forward…
The closest skeleton moved in on Ben, fingers groping, and Ben stood mesmerized, leaning in toward it. Sean cursed and stepped into his swing, blowing the skeleton apart like a cherry-bomb set off in a plastic model. Standing poised with the bat and breathing fast he heard a scuffling noise and looked down. He stared in disbelief—the bones were skittering back together, nudge by nudge, across the floor. The skull rolled over to fix its vacant eye sockets on him, and Sean felt a raw power there. The same thing he sensed from Ben—seductive, enticing—this thing somehow had the power to tug at his mind.
Sean turned stiffly toward the cackling Delane, confused; his thoughts a jumble.
“We’s jus’ gettin’ stronger, doesn’t ya see? Ya cain’t fight us forever, boy, why doesn’t ya jus’go on and give it up, yeah? We’ll be all the stronger once you and Benji joins us—able to go out from the house. C’mon now, Benji’s most of the way home already.”
Sean started to nod, thinking it was a fine idea to be done with this conflict, when his mind cleared. “No!” he screamed, and he raised the bat and turned to run toward the once-men who clacked and clattered past dull, accomodating Ben.
back…
Sean awoke from a dead sleep, startled by the sound of the shutters banging in their frames. He pulled on his jeans and ran upstairs, and, staring out the wall of windows in the dining hall, his mouth fell open.
“Jeezus Christ,” he whispered.
Moments later Ben lumbered up, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the hell’s with this wind? The freakin’ hurricane passed through two days ago—it was clear skies earlier today.”
“I don’t know. Damn! We got zonked and watched recorded stuff last night—why didn’t we listen to a network station?” He waved toward a wall switch. “The power’s out now, so we can’t check any weather or news channels. How the hell are we—” He smacked his forehead. “Batteries, Ben! Do we have a battery-powered radio?”
They huddled over the old weather-band radio, and Sean spun the dial. He cursed softly. “It’s just noise.”
Ben reached in. “I know some stations, Pops played with this a lot.” He fiddled, and a crackly voice emerged from the white static.
—very fortunate that a large portion of the southern coastal population evacuated when Melinda was thought to be a threat.
Doctor Phillips, Hurricane Norbert, fast on the heels of Melinda, was expected to skirt the Carolina coast and possibly make landfall in New England, is that not correct?
That’s correct, Donald. The models favored by noted specialist Dr. Willhelm Debray will likely be recalibrated based on these two anomalous storm systems. Interestingly enough, a computer model championed by Dr. Farus Afree, of the NOAA, but held in disfavor by the majority of the meteorological community,— ”
Sean smacked the radio. “C’mon, just give us the bottom line!” Ben held a finger to his lips and dialed the frequency back in.
“—now predicted to come ashore on a track very close to what was originally forecast for Melinda. Landfall is expected to occur at 9 AM, just north of the Boynton Inlet. This is a very slow, wet storm; we expect tidal surges and extensive flooding. The center of the storm is projected to cross Lake Okeechobee, from the vicinity of Canal Point across to Lakeport, and the hurricane, possibly by then lessened in strength to Category Four, should enter the Gulf of Mexico somewhat south of Tampa. Tampa Bay area residents are advised— ”
Sean pressed the power switch, rubbing a hand over his bristly jaw and speaking softly. “OK, my friend… looks like we’re in for it big time. You’re from around here, what do we do now?”
Ben shook his head, fear plain in his eyes. “I… don’t know. It’ll be here, full-force, in just a few hours.”
They stood in inch-deep water in the kitchen while the storm built outside. “Sean, when I talked with Pops several days ago, when they still thought Melinda was heading for south Florida, he was really worried about Lake Okeechobee. Water levels were at a record high, and though the Water District was back-pumping some of it out to sea, they didn’t want to overfill the coastal canals—where most of the population is—when the storm made landfall there. We’re just a few feet above sea level here, and less than a mile from the lake.” He stared at Sean, his face pale. “Thank god this is one of the few three-story buildings inland—we may need the upper floors.”
