FRIDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER 1998 — CEDAR AVENUE — 4:32pm
He turned onto Cedar Avenue and the world he knew was gone.
Not gone. Changed. The street was still there. The houses were still there. The pavement was still there, the same cracked slabs he'd walked every morning since he was seven. But everything else was wrong.
Cars sat at strange angles in the road. One had its front end buried in a hedge, the engine dead, the driver's door hanging open like a broken wing. Another was on its side near the corner, its wheels still turning — slowly, the last spin of a coin before it settled. Glass glittered on the tarmac in a carpet of tiny mirrors. A mailbox had been knocked flat, letters spilling into the gutter. Someone's bin was lying in the middle of the road, rubbish scattered, a cloud of flies buzzing above it in the ash-gold light. Further down, a column of black smoke rose from somewhere beyond the rooftops, thick and greasy, smearing the sky. The air tasted of ash and something sharper — petrol, maybe, or burning plastic.
The song in his ears had changed. "Iris" had ended somewhere back near the school. The tape had clicked over to the next track. Guitars came in — bright, jangling, a beat he could feel in his chest. The Gin Blossoms. "Follow You Down." Jamie had put it on the mixtape last summer. He said it was a love song. Owen had never really listened to the words.
“Did you see the sky? I think it means that we've been lost..”
He didn't look up.
This is from the riots. The news said there were riots downtown. They must have spread up here.
He kept walking. The headphones pressed against his ears. The world swam, gold and slate bleeding into each other. His broken glasses were somewhere back in the school corridor. His spare pair was on his nightstand. He just had to get there. His pace was a little faster than normal. Not much. Just enough. A cold spot had opened in his chest, small and tight, like a stitch from running.
The shape in the garden to his left was a gardener to him. A man on his hands and knees in the flower bed. His work shirt dark with something that had soaked through the fabric. His head down. His shoulders moving in a steady, unhurried rhythm. Weeding, maybe. Planting bulbs for the autumn. Owen didn't look twice.
The face in the upstairs window of the house across the street watched him pass. Grey. Pressed against the glass. The hands against the pane left smears where they pressed. He kept walking.
The dark gap between two houses — an alley, narrow and deep — held a figure. Still. Waiting. Its head turned as he passed. Its mouth opened. A low sound came out — swallowed by the jangling guitars. It took a step toward the street. Then another. The movement didn't register.
Behind him, the girl from the alcove rounded the corner. Her jumper sleeves dragging on the tarmac. Then Mr. Hendry, his tie stiff and dark, his jaw working in small automatic circles. Then the boy with the handbag, the leather strap still wrapped around his wrist. The procession was growing. They walked in silence at his back, a slow tide filling the pavement, their feet dragging on the asphalt.
Owen's pace quickened again. He didn't notice. The cold spot in his chest was bigger now, pressing outward against his ribs. The music helped. The music always helped.
The bus stop shelter stood at the corner. The same shelter from this morning. The same grimy timetable behind plastic. The same Umbrella Health poster peeling at one corner. Your Partner in Community Wellness.
The bench was occupied.
A woman was slumped there. She was wearing a pale blouse, stained dark at the collar. One shoe on. The other foot bare, the skin grey against the pavement. Her head was down. Her hair hung across her face in lank curtains.
The same woman from this morning. She's still here. Still here. Why is she still here?
She wasn't alone. There was someone else on the ground in front of her. A man. He was on his back. His jacket was torn open. The white of his shirt was dark with red. The woman's head was bent over him. Her shoulders moved with that steady rhythm — the same rhythm Owen had seen in the garden, hadn't registered, didn't have a name for.
His stomach turned. The cold thing in him coiled tighter. He's hurt. From the riots. She's helping him. She's leaning over him. She's helping. That's what that is. Help.
He didn't believe it. He knew he didn't believe it. But the music filled his head. The guitars kept jangling. The woman was a smear of pale and dark. The man on the ground was a shape. He couldn't see what she was doing. He didn't want to see.
