Miriam almost laughed. “She’s not a little girl anymore, Stan. She’s almost sixteen. Don’t you remember sixteen?”
“Of course, I do.” He pulled out a chair. “But she’s just a child. Let’s sit down and think about this.” He sat down and ran his fingers through his hair. Miriam sat across from him and slid the diary across the table.
“Just the last few pages,” she said. “She only picked it up since the power went out. Before that, she probably used her laptop. But this is enough to convince me. She had a crush on him and he’s just the type to take advantage of it.”
Stan eyed the little pink book like it was a poisonous snake. “I don’t need to read it,” he said finally. “I’ll take your word for it. Do you think we should go over there and see if she’s there?”
“I already did.” Tears filled Miriam’s eyes as her anger faded and worry took its place. “I pounded on the door and looked in the windows, but nobody answered.”
Stan looked thoughtful. “The police will be at the meeting tonight. Let’s talk to the chief about pressing charges. He can get into the Thompson’s house and search it.”
“Okay.” Miriam’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll scrape us up something to eat and then we can go. I can’t believe old Milt would let his son hide a girl there. He’s a drunk, but he’s not usually crazy.”
“We’ll find out.” Stan reached over and patted her hand. “It’s only been a week, what’s the worst that can happen in a week?”
Part 2 – Survival
Chapter 10 – The Town Meeting
A crowd had already gathered in front of the grocery store when Stan and Miriam arrived. A makeshift stage had been built at one end of the building. People were perched on deserted cars and pickups. Some had brought lawn chairs but found they were useless in the jostling mass. Small children ran between legs, their mothers shrieking their names after them. Several boys, about Danny’s age, had congregated in front of the liquor store on the corner. The sun was rapidly setting, but there was still enough daylight to see across the parking lot.
The couple pushed their way to the front, ignoring greetings and outstretched hands. They arrived at the stage just as the mayor climbed up a rickety set of steps and faced the crowd. He held his hands up for silence. A child crying in the back was the only sound. A few men stood on the ground, shining flashlights up at the speaker. He pulled his arm up to cover his eyes and leaned close to the nearest man. The light was lowered so now it shone on his shoulders. Soft laughter rippled through the crowd.
The mayor cleared his throat and lifted the megaphone to his lips. He was clean-shaven but his white hair had grown to his shoulders and his once pronounced belly had shrunk considerably. His voice was deep and sonorous, and the amplified sound rang across the parking lot.
“My friends,” he began. “We are in a shit load of trouble here, if you’ll excuse my blunt language. There’s no use trying to gloss it over. Our power has been out for over a month and we haven’t heard a peep from anyone out of our area. We have no cars that run, no food shipments are coming, our water cistern will soon be empty, and let’s face it, folks, things are at a crisis.” The crowd was silent. Even the baby had stopped crying. Several people nodded their heads.
“We did a count of who is left,” the mayor continued. “We counted about two hundred and fifty, but it looks like there are more than that here. Before you leave, I’d like everybody to fill in that piece of paper over there.” He pointed to a table that had been set up at the side of the stage. Two women and a man sat behind it and they all waved and smiled. “We want your name and address and how many there are in your household. We’d also like to know if you have any food. That’s so we can make sure nobody is going hungry.”
A man shouted from the back. “What if I don’t want to tell you what’s in my house? Somebody could try to take it.”
“Nobody’s going to take your food. We just want a picture of how many people are left in town and what our resources are.” The mayor stepped back. ‘I’m going to let Superintendent Doyle answer any questions.”
A tall man in a red RCMP uniform took the megaphone from the mayor. His buttons and an array of medals twinkled in the ring of light. The red serge gave him an extra aura of authority. There was a settling in the crowd as if they could relax their vigilance in his presence.
He removed his stetson and wiped his forehead nervously. “I’m superintendent Ralph Doyle,” his voice boomed across the heads of the crowd. “I want you to know that the RCMP are still here keeping order. I don’t know what happened any more than you do, but rest assured we are ready to meet any crisis. I sent a constable out on horseback a week ago. He’s going to check on the outlying farms and acreages and see how widespread this blackout is.”
A woman’s shrill voice rang out. “My husband hasn't come home yet. Have you been checking with other towns?”
“We can’t do that ma’am,” the officer admitted. “Phones are all dead. Nobody has come into town that I know of. I think we’re on our own for the duration.”
He continued. “What I would like everybody to do is share their resources. Check on your neighbours. If their houses are empty and there is food or any useful items, we are going to set up a central depot to bring them to. My officers or volunteers will keep track and share them as needed. The manager of this store has offered it as a disbursement facility. We trust people to take only what they need for two weeks. By then, I’m sure we will have power again and things can go back to normal.”
Somebody laughed. “You can’t know that. We could be here freezing in the dark for months, or even years. We don’t even know what caused this.”
“No, we don’t.” Doyle paused. “I’m hearing theories from aliens to terrorists to solar flares. Any of them could be true, I suppose. But for now, let's work together and get through one day at a time. I and my officers will be available any time to help you as much as we can.” He handed the megaphone back to the mayor and started to leave the stage.
