Nightingale Songs (15 page)

When he did, the high-pitched whine in his ears ceased, and he heard the rustling of the world again. He walked to his kitchen window and looked out at his neighbor’s house. The old man still sat in front of his tiny television, looking as though he'd not yet moved. The man had no doubt grown old in front of his set while the world passed him by. It was sad, Michael supposed, and he hoped there was at least someone who might visit him -- anything that might prove a distraction from that pale blue light.

Michael made himself some coffee and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, only to find the package empty. He couldn't recall smoking the last of them the night before, but he must have. Grumbling, already behind on his unpacking, he put on his shoes and went looking for a store.

He didn't have to travel far. Somehow he'd missed it the night before, but just around the corner from his new home stood a large gas station. No doubt its store would sell what he needed.

The parking lot was empty, and when Michael stepped through the glass door, he heard a small chime yet saw no customers.

"Can I help you?"

The attendant behind the counter appeared tired. He was tall and lean, with pepper hair and a glaring face that looked as though he'd taken his tools to it. Above his head was a small television playing a low-rent talk show, and Michael found it hard to resist the tiny, blurry screen.

He shut his eyes and turned away. "Can I get a pack of unfiltered regulars?"

He heard nothing for a few moments, but when he opened his eyes the cigarettes were on the counter and the attendant had returned to his chair and resumed watching his small television set.

"Thank you," Michael said, and left money on the counter. When he turned to leave, the man looked over from his television.

"So you're the new one in the Jungle?"

"Yes. I just moved in."

"If you say so." He shrugged, then turned back to bathe in the blue light of the changing channel.

Michael returned home and tried to use the remains of his day to finish unpacking, but didn't get further than mid-afternoon. While he was taking a break to smoke a cigarette, the telephone rang. At first he didn't want to answer it; something about the sound was wrong, but it would not stop ringing. Michael put his cigarette out and picked up the receiver. All he heard was heavy breathing.

"Hello?"

"Mike? It's Rich. Um. . . . What are you doing? Are you watching television?"

"No, I'm unpacking."

There was a pause, and Michael could hear the connection crackle, threatening to go out. He had to concentrate to hear what came next. "Can you come over?"

"Why? Are you still bored?" Michael smiled as he said it, but grew uneasy with only static in response. "I would, but I need to get this house unpacked. I'm not even sure where all my food is."

"Oh, okay. I --" There was a crash on the line, and Michael wondered if it was indeed static or something else entirely. Richard sounded frightened, whatever it was. "Michael, there's something going on over here."

"What's that noise?"

"I can't explain it. You need to come over. Ever since --"

A sound, as though the air around Michael had cracked, shook the room, and the telephone, along with everything else, died. The world was silent, until further, quieter cracks followed from somewhere at the rear of the house. Richard was immediately forgotten as Michael ran to the back door and looked through its window.

It was not the air that had split, but instead the old misshapen tree. It had snapped along the base of its trunk and pitched forward across the dried yard. The wires that had been tangled in its amputated limbs remained, though pulled free they sparked and sizzled. Michael had lost all his power.

He went into the backyard to see what had happened, careful to avoid the crackling wires. He was lucky; the tree had missed the house by mere inches when it fell. But he couldn't fathom what had caused it to snap. He remembered putting his weight on it the day before. Had that weakened it?

He looked, but could see no sign of what might have brought down the tree. The only person visible from where he stood was his old neighbor, who didn't notice the near destruction that had occurred so close.

Then, Michael saw what must have been the true culprits. From the tree's uneven wound a thick wave of large ants emerged, as though released from a hollow in the pith. They were dark black with burnt red thoraxes and they skittered across the felled tree, inspecting the damage with their heavy mandibles. He expected them to scatter, but instead, one by one, they returned to the hollow from which they were born, bound by some force of nature to that dead place. He shook his head. How cold the world was sometimes. Their fates were already decided; they were programmed to carry it out. If only they were able to think beyond it -- perhaps then they might find a way to escape.

Michael brushed his hands and stood. He would have to call the power company to rewire the house, and someone else to remove the dead tree from the yard, but he no longer had a working telephone to do either. Already, the afternoon light was threatening to fade, and he began to worry about Richard and how he had sounded earlier. Perhaps it was best if Michael went to him right away. From there, he could make his call to the power company, then discover what he had heard on the telephone just before the line went dead. They weren't words, but something very much the same.

Yet when he arrived at Richard's house a half hour later, no one answered the door. A noise emanated from the backyard, and Michael couldn't be sure if it was caused by his friend or by the wind howling through the trees.

"Richard?" he called and made his way around the side of the house in the dimming light. "Richard? I need to use your phone."

The backyard, though, was empty and the garden in ruins -- plants were shredded and large divots were ripped from the lawn. He heard what sounded like a faint and rasping laughter coming from somewhere, though he couldn't pinpoint the source.

He walked back around the house to the front and pounded on the door. "Richard, are you in there?" He heard his knock echo, though the sound was slightly off. He tried again, "Are you there?"

