Strung, p.6
Strung, page 6
part #1 of Strung Series
"And what do they want, then?"
Tommy threw out a what're ya raving about? snort and leaned back on the couch.
"To steal our water, of course."
"Oh yeah, of course. And the police?"
"Just as simple. The aliens have taken over their bodies so they can squash those immune to the poison without anyone daring to interfere."
Randall scratched his chin and nodded thoughtfully. Part of him felt uncomfortable at the thought of them making fun of something that was actually deeply serious and scary. But another part of him enjoyed it. For he had—whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not—missed moments like this in the last few years when Tommy and he hadn't been on speaking terms.
"Seriously, man," Tommy continued. "Just think about it. What would a strategically smart invasion look like?"
Randall opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Tommy was already answering his own question.
"You would pacify the population with some kind of poison, right? And then you would use the authorities—for example, the police, which people trust—to catch those who are immune to it."
When Tommy began his definition of the perfect invasion plan, both he and Randall had wide smiles on their lips, but as he got further and further through it, their smiles narrowed and turned into two thin lines. For the explanation—however insane it sounded—made a little too much sense. Especially when Tommy reached the last, crucial argument and said:
"It would also explain the hangings. I mean, what is the first thing a normal person does if he or she sees a person dangling from a lamppost in the middle of the street?"
"Calls the cops," Randall said, after which he looked down at his sandwich and discovered that he was no longer hungry for it. He put it down and turned to Tommy.
"Can I borrow your phone again?"
Tommy shrugged, then took the cell phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. He began to hand it over to Randall but hesitated halfway through the movement.
"Don't worry," Randall said, taking it from his hand. "I'm not planning to call her again. I just want to check something out. You do have Facebook on it, don't you?"
"Uh … yeah."
"And you're friends with Allie, right?"
"I think so. I don't use it very much."
Randall nodded but said nothing. His focus was on the screen, where his fingers quickly found the Facebook icon.
The program started and it quickly became clear that it wasn't an understatement when Tommy said he didn't use it very much. The timeline on his profile in its entirety consisted of two motorcycle photos, a photo of himself wearing pink, heart-shaped sunglasses and holding a Budweiser, as well as a good handful of annual birthday greetings from the same people.
The Friends list was also cut pretty clean to the bone, but to Randall's relief, Allie was to be found among them. The relief, however, was replaced by an icy dread when he clicked on her wall.
Unlike Tommy, Allie had always been extremely active on social media. On the one hand, the various platforms were a good way for her to attract customers to her work as a photographer, and on the other, she eagerly used them to keep in touch with family and friends. These two things were clearly reflected on her timeline.
But just over a week ago, the steady stream of postings on her wall had stopped abruptly for some reason—and this was the finding that worried Randall.
He turned the phone so Tommy could see the screen too. It took a moment for Tommy to register what he was looking at, but when it dawned on him, he turned pale and formed an unarticulated fuck with his lips.
"A little over a week ago," Randall said. "It fits pretty well with what you said, doesn't it?"
Tommy stared at his folded hands for a while and then nodded. Then his gaze moved up to the clock on the wall between the living room and the kitchen.
"You need to get some sleep," he said, and before Randall got the chance to protest, he added: "We'll leave first thing tomorrow morning. I'll pack a few bags with food and stuff, so we don't have to stop on the way, and as soon as the sun rises, we're out of here. Okay?"
Randall took a deep breath and nodded. He didn't like to wait, but there weren't exactly any other alternatives. Moreover, the look in Tommy's eyes clearly stated that the plan wasn't open for negotiation.
"Do you have a bag I can borrow for these?" he said, pointing down at the sheets of paper on the table.
"I've got something even better."
Tommy got up, went to a dresser that stood below one of the windows facing the yard, and pulled one of the drawers out. From it, he took a thick, dark blue plastic folder, which Randall recognized right away.
"She left that here?" he asked. "I was sure she would have brought it with her to the nursing home."
Tommy gave him a smile that at the same time contained joy and sorrow.
"I'm pretty sure she did," he said. "At least at first. But I think she snuck it back here after you and I … after what happened at the funeral, you know. I think she was hoping I would find it and then reach out to you or something."
"That does sound like her."
"You can say that again," Tommy said, laughing. "A real meddler, she was."
He tossed the folder to Randall, who opened it and began flipping randomly through the thick stack of plastic pockets it contained.
Tommy and him building a fort in the bushes down by the creek. Tommy and him in the back seat of their parents' old Ford with two giant waffle cones in their hands and equally giant smiles on their lips. Himself on a sled while Tommy and his buddy were practically killing themselves trying to pull him up a snowy hill.
Countless memories that felt close and at the same time so distant that they could have belonged to a stranger appeared with every page he turned.
Most of the plastic pockets contained four photographs on each side, but at one point he came across one where there was only one picture: his father, sitting on a tree stump down by the creek, putting worms on his fishing hook.
He looked skinny. Must have been one of the last pictures of him.
