NEVRLAND, Part 01: Rapture, Chapter 02

8/8/2019 NEVRLAND, Part 01: Rapture, Chapter 02

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NEVЯLAND | Year One | Chapter 02| Garmon -- 1

Part One: RaptureChapter Two




A Work in Progress

by

Larry Mike GarmonCopyright © 2010 by Larry Michael Garmon

All Rights Reserved

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BL.02.01

{0121130506:0805}

“No one’s in the building?” Josh asks Kern.

“Go look yourself,” Kern replies.

Josh looks at the dead boy and then at Kern. He stands, and I stand with him.

Several of the girls and the younger boys are crying. I look at the boy. He looks like he’s

sleeping—except for the speckles of blood from the broken windshield glass.

Ravyn says, “If the teachers aren’t here, do we still have school today?”

“Maybe this is some sort of April Fool’s joke,” Kymber says.

“It’s May, you idiot.” Josh’s face is deep red. He points at the dead boy. “Does this

look like a joke?”

Lauryn smacks her lips, crosses her arms, tosses her head, turns, and stomps away,

the others following. I stay with Josh.

“Does anyone know what’s going on?” Josh says to everyone. Silence. “Has anyone

seen any parents or teachers this morning?”

The silence is thicker this time. Then a girl whimpers. A small boy sniffles. Heads

shake No, and everyone looks at everyone else and then at Josh.

“No parents or teachers?” he repeats. “Cops? Janitors? Bus drivers?”

“No buses have come,” a boy from the crowd says.

“I haven’t seen any cars this morning,” a girl adds.

“I saw my parents last night when I went to bed,” another girl says. “I never see

them in the morning. They’re always gone to work when I get up.”




“I didn’t see my brother,” a tall boy says. He stands next to Josh. “He’s a freshman

at the college. He almost always gives me a ride. He must have left early this morning.”

“He’s not an adult,” Adrian says.

“He’s eighteen,” the boy replies.

Josh straightens. He tries to see over the crowd. He shouts, “Anybody see any adults

anywhere this morning?”

The kids look around. No one answers. Some shake their heads.

Then I remember: I didn’t see the Crazy Poop Lady this morning when I was

walking to school.

I stopped riding the bus this year. I’m in eighth grade. I don’t ride buses. That’s for

little kids. I walk. Unless my brother gives me a ride. But he was gone this morning when

I got up. Or still in bed. I’m not sure. Like the other kids, my parents are gone to work

when I get up to go to school.

It’s only about a mile from my house to Junebug Junior High. And it’s mostly on

pavement. Except when I have to cross Reservoir Park. I could walk around, but that

takes longer. Crossing through the park saves me fifteen minutes. Sometimes the grass is

wet with dew, and I hate getting my shoes and stockings wet. Dad gives me surgical shoe

covers from the hospital, so I keep a pair in my purse and wear them when the grass is

very wet.

Every school morning when I walk through Reservoir Park, I meet the Crazy Poop

Lady. I don’t know if she’s there on the weekends or non-school days. I stopped playing

in the park this year, too.




I hate meeting the Crazy Poop Lady. No matter how hot it is, she wears an old wool

knee-length jacket that at one time might have been very colorful but is now all dull and

worn. And she smells like dirt mixed with BO. I try walking different paths through the

park, but she always seems to know where I’ll walk and tries to stop me so I will talk to

her. I’m not sure where she lives. Maybe she lives in one of the houses around the

reservoir, but I don’t know.

This morning I am in such a rush to get to school to talk with the Ys and Josh I don’t

even realize I don’t seen her.

She has a ratty looking toy poodle whose fur is always matted and dirty. The dog’s

mustache is full of dirt, crumbs of food, and little bits of stuff I don’t want to think about.

The dog wears a pink collar with large fake glass diamonds and is attached to a thin

matching leash. The dog’s claws are painted bright pink. I wonder if the Crazy Poop

Lady knows her mangy toy poodle is a boy?

I never say anything to the Crazy Poop Lady because I don’t like talking to old

people, and I don’t like the way she looks or smells. I try to avoid her, but she always

seems to be right in front of me.

