Russell blew past the SUV where he had lost sight of Serena. He rushed past row after row of immobile cars, the sound of her footsteps his only guide. It was easy enough to track her in the quiet car park, which was a good thing. So long as he was the only one doing so.
After passing half a dozen parking lanes, he spotted Serena making a turn next to a silver Bentley. He trailed after her, trying his best to keep her in his line of sight. He rounded the silver sedan seconds later, nearly stepping on a weird sapling growing beside the car.
A part of him wondered what kind of tree grows violet-colored leaves. Another part of him wondered how Serena had been running in her short heels.
A few yards in front of him, the woman had slowed to a light jog. She stopped before she reached the middle of the lane.
In front of her, a silhouette had been hunching under the hood of an expensive-looking car. The figure swiveled in her direction, their face veiled in shadows. “Who in the—Solace?”
“Mr. Morgan?” Serena gasped. “Oh, thank God, it's just you!”
Russell caught up to her, barely out of breath from the spontaneous exercise. He stood behind her and studied the man they had found all alone in the middle of the lifeless parking lot.
Mr. Morgan was older than old. A simple grey polo shirt and white pants clothed his small, bony frame. Though given the red sports car, Russell had no doubt the elderly man only wore branded and expensive clothes. Oddly enough, the old man not only had his car’s hood popped open, but he also had the roof of his convertible retracted even in the low temperature.
“It's just Bernie, young girl,” the man said, his nasal voice loud in the quiet car park. “You always make my name sound like an old man’s.”
But you are one, Russell thought in amusement, only to pause the next moment. Mr. Morgan’s voice was rough, distinct, different from the screams earlier. He wasn’t the person they were looking for.
He scanned the new area of the parking lot they were in. But even after staring around for a while, he spotted nothing in the dark. There was nobody else around.
“And what do you think I’m doing out here?” Mr. Morgan adjusted his spectacles with his withered fingers. “First the lights went out, then we get an earthquake, and now my damn car won't start,” he grumbled. Like a spry young man, he gave the front tire a few good kicks as he muttered curses under his breath.
Russell scrutinized the old man more closely, confused. Mr. Morgan had a plastic breathing mask hanging from his neck. The clear hose attached to it led down to the ground, connecting to a small tank standing upright beside him.
An oxygen tank? What did an old man like him with such a poor health condition plan on doing out here? Someone like him shouldn't be driving such a fast-looking roadster, at least not alone, and especially not late at night.
“It has been a weird night, that’s true.” Serena cleared her throat. “But by any chance, did you hear someone asking for help?”
"Someone asking for—can't you see I’m the one who needs help here, girl?" Bernard asked back, giving her a pinched expression.
“I mean, someone else, Mr. Bernard,” she clarified. “Did you see anybody else on your way here from the clubhouse?”
Bernard’s eyes blinked owlishly, distorting behind the trifocal lenses of his spectacles. “Hey girly, look at my face,” he said. “Can't you understand that it's my goddamn car that's broke?"
“Yes, I can see that.” She gave the old man an awkward smile, “But we believe someone nearby might be injured, that's why—"
“Bah! Who gives a flying pig about some punk?!” Bernard shouted, throwing his hands up in the air as spittle flew from his mouth.
“Uhm…”
“Do I look like I care?” the old man carried on. “I certainly don't. I. Don’t. Care. I only care for this expensive lump of metal that's already broken less than a month after I bought it. In cash!”
Cantankerous old geezer. Russell took another look at their surroundings, trying to hide his smile. Still, he found nothing new.
“I understand you, Mr. Bernard. I really do…” Serena stood unflinching in front of the old man, the smile on her face stiff.
“I got this.” Russel tapped her on her shoulder as he stepped forward. "Mind if I check your car, Bernie?"
Bernard pushed his glasses up his nose, and he eyed Russell with a suspicious scowl. “Depends on who's asking.”
“Just a friend of girly over here,” Russell said, pointing a thumb back to Serena.
A sound of harrumph came from behind him.
“Mr. Morgan, this is Russell Flynn,” Serena said, making the introductions. “Russ, this is Mr. Bernard Morgan. He's one of the country club’s most loyal patrons, though he's more famous around here for being an avid supporter of the local high school. The booster club wouldn't be what it is today without him.”
“Booster club?” Bernard scoffed. “If only I had known what a drain it would be. Not a single trophy to show for it after all these years? Bah! What a joke!”
“C’mon, Bernie, don’t be that way,” Serena said.
