Chapter 6

Saturday, December 13, 2014. 2:40 p.m. Rebecca would not abandon her dad’s prize shotgun to the store. Hyperventilating in the front seat--God, her chest ached; was she suffering a heart attack?--she rubbed her breastbone with her clenched right fist and shook her head. “No!” she choked, forcing the words through her locked teeth. “No, no, no!”

She wasn’t dead. She wouldn’t accept that at all. The named bottles meant something other than what the discovery implied. Diet Coke bottles, announcing redemption by Jesus, her personal Savior?

Were she not so rattled, Rebecca would laugh at the idea. She attended candlelight services on Christmas Eve with her parents; otherwise, she might see the inside of Lighthouse Baptist Church once a year. She was a teenager, borderline agnostic, damned for lack of faith. This was Hell, and the bottles a hateful taunt?

“Am I damned?” she choked; words nearly indecipherable. Forcing open her eyes, she gazed about, afraid to discover the view transformed from one of gas pumps and execrable convenience store, to roaring fire and brimstone. Nothing had changed; lamentably, the writing in the windows remained the same immutable script as before. This could still be Hell, she thought--or that inestimable waypoint of Limbo.

Struggling erect in her seat, Rebecca gripped the wheel and inhaled deeply, force-holding it in her lungs for ten seconds, and then exhaling between clenched teeth. Whatever had marooned her on this Bizarro planet, had also manipulated the contents of the convenience store, its intent shock and dismay. It had achieved that in spades, she thought, whatever the purpose. Nothing had ever frightened her more than beholding those silver-labeled bottles.

Insane as it sounded, and unfathomable though it was, this event seemed directed personally at her, revolving about her like a squeaky bicycle wheel, bent, rusted, and most certainly flat. That’s what the store, and more specifically the labeling on the bottles told her. Someone, or something, was fucking with her.

Gathering her courage, Rebecca opened the door and climbed out. “You can’t have my father’s fucking shotgun!” she bawled at the store. “I’m not letting your bullshit scare me away like a spineless little slug. No way!” Thrusting out her middle finger, she snapped up her arm, whacking her biceps into the palm of her right hand. “Fuck you!” she screamed. “I’m coming inside, and you can’t stop me, store!”

She stomped forward, full of bravado that would evaporate at the slightest provocation and climbed the curb, grabbed the door handle, and yanked; the door opened without protest. She continued toward the drinks cooler, chin high, chest outthrust, fists clenched at her sides. Her passage down the aisle radiated change in its wake. Items scripted in Arabic eerily reverted to English: bags of Skittles, Red Fish, Sour Patch Kids, Duracell, and Eveready battery packs; various sizes of Tide detergent, and other household items, reestablished normal aspects. Arriving at the coolers, she looked about the floor, spotted the offending bottle under the shelf, and scooped it up. The name still read Jesus in big black letters on silver. “I want to know what this means!” she demanded. “Right now!”

To her right, the labeling on every bottle in the coolers reverted quickly to English ... all but the silver-labeled bottles of Diet Coke. Startled, stepping back uncertainly, she blinked as the transformation unfolded all along the long wall, realizing it had taken place throughout the store. Within seconds, the store looked no different than any other she had entered today.

“Fuck!” she coughed. Walking awkwardly sideways, she scanned each aisle, examining everything from bags of Folgers coffee, to bottles of Firestone premixed antifreeze, all properly labeled in English. This is so wrong, she thought for the hundredth time today. This was mind control, Divine intervention, or paranormal manipulation. Manipulation of some kind, she thought distractedly. God, or the devil, she wondered.

“Why is either, testing me?” she demanded angrily.

Returning to the cooler, she retrieved the shotgun from the floor, checking the safety in case the drop had jarred it loose. Finding it still set in the locked position, she tucked it under her arm and opened the cooler door. “I don’t want this.”

Instead of returning the bottle to the shelf, she rotated each remaining silver-labeled bottle in the slide, four in total, reciting each name aloud as she revealed the black lettering: “Hannah. Rachael. Charlotte. Jesse.” All perfectly normal American names, names she could identify with. “I have friends in school with these names,” she challenged, letting the door swing closed. “Friends, you robbed me of.” She reopened the door and returned the Jesus-labeled bottle to the head of the line, followed by the one labeled Rebecca. She had no desire to drink anything from this cursed store.

