OOC
“Daddy! Daddy!”
“What is’t, Ames?”
“Can you swing me on the tire, please?”
“Alright, alright, but we gotta go in soon. It’s gettin’ late.”
Outside Lake View, South Carolina
The Hughes Farm
2002
The night sky was brighter than ever. Stars shone like fluorescent lights over the field, the inky canopy brightening the tall grass that choked the roots of broad beech trees. Hanging from the middle tree of the field was a red nylon rope that strangled a rubber tire in its grasp. On said tire sat the young Amelia Hughes of only seven years old, her father approaching behind her. She was a dainty little girl in jeans, a pink t-shirt with The Little Mermaid grinning like a fiend on the front, and tight red boots on her feet. She had created a little bit of force with just her arms and torso, but her legs didn’t reach the ground from her heightened position. To her, it was as if little Amelia was suspended high in the sky, above the wispy clouds and even above the stars, far above the ant-sized town of Lake View.
Her father was a large man. Chuck Hughes sported substantial muscles from years of farm work, a grizzled and full black beard, and a baseball cap atop his greasy black hair. His callused hands spread around the sides of the tire, pulling it back. The spider leg of a branch it hung from groaned in response, angered at the weight of Amy on its weary bones. She grinned, somewhat yellowed teeth hiding behind her lips. The leaves above her blew in a cool wind as she felt herself lifted up farther and farther. She was already giggling at the weightlessness, an unnatural but arresting experience. “Ready?” She heard her father say, and she nodded with fury in her eyes. He didn’t so much push the tire as he did shove it, sending the tire screaming through the air with her on it. The girl was seized by the hilarity and buzz of the ride, her face pointed upright towards the night sky. She fell back again, near slipping and plunging into the damp grass below. Her father grabbed the tire again for only a split-second, pushing her forward again. She let out a squeal of excitement and a “Wheeeeeee!” before finding herself face to face with the stars once more. This continued for what seemed like seconds, but was actually something closer to two minutes or so. At one point, Amy even heard her father guffawing at her own wild excitement.
She came back down, no longer feeling her father’s presence upon the tire. She did notice him - walking around the swing. Her smile faltered and as the swing slowed to a crawl, Chuck Hughes aided it in one final stop. “C’mon sweetheart, your mama’s prob’ly worried somethin’ fierce.” Amelia giggled at this, always having enjoyed that last little saying of her father. He smiled too; he had always said it to make her laugh after hearing his own pa use it so often. “Alright, daddy.” She replied, and he grabbed her by the waist and set her down. “We gotta get you in bed. You know it’s a school night.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You did finish your math work, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I said I did daddy.”
“Alright, alright, calm down there missy. I just wanted to make sure an’ all.”
“I know.”
They walked, before she looked up at her father. Admiration in her gleaming glare, she watched him continue his walk before realizing that she hadn’t kept pursuit. “What’s the matter, hon?” He asked, turning around. “Could you carry me, daddy? My feet hurt.” He looked over her, eyeing her. It almost looked like he was gonna say something snarky, something poking fun at her just to make her laugh. But he didn’t. Instead, he stepped towards her with that look of worry only a daughter could know. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
Outside Lake View, South Carolina
The Hughes Farm
2018
The tree was still there.
The irate branch had good reason to be so mad with them, judging by how it had snapped off three years later from what she could remember. It was gone now, but the tire with its nylon rope still leaned up against the tree. Amy Hughes half-expected it to be smoking a cigarette and watching her with one of its rubbery eyes, an indignant little shit of a tire. The nylon rope was wrapped all around the tire, adorning the wilting thing up like the bow on a present. Amy was twenty-two now, and something around a foot taller than she was the last time she swung on that tire.
Her expression had changed. Solemn, angry. A mosquito floated past her face but she barely paid it any attention. Her eyes were still on the rotting tire and the sunken tree. The woman scoffed, before walking out of the field and into the forest behind it.
Act I: Foot in the Dark
Chapter 1 - The Forest
The woods were quieter than she remembered. Amy had remembered them being alive with crooning blue jays and running squirrels, but now it was only the crunch of her sneakers in the leaves and dirt. She had entered the forest from the trail her father had cut out for them so long ago, now finding out that she didn’t know quite where to go anymore. It was almost like the forest had changed, but she knew it hadn’t. How could it have? It had only been five years since she’d been out here in these woods, and it wasn’t like that was long enough to forget. She wished it was.
Amy had changed her wardrobe only slightly since her last swing on the tire. A purple tank top accentuated by light blue denim jeans and accompanied by a camouflage baseball cap with an orange Under Armour logo on the crown. Her hair was still naturally curly, bouncing with every step she took. Her eyes sagged in dark creases of skin, under each crevice a telling story of agitation in the night. She continued her trek through the trees. They loomed over her, webs of branches casting a cover from the sweltering July sun with cascades of trembling leaves. On the forest floor, tree sprouts springing from the dirt, delightful ferns, and yellow wildflowers decorating the ground. Amy’s stride parted them, shoving and crinkling the plants that tickled her ankles.
