Harmonic: Resonance (9 page)

“That didn't happen to me with the guy in the clinic,” Powell said.

“It wasn’t like that with my wife in the church either, there was no feeling whatsoever.”

Powell retrieved cotton swabs and hydrogen peroxide from the kit, but when Sean rolled up his sleeve, there were no burn marks.

Sean frowned and turned his attention back to Sarah. “What’s happening?"

His question echoed in my mind, but I had no answer.

17 | Conduit

Over the next few weeks, the house became crowded. The dead had somehow discovered our sanctuary, and subsequently, the means with which to communicate with the living. The way that the mob in the church had fought over Haley, as a means to relay their messages and answer their questions, these new entities, some visible to us and some not, now pulled and fought over Sarah. There was nothing we could do but watch and read the relayed messages.

Accidental contact with the spirits caused physical harm, anything from a mild burning sensation to a sharp and sudden electrical shock, all seemingly corresponding to the entity’s opacity. Those like Sarah, who were beginning to look solid, reported, through signed translation, that they were becoming trapped—the ghostly objects, furniture, and walls that were materializing in
their
world, now imprisoned them like an electric fence. In response to their requests, the door was left open so that any who wished to leave were free to do so.

As our worlds converged, the dead seemed to materialize, losing their transparency. Day by day, their doll-like bodies more closely resembled the human form, the naked human form. As all became aware of the change, we were asked to set up a screen—it seems that even ghosts are bashful about nudity. Gary and Randall built a simple skeletal frame, using spare lumber from the barn. From the wooden frame, they hung curtains, obsolete in their intended function since the boarding up of all windows.

The ghosts had their privacy, and we had ours.

18 | Standoff

With the constant chaos of living with the dead, we had all but forgotten about the threat posed by the living, but as Gary had warned, it was only a matter of when.

After refueling the generator from the slip tank, Powell shouted through the open door that several vehicles were headed up the hill.

“Probably seen the smoke. Damn it,” Gary said, glancing at the fireplace.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“Whatever we have to,” Gary replied.

We followed Gary’s lead, retrieving our assigned weapons and dispersing to our preplanned positions. As we waited for the vehicles to make their long climb up the dirt road, Gary leaned his shotgun against the rear tire of my dad’s truck, walked around the truck, and out into the open. I peered over toward the barn and could just make out the crouched shape of a figure in the open doorway. If I had looked through the scope, I would have been able to make out Powell’s features and the make and model of the rifle in his hands—the thought of pointing a loaded rifle at another human being made my stomach churn. I glanced up at the gap between the boards fixed over the window of my father’s bedroom and saw the muzzle of a rifle staring out toward the road.

I adjusted my position in the long dry grass and focused on the approaching vehicles. Even through the scope, I could not make out the driver of either vehicle, although my mind raced to paint images behind the glass and steering wheel. Aside from the dust kicked up behind the truck and SUV, they didn’t seem to move at all.

The distant air shimmered in the scope as I watched for what felt like hours. When the sound of running engines reached my ears, it had to compete with the beat of my pounding pulse, thumping in my head and now visible in the scope as I tried to steady it on target. I readjusted my positioning on the diamond-hatched grip and stock. I had to remind myself to breathe, and to ignore the quiver in my bladder, as I worked through Gary’s plan in my mind.

The rifle in my hands was a bolt-action .308, as much kick and stopping power as my dad’s 12-gauge shotgun, but with greater range and accuracy according to Gary. Gary had warned that by the time I could ready the rifle for a second shot, the fight would probably be over, so I had to make my first shot count.

My part in the plan was to remain in cover with my rifle aimed at the first person to get out of the vehicle, and at the first signs of that man reaching for a weapon, I was to put a bullet through his shoulder. In the following chaos, Gary would take cover behind the truck and retrieve the shotgun.

This scenario had been drawn out like a football play and rehearsed many times. Our coach had explained each of our positions on the team, from the first shot,
my shot
, to the covering fire from the upper window and the crossfire from the barn. Gary was to collect the shotgun and circle around to the back of the vehicle or, as in this case, vehicles, and finish the play.

In the planning and rehearsal, it felt more like boys playing war games, and when I caught the preacher’s eyes on us, I felt ashamed and embarrassed, like a child on the cusp of being too old for toys, having been caught playing make-believe. Randall took no part in the planning or the war games, and during the standoff, he was to remain inside to keep Haley safe, at Sean’s request.

The reality of aiming a gun at another person was very different from thinking about it. The truck slowed to a crawl and crunched to a halt on the dry dirt, around ten feet away from where Gary stood waiting. My hands were trembling so violently and uncontrollably that it would have taken a great deal of luck to land a shot in the broadside of the barn, and a minor miracle to place a shot in a man’s shoulder. I was terrified at the thought of missing the shot, and equally, if not more, terrified at the thought of making it.

The driver’s door opened and the large hard-faced man I was expecting turned out to be a woman. She was dressed for warmth, not combat, and wore a pleading expression. A sickly feeling crept up inside me as I watched through the scope, and I removed my finger from the trigger, letting it rest outside the trigger guard. As Gary and the dark-haired woman conversed, I watched, wishing I had the ability to read lips like Haley, to know what they were saying, to know if the threat was over.

The woman signaled to the truck. A man and a boy stepped from around the passenger side; the man was limping and the boy, no more than Haley’s age, was trying to help support the man’s weight.

