Pulang

Pukul 09.02, jam besar di atas jalan masuk ke Saijo eki. Salim menghela nafas panjangnya, masih lama pikirnya. Masih ada sekitar satu jam delapan menit sebelum bis tiba. Ditolehnya ke kanan, Fira tertidur dengan lelapnya di bangku kayu. Walau suhu sudah sangat berubah mendingin sejak mulainya musim gugur sebulan lalu, tapi Fira tetap saja lelap. Mungkin legitimasi umur yang cukup muda yang membuatnya tidak terlalu perduli dengan dinginnya malam di depan eki.
Salim kembali menatap dengan penuh haru muka dan mendengar dengkuran halus anaknya semata wayang itu. Terbayang betapa sulitnya Fira dapat hadir di antara mereka, Salim dan Niar. Apalagi tatkala dikenangnya betapa mudanya mereka, berkelana ke Jepang, terdampar di kota kecil di timur laut Hiroshima, kemudian kehamilan Niar yang tidak terduga dan akhirnya lahirnya Fira. Awalan yang sedih dan melelahkan kemudian diakhiri dengan adanya Fira dan diterimanya mereka berdua di Hirodai sebagai gakushei, Salim S3 dan Niar S2. Kebahagiaan yang teramat sangat, walau mereka sadar bahwa kesibukan akan menyita segala sendi waktu yang mereka punyai. Namun Salim dan Niar tetap mengembangkan senyum, sadar bahwa semua ini adalah karunia. Bukan sebagai bencana, paling tidak, kala itu.
Pukul 09.10. Saijo eki tiba-tiba penuh orang, berdesakan keluar dari eki menuju bis-bis yang siap di halte masing-masing. Ada yang ke Daigaku, Kure, Takehara dan mana saja. Semua bergegas, seperti tak ada satupun yang memperhatikan mereka. Semuanya sibuk. Salim kembali menghela nafas panjangnya. Angin yang tadinya bertiup lembut dari liang dekat eki, terus menguat. Fira menggeliat sejenak, sedikit kedinginan. Salim cepat-cepat merapikan jaket Fira. Diingatnya kalau Fira terkadang sangat rentan dengan udara dingin, walau berkali-kali dokter di klinik dekat shitami itu selalu bilang “daijoubu … daijoubu”. Apalagi tatkala Niar mulai sangat sibuk dengan jikken-nya, sampai-sampai harus meninggalkan kepengasuhan Fira yang kala itu belum genap setahun, padanya. “Lo kan S3, jikken lo bias dimana aja kan? Ngomong dong ke Senseimu! Gue sibuk banget nih, lab gak mungkin gue tinggalin kan?” Rentetan kalimat-kalimat itu selalu menjadi senjata Niar ke Salim. Dan jika Salim mulai terpancing marah, Niar selalu saja punya kartu As untuk menangkalnya. “Eh, lo mau marah? Gak inget Lo, kan lo yang maksain nikah? Gue dah bilang, mau lanjut sekolah, mau kerja, tunggu barang 2-3tahun. Tapi slalu aja desak-desak, ini lah itulah …. Makanya, tanggung jawab juga dong!” Salim kembali tepekur mengingat itu semua.
Pukul 09.18. Hening di eki pecah dengan suara beberapa laki-laki yang keluar dari bar di seberang eki. Ada yang langsung muntah, ada juga yang masih dengan santainya menggandeng teman perempuannya sambil memegang botol sake kecil. Buru-buru teman-temannya memeganginya agar tidak jatuh terjungkang. Salim menatap nanar. Diingatnya beberapa saat tatkala Niar baru saja menyelesaikan presentasi akhirnya, “Lim, boleh gak gue dan temen-temen jalan-jalan ke kota malam ini?”. Salim tersenyum mengangguk. “Tapi lo gak perlu tungguin gue deh, soalnya teman-teman sudah booking bar di Hondori sampe tengah malam”, seru Niar berlalu tanpa menunggu jawaban Salim. Salim mengernyit bingung. Bar? Sudah lupakah Niar tentang Tuhan? Dan malamnya, tatkala Salim baru saja selesai menidurkan Fira, Niar datang. Tidak sendirian, namun diantar teman laki-lakinya yang juga setengah mabuk. Mengebel berkali-kali. Salim membuka pintu saat Niar baru saja muntah di dekat pintu. Salim cuma bisa maraih Niar dari tangan laki-laki itu dan perlahan memapahnya masuk ke rumah. Syukurlah Fira sudah tidur, jangan sampai dia melihat ibunya seperti itu, desah Salim. Mengingat semua itu, membuat Salim berpikir lagi. Sudah benarkah tindakannya kala itu? Apakah mestinya dia biarkan saja Niar di depan pintu, agar dia bisa sadar akan tindakannya yang keterlaluan itu? Ah, entahlah. Yang penting Fira bisa tetap dalam kondisi baik dan tidak terpengaruh dengan kondisi ibunya yang seperti itu.
Pukul 09.32. Angin mulai keras lagi. Setidaknya ada dua kereta barang yang melintas dengan kecepatan tinggi meniupkan angin dari dalam eki ke luar. Cuaca oktober yang sudah lumayan dingin, menjadi semakin dingin karenanya. Fira kembali menggeliat. Salim bertindak cepat. Ditariknya lebih kencang dan rapat jaket Fira. Fira membuka matanya. Dahi mungilnya berkerut. Sepertinya akan bangun. Namun ternyata kelopak mungil itu kembali tertutup. Mungkin terlalu lelah, setelah seharian melihat ayahnya mengepak barang, membawanya turun dari lantai 10 Sunsquare kemudian berjalan dengan troli pinjaman ke eki. Walau cuaca sedemikian dinginnya, namun mengepak barang-barang membuat Salim berkeringat keras. Bajunya basah sedari tadi, kondisi yang tidak terlalu baik untuknya, apalagi setelah hampir empat bulan lalu sempat terkena hypothermia berat. Salim melamun lagi. Diingatnya kala itu, tatkala Niar memaksanya mengantarnya ke Hiroshima Airport di tengah hujan deras, sementara dirinya tengah super sibuk menyelesaikan manuskrip disertasinya. “Ayo dong Lim, flightku tinggal dua jam lagi. Berabe kan kalo gue ketinggalan pesawat? Apa kata Sensei? Lagian, gue kan gak make duit lo untuk tiket? Ayo, cepetan dong!” Akhirnya Salim jadi juga mengantarnya. Sementara itu awan gelap sudah terlihat bergerak menuju Siraichi, pertanda sebentar lagi akan turun hujan. Untuk itu Salim memacu Mira bututnya itu sekencang-kencangnya. Namun apa daya, setiba di bandara, hujan turun dengan derasnya. Alur droping penuh mobil. Niar mulai tidak sabaran dan mulai memaki-maki sembarangan. Siapa pun dimakinya. Akhirnya setelah sekian lama menunggu antrian droping, Niar bergegas turun saja tanpa peduli lagi dengan aturan. “Lim, gue turun. Jangan lupa koper gue”. Salim hanya bisa menatap dingin. Marah, kesal dan kasihan menjadi satu. Bergegas dicarinya tempat parkir. Namun entah mengapa, ternyata setelah sekian lama mencari, tidak ada satupun tempat parkir yang kosong. Akhirnya terpaksa diparkirnya mobilnya di samping jalan masuk yang lumayan jauh dari area drooping. Hujan semakin deras saja mengguyur Siraichi. Salim bergegas mengeluarkan koper Niar dari dalam bagasi. Salim sempat tertegun sejenak, melihat jumlah koper Niar. Tiga, ya tiga. Yang besar pula. Apa sih yang dia bawa? Masa gakkai lima hari bawa barang segini banyak, batin Salim. Ah, mungkin banyak buku dan lain-lainnya. Sudahlah, yang penting dia tidak marah-marah lagi. Dengan susah payah, ditariknya