The Dark Age began fairly, suddenly. The only portent was the rain. It was a Friday and none of the forecasts had predicted the storm. I was tired, oh so tired. I had driven over 150 miles to get home after a week of mandatory training. I watched the storm outside when it began to rain. It was a sudden light downpour that only lasted about thirty minutes. It was at 1942 when the wind kicked up, it didn’t howl or anything but I watched the trees bend and then the lights went out. It would be seven day and 11 bodies before they came back on. The world went to hell in less than a second. The acute moral cloud everyone uses to cover themselves instantly dissipated, of course at the time I didn’t know that. I just knew I wasn’t going to be able to sleep well.

The next day, I began to realize how bad things were. The water went dead after my morning shower and in the heat they found the first bodies (I assume the smell helped), a family up on the hill. Apparently someone had taken advantage of the storm damage and used it for his or her ends. The town hadn’t had a murder in almost fifty years and there were 3. Johnsons Three, I didn’t know them personally. I am not a sociable man. I know maybe 10 people in the entire town in a more than say hey as you pass sort of way.

The police surrounded the house, and we all watched. There wasn’t a lot else to do. It was Saturday there wasn’t water or power for miles. Those of us who couldn’t leave pretty much had to watch. They surrounded the house, there were several hours of flashes through the windows, and one of the cops came out and puked on the patio of the house. It was an oddly colored orange house, someone from the crowd behind me muttered about the next owners repainting it. I felt a bit of disgust at my fellow man and then they led out the three bags. I overheard one of the officer’s tell a neighbor it was a robbery, bottled water and a few guns. You never realize how much sound carries when the powers out. The world around you is dead, no televisions, stereos, or air conditioners, even the whirring hum of the transformer on the pole. When it’s all gone, every sound seems to go for miles. You could hear whispers on the next porch over.

I milled about the post office for a bit. There wasn’t any mail, but the people had gathered anyway. They were conversing, making the rumor mill spin, attempting to gain some sense of normalcy in their lives. The Johnsons and when the power was going to be restored were the primary topics. Some people said it would as late as Tuesday before the power was restored. No one questioned why we hadn’t heard any screams, though it itched at the back of my mind. I eventually got bored and returned home, intent on raiding the box of books I had hidden from myself months ago.

Those who had relatives with power left, some who could afford it went to hotels. We watched them go in lines, like army ants. I sat and read and watched a few drive around just to feel air conditioning. My car wouldn’t move unless it had to, all the gas pumps were electric after all. I carried buckets up from the river to flush the toilet. I set up a few containers to catch rain water and set up a tent outside. I had my own supply of bottled water (I carried two bottles to work with me every day after all and it was cheapest at Sams) and could get by for a while.

The second night I lay in my tent in my front yard with a dog on either sad and a battery operated fan offering the only respite from the heat. I couldn’t sleep. The heat was intense, sweltering, and the humidity was so high there was no relief. I was lying in a pool of my own sweat. Periodically lightning would flash; it was a dry pink lightning. I wished it would rain. Down the street I could hear the overbearing hum of a generator. It was amazingly loud. Eventually I fell asleep.

I snapped awake. I don’t know why I woke up, indiglo indicated it was 0300. I listened carefully something was wrong. I listened but only heard crickets and a night bird. The early morning had brought a cool, I was still soaked in sweat and less than comfortable, but the cool made it bearable. I listed, something was wrong, something was missing. Eventually I drifted back to sleep.

When I woke again it was to the dogs whining. The sun was already brutal, probably seven or eight in the morning judging by the angle. My watch confirmed it: 0742. I crawled out of the tent, my shirt plastered to my back, and stood in the yard for a moment just breathing. The air was already thick, heavy with moisture that promised no relief. It would be a scorcher today. I could feel it in my bones.

