“That you, Paul?”
Startled, he jumped at the voice, nearly dropping the 12-gauge before he recognized the speaker as Gus Pheasant, who lived next door. Gus owned the local garage, along with his brother, Greg. Although both men were twenty years younger than Paul, he liked them very much and often got together with them in the evenings. Greg was divorced and Gus had never married, so they had their bachelorhood in common. They’d often invited Axel Perry— another widower—to join them, but the old man never did. Paul got the impression that Axel liked to be alone. It was a shame. He didn’t know what he was missing. Although he would have never said it aloud, Paul found that spending time with them made his own evenings a little less lonely. He liked the gruff companionship, liked playing cards and drinking a few beers and arguing sports and politics and women.
“Yeah,” he called, “it’s me, Gus. What in the hell is going on?”
“I don’t rightly know. Sounds like World War Three’s done started though, don’t it?”
Gus stepped out of the shadows. He looked shaken. His complexion was pale and his eyes were wide and frightened. His hair stuck up askew, and his pajamas were soaked with sweat and stuck to his body, including his prodigious beer gut. Paul’s gaze settled on Gus’s feet. The man wore a pair of fuzzy Spider-Man slippers. The costumed character’s big red head adorned the toe of each and seemed to stare up at Paul.
“Gus, what in the world are you wearing?”
The mechanic glanced down at his feet and then shrugged, clearly embarrassed.
“Oh, shoot. Forgot I had those on. I rushed out of the house so quick…”
“What are they?”
“Bedroom slippers.”
“I can see that. But they seem a little—”
“I didn’t buy them,” Gus interrupted. “Lacey Rogers bought them for me.”
“Lacey Rogers is eight years old, Gus.”
“I know that. Do you really think these are the type of slippers an adult would buy for me?”
“Well, what’s Lacey Rogers doing buying you a present, anyway? That don’t seem right.”
“Remember last year when they did the Secret Santa thing at church?”
Paul nodded. Each member of the congregation had pulled a slip of paper out of the offering plate. Written on the slip was the name of a fellow parishioner. They then purchased a gift—under twenty dollars—for that person. Paul’s Secret Santa had been Jean Sullivan, who’d bought him two pairs of wool socks for hunting.
“Lacey pulled my name,” Gus explained. “Her parents said she picked these out herself down at the Wal-Mart. I couldn’t very well return them, now could I?”
“No, I don’t guess so. That would have broke her little heart.”
“Exactly. And I have to say, they do keep my feet warm at night.”
“Well, you look like a damned fool.” Paul’s voice was gruff, but his grin nearly split his face in half.
“Your phone working?” Gus asked, clearly anxious to change the subject.
Paul shook his head. “Nope. Ain’t nothing working. My cell phone and emergency radio are dead, too. The cell I can understand. Service ain’t never been that reliable around here. But the radio should still be working. It’s got a battery back-up. I don’t understand why it would quit like that.”
“Same here,” Gus confirmed. “It ain’t just your radio. Everything in my place is dead. It’s like something fried all of the electronics. Hell, I couldn’t even get my damned flashlight to work. How’s that for weird?”
“It’s something, alright.”
“What do you suppose it means?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Paul said, “but whatever it is, it ain’t good.”
Another gunshot echoed across town, followed by an explosion.
“Holy mother of God,” Paul said, jumping. “What was that?”
“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.