The Night Parade (15 page)

H
e awoke in the morning to find Ellie gone.

He sat up sharply, only to have a shock wave of burning pain radiate across the right side of his neck. The top flap of Ellie's sleeping bag was flipped over. Her sneakers were gone.

“Ellie?” His voice echoed through the empty store. “Eleanor?”

He got up and went to the restroom door. It was closed. He knocked but Ellie did not answer. He opened the door and found the restroom empty.

At the front of the store, the door was still closed and locked. The magazine cover was still taped over the hole in the glass and it didn't appear as if the Night Parade of lighters and cans of Mace had been disturbed. No one had come into the store and no one had gone out.

“Eleanor!”

The only response was from the wind chimes above his head; they tinkled as they swayed in a soft breeze.

He thought simultaneously of the back door and the Glock wrapped up in his jeans, stuffed beneath his sleeping bag. He went quickly to their little campsite, fumbled the gun out onto the sleeping bag, then hastily climbed into his jeans. He headed straight to the back of the store toward the door. It was a fire exit, marked as such by a sign posted close to the ceiling, and it was propped open. A cone of daylight spilled across the scuffed linoleum floor.

David winced as he stepped outside. Aside from the Oldsmobile and a few trash cans strewn about, the parking lot was just as deserted as it had been the night before. Across the street, the storefronts looked empty. There was no movement anywhere. The only sounds came from the cicadas in the trees, emitting their mechanical buzzing.

Was this how the world was to end? Not with a bang and not even with a whimper, but with the slow deterioration of everything good and beautiful and kind? With a sky absent of birds, a world overrun by insects, of droning cicadas and kaiju spiders, and a daughter who simply vanished into thin air while he slept through a matinee of chilling nightmares?

He was losing it; that much was suddenly clear.
Get a grip, get a grip.
He realized that if he hadn't had Ellie to take care of, he might have done something terrible to himself long ago. He would have done it right after Kathy had died.

He hopped down the steps and crossed the parking lot to the sidewalk. He held the gun out in front of him, but it suddenly seemed impossibly cumbersome, as if it had grown heavier while he slept. He paused in the middle of the side street, flanked on both sides by crumbling brick buildings, and considered shouting his daughter's name. But before he could make up his mind, he caught movement on the other side of the main street—a minute shift beneath the lee of a storefront awning.

He hurried across the street, his jog turning into a full sprint as he recognized Ellie's slight form beneath the awning. She had her back to him and was peering into the darkened windows of a defunct bistro, hands bracketing her eyes.

“Ellie,” he said, rushing up to her and grabbing her by the wrist.

The girl spun around to face him . . . and for a moment, her face wasn't hers, it wasn't even a face at all, but a blank, featureless bulb of flesh, like unmolded putty. But then she was staring at him, perfectly normal, except for the terror in her eyes. His panic had distorted reality.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he said.

“I thought I saw someone,” she said, tugging her wrist free of his grip. Her gaze focused on the gun, which he quickly tucked into the rear waistband of his jeans.

“There's no one here,” he told her. “Let's get back inside.”

“No.” She peered beyond him for a moment before meeting his eyes. “I saw someone. A man.”

David scanned the block. Discarded newspapers waved in the cool breeze, and a few bits of trash bounded along the sidewalk. Other than that, the world was silent and motionless.

“All the more reason to get back inside,” he said in the end, and reached out for Ellie's wrist again.

“Shit,” Ellie said. She took a step back from him. Yet her eyes were no longer on him; they had refocused on something just over David's shoulder.

David spun around to see a man quickly crossing the street. He was maybe twenty yards away and closing fast. He held a shotgun in both hands, the barrel pointed at David's chest.

“Daddy,” Ellie moaned.

“Shhh,” he told her, and instinctively stepped in front of her. He raised both hands. “It's okay,” he yelled to the approaching man; it was the first thing that came to his mind, and he hated the terrified, pleading quality of his voice. “We're not doing anything.”

“You've got a gun,” the man said. It was not a question. The man stopped less than five yards away, wedging himself between two parked cars. The barrel of the shotgun shook. David couldn't see the man's face behind it.

“Yes. For protection. Same as you.”

“Put your hands on your head and turn around.”

“Please, man. I've got my kid here. What do you want?”

“For you to put your hands on your head and turn around.” The barrel of the shotgun lowered the slightest bit, but it was enough for David to make out a portion of the man's face. He had a gingery beard and a sunburned face. His eyes were pale blue and intense. The barrel came back up again as the man said, “Do what I say and I won't shoot you. I'm just going to take your gun for my own protection.”

David placed his hands atop his head, then turned around. He looked down at Ellie, who looked more curious now than frightened. Her gaze volleyed between David and the man with the shotgun, finally settling on the shotgun man because, presumably, he was more interesting.

