by S L Mason
The phone went dead. I didn’t know if he hung up or not. Tears rolled down my face, and I felt a scream rising inside.
Dad came in and sat on the edge of the tub next to me. His warm arms encircled my shoulders. “It’s okay to cry, baby, but keep your voice down. We don’t know if they’re still in the area.” He whispered into my hair.
“What are they, Dad? Russians? Aliens? Terroristic, genetic mutants?” I asked.
“Someone called them Fae.” He replied, then ran his hand up and down my arm as his chin cradled my head. His warm breath blew over the crown of my head, moving my hair.
What the hell are Fae? I wanted to cry and scream. Fear drives people. Fear was always overridden by survival. If anything was to happen, I had to survive. This wouldn’t be the end of my story, not like Arty’s parents lying in the street dead with Arty’s dad missing his head.
All the electricity and water was still on. I would’ve thought if aliens were attacking, they would have sent an electromagnetic pulse to the local power plant. Or maybe poisoned our water system?
They didn’t do any of those. What they did, it didn’t make any sense. They appeared out of nowhere and dragged people out of their homes and into the street, all the while singing.
My father didn’t want anything to hear us. He didn’t turn on the television. I grabbed my earbuds for my phone out of my coat. I put one earbud in and handed the other to my father. It was a way for both of us to listen without bothering my mother. She wasn’t interested anyway.
The anchorwoman’s voice announced, “Today dawns a new day. We’ve been invaded by a foreign species. The question of whether we are alone has been answered. They call themselves Fae. Apparently, humanity has encountered them before. They are fairies—the Fae.” She droned on.
Fairies. We’d been invaded by fairies. No one knew why they were here or what they wanted, but apparently, they couldn’t handle daylight. They only operated at night.
The screen changed to the President. His face was gaunt. I didn’t pay close attention to politics, but he looked like he’d aged ten years overnight. “For now, we are enacting a curfew, starting one hour before and one hour after dawn—nothing human moves. Wherever you are, stay there. If you have some means of protecting yourself, do so. City councils will create safe places where you can go, and your local police will provide protection. City councils will coordinate with the National Guard and the United States Army to protect as much of the civilian population as possible. We have recalled all armed servicemen overseas for the defense of our nation against this incursion. We don’t have any other information at this time, thank you.” The President announced. The screen changed to video footage from the night before.
I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Fairies, Dad. We’re being invaded by fairies? Don’t fairies have wings and flitter around?” I scoffed.
“No, apparently they wielded swords and crossbows.” He offered and took my hand interlacing his fingers with mine.
I shook my head. “You can come out of the cupboard, Mom. Apparently, the fairies won’t be back until dark.”
My eyes trailed down to the floor but stopped and landed on my father’s holstered handgun. He always had a gun. It never bothered me. He’d taught me how to shoot.
Something the anchorwoman said, I found interesting. They couldn’t stand the light. I thought fairies were supposed to be creatures of daylight. Apparently, the sun hurts them.
“Hey, Dad. The light hurts fairies. Tell me, don’t humans have a flashlight that imitates sunlight?” I asked.
He scratched his chin, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah, the military issues them; it’s a special kind of LED. They just recently became available to the public.” He stopped talking and turned to look at me. “It’s an excellent idea. A couple of weeks ago, Roger Epstein, down the street showed me, a few he has. Said he was taking them camping. Why don’t I go and see if he still got them?” He replied and released my hand and stood up in one motion. He reached down and pulled me to my feet.
I knew what my dad meant. He wasn’t going to borrow them. He thought Roger and his wife were dead. He was going to collect their supplies.
“What about the rest of the weapons?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. We both proceeded to the stairs, but my mother let out a yelp.
“Please, George, please don’t go down there.” She cried.
“It’s okay, Allison. They don’t like daylight. We’ll be fine. We need to get some food to shore up the house.” His replied and his face softened, as did his voice. My mother needed a soft touch, and my father gave it to her.
All her crying had caused her makeup to run. My mother had the look of a raccoon. Fear bled through her every motion. She jumped at every squeak and every sound. I knew she was terrified. My father took her hand and gently led her down the stairs. I followed behind.
Everything in our house looked perfectly normal, except for the fact that there was a giant wooden bookshelf against the front door. My father had moved my mother’s cabinet against the back door.
“I’m starving. Do you think you could make something for Sarah and I to eat?” Dad asked.
Humming erupted from my mom, and she nodded her head. She looked around, searching as if she’d never seen the kitchen before.
CHAPTER 3
He waved me over to his office, and I followed my father without a sound. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I still felt like the creatures were out there, roaming the streets and killing people. How anybody could ever have thought fairies were sweet wonderful creatures, I didn’t know.
My father had a gun safe hidden behind one of the bookshelves in his study. I’d known about it since I was little when I pulled all the books off the shelf in front of it. He’d been mad at first. “You can never tell anyone, Sarah. Can you do that?” Dad ordered. At the time, I didn’t understand why it would matter.
