The Void (7 page)

Jesus,
she thought, as she hugged him close to her, stroking his hair. “That man from across the street. He told you to say these things, didn’t he?” she asked.

“He’s my protector,” he responded.

“I don’t like it. I don’t want you near him.”

“He’s sensitive.”

“I don’t care if he’s sensitive or not. Mr Embry’s not a man I want you befriending. He’s not good for you.”

That was the last thing Meredith said before she left his room. She tried to keep the swelling fears at bay, but her mind kept going back to the marks around his neck. Three distinct lines, scratches, enflamed like rings. They were scratch marks, the same kind that cut across her forearms. One for the father, two for the son, and three for the Holy Spirit.

IV

Something was brewing in Sheppard Singh’s mind. Allah had abandoned him. In pursuit of the American dream, the father of an only daughter and a deceased wife whom he had killed, he had set his sights on everything monetary. He worked long hours, slogged through tenuous business affairs.

All for what? For the financing of a corporate dream? None of the money actually made him happy. In fact, it did the opposite and made him resent those without it. Now, his SUV had disappeared and with it the important things he had been keeping in the glove compartment. His daughter wasn’t a liar; he knew that.

The government was out to get him. He felt them closing in. He was certain he had caught a couple of spies photographing him, covert agents tailing him in the city limits and scoping out his premise during the nights All because he had written some stuff against the Americans, against the corporation and big businesses. How he’d love to blow it up.

Amazing how fast the government came to the aid of terrorists eavesdropping but never hunger or education. He looked out the window. The helicopters were rotating overhead. Convoys of trucks were in position.

“Daddy,” Tina said. “I heard Isis in the hole.”

“Not now,” Sheppard mumbled, looking out at the street from the apartment balcony. He watched law enforcement personnel congregate around the complex and other secret service agents shouting out orders for the public to get inside their houses.

“Daddy, do we have to leave?”

“No,” he said. “How can we without transportation?”

“We can take the bus or a taxi,” Tina piped up.

“We have money that will last us a week. The rest is frozen in the bank account. The government has been spying on us. They searched our emails and listen to our phone conversations,” he said, staring at the hole. “They’re very bad people.”

“What will they do to us?” Tina asked.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, little one. Nobody will harm you, God willing. If Allah wills it, it will happen. Do you believe that?”

“I believe, Daddy.”

“Then good,” he said. “Do as I say.”

V

Mandatory evacuations were in order. As Hanna walked past Morgan and Embry chatting with the rest of the crowds, she turned the corner. She headed down the street where the boy’s mother resided.

Her cell phone rang. It was her mother. They talked pleasantries as she knocked on the door.

VI

“Who is it?” Meredith said. Looking through the peephole, she noticed the same woman who stared at her from the house across the street. She had second thoughts about opening the door, but when Hanna spoke about her son, she was compelled to answer.

She unlocked the front door and drew it open. Two women stared at each other. An uncomfortable silence filled the air.

“Come in,” Meredith murmured. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

VII

The last time the two women met was six years ago, when Morgan was no more than eight weeks old. Even then, her child exhibited a quaint aura about his overall being. He rarely cried, and those eyes appeared to stare straight at her soul. They settled in the seats—Meredith, on her loveseat, and Hanna, on the sofa—as they eyed each other. Meredith had brewed tea, for her guest as well as herself.

“So your son—” Hanna started.

“Don’t bother,” Meredith interrupted.

“What’s his name?”

“It’s Morgan.”

“After his father I take it.”

“And you must be Gus’s mother?”

“Looks like you’ve done your research,” Hanna said.

Meredith didn’t know if she was being sarcastic or not as she blew on her cup.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Hanna asked.

“No, I don’t,” Morgan’s mother said, glancing down. She tried to compose herself, the nerves in her right eye twitching. “I—I saw you watching me through the window.” She looked up.

“I watch you every day through the window,” Hanna sipped the green jade elixir. “Whenever the time need be.”

“Well, you need to stop.”

“Am I bothering you?”

“No, you’re bothering my child.”

“At least you have a child,” Hanna said.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Meredith started.

“Besides, from the looks of it, your boy has taken a shine to my husband.”

“Your son. We never meant him any harm. I know how you’re feeling—”

Hanna’s brow furrowed. “Do you, now? Just what do you know? Have you had your child taken away from you?”

“I know what it’s like to lose a family member. You’re not the only one.”