I should help. I should stop. If someone's hurt, you're supposed to help. That's what Mum says. That's what Mrs. Calloway says. You see someone on the ground and you get an adult. You call an ambulance. You do something. But I can't see. I can't hear. I don't even have my glasses. What am I supposed to do? I'm twelve. I can't carry anyone. I can't fix anyone. Mum will know. Mum will help. I just have to get to Mum.
He walked past. Faster now. Definitely faster.
The woman's head lifted. Her mouth was red and slick. There were pieces of something between her teeth. She saw Owen — a small shape, moving, headphones on, walking with the hurried step of someone who was scared and didn't know it. She stood up. She left the man on the ground, his chest still open, his eyes still open, and stepped out of the shelter. She began to follow.
The procession grew by one.
The corner shop was dark. The windows were smashed. The OPEN sign was off. Boxes and cans had spilled across the pavement outside. A shape moved in the darkness beyond the broken glass — unhurried, patient, pressing against the window frame. It watched the boy walk past. Then it pushed its way through the shattered frame and out onto the pavement. It joined the procession.
The bins were still there. The ones beside the side door. The ones where Arthur always sat.
Arthur wasn't there.
The top of the bin was empty. No fat orange tom. No torn ear. No tail wrapped around his body. No slow blink of green eyes. Just the bin. Just the metal lid, slightly askew. And on the ground beside it, a small dark stain. Fresh. Still wet. A few tufts of orange fur, matted and dark, caught on the edge of the metal.
Owen's eyes passed over it without stopping. The bin was a shape. The stain was a shadow. Arthur's probably inside. Arthur's somewhere else. He's always here. Every morning he's here. Why isn't he here? He's inside. He has to be inside. He's fine. I'll see him tomorrow. I'll scratch his head and he'll purr the way he always purrs. He's fine. He has to be fine. Please be fine.
His chest was tighter now. The cold spot had grown teeth, was gnawing at the base of his stomach. He walked faster. He didn't look back.
Behind him, the procession passed the same spot. No one looked down.
Benny's house was the third on the left after the corner shop. The one with the blue shutters and the basketball hoop over the garage. The net was frayed — it had been frayed all summer. Benny kept saying his dad was going to fix it.
The shutters were closed. The curtains were drawn. No lights inside. No car in the driveway. The front door was shut.
Benny's not home. He went to his nan's. He said she had chickens. Mean ones. He said they chase you around the garden. He's probably there. In the garden. With the chickens. Running away from the chickens. Laughing. He's fine. He has to be fine. Benny's always fine. He makes jokes about everything. Even when his neck was hurting this morning. Even when he said he wasn't hungry anymore. He was still joking. He's fine.
The handprint on the garage door was small. Child-sized. Dried brownish red. The smear where it had slid down, where someone had fallen and tried to push themselves up, was darker at the edges. Owen's shoes scuffed on the pavement. He was almost jogging now. The world bounced in his vision — trees and houses and wrecked cars bleeding into one another, a shaking smear of gold and grey.
Michael's house was two blocks further. The one with the white fence and the flower pots on the front step. Michael's mum was always planting things. Geraniums. Marigolds. Things that flowered in September.
The flower pots were overturned. Soil spilled across the step like a grave had been dug and abandoned. The white fence had a broken slat, the wood splintered outward as if something had pushed through from the other side. The front door was open — not wide, just a few inches. Darkness inside. A hand was visible in the gap. Grey fingers. Curled around the edge of the door. The hand didn't move. It just held on, as if the person it belonged to had been standing there for hours, waiting for something to walk past.
Michael's at his dad's garage. Learning about transmissions. He said he was going to drop something else. A wrench. He dropped a wrench in the oil pan last time. His dad had to fish it out with a magnet. Took an hour. He still talks about it. That's what Michael's doing right now. Fishing out a wrench. Laughing about it.
The hand in the doorway stayed where it was as he passed. Then the door opened wider. A shape stepped out — a woman, her dressing gown dark with stains, her wrist bleeding where she'd scratched it raw. She joined the procession.
His breath was louder now. The cold air burned his throat. His foot caught on an uneven slab of pavement and he stumbled, caught himself on a garden wall, kept going. Slow down. You're going to fall. But she's been waiting so long. But I can't see. Slow down. But I have to get there. She'll be wondering where I am. She'll be checking her watch. She'll be worried. I have to get there.
