After Dark (17 page)

“People are wandering around like zombies,” I said.

“Old-school zombies or the new style?” he asked, while typing something on his laptop.

“What do you mean?”

“Old-school zombies are pretty slow. The new ones are a lot faster.”

“New style at night, old school during the day.”

“Dude, half the population of this town is over seventy, of course they're going to shuffle around looking confused,” he said, turning to face me and yawning again. “Listen, last October Miles rushed in here with ‘irrefutable photo evidence of vampire activity in the area.' But you know what it turned out to be? Just a bunch of guys from the football team putting him on. Last summer he tells me there's definitely UFO activity going on near his house. I spent the entire night out in the woods with that screwball, and we came up with bupkis. Do you know what the mosquitoes are like in those woods?”

“I've got a pretty good idea,” I said and scratched my arms.

“Yeah, looks like you do,” he said. “The winter before that he wanted me to run a photo of a footprint he'd taken that he swore belonged to a sasquatch. All I'm saying is, you shouldn't listen to the kid.”

“Yeah, maybe —” I started, but he suddenly jumped out of his chair.

“Wait a second! You're new in town, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What's your last name?”

“Harker.”

“You're Johnny Harker's brother, right?” he said, rushing around the desk.

“That's right.”

“My sister told me he was over at The Bend yesterday, but I didn't believe her. Wow! Dude, I'd love to interview him. Do you think you could set that up?”

“That's the thing. I don't think Johnny's feeling so hot.”

“I could go meet him, he could come here or, if he's sick, we could meet at a doctor's office or in the hospital. Wait, is it serious? Let's just set this thing up, okay? My name's Jimmy Brooks. I'll see what I can do about the picture if you can get me an interview with your brother. What do you say?”

“So, you'll run it?” I asked.

“I'll need Mr. King's approval first.”

“When can you get that?” I asked.

“I don't know. He's not answering his phone. I might be able to run them in Tuesday's paper if we could set up the interview for tomorrow. What do you say?”

“I'm not sure?” I mumbled.

“If it were up to me, I'd print every single one of Miles's crazy photos if I could get that interview with Johnny, but Mr. King has to give the green light. Why don't you go downstairs, have a coffee at the Frog Brothers Café and I'll figure something out,” he said, thrusting a five-dollar bill in my hand. “I'll run over to Mr. King's house if I have to.”

“I can't stay long,” I said.

“I'll meet you in half an hour, at the most,” he said, ushering me back to the door. “Just don't leave, okay?”

“I'm not making any promises.”

“That's fair, dude, that's fair,” he said and opened the door.

I stepped outside and started down the stairs. Dark clouds had rolled across the horizon while I was inside, and they were heading our way.

“I'll be there before you can order a second cup!” he called.

While I walked down the alley, I took another look at the photo on Miles's phone. That human skull with a thorny plant growing out of it stared back at me. Was Jimmy Brooks right? Was it just another exotic addition to Victor Opal's collection of wacky artifacts? Yes, a few people were behaving strangely, and there'd been some vandalism to the houses on Oak Street, but that didn't mean Rolling Hills was ground zero for an outbreak of vampire-itis. Surely there were other perfectly logical explanations for the things going on around here. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of any, so I decided it was time to get advice from a person I often turned to when my life got a little out of hand: Richard O'Rourke. And since I had Miles's phone, I didn't need to resort to mailing him an
I
h
Rolling Hills
postcard. I could just email him. Standing on the sidewalk just outside the Frog Brothers Café, I typed:

Hola, O'Rourke, and greetings from Rolling Hills. I hope you're having a blast in your bunker. It's been a barrel of monkeys here! Did I say a barrel of monkeys? Actually, it's been more like swimming with sharks with some hard manual labor thrown in for kicks. Anyhoo, I'm writing because there are some strange things happening around town, and I'm not sure if I should be taking them seriously or if my brain has finally turned into Swiss cheese. I've attached a photo of a skull with a plant growing out of it that was found in my neighbor's root cellar. Take a gander, maybe show it to your old man, and drop me a line. This isn't a gag, like the time we sent that Photoshopped pic of Peck done up like a rodeo clown to Sterling. Believe it or not, this is legit. I think there's a distinct possibility that the people here are actually infected with something serious. Over and under, Chuck.

