by Keith Knapp
The last thing Mike saw before hearing the cracking of glass and the crunching of earth against metal was the flannel-tinged blur of the trucker woman named Jillian falling through the air, following the car down to their deaths. A look of utter fright mixed with confusion and terror was on her face, and Mike was fairly certain that he had the same expression plastered all over his mug, too.
THE SHED
13.
Something warm and wet dragged itself across Mike’s face. He stirred, but the pounding in his head kept him from opening his eyes. Did he go out last night, buy two twelve-packs, tie one on and pass out? It could have happened. On nights when he missed her the most it usually did. He hadn’t thought about her in weeks, though. Yet there Alison was, right in front of him, knocking on his brain, tugging at his memories.
The warm and wet feeling returned, and he wondered if he had vomited in his sleep and was now rolling around in leftovers of whatever he ate last night.
Something whimpered. His stomach was doing summersaults, whimpering and grinding away. Nothing a little Pepto couldn’t fix. This hangover was going to suck. Then there was another lap of wetness followed by a louder whimper, like a dog was trying to wake him up. But as far as Mike could remember, he didn’t own a dog. In fact, he hated dogs.
He forced his eyes open and found himself staring at the wise and wrinkled face of a St. Bernard. He was not waking up in his own bed. And he hadn’t been on a bender last night; his head was clearing too fast. He also hadn’t puked—the wetness was from the St. Bernard’s tongue. He wouldn’t have to wash vomit off his sheets, so at least there was that. His day wasn’t shaping up to be as bad as originally thought.
Mike pushed himself up on his elbows and the dog jumped back, its tail wagging madly. It whined again, so it wasn’t jumping for joy and wanting to play. No, something was wrong. The dog went to lick Mike’s face once more, but he pushed the animal away with a hand.
“Stop it. I’m up already. Jesus.”
Keen to obey him, the dog immediately sat down and waited as Mike tried to get his bearings. He was lying next to a station wagon that wasn’t his. He couldn’t recall knowing anyone that owned one and hadn’t had such a car in his shop in months. He’d been test driving one he’d been working on, but that had been an Acura, hadn’t it? He was pretty sure it had been. Above him was a crisp blue sky and to the right, maybe two-hundred feet away, was a plush forest. The sun was out and birds were chirping.
So I’m in a park somewhere. Methinks you were drinking last night, my man.
Mike rested his weary back against the car. The rear door next to him was open. He had been trying to get into this car. Why did he need to get into it so badly? He couldn’t remember, but he knew the back door hadn’t been an option. Something about picking open the trunk was in his brain, then it was gone, wiped away.
The dog watched him, every few seconds letting out a small huff of a sob. Mike gave the dog two quick pats on the head. The dog licked his hand, then hopped into the station wagon and motioned his head toward the front seat. As the dog turned (he thought the dog’s name was Roscoe) Mike saw specks of blood on his jowls.
“You okay, boy?” he asked the dog while wiping his canine spit-covered hand on his jumpsuit.
And that’s when he remembered what had happened. It all came back in a blaze.
The flat tire.
The earthquake.
The nice lady trapped in her station wagon.
He had tried to save her.
And then he fell.
The idea that he had had one too many was long gone. He suddenly wished he had gotten shit-faced last night. At least that he’d understand.
I should be dead.
The nice old lady (Dorothy, that was her name) still sat in the driver’s seat, her chest pushed up against the steering wheel.
She should be dead, too. Wait, I think she is.
Her head lay over the dashboard at a harsh right angle, her neck clearly broken. It was as if she was inspecting her own chest through the spokes of the steering wheel. Blood had pooled from a head wound Mike couldn’t see onto the dash, obscuring the speedometer and fuel gauge like syrup. Dorothy’s right hand still clutched the wheel in a vain attempt to steer the car away from the fall.
Surprisingly, Mike himself seemed alright. Sure, there were some sore spots that would no doubt turn into some nasty bruises along with a few cuts and scrapes, but that was all. Considering he should at the very least have a broken arm or a shattered leg Mike Randal was doing just fine and dandy.