Maya's house was on the corner before the big intersection. The one with the porch swing and the wind chimes. The chimes were still there, hanging from the eaves. They moved in the breeze but made no sound — the guitars in his ears swallowed everything.
The porch swing was empty. The lights were off. The curtains were drawn.
Maya's not home. She's — where is she? She was at school. She wrote me the note. She said she'd come back. She said —
He stopped walking. Just for a second. Just long enough to stare at the dark windows, the empty swing, the blood on the porch step that was only a shadow to him. The note was in his pocket. The note said I love you. The note said please go home. Maya had been coughing up blood. Maya had dragged him into the storage room. Maya had written her name at the bottom because she wanted him to know it was from her.
She's probably inside. Resting. She was sick. She needs to rest. She'll be better tomorrow. I'll see her tomorrow. She'll sit next to me in class and hold my sleeve at break and everything will be normal. She has to be there. She wrote me a note and she said she loved me and she has to be there.
“Maybe there's a way out, but I don't see it...”
The song sang the words. Owen didn't hear them. He was already walking again, faster than before, his heart knocking against his ribs, his legs tired, the world a smear of ash and gold. He was almost running. The wind chimes moved in a breeze that didn't reach his face. The small handprint on the porch step — trembling, familiar, the same hand that had left the print on the note — was invisible to him.
I'll come back for her. I'll tell Mum and we'll come back. Mum will know what to do. Mum always knows what to do. I'll come back. I promise I'll come back.
The old oak tree loomed ahead. Its branches thick with leaves that were only just beginning to turn. The canopy hung low over the pavement, the same as it had this morning.
The shape was still in the fork of the lower branches.
It had been there this morning. Owen had walked under it without looking up. Jamie had been talking — something about Crash Bandicoot, something about staying up too late. The shape had been a dark mass then, too large for a bird, too still for a squirrel.
Now it was moving.
Slowly. Shifting its weight. A leg hung down from the branches. A bare foot. Grey. The toes twitched. The sole was dark with dried blood. The shape was trying to get down. It had been up there all day — since the outbreak, since the screaming, since the world ended while Owen slept. It had climbed up to escape something. Or been chased. And now it was coming down. The branches creaked. The leaves rustled.
“Stumbling in a haze...”
Owen walked under the tree. The canopy was a wash of green and shadow. He didn't look up. His feet caught on a raised slab of pavement — he stumbled again, his arms pinwheeling for balance, caught himself on a lamppost. The metal was freezing under his palm. He pushed off it and kept walking. The shadow of the tree passed over him and was gone.
At his back, the shape dropped from the branches onto the pavement. It landed badly — one leg buckling, the ankle turning with a sick crack. It didn't notice. It stood up, swaying. A child. Year 4 maybe. School jumper torn. One shoe missing. Its face was grey. Its eyes were fixed on the boy walking away. It began to walk. It joined the procession.
The milk float was still at the kerb. The same float from this morning. But its engine had died. The low electric hum that had been running when Owen passed it hours ago was gone. The back was still full of bottles, crates of them, the glass catching the pale gold light. The milk had spoiled. The bottles were clouded, the cream separated.
The driver's door was open. The seat was empty. A bottle lay on its side on the pavement, milk pooled in a white puddle.
The postman was no longer in the driveway.
He had been standing in the driveway this morning — frozen, staring at the red front door of the neat brick house, letters fanned out in his hand, his face blank. Now he was in the middle of the road. Walking. Slow. Unhurried. His bag was still slung over his shoulder. His letters were scattered on the pavement behind him — a trail of white envelopes, some smeared with red, leading back to the driveway where he'd been standing for hours before something finally made him move.
His face was grey. The skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones. His eyes were fixed on the small shape walking down the centre of the road. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. A low sound came out — not a moan, not a word, just air moving through a throat that had forgotten how to speak. His feet dragged on the tarmac. His bag bumped against his hip with every step.
The postman. He's still delivering. He's still doing his job. Someone should tell him to go home. Someone should pick up his letters. They're getting ruined. They're all over the road. Someone's going to be waiting for those letters. Someone's going to be wondering why they never came.
