The Endlands (vol 1) Page 5

  Then, it exploded. A deafening dull thump shook the fog, and great hunks of flaming flesh soared in all directions. Some hit the ground, but most spread across the treetops. Nettles thought for a moment the entire neighborhood would erupt in flames, but even the biggest chunks incinerated into ash in just seconds. Just as suddenly it was dark and quiet again.

  The next day brought a fresh round of news reports. Soon, Nettles wasn't the only one to exploit the whales' vulnerability. And although scientists pleaded with the public not to destroy the unique animals, it was just too much temptation for good ol' boys or grieving families with a flare or a bow and arrow. Within days all the sightings stopped. Perhaps some whales still survived far asea, but the coasts were quiet. A week later, school was back to normal at Warner's Bluff. Art and Nancy sat at Aunt B's at the corner of the counter talking over a grilled cheese and salad.

  "Turn that off, will ya?" The TV over the counter was still airing stories and video of both graceful dives and horrendous explosions. Art was tired of hearing about it. He had become a kind of celebrity. He was the only living person who had actually touched one of the animals, and he had amassed multiple reputations, ranging from Evil Destroyer of New Species to Brave Rescuer of Children and Dogs. "So, what do ya think, Nance? What turned the Greys into swimming Hindenburgs?"

  "I dunno. Same thing that made them fly, I guess. Whatever triggered the flying must have worked by making them lighter and more volatile, like hydrogen. That was probably the same thing that made them more aggressive. If sudden, random evolution sometimes makes a species more advanced, odds are there will be a million bad mutations for every one that proved to be an advantage. You can't choose your mutations. Flying--good. Bursting into flames--bad. If it's a DNA thing, it's just going to happen." She dropped her napkin on the counter and pushed away the half empty plate.

  Art pushed down on the counter, shifting his weight to reach for his wallet, but the stool fell away underneath him. Flailing his arms, Art Nettles drifted gently up into the middle of the room.

  Limbo, Population 458

  by Vincent Hobbes

  "I have to pee!" Sara complained for the third time in the past twenty minutes.

  Her hands in her lap.

  Her legs crossed.

  Sara rocked back and forth in the passenger seat, repeating the words over and over as if her husband didn't understand.

  "If you want me to pull over, I will. Just go in the woods," he answered.

  "No. Someone will see me."

  "Sara, there is hardly any traffic on this road. I doubt anyone will see you. And who the hell cares if they do? We're in the middle of nowhere."

  His wife thought about it for a few moments. "What if my parents drive by and see me squatting on the side of the road?"

  "Ha," he chuckled. "That'd be funny. Won't happen, though. They're at least thirty minutes behind us. Probably longer, considering how slow your dad drives."

  "Hmph."

  "You should have gone when we left," he added.

  "I did. I have to go again."

  "Well, honey, your options are simple. You can do one of three things. You can pee on the side of the road, and feel better now. You can hold it, but I doubt we'll find a gas station anytime soon. Or . . ."

  Sara turned her head, a casual smile crossing her face. "Or what?"

  "You can just go," he said. A slow grin formed on his face, as well.

  The couple burst into laughter.

  "Stop," she giggled. "You're going to make me if I keep laughing."

  "Okay," he said with a few more chuckles. "So, do you want me to pull over?"

  "No," Sara said defiantly. "I can hold it a bit longer."

  "You're going to have bladder problems one day."

  "I already have bladder problems."

  "Ha," he grinned. "You should just wear a diaper when we go on road trips."

  She giggled again.

  Other than the nagging pressure inside her bladder, all was well for Sara McCarthy. She was still married to the same man--thirteen years now--much longer than most of her friends, some who were in their mid-thirties and single, acting as if they loved it. John was good to her, and she tried to be good to him.

  They had left Shoshone National Forest about an hour prior. Driving the beautiful roads, followed by Sara's parents--a slow caravan of greasy cheeseburgers, novelty spending, and roadside antique stores. John didn't mind, though. They were buying a new house soon. They would be closer to her family, and that suited him fine. He got along with his in-laws, and knew once he and Sara had a family, they would be very helpful. He also enjoyed this part of the country. The rolling hills and lush landscape was refreshing.

  "Have it your way," John finally said. "When you need to stop, just let me know."

  And they continued on--Sara with her legs crossed, fidgeting--John with a bit of a smirk on his face.

  A few minutes passed.

  "Ah, ha!" Sara exclaimed. She pointed ahead of them down the long road. "There."

  John squinted his eyes. "Huh? Are you pointing at that sign?"

  Sara nodded.

  "I can't even read it."

  "Just wait a sec."

  Moments passed.

  "Ah, you're right. Looks like a town," said John.

  Reading the sign as they neared, Sara's face shined with hope as she read it aloud.

  "Limbo. Population four hundred and fifty-eight," she stated.

  "Well, I guess they'll probably have a gas station. Maybe I should drive real slow. It's still three miles away."

  "I swear if you do, I'll be driving and you'll be riding in this seat," she threatened.

  Three miles.

  The couple pulled into one of the many open parking spaces in the town square. There were no cars in sight, yet there were many people. Dozens laced the streets of Limbo.