“Just out walking little Moopsy,” she always says. “Oops! Little Moopsy has a little

poopy. Can’t leave the little poopy in the park. Not good for children. Not good at all, is

it dear?” She pulls a small white plastic bag from her jacket pocket, wearing it like a

glove, bends over, and picks up the little poopy. She then folds the bag over the poop and

puts it back in her coat pocket. I see other small balls of white plastic bags crowding her

dirty purse. She looks at ratty little Moopsy. “That’s a good little Moopsy.” She picks up




the dog and snuggles him, kissing him on his matted and dirty poodle mustache. “Yes

indeed: Little Moopsy did his little poopy. That’s a good little Moopsy. Yes he is. Moopsy

loves his mommy and Mommy loves her Moopsy.” She holds little Moopsy next to her

wrinkled face and smiles at me as if I care. As if I want anything to do with her or her

mutt.

How do the Crazy Poop Lady and little Moopsy know where I’ll walk so that the

mutt just happens to drop his poop in my way?

I don’t look at her. The first few times I see her at Reservoir Park I say Hi or Oh ,

but I keep walking, marking a wide circle around her. Then my brother told me that she

was crazy and has been doing the same thing even when he walked to the junior high five

years ago.

So, I don’t say anything to her, and I walk faster. Still, she says the same thing every

morning. Moopsy poops on time every morning. And every morning I wonder if she’s

taking too much medication or not enough and why there’s not a place for crazy old

ladies who find some sort of happiness in picking up dog poop and showing it to 13-year-

old girls.

Not this morning. The Crazy Poop Lady was not in the park. Neither was little

Moopsy. Or little Moopsy’s poop.

I hadn’t noticed.

And no cars on Falcon Road. No cars in front of the junior high. No buses arriving.

No cop car across the street. No moms or dads or big brothers or big sisters dropping off

kids at the junior high. No cars anywhere.




Except for the car driven by the sixth grade boy who was now dead.

“Gone. All gone. Mom. All gone. No grown ups. All gone.”

Did his parents leave him? I’ve heard of parents who just up and leave their kids by

themselves for the weekend. Just last year we had two parents in Junebug who went to

Las Vegas for two weeks and left their kids home to take care of themselves--the oldest

kid was ten, and she had to take care of her little brother and sister. The kids went to

school and everything, and none of the teachers knew about it until the first grader got in

trouble and the counselor called one of the parent’s job and found out the parents were on

vacation.

County Child Services was called and the kids were put in a foster home in another

town. The parents were arrested and will stand trial this summer.

It is the biggest thing to happen in Junebug since a fire burned down the old cotton

gin when I was in fifth grade.

“Gone. All gone. Mom. All gone. No grown ups. All gone.”

Sometimes I don’t see my parents for two or three days because of their work schedules

and my school activities. Mom’s employment service is practically 24/7, and dad is one of

two emergency anesthesiologists in southwest Oklahoma. He’s called out at all hours and

days not only to Junebug County Regional Hospital but also to the little hospitals in this part

of the state.

“Why don’t the damn cell phones work?” Josh says.

He is tapping at the keys of his cell phone. Not just tapping. Punching each key with his

finger.

“Anyone have a cell phone that’s working?”




“It’s the air force base,” Kern says. “They must be conducting war games or something

and used an electromagnetic pulse to kill all electronics.”

“No they didn’t,” Aaron says. “My dad would have told me if they had a drill planned

for today.”

“Did you see him this morning?” Kern fires back.

Aaron doesn’t say anything right away. Finally, “But he would have told me last night

when we were watching TV.”

“If this is an emergency drill, he’d be busted to airman for telling anyone, even his own

kid,” Kern says.

Aaron steps towards Kern. He’s a head taller than Nerd Boy Numero Uno, but Kern

doesn’t move back or look scared. “My dad tells me everything. And he would have told me

about an emergency war drill. He’s base commander, and no one can bust him down in

rank.”

Kern smiles. “I’m happy for your father-son bonding. But, something’s killed all the cell

phones, and the only thing that can do that is an EMP. And the only thing that can create a

citywide EMP is a military plane flying over Junebug. That’s all I’m saying.”

“You say anything more about my dad or the air base you’ll be saying it with a mouthful

of teeth.”

“My mouth is full of teeth.”

Aaron shoves Kern and is ready to hit him when Josh grabs Aaron’s arm.

“Stop it!”