“My dollars would’ve been better spent on some no-name charity,” Bernard grumbled. “I should’ve invested my money on those fake online coins kids these days are all into. At least then I'd know from the get-go I was getting my old ass conned.”
“I doubt they’re all a scam,” Russell said, remembering how Clayton had sung praises of cryptocurrency just earlier.
“Excuse me?” Bernard turned his attention to him. “Does this self-made old man look like he needs financial advice from a youngin like you?”
Russell blinked. He did not expect the vitriol in the man’s tone.
“What did you say your name was again, boyo?” Bernard asked, squinting his eyes through his thick lenses.
Russell tensed. “I’m no one. Just a friend of Serena, that’s all.”
“Really?” Bernard leaned closer, examining him more closely. “Why do I feel like I know you from somewhere…?”
“Do you mind if I examine your car now?” Russell asked. “Serena was being too nice about it, but we’re actually in a hurry.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Bernard smirked and stepped aside. “Well, have at it then.”
Russell approached the vehicle, not in the mood to get into an argument with someone he just met. In truth, more than the old man’s issues, Russell was more interested in finding out what an expensive car would look like under the hood. Crouching low, he examined the engine, or he tried to, anyway. He couldn't see anything in the dark.
He clicked his tongue and glanced back at the old man. “I’m afraid I can't do anything about this.”
“Wow,” Bernard drawled. “How about that.”
“I meant it's too dark to see anything,” Russell said. “This is impossible to work with.”
“You don’t say?” Bernard asked, feigning surprise.
Russell felt the corner of his eye twitch. The snickering coming from behind him didn't help.
“I have a few tools and a flashlight back in my truck,” he told Serena. “Let me go back and grab them, and I’ll be back here in a minute.”
“Oh, sure, sure. Go ahead and keep trying,” Bernard said in a dismissive tone.
Russell turned to leave, trying not to take the man’s insulting tone seriously. For some reason, he genuinely wanted to help now, just to wipe that smug look off the old geezer’s face.
“I’ll stay right here,” Serena said, biting her lip and trying to hide a smile.
Russell gave her a nod as he strode past her. “Watch your back.”
“Don't worry!” she called out after him. “Old Bernie here is harmless.”
“Who you calling harmless, girly?” the old man groused. “I may be old, but I can still give you a good spanking!”
“I wasn’t talking about him!” Russell yelled over his shoulder before disappearing from their view.
He traced the same path they had taken earlier, jogging back to his truck at a more manageable pace. The sound of his breathing and the steady pounding of his boots on the asphalt became his constant companion, but they weren’t all that accompanied him. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach had never left.
The eerie silence continued to bother him, but not finding the screamer troubled him even more. He couldn't let go of the sense of wrongness taking root in his mind, an unshakable feeling that kept telling him something was wrong.
What the hell did I get myself into?
The return trip to his truck was quick. Without having to search for Serena all over the place, it didn’t even take him half a minute to get back to his parking spot.
With a turn of his key, he unlocked the driver-side door and hopped inside. He reached across the other side of the dashboard and popped the glove compartment open. Absent any source of light, he had to settle for rummaging blindly in the dark as the familiar smell of old vinyl hung inside the cabin. Even though he hadn’t used it in a long time, he was certain he had his flashlight stored there for emergencies. But try as he might, his hand failed to find what he was looking for.
He wanted to smack himself on the head. Things would have been easier if he had entered from the passenger side in the first place.
After what felt like forever, his fingers brushed against cold metal. He pulled the heavy-duty flashlight out of the mess in his glovebox and hefted the long, cumbersome object in his hand. Rolling it a few times over his palm, his thumb soon found the power button, and he pressed it with an audible click.
Nothing.
"Are you freakin' kidding me?" he muttered under his breath. He stared at his flashlight, at the tungsten bulb in its head. It didn’t have an LED. It didn’t need some kind of delicate chip for it to work. The thing was older than his freakin’ truck. So why was it dead? It doesn’t make any sense.
He slammed the glovebox closed and stepped out of the cab, stomping the short distance to the back of his truck. In one swift motion, he yanked at the corner of a filthy white tarp and threw the entire cover flapping to the side. Dust and dirt flew everywhere. He used the collar of his shirt to cover his mouth and nose, and he had to wave his hand a couple of times to clear the air, cursing his bad luck so far.
But unlike earlier, he spotted what he needed without any hassle. He balanced the plastic toolbox on the edge of the tailgate before hefting the heavy equipment on his shoulder. Returning to the front, he was about to shut the door he had left open when he stopped. He looked his truck over, bouncing the car keys in his hand.
