Jeff Jacobson - Growth

Kevin unclipped the leash from Puffing Bill so it wouldn’t catch on anything. They both turned and ran.

Sandy stopped at the police station on the outskirts of town and tried the front door. It was locked. She pulled out her keys, then saw the chain wrapped around the push bars on the inside. Same thing for the back door. She knew Liz would have had a fit, and hoped she was smart enough to not get in too much trouble with Sheriff Hoyt.

She thought about trying to break a window, see if she could trigger the alarm, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth it. It wouldn’t help her get inside. She climbed back into the Suburban and drove a few blocks to her house.

Kevin was not there.

She sat in the kitchen for a while, trying to think. She got back in the Suburban and drove out to Highway 67 and turned north, stopping at the Korner Kafe.

The CLOSED sign was up in the window. She was surprised; she couldn’t ever remember a time when it wasn’t open during the day. Her dad used to bring her here for the lunches. He’d get a BLT, and she’d get the mac and cheese. For some reason, she always remembered coming here with him during the winter, when the farmers had too much time on their hands. He must have brought her here during the summer, when there was no snow, but the only images that came to her were sitting at the counter while the winter winds howled outside, sheeting the big windows in intricate spiderwebs of ice.

Sandy tried the front door. It was unlocked, which didn’t make much sense. She went around the register and set the phone on the counter. She tried calling the FBI and CDC one more time, but got the same hollow, echoing message that told her the call could not be completed at this time. She called Randy and Patty. Their answering machine picked up and she hung up without saying anything. Just for the hell of it, she tried to call her house. It went through and rang until the answering machine picked up. “Kevin, if you get this, stay there and wait for me. I will find you.”

She dug around under the counter and found the phone book, turned the pages until her finger stopped at the Fitzgimmon number. She dialed it and waited as it rang a long time.

Finally, a woman with some kind of accent answered. “Yes?”

“I need to speak with Purcell. Immediately.”

The woman put the phone down for a moment. When she came back, she asked, “Who is calling, please?”

“This is Sandy Chisel.”

Again, the phone went quiet. Sandy could hear low talking in the background. A man picked it up. “Yeah?”

“Purcell?”

“What do you need, Chief? Kinda busy right now.”

“I know you have at least four firearms registered with the county. I need you and your boys to meet me in the Korner Kafe parking lot right away and bring as many shotguns to as you can.”

Purcell took a moment, asked, “Why?”

“It’ll be easier if I show you.” Inside, Sandy was praying that she was wrong, that the sick fear that gripped her when Sheriff Hoyt had mentioned a situation in town had nothing to do with the fungus.

He was quiet again, so she said, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. I need help to get to my son.”

This time, she waited through the silence.

Finally, he spoke. “Do you want me to bring those guns I registered or do you want me to bring as many shotguns as I can?”

“I want you to bring as many shotguns as you can.”

“See you in a few.” He hung up.

The door to the church basement was stronger than Sandy expected. She’d known it would be locked, but figured it was a simple door to the basement of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, not Fort Knox. She figured a well-placed kick would be enough to crack either the doorframe or the door itself. So far, she’d given it three or four kicks, but it held fast. She looked around for something she could use, but found nothing but a well-manicured lawn and tasteful landscaping surrounding the church.

She ran back to the empty parking lot to check the back of the Suburban. She didn’t think there was a lot of room in the back because of all the rows of seats, but maybe Albert had a toolbox or something back there. She didn’t see a toolbox, but found something better.

A goddamn chainsaw.

It wasn’t huge, just a 38cc orange Husqvarna with a sixteen-inch bar. She checked the gas. It was full. She started it on the run back to the door and it burst into life with a terrific, mean little purr. Even better, Albert had taken off the tip protector, so she could plunge the entire bar straight into the door.

Sandy was tired of wasting time and simply sawed the entire door in half and kicked the bottom half down the basement stairs. She ducked under and hit the lights. As she went down the stairs, she went to kill the engine, but remembered the basement in the Einhorn house. She decided to keep the engine idling for now, at least until she got back into the Suburban.

After Cochran had panicked over his own gas mask being removed, he’d explained that the fungus could infect you with spores that floated in the air. She’d immediately thought about how she’d helped Troop 2957 with their disaster drill and knew where she could find at least a dozen gas masks. She still had no idea why the church needed them, and had never wanted to deliberately make waves by asking.

Luckily, they hadn’t moved the gas masks. They were still in a green Army duffel bag hanging in the walk-in utility closet.

She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and charged back up the stairs into the sunlight. On the lawn, walking to the Suburban, she finally relaxed enough to turn off the chainsaw. It made her feel better, though; the gas masks went into the backseat and the chainsaw went on the front passenger seat so she could keep it close.

As she pulled out of the parking lot, she couldn’t understand why no one had come out of the church itself or the connected offices to check on the noise. The parade should have been finished a while ago. Where was everybody?

Purcell was waiting with folded arms while his three sons stood in the back of the pickup. They were parked in the Korner Kafe lot. No shotguns were visible. She pulled in next to Purcell’s pickup, got out, and opened the back door. She tossed the duffel bag into the back of the pickup.

Charlie unzipped it and pulled out one of the gas masks. “We going to some kinda weird sex party?” he asked, spinning the mask on his index finger.

“Aw yeah,” Axel said. “Count me in, baby.”

Edgar gave a little uncontrollable dance, like a toddler that had to take a leak.

“Gotta admit,” Purcell said, staring at Sandy. “You got me a little curious here, with guns and gas masks.”

“You bring your guns?” Sandy asked.

Purcell smiled. “Guess that all depends on what you mean. If you’re talking about those coupla guns I registered just to make the political fuckers happy, then… not so much. Those are family heirlooms. They belong above the fireplace, so we can pass the stories down from generation to generation. When these boys have families of their own, they will explain to their children why these guns are important to us.” He gave her a grin. “If you’re talking about simple firepower, well then…”

He pulled a shotgun off the front seat. The stock and forestock were built of black plastic and from a distance, it looked like a standard military semiautomatic .12 gauge. Purcell had a look that echoed the same joy that boys across the world experience when blowing shit up. “This,” he said with a grand air, “is an AA-12, a fully automatic shotgun.”

He brandished a circular magazine; it reminded her of one of the clips that Al Capone and his gang had used for their .45 caliber Thompson submachine guns. “Twenty rounds. You’ll go through this in less time it takes to blink. Guaranteed to turn anything in front of you into a bad dream.”