The Nightworld (5 page)

Chapter 9

For the longest time, I just sit in the car in the middle of the street, engine idling, no idea what to do. I think I must be in shock or something. Everything feels far away. My house looks totally normal. There’s isn’t anything about it that would indicate a man was just shot to death in it. Our street looks the same as it always does at night, lit by the safe glow of suburban street lights. But nothing is normal, or safe.

I take out my phone and start to text Charlie, but I can’t get a signal. Then I remember his text about how they were leaving. I look at it again. Leaving
soon
, it says. Maybe he’s still home, and I can go with him and his parents to wherever they’re headed. I try to text again, but there’s still no signal, so I put the Subaru in gear and drive the seven blocks to Charlie’s house. It’s seven blocks I’ve walked, biked, and driven so many times in my life I don’t even look at the houses I pass anymore. But tonight I do. Tonight I wonder how long these houses will be like this—when I look at them I flash on shaggy lawns gone to seed, chipped paint, smashed windows.

The house looks dark, but they could just be in bed. It is the middle of the night, after all. At least that’s what I tell myself. I park in their driveway and try to be silent when I shut the car door. The neighboring houses look just like they should at this time of night—interior lights off, porch lights on. I slip up the steps to the front door of Charlie’s and ring the bell. I can hear it inside, but nobody comes.

The garage door is shut, so I can’t tell if the car is there. I sneak around back and open the gate to the backyard. It’s so dark back here that I almost fall over a huge bag of dog food someone’s left on the ground, torn open. I hear a low growl, and in the dimness I can see a pair of eyes glittering up at me.

Tank’s here.

Tank, a hundred-pound mutt who looks like a cross between a German shepherd and a bloodhound, is seven now. He’s been Charlie’s steadfast companion since he was nine years old—the year Charlie’s mom divorced his real dad. The fact that Tank’s locked in the backyard with a food supply tells me that something is really wrong. Tank’s not a backyard sort of dog. He’s a spoiled house dog, who sleeps in Charlie’s room on a huge dog bed that is as thick as my mattress at home. Mrs. Bradley says he needs the support because he’s “big boned.” Mr. Holzer, Charlie’s stepdad, isn’t as crazy about Tank, but I can’t believe they left him like this. I bet Charlie is pissed.

“Tank.” I don’t like the sound of the growl, but I’ve known Tank since I was nine, too, so I’m hoping he’ll be happy once he knows it’s me. “It’s me, buddy, Nick. C’mere.” I grab a handful of dog food from the bag and crouch down, holding it out to him. He noses the air and I say a few more encouraging words. Finally he walks up to sniff my hand, and I see that his back legs are trembling.

“Oh, Tank. Poor guy.” I smooth his fur and scratch him on the chest, his favorite place in the world to get scratched. This seems to make him feel a little better. “What happened, buddy? Why’d they just leave you here?” He looks up at me with those sad brown eyes, and I swear he’s trying to tell me. “Well, let’s see if we can get in the house, Tank.”

I check the sliding door in back, but it’s locked. So I swing up onto the half shed that sits under Charlie’s second-floor bedroom and try his window. Unlocked, of course. We sneak in and out of Charlie’s house all the time, ever since his mom married Mr. Holzer. He’s pretty much a control freak, so we’ve had to get by on sneakiness in order to do
anything
.

I switch on the light and check out Charlie’s room. He has a bunk bed and the top bunk, where he sleeps, is unmade, but that’s how it always is, no matter how many times his mom tells him to make it. Some of his drawers are half open, but it’s more like he was in a hurry grabbing stuff, not like somebody was searching his room. I don’t see his jacket in the closet—he wears an old army jacket that has a name patch embroidered with the word Tiny. I never got the joke, but he loves it. I check his other stuff. Laptop, phone, iPod, all missing. Underwear and sock drawers, empty.

They are definitely gone.

I go downstairs to the sliding glass door where Tank is waiting and let him in. I lock it after him. He seems to be relieved to be back in the house, but he keeps looking around, like he wonders where the family is now.

“Aw, buddy. They had to go, I guess. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” Tank follows me around the house, whining softly while I look for some sort of clue to where Charlie’s family might have been headed. I don’t see anything that would tip me off. Just a lot more evidence that they left in a hurry—dinner dishes half empty and still on the table, the kitchen sort of a mess. His mom is a little anal about things being clean, and she never would have left it like this if there had been time to clean up. I check the garage from the door off the kitchen: no car.