"I still stand by it," Tommy said. "What I said at the funeral."
Randall, who had neither the desire nor the energy to start that conversation right now, nodded but remained silent.
"You probably think I was so high that I don't remember any of it," Tommy continued. "But I do. And I still stand by it."
"Not now, Tommy," Randall sighed, sending his brother a pleading look. "Not on top of everything else. I … I just don't have the energy."
For a long time, Tommy kept staring at him with an expression on his face that Randall had a hard time reading. It looked like he could explode in anger or break out in tears at any moment.
In the end, neither of the two happened. Tommy just got up, picked up the plate with the half-eaten sandwich from the table, and went out into the kitchen without saying a word.
Randall remained seated for a moment, pondering whether he should call his brother back. But it amounted to no more than a thought, and when he got up, it was to take the blanket off his shoulders and unfold it.
With it as a duvet and the sofa's armrests as a pillow, he arranged his bed for the night and lay down on it.
His expectation was that the night would be tough and that he would lie awake until dawn, tormented by anxiety and fear. However, his exhausted body had other plans, and it didn't take many minutes before his eyes began to blink slower and slower. Until finally they closed completely.
— Chapter 10 —
Just how many hours of sleep he had gotten, when he opened his eyes the next morning, Randall had no idea. What he could determine after looking around, however, was that Tommy must have gotten far fewer. For during the night all the pages of the manuscript had been put into the folder, which now lay on the dining table. Next to it were two backpacks—one stuffed to the brim and one half full—which hadn't been there the night before. So yeah, his big brother had been busy.
With a body that felt as if all his larger bones had been wrapped in barbed wire, Randall got up from the couch and went out into the kitchen.
Outside, the sun was rising, and through the large window above the kitchen table, he could see that the first orange-red flames had caught on to the lowest clouds. Before long, the rest of the sky would also burst into flames.
Normally he would have enjoyed the sight, but right now—when it felt as if some vile god had decided to literally set the entire world on fire—the sunrise just made him feel empty inside.
He went over to the fridge, opened the door, and let his eyes slide down over the shelves. The selection wasn't overwhelming, but he did locate some butter and a packet of sliced cheese. He brought these two things over to the opposite side of the kitchen, where the breadbasket and the cutting board were located.
As he stood there preparing his rather mediocre breakfast, he heard a door open and close again. With the sound came a stream of cold air that told him it had to be the front door.
His first thought was that Tommy probably had picked up some more firewood from the shed, but when Tommy appeared in the doorway, it quickly became clear that it was something else he had brought in from the shed.
"I don't know about that, Tommy."
Tommy looked down at the hunting rifle in his hands—their dad's old Remington—and then back at Randall.
"Don't even start with that shit," he said. "If we are going out there, we're bringing a weapon. And good morning to you too."
"Yeah, good morning," Randall said. "I'm just saying …"
No further did he get in the sentence before Tommy had turned around and left the room again.
You're such a fucking brat sometimes, Randall thought, but he kept it to himself. When it came down to it, bringing the rifle probably wasn't the worst idea, even though he generally wasn't a big supporter of firearms.
"I'll start loading the stuff in the car," Tommy shouted from the living room. "Can you bring the last bag out? Then we'll drive as soon as you're done eating."
"Okay," Randall replied, after which he stuffed the last of his cheese sandwich into his mouth and chewed it while scrubbing the butter knife under the tap in the kitchen sink.
Afterward, he went into the living room, where he picked up the folder with the manuscript and put it into the half-full backpack. Next, he lifted the backpack, threw it over his shoulder, and moaned at the weight.
Christ, you'd think he packed for a wilderness trip in Australia.
The bag was heavy, damn heavy, but of course that wasn't the only factor that came into play. His body also wasn't in its best shape given the beating it received the previous evening.
For the same reason, it was also with extreme care he walked down the five steps between the terrace in front of the door and the gravel in the driveway.
"Do you need a hand with it?" asked Tommy, who stood at the door to the shed, trying to get the key and the rusty padlock to work together.
Randall shook his head.
"Nah, I've got it."
"Are you sure?"
"Got it," Randall repeated.
And he did. But only just, because when he lifted the bag off his shoulder and let it fall into the trunk of the car, the walk had drained him of so much energy that he was on the verge of losing his balance and following it down there.
"You just get in. I'm going to lock up the rest and then I'm ready."
With those words, Tommy disappeared around the house for a minute while Randall sat down in the Chevy's passenger seat.
When Tommy came back, he sat down in the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition … but he didn't start the car right away. Instead, he turned to Randall and gave him a solemn look.
"Are we ready for this?"
Randall looked at his brother and then out onto the dirt road that connected the driveway of their parents' old, secluded farm with the outside world. A world that had always felt distant when he was out here—and that now did so to a much greater extent than ever before.
"Not at all," he said and meant it with all of his heart. "But let's just get going."
