by Jerry Cole
Where on earth was Monica, anyway? Hadn’t they sensed anything was wrong?
Isaac reached down, nodding toward his hand. His father swept his fingers around Isaac’s, gripping as hard as he could. Isaac yanked him to standing, watching as the man wobbled a bit, as uneasy on his feet as a child.
“Come on!” he cried, sweeping his free arm around his father’s shoulders. They cantered back toward the ranch house. His father let out a strange, animal-like wail. They stomped up the back steps, where—miraculously—Isaac spotted a large basin of water, perhaps used to water the plants in the garden. He pressed the torch into it, watching steam escape. Then, he shoved his shoulder into the door, yanked the knob, and propelled them inside. When the door clicked behind them, he wrapped his hands on either side of his father’s arms, gripping hard.
“Daddy, what were you thinking?” he cried, his voice hollow. “You could have hurt someone! You might have hurt someone!”
His father blinked at him, his eyes wide. His cracked lips bounced off of one another, bumbling. Upstairs, he heard footsteps, which traced down the steps. Monica’s voice rang out.
“What on earth—”
Isaac spun his head toward her. She was bleary-eyed, still in the midst of sleep. Her face echoed back the same horror he felt.
“Daddy tried to light the entire cult on fire,” he said.
“Daddy?” Monica whispered, cutting toward them.
Thomas began to quake. He shivered toward the door, cranking his shoulders forward. Outside, the screams escalated, men and women yelping for assistance. Isaac’s heart dipped deeper in his body. His thoughts darkened to black.
“Daddy, say something,” Isaac said through gritted teeth.
They stood in stunned silence. Upstairs, the children had awoken, and Isaac could hear Trudy murmuring to them, telling them it was all right—that the fire wouldn’t reach the house. Sure enough, when Isaac’s eyes traced the window, he noted that a fire brigade of sorts had arrived, casting water over the various smoldering tents. White smoke billowed up from the grass, a sign of the fire’s passing.
Thomas grew increasingly crumpled against the wall. He muttered, “They can’t be on my property like that,” and allowed his bottom lip to jut far out. “It’s what Zane would have done. He always said—”
“Daddy, Zane isn’t here,” Isaac sighed. “It’s just us. And you’re not well.”
At the issue of this statement, his father’s skin seemed to shine green. It was as though his body remembered it was unwell, only because he’d said it. Monica latched her hand across their father’s shoulder, assisting him back toward the bed. Her own words were kind and soft, those of a mother.
“It’s all right, Daddy. Let’s get you to bed. It’s all right. They’re gonna leave, now. They won’t bother you any longer.”
Isaac watched as Monica draped their father over his bed. She swept a blanket over him, tucking it across his chest and his shoulders. The moment his father’s head hit the pillow, his eyes flickered shut. His lips parted, shoving out an enormous snore, one apt to shake the house.
When Monica returned to the kitchen, she snapped her hands on her hips. Isaac followed suit, glaring. The tension was razor-sharp.
“What the hell, Mon?” Isaac demanded. “What are you going to let him do next, huh? He just might have killed someone!”
Monica’s nostrils flared. “You’re gonna blame this on me? How typical. I should have known.”
“Monica, you were meant to be watching him. Make sure that he didn’t get out of the house again. Last time, that weirdo idiot all but attacked him. And now, he’s trying to set fire to the entire town…”
“Don’t do this, Isaac,” Monica blared. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me where you were this evening, huh? You just up and left and didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”
“I wanted to try to figure out Daddy’s story,” Isaac returned. “I wanted to talk to Marcia a bit more. Fill in the blanks of everything that we missed. I mean, we basically don't even know that guy in there. He could be a monster. And very well might be.”
Monica’s shoulders drew lower. Her elbows dipped into her waist. She suddenly looked far older than her age—like she approached forty years old. Isaac’s heart pounded, waiting for another sass-filled response. But instead, her eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here,” she murmured. “You don’t want me here. Daddy doesn’t want me here. I should have just stayed at home.”
