Going Gray (19 page)

The merry-go-round sat alone, unused and forgotten. And seeing one of her fondest memories covered in the dusty horrors of the last week left her with a sick feeling inside. The shine on the carriages had paled, and the gleam on the horses dulled. All that had made the merry-go-round bright and happy was tarnished and discolored. The sight broke her heart.

She reached through the memories and pulled the sounds of the merry-go-round. Emily played back the carousel’s music, and saw Justin and her mother, riding the horses, around and around. Walking by, she couldn’t help but push her fingers along a horse’s mane, touching his cold nose, and imagining his musical neighing.

Behind the carousel, they found Peter on his knees, his face nearly pressed against the tall glass windows. The windows swam up from the floor, reaching the ceiling, spanning the mall’s entire two levels. Her heart lifted suddenly when she saw the sunlight bleeding through the clouds.
It’s the sun! This could all be over
.

But it was just a reflection, and her heart dipped to a new low, souring in it. The wall of glass reflected the emergency lights behind her, donning ghostly orbs that only looked like the sun breaking through the fog. Emily felt her lower lip tremble, and she bit it. She bit it hard enough to invite pain: a punishment for having let her hopes get the better of her. She spared a passing glance at the rolling clouds, thinking that by now she’d gotten used to the sight. She’d been wrong.

The sheer size of the glass made her nervous, too. Emily eyed the carousel and the decorative round roof that covered the horses and carriages. She wondered if they could use it for cover if they had to. Another quake and they’d surely have to. The wall of glass was an intentional design, giving visitors in the parking-lot something to look at from the outside: the mall’s centerpiece, the carousel. But to anyone beneath the behemoth windows, they’d get squashed.

“You guys have gotta see this!” Peter exclaimed, waving excitedly to Emily. Emily peered over to her father who motioned with a short, approving nod. “I think it might be over soon.” Peter offered a smile that improved his looks in a manner she didn’t think was possible. She caught some of his excitement that started a flutter in her belly.

“Over?” she heard from behind her. “But that can’t be.” Her father knelt down with her, tilting his head in the same manner as Peter. She did the same too, searching for whatever it was that Peter was seeing.

“What is that?” she asked, excited by what was there. “Is that… rain?”

“Yes,” her father answered, but his voice carried the same bleakness she’d heard earlier. “I’m afraid it is.”

The flutter in her belly died. Emily lowered herself, until she saw the dim light of the pavement. Rainy daylight. And as her father had described earlier, there was space beneath the canopy of fog: a lot of space. She could see the pavement leading to the mall, and the black asphalt. Further beyond, a puzzling jumble of cars lay strewn in random directions, blocking her from being able to see the main road. Amidst the open car doors, and the crashes of crumpled plastic and metal, Emily saw bodies. Clothing lay in clumps of fleshy red puddles. Couples holding hands. Whole families bundled in a hug. Emily cupped a hand over her mouth, sickened. Did Peter notice the bodies?

When her eyes fell on their family car, she saw the damage for the first time. Emily gasped. It was a miracle that she could drive it at all. She had to turn away when she saw the bloody heart.
That’s enough
, but she couldn’t help but wonder if her father had noticed the car. A rueful flitter turned inside her, and she hoped that he had.

“But the rain… it could be a good thing!” Mr. Halcomb said, pulling her attention. “If it is raining, the fog might pass on, or lift. Right?”

Emily heard her father shuffle his feet, and then saw him shaking his head. He knew something. “What is it, Daddy?” She met his eyes and saw trouble in them. “What?” He couldn’t answer, and instead turned to face the window. In the glass, his reflection was exposed, revealing his secrets, telling her that this was bad.
We’re ghosts,
she realized.
Ghosts, waiting for it to end.
But it wasn’t going to end. Not on its own.

“The rain isn’t going to take the fog away,” her father finally answered. “I think we’ve got some problems.”

“What kind of problems?” Peter asked. His smile had disappeared behind a frown. Peter sought out the corners and where the roofline joined the glass walls. He was thinking of the Food-Mart. There’d be no surviving a fate like that.

