“No.” Levi smiled slightly. “He couldn’t hurt me because I carry something on my person that prevents attacks like that. Something much better than body armor. His claws cut my clothing, but they were ineffective on my body.”
“Even so,” Donny said, “you might not get so lucky a second time. You go back, then I’m going with you.”
Levi shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I told you, I have to face them alone.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’m going to make sure the two of you are hidden away. I’ll provide you some safeguards that should prove effective. But then I’m going back out again, and you’re not coming with me. Your responsibility is to your girlfriend here.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Marsha said, glancing at Donny.
“Oh. I’m sorry. The two of you seemed so close, I just assumed.”
“She’s . . .” Donny paused, floundering for words.
“I just don’t—”
A crow screeched overhead. All three of them jumped.
“Come on,” Levi said. “Let’s get under cover while we still can.”
***
“Get the hell away from here or I’ll blow a goddamn hole in your belly!”
The threat was accompanied by the sound of a shotgun being pumped. The noise was muffled through the heavy wooden door, but still identifiable enough that both Paul and Gus jumped out of the way. Standing on either side of the door, safe from any potential shotgun spray, they looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Go on!” The person inside the house was clearly terrified. His voice quavered as he shouted. “Get out of here now, goddamn you. I ain’t telling you again.”
“Greg,” Gus called out. “Put down the shotgun. It’s me.”
“Me who?”
“Your brother, dumb ass. Gus. Who’d you think it was?”
Gus kicked the door with the toe of his boot, which he’d wisely changed into after taking off his Spider-Man bedroom slippers. The door rattled in its frame. An ugly brown wreath that hung askew near the top of the door swayed back and forth slightly, shedding leaves and bits of bark.
“You didn’t say it was you,” Greg hollered. “All you said was ‘it’s me.’ How the hell was I supposed to know who ‘me’ is?”
“Never you mind that. I’ve got Paul Crowley out here with me. Now hurry up and let us in before somebody sees us.”
“Paul’s here with you?”
“Hi, Greg. Yeah, I’m here. Now open up. Bad things are happening and it’s not safe out here.”
There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment. Then they heard a thump as Greg sat the shotgun down. A moment later, the locks clicked and a chain rattled as it was slid across its hasp. Then the door creaked open. The battered wreath shed more twigs and leaves. Greg peered out at them.
“Take a picture,” Gus said. “It’ll last longer. Now let us in, damn it.”
The door opened the rest of the way and Greg stood to one side, letting Paul and Gus rush by him. Greg was clad only in a pair of black sweatpants and mismatched socks. He quickly shut the door behind them and then locked it again. The shotgun leaned against the wall, next to a woven floor mat piled high with work boots and dirty shoes. Greg picked it up and eyed them warily.
“Would one of you boys mind telling me just what in the hell is going on? I hear shooting all over the place and folks screaming, and the power is out and the phones are off, too. Hell, I can’t even get my weather radio to work, and that runs on batteries.”
“We don’t know,” Paul admitted. “Something bad, obviously. Like you said, there’s people shouting and lots of gunfire. The big propane tank behind the firehouse may have gone up. We’ve seen some dead folks, just lying in the street. But nobody seems real sure who’s causing it or even what exactly is happening. One fella told us it was dark people, but we don’t even know what he meant by that.”
“Dark people? Who told you that?”
“You’d recognize him,” Gus said. “Used to bring his car into the shop. I can’t remember his name. Always seemed nice enough, but Paul seems to think maybe he meant black folks.”
“Dark people?” Greg frowned. “That don’t make any sense. Why would black people want to shoot up Brinkley Springs?”
“That’s what I said, too,” Gus exclaimed.
Paul shrugged. “I ain’t saying they are. I’m just telling you what the other guy said to us. None of it makes any sense to me.”
“Come on. Let’s sit a spell. Figure this thing out.” Greg motioned with the shotgun for them to followhim. He led them into the living room and beckoned to a brown, worn-out couch. Paul and Gus both sat down, grateful for the respite. The couch springs groaned beneath them and the cushions sagged. Greg crept over to the window and pulled the faded curtains shut, stirring up a cloud of dust. The room, already gloomy, grew pitch-black.
“Hang on a minute,” Greg said, stumbling around in the darkness. “Let me light a candle.”
They sat in silence, listening as he fumbled his way to the kitchen and searched through drawers until he found what he was looking for. Then he returned with a long red candle in a tarnished brass holder. The flame glinted off the three bottles of Rolling Rock beer he clutched by the necks in his other hand. He placed the candle on the coffee table and then handed each of them a bottle. Both men accepted them without pause. The glass was cold and wet, and the sound the caps made as they twisted them off was somehow comforting—but not as much as the first sips.
Paul sighed. “I needed that.”
“I reckon so,” Greg agreed. “You both looked pretty shook-up.”
“It’s hell out there,” Gus said. “And to be honest, big brother, I was a little worried about you. Glad you’re okay.”
“Shit.” Greg patted the shotgun almost lovingly. The flickering candle flame reflected off the barrel. “I’ll tell you what. I’m the last person in Brinkley Springs they want to mess with.”
Paul took a long drink of beer and then pressed the bottle against his forehead. He leaned forward, sighed again and then looked at them both. “So, what are we gonna do? You boys got any ideas?”
“I was thinking on this while I was in the kitchen,” Greg said. “I reckon that fella you met was wrong. It ain’t black people that are doing this.”
“Who do you think it is?” Gus asked.
“That’s easy. The NWO.”
Groaning, Gus rolled his eyes. “Oh, Greg. Now ain’t the time to start with that goddamn New World Order nonsense again. I swear to God, you’re worse than that crazy Earl Harper wing nut who lives up above Punkin Center. Always with the NOW bullshit.”
“N-W-O, not N-O-W. And it ain’t bullshit, little brother.”
“The hell it ain’t. First you thought Y2K was gonna kill us all. Then you said nine eleven was an inside job. Then there was all the crap about how President Obama didn’t have a birth certificate. And then you—”
“And all of that stuff is connected. Bush and Obama are pawns of the same people. But that ain’t my point. You guys ever hear of eugenics?”
“No,” Gus said, “and neither did you until you got on the Internet. Swear to God, somebody ought to take away your computer access.”
Greg ignored the comment. “They want to control humankind through what they call selective breeding. The Nazis started it, but the NWO are continuing it. See, the only way to control the population is to first get it back down to a manageable size. They’re culling the herd, same way the game commission does when the deer population gets out of control. That’s why we’ve got diseases like cancer and AIDS. You telling me that we can put a little goddamn skateboard-looking robot on Mars and have it send back pictures, but we can’t find a cure for cancer? There’s a cure. You can bet on that, boys. There’s a goddamn cure. They just won’t release it because cancer helps cut down the population.”
Paul drained his beer and belched. The Pheasant brothers both fanned the air and frowned.
