of tangerines. He picked up the paperback and opened the cover – a name was written on the synopsis page in blue ink:

  J. Talbert

  "No luck?" Angel asked as Ronnie closed the final drawer.

  "Somebody called J. Talbert. Unless somebody else loaned it to her, that is."

  Ronnie returned the book to the drawer and moved around the other desks.

  The one immediately inside the door had a triptych photo montage featuring a smiling woman in the center panel flanked on either side by a boy, the one on the left maybe around twelve years old and the one on the right a little older, with that pubescent awkwardness in his stance.

  Ronnie moved to the last of the three desks. A nameplate on the middle of the desk announced that this was the property of J. Peter Baldone. "Bet he keeps the nameplate just in case he forgets," Ronnie said, unable to keep the smile out of his voice.

  Angel said, "Are we going back to the airplane?"

  "Sure we are," Ronnie said. "But we need to get some stuff to help Karl. And we should find out who was calling."

  "I'm hungry."

  "Again? We only just ate."

  Angel shook her head emphatically. "No," she said, slurring the word to let Ronnie know he was out of order. "Not 'again'… 'still'. I didn't have enough to eat the last time."

  Ronnie moved into the glass office and checked the filing cabinet. "OK, we'll finish up here and go get another sandwich." The cabinet drawer opened effortlessly.

  Ronnie flicked through the card markers on the filled slots – Vacation, Rota, Bank details, Insurance, Head Office and so on. He pulled out the Vacation and Rota folders and flicked them open.

  There were five names on the vacation listing: DeShaun Maniker, JP Baldone, Jennifer Talbert, Matthew Bodowski and Philip Kahn. He replaced the file and continued flicking through the rest of the drawer. He was disappointed to find that there were no personnel records, so no addresses or telephone numbers. He slid the drawer closed again.

  "So, Jennifer Talbert," Ronnie said, "world's best mom, who is calling you here today?"

  "You think it was maybe a fren?"

  "It could be a friend," Ronnie said. But he didn't think so. If everywhere had been affected the same way, then he thought that the last thing on people's minds would be to call friends at work. No, this call had to be from family. Maybe a husband, calling to see if his wife was OK; a mother or father, calling their daughter; or kids, looking for mom.

  Ronnie looked at his watch. And then cursed. He still hadn't got himself a new one. But no matter, it was hours since the light. If it was someone local then they would have driven down here long ago. Plus, if the husband were at work himself, then he probably wouldn't have a number block on his work or business telephone. So, realistically, that left out a husband. Or "significant other" as the politically correct lobby would have it.

  So, parents? That was the second one in Ronnie's list of options. But he didn't buy Jennifer Talbert's parents as being the kind of people who put a number block on their home telephone. No, that was something a younger person would do. He looked at Angel. She was oblivious to what was going on in Ronnie's head, busy straightening Samantha's dress.

  He moved back to Jennifer Talbert's desk and sniffed some more. It was a younger perfume. It wasn't middle-aged but it wasn't a twenty-something. Ronnie closed his eyes and tried to picture her.

  "You OK?"

  He snapped his eyes open and gave Angel a smile. "I'm fine. A little tired, maybe, but I'm fine."

  "So not a fren?"

  "Nope. Not a friend. It was home calling. Not her husband but her son or her daughter."

  Angel giggled and slapped Samantha against her leg. "Hey, how'd you know that?"

  Ronnie shrugged. "I think maybe I'm picking up the power from you," he said, holding both index fingers against his temples and crossing his eyes at the girl. Angel giggled some more.

  Glancing around the main office, Ronnie saw a stack of directories on one of the filing cabinets. He went across and pulled off the residential volume, turned to the T section and started running down the names, flicking pages until he reached the Ta's. "Boy," he said, more to himself than to Angel Wurst, "there are some strange names in here." Then he stopped. "Ah, here we go, Talbart, Talbatt, tuh tuh tuh, Talbert!" He ran his finger down the listing, tutting, and then stopped. "Hey," he said, turning to Angel, "if the person calling her was at home, then Jennifer Talbert's number won't be listed."

  Angel shrugged helpfully, eyes wide. Whatever the problem was, she was pretty sure it wasn't her fault.

  Ronnie went back to the cabinet, closed the open drawer and pulled open the drawer above it. He flicked through the file sections until he came across Personnel, which he pulled out. There were eight folders in there, including some names he hadn't come across. But the main thing was that Talbert, Jennifer was there. He lifted the folder clear and opened it.