“Acid? Is it some kind of acid or radiation?” Ms. Parks asked.

Mr. Halcomb grabbed his chest, “Oh, Jesus!” he huffed. Ms. Parks—her face still riddled in thick red and purple blotches—took hold of his arm, squeezing and bracing herself.

“No… not exactly,” her father assured them. “But with all the added condensation, there’s the potential for a higher concentration. Much higher.” Their expressions stayed fixed, unchanged.

“In English, Dad,” Emily blurted, even though she understood exactly what he meant.

“The fog
is
poison,” he started again, and then waited for an agreeable nod. “But the condensation—the rain—it’s also like the fog, but it’s a lot more potent… stronger. Make sense?”

A puzzled daze.

“He means that you’ll get wetter in the rain than you will in the fog!” Emily added.

Their faces cringe with worry.

“But what will that do to the mall?” Peter asked. “Will it be like the Food-Mart?”

As if to answer Peter’s question, a metal twang rang out from above them. Ms. Parks let out a muffled scream while Mr. Halcomb backed away from the glass. Emily’s father raised his hands, trying to listen.

“That isn’t the same,” she answered. “Too thin. Too small.”

“The mall should be fine,” her father said. “It’d take a lot more rain than what we are seeing to be of any concern.”

“Oh my God!” Mr. Halcomb shouted. “We’ve got that tropical storm coming. Today! Don’t we? What’ll happen then?” Her father’s color drained. He swallowed hard and glanced back at the glass.

“Yeah! Forecasted for today. I think this is the beginning of it, too,” Peter answered. “I’d planned to surf it this morning with some friends. Rain is coming… it’s coming hard!”

Gunfire boomed above them. “Oh, no!” Ms. Parks shrieked. They waited, but nothing came. Silence fell, giving way to the patter of rain to occupy the quiet.

But the first signs of the storm were here after all—they just hadn’t noticed it until now. There was a soft wind: fast, almost breezy, but then slowing. And blustery weather pelted the glass, slowing to a drizzle. The rain had a pulse, and it was getting stronger.

“Tropical storm?” her father exclaimed, addressing no one. His voice a near mumble. “But… that’s too much rain. We can’t survive that.”

His words seized her like a tragedy. Emily lost her thoughts. She had no words, no manner of reason, only images floating in her mind. Like tumbling photographs, the pictures blinked glimpses of the devastation they’d face. She saw their mall in ruins. She saw fire plumes in the sky; giant red and orange eyeballs sipping on the propane like a cocktail. She saw a little girl with lopsided pigtails, her flesh melting from her bones. And she saw the little girl’s daddy trying to cover the drippy wounds with stained bandages. She saw her father’s death; choked by the poison from his own hand. And then she saw the horrors of Peter’s death and Justin’s. She saw their end.

Emily peered over to the carousel horse and tried to trick herself into thinking the dim shine in its glassy eyes was life. Her heart ached. The storm would consume everything in its path. The green-armed monster
was
real after all, but it wasn’t living in the deepest dark of the service tunnels. It had been born in the southern bowels of the Atlantic Ocean, and had gained enough momentum to stir itself into a frenzy. When it was ready—only when it was ready—the storm was going to finish its ride up the east coast by squatting on their little town, spinning over it like a merry-go-round.

“Dad?” But he couldn’t answer. He’d stood up, his face blank. He waved her off, and she hoped that he was thinking, but his lips were still. A wet sheen covered his forehead, and he swiped at it impatiently. She saw Mr. Halcomb, and Peter peering up at him, wide-eyed, recognizing the panic, but waiting for him. Emily could read the intensity on their faces.

“Mr. Stark?” Mr. Halcomb asked. His voice was solemn and small. “Phil? Please tell us what to do.”

Emily saw the eagerness and the unfounded trust in their eyes. They were pleading that her father had the answers. She just wondered if he’d have the answers they needed to hear.

“Emily,” he finally said. His voice cracked.

“What is it, Dad?” But he stayed silent, searching again from face to face. A rise of anxiety grew hot in her chest. “Dad… please!”