Aaron jerks his arm away from Josh.

“We don’t need any of this. We’ve got to find out what’s happened.” Josh looks at me.




His eyes are no longer inviting chocolate candy. They are melted into something I’ve only

seen in movies: fear and confusion. I shiver. Goose bumps pop out on my arms.

“I’m going to my mom’s,” I say. I turn quickly. I’m about to cry. I don’t want Josh to

see me cry.

“Hey, Laynie!”

I turn. It’s Lauryn. She’s sitting in the front passenger seat of her brother’s car, door

open. “Eric’s taking us to our house. There’re no teachers or administrators at the high

school, and everyone’s going home. No school today!” She laughs. From the back seat I hear

the cheers of the other three Y Queens and then see their heads bobbing around. “Get in.”

She moves out of the car to give me room to slide in next to her brother, Eric.

“No, I’m going to mom’s business.”

Eric shouts from the driver’s side, “Get in Laynie. Something’s wrong. You shouldn’t

be walking around by yourself.”

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” I reply. I point at a group buildings down the road. “Just

over there. I’ll be okay.”

“Com’on, Laynie,” Lauren begs. “We’re gonna have a party at my house. Just the Ys

and a couple of Eric’s friends.”

“We’re not having a party, Lauryn,” Eric says. He sounds like his dad. “I don’t know

what the Hell is going on, but we’re not having a party.”

Lauryn squeezes up her face and rolls her eyes. “You’re such a party pooper. Why

shouldn’t we have a party?”

“I’m going to my mom’s,” I say. “I’ll call you later.” It’s a habit to say that. I wasn’t

thinking and remembering that the cells were dead.




I turn as Lauryn yells after me to get into the car. I’m not listening. I look around. The

junior high courtyard is nearly empty. I don’t see Josh or Aaron or Kern. I jerk my head away

when I see the dead boy on the ground by the car and shattered school sign.

I walk as fast as I can without running. I don’t stop at the curb to check the traffic. I’m

trying not to think. I just want to get to Mom’s business and make sure everything is okay. I

cross the street and then am headed to the small strip of buildings where mom’s employment

business is. It’s only a couple of blocks--more like five, really--and not too far, but it seems

very far today. And no matter how fast I walk, I feel I am moving in slow motion.

I don’t want to think about the dead boy, but his face keeps popping up in my mind.

Tears are in my eyes.

Blood spots where there should be pimples. His eyes wide and frightened.

Then vacant.

I bend over to throw up before I know what is happening. My stomach feels like

someone has punched me with a steel fist from the inside out, and my throat burns like fire. I

squeeze my eyes shut so I can’t see what’s coming out. It would only make me sicker. Even

the sound of my retching and the sound of what’s splattering on the ground make me gag

more. I finish, straighten up, wipe my mouth, open my eyes, and start to Mom’s again.

My throat and mouth are dry and burning. My lips hurt. I cry. The salt of my tears tastes

good.

The sign reads: Price Executive Employment Service

I run to the glass door, grab the aluminum crossbar, and push on it as hard as I can. My

wrists snap back against the door, and I nearly fall to the ground. I grab the aluminum

crossbar and jerk it. The door rattles but doesn’t open. I can see the deadbolt still sitting in the




lock. I press against the glass and cup my hands around my eyes to better see inside.

It’s empty.

It’s not supposed to be empty. Maggie should be at the receptionist’s desk. Howard

should be at the desk in the west corner and Sheila should be at the desk in the east corner.

Mom should be in her office that sits between the two “employment counselors”, her door

open, her eyes glued to her computer screen, and her fingers firing over the keys of the

keyboard.

But it’s dark inside. Not even the computers’ screen savers with “Price Executive

Employment Service” bouncing across the screen are on. They’re always on.

Every morning I walk by Mom’s business on the way to the junior high, but I don’t look

in to see what they are doing. Why should I? When I first started walking to school, I would

look inside and wave, but no one saw me. They are all too busy with their work to see me

standing outside and waving like some little excited kid. So, I stop waving and just keep on

walking. No one notices. Especially Mom. She is busy being successful. I don’t mind. Not

really. A wave would be nice every now and then.

I feel myself getting ready to cry again. I rub my eyes to stop the tears. I should have

gone with Lauryn and the other Ys.