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

Her weather app said that sundown occurred today at 5:20 p.m. She needed to be locked away in the house no later than 4:30 p.m., leaving a safe, if slim margin of daylight. The darkness was just too scary now. Had she known the extent of the event last night, and its ramifications, she’d have locked up the party house and stayed on Honeysuckle Lane until daylight. That’s what she told herself, anyway. Stupid is as stupid does, though.

She grabbed a pair of black plastic flashlights and a four-pack of D-cell batteries and abandoned the store, swearing never to return. She felt no remorse at leaving no remuneration on the counter this time. She would do so at the 7-11 on 5th Avenue and 19th Street in a few minutes time; compensating the owner the last of her cash for the ham and cheese sandwich, bag of Dorito’s chips and two bottles of Diet Coke. She’d adhere to convention one last time. Pointless, with no one to collect the money.

It wasn’t Rebecca’s intent to leave Huntington, but she did. Curious, she drove west on 5th Avenue to Hal Greer, turned north, proceeding two blocks to 3rd Avenue, where she turned left.

Accidents nearly derailed the trip, especially one at Hal Greer and 3rd, involving three sedans, an SUV, and ominously, a gas tanker. A silver Lexus had nose-dived beneath the truck up to its shattered windshield. Considering the extensive damage, Rebecca detected no overpowering stench of gasoline, only the odor of spilled antifreeze. More proof of intervention, she wondered.

She was forced to detour south a block at 8th Street, where two big pick-ups—Dodge Ram’s, Rebecca noted wryly--had collided head on, fishtailing into parked vehicles either side of the road. Only a wrecker would make that intersection passable again. Returning to 3rd, she bore right onto the Robert C. Byrd Bridge on-ramp a block up.

Two friends lived across the river in Chesapeake, Ohio. Former classmates, both had transferred into neighboring school districts when their parents fled Huntington over the past year. Kim’s parents spirited her away mid-semester, forcing Kim to complete 10th grade in a new school, a loner among strange kids. Val’s parents had separated July 4th, her mom hauling Val, her brother, and sister to the grandparent’s house in Symmes Creek, a subdivision split down the middle by the bridge access road. Having been to Val’s house three times since the move, she planned to head there first. Kim’s house, at the west end of Chesapeake, she’d been to only once, and wasn’t clear in her memory how to get there. She wasn’t even sure of the street address.

The bridge was four lanes wide, and though Rebecca encountered dozens of collisions and wrecked vehicles, none blocked her way. The traffic at 9:30 p.m. had been moderately light.

Midway across, she brought Teddy to a halt, climbing out for a view of the river. From her vantage point at the western railing, the whole of Chesapeake was visible, and the greater part of Huntington. Although she’d crossed the bridge numerous times, also the West Huntington Bridge a mile to the west, neither Mom nor Dad had stopped to take in the view, even when log jammed and at a dead stop. Curiously detached, Rebecca let her eyelids close and enjoyed the sun on her face, and the breeze whipping her hair.

She really ought to have worn a hat this morning, she thought; the temperature hadn’t made it out of the 30’s today and remaining healthy in the circumstances was of paramount importance. The simplest injury might turn life threatening with no one to treat it.

“This isn’t possible, you know.” Keeping her eyes closed, she breathed deeply of the cold clean air, expanding her lungs to full capacity. Battling the urge to cough, she kept the air trapped inside over a 30 second count, and then slowly released it again. She was still alone on the bridge, but at least she was calm.

Mounting the lower rail, using a crossbeam for support, she rose onto her tiptoes and craning, scanned the horizon in all directions. Nowhere could she spot smoke, not so much as a smudge in the distance. This higher power of hers, whoever or whatever it was, still had her safety in mind, then.

Once into Ohio, Rebecca looped around onto Route 7 westbound, making her first left before reaching the underpass. Turning right onto Chesapeake Symmes Creek Road, she followed it south to the intersection with Symmes Creek Road and turned right again. On Lakeside Drive she slowed at the 3rd driveway on the right, arriving at Val’s house.

A brick Colonial, the property backed on the small lake. Two vehicles, a white Subaru pick-up, and a gold Toyota Prius sat in the wide driveway. The house appeared no different than it had on her three previous visits. Still suffering a sense of dislocation, she twisted the key and let the engine die.

Why had she crossed the river? What possible hope did she have of finding Val or anyone else in this beautiful house? Of the thousands taken, only she and Val would be spared? Might dig out your change, expecting to find a rare 2-headed penny in your pocket, she thought bitterly.

