Edward had no idea how far off course he'd gotten when the air began to shift.
The town was quiet, in that strange way that always seemed to be a little wrong. No one. No automobiles. Not even the hum of the power lines carried in the distance. He'd been out too long along the city sidewalks downtown, wandering, trying to decide what to do next—go to the hospital against Kyle's advice, or just head home and pretend, tonight, that it wasn't occurring at all.
He chose home. Not the rational choice, but since there was nothing else he could possibly do for Sam that wasn't already being done by the hospital staff, going home was all that remained. That truth seared his chest as he walked. He disliked it. Disliked to consider doing what was right and withdrawing. But continuing on now would hurt them both more.
The sun was already below the hills, and with it, the last pretense of safety.
He passed by restaurants and shops with shutters closed over the windows. All but a few of the windows had scribbled messages taped behind them—CLOSED FOR SANITIZATION, SEE YOU SOON, GOD BLESS. Fibs, probably. The town wasn't getting over this.
Edward hunched, his fists shoved into the pockets of his coat. He jerked away, reflexively, but it didn't matter. The tension was physical now, a burden draped across his shoulders, heavy on his back.
In the distance, engines roared and shook the air like thunder bottled up in concrete. Two behemoths occupied Main Street just short of the easterly turnoff—CDC or military, he couldn't determine. Blacked-out windows, floodlights mounted on their hoods casting long white shafts into the fog.
There were men on both sides of the vehicles. Not lounging—standing for a purpose. One man pointed strongly toward a map affixed to a clipboard, posture stiff as another spoke on a radio strapped to his jacket. A third man kneeled at the sidewalk, spilling out what seemed to be a cable strand onto the highway. They were not setting up checkpoints.
They were obstructing the exits.
Edward moved out of sight, then crept into the side street.
And as he headed west, he observed the same on the next block: another truck, this one driven through the intersection seemingly at ease—like it had pulled over wherever. But cones were already down alongside the tires, and a woman in a gray tactical vest was talking quietly into a satellite phone, glancing around as if she didn't want to be seen.
By the time he'd made it to the residential part of Fir Avenue, he'd counted at least five separate roadblocks. Not subtle ones. Not ones you'd have to be actively looking for to even see. But once he'd caught the pattern—cars parked strategically, access roads cut by plainclothesmen in headphones and steel-toed boots—he couldn't help but notice.
They were barricading the town.
Not suddenly. Not loudly. But slowly. Intentionally. Like a man tightening a cord, notch by notch.
He crossed the street and quickened his stride. Home was only eight blocks away now. But each one of them was starting to take longer than the previous one.
Midblock on Ash Street, he walked by a still-occupied house. Blinds had fallen down, dividing the interior like an open wound. A woman in the kitchen window stayed immobile, gazing out. Did not blink. Did not wince as he went by.
Her cheeks were gaunt. Her arms were limp against her thighs, palms inward as if they'd never mastered the creases across. In the background, the open refrigerator door and a repulsive blue light flashed halfway along the linoleum floor. Everything was quiet.
Edward's head dropped off.
That was when he heard it.
Shuffle.
Scrape.
Somewhere behind him, by the heap of garbage cans in the corner.
He didn't blink. Held his breath trapped within him.
Silence.
Again. Slowly this time.
Shuffle.
Scrape.
As though something was pushing a foot. Or being pushed.
Slowly down, his heart locked in his chest.
And he saw it—just, on the verge of the shadows.
A figure. Human-shaped. Stiff and jerky. Shoulders impossibly stiff, one arm lower than the other. It stumbled as though it had lost the ability to walk straight, tripping slightly as it placed its foot on the sidewalk.
Towards the house with the woman in the window.
Edward went stiff, open-mouthed.
The form dragged itself up over the curb, then the steps to the porch, step for step. Never slowed. Never knocked. Merely stood at the door and waited.
Perhaps it was inebriated, Edward consoled himself. A muddled neighbor. Someone staggering into a wife awaiting within.
But something way inside him, something prior to intellect, howled that wasn't so.
He did not hesitate to discover what came after.
He jumped into the alley and hurried on.
The closer he got to home, the thicker the silence. Not quiet, listening silence. The street was black. Streetlights blazed or did not exist. His neighbor's porch light blinked like a sore eye.
Two houses away from home, a matte-green CDC truck rolled quietly onto Maple Drive. No lights. It drove a little ways farther and stopped, which was enough to close off the entrance to the highway. A man in complete tactical uniform got out, approached the front, and began placing orange cones with deliberate, measured slowness.
No longer even trying to hide it.
Edward skirted around a garage and entered through the back door.
He was sweating in his coat, his legs feeling weak when his house was finally in view. He ascended the stairs and closed the door behind him like he was closing a vault.
He did not flip on the lights.
He proceeded to the front window and peered out through the slats.
The street was once more vacant.
No movement.No trucks now. No shadow figures. Only a too-silence that appeared to indicate the rest of the world had pulled back behind a veil.
He pushed the slats shut once more and moved away from the window, trying to shake the growing fear that roiled in his gut. The silence in his house was not comforting. It was crushing. It was the kind that made each groan of the floorboards sound like a scream.
And then, on the wall behind him in the kitchen, he heard it.
Tap.
He did not move, did not breathe.
Tap. Tap.
Rhythmic. Hollow. Like a knock—something was not being knocked, though, so much as punched against a wall.
Edward did nothing, did not breathe. Breaths were held.
Thump.
There had been a hollow sound afterward, something heavy and dull, like something had thudded against the drywall—something hard enough to burst, no, but firmly enough to weight it.
It wasn't wind. It wasn't pipes. It was intentional.
He moved stealthily through the living room, through the icy, still couch, until he was approaching the back of the house. He was silent, ears perked up.
Tap. Tap.
Silence.
His neighbor's house—Laura's—was the one just beyond that wall. She lived alone. A guarded woman. Spoke not more than two words unless it were about her dog or her rose bushes. Hadn't laid eyes on her in days.
Thump.
Louder now. By the floor.
His breath caught in his throat.
He chattered himself out of it being anything—creaking pipes. Sagging foundations. Maybe Laura knocked something over. Maybe she slept in front of the TV with the volume off, and her cat was running into a chair.
But there was something about the timing. The rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Wait. Tap.
It had sounded ominous. Or worse—like somebody was trying to find where the studs in the wall were.
He took a step back, every hair on his arms standing on end. He did not glance away from the piece of plaster, as though he might cut it out through the wall if he so much as blinked.
The pounding ceased.
Quiet was so thick it was almost painful.
He was frozen in place, his body tense, muscles screaming to run or conceal himself or escape.
But the sound never recurred.
And in a certain way, that was worse.
Edward remained there—in his living room, hearing the darkness—for at least an hour, it felt. Then he lurched towards the couch and collapsed upon it, not out of danger, but simply because his legs just weakened beneath him.
He did not turn on the light.
He did not gaze out the window for a second time.
And he did not sleep that evening.