Family Page 12

But then, the noise again, a bumping sound.

  This time, from the back of the house, near the kitchen.

  Still no reason to wake anybody, he thought.

  But he best walk back there and check that door, look out those windows.

  Simon turned away from the living room windows and started walking back.

  He walked to the door so slowly, his gun pointed down, safety on.

  Just like Dad taught me.

  To the back door. Small curtains on either side of the window, blackness in the back.

  To what? A backyard? Was there a swing set? Or maybe a sandbox? Or maybe the people here had no kids. Maybe just a lawn, now frozen hard. A barbecue that would have become useless.

  Lots of useless things in this world.

  He expected to hear the sound again, so he stopped, just feet from the window.

  He licked his lips.

  He had been scared plenty of times. Back at the inn. The night they escaped the hospital.

  The bear.

  But that was all in the past. This was now, and he could feel something that in some ways was worse than any of that.

  The… not knowing.

  Was there anything there? Something else to be scared of? Or was it just a sound in the night?

  With his free hand he rubbed his eyes.

  I’m so tired too, he told himself.

  That might have something to do with it.

  He waited, and was going to walk back to the living room, hoping that time would race to the moment when he could finally wake up his mom and crawl back in bed.

  But—the thought—he really should look.

  Better check.

  And so he bent close to the door’s windows, not seeing much better now with his face close to the glass.

  No, just more inky blackness out there.

  He saw nothing else.

  There’s nothing there, he told himself.

  And he turned away from the door, ready to walk quickly back to the living room.

  To his action figures suspended on cliffs, ready to swim rivers made by a rug, all the lights on, nice and bright.

  He turned his back on the door.

  He didn’t even take a step before he heard the crash—a great shattering of glass and wood as something burst through the door’s windows behind him.

  At the same moment, he began raising his gun.

  Safety’s on, he thought. Have to get the safety off.

  But all that was too slow, his arm much too slow for what had broken through the windows and then—so fast—he felt a hand…

  Had to be a hand.

  …close, tight on his neck, and squeezing.

  Air stopped immediately—he had been in mid-gasp, ready to yell even as he tried to raise the gun.

  Now he couldn’t breathe. And he made a mistake.

  He brought his hand up to try to unwrap those fingers that seemed so strong, so tight on his neck, his own hand feeling so small.

  Clawed at that grasping hand.

  But then his arm was grabbed, yanking him back to the door. He felt some jagged glass cut into the back of his head.

  The more he struggled, the tighter he felt held.

  And with his right arm pinned, there was no way he could get the safety off, though he tried to flip it with his thumb even as he writhed—a prisoner.

  Seconds. That’s all the time it took. The kitchen seemed to glow as if on fire. Everything wavering, blurry as he clawed against those hands that held him.

  He knew what they belonged to.

  A Can Head.

  And once he stopped struggling…

  Once he was dead.

  The Can Head would find a way in. Would eat him.

  Or maybe it would somehow sense that there were other people here, and while they slept, creep up to his mother, Kate…

  Simon could turn his head back a bit, and just make out a dirt-encrusted face. Whatever it had eaten in the past, a victim’s blood, thick and dark, covering that face like paint.

  The glow of the kitchen—now a fire.

  And as much as he had felt the need to struggle, now he felt like he should stop.

  Had to stop.

  Had to just let it end.

  With his eyes on the thing’s head, seeing those mad eyes wide with hunger.

  Cartoon eyes. Bulging.

  So eager.

  Then, he saw something else.

  Two hands. Massive hands, dark hands catching the kitchen light. And those hands landed on either side of the Can Head’s head.

  The bulging eyes now aware of something.

  Simon heard his gun fall to the floor.

  Suddenly too heavy to hold up.

  And then—so fast—those black hands gave the head a sharp twist.

  Like the cap coming off a ketchup bottle.

  Left, and then fast, to the right again.

  And immediately—like something unlocking—the hand wrapped tight around Simon’s neck sprang free.

  His right arm was also released as the Can Head’s other claw hand let that slip away as well.

  Until Simon could stagger away from the door, gulping the air, coughing, even spitting on the floor.

  Bent over.

  And when that coughing had ended, when he finally stood up straight again, he saw a different face at the door’s smashed window.

  The face, now lit by kitchen light: dark, round, like a black moon. The eyes small, squinting as if they had just been in the dark for a long time.

  And the man at the window spoke.

  “You… okay?”

  And Simon nodded, and for a moment did nothing but look at the man, the big round face, the small smile that appeared after Simon nodded.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ben

  Christie woke up.

  She had that moment, wondering—Where am I, where am I sleeping?—before she remembered.

  Then the pieces of the day came flying back, like sticky notes that had blown away and needed to be recovered.

  Remembering… finding the food. Finding this house. The plan to take shifts, sleeping, watching.

  And in the dark room—under these covers that belonged to some unknown people, pulled tight, keeping her warm in the chilly house—she heard voices.