In between her pinnae were a pair of earbuds, attached to some Apple iPhone stuffed in her pocket. There was the silky strum of acoustics, tasted by her ears like gourmet dinner. The hike through the forest continued, and memories swelled in her mind. Her mother and father on four-wheelers, Amy riding on the back of the woman’s ride. Rushing gusts through her wavy hair, hopping from the coiled locks in dashes of frenzy. The blazing pipes on the side kissing her legs and searing her skin. Her mother’s worry. The note she left on the table after Suzie told her about all the women daddy had screwed at the bar. Amelia never saw her mama again.
Amy endured on. The woods were packed tightly together, clogging the hard work her father had done on the trail so many years before. She spotted some lichen growing off the bark of the oak trees in the forest. She grimaced, running her hand along a patch and drawing back, startled. She hadn’t expected the change in texture. Rolling her eyes, Amy continued forward, aware of hidden gazes and plodding claws on her back now. The forest always had creeped her out and the unexpected touch of lichen on her fingers only torqued the sensation. The girl shuddered, shaking sighs leaving her mouth in hot breaths in the torrid air. Her chin pivoted up and down, teeth smacking on a glob of spearmint chewing gum she had tossed under her tongue.
The trail grew more winding, fallen trees encountered like dead giants across her path. Her tread was light over the collapsed trunk, bounding off of it with one hobbling leg. Amy landed, her hat floating up and shifting above her head a tad. She adjusted it again, hard to do with the froths of curls pushing it back up like a trampoline. The girl was methodical in her approach, creeping upon a pair of steel lines that cut the forest off from another glowing field. The rusted wire was all that stood in between the wild of the woods and the kicking of the wind through the thickets of the field. The top wire was barbed and rusting with the rest of the fence. The fence itself was connected only by a wooden poles that had already begun wasting away. Upon Amy’s glance into the top of a pole, she noticed that the top had been near hollowed out by a colony of carpenter ants. She bit at her lip, drawing back upon seeing the sneering antennae of the bugs. She walked along the fence, a guiding boundary to her journey. This walk had cleared her head up a little bit; perhaps it was even good for her. The faint sense of nostalgia came back to her, driving a railroad spike through the top of her skull as ruined sheds and a hefty rusted satellite dish materialized behind the barbed fence. The field had disappeared just as quick as it had appeared, now piles of tires and junk littering a man’s yard.
Amy didn’t notice the voice behind her the first time, zoning into her own music. “’Scuse me, ma’am!” It wriggled through her eardrums the second time, and she spun around. Behind the fence, in between a brick shop with a sheet metal door and the satellite dish was an elderly black man, a caterpillar of a mustache on his upper lip and a trucker cap on his head. He glared at her as she fully turned around and got a good view of his denim overalls and red plaid underneath. He wore brown work boots and a wrinkled face, an incredulous glare in his eyes. She turned fully now, raising her eyebrows at the man. His hands rose to his big ears, fingers gripping air and pulling out from them, an obvious sign to pull out her earbuds. She winced, before complying and slinging the wires of her neck.
“Yessir?” She asked, an annoyed tone. The old man wrinkled his nose and Amy saw a glimpse of remembrance in his eyes. Something seemed familiar about him as well, or at least she thought. “You know this is private property, ma’am?” He inquired - she responded by crossing her arms. “Yessir. It’s mine. I’m Chuck’s daughter.”
The man’s eyes lit up and she immediately recognized him. “Wait, Mr. Jones?” The girl asked and the man answered with a nod. “You’re the Hughes girl? Almose didn’t recognize ya.” Mr. Jones spoke, sticking his thumbs into his overalls’ pockets. “Yeah. That’s me.” Mr. Jones squinted at her, nodding with pity in his expression. She could see it in the lines of his face, the bulging wrinkles that circled his eyelids. He pitied her. Amy resented it, sniffling in the humidity. “You’ve gotten about half a foot taller I see.” He smiled and she returned a little smirk. “Try half an inch.” She continued smacking on the gum, the old man and the young woman peering at each other like cowboys at high noon.
He spit through his teeth, a spray of saliva sliding against the dirt. “What’ve you been up to?” Mr. Jones spoke.
“Been up in Colombia. I’m a paralegal.”
“Look at you. City girl, I see.”
“Somethin’ like that. What about you?”
“Been fishin’ at the lake.”
“Yeah? You catch anything?”
“Caught water.”
“Hmph.”
“Also think some kids cut through the fence. Found a hole just up the ways a bit.”
“Hm. Sorry about that.”
“...yeah.”
Another silence settled. They looked at each other for another moment, nervous swallows shared between the two. He was the first to break the silence.
“Sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral.”
Her teeth clenched and she sucked in a breath. Her mind lingered, eyes watering. “It’s alright. Was just a few of ‘is friends from church and my Aunt Chelsea and the pastor and all.”
He nodded again. “Yeah. Sorry, Ames.”
Amy shook her head. “Ya didn’t do nothin’. You’re alright.”
There was another pause, something Amy had begun to relish. If she never had to open her mouth again she’d be content. But of course Jones was there to snap the hiatus in Q and A with his knee. “You wanna come over for dinner? Laura’s cookin’ pot roast an’ we got cornbread in the oven.”