He tossed his cigarette aside, then cupped his hands and looked in the window. He couldn't see anything clearly, but it appeared that the same destruction that had happened in the yard had taken place inside. Potted plants were thrown around, and the mat he had sat upon the night before was curled up at the side of the room. There was something else in the middle of the floor, something else that must have been toppled, but in the creeping night he didn't recognize the mass. Whatever it was, it looked broken and misshapen. All around it were dark marks on the floor, each the size of a fist, which swirled and circled the fallen debris. Michael knocked once more, but nothing happened.

The noises were getting louder as the darkness began to settle on the world. The house on Benman Boulevard seemed to recede with every moment that passed, and he walked towards it as fast as he could, though it still didn't seem fast enough. The sound of aluminum trashcans and plastic barrels being knocked over in the distance and the noise of pets howling and crying followed right behind him, but when he turned he saw nothing other than the odd misplaced shadow. Yet, the footsteps behind came from somewhere -- soft padded footsteps that grew faster and louder as they came upon him. He increased his pace while his eyes searched for escape.

Up ahead, he saw the tiny gas station he had visited earlier that day. Its lights were like a beacon in the falling night, but as Michael approached he saw those lights were dimmer than they should have been. Behind him the sounds of pursuit had lessened, and then disappeared, yet when he tried the door of the station he found it locked.

Michael could see the attendant was still inside watching his tiny television, yet he would not move until Michael's knocking became a pounding upon the glass door. The attendant stood and walked carefully to the door. His eyes darted past Michael uneasily as he stared through the reinforced window.

"We're closed." He pointed to a small sign.

"I need your help."

"We're closed!"

"Please, you've got to let me in."

With those words, the attendant stepped back, and for a moment Michael thought he might unlock the door. Instead, he leaned toward the glass until he was less than an inch from it, and through clenched teeth he seethed, "We are
closed
!"

Without further word, he returned to his chair and turned up the volume of his television.

Michael turned around. It was no use. The street ahead of him was an endless line of tiny blue lights, little televisions broadcasting to hundreds of staring eyes. A sound like a bottle skittering across the street startled him, and before he realized it he was running the rest of the distance home.

He didn't hear any further noises beyond the hum of the electric wires above him, and snippets of what those in the Ben Jungle were watching. All the same, when he reached his house, out of breath, his fingers shook as he fumbled the key from his pocket and then inserted it into the front door lock. It took a moment too long for it to open, but once done he wasted no time shutting and locking the door behind him.

He went to the front window and parted the curtains an inch, but there was nothing out there that might have followed him. He was safe, finally. But he would feel much safer if he only had power. He tried the switches again, although he knew what the result would be. He was trapped in his home until daybreak. At that time, he would contact the power company from the gas station and have them repair the line. Perhaps Richard would be home by then and agree to wait with him.

Until then, he would have to make do. He lit a cigarette in hopes that it would calm him, and then went to the kitchen to find his flashlight. It was in the second box he tried, and the little circle of light helped keep him from losing his sanity. He looked to the kitchen window again and saw his neighbor still watching television, but the sight of the man was blurred, and Michael realized there was something on the glass, some sort of grime smeared across it, looking much like Richard's windows had the night before. The sight filled Michael with nervous dread. He exhaled a dark cloud.

Then the noise resumed, but had become a high-pitched chatter, like an audiotape running through its reels. It came from the rear of the house. He slowly crept to the back door and peered through its window, but there was only darkness to see -- darkness with vague shadowy figures running through it like wisps. They resembled people gathering in his backyard, and he took the flashlight and held it flush against the glass, but the shapes were too dark, too vague in the night. He tried to squint for a better view, pressing up against the glass, and then shone his flashlight as accurately as possible at the thing closest to him.

It shrank from the light, and then made another horrible screech. It was unclear what the creature was -- the flashlight was not powerful enough to disperse the shadows collected around it -- but it was the size of a large dog on its haunches. Its head looked pale, set in a collar of fur, and it moved with jerking motions as it avoided the flashlight's beam. Then, it turned toward Michael, and charged with frightening speed.

Michael did not have time to pull away from the window before the thing was face-to-face with him, only a thin layer of glass between them. It looked almost human, but grossly distorted -- its mouth hung loose and its eyes were like black glass beads, and yet, it seemed strangely familiar. It bared numerous small pointed teeth, fogging the window with breath, and Michael fell back screaming, the cigarette dropping from his mouth.

The curtains ignited instantly, and he tried to step forward but the fire spread too fast. Behind the flames, the creature continued to scream and pound on the window, and Michael heard more chattering, and the sound of something -- of more than one something -- moving impossibly quick along the side of the house while the flames spread around him.

He ran to the living room, the smoke stinging his eyes, but he saw there silhouetted behind the curtains more of the creatures. They covered the windows, attempting to force their way in. The front door suffered a continual pounding, as if something were being thrown against it. Michael backed slowly into the kitchen, coughing as flames licked the walls and leapt to the television. The screen grew bright, and then the tube imploded like a gunshot. The chattering only became angrier. Michael did not know what to do.

Beyond the flames and the bubbling walls and the creatures beating at the kitchen window he saw the old man next door, bathed in the pale glow of his television. He seemed oblivious to everything around him.