Inside the house it was marginally cooler, but only because the sun hadn’t penetrated every room yet. I knew by noon it would be an oven. I had a routine now, two days in. I brushed my teeth with bottled water, spitting into a bucket I’d keep for the garden later. Waste nothing. I’d learned that in the service, though I’d never expected to use it in my own home in the middle of civilization. I ran a wet cloth over my face and under my arms, rationing the water I’d collected from the rain. The dogs got their breakfast, dry kibble that they eyed with disappointment. They were used to having it mixed with water. Not today.

I was eating a granola bar on the front porch, watching the street come alive with the slow shuffle of people who had nowhere to go and nothing to do, when I heard the sirens. Not many, maybe two cars, but in the silence they carried like air raid warnings. They were heading up the hill, toward the nicer houses, the ones with the views and the privacy. The Johnsons lived up there. I’d seen the house once or twice, driving past. Big place, lots of windows.

I shouldn’t have been curious. I’m not a curious man by nature. I prefer my own company, my own thoughts. But there was something about the silence, the way sound carried now, that made everything feel immediate and important. I found myself walking up the hill with maybe a dozen other people, all of us drawn like moths to something we probably shouldn’t see.

The orange house stood out even more in the daylight. It was a garish color, somewhere between pumpkin and rust, and it looked worse with the police tape already going up around the perimeter. There were three cruisers now, and an unmarked sedan that I recognized as belonging to the county. The crowd gathered at a respectful distance, maybe fifty yards back, but close enough to see.

That’s when I saw him. Detective Carver. I’d worked with him before, years ago, when I was doing psych evaluations and expert testimony for the county. He was older now, grayer, but he had the same tired eyes and the same way of holding his shoulders like he was carrying something heavy. He was talking to a uniformed officer near one of the cruisers, gesturing toward the house.

I don’t know what made me walk over. Maybe it was the familiarity, or maybe it was just that I needed to know. The not knowing was worse than the knowing, sometimes.

“Carver,” I called out as I approached.

He turned, squinting in the sun, and after a moment his face registered recognition. “Jesus. Didn’t expect to see you here. You live around here now?”

“Down the hill. About half a mile.”

He nodded, glancing back at the house. “Hell of a thing to come home to.”

“What happened?”

He looked at me for a long moment, weighing something. Then he sighed. “You still doing the psych work?”

“Not actively. I consult sometimes.”

“Well.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “This one’s going to need consulting. Come on.”

He led me closer to the house, past the tape, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd behind us. One of the younger officers started to protest but Carver waved him off. “He’s with me.”

We stopped at the edge of the driveway. I could see through the front window now, see the overturned furniture, the dark stains on the carpet. Carver pulled out a notebook, flipped through it.

“Family of three. Robert Johnson, forty-six. Wife Linda, forty-three. Daughter Emma, nineteen, home from college for the summer. Someone came in during the storm, probably right after the power went out. Blunt force trauma, all three of them. Quick, efficient. Took bottled water, some canned goods, two handguns from a safe in the bedroom.”

“The safe was open?”

“Forced. Crowbar, looks like. But here’s the thing.” He looked at me. “No signs of struggle. I mean, there’s the mess you can see, but no defensive wounds. Nothing under the fingernails. It’s like they didn’t fight back.”

I thought about that. “Maybe they didn’t have time.”

“Maybe. But three people? And the daughter was an athlete. Volleyball, I think. She should have put up something.”

“You think they knew the person?”

“I think they might have let them in. Or thought they were letting in someone they could trust.” He closed the notebook. “Power goes out, someone knocks on the door, says they need help or they’re checking on people. You open the door.”

It made sense. It made too much sense. I looked back at the crowd, at the faces I half-recognized, people I’d seen at the grocery store or the gas station but never really knew. Any one of them could have done it. All of them could have done it.

“You got any leads?”

Carver shook his head. “Not yet. We’re canvassing, but nobody heard anything. Storm was too loud, and then everyone was dealing with their own problems. We didn’t even know about it until yesterday afternoon when a neighbor came by to check on them. Smell gave it away.”

I nodded. In this heat, it wouldn’t take long.

“You hear anything Friday night? See anything?”

“No. I was exhausted. Slept through most of it.”