tiga koper itu di tengah derasnya hujan dan angin. Dirasakannya semua pakaiannya basah. Dingin mulai menyengat. Pelan-pelan dari kepala sampai kaki. Tangannya mulai gemetar. Namun teriakan Niar dari drooping zone membuatnya awake kembali. Dengan segenap tenaga yang ada, walau sudah hampir 24jam matanya tidak sempat beristirahat karena manuskrip itu, ditariknya ketiga koper berat itu menuju Niar. Tatkala tiba, bukannya terima kasih yang didengarnya, namun makian Niar yang menjemputnya kasar. “Lambat banget sih! Masa laki-laki kuat seperti lo gak bisa narik tiga koper ringan ini? Ayo, terusin naikkan ke trolley nih. Boarding bentar lagi” Salim kembali hanya bisa menatap pucat. Dalam pikirannya, biarlah. Sudah kepalang tanggung. Tidak sampai 15menit kemudian, mereka sudah tiba di counter. Tak lama, penimbangan dan check in selesai. Niar melirik ke arah Salim, “Jaga Fira ya?” Salim tersenyum mengangguk. Walau dengan seluruh badan gemetar kedinginan, dirasakannya pancaran keibuan dalam mata Niar. Syukurlah dia masih ada perhatian untuk anaknya, batin Salim pelan. Namun selepas itu, Niar berlalu tanpa kata lagi. Salim pun sudah mengerti dan tidak lagi mengharap apapun seperti cium saying ataupun bahkan lambaian tangan. Salim pun beranjak pelan. Gemetar keras menghambat gerakannya. Kepalanya terasa mulai berdenyut keras. Tatapannya nanar. Sedetik kemudian, Salim tidak ingat lagi apa-apa. Tatkala matanya membuka, langit-langit putihlah yang pertama dilihatnya. Langit-langit rumah sakit. Salim merasa kepalanya sangat berat, namun tidak terlalu pusing lagi. Salim mendesah panjang. Terbayang kerjaannya akan menjadi telat kembali gara-gara ini. Ah …
Pukul 09.45. Malam semakin larut, suhupun semakin turun. Walaupun demikian, angin ternyata perlahan mulai mereda. Salim merapatkan kembali jaketnya. Fira masih tertidur pulas dengan jaketnya. Posisi tidurnya menandakan dia sudah mulai tenang. Kembali Salim melamun. Hal yang paling membuatnya terguncang adalah tatkala setibanya di rumah, Fira yang sementara dijaga Kimiko, tetangga sebelah apatonya, sementara bermain sendirian di depan pintu rumah yang terkunci dengan secarik kertas terselip di kantong kecilnya. Ditariknya kertas tersebut dan sepintas terlihat tulisan tangan Niar. Ternyata semacam surat yang ditulis Niar dan mungkin ditaruhnya di kantong sebelum berangkat ke airport. Isinya singkat, “Lim, gue dah gak tahan hidup ma lo. Gue mau coba untuk hidup sendiri, ngejar keterbelakangan karir yang mestinya gue punyai seperti temen-temen gue. Jagain Fira. Mungkin kalo gue dah bisa, gue bakal datang lagi ngambil dia, Niar”. Salim jatuh terduduk. Dirasakannya goncangan yang super keras menghantam dadanya. Salim tak sanggup bernafas. Dirasakannya pandangannya mulai memudar lagi dan akhirnya Salim pingsan. Salim terbangun dalam kamarnya sendiri. Kimiko sudah ada disampingnya, “Genki desuka? Daijoubu?”. Salim cuma bisa mengangguk dengan berat. Di samping Kimiko ada Fira yang memandangnya penuh kecemasan. Terbayang kembali isi surat singkat Niar itu. Serasa gada raksasa kembali menghimpit dadanya. Nafasnya kembali sesak. Namun kali ini tidak membawanya pingsan. Kimiko menawarkan segelas air putih. Perasaan Salim mulai membaik setelah gelas kedua. Himpitan itu berangsur lenyap, terganti dengan asa yang seperti mulai membara. “Aku harus bangkit. Tidak boleh menyerah sama sekali dengan keadaan. Mungkin memang Niar tidak bisa hidup dengan aku dan Fira, walaupun sedemikan banyak perbedaan di antara kami. Di saat Niar ada dalam barisan orang-orang yang fancy, aku pasti berada dalam barisan orang-orang kere-nya Indonesia. Sungguh suatu perbedaan yang mencolok. Aku harus bangkit! Salim tersenyum simpul mengingat kala itu. Titik balik yang kemudian menjadikannya meraih gelar Dr-Eng. Benar-benar blessing in disguise.
Pukul 10.05. Bus yang rutin menuju Osaka dan melewati Minatomachi yang merupakan stasiun shuttle bus untuk Kansai International Airport, sudah muncul di pertigaan depan eki. Busnya lebih cepat 5menit dari jadwal sebenarnya. Salim bersiap. Dihitungnya kembali jumlah koper serta barang bawaan lainnya. Perlahan dibangunkannya Fira dari tidur nyenyaknya. Dia menggeliat ringan. Sejak ditinggal Niar, Fira menjadi lebih pendiam dan terkadang bertindak lebih tua dari umur sebenarnya. Namun hal itu justru membuat semuanya menjadi lebih baik. Salim bisa berkonsentrasi lebih baik dari biasanya dan Fira sudah tidak lagi harus ditunggui dan dititip di Kimiko. Dia sudah bisa main sendiri bahkan belajar sendiri, walau terkadang Salim menitipnya juga di Kimiko untuk dapat belajar bersama dengan anak-anak Kimiko dan dapat belajar bersosialisasi dengan orang lain. Lamunan Salim terhenti karena Fira menarik-narik ujung jaketnya. Salim melongok ke bawah. Fira menunjuk bus yang telah berhenti depan mereka, Salim mengangguk mengiyakan. Fira tersenyum dan ikut-ikutan sibuk merapikan barang bawaannya sendiri, sebuah ransel mini berwarna biru. Tidak lama, semua barang bawaan kecuali ransel mereka berdua, sudah masuk ke bagasi bus. Salim menyuruh Fira naik duluan. Fira naik diantar seorang ibu yang juga kebetulan akan naik bus tujuan Osaka itu. Salim memandang sekelilingnya. Sebuah densha dari Hiroshima City baru saja selesai menurunkan penumpangnya. Namun tak ada satupun wajah yang dikenalinya. Semuanya mulai tampak asing. Dari arah SunSquare juga tidak dilihatnya ada rombongan orang-orang. Sepi. Salim tersenyum lega. Memang kesengajaannya untuk tidak memberitahukan siapapun akan kepulangannya hari itu. Salim merasa bahwa segala kenangan yang ada di Saijo, sebaiknya tetap di Saijo dan tidak akan pernah mengikutinya. Walau ada rasa sesal, namun hal ini jauh lebih baik. Daripada harus kembali melihat wajah teman-teman seperjuangan yang notabene akan meneteskan airmata. Tidak, tidak boleh lagi ada airmata. Tepukan ringan sopir bus dipundaknya, membangunkannya dari lamunan. Salim mengangguk berterimakasih. Bismillah, semoga semua kenangan tetap di Saijo; dan dia pun melangkah naik.
Pukul 10.10. Bus perlahan bergerak meninggalkan Saijo Eki. Hingar bingar yang biasanya terdengar kalau ada orang Indonesia yang pulang dengan bus ke Osaka, kali ini tidak ada. Yang ada hanya hentakan bunyi puluhan sepatu berlarian dari arah SunSquare. Serombongan orang-orang Indonesia hanya bisa tertegun dan meneteskan airmata melihat bus menuju Osaka bergerak pasti meninggalkan Saijo Eki. Salim ternyata benar-benar meninggalkan kenangannya di Saijo.

