“I don’t know. All I know is it’s been a weird day and it just keeps getting stranger.”
“How do you mean?”
Gus paused. “Well, first there was this Amish fella come riding into town on a horse and buggy. Real pretty horse. Very gentle, but very big. She’d be a prize mare. He’s got her tied up down by the river tonight. He asked me and Greg if there was a hotel in town and we sent him over to Esther’s place.”
“Amish?” Paul grunted. He’d known a few Brethren in his life—Amish, Mennonites and Moldavians. All of them had been good people. Hard workers. Very handy with a hammer and a saw. “I don’t see how that would be connected to what’s happing now, though.”
“I don’t reckon it is, but you never know. Maybe it’s—”
Paul paused as a man ran by them, weaving around parked cars on the street and tottering back and forth. Paul recognized him as one of the cashiers at the local convenience store, but he didn’t know the man’s name. At first, Paul assumed the guy must be drunk, but then he noticed the man’s torn trouser leg and the blood on his calf, and realized he was injured.
“Hey,” Gus called, apparently not knowing the cashier’s name either. “You okay, fella? What’s going on?”
The fleeing man didn’t stop. He shuffled past them, not even bothering to look in their direction as he answered. “Dark men . . . they’re going house to house . . . killing folks. Killing everybody. Even the pets.”
Paul took a step forward. “What do you mean?”
“No time! If you’re smart, you’ll run now. I mean it. They’re killing everyone.”
“Who?”
“The dark men. Run!”
“What was that explosion?” Paul asked.
“Someone shot the propane tank behind the fire hall. Now get going, if you know what’s good for you. I ain’t waiting around for the dark men.”
“Hey! Just wait a goddamn minute, fella. We don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
Without another word, the man fled on, trailing dark spots of blood on the asphalt. Gus and Paul looked at each other.
“Dark men?” Gus arched one eyebrow. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“I don’t know. Black folks, maybe?”
Gus shook his head. “No. I’ve talked to him plenty of times down at the shop. He’s brought his car in to be serviced, though I can’t remember his name. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Never struck me as a racist.”
“Just because a fella ain’t telling nigger jokes or wearing a Klan robe don’t mean they’re not racist.
You can never tell.”
“I still don’t buy it,” Gus said. “And besides, even if he was racist, it still doesn’t make any sense. Why would a bunch of black folks want to shoot up Brinkley Springs?”
“Not saying they are. I’m just trying to figure out what he meant. He said dark men.”
“Well, if we stand out here long enough, I reckon we’re liable to find out the hard way what he meant.”
Paul nodded. “I suspect you’re right. Not sure what to do, though. Don’t hear any sirens or anything. Just screaming.”
They paused, listening. Gus shuddered.
“I hope my brother is okay.”
“Where is Greg, anyway?” Paul asked him.
“At home sleeping, I guess. Wish I could call him and find out.”
Paul glanced at his cowering dogs and then out into the street. The breeze shifted, bringing with it the unmistakable smell of smoke. It made his eyes water. He hesitated, weighing his options. On the one hand, he should stay here and look after the dogs and his belongings. The fleeing cashier had mentioned that pets were being killed. But on the other hand, it sounded like there were a lot of people out there who needed help. People that he knew. Some that he’d known his whole life. It didn’t seem right to hunker down here while they were in trouble. He turned back to Gus.
“Want to go check on your brother?”
“I’d like to. Do you think it’s safe?”
“No. But it beats standing around here waiting for whatever is happening to find its way to us. We’ll make sure he’s okay. Then I’ll come back here and watch over my dogs.”
Nodding, Gus squared his shoulder and straightened up. “Sure. Just let me change my shoes.”
“Yeah,” Paul replied, glancing back down at the bedroom slippers. “I reckon you might want to do that first. Might want to put some clothes on over those pajamas, too. And Gus?”
“What?”
“Might be best if you bring along a gun.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
***
Artie Prater slept, which was exactly what he’d been afraid of. His wife of five years, Laura, was out of town. She worked for the bank in Roncefort, and once a year, all of the bank’s employees went on a mandatory week-long retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Artie liked to tease Laura about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He’d been unable to find work for over a year, and it bothered him that he couldn’t provide for his wife or their new son, Artie Junior. The upside was that while she was at work every day, he’d been able to stay home and take care of Little Artie. Laura reciprocated by getting up with the baby at night, which relieved Artie to no end.
Artie had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. He’d slept through 9/11, waking up in his college dorm room later that night and wondering why everyone was staring at the television and crying. Since becoming a father, Artie’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Laura was there to get up with Artie Junior at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.
They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above Little Artie’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Laura out of town, Artie had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and played a video game. It was early— too early to sleep—but Little Artie had been tired and cranky, and Artie knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of the game, he’d sleep lightly.
Except that he hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep playing the game, barely having the presence of mind to sit the laptop aside before passing out. He slept through the power outage, and did not wake when both the laptop and the television shut off, as well as the baby monitor. He slept through the howling dogs and the terrified screams and the numerous gunshots. He slept through the explosion. He slept as his neighbors were murdered in their homes and out on the street. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly as two shadowy figures entered his home. He slept, unaware that in Artie Junior’s nursery, a large black crow had perched on the edge of his son’s crib. He slept as the crow changed shape. He remained asleep as the bedroom door opened and a shadow fell across him, as well.
He didn’t wake up until the baby screamed, and by then it was too late.
The last thing he saw was the figure in the room with him. The baby’s screams turned to high-pitched, terrified shrieks. Artie bolted upright and flung the sheets off his legs, but before he could get out of bed, the intruder rushed to the bedside and loomed over him. The man’s face was concealed in darkness. It shoved his chest with one cold hand and forced him back down on the bed. In the nursery, the baby’s screams abruptly ceased.
“W-who . . . ?”
“Scream,” the shadow told Artie. “It’s better when you scream.”
The pounding on Axel’s door grew louder and more insistent. The chain lock rattled and the door shook in its frame. Candlelight flickered, casting strange shapes on the walls. The pounding came again. Gripping his walking stick like a club, Axel tiptoed into the living room and peeked through the curtains. Jean Sullivan stood on his porch, holding Bobby in one arm and beating on the door with her fist. Breathing a sigh of relief, Axel lowered the stick and