Roscoe whimpered again, positioning his chin to rest on one of Mike’s shoulders. The dog looked at Dorothy with sad eyes.
* * *
Blades of grass poked through Jillian’s flannel. She was reminded of afternoons spent at Silverlake Dog Park with her family and their two Labradors when she was in high school. Hot summer days laying on her back as she was now, staring up at the sun, her mother warning her to not do that or she’d go blind, Ripley and Natalie playing by her side.
A dog give out a petite little moan. Jillian wasn’t so far gone as to not realize that she wasn’t hearing Ripley or Natalie. In fact, she knew the sound had come from the dog in the station wagon that had fallen over the edge, and her with it. She finally sat up, shielding her eyes from the oddly too bright sun. When had it gotten so bright? She wondered how long she’d been out, because shouldn’t the sky be filled with smoke and haze?
The station wagon lay crumpled on the ground. Motor oil had spilled from its undercarriage, bleeding through the grass, and the sharp aroma of gasoline burned Jillian’s nostrils. She looked past the car, past the man that was getting to his feet on the other side of it who seemed to be having his own battle with the light. She squinted her eyes, shook her head to wake herself up. Another look at the guy and she recognized him as Mike the mechanic. Wasn’t that a song? Or a band? It was a band, that’s right…it had been Mike + The Mechanics. The guitarist from Genesis had been in that one.
To her right was a vast forest full of oaks and pines. At least they looked like oaks and pines to Jillian, she couldn’t be sure. The trees were shrouded in shadows, their exact shapes masked by darkness. To her left, after what appeared to be a mile or two of some perfectly-cut grass about a foot high (that must be quite a job, getting the grass that even and keeping it that tall), was another forest of trees, this one just as dark and menacing as the other. Beyond that lay a stretch of mountains as high as the Himalayas.
Half a mile away from the nose of the destroyed station wagon was what appeared to be a small garage. From this distance she couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked to be made of wood and no bigger than a one-bedroom apartment. You couldn’t fit more than a single car in there. An out-of-place chimney sat upon its roof. Whatever the structure was, it wasn’t a garage.
It was what Jillian wasn’t noticing that was bothering her. There were no other people except for Mike the mechanic (who was now walking towards her), no bits of road or debris from the collapsed freeway, no other cars except for the station wagon. And shouldn’t she have landed on Sepulveda Boulevard, anyway?
“You okay?” Mike asked as he approached, rubbing his head.
“Not by a long shot,” she said and looked up. Instead of a mammoth of modern construction, all that was there was the bluest of blue skies. No clouds. No sun. Just blue as far as the eye could see.
Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He read the screen and frowned. He spun in place, holding the phone higher, reaching for some clearance for a signal. He must not have gotten one because he then shoved it back into his pocket.
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” he said.
“No shit,” Jillian said. “Stop me if I sound stupid, but shouldn’t we be dead?”
“The lady in the car wasn’t so fortunate,” Mike said. “Guess we were just lucky.”
“Where’s everyone else? Is it only us?”
Mike shrugg
ed. “I’m afraid you know about as much as I do. Let’s take a look around.”
Mike and Jillian began to slowly and deliberately search through the tall (too green) grass. Each blade of grass was in perfect height and harmony with the one next to it. They all moved at once, together, breathing. They couldn’t see through the grass to the ground.
“Hello?” Mike yelled.
“Anybody out here?” Jillian tried.
They both waited a few seconds, and after they were convinced they were not going to get a reply, Mike pointed behind Jillian. “You take that side, I’ll take this. We’ll meet up by those trees over there,” he said, and then moved his pointing finger to a block of oaks at the far end of the meadow. “Zig zag around, use your hands.”
Searching this meadow was going to be a bitch.
* * *
She was alone. Her eyes were still closed, but Sophia Baker knew she was alone. She propped herself up on her elbows. The pain of two migraines hitting simultaneously throttled her skull, insisting she lay back down. But fear propelled her up even further to find a sign—any sign—of her daughter.
