Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

veiled street. He listened to the crisp sibilance of the tyres on wet paving, the rhythmic swish of the wipers as they cleared off circle segments on the misted windshield.

After a moment he looked at his watch. Almost three. Half a day shot in this blasted Zachry.

He looked out through the window again as the town ghosted past. He thought he saw brick buildings along the kerb but he wasn’t sure. He looked down at his white hands, then glanced over at Shipley. The chief was sitting stiffly upright on the seat, staring straight ahead. Mr Ketchum swallowed. The air seemed stagnant in his lungs.

On Main Street the fog seemed thinner. Probably the sea breezes, Mr Ketchum thought. He looked up and down the street. All the stores and offices looked closed. He glanced at the other side of the street. Same thing.

‘Where is everybody?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘I said where is everybody?’

‘Home,’ the chief said.

‘Rut it’s Wednesday,’ said Mr Ketchum. ‘Aren’t your stores open?’

‘Bad day,’ said Shipley. ‘Not worth it.’

Mr Ketchum glanced at the sallow faced chief, then withdrew his look hastily. He felt cold premonition spidering in his stomach again. What in God’s name is this? he asked himself. It had been bad enough in the cell. Here, tracking through this sea of mist, it was altogether worse.

‘That’s right,’ he heard his nerve-sparked voice saying. There are only sixty-seven people, aren’t there?’

The chief said nothing.

‘How… h-how old is Zachry?’

In the silence he heard the chiefs finger joints crackle dryly.

‘Hundred fifty years,’ said Shipley.

‘That old,’ said Mr Ketchum. He swallowed with effort. His throat hurt a little. Come on, he told himself. Relax.

‘How come it’s named Zachry?’ The words spilled out, uncontrolled.

‘Noah Zachry founded it,’ said the chief.

‘Oh. Oh. I see. I guess that picture in the station…?’

That’s right,’ said Shipley.

Mr Ketchum blinked. So that was Noah Zachry, founder of this town they were driving through –

–block after block after block. There was a cold, heavy sinking in Mr Ketchum’s stomach as the idea came to him.

In a town so big, why were there only 67 people?

He opened his mouth to ask it, then couldn’t. The answer might be wrong.

‘Why are there only —?’ The words came out anyway before he could stop them. His body jolted at the shock of hearing them.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, nothing. That is — ’ Mr Ketchum drew in a shaking breath. No help for it. He had to know.

‘How come there are only sixty-seven?’

‘They go away,’ said Shipley.

Mr Ketchum blinked. The answer came as such an anticlimax. His brow furrowed. Well, what else? he asked himself defensively. Remote antiquated, Zachry would have little attraction for its younger generations. Mass gravitation to more interesting places would be inevitable.

The heavy man settled back against the seat. Of course. Think how much I want to leave the dump, he thought, and I don’t even live here.

His gaze slid forward through the windshield, caught by something. A banner hanging across the street, barbecue tonight. Celebration, he thought. They probably went berserk every fortnight and had themselves a rip roaring taffy pull or fishnet-mending orgy.

‘Who was Zachry anyway?’ he asked. The silence was getting to him again.

‘Sea captain,’ said the chief.

‘Oh?’

‘Whaled in the South Seas,’ said Shipley.

Abruptly, Main Street ended. The police car veered left on to a dirt road. Out the window Mr Ketchum watched shadowy bushes glide by. There was only the sound of the engine labouring in second and of gravelly dirt spitting out from under the tyres. Where does the judge live, on a mountain top? He shifted his weight and grunted.

The fog began thinning now. Mr Ketchum could see grass and trees, all with a greyish cast to them. The car turned and faced the ocean. Mr Ketchum looked down at the opaque carpet of fog below. The car kept turning. It faced the crest of the hill again.

Mr Ketchum coughed softly. ‘Is… uh, that the judge’s house up there?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ the chief answered.

‘High,’ said Mr Ketchum.

The car kept turning on the narrow, dirt road, now facing the ocean, now Zachry, now the bleak, hill-topping house. It was a greyish white house, three storeys high, at each end of it the crag of an attic tower. It looked as old as Zachry itself, thought Mr Ketchum. The car turned. He was facing the fog-crusted ocean again.

Mr Ketchum looked down at his hands. Was it a deception of the light or were they really shaking? He tried to swallow but there was no moisture in his throat and he coughed instead, rattlingly. This was so stupid, he thought; there’s no reason in the world for this. He saw his hands clench together.

The car was moving up the final rise towards the house now. Mr Ketchum felt his breaths shortening. I don’t want to go, he heard someone saying in his mind. He felt a sudden urge to shove out the door and run. Muscles tensed emphatically.

He closed his eyes. For God’s sake, stop it! he yelled at himself. There was nothing wrong about this but his distorted interpretation of it. These were modern times. Things had explanations and people had reasons. Zachry’s people had a reason too; a narrow distrust of city dwellers. This was their socially acceptable revenge. That made sense. After all –

The car stopped. The chief pushed open the door on his side and got out. The policeman reached back and opened the other door for Mr Ketchum. The heavy man found one of his legs and foot to be numb. He had to clutch at the top of the door for support. He stamped the foot on the ground.

‘Went to sleep,’ he said.

Neither of the men answered. Mr Ketchum glanced at the house; he squinted. He had seen a dark green drape slip back into place? He winced and made a startled noise as his arm was touched and the chief gestured towards the house. The three men started towards it.

‘I, uh… don’t have much cash on me, I’m afraid/ he said. ‘I hope a traveller’s check will be all right.’

‘Yes,’ said the chief.

They went up to the porch steps, stopped in front of the door. The policeman turned a big, brass key-head and Mr Ketchum heard a bell ring tinnily inside. He stood looking through the door curtains. Inside, he could make out the skeletal form of a hat rack. He shifted weight and the boards creaked under him. The policeman rang the bell again.

‘Maybe he’s — too sick,’ Mr Ketchum suggested faintly.

Neither of the men looked at him. Mr Ketchum felt his muscles tensing. He glanced back over his shoulder. Could they catch him if he ran for it?

He looked back disgustedly. You pay your fine and you leave, he explained patiently to himself. That’s all; you pay your fine and you leave.

Inside the house there was dark movement. Mr Ketchum looked up, startled in spite of himself. A tall woman was approaching the door.

The door opened. The woman was thin, wearing an ankle-length black dress with a white oval pin at her throat. Her face was swarthy, seamed with threadlike lines. Mr Ketchum slipped off his hat automatically.

‘Come in,’ said the woman.