An awkward silence encircled them. Meredith placed the cup down on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “The accident that killed your son… My husband… He wasn’t right. His mind was…” she cleared her throat. “What I’m trying to say is that I know how you must be feeling. If there’s anything I can do-”

“May I use your bathroom?” Hanna said, getting up and blinking away tears.

“Of course. It’s just down the hall to your left.”

“Thank you.”

On her way back from the bathroom, Hanna stopped in the kitchen and picked out the biggest knife in the drawer. She packed it in the back pocket of her jeans, and returned to the sofa.

“I’m not here to talk about my son,” Hanna said, smiling. “What I have a problem with is
your
son’s constant visits with my husband.”

Meredith picked up the brew and drank. “And that’s a problem? How?”

“It’s unhealthy for Brian to be reminded of Gus.”

“Why do you think it’s unhealthy?” Meredith asked, sensing something awry with Hanna’s posture.

“Spending that much time with a kid that’s not his own, will have him half believing that child is his,” Hanna said. “That’s not what I want, especially with the state of mind he’s in. He’s not well.”

“I spoke to Morgan about this this morning. You think I want my boy hanging around that husband of yours? I see him smoking all the time, and let’s not talk about the smell of drink on him. It’s not like I can stop him. He’s a kid, a smart one at that. No matter what I say, if he wants to spend time with your husband, he’ll find a way.”

“Your son is reminding him of Gus. He’s an alcoholic. It’s making him drink even more.”

“That’s not my problem. Do you know what I think the real issue is?”

The shadows on the floor appeared life-like, almost human in form. As the light spilled in from the windows, it cast a strange oblong figure, pitch-black and hulking. The shadow stretched from Meredith, attached to her feet as it stretched across the room. Hanna tightened her grip on the knife.

“If my son was still alive, would this even be an issue?”

Meredith stopped drinking. “I think you’re making excuses for yourself.”

“If your husband hadn’t killed himself, and my son, it wouldn’t be a problem. Would it?” Hanna said, voice rising in anger.

Meredith shot a look at the front door, the coffee table, and then, back to the guest in her home—a guest that was unwelcome, and the more Hanna spoke, Meredith regretted her decision of inviting her in.

“Look I’m sorry for what happened in the past, but the past is the past. I can’t change it. No one can. If I could, I would. I said, I was sorry. What more do you want?”

Hanna stood up. “I’ve heard enough. I’m leaving.”

“No, wait.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here. This was a bad idea.”

Meredith stood up, also. “Please, stay,” she said, putting down the cup on the table. That’s when Hanna went for the throat. She pulled out the knife and sprung on Meredith. It was one quick motion, but Meredith’s reflexes were as sharp as the blade, and she leapt backwards out of range of the whistling blade that sliced through the air.

Hanna jumped over the table and landed on top of Meredith. The second and third slice made contact, opening flesh like peach skin. Meredith screamed, holding out her arms in a defensive posture, the knife slitting open her upraised hands. Blood spurted down on her face.

“Stop! Help! Stop it!” Meredith wailed, sobbing with tears. “Why are you doing this?”

There was no why. It just was. Her neighbor was killing her.

“You fucking bitch!” Hanna yowled, full of anger. She worked frenziedly. “How can I fix it for you? How can you fix it for me? Get a taste of this blade, you cunt!” The knife slammed down over and over again. The blade struck her breasts, arms, abdomen as Meredith tried to wriggle out from the death grasp. Her lungs filled up with fluid. The white blouse she wore was drenched in blood. She could feel the life sapping out of her as the blade plunged deep, again, striking her collarbone and loosening the skin there so it dangled. Meredith howled, screaming one horrible roar and kicked out both legs, connecting Hanna in the gut. She went down hard.
Meredith toppled backwards and crawled around the table to the sofa.

Fresh drizzles of blood rained on the carpet. She looked over her shoulder to see where her attacker was (back on her feet with the knife, advancing), splattering blood on the remote control, coaster, and insect-fog killer. Blood sprayed in splotches from her numerous wounds. A single drop of blood landed in the cup of tea, fading like water paint.

Meredith screamed, voice boiling up like a vat, as she gripped the fog killer off the table. She crawled around the sofa, hands to knees, fast. She felt Hanna grab her hair and pull. Her neck strained, muscles exposing, as she turned around, screeching at the top of her lungs. She pulled the tab off the canister and depressed the nozzle. The can of insect killer exploded open, fizzing out a streamlined shot of noxious vapors.

