Louis Teague had worked at The Griffith’s Bros Wholesale Warehouse before time had been recorded. At least that’s what most of the youngsters believed. At sixty-six almost everyone who worked at The Warehouse was a youngster to Teague, and he was just The Old Man to them. Few even called him by his name, and if they did it was always Teague and never Louis.
His pure white hair and massive sideburns were a quiet amusement to them, as was his demeanour which ran from mischievous to grumpy at the drop of a hat. The younger men thought of him as a sort of mascot, and the affection they showed him was palpable. So, when the gout flared up, they always put Teague on reception, even when he was working nights. Here he could pull up a second chair and elevate his foot. He had stripped off his shoe and sock and watched the swelling in the big toe of his right foot with a glare in his eye. He appreciated the thought, the pain was always bad enough, but it was taking him from the warehouse – his domain – that was almost too much to bear. So, he would watch his foot, and though he could see it pulse with the pain. He would curse it, considering amputation, while lamenting the absence of Eloise, the regular receptionist.
She was a woman who wore an easy smile and easier charm, and on the days the gout flared he would keep her company and work on the computer when she dealt with the walk-ins. The warehouse workers would tease Teague on those days. They would pass by and nod to Eloise and wiggle their eyebrows, sometimes they would make comments under their breath that were not exactly crude, they knew this would anger Teague, but it did make him redden with embarrassment. Teague did enjoy Eloise’s company, and it did not go unnoticed that she was the only one who could easily raise a smile from the old man.
Tonight, Teague was alone, but that did not matter as the time for walk-ins was long gone, leaving Teague to work on the computer and monitor the radio that connected him to the drivers doing night runs. Teague thought that he and the radio probably shared a birth year, at the very least they would have gone to school together. It was an ancient Midland International home base Citizens Band Radio, that would have been state of the art in its day. Its forty channels would have been a mass of competing voices, and on a good day, its reception would have been good enough that some of them would have been speaking another language. Now its channels were empty, and the static they produced made Teague feel the weight of his years.
Overhead, lights were turned off, and a desk lamp cast an oval of light that encompassed the CB, computer, and Teague. Everything else was dropped into shadows. Behind him was the short hallway leading to the handful of offices and the warehouse. In front of him was a wide window displaying an always inept window display and the door leading to the abandoned car park.
In the distance, Teague could see a string of lights illuminating the highway beside the city like a string of pearls separating the future from the past.
With his gout throbbing in his foot and his grey hair Teague felt securely seated in the past.
The radio hissed static, popped, went silent for a moment, then continued its serpentine monologue. Teague paused typing, he was pretty fast for an old guy and watched the analogue reception gauge tick upwards for the moment of silence. It was as if it was picking up a momentary signal, as though someone had pressed the transmit key in half a second of silence.
He listened and it didn’t repeat.
Teague hooked the base of the Silver Eagle microphone and dragged it across the desk. It was an old-fashioned upright mic, a circular head atop a candlestick handle. On the back of its head there was the etched eagle motif that gave the microphone its name. It was a beautiful piece of hardware, and Teague knew they didn’t make things like it anymore.
He tapped the transmit button, a chrome silver level about four inches long and spoke.
“Breaker, breaker. This is Silver-Mane over at GB Wholesalers. Is someone on the channel? Over.”
The hiss of static replied.
He waited then tried again, and the same prompt received the same reply.
Teague turned from the CB back to the computer. He had finished typing up the sales notes from the previous day and was now putting the shift patterns into a printable form so they could be posted on the noticeboard.
At sixty-six most of the youngsters marvelled at how well he did with computers, and he never let on, but Teague was pleased about this. He liked running the younger men in circles when it came to the machines, but – more importantly – he knew he needed to remain useful to stay employed, and as his body failed him his mind would have to compensate.
The hiss of static was again replaced by a moment of silence. This one lasted a second or more, and Teague thought he heard something in the background.
He hit the transmitter.
“Breaker, breaker. This is Silver-Mane over at GB Wholesalers. Is someone on the channel? Over.”
He knew others would hear irritation in his response, but he felt concern. He left his fingers over the transmit button but didn’t press it. Static replied again. Then it warbled slightly, sounding like a recording on a distorted cassette tape before it plunged into silence. This time it lasted for three seconds.
“Breaker, breaker. This is Silver-Mane over at GB Wholesalers. If someone is screwing around on the channel it’s not appreciated. Over.”
This time the reply was unbroken static.
Someone heard him.