  First Simon’s voice.

  Then a deep voice. A laugh. The words indistinct.

  But then, now fully awake, remembering how she got to this bed, she was also aware that someone was down there with Simon.

  She reached down beside her bed and felt the wooden stock of her gun.

  The thought incomprehensible, My son down there, talking to someone.

  She took care getting out of bed. Old houses, and the floorboards, would creak. And the room was dark. She’d have to navigate an unfamiliar space. That is, unless she put the light on.

  Won’t do that, she thought.

  No.

  Standing up, her feet cold despite the socks, picking up the gun carefully, feeling so heavy when she had simply been lying in bed, just holding the covers tight.

  The sounds again. Simon’s voice, then the other voice, so deep.

  She started to the door, open enough that its outline caught some of the light from below.

  A step.

  She flipped the rifle’s safety off. The click sounding so loud in the small bedroom.

  And she kept walking to the stairs leading down.

  The voices came from the kitchen, and now Christie could catch a few words.

  Simon: “But what did you do then?”

  Then a deep laugh—so deep—and: “I didn’t know what to do, now with everyone gone.”

  Christie could feel her heart racing. On one hand she felt glad that it sounded like Simon was all right.

  On the other, who the hell was he talking to? Why would he let someone into this house?

  Without asking me.

  She walked past the living room and then, slowly, into the kitchen, not raising her rifle but keepin
g it at a forty-five-degree angle.

  Ready.

  And she saw Simon and someone else sitting at the small kitchen table.

  The stranger saw her first.

  A giant of a man, six-feet-plus tall, but also wide. His head bald, an oval face.

  He had been smiling, talking—but his dark face froze when he saw her.

  And Simon spun around fast.

  “Mom?” he said.

  “Simon,” she said quietly, keeping her voice as steady as she could. “Simon, what’s going on?”

  Then she looked at the back door. Dish towels jammed into the door’s broken windows, and on the floor, a pile of shattered glass, swept to a corner of the kitchen.

  “Mom,” Simon said. “This is Ben.”

  Christie nodded.

  Right, Ben.

  As if that made perfect sense that Simon would be sitting here, chatting with someone.

  She saw that Simon’s gun sat on the table, right there, certainly close enough that this Ben could reach over and grab it.

  Then the man—his face still frozen, apparently sensing Christie’s alarm—started to stand up.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said slowly. “I didn’t mean—”

  But Simon interrupted him.

  Simon’s voice now strong. “Mom, he saved my life.”

  Christie’s eyes went from her son, to Ben, and back again.

  The man remained standing there.

  “Maybe I should go. Maybe leave…” he went on.

  He started to turn, and now Simon stood up. “Mom! He saved my life.”

  And Christie had the thought, When does all this become too much for me?

  And not for the first time, she hated—in some strange way—how her husband left all this for her to deal with.

  She would have given anything for Jack to be here. Now.

  To be in charge.

  Instead, she took more steps toward the table.

  It was Simon who noticed first. Christie had been so scared.

  “Mom, you’re not using your cane.”

  Had she been that scared?

  Christie nodded, moving to a chair, a plain wooden-back chair that matched the simple wooden kitchen table pressed tight against the wall.

  “Sit down,” she said. To Simon, to Ben.

  And she took that chair, taking a breath.

  A little after 3 a.m. She had gotten a good five hours sleep.

  And that would be all for this night, as she asked, “What happened?”

  Simon had arched his neck up, showing a visible purple mark.

  The place where the Can Head had grabbed him.

  Ben sat silently as Simon breathlessly finished the tale: how Ben appeared, and just twisted the Can Head’s head one way, then the other, and it was all over.

  “So… I asked him in. I gave him—”

  Simon pointed to a can on the counter by the sink. French string beans.

  “He was hungry.”

  Ben nodded in confirmation of that fact, and Christie had the realization that Ben… had some issues.

  So big, massively strong, and yet so quiet here, like a school child.

  Finally she looked up to him.

  “Ben, thank you for saving Simon.”

  The words sounding absurd.

  But not absurd at all in this world.

  She reached out and covered Simon’s hand. She knew that with all that her kids had to deal with, she had to be as strong a possible. There was no room for weakness.

  Ben nodded. “That’s okay, Mrs.—”

  “Christie,” she said, with a smile.

  He smiled at that. “I usually don’t see too many of them around. Those Can Heads. When all the people left, those things… it seemed they left too.”

  Christie looked over at Simon who, with a glance, told her that he understood that Ben—what was the word?

  Struggled?

  “Brave of you to come, and help…”

  He shook his head. “Normally, I’d have gone in the other direction. Fast as I could. Fighting even one of them can be hard. But… but I saw that it had something… someone it was holding. Couldn’t walk away then.”

  His head bobbed up and down, as if that was a universal truth.

  But Christie guessed many a normal person would have done just that, move as fast away as possible in the other direction.