Meredith aimed the fogger directly into Hanna’s face. Hanna inhaled, before shrieking herself as she reeled back, wincing and coughing, pulling her arms up to protect herself. She counterbalanced and tottered, tripping over the table, and landing on her head. Meredith stumbled, staggering as she weaved past the furniture and dropped on top of her neighbor.
She was going to kill me,
Meredith thought, unable to believe it
. The bitch was about to kill me!

Meredith bent down, incredulous vehemence corrugating her mind. Her hands played on their own, acting a winning performance. Then she took the fogger and smashed it over Hanna’s head until she passed out. Then, those same fingers pried open Hanna’s jaw and jammed the insect fogger into her mouth.

“Eat shit, bitch. And fucking die.” Meredith shrieked, holding down the canister. It was still loaded and spraying. “Breathe it all in, puppy love. That’s right. Just like that. That’s a good girl.”

Hanna’s face turned purple and bloated as the toxins jetted down her windpipe. Hanna gargled, foaming at the mouth, as she writhed underneath Meredith who was still gushing blood out of the gashes on her breasts and abdomen.

“Eat it and die!” Meredith cackled. “Eat it and die! Eat it and die!”

.

The President of the United States initiated executive order for his national defense. He made several calls to his elected officials and declared Maple St. too hazardous to drive, work, or reside in. It was unfit to be a properly governed municipal. The citizens were losing cars by the dozens.

He feared the backlash that might come with the inadequacy of the government unable to do anything. In recent years, a certain group of the political sect, the right-wing, had gone nuts with the higher taxes and less wages. This was another factor, in their agenda, that they might use to stop his progressive ambitions. He could not, for the love of God, understand why citizens only thought for themselves, never sharing or considering that the air they breathed was a unit for a clearer whole.

The world was a scary place and the victims within had to be fundamentally changed to appreciate the solace his infrastructure provided. Homeland Security, US Marshalls, and National Guards, the CIA, NSA, TSA, and FBI were all there to help his people, if only they could see that the President was their leader.

Lead. He had to lead now at the time of great calamity. A rouge terrorist had infiltrated a certain section of Maple Street. His name was Sheppard Singh, they told him. He might have something to do with the hole in the middle of the road, since the hole went down over a hundred feet, and no natural made sinkhole went as deep as this one. The idea it was actually growing distressed him, greatly.

Would the citizens blame him for this one also? Perhaps, now, they would realize the constitutional rights were antiquated and unfit to follow—written by men who lived in times that were different from the way his people were now. The technological advances seemed to push them two steps back instead of propelling them forward. The President crumpled the briefing papers into a wadded ball of waste and lobbed it in the wastebasket.

So the question was, should he or should he not? Were the citizens of Maple St. in such an imminent threat that the culprits had to be blasted away from the sky?

He picked up the phone connected to the land line. Even now, there were phones in the White House still traveling through wires and not cell waves. The hand phone was big, black and lofty. The president placed two buffered shoes on the desk, just as black, and crossed them.

“Use everything you got,” Mr. President said. “If by any means you find the threats to be substantial, you guys are cleared.”

The voice on the other end spoke, wavering. “Do we have the go ahead?”

“You guys are cleared,” he repeated. “If they don’t come out of their house, we’ll compensate whatever amount of money to those who lost their belongings or innocent life.”

“Okay, Mr. President,” the voice fizzled back. “Mr. President?”

“Yes,” he said, sighing. “What is it?”

“Where do you want us evacuating the people of that area?”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“Any suggestions would be beneficial.”

“A school auditorium? I don’t know. A park? Just do your work. Find a place.”

“Okay, Mr. President.” The phone hung up. He put the receiver back on its cradle.

“Never squander a perfectly good crisis,” the President said, clasping his hands. He ruminated about the future, where the next photo shoot locations would be, how he’d appear in front of the camera and live video feed, and what they’d perceive him as. A helper—a Messiah? He needed one more smoking gun to corral the masses. Perhaps, this was it.

Never let a good crisis go to waste
, he thought.

But the President didn’t know just how bumpy things would become, how bad, how dreadful.

II

They called it the Maple Massacre, where ten casualties, and a hundred forty injured civilians, were pulled into waiting ambulances and rushed to the hospital. Looters broke into the small section of the neighborhood, wreaking mayhem and sowing destruction. This is how it happened.

