Chapter 11 – Unspoken Signs
The door to the storeroom was closed, but anywhere else in the world. Edward stood in front of it, rigid, his hand tracing the ridged metal handle. Something stirred behind it—something small, something alive—but no definite sound. Just. presence.
Then:
"Edward?"
The voice was slurred and low through the door. It was Darren, sort of. There was a hesitation constructed into the tone, as if he needed to recall his own name before he could continue with anything else. Edward scowled. Darren talked fast when he was working, even when he was half-asleep working. This wasn't sleepy. This was deeper.
He stepped back. He didn't open that door. Not yet.
He did not want to be afraid of Darren—but the truth was, he was. Not the boy he had known, but the one standing on the other side of the door. The one with a voice that now struggled through syrup.
Edward got down on his knees and rummaged through the shelf beside him. He crafted a plastic bag holder and filled it: two water bottles, a crushed sports drink from the fridge, granola bars. He spotted a discarded hoodie—Darren's, likely—and filled that up too. It was weird, sending a care package to a person who was just a few feet away. But somehow he knew this was what he was supposed to do.
He set the bag just beside the storeroom door and knocked gently.
"I'm heading out for a bit," he said. He tried to keep his voice light, casual. "I left some stuff for you. If you're not feeling better by tonight, I'll come back. We'll figure it out."
No reply.
No footsteps. No rustle.
Just silence.
He lingered a moment, listening. Then turned toward the front of the shop.
As he passed Sam's desk, he paused.
Her coat was flung very neatly over the back of the stool, as though she had only popped out for a few minutes and would be returning in a few minutes' time. Old pale green wool, well past its best, with one button gone. The one she wore for all but, well, pretty much every shift. Her keys, by the till, untouched. There was water spilled around her water bottle on the floor, with drips extending below.
But Sam had returned hours before.
Or had she?
Edward furrowed his brow. She'd texted him earlier that she was sick and wouldn't be coming in. But that didn't add up. Maybe not in her coat today. Maybe not in her car.
He walked out into the fresh air and glanced down the tiny staff carpark. There it was—her red hatchback, parked in its normal spot. Steamed-up windows on the inside. As usual.
Why would she have left without her keys? Her coat? Why would she have informed him that she was staying in?
There was a shiver down the back of Edward's neck, even in the searing heat on the outside.
He picked up his phone and snapped at it in short, furious taps:
"Hey. Your stuff is still at the shop. You alright?"
The message wouldn't send. No "delivered," no check. Spinning icon, nothing. His reception had dropped to zero bars.
The screen then jerked with a harsh, bitter buzz. The screen vibrated along with an official government emergency broadcast:
EMERGENCY ALERT – LOCAL HEALTH AUTHORITY
Under observation for monitoring of unwarranted neurological cessation and influenza-like symptomatology. Shun close contact. Abstain from all non-essential bodily contact.
If disoriented, experiencing loss of memory or persistent confusion, avoid and report to the closest medical designated site.
Cellular communications will be compromised by priority bandwidth. Emergency communication will remain unbroken.
Edward read it twice, cotton-dry in the mouth. "Neurological disturbance"? That hadn't sounded like an allergy. That hadn't sounded like COVID, even. That sounded. worse. And significantly more bizarre.
Ed. I have no idea what's happening
Tried to send a leave. can't.
And then it detonated. No punctuation. The garbled jumble of marks was delivered—perhaps horrible text. Or perhaps in desperation.
He tried to send a reply hastily, "Where are you? Are you in your car? I'm at the scene. I'll go outside— " but the message hung and wouldn't send. Another failure. No signal.
A second message arrived a bit later, timed just short of twenty minutes ago. That was Darren.
Hi guy. Thanks for the stuff. Have a headache. Going to sleep for a bit. Sorry if I was being too forward. Think I just need to sleep. Thanks, for real.
### It did.
sound too rehearsed. Like something which had been scripted by someone going too far out of their way to be normal. Too much.
He stood there for a moment reading the message before shoving the phone in his pocket and walking towards the car.
The Drive
Half-empty roads. Not the eerie empty kind of, just. subdued. Folks still there, but a flatness to it all. Drivers with eyes on the horizon in front, no one switching lanes. Pedestrians strolled slowly down, crossed streets slowly, glancing frequently at the sidewalk.
He stood in the corner as the light turned red. On the sidewalk stood a paralyzed man, arms down by his side. No jacket. No shoes. Standing.
The light changed to green—nothing. The man did not blink.
Nobody honked.
Then, in a parked car across from the drugstore, a dog was barking furiously. There were down windows, but no dog. The solitary dog yapped and snarled and snapped at its prison. Edward looked into the store but saw no one. No one came out.
Riding by the bus stop, he noticed three teens sitting on a bench. Slouched over. Silent. Heads down, eyes on the same patch of sidewalk. No phones. No headphones. No talking.
Edward hailed over the radio to shake off the haze. Static. Nothing on the band.
He rode the remainder of the trip in silence.
Home
He arrived in his driveway when the sun had fallen below rooftops. Shadows stretched and huddled there in thick silence. No chirping of birds. No baying of dogs. No hum of the neighborhood. Nothing but silence.
His porch light flashed for a moment on when he emerged out onto it.
The house was cool. Silent. He closed the door and heard, sensing the faraway hum of the fridge. It was. louder than usual. Too loud. Too mechanical, like machinery struggling to turn.
He tossed his coat over the armchair and dropped his keys on the counter.
His phone quietly buzzed once more. He picked up.
Another warning:
REPEATING ALERT
If a person you care about is struggling with:
– Slowed reaction
– Staring fix
– Memory confusion
– Anger outburst
DO NOT attempt to move them.
Step back. Let the trained responders respond.
[Network failure may trigger numerous alerts]
The screen darkened when he read it. The battery fell 15% in seconds. The signal wavered up and down. He turned it off.
He entered the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and splashed water against his face.
In the quietness of the moment, he recalled Darren's voice.
And Sam's half-sent message.
About the teenagers on the bench. About the guy in the crosswalk. About the eyes that did not turn back.
It wasn't exhaustion.
It wasn't an allergy.
And it wasn't coincidence.
Edward stood up and closed the front door. Then he deadbolted it.
This time, he double-checked it.