I should pick them up. I should help him. He looks — he looks wrong. He looks like he needs help. But I can't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't stop. If I stop, I'll fall apart. If I stop, I'll never start again. I'm sorry.
He walked past. The postman turned. His hands reached out — the fingers grey, the nails dark — and he fell into step behind the others.
The red front door he'd been staring at all morning was open now. The geraniums on the step had been knocked over. The soil was scattered across the concrete like something had been dragged through it. Something had come out. Or something had gone in. The darkness inside the house shifted and settled.
The junction at Cedar and Wilson. The four-way intersection. The traffic lights were dead — black glass, no power. The pedestrian crossing was silent. And in the middle of the road, a city bus was on its side.
It had crashed into the corner of the pharmacy. The front end was crumpled against the brick, the metal folded like paper. The windscreen was a web of fractures, the glass bulging outward where bodies had pressed against it from inside. The side windows were smashed out. Glass covered the tarmac in a glittering carpet that crunched under his shoes. The bus's wheels were still, the undercarriage dark with oil and something thicker that had pooled beneath it and begun to congeal at the edges.
Shapes moved inside. Arms reaching through shattered windows — grey arms, bloodied arms, arms that had been smashing at the glass for hours. Heads turning toward him. Faces — grey, empty, hungry — pressing against the gaps in the metal. The emergency exit at the back was open. A figure was crawling out — slowly, its legs dragging, its hands scraping on the tarmac. Its fingers were worn down to the bone from pulling itself across the road.
There are people in there. Hurt people. They're trying to get out. They need help. They need someone to call an ambulance. They need someone to pull them out. I should help. I should at least look. I should at least see if they're okay.
But if I look, I'll see. And if I see, I'll have to do something. And I can't do anything. I don't have my glasses. I can't hear. I'm just a kid. I'm just a kid with a Walkman and bleeding hands and I can't do anything. I'm useless. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
The thought was sharp and mean and true. He walked around the bus. He had to step off the pavement. His foot sank into something soft. He didn't look down. Don't look. Just walk. She's been waiting so long. Don't look. I'm sorry.
“In a cold dark place...”
The figures in the bus saw him. The figures began to move toward the emergency exit. They crawled over seats and bodies and shattered glass. They were slow. They would follow.
The Humvee was stopped in the middle of the road. Desert camo. The back was open. The canvas flap hung loose, snapping in the cold breeze.
There were soldiers on the ground near the truck. Two of them. Their uniforms were torn — the fabric ripped at the shoulders, at the chest, dark with blood. Their helmets were still on, the chin straps dangling. One was on his back, his chest rising and falling with that relentless rhythm — not breathing, just moving, his hands opening and closing on nothing, his fingers scraping at the tarmac. The other was standing near the truck's cab, swaying, his head tilted at an angle that wasn't right. His neck was torn. The wound was black and glistening. His rifle was still slung over his shoulder.
The National Guard. They're here to help. They're supposed to help. That's their job. They help people. But they're — they're not helping. They're — what's wrong with them? Why are they just standing there? Someone should check on them. Someone should see if they're okay. But I can't. I can't. I'm sorry. I'm just a kid. I'm sorry.
The soldier standing near the cab turned his head. His face was grey. The skin was peeling back from his cheek in strips. His eyes were fixed and glassy. He saw Owen — a small blur of movement on the pavement, the only living thing moving on this street. He took a step. His boot caught on a piece of debris. He stumbled, caught himself on the truck's hood, and kept walking. His hand left a dark print on the metal.
They're here. They're containing it. Someone else will help them. Someone bigger. Someone who can see. I just have to get home. Mum will know what to do. Mum always knows.
Owen walked past. His pace was a jog now, his backpack bouncing, the wolf clinking. The soldier followed. The soldier on the ground stirred. His hands stopped opening and closing on nothing. He rolled onto his side. He pushed himself up. He stood. He joined the procession.
A patrol car was pulled up at the kerb. The lights on the roof were still flashing — blue and red, blue and red — but the siren was silent. The driver's door was open. The radio inside crackled with static.
An officer was on the pavement near the car. He was on his knees. His uniform was torn at the shoulder. His cap lay in the gutter. His head was down. His shoulders moved with that rhythm. His hands were inside something on the ground. The something had been a person.