“You run if I tell you,” David whispered to her.

Ellie nodded but did not take her eyes from the man with the gun.

David heard the man's footsteps approach. He saw the guy's shadow ahead of him on the sidewalk, which meant he saw when the gun was lowered, but he didn't feel right about turning on the guy and trying to fight. He doubted he'd be quick enough to knock the shotgun from his hands.

The Glock was yanked from his waistband. A second later, one of the man's hands began patting around his waist, his thighs, both his ankles.

“I've got no other weapons,” he assured the man.

“Okay,” the man said. “You can turn around.”

David did. Slowly. He still held his hands atop his head, but when Ellie came up beside him, he reached down and stopped her with a hand across her chest.

“It's all right,” said the man. “You can put your hands down.”

“Can you lower your gun?”

“Shit. Sorry.” The man lowered the shotgun. He looked to be about David's age, but in better shape: Pectoral muscles pulled taut the fabric of the plain blue T-shirt he wore. His head was shaved, though David could tell by the darkened widow's peak of stubble that he had already started losing his hair. Drops of sweat glistened in the man's beard. “What's your name?”

“David. This is Eleanor. My daughter.” It was just after he said this that he realized his carelessness. Their names had been on the news. People were looking for them. If this guy made the connection, the game was over.

Ellie grabbed David's right hand. Squeezed.

“Where'd you folks come from?”

“Back East. We got a bit turned around on our way to see my brother. We didn't think . . .” He trailed off, unsure what to say.

“You didn't see the signs posted? The crosses and the what-have-you?” To David's surprise, the man laughed. It wasn't an aggressive or humorless laugh, but a good, hearty country laugh. “Jesus, boy, this place is a ghost town. Who's your brother? Maybe I know him.”

“He doesn't live around here. We're headed to Texas.” He thought up the state at the last second, reluctant to give this guy any additional information that might prove useful to the police or anyone else who might be looking for them later on.

“He's my stepuncle,” Ellie volunteered.

“Is that right?” The man smiled at her. There was genuine goodness there, David decided . . . though he'd been wrong about people in the past. “My name's Turk.” The smile fell from his lips as he looked up and down the street. “We should probably get back indoors. You folks hungry?”

“We're okay,” David said.

“Nonsense. We got food back at the house. Seriously. That little gal of yours looks about famished.”

“I'm supposed to be a boy,” Ellie said, though low enough so that David didn't think the man had understood.

“We should really get on the road,” David said.

“Just a bite,” Turk said. Smiling.

“What if I asked for my gun back and for you to just leave us alone?”

Turk's smile faltered. “Well, now, this ain't a hostage situation, Dave. Can I call you Dave?”

“Sure.”

“You're both welcome to leave. It's still a free country, last I checked. A fucked-up one at the moment, but a free one. Oops.” He covered his mouth and made bug eyes at Ellie. “Sorry for the profanity, darling.”

Ellie just stared at him.

“Couldn't give you the gun back, though,” Turk said. “Don't rightly know who you are or what you plan to do with it.”

“I plan on leaving with it. That's all.”

“Sure, sure. But, you see, we've got to protect our own. Ain't no one 'round to do it for us no more.” He nodded at the sandwich board farther down the street, the sign that said there was no longer a police presence in Goodwin.

“So, I'm never going to get my gun back?”

“We'll let Solomon make that call. It's his to make, not mine. He's runnin' the show now. In the meantime, Pauline can whip you folks up some breakfast. I'm starved myself.”

Just then, a chubby boy of about seven or eight appeared around the corner of the row of buildings at the end of the block. He wore a striped polo shirt and khaki shorts. He froze when he saw David and Ellie, his full cheeks flushed and red, his eyes squinting and piggish.

“Pop?” the kid said.

Turk turned and waved to the boy. “Get on back now, Sam. Tell Mom these nice folks will be joining us for breakfast.”

There was no acknowledgment in the boy's expression; he simply pivoted right there on his heels and took off in a labored trot in the direction he had come.

“Pancakes, bacon, and home fries,” said Turk. “Yeah, boy.” He winked at Ellie, then turned and sauntered up the block, the shotgun leaning on one broad shoulder. Before Turk turned the corner to join his son, David noticed his handgun poking up from the waistband of the man's pants.

T
urk led them three or four blocks off the main thoroughfare, where the stores and traffic lights surrendered to a grid of single-family homes. The street was quaint and lined with oaks, their branches bare this late in the season. There were many cars parked along the street and in a number of the driveways, but David did not see another living soul, with the exception of Turk's chunky son, who traipsed ahead of them, wading through drifts of dead leaves and peering back at them every once in a while. There were no lights on in any of the houses, no blue flashes from TVs in the windows. Worse than that were the red
X
's emblazoned on every single front door, like some curse had befallen this quiet suburban neighborhood. Looking at every door, David realized that was exactly what had happened—that a curse had befallen this community and all the people who'd once lived here. All the world, really.