Maybe today is a holiday, and I’ve forgotten. But, would so many other kids forget

and show up at school?

I turn to face Falcon Road. Even on holidays, Falcon Road is busy with traffic. Not asingle car or truck or anything.

Home. Mom must be at home. Maybe she called in sick and told everyone else to

stay home, too. I don’t remember Mom ever missing a day of work, especially since she




started her own business. Where else could she be? She had to be at home.

I run all the way. I feel my stomach pounding from the inside, and I gag as my throat

tightens against what’s about to leap up from my stomach. I have nothing left to throw

up. I cough and gag as I run.

* * *

BL.02.02

{0121130506:0815}

Nothing is in slow motion now. I’m fast. I’m on the junior high track team. Final leg

on the 800 meter relay team. Coach said I might even get a college scholarship if I stay in

track. Lauryn thinks sports are stupid. She told me once that the only sweat she wanted to

feel was the sweat caused by stage lights at her beauty contests.

I try not to think. The dead boy is completely out of my mind. He has become a

blimp on the news, nothing more. He is gone.

I am home. I push on the front door. It’s locked. Of course. I punch the access code

on the door’s electric keypad. Dad had installed it when he added the new security

system. He hates carrying things in his pockets, he says.

Better to carry the key in your head, he says to me as he taps his head.

It’s still locked. I punch the code again in case I made a mistake. I take my time and

even say the numbers out loud. The right numbers this time. Still locked. I pull the

emergency key from my pocket and unlock the door. Mom insisted I carry a door key

anyway in case the electricity goes out or in case the door’s electric lock fails to work.

Mom doesn’t trust Dad’s handiwork.




“Mom!” I run to the kitchen. Empty. Just as I had left it an hour earlier. “Mom!”

From the kitchen I run up the stairs to the bedrooms. Empty. Quiet. Only my heavy

breathing fills the air and the pounding of my heart echoes through my body with an deep

explosive boom in both my ears. “Mom!” I’m running down the front stairs now. I turn at

the bottom and stare into the dining room. Empty. I turn and look in the front living

room. Nobody.

I run down the hallway into the family room. It’s large with a cathedral ceiling.

“Mom!” My voice echoes back at me, and I jump.

I run through the French doors of the family room and to the rear garage. I punch in

the code to open the doors, but the doors don’t open. I punch in the code more slowly,

saying the numbers out loud to myself. The doors remain closed. I have to stand on my

toes to look inside the windows. I gasp and cry out, “What?” All three cars are still in the

garage: Dad’s. Mom’s. Cody’s. All still there.

I run back into the house. “Dad! Mom! Cody!”

My heart pounds against my chest. My breathing is quick and hard. My head is

spinning. I am dizzy. I sit on the couch in the family room. I pull out my cell phone. It’s

still dead. I open the back. The battery looks melted, like a small chocolate bar sitting on

a car’s dash board on a hot day. I pull out the battery and toss it to the floor. I run up the

stairs and to my bedroom. My spare battery is in my vanity’s top draw. I yank the drawer

open.

“No!” The spare battery is melted into a plastic lump. I run to Cody’s room. Clothes

are on the floor. His bed is unmade. His closet door is opened--more clothes on the floor




with only two or three shirts on hangers. Typical Cody decor. His desk is cluttered with

energy drink cans, candy wrappers, car and muscle magazines, and dirty socks. I push

most of it to the floor. His cell phone is still in its charger. Cody would never go

anywhere without his cell. The red charger light is off. Must be charged. Good.

I grab the phone from the charger and press the on button. Nothing. I open the back.

The battery is a melted lump.

I run to Mom and Dad’s room. I stop at the doorway. Stunned. Confused. Their cell

phones are still in their chargers. They never leave the bedroom without their cell phones

hooked on their belts or glued to their hands. They’d forget to wear pants before they’d

forget their cell phones. I don’t check their phones. I don’t want to find more melted

batteries.

I run back downstairs to the kitchen. I stare at the oval spot on the wall next to the

refrigerator where the old landline phone had hung since I was a baby. Dad had it taken

out last summer because Mom said we didn’t need a landline anymore with all the cell

phones. The landline was just costing us money.

“Hey, I have an idea,” I say to Mom.

“What's that?” Mom says as she put on her lip gloss at the kitchen bar.

