Whispers

I used to love the top of the mountain on nights like this. Back when things were normal, back before all of this. Clear and calm. Stars, burning brightly in the night sky. An infinite, peaceful silence. It’s not that the stars are gone. I can see them, hanging in the cosmos, from my spot on the top of the tower. And it’s even still silent, broken only by the occasional squeak of my feet on the catwalk. It’s everything else that changed.

I’m not looking at the stars tonight. I’m looking at our wall. Piles of scrap we’d hauled in with the telehandler. Work trucks, parked nose to nose, steel plates welded along their flanks to fashion makeshift gates. I’m looking at the forest down below. Watching, waiting, for someone to intrude on our little sanctuary. Out there, beyond our walls, it’s…we don’t know what it is. Months ago, our phones had gone off at the same time. An alert; imminent danger, and the ski resort had rocked with panic. People had raced for their cars and jammed themselves onto the road. We’d stayed. Waited for the traffic to clear and then we’d gone home.

The lad-safe cable wiggles. I look down to see Drew climbing up toward me, his signature yellow hoodie glowing in the moonlight. He crests the top of the tower and grins at me, clips his harness to the beam.

“You’re relieved,” he tells me.

I stretch lazily, grin back. “Nothing so far. But keep an eye out.”

He rolls his eyes, cradles his rifle in his arms. “I always do.”

I unclip from the tower and clip into the lad-safe, climb back down. Tower ten is within the walls. Everything else is outside. As I trudge back up to the barn, I think of that first day. When I’d found my home empty and undisturbed; when my repeated calls to my mother and sisters had gone unanswered. I'd packed food, clothes, a tent and bedding, and gone back to the resort. Staggered into the shop and poured myself a drink from our hidden stash. In time, the rest of the team had come back, too. All six of us had sat around the table, shaking hands and teary eyes. Tales of missing loved ones, unanswered calls, and empty, undisturbed homes.

I push my way into the lift shack, then the barn. An expanse of concrete and steel beams that had once held fifty ski lift chairs. Now it holds us. Our tents and pallets and sleeping bags. Supplies swiped from the hotel at the bottom of the mountain; cans of food, jugs of water, cases of beer and bottles of liquor. Medical supplies, gathered from ski patrol and first aid cabinets. Cans of gas and diesel piled outside against the wall. Our phones stopped working that first week. Power followed shortly after; we use the generator sparingly, just enough to charge our radios and occasionally run the ski lift.

I leave my radio on its charger and find my tent in the darkness. Slide my boots off at the entrance, shimmy out of my work clothes and into my thick mu-mu. It’s chilly in the barn but, soon, it’ll be cold. We’re saving the propane heater for winter and I slide into my sleeping bag. It takes time to drift off. It always does; there are too many unanswered questions, too many regrets, too many what-ifs.

“Rachel.”

The voice drags me out of a sleep I hadn’t realized I’d fallen into. I open bleary eyes to see Pete, silhouetted by the early morning light, leaning down into my tent. “What?” I rasp out. “What is it?”

He shifts, anxious hands playing with the strap of the rifle. “Drew relieved you last night, right?”

I’m awake. Abruptly, horribly awake and I charge out of the tent, mu-mu swirling around my ankles. “He did,” I tell Pete over my shoulder as I stand at the shack window, gazing downhill. “He wasn’t there?”

“No.” Pete holds out a piece of cloth and his face is solemn. “Just this.”

I take the cloth. Yellow. Stained by years of oil and grease: a piece of Drew’s hoodie. Every nerve in my body comes to life; I go back, pull on my cargo pants, my hoodie, my socks and boots. Behind me, I can hear Pete and Angel murmuring in low voices. I can hear the clatter of weapons I’d stolen from my roommate’s abandoned room and I load my own weapon.

I hear the generator beneath the barn roar to life, hear the lift turn on, hear a truck turn over. I follow Scott out to our makeshift gates. Tate opens them, just enough for us to slip out, then pulls the truck back into position. Scott and I head in different directions. I hear the haul rope overhead start moving, look up to see Angel pass by on a chair with a pair of binoculars planted to his face.

We don’t know what’s out there. We don’t know if there are survivors; we don’t know if there are bands of people hunkered down somewhere, like we are. We make the occasional cautious foray out from the resort. Drive down streets that echo with abandonment and, each time we come back, we're exhausted and shaken. It feels…claustrophobic out there. Outside our walls is the unknown. Here, at least, we have each other. We have a modicum of safety.

I’m so lost in thought I almost step right into it. I stop, crouch down. A footprint in the mud. Too big to be Drew’s, and it’s fresh. It’d rained night before last; this was left within the past day. The skin on the back of my neck crawls. I feel eyes on me and I lift the radio as though someone else’s voice might make me feel less vulnerable.