Sean splashed a foot in the water. “Where’s this coming from? It’s raining like hell, but there’s no serious flooding outside—not yet anyway.”
“It’s the water table. South Florida is mostly porous sand or muck or limestone, with a water table so near the surface you could probably take a shovel and dig to it in just a few hours. The ground is now thoroughly saturated, and this floor, slightly belowground, is leaking. That’s another of Pop’s quirks—he wanted a basement, even though there’s no such thing in south Florida.”
“Like a leak in a boat’s hull, water’s coming in from below?”
“Mostly from here,” Ben gestured for Sean to follow. He swung open a door on the north end of the building and Sean peered in.
“There’s a sump pump in there, if we had power. This room is lower than the rest, with a dirt floor even—Pop’s ‘root cellar’.”
The dark water lay still as death, and Sean sniffed at a pervasive, rotting smell. “Ben, are there fuel or chemical tanks in there? What’s that gawd-awful smell, and what’s that film floating on the surface?”
Ben shook his head. “No fuel, this was just a store room. Or that’s what it was supposed to be. It didn’t get used because it leaked water all the time—there’s nothing in there.”
“You know how gasoline or oil looks kinda shiny when it’s floating on water? Whatever this is, it’s like it’s glowing. Greenish—like those old-fashioned watch dials. And what’s that stuff floating at the surface? There.” Sean pointed.
Ben lifted the big flashlight and played the beam over the water.
“It… it looks almost like bones.” The beam swept past a larger piece and Ben snatched it back to focus there. The beam quivered in his shaky hand.
“Jesus Christ!” Look at that! It’s a skull!”
“Damnation! A human skull? Sure looks like it to me!” Sean splashed back from the doorway and Ben pulled it shut. Ben spoke in a husky voice.
“One thing I didn’t tell you about Pops—it’s kinda spooky. Some of the old-timers from this area—a few of them had been little kids when the 1928 hurricane came through. Survivors. They raised a fuss when Pops built this building, saying it was smack dab on top of a mass grave. Hundreds, thousands of people were killed by that storm, and they couldn’t identify most of the bodies. They kept finding them, bloated and decaying, up in trees or under piles of debris—days or weeks after the storm.” He shook his head. “Pops scoffed at that, saying there wasn’t any grave here. But I always wondered if that’s why he built way out here—out of the way even for the Glades. Pops was weird about stuff like that.”
A voice came from behind them.
“Oh, they’s here all right…”
Sean’s heart leapt into his throat. He spun to face the strangely disembodied inflection—each raspy word sounding like a page torn from a book. A small man, ancient, hobbled toward them. Time had so faded him that Sean took a long moment to decide he was a man of color. Thin patches of white curly stubble stood out from his dusky temples; dim light shone off his bald pate and sparks glistened from gold-capped teeth interspersed behind thick lips. He held a stub of a cigar, unlit, clamped between his teeth, and he dribbled eerily glistening water in his wake—he was wet to the chest.
“Yas, Master Vinson done knowed the truth, even if he din’t admit to it.”
Sean swiped a hand down his face and willed his heart to slow its staccato hammering, relieved that their surprise guest—strange as he might be—would appear to pose no great threat. For the moment the worry of the storm was off his mind, and he felt a bit silly t
o have been frightened by a feeble old geezer. He huffed.
“Who the hell are you, old man!? And where did you come from?”
Ben pushed past Sean. “Mr. Delane?” He glanced to Sean and spoke quietly. “The caretaker—Pops let him stay on past his useful time; he had nowhere else to go.”
The old man’s eyes went wide, yellow-white in his dusky face.
“Ben-ja-min!” He moved faster than Sean would have believed possible, and he wrapped his thin arms around Ben. “Benji! You’s grown even bigger—used ta be I could reach all the way ‘round you!”
Sean tilted his head curiously; Ben had jerked at the old man’s embrace, as if he’d taken hold of an electrical cord stripped of its insulation. Ben slowly pushed Delane back and looked down upon him oddly, saying nothing. The old man gestured to the door of the flooded room.
