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It’s 1989 and three important things have happened in the life of Claire Jones.
First, she has turned the estimable age of eight years old. The right age to receive communion at church from Pastor Williams, who smells funny and has strange eyes. She doesn’t like him, but her dad does, and part of her is ecstatic about finally being one of the older kids.
Second, she is going to have a baby brother. She has already decided that his name will be Matthew, named after the book in the bible, because she was reading from that section for Sunday school when she heard her parents yelling about it through the walls. The storks haven’t delivered a baby yet, and she hasn’t heard a peep after her parents had their loudest shouting match yet a few months back, but she hopes that a baby will change everything for the better.
Third, there is something wrong in the small town that she calls home.
Her house stands at the terminus of a dead-end street, two stories of streak-white paint and cookie cutter fences and a frayed flag of red, white, and blue. It’s an unremarkable building among a sea of unremarkable buildings, floating in a bed of sickly green grass. A modern day Levittown, built to look pretty for the cameras and to rot in the aftermath.
Three days have passed since the beginning of the event. That’s what her mom calls it anyway. Nearly forty-eight hours since the town of Freedom, California went mad, cut off from the outside world by the plastic smiles of its residents and a terrible silence. Her mom says the people have gone bad, like rotten milk. They just have to wait for the authorities to notice the stench.
Claire isn’t sure what she means by that.
When her mom isn’t watching too closely, Claire likes to sneak over to the nearest window and poke an eye through the curtains. Right now, she can’t see much. Not a cloud in the sky, the weather placid save for the faint summer breeze rustling the tree branches. The sun is just setting over the horizon. It’s an absolutely gorgeous day.
She gets bored after a while, watching absolutely nothing, and moves back out of the cramped living room and into the hallway. Photographs line the wall, dusty portraits of her dad and the family dog holding a prominent position. Maybe it’s for the best that the pictures are dirty and smeared. She doesn’t have to think about them as anything more than off putting wall decorations.
At least old, fluffy Rufus didn’t live to witness the current state of affairs.
There’s a door in the kitchen hidden by the pantry entrance, a small staircase that leads to the basement. She takes the steps two at a time, mindful of the creak. No noise, her mom told her. No noise, no light, nothing at all.
When she reaches the bottom, everything is exactly as she left it. The old mattress shoved against the cracked concrete wall. A box of canned food and bottled water that she is forbidden from inventorying. The old family hunting rifle, recently oiled and cleaned. Her mom is bent over the busted HAM radio like a supplicant in prayer, or those old fogeys from the church.
“Everything alright, Mom?” Claire asks.
“Working on it,” her mom grunts. Dark skin glistens with sweat, thick hair tied back in a messy bun. This would have been an unacceptable standard last week, but that was another lifetime ago. Despite the suffocating heat, she wears long sleeves. She always wears long sleeves. “What did you see outside the window?”
“Didn’t see nothing,” she says defensively. “Wasn’t even looking.”
“Claire.”
“I wasn’t.”
Her mom sighs. “Claire, I wasn’t raised a fool. You got spirit in you, more than I know how to handle. Now, tell me what you saw.”
“Nothing. Just like I said.”
“Any sign of your father?”
“Nada. Zip. Zilch.”
Claire doesn’t know how to feel about the complicated expression on her mom’s face.
The radio belches out a burst of static as her mom turns something with a screwdriver. Claire can’t recognize most of what she is doing. “Damn it all,” her mom mutters, putting the Lord’s name in vain. Not that it matters much at this point. Hunger clings to their bones more than faith.
“Maybe we should go to the church? Dad said he was gonna be there.”
“No,” her mom says sharply. “We’re staying put. Waiting for Ms. Anderson, or for the National Guard to roll into town. They’ll put a stop to this.”
“But Mom—"
“We’re staying put,” her mom repeats firmly. An edge has crept into her voice, something wild and desperate that has stolen its way inside the walls of their home and refused to leave.
