Chapter 2

Friday, December 12, 2014, 10:08 p.m. If Rebecca had any doubt, it took only a block to confirm that weirdness extended well beyond the party house. Trudging along the sidewalk with hands stuffed in her coat pockets, shoulders hunched and muttering invective, she slowed, and then halted, blinking slowly. A black SUV had run up over the curb and crashed into a tree; it rumbled quietly. Based on the engine sounds, the transmission remained in drive. The driver’s side was damaged halfway down its length, and advancing slowly, Rebecca discovered the Suburban had sideswiped with a silver Audi at the curb. Like the party house, the black SUV was empty.

Before leaving, Rebecca had called her mom. No answer. She fared no better calling her dad’s cell phone, or the useless landline. She tried texting her parents next, and then two other classmates, Sonia, and Susan, feeling more desperate by the moment.

Was her phone broken, she wondered? Remembering that Casey had turned up earlier with her boyfriend Stephen, she had tried her number, too. The phone rang, right there in the living room. Startled, she choked out: “Casey? Are you here? Stephen?”

She located the ringing phone at the far end of the couch, beneath a lamp table. She bent awkwardly and snatched it off the floor, confirming that it was in fact, her number on the display. The call went to voicemail as she watched.

Slowly turning around, shaking her head, rattled to the point of almost peeing her pants, Rebecca warbled, “Casey? Stephen?” Her need to go pee was so sudden and overwhelming that she jammed Casey’s cell phone between her thighs and hobbled toward the downstairs bathroom, whimpering. She made it in time, but only just. When done, she shakily washed her hands, and then dashed upstairs to find her coat and fled the house.

“You should take this car,” she muttered uncertainly. It looked drivable, despite the damage to the front end. Shouldn’t it be steaming if impact had crushed the radiator? She glanced nervously about, biting her lower lip, wondering how much trouble she’d be in taking the SUV.

She could drive it, she knew. Dad had taught her on the back roads over the summer and early fall, taking the RAV4 at night and on weekends, letting her get a jump on her friends and the requisite driver’s ed classes. Rebecca was notoriously slow mastering any new skill. She’d flattened a tire jumping a curb, scraped the rear fender backing into her own driveway (taking out the mailbox in the process), and busted a taillight parallel parking. Four frustrating months, learning to drive, but at least she had her license now. Not that she could drive to school. That privilege was exclusive to seniors at Huntington High. Continuing past the Suburban down the sidewalk, she felt indecisive, stupid, and cowardly.

Honeysuckle Lane eventually brought her to 5th Street Road, where she turned left. She’d passed no other wrecked vehicles, but spotted one just ahead, run off the road into the trees. Another car traveling southbound had crashed into a parked vehicle in Hatchers on The Hill’s parking lot. The front end, steaming in the cold air, sat above a puddle of anti-freeze. The vehicle was empty, and not a soul was in the parking lot handling the accident. Was Hatchers empty like the party house?

She trudged on, hands stuffed in her coat pockets, wishing she had worn her Ugg boots instead of the red Chuck Taylor’s. She wished she understood what was fucking going on. Aaron had disappeared from right atop her; that seemed unassailable now. Her eyes were closed, she thought, struggling to push him off, but she had felt the sudden loss of his weight. Had she passed out like she’d first thought? Had Aaron penetrated her yet? The more she remembered the more she thought he possibly had, for a few experimental thrusts, at least. Dammit, he had no right taking her virginity by force! That was rape!

What about everyone else? Had everyone downstairs disappeared along with Aaron, vanished at the same instant, simply popped out of existence like some dumb sci-fi movie? And why not her? Why leave a stupid, mostly naked 16-year-old behind? She had yet to consider this might be about her.

She encountered dozens more wrecked vehicles on the way home: head-on collisions--many of a catastrophic nature, certain to leave occupants maimed or dead. Others had run off the road into parked cars, smashed head on into telephone poles, trees, lamp poles, into the sides and fronts of buildings. She found no evidence of human intervention after the fact anywhere.

Were she older, sober, and more observant, Rebecca might have noted a glaring inconsistency in all this: nowhere did she find evidence of fire. No telltale flame, no billowing smoke, or the acrid odor of burning materials. No warble of emergency vehicles, either. It was preternaturally quiet; the night weighed on her like a lead blanket.