“Nah. I gotta get back home. You enjoy that roast, though.”
“Alright then. I'm sure I will. Holler if ya need me or Laura one, we're right here.”
She nodded to him, putting her buds back in and walking away from that fence and away from Mr. Jones.
Chapter 2 - The Town
The next thing she knew she was walking back towards the farmhouse, emerging from the woods and crossing the field in an abrupt gait. She cruised past a shed falling on itself, a barn with a destitute tractor of rust and red, collapsing corn stalks driven to the ground by her father’s negligence, and finally the farmhouse itself. It wasn’t particularly grand, with the wood walls she grew up in between shedding their paint and the brick chimney crushing itself as the mortar eroded. The windows were fading and dusty and the moth-eaten curtains draped behind them were from the 90s. The gravel driveway was around 250 feet long, ensuring at least a little bit of a drive between the road and the farm. It was of course visible from the road but it wasn’t like they got many visitors anyways. Especially after mama and Ames left. She kept on chewing her gum, walking up the path to the front door and stopping up on the porch. The entire farmhouse was painted an eggshell white, a white that had since yellowed and begun flaking due to her father’s indifference.
Amelia opened up the storm door first and then pushed into the den through the actual door behind it. She hadn’t bothered locking the two, because why would anybody bother breaking into some dirty shack of a building. It was two stories yet never seemed to have all that much room and the way the settling boards whined nowadays, kids wouldn’t dare to come near it alone. The living room itself was no better than the rest of the house. The leather couch and the white chunky knit blanket she’d been sleeping with for the last week dozed with each other now, leaving her the anxious third wheel. An old circle rug with a disgusting flower pattern spread itself under a limping nightstand with an officiating lamp in the middle. The murky gray flat screen sat on a shelf on the other corner of the room, blocking the idle hearth in the wall. She reached into the nightstand’s sole drawer, pulling out a keyring with a fob and a few other openers from the clutter inside.
She stepped back out, this time locking the door behind her. The Hughes girl was hungry and the cupboards were bare of anything but ramen and canned food. The only solution was to head into town, grab some grub, then hightail it back and catch some TV to get her mind off things while chewing a burger. The perfect plan. Ames walked around and caught sight of her silver Civic sitting next to her dad’s old broken Nissan pickup. She snuck into the driver’s side, igniting the engine with the key and pulling the visor down in fear of the sizzling rays desiccating her eyes. She tossed her hat onto the passenger seat casually, propping her left arm up on the window trim and placing her right hand on the steering wheel.
She was just about to grab her food when it started.
The Sun-Do Trading Post was a quaint little gas station that sat across the street from a dead car wash and mechanic’s shop. The Trading Post was your typical convenience store, with the added bonus of a freshly cooked and cheap meal behind the counter that didn’t cause you to puke your guts out. Amy had wandered the aisles for a bit, looking over the assorted chips and candies and drinks while her brats cooked in the back. She had decided against a burger, eyeing how good the sausages looked in the tinfoil on the overhead menu. Now, she was gliding her delicate fingers along the gondola displays, grabbing some bagged pork rinds off of the shelf and dragging them to the fridges.
There were two other people in the store that day. A black man with dreads and an apron behind the counter, the only worker for that Monday evening. He was reprehensibly bored, leaning over the counter in a daze as Amy ordered her bratwursts. The other person in the store was a middle-aged woman she somewhat recognized from the local church, but couldn’t quite remember her name. She was a bigger gal though, with flabs of withering skin covered in pores and stretched moles and birthmarks. Her graying hair was unkempt but washed, librarian glasses were perched on her short nose, and her shorts would have been nearly as long as jeans if it hadn’t been for the fat on her legs stretching the things. Amy smiled to her and she smiled back. A nice lady if anything.
Amy scanned over the drinks. Mountain Dews, Energy Drinks, cheap brews, and other fruity sodas. She settled on a Pineapple Fanta, pulling it out as the other woman pulled a quart jug of milk off the shelf. Ames looked over the Fanta, biting her lip. She was gonna have a date with her toothbrush to repair the damages this thing was gonna do to her teeth. But health was not her major concern as she heard the oven behind her ding and the man behind the counter pull her bratwursts out. She turned, reaching into her right front pocket and digging for her wallet. But she was distracted before she could pay, having caught a strange happening in the corner of her eye.
The woman was unscrewing the lid to the quart. Ames’ eyebrows raised, and she turned her head to look at the woman. She didn’t say anything at first, only feeling the situation out before acting on any direct impulse. The cap popped off, and she tossed it to the ground. Amy opened her mouth to speak, but found herself without anything to say. It was strange; watching the woman tip the jug, pouring all of the milk on the floor in a creamy waterfall. “Ma’am?” Amy questioned, finally finding the words. The woman made no indication that she heard her. She just kept staring at the milk, which bubbled and skipped and made the most disgusting of sounds as it fell from the jug. “Ma’am, are you okay?” Amy said, reaching over and grabbing the woman’s shoulder. She shoved her away and tossed the corpse of a jug to the floor, before reaching back in and grabbing another one.