Ignoring the odds, Rebecca swung open the door and climbed out. Shotgun in hand, she angled to the walk, strode up it to the front door, and knocked.

“Hello? Anyone home?” She punched the doorbell, holding it in with her thumb. The annoying chimes fruitlessly announced her presence. Banging on the screen door this time, she shouted: “Val? Are you home? Mrs. Stein? Grandma Dolan? Grandpa? It’s Rebecca Bows!” Listening carefully, she heard nobody hurrying to greet her.

She circled the house, stopping for a minute to stand on the small dock out back. Grandpa had a sturdy plastic chair at the rail, awaiting spring weather to fish. On two of her three visits, Grandpa had spent a good portion of each Saturday afternoon on this dock, lounging in the chair, line cast over the rail into the water. Sometimes he caught fish, sometimes he didn’t.

Rebecca detested fish, even McDonald’s Fillet-of-Fish. The same applied to almost all seafood, the exception being lobster tail and snow-crab legs. Envisioning the Red Lobster on 10th Street made her stomach rumble hungrily. “Fuck,” she muttered, laughing.

Banging on the rear door, and the side patio door garnered no more response than the doorbell. She momentarily considered using the butt of the Remington to smash out the patio door, but that was vandalism of the worst sort. In addition, leaving the Dolan’s house wide open to the elements and local wildlife was inexcusable. She couldn’t run down to Home Depot for a sheet of plywood, could she? Frustrated, she returned to Teddy and rested against the fender. It was 4:20 p.m., officially sunset. She had only minutes of daylight remaining. So much for being safely at home, with the alarm set, she thought.

“Teddy, what am I supposed to do?” In all this craziness, it wouldn’t surprise her if Teddy answered. He didn’t and checking the safety first, she propped the Remington against the passenger’s side door, securing it in place with two loops of the seatbelt. This was a much safer option than having it loose in the passenger’s footwell, she thought, which had left her nervous all afternoon.

Sleep here, she wondered, or head home. Why did I come in the first place?

Shifting Teddy into reverse, she executed a 3-point turn, and doubled back on her earlier route. Rather than turn right on Symmes Creek, however, she hung a right and followed it around to a gravel path that Val had shown her on one of the visits. Though illegal, the path allowed access onto and off the bridge on-ramp.

She avoided the bridge and turned right onto 3rd Avenue and drove west, paralleling the river. Without spotting so much as a bug crossing the road, she traversed the length of Chesapeake, reaching and driving beneath the West Huntington Bridge. She continued past Lawrence County Airpark—no crashed aircraft that she could see—and onto Sybene Curve, off which she thought Kim Moran lived. Nothing looked familiar, although passing Burlington Elementary School Rebecca thought she was close. Mom had commented on how nice and new the school looked on her one visit to Kim’s house. Spotting Kimberly Lane in the headlights, she laughed, and turned left. Kim was short for Kimberly. How had she forgotten that?

Was it the fifth house on the right, or the sixth? The two were similar looking--mirror images, really—though Rebecca recognized the distinctive bay window to the left of the front door. She eased into the driveway and parked behind a vaguely familiar silver Hyundai SUV. Beside it sat Elena’s 2010 Ford Focus. Elena was Kim’s 17-year-old sister. “Bingo,” she said softly. Per the dashboard clock, the time was 4:49 p.m.

Shifting the lever to Park, Rebecca killed the engine, but then immediately restarted it again: she needed the headlights to see.

Kim’s house was half the size of Val’s grandparent’s place over in Symmes Creek, but bigger by half than Rebecca’s crackerjack-box house. The yard was perfectly maintained, the shrubbery sparse but well-tended and laid out. The cars, both 4 years old or more, looked brand new. The finish of each shone in the beam of Rebecca’s flashlight. She knew exactly how the interior of each would be: spotless.

Rebecca cut right and followed her feet to the front stoop. Climbing the solitary step, she tentatively pressed her index finger against the doorbell button, held it one second, and withdrew her finger.

The rooms downstairs were uniform, semi-gloss white, she knew, the carpeting spotless beige, wood flooring a pale gray, and the furniture expensive and uncomfortable. Only Kim’s bedroom looked lived in.