Sophia’s head swiveled to the right. A forest sat thirty feet from her. Her head swung to the left, where she saw two people wading through the tall grass toward her.
Nowhere did she see her daughter.
“Jody?”
The word was raspy coming out of her throat, as if she had drank nothing but sand for a week. She swallowed what little saliva there was in her mouth and tried to produce more, licking her lips. The taste of blood filled her mouth. She cleared her throat and said her daughter’s name again. This time it came out louder and clearer, the blood making a fine lubricant.
Sophia let herself fall back to the ground as a man in a mechanic’s uniform came to her side. He cradled her head in a large hand.
“Easy there, missy, easy,” he said.
Sophia wasn’t paying any attention to the man that was now holding up her head. She was focused on the sounds around her. Birds chirping. The breeze rustling through the blades of the grass, and just beneath that the leaves of the nearby trees dancing in the wind.
And underneath all that was the silence of not hearing her daughter reply when her name was called. That silence was the most horrifying sound she had ever heard in her life.
Sophia Baker slipped back into darkness.
14.
Light blasted through the leaves of the trees above. This did not help Rachel’s dizziness at all. She shut her lids and rubbed her temples. There, that was a little better. She was still dizzy, but at least she could see now.
Jimmy’s eyes were closed. His hands sat lazily on the dirt, his head cocked slightly to the left. Rachel put two fingers to his neck and felt for a pulse. After a few seconds of feeling nothing, a few more seconds of being absolutely positive that her boyfriend was dead, she felt a faint thump of blood move through his veins. He was injured but he was still alive, thank God. The tears of sorrow that had started to come out of her eyes turned to tears of relief.
“Jimmy? Jimmy! Wake up!”
But Jimmy didn’t stir. He lay there motionless, slowly breathing in and out, oblivious to Rachel’s call. Maybe he’d wake up in a few minutes. Even if it was a few hours, she’d sit and wait with him until help came.
On all sides of her were trees, trees and look: more trees. She was deep in the heart of a forest, a forest she didn’t remember being in the San Fernando Valley, let alone right underneath the freeway.
The freeway. How did she survive the fall from the freeway? That’s what had happened, right?
“Jimmy, honey, you have to open your eyes.”
His head moved slightly from side to side, and that gave Rachel a bit more confidence that perhaps he would pull out of this thing okay. She wasn’t a doctor but was pretty sure if someone’s spine was broken they wouldn’t be able to move their head like that. At least that’s what TV had taught her.
Taking a quick mental inventory of her own health, she felt her arms, her legs, her torso. No cuts, no bruises, no broken bones. There was the road rash on her left thigh, but that didn’t seem too bad. As a matter of fact, Rachel Martin felt okay. Maybe a little dizzy, maybe a little confused, but for falling three stories she was in miraculous shape. How was that even possible?
You should be dead, but you’re not. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Oh, Jimmy, you stupid son of a bitch,” she whispered. A tear swam out of a duct and down her cheek. “This is all your fault. We make it outta here, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“An’ I’ll let ya,” Jimmy mumbled.
He was awake. Dear God in Heaven, he was alive and awake. Jimmy turned his head toward Rachel and opened his eyes.
“AreyouokayhowdoyoufeelareyouokayohshitJimmy.”
“Slow down, you’re makin’ muh head hur’ more’n it already does,” he said. He was still kind of mumbling.
He sat up with two snaps of the back. Rachel geared up to scream. If Jimmy hadn’t broken his back in the fall, it sure sounded like he just did. Then he stretched out his arms and twisted left, then right, cracking his back some more. Whew. He was just loosening some things up.
He looked at his hands, which were still covered in dirt, and brushed them off. Opened and closed them. “How are we alive?” he asked. He looked around at the forest. “Where the hell are we? And where’s Brett?”
“All good questions,” answered Rachel. “Best I can figure is we lost Brett when things went really bad up there.”
The leaves of the tall trees stared back at Jimmy as he looked skyward. “Up there isn’t up there anymore.”