I lift my radio to my lips. “Found a footprint,” I whisper.

“I see you,” Angel replies, and I look up to see his feet, dangling from the chair. “There’s something to your right. Something shiny.”

I shoulder my weapon and turn. I sweep the trees, the bushes, the boulders; there is someone out there, I just know it. I force my way through a thicket and at last see it. Glinting in the sun: Drew’s harness. I kneel beside it, run my hands over the webbing, and tears gather in my throat. I sniffle, look up at the chairlift, bring my radio to my lips. It takes three tries to force the words out and, when they at last come, my voice is trembling.

“It’s his harness,” I whisper. “It’s torn.”

“Like he fell?” Angel asks.

I flip the harness over. “No. Like someone…cut it, or ripped it, I don’t know.”

“Movement, west side,” Pete whispers, and his voice is tight, tense. “Everyone back inside the wall. Now.”

The lift overhead speeds up. I head straight back as fast as I can, puffing and panting up the steep incline. My skin crawls. Whoever’s out here, whoever took Drew, odds are they’re still here. Watching. Waiting. Waiting for the perfect time to jump out of that bush, leap out from behind that tree trunk. By the time I see the wall, I’m sprinting as fast as I can. Lungs and heart aching. I hit the gates and wait anxiously, my back to the steel plating welded to the truck and my rifle trained on the trees. The truck moves; I scramble inside and Tate pulls the truck back into place.

I turn, stare up at the walls, lift my radio. “How ‘bout it, Scott?”

There's no response and Tate looks at me. “He might be out of range,” he says.

"Maybe," I whisper.

“I swear I saw someone!” Pete calls down from the tower.

“Who?” Tate shouts back.

“I…” Pete wipes a hand over his brow. “I don’t know. They were there one minute and gone the next.”

Tate and I linger on the deck as the lift brings Angel back. I stand facing away from the others, gazing at the barn. We’ve carved out a little life here. We have food, water, shelter, power. Found a T.V., a DVD player and hundreds of DVD’s; every Sunday, we have movie night. We drink and we laugh. We rotate the watch, make our forays out off property, scavenge and gather. It’s not perfect. We still live in fear of whatever had taken our families and friends, but it hasn’t been the worst. Is all of that over?

Tate shuts off the lift and the generator. A somber Angel joins us on the deck. Afternoon hits and Tate relieves Pete on the tower. Angel looks at me and I look at him and then we both climb up into the terminal. I set the ladder, reach up to pop the hatch, climb out onto the roof. Cool metal creaks beneath my boots as I scan the forest. Angel calls my name and I lean back down to take the binoculars from his outstretched hand. Nothing. No movement, aside from the animals. Grazing deer, foraging squirrels, diving birds. Whatever is happening to us, to humanity, it matters little to nature. Their lives are continuing while ours have come to a crashing halt.

Afternoon darkens into evening. I kneel down on the roof, gaze down at where Angel is sitting on the floor of the terminal with his head in his hands. “Should we go look?” I whisper.

He looks up at me and I see it in his eyes. The fear. That hunted, caged look in his eyes, the same look I know he sees in mine. “No,” he says at last. “No, we can’t lose anyone else.”

I come back down off the roof. Share a meal with Pete and Angel; a can of cold Chef Boyardee for each of us. None of us are hungry. Our faces are grim and dark, our minds filled with horrible thoughts. What happened to them? Are they suffering? Are they dead?

Angel goes to bed. Pete goes, too, and I watch as they return to the barn. I’m too agitated and so I go back to the terminal, crawl back up onto the roof. I clutch my weapon tightly and pace as night seizes control of the sky. Hours later, I hear Angel swap out with Tate, hear their murmured conversation. I stay staring outward. It’s some trick of the darkness. My brain, replacing dark shadows with visions of…something else. Movement beside a tree. Metal, glinting in the moonlight. A soft, rustling susurration, as though someone is whispering. Low. Constant. Just barely loud enough for me to be aware, to hear it over the sound of the wind. I raise my radio, turn to look at Angel.

“Do you hear it?” I breathe.

He turns to me, nods. “I do.”

The moon is high in the sky by the time my fatigue at last overwhelms my anxiety. I settle down on the roof, rifle cradled between my knees. My eyes burn and still I can’t stop watching that flickering movement out there in the forest. I keep hoping it’s them. Drew and Scott, slowly working their way back to us. I’ve known these men for years. Loved them as brothers. To lose them would be…

“I found them!”

The crackling call from the radio jolts me awake. Early morning sun hits my burning eyes and I feel my rifle sliding away from me. I roll over, catch it by its strap, scramble to rip the radio from its place clipped to my hip.

“Say again!” I shout into the mike as I force myself to my feet.

“I found them,” the radio says again; Pete, triumphant and elated. “They’re hurt, but they’re ok!”