A peek out the living-room window reveals no sign of life on the street.

Tank nuzzles my hand. Suddenly I feel as though every muscle in my body is drained of energy. I’m so bone tired I could drop right there on the living-room carpet. I just want to curl up and sleep, and wake up tomorrow with everything different. I have to get my stuff first, though, from the car.

Tank doesn’t want me to go, and he whines when I open the front door.

“No, you wait here.” I shake my finger at him and he backs up, a worried look on his face. “I’ll come right back.”

In the Subaru I grab my backpack and start to lock up the car when I remember the box. Optimus Prime, the gizmo, the device. Holy crap—
the device
. I bet this is what those guys meant when they said that back at the house. Dad said it was important. I grab it from the folds of the sleeping bag in the duffel and shove it into my backpack. Then I lock the car, shutting the door quietly. Standing in the driveway of Charlie’s house, looking around his neighborhood, which is exactly like my neighborhood, really, everything seems so normal. It’s dark because it’s supposed to be, at whatever time in the middle of the night it is now. The streetlights are lighting the neighborhood and everybody is snuggled in bed. Like Charlie should be, like I should be. Like Dad should be.

I lock the front door of the house. Maybe this can be a safe haven for a while. My house sure as hell isn’t anymore. I keep hearing the crackling noise from the radios of the men who killed my dad, and it makes me shudder. I wonder who those guys were. Government? Some rogue agency? Could they somehow trace me to here? I’m too wiped to think straight.

Tank follows me up the stairs to Charlie’s room, so close his chin gets nicked a couple of times by my heel. Charlie’s door doesn’t have a lock, and I’m not sure what good it would do if it did, but I shut it anyway. Drop the backpack, kick off my shoes, and fall onto the bottom bunk with all my clothes still on, too tired to care. Tank starts to lie down on his mega bed, but he has second thoughts and jumps onto the bottom bunk with me. I don’t tell him to get down. I throw an arm around him and listen to his heartbeat, for the few seconds I manage to stay awake.

Chapter 10

I think it’s morning. I can’t tell. The window in Charlie’s room frames a dark sky, but I remember that doesn’t mean anything anymore. I hear Tank whining softly and sit up. He’s sitting at the door, wagging his tail and looking back at me with an I-have-to-pee look.

“Okay, boy. Just give me a minute.” I rub my eyes and try to stretch the kinks out of my shoulders. Tank leads me eagerly downstairs to the sliding door. Out in the backyard, he pees and then runs away, growling. I can’t make out what the problem is, so I go check it out. The bag of dog food has been dragged away from the back gate to the end of the yard—looks like a raccoon had a great meal. About half the bag is left, so I grab it and head for the house. Tank keeps furiously growling and sniffing the grass until he realizes I’m about to shut him out in the yard, and then he hightails it for the door.

My stomach is growling. I check the fridge and find eggs and bacon. Fifteen minutes and a half a cube of melted butter later, I’m ready to feast. Tank lies at my feet, eyeing my plate. Still no signal on my phone, so I switch on the television to see what they’re saying today.

Every channel is news.

I settle on one that seems to be doing national coverage and listen to the report, this time from a woman with a dark blue suit and a serious expression.

“. . . president says that the curfew will be enforced until further notice. The National Guard is being deployed in some areas of the country now, in order to control the looting and violence that seem to be increasing. Please remain in your homes if at all possible. If you need to venture out for food or medical supplies, be certain to do so during approved hours. Check your local stations for curfew hours, emergency procedures, availability of supplies, and other information. And as always, we urge you to remain calm. The situation is under control.”

The picture switches to a local news anchor. He’s just as quickly replaced by a montage of footage showing scenes from the city. A building, fully engulfed in flames, blazes bright against the dark sky; a guy in a hoodie running and throwing a brick into the plate-glass window of a bank; a shot of the freeway out of town, completely gridlocked with cars full of people trying to get away. Back to the news anchor, who looks almost panicked himself.

“We’ve lost contact with the Team Four mobile crew, but as soon as we can reestablish, we’ll be bringing you the latest. Stay tuned for—”

The picture cuts out, replaced by static.

To me, the situation doesn’t seem to be under control.

Tank pushes his nose against my knee and gives my plate another pointed look. I dump what’s left of my bacon and eggs on top of some of his kibble in a bowl and set it on the floor for him. Four seconds later, it’s gone.