He handed me a card, even though we both knew I still had his number somewhere. “You think of anything, you call me. And keep your doors locked. Even without power, lock them.”

I took the card, slipped it into my pocket. “You think there’ll be more?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at the house, at the orange paint that would probably never be painted over now, and then at the crowd. “I think people get desperate fast. Faster than anyone wants to admit. And I think seven days is a long time to be without power.”

I walked back down the hill slowly, thinking about what he’d said. The crowd had grown larger, more people coming out to see what the commotion was about. I recognized a few faces. Mrs. Chen from three houses down, always impeccably dressed even now in the heat. The Kowalski brothers, twins who worked construction. A younger woman I’d seen jogging past my house in the mornings, though I didn’t know her name.

She was standing by herself, arms crossed, watching the police work. I found myself walking over to her.

“Hell of a thing,” I said.

She glanced at me, nodded. “Did you know them?”

“No. You?”

“Not really. Saw them at the store sometimes. They seemed nice.” She paused. “I’m Sarah, by the way. I live in the blue house on Maple.”

“I know the one. I’m down on Elm.”

We stood there in silence for a moment, watching. It was strange, talking to someone I’d never spoken to before, but the circumstances made it feel natural. Normal, even.

“You think the power’s really going to be out until Tuesday?” she asked.

“Maybe longer. Depends on how bad the damage is.”

“I’ve got maybe three days of food left. After that...” She trailed off.

“There’s the river. For water, I mean. You can boil it if you have a camp stove.”

“I don’t.”

I thought about that. About the Johnsons and their bottled water and their guns. About how fast things could fall apart. “I’ve got one. If you need it.”

She looked at me, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, we’re neighbors. Sort of.”

She smiled, just a little. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”

By the time I made it back to my house, the sun was high and merciless. The thermometer on my porch read ninety-four degrees, and it wasn’t even noon yet. I could feel the heat radiating off the pavement, shimmering in waves. The dogs were panting in the shade under the porch, too hot to even lift their heads.

I spent the afternoon talking to more neighbors than I’d spoken to in the entire year I’d lived here. Mrs. Chen needed help moving her generator to the backyard. The Kowalski brothers were organizing a group to clear fallen trees from the main road. Everyone had a story, a need, a fear they were trying not to voice. And everyone was talking about the Johnsons.

By evening, the temperature had climbed to ninety-eight degrees. I sat on my porch with a warm beer from the cooler, watching the sun set in a sky that was too clear, too empty of clouds. No rain coming. No relief.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about what Carver had said. Seven days was a long time. And we were only on day two.

I thought about the sound I’d heard at 0300, or rather, the sound I hadn’t heard. The generator down the street had gone silent. I’d noticed it in my sleep, the absence of it. I wondered if they’d run out of gas, or if something else had happened.

I wondered how many more bodies there would be before the lights came back on.

Day 3 - Sunday

I didn’t sleep well. The heat was worse somehow, like the earth itself was radiating back everything the sun had poured into it during the day. I lay in the tent with both dogs panting beside me, the battery fan doing nothing but pushing hot air from one side of my face to the other. Around 0200, I gave up and sat on the porch steps with a bottle of water that was nearly body temperature.

The street was dark. Completely dark in a way that city people never experience. No streetlights, no porch lights, no glow from windows. Just the occasional firefly and the stars overhead, more of them than I’d seen in years. It would have been beautiful if it wasn’t so unsettling.

The generator down the street was still silent. I’d been listening for it without realizing I was listening for it. Its absence felt like a gap in the world.

I must have dozed off on the steps because I woke to someone shouting. The sky was that pale gray of early morning, maybe 0530 or 0600. The shouting was coming from the direction of Maple Street, two blocks over. I stood up, my back protesting, and watched as people began emerging from their houses like prairie dogs checking for predators.

I walked toward the commotion. Others were doing the same, a slow migration of tired, sweaty people in rumpled clothes. We found the source at the corner of Maple and Third: a man in his sixties standing in the middle of the street in boxer shorts and an undershirt, his face red and wet with tears.