Page 113 of Stay Buried

“Okay,” she said again. “The office is closed and locked, so we can’t use the phone there. So we walk to town. It’s not far. We go to that garage and see if they’ve got a battery. They must, right? I mean, it’s a garage. And if they don’t have a battery for us, we just use their phone and call AAA. And no matter what, we call the state police.”

Malcolm nodded grimly.

They locked the truck and started walking briskly toward townalong the side of the road.

No cars passed them.

Side by side, they turned left on Main Street and went over the bridge. The men had all gone back inside the factory. They could hear the faint hum and whine of the machinery inside.

Clothespin-doll men making clothespins.

The streets were deserted, everyone either at work or school or tucked safely into their houses.

“Where the fuck is everyone?” Mal asked.

Ash glanced around, sure she saw the curtains moving in windows, shadows shifting inside the houses. “Do you feel like… we’re being watched?” she asked finally.

“I would say you were overreacting,” Malcolm said, “but honestly, at this point, I’m not too sure.”

Tim’s Gas and Repair was across the street from the general store. The door to the garage was pulled closed, the lights in the office out. A bigCLOSEDsign hung in the window.

Malcolm looked at his watch. “Shit, it’s not even five.”

“Let’s go to Josephine’s. We can use her phone.”

“Okay,” Mal said, clearly striving to keep his voice calm and steady. “Yeah, good idea.”

They continued down Main Street, passing houses with the shades drawn, doors shut tight, no sign of life.

As they approached Josephine’s, the front door creaked open and Josephine stepped out onto the porch. She peered down the street both ways, then stepped back, holding the door open. She beckoned for them to come in.

“Someone broke into our motel room, and now my truck—” Malcolm started.

“Not now, just get inside,” Josephine ordered. “Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

FORTY-EIGHTFRANKIE

March 15, 1919

My uncle and I pushed our way through the crowd of townspeople gathered at the St. James barn.

It seemed the entire town, those left who hadn’t succumbed to the illness, stood holding lanterns, guns, axes and knives, pitchforks and scythes. The crowd was buzzing like a hive of agitated bees gathered in a swarm.

“They’ve formed a damn mob,” Uncle Thomas said to me in a low voice, his face and jaw tightening. “Readying themselves for a lynching.”

I could only shake my head in disbelief. These were good people—people I’d known my whole life. The Knapps, the Millers, the Talbotts. Reverend Davies and even some of the women Aunt Margaret sang in the choir with at church were in the crowd.

If Aunt Margaret were here, she would stop this, I told myself.So you’ve got to find a way to stop it too. I had to find a way to make them see reason. To dispel the fear that clouded their thinking. For Aunt Margaret. For the whole town. Uncle Thomas and I needed to stop them before they did something they’d all regret.

At the center of the barn was the knackerman, naked and shivering. His face was bloodied, as if he’d been beaten. He was seated in a wooden chair, bound in rope and heavy iron chains. Around the chair and tucked underneath it were sticks, dry hay, scraps of timber, cut firewood, paper, rags. He looked like a bird sitting in the center of a strange and terrible nest.

I could smell kerosene.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Luther?” Uncle Thomas demanded. His breathing sounded labored—whether from fear, effort, or the sickness, I couldn’t say.

“It all began with him,” Luther declared, addressing the crowd. He was standing on the other side of the unlit funeral pyre, holding a rifle. “He was the first to get sick and he spread his sickness. The sickness you yourself now have, Tom. The sickness that dooms you. Dooms each and every one of us.”

The others murmured in agreement.