“You can put that money in my allowance.”

“You don’t get an allowance.”

“I know. That’s what makes this a good idea. You wouldn’t miss what you don’t

have any way.”

“I’m not sure I understand that logic. Besides, you can have as much money as--“




“I earn. I know.” I roll my eyes. My mom is under the impression that part of her

parental responsibilities is to teach me the importance of money by making me work for

it. All I’m learning is that Mom and Dad are like Scrooge when it comes to giving me

money for anything. If not for Lauryn and the money she’s won in her beauty contest, I

wouldn’t have some of the cooler stuff a young woman like me needs to fit into the upper

circles of junior high society. I have never asked Lauryn for money. She just buys two of

everything and gets lots of freebees from her beauty contests and then she gives the

extras to the Ys as she sees fit. I get the most because I’m her best friend.

“We ought to keep the landline,” Dad says as he reads the overnight news on his

iPad. “We can afford it.”

“Why? We’ve got all these cell phones. Our Internet is from the cable company. It’s

a waste.”

“For emergencies,” Dad says as he glances over the edge of his iPad.

“What emergencies?”

Dad shrugs and sighs. “I don’t know. Emergencies.”

“If we ever have an emergency where we couldn’t use our cell phones--well, that’ll

be the end of the world.”

Welcome to the End of the World, Mom.

* * *

BL.02.03

{0121130506:0825}

I remember the Marshes have a landline phone. An ancient landline phone that’s




hung on the wall in their kitchen for like 40 years. The Marshes moved into the house

next door when Mr. Marsh became a teacher at Junebug High in the 1970s, or sometime

in the ancient past. Dad told me once that Mr. Marsh was old when he was in Mr.

Marsh’s biology class, and Mom said that she’s never known either of the Marshes

without gray hair.

Mr. Marsh died about the time I was born and Mrs. Marsh took to watching the

neighborhood kids after school while their parents were still at work.

And she’s got an ancient landline phone hanging on the wall. (puke) Avocado green.

One of those ancient phones that has a round plastic dial with circles instead of touch

buttons. Dad says those phones are called rotary phones. When I was a kid, I thought

those kind of phones came from the Rotary club Dad belonged to.

The phone scares me, though. It has a long thin green coiled cord that looks like a

sleeping thin green snake. When I was a child, I was afraid to walk near it. Anytime Mrs.

Marsh watched me after school while Mom and Dad were still at work, I’d walk in a

wide arc to avoid going near that snake.

Mrs. Marsh explained to me that it was just a long phone cord, but I didn’t like it

anyway, especially the (puke) avocado green. Mrs. Marsh said that (puke) avocado green

was quite popular in the early 1970s when she and Mr. Marsh were first married. She

points to the matching (puke) avocado green stove and oven they bought with the house

to match the dark green kitchen tile on the floor and walls.

At first, I thought the old phone was just a toy. You lift the handset and the silver

hook it sets in pops up—that means you’re ready to dial.




The very first time I try to use it—I want to call Mom to come home because Cody

had hit me with a one of those foam footballs. I end up crying instead because I don’t

know how to make a call: the (puke) avocado phone with the snake cord had a funny

looking plastic dial with holes, and inside each hole were numbers and letters. At first I

try poking the numbers through the holes with my fingers, like I on a cell phone, but I all

I hear is the dial tone—no electrical musical notes at all. I poke each hole harder and

harder thinking I’m not pressing hard enough. I poke so hard my finger begins to hurt. I

feel the tip of my fingernail pushing away from my finger.

I cry instead of calling Mom to tell on Cody.

Finally, Mrs. Marsh comes into the kitchen and explains that the phone is an old

rotary phone, that you put your finger in the hole, and then turn the clear plastic dial

clockwise until your finger stops at a silver hook. You do this for each number, and then

you hear the ringing on the other end.

I never call Mom because Mrs. Marsh gets out some orange sherbet and tells me to

sit at the table to eat a big bowl of it. Cody never gets any.

I run out the front door and to the Marshes. I press the doorbell and then hear the

chime—some old French tune Mrs. Marsh likes. I wait for several minutes and then press

the doorbell again. I press it so hard I think I’m going to break it.