Claire knows better than to argue. She clambers up onto an old wooden pallet, enough height to peer through the basement window on her tippy-toes. A thick felt blanket covers the glass, just like the upstairs curtains, but there’s enough of a sliver where she can make out the yard of the next door neighbors, the Hansons. A dark lump lays in their yard near the doghouse, buzzing with flies. She can’t make out what it is.
“I’m sorry, Claire.”
She turns back towards her mom, gaze downcast. “It’s alright.”
“We aren’t going anywhere near that church. They’re sick.”
“Dad says that men of God can’t get sick.”
“Not that kind of illness. It isn’t a germ that you catch in your body. Those kooks… those folks don’t have any sense.”
Claire frowns. “Dad says that you don’t like Pastor Williams for no good reason. That you make things up.”
“Shouldn’t always listen to what your fool father says,” her mom replies. She fidgets with the hem of her long sleeve.
“I don’t understand.”
“Pray that you never have to understand.”
On cue, the radio crackles again, more vibrant this time. It’s a sign from God, an electronic prayer, a benediction cast in the form of an older man’s voice. The heavenly choir is singing in the background. She recognizes the signature soprano voice of Mrs. Carruthers from the church choir buried in the static.
“It’s the church.”
“I knew they were broadcasting something,” her mom mutters beneath her breath. “Quiet now.”
“Sarah Wilcox is a seventeen year old girl at the local high school. Her mother has confirmed that she is a sexual deviant, against the wishes of the Lord. She has fled from her home at 368 Buena Vista Drive.” The speaker has a rich, deep tenor; his voice rumbles with surety and confidence. It is a familiar voice, speaking in the same fervent tenor that she can always hear shouting through the walls. “Those of us near her location, go now and return her to our side.”
“Dad?” Claire whispers.
“That isn’t your father,” her mom says sharply.
“But—”
“While you are in the area, find your way to 4 Valdez Lane and bring the inhabitants into the fold. Dr. Christian Hughes has received a vision from the devil and turned away from the light of God. Let him be anointed by our visionary, so that he may be purified and connected to us.”
Her mom gets up and starts moving, aflutter with nervous energy. “Start packing your things.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say!”
“Remember our calling. As Jesus said to his disciples in the Book of Matthew: Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age. So too will our holy pastor be with us until the end.”
A firm hand grabs her wrist and pulls her over to the radio. Her mom’s face shines as she lifts up Claire’s arms, strapping in her pack.
“Mom?” Claire can’t breathe. There’s something wrong with what she’s hearing, a painting turned ninety degrees on its axis, thunder and rain on a cloudless day. She tries to whisper the Lord’s prayer, but she feels so far from his grace. “What’s going on? Why is Dad speaking on the radio?”
“Sarah Wilcox has been welcomed into the arms of the Lord,” the radio crackles. It’s the same station that Claire’s family has always listened to during their evening dinner, hands clasped in silent reflection, but through the corrupted static, she feels far from grace. “Those of you still in the neighborhood, go to 160 Dizon Court. My wife and my daughter, Sasha and Claire Jones, reside there. I repeat: they reside at 160 Dizon Court. Retrieve them now.”
“Mom?”
“Don’t listen to him, Claire.” Her mom is strapping her own backpack on now, her movements feverish and agitated. When her dad speaks again, her mom nearly jumps out of her skin.
“Sasha, darling, I know that you are listening to this broadcast. If not, you will be listening soon. The pastor has ordained that all his flock should listen to the holy word. I trust that you shall surrender yourself to reason. You always were a devout woman.”
Bits and bobs are thrown into her mom’s backpack. A wrench. A half-empty bottle of water. Assorted granola bars. After a few moments, she decides to throw in the old family video camera. It’s an odd choice.
“At least, I thought that your devotion was peerless. But now, I see the truth for what it was. The walls that you built up in our home, the secrets, the defiance that you gave me. I am disappointed in you, Sasha. The Lord demands worship in body and soul, and He shall not be defied. You didn’t follow through with your duties as wife and mother.”