Amy winced twice. She was pouring another jug of milk. Dementia? Alzheimer’s? A fucking brain tumor?! She turned to the man behind the counter, who had laid her bratwursts on the counter. “I’m calling an ambulance, she needs help!” Amy said, pulling her phone out and dialing the three numbers every American knew; 9-1-1. She held up the phone to her ear, tapping nervously. The guy behind the counter was just staring at her. She stared back, but was unsuccessful in their staredown as she glanced at the ceramic floor. What the fuck? She glanced back at him, mouthing the words Go help her but getting no response from the man. On the phone, there was no answer. She knew that the 911 Call Center was privately run just down the block; but they had always answered, as far as she could remember. “No one answered…” She mumbled, hoping the man would hear her. He made no hint of having understood her.
Amy looked between the two. “You’re our millionth customer ma’am. Your food is free today!” The man said, smiling. There was nothing sinister in the smile; nothing evil, nothing fake, nothing in that smile that didn’t indicate that he was purely happy to give her free food. She swallowed, her hands shaking as she stepped away. “Suh, suh sir?” Amelia stammered, backing towards the door with the drink and the bag still in her left hand, phone still in her right. “Your food is free today ma’am!” He spoke, still smiling.
The door chimed as she rushed out, dialing 911 again. What the fuck?! What the fuck?! There was once again no answer. Her heart pumped, thudding with wild pulses and thrashing with every step. She opened her driver’s side door, trying 911 one more time.
No response.
Her engine fired up and she frantically searched through her contacts. Meredith. Sweet, sweet, Meredith. Her good friend Meredith, a fellow young paralegal in Colombia. She called her. She didn’t pick up.
She backed out of the gas station, driving off into the night around 10 over the speed limit. Maybe she was just misinterpreting things; maybe she was just going on a bender herself; or maybe she was just a really, really lucid dreamer. Whatever the case was, she continued to try and rationalize her points as she neared the edge of town, speeding past dark trees and figures and buildings. It all went by in a blur. The encounter at the gas station was still gnawing at her mind, digging into her pretty little head like a spiraling screw. Her hands tightened on the wheel, gripping with such force she thought she’d whip the gyre from its socket. Her car continued to shudder down the path, her senses fluttering and her perception narrowed. Amy Hughes was back at the farmhouse before long, pulling into the driveway in a flash.
It wasn’t long before she was ascending towards her front door on foot, checking behind her back for any monsters of the night periodically. She walked up the steps, near tripping over the first but recovered, albeit sloppily. She pulled the screen door out and propped it open with her back before clumsily inserting her keys into their respective port. It opened and was subsequently shut and locked.
Amy threw her pork rinds onto the couch and slammed the drink to the nightstand, stepping into the kitchen. She couldn’t get her mind off of the Trading Post, those vacant eyes behind tiny glasses and the twinkling grin behind the counter. She shuddered, pacing back and forth threw the kitchen. It was an older room of the house, if a bit big. A counter lined one side of the room in a U-shape, surrounding the stainless steel sink and hoarding fine cuisines in the upper cupboards. The fine cuisines were the aforementioned canned foods and ramen, consisting of slipshod Chef Boyardee, stark Viennas, boorish baked beans, and viscous sardines. Her stomach rumbled, coveting her brats and cursing herself for leaving them behind. It had been strange, of course, but… it was just likely that the cashier was tired. It’d been getting pretty late. He probably just didn’t understand. Guilt hit her now, guilt for the old woman having an attack on her mind at the store, guilt for leaving the teen with her to clean up… guilt for everything. She leaned against the island, sustaining quivered breaths and cussing at her own self-centeredness.
She glanced from object to object in the kitchen. A metal fridge with cartoon magnets and family photos and reminders stuck to the doors. A wooden cabinet that contained fragile china inside, pots and teacups and bowls in a lull on the shelf. The call centers not answering was what made the least sense. As far as she had known, they had never been neglectful of their duties. So why hadn’t they just picked up? The theories and questions could circle her mind for hours; or she could sit down and not think about it.
She did just that.
Plopping down on the couch and leaning back, she watched an idiotic sitcom before nodding off to sleep, her soda still fizzing and her pork rinds only half-eaten.
On the second day, the routine played out as normal. She got up and showered, as normal. After tossing her dirty clothes to the floor, she searched for the apparel of the day, covered by her towel. Amy decided on a pair of coal black track shorts that stretched over her upper thigh and dangled above her knee with modesty and a GameCocks t-shirt with gray sleeves and a white body. A pair of ankle socks slipped onto her feet and she went on her way to the kitchen. Today’s special was a bowl of wheat Cheerios and a clump of sugar for flavor.
After breakfast, Amy took another walk through the woods, missing Mr. Jones this time. He didn’t appear to be around, but she did see another person lumbering under the rattling limbs at one point. The figure made no indication of having seen her; instead, they only descended further into the forest, escaping her view quickly. She headed back and read a book for an hour, then ate a lunch of Shrimp-flavored ramen and the rest of her pork rinds. She finished off the rest of her soda, lobbing the bottle in the trash can and washing her hands in the sink. The soda was flat and only served only to make her thirstier, so she topped it off with a glass of ice water.