  “So, Ben, what happened here, in this town? Why are you still here?”

  Ben’s face scrunched up, the question making him think and remember.

  “You mean to all the people? They went to other places.”

  Christie nodded, then quickly to Simon, “Simon, you want to grab some more sleep?”

  But her son shook his head.

  “I want to hear too.”

  Of course, she thought.

  So much to know, to understand—and Simon needed to have it all.

  “Okay,” Ben said quietly his long pause resolved, his answer ready.

  “I used to work… in the Stop & Shop, the big food store on the highway? A big place,” he went on, explaining.

  “I know,” Christie smiled. “A really big store.”

  “I got all the carts. The ones people just leave after they load their cars, and I push them back to the store.”

  Another pause. She and Simon said nothing.

  “I liked my job. The people… they were nice to me. The customers, well some just in a hurry. But a lot would smile. Say, ‘How you doin’, Ben?”

  Then, repeating it, “I liked it.”

  More silence.

  “Then everything changed.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The Road Ahead

  Christie thought it was amazing to see the world of the Can Heads through the eyes of this man who corralled shopping carts for a living.

  His storytelling slow, the man still wrestling with how the world changed.

  “Then the store… it would only open certain hours. And they had guards, with guns, and a big fence. Fences everywhere! But in the small house I stayed in, it seemed quiet.”

  Christie could imagine this hamlet nestled away, with locals on guard, protected for a while from the mayhem that surrounded the cities.

  “But then people started disappearing—they just disappeared—and then other people came! They started fighting each other, regular people, but fighting each other. I didn’t understand that. They weren’t Can Heads… didn’t look like Can Heads.”

  He paused. Then, “And they took people…”

  He shook his head then, catching his mistake. “No, not people. The kids. They took kids, Mrs.… Christie.”

  She nodded.

  And what Christie hoped had been an isolated phenomenon, what they had seen at that camp, in the mountains, was not.

  We don’t just have Can Heads to worry about now.

  Christie stood up, and turned to Simon.

  “You can get a few hours’ sleep before we get going—I’m on watch now.”

  At the same time Ben stood up, nodding.

  “And I… I better go. Things can get strange out here… when night ends, and day comes.”

  But she saw Simon didn’t move.

  He only said, “Mom.”

  And she knew what he was thinking.

  We can’t just let this guy go out there as if nothing happened.

  Not after what he did.

  But then, how much food did they have? Could they really—what?—bring him with them?

  Ben was already moving to the front door.

  And again Simon hadn’t moved and only repeated, “Mom.”

  And she nodded.

  There were times, even these days, when one simply had to do the right thing.

  “Ben—”

  The man stopped. He held his old parka, torn in spots, in his right hand. In his left, a deep maroon beanie.

  Amazing that he had been able to live on his own.

  “Ben, how about you come with us?”

&nbs
p; At first, the only expression on the man’s face was surprise… or maybe confusion.

  “What? I don’t—”

  Christie walked to him, Simon at her heels.

  “We’re going someplace… Michigan. It’s another state. Still days from here. Supposedly people living there. Going to try to grow food, to protect themselves.”

  Ben nodded. Christie was not at all sure he understood what she was saying.

  “You should come with us. There’s nothing for you here.”

  Ben was silent. She didn’t know if the offer was simply overwhelming… or if Ben was just trying to understand what it meant.

  A safe place. Food to be grown.

  Michigan.

  Did that mean anything to him?

  Then Christie saw him gulp.

  “What do you say, Ben?”

  Simon went to him.

  “You gotta come with us.”

  The man looked down at her son.

  And she spotted a glistening in his eyes.

  All the months he had spent out here, alone, surviving somehow. Now being invited to join her family.

  Even though Christie couldn’t be sure how all this would turn out.

  Talk about one day at a time.

  Again, “What do you say, Ben?”

  And he nodded. Then, simply, “I’d like that.”

  Then his face brightened, the decision made, offer accepted. “And I have some food I found. I can bring that! Even pretzels!” he said, his grin widening.

  “Great,” Christie said. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit, then? We’ll leave in the morning. Get some rest.”

  She hefted the gun. “I’ll be watching out for everyone.”

  And despite the fact the man had saved her son, Christie realized that they knew nothing about him, save what he said about his life here.

  And now… he was with them.

  Still, despite a flicker of concern, it seemed like the right decision.

  “Okay,” Ben said, following her command.

  Simon looked up and smiled.

  “I’ll go get some sleep too,” Simon said heading to the stairs.

  And in a few moments, Christie was alone, kitchen lights on, with a quiet house—save for what was maybe the loudest snore she ever heard rumbling from the living room.

  *

  Christie had waited an additional hour after dawn. Bit more sleep for Kate, for them all.

  The hours she was awake had seemed interminable, watching the dark sky lighten, going so slowly as if sunrise might never arrive.