At eleven forty five am central time a forced evacuation order was issued. The 95
th
Regime Infantry entered the premise with their automatic rifles drawn. Tanks rolled down the street. Military convoys ejected a platoon of National Guard. The secret service, agents, police officers, and military might of the U.S. government worked in unison to declare the simple message through a loudspeaker.

RESIDENTS OF MAPLE STREET, BY THE ORDER OF MARTIAL LAW GRANTED BY JURDISCTION OF MAPLE COUNTY, WE HEREBY DECLARE YOU ALL A DANGER TO THE SAFETY OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

Meredith stopped cleaning the blood with a rag. She couldn’t let her son see her like this or the death scene splattered all over the living room. The carpet would have to go. Just ten minutes earlier, her fiancé, Donald, had arrived to witness the bloodshed and butchery. She had called him. Out of all the people she could call, it was him. He came through the door, panting through his shirt as he tried to block the smell of the insecticide seeping through his cloth. He opened all the windows. What little light, there was, crept inside. He added pressure on the towels to stop the bleeding and used a ripped cloth for bandaging her up. When he checked Hanna’s pulse, he said it was weak. The cell phone in her shorts began to vibrate. It was a call from a woman who claimed she was Hanna’s mother.

YOU HAVE TO EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY FOR THE SAFETY OF YOUR WELL BEING. THE HOLE IS A DANGER TO EVERYONE AROUND IT.

When?
Sheppard Singh thought, watching the situation unfold on the TV and outside on the third floor balcony. His daughter had left a few minutes ago, down the elevator to the underground parking, with her pink bicycle she had learned to ride a year ago. It was her favorite. He had observed her cycle down the street, past the ever yawning hole, and now waited patiently. She was headed to the convenience store to purchase canned fruits, loaf of bread, and water—the essential to survive for a few weeks, until the craziness settled down. Sheppard walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and rifled through the tomatoes and spoiled cabbage. He never got around to finishing those, even after the turkey sandwiches he made for himself and Tina. He pulled out a potato and parked it in the microwave. He hit five minutes and “start.”

I REPEAT YOU MUST EVACUATE THE PREMISE WITHIN THE NEXT TWO HOURS….

Overhead, on the fifth floor, unbeknownst to the apartment residents, two Saudi Arabian nationals, who had lived in the U.S. for five years now, halted the construction of their twin bombs. They had amassed a stash of illegal fertilizer compound and placed it in a pressure cooker with black powder. They spoke Arabic, swearing at each other, that they should’ve set the bombs a week ago when the hole first began to form. They could have ambushed the infidels, and what better way than a group of military personnel flocking to one area with their news camera convoys? Now, look at them, a shit stuck in a pie-hole.

RESIDENTS OF MAPLE STREET, BY THE ORDER OF MARTIAL LAW GRANTED BY JURDISCTION OF MAPLE COUNTY, WE HEREBY DECLARE YOU ALL A DANGER TO THE SAFETY OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

Down on the second floor, Hanna’s mother watched the legion of squads assembling like a pack of ants, milling around the hole, like the corn stalks around a crop circle. If these men thought for a second that they’d misplace her in some ghetto stadium without food or water and running restroom, they were wrong. She’d rather die here with her daughters. Where was Hanna?

RESIDENTS OF MAPLE STREET, BY THE ORDER OF MARTIAL LAW GRANTED BY JURDISCTION OF MAPLE COUNTY, WE HEREBY DECLARE YOU ALL A DANGER TO THE SAFETY OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

Nancy Robins drove in a truck with the radio on and only heard static. She was headed to the hole. It was calling her, drawing her, magnified by the voices calling through the airwaves. She popped the clutch in third gear and rocketed past the red lights. Nancy’s own mother had taken her children in, but something about the hole called to her. So she was going back. Yes, mother knew best.

III

Donald Sheridan entered the hallway of the second level apartment. The paint peeled off the plywood of the dry walls. They were an olive lime color, faint greenish that appeared the same shade as kelp in some areas, and, as Donald shuffled down the corridors he realized they were fungus. Mold had seeped in the corners of the cracked plaster. A strange odor emanated in the linings of the burgundy carpet. He wished to God he wasn’t here, but the moral fiber pleaded against it. He had to tell Hanna’s mother what had transpired in his fiancé’s home.