“The service tunnels!” he answered. His voice sounded firm, committed.

“I know who you are,” a voice called out from behind the merry-go-round. “And I know what you did, too! You and all them other lab coats out there.”

Emily’s eyes fell on the band of four men. They held a cold stare on her father, but he didn’t notice. Lead by Jeter and his twin, the younger men followed. The men circled around the carousel, thick like tree trunks, their fists closed, their jackets already off. While her father stayed oblivious to the threat behind him, Peter straightened up, squaring his shoulders to theirs.

The bigger of the two men swung his beefy arms around, loosening his shoulders. The other man did the same and then rocked his head from side to side, crunching the stones in his neck.
They’re looking to fight
. Emily’s heart dropped, and she closed the distance to her father.

Her father offered a passing glance before continuing. “Emily, Peter—the service tunnels… the beaches and the—” her father’s voice ended with a crack and his body folded into a shallow pile onto the floor. Emily heard herself scream, and ran to stand between her father and the men. Instinct robbed any sense of fear, she only knew that she had to stand there, protect him.

Tree-trunk flared his round nostrils like a bull, satisfied. He kicked at the ground, stepping up to her, towering over her, reminding her of her insignificance. His hot breath hit her face, and a sudden fluttery brilliance bloomed in her belly. Terrified. Her knees became wobbly, and her insides crumbled. The shaking came next.

“You ain’t going anywhere,” Jeter hollered. “Except outside where ya belong! Son, hit him again.” Without hesitation, Jeter’s son swung his meaty hand, throwing it down like a hammer on her father’s head. Her father lost any possible recovery with the second hit. A torture of rage and shock spread through her, dousing the earlier panic.

“What are you doing?” she spat, dropping to her father’s side. His eyes swam dully, trying to focus. Peter was already standing, approaching the small band. “Why did you do that?”

“Jeter!” Mr. Halcomb screamed. “That’s enough!”

“Ain’t enough!” Jeter whistled through his gapped teeth. “Ain’t never gonna be enough!”

“You and your boys stop this!” Mr. Halcomb yelled.

The old man lifted his chin in a swift motion toward her father. “Seen that one… seen that one plenty of times. In and out of that infernal machine. Working it with them other ones.”

Mr. Halcomb cocked his head, trying to understand. He looked to Ms. Parks, and rubbed absently at his arms. “What are you talking about?”

“That man is responsible,” Jeter’s son answered. His voice matched his tree trunk build. “My pops says he’s one of them—so that means he can’t be one of us. He’s an outsider, and that’s where he’ll go. Outside.”

“Hold on,” Peter exclaimed, his voice warbled, disbelieving. He stepped forward, standing next to Mr. Halcomb. The second tree trunk moved, lining up next to the first. A standoff.

“We got ways of dealing with outsiders,” Jeter added.

Emily’s father twitched and then shook his head.
Please don’t move,
Emily begged in her mind
.
He pulled his arms in, pushing up, trying to get onto his feet. Jeter snapped his knobby fingers. The first tree trunk sent a balled fist down onto the middle of her father’s back. Air exploded out of him, flattening him to the floor. Emily covered him—more an instinct than bravery—shielding her father.

She splayed her hands against the mall’s floor, gripping the cold tile. A groan like she’d never heard before poured from her father’s lips. The trees cast their shadows in front of her. The bigger trunk—the one attacking—raised his hand again, reeling it back. Emily winced, and braced herself.

A blast of commotion flew over her head; the rush lifting her hair as it passed. Peter was gone from Mr. Halcomb’s side, and from behind her the commotion turned into the stressed sounds of men fighting.

Peter gripped the first tree trunk, holding him down on the floor. But the pinned man only laughed at Peter’s vain attempt. His fist was a blur, connecting with Peter’s face, snapping his head awkwardly to one side. The hit sent Peter flying onto his back, landing with a hollow thud.
Oh, Peter
, she thought solemnly. His eyes blinked desperately as though suddenly blinded by the sight above him. When his stare faded to an absent daze, he stopped moving.

“Please, no more!” Emily begged.