“Hello?” she called softly. “Kim? Mrs. Moran?” She backpedaled, scanning the front windows and those upstairs, and then tiptoed to the right corner of the house, where she eyed the side yard. A white slat fence enclosed the back yard, which contained a pool and a hot tub, both diligently winter-protected, she assumed. She imagined Mrs. Moran’s expression, catching Kim’s oldest friend, skulking about, pump-shotgun in hand.

“Kim?” she inquired over the back fence. Unlike that protecting the house on Honeysuckle Lane, this gate was securely locked, the tab refusing to depress more than an 8th of an inch. She stood back, cradling the shotgun against her chest. Glancing down the street, she was surprised to see the river, the turgid water illuminated by Westmoreland in the distance.

I’m in Southport, she thought distractedly. Kim lives in Southport, not Chesapeake.

What to do now, she wondered.

She returned to Teddy, secured the Remington against the passenger’s door again, and reversed onto Kimberly Lane. She headed back toward Sybene Curve, which like most of the roads on this side of the river, seemed named by 3rd graders. Glancing back at the house, she remembered laughing about that with Kim.

“Where are you now, Kimmie?” she asked softly. “Who took you away?”

Depressed and ready to cry again, she intended to take the West Huntington Bridge back home. But the bridge was gone.

Jessica 6

Saturday, December 13, 2014, 3:18 p.m. Armed with the key, Jessica unlocked and opened Robin’s front door. Having it travel the expected 2” allowed by the security chain, she ground her teeth and yelled: “Robin? Are you there? Please come and let me in!”

In control of her language, if not her anxiety and fear, she waited, eye on the opening, hand tight on the doorknob. Her entire right side ached, ankle to throbbing shoulder, aggravated by her recent escape from the OTB. Hearing nothing suggestive of movement, she called: “Mrs. McCallan? Robin! Come unlock the door, please! I don’t want to stand out here all day!” I also don’t want to test the chain with a broken shoulder, she thought sourly.

Arriving three minutes ago, she’d parked alongside Mrs. McCallun’s Acura Integra. Robin had plans of her own last night, but the engaged security chain suggested that she was home when the event occurred. Whatever the event was. Since leaving the OTB, she’d encountered no other moving vehicles--movement of any kind, for that matter, other than caused by the blowing wind. Nottingham Green looked equally lifeless.

“Robin?” She pounded the metal door with her balled fist. “Open the door, Robin! I know you’re here! The chain’s set!”

The gates at North Maywill Street had also been immobilized by a chain, in this case, heavy-link steel, secured by a bulky Master padlock. Limping to the entrance, Jessica had lifted and inspected the device, looking impervious to anything short of a bazooka round.

“Great,” she muttered, looking around.

The chain-link fence, 10’ tall and erected in 20’ long sections, enclosed the entire property. “Am I supposed to climb over?” she wondered. Rubbing her right wrist (also tender, whether from the fall earlier or enraged trashing inside the police station, she didn’t know), Jessica discounted any climbing option. While unprotected at the top by coiled or strung razor wire, the fencing nonetheless ended in protruding barbs, canted at 45-degree angles, exceedingly sharp- and nasty-looking. She’d never been an adept climber anyway and wouldn’t risk a fall onto hard pavement or curbing. Only in a few places, mostly inaccessible near the building, did fencing cross over grass. “Great,” she muttered again.

The fencing was impermanent, and removable. Walking alongside, Jessica noted with interest that nowhere other than at the gates, had installers anchored the fencing directly to the pavement. All along North Maywill, across the parking lot and bordering the Ford dealership, the dozens of adjoining sections were mounted insecurely into cinderblocks at the bottom. Stopping at a block midway along the backstretch, she tapped it with the toe of her sneaker. It remained stationary at first, but then, using her good left foot and both hands gripping the metal fencing, and shoving hard as she could, she forced the block grudgingly outward 2”.

“OK!” she applauded. “I can work with that! I think.”

Standing back, she gazed calculatingly at the paired fence posts. The fence could theoretically be driven over if rammed hard enough at just the right point, she thought. She’d seen that occurrence more than once in action movies, hadn’t she? Movies were make-believe, though; in no scenario could Jessica imagine running Mom’s Jeep, the only vehicle remaining in the post-transformation parking lot, into the fencing. She suspected it would defeat any attempt to crash straight through with anything smaller than a tank. She hadn’t a death wish.