I peer through the door window. The entry way is dark. I can see into part of the

living room. The curtains covering the sliding glass doors are still shut; a sliver of light

cuts through the narrow opening between the two curtains.

I knock. I pound. I shout. “Mrs. Marsh!”




Finally, I grab the door knob and turn. Locked.

“Mrs. Marsh! Are you okay?”

Mrs. Marsh never goes anywhere. She is a shut-in. Has been since all the

neighborhood kids have grown up and don’t need after school babysitters. I sometimes

see her from my second floor bedroom window when she takes the trash out to the

dumpster in the alley in the afternoon. She has gotten grayer and even smaller. She’s

always bent over like she is carrying some super heavy invisible backpack. She moves

slowly and looks as if she won’t be able to open the wooden gate leading the alley.

I always tell myself that I will visit her. Especially after I saw a film in Social

Studies on shut-ins and Mrs. Turner, our English teacher, gave us the word recluse as one

of our vocabulary words

I never do visit her.

I pound on the door again.

I take off my right shoe and slam into the glass on the door. The glass shatters into

pieces and then shatters again when it hits the tile floor of the entryway. I hit the glass

again and again until only a small jagged edge is left in the large opening. I put my shoe

back on. I reach through the jagged hole, twist the deadbolt, turn door knob, and open the

door. I take one step inside.

“Mrs. Marsh? It’s me, Laynie. Are you okay? Mrs. Marsh!”

I breathe deeply and walk down the entryway and into the living room. I haven’t

been in the Marsh home in nearly five years. Nothing is changed. The furniture and

lamps and knickknacks are the same.




The living room opens into the dining room. The kitchen is off to the side of the

dining room. I see the (puke) avocado phone with its snake cord on the kitchen wall. I

start to the kitchen, but I wonder where Mrs. Marsh is.

The Marsh home is a single story. I turn from the living room and run down the

hallway to the bedrooms. The Marshes’ bedroom is at the end. The doors to the three

bedrooms are opened. I glance inside the first two, which are opposite of each other.

Empty. I run into the master bedroom.

“Mrs. Marsh!”

I check the closet and then master bathroom. I look under the bed.

Mrs. Marsh is gone.

The entire house is empty. Maybe for the first time in forty years.

I run back to the kitchen and yank the handset from the silver hook. I jab my finger

into the holes—9-1-1. I put the handset to my ear.

Nothing. I slam my other hand against the silver hook and push it down. It snaps up

when I take my hand away. I spin the dial again—9-1-1.

I listen.

No static.

No hissing.

No dial tone.

Nothing.

I slap the hook—it pops up—I twist the dial—

9—1—1—




Again—9—1—1—

Again—9—1—1—

No answer. I scream into the mouthpiece: “Where is everybody?”

I beat the (puke) avocado phone base with the handset. The plastic dial cracks. A

small part of it falls to the floor. The phone base cracks. The round ear part of the handset

flies off.

I jab my fingers into each hole again and again and again and slam the numbers—

9—

1—

1—

Nothing. I throw the handset at the phone base. The phone base jumps from the wall

and everything falls to the floor. The green coiled snake cord twists around the broken

phone.

I grab the coiled snake cord and twist it until it hurts my hand. I pick up the phone

and throw it at the (puke) avocado stove and oven. The phone cracks the oven’s small

glass window and then falls to the dark green tile floor.

Nothing.

“WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYBODY?”

I cry. Not sobbing cry. Screaming cry. My cheeks are on fire. I gag for air. Two

thick globs of snot go from my nose to the top of my lip.

I run from the kitchen. From the dinning room. From the living room. Through the

entryway. Grab the door. Throw it open.




I cry too hard—Salt stings my skin—Dirt is in my mouth—Blood explodes at the

back of my eyeballs—Bombs destroy my ears—I gag for air—I cannot scream—Dark

vision—I cannot breath—Shadow hands grab my throat—Jerk me from the Marshs’s

house.

* * * * * * * * * * * *




Please feel free to leave comments, suggestions,

condemnations, praises, accolades, and curses

in the Comments or Reply boxes below.

Or, send me your thoughts at

[email protected]

Thank you.

Be well,

Larry Mike Garmon



NEVRLAND, Part 01: Rapture, Chapter 02

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Transcript of NEVRLAND, Part 01: Rapture, Chapter 02