  They gathered in small clusters.

  They stood in front of stores.

  They sat on park benches.

  Limbo had that rare, old-town feel to it. It was built in the early 1900's, and was well kept. The nostalgia of Limbo made it appealing. It hosted a traditional town square. A working clock tower. A large, ornate courthouse.

  "I like this place," commented John as he put the car in park. His eyes were wide as he took a deep breath. "I'm sure your parents would, too."

  "I'm sure. Hurry up," his wife replied. "I gotta pee!"

  They exited the car. Closing their doors, they stood a moment, gazing on the town of Limbo.

  "Hardware store. Barbershop. Oh, look--it even has one of those spinney things like in the old days," John said. "I swear, it's like living in the fifties. Probably a decent place to raise children."

  "I only care about one thing--the nearest restroom," his wife said frantically.

  "There. A diner." John pointed. "This town is great! That diner looks like it came from an old movie. I bet ya ten bucks there's a man in a white apron behind the counter with slicked back hair," he said, chuckling.

  He held Sara's hand as they crossed the street. She nearly dragged him across. They looked both ways by habit, but no cars were to be seen.

  As they crossed, John waved to a couple seated on a bench.

  They did not wave back.

  Sara kept tugging until they reached the diner. She did not wait for him to open the door, instead pulling at it quickly, relieved they were open. A bell chingled as they entered.

  The diner was nearly vacant. A man sat in a nearby booth, reading a newspaper. John stole a glimpse his way. The paper the man held was yellowed, and appeared old.

  Near the back of the restaurant were three patrons. They looked like farmers. Their backs were to the couple, facing a small television with no picture.

  "Strange," muttered John.

  He turned, staring at the counter. It stretched a great length down the right side of the diner.

  Bar stools.

  Marble countertop.

  Ice cream.

 
Forty-two flavors.

  Root beer floats and homemade apple pie.

  John tugged at his wife's arm, saying, "I was right. See--white apron. Slicked back hair. Ha! Talk about living in the days of our grandparents."

  John was amused.

  But Sara ignored him, saying, "There. Restrooms. I'll be right back."

  "I wonder if a Coke is only a nickel," John pondered, staring up at the signs behind the counter.

  Sara glanced at him, annoyed. She knew it was merely her bladder pushing against her insides, though, and let go of his hand, scurrying to the restroom.

  "Want something to eat?" he asked as she walked away.

  "No," she replied.

  "Want something to drink?"

  "NO!"

  He chuckled as his wife nearly ran. He figured another ten minutes and she would have had to go in the woods. Lucky for her, he thought. He watched as she turned the corner and entered, the door softly closing behind.

  John took another look around the room. Everything about this place was epic. A clearly conceived town that remained in the old days, even as modern times passed them by.

  John meandered to the counter. He sat on the barstool, a child-like grin on his face.

  The man with the white apron and slicked back hair stood farther down the bar. He was bent over, seeming to wash dishes, although John heard no clank of glass. He was in no rush, though, and turned in his seat, looking over the diner in detail. He stared at the man in the booth near the door--the one with the newspaper. John half-waved, but the man was not paying attention.

  John peered closer. His eyesight must have been failing him, because he noticed the date on the newspaper. It read, April 7, 1954.

  "Impossible," he muttered. He cleared his voice, and with a smile, said to the man, "Anything interesting going on in the world?"

  No response.

  "Okay," John turned back in his seat. He supposed small town people were not too fond of outsiders. Still, there was no reason to be rude.

  He waited.

  The television remained silent in the corner.

  The fans overhead did not move.

  Something smelled different about the diner. Stale. Then, John realized he could not smell anything appropriate of a restaurant. Where were the forty-two flavors overcoming his senses? Where was the sound of running water? The clank of dishes?

  "Hi there," John finally said to the man behind the counter. "How's it going today?"

  No response again.

  "I'd like to order an iced tea . . . when you get the chance."

  Nothing.

  "Maybe he's deaf," mumbled John. He sat in silence a few more minutes, carefully eyeing the man.

  Finally, the door to the restroom opened.

  Sara steadily walked out. She looked relieved. John took a glance her way, but quickly looked back. His eyes now glared at the man behind the counter. Raising his voice, he said, "Excuse me, sir?"

  Silence. The man did not move a muscle.

  "Hello?" John said. "We'd like to order something to drink."

  Sara neared her husband, a faint look of curiosity upon her face.

  "What's wrong, hun?" she asked.

  "Excuse me, but we're paying customers," he said in a loud voice. "Is there any way we can order something to drink?" John repeated, ignoring his wife's question.

  "John," Sara urged. He didn't respond. "John!" she repeated, tugging at his sleeve.

  "What?" he said, turning.

  Her expression instantly concerned him. "I have a strange feeling. This place . . . it isn't right."

  "Tell me about it," said John, growing more annoyed. "The people in this town are rude. That guy won't take my order. He won't even respond. And this guy," he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, "this guy ignored me too."

  "No, John. Something is wrong with this place."

  "I know, honey. Aren't you even listening to me? What restaurant in America completely ignores its patrons?"