Nearby, a fire engine had nosed into a hedgerow. The ladder was partially extended, frozen. A firefighter was sitting on the kerb. His head in his hands. His shoulders shaking. His helmet had rolled into the gutter. He was making a sound — low, rhythmic, unending. He was weeping. Or he was eating. It was impossible to tell.
The police. The fire department. They're supposed to help. That's their whole job. Helping people. But they're — they're on the ground. They're — what's wrong with them? What happened? What happened while I was asleep?
The officer on his knees lifted his head. His mouth was dark. His eyes found Owen. He stood up. He began to walk.
The firefighter lifted his head too. His face was grey. There were tears on his cheeks. Or blood. He stood. His harness clinked. He began to walk. The officer's partner pushed open the passenger door and stepped out, unsteady, his head rolling on his neck. He joined them.
Someone should help them. Someone should — I should — I can't. I can't help anyone. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just want my mum. I just want to go home. Please let me get home.
Owen was nearly running now. His breath came in gasps. The cold air burned. The world shook with every step. His right knee was starting to ache — a warning, not pain yet. Get home. Get home. Get home.
He was halfway down the last block before his street. The houses were familiar now. The Millers' house was three minutes away. Four minutes. He was almost home. He was almost —
His foot caught on something. A chunk of broken kerb. His ankle turned. The world tilted. He went down hard.
His hands hit the pavement first. The impact jarred through his wrists, up his arms, into his shoulders. His right knee slammed into the tarmac. A bolt of pain shot up his leg, white and hot. The headphone jack yanked loose from the Walkman and the music cut out — the guitars replaced by a blast of cold silence, the world rushing back in a roar of sirens and barking and the thud of the helicopter — and he heard it.
Behind him. A shuffle. A wet step. A low, thick sound that wasn't a voice and wasn't breathing and was so much closer than it should be.
He fumbled for the jack. His hands were shaking. His right palm was scraped raw, the skin torn, blood welling up through the grit. He couldn't get the jack back into the socket. The sounds behind him were getting closer. His fingers were slick and clumsy. Come on. Come on. He forced it in — shoved it — and the guitars crashed back in and the world went silent again.
“I'll follow you...”
He pushed himself up onto his knees. His right knee screamed. His trousers were torn — the fabric ripped across the kneecap, the skin beneath scraped and bleeding. A small dark stain was already spreading through the grey cotton. He looked down. His left shoelace was undone. It had come loose during the fall. The lace was frayed at the ends.
He grabbed it. His fingers slipped. The blood made everything slick. He tried again. The bunny ears. The loop. Pull it through. His hands were shaking too hard. The loop came undone. He tried again. It came undone again.
"Come ON," he heard himself say. The word was loud in his throat, swallowed by the music. He never swore. He wanted to swear now. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something. His hands were bleeding. His knee was bleeding. He was kneeling in the middle of the pavement with his chest heaving and he couldn't tie his stupid shoelace and Mum was waiting and he was so close and somewhere behind him people were hurt and he wasn't helping them. He wasn't helping anyone. He was just trying to get home. That was all he ever did. Try to get home. And he couldn't even do that without falling over.
Stop. Stop. Breathe. Do it again. You're almost there. She's waiting. Just tie the lace. Just get up. Just get home. You can fall apart when you get home. Just not yet. Not yet.
He tried again. The loop. Pull it through. Please. Please hold.
It held.
He pulled the lace tight. The knot was ugly, crooked, already threatening to slip. He didn't care. He pushed himself up onto his feet. His right leg buckled — the knee screaming — and he caught himself on a garden wall. The bricks were cold and rough against his bleeding palm. He stood there for a second, breathing hard, the music filling his head, the world shaking, everything smeared light. His hand left a red print on the brick.
They were so close now. The girl from the alcove. Mr. Hendry. The boy with the handbag. The bus stop woman. The shape from the oak tree. The soldier. The police officer. The firefighter. The postman. The woman from Michael's doorway. The woman from the garden. The figure from the bus. They had been following him for over a mile. They had been walking while he walked. And when he fell, they kept walking. Ten feet away. Eight feet. The girl from the alcove was reaching. Her grey fingers were inches from his hair.