Saijo, 2 Agustus 2008

Wake Up ....

Wake up.

Those two words snap me out of sleep. They are not my words but sound very familiar. So black. I’ve never been anywhere that it was this dark. Wait a minute are my eyes open? I blink to make sure, but there is no difference between the blackness in front of me and the blackness under my eyelids. I take a deep gasp of air just to make sure I’m not dreaming. The air is cold down the back of my throat.

Cold air unlike that of a crisp winter evening or the chilly breeze of an open freezer. There is something different about it, something heavy and almost sinister. Where in the hell am I? Wait, back up, who in the hell am?

Bill Parsons. That’s my name. I’m thirty years old, married, have two kids and a beautiful wife. Okay that’s a start. I just woke up so that means I’ve been asleep. I’m in a chair. I try to raise up but something keeps me held to the seat. Someone has tied me down. My fingers then my hands, put this irrational idea to rest as they slide down the man-made fabric from my neck to my waist. I unclick the button next to my hip. I am in a vehicle.

My own vehicle actually. I still cannot see two inches in front of my face but I know it is my vehicle because of the steering wheel and the location of the gearshift, the height of the dashboard, the console on my right. A Dodge Durango. It is less than two months new, but there is no illumination from the dashboard, no life from under the hood.

Immediately I try to open the door. It won’t budge. Maybe it’s locked. I lift the lock in the door manually and tug on the handle again. The lever opens but the door does not. Something is blocking it. Where the hell am I?

I can hear something, liquid maybe, dripping from under the dash. I hope it is not gas. I listen more closely and here drips from all over the interior of the vehicle. I reach the ignition if only to find the key and turn on the electrical for some light. I turn the key. Nothing.

I feel sharp little pains in my feet, like a million little hot needles canvassing every millimeter of my skin. But that isn’t really a hot sensation is it? It’s so cold it feels hot. In that instant I blow a puff of air into the darkness. I cannot see my breath in front of me, but I know it is there.

I reach into my jean pocket and push my fingers down to the bottom. I retrieve the lighter. I have a lighter because I smoke. Actually, I did smoke, I quit a year ago but sneak a cig or two when nobody’s looking, like during holidays…it’s Christmas. That’s right, we spent the day at Jen’s folks. I drove separate. What the hell happened?

I press my thumb down on the little lever on the back of the lighter. On the second stroke there is spark and then a flame. Bingo just as I thought, I’m in the Durango. Everything is just how or where it should be. I keep the flame outstretched in front of me, turning my head at the same rate as the lighter, as if they’re connected somehow. The seat beside me is empty.

I put the flame to the windshield then to my window. There is nothing but blackness beyond both pieces of glass. The needles poke me in the feet again. This time I wiggle my toes and my shoes make a splash. I put the light down to the floorboard and see the water up to my ankles. The chill of realization shoots up my spine. Somehow I am under water. I drop the lighter into the growing pond on my floorboard.

In a flash, I remember every detail of my life, the good and bad, the happy and sad. But it all comes to a halt—I can’t think of a more terrible scenery to be in. I’ve woken up in a pitch-black tomb of metal and water. I am trapped in my new SUV, sinking slowly to the bottom of some dark lake, sinking to my last resting place.

I take three deep breaths in a row, not because the water has risen that high (although it will), but because I am panicking. Somewhere deep inside I can hear a very soft voice repeatedly saying “stay calm”. That voice however is drowned out by the screaming and yelling of another, “get out, you’re never going to see your kids again, you’re going to drown, you’re not ready to die.”

Stop. There silence again, except for the leaking water. It now occurs to me why I cannot open my door. It has something to do with pressure. The water is so heavy against and on top of the Durango. There is air in the interior. The door will open easily once the cab has filled with water. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. It could have something to do with the Discovery Channel. It could be because of physics class back in high school.

The water is up to my knees now. I am oddly calm, taking comfort in the idea of letting the Durango fill with water. Once submerged, I will open the door and swim to freedom. Sounds simple. I wonder how long I will have to hold my breath. I wonder how deep I have sunk. Am I still sinking? If I do manage to escape will I know which way is up? It is so dark. It is night and there is no light from above.

I turn the key backwards in the ignition and for a brief instant the power comes on—the radio blares a loud blurb, the speedometer and odometer glow green, the clock reads 9:55, and hanging from the ceiling the temperature gage displays the number 34. How long can a human last in 34-degree water? My Discovery Channel knowledge fails to answer this time. I refuse to be negative. I have two kids. Survival is the only option. Once again it is dark.

I reach in my back pocket and retrieve my wallet. I flip it open and thumb to my favorite picture. Although I can’t see the picture with my eyes, I see it with my mind. Rachel is on the couch holding Ryan. She is two and a half. He is four months. Rachel has blond hair and blue almost silver eyes. She goes to dance, can count to ten, and thinks that I am Superman. Ryan smiles all the time. He watches his big sister run and play, and seems to be taking it all in so when the time is right he will know exactly what to do. For an infant he cries very little and has a laugh that can melt my heart. I kiss the picture and smile.

My smile is erased in a split second because of the sound behind me. It is a small cough. All at once my memory is restored. Christmas. Dinner at the in-laws. Jen and I drove separate. I took the kids…with me. My head snaps back only to see a blanket of darkness in the back of the Durango. I think about my lighter floating down by my feet. A small voice says “daddy”. It takes everything I’ve got to hold down vomit in my stomach. My worst nightmare has come true.

“Yes baby,” I say with the confident voice a child expects from her father. But deep down my mind is racing. Swimming to freedom through freezing water by myself is one thing—but with two young kids? Ryan can’t even crawl yet. How can I get him to hold his breath? How far down are we?

The cruel surrounding water seems to answer my last question as the tires of the Durango hit rock bottom and a dull thud jars its way through the metallic skeleton of the vehicle. We’re at the bottom of the lake. An even scarier thought occurs to me. If the water temperature is 34 degrees down here, what could it be at the surface? What if the top of the lake is frozen? Oh dear lord, I have to remember how we got here. I rub the bump on my head as if it will give me a clue and then the steering wheel in front of me. There is some sort of plastic elevated molding in the middle of the wheel. It is a ram head, the standard logo for all Dodge vehicles. I make a mental note that if I survive this, I’ll have to bitch at the dealer because the air bag failed to deploy. Funny, the things you think about in a time of crisis.

Now I remember everything. Jen and I drove separate because of the amount of presents, pies, and food we had to get over to her parents. At the end of the day I took the kids with me and drove the usual route home, which happens to take us over Collingston Lake Bridge. I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas played on the radio. I looked down for a split second to turn the volume up. When I looked up headlights were oncoming in my lane. I swerved into the other lane but it was too late. The other car plowed me in the front passenger side tire well. The Durango spun around twice and then smashed through the metal guardrail, which had the endurance of wrapping paper. That’s when I hit my head and the lights went out. The bridge was low to the water, maybe only ten feet from the water.

“Daddy, I’m scared. Where we going?”

“We’re going home baby. Can you see your baby brother next to you? Is he sleeping?”

“Yeah…he’s sleepin’. I’m cold daddy.”

“I know baby we’ll be home in a minute. Why don’t you try to go back to sleep.”