She bore on; hands stuffed in her coat pockets, avoiding vehicles run up over the curb along North Boulevard, 8th Street, and then 13th Avenue. At the midpoint of her trek home, approaching the entrance to Ritter Park, she stopped beneath a streetlight and again tried calling her mom, and then Dad. Trying Mom, a third time, she left a voicemail.

“Mom, it’s me. I’m on my way home. I’m at Ritter Park. I’ll probably take 12th Street and Enslow Boulevard to Washington. When you get this message--” She sobbed, wiping her nose on the back of her bare index finger. “Please come and get me, because I’m really scared, Mom!” She coughed and sucked in a huge breath, coughing it back out again. “I’m all alone, Mom! Where the fuck is everybody?”

She tried Amy again, then Jamie, and then Sonia, Susan, and Casey. The ringing cell phone in her coat pocket made her yelp and skip sideways in fright. She’d pocketed Casey’s cell phone and forgotten about it. She dug it free of her jacket pocket and depressed the side-button, silencing the damned thing. Casey had an iPhone like hers, wrapped in a spangled pink and white case. She stuffed it back in her coat pocket. “Where are you?” she muttered plaintively.

At 12th Street, she bore right, following it to Enslow Boulevard; from there, along to Washington Boulevard, putting her approximately 1/2 mile from home. She began to jog, clumsily at first with her hands stuffed in her coat pockets. Then she broke into a lope, and then finally a sprint, exhaustion overtaking and halting her a block from home. Bent double, panting, and gripping her knees, she coughed convulsively. Her heart banged against her breastbone, and her lungs burned from the cold air; she had that proverbial stitch in her side, making it difficult to stay upright, even bent double. Sobbing, she jammed her right fist against her rib cage.

“Fuck!” she screamed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

She was terrified, afraid to open her front door to an abandoned house. She felt falsely reassured by warm lights glowing behind the windows of neighboring houses. Gina Cordone lived in the house to her left, though she didn’t get along with the 11th grader very well. She was sort of a stuck-up bitch. Across the street and two houses down was the Keller’s place, where she often babysat Monty and Flora, as recently as two weekends ago, in fact. The Mountjoy’s house, the Oshun’s, and the Eames; across from her house, the Burnham’s. She’d caught Duncan Burnham observing her bedroom window dozens of times, and sometimes through binoculars. Fat little pimply-faced prick. She’d relish seeing Duncan right now.

Straightening, she shuffled the final block to her front walk and eyed her parent’s cars in the driveway. The 2008 RAV4—nicknamed Teddy, as in Teddy Bear--would be hers in a week. Dad had a new RAV4 all picked out for himself, the new one silver instead of royal blue like Teddy. Would that happen now, she wondered?

The house looked frighteningly normal. She dug out her keys and headed up the driveway. At the front stoop she stood shivering in her Chuck Taylor’s, hands jammed in her pockets, afraid to climb the steps. The house looked so thoroughly right, the windows brightly lit downstairs, obscured upstairs by blinds and curtains, both cars in the driveway. Maude’s car was with her in Morgantown, at school. She forced herself up the three steps and opened the door. The alarm wasn’t set.

“Mom? Dad? Are you here?”

In blind hope, she added her sister’s name, doorknob clutched in her hand. She prepared to whirl and flee at the slightest provocation. Cocking her head, she made out the tinny sound of a television upstairs, and the heat pump kicking on around side of the house. She heard several heat pumps in the unnatural silence of Wiltshire Boulevard. It was 11:10 p.m.

With numb fingertips, she unzipped her coat and let it hang open over her Huntington Pathfinders sweatshirt. She wasn’t taking it off. Not until she felt secure in the house. Correction: Not until she WAS secure in the house.

Clear every level, she thought, like they did on cop shows. Search every room and closet; check under every bed, and behind all 3 shower curtains. Right now, though, she only leaned against the front door, trembling.

How far did this craziness go? The walk home spanned 2.4 miles, during which she’d spotted all those wrecks, but not a single human being--male, female, or child. Despite the cold--her iPhone claimed it was 28 degrees Fahrenheit in Huntington--what possibility existed that not a single wreck would garner an emergency response, clusters of do-gooders or gawkers, and at least one resultant fire? (She had finally noted that anomaly.) The answer was none. Not slim or marginal: none.