He pushed off the wall and started walking. Limping. His right leg dragging slightly. His scraped hand leaving small red prints on the garden walls he passed. But moving. Getting home.
The girl's hand closed on empty air. She kept following. The gap widened again — not by much. A few feet. Enough.
He didn't look back. He didn't know. He was thinking about Mum. He was thinking about the spare glasses on his nightstand. He was thinking about his bleeding hands and his torn trousers and how she was going to look at him when he walked through the door. I'm sorry. I fell. I ruined my trousers. I'm sorry about this morning. I didn't mean what I said. I'll drink the water. I'll do anything. Just please be there. Please be there.
He turned onto his street.
The Millers' street. The modest two rows of houses. The neat lawns. The trimmed hedges. The basketball hoop over the Hendersons' garage — the net still frayed, still unfixed. The mailboxes at the end of the paths.
Everything was still. Everything was silent. The Henderson kids weren't arguing about the front seat. Their tricycle lay on its side in the driveway, one wheel still. No one had picked it up. The basketball sat in the middle of the lawn, motionless, where it had rolled when they dropped it and ran.
Mrs. Dey's house was on the corner. The green coat with the wooden buttons wasn't hanging on the hook by the door. The terrier wasn't barking. The lead was lying on the front path, still attached to the collar. The collar was attached to nothing. The lead stretched across the concrete, limp and empty.
Mrs. Dey must be inside. The dog must be inside. Everyone's inside. Because of the riots. They're sheltering. That's what you do. You stay inside. You stay safe. If you're inside, you're safe. That's what you're supposed to do. Everyone's inside. Everyone's safe. I'm almost home. Mum's inside. She's safe. She has to be safe.
The dark stain on the path near the lead was a patch of damp to him. A shadow. The small shape in the flower bed — brown and white, motionless, the fur matted with red — didn't register. The world was soft at the edges, dissolving. He limped past.
He walked down the centre of his street. His street. His home. The houses were soft at the corners, bleeding into the lawns. The Umbrella billboard at the end of the road was still there — Bright Raccoon 21 — Building Tomorrow Together. The family was still smiling. The poster was still peeling at the corner. But someone had driven a car through the bottom of it. The metal frame was bent. The tyres had left tracks across the grass. The smiling mother's face was spattered with something dark.
He passed the blood on the pavement near the Hendersons' drive without noticing. The open door of the house three doors down, the darkness inside, the hand gripping the doorframe — all invisible to him. The shapes in the windows — faces, grey and still, watching him through the glass. Hands pressing against the panes. Curtains twitching from the weight of bodies pushing against them. A face in an upstairs window — Mrs. Patterson, the woman in the apron, her head turning to follow the small limping figure.
The woman standing in her front garden never moved. Perfectly still. Facing the house. Arms at her sides. Head tilted slightly, as if listening for something. She didn't turn when he passed. She didn't follow. She just stood there, motionless, a grey-faced statue in a flower-print dress. Owen's mind made her a garden ornament. He limped past. She didn't move.
His hands left small red smears on his trousers as he walked.
Behind him, the street was filling.
The girl from the alcove. Mr. Hendry, his tie brushing the hedge. The boy with the handbag, the strap still wrapped around his wrist. The bus stop woman, her blouse catching the golden light. The shape from the oak tree — the child with one shoe missing. The soldier, his rifle still slung over his shoulder. The police officer, his cap still lying in the gutter behind him. The firefighter, his harness dragging. The postman, his letters scattered behind him like breadcrumbs. The woman from Michael's doorway. The woman from the garden. The figures from the bus. The soldier from the ground.
More now. The faces from the windows, pushing through doors, stepping off porches. The hand from the dark house — a man in a suit, his tie loosened. Shapes from the alleys — narrow dark gaps where something had been waiting all afternoon. Mrs. Patterson, stepping out of her doorway, her apron stiff with blood. A teenager in a letterman jacket — not Jamie, someone else's brother. Children. Neighbours. Strangers. A child in a Raccoon Sharks sweatshirt, clutching a red plastic truck, the wheels still clicking, still spinning, still making the sound they'd made when it was alive.