I hate lying to her about anything, but in this case it’s a necessity. Rachel is as smart as a whip. It’s only a matter of time before the water rises to her tiny feet dangling off her car seat, and then she’ll know something is definitely wrong. Better to have the panic later than sooner. I’ve still got to come up with some sort of plan before I take on the mind of a two year old in these circumstances.

Cell Phone. I quit carrying mine five years ago when I realized that the only thing it really does is take time away from you. I’m sure it’s intended use was the exact opposite, but it’s never the one you want it to be ringing on the other end, it’s always someone wanting something from you, a favor, money, your time. The smarter part of me did however tuck it away in the glove compartment of my Honda civic and recently the Durango.

Five seconds of a blind hand clubbing over insurance papers and owner manuals, then my fingers wrap around the cell phone. The charging cord dangles from its end. I only hope that it is the ignition or engine that was failing and not the battery. I plug the cylinder shaped male connecter into the lighter, press the power button on the cell, and then again. On the third try the display illuminates and immediately reads: LOW BATTERY. I don’t know if this is because the phone is charging and has filled up some or if the car battery is dead and this is just the last pulsing beats of technology housed in plastic. I dial 9-1-1.

The other line rings only once.

“Nine one one what is your emergency?”

“I’ve been in a terrible accident. I was hit by another vehicle and crashed into Lake Collingston. I’ve sunken to the bottom of the lake and my SUV is filling with water. I have two small children with…”

“Nine one one what is your emergency?”

I speak louder. “I’m at the bottom of Lake Collingston. I need help. My children are going to drown.”

“Hello is anyone there?”

I can hear the operator perfectly fine, but she cannot hear me.

There is a whining sound from the back seat. It is Rachel discovery that there is freezing cold water trying to get her feet. The whine escalates into crying.

“Hello,” the operator says again. “Can you pick up the phone darling?”

I look at the phone and then toward the silver eyes in the back seat. Somehow she can hear Rachel but not me. A thousand stupid explanations race through my head. I settle on the theory that the cell phone is picking up higher pitched tones, maybe because we are under water. It doesn’t sound right, but I have to live with it.

The water is over my knees.

“Rachel you have to help daddy, okay? Just repeat what I say. Just like Simon Says.”

Rachel says verbatim what comes out of my mouth. I turn around in my seat, lean over it, and with one hand unbuckle Rachel’s car seat. With the other I hold up the cell phone. The charging cord stretches with no problem. The cell phone display lights up the tears on Rachel’s face. I love that face.

“We are at the bottom of Collingston Lake,” Rachel repeats after me. “We need help. We are at the bottom.”

“Is your daddy there honey?”

Rachel answers immediately, “Yeah. But he can’t talk.”

That’s my girl. Sometimes she utterly amazes me with her intelligence. She knows there’s something wrong with the phone and doesn’t waste time in making a long conversation short. My pride is short lived and Rachel’s quick wit is blacked out. The cell phone is dead.

I unplug and replug the power cord into the lighter socket. Nothing. I hit the power button on top of the phone. There is brief glimmer of illumination and then black screen. Again I push the button, hoping to myself that there is some life, some power that can overcome a short circuit in the plastic technology first built in some oriental land and now in the palm of my hand. My second attempt is futile.

I’m snapped back from a place called wishful thinking by the small voice behind me. “Daddy, I’m cold. There’s wawa.”

“I know baby. We’re going to get out of here in just a minute.” I look down at my own legs to see that the water is almost totally covering my thighs. Oddly, the sharp biting pens of cold are gone. I guess my legs are numb. A mental note registers that my brain rejects. That note is in bold letters and states. You’re running out of time.

The dashboard of the Durango is larger than most vehicles. There is a good two and half feet from the steering wheel to the windshield. I pick Rachel up and lay her between the wheel and the glass. She curls up into a ball, tucks her hands under her chin, and shrugs her shoulders. The heat was on full blast before our accident and the left over warmth on the dash tricks Rachel into thinking of fireplaces and heated blankets. She closes her eyes and smiles.

I have to get busy thinking about the moment. Wasted seconds means wasted lives. Lake Collingston is fifty feet deep at its deepest point. I know this because we boat on the lake every so often in the summer. There are free pamphlets about the lake at the concession stand. I can’t help but scan one over every time we put the boat in, even though I’ve read it countless times.

Fifty feet. It doesn’t sound like much, but when you factor in ice cold water, two kids under the age of two that will have to hold their breath for an extended amount of time, a sheet of ice at the top, fifty feet sounds damn near unconquerable. Ryan starts to cry in the seat behind me. I refuse to be negative.

I turn around, placing my knees on the seat and the water, click the belt in Ryan’s car seat, grab the bottle in the bag next to him, and hoist my son into the front seat. He is dressed in what my wife calls a onesy. It is thick and blue and Ryan seems unaware of the chilling forces around him. I stick the bottle in his mouth and the crying stops immediately. His eyes squint and his irises roll back under his lids like a drug addict that finally found his fix.

Two ideas enter my mind, both positive in nature. Babies hold their breath on their own. It’s just a built in instinct that either God or evolution put there. I’ve seen on TV where babies are taken under water and seem to love it. Babies also have brown fat, which to make a long story short, gives them the ability to almost hibernate. They can withstand harsh periods of cold and last a good deal longer in it than grown adults. I remember watching on National Geographic a family who had car problems in a blizzard. After a couple of days they decided to brave the elements and go for help. The baby was wrapped up and placed on a makeshift sled. Halfway through the journey they discovered the baby not breathing and believed it to be dead. The family ended up finding help but it cost the father his feet and the mother a couple of fingers. The baby didn’t have a scratch on it and woke up from hibernation as soon as it was exposed to warm air. While these thoughts are encouraging, I still feel sick to my stomach that I will have to put them to the test.

Though I try to stay focused on the task at hand—the survival of my family—my mind rewinds to events earlier in the day. I can’t imagine a more ideal place to have Christmas than Jen’s parents. It’s like traveling to the North Pole. There are millions upon millions of bright bulbs strung everywhere a string can be hung. There is a life-like Santa and Mrs. Clause waving in the front yard, surrounded by elves, snowmen, candy canes, reindeer, baby Jesus and the nativity scene—there’s even a train that the grandkids can ride in around the house into the backyard where more lighted fixtures stand ready to impress. It feels like home there. My parents passed when I was in my twenties—my father of a heart attack and my mother of a broken heart—but I still have a haven away from home. I still have one of those places I can go and tap into the kind wisdom of a parent figure.

There are probably fifty people at Christmas dinner. The dining room only holds ten so every room in the house is injected with tables and chairs. After eight years in the family I’ve not made it to the main table in the dining room, nor do I want to—that would mean that someone had passed on. Jen’s mother cooks most of the meal although everyone is required to bring something. If there are fifty people at dinner, there is enough food for two hundred. Jen’s father reads Christmas tales after dinner for the numerous grandkids (Jen has six sisters), but if you look around there are just as many adults with smiles one their faces.

Jen will stay at her parents’ well into the night if not the early morning. She does every year. It is the only day of the year that her whole family is together. Jen is the only one of the sisters that lives in town. They talk and drink wine and reminisce, telling the same stories that never get old.

Someone sober will drive Jen home. She will wake me and we’ll do it for as long as I can hold on. I’ll ask her if it was alright for her just like I always do, and she will lie saying yes just like she always does. She will make me go get left over pumpkin pie and whipped cream and bring them up stairs to bed. She’ll tell me the same stories her and her sisters talked about and laugh like it’s the first time she’s ever heard or told them. I just watch and smile and look at her as she eats.

