White Space

Yes. Battle’s ruined face glimmered from the window’s murky well. But where are you?

“I’m in a kitchen, Sarge.”

And where is this kitchen?

“Look, Sarge, you got something to say, say it.”

Think, son. Use your head. Does this house look like any farmhouse you’ve ever seen? Does it feel right?

“Sure,” Bode said. “I mean, you know, it’s a house.”

It’s got the right shape. It’s got furniture and there are rooms. There’s food and light. But there are no pictures on the walls, no photographs. Who lives here?

“I don’t know. I haven’t really looked, Sarge, but there have to be bills or something lying around. There’s probably a name on the mailbox.”

Are there? Was there?

“I didn’t notice. It was, you know, snowing.”

“Man, we got to get out of here.” Chad hugged himself. “This place just don’t feel right.”

“You need to calm down,” Bode said. Chad was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Good on patrol; definitely watched your back, and the guy could de-ass a chopper like greased lightning. But he wasn’t any kind of rocket scientist. On the other hand, Chad wasn’t as crazy as Bode, who knew he was nuts. Given Bode’s day job, though, crazy is as crazy does. Battle’s ghost hitching a ride in his head was just so much icing on that proverbial cake. “Let’s just focus on one thing at a time, okay? First light tomorrow, we figure a way out of the valley.”

“A way out?” Chad said. “We don’t even know how we made our way in. Do you remember how we got down here? I sure don’t.”

Bode didn’t either. On the other hand, he’d gotten into some serious smack, so maybe that was understandable. The high had tailed off, though, and while Bode knew from experience that his memory never quite recovered a hundred percent, he really didn’t recall more than jagged fragments and sensations: the stink of piss from the men’s room, a thick sweat-fog hanging over the dance floor.

The moment he squeezed the trigger.

“Bode, I’m telling you, man: the cops catch us, they turn us over to the MPs and it’s Leavenworth. They give you the firing squad for stuff like this.” Chad hugged himself a little tighter. “I told you to let it roll, but no. You had to go and follow the LT out of the bar.”

Bode was tempted to point out that the military’s preferred method for execution these days was hanging, but no use making Chad more anxious than he was already. “Relax. No one saw us.”

“Bode, anyone finds your gun, the cops or the MPs’ll trace it right back to you.”

“Yeah, but we ship out in a week. No way they’ll pull us out of that.”

“How you figure?”

“Man, they’re hurting for guys to fight. No one’ll come looking. Come morning, we get our bearings and drive on out of here. Until then, don’t sweat it. Everything’ll be copacetic.”

“What if the owners here show up?”

Battle: They won’t.

“They won’t,” Bode echoed. “Not tonight anyway.”

“Man, I hope not.” Chad shivered. “House gives me the creeps. Know what bothers me? The food.”

Bode laughed. “Macaroni and cheese makes you nervous?”

Don’t laugh, Battle said. He’s right.

“Bode, that food was ready and waiting,” said Chad. “That’s just wrong. No one goes off during a blizzard and leaves his oven on.”

It was a good point. “If there was an emergency, they might,” Bode said, but he couldn’t convince even himself.

“If there was an emergency,” Chad said, “then it was a long time ago. There were no tracks and the road wasn’t plowed. That casserole ought’ve burnt. But it didn’t. I’m telling you: that’s not right.”

“Well, we’re not going to solve that little mystery now.” Turning away from the window and Battle, Bode scooped up the Winchester and the Remington pump. “Come on.”

Chad’s mouth set in an unhappy line, but he followed because that’s what Chad did best. Yet he—or maybe Battle—had planted a seed, because Bode realized something as they drove away and the house and barn dwindled to bright islands.

There was light. The house had electricity. But there were no power lines. This far out in the country, there would have to be.

So where was the light—the power—coming from?

3

“MAYBE IT’S LIKE gas,” Chad said now. He dug at his sore with a dirty thumbnail. “You know, like some kind of nerve gas or that Agent Orange.”

“Agent Orange?” Eric said. There was another sharp blat of static as he switched channels on his handset. “They don’t use that stuff anymore.”

“Yeah, man, there’s laws,” Bode said. “Besides, you need a bird for that. No way anyone’s flying a chopper tonight.”

Chad’s left foot jiggled as he pick-pick-picked. “Hey, Eric, you know how far it is to the nearest town?”

Sighing, Eric clicked off his walkie-talkie and shoved it into his parka. “No. I’ve never been down here before.”