She was about to ask Dad if she could go and sit with them when the mayor took the podium.
“Attention. Call to order.”
The room immediately went quiet. Eyes forward, people waited for him to speak. It was the first emergency meeting in over thirty years. Although everyone knew what the mayor would talk about, people were still curious to know what the town of Glenmore was going to do. Clementine was already envisioning the multitude of bake sales and potluck dinners in the church parking lot.
“As you know, there’s been a plea from the president for all Americans to help out in this time of trouble,” the mayor said. Someone must have set the sound system wrong, because there was a sudden screech of feedback. An assistant immediately ran up to play around with the buttons, and the mayor tapped the microphone a few times before he continued. Some of the older folks in the front rows took out their hearing aids. “We’ve been asked to send supplies to the coast and any people who might be willing to volunteer with cleanup. They’ve got a lot of missing people over there, some of whom are from this very town.”
Although they weren’t rude enough to turn around and stare, Clementine could feel hundreds of pairs of invisible eyes focus on her family. No one else had people on the West Coast.
She caught Craig giving her a sympathy glance before his father whispered angrily in his ear, forcing him to turn around and face the front again. The whole scene struck her as funny, and she found herself struggling not to giggle.
Dear Heath, if you die, then I’d better get your car.
No, it wouldn’t do her any good to laugh.
The discussion carried on with a lot of uproar. What about all the violence—those rumors about people killing each other for no reason? How long would it take before that sort of behavior found its way over to Glenmore? How would they protect themselves if half the men left to go help on the coast?
“We need all able bodies here,” someone shouted in the crowd. “We don’t need them off where God knows what might be happening. That’s a death order if I’ve ever heard one.”
“It wouldn’t be very Christian of us to not help,” another said. “The orders came from the president himself.”
“How dare you say I’m not Christian, Hank. Where were you last Sunday? Watching the game on TV?”
“Order! Order!”
Clementine knew the exact moment the door opened, because a gust of wind blew up against her neck, sending icy shivers down her spine. She should have worn her warmer jacket, but it was September. Isn’t it still supposed to be relatively warm in September?
She turned her head to look at the latecomers. Henry and James Tills had entered the town hall. They were both smiling, but neither looked happy.
Something was wrong with Henry’s eyes. If she hadn’t known him as well as she did she might have thought he was wearing contacts. But Henry wasn’t the type.
“Evening, boys,” the mayor said. A squeal of feedback went through the microphone again, causing several people to cover their ears. “Little early for that kind of protection, don’t you think? No need to be arming ourselves just yet.”
Murmurs broke out among the people in the hall, and many of them turned in their seats to watch the door. It wasn’t until Henry and James passed them in the aisle that Clementine noticed the weapons. Mom immediately reached out and squeezed her hand.
“Clem,” she whispered. “You need to leave. Get up.”
“What?”
“Leave now,” Mom yanked her forward in her seat, pushing her right onto the floor. Clementine’s knees scraped against the cement. One of her shoes slipped off her heel, but she didn’t get a chance to search for it before Mom shoved her again, forcing her into the aisle.
She was about to open her mouth to protest, but she saw the look on her mother’s face. So instead she pulled herself up to her feet and brushed the blond hair back from her face.
The town hall had grown awfully quiet.
She took a few steps backward toward the hall doors. Henry and James Tills had already passed her. They were making their way down toward the center of the room. Neither of them looked back at her as she stood stupidly with her hands at her sides. She glanced over at Mom, but she wasn’t looking. She was staring straight ahead as if concerned that any unexpected movement might cause the wrong kind of attention.
Clementine focused again on the only other two people standing in the room.
James held the weapon in his arms, but there was something wrong with the way he was standing. His back was twitching as if he were having a seizure. Muscles rippled against the tightness of his shirt. There was blood on his pants. His leg made a sickening squelching noise every time he placed weight on it. She stared at James’s jeans, watching the movement of his ankle. She couldn’t stop looking at the way his foot dragged against the ground when he stepped forward.
Mom reached out and grabbed her arm, breaking her paralysis. She looked into her mother’s eyes and saw something she’d never seen in sixteen years. Her strong, confident, stubborn mom was freaked. That wasn’t right. Mom was the one who always kept everyone together. She never fell apart. She was too solid that way. Strong. Clementine opened her mouth to speak, but Mom brought a finger to her lips. Her hands were trembling.
“Go,” she mouthed silently. Beside her, Dad motioned with his hands. Shooing her away like an annoying fly. His eyes never met hers; they were focused on the backs of Henry and James. There was no mistaking the concern on his face either.
Clementine shook her head. “Come with me,” she mouthed back.
Mom grabbed her arm a second time, pushing her away from the chairs. Clementine began slowly moving toward the entrance, walking backward, afraid to take her eyes off the two men. She’d known both Henry and James since she was a toddler. These men were liked. They were served coffee and pie at the diner and helped out with the town festivals. Henry played Santa every year for the church Christmas party.