He turned back to the computer and the monitor’s light hit him. It was a sudden blare of brilliant white. A hundred thousand flashbulbs ignited at once. He thrust his hands over his face against the glare, but already the light had died, leaving him glare-blind. For a moment he saw the world in that weird photo-negative that follows a flash of light.
He didn’t move. He was old enough not to panic. He had experienced enough strange moments in his sixty-six years for this not to faze him too deeply.
Slowly the world faded back. It was like watching an action movie explosion in reverse. The counter reinstated itself, the radio and laptop were all dark blotches of grey that deepened to black as the window frame decided to return to the world stage.
Teague blinked as the glare subsided.
The computer screen was a blank rectangle of black, the light was off. Even the small lights that illuminated the CB radio dials were dead. The power had blown, Teague thought, something outside blew and it had taken the power.
He expected the lads to rush from the warehouse. It would be as dark as a mine inside there. But no one ran along the corridor behind him. There was no movement at all. No sound. The image that faded in around him seemed static.
The city skyline faded in now. It was indistinct but recognisable. The weaving line of lights along the highway wound along the city’s limits. They were still as bright as welding torches against the night.
Teague blinked into the darkness around him. Apart from the lack of power, everything seemed as it should be. He reached over to the phone and lifted it to his ear, there was no ringtone. He tapped the receiver’s button, and even as he did, he wondered why he did it. It was like running upstairs when being pursued by a masked killer in a movie, it never led to a positive outcome, so he dropped the handset back into its cradle.
He considered finding his way to the staff lockers where he left his mobile phone, calculating whether it was further away than the circuit breakers. The breakers were closer, all he needed to do was go outside and to the right. If he followed the wall, it would take him straight to them.
Teague opened the drawer that was fastened underneath the counter, and rooted around until he hit the keys, grabbed them, and remembered.
His foot. He sat back in the chair, suddenly exhausted by the idea of dragging his old body around in the dark. He thought of alternatives and, finding none, he dropped the keys on the counter. He reached for his shoe and sock.
The sock felt like sandpaper. It pulled at the swelling like a thick elastic band. Sweat was standing out on his brow by the time he had gotten the sock on, and he took a moment’s pause before he tackled the shoe.
He stared out over the empty car park and considered the cruelty of age.
It didn’t seem so long ago that he would be travelling the breadth of the land in his eighteen-wheeler, now he couldn’t stand up long enough to pack the back of one. It was an exaggeration, but not much of one. Some days he was fine, he barely felt his age, but others, others he wanted for it all to stop. He was beginning to understand his own father’s acceptance at the end, why the old man had grinned at Teague’s younger self and almost laughed with glee when all around him were in tears around his death bed.
I’ve had a good one, he said, I’m looking forward to a nice long rest now.
The old man had died not ten minutes after, and Teague was sure he had a smile on his face when he did.
Teague had never understood it, but he was beginning to. There was a point when the aches and pains wore a man down. All he could think about was those regrets of chances not taken and adventures not followed, and each new ache was a reminder that those chances could not be taken, and the old bones were no longer fit for adventure.
Adventure? He thought and felt a smile pull at his lips. You’re on an adventure Louis. It’s called putting on a shoe, and that’s more adventure than you can manage.
He pulled on the shoe and the pain tore through his foot.
He sat back and let his head roll backwards.
If he were honest, it didn’t hurt as much as he feared, but that was often the case.
Next, he assessed it with a little weight, then a little more. It hurt badly, but he was an old man himself now, and he had remembered feeling worse. He grabbed the keys from the counter and dug in the drawer for a tiny pen-sized flashlight, then he made his way to the door in the darkness. Deliberately keeping his progress slow he clicked on the penlight and a small circle of light slipped across the window, reflecting at him. It looked like a reception room from an old movie painted in greyscale, and the light was of little help. He aimed it at the floor and saw an illuminated two-foot patch of the chipped grey tile. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Leaving the deep grey of the counter behind him he approached the picture window that he knew was the door to the outside. He selected the correct key by touch alone, it was the only one with a clover-shaped head and unlocked it. A cool breeze brushed over his skin as he stepped into the night. He pulled the key from the door, turned right, and – leaving the door slightly ajar – made his way around the building. Finding the outside was not much brighter than the reception room, Teague turned the corner and moved towards the wedge of almost complete blackness. He could not see it, his feeble penlight would not reach that far, but he knew this was where a high fence topped with razor wire housed the fuel tank used to fuel up the trucks.
