Chapter 26
Grant: Down on Main Street
No one is in town, of course. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a small part of my brain was thinking that all the weirdness was isolated to a few streets and we’d get to Main and everything would be normal. We’d call the proper authorities – which in this case may be Mulder and Scully – things would get explained and taken care of, and we’d wrap this all up like a neat little sitcom package. The little part of my brain that thinks that must still be drunk.
Main Street is deserted. I walk ahead of everyone and try doors. The Emporium, MPF’s, the Laundromat, the café – all the doors are open, all the lights are on. I guess the lack of electricity and imploded houses were confined to my street. Figures. In the bagel shop I hear a quiet hissing and my mind conjures up all kinds of evil, shadowy things until I realize the hissing is coming from the stereo. It’s the sound of dead air from WTCP. Of all the things that have happened today, from the zombie kids to Sharon’s body to the shadows, this is the thing that gives me a strangest feeling in my stomach. That dead air is the signal something is very, very wrong in Greener Valley and it’s not like I didn’t know that already, it’s just that the absence of Stu’s voice on the Saturday of the Winter Festival is the loudest sound I ever heard. The hissing takes on a sinister tone and for a second I think there’s another hiss besides the one on the stereo. I look around for…what? I’m not sure, but I do see something out of the corner of my eye, a shadowy sort of thing and instead of investigating, I run the hell out of the shop.
Terri and Mrs. Beasley are in the café, making sandwiches for the catatonic kids. Terri packs everything into a bag, grabs some sodas and cookies and motions for me to follow her out. She’s not talking, just making hand signals at me until we get out of the door and few steps toward MPF’s.
“There was something in there. Not someone. Something. Like a shadow. It hissed at me. Grant.”
The stick poking feeling in my stomach turns into more of a knife poking.
“I think I saw one in the bagel place.”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
Mrs. Beasley calls from across the street. “MPF’s is clear. No shadows here. Nothing.”
I thank Mrs. Beasley for casing the joint for us and we usher the kids into Maurice Fetterling’s bar/restaurant/peep show. I lock the door when we’re all in, though I don’t know how much good a locked door is against a shadow or whatever evil the shadow has brought to town with it.
We sit the kids at a long table, give them each a sandwich and a soda. They do nothing. They just stare.
“Shit. We can’t just leave them here like this.”
“Wait.” Stu walks over to the jukebox, a dusty old relic sitting in the corner. He reaches behind the machine, flips a switch. He obviously is on familiar terms with Maurice Fetterling’s bar. The jukebox lights up. It goes through the mechanics of finding a record, dropping a record and lowering the needle. We all wait as if some kind of magic is going to happen. “Seasons in the Sun” plays, a morose little song that makes me realize, perhaps for the first time, that I really fucking hate the music of the ‘70s. I make a mental note to apologize to Stu for that. I don’t know why. I just feel like I should.
As soon as the music starts, the kids become animated like they are some weird Disney World display that was just waiting for music to bring them to life. It’s A Small, Demonic World or something. They’re eating and drinking and though they’re not talking or even looking anyone in the eye, that’s ok. A sort of magic has been worked by the power of one of the worst songs in the history of music. I salute you, Terry Jacks.
“Will the music keep playing, Stu?”
“Yea, it will play all damn night. Maurice had the box rigged so when it was just us in here, we didn’t have to put quarters in.”
By “just us” I’m assuming he means Fetterling’s Good Old Boys club. I want to ask Stu what went on during those get-togethers, but think better of it. Probably not something Terri and Mrs. B. should hear. Probably not something I should hear, either.
“The kids should be ok, then.”
Terri eyes me warily. I know what she’s saying with that look and no, I’m not entirely sure the kids will be ok but a) I am not their babysitter, even if by some force of corrupt nature I am destined to save their asses and b) I have no fucking idea what’s going to happen once we get to the town center and I’m not going to have whatever slim chance we’ve got of beating the devil to death (or whatever, you know what I mean) ruined by some kid who is frightened or has to pee or something. Granted, most of these kids are above peeing in their pants age, but you never know. I’m not taking them with us.
“The whole point of setting them up here was to leave them here, Terri.”
“I know, but….”
Mrs. B puts her arm around Terri. “Stop thinking like a responsible teenager and start thinking like someone who is about face the forces of evil.”
I look into Terri’s eyes, past the fear and the uncertainty. “Video games. Sticking together or die. Just like in Donkey Kong.”
“Oh Jesus, Grant. Donkey Kong? We’re going to throw barrels at these shadows?”
“You never know.”
“Fine. We’ll leave the kids here. As long as the music is playing, they’ll be ok.”
When the movie version of this story comes out, someone in the audience will, at this point, say something like “Oh, real subtle with foreshadowing there.” Because I know that’s what I’m thinking. I’m also still thinking about who will play me in the movie. And why there’s no love interest. Isn’t there always a love interest in these stupid horror stories? I wonder if Mrs. Fetterling would…ok, never mind. Back to business.
“We’ll leave Sasha, too.”
Terri and I look at Mrs. Beasley. She’s going to leave her beloved little pissbag with these kids?
“She’ll protect them.”
“She was protecting you from them earlier. What makes you think she’s going to run to their rescue if the shadows or worse come in here?”
“Because I told her to.”
I leave it at that. Somehow, in this world, on this day, that answer makes perfect sense.
Maybe we shouldn’t be leaving the kids here. But we are. We are walking out of Maurice Fetterling’s club and into the arms of…I don’t know.