Now Is Not the Time to Panic(22)

When they woke up, they were at this abandoned house, one they’d never seen before, far from civilization, out in the woods. There were candles everywhere, and the walls were covered in these strange posters that had these menacing hands. The three people, who called themselves the fugitives, were listening to strange, satanic music, and were doing all manner of drugs. They made Brooke and Billy do drugs, like they, I don’t know, shoved them up their noses or blew smoke into their faces? It wasn’t entirely clear. And the intensity of these drugs made Brooke and Billy pass out again. And when they woke up in the morning, the three people were gone. And so Billy and Brooke walked all the way home, constantly worried that the fugitives would come back for them. Each of them had brought a copy of the poster home with them, for evidence.

I learned all of this from the triplets, who recounted the entire thing to me and my mom over lunch that afternoon. And my mom, to her credit, said, “Oh god, they made it up, right?” and my brothers told us what had really happened, since they had actually been at the abandoned house that night and had the sense to get back home in time to avoid having the cops search for them. They didn’t even hesitate in the telling, however it might incriminate them, because my mom knew all this and worse about her sons, but she also knew that they were the most invincible children in the entire state.

Billy and Brooke had gone to party with some of their friends. And they were at the abandoned house, drinking rum punch and smoking weed and maybe doing some crushed-up speed. And they went out into the woods to have sex and their friends forgot about them and drove home around three in the morning. And Billy and Brooke passed out. And when they woke up and saw that it was morning, they knew they were fucked. They’d be grounded for the rest of the summer. They walked back to the abandoned house, saw all the posters, which they’d laughed at the night before. Someone had been tearing them off the walls and setting them on fire. But they were at least five miles from home and their parents were probably freaking out.

And I could see it so clearly, the house, because Zeke and I had been there and had put those posters on the walls. And I knew that they were just the dumbest kids, trying anything to avoid punishment, but I chose to believe that the poster, because of how beautiful it was, how strange it was, had opened up some little part of their brain, and it gave them a story that would put them in danger even though they thought it would keep them safe.

And then Hobart came over, a few minutes before I was supposed to meet up with Zeke, and he was red-faced and breathless. He said he’d been at the “scene of the crime” and that the police had used the entire fiscal year’s caution tape budget on this single house. He said his source in the department, who I knew was Brandon Pinkleton, because there were only five officers and he was the youngest and most desperate to seem important, said that they believed it was a credible threat and they had put out an APB to the surrounding counties to be on the lookout for a black van with three individuals with black hair and multiple tattoos with satanic symbology.

“It’s not real,” my mom said, and I could see Hobart deflate a little, like he had been waiting for someone to say it, but he instantly puffed back up, his Hawaiian shirt expanding, the little palm trees swaying. “Well, now, the police are saying it’s a credible threat, okay? And, you know, I’ve been looking at those posters all over town, and it feels like maybe the beginnings of what you might call psychological terrorism. That’s the angle right now.”

“The angle?” I asked, trying to act like I didn’t care.

“For the newspaper,” he replied. “I think someone, and I believe they’re outsiders, possibly connected to some kind of cult, are using Coalfield as the initial test subject for something pretty downright scary.”

“Dude, come on,” Charlie said, “Sunshine made this shit up. It’s complete and total, like, what do you call it? Frankie? What do you call it?”

“Fiction?” I guessed.

“Yeah, right. It’s fiction,” Charlie said.

“Well, I’m reporting what the facts are, okay?” Hobart replied, starting to get some traction in the face of skepticism, which is how almost every bad idea gets worse. “I’ve got some disturbing imagery and sloganeering that has suddenly appeared in town. I’ve got two youths reporting that they were abducted by some kind of cult and forced to do drugs. I’ve got . . . well, that’s all I’ve got right now. That’s newsworthy, though.”

“Is it?” my mom asked. I could see on her face that this was one of the moments when she wondered why she sometimes dated this man.

“It is for Coalfield,” Hobart replied.

I finally turned to see Zeke, standing in the doorway, and I had no idea how long he’d been there, but the look on his face made me think that he’d heard Hobart say the words “disturbing imagery.”

“Zeke,” I said quietly, almost to myself, but my mom saw him, too.

“Hey,” Zeke said. “What’s . . . um . . . what’s going on?”

“There’s some kind of weird drug cult in Coalfield,” Andrew said.

“A sex cult,” Charlie offered.

“A satanic sex drug cult,” Brian clarified.

“In Coalfield?” Zeke asked.

“Oh, Zeke,” my mom said, “it’s nothing like that. Don’t be scared.”