She sat on her porch and tried to watch cars go by, but only saw one in the thirty minutes she sat and thought. Bored and considering this fine Tuesday a slow, slow day, she grabbed her book again and flipped through for the next hour, and by then it was already three o’clock. She took another walk, finding much of the same empty woods as she had last time, and then tried calling Meredith again. No answer, of course. It was five before long and her stomach took to growling and the thought of beans for dinner made her sick. In due time Amy had gotten back in the Civic and taken off towards town.
She hummed along to the radio, a tune by Kitty Wells playing. Something about Honky Tonk Angels. She didn’t much pay attention to the lyrics. Amy entered town, tapping the steering wheel with each strum of the guitar. It was awfully quiet today and only a few lost souls wandered the side streets today. She passed by the Trading Post, a jitter shimmying up her spine. It glared at her and cracked a smile with the pumps, lone cars leering at her with bitter chuckles. The wheels kept turning and she spotted a dazed teenager sitting on the curb, cradling their knees. She swallowed hard. The car ride continued through the empty streets. The lack of cars was what really got to her. Everything was so empty without the alloyed horses stomping down the street, wheezing toxic gas and spitting oil onto the streets. It was then she saw the roadblock.
Three trucks set up on the road in typical checkpoint fashion, a couple of men perched up in the beds and a couple more leaning up against the pickups. She halted her ride, looking them over. They didn’t look like sheriff-deputies to her; they didn’t look like any police. In fact, most of them looked like your normal everyday citizen, except for the pistols and shotguns firmly tightened to their stomachs. One of them noticed her; an older fellow with a pump shotgun, watching her car and grinning. He was a big old man, a good six feet tall and probably weighed something over two hundred pounds with dusty jeans and a faded dress shirt buttoned onto his chest. He started saying something to the others, but Amy had already turned tail and run. Her Civic sped away, fear apparent in the palpitations of her heart. Her throat was plugged by dread. Something wasn’t right. She pulled her phone up again, dialing 9-1-1.
As almost expected, no answer.
She screamed and threw her phone into the passenger seat, a blend of exasperation and panic manifesting as a hurricane inside the car. It was a nightmare; it had to be. She was back out of town before long, worrying to remember the sheriff’s number. Her father had it written down somewhere, she just had to get back home. The sky was growing dark now as the girl finally realized she had wasted her afternoon to nothing, Frantic and panicky, she slid into the driveway, kicking up rock and silver dust behind her wheels. She didn’t even bother with properly parking it, a crooked drift that ended up in a slant at the end of the drive. Before Amy ripped the key from the ignition with force, her attention drew to the gas tank.
Judging by it, she only had just enough to get back into town and grab gas there, then take off. Not an option. The only other route to get back to Colombia and out of the strange happenings in this town was to take a side road or go up towards North Carolina. Neither of which were options, since she’d run out of gas before civilization presented itself. Amy declared herself as absolutely fucked. Her breathing was unnatural and heavy, but hyperventilation was the least of her concerns now. She opened the door and took the key, rushing towards the front of the house. She entered in a fray, shutting and locking the thing behind her. The curtains were next, draping the windows in dark rumples rippling across them. It had gotten dark surprisingly quick and the view of a light inside would only be more evident.
She hurried from room to room and before long every curtain, blind, and shutter had a window covered in the building. After sealing up the farmhouse in her paranoia, she warily flipped the kitchen light on. It made her draw back like a vampire exposed to rays of sun, broiling her flesh to ash. But nothing happened; it was as if it were just another day in paradise. She looked down at her phone, which had begun a steady death. She’d need to plug it in after a while, judging by how her father had cut the landline in the house years ago. As the life of the phone drained, Ames ran her hand along the fridge, finding her way to the yellow notepad that her father had pinned to it with a red button magnet. Numbers and to-do lists covered the pages Amy discovered, flipping through each page. Ideas, thoughts, birthdays, phone numbers, grocery lists… she searched and searched, before coming to one of the pages towards the middle of the booklet. In the familiar chicken scratch of her father’s handwriting, the word “SHERIFF” was scrawled adjacent a grouping of ten digits.
She pulled her phone out and greedily punched in the numbers. It went up to her head, the screen against her ear. Come on, pick up… pick up… Her thoughts growled, chewing her bottom lip with anxiety. No response. She called again, panic setting in. No response.
She almost threw the phone across the room. It was useless, then, if nobody else would pick it up. Just what the fuck was happening had been lost on her. Biblical retribution? An elaborate prank? A nightmare? The apocalypse?!
Whatever it was, she tried to wish it away and flipped the light switch back off. She’d just try and go back through town in the morning. Who knew if the old men with shotguns were really all that bad? Maybe something had happened outside and they had just been trying to keep people safe. But wouldn’t the police handle that? The government, or somebody that isn’t a bunch of old hick fucks?! She tread with caution into the dark living room. Nothing there. There was nothing else in the house. Just her. Just her.