“I come in from my cabin at the back of the pro’pity, when the rainin’ got heavy. It ain’t so sturdy, ya knows—might jus’ up and blow away in a storm like this’un. I went on in to the flood room to start up the sump, but I’s getting’ old, I forget it won’t work wit’ no ‘lectrical.”
He bared his teeth in a broad smile. “You knows ‘bout ‘em yet? In the sump house, tha’s when I learnt. About the Lost Folk. Hun’erds of ‘em, and they’s ready to come on back. They was happier to see me than nobody’s been in a year o’ worship days. They ax’d me to join ‘em, even as old as I be—an’ since my time weren’t no more than a mostly used-up candle anyways, I joined right in.” He cackled. “My time ain’t so short no more now, though. Oh no, now I be one wit’ the Lost Folk. They see through me rheumy old eyes, breath through me t’baccy lungs, and they’s set on makin’ good this time ‘round.”
Sean glanced at Ben, who looked dazed, then back to Delane. “What are you talking about, old man? What nonsense is that—as one with the lost folk?”
Mr. Delane chuckled and pointed toward the flooded room. “There, boy, they’s in there. Din’tcha see they’s remains, comin’ back above? There be power in they numbers, an’ this storm be bringin’ ‘em back to where the ol’ mother stole ‘em away a long lifetime ago.” He stepped closer and Sean watched him warily—something was definitely wrong here.
“They’s joined wit’ me, but I ain’t enough, don’t ya see? There be so many of ‘em—they needs more than one old man to hold all they mem’ries, all they thoughts.” He peered sideways at Sean with a coy grin. “They’s excited. They feels the young life-spirit amongst ‘em—they’s ready for you and Benji.”
Of a sudden Sean was not so amused with the old man, and he grabbed Ben’s shoulder and pulled him out of the man’s reach. He would have sworn the temperature in the room had just dropped twenty degrees.
“No! You keep your distance.” Even Ben now felt cold to the touch, and a queasy knot formed in Sean’s belly. At the front of his mind he felt foolish to fear this old man, but at a deeper level he understood that he was right to do so.
The old man cackled as Sean pressed Ben away, down the hallway.
“Ya just be wastin’ yer time, boy, ya cain’t stop it now. They’s tellin’ me they can hold them bones tight once’t I gathers ‘em together.” The old man raised his voice as Sean hurried away.
“Take a little time, if that be your druthers. We’ll be comin’ ta make parley soon.”
forward…
There was a brittle chatter as his bat blew through the second skeleton, breaking it in half below the rib cage, but he was horrified to realize the third skeleton had managed to take hold of him, its fingers tugging at his shirt. He ducked away, tearing the skeletal hand loose from its arm, and he shrieked, flailing his arms, trying to shake off the bony fingers that closed into a fist in the fabric of his sleeve. He swatted at it, and he dropped the bat and ripped the shirt off, flinging it at the still-advancing skeleton.
It stopped, rotating its empty eye sockets to the shirt, and in a bizarre twist began to push a bony arm through the sleeve.
Sean barked out a sound half a maniacal laugh and half a scream, and he snatched the bat up from the floor. He looked on dumbfounded as the arms of the first skeleton dragged the upper torso across the floor to the pelvic assembly and diligently worked to bind the halves back together, while the other skeleton, now a freakish parody wearing Sean’s floral-printed shirt, pried its bony, disconnected fist from the sleeve and fumbled to snap it back into place.
Mr. Delane stepped forward, not nearly so stooped as before, his eyes glowing a pale green. “Come boy, are you not yet ready? You’ll live hundreds of lives by joining us.” Sean cocked his head, feeling a tinge of insanity flirting at the edges of his mind.
“You’ll be revered as the savior of so many lost souls,” continued Delane, “and your mind will be the aggregate of us all. No single mortal could ever hope to match you, and your life will span hundreds of generations.”
Mr. Delane spoke as a collective. Surprising himself, Sean began to giggle hysterically. He waved his bat at Delane. “You! Stay away from me you… you bastard. You monster. How can you imagine that I’d give myself over to a legion of ghouls inhabiting what was once a human mind?”