But panic filled the room like an electric charge. Everyone was frozen in their seats, waiting for the proverbial pin to drop. Even the few people in the back row who could see Clementine silently sneaking away seemed to ignore her completely. What would happen once Henry and James reached the front of the room?
She didn’t find out. Her shoulders brushed against the doorframe and her fingers found the handle. Looking back at her parents, she saw that her father had risen from his seat along with a few of the other men. Her mother was staring at her hands. Clementine pushed down on the latch, letting the door open a few inches, worried that the sound might draw attention to her actions. What if the wind knocked the door right out of her hands? Another foot and soon there was enough space to squeeze her body through. There was a second of panic when she turned her back to the men to make her escape.
Once outside, the wind whipped ferociously at her neck. She closed the door as quietly as she could. What if the noise made everyone turn and look? Even worse, what if it locked and her parents couldn’t get free? It felt like a betrayal, turning the handle till the latch clicked. She was leaving them all behind. Her mother and father. Her friends. She didn’t know what fate she was giving them. So far nothing had happened. This was a small town. Things didn’t happen. Her mother was probably overreacting, but something inside her was also telling her to run.
To leave everyone behind, though? That seemed cowardly.
She decided to wait on the steps until everyone came back out. They’d laugh about it later on the ride home. Tomorrow they’d pack their bags and drive west to Seattle to check on Heath. It would be a good story to tell him.
A car’s engine roared to life and headlights switched on, bathing her in blinding white light.
“Well, well, well, we’ve got ourselves an escapee.”
She knew that voice. It belonged to her neighbor Sam Anselm. She took a few steps forward until she could see through the headlights’ glare.
The town hall was surrounded.
Ther
e were at least twenty men and women, armed and ready to ambush. They had positioned their cars around the building so that no one would be getting out. Clementine took another step, painfully aware that Sam had his gun tracking her movements.
“What’s going on, Sam?” Her voice sounded taut and strange in her throat. She swallowed hard but it didn’t help.
“I think you need to go back inside, young missy,” Sam said. “That is, if you really want to know.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we’ll have a little party out here. Just the two of us.”
Sam was on her before she had time to react. Grabbing hold of her arm, he dragged her away from the town hall and toward his truck. She yanked hard, trying to break free, but his grip was too strong.
“Sam. Sam, stop it, please,” she said. The others were beginning to descend on the town hall with their weapons raised. “Don’t do this.”
“But I enjoy it,” he said.
She stumbled over the walkway and almost fell, eyes filling with tears from the pain of him dragging her along. The muscles in her arm flared, and she was afraid he might tear the ligaments if she continued to fight. So she allowed him to pull her a few more feet, until he stopped at the edge of the parking lot.
His hand abruptly let go of her arm, and he stared at her as if he didn’t know who she was. His eyes grew wide and confused.
“Clem?”
“Sam?”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I? Please say I didn’t hurt you.” His hands reached out and grabbed her shoulders.
“No, I’m fine. I—”
“You’ve got to get out of here. Now! Before I go back. I go in and out. My brain. The voices. White noise. They’re so loud. I can’t stop them. They’re telling me to do things.”
“What are you talking about, Sam? I can’t go. My parents are inside.”
“Leave. You have to go or they’ll kill you. I’ll kill you. Once it takes over I can’t stop it.”
“What? What takes over?”
“I don’t know. The voices. The things inside my head. They’re real. Curled up against my brain. Fighting me.”
He gave her a shove backward and she thought about how her mother had done the same thing moments ago. Everyone kept telling her to run, but no one was saying where they wanted her to go.
Gunshots fired against the night. They came from inside the town hall. Someone screamed.
Everyone she knew was inside that building.
“Run,” Sam said, reading her mind. “You can’t save them. Don’t go home. That’s the first place they’ll look for you.”
“But where will I go?”
Sam dropped to his knees, clutching at his ears and screaming. His gun dropped to the earth beside him, and she thought about trying to grab it. But she didn’t know anything about weapons; it would be useless in her hands.
When Sam raised his head, his eyes were clouded and there was no recognition when he looked right at her. He’d bitten his lip or cheek when he fell. He smiled; she could see the blood on his teeth. Her heart pounded and skipped a beat.
Sam no longer appeared to be home.
She decided to do what she was told. She turned and ran.
MICHAEL
“I can’t take this anymore. Toss in some music or something; I’m sick of the news.”
They were driving in Joe’s truck. Not anywhere in particular, just wasting time. Something they did every afternoon after school let out. They’d been doing this ritual since they both got their driver’s licenses last year. Michael rolled the window down, enjoying the way the wind caught his long brown hair.
“What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t care. Anything except this crap. Who cares about an earthquake?”
Michael cared, but he didn’t bother admitting it. Besides, Joe was right, the news hadn’t broadcast anything original in hours. Just the same old stuff since the initial reports started coming in last night. Most of the information played on a loop. No one seemed to know anything. Searching through the music, he settled on Green Day, the only CD that wasn’t scratched beyond recognition. Joe didn’t take good care of his things.