He spun the dial, putting in his little code, which even from a distance I could tell it was my birth date, not very imaginative. But when the safe swung open, that was when my eyes grew big. He had several assault rifles, about eight handguns of varying calibers, and a few long rifles. One of them looked like it might’ve been a 30-30 long gun. It must’ve been the one he taught me to shoot, when I was twelve. My father wasn’t a survivalist, nor was he some kind of nut either. He’d gone to Afghanistan, and he was a retired veteran that liked having a few weapons around. He said they could come in handy. Knowing how to shoot a gun could mean the difference between living and dying. So he made me go to the gun range, and I learned to shoot. I was surprised he didn’t also make me take some hand-to-hand combat classes and basic self-defense. He figured if you pick them off with a bullet, you wouldn’t need to fight. He thought his little girl was never going to be in that kind of danger. America wasn’t a dangerous country.
It wasn’t like it was Africa or the Middle East with roaming bands of crazy people ready to hack you to death. There were gangs in America, but that was an inner-city problem; that wasn’t something that happens out in the suburbs where we were.
He pulled out two sidearms, the first was a Smith & Wesson 22. It was a small caliber handgun that I’d used it before, with an ankle holster. He strapped it on me. Dad called it a lady gun.
It’s really a pussy gun.
“That’s your emergency backup. Don’t touch it unless you have to. Most people aren’t going to notice it. I don’t think these creatures know that much about guns. They look like they’re using weapons from the medieval era. Did you see the one wearing the golden breastplate?” His asked, his eyes were serious, but his lips quirked at the sides.
“Yeah, I did. Wasn’t there one carrying a crossbow?” I offered, with a small smile.
He continued to strap a knife onto his belt, tying it down around his thigh. “Yes, you have a lot to worry about with a crossbow. From a distance, they can hurt you; maybe even kill you. They’re not nearly as accurate as a gun, but a bu
llet or arrow in the right place will kill you just as dead.” He said. Next, he handed me a 380.
It was a mini nine made by Khan. I’d never shot it before, but my hand recognized it. It felt familiar and was a good fit. My hands weren’t big, but they weren’t small. If you want to be proficient with a weapon, you need something that fits your hand; something that feels good. This one did. It melded with me.
Dad smiled and said, “Bought that one a couple of months ago to give it to you when you went away to college.”
He pulled out a shoulder holster. It was brown leather with red scroll-work on it; small and dainty, apparently for me.
I wasn’t one of those big fatty Mcfat-fats, but I wasn’t a little pixie chick either. I was your average ordinary plain-Jane girl. I bought my clothes in the junior section of the store like the rest of the girls, hoping that my jeans were skinny enough and my hair was big enough—to fit in and not be noticed. I wasn’t interested in being one of those flashy girls. You know, the ones who run around trying to be the most popular chick in school.
I wasn’t a social outcast either, just dull normal. I keep saying normal. What I meant was middle-of-the-road average.
The holster under my arm was new and a little uncomfortable.
“Don’t fidget so much, Sarah. You get used to it. It’ll be uncomfortable for a little while, but then, it’ll be like a second skin, and you won’t notice it anymore until you need to use it.” Both his hands settled on my hips. “I’m not saying I want you to sleep with it on, but I am saying I want you to keep it as close by as possible,” he said, while crouching down to look into my eyes.
“Are you kidding me? Those things come out at night. Who the hell is sleeping at night ever again?” I retorted.
My father ducked his head as his forehead crinkled into a fatalistic look. I knew he wouldn’t give up. My dad wasn’t a quitter, but we were being invaded by fairies for god’s sake.
I went and sat at the kitchen table, and put my earbuds back in. I started surfing the Internet for every website that had anything to do with fairies. They must’ve been having the type of traffic most websites could only dream of. I could only imagine how much money it was costing the advertisers. Every book on Amazon about fairies was suddenly a number one best seller. I betcha if I went to the library, I wouldn’t find anything there either.
Most of what I read was flawed, filled with fairy pixie horse crap. Fairies had wings, fairies were mischievous, fairies could help save you, and they helped you find things or lose things or hide things. A lot of it sounded like bullshit made up by a bunch of people who wanted fairies to be nice, instead of the mean, cruel killers they were. I jumped ten feet in the air when I heard a knock at the back door. I was surprised how fast my gun made it to my hand, with the safety off. I guess all those times at the gun range were worth it. I hadn’t had one single thought about that weapon before it was in my hand and ready to shoot something.
“Let me in! It’s me, Arty.” Arty’s demanded through the door.
My father was already standing at the door. He gave me a solemn glance, and then slowly moved the cabinet. He didn’t move it all the way—just enough so Arty could slip through.
“I came in through the back alley and kept to the shadows. I don’t think anybody saw me.” He offered, his chest rose and fell rapidly.
“The creatures don’t go out during the day. Haven’t you been watching the news?” I asked, as my hand found on his arm.
“No, my phone went dead. That’s why my call ended. I left my charger at home, so no, I haven’t seen the news.” He retorted, then leaned over, placing both hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“I have a spare charger in the drawer over there. Throw your phone on it.” I ordered.
Dread filled me. He was going to ask where his parents were. Then he’d want to see their bodies. Just the thought of seeing them again or even bringing up the image in my mind, it made me want to yak. Nobody should see their parents like that.