She pulled out her phone and called Maudie’s cell phone. Morgantown was 3-1/2 hours away, about 200 miles, she thought, a good distance. Tapping the speaker icon, she listened anxiously as Maudie’s cell phone rang, finally going to voicemail.

“Hi,” she started tremulously. “It’s me. I’m alone here at home. I can’t find Mom and Dad or anyone else I know. Are you okay? Have you heard what’s going on? Please call me the instant you get this voicemail, okay? I’ll text you right now.” Fumbling, she managed to tap the red button terminating the call. She texted a terse message, short-handing a written version of her voicemail. She couldn’t stop shaking.

She dead-bolted the front door, leaving the chain unlatched pending a thorough search of the house. She cautiously explored the main level, slipping from room to room, checking the foyer closet, and behind the living room and den furniture. She inspected beneath the dining room table, checked to ensure the door to the basement was locked. Check the basement later, she thought, maybe with a baseball bat, or better yet, Dad’s Remington 12-gauge.

The kitchen was empty; ditto the mudroom, and the family room out back. Deadbolts remained set on both rear doors. Trembling not quite so badly now, she returned to the living room and gazed up the stairs.

“Mom? Dad?” she hollered. “I’m home! I had to walk from Honeysuckle Lane over in Whitaker Terrace, so that’s why I’m late! Amy and everyone just sorta--”

What the fuck was she doing?

Trembling forcefully, she gripped the rail with one hand, the banister with the other, and ascended the stairs, planting each foot solidly before taking the next. She made out the television more clearly now, recognizing the “Bad Boys” theme from Cops. It was 11:30 p.m. A new show had begun.

“Mom? Dad?” They must hear her shouting at the top of her lungs.

She checked her bedroom first, turning on the light, and then Maudie’s bedroom. At her parent’s door, she hesitated, fingertips lightly touching the wood. It was open the usual crack, bedside lights softly illuminating the room, Mom’s TV adding a flickering glow to the ambiance. Peeking through the crack, she observed that her mother’s side of the bed was empty. She couldn’t tell for sure about her dad’s, but he often watched TV from his recliner, half embroiled in a book. She couldn’t see the chair through the 1/4” wide crack. She tapped lightly on the door.

“Can I come in?” She pushed open the door, dreadfully certain of what she would find. The bedroom was empty.

-------//-------

She repeated her earlier search, this time accompanied by Dad’s Remington shotgun. She had never fired it before, in fact, had to figure out how to load the Model 1100, resorting finally to guidance from a YouTube video featuring a stocky blonde with a deep southern accent. Under the woman’s confident tutelage, Rebecca had loaded the magazine with four shells, and then pocketed a dozen more. Thank God, Dad stored his guns in a cabinet, and not a gun safe. She knew exactly where he kept the keys.

“Anyone down there?” she hollered at the top of the basement steps. “I will kill you; you know that!” It was just after midnight, and Rebecca stood back, gun clenched in her white-knuckled fists. She had Dad’s ear protectors around her neck but didn’t expect to need them. Still, their weight was comforting. She wondered that she hadn’t suffered a heart attack from the unbelievable stress tonight.

“I’m passed out in that stupid bedroom,” she muttered. “Trippin’ on whatever Aaron put in those fucking cigarettes.” She had never tried a cigarette in her life, and never would, she thought correctly. “I’m coming down, and I have a fucking shotgun, you morons!”

The basement was finished, and the steps carpeted; no one could trip her walking down. Midway, she halted and yelled out her warning again, clutching the stock so tightly it made her hands ache. She forced them to loosen, demanded her index finger remain safely outside the trigger guard. Damned if she’d shoot Mom or Dad by fucking mistake. Damned if she’d do that.

“Mom? Dad? Maudie?”

At the bottom, a thought occurred that froze her mid-step. She lost balance with a sharp cry, tottered a moment at the razor’s edge of toppling, grabbed the railing with her right hand to steady herself. She cursed her clumsiness, stupidity, and the bang of the shotgun against the drywall. The consideration was this: Why do you trust the electricity to stay on, you dumb bitch?

