*
Norman’s eyes flitted across the yellowed pages of the old paperback in his grasp. Turning the leaves with measured care, he shifted restlessly in his living room armchair and tried to maintain focus on the story. But his mind wandered, adrift.
Now that the storm was in full swing, the rain hammered the windows and competed with the crackling of the flames in the grate. Upon the water-stained walls, the furnishings of the elderly Old World couple hung in their respective places, untouched by his hand: silver-framed family photographs, an ancient mahogany-finished piano near the sofa, and innumerable ornaments upon the mantelpiece and windowsill, most of which had been carved out of precious stones and crystals.
He’d never been one for collecting furnishings of his own, with the exception of his extensive personal library, made up of the rejects from Sarah’s warehouse. He had started small at first, but over time had built up quite a collection. Now he was running out of places to store them, and had resorted to precariously stacking them in the hallway.
His eyes began to drift further from the page. Soon he put the book down and simply sat staring into the fire. In moments he was lost in the flames, turning over possibility, consequence, and nightmare.
Ray’s burial had been put off again. But they were determined to give him a proper funeral. He and Robert had scoured funeral homes for the embalming fluid Heather had needed. It would give them enough time to make the necessary preparations.
But now that it approached, it seemed like only another hurdle to brave. With Alexander shut away, Norman was sure that he’d be expected to say a few words.
But try as he might, he could think of none.
A flash of lightning drew him back to the living room some time later—how long, he couldn’t tell. The windowsills were now creaking under the rain’s bombardment and the howling wind. The entire house was filled with the storm’s whistling scream. Outside, he could see bushes, trees and fences churning in the gale.
He stood up and glanced at his half-eaten dinner: a morsel of the new miller’s inedible bread and a handful of browning berries, which he had taken from the kitchen on Main Street to eat at home, desperate to escape the diners’ prying stares. He thought of forcing himself to eat the rest—he was going to need the strength—but couldn’t bring himself to take another bite.
Grunting with dissatisfaction, he picked up the plate and headed for the kitchen. In passing, his gaze settled on the gritty window—
There was a man standing on the other side of the glass, staring in at him.
Norman had time to observe his hooded face, the mouth and nose obscured by a neckerchief of mud-stained cloth. It was unmistakably the man who had escaped them: the silent man.
Norman jerked in shock. Panic pinched his heart. As every muscle in his body seized, the armchair took his feet out from under him, and he fell against the lamp stand. Once he had regained his balance, he blinked furiously, letting loose a wordless cry. Struggling over to the window, he slammed his hands flat against the glass and stared out into the night.
Each raindrop glittered as it fell past the window, catching the light of the fire. Wilted hedges fluttered in the wind. The paved drive was submerged beneath a deep puddle that stretched across the house’s width. The streets beyond were cloaked in blackness, on occasion thrown into sharp relief by distant cracks of lightning.
But there was no face to be seen on the other side of the glass.
He backed away, numb from head to toe. A tight knot had formed in his gut, tugging at his spine.
Had his mind been playing tricks on him?
It was possible. He was tired, and two days into a strict new diet. The rain could easily have caused him to take an amorphous collection of raindrops for a face.
But as the moments passed, his mind’s eye threw that fleeting glance back at him. The neckerchief, complete with spots of grime. The tendrils of dripping hair caught in the wind. Those wide, piercing eyes…
No, the man had been there. He was sure of it.
He shivered. Suddenly, he felt alone, trapped in his own home. The image behind his eyes was replaced by that of Ray’s dead body, bled out on the ground, open-mouthed and chalk-white.
His pulse quickened, thumping against his ribs and throbbing in his neck. He began panting as he backed away from the window, his mind reeling—
He yelled in fright as something solid met the front door with a resounding clatter.
A branch caught in the wind? he thought.
Not likely, answered a more primal part of his mind.
He looked from the window to the hallway, breathless. For a moment he considered running for the back door, but instead his feet began to carry him towards the source of the noise, as though independent of him.
His heart was now rattling at a feverish pace, and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. A surge of adrenaline sent his extremities trembling until, though they carried him towards the door, his legs yearned to run—to escape.
Hijacked by his own instincts, he shuffled past a pile of hardbacks, stepped over a stack of In Search of Lost Time—
Who the hell ever found time to read that shit, anyway? cried a stray, half-hysterical voice in his head.