She laid down on the couch, pulling her blanket onto her for safety’s sake. She was too scared to turn on the TV, scared there would be horrible, grotesque faces coming out of the screen for her, scared she’d see the rest of the world in eternal blight, scared she’d see the wicked ancients with their shotguns.
Ames drifted off after a while. The darkness and her own lack of a busy day netted her five hours of time away from the horrors of the outside. It was inevitable then that they’d knock and wake her up.
She shook around in the bed, sweat covering her brow and her ears perked. There was something outside. It was easy to tell just what by the sound of treads over gravel and the glowing beams from the edge of the road. There was some sort of vehicle in her driveway, a rambunctious beast that was followed by a vehicular friend behind it. They were probably pickups, she presumed from the way the headlights hung and the way the gravel popped and shook in her ears. Her chest echoed with an intense beating, the valves under her rib cage shutting and closing in rapid fashion. She stood up, hurrying down the hallway and finding the creaking stairs. Amy ascended as fast as she could, plunging into what was once her old bedroom but had since been converted to her father’s storage. Leaning up against the wall in between groupings of cardboard boxes and plastic tubs sat her dad’s old Model 870, the pump-action shotgun pointed with the barrel up. On a box next to it were a trio of still shells and an M200 Revolver already loaded with .38 Special. Her father had never been the safest of individuals; she figured that was why he had two guns instead of three, now. He had never really been into buying a gun safe and figured that if somebody had broke in or if an animal started attacking the cows then his best bet would be to get up and go. No cows now. They had all been sold off long ago.
She grabbed the shotgun from the wall, grabbing two of the shotgun shells and running down the stairs. As she did, she dropped the first in front of the breech bolt and pumped it forward, then shoved the other one into the magazine port and pushed. With that, she hastened into the den. The wooden stock of the gun was firm in her grip, palms already growing sweaty. The den was no longer brightened by any lights. In fact, the four rays had disappeared from view entirely. Perhaps they were just trying to get turned around? Relief washed over her. In her respite, she neared giggling like a schoolgirl at herself. Had she really worked herself up so much? Over nothing? She’d probably just witnessed some weird fucking festival or something. That’s where everybody was. And those guys on the pickups in town were probably just cops in plain clothes. Had paranoia really taken her over that much? Was she just a city girl out of her comfort?
Her paranoia proved grounded. A shattering of a window outside made her scream and draw back, whispering “Oh my God” to nobody in particular. A car alarm started going off, a sinister strobe that flashed across the yard and wailed in the night. She reached for the door handle, furious and terrified. It unlocked just as easily as it had been sealed, pulling open. She pushed on the screen door, flicking the safety of the shotgun off. “Hey! Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out!” She screamed over the blaring siren of the car and she saw that she recognized the criminals.
A man with a shotgun stood breaking the windows of her Civic with the butt of the gun. He towered over it, broad-shouldered and hefty. It was the same old man she had seen back at the checkpoint. The pickup trucks were parked in the driveway, inches from her sedan. Two men sat in the driver’s side of each one; recognizable from their time at the checkpoint. They had followed her. That was the only explanation. The man attacking her car picked his head up, leering at her like a preening vulture. His silhouette flashed in and out of existence, each time in a different location than the last. She lowered her gun and turned around.
A shot fired, slapping against one of the trees in the yard in a flurry of bark and sap. She ran to the front door, running in through the screen and batting the door back into its place. As Amy turned around, her throat was caught by its own spit. Another shot went off. The screen door shattered and chunks of the wooden one blew open. Amy screamed, dropping the shotgun and falling to the floor. The back of her right thigh felt… sticky, now. There was something inside of it. She cried out as the pain registered. She got shot. She got shot a lot. The meat of her thigh writhed in agony, yet she still pulled herself to her hands and knees. The pain didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. She grabbed her shotgun and took off into the hallway, climbing the stairs much to her own discomfort. Blood squeezed from her wounds, but she didn’t look. It felt like a million tiny pellets had embedded themselves into her flesh, shaking and contorting in the crevices of her skin.
She crawled into her father’s storage room, leaning her back onto a pair of weighted cardboard boxes. Her breathing was cumbersome and her leg was on fire. Saliva dripped from her lips, spittle pouring down her cheek. She heard a few more shots crash through the house, but none came after her. A window shattered somewhere, but she heard no footsteps enter the house. She only sat there, lying with her bleeding leg on the floor and her shotgun pointed at the door. After twenty minutes of the wait, she heard them drive off.
It was hard to get up that first time. Using the shotgun and a plastic tub as support, she ached onto her feet with a couple of yelps and cries. Her muscles longed for the excitement that adrenaline had given her. Approaching one of the windows of the upper hallway, she saw that the trucks were indeed gone and her car had given up on its cries for help. Her eyes almost rolled into the back of her head. What a tough fucking break.
