His car was outside, still running. He put her down and ran to the driver’s side. “Get in, quick!” he said. Kyra yanked on the door handle, and after an anxious moment when it wouldn’t budge, it flew open. She slid in as fast as she could and slammed the door behind her.
“Hold on,” said Roger, much softer this time. Kyra stared at him in awe. He’d bitten his lip so hard that blood now dribbled over his chin, and the whites of his eyes glowed in the moonlight. He threw the shifter into drive and slammed his foot on the gas. The tires spun as the rear end fishtailed. When they gained traction, Roger cut the wheel hard and out into the street they went.
Kyra turned around and peeked over the headrest. The Pit grew small behind them. A hunched figure emerged from the building and dashed into the middle of the road, standing there and staring at them, until Roger took a left at the next street and it all went away. That would be the last time Kyra ever laid eyes on her husband of twenty-two years.
“What the hell just happened?” asked Roger.
Kyra couldn’t answer. She didn’t know how.
CHAPTER 8
THE GATHERING
THE SUN AWOKE FROM ITS SLUMBER, bathing the landscape with the morning’s first light. The air was still and the birds, which had already embarked on their annual trek to warmer climates, were nowhere to be found. The houses were still dark. This domineering silence should have been peaceful. Instead it felt like a warning, a harbinger of the coming emptiness, echoing in the barrenness of his soul. He couldn’t remember his name, never mind what had brought him to this strange place, but somehow that was all right.
The rumble of approaching thunder shook the ground. He ducked behind a row of bushes bordering the sidewalk and waited. Peering between the branches, he watched a motorcade of large vehicles crawl down the road. Their tops were made of a canvas-like material, painted green and brown, fluttering in the wind. They passed by, one by one, and he could see the figures of those who sat in the rear of these vehicles: men dressed in fatigues, with helmets on their heads and automatic weapons nestled in their arms. The faces of these men were twisted masks of uncertainty, and he understood, somewhere deep down, that these were no more than children. They would be easy prey, and after he was done with them he could use their weapons to further his violent rage.
He shook his head, not understanding why he felt this way. Anger brewed deep within him, the desire to rip, to flail, to eat. Where did this come from? he thought. The answer came in the form of a liquid churning in his stomach. It upset him and he panicked. Soon, an alien voice sang, easing his anxiety.
Soon.
The cavalcade turned down the next street and disappeared around the corner. He stood up and an object fell from his pocket. That’s my wallet, he thought. He paused, wondering how he knew such things. Curiosity ensnared him. He picked it up.
His fingers worked with a mind of their own, rifling through the wallet’s contents. He could identify each item. Credit card…five-dollar bill…business card for an accountant…access key for work…my license. At this last one he paused. A familiar face stared at him from a small, fuzzy picture. Justin P. Holcomb, the plastic rectangle proclaimed.
That’s me.
A smile stretched across his misshapen mouth. He continued his search, pulling out small pieces of paper with strange numbers written on them and another wad of paper money. All this he tossed to the ground. He undid a metal clasp and opened the compartment that hid a picture protected by a clear plastic sheet. A pair of green eyes stared up at him, mocking in their indifference. Light red hair draped over narrow shoulders. She sat sideways on a stool, exposing the curvature of her seductive body. Memories came rushing back to him, and anger, like gasoline, fueled his inner fire.
He placed a clawed hand on the dark stain that spread across his stomach, a physical reminder of what she’d done to him. He stuck a finger through the tear in his shirt and felt the seeping hole beneath. The wound stung to the touch but still he probed his finger in deeper, elating in the pain as he violated himself. Blood poured over his hand and sopped the waistline of his pants. He withdrew the finger and brought it to his lips, licking the salty, life-giving liquid from his flesh. It coated his tongue and dribbled down his throat. His objective became clear. He breathed in and threw his head back, prepared to scream at the newly lightening sky.
Not now, the alien voice demanded.