Isaac glanced outside. A grey and white haze had fallen over everything. No one screamed. Only a hazy mumbling could be heard—the voices of fifty-some people, who were surely second-guessing their decision to draw themselves all the way out into the desert, pretending it was the answer to some sort of eternal life.
How funny that Isaac’s own personal, family matters could have the power to affect so many others, along the way.
“Let’s all get some sleep,” Isaac murmured, unable to call any other sort of answer to mind. “I think we’ll all feel better if we just rest.”
Monica reached for two glasses in the cabinet, along with the bottle of whiskey on the counter. She poured them each a thick inch of liquid, then sucked hers down without waiting for Isaac. Isaac followed suit, scalding himself with the severity of the action. He coughed twice, feeling his body revolt against the poison. Just an hour before, he’d been caught in the rapture of falling for someone, body and mind and soul. Now, he felt at the bottom of life’s barrel, one that reeked with mold.
“Goodnight,” Monica murmured, drawing herself back toward the steps. Her toes looked lazy, dragging along the hardwood. “I dare say that’s enough drama for today. Even for our family.”
Isaac found it incredibly difficult to sleep. Upstairs, he perched at the edge of the twin-sized bed, just a few feet from where his nieces and nephews slept. He blinked at his phone, which seemed overly bright, shining with the severity of a thousand suns. Again, he brought up Wyatt’s article, which now read it had over a million views.
A million! It was difficult for Isaac to understand what a million souls even meant. He imagined them across the United States, their eyes burning at their screens, swallowing information about this rather ridiculous, life-altering event in his life. Before he turned off his phone, the number had transported itself to a million and a half and continued to rise. The comments were alarming. “God bless this old man!” one wrote. “He really GETS it.” “What? A cult formed, and no one told me? I’ve always wanted to join a cult!” another said. “Beings from Venus? Jesus, what will they think of next?” “A cult is the best way to make money. The guy seems like a genius. And I bet the old man is in on it, too. Just for drama’s sake.”
Isaac pressed himself against the scratchy sheets, still fully clothed. When he inhaled, he smelled burnt grass, billowing smoke, and another thing—Wyatt’s cologne. He shivered, wishing the night had turned differently. He imagined himself still wrapped around Wyatt, dotting little kisses along his perfect jawline. How he ached for another reality.
Where was Wyatt now? What on earth could he have possibly thought, watching Isaac rush into the burning field like that? Surely, he thought he was a mad man, someone to distance himself from immediately. Perhaps that would be the next write-up on the online magazine. “Ghosted at the Ghost Town.” Isaac shivered.
He felt trapped in a nightmare, without respite. He prayed that the cult would take the fire as a hint, and amble out of the ghost town, back to wherever they came from. Perhaps Isaac should take a similar clue, dart back to New York City, make amends with his old life. But he felt it had burned up along with the fire, that he had nothing to return to at all.
Chapter Ten
Wyatt
Late that night, slumber felt a thing of a very different past. Wyatt sat cross-legged in the kitchen of the town house, watching as Marney and Clara paced across the Mexican tile. Marney was splattered with ash from the clean-up, tossing her hands a
bout anxiously, her face scrunched. She was untamable, something Wyatt felt she would always be. It ached him, thinking of her ever being normal; a woman with three kids, perhaps, carting them to soccer practice.
“Are you sure he wasn’t out there?” she demanded of Wyatt again.
“I told you. I saw Kenny tonight. He wasn’t going near the field,” Wyatt returned.
“Then, where the hell was he?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“I’m not sure he wants me to tell you that,” Wyatt said.
“Come on. You know how Kenny gets,” Clara sighed. She dropped to her knees toward the opposite wall, easing, snake-like, alongside Randy, who seemed to be struggling to stay awake. “He’s an idiot, but he’s our idiot. He’ll come back.”
“I don’t know. He’s felt increasingly—lackluster about the mission,” Marney said, her voice hoarse. “I thought he was all-in, but during our last conversation. I’m just not sure.”
“To be honest, Marn, I don’t think he’s the only one,” Clara sighed. Her fingers traced through Randy’s hair. “I heard a lot of folks downstairs talking after the fire.”