His pleading eyes shifted from his phone, to my father, to me. “Where are they?” he demanded.
“You don’t want to go out there. The whole street is lined with all of our neighbors’ bodies. I think the only reason we’re alive is because they didn’t think we were home.” My dad responded. His words hit home to me how lucky we were.
“So, while my parents were dying you just huddled in the dark?” Arty yelled.
“Hardly. While your parents were dying, we huddled in a dark closet hoping to live so we could stand here and tell you that your parents are dead, and that you don’t want to look at it. It was the most awful thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.” I yelled back, choking on the last few words. “Everybody on the street is dead, Arty. Don’t you get it? Whatever you thought the world was yesterday, it’s gone. This is the new world.” I didn’t know why I yelled at him. He didn’t deserve that. He wanted to see parents’ bodies.
I didn’t want to go out there. I didn’t want to hear him crying or hear the screaming that might erupt from him, or me, or my mother if she saw. I wasn’t going to stop him, and he wouldn’t have tried to stop me, if it were my parents.
“What? You think you know what’s best for me? Spit on my face while you’re at it.” Arty bellowed, then turned around shoved the cabinet to the side and stormed out the back door. I moved to go after him, but my dad pulled me up short.
“Don’t. Let him go. Whatever he’s got to handle, he’s got to do it on his own. You can be there to help him. He’ll come back.” Dad said.
“But nobody wants to see their parents that way,” I replied.
He pulled me into a big hug, resting his chin on my head. “Everybody’s got to grow up sometime. He turns eighteen next month. He’s old enough to go to war, according to America’s laws. His war started a little earlier than mine. You know, I was eighteen when I went off to Afghanistan. It’ll either make a man out of him or break him. I think he might rise to the occasion. Let him come to his own conclusions. The real question is, how are you going to handle it?” he asked.
My dad was right. I couldn’t be a crutch for everybody else or anybody else. I had to figure out how I was feeling and not worry so much about everybody else.
Mom finished making her semblance of breakfast. I put the food in my mouth, but the truth was I didn’t taste it. I didn’t appreciate it. One of those things where you’re eating probably the best meal of your life and you have no idea what any of it tasted like or what it looked like. All I knew was it was a source of energy, which I needed.
My mother made fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, gravy, and biscuits. It was a big southern-style breakfast. But I didn’t taste any of it.
Bacon, one of my most favorite foods in the whole world is bacon. Everybody loves bacon. I’ve concluded that anyone who doesn’t like bacon must be a communist.
Arty came back and went straight to the bathroom. Gagging noises filled the house, which ended breakfast for me. He kept the door closed for a while, crying. He stopped when the faucet turned on, then he came out looking pale and pasty. “Can I stay with you guys?” he asked.
“Of course. You’re always welcome here,” I said before my parents could think.
“My dad had a watch. I was going to look for it. Would you come with me, George?” Arty sputtered.
My dad picked up his shotgun and a black thing lying on one of the kitchen counters, and tossed it to Arty.
“Dangerous world out there. I think maybe you should be wearing this. I’m not going anywhere out there without it. The sons of the evil know it’s safe to come out of their holes.” Dad said while he handed Arty a Kevlar vest.
My mother cried out. “Don’t go out there.” She reached her hand out and put her fingers to his lips and kissed him gently.
“It’s okay. We’re just going next door. Arty and I are going to pick up some supplies. We’ll be right back.” Dad replied softly.
My mother covered her mouth with her hand as bi
g fat tears rolled down her cheek. I loved my mom, but sometimes she was such a waste.
I didn’t want Dad to go either, but I wasn’t going to cry about it.
“He’s just gonna jump the fence between the yards and through the house.” I rubbed my hand down her back. “It’s not even like he’ll be on the street. That’s what I’ve been doing for years.” I offer.
My mother walked to the table in true automaton fashion, tidying up breakfast and packing everything away in containers. She sang as she went along. She placed it all precisely in the refrigerator and then mechanically washed every dish. Mom was a nervous cleaner. If she got uptight about something, you always knew by the house and the level of sparkling clean. She’d scrub every nook and cranny into a lather humming and singing all the while until her problem went away or just stopped bothering her.
When Dad was deployed to the Middle East, he was gone for a year. My mother cleaned constantly. She scrubbed holes where the stains were in my clothes. The house was awash with music and her voice.
I went to the side window and peeked through in time to see my dad leap over the fence. He cleared it. Dad was in pretty good shape. Arty had a harder time clearing it.
I didn’t even know they returned until I heard drilling on the outside of the house. My father had hoisted up sheets of plywood, and they were drilling holes and then screwing them onto the exterior of the house. They covered every window on the lower floor. Then, brought over a metal frame for a screen door, one of those steel security doors like the one for Arty’s back porch.
Dad leaned his head in the back door. “Hey, can you grab me some of those ceramic coated tap-cons I left in the junk drawer? I think there are six of them in there. I need them all.” He asked.
“Sure. You want the blue ones, right?”
“Those are the ones.” Dad yelled, over the drilling.