  Jennifer Talbert was 36 years old, married to Theodore Allan Talbert, and they had two sons, Theodore Brian Junior and Wayne Allan. There was a number to call for emergencies but it was her husband's, Jennings and Milhause Risk Assessment. There was no number for her home.

  "You reckon this is an emergency?" Ronnie said as he lifted the receiver of the nearest phone and started to key in numbers. The line was dead. He replaced the receiver, lifted it again, and prefaced the number with 9. He got a tone. Then he dialed.

  "Who you calling?"

  "Ted Talbert."

  Angel made a face. "Who's he?"

  "His wife works at this desk. I'm calling him to see if he's been trying to call her."

  Angel made Samantha do a little walk and then sat the doll down on her knee.

  The number cleared and Ronnie heard a ringing. Somewhere over town, in a suite of offices whose windows were painted "Milhause Risk Assessment", a telephone was ringing. He pictured the desks and the nice paintings on the walls, the water dispenser over in the corner, the coffee machine, maybe – all of these things. But it was deserted. Nobody had come into work today.

  "Damn!" was all Ronnie could think of to say that he felt he could get away with in front of a six year old.

  "Can we go get another sandwich?"

  "OK, honey." Ronnie pulled a sheet of paper from a scrap tray on J. Peter Baldone's desk and scribbled down Jennifer Talbert's address. Then he replaced the folder and slipped the paper into his pocket. Minutes later they were back at Stephenson's pharmacy choosing more sandwiches.

  "What kind of stuff?"

  "Huh?" Ronnie was partway through a thick chocolate doughnut and he had caramel icing around his mouth.

  "What kind of stuff you wanting for Karl?"

  "Oh, OK. Stuff to help him get free."

  Angel tore another piece out of the day's second sandw
ich and dropped the rest of it onto her plate, going instead for the potato chips.

  "You think you really should have had more potato chips?" Ronnie had just narrowly avoided asking her what her mother would say when she found out her six year old daughter had been stuffing herself with carbohydrates. He figured the chances were not good that Angel would ever see her parents again. Or that he would ever see Martha.

  Angel ignored the question and instead asked, "You think he's OK under all that wood?"

  "I think so, sure. I hope so."

  "You gonna take him some food?"

  Ronnie snapped his fingers and patted Angel on the shoulders. "Hey, you're quite a catch, aren't you? That's good thinking there, Angel." He finished his water, stifled a belch and pushed his empty plate forward. "Let's go choose him something from the cabinet. You done?"

  She nodded and slid from the stool.

  "I need to go to the bathroom."

  Ronnie looked around until he saw the RESTROOMS sign. "Over there, honey. I'll get Karl a sandwich."

  "And potato chips," she called over her shoulder as she ran through the pharmacy.

  "And potato chips," Ronnie agreed.

  When Angel started off along the corridor to the restrooms, Ronnie opened the cold cabinet again and checked the sandwiches. There seemed little point in leaving any of them: they didn't know how plentiful food was going to be so he may just as well take the lot. He slipped behind the counter to look for something to carry them in.

  (10)

  Rick and Geoff didn't go back to the station, not right away. Geoff had second thoughts and headed the Dodge out of Jesman's Bend the 18 miles to Dawson. But it was a wasted effort.

  They heard the horn plaintively wailing long before they had passed the tracks on the town outskirts, its drone hanging on the wind like a half-remembered tune or the tired buzzing of a wasp trapped against the window pane in a deserted room.

  The cause was an old Lincoln, all chrome and fins, its front end sitting in the double-fronted window of a deli on Milton, where the street curved slightly to the intersection with Boedeckers. They didn't stop to look but, as they passed the Lincoln, driving slowly, praying silently for any movement, Rick wondered whose car it was and why he or she was out so early in the morning. It was almost ten by that time but they both assumed the smash-up happened in the early hours, same time as the light.

  A little further along, another car and a delivery truck had met head on at the intersection. The car was a wreck and the delivery truck had jackknifed onto its side so that it was spread right across the road. A few yards beyond, they saw a bicycle lying by the side of the road, a burlap sack of spewed-out news papers littering the sidewalk. If they wanted to go any further they would have to park up and proceed on foot. Without saying anything, Geoff slowed down and made a turn back the way they had come, back past the smashed Lincoln with its horn still wailing like an abandoned child – and, just like such a child who had been crying for attention for a long time, the horn's voice was growing hoarse.

  Going back, they passed more empty streets and empty houses, with the only sign of movement being the flag over the courthouse, flapping in the wind.

  They hit Jesman's Bend for the second time at a little before midday, pulling up outside the station at 12.20. The sun was high and the shadows long. Neither of them was looking forward to the darkness, though they couldn't explain why.