Wyatt had heard them, too. A few of them had felt the fire to be a reason for the cause—something that drove them forward, as they felt sure it was the men and women from Venus, enacting a sort of sign. But others had taken issue with it, citing it as a reason that they were “crazy to stay.” “We’re just going to burn to death out here or else starve,” some guy had rattled to Wyatt, his eyes clouded with smoke. “I don’t care what Everett says. There’s something about him I don’t trust. I can’t believe I believed anything. I feel like an idiot.”
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Marney muttered. She stabbed her hands into the pockets of her dress, slumping forward. She seemed to want to root herself to something, to force herself to stop fluttering about. “I just. I hope Kenny comes back. I don’t know if I can do this without him.”
“Come on. You have Everett,” Clara said. Wyatt wasn’t entirely sure if her words reeked of sarcasm or not. He kept his eyes upon her, catching a slight eye roll.
“So, you believe what Kenny does, do you?” Marney cried, her voice haughty. “Kenny thinks I’m only here because of some—some sort of lingering attraction for Everett. But I left Everett for a reason!”
“Everyone knows HE left YOU,” Randy sighed, seemingly unable to lift his eyes toward Marney. He looked sun-tired, his cheeks burnt to a crisp beneath the Texas sun. “He might be a mad man, but you loved him. Probably still do.”
He then turned his attention toward Wyatt. His eyes were like arrows, directing into Wyatt’s inner soul. “A mad man. Isn’t that right, Wyatt? I think I read something about that, somewhere on the internet.”
Wyatt’s own cheeks flamed. So, Randy had been one of the few to catch his article. He’d thought himself to be out of the limelight, in this crew. Randy flashed his phone along his lap, seemingly testing him.
“What do you have?” Marney cried. “You know you should have given that up! Everett told us—”
“I know what Everett said, Marney,” Randy sighed. “But if you thought for a second that I would give up this phone, then you were wrong. It was expensive. Almost seven hundred dollars I spent on this thing.”
“It’s true. I yelled at him about it for a week. What a waste of money,” Clara sighed. “And he certainly touches it way more than he ever touches me.”
A hush fell over the kitchen. Randy gave Wyatt a look that said, you are lucky. I’m keeping news of this to myself. At least, for now.
Wyatt shivered. He drew himself to standing, splashing his hand across the back wall to steady himself. According to his own phone, it was just past one-thirty in the morning. His body ached. He took several staggering steps toward his bedroom, just as Clara and Randy began to bicker about how Randy ordinarily spends his cash. Marney began to pace once more. How on earth had Wyatt ended up in this shit situation?
Once back upon his bed, he drew his laptop across his lap and typed out an article about the fire. From his bedroom window, he spotted several once-cult members packing up their RVs, tracing a line through Main Street and back toward the highway.
“Although no one was injured,” he wrote, “The cult morale is quite low, leading many back to their ordinary lives. Others remain to uphold some sort of ideal, which Everett McLean has slated to them. It’s unclear how much longer the entire ordeal will carry on. And further, it’s unclear how on earth the fire started—unless it was one of the cult members themselves, making a mistake in the midst of dinner. Somehow, I doubt it.”
Wyatt sent the article back to Scott, who, it seemed, hadn’t yet fallen asleep, either.
“Over two million reads!” he spat back instantly. “Keep the write-ups coming. The people are loving it.”
Wyatt felt a spurt of adrenaline. He tossed himself back against the sheets, crossing his fingers over his chest and gazing at the ceiling above. Again, his thoughts hungered for Isaac, wondering, over and over again, where on earth he had rushed off to. He itched to go look for him but knew he hadn’t a bit of luck in the middle of the night. It was better to wait for morning. Plus, that would give him time to scout for additional stories and see the result of the disastrous fire.
But Wyatt slept very little, finding himself cast from dream to dream, before blinking wildly awake, still staring into the darkness above his bed. According to his phone, it was just after four, which meant he’d slept perhaps an hour, or even a little less.