“Wait!” A woman in a nurses’ smock waved her arms frantically. “We need help at the hospital. We’re running out of food and have no heat.”
Doyle hesitated, listening to the mayor’s answer. “You’re right, Anna. The hospital needs volunteers to bring food. There are only a few patients left there, but they have no place else to go. If anyone can offer a bed in their home it would be very appreciated.”
The crowd hung their heads. Feet scuffed the dusty lot, but nobody spoke up. Anna looked around at her neighbours, then marched towards the hospital. Nobody followed.
The mayor surveyed his audience, then with a sigh, he and the superintendent climbed down off the stage.
Stan grabbed the uniformed arm before Doyle could slip away. “You need to help me.”
The officer stopped. “Is this about the runaway girl?”
“I don’t think she’s a runaway.” Miriam stepped closer. “We think she was coerced away and is hiding or being held by the Thompsons.”
Doyle looked thoughtful. “I know that name. My officers have pulled the Thompson boy over for speeding more times than we can count. We think he and his friend Leonard are selling booze to minors too. But I haven’t seen him around lately.”
“Neither have we. That’s the point. We need to get into his house and rescue Tara.”
“Tell you what.” Doyle looked to where the crowd was now milling around the registration table. “I’ll come over in the morning and we’ll discuss this.” He thrust a notebook and a pen into Stan’s hand. “Write your address down.”
Stan complied and Doyle stuffed the notebook into his breast pocket. He turned abruptly and disappeared, obviously trying to avoid any more questions from the townspeople.
Miriam touched Stan’s arm. “You sign that register,” she said. “I’m going to circulate and see if any of the teenagers know where Will and his friends hang out. Somebody has to have a clue.”
She disappeared into the crowd.<
br />
Chapter 11 – Thompson home
“Open up!” Superintendent Doyle pounded on the front door of the Thompson house. Behind him, Stan and Miriam hovered anxiously. Only silence answered the shouts and repeated knocking. No curtains moved to reveal a furtive watcher. Dry leaves and dust crackled under their feet.
“Those are mine.” Miriam pointed to a set of footprints on the steps. “I came over yesterday, but there was no answer then either.”
“I’m going around back. You two stay here.” Doyle pushed his jacket back, revealing a holstered pistol. “Could be they just left like half the town. Or maybe they got stuck somewhere when their car stopped.” He moved around the corner of the house, his boots swishing through the untended grass.
“I don’t think they would go anywhere together,” Stan whispered to his wife. “As far as I could tell, the boy hated his old man. I think he took a lot of beatings before he got big enough to fight back.”
Miriam gave him a hard look. “I don’t care about that kid. I just want our daughter back in one piece.”
The front door swung open, startling them into stepping back. Doyle stood framed in the darkness beyond. “Nobody home,” he said. “The back door was wide open.” He held up a hand as they started towards him. “You don’t want to come in here. It stinks like rotten meat.”
“I don’t care.” Miriam tried to push him aside. It was like trying to move a boulder, and he didn’t budge. “I’m not leaving until I know for sure she’s not here.”
“Okay.” Doyle stepped aside. “Be my guest, but if anybody was here, I think they’d be vomiting all over the house because of the smell.”
Stan joined his wife and they stepped into the foyer. The kitchen table was covered in old papers and empty beer cans. Dishes were piled in the sink and covered the countertops. Flies, somnolent in the warmth of the early morning sun, buzzed over every surface. Turning her head, Miriam saw the living room was not much better. Bottles littered the floor around an old recliner that faced the blank TV screen. Empty pizza boxes and plates coated with unrecognizable matter were piled on the coffee table. She brought her hand up to cover her nose and mouth.
“I’m going upstairs,” Miriam said through her hand. “If she was here, that’s where she would have been.” She moved towards the stairs, stepping gingerly through the litter on the floor.
Stan shrugged and started to follow her, but Doyle stopped him with a gesture. “I don’t think that’s just rotten meat.” He said, “You’d better be prepared for what you find up there. I’m going to the basement to look around.”
Stan hurried after his wife who was peering into open bedroom doors. The upstairs was not as littered as the bottom floor, but dust flew up at every step. She pushed the door to the master bedroom wider. A framed picture of a pretty dark-haired woman gazed from the cluttered dresser. Blankets were strewn across the double bed and it was obvious nobody had slept here for a while.
Will’s room was, in contrast, well organized and neat. The bed was made and a shelf held an array of hockey trophies. Miriam pulled open the closet door. A few pairs of jeans hung inside, but no jackets or sweaters. A pair of skates leaned against the back wall.
She looked for a hockey bag, or a backpack of some sort, with no luck.
Stan spoke from the hallway. “She was never here, Hon. Maybe you’re wrong about where she went.”
“I’m not wrong.” She said grimly. “This guy planned on being gone for a long time. Skates and hockey trophies, but no bag? And no picture of his mother anywhere either. He’d take that with him.” She turned in a circle, surveying the room. “Look how neat it is. We should have watched more closely after Eleanor died. His life must have been hell living in this garbage heap.”
“So, you’re feeling sorry for him?” her husband half teased.
“Not a bit. He took Tara, I can feel it. The question is where.”