As good as the sex has been and has gotten what I’ll miss most is the talking after. The questions about our kids. The conversation in the kitchen on Sunday mornings before church, as we attempt to read the newspaper and drink coffee. Watching her read to Rachel and Ryan. I loved her so much after three months of dating that I never thought it would last, that it couldn’t get any better. That love has changed, matured from a coveting of beauty to something science can’t explain, a bond that makes two people one. A bond that says not only are you my lover and my best friend but you are an irreplaceable part of me. I only wish to touch her if not for one more time. To run my fingers through her hair as she eats pumpkin pie…pumpkin pie.

I snap my head back to the cargo area in the back. It is useless of course; there is nothing but a sheet of black in front of my eyes. I climb over the seats holding Ryan close to my shoulder. I place him back in his car seat. I lean over the second row of seats and my hand feels around the cargo area. After nothing but carpet for several seconds my arm bangs against the object that popped in my head at the thought of pumpkin pie.

Jen cooked several pies for dinner and wanted to keep them warm in transit. She insisted we take my long cooler, the one with wheels, and long handle. I never thought it would be used for anything other than keeping my beer cold. Now it might save my children’s life.

I open the lid and feel around the edges. There is more than enough area to hold both children. I don’t know how long they can breath in there, but it has to be better than the alternative.

There are several little snaps around me. I can’t see them but I know the windows are cracking. I put my hands on the glass closest to Ryan, and trace the cruel spider web breaks up the window. There is no water leaking from them, but it will only be a matter of time.

I drag the cooler to the front seat, dump out the dishes and pie pans. I’m not sure if the cooler lid will stay shut once we are swimming for the surface. I take my belt off and rap it around the plastic box, but it is well short of connecting. Seatbelts and car seat material cross my mind. Both are materials that need to be cut and I am fresh out of survival knives. I grab the charging cord that is still hanging from the lighter outlet. It stretches around the cooler but will be hard to tie off. There is no other solution. The curly phone wire will have to do.

I hear more cracks in the windows. The noise is like the popping of the rice cereal in the bottom of Rachel’s breakfast bowl. We are out of time. Rachel starts crying. The sound is different than usual. These are pleads of helplessness. Although she is too young to know exactly what’s going on, she is smart enough to know we are in dire circumstances. She knows we might not make it.

I pick her up and bring her face inches from my own.

“Listen to me baby.”

She stops crying the instant she hears my voice.

“We’re going to see mommy okay? But it’s going to take a few minutes.”

“Why daddy?”

“We’ve been in accident. We have to get to the top of the lake.”

Rachel looks around at the windows, as if now realizing we are underwater. She does not cry. The tears from before are already dry on her cheeks.

“You have to get in this cooler though, baby okay? You and Ryan have to stay in there the whole time.”

“We go hide, daddy? You come find us?”

“That’s right baby just like hide and seek. Only you can’t open that lid. No matter what stay in there until I get you out.” I squeeze her shoulders. “Promise me no matter what you won’t open the lid.”

“I will daddy.”

“That’s a good girl. Now you have to be a big sister and hold onto Ryan. Keep the bottle in his mouth okay. You know you’re daddy’s favorite girl, right?”

“Okay daddy.”

I look into those metallic eyes of hers. Somehow in the darkness they still reflect some light. Those smart but helpless eyes. I see her first day of kindergarten, softball games, high school graduation, and her wedding. I see my grandkids. I feel my eyes burn but no tears will come. I smile anyway. I know that I will do everything I can to make it to the surface.

I lay Rachel in the cooler.

I pick Ryan from his car seat and hold up in front of me. He is chewing his fingers. “Hi big boy”. I kiss his cheek hard. He smiles at me. It’s like looking in the mirror. I kid with Jen that he’s my clone. I place him on top of Rachel. She wiggles a bit to get comfortable but does not complain. Ryan begins to scream. I put his bottle in Rachel’s right had. Without a word she slips it into his lips and the crying stops.

“Good job baby.”

“Thank you daddy.”

“Remember when I shut this lid, don’t try and open it. We’ll be with mommy in a few seconds. Do you understand?”

“Daddy?”

“Yes baby.” My voice is high pitched and wavering.

“I love you daddy.”

“I love you baby.”

I shut the lid and rap the cord around as fast as I can. If I don’t I will never be able to. I pull it hard and double not it at the top. I unbuckle my belt and run it through the handle of the cooler. I pull the leather tight—tighter than usual. I have left over belt after the buckle. I tie it around the handle again for good measure. My eyes are blurry but the tears still don’t come. There is more snapping and popping. The water is up to my chest now and the cooler floats next to me, the top of it touching the ceiling. For whatever reason I am still not cold. Chilly, but not cold.

My mouth and nose are against the ceiling now, and I’m gasping hard for air. I have to get that one last breath that will have to last…it will have to last until the kids are safe.

I say the Lord’s Prayer quickly in my head. At the end of it I add: Please let us get to Jen. I can’t remember the last time I prayed. It was probably another time when I thought I couldn’t do it by myself—back against the wall. Wasn’t it always like that? I wished everything I ever prayed for—money, jobs, cars, homes—I wish I could take them all back. I didn’t mean any of it. This is what I want. Please Lord.

I take my last breath.

The water covers my face.

Total darkness. Total silence. Only the slight movement of the water. I feel for my belt just to make sure it is still secured to the handle of the cooler. I pull on door with my left hand. It opens with ease. I flow out of the Durango pulling the red plastic box behind me. I can tell by the handle being horizontal that it is floating next to me, almost tying to ascend. I kick with my legs and pull with my arms. I open my eyes to see nothing but blackness round me. Above me, the surface is a lighter shade of black. I feel like I am in black hole. My legs kick harder. My arms pull faster. The most precious treasure chest in the world clings to my belt and follows beside me.

I swim upwards as fast and desperate as possible. I can tell that I am moving only because the darkness above me is getting lighter—moving from coal to tar and now to almost the gray of dirty dishwater. I check constantly to make sure the cooler is attached to my belt. How badly I want to open the lid and make sure they’re all right. How badly I want to make sure they are still breathing. But that’s why I must keep moving. And that’s why I do.

I see faces in the void around me, like the shadows in the corner of your room when you were a kid trying to go to sleep. Some of the faces are familiar. Some are not. What could only be Satan smiles at me and reaches out a helping hand. I know better than to take it and look up toward my destination. In a blink the deceiver is gone. My father takes his place, but only looks on as a spectator. His lips do not move and his eyes seem to know something I don’t. With a swipe of my hand the water erases him. Jen looks at me with her hands folded. She is smiling because she knows I will never stop. I will never quit until our babies are safe.

I am an accountant. That’s were I spend ninety percent of my time. It is my well-being but it does not define me as a man. My job in fact is the last thing that comes to my mind. Right now and always I am a father swimming through freezing water to save my life and the life of family. The water should be freezing me but it is only chilly. My lungs should be burning from lack of oxygen but I feel no need to breath. I am on full adrenaline, have to be. People lift cars off of loved ones when they have no other choice. I have only one choice. Keep going up.

The top of the lake is now the color of dirty snow—frozen powder tinted with the grease and grime of the streets. It won’t be long now, thirty seconds, maybe less. I feel the cooler on my belt. I wonder how much oxygen they have left. I hope the water cannot get in. Don’t think such things.

My limbs work even harder. I’m on the last home stretch of a short marathon. I feel no pain. My muscles do not burn. It will be only seconds until I see those precious faces. I smile…until I hit the frozen ice on top of the lake. It is some cruel joke. With both hands I push but my body is only propelled downward. I rise up again, this time feeling along the bottom of the ice barrier, searching for a break, a crack, anything. Rachel and Ryan are suffocating. In the frigid waters of Lake Collingston my hands are sweating with panic. I have come so far from the unlocked tomb. I am two inches from freedom. I can even see through the ice to the faint circle—a moon hanging in the December sky.