He exhaled, obedient as a puppy. He would wait. He had to. It was his purpose. The thoughts of the woman (my wife) slowly faded away until no concept remained but movement and sustenance. He maneuvered toward the woods behind one of the houses and then stopped when a door opened. He hid behind the corner of the house and waited.
A tall woman wearing a parka appeared. Trailing behind her was a young girl with short brown hair, a pink backpack slung over her shoulders. They walked toward the green car parked in the driveway. Their expressions were drawn back and dismayed, glancing up and down the road as if waiting for an excuse to bolt back to the safety of the indoors. They never looked behind them.
The yearning in his stomach spurred him into action. The older woman opened the trunk and the little girl tossed her backpack in. He inched forward, silent as possible, and then jumped. The girl screamed, her hair ensnared in his firm grip. He bit down on her cheek, lower teeth on the back of her ear, and ripped. The older woman (it’s her mother, her mother!) screamed, as well, and he felt the blunt trauma of something hitting his back. He ignored the sensation. He’d deal with her afterwards.
The hunger couldn’t wait any longer.
* * *
Darkness fell, and the shell of the being that had been Justin Holcomb found that he was not alone. He was on a dirt road, surrounded by his brethren. Some he recognized (is that Donny Kilpatrick? Elizabeth Harley? The Clarkson twins?), but most he did not. None of that mattered. He was connected to them, that much he understood. They were all attached by an unseen lifeline.
Someone nudged him from behind. It was a young man, very familiar to him. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but for some reason he felt this to be of no importance. His name’s Harry, you dipshit! shouted the waning remnants of his humanity. What’s wrong with you? He shook his head, trying to get the insect in his skull to stop buzzing. Eventually the voice grew silent. He looked up at the young man with the large forehead, hunched shoulders, and bleeding gums. They nodded to each other and walked on in silence.
A rundown barn that looked as if it would topple at any moment came into view, partially bathed in moonlight. They strode by the dilapidated structure and wandered into the field behind it. He glanced over his shoulder and the pest that was his humanity returned for a moment. I know this place, he thought, it’s important somehow. Then, as before, it was gone; pushed away by the new awareness growing inside him.
The sliver of moon offered only a glimpse of the trail they stomped across, but he didn’t need to see to know the way. Something else guided him now, something inside, something outside, something all-encompassing. He trod over broken corn stalks and rolling mounds of dirt. He heard snaps and crackles as the others did the same. He didn’t bother to look and see if they were keeping pace with him. He didn’t need to.
His foot struck an exposed root and he tumbled, rolling over the hard mud, smacking his head on a rock. He sensed no pain or shame for this action on the surface, but somewhere deep inside the relic of Justin Holcomb cried out, knowing that in a life now past he would have felt humiliated.
His brothers and sisters were ahead of him now, so he dug his feet into the unyielding soil, hoisted his body upright, and followed them down a hill. They were approaching a stretch of forest separating one field from another. It was there that they stopped—all of them. He felt his muscles relax, and euphoria followed. His senses were soaked in dull flashes of red and black. There were nothing abnormal about the sensation, for it felt as if nothing else in the world, save this very moment, made sense. He closed his eyes.
r /> A being, a living force of nature, walked amongst them. He could hear the master’s heavy, exacting footsteps. A sweet murmur filled his ears from the inside out, a hundred voices, maybe a thousand, perhaps a million, all singing the same refrain. Our father, our master, our destiny, our love. For a moment he thought he’d never experienced a sensation so wonderful, so complete. The intruder in his mind silenced such thoughts.
A hand fell on his shoulder and all physical stimuli melted away. It was replaced by emotion, a sentiment of hatred and violence. He felt like a living, swirling ball of flame. The burning grew stronger with each passing second as an imaginary soldering iron razed the symbols of a lost language onto his new consciousness. He opened his eyes and glanced up. He understood his duty. He understood how the world worked. He understood what he must do.
The shadowy figure standing above him, the master, its hand still held firm on his shoulder, nodded. Its eyes glowed brilliant yellow, like solar flares licking out from the sun. Awe overtook him. He began to sob; heavy, violent tears flowed from his ducts. The hand stroked the back of his neck. His father, his destiny, his love, his master, spoke.