A shout from below made them hurry to the landing. Superintendent Doyle was standing at the bottom of the stairs, waving them down. “I think I found Mr. Thompson,” he said. “It seems all that drinking caught up to him.”
“What do you mean?” Stan asked as they picked their way down the stairs.
“It looks like he fell down the basement stairs,” Doyle explained. “He’s been there a while. That’s what that awful smell is.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” asked Stan.
“I don’t know who else it would be. But I’d like you to identify him if you have the stomach for it.”
Stan glanced at his wife who had gone pale. “I’ve seen a few bodies in my time as an insurance agent,” he said. “But I think Miriam had better go home. Tara’s not here and she never was.”
Miriam wanted to protest, but truthfully, she was feeling a bit sick, both from the smell and from the realization that her daughter had not been found. She stepped out onto the porch and took a deep breath of the cool mountain air. She wanted nothing more than a hot shower to wash away the miasma that surrounded the house behind her. It was more than the stink; more than the dirt. It was the air of evil that hung over it. She shuddered and almost ran towards home.
Inside the back door, she stripped down to her underclothes and stuffed her jeans and t-shirt into the garbage bin. A hot shower was out of reach, but she filled a basin with some of their precious water and carried it up to the bathroom. Once there, she scrubbed herself from top to bottom. Her hair, long her pride and joy, hung around her face in greasy strands. She sprayed perfume into the air and walked through the mist, trying to dispel the stench of death. Standing naked, gazing into the mirror, she started to cry. Her beautiful hair was showing strands of grey through the red. Her eyes were puffy and deep lines scored her forehead. She had lost weight and she looked gaunt.
Suddenly determined, she slammed out of the bathroom and made her way down the hall to her sewing room. Grabbing the scissors, she sawed at her hair, leaving clumps on the floor and clinging to her shoulders. When she could no longer feel hair below her ears, she stopped cutting. Laying the scissors down, she bent down and began sweeping hair up with her hands and dropping it into the garbage can.
Hearing a noise, she glanced up and saw Stan staring at her in disbelief. “What did you do?” He stepped into the room and pulled her to her feet. 'What did you do to your hair?’
“Cut it off. Isn’t that how some people go into mourning? I am in mourning; for Tara; for our way of life; for our son who you sent away. Even for poor Milt Thompson.” She leaned into her husband’s chest and he wrapped his arms around her. “I couldn’t even have a shower,” she sobbed. “How bad is that?”
“Shh.” Stan stroked her face. “I know it’s been a lot. We’ll find her, and Danny is safe with my parents and your sister.” He released his hold and took her hand. “Come on. Let’s find you some clothes and a cup of tea.”
She followed him back to their room. “I think I’ll have a nap, Stan. Why don’t you lie down too? Neither of us has slept for a month.”
She slipped under the covers and closed her eyes. Stan watched her for a few minutes, then started to undress. The sun was high so he drew the drapes before crawling in next to her. He ran his hands over her stomach, noting how flat it had become. He was almost surprised when his erection began to grow. It had been so long, and they were so busy that sex had become a memory. Miriam shifted towards him and moaned softly. He rolled on top of her and she welcomed him with an open body. They laid quietly, joined together.
He kissed her shoulders and she responded by pulling him closer. Their hips moved in unison, slowly at first, then faster. She bucked beneath him and with a groan, Stan felt himself come. They shuddered together. They held each other tightly allowing the pent-up tears to flow. Stan sobbed aloud. Their tears mingled.
Exhausted, they finally slept, faces and necks still wet with their shared grief.
Chapter 12 – Scavengers
It was nearly dark when Stan pulled the drapes back. They dressed s
ilently, almost shyly, in the dim room.
Stan pulled his wife into his arms. She relaxed against him allowing a moment of peace into her heart.
“I feel better.” He murmured into her shorn hair.
“I do too.” She whispered back. “We can’t forget to love each other.”
Miriam pulled away, practical again. “Are you hungry?”
“Do we have any food?”
“We do,” Miriam answered. “But if we’re going to stay here, we need to look for a source of supplies. The mayor said we should go into vacant houses and bring everything to a central storage place.”
Soon they were sitting at the kitchen table eating cold baked beans. Miriam had used the last of the fuel for the camp stove in the morning. The mayor had warned about the town cistern being nearly empty, and drinking water would soon be a problem too.
Stan told her about the grisly scene next door. He had identified Milt Thompson by the tattoo on his arm. “It looks like he was drunk and tripped on the top step. I don’t know why he would even go down there in the dark. It’s not like he was doing laundry.”
Miriam shrugged. “Maybe that’s where he kept his booze. The big question is where is William and does he know his dad is dead?”
Stan pushed his empty bowl aside. He lit the candle that sat in the middle of the table.
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “We have the whole town on alert now, so maybe somebody will come forward. In the meantime, we need to plan. It’s not only food and water we need. Look how dark it is already. And it's getting cold at night. We need heat and light. And frankly, I don’t think people are going to put their supplies anywhere except in their own house.”
“What about the fireplace?” Miriam gestured towards the living room. “Can we convert it to wood?”
The Incident | Book 3 | Winter of Darkness Page 4
