Authors: Wil Mara
“Yeah. It’ll probably lead right back to the circular nightmare we’re stuck in, but you never know.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
He slipped his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. Just as he got there, he turned back and said, “By the way, here’s a delightful detail—the woman in question might be the same one the police found hanging from her ceiling fan. The one whose head came off.”
“Neat.”
“I thought you’d enjoy that. See you later.”
“Bye.”
* * *
Dennis stood in the kitchen of the cabin two days later, staring through the curtained window over the old porcelain sink with eyes that had been puffed and reddened by exhaustion. He was holding a cup of coffee that was rapidly growing colder, but he was hesitant to take a sip because of unsuccessful attempts to keep his hand from trembling. The Catskill Mountains, under a lazy run of scant clouds in the distance, looked like an image from a postcard.
In times past, Dennis had gazed upon this dramatic vista and felt a deep gratitude for everything good in his life—his family’s health, his not-great-but-decent job, the money he and Andi had meticulously squirreled away.… Hell, that he even lived in a place and time where he
could
have health and a decent job and a little spare cash. With over a hundred countries in the world, he could just as easily have been born in some hellhole like North Korea or Cuba. For whatever reason, the view through this window made him think about those kinds of things.
Not today, though. The nightmare images kept running through his mind like some masochistic slide show. He saw them in his sleep, when he was awake, and in the dozy half-minded state that drew a border between the two.
One of the most persistent subsets involved the kindly Jack McLaughlin lying dead on the front lawn. First there was the crumpled heap of his body in the dim glow of the streetlamp. From there Dennis’s imagination would have a field day. One time Dennis walked to the body, rolled it over, and found it halfway rotted and boiling with maggots. Another time a laughing Jack was standing at the street corner with his octagonal
STOP
sign in hand, the blood from the gunshot wound pumping out like red paint. “I made sure they crossed okay,” he said in a horrifically garbled voice. Then Billy and Chelsea bounded up wearing their bright school clothes and their backpacks, their smiling faces distorted by the infection.
The other group arose from the road trip the Jensens took to get here. Normally this was one of the most enjoyable features of their cabin retreat. In the autumn, the sight of the trees radiant with bright foliage took Dennis and Andi’s breath away. In the spring, the first signs of life after a long winter’s slumber inspired thoughts of rebirth and renewal, putting them in a reflective, taking-stock kind of mood. And Chelsea was delightful with her enthusiastic accounting of each landmark that underscored another milestone in the journey, another layer of their New Jersey “everyday world” falling away as those of their “cabin world” in upstate New York gradually replaced it. There was the busy strip mall visible from the merge that took them from I-287 to I-87, at which point Chelsea would announce in an airline captain’s voice that they were now out of New Jersey and “… cruising comfortably through the Empire State.” Then the rest stop just before the junction with Route 84, marking the midpoint in the trip. “Halfway are we and I gotta go pee!” she would sing every time, sending Billy into a giggling delirium. Finally there was Watkins Steak House, large and looming, situated atop the hillside by the entrance to NY-28—the final leg of the journey. Dennis would say to Andi, “Mmm, steak. Maybe we should stop.” Then Chelsea’s expected response of, “No, Daddy! I just want to
get
there.…” This had become so routine that Dennis looked at her in the rearview mirror just before they reached this point and smiled, and she smiled back because she knew it was coming. Then, of course, they followed their script anyway.
There had been no such playfulness this time, because this wasn’t a pleasure trip but an escape. And the layers that were stripped away were not of their pleasant day-to-day life but of a living nightmare. The sight of McLaughlin’s body lying on the wet grass had struck a ghastly, discordant note that set the tone for the rest of the journey. And the startling contrast between this excursion and those past was such that it felt as if they had taken a different route altogether. First, they had never gone under the cover of darkness; that in itself smothered any chance for cheerfulness. Then the fact that the strip mall and Watkins Steak House had both been closed. Considering the lateness of the hour, this would’ve been the case on any calendar day. But the vinyl
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
banner that hung across the mall’s windows squelched any possibility of dismissing it as routine.