“So you heard about Sasquatch?” That was Joe’s pet name for Mr. Petrov, the crazy old Vietnam veteran who lived down the street from the school. He was known for screaming at teenagers who came too close to his front lawn. He also had one of the only houses that was toilet papered on a regular basis.
“Yeah, he attacked the mailman or something yesterday.”
“Bit his earlobe off,” Joe said. “Clear right off. Chewed on it for a while too before the police hit him with a Taser. I mean, how messed up is that?”
“What did they do with him?”
“Heard they hauled him off to the nuthouse. About time, too. It’s not like it’s news. He’s been loopy for years.”
Michael tapped his fingers gently on the car door in time to the music. It was strange to think of Mr. Petrov’s house as being empty. He’d been a bit of a shut-in, rarely leaving his yard except to buy groceries every single Monday at the Safeway. He was a local attraction. There wasn’t much else going on in Whitefish.
“Do you think they’ll put his house up for sale?” he asked. “He doesn’t have any family, right? I wonder what will happen to his stuff?”
Joe didn’t answer. Tapping the brakes, he slowed the truck and swerved slightly to the right. “What the hell is that guy doing?”
Michael looked. Ahead of them, the drivers of a motorcycle and a car appeared to be in an argument. The car driver, with his head clear out the window, was screaming obscenities at the guy on the bike. Honking his horn several times, he hit the gas pedal as the biker tried to speed away. His license plates were out-of-state—Idaho.
“That’s some serious road rage,” Michael said.
Joe leaned his head out the window. “Just say no, dude,” he screamed. “It’s all about the love.”
“I don’t think you’re helping.”
The car honked its horn again, the red brake lights glowing as the driver slowed down to keep the same speed as the motorcycle.
The biker decided he’d had enough. He revved the engine, and the motorcycle gained speed, edging ahead until he’d almost passed the car.
“Oh my God.”
The driver swerved his car straight into the motorcycle’s path, front fender meeting with back tire. The biker lost control; the machine spun sideways and into the path of a Mack truck. Both rider and bike were propelled toward Joe’s car. The guy’s body twisted and turned, doing airborne cartwheels, a rag doll tossed through the air. Joe slammed the brakes while spinning the steering wheel, sending them into the ditch.
Over the sound of Green Day, Michael heard the body as it smashed against the pavement. There was a squelching noise, like a water balloon exploding upon impact.
The truck came to a stop right at the base of the tree line. Michael’s body jerked against the seat belt, shooting pain along his chest and up into his shoulder.
“Oh my God, did you see that? Did you see that?” Joe’s voice raised several octaves. “I’m gonna hurl.” He barely managed to get the door open before the contents of his lunch forced their way up.
There had to be something wrong with his eyes. Michael knew he couldn’t have just witnessed that. Had the driver done it on purpose? It sure looked that way. What kind of person would do such a thing? He had to be wrong. People don’t do things like that.
Michael opened his own door and jumped out before Joe’s vomit smell overpowered him enough to attack his own churning stomach. Scrambling up the ditch, he joined the group of onlookers surrounding the crash scene.
Several cars had stopped in the middle of the highway, including the Mack truck and the enraged driver. People got out of their vehicles, but they didn’t know what to do. Most of them stood around with bewildered expressions on their faces. Someone brought out a camera and started taking pictures.
The biker
was dead. His body was sprawled in the road, leaving a thick trail of blood from where he’d skidded across the pavement. His helmet was still protecting his face, and Michael was glad he didn’t have to look at the guy’s eyes. Turning his gaze away, he searched for the driver of the car. If Michael had been the one to do something like this, he’d be a complete mess. Probably ready to go toss himself off the nearest overpass. A few months ago he’d hit a deer by accident and he still had nightmares about it. Hitting an animal was one thing; he couldn’t imagine the guilt of hurting a human.
The road-raged driver had parked his car a ways down the road. He moved back toward the crowd, his face bright red and breathing heavily. Talking to himself, he paused once to scream at an elderly couple cowering by their car.
The guy walked past the crowd of stunned onlookers, sidestepping the ruined motorcycle, and stopped in front of the body. He began to scream at the dead man, hurling a wrath of insults, while kicking at the motorcycle helmet.
The crowd froze. No one knew what to do. Someone started to cry, whimpering sounds mixing in with thudding sneaker kicks. Finally the trucker stepped forward, grabbing the guy by the back of his jacket and pulling him away. He spoke calmly considering the situation, but his words had little results. The enraged man turned his focus on the Mack guy and began attacking, scratching at the trucker’s face as if he wanted to rip the poor guy’s eyes right out of their sockets.
It was enough to make Michael jump into action. He caught the attention of another man several feet away. The older guy, with a receding hairline, nodded at him. Both of them stepped forward. Michael pushed the insane man backward while the other grabbed him by the arms to try and stop his advances.