I refuse to be defeated. I will not quit. I swim quicker, using my legs as both propeller and steering wheel. My hands slide across the cold clear lid above me, hoping for a chink in its armor. I am a mime trapped in an invisible box. I punch as I scale under the ice. I am out of time. We are out of time. I punch like a boxer hitting the heavy bag. My legs continue to kick. I will not quit.

There is a soft spot in the ice and my hand goes through it. I hold onto the edge and kick with my legs. The break widens and now moonlight pierces through the gloom. I see other lights from the bridge—car beams and the cherries of police. I stick my head up, just enough for a quick breath. I don’t want to pass out even though I feel remarkably fine. I undo the belt from the handle of the cooler. I also untie the cell cord. I let the cooler float up into the hole I’ve made. I shove and kick and the cooler slides onto the frozen top of the lake. I continue to kick as I grab the ice and pull with my arms. I am on my belly. The air is not as cold as I though it would be.

I reach two feet to the cooler beside me and open the lid. There is no movement, no sound. I figured on hearing two screaming kids.

“Daddy,” a quivering voice calls.

I get to my knees and look in. Rachel is shivering. Some lake water seeped into the cooler and filled to about one fourth of the way up. Ryan’s lips are blue. I put my hand on his chest, but it does not move. He is not breathing.

“Don’t move,” a voice yells.

Two men in wet suits inch their way across the ice. They carry medical cases. The bridge is fifty yards away, covered with emergency vehicles. The people of Collingston occupy every inch of the bridge, like ants hunkered down on a floating stick. Someone must have witnessed our accident first hand. Or Rachel’s cell call got through.

The divers are at us in seconds. One of them covers Rachel with a towel and scoots off with her back toward the bridge.

“Daddy!” Rachel screams. She is still scared and confused.

Jen breaks the grip of some policeman and runs out on the ice. The diver hands my bundled Rachel over to her mother. Jen kisses her and then tries to continue on toward Ryan and me. The diver stops her.

The other wet suit man has Ryan wrapped in a towel and is blowing into his mouth. My son is not breathing. He has no heartbeat.

I stand there and try to cry because there is nothing I can do. The tears will still not come. “Is there anything I can do?”

The man in the wet suit does not answer. He is too busy breathing for my son, and pressing his little chest. I hear Jen screaming.

Numerous emergency medical professionals run across the ice. They form a circle around my son. They throw out numbers and terminology I am not familiar with. They are calm but tense. Let him live.

I hear a gurgle of water followed by a cry. Ryan is breathing.

They lift him off the ice. I reach out my arms but the EMT passes me by and heads for the bridge. The rest of the rescuers follow. I realize I’m being left behind and start to walk toward the bridge.

Ryan is whisked around Jen and placed into an awaiting ambulance on the bridge. Rachel is taken out of her mother’s arms and placed in another ambulance. Jen lets her go reluctantly. She looks out at the lake and crosses her arms. She is worried about me.

“Go with them,” I yell. “I’m fine.”

Jen just stands there staring.

I pick up my pace to meet her. Though the ice looks thin under my feet, it shows no signs of breaking or giving out. I can’t believe how warm I am.

Forty yards from me the divers are swimming down the hole that the Durango created. They swim holding a cable. It is connected to the wench of a tow truck that sits on the bridge.

As I reach the point where Jen is standing, her father walks up and puts his arm around her. They continue to watch the divers rescue our vehicle. They must be in shock because they say nothing to me as I stand next to them.

“Forget the Durango. Let’s go with kids.”

She does not answer.

“Jen?” I tap her on the shoulder.

She snuggles closer her to her father as if chilled by a cold gust of wind.

“To hell with the damn car. Our babies are in the hospital.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” she says.

“Leaving without who?” I ask.

“Oh my god.” Jen covers her mouth, breaks her father’s hug, and runs across the ice toward the hole. The divers have the Durango to the surface. I follow Jen, still baffled at her interest in a replaceable, fully insured vehicle.

“No!” Jen screams. The sound sends shivers down my spine. I follow her line of sight to the divers. The have the door open. They are dragging a man out from behind the steering wheel and lay him on the ice. I swallow hard. Jen tries to get to the man, but there is freezing cold water separating them. Two police officers and her father form a blockade.

I walk toward the circle of emergency personal and the man lying on the ice. I am three steps away from the chaos when I look down at my feet. I am standing on water. Scared, I jump to the ice just a yard away. There is no cracking. No sound of my shoes pouncing on ice.

They are performing CPR on the man. One of them mentions that it does not look good. Another says one more time. They press on his chest. They breathe into his mouth.

I look back at the water. I feel my face and realize it is neither cold nor warm. Several times I had the urge to cry but could not. I remember the 9-1-1 call. The operator could not hear me. I swam in freezing cold water. My lungs never hurt for oxygen. Jen does not acknowledge me. Jen cannot hear me. She cannot see me.

I look down at the EMT as he rises from the body lying on the ice. I feel the gash on my forehead and see it on the man in front of me at the same time. He is blue and wet and cold. He does not look human. He is not alive. They throw a blanket over him.

Jen follows him to the ambulance.

The crowd disperses from the bridge. People walk back to their cars like the crowd of a movie theater that just let out. The ambulance pulls away. The cop cars turn off their lights and disappear into the night. Jen’s father tucks her into his truck and her crying is muffled when the door shuts. The Durango is back on the bridge, being pulled behind the tow truck.

It is just the ice and I.

I am alone. I don’t know where to go.

“You did real good son. I’m proud of you.” Someone puts their hand on my shoulder.

It is the same voice that told me to wake up at the bottom of the lake. A familiar voice. I turn to see that it is my father.

“Rachel and Ryan are going to be just fine,” he says and smiles.

We begin to walk.

Rather be ......

The house stood against the deep green backdrop of a hill and a forest. The siding was light peach and the trim a reddish-orange. Except for a few pieces of loose roofing, an occasional stray slice of siding, and bush stumps in front of the porch, 123 Baymont fit perfectly in that middle-class neighborhood.

The house was unoccupied, left to a daughter who didn’t want or have the time to maintain it. That daughter ran an antique shop in a town eighty miles away, and returned only to her former home to store items that could no longer hold a spot in the shelves of her shop.

The porch was occupied. Alex Drake sat in a chair on its concrete surface with his feet propped up on the railing, sipping Miller High Life Lite out of a can. He watched his house, the white and charcoal home that sheltered he and his family, the one about ninety paces directly in front of him across the street.

When the beer can gave up the last of its nectar, Alex dropped it to the porch floor and smashed it, compressing it to the width of a thick pancake, kicking it to the side, along with several of its brothers that went before. Alex had drunk beer on this empty porch for three nights in a row now, not because he didn’t like his own porch, and not because his wife preferred he drink across the street. Alex was watching for a perpetrator.

Alex was also waiting. Even though he had put down a good case or so in the last three nights, Alex was not an alcoholic, very rarely even drank by himself. The beer was to pass the time while he waited. He looked down at his watch. It read 10:30.

The “perp” as his sheriff-deputy cousin referred to it, was nowhere in sight. There were no hooded men creeping through the backyard, no shadowy figures tying to open a window.

Alex’s family was safe and sound, snuggled in their respective beds, unaware of the late night surveillance mission going on across the street.

The “perp” Alex was waiting for, stood about six inches off the ground, wore a fury gray coat and black mask, and frequented alley garbage cans.

For the last month the Drake’s were kept up at night by scratching and clawing, violent and unapologetic noise, that traveled through the walls of their house, up and down, in and out, constant and bulky.