Claire doesn’t even have the chance to open her mouth before her arm is grabbed and she is dragged up the stairs by her mom. One hand holds Claire close, while the other cradles the freshly cleaned hunting rifle. As they ascend the stairs to the first floor, the creeping voice of the radio snaps at their heels.
“But all can be forgiven with His grace. Even your philandering ways, you pathetic little whore.” Those are bad words, Claire knows, but her dad’s tone hasn’t changed. Just a steady voice, plodding after itself. Like a recorded message, a children’s television show, all happy and cloyingly sweet. “Did you think that I wouldn’t know? Did you even think about our daughter while you were defiling my home with that slut—”
They’re jogging now, practically running up the stairs and into the kitchen. Her mom’s hands shake as she slams the basement door shut and ushers her towards the backyard. Their shoes click on the linoleum tile, stirring up dust and grit. It’s choking, just as thick as the tension between her parents for as long as Claire can remember. She doesn’t even realize that she’s crying until her mom grabs her shoulders.
“Claire,” her mom says. “You gotta focus. Stick with me. Don’t listen to nobody, no matter if you recognize them. And if I tell you to run, you keep running. No matter what else I say. You keep running, girl. Don’t look back. You understand?”
She hates how much she’s crying, each breath wet and heavy. “Mom, what was Dad talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
“It doesn’t matter,” her mom says in a way that suggests it does matter. But Claire isn’t in a spot to protest. They’re huddling in the doorway to the backyard, the incessant whine of the radio below rising like the biblical flood. “Did you hear what I just said? Repeat it back to me.”
Claire sobs, but tries to focus regardless. She’s supposed to be a big girl. “Stick with you. Don’t listen to anyone else. Keep running.”
“Smart girl.”
With a rough kick, her mom opens the front door and hustles them both out into the backyard. The sunset is blinding, an orange streak bleeding over the horizon. Long shadows stretch overhead as they tear into the trees, bushes and branches clawing at their clothes. Claire averts her gaze and looks back at their offensively white house, just in time to see the beams of truck headlights cut across its front. Then she cuts around a tree and all she can see are the panicked whites of her mom’s eyes.
“Keep going,” her mom gasps. “Don’t look back.”
It’s dark in the woods, especially at this late hour. Claire’s feet catch on exposed roots, stubbing her toes and causing her to tumble. Her mom doesn’t give her time to rest, but she does her best not to cry. Strong girls don’t get upset after all.
Instead, she focuses on her other senses. The sound of heavy breathing, both from her mom and from herself. The humid summer air clinging to her skin like a shroud. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth.
Then she picks up the scent. The held breath before the plunge, the chemical tang to the air that has preceded every thunderstorm in living memory. Ozone, her mom had explained to her one time, was created by lightning. She catches its trail now, practically tastes the scent as it worms down her throat, and digs her tiny fingernails into the ironclad grip on her hand.
“Mom,” she whispers. “Do you smell that?”
Her mom stops and sniffs the air. They’ve stopped in the middle of a clearing, low brush and trees giving way to partially cleared farmland. Streetlights are beginning to flicker online in the distance beyond the tree line. Behind them, shouts echo through the forest.
Not shouts. Singing. The people from the trucks. The church choir, soaked in radio static, reaching through the branches and roots into their heads.
But even the chorus cannot drown out the low footsteps slowly approaching them through the trees. Not behind them, but in front of them.
In an instant, her mom pulls Claire against her torso, face pressed into her stomach. She can’t see anything, but she can hear the terrible click of the hunting rifle being chambered.
“Stop right there,” her mom calls out.
For a long moment, there is no response. The breeze whistles through the trees, but otherwise, the world seems to be holding its breath.
Then the footsteps continue to approach, one after the other. A large branch cracks beneath their weight. They stop several feet away, and Claire feels the sharp intake of breath through her mom’s chest.