With a grunt, he bent over and dropped his gear on the ground. He held the grab handle and hauled himself inside the cab one more time. Switching the flashlight to his left hand, he used his right hand to insert his key in the ignition. With a twist of his wrist, he turned the key—a simple gesture he had done thousands of times through the years. But the engine didn’t let out a sound, not even a whimper.
“No…” He closed his eyes in disbelief. He should've known. He had known already. The silent parking lot was the most obvious hint, but he had needed to try anyway. He needed to know for himself. And even now, he needed to be sure, so he gave it another try. Still nothing.
“No, no, no, no,” he hissed. He smacked his palm against the steering wheel over and over again, but it was a useless gesture.
“What now, Flynn?” he asked himself as he slumped back onto his seat. Without his truck, he didn’t know how he could get home. Either he was stuck here in the club, or he could try his luck walking all the way back to town. The idea of trekking for miles made him groan. How long was the switchback going down the cliff? A mile? Maybe two? How long will it take him to walk that distance, traversing such a steep incline while under the cover of darkness?
He focused instead on what he could do for now. But as his foot stepped on the running board outside his door, his eyes landed on the toolbox he had left on the ground.
He pursed his lips in thought. The truck’s engine could have been the problem. It could even be the same issue the old man had, possibly one Russell could fix himself. There was no need to lose hope just yet.
Switching the flashlight back to his right hand, he crouched low to reach for the release lever under the steering wheel. He stopped at the last second and tilted his head to the side.
Traces of music filled the air. He noted the faint cadence, a rhythmic sound building up in speed and intensity. Frowning, he looked back at the audio system, but the display was completely dark. There couldn’t have been any song playing in his car stereo, and ants crawled on his skin at the realization. It wasn't music he was hearing.
He blinked, and the interior of his truck disappeared.
He had run into the nearest hiding spot he could find, a dark closet tucked away underneath the staircase. The smell of unwashed clothes and shoe wax filled the small space. In his hurry, he had left the large door ajar, so he peeked through the opening, trying not to make a sound. And his body trembled against his will.
A giant towered at the other end of the hallway. In the unlit corridor, the man’s face appeared vague.
"Oh, boyo," the giant called out with a voice gruff like the rocks in the front lawn.
Russell slid his small hands over his mouth. The door, the man, the hall—everything looked big to him as he huddled behind the door.
"Where are you, boyo?" the large man repeated, his words slurred. The giant swung side to side like one of the swings in the neighborhood playground, his unsteady steps bringing him closer to Russell’s hiding place at a snail’s pace. The old floorboards creaked under the thick soles of leather boots, a slow countdown of the nightmare to come.
A sob broke out of Russell’s mouth. No. He shouldn’t cry. Men don’t cry.
Stopping by a side table in the hall, the large man reached for the ancient radio. His clumsy hand went wide, and he ended up knocking over a half-empty beer bottle, spilling the leftover drink all over the tablecloth. Grumbling under his breath, he turned the knob, and the radio crackled to life.
Music played, and Russell held his breath. The sad voice of a woman singing echoed in the hallway, drowning out the haunted silence of his new home. There was only the song. The nice, motherly voice. The gentle strumming of a guitar. The drums thumping with the steady, pounding, pulsing beats.
Heartbeats.
Russell jerked back in his seat. The gap of a doorway in front of him was gone, replaced by an unwashed window. A windshield. He was back inside the cabin of his truck, and the realization lifted the weight from his shoulders. With his body stiff and his back drenched in sweat, he finally let go of the breath he had been holding—yet the thumping beat remained.
He clenched the flashlight in his hand. There was no room for doubt this time. After so long, after denying it for the entire night, he could hear it again, something only he could sense, something he would rather forget.
But why now? Why tonight? And why—
Russell froze. The heartbeats didn't come in pairs as usual. They came in threes.
This song was unique. A rhythm he had never heard before. The heartbeat was different this time, different from earlier inside the clubhouse, different from anything he had come across in the past. It was no human or animal he had ever encountered but something else.
He flicked his gaze to his left and then to his right. He looked out front and then eyed the rest of the cabin behind him. But nothing was out of place. He glimpsed no movement in the darkness. Nothing else resounded aside from the beating. Nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing and his own heart hammering inside his chest. It was all in his head. There was nothing to be afraid of. And still the song lingered.
It continued to stay, haunting his mind, muddling his thoughts, a constant flowing and ebbing of the tide, but rather than reach a crescendo, it gradually weakened, fading as if it was moving farther and farther away, leaving him behind and heading for somewhere else—or someone else.
Serena.