“Newspapers said this place had been evacuated,” David said, sidling up beside Turk as they followed his son through a yard.

“Yep.”

“Is there anyone else here besides your family?”

Turk offered him a sidelong glance. “Absolutely,” Turk said. “Some just ain't as friendly as me an' my family. Best to keep that in mind.”

They followed Turk's boy onto the front lawn of a quaint bungalow with lime-colored siding and an American flag hanging from the porch. The name on the mailbox read
POWELL
. There was a red
X
on the front door here, too, but Turk didn't bother mentioning it as he led them up the porch, opened the door, and waved both David and Ellie inside.

David took Ellie's hand and entered the house with some trepidation. The first thing that struck him was the smell of food cooking—bacon, toast, coffee—and he felt his stomach flip; he hadn't realized just how hungry he'd been until that moment. The smell of the food set him somewhat at ease, though he did not let go of Ellie's hand. When he glanced down at her, he saw her licking her lips. He laughed and ran a hand through her hair.

“Baby,” Turk called down the hallway. “We got company. Break out the good china.” Then he turned and winked at David, as if he'd just gotten off a good joke.

“I'm Sam,” said Turk's boy. He'd inched closer to Ellie as they stood in the foyer, and now it looked like he might actually reach out and grasp her hand.

“I'm Ellie.”

“Like the letters?
L
and
E
?”

“No. It's short for Eleanor.”

“Oh.” The tip of the boy's tongue poked out one corner of his mouth. There was a smudge of something on his forehead—grease or dirt. “Do you want to come see my room?”

“No,” Ellie said flatly.

“Not just yet,” David softened, grinning at the boy.

“C'mon,” Turk said.

David and Ellie followed Turk down the hall. The smell of the food grew more substantial, causing David's stomach to clench painfully. It was a simple country kitchen with curtains over a wall of windows, a tidy kitchen table already set with plates and glasses, and wallpaper with little roosters on it. A woman stood before the stove, slim and pretty, with a plain face that needed no makeup. She looked up from a frying pan, a somewhat bemused expression on her face at the sight of David and Ellie. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing.

Turk made the introductions. “This is Dave. And that's his daughter, Eleanor. Found them wandering along Bixby like they just fell from the sky or something.” He leaned over the stove, inhaled, grinned. “Smells delicious.” He pecked his wife's cheek. To David, he said, “This is my wife, Pauline.”

“Hiya,” she said. The surprised look had yet to leave her face.

“Hello,” David said.

“Well, it's a good thing I made extra,” she said. Then she swatted Turk on the rear end. “Show these nice folks where the washroom is, then set a couple more plates.”

“Sammy,” Turk said, opening the fridge and peering inside. “Go on, now.”

“I'll show you,” Sam said, slipping around the table and back out into the hall. David and Ellie followed him to a small bathroom. “Flush if you pee,” Sam instructed, then left them to it.

David closed the bathroom door.

“Why did you have a gun?” Ellie said.

“For protection.”

“Where did you get it?”

He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “Hey. I'm the parent, remember?”

“I don't like it here. In this house.”

“It'll be okay.”

“It's the same feeling I had last night, when we first got here. It doesn't feel right.”

“Let's just be polite, and then we can go after breakfast.” He turned on the tap. “Wash up.”

She went to the sink while he went to the toilet. He hadn't urinated since last night, and his bladder ached. “You okay stepping out in the hall while I go to the bathroom?”

“Don't want to,” she said, shutting off the water.

“Well, turn your head. Look at the wall or something.”

She turned her back to him as he unzipped his jeans. David stared up at the ceiling until he began to urinate. Midway through the process, Ellie said, “Wow. How long are you gonna pee?”

David tried to stifle a laugh, which only caused a bubble of snot to burst from his right nostril. “Keep quiet, will you?” he said, snatching a swath of toilet paper and blowing his nose.

Before they went back out in the hall, David said, “Just for the record, our last name is Smith. Okay?”

“That sounds phony-baloney.”

“Yeah? Then what name should we use?”

“Monroe,” she said. It was the last name of her best friend from school, David knew.

“Yeah, okay. Monroe. Just don't volunteer it. You get me?”

“Sure. Don't forget to wash your hands. You peed.”

“Christ.” He washed his hands, then opened the bathroom door.

Sam was standing there, waiting for them.

“Oh,” David said. “Hello.”

“Food's up,” Sam said, and led them back to the kitchen.