  This time they didn't stop.

  Melanie was sitting on the rail outside the station's front entrance, coffee cup in one hand and cigarette in the other, its smoke drifting peacefully up into the air as though everything was absolutely normal.

  "We're on strike," she announced as Geoff stepped out of the Dodge.

  He nodded.

  Rick walked up to her and tousled her thatch of blonde hair, closing his eyes and breathing in the smoke. "My, but that smells good."

  Melanie squinted into the sun and gave a sorry-looking smile to her husband. "There's nobody there, is there?"

  Geoff shook his head. "How did you know that?"

  Melanie shrugged, took a pull on the cigarette. "No calls, no movement out on the road, no answer from people we called – some of Johnny's friends, my brother–"

  "Yeah, I called Bob, too." Geoff stretched his arms behind his head and arched his back. "He could be out."

  "Hey, don't bullshit a bullshitter, OK?"

  Rick made for the open doors. "I'm getting a coffee. Anyone else."

  Melanie shook her head but Geoff said he'd have one.

  When Rick had disappeared, Melanie asked Geoff what he thought had happened to everyone.

  "I have absolutely no idea. No idea at all. None of it makes any sense." He plopped onto the rail beside her and leaned forward on his knees. "We drove down to Dawson, same thing: everywhere silent and deserted. Abandoned cars smashed through store windows, truck upturned in the street… Jeez, Mel, I'm worried."

  She threw the butt to the ground and put her hand on his hands. "Don't be. We're OK, that's the main thing."

  "But what if they've all gone for good? What if we're… what if we're the last people on the planet?"

  "We won't be."

  "Why not? And anywise, we don't even know why we weren't taken or–" he waved a hand in the air "–disintegrated, or whatever it was happened."

  The sound of footsteps made them both turn.

  "Maybe we just live right," Johnny said. He was leaning against the door drinking Coca-Cola from a can, wrap-around dark glasses reflecting the sun. He looked like a young Marlon Brando: scuffed motorcycle boots, tight jeans and tight sweatshirt with the short sleeves rolled up onto his shoulders, a bulge of a cigarette pack in the left one, like a rectangular epaulette. He exuded attitude.

  "Doesn't make any sense," Geoff said again.

  Melanie got to her feet and threw coffee grounds onto the soil at the side of the path. "Have you noticed how there are no birds?" She walked a little way to the Dodge, its engine clicking in the heat. "And no insects?"

  "There ain't no nothing," Johnny announced. "Took everything, whatever it was."

  "But why not us?"

  "That, Geoffrey, is the $64,000 question."

  Melanie threw her head back and sniffed. "You think maybe it's poisonous… the air, I mean?"

  Johnny shook his head. "Whatever happened happened fast – if it was something in the air then we'd have noticed it long before now." He stepped out and shucked himself onto the rail. "It was the light. I didn't see it – as you know – but that's what it was."

  "Maybe it was a comet or something."

  Melanie looked across at her husband. "Like that movie, Day of the Triffids? That was some kind of comet, wasn't it?" She glanced over at the grassland rolling down the side of the valley to make sure she couldn't see any monster plants staggering up to keep them company.

  "But whatever it was," Johnny said, his voice soft but insistent, "it still doesn't explain why it didn't do us. And it doesn't explain what's happened to all the bodies."

  Melanie shook her head and went inside.

  "We were inside," Geoff suggested. "But, no, that doesn't work either. Lots of folks – in fact, pretty much everyone – were inside, most of them in bed. Like you," he added.

  Johnny looked back to make sure Melanie hadn't reappeared. "But maybe not New York," he said. "New York is two hours in front of us – that would have made it five, five-thirty there, when the light came."

  Geoff let out a deep sigh. "Then it's happened all over the world."

  Johnny took a slug of soda and nodded. "Could be."

  "Except for us."

  "Except for us." Johnny took another slug of soda and crushed the can.

  "So it wasn't simply being inside that helped us," Geoff said, studying his tented fingers. "And it wasn't anything to do with here–" he waved a hand at the surrounding hillside "–because all the birds are gone."

  "And the insects," Johnny added with a chuckle.

 
"Yeah, every cloud has its silver lining."

  They both laughed.

  Geoff got to his feet and looked at the station building. "So maybe it's got something to do with our building that doesn't apply to any others."

  "Either that or we've been spared."

  Geoff looked across at Johnny to see if he was smiling.

  "You serious?"

  Johnny shrugged and pulled his pack of cigarettes from his sleeve. "Why not? Makes as much sense as anything else."