“Nat,” her mom says. Her voice is hoarse, as though she has been struck down by some invisible wound. “What happened to you?”
No answer. Another footstep, closer this time. Her mom hefts the gun.
A low chuckle echoes out. A voice pretending to be a woman.
“Hello Sasha.” Attention burns against the back of her head. “Hello Claire.”
Something about the speaker nags at the back of her mind, but she’s too scared to put two and two together. Her heart is beating rapidly in her chest, so fast that it might burst out of her ribcage and she wouldn’t be surprised. Even her mom seems afraid, though she’s better at hiding it.
“Leave her out of this,” her mom says.
“I would never hurt her,” the voice says, as steady and level as her dad on the radio. “I only want to help.”
Claire can place the voice now, a uniquely feminine rasp that she’s heard in school. Ms. Anderson, one of her teachers and of the very few residents of Freedom to never attend church. A licentious woman, according to her dad’s rants. A best friend, according to her mom.
Her mom’s grip has loosened, and she takes the opportunity to sneak a look. It’s only a glimpse, a flash of color before her head gets wrenched back around, but it’s enough to see.
Cracked flesh, crimson rock split without bleeding. Muscles writhing beneath skin like thousands of cannibalistic maggots. Hollow eyes illuminated by an empty light. Static hums in her ears and she screams into her mom’s stomach, hoping beyond hope that it will stop.
Ms. Anderson smiles audibly. “Your daddy says hello, Claire. The pastor is very eager to meet you.”
“Shut up,” her mom snaps, trembling. “You aren’t her.”
“Of course not,” Ms. Anderson says, matter-of-fact. As though she’s just discussing the weather. “I know better now. I’ve been helping other people see the truth as well.”
“Nat,” her mom whispers weakly. “Please don’t do this. That man got his hands on you, got you real sick. We can still get out of this like we planned. Together.”
Static bursts in Claire’s ears, accompanied by the swelling voice of the choir. Wetness trickles down the side of her face, blood searing her jaw. When her hearing recovers, she hears Ms. Anderson emit a mechanical laugh.
“The pastor showed me the heavens, Sasha. He showed us all the twin angels spiraling through the void. Let me show them to you too.”
Another footstep, so close that Claire can feel the ground bend beneath it. Her mom takes a short, panicked breath. “I told you not to move.”
Ms. Anderson doesn’t speak. Just takes another step forward. Her mom exhales, almost sobs.
The rifle fires. Claire’s ears ring from the blast. Tears wet her face, and she feels the heavy weight of a body hit the ground through the soles of her feet.
But the static doesn’t die. It only perpetuates, seeming to escalate in intensity. Her mom abruptly pulls Claire away from her stomach, angling herself so that her body blocks the view of the corpse. An eerie glow backlights them both as they back away, slowly but surely.
Her dad had bragged about the hunting rifle once. He had said that a well-placed shot could take down an adult bull moose. Claire knows that humans are much less tough than a moose.
And yet she can hear the cracking of branches, the swelling of static, the crescendo of the approaching choir.
She can feel the moment that Ms. Anderson slowly begins to clamber back to her feet.
“Run.” Her mom grips her firmly by the shoulder, shoving her back. “Run now, Claire. As fast as you can.”
“I can’t leave you,” Claire whispers. Her feet are firmly rooted to the ground by fear and nausea. “I can’t.”
She’s only eight. She doesn’t want to leave her mom.
“Claire,” her mom snaps. A strong hand grips her face, and she twists involuntarily, her gaze meeting frantic eyes. Fear swells inside them, but also determination. “You need to do this for me.” A rough kiss graces her forehead. “I love you. Now go!”
A forceful push sends her back further, almost toppling her to the ground. It’s enough to break the spell, years of habit driving her to obey her mom’s order.
Claire runs.
Behind her, the gun unleashes another thunderous crack.
It doesn’t fire for a third time.