Teague sorted through the keys with his left hand and supported himself with his right. He could feel the smaller keys of two padlocks, but he did not know which was which, and the light level seemed to be dropping, though he had expected his eyes to adjust.
He glanced up at the sky, it was as black as pitch.
It was odd that it did not feel like rain was due.
He glanced up again, but the movement drew his attention. He did not see it, he could see only vague shapes, but he heard something collide with the chain link fence of the enclosure. It sounded like a dog, a big one, had gotten disorientated in the dark. Perhaps the Teague movement had startled it from its sleep, and it had darted the wrong way.
Teague stopped walking.
It wasn’t a good idea to creep up on a disorientated animal that might be hurt. He stood there a moment. At least the thought of getting bitten might take my mind off my throbbing foot, he thought, and then continued along the wall towards the enclosure.
Teague concentrated on the sound of his fingertips rasping over the rough brick wall. He could feel the indentations between the bricks where the mortar joined them. Before him, the narrow beam of light cut across the concrete, the circle of illumination stretching to a teardrop. He would have turned back if there had been a choice, but his options were narrow. He heard a sound like scratching ahead, but when he looked, all he could see was darkness bisected by a thin beam of light. He reached out with his free hand, the keys dangling from it, unsure if he would see the fence before he collided with it.
An indistinct oval of slightly lighter grey broke the darkness.
It was the fuel tank, so he was close to the enclosure.
With a few steps more he thought he could see the outline of the small, corrugated shed where various tools were stored. He knew that beside that would be the locked container that held the fuse box. Unbidden, his legs moved a little faster, and the stab of pain increased. Moments later he was rewarded with what he had anticipated, and a few steps further the mesh of the enclosure’s chain-link fence became visible. The feeble beam of light from his torch sent the chain link shadow across the curve of the fuel tank.
The bronze-coloured padlock, hung through a chain fastening the gate closed. It glistened in the torchlight. He selected a key from the two padlock keys and tried it. He had chosen right the first time, the lock popped open, and he slid it free, letting the chain hang. The makeshift gate, just a square of piping wrapped in mesh, swung outward with a squeal, and again Teague heard something crash into the fence at the far end of the enclosure. He stepped inside hurriedly and closed the gate behind him. Then, as an afterthought, he ran the chain through it and refastened the lock.
Something shifted at the far end of the enclosure, rattling along the chain link as if using it to navigate as he had the wall earlier. It was no more distinct than a black husk huddled close to the ground, its bulk huddled up to the base of the fence. Teague swung the penlight in its direction, but only caught a brief sight of it before the tanker blocked his view. Feeling better with a barrier between him and it, Teague turned and hobbled away from the object, making his way alongside the fuel tank to the equipment shed. He would find the fuse box beside it, and it would only take moments to reset it.
Teague stopped. He was still ten feet or more from where the box was fastened to the outside wall of the building. Far enough away he could still barely make out its shape in the gloom. He knew that something was far more wrong than a simple tripped breaker.
The door to the fuse box was twisted, half hanging free. The padlock that locked it closed was torn free and swung on the metal hook. At first, Teague thought that someone had forced it open to gain access to its workings, but two things occurred to him simultaneously. Firstly, there was little point, Teague could see nothing to gain by doing so, and secondly, the casing was dented inward and as he neared, he could see a dark smudge on the wall that looked like blood.
Then he thought of the creature huddled by the fence.
Was he certain it was on the other side of the fence?
Was he certain?
Teague flashed the small pen light over towards the fence. Its beam was feeble and the extra light produced at such a distance was negligible, but he could see the slightly darker smudge of black where the thing was. It was close to where he had last seen it. It was pressed against the fence as if trying to get in or out. It was an oval smudge in the darkness, about the same size as a medium-sized dog curled into a ball.
The old man took a few painful steps closer, thinking of the smear of blood beside the fuse box. It was a little too high to be caused by a dog. Unless the dog was thrown at it. Teague shuddered at the thought. He had always had a soft spot for animals, dogs especially. When he was a boy, he had made a companion of a stray that looked like a spaniel. Her hair was matted, and it had taken weeks to get her into some semblance of good health. She had been with him for eight years before Teague woke one morning to find her on its last legs. She had died later that day and he had never had another dog after.
He could never bring himself to, regardless of how much he missed the company.
The mound of darkness twitched.
Without realising it Teague had begun to make soothing sounds.
The darkness rolled away from the mesh, and Teague could see on what side of the fence it lay. A stem moved out from it, a leg – it must have been – and its bulk lifted a second before it shuddered and fell again into an uneven mound.