I pressed Send, even though the chances of O'Rourke taking this seriously were slim to none, and opened the door to the Frog Brothers Café. Thunder boomed behind me as I stepped inside.

The café was a small, narrow room with a few wooden tables surrounded by chairs squeezed inside. The lights were low, and the place was empty except for three people sitting around a table in the back corner — I froze as soon as I saw them. It was the mannequin brothers from the Voodoo. I stared at them. They stared back, and I almost turned to leave, but a guy behind the counter called out, “What can I get you?” and flashed me such a friendly smile I felt silly about running out of the place.

“What can I get you?” the guy behind the counter asked again. He was short, with shoulder-length brown hair and a few days' worth of beard growing on his face. He was wearing a white T-shirt, and both arms were covered in tattoos. Standing beside him, drying off a coffee mug, was his identical twin. I think even their tattoos were the same. In fact, the only difference between them was that the one drying off the mug was wearing a pair of sunglasses.

The first guy caught me looking back and forth between them and said, “I'm Cory, that's Hamish. We're the Frog brothers. What can I get you?”

My danger-is-near alarm started buzzing as I strolled across to the counter. But I told myself there was always the possibility that Hamish and the mannequins had light-sensitivity issues. Maybe it was some genetic defect in people from Rolling Hills? Of course, they'd all have to be suffering from the mother of all light-sensitivity problems in these dim conditions, but it was a possibility.

“Ah, maybe …” I said, stopping a few feet from the counter and thinking again about leaving, but before I could take a step toward the door, two more people came in. They were both older men, probably in their sixties, wearing trench coats, fedoras — and sunglasses. The one on the right was leaning on a cane; the one on the left was carrying an umbrella. They looked like undercover spies from a really old and cheesy movie.

“I'll get you a cup of coffee,” Cory snapped.

“I don't …” I said, glancing from the mannequins in the corner to the undercover grandpas, who weren't moving away from the front door. Everyone was staring at me.

“It's on the house, and you
really
need to try it,” he said, giving me a desperate kind of look that said he really wanted me to stick around.

“I guess,” I said and felt a clammy sweat break out over my whole body.

“G-great,” Cory stammered and cracked a false smile. “Coming right up.” He turned around to pour me a cup. While I waited, Hamish continued to stare at me, still drying the same mug. It looked about as dry as it was ever going to get, and I wondered how long he'd been standing there like that.

My heart was hammering inside my ribs, and my lungs seemed to be constricting, making it hard to breath. Cory had his back turned to me and was busy doing something to my cup. Was he drugging me? Was he in on this … this … whatever
this
was?

I peeked over my shoulder at the grandpas. They'd silently taken a seat by the door. I figured this was my chance to escape. I could blow by them and be back on Church Street before they could struggle back to their feet. Any ideas I'd been having about light sensitivity were gone. Any doubts I had about Miles were gone, too. I just wanted to get out of this place. I had to get out. And I was about to make my move, but when I turned to go, Dr. Creed, the veterinarian, appeared at the front door, followed by a huge cop. They were both wearing sunglasses.

“Hello, Charlie,” Dr. Creed said, walking toward me.

“Hi,” I blurted, and another clap of thunder sounded, making me jump.

“This is Officer Lennox,” she added, speaking in an overly soothing voice. I imagined it was the voice she used just before she put someone's pet to sleep, permanently.

Lennox, who must have been six and a half feet tall, stared down at me from over her shoulder.

“Just getting a cup of coffee,” I said and tried to smile, but I'm sure whatever crossed my face made me look more like a maniac than a regular happy-go-lucky patron of the Frog Brothers Café.

“You seem a little stressed,” she said and nodded at my hand. “Be careful or you might break that.”

