SILENCE, She Screamed

In the end, there was quiet.

Sande Johnson poked her head from the cellar, her home for months. A plenitude of stored supplies remained within, but her water rations were nearly exhausted.

Shouldering an empty backpack, she let the heavy door fall open, stepped outside, and listened. Not a dog barking or a bird chirping. Stealthily she eased down her drive, ready to bolt back to her rabbit hole.

No one, nothing moved. Blessed relief.

Several times during her self-imposed confinement, voices had been followed by weak efforts to break through the reinforced door. Weeks had passed since the last of the uninvited.

In a noisy world of honking horns and conniving con men, she’d longed for a calmer life. A loner? Perhaps, but self-sufficiency reaped its rewards. She’d outlasted all her busybody so-called friends. Call her a survivor.

Tomblike peace settled like the fine sand that an occasional gust shifted, pulling a sheet over one corpse, revealing another.

As she neared Cynthia Powell’s hair styling salon, she debated whether to enter. Why not? Too bad Cindy wouldn’t be around so Sande could say she told her so. She giggled, covering her mouth with both hands, then went inside.

The overhead chime was muted, caked with grit. Just inside, Sande paused. Nope, no Cindy. No anyone. Each station waited patiently for the next patron. At the first shampoo bowl she turned the tap. A few muddy drops splattered the basin, then quit. She wasn’t surprised.

Sande returned to the street. She enjoyed the stillness as she went forward, carefully sidestepping mummified mounds. One lump reminded her of Cindy, although she couldn’t say why. Only another cocooned cadaver in the midst of plenty. Had the entire town just had to rush outside for the fireworks and just collapsed on the spot?

Breathing dust, Sande cleared her throat and was startled by its raspy bark. Water. She wasn’t worried. Within walking distance were several supermarkets and a half-dozen convenience stores.

The first storefront was blackened, windows shattered, interior gutted. Only a jagged shell remained, evidence of intense looting. She’d find nothing useful there.

The next, a 24–7 Quickie PikIt, had been ransacked but not depleted. Miscellaneous goods were haphazardly strewn across a checkerboard tile floor. Still, lots of useful items had been left behind. Display glass in a dark cooler revealed six-packs of beer and sodas and racks of spring water. She reached inside, twisted the cap off a plastic bottle, and appeased her scratchy throat.

Food, check. Water, check. And none of the distractions of a disorderly world. Paradise!

Sande looked through the dusty store window at the entombed bodies in the street, the lone drawback to this Heaven-on-Earth. Still, they’d never rise up to walk the night. Reality wouldn’t allow such silliness.

Movement in the back corner near the ceiling made her stop and stare in horror.

A fat black spider spun its web with insane rapidity, as if maddened by the sudden isolation. In complex layers, the web grew. Already several feet in circumference, the net enlarged as the spider rushed back and forth with dizzying speed.

Sande intuitively thought she’d emerged unique. No useless humans. No vicious dogs. No precious cats. She’d counted on their demise. She hadn’t considered that the constantly raining sand would create such an arid world. Certain creatures survived and even thrived, creepy-crawling through crooks and crannies.

Sande hated most animals, especially that kind. Scorpions and spiders and roaches, oh my!

Disgusted by the hyperactive arachnid, she began to fill her backpack with bottles of warm water. Milk cartons had burst, overflowed, coagulated. Like the bodies outside, whatever stink they’d raised was gone now, but left a mess nearly as repulsive as the spider.

When she’d stowed as much as she could carry, she re-shouldered the pack. Taking one scornful look up at the web, she exited the store. Next time, she’d shop elsewhere.

Sande stopped abruptly and her eyes shot wide. She recalled that she’d left the cellar door open to any and all interlopers. That was so unlike her, she couldn’t believe what she’d done. She resettled the pack upon her back and hurried home.

The wooden door still tilted back on its stop. She examined the ground near the entrance. Shifting sand had created a few wavy lines, but the only prints led away from the opening. Already half filled in, they were the same as the ones she brought back.

Sande was satisfied. Nobody could have intruded without leaving some sign.

She stepped inside, switched on the light, peered back one last time to catch any sneaks. Struggling to pull the heavy door through its arc, she ducked her head to let it slam. Sande ran sturdy chains through large eye bolts, then snapped the locks. Secure again. Letting the backpack slip onto the table, she noticed how dim the light had become.

The front wheel of a now-stationary bicycle had been replaced by a generator that fed the batteries which powered the light, the recycling fan, and a two-burner stove. A pre-comet solution to her fear that a lightning strike would leave her in the dark, the small system had proven its worth. She should recharge the batteries soon. The weaker they became, the longer she’d need to pedal.

Because sound echoed in the small chamber, the chain was kept well-lubricated. Its smooth metallic whisper actually soothed her excitable nerves. As she moved toward the bike, a noise stopped her.

A warning rattle.

In the waning light, a sinuous shape slithered toward her. It disappeared beneath the table. Sande backed away, digging in her pocket for the key to the chain locks. Flee, her mind shrieked. She turned toward the cellar steps, halted.

Near the bottom, a writhing mass coiled, rolled, twisted. The clump began to unravel. Several wriggled toward her. Sande spun around in panic. Terrified, she clambered onto the tabletop.

Trapped.

The light flickered. Dimmed. In the growing gloom, rattles reverberated.

And they were so loud.