The first day Alex heard the noise he was sitting in the living room. He thought that a squirrel had some how gotten into the walls. He thought maybe it was lost or confused, that maybe it would leave. Maybe it wouldn’t like the dark, tight confines of his house’s walls. If it were only that simple. If it were only a squirrel.

Several days into the stay of their new houseguest, Alex and his wife Tina, decided that this was no small squirrel. It sounded like it barely fit between the walls, like every trip to the outside was a struggle to escape. They were sure that the bandit was a Raccoon.

Alex tried several tactics to get rid of the pest. He beat the walls with his hand, following the crawl of the fury rascal as it squeezed slowly away. And when that only displaced the creature to a different wall in the house, Alex beat a pan with a wooden spoon until his family had left, and only he and the raccoon remained.

Alex inspected the outside of the house, trying to find where the animal entered. He combed over every inch of the walls, the foundation, and the roof. He found nothing but a four-inch section of rotten wood above the porch, a hole too small for the thing that was wallowing in the walls of his house.

Alex bought a trap and put a can of cat food in it, and on night fifteen of the inhabitation, on his way home from a softball game and beer drinking, he passed by the cage. Sure enough, inside was the biggest, fattest, furriest, raccoon Alex had ever seen.

“Finally, I got you, you son of a bitch.” The raccoon did not respond. It was calm, maybe a bit scared, and it covered its eyes with a paw. Alex giggled all the way into the house. He lay in bed with a smile stuck to his face.

Alex awoke near dawn, walked down the stairs, and grabbed the phone book out of the desk drawer. He flipped through the pages and found the listing. Plucking the cordless phone from its stand, Alex pushed the numbers for the Humane Society. Waiting for an answer, he walked to the front window.

“I’ll be damned.”

The cage sat in the same spot next to the stairs just like the night before. But it was empty. The biggest, fattest raccoon that Alex had ever seen had freed itself from a structure that was supposed to be inescapable.

Alex dropped the phone, ripped open the front door, and scampered down the porch steps. The corner of the cage door was bent back about two inches. Gray fur speckled with blood was stuck to the top corner—the fat freeloader had squeezed his way to freedom, but at no small cost.

We are at night number thirty now. The raccoon has been strangely quit the last few evenings, as if he knew that his nemesis waits for him on the porch across the street.

Alex’s scouting mission was for one reason—to see where exactly the masked nuisance is getting into the house. After a month of war, Alex knew very few facts about his enemy.

So there he sat, on his neighbor’s porch, watching and waiting and drinking, staring at the roof of his own house. Surely it was the roof. It had to be getting in on the roof.

A police car rolled up and stopped at the curb. A sheriff’s deputy exited the car. He had a serious look to him, was dressed in black, and was draped with an assortment of crime fighting devices on his belt. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at Alex.

“Sir, are you aware that drinking on someone else’s porch without their knowledge is considered trespassing?”

“What if I’m drinking with law enforcement?” Alex lofted a beer into the air and his cousin caught it with two hands.

“It depends how many beers you have to bribe with.”

“Several,” Alex said.

“Then, I think you’ll be fine.”

Cousin Shane walked up the driveway and then up the steps, plopping down in the chair next to Alex. He loosened his belt and placed his flashlight on the floor. Shane cracked open the beer and drank a swallow that seemed to consume half of its contents.

“Sometimes there’s nothing better than that first swig,” Shane said.

“No doubt.” Alex affirmed with a drink for himself.

Shane noticed his cousin’s eyes were entranced with his house across the street. “Seen the perp yet?”

“Nope.”

A large picture window—at least five feet in length and half as wide—sat directly behind Alex. Two curtains—once white, now gray—hung behind the glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw, or thought he saw, one of the curtains move. He turned to see them perfectly still again.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.

“I swear something moved behind those curtains,” Shane said.

Alex looked briefly, and then turned back to his surveillance. “Probably an animal or something. Who knows what’s in that house. The thing hasn’t been occupied for ten years. Hell, we’ve got a raccoon in our walls and we live in the house, hard telling what’s in there.”

“Why doesn’t she rent it out?”

“She uses it for storage or something. She’s got an antique shop in Collingston. Old man Divan down the street said that there’s so much crap in there, that there’s just a walkway of space from the front of the house to the back. The rest is just boxes and crap. I don’t think this goddamn raccoon is ever going to show up.”

“Would you rather be staked down in the dessert with your eyelids cut off, facing the sun, or be dropped off naked in Antarctica.”

Alex laughed. “Antarctica. I wouldn’t want to freeze to death, but I think it would be quicker than the dessert. Plus things would be trying to eat you.”

“Good point.”

“Would you rather,” Alex started, “be eaten by an Alligator or a shark?”

“Gator, definitely,” Shane responded. “The shark’ll just nibble on you, come by and take a bite here and there, the gator will drown your ass and come back later to eat. Less painful than the shark.”

Alex got up, lit a cigarette, and walked back a couple of paces so the smoke wouldn’t bother his cousin. He stood with his back to the window.

He pulled hard on the cigarette, opened his mouth, and let the smoke escape into the air. “Would you rather be quadriplegic or blind?”

“Blind, for sure,” Shane answered.

“I don’t know if it’s that cut and dry. I mean think of all the things you wouldn’t be able to do if you couldn’t see. Read, drive, watch tv, the list goes on.”

“Yeah, but I’d still be able to walk. I could wipe my own ass.”

“You’d be able to walk into stuff, bangin’ into everything. Take away my arms and legs, I think my eyes are more important.” Alex sucked the white glower down to the filter, dropped it on the porch, and smashed it out with the heel of his shoe.

“I think you’re…”

Shane didn’t get out the last word.

In a split second the window behind Alex shattered. Two large arms grabbed him around the chest and pulled him into the house. His legs, from the knee down, hung out onto the porch.

Shane jumped out of his chair as if it were an ejection seat in a jet fighter. He landed at the base of the window and his cousin’s feet. Shane grabbed Alex’s ankles and pulled without hesitation.

Even at three feet away from the window, the inside of the house was pitch black. The only evidence—besides his legs—Alex was still in this world was the panicked screams that came from the darkness.

Whoever had him, was strong. Shane pulled and tugged but made no progress in retrieving his cousin. After a short one-sided tug-of-war, Shane fell backwards to the porch concrete, holding one of Alex’s shoes in each of his hands.

Shane recollected himself to his feet, grabbed the flashlight off the porch floor, and pulled his gun from its holster. Commotion echoed from inside the house. Alex was being dragged through the clutter, bouncing off the boxes and antiques, his head bumping along the floor.

Shane stood at the dark window with his gun and flashlight pointed in. A door slammed and the ruckus seemed to descend, like someone rolled a bowling ball down stairs. Shane could only imagine that his cousin’s head was bumping toward a basement. Alex’s screams for help went from a distant whisper to non-existent.

“Request back up at one twenty three Baymont.” Shane paused flipping through the pages of his mind that held the numerous variations of code numbers that were supposed to be used. What exactly do you call this situation? Unsatisfied with any of the police jargon, he spoke in laymen’s terms. “Possible abduction, subject was pulled through the window of a vacant house and dragged inside. Specs of perpetrator were not visible. Over.”

“Roger that. Units are being dispatched presently,” a voice said through the speaker on Shane’s shoulder.

The frame of the window seemed to stare back at Shane, like the open mouth of a large animal, with jagged glass teeth and a bottomless gullet. Shane wiped the pointed shards away with the long end of his heavy flashlight and stepped into the house. He held the flashlight with his left hand and just above it with his right, the Glock from his holster. Wherever his gaze traveled, so did the gun.

Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, glowing silver in the beam of Shane’s flashlight. Boxes stood like barricades from the floor to the ceiling, covering what used to be the living room. A pathway free from clutter started at the front door and ran through the right side to the back of the room and another doorway, maybe the entrance to the kitchen. The air was dry but thick; it smelled like a nursing home, like mothballs mixed with dust.

Three steps into Shane’s trek he stopped, frozen by the hairs on the back of his neck. He couldn’t see them at first, but he could feel them. The same way one can feel eyes on them in a crowded room. He moved his light slowly from left to right, exposing the reflections of countless pairs of eyes, golden eyes like animals caught in headlights. They were too small to be mice. Maybe rats or raccoons, Shane thought. He kicked one of the columns of boxes to his left, hoping the noise would scatter the creatures. The eyes only stared back at him, wide and ambivalent.

The bright-eyed creatures were not scared of him, but they didn’t seem to be aggressive either. Shane took a few quiet steps down the pathway, his gun leading the way, walls of boxes on both sides, and soft purr-like sounds all around, vibrating from the throats of the animals that watched him. With each closing stride to the doorway Shane could hear little feet scurry behind him.

He could see the sink before he passed through the doorway. It was full to the brim with brownish water and black mold on the sides. Something floated in the middle of it. To his right was a door. He jiggled the handle and it opened with ease.

The beam from his flashlight exposed a staircase to a basement, but the light dissipated into the black hole at the bottom.

“Alex?” Shane shouted.

There was no response.

Shane pressed the speaker on his shoulder. “How’s that back up coming?”

There was some static noise, a few indistinguishable words, and then nothing.

Shane started down the stairs. The boards under his feet creaked with each step and at any moment Shane thought his next would send him crashing to the floor. The sides of the stairwell were light blue in color, streaked with smears of something dark, like someone dipped a paintbrush in pudding and ran it down the length of the wall.

The basement was darker than the rest of the house. Shane turned his flashlight over and shined the light in his own eyes. It seemed to be working but when he pointed outward the blackness in front of him swallowed whatever light there was. A second later his flashlight went completely dead. Shane banged the handle with his right hand. Nothing.

Shane may as well have been blindfolded. He began to walk with his arms in front of him, his feet shuffling along the floor. By the roughness and friction under his shoes, Shane could tell the basement floor was nothing more than dirt.

Shane could hear a faint sound, no doubt the screams from his cousin. It sounded as if it were coming from below the basement floor. How could that be?

“Alex!” Shane yelled.

Again there was a noise from far away, from far below.

Shane shuffled forward with his gun pointed forward and his left hand waving and grasping all directions in front. His feet were stopped by something on the floor. Shane bent down and felt the pile at his feet. It was dirt. Shane followed the mound with his hands. It made a circle.

Someone had dug a hole. A very big hole. Big enough to drag someone down. Shane could see nothing though.

A light flashed on overhead. It was a single bulb, red in color, and hung from wires in the ceiling. Shane scanned the room with the barrel of his gun. The walls were plain and the rest of the room was bare. The only thing in the basement was the large hole and the piles of dirt that formed a circle around it. Shane tried his flashlight again. This time it worked.

He pointed the beam into the black hole at his feet, but again the light went nowhere. There was only black. Shane holstered his gun, stepped over the small wall of dirt, and disappeared into the darkness.

The decline—at first—was about a forty-five degree angle. The hole was large enough to walk upright in. The air was damp and musty. It reminded Shane of wet fur—something his dog smelled like after it had been in the rain. The tunnel walls dripped at inconsistent intervals. It wasn’t long and Shane had to bend over to prevent hitting his head. The tunnel shrank as it descended and Shane found himself crawling and then on his belly, pulling himself with his elbows, almost at a vertical decline. The only thing keeping him from falling straight down headfirst was the tight dirt walls holding him in place.

The wet-fur smell was replaced by another foul stench. Each push and pull of his arms and legs inched him forward but also into the wall. The once dirt was now pure mud. It circled him like a glove on a hand. The coffin sensation coupled with the odor of rotten eggs almost sent Shane into a panic. He paused and took a deep breath.

Noise came from below. Cousin Alex’s screams were gone, but they were replaced by crying. It was whimpering, like a scared puppy, a non-stop chatter that made Shane sick to his stomach. Who makes a grown man cry? It was at that moment that Shane suspected it was not a “who” but a “what”, that he was dealing with. Some sort of animal maybe.

He pulled himself downward through the mud tunnel almost swimming with his arms and legs. The actual tunnel was non-existent now; it was just a thick soup of foul smelling mud. The goo entered his ears and nose. Shane tried to blow it away with his mouth. A bubble formed and then collapsed with even more of the brown slush. Shane held his breath, his limbs flailing as a reflex to survive. A burning sensation filled his muscles from exhaustion.

At least a minute went by with no breath, no oxygen. Shane felt his heart beating in his chest, rapid and hot. It would be only a matter of seconds until he had to open his mouth and take a breath. A thousand different images shot past his mind’s eye—playing guns with Alex in their granddad’s forest, birthdays, graduations, parties around the campfire, beers on the porch. Funny the things that came out as important just before you were about to die. Shane gave up hope and let his lungs do their work. The dark sludge entered his mouth and nose. Shane began to choke.

The thick soup walls around him began to shoot downward and Shane fell with them, hitting a hard floor facedown. The puddle of mud splashed down on top of him. Shane gagged and puked up the contents that penetrated his mouth and nose. It smelled horrific, and tasted worse.

Covered with mud, he stood in the darkness, wiping the slop from his eyes. The shade of black under his eyelids was the same shade as outside them.

“Alex!” Shane screamed.

Whimpers came from his right. Shane pulled out his flashlight again, wiped the lens, and turned it on. There was a faint beam. He turned in a circle and found that he was in a tunnel. The ceiling dripped with mud, but the floor seemed to be rock. At thirty yards away he could make it out the silhouette of a person. He ran toward his cousin and stopped at the sight in front of him.

Alex was covered with mud as well, but the whites of his eyes shown through. They were wide with shock, unblinking and unmoving. The steady choppy breathes of fright escaped from his lungs. Alex was hanging from something, his waist even with Shane’s shoulders. His arms and legs seemed to be tied behind his back.

“Alex?” Shane said.

Shane shined the dim light from his flashlight right into Alex’s face. He popped out of his trance with screaming.

“You have to get out of here,” Alex shouted. “Ruuuun! Ruuuuuun!”

“I’m not going without you.”

Alex laughed. “I’m already dead man, can’t you see. I’m already dead.”

Shane shined the light on him again, trying to find his arms and legs. They weren’t tied behind him. They were gone. Someone or something had hacked them off.

“It’s got me up here on a giant fish hook man. It stuck me through the back.” Alex started sobbing and dropped his head.

“It?” Shane pulled his gun.

Behind him he could hear two footsteps, soft footsteps, the kind meant for sneaking up on a person. There was a purr-like gurgle followed by a hiss, a combination of sounds that Shane could not place in the real world.

Shane turned and squeezed the trigger figuring he would ask questions later, but before he could even see the flash from his gun, two sharp objects pierced through his eyes and pulled them completely out of his head. He fell to the floor motionless.

A final scream came from cousin Alex on the hook above him. It was cut short.

Three squad cars flew up Baymont, and as they stopped in front of the peach house, unbeknownst to the officers inside, the glass on the porch floated up from the concrete and melted back together inside the window frame.

The boxes in the living room stacked themselves back up and the glowing eyes of creatures went black.

In the basement, a dirt floor stretched from wall to wall.

The officers—now on the porch—pounded on the door and flashed their lights into the house.

Across the street, a fat raccoon squeezed into a four-inch opening on Alex Drake’s porch roof and disappeared into the walls of his house.