“Soon.”
CHAPTER 9
FAMILY
THE FIRST EXPLOSION occurred at ten o’clock in the morning on Wednesday.
Josh was sitting in the manager’s office at J&P diagnostics at time, arguing with his boss, Rick Colden, about whether he deserved back pay for the days the warehouse had been shut down over the previous two weeks.
The rafters shook with the impact of the blast, tipping over the jar on Rick’s desk and spilling his collection of pens and pencils onto the floor. The two men fell silent and stared at each other from across the desk. The fire alarm went off, and the other employees in the building ran past the office door, heading for the exit.
Rick’s phone rang and he answered it, fumbling with the receiver. Josh heard a frantic voice shrieking on the other end of the line. Rick listened to the voice while his eyes stared blankly at the wall. His body then slumped and the phone slipped out of his hand, from which it hung like a pendulum, the cord still wrapped between his fingers.
A second explosion knocked a framed Salvador Dali print—an item Rick displayed, Josh supposed, in an attempt to convey how deep and esoteric he could be beneath his hardened, corporate exterior—off the wall. The room seemed to grow hot and Rick’s cheeks became flushed. Josh didn’t need another warning. He bolted out of his chair and made a mad dash down the corridor, leaving his catatonic boss behind.
He wasn’t prepared for what he saw once he burst through the front door and entered the parking lot. To the west, above the trees, rose two giant pillars of black smoke. Sirens wailed in the distance. The rapid pop-pop-pop of what sounded like fireworks filled the air. The few people who hadn’t already fled the lot tried to wedge their vehicles, two at a time, though the exit. Two cars collided, metal scraped against metal. A Dodge pickup rammed through the gate, knocking it over. A man leaned on his horn and screamed at another man, who stepped out of his car and thrust his fist through the window of the screamer. His knuckles bloodied the other man’s nose. It was chaos.
Josh’s muscles seized up and he breathed in short, hurried bursts. His only thoughts in that moment were of his family. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and tried to remember where they would be at that very moment.
Dad stayed home sick, he thought. Mom has a hairdresser’s appointment at noon, so she’ll be home, too. And Sophia…
“Oh, shit.”
He looked again at the massive black columns. It appeared as if they’d sprung up from the center of town, and Dover Middle School sat right on the cusp, only a half-mile from the the rising smoke. Without further hesitation he ran to his car, fumbled in his pocket for the keys, and threw himself into the driver’s seat. As other automobiles burned rubber and headed for the highway, he aimed his in the opposite direction and raced directly into the maelstrom.
Dover had become a war zone. The pop of gunfire, which Josh had mistaken for fireworks, grew louder. People ran frenziedly from their homes, crowding the sidewalks like the Pied Piper’s harried rats. Oncoming drivers, clearly acting out of self-preservation, maneuvered their vehicles without care for those around them. They swerved in and out of their lanes, driving faster still. One large SUV plowed into a teenage boy. The driver never stopped. Josh saw this from the corner of his eye and quickly snapped his vision back to the road. He had no desire to watch the gruesome aftermath. Perhaps the kid had been thrown to the side, or maybe he’d gotten wedged beneath the vehicle and been dragged a few hundred feet, leaving behind a winding trail of scarlet. The thought made him gag.
Don’t do that, he told his overactive imagination. Focus on the road.
When he turned onto Main Street, a platoon of soldiers dashed across his vision. He’d noticed groups of them gathered in front of Town Hall on his way to work that morning and the morning before, and he’d stopped to join a throng of onlookers. They were one of many small companies of Army Reservists, he’d been told, sent to the larger towns in the state to quell any fears that the municipalities may have had regarding the steadily progressing hostility from the south. There’s nothing to worry about, the commanding officer had notified the gathered crowd. Nothing will happen here. We have everything under control.
He’d been wrong.