Just after six-thirty, dawn cast its grey light over the Texas fields. Wyatt slipped his feet across the chilled floor, drawing his arms skyward and listening to his bones creak. Without thinking, he reached for his shoes and slipped them on, darting out the door. Randy was stretched out on the Mexican tile, his nose pointed toward the ceiling. Apparently, whatever fight he and Clara had fallen into had escalated. His cheeks looked hollowed out, and his mouth was wide open. It was difficult for Wyatt to tell if he was sleeping. But when he swept past, Randy didn’t move a muscle.
Outside, the sun hadn’t yet begun its ravenous blearing over everything. The saloon’s OPEN sign was no longer illuminated, and the interior looked hollow and barren, as though not a soul had ever lingered within. Wyatt cut across Main Street, his eyes turning over the horizon line. He paused for a long moment in front of the field, which was now peppered with burnt-up tents. Tracks from RVs, abandoning the mission in the middle of the night, whirled away from the field, kicking up dust. Far, far in the distance, Wyatt made out the outline of Everett McLean, standing outside of a much larger RV, his hands on his hips. Anger seemed to emanate from him.
As Wyatt stood, a little black car whizzed past him, narrowly missing his left toes. He kicked off to the right, watching as a second, then a third car took the path from the Main Street, past the cult field, and toward the ranch house in the distance. Wyatt made out stickers on the back of each, representing various news stations from around Texas.
His heart dipped into his belly, realizing what this meant.
The moment the reporters arrived in the driveway of the old man, they leaped out of their cars, ravenous. They shook cameras and sound equipment from their trunks and stomped up the steps of the old house. Wyatt stood, his weight shifting from foot to foot, while another three cars barreled toward the others. After only a few minutes, ten people gathered outside the house, with one particularly winnow-y looking woman stomping up the steps, her hand posed to rap on the door.
Wyatt’s article had been a booming voice over everything. Now, it had called the news anchors from the surrounding areas to the sleepy town, to take stock of the facts and advertise the story to their viewers.
Responsibility shadowed Wyatt’s mind. Without thinking, he trudged toward the house, feeling a strange mix of rage and empathy. How dare they take over his story like this? And also, what on earth had he expected, if not this?
Wyatt stood at the edge of the crowd of repo
rters while the “lead” woman rapped the door again. Finally, the door cracked open to reveal a woman of perhaps twenty-eight, twenty-nine years of age, glaring with the severity of a proper Texan woman. She wrapped her robe tighter around her shoulders and stood her ground, filling the crack.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” the woman demanded. Her eyes cast across the crowd of reporters, making her look as though she was viewing a natural disaster.
“Ma’am, we’re simply here to interview the older man who was seen here yesterday,” the reporter said. She stabbed a microphone into the woman’s face. “Does that man live here?”
The woman edged away from the microphone, morphing from anger to panic. “I don’t know why you think you’re here, but you’ve got it all wrong. He didn’t—um.”
“If the older gentleman does live here, would you mind if we speak with him for a few moments? The world has heard his story and wants to hear his opinion. It must be atrocious, having this cult take over your property.”
“It’s not my property,” the woman cut out. “But it’s not yours, either. Why don’t you get the hell off—”
“Ma’am, wouldn’t you say the people have a right to know what has been happening here the past week?” another reporter shouted.
“I don’t think anyone has any right to know anything about my family!” the woman burned back, her eyes flashing.
“Hey! Hey, hey!”
A familiar voice rang out from behind the woman at the door. Wyatt’s hand cut across his chest.
“Monica, hey. Don’t worry. I can handle this.”
Suddenly, the door widened. Isaac appeared beside the woman, his eyes scanning the crowd. It seemed that they didn’t quite reach Wyatt. He slotted himself in front of Monica, towering above the other journalists down below. Even the head reporter, who’d deigned to knock on the door, stepped back.
Isaac looked as though he’d had a similar night’s sleep to Wyatt. His cheeks were sallow; his skin looked vaguely yellow. He swallowed hard, seemingly gathering his thoughts.