“You’re gonna have to watch that, my friend. We don’t have an endless supply, I bet.” Tank looks up at me and tilts his head back and forth like he’s trying to figure out if I’m capable of actually communicating or if I’m just making random sounds.

After I make sure all of the curtains are pulled on all of the windows, I decide to see what we do have, and I start in the kitchen. Mrs. Bradley keeps the place stocked. There’s lots of pasta and cereal and canned stuff in the cupboards. The fridge is full, and when I look more carefully than I did when I grabbed the eggs, I see we can probably last here a long time. I check the downstairs bathroom, but it’s a guest bathroom, so there’s not much but pretty soap. Upstairs, in the family bathroom, there’s a ton of stuff that might come in handy. Aspirin, Band-Aids, some gauze, some peroxide. I check the nightstand next to the Mr. and Mrs. Holzer’s bed, just in case there’s a gun, but no luck there. I guess Mr. Holzer would have taken it, though, if they had one. I find a little metal flashlight in the back and shove it in my pocket.

Back downstairs, I go for the junk drawer in the kitchen—I know Charlie’s house almost as well as my own, and they have a junk drawer just like we do. It’s filled with odds and ends that are too good to throw out. That’s where we keep our batteries, and it turns out they do too. I find four that fit the flashlight I found upstairs. I find an old pocketknife and a pocket spray can of mace.

I spend the day switching the television on and off to see if it’s getting any stations. Nothing comes on until after my lunch—a ham-and-cheese sandwich with some rocky road ice cream from the freezer. Then it’s the channel with the
SHOULD YOU BE AFRAID OF THE DARK
? banner all over the screen. The reporter seems to be relishing the job of announcing all the shitty news. People are outright rioting in the city, and it sounds like it’s pretty much the same all over the country.

“It’s getting ugly out there, folks.” The guy shakes his head. “I’d stay in tonight if I were you.” He gives a nervous little laugh before the television cuts out again. I switch around, but no other stations come in either. It’s weird how little they’re saying about
why
it’s dark. They just keep saying the situation’s under control and showing looters smashing things.

By dinner, Tank and I have thoroughly inspected every inch of the fence line in the backyard because he seems convinced the raccoon will be back for an encore. I’ve tried my phone multiple times with no luck. I doubt they can trace a dead phone, so that’s good. I catch three more bits of television news coverage and check all the locks on the doors and windows twice. I peek out the windows pretty often, and I’ve seen a couple of people walking down the street now, lit by the streetlights. People who don’t look like they know where they’re going.

I fix us a dinner of Hamburger Helper, and after we eat I wash all the dishes that have been piling up. When I take a shower, Tank stations himself in a guard position on the bathroom rug until I get out. I think he’s worried that I’m going to disappear, like his whole family did. He watches every move I make with worried brown eyes.

Back downstairs, I get my backpack and take it with me to the couch. I flop down and open it up, and out falls the box. Optimus Prime. Hot tears spring to my eyes, and I shove the box back into the backpack. I dig past it and come up with a book.
Lord of the Flies.
It makes me think of Mrs. Martin—what happened to her? I think she lives in the city. I wonder if she’s safe. Did she manage to get out before it got crazy? Thinking of her makes me think of school, which makes me think of Lara. I hope she’s okay. Did her brother get her out, or is she still in the city? I wish I could call her. I wish I could call anyone, really.

The television is nothing but static. It’s so quiet, and so dark—even inside the house. I’m afraid to turn on too many lights now, ever since I noticed the people wandering down the street. I figure they’re refugees from the city, and I don’t want to draw too much attention. Right now the only illumination in the living room is a small table lamp next to the couch, and I’ve thrown a bandana over it to make it dim. I don’t think any of the glow can get past the curtains.

I’m not sure what I should do. Do I stay here for a while like I planned? It seemed like a good idea at first, but the wanderers give me the creeps. As long as they keep just wandering and don’t start trying doors, it’s fine, but I wonder how long that can last.

I’m so tired. I don’t want to think too hard right now. Every time I start to think, I see Dad, with three red blooms spreading across the front of his shirt. I see his eyes cloud over as the life leaves his body. The last thing I did was blame him for this whole mess. The last words I said to him were angry. I don’t want to remember any of it.

I pick up the book Mrs. Martin gave me and glance at the back. Doesn’t sound too uplifting, but it’s what I’ve got. Maybe it will keep my mind off other things. I stretch out on the couch and Tank lies next to me on the floor, and I start to read about a world with no grown-ups at all.