They filled the street from kerb to kerb. A slow tide. A gathering horde. A hundred grey faces. A hundred pairs of reaching hands. They didn't call out. They didn't scream. They just walked — patient, mindless, tireless — following the limping boy with the headphones who didn't know they were there.
“Anywhere you go, I'll follow you down...”
The Millers' house.
The front path. The step where he'd stood this morning, watching his mother's car pull away, waiting for her wave that didn't come. The blue Ford was in the driveway. She'd made it home. The driver's door was open. The interior light was on, a dim orange glow against the grey afternoon. There was blood on the seat. A dark smear on the headrest. A handprint on the window — small, trembling, hers. It had slid down the glass and dried there.
Owen's eyes gave him the car as a blue blur. The open door as a shape. The blood as a shadow. She's home. The car's here. She's inside. She's been waiting. She's probably in the kitchen. She's going to say my name. I'm going to say I'm sorry.
He limped up the path. His shoes on the concrete. The wolf on his backpack clinked against the zip. The note was in the front pocket. The spare glasses were on his nightstand. His hands were bleeding. His knee was bleeding. The door was closed. The windows were dark. No lights on inside. The garage door was shut. The blue Ford sat in the driveway, its interior light still burning, its driver's door still open, the blood on the seat still wet.
She's inside. She's waiting. She said we'd talk about it later. She's in the kitchen. She's going to say my name the way she says it when I'm in trouble — Owen — and I'm going to say I'm sorry. I'm going to tell her about the note. I'm going to tell her about Maya. I'm going to tell her about the people on the street who need help. She'll know what to do. She always knows what to do. She'll call someone. She'll fix everything. She has to be there. She has to.
The music warped. The guitars wavered, their pitch dropping, then steadied. The batteries. They were dying. A cold spike of fear went through him — sharper than anything he'd felt on the walk. Not yet. Please not yet. Just get inside. Just get to Mum. Then they can die. Just not yet.
The music held. The guitars kept playing. The voice kept singing.
He put his hand on the door handle. His bleeding fingers left a red print on the brass.
Behind him, the horde filled the street. The girl from the alcove was at the garden gate, her hands pressing against the wood. Mr. Hendry was at the front path. The boy with the handbag was on the lawn. The bus stop woman was in the middle of the road. The soldier was on the grass. The police officer was at the kerb. The firefighter was near the driveway. The postman was at the gatepost. The shape from the oak tree was at the mailbox. The woman from the garden was on the neighbour's lawn. The teenager in the letterman jacket was at the fence. The child with the red truck was at the hedge, the wheels still clicking, the sound swallowed by the music.
More behind them. Faces from the windows. Figures from the alleys. Shapes from the wreckage. The whole neighbourhood. Every person who had died on Cedar Avenue in the last eight hours. Every person who had turned and risen and fed and waited. They had followed him for over a mile. They had joined from houses and alleys and wrecked cars and dark windows. And now they were here, outside his house, reaching for him, as he pushed the door open.
He didn't look back.
The door swung inward. The house was dark. The house was silent. The house was waiting.
He stepped inside. His limp carried him over the threshold. His bleeding hand left a small red print on the doorframe.
Behind him, the dead filled the street. They reached the garden gate. They pressed against the hedge. They walked onto the lawn. Their feet left prints on the grass. Their hands brushed the walls of the house. They pressed against the door. Their fingers scratched at the wood — grey fingers, broken nails, bloodless skin. The girl from the alcove was at the doorstep. Mr. Hendry was at the window. The soldier was on the lawn, swaying. The children were near the fence. The postman was at the gatepost. The bus stop woman was in the drive. The woman in the flower-print dress was still standing in her garden, still motionless, still facing her house, still not following. The only one who hadn't moved.
They were all there. The whole neighbourhood. The whole horde. They didn't stop. They didn't call out. They just waited — patient, mindless, tireless — as the door swung shut behind him.
The latch clicked.
The song ended. The Walkman went silent. The batteries gave out.
The street was full of the dead. The house was dark. Owen was inside.
He still didn't know.7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsphjEkoWy4
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