“I see them!”

I turn toward the tower; Tate is there, gazing west and waving frantically. I follow his pointing finger but I don’t see what he does. I see trees and rocks and grass, but no flash of yellow. No smiling, weary faces coming toward us.

“We’re coming,” Tate says over the radio. “We’re coming; just hold on.”

I hurry down the ladder, sprint through the terminal and meet Angel on the deck. “Are you sure it’s them?” I ask.

“It sounds like them,” he replies.

I wince. “You shouldn’t—”

He looks at me, serious, solemn. “Rach, we have to go. Cover us from the tower.”

I stare up at him. I don't want them to go. I want them to stay here, where it's safe. But I nod anyway. He hands over a small bag filled with canned food, bottles of water, two cans of Red Bull. I take the bag, follow them to the gates. I let them out and then I close the gates behind them. Put on my harness and climb up onto the tower. I stand on the catwalk, scooping ravioli into my mouth, as they head away from the wall. When had Pete left? Why did he need to leave; why do they need to leave? Can’t they just stay here? Stay safe, stay here, where we have some semblance of a life?

“Status?” I say into the radio.

“Clear,” Angel replies. “I think we’re close.”

I keep watching. Even after they disappear into the forest, even after the trees swallow them up, I keep watching. Binoculars trained and rifle hanging against my chest. As morning brightens into midday, I drink one Red Bull. They call me; they see Drew’s yellow sweater, see Scott’s thick black hair. Their voices are so happy. As though all of our problems are over. I want to rejoice with them. I want to give them that same happiness back but something keeps me solemn and quiet. The space between my shoulder blades is tight. My skin crawls.

It's afternoon now. I crack another Red Bull and force my tired eyes to stare through the binoculars. I raise the radio, call them, but there’s no response. Out of range, maybe. Too far for the signal to travel without the repeaters, maybe. I pace to stay awake. Try to keep the blood moving, to keep my eyes from closing. Eventually, though, weariness beats me down. I wrap my rope positioner around a beam and sit down. It’s uncomfortable. Expanded steel digging into my butt and thighs but, eventually, I drift off.

The sun wakes me. I open my eyes, then gasp and try to stand, only to be dragged back down by the rope positioner. I free myself and leap to my feet. Grab my radio with shaking hands, cry out their names through a throat that feels terribly tight and dry. Nothing. No answer, not even static.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been up here. Long enough for the food and water to run out. Long enough for my butt and thighs to be bruised by the catwalk and long enough for the radio to die. I force myself up and it’s a struggle. My muscles ache. My head pounds; the inside of my mouth feels like death. Slowly, painfully, I climb back down. I go to our makeshift shower, wash what feels like days of grit and sweat off my body. I put on my mu-mu and fall face first into my sleeping bag.

It's day again by the time I wake up. I eat breakfast; two protein bars and two cans of ravioli. I chug two bottles of water. I go to the shack and turn on the generator, set my radio down into the charger. I make a cup of coffee, sip it as I watch the blinking lights on the radio charger. I finish my coffee and I go outside, climb the tower, stare out into the forest. I call for them. Over and over again on the radio. Each trembling, tearful plea goes unanswered. I come down, eat dinner, fall asleep.

Days pass. I charge my radio and call out to them. Climb the tower and scan the mountain for movement. I eat. Shower. Sleep. Watch movies on Sunday. Maintain the generator and the trucks and then winter hits. I turn on the generator and propane heater. I fill my tent with blankets to make up for the heater’s failings, wrap my arms around my pillow and hold it against my chest. I feel...lost. I'm cold. I'm so very lonely.

I start to hear things. Voices, crying out for me. My mother. My sisters. Angel, Drew, Tate, Scott, Pete. I try to ignore them. But I find myself answering them. Cursing them for disappearing and leaving me all alone. Begging them to come back, to walk up to the gates and smile at me. I walk the length of the barn, bare feet slapping against freezing concrete. I laugh. I weep. I scream. I shower. I eat. I sleep. I watch movies on Sunday.

I keep finding myself wandering along the walls. Look down at my hands to find dirt buried under my broken fingernails. I head back to the deck and stare at the reflection of myself in the shack window. I look wild. Barefoot and filthy. It’s fall again. An entire year here, all alone, and it's taken its toll. Talking to myself in that barn, wandering along the walls and clawing at the ground. I look down at the trucks. They hold the world, the unknown, at bay. But they also keep me locked in here. Trapped within my madness.

I sleep. I eat. I shower. I watch one last movie and then I move the trucks. I open those gates and now I'm vulnerable. Whatever, whoever, is there, they can get in with ease. And I don't care. I want to be with my family and friends. I settle down on the floor and close my eyes. The door creaks open and the whispers intensify. They come closer.

They're right behind me.