“I know.”
He went to stand. His knees shook and he sat back down. “Fuckin’ dizzy,” he said. “Gonna need a few minutes.”
Something went wuh-thwack behind them; a branch breaking. Rachel jumped to her feet and turned around, any lightheadedness she was experiencing disappeared immediately. She saw nothing except the trees. Miles and miles of trees. Her ears picked up the sound of another branch snapping to her right.
No. To the left.
In front of them.
Behind them again.
It was coming their way. Whatever it was, she thought it was the wrong word. Should be plural—sounded like there was more than one. Rachel thought to call out a pensive “hello,” but the word stopped in her throat as the first of the creatures made its ugly appearance.
The large black dog crawled toward them. It kept low to the ground, as unsure of the humans as they were of it. Rachel guessed at full height it would reach three feet. It sniffed the air, taking in the scent of the woman and the injured man. Then its eyes found Rachel and it took two steps toward her.
“Jesus Jimmy, what is it?”
“A dog?” he offered. “A really big ugly fucking dog?”
But the closer it got the less like a dog it looked. Its snout was pushed out of its head at an obscene downward angle and was about two-feet long. Two six-inch long razor-sharp canine teeth stuck out from the top of its mouth, black from decay. A lone third tooth jutted out from the animal’s chin, swooping over its nose. Its ears were small and lay flat.
A second one appeared to their left, a good ten feet away, brown in color. A small gold diamond-shaped patch of fur was positioned on its forehead. Its eyes were as yellow as the sun. Dark red slits, like those of a reptile, sat horizontal in its eyes. The slits stared at Rachel. The animal—whatever it was, it certainly was not a dog—blinked twice at her.
The first one was now less than five feet away, its muscular legs pulling it closer and closer. It bared all of its blackened teeth and let out a growl, perhaps its own pensive way of saying “hello.” So distracted was Rachel by the one moving closer to them that she didn’t feel the claws of a third one dig into her back.
“Rachel!” Jimmy cried as he reached out for her.
The third dog-thing’s weight was massive. Even though it was half Rachel’s size it seemed to
weigh ten times more than her. Rachel went down, all the air in her lungs escaping with a hoomph. She quickly rolled over and the dog-thing rolled with her and off her back. She reached for the gun nestled between her pants and her underwear, her shoes digging into the earth beneath her feet. Her hand touched nothing but panties and skin. Shit, that was right—the last time she had seen her gun it had been flying around the back of the van during the earthquake.
The third animal crouched, in the ready position. This one was mostly white in color save for its right front leg, which was all tan, like it was wearing a long tan sock.
All three dog-things paused and exchanged glances.
Rachel was immobile with fear. If her mind wasn’t racing a mile a minute, she would’ve had the idea to scream just then.
“Run,” whispered Jimmy.
The dog-things let out a small bark each. Then together as if they were joined at the hips, they moved past Rachel and over to Jimmy. With a nod from Diamond Patch (Must be the alpha, Rachel thought), Blackie and Tan Sock pounced on Jimmy and began to tear at his flesh. Rachel, still frozen and unable to scream, watched as the animals tore into his skin.
“RUN!!!” Jimmy screamed, and that would be his final word on the matter. Or any matter, as it turned out.
Tan Sock’s jaws chomped into Jimmy’s left arm. His forearm shattered and the animal ripped the limb from Jimmy’s body with one quick motion. Jimmy let out a short scream of unbridled pain as the animal took its prize back a few steps and began to eat as Blackie did the same with the other arm. Convinced that its friends had a good start on supper, Diamond Patch trotted to Jimmy’s head, looking as peaceful as a poodle about to receive a treat from its master.
That peaceful look swiftly went away as its sharp canines, which may have been black but were not decaying in the least, cracked the top of Jimmy Nickson’s head wide open, cutting the man’s scream of pain and horror off. Blood spurted out of the Jimmy’s head and onto Diamond Patch. It relished it. Loved it. Rachel knew dogs didn’t purr, but this one did.