There had been traffic, more so than one would expect at midnight on a weekday, even in the oppressively overpopulated tri-state area. Under normal circumstances and when the weather was warm, Dennis would occasionally wave to other motorists with the unconditional friendliness that surfaces in some people when they’re in tourist mode. But such civility didn’t seem to be high on anyone’s list this time, including his. Like everyone else, he kept the windows up and his eyes on the road. And, he suspected, they all had their doors locked.
Traffic was sluggish early on, all four lanes on I-287 filled to capacity and moving with the difficulty of a snake just out of hibernation. It stretched for miles, all the headlights glittering like a heavy diamond bracelet. What Dennis found particularly unnerving at this point was the quiet—no roaring engines, no music blasting, and, most unusual for this part of the world, no one blowing their horns. Everyone just rolled along in petrified obedience.
The traffic thinned as the journey progressed; at least that aspect had a familiarity to it. By the time Watkins came into view and they eased onto NY-28, around three thirty in the morning, Dennis began to relax a little.
We’re just about there,
he thought in the darkness; Chelsea and Billy were now asleep and Andi very nearly so.
We’re going to make it
. Soon they were nestled in the protective hills and valleys of the Catskills, cruising along a twisting road lit only by the occasional sodium light.
Then the roadblock appeared.
It had been arranged—unintentionally, no doubt—in sets of two. There were two state police cars parked crookedly with their lights swirling, two sawhorses with reflective orange stripes, and two officers standing ready. There were also two road flares, spitting sparks and billowing smoke like a kamikaze’d battleship.
Damn
.
He’d heard something on the radio about roadblocks in some areas, but he didn’t think they’d be an issue way out here. It wasn’t exactly the Middle of Nowhere, but it wasn’t the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, either.
Dammit.
One of the officers—a kid of no more than twenty-five, with his cap tilted forward as if to compensate for this—came around to the front of the sawhorse and waved for Dennis first to slow down (one flattened hand slowly bouncing an invisible basketball), then stop (same hand held upright). As he walked toward the van, Dennis noticed the surgical mask draped over his shirt. The cop removed his hat, pulled the mask by its elastic loop over his head, and replaced the hat again, all in one fluid motion. Dennis got the impression he had performed this action quite a few times this night.
He knuckle-tapped Andi’s arm. Her eyes fluttered and she murmured something nonsensical, as she always did when prematurely awoken. Then, as the kid came alongside the van, Dennis lowered his window. There was a silver nameplate just above the officer’s shirt pocket—
A. JESSICK
. In a second gesture of seemingly choreographed smoothness, he drew a long flashlight from his belt, clicked it on, and shone it in Dennis’s face.
“Hello,” Dennis said in an attempt to start things off on a friendly note. “Can I—?”
“Where are you headed?”
Right to business
. “To Haroldson’s Ridge. I own one of the cabins up there.”
“Can I see some identification, please?”
“Sure.” He pulled out his wallet and handed over his license. “Do you also want my insurance card and regis—?”
“Just ID, please.”
“Okay…”
The officer shone the light a few inches from the license, making Dennis wonder if it might melt.
“You are Dennis Jensen?”
“Yes sir.”
“Six twenty-two Guidry Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“Carlton Lakes, New Jersey?”
“That’s right.”
The light came up into his face again, then back to the license photo. Then to him, then the photo. Dennis felt the overwhelming urge to sigh loudly in a gesture of protest, but good sense vetoed the idea. He had never been one to antagonize law enforcement, even as a teenager; it never seemed like a particularly smart idea. He did, however, turn briefly toward Andi and roll his eyes.
Then, back to Jettick—“Is there a flood or something, Officer? Is the road out?”
The cop continued studying the license as if he hadn’t heard, then said, “No, road’s fine.”
