After Darkness Fell (17 page)

“Anyone drop by out here lately?”

The old man didn’t reply.

Two of them climbed the three rickety steps and flanked the old man’s rocker. He still hadn’t moved. I’d expected him to look in my direction, but he seemed to be staring down, at the steps. I was relieved he wasn’t able to give away my position. In his mental state, he’d probably already forgotten about me.

“There’s this fucker out here, somewhere...”

“Jus’ killed a buddy of ours,” his friend threw in.

“Bashed his head in,” added the third one at the foot of the steps, tossing his beam at the end of the street.

“Fucker’s crazy, dude...”

Silence.

“Got any munchies, pops?”

One of them aimed his beam at the front door. He walked up to it, kicked it open and aimed the bright orange halo at the open doorway. Then he stepped inside. One of the two on the front walk rushed up the steps and followed him in. A few moments later, the one standing on the old man’s right followed suit.

The fourth stayed out on the walk. He glanced at the old man then turned sharply and sprayed the front yard with his flashlight. Some of the haze hit the garbage bin in front of me before edging back into the weeds. The boy then turned and aimed the blinding light directly at the old man’s face.

I wanted to shoot him but knew what would happen if I missed. If they were carrying heavy-caliber guns, my .22 Ruger couldn’t possibly stack up—not in these conditions, where my aim would be less than perfect in the darkness. I could try using the .38, but I couldn’t get to the pancake holster without making sufficient noise in the weeds.

“Wanna be careful, livin’ out here by yourself, ol’ man.” The boy flicked off the flashlight. “Fucker we’re talkin’ about? He’s one badass, he’ll kill ya, he sees ya sittin’ out here like this—know what I mean?”

The old man didn’t reply.

“Ol’ dude like yourself? You’re a sittin’ duck, ’specially with a serious badass like him out here. Shoulda seen what he done to our buddy back there. Bashed ’is head in, broke all his fingers.”

The others came out of the house. One carried what looked like candy bars, while the other two nibbled on what sounded like crackers or pretzels, from a small bag. One of them said, “Don’t have too much in there, ol’ man. Need to take a trip to the local market for supplies. We might be passin’ by again, soon. We get hungry—know what I’m sayin’?”

The boys chuckled.

“Never know, stores might run out one of these days.”

A giggle.

“Yeah, ain’t much left in there now. You’re gonna be chewin’ your nails in a couple days.”

They were all nibbling as they shuffled down the walk, retrieved their bikes and got back on them. The one who’d stayed out on the porch said, “’Member what I said, ol’ man. Fuckin’ dangerous, sittin’ out here.”

The foursome rode away, giggling.

I stood up and forced myself to shove the Ruger back into the shoulder holster. I didn’t want to chance a firefight—not with the old man sitting there.

But I decided not to go inside. I couldn’t possibly take anything from this poor man, especially after those jerks had done the same thing. I pulled my bike out from amongst the weeds. Before I got on it and rode away, I turned and waved again. “I hope you’ll be okay, sir,” I said. “I wish I could’ve stopped them from doing what they did, but I didn’t want to get you killed.” Then I turned back to the road.

“Hungry?”

The soft, high-pitched voice startled me. I turned sharply around and saw right off that the old man was staring straight at me.

“Did you ... just say something?”

“You look hungry and tired.” The old man got up from his rocker. He jabbed a thumb at the door. “C’mon inside.”

I couldn’t believe this. Was it really happening? Or was I just imagining it?

“C’mon, now. Hide that bike quick. Those assholes might come back in a few minutes.”

***

Inside, the old man lit a small kerosene lamp. The area glowed, sprinkling the large, cluttered living room with hazy shadows. After closing and locking the door, he left the room for a few moments and came back carrying another kerosene lamp. He moved fairly well for his age. He was about my height and, except for some excess flab around his middle, fairly slender.

“You sure had me fooled,” I said.

In the haze of the lamp, his deep-blue eyes twinkled like tiny gems. “
You have to act
like that if you wanna sit out in your rocker at night and watch the stars.” He placed the second lamp on an end table next to the large L-shaped sofa facing the front door. The other lamp stood in the center of a round cocktail table, between the sofa and a large overstuffed armchair.

“You’ve got a point there,” I said.

“So here we are now, just a few of us left, and we can’t even sit outside on our own front porch without a gang of nutcases comin’ over and helpin’ themselves to whatever they want.” He gestured to the armchair. I let myself fall into it and instantly felt my body relax. Only then did I realize how long I’d been running on adrenaline.

He shook his head. “Twenty years ago? I would’ve shot those bastards. Now?” A shrug. “Kinda hard, dealing with shit like that when you’re eighty and your eyesight’s not so good anymore. Drink?”

“I’d love one. But don’t feel so bad. There were four of them, and they all had guns. I’ll bet they’re all pretty good with them.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Every so often I hear gunshots out in the woods a ways off. It’s probably those idiots having fun with strays.” He grabbed one of the lamps and left the room. I saw the light dance in the open doorway next to the living room wall and guessed it was probably the kitchen. I noticed that the curtains and blinds were closed and pulled tight in both living room windows, keeping light from trickling outside, which would be seen by looters or other vandals wandering around.

He came back carrying a bottle and two glasses. He put the lamp on the end table, placed the glasses on the table between us and poured at least three inches into each. “Scotch all right for you?”

“Scotch will definitely be all right.”

He handed me a glass. I drank and immediately felt the strong stuff warming my insides. He plopped down on the couch and sipped some from his own glass. “Walter,” he said.

“Moss.”

“Moss?”

“Alan, but everyone calls me Moss.”

He held out his glass. We clinked. “To better days.”

“That wouldn’t take much.”