—and peered through the frosted glass panes set into the door. He could see two dark shapes looming from the night. When his hand was mere inches from the doorknob, he froze, gripped by apprehension.
What was he going to do? Confront a horde of murderous barbarians in his dressing gown?
He glanced around the darkened hallway for something to put between him and an attacker. Shadows danced under his gaze, throwing everything out of focus, but after long moments of frantic searching he spied a small collection of sawed-off sections of drainpipe nestled amongst the books. They had planned to restore central heating the previous year, but plans for that had been cut short when the crops had started to wilt.
He tore one up from the ground, bringing it to head height and bouncing it in his palm, testing its weight. There was silver insulation foam wrapped around most of its length, but the tip was exposed copper pipe, the rim sawn in a ragged line, almost like a maw full of serrated teeth.
The clatter rattled from the door again, and he saw the looming figures on the other side move closer to the glass, as though trying to peer in.
Now armed, Norman approached the handle once more, holding the pipe ready at shoulder height. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, steeling himself and tearing the door open, ready to strike.
“Jesus Christ!” a voice yelled, followed by a high-pitched shriek of terror.
Norman opened his eyes while the wind tore into the hallway and kicked up his hair. Allison and Richard’s shocked faces were staring back at him, half-cringed in the doorway. Norman blinked, then glanced at the piping held over his head, still ready to battle his imaginary foe.
He dropped his arm hurriedly to his side and threw the pipe back into the hallway. “Sorry,” he said. The two were alone, and by now their shock was being replaced by anger. “I thought I saw something.”
“So you try to kill us?” Allie shrieked, brushing past him and into the hallway. “My God, I’m soaked.”
Richard eyed Norman for a moment, still on the doorstep. “What was it?”
Norman glanced over Richard’s shoulder, seeing nothing but the overflowing puddle on his lawn. “Nothing,” he muttered, standing aside and gesturing him inside.
Richard shrugged and followed Allie, moving gingerly around the stacks of books and disappearing into the living room.
Norman took a last look around before closing the door. Though he saw nothing, the hairs on his neck stood to attention as he turned his back on the frosted glass. Despite his relief at seeing them, already his overriding sense was one of being intruded upon. It was as though a spell of the macabre had been prematurely interrupted, and was barely being kept at bay by the presence of his visitors.
He followed them into the living room and cle
ared a pile of Richard Matheson paperbacks from the tattered sofa, dusting it off for them. “Sorry about the mess,” he muttered, gathering his dressing gown tighter around his waist. “I wasn’t expecting anybody.”
“When do you ever?” Allie said, dropping down with an exhausted sigh and wringing out her dripping hair.
Norman watched them until they’d settled, then cleared his throat. “So, what is it?” he said.
They exchanged a glance. “We were just with Lucian,” Richard said. “He’s still pretty pissed.”
“Try obsessed,” Allie muttered.
Richard shrugged. “It’s not like him. He’s pushing for more sentries again. He’ll have half the city up on the rooftops before long.”
Norman nodded, forcing himself to chew on a few mottled berries. He sighed, looking at his hands. “I know.”
“We thought maybe you could talk to him…”
“So, what? I’m the new babysitter?” Norman shifted, trying to keep his eyes from the window. “I’m supposed to go and fix him up?”
Allie started, uncomfortable. “We just thought, since you’ve known each other so long…”
“Lucian’s always been that way. He’s a fighter. Maybe this one’s got the better of him, but…it’s been a tough year.” He waited for them to say more, but they merely stared back at him. “Was there something else?” he said.
“We just wanted to check on you. You haven’t been at your best the last few days,” Allie said.
Norman patted his book. He tried to smile, but his cheeks had been tightened by fright. “I’m fine. Nothing that I Am Legend can’t fix.”
She shook her head. “You’re not talking to anybody. You’ve been cooped up in here on your own.”
“I’m fine. Really. I just needed a change of scenery.”
“What about Ray’s funeral?” Richard gabbled. He was eyeing the tension between them with mounting concern in his eyes. “People are starting to get worried about what’s decent, keeping him out of the ground so long. But we still can’t spare the manpower from the fields…”
Norman barely heard him, his attention still on the window. The hairs on the back of his neck hadn’t fallen flat since leaving the doorway. He did his best to nod along, but still their faces became only more concerned.
Richard looked to Allie—whose tentative smile had faltered without grace—and then back to him. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he said.
“I’m just tired.” Norman wasn’t sure he sounded convincing.
