The Nightworld (4 page)

Chapter 7

This morning, I wake to a note on my nightstand, anchored in place by the gun from the china cabinet.

I’m going for supplies.

Don’t leave the house. Be safe.

Love you,

Dad

Dad tells me to “be safe” all the time, but the instruction has never been accompanied by a gun before. I rub my eyes and head for the bathroom, but I back right up and grab the gun. I’m spooked.

I lock the door and take the fastest shower ever. I take the stairs three at a time to the kitchen. Dad’s left a box of cereal out on the counter, along with a bowl, a spoon, and half a grapefruit. It’s a throwback to when I was little, after Mom died. He usually had to leave for work before I was even up, so he always got my breakfast ready for me, as a way to say good morning. We had sitters until I was old enough to take care of myself, but he never let them make my breakfast.

My phone buzzes across the counter and I pick it up. Charlie’s texting me.

Have you seen the news?

I pour some milk over my cereal and take it to the living room. I grab the remote and switch on the TV. Every channel seems to be a new announcer. I stop on one and listen.

“. . . as it would be just after dusk. No explanation has been forthcoming from any government source thus far. Scientists say it’s too early to comment—that they need more data. The White House remains silent on the strange phenomenon.”

The announcer presses the bud in his ear for a moment, listening to some voice tell him what to say. “Ladies and gentleman, this just in—the White House press secretary says there will be an announcement today. The president will address the nation at seven p.m. Eastern Standard Time this evening. Keep—”

That’s when I realize that the room seems dark. I mean, the curtains are all drawn, so at first I didn’t notice anything, but now that I think about it . . . I jump up and go to the big bay window. I’m almost afraid to pull back the cloth, but I do, just a few inches.

It’s dark. The streetlights are glowing all the way down the street, even though the clock on the wall says it’s nine thirty in the morning. It looks just like the guy said, like dusk, when you can barely see, but it’s not pitch dark yet. I switch off the T.V. and text Charlie.

WTH?

He comes back right away with

I know, right? The whole world’s gone batshit crazy. Mom is crying and calling people. Oh, hell, here she comes. Gotta go—back in a few.

I check to see if all the doors are locked.

Dad doesn’t show up until almost four in the afternoon. I’ve spent the time peeking out various windows to see if it’s really still dark (it always is) and channel surfing to see if any of the news stations say anything different. Finally I hear the garage door open and close, and by the time Dad puts his key in the back-door lock I’m ready to jump out of my skin.

“Where have you been?” I must sound like a pissed-off girlfriend.

“Can you give me a hand with these?” Dad nods toward the Subaru. He’s backed it into the garage, and there are boxes in the cargo area.

I grumble, but I pick up a box.

“I didn’t have time to pack them in right at the store. I want to rearrange so that we have some more room for stuff in the back.”

“What is this stuff?” The boxes don’t have labels.

“Survival supplies. It’s funny, you think you’re prepared until something actually happens and then you realize you’re not prepared at all. I went to that store out on the highway—The End Is Nigh, remember it?”

I sure do. We went in there one Saturday to see what it was when it first opened—must have been a couple of years ago. It turned out to be a survivalist’s paradise. They had all kinds of freeze-dried foods and water purifiers and blankets made of tinfoil stuff and knives and guns and traps. They even had a store model of a “survival cube” that you could shut yourself into in case of a disaster. The brochure said the company guaranteed the cube would keep a person alive thirty days, even in the case of a nuclear bomb, as long as you didn’t open the door. You just strapped yourself in, closed the door and locked it from the inside, and waited it out. There was a toilet built into the seat, and a tube stuck out of one of the walls that you could suck “nutripaste” from. I climbed in and sat down and wondered how anybody could stand it for more than an hour.

After we rearrange all the boxes, Dad starts cooking some dinner. He’s not a bad cook, and tonight it looks like he’s going all out—steaks and fried mushrooms.

“Don’t know when we’ll eat like this again,” he says while he splashes some cooking wine on the steaks.

“What do you mean?” I’m doing the salad, like I always do. I try to focus on chopping the carrots so I don’t lose a finger.

Dad shrugs. “I don’t know how things will be, Nick. Let’s eat first, and then we’ll talk.”

We eat in front of the TV. It feels weird, sitting here acting like everything’s
almost
normal. Nothing is normal. But I really don’t know how else to act. I barely even know what to think, so I’m trying not to think at all.

Dad keeps switching channels like I did, but finally he stops on CNN. Anderson Cooper stands in front of a green screen with a huge caption that reads
SHOULD YOU BE AFRAID OF THE DARK
? After about three minutes of listening to Anderson talk with his D.C. correspondent about how the government has no comment at this time, Dad hits the mute button. He heaves a huge sigh and picks at his steak.

My phone vibrates. It’s Charlie.

We r leaving soon. My stepdad knows some guy and he thinks we’ll b safer in

That’s all there is. The display goes blank. I push the power button a couple of times, but nothing happens. “Dad.”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up from his steak.