In front of the art supply store the soldiers fired their weapons into a horde of people as Josh sped by. Those on the receiving end of the onslaught looked like everyday folks, dressed in everyday clothes, living everyday lives, just like him. He slammed on the brakes and rolled down the window, ready to scream at the soldiers to stop without once thinking of the possible repercussions.
That’s when he noticed the faces in the crowd. They were twisted and deranged, with lips curled like rabid dogs. Their teeth appeared filed to daggers; their eyes were wild and bloodshot. One of them—a woman he recognized from his nights at The Pit but whose name he couldn’t remember—carried a severed head in her hands. She ran at the wall of soldiers and flung the head at them. Blood streamed from the stump of its neck as it struck one of the Reservists, causing the poor guy to lose his balance and fall. More from the crowd rushed forward and engulfed him.
“Oh, fuck,” muttered Josh. He floored the gas pedal and took off again, hoping to leave the scene behind him. A moment later two frightened soldiers jumped into the road and threw their hands up. Josh veered around them and onto the sidewalk without missing a beat. His beat-up old Bonneville rocked on its struts as it scaled the curb. The car bottomed out and Josh winced as his muffler was ripped away, clanking across the road behind him. The inside of the car was suddenly filled with the deafening boom of air rushing through the now-departed exhaust system. Fumes filled the compartment, making him choke, but he couldn’t stop. There was only a mile to go.
A blaze of white light flashed to his left, followed by another thunderous detonation. The windshield blew inward. Josh squeezed his eyes shut, let go of the steering wheel, and shielded his face with his arms. It felt like gravity ceased to exist. The car spun sideways on an invisible axis and came to an abrupt, crunching halt. The roof caved in and Josh slid from his seat. His knees caught the steering wheel, stopping his fall. Black dots filled his vision and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. His knees slipped free and he dropped, his back landing on the hard combination of felt and aluminum. Pain shot up his spine. Everything else fell silent.
When his vision came back, Josh glanced about him. He lay on the interior of the roof, only inches from a jutting wedge of jagged metal. The side windows were smashed and he found himself level with the asphalt. I flipped over, he realized. He glanced at the dangling seatbelt above him, thought of how difficult it would have been to undo the clasp while suspended there, and felt thankful he’d forgotten to strap in.
He inched forward on his elbows through the side window. Once free, he stood up and looked around to reorient himself. The p
ark was to his left, a shopping plaza to his right, and behind him he could hear people running. Scared to look, he fled toward the plaza.
Bullets exploded from all sides. He threw open the door of Mike’s Discount Tobacco just as a projectile whizzed by his head, striking the wall. Chunks of brick and mortar stung his face. He collapsed to the ground and crawled into the shop while more bullets pummeled the merchandise around him, creating raindrops of paper and loose tobacco. On hands and knees he shuffled down an aisle of assorted smoke stuffs until he reached the rear of the store, where he hid behind the checkout counter. Once there, he had to throw his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming.
The clerk was slumped against the wall opposite the register, his head resting at an awkward angle. Chunks of hair-covered flesh clung to the red-stained wallpaper above him. The left side of his face had been reduced to glistening hamburger from the top of his lip on up. The eye on that side hung from a gummy thread. The half still intact stared straight ahead, the unharmed right eye opened wide in apparent surprise.
Josh scooted his rear end across the floor and scampered away from the corpse as fast as he could. He tried to think of something—anything—to get the image out of his head, to keep the fear from paralyzing him, and it was Sophia’s face that did it. He saw her, scared and alone, amidst the clamor of hostile gunfire. With this image in mind he twisted like an acrobat, popped to his feet, and dashed into the store’s back room. Past stacked boxes of cigarettes he flew, knocking them over in the process and not caring one bit. He reached the back door, marked with an ‘Emergency Exit Only’ sign, and shoved through it. The fire alarm blared, but to him it was just another addition to the convoy of frightening clatter, like the sounds of people rummaging through the store as he left it behind. He tore into the surrounding woods, hoping those inside wouldn’t follow him.