They lapsed into silence until Richard and Allie slid to their feet.
“We’ll be off then,” Allie said.
Norman nodded once more. He heard himself speak, but his voice sounded far away. “Alright.”
He followed them back out into the hallway, where they stood for a few moments longer.
Looking at them in the half-darkness, dripping and unsettled, he saw them afresh: young, at odds with one another, but drawn together and to him in search of comfort—of direction.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to say a single word.
A long silence stretched out between them, forcing all eyes to the ground. Norman edged past them to open the door. A gale screamed in, rustling the millions of pages around them. He squinted into the night, seeing naught but swirling rain, and turned to bid them farewell.
Allison scowled as she ducked out into the storm, covering her head with her arms.
Richard made to follow, but turned back at the last moment. “Listen, I know it’s not pretty, taking all this crap from everybody,” he said, “but they need you. We all do.”
And then he was gone into the night. In a few moments he and Allie had been consumed by darkness. Another crack of lightning revealed their retreating forms, sprinting beneath the gushing torrent.
Norman sighed and looked around. Once again, there was nothing. No stragglers from Main Street tonight. But that wasn’t only on account of the storm. Only the sentries walked the streets after dark now.
He shut the door. It took considerable effort to turn his back on it yet again.
Though Richard and Allison were gone, he still felt a definite presence. A tingle ran across his skin, heralding the unmistakable sense of being watched.
He returned to the living room and looked down at his chair. Suddenly, sitting down didn’t seem very attractive at all. Adrenaline still coursed his veins. Tired as he was, he felt like running a mile.
Absentminded, he bit into a knob of bread and grimaced. No matter how many times he swallowed, he couldn’t shift the gummy paste coating the inside of his mouth. He made to wash it down with a mouthful of water, but the jug was empty.
Cursing, he picked it up and stomped across the room, pulling the curtains shut against the storm. The sound of the rain slashing against the glass was still loud in his ears, but at least he didn’t have to deal with the nagging worry of somebody staring in at him. Heading into the hallway, he cursed when the tingle at the nape of his neck failed to abate.
I’m being skittish, he thought.
Nobody would have a chance of getting back into the city with the increased security. The previous night he had taken a shift himself, and had seen firsthand how much the attack on the mill had affected people.
His kitchen was large, but cluttered with a thousand unnameable utensils. He suspected that the old lady who had once lived here had loved to cook. He slouched between myriad hanging pots and pans, heading towards the sink, the empty jug trailing from his hand.
Before he had taken two steps, he knew that something was wrong. Freezing in place, he had just enough time to register a shadow behind the kitchen door slither in his peripheral vision—purposeful movement, unquestionably human.
He had only just begun to bellow for help when the form enveloped him and covered his mouth with a filthy hand, crushing his lips against his teeth. Tasting blood, he flailed for all he was worth, grasping for the assailant as he tried to yell around the muffling hand.
A pair of strong arms gripped his and forced his elbows back until his clenched fists were touching. Hot, rotten breath billowed across his right ear. The assailant’s mouth opened and a slight, snakelike voice murmured into his ear, “It would’ve been so easy to stick you, nice and quiet, and let you bleed here on the floor.” The sound of gummy lips working. “Pathetic, just like that gorilla from the mill…complacent, blind to everything going on around you—”
Norman bucked his head back and made contact with the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. A single grunt rang out, and for a moment his grip on Norman’s arms slackened. But then the constricting arms flipped him bodily through the air and slammed him against the kitchen floor.
He collided with the tiles with enough force to send his breath sailing from his lungs and the back of his head throbbing. He gagged as the walls of his throat glued together.
For a horrific moment he tried to inhale, but nothing happened.
The world swirled as pain ripped through his head. In this moment of panic, during which he was powerless to do anything but fixate on his own burgeoning suffocation, the assailant brought a booted foot down on his chest.
A dull crunch announced contact between it and his sternum. Upon trying to scream, Norman found his torso filled not with air, but instead white-hot, stabbing iron rods, squeezing tears from his eyes.
His vision began to blur almost immediately. He made to grab at the man’s boot, but his grip was loose, his arm limp. Dizziness struck with shocking force as the world overturned, and his stomach gurgled as he fought the urge to vomit. Through a blaze of flashing lights he tried to follow the dark figure—which was now walking around him, out of sight—but lifting his head proved impossible.
As his chest fluttered, drawing only the tiniest of breaths, the world became dark and blank.