“By the way, thanks for doing what you did with the mailbox. I thought about doing it myself, but I don’t want anyone seeing me. You never know when these little bastards’ll pass by on their bikes. I don’t want ’em knowing I’m not doped.”

“I can’t blame you. Acting normal can be deadly these days.”

“I’ve seen a beat-up pickup go by a few times, and also one of those electric compacts a dozen times in the last few weeks.”

“I’ve seen them, too. They belong to a man named Simon.”

“Simon?”

“These boys live with him.”

“Where’d they come from?”

“From what I heard, a Juvenile Center in Pittsburgh. Simon went there to raid the pharmacy for drugs and supplies and decided to bring some of the kids back with him and use them to run errands for him.”

“Nice.”

“He’s got a huge mansion on Cherry Hill Road. He probably just took it over and moved right in. Apparently he’s set himself up as their leader or something.”

“Shit, that’s only a coupla miles down the road. And you say those idiots live with him?”

“There are women, too. Drop-offs, apparently. Sounds like he’s got some sort of harem operation going on.”

He blinked. “Drop-offs?”

“I heard the boys say the normal people are dropping off the doped.”

“Like dogs?”

“Exactly.”

The old man shook his head. “Keeps on getting better and better, don’t it?”

“As long as there are people still walking around, things will always be bad.”

“Ever seen this Simon character?”

“Not yet, but I plan to.”

Walter sipped more Scotch. “Why’d you do it, Moss? Make the mailbox right?”

“I didn’t like seeing it lying there like that. To me, it looked like it wanted to stand up again. We don’t have any use for mail anymore, but it bothered me. It’s hard to explain. I guess you could say it saddened me. Is that why you invited me in?”

He put his glass down. “The wife helped me put it up. Forty-seven years ago, I believe it was. We’d just bought the house. It wasn’t a good time to buy a house back then. The industry was in the worst recession we’d ever seen, probably because our Government was in the worst stage of corruption most of us had ever seen. But Madge and I had only been married three years and wanted our own place. We had a little money saved, and we always liked this area, so we took out a mortgage, cashed in our Government bonds and moved right in. Raised two kids, sent ’em both through college, shared a lot of memories—some good, some bad.” He laughed. “That mailbox saw more than a dozen coats of paint. It survived its share of idiot postal workers running into it, as well as power company trucks and other folks trying their best to knock it down ... but it always managed to hold its ground.”

“When did it fall over?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I buried Madge about four months ago. She started getting bad, forgetting things, having headaches all the time, until one morning she didn’t wake up. Anyway, it wasn’t too long after that when the damned thing started leaning. Then it fell sometime in the night, and when I woke the next morning and saw it lying there on the walk, it hit me hard. It was almost like it just gave up when Madge died. And when it collapsed, I felt as if my life I knew it was gone. I had a quiet cry, said a prayer for Madge and never looked at it again.”

Four months ago. About the same time Fields, Reed and I were burying Uncle Joe, this poor man was burying his beloved wife of nearly fifty years. “Sorry, Walter.”

He nodded, and in the haze of the lamp I saw his eyes glistening. “What you did—when you picked it back up, it was a very nice moment ... very special for me. It felt like someone had just dropped by to say hi—not just to me, but also to Madge. The neighbors did that not too long ago. Back in the day, they stopped by once in a while. Sometimes one of our friends would bring us a dozen ears of corn, other times fruit or tomatoes. A lot of good folks died in the last year or so, Moss.”

“I know.” I thought of my mother and Uncle Joe. And, of course, Reed.

“I buried Madge in the back yard, near her flower garden. It took me all day. Hell, I’m an old man, Moss. I had to stop every fifteen minutes or so, catch my breath. Shovels stopped being my favorite things fifty years ago. But it had to be done. Madge had to have a place to...” He waved it aside. “Long story short, no one stopped by that day. Everyone was already dead, or as close to it as you can get.”

“I can see why I brought it all back.”

“But that wasn’t the whole story. I liked what you said before you tried to leave. About you wanting to stop them doing what they did. I ... really liked hearing that.”

“The only reason I didn’t do it was because I didn’t want you getting caught in the crossfire. I thought you were doped, and if you were, you wouldn’t be able to get out of the way fast enough.”

He smiled. “I appreciate the thought, Moss.”

I drained my drink, picked up the bottle and poured a couple of inches into my glass and another couple of inches into Walter’s glass.

He picked it up and swirled it. “I never thought something like that would happen again—not in my lifetime, anyway. I guess I thought ... well, when you live alone, and everyone else is dead, dying or crazy, you don’t expect to meet anyone decent. Know what I mean?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Then someone drops by, says something nice and actually does something nice for you.” He held out his glass again. “It’s been a really good day, my friend.”

I picked up my glass and we clinked again.

“That a Ruger I saw in your hand out in the front yard?”

I pulled it out and handed it over. He examined it. “Sweet. Had one just like it, years ago.” He reached underneath the cocktail table and placed what looked like a Glock on its surface. He obviously had a holster Velcroed or stapled to the underside of the table. “I spent twenty years in the Air Force as a pilot. At least that’s what I did before they started up those drone programs to spy on everyone. Then they didn’t need me up there anymore, and stuck me behind a desk in one of their recruiting centers. How ’bout you?”

“Army. Three years. Riot control then border patrol.”

“Nasty duty.” He grimaced and had another sip of Scotch. “Are you the man those punks were talking about? The one killing folks?”

“That’s me.”

He sat back and stared at me for a few moments. “Care to tell me why?”

“Simon took my girlfriend. I’m getting her back, one way or the other. I don’t care how many of them I have to kill to do it.”

Walter frowned. “He ... took your girlfriend?”