  "John!" Sara cried out.

  He turned again, his full attention now finally on her.

  "Those aren't people," she said grimly.

  "Huh?"

  "These aren't people. They're dolls, or something. Mannequins. Fake."

  "Mannequins? What the hell are you talking about, Sara?"

  Before he could say more, Sara pulled him from his seat. Grasping his hand tightly, she led him down the counter, towards the man in the white apron. He was still bent over, his hands underneath the counter.

  They walked directly up to him.

  "Hello," said Sara loudly, waving her hand in front of the man's face.

  Nothing.

  "Hello!" Sara shouted.

  Nothing.

  John was baffled. The figure looked human enough, but upon closer inspection, he realized his wife was right. This was no man. It was a dummy, made to look real. The details were awesome. John turned back to his wife, and grinned. He couldn't help himself. "Is this some kind of joke?"

  "I don't know, baby. Look at those men in the corner. They're fake, too."

  Indeed they were.

  Mere statues resembling men.

  John turned back to the man behind the counter. He screamed, but got no response. Then, looking to the front of the restaurant, he stared at the man reading the paper. John stormed over, dragging Sara behind him. He tore the newspaper from the man's hands.

  He was the same.

  Not human.

  A joke.

  A life-sized doll eternally seated.

  "Okay, seriously . . . this must be a joke," said John. "Maybe this is a museum or something. If you think about it, it's kinda funny. I mean, they really had us going." He chuckled nervously.

  "You think this is a joke?" asked Sara. Her eyes were hopeful. A slight grin formed on her face.

  "No doubt it is. Or, like I said, we walked into a museum. Some old diner that the town wanted to show off or something. Come on, let's get out of here. If it is a joke, we'll know soon. People will be laughing at us, and rightfully so."

  Sara smiled at this. Looking around one last time, she relaxed. The place was set up perfectly. The dolls were life-like. Real. In her haste to relieve herself, she had not noticed.

  Hand in hand, the pair walked out.

  A chingle-changle of the bell.

  Warm sunlight and a busy town.

  "See. It was probably a museum. No laughing towns people and no Candid Camera. Looks like we're in the clear. You should have seen the look on your face--" he said, relieved.

  "No. Something still isn't right," said Sara glumly.

  "What's wrong now, dear?"

  "Damn, you are so unobservant. Look at the people. Do you see anything strange?"

  He looked around.

  Men and women and children.

  Standing in front of stores.

  Gathered in small clusters.

  Seated on park benches.

  Only--

  "They aren't moving," he finally whispered. "They aren't real, either."

  "No. I don't think they are. What is with this town?"

  John urged his wife in the direction of the nearest group of people. Two were standing, and two were seated on a bench. They had ignored his wave earlier, and now he knew why. Curiosity drove him as he neared.

  "John, I don't think we should--"

  "Hold up a second. I just want to see."

  Before she could protest more, he approached the seated family. Leaning in close, he observed.

  "Yup. They're all fake. Every single goddamn one of them. The whole town. Sara, look around . . . these aren't people."

  "There has to be someone here. Maybe this is an exhibit or something."

  "An entire town?"

  "Well, maybe. You have a better idea?"

  "Maybe we've entered the Twilight Zone."

  They walked further down the sidewalk, passing fake human after fake human. They stopped and touched some. John even angrily knocked one over. They ente
red shops, hollering at the top of their lungs, but it was all the same.

  It became a game. They would rush into doors, shouting and making a ruckus. They would touch the mannequins. They would talk to them. Yell obscenities. Laugh and chuckle. It was a simple way to deter their fears.

  Still, they were uneasy. After twenty more minutes or so, they stood near their car. John gripped the keys in his hand. The thought of a fast getaway soothed him. He looked to Sara, saying, "Your parents should be coming through soon. We'll wait till they stop by."

  "I can't comprehend this," she muttered, oblivious to his words. "I don't see any signs saying this is fake. Where the hell are the real people?" A strange feeling overtook Sara. She felt as if she was being watched. "Let's just go. Let's get back on the road and get the hell out of Limbo."

  "Yeah, yeah. You're right. What about your parents, though?"

  "We can wait on the side of the road. Or, we can just keep going."

  "I'm sure your dad will stop."

  "That's fine. I still want to leave. Now."

  He unlocked the car door.

  She jumped in, closing it behind her.

  But John remained standing, motionless. He stared at another mannequin twenty feet away. It was an elderly woman. She wore a blue dress. White hat. Her Sunday best.

  His curiosity overcame him once more. He took a few steps closer.

  "Let's just leave!" Sara pleaded.

  "One second, hun. I just thought--"

  "You thought what?"

  "I . . . I don't know. Wait here."

  John walked over to the elderly woman. Her skin was the same texture as the others. A strange mix--neither real nor man-made. He pressed his fingers against her arm. Her skin was spongy. Her curly, gray hair waved in the breeze.

  "What are you doing?" shouted his wife from the car.

  "For a second, it looked like she moved," he shouted over his shoulder. "Must have been the wind."

  Before he could turn back, he heard something.

  A gasp.

  A whisper.

  Words.