“Does your phone work?” I hold up my blank display so he can see. He puts his plate on the coffee table and half stands, gets his phone from his back pocket. I can tell by his face that his display is blank too. He turns up the volume on the television, and I think we’re both relieved when Anderson Cooper’s voice resumes. We’re not so relieved when we hear what he’s saying, though.

“. . . plans to restore cell service in those areas as soon as possible, but gives no indication what may have caused the disruption. New outages are being reported as we speak. Meanwhile, authorities claim that the curfews being imposed across the nation are merely precautionary and temporary in nature.”

Dad and I just look at each other. He lets the television drone on for a few more seconds and then clicks it off.

“Okay, Nick. We need to eat and then hit it. I’m going to be getting you up at the crack of . . .” He falters. There is no dawn anymore, it seems.

“Where are we going?” I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here, in the house I grew up in, and spend the summer taking Lara Hanover to pizza. Instead, because my scientist dad did whatever the stupid government asked him without even wondering if it was right, the world’s going to end or something and who knows if I’ll even get to see Lara before school starts again.

“I think we’ll head west.”

This pisses me off in a way I can’t even explain. “You
think
we’ll head west? You
think
? For the guy who caused the whole mess, you don’t seem to be too sure about anything.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. No “I didn’t cause this, so shut up about it,” no “Stop mouthing off to your father.” Nothing. He just looks tired. He finishes his steak and stands up to take his plate into the kitchen. On his way past me, he stops and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Get to sleep soon, Nick. We’ll be leaving very early.” He waits to see if I say anything, and when I don’t, he slowly walks away. I hear him rinse off his plate and set it in the sink.

“Nick,” he calls.

“What?” I don’t care how mad I sound.

“Take the gun with you when you go upstairs.” He must have seen it lying on the counter, where I left it when he came home. I hear his footsteps on the stairs going down to the basement and then nothing.

I push my steak around with my fork, but I’m not hungry. I try the phone again a couple of times, but service doesn’t come back. Finally I trudge into the kitchen and clatter my plate into the sink without rinsing it. I start up the stairs, but I turn around on the third step and go back for the gun. Better safe than sorry.

Chapter 8

I wake out of a sound sleep like I’ve been plunged into icy water, to the sounds of splintering wood. Disoriented, I blink my eyes furiously for a minute, trying to place the noise. It sounds like someone’s kicking down the back door. Then I hear low voices, men’s voices, first from the living room, then the kitchen. Before I can react, there’s a hand over my mouth.

“Get up and get in the closet. Don’t make a sound.”

It’s Dad. He’s crouching next to my bed, holding a gun in front of him. When I don’t move, he turns to look at me, and his eyes are scary—so intense and focused. This is not a joke. I scramble out of bed and grab the gun on the nightstand. I’m not going to hide in some closet—I’ll fight right next to Dad.

“No!” Dad hisses at me in the dark, and I feel his hand grip my biceps hard. “Get in the fucking closet. And don’t come out, Nick, no matter what you hear.”

I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m still groggy from sleep and the way my dad’s talking to me—it doesn’t even seem real. If it weren’t for the slightly sour smell of his breath, I’d think it was a dream.

The voices downstairs get more intense, and Dad shoves me toward the closet.

“Dad!” I whisper. I want to say something else, anything, and I can tell he wants to as well, but he just puts a finger to his lips and pushes me backward.

I pull the door closed and try to bury myself behind the coats and junk. It’s still not much cover. Then I hear feet pounding up the stairs, and then Dad’s door being kicked open. They sound like they’re tearing the room apart.

And then they kick in my door. I hear them sort of stumble against each other when they see Dad—it sounds like there are at least three.

“Drop your weapon,” says one.

“Watch yourself. Don’t forget we need him alive, genius,” says another.

“Why do you need me? Do you think I would go with you?” Dad asks. “So I can help you destroy the world? Not a chance.”

“Don’t get smart,” the first voice says. “You know why.”

“The light will come back,” Dad says firmly. “If I can’t bring it back, someone else will.”

Then I hear him shoot. His gun sounds like a bomb going off in the room. One of them screams; Dad must have hit somebody. When they shoot, which they do right away, the
phffft
of silencers is all I hear. That, and the sound of impact when the bullets hit my father. I can’t breathe. I know if I make a sound, I’m dead.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it! Orders were alive.”

“He was shooting at me!”

“Search the place, see if there’s anything—”

I hear the crackle of a two-way radio. I can’t make out the words, but they sound urgent.

“Over.” One of the guys in my bedroom responds to the radio voice. “You heard him, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“But what about the device? His son—he was supposed to be here tonight.”

“We don’t have time. We’ll get him as soon as he goes to the cops. They’re always so predictable. As far as the device—”

I hear more radio crackling. Something about “central,” and “abort.” Then the guy who must be in charge says, “All right, we’ve got our orders. We’re done here.”