He stepped in front of the room #208 and knocked. Nobody answered. He knocked again, a soft rap that echoed in the passageway. Many of the tenants’ doors were ajar. Few personal belongings were left abandoned, outside. A child’s shoe and a teddy bear leaned on the end of the wall. Several of the tenants had already evacuated.

Don lifted his arm to rap on the door, and he noticed the hinges creaking as it shifted and opened halfway. It wasn’t locked.
Strange
, Don thought, pulse quickening. He stepped inside the gloomy interior.

“Hello?” he asked, pausing to hear the faint trickle of running water. “Ma’am? Are you in here?”

Don had spoken to Hanna’s mother with Hanna’s maroon-streaked cell phone, when the mobile handset didn’t stop vibrating. The way the pants pocket bulged, wiggled and squirmed, brought dread in his throat. He picked it up without a second thought.

“Ma’am, are you still here?” Don said, aloud.
She had said she was
, he thought. She had given him the address and correct room number. He treaded deeper inside. To his right, a foyer angled to the bedrooms. Straight ahead there was the family den, and further ahead, the balcony overlooked the outside neighborhood. The piano key blinds shifted and rays of light distilled into the room. Passing the kitchen, Don spotted a hulking figure sitting outside. It was the elderly woman, with white frizzy hair, resting in a wheelchair.

“Ma’am?” he asked, sweeping aside the blinds, and standing behind her. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear more than just you,” she sighed. He was spooked. He recognized that voice from somewhere. It sounded like the girl from the Exorcist. “Do you see the hole?”

“Yes, I do. There’s been an evacuation order.”

AGAIN, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY RESPONSE…
blared the loudspeaker.

“You don’t think I can hear? You don’t think I know what’s going on?”

“I don’t believe your deaf, ma’am.”

She turned to look at him. To his relief, he saw her face was normal and there was nothing demonic about it.

Must’ve been the years of smoking or something,
he thought
.

“Where’s my Hanna?” she rasped.

“That’s what I came to you about. Your daughter is in serious condition.”

“What’s wrong with her? Did she try climbing into that hole?”

“I believe she’s dead.”

“Dead?” the old woman laughed. Her wheelchair rocked from side to side. “Why do you believe she’s dead?”

Don gulped, unable to understand the incompetence of this woman. What the fuck was wrong with her? Didn’t she know what dead meant?

“She has no pulse,” Don said, moving away from the wheelchair.

“Oh Hanna, Hanna, Hanna,” she whispered, clucking her tongue. “Tsk… tsk… tsk.”

“Should I take you to her?”

“What for? Let God handle it.”

“But—” he began. “You have to convince the paramedics or cops that my wife had nothing to do with it.”

“Did she try to kill your wife?”

“I don’t know what happened in there. That’s what we gotta find out.”

“Oh, Hanna, Hanna, Hanna,” she murmured again. She turned to look at Don, and this time her face exploded with blood. It spilled over her forehead in gushing rivulets. He was hitting her over the head with the wrench he hid in his pocket.

What the fuck was wrong with me? Oh my God, what was I doing?

His hand came down over and over, clutching the steel bar tightly. Blood spattered on his shirt.

No witnesses, son. There can be no witnesses.

Hanna’s mother wasn’t dead nor was she dying. She was shrieking with laughter, doubling up belly over. Phlegm came out of her throat like a backwash, splashing and dribbling on her clothes and soiling the fabric.

“Don’t you know what’s in the hole?” she screeched in a high-pitched crescendo. “Don’t you?”

“What—what’s in the hole?” he screamed back, pounding her face in. It caved in; one eye staring blearily, damaged and turning bloodshot, her mouth leered from her hag-like face.

“Don’t you? Don’t you…”

After it was all said and done, Don dragged the wheelchair into the apartment’s restroom. He turned on the faucet. The water in the bathtub hissed and gurgled, filling up the acrylic interior. As the irrigation rose above ankle height, Don pulled Hanna’s mother off the chair and dumped her inside the tub. Her heavy body rolled and an arm smacked the outer edge. She sank to the bottom as the flood of water rushed near her head, cascading her hair like a limp brush.

Don shut off the valves and watched the blood sluice with inky texture. The entire bathtub full of water was turning from pink to scarlet red. He tugged the shower curtains closed; he was spared from the view of the corpse in the water.