Bad Glass

“I’m sure you will, but just in case, I’ve got my own contingencies moving into place,” Devon said. “No offense intended. I’m sure you can do your job, but I did not get to the place I’m at by taking other people at their word. We’ve got to plug these leaks, no matter what your familial concerns may be.”

“I understand,” the man replied, his voice still a muted whisper. Static and distance had stripped away all hint of emotion.

Devon’s first words had knocked Charlie back on his heels, but this second voice hit him even harder, leaving him perched motionless on his folded knees, his mouth hanging open in a lowercase “o.” Now he broke his paralysis and scrambled forward, his hands darting across the front of the radio. Finally, he managed to find the big red “transmit” button.

“Dad,” he called, his voice catching on the final note, the raised lilt that would have transformed the word into a question. “Dad, it’s Charlie. Is that you?”

The static continued for a couple of seconds—tense seconds—as we both waited for the voice to respond. Then the static stopped, and there was only silence. Devon and the mysterious voice—Charlie’s father, I thought. Is that even possible?—were gone, leaving behind the sound of mute wires.

Charlie sat still for a couple of seconds, and then he turned his ashen face toward me. His eyes were wide, and he looked stricken, shocked absolutely senseless.

“How could you be sure?” I asked. “It was a whisper. I could barely hear him. It could have been anyone.”

Charlie shook his head. “No, I know that voice. It was him.”

And then, more quietly, “It was him,” he repeated. He dropped his eyes back to the radio and stared at it expectantly, as if he were still waiting for it to resume speaking, waiting for it to morph into the face of his father. There was a lot there in that look: confusion, expectance, fear. Hope.

“Why would your father be talking to Devon?” I asked. “You said your parents were here, in the city. You’ve been looking for them. Why? What are they doing? What does this mean?”

He glanced back up at me, but his eyes remained distant. There was little there but shock and, just maybe—deep down inside—a dawning horror, a seed of understanding that was just now starting to take root. I could see it: a widening of the eye, a quiver in the lip.

And I wondered again, What does this mean? If anything, that look of horror on Charlie’s face said that his father’s voice coming from that radio meant something, something important.

“What’s his job, Charlie?” I asked. “What does your father do?”

He didn’t respond to my question. His eyes just slipped back down to the radio. And he continued to wait.

I tried to wait him out. I tried to wait for the shock to subside, for the answers to start coming, but Charlie remained mute. He just sat there in the middle of the room, fixated on that matte-black radio.

After a couple of minutes, a sound erupted in the quiet house, and it made me jump. It was a loud, prolonged creak, like a tight hinge slowly swinging open, and it came from downstairs.

I jumped to my feet and started toward the door. Charlie remained seated. He didn’t even raise his eyes. I didn’t even think he’d heard the sound. I left him sitting in front of the radio and quietly moved out into the hallway.

My nerves were frayed by the time I reached the top of the stairs, and my heart was beating hard. I had no idea what I might find downstairs. Maybe Devon, I thought. Maybe he heard us and he’s sneaking up from the tunnels, setting up an ambush, getting ready to deal with us. Maybe this is what he meant by “containment.” Or maybe it’s not Devon. Maybe it’s something else, something much, much worse. Amanda’s dogs or Weasel’s disembodied fingers. Ghosts. Monsters. Swarms of mutant spiders.

“Hi, Dean.” The voice was quiet and subdued, drained of all energy. It was the type of voice a sponge would have, if the sponge had been taking sedatives for a month straight. “I didn’t know you were here.”

It was Floyd. He was in the downstairs hallway, sitting with his back against the front door, the exact same spot I’d found him in the last time we were here, after he’d fled the tunnels in absolute horror. The cellar door stood open across from him, and a fresh trail of mud stretched from the gaping dark maw to his muddy boots.

I made my way down the rest of the stairs and stood over him for a moment. When he didn’t look up, I sat down at his side.