She whirled and ran blindly back up the stairs, terrified of being plunged into pitch darkness. In the kitchen she yanked open the cabinet containing flashlights and candles and snatched one of the flashlights off the shelf. It was empty, light as a feather. Cursing, she grabbed a 4-pack of D-cell batteries and struggled to rip it open. She finally made her hands slow and do it correctly, turning over the package and prying open the outlined flap on the back. Panting, she withdrew all four batteries and set them side-by-side on the counter. Her hands shook so badly they nearly shook her apart.

“What. Is. Going. On.” Breathing deeply, holding her breath a moment, she loaded Flashlight 1 and then Flashlight 2, testing both, daring either to malfunction. She slapped each smartly against her palm just to make sure. Flashlights and batteries were both Duracell’s, she noted.

Jamming one flashlight into her back pocket, she gripped the other against the shotgun’s barrel and returned to the basement stairs and descended. Like everywhere else she’d been the last three hours, though, the basement was empty. The time was 12:24 a.m.

Jessica 2

Friday, December 12, 2014, 10:22 p.m. Jessica left the U-Haul to lie on its side and burn gas until it ran dry. She withdrew her cell phone again, thumbed mom’s preset and put the phone to her ear. She needed to hear her mother’s voice. She needed to know this insane idea that she was alone in White Pine wasn’t true. Mostly, she needed comfort from Mom. She wouldn’t get it.

“Mom,” she complained to her voicemail. “I’m in trouble. Can you come get me, please? I know it’s late and you don’t like leaving Maddie and Henry alone—”

With a jolt, she halted on the shoulder of Main Street just before Golden Way. Her voice! Mom would hear this message and think some kid had called the wrong number or was pranking her.

“Um...” she croaked. “Something happened to me tonight. I don’t know what yet, but it affected my voice somehow—” And a few other internal and external body parts, she thought miserably. “—but this really is Jessica. I’m walking home up Main Street in the dark, Mom.”

She got moving again, crossing Golden Way, and the Trinity Pines Apartments where Dennis Turcotte lived, hurrying on toward Jackson Street, straight ahead. Mom’s voicemail beeped, and she cursed.

Directly ahead lay the bulk of White Pine. She detected no lights other than the headlights and taillights of additional wrecked vehicles (there were a lot of those, she realized, counting unconsciously); not the beam of searching flashlights, or the erratic flickering of candles in windows, nor moving cars. Nothing moved at all that she could discern, though she did spot the lights of high-flying aircraft. She didn’t suspect that everything in flight would eventually come down, whether from fuel exhaustion, or the preprogrammed loss of auto-pilot. She only knew she was scared and freezing cold.

She called her mom again. When it went to voicemail after 7 rings she shouted: “Mom! It really is me! Other things happened tonight, and are still happening from what I can see—”

She stopped again in her tracks, this time halfway across the driveway of her friend Devon Reynolds’s house. The household was dark, just like every abode she’d passed tonight trying to get home, but a friend and his family lived here. Maybe she should consider the fact an invitation.

“Mom...” She vacillated, looking up and down the street and then back at the dark house. “Never mind,” she advised, moving again. She quickly explained her indecisive stop in the driveway, and then repeated her plea for rescue.

“If you can’t, I understand. Just call me and let me know you got this message!”

She checked the time on her iPhone: 10:31 p.m. Too late to call Maddie or Henry? Not a chance, she thought, ringing Maddie’s line first. She got the same result as with mom, however, and ditto with Henry. “Fuck!” she hollered in frustration. “Fuck-fuck-fuck, people!”

Maddie would answer just from the shock of her calling her cell phone. They didn’t get along at all. Henry, she got along with marginally better, and she texted his cell phone this time, leaving a curt message: Call me immediately! Don’t text! I’m in trouble!

She tried Robin, plagued with intense guilt at what had happened tonight. Robin had warned her off Howard and Dennis. Ignoring the warnings only proved how irresponsible she was. She deserved to be raped, she thought. Fucking idiot.

She stopped and buried her face in her hands. She ached, was raw and burning from the multiple violations. Both seniors had taken her anally, Howard ejaculating into her bareback, saying wannabe boys only deserved it up the ass. He’d laughed as he did so, taking a hi-five from Dennis. Turcotte at least had donned a condom for his turn, claiming, “Vagitarians liked their sausage wrapped in a casing.” But he’d taken Jessica anally also, emulating Howard. Boys liked it up the ass, right?