I hear their feet on the stairs again, and then nothing.

I don’t know how long I sit there, huddled on the closet floor, gripping the gun so tight that my knuckles are bloodless. My face is wet. I realize I’m shaking, and I try to take some deep breaths to calm myself. I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand.

I’ve got to think. Think straight.

Dad’s gun made a lot of noise. I know the Robinsons, our neighbors to the north, are on vacation for the week, because they asked me to take in their newspapers while they’re gone. I think the neighbors on the west side, the Johanssons, are gone too, but I’m not sure. If they’re not, there’s no way they missed that shot. I’m going to have to go look out a window and see if there are any lights on at their place. Maybe they could help—maybe they already called the police.

But that means opening this closet door. And going out into my bedroom, where I know without a doubt that my father lies dead on the floor. When I open this door, everything changes, forever.

Some part of me understands that it has already changed. But another part resists while I turn the knob, while I crack the door open just enough to confirm that the men have gone. Let it not be changed. Let the world go back to what it was just a day ago. I want to scream when I see him, crumpled in the shadowy room, lit only by the baseball nightlight he got me the year Mom died, when I started being afraid of the dark. I don’t know why I kept it; I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.

He’s sitting by the side of the bed, slumped forward. I pull him up and see the three stains on his shirt, still spreading. He’s not breathing, and it’s so clear that he won’t, ever again. I’ve never seen a dead person before, but all the things I’ve read about how you can tell right away are true. My dad isn’t here anymore. There’s no life in him, no rise and fall of his chest, no light in his eyes. There’s just a body. I settle him against the side of the mattress and close his eyes.

I don’t know what else to do.

It doesn’t feel like I thought it would either. After my mom died, I was terrified that I’d somehow lose my dad, too. I’d lie in bed imagining a million different nightmares: Dad getting in a car accident, Dad getting in a plane crash, Dad getting cancer, Dad falling out an open window. I know it’s sick, but I was testing myself, trying to see how I would feel if it really happened.

And now it’s happened and I realize I never imagined him getting murdered.

When I reach up and rub my eyes, I realize that my face is wet. I’ve been crying this whole time and I didn’t even feel it. Because it feels like nothing.

There’s no time to dwell on saying good-bye. I have to get out of here. If I’m lucky, nobody heard the gunshot, but I don’t feel very lucky right now. And even if the neighbors didn’t hear, who knows if those men are coming back.

Think.

The cord around my dad’s neck catches my eye. The key to the lab cabinet, the one Dad labeled
OPTIMUS PRIME
. Whatever’s in there is important, so I better grab it. I reach out and touch the cord, and the act of taking it off his neck breaks me. The sobs catch me by surprise, hard, retching heaves that double me over. I can’t look at Dad. I can’t, because if I do this will all be real. I force myself to move, to get the key and his gun. A quick peek out the window reveals only darkness at the Johanssons’, and no other signs of life on the street. I go to my dresser, grab some underwear and shirts, a pair of jeans, and shove them all in my backpack. I pull on another pair of jeans and lace up my tennis shoes. I can’t bring myself to look back when I leave the room.

I know I have to go to Dad’s room—he keeps the key to the basement in a magnetic key hider under his bed. I wonder if he knew that I know that. I cross the hall and push the door, already ajar, open wider. His room has been tossed—the mattress is upended and the drawers in his dresser are all pulled out. When I grope under the bed, I find his magnetic key holder still stuck to the bed frame—they must not have had time to look under there. I grab it and get up to go, and hear a crunch. I look down, and see that I’ve stepped on a picture frame. It’s the framed print of Dad and Mom on their honeymoon. They went to Hawaii, and they’re standing on a beach, the sun shining down on them, big smiles on their faces, their arms around each other. They look young and happy. I shake off the broken glass and slide the photo out of the frame. I want it. I stick it in my back pocket for now.

I practically fall down the stairs to the lab and head straight for the cabinet Dad showed me earlier. I jam the key into the padlock, but it sticks. Forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, I remove the key and reinsert it carefully. This time it turns. The cabinet door opens smoothly. Inside, it’s empty—save for a small box. It’s made of some sort of metal with a complicated latch on the side of it. I try to figure it out, but I can’t get it open and I don’t feel like I have time to waste right now. I shut the cabinet back up and lock the padlock. If someone comes looking, maybe it will buy me some time if they think something is still in there.

The closet full of supplies is calling my name. I eye the water, wondering how many cases I can get upstairs fast. There’s a duffel bag hanging on a hook inside the door, and I fill it with as many packs of dried meat and fruit as I can fit. I shove one of the sleeping bags on top and tuck the box with Dad’s gizmo in its folds. Then I haul six cases of water upstairs and stow them in the car. I start to lock up the house, but then I realize there’s really no point. I shove the garage door open by hand so there’s less noise and check the street. Nothing. The Subaru starts, its engine loud in the dark night, and I ease out of the garage into the street.

That’s when I realize I have no idea where I’m going.