I looked down and saw that I was gripping Miles's phone so tightly my knuckles had turned white.

“I forgot I was holding it,” I stammered, and saw that the photo of the skull was still up on the screen.

“What's the photograph of, Charlie?” Lennox asked, turning his head a little sideways to get a better look.

Before I could answer, Cory Frog broke in. “Here's your coffee. Sorry it took so long.”

I stuffed Miles's phone in my pocket and grabbed the large disposable cup, covered by a plastic lid, that was sitting on the counter in front of me.

“The cream and sugar are on the table over there,” he told me and motioned toward the back of the room. “You'll
definitely
want cream and sugar. You won't regret it.”

“Thanks,” I said, thinking there was absolutely no way I was going to drink that coffee. In fact, I thought a better use for it would be to chuck it at Lennox's face and make a mad dash for the door.

“Add some cream and sugar,” Cory said and glanced at my cup, then back at my face, then back at my cup. “You won't regret it.”

“Right,” I murmured. I didn't know if I could trust Cory Frog, but he was the only one in the place not wearing sunglasses, and he seemed to be trying to tell me something, so I postponed my coffee assault on Lennox and started over to the table at the back. My hand was trembling uncontrollably as I went, making the coffee inside slosh around.

I plopped the cup down on the table when I arrived, relieved I didn't have to see it shaking anymore, and popped off the plastic lid. That's when I discovered a note along the inside edge. It read:
Ask 4 washroom and then go out back door.

I glanced over my shoulder. Hamish was still working on the same mug. Lennox and Dr. Creed were turned toward me, staring. The undercover grandpas were standing again. The mannequins, who were only a few feet away, were starting to rise. Cory was watching me, trying to look casual, but I could see panic in his eyes.

I read the note again. It was hard to concentrate on the words because the sound of my heart thundering in my chest was driving out any rational thoughts. I gripped the cream-and-sugar table, worried I might be on the verge of having a heart attack at the ripe old age of fifteen. I shook my head and focused all of my attention on the words Cory had scribbled along the edge.
Ask 4 washroom and then go out back door.
I wasn't crazy. Miles wasn't crazy. Cory Frog, an independent third party, knew something terrible was happening in Rolling Hills.

“Wahs sh wa srm?” I croaked. My mouth had gone so dry, the words came out sounding like mumbled gobbledygook.

“What's that?” Cory asked, his voice a little shaky. “You need to use the washroom?”

“Right … yeah!” This time I shouted the words. Apparently, I'd lost all control of my vocal cords.

“Down back,” he said, pointing at a hallway a few feet to my right. There was a sign with the word
WASHROOM
printed on it in large red letters stuck on the wall.

“Thanks!” I yelled. He cringed at my obvious panic. It made me cringe, too, because I suddenly felt outside myself, watching my body give in to hysterics. I gulped in air, trying to get ahold of myself.

“Just spread the word about the coffee, okay? Tell someone … about what it's like here.”

“Yeah,” I grunted and took another gulp of air. I somehow managed to put the top back on the coffee, despite my shuddering hands. I didn't want anyone to see the note.

“We need to talk to you, Charlie,” Dr. Creed said, stepping forward.

“I have to poo,” I cried, and broke into a half jog toward the washroom.

I don't know if you've ever had a dream where someone or something is chasing you and suddenly all your motor skills give out and you can't run anymore? Well, that's what it felt like during my sprint toward the back exit. It was as if all the muscles in my legs had turned to rubber, and they weren't listening to the commands my brain was sending them to go fast — extremely fast. I crashed into the wall twice as I ran along. The second time I almost lost my balance. I would have slammed headfirst into the door, but I managed to find my footing just in the nick of time and slammed into the bar in the middle of the back door with my shoulder instead of my head. The door flew open, and I went careening into the back alley, still by some miracle holding on to my coffee. I took a split second to look back and saw Cory tackling the mannequin who was leading the charge. Unfortunately, the others, including his twin brother, just trampled right over both of them.