Delane’s benevolent smile dropped away to a dark rage, and his eyes turned red. He stepped forward way too fast and backed away just as quickly as the tip of Sean’s bat whistled through empty air. Delane sneered. “How long do you think you can keep this up, boy? We grow ever more powerful, while you exhaust yourself. You have limited space to elude us, while we become able to converge en masse.”
Sean cocked the bat over his shoulder, shaking his head furiously. “No! We can wait you out. When the hurricane’s past we’ll escape to the outside, and then your time will be finished. I’ll burn the god-damned building down around you!”
“Sean?”
Sean’s eyes darted to the side—it was the first Ben had spoken since Delane’s fateful embrace. Hope surged in his chest. “Ben! Are you OK?”
Ben screwed his face into a distant, thoughtful pose. “I think he’s right, Sean. We should join the collective now. I’m feeling… much better already.”
Ben took a step toward him and Sean backed away. “Jesus, Ben! They’ve taken you, completely?” He shook his head, not believing any of this but unable to deny it. “I... I’m going to have to leave you now, Ben—I can’t fight… you… along with these… these monsters. I promise, though, I’ll come back for you when the storm is over. I’ll bring help.” Sean nodded at Ben, imploring him to revert to who he was—to say ‘OK, let’s break these boneheads up.’
But Ben said nothing—he looked at peace, even.
Sean turned and bolted down the corridor, desperate to hold onto whatever sanity remained.
resolution?
He jerked awake, startled to realize that his chin was resting on his chest, his breathing slow. He’d slept. How long? His widened eyes darted side to side in a rising panic—had he been discovered?
No. He was alone.
He had returned to the breached third floor, deadly certain that he could no longer avoid Delane and his bone-men on the second level and knowing that the first floor was becoming submerged under rising water. He’d staggered under the fury of the unrestrained winds raging through the blown-out third floor, and had been physically lifted and hurled against a jagged pile of debris wedged against a downwind wall. He’d blacked out, for how long he could only guess, and he now sat staring numbly at the blood stained cloth wrapping his injured arm.
When he’d regained consciousness earlier he had grasped the severity of his situation—options were poor to none. And so he had not allowed himself to succumb to hopelessness, to simply lie down and wait for fate to select him. Instead, both physically drained and mentally dazed he had nonetheless sought out the only viable shelter he could think of, and he found it; access to the attic, a pull-down stairwell in a closet. He had climbed up, pulling the ladder up behind and wedging a board between the folded piece and the edges of the ope
ning, praying that they, whatever they were, would not find him.
Sean rubbed his face, trying to focus. The attic was not intact, on the north end of the building a portion of the roof had blown away. He’d retreated to the south end and found a spot to hunker down in, and there he had waited and eventually fallen into an exhausted sleep. How he could have slept he could not imagine—it had been deafeningly loud, the wind howling through the rafters, the—
Sean cocked his head, realization dawning.
It wasn’t loud now.
It was quiet.
He leapt to his feet and clumsily ran the wooden boardwalk between the rafters, coming out beneath the missing section of roofing. He raised his eyes to the heavens.
It was daylight and mostly clear, nothing but trace bands of spiraling cloud.
It’s over, the storm is past!
He yanked the board free of the ladder over the attic door and descended fast, tumbling the last few feet. He pounded down the stairwell to the first floor, seeing no one or nothing, and he splashed through thigh-deep water to the kitchen table, where he fumbled to switch on the weather-band radio. He fiddled with the dial until a voice emerged from the static, and he leaned in toward it, listening intently.
—trailing edge of Norbert has come onto the east coast, resuming its path of devastation. We repeat—this is a very tight, intense, fast-moving storm. The Gulf Coast is now enduring, as best it can, the fury of the leading edge, and the eye of the hurricane has crossed into Lake Okeechobee—
Sean yanked the radio off the table and flung it against the far wall.
Dear God, no. This is just the eye, it’s only half over…
The building shuddered, slammed by a sudden gust, and a dull roar built quickly. Sean lowered his face to his hands, and a hoarse, chortling cackle rode over the rising thrum of the storm.
The End