— Chapter 11 —
Logically, the opposite should be the case, but in many ways this new world they traversed was far eerier in daylight. In the beginning, Randall wasn't able to put his finger on why, but with each of the small towns they passed through, the explanation became clearer to him.
It was the people. Not the hanging ones, but all the others. Those who handed out packages, patched holes in asphalt, went for walks with dogs, painted walls, cut down trees, and drank coffee in small cafes as if nothing had happened.
One thing was that the daylight naturally drew more of these people out. But it also made them more visible and underscored how insane their behavior was. For in daylight there were no excuses. No explanations or doubts that could benefit them and justify how they could uphold their daily routines without reacting in the least to the fact that dead people were hanging all over the place.
And dead people there were, in abundance. They had passed through four smaller towns at this point, and each and every one of these had corpses hanging from lampposts and signs, as if they were in the process of decorating for some bizarre holiday.
And the smell. Oh God, the smell.
In reality, neither he nor Tommy had a great urge to cut through the towns, but there was simply no way to get to Newcrest without passing through at least a handful of populated areas. And what was worse: before long, they would also need to make a stop in one of them, because the needle in the gas gauge was getting dangerously close to the bottom.
However, Randall didn't intend to waste time on that concern until it became necessary, because right now they were moving through a quiet forest area, where there was a long way between both houses and public executions.
Hardly had he let go of that thought when Tommy spotted something that made him snort and exclaim:
"Oh, no shit, Sherlock. I think we got that figured out by now."
"What did we figure out?"
"That," Tommy said, pointing to an old, rundown wooden house nestled between a cluster of tall pine trees about twenty yards behind the road ditch on the right side.
The little house was clearly abandoned and had, judging by its appearance, been so for many years. Patches of dark green moss covered large parts of the front, and of the five windows he could spot from this side, there was only one in which the glass was still intact. In front, the garden—an overgrown sea of dry, yellowish grass, which at the wind's command waved back and forth in sync with the rusty iron rooster on the roof—was framed by an old, worn fence. It was, in other words, the type of house that gives young children nightmares and makes bigger kids challenge each other to enter.
But that was, Randall understood immediately, not the reason why Tommy had drawn his attention to it. What had caused his brother's outburst and made him point to the house were the big yellow letters on the roof. The graffiti.
DON'T CALL THE POLICE! it said. A simple message, cut to the bone—and one that he could only support.
"Who do you think made it?"
Tommy shrugged.
"I don't know. But I'm taking my damn hat off. It must have required balls."
"That's for sure," Randall said, nodding. "But why do it all the way out here? We haven't seen any of the hanged since Melville."
The answer came when they reached the peak of the elevation in the landscape they were on and could see what was on the other side. Because there, at the bottom of the hill, where the trees stopped abruptly as the ground changed from soil to rock, was a tunnel making it possible to pass under the railway and the mountain on which it ran. And from the signs above the tunnel's entrance hung not just one, but two dead people.
Beneath them, across the dark gray asphalt of the road, was another warning written with the same screaming yellow letters and the same handwriting as on the roof of the haunted house.
The words were also the same, but this time—perhaps due to the bigger canvas—the unknown graffiti artist had added an extra sentence:
DON'T CALL THE POLICE—THEY'RE THE ONES KILLING PEOPLE!
The warning made Randall feel scared and strangely uplifted at the same time. Scared because it made the situation more real. Uplifted because it confirmed that they weren't the only ones realizing that something was completely wrong.
He glanced at Tommy and only got a brief glimpse of his face before it fell in shadow as the Chevy drove into the long, dark tunnel. But the brief glimpse was enough to ensure him that his brother struggled with the same ambivalence.
"How many of us do you think there are?"
"Sane, you mean?"
"Well, yeah, I guess so."
"How the hell should I know? Not many, it seems."
While he spoke, Tommy pulled—with a mildly trembling hand—a cigarette out of the pack he had in the pocket of his shirt. A pack that Randall had seen him peel the wrap off when they left the farm—and which by now was almost empty.
"You're getting some smoke in, huh?"
"Yeah … and?"
"Nothing. What do you say we give the radio another shot?"
Tommy lit his cigarette, took a drag of it, and blew smoke out through his nose. Then he shrugged.
"Don't see why now should be any different, but if you want."
Randall nodded and stretched out his hand, but then stopped it in the air a few inches from the radio knob. And while it was hanging there, his thought version of Allie's voice decided to join in.
It's a bit ironic, isn't it? she mocked. You wonder why he's chain-smoking when it doesn't seem to calm him down. And yet, you keep turning on the fucking radio, despite getting disappointed every single time.
He sighed and let his hand fall down without turning the knob. Because no matter how depressing it was, it was no lie. He had been disappointed every single time. Fragments of interviews, babbling revival preachers, and advertisements for a wide range of products that one couldn't live without, he had heard lots of … but on none of the many channels he had flipped through, had there been signs of anything being wrong. No news broadcasts reported on hangings or mysterious cases of apathy in the population. Everything sounded nauseatingly normal.