The windows on the second vehicle were dark, too dark to see inside. Part of me expected all of the doors of the SUV to open at once and a group of armed men to jump out, but the driver door opened slowly, and an older man stepped out from behind it with his hands up and palms facing Gary. Seconds later, the passenger door opened and a gray-haired female stepped around the door and joined the driver.

At Gary’s signal, Powell made his way toward the group, all the while maintaining the feigned, yet convincing, posture of a soldier. Gary gestured toward the SUV, and Powell peered in past the driver door over the sights of the now raised rifle in his hands. He pulled at the rear door handle, reset his grip on the rifle, and opened the door all the way with his foot before turning to Gary and mouthing something inaudible. After checking the trunk of the SUV and the bed of the truck, Powell lowered his rifle, and Gary raised his arm, giving the thumbs-up signal I had been silently praying for.

I thumbed the safety switch and breathed a long shaking sigh. I took a minute to calm my nerves enough to move, then slung the rifle over my shoulder, and made my way toward the group, all the while reciting silent prayers of gratitude for not having been tested on my willingness to pull the trigger.

Gary retrieved the shotgun and met me on my approach, while Powell stayed with the new group.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Just people, same as us. They’ve got no place to go and they’re hungry,” Gary said.

“Where have they been living until now?” I asked.

“She says they were at a makeshift shelter on the other side of town. They were asked to leave because there wasn’t enough food for everyone.”

“Are there going to be more coming here?” I asked.

“I didn’t get that far. Her husband’s injured, busted his leg in a car wreck. I say we let them stay until his leg’s healed, but it’s your house, your call.” He studied my face for a second, and seemingly in response to one of a thousand questions replaying in my mind, he added, “They seem like genuine people; they’re unarmed, and the boy looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. If nothing else, we should get them fed and fueled up.”

I gave a long look to our new guests—their expressions mirrored my own lingering apprehension, all except the boy, who stood smiling with a raised hand. I followed his gaze to the house, where Haley stood in the open doorway, waving back at him. “We can’t just turn them away, so I guess we should bring them inside,” I said. “But we should probably warn them about our
other
guests.”

Gary nodded. “We should put out that fire too.”

19 | Grounding

They introduced themselves as Owen and Kate—their son’s name was Kyle, and the older man and woman were Kate’s parents, Abigail and Samuel. In the house, they stayed together as a family, but not at the expense of common courtesy. They, in turn, offered to help with the running of the house to pay their way, but the general consensus was that they settle in and rest for a few days before any thought would be given to roles, responsibilities, or compensation. They spared no opportunity to extend their gratitude for having been allowed to stay and share our food, and even though we couldn’t offer anything more comfortable than sleeping bags for bedding, they were glad of the warmth and shelter. They each told stories about where they had been before, and all of those stories shared a common thread. Their previous shelter had been cold, without power, filled beyond capacity, and beyond the group’s means for survival. Among the shelter’s number, there had been a dominating group who had taken it upon themselves to discriminate between those who were of use to the group and those who were not. The common denominator shared between those who had been selected for eviction was their skin color. This deciding factor had propelled Kate and her family to the top of the list to be ostracized, forcing them to find shelter elsewhere.

As I listened to their stories, I was reminded of Gary’s warning, “It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

***

Without x-rays, it would be left to a “best guess” as to the condition of Owen’s leg, but Powell splinted and wrapped the leg as though it had been a clean break and said we should keep an eye on it to make sure it was healing properly. Being included in the process made me feel special, like a trainee nurse, although it was probably only a second pair of hands that Powell needed, and I had already proven myself as a good helper back at the church.

While Powell finished, my attention drifted around the room, settling on Haley’s smiling face. She was sitting on the floor with Kyle, both of them cross-legged and facing each other, passing notes back and forth. These new guests had somehow transformed my house back into what now felt like a home, but the feeling was bittersweet.

I slunk away while Powell went over the protocols of aftercare and recovery with Owen, and I opted to refuel the generator, as much for the necessity of the task as for the moment’s peace and solitude.

A few minutes into the job, Powell appeared and joined me at the slip tank.

“I thought I was on generator duty today?”

“You were busy socializing; figured I’d pick up your slack,” I replied with a smile.

“I can’t help being so popular and charming.”

“Did you come out here to gloat or to help?”

“Looks like you’ve got it under control. Maybe I’ll slack off for a while and watch you work,” he said through what was becoming a familiar smirk.

I shook my head. “How long will it take for Owen’s leg to heal?”

“It usually takes eight to ten weeks to heal a break,” he said.

“My house is getting to be as full-up as the church was. They all seem like good people though, don’t they?” My question was posed rhetorically, but in truth, I was asking for reassurance.

Powell responded as I had hoped he would. “They’re all harmless, as far as I can tell.”

“I keep wishing that things could go back to the way they were, but honestly, all I want is for my dad to come back. Haley’s mom came back, why hasn’t my dad? Or
my
mom?”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I wish I knew the rules. Whatever is happening, there’s no logic to it that I can see.”

“They’re beginning to look like us, the ghosts I mean, they seem to be getting clearer every day; they look almost as real as we do,” I said.

For a moment, we stared at each other in silence, before he offered to take over the pump. I stood, pulled off my gloves, and offered them to him. He shook his head, and I set them back down on the slip tank. I spent the remainder of the job making wisecracks about his technique, but he took it in good humor, giving as good as he got during the playful banter.