The fence sections were bolted together using heavy-gage steel plates at three locations vertically. Short of a full set of Craftsman wrenches—or an oxy/acetylene-cutting torch—that option was out, too. She was stuck.

Turning, Jessica gazed at the OTB. The doors were certainly locked, and possibly chained together like the blasted gate; however, no window on the ground floor was boarded over and glass was easily shattered, as she’d shown earlier. Might she discover an acetylene torch, or tools inside? Could she light and operate a torch without blowing herself into a million smoldering pieces? Laughing, she returned to the gate.

A 12” gap existed between the bottom of the gate and the driveway where it crossed the curb; she could wiggle through, she thought, and pull the duffel bag and shotgun through behind her. The duffel was thinner than she was, after all. She looked back at Mom’s Jeep, biting her lip.

The gold Mitsubishi with the pair of purses and deserted cell phone on the driver’s seat was a mere two blocks away. It was locked, but a rock through a rear window would remedy that situation quickly enough. “No,” she muttered stubbornly. “I’m not leaving Mom’s Jeep.”

Balling her fists, and taking a deep breath, she hollered: “Whoever, or whatever you are doing this--” She jabbed a finger at the run of fence 20’ beyond the parked Jeep. “--that fence doesn’t belong there!”

Limping purposely toward the Jeep, she veered right, toward the OTB’s rear wall. About midway between the two, she glanced judgingly around, advanced a few steps more, then backtracked two, and rechecked her position. “The fence was right here, you!”

Marking the location with a swipe of her foot, she continued. “You moved it there, to enclose Mom’s Cherokee, which wasn’t here before! Before it was a police station, I mean.” She crossed her arms deliberately. “Would you please move the fence back to where it was before so I can get out of here and go home? Please? Hello?”

The plea resulted in no magical repositioning of the fence, but the requested action gave Jessica an idea. If crashing through was essentially out of the question; what about dragging the fence inward until it buckled and broke apart? Was that possible, even in concept? Worth the risk? She loathed making her situation worse. And what to use as a tow chain?

Clicking the remote’s release button, she raised the hatchback and inspected Mom’s back deck. The space bore her signature neatness (Mom vacuumed the back deck along with the rest of the vehicle at the car wash), containing the spare tire, scissors-jack, a pouch of tools, and nothing else. No magical chain.

“Come on,” she muttered. “Think, Jessica. Use that lump of coal God gave you for a change.”

In addition to the duffel bag and shotgun, what did she have? Leaving the hatch open, she checked inside the car, including under the passenger and driver’s seats, inside the console, the nearly empty glove box, and finally, beneath the hood. “God on a motorcycle, Mom,” she muttered, eying the spotless engine compartment. “When did you have that done?”

Her options, short of breaking and entering the shuttered OTB had narrowed to one: abandon Mom’s car. Discounting that it belonged to Mom; she’d grown much attached to the shiny white vehicle.

She closed and tapped the hood. “If I had to—” She staggered back, wincing with the stab of pain in her over-taxed knee. “Fuck!” she gasped.

While ogling the engine compartment she’d missed the fence relocating to a position closer to the building. She swung her gaze about the empty parking lot in wonder. Someone, or something, had granted her wish.

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

Stepping back from the door, she rubbed her shoulder and sighed. Go hunt up a coat hanger and a pair of rubber bands, she thought cynically. That would do the trick. “I have a better idea,” she muttered.

She reached down, snagged the propped shotgun by the barrel, and tested the weight. “I won’t shoot you,” she promised the offending security chain, “but I don’t expect my greater power to help as she did with the fence. I’m pretty sure I’m on my own with this one. Pretty sure,” she added, inserting the barrel between jamb and door.

She disliked using the barrel, but the opening was visibly narrower than the wooden stock. She hadn’t the patience to hunt up a better jimmy instrument, discounting the lug wrench in Mom’s trunk as inappropriate to the job. A pipe would do, but where to find one short of driving to the Home Depot in Morristown? “I’ll be careful,” she promised. “Isn’t that right, Jessica?”

She checked the safety one last time, nodded, and then slid the barrel through as far as the stock allowed, and levered experimentally left and right. Instinct guiding her actions, she gently forced the stock sideways toward the door, gradually increasing pressure against the jamb. With a startling and unexpected pop, the chain gave way, letting the door swing inward. Caught by surprise, she staggered forward a step and laughed. “So much for trusting your kind with my safety, Mr. Cheepo-Chain!”