William Meikle - The Hole

“Your storm troopers shot her parents and damned near killed her too. How do you think she’s feeling?”

Things got a mite frosty after that. Fred endured the indignities of the tests. He had made a quick trip alone to the bathroom to collect his personal samples, wondering what mood the girl might be in on his return. She had been relatively calm then, but got increasingly agitated, and when she was asked to go alone to the small bathroom to give urine and stool samples, she refused point-blank to leave Fred’s side.

“Come with me,” she said, and looked up at him from eyes he was growing to realize he couldn’t refuse.

“I’m not sure that’s proper,” the scientist said as Fred took Sarah by the hand and led her along the trailer.

“I’m not sure I give a fuck,” Sarah said, and Fred had a big smile on his face as the girl led him into the bathroom.

There was only just enough space for the two of them to fit inside.

“Face the wall,” the girl said, even managing a small, sad smile. “I need you here, but I don’t need you seeing me do this.”

Fred did as he was told and stood with his nose to the door. He couldn’t plug his ears though, and he heard the sounds that accompanied her sampling clear enough. If Sarah was embarrassed at all, she didn’t show it.

“All done,” she said after a time. Wherever Sarah had been in her head, it seemed she was coming out of it. If Fred was worried that she might no longer need to lean on him, it was quickly quelled when she took his hand again as they left the bathroom. Sarah handed the samples to the scientist.

“You folks killed my ma and pa,” she said dully. “I’m only helping you because you need it to help the others. It don’t mean I like you, and when we get out of this, I’m going to be telling everybody that’ll listen what you did.”

“It wasn’t me…” the scientist started, until Fred put up a hand.

“Right. You’re only following orders. Tell it to your general. We’re done with listening to you.”

He led Sarah back to the bar. Her hand fit in his as if it belonged there.

The power in The Roadside gave out in midafternoon. Charlie had been trying to get a signal on the television above the bar. He jiggled the internal antenna, and at the same moment the lights went out.

“What did you do, old man?” the sheriff said.

“Weren’t me, boss,” Charlie replied. “I think a collapse might finally have took down the power lines out West.”

“Is there a generator in the building?”

“Tony used to have one in the shed out back. Been a few years since he needed it, back during the last big blow. It might not be in tip-top order. Want me to have a look?”

“I’ll go,” the sheriff replied. “I need some air.”

“Me too,” Janet said, and got another withering look from Ellen Simmons that didn’t bother her in the slightest. “Let’s have at it, Bill. It’ll be dark again before we know it.”

“We should talk to the general,” Ellen Simmons said. “Maybe they’ll have a spare generator?”

“So now you want to talk to them?” the sheriff said. “Tell us again how well that’s gone for us so far?”

It was only when Janet got the sheriff alone in the kitchen that he admitted the Simmons woman might, for once, have a point.

“At the very least, they’d surely take us all into the quarantine area,” he said. “And that’s certainly got its own generator.”

“It’s also got armed guards at every entrance,” Janet reminded him. “I’d rather be somewhere with more chance of escape if things get hinky.”

“ More hinky, you mean?” Bill replied. “I agree, for myself, but I was thinking about the others. They might be better off with the CDC. And it’s not just the electricity. We’ll be needing to get folks fed soon, and the pantry is near empty.”

Janet shook her head.

“They’re following their protocol . It doesn’t leave much room for individual judgement and snap decision-making. I agree we need to ask about the food, but I’m not keen on anything more than that. I’ll take my chances in here with you, big man.”

That got her a smile.

“Let’s get to it then.”

Bill paused as they reached the back door. Janet realized he was remembering how Fred had looked the last time the door was opened.

“It’s daylight, Bill,” she said softly. “We’re safe.”

As Bill turned the handle, opened the door and stepped outside, she hoped fervently that she was right. She followed him out into the yard.

Everything was quiet and peaceful. Janet found it almost impossible to stand there and believe the carnage that had taken place in the town. The trees in the rough country at the rear of the bar swayed gently in a cool breeze under a blue sky spotted with cotton wool clouds. High above a passenger jet laid a white line across the blue.

They have no idea what’s going on down here.

The storage shed sat on the other side of the yard, past the rusting pickup truck. As they walked around the discarded vehicle, something seemed to shift and move in the shadows in the passenger seat, but when Janet looked again, she saw nothing there but darkness. She noticed Bill tense up slightly, and his hand reached for where his pistol would have been before he stopped himself.

“Stay close,” he said softly.

It got noticeably colder as they approached the shed. The old, battered door opened at the second attempt, swinging inward with a creak to reveal a dark, windowless room beyond. Bill went first.

“Be careful,” Janet said. She whispered, afraid to speak too loudly, and her flight-or-fight mechanism kicked in. Her heart rate went up, and every sense seemed heightened. Bill stepped inside the shed. She followed close behind.

It took her eyes several seconds to adjust. Something skittered along the far wall, and she nearly leapt into Bill’s arms in fright before she saw the mouse, its pink tail giving a final flourish as it went down a hole in the flooring. Apart from that, nothing else moved in the shed other than dust motes glinting where the sun shone in through the door.

The space served as storage for anything the bar wasn’t currently using, or had used up. Broken chairs, wobbly tables and bashed cabinets piled higgledy-piggledy against the far wall. They found a generator, and six twenty-liter containers of gasoline under a broken tabletop to the side of the door. A thick layer of dust covered everything.

“Give me a hand here,” Bill said, taking one of the canisters. “We can hook this up at the back of the kitchen. There’s enough gas here to last us a while.”

They ferried the six canisters back to the kitchen door, and returned for the generator. They had managed to get it as far as the open doorway when Janet felt a vibration—first in the soles of her feet, then at her jaw. Bill’s nose dripped two large spots of fresh blood down onto his shirt. The darkness in the corner of the shed thickened and seemed to coalesce. Bill grabbed her by the arm and dragged both her and the generator out into the sunlight, but not before she’d seen the old man in the corner; a miner by the looks of things.

“Fred is dead,” a thick voice said dully from the shadows.

Then she was back in the sunshine in the yard, watching the dust on the ground dance, waiting for a collapse to swallow them up.

It never came.

The ground trembled, clumps of earth dancing like dust on a loudspeaker. Then, as quickly as it had come, the hum faded and died. The trembling ground stilled.

“Are we still here?” Bill said, wiping more blood from his upper lip onto the sleeve of his shirt.