She stumbled into the upstairs bathroom, using her shotgun as a third leg. Amy plummeted to the ceramic floor. She leaned against the cabinet, opening it and rummaging through the plastic baskets for any medical supplies. She saw what she was looking for hidden behind sink pipes and cleaning supplies. Her dad’s old first aid kit. She reached her left hand out to it, pressing on her leg and yelping in pain. The girl whimpered again, shock clamping her throat and shifting sweat pour down her forehead. The arm continued, swiping air and pipe and wood and…
The plastic handle. She had it. She nearly squealed like a schoolgirl. The box came open easily, spilling its guts on the floor and sending them sprawling about the room. The first thing that caught her scrutiny was the tweezers. She supposed it might be nice to get the bullets out, but that would require looking at them first. She rolled over, craning her neck around and getting just a glimpse of her bloodied leg. Amy felt bile rise in her throat but she swallowed it back down with a moan and a burning reflux. Birdshot. She couldn’t tell how much, but it looked like most of it had gone through her shorts into the meatier part of the leg. It was hopeful that there wouldn’t be much lasting nerve damage but not getting shot had already proved to be wishful thinking. She counted at least thirteen pellets from what she could, and quickly pulled the ruined track shorts off as carefully as she could.
Parts of the fabric stuck to her wounds, numbness encompassing her with a near euphoric start of pain. Bits of skin tore and stretched as her pants came off, but she did get them to her knees and away from the wounds. She reached for the first object she could see in the cluttered mess of the medkit. Her bleeding had for the most part stabilized as she calmed down and her adrenaline faded, much to her own elation. But there was still blood seeping from the cracks, blood she couldn’t afford to lose. Amy weeped, tears falling from her face and crawling along her chin and neck. “Guh… ugh…” She groaned, her left hand now on the bottle of saline solution. It rolled towards her, but she stopped herself. Hanging from the towel hook was one of her father’s belts. It would be best to get this over with now then, wouldn’t it?
She didn’t want the blood to continue. Amy grabbed the tail of the belt, unhooking it after a few tries and watching the buckle jingle to the ground. She dragged it towards her, wrapping it around the top of her thigh and pulling as tight as she could. It hurt, of course. Pain soared and flew, but the blood loss was more important. She continued to pull, stringing the tail of the belt through the buckle as tight as it would go, then stuck the pin through the lowest punch hole she could get. Her blood was mostly fixed. She supposed infection would be hard to avoid, especially with no 9-1-1 or sheriff to call at the moment. Amy had given up hope on her phone by this point.
She rolled next to the pile of dirty clothes she had left on the floor after her showers. Towels and shirts and jeans and underwear and other assorted bits and bobbles of apparel had been smashed together in a giant ball, a comfy heap that she rested her head on. She rolled back over, stuffing her face into a towel. Turning her neck again, she grabbed the saline solution and finally got ready to use it. She poured it on the back of her leg hastily, ending up emptying half the bottle on all of the blood she could see. She capped it back, tossing it to the floor. Next up, she reached for the gauze in the medkit.
The roll came loose, and she came to find it was sticky. Adhesive. Thank God. There were around three rolls in the medkit itself, so she supposed if she fucked this up she’d at least have two more chances. She grabbed another roll after the other one had gone thoroughly up her leg and used the counter to pull herself up. She turned around, getting a good glance at the wounds sticking from her flesh.
She had been lucky. She could still see a few bits of birdshot and wood stuck in her leg where her gauze had missed, but from what she saw they hadn’t gone too deep. She could survive; she could survive this. Provided those with the shotguns didn’t come back to finish the job.
Amy ended up using a fourth of the second roll on her leg, a mediocre job but one that would get the job done. She loosened the makeshift tourniquet, seething in pain as she dropped it to the floor. No blood came rushing after her; it appeared she had saved herself from the quick death of blood loss. She hoped to God the thing didn’t become infected. The girl brought herself to the floor, propping her feet up in the pile of laundry. It wasn’t long before she had covered herself with her own dirty clothes and fallen asleep.
Chapter 3 - The Sign
Thirst woke her in the night twice. The first time she had gone downstairs with her supporting shotgun and fixed herself a cup of tap water, before falling asleep on the couch with her knit blanket. The second time she didn’t bother with the cane, instead using the furniture to prevent strain on her shot thigh. The third day of the event was mostly uneventful for her, mostly just drinking a lot of water and sleeping. It was past midday when she decided to change her bandages.
It was mostly the same underneath. Sticky and covered in dried blood, the skin was stretched and swollen near the pellets. She almost vomited but the fear of dehydration overcame her nausea. Amy gulped her puke back. She poured the rest of the saline solution on her legs, but something awful was gnawing at her. A new set of gauze went around the now mummified leg, and she headed back down and took a nap.
When she woke up an hour later, her thigh had only grown worse in its feeling. She wiggled her toes, breathing up and down. She had to do something. She’d run out of saline solution, and her last roll of gauze had been expended as well. Infection would set in a little bit if she was lucky, if not it had already set. She couldn’t make it on her own.
After tugging a pair of jeans and boots on (painfully, of course) she set out to one of the sheds outside. The days had only seemed to grow hotter and the Wednesday of the first week was no exception.