“Oh, then wh—?”
“You are coming from your home in Carlton Lakes now?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why did you decide to come up here now? And why so late?”
He’s probing me,
Dennis realized, and felt himself tighten up. He decided in that instant to play it as close to the truth as possible, but reveal no more than necessary.
“We’re getting away for a while.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
The flashlight came up again. This time the beam was directed through the smoked window of the side door. Jettick did display one moment of consideration when he pulled the light off the faces of the two children when he realized they were sleeping. His interest then turned to the copious pile of supplies in the back, which occupied nearly the entire space.
“That’s a lot to bring along for just a little getaway, isn’t it?”
Dennis shrugged. “We’re not planning on staying any longer than we have to.”
“Uh-huh.” His gaze lingered a moment longer; then he tucked the flashlight under his arm and turned back. The light beam slanted up into space like a beacon. “You’re here because of the outbreak, is that it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You didn’t say that before.”
“You didn’t ask before. Besides, what’s the difference
why
we came? None of us are infected.”
“I have no way of knowing that. We’re not supposed to let anyone through. We’ve had no cases up here, and we have no intention of getting any.”
“I fully appreciate that, but as I said, we’re all clean. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to call my sister, Elaine Jensen, who works as a nurse at one of the hospitals along the Jersey Shore. We went to her for a full series of tests a few days ago. We’re here because
we
don’t want to get infected, either.”
Dennis’s conviction appeared to rob Jettick of some of his own. He tapped the driver’s license on the back of his other hand, his eyes shifting about with uncertainty. In the ensuing quiet, Dennis noticed a symphony of insectine chirps and buzzes that apparently had been playing in the background the whole time.
“I’ll return in a moment,” Jettick said finally, then walked briskly away.
“Thanks…”
“What are we going to do if he won’t let us pass?” Andi asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know.” Dennis said this with an absent shake of the head as he continued watching Jettick. The kid first stopped to talk to his partner; this lasted no more than a few seconds. Then he climbed into the squad car and got on the radio. His face was illuminated by the glow of some device attached to the dashboard, which Dennis eventually realized was a small computer monitor.
Modern technology
.
“We can’t go back,” Andi said.
“I agree a hundred percent.”
“So?”
Dennis ran quickly through a list of options—try to bribe the kid, jam the gas and blast his way through, threaten a lawsuit.… None of these ideas sounded like they’d work out too well. He glanced briefly in the rearview mirror and thanked God the kids were still asleep.
When Jettick put down the radio mic and turned to the computer screen, Dennis felt a bolt of shock as a hideous realization struck.
What if he finds out about Jack McLaughlin? What if his body’s already been found, and there’s an APB out on me?
He didn’t even know if law enforcement called them APBs anymore, but they probably had something very similar—and better.
“Uh-oh…,”
Andi turned. “What?”
“Wh … what if he finds out ab—?”
Jettick threw open the door and seemed to spring out of the vehicle.
“Oh shit.”
Dennis could swear there was something different about the way the kid was looking at him now. He seemed warier, more alert. Also, while his left hand held Dennis’s license, the right was resting on his hip holster.
His weapon. Oh God, he’s getting ready to use his weapon.
Dennis’s heart began booming, and sweat broke out everywhere. His breathing became rapid and shallow.
“No…”
Jettick came up alongside the van, taking position in nearly the identical spot as before.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jensen, but I can’t let you through at this time.”
“Huh?” Dennis’s hand had gone to his chest, although he didn’t remember doing it.
“I cannot get in touch with our dispatcher in order to corroborate your story, or to contact Brick Memorial Hospital about Elaine Jensen.”
“You…” It took him a moment to register all the implications of what Jettick was saying.
He doesn’t know about McLaughlin after all. He has no idea
.
“I’m sorry,” Dennis continued hoarsely, followed by a quick clearing of the throat. “You can’t get in touch with your dispatcher?”
“No, not at this time.”
“Is your radio broken?”