The first thing she investigated was the front door. The shot had blown through the door at an angle. The combined forces of the now shattered screen door and the blown apart wood had saved her life. The shooter must have been a good fifty or hundred feet back to not have made the bullets go too much deeper than they had. That was good.
Her car was ruined. The windows had all been shattered and the hood had been peppered with bullets. The tires were slashed as well and just to help matters the gas cap was hanging open. Amy looked back at the house, leaning up against the hot trunk. The house itself was speckled in miniscule holes which chipped wood, the same birdshot having graced the rest of the old house.
She hobbled behind the house with her shotgun, stomping the stock into the soft grass with each step followed by a lunge of discomfort sprung in her leg. Amy made it to the shed she required despite her troubled thigh, discovering the tools she so sought. Wrenches and hammers and two by fours littered the area along with other assorted sundries. She reached down to two sharp poles of wood, scanning over them. They would do.
The first trip back consisted of her hauling the wooden stakes along with a box of nails. She laid them out on the porch, the only place of the house her blood hadn’t stained yet. On the second trip, she returned with a hammer, a bucket of black paint, and a paintbrush sitting atop the bucket. The final return was a little harder. A forty-eight by forty wood panel was gathering dust in the decrepit shop. That fossil of a craft was her chance at survival. It took her something like ten minutes just to get it out of the shop, and even longer to drag it with one hand down to the porch. The sun beat down on her and she was forced back inside to rest for another hour.
After Amy had satisfied herself in the A/C and with the tap water, she moved back to the porch; this time with a sun hat. She dropped to her knees before slipping the cover of the paint bucket off. Swampy black bubbles belched at her and she responded in kind by running them them through with her paintbrush. Her knees scrunched forward to the panel, rubbing her thigh the wrong way. She swore, but she had to keep trekking.
The job was sloppy. In big, bold letters she had coated the panel with the word “HELP” with a giant arrow pointing away from the P. After this was done, she rested inside for the next hour while the paint dried.
Amy was, once again, lucky she had latex paint on hand. It dried in due time and she was able to turn it over on its back. She did much of the same to the opposite side as she had done to the other, but now with the arrow pointing away from the H. It was sunset by the time that had dried and the real work began. Leaving the paint bucket and the brush on the porch to stain the deck, she dragged the panel to the side of the road. All in all, after getting everything out there, she had wasted thirty minutes and put a lot of pressure on her leg. She wasted another thirty inside with her book, but found the unhooked sign gnawing at her. It was a matter of life and death; it was likely that her wound was infected. No, it was certain that it was infected. And she couldn’t stagger back to town.
Whatever it was that pushed Amy Hughes, it did so with great resistance. The aching had only accentuated, faltering her as she walked into the shrouded yard. The stakes were first. She bent over in the night, grasping at the first stake and drawing it up. It sunk into the soft ground without a hitch. The second she took a little farther away from the other stake and a little closer to the road, driving it down as well. It took a little longer, Amy having to dig past rock and clay to reach a point where it would stay. Her diaphragm clawed for air. Mouth wide open and gasping for strength, Ames leaned against the pole she had just stuck and rested. But yet she still continued. The second part was the hardest one. She dropped her shotgun, strain on her leg growing much, much worse now. But this expedition required both arms, not both legs. She near fell but managed to stay up much to the detriment of her nerves.
She lifted the panel up. It was a clumsy effort. The panel wobbled and leaned and she almost dropped it, but her coordination finally took over and she leaned it up against the poles. Her legs began to shake as she held the panel up with one hand, reaching for the nails with the other. One was grabbed, at which point she placed it to the point where it would go straight through the lower left corner of the panel and into the pole. She was able to keep it up by dropping to her left knee and using that to prop the sign up. Her right leg begged for mercy, but it would not receive any. She brought the hammer down three times. The nail had drove in. Keeping the sign up with her knee, her body felt numb. Amy’s head had been marred by the extreme pain from her wound, but she couldn’t let up. Holy fuck, holy fuck oh God. “Fuck!” She screamed, driving the next nail into the lower right corner.
She fell onto her back, chest puffing up and down and up and down. She laid among the ants and ladybugs for another six minutes, staring straight up at the sky as the pain drifted off and her consciousness faded. She started blinking rapidly, hitting at her head with open hands. She kept herself awake. She was as awake as she’d ever been. Amy rolled onto her stomach, pulling herself back up again. After much pain and after much assault on her senses, the final nails had been drove.
She studied her masterwork, leaning on the shotgun.
HELP ->
Amy only hoped they didn’t misinterpret her feelings.
She left the door unlocked that night, but only after putting the porch’s windchime on the inside door knob. No one was going to fucking trick her tonight. She slept on her dirty laundry again, spooning her father’s shotgun.
The fourth day went much the same as the others had. The girl drank water, tried calling Meredith, tried calling 9-1-1, but got no response. Amy dropped her phone in her nightstand in an attempt to not even look at it. That morning, she tried eating cereal at the table, but had to force herself to down the slop. She just had to wait… she just had to wait for someone to see the sign, and then she’d be okay.
Thus began the fourth morning of Lake View’s insanity spell.