It was caught within the enclosure with him, but Teague could see how weak it was. He should have been worried about it attacking him out of fear. Instead, Teague just felt compassion for the creature.
He had forgotten about the blood, or more accurately he had forgotten about where the blood had been positioned. So, he didn’t ask himself the questions he should have, he just saw a frightened injured animal so much like that dog from his youth, and his heart went out to it.
Teague moved forward, his one foot dragged slightly, but its pain was momentarily forgotten. The mound of darkness moved again, closer to him. Teague moved the penlight to it, and it reflected off fur that was a little too long, and a little too full to be that of a dog, but Teague was blinded by his memories and the feelings those memories brought with them. He stepped closer still, and it was then that he noticed the creature’s leg. It was hairless and black. Its bones were visible under a leathery hide.
It was then that Teague’s memory abruptly faded.
It wasn’t a dog.
The bloodstain was too high, as though something had slammed into the power box from a height, something that flew.
It was a bat.
It could not have been a bat, it was the size of a dog, there were no bats that big were there?
Teague reversed his course but did not turn his back on the creature. He still felt compassion for its pain, but he now felt fear as well. The beam from the penlight was unsteady, but it revealed the creature enough so that Teague could see a smaller sphere of black move on the edge of the mass. It turned and yellow eyes reflected the beam to the old man.
Quick eyes glanced to the gate, the chain wrapping it closed. The creature was closer to him than he was to the gate, but it was weak and could not attack. Teague backed towards the gate, the light never leaving the creature.
If it was weak, perhaps it was dying.
Teague’s feet stopped moving.
Are you going to let it die? He asked himself. Just out of fear?
It had not attacked him. It had flown into the fuse box. It writhed in pain and now it needed help.
Help it, Teague.
His feet did not move.
Help it, you coward.
He remembered the dog. Her matted hair had hidden a thread-thin frame beneath it. Ribs protruded, and her hips stood out like sails. She would have died without him, but he had helped her. Was it only because of the animal’s friendly face, its large brown eyes, that he had bothered?
Was he that kind of a man?
Teague sighed. It rattled in his throat in a warble of fear. He stepped closer, lowering his torso, making himself small. He could see one of the creatures’ wings now. It was large, leathery, and semi-translucent. It fluttered feebly, the beam of light from the tiny torch he held shone through it. Teague saw veins decorating the thin flesh. He thought of the road maps he had carried with him in his cab when he did long hauls. For a moment, the memory threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He remembered running and how good it felt. He remembered the pressure of the accelerator under his heel, and the truck’s vibration rumbling through his body.
The creature was warm to his touch. He hadn’t intended to reach out to it, but his hands had done what they knew they needed to do. The creature was gently moved so that its wings were not caught under it. It was a bat, of that Teague was certain, but he had never even seen its like on the nature shows he sometimes watched. Its face was flat like a pug, but its neck seemed too long and its chest cavity too large. He reached over and gently moved the creature’s head.
Across its neck was a wound, a spike of metal protruding from it. Blood dribbled from where it had entered its flesh, but Teague thought it had not severed anything too vital. Or perhaps it had, and the metal had sealed it closed somehow. Teague was no doctor. He had no idea; he only knew that inaction wasn’t helping the situation. There was no one to ask and no one to help. He took the sliver of metal between thumb and forefinger and rapidly drew it from the flesh. The bat shuddered but made no sound, it had made no sound at all he realised, and the wound under the metal was revealed.
Blood gushed from the wound and instinctively Teague reached with both hands to try to stem the flow. As his hands neared the creature’s head, it fluttered, its wings beating against the concrete as its teeth sank into the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
There was no pain, but there was panic.
The creature’s wings unfurled, wide, then encircled him like hot plastic. He felt the heat against his back, and he did not know if it was drawing him down to the creature or lifting it to meet him, but a moment later the creature’s face was next to his own. Its eyes were amber, and they were wide. Its mouth released his hand and its head twisted.
Teeth sank into his cheek, and Teague felt his blood spill in a cascade down his neck, but there was still no pain. He struggled. The wings wrapped his arms against his body. His legs were free, but he could leverage to climb to his feet. Its left eye stared into his right. It blinked and Teague thought the amber of its iris had softened, then it blinked again, and he was sure of it. Then the world dimmed, and as it went dark, he thought the eye staring into his own had become a meadow green, and then there was darkness.
But there was no emptiness.
Teague could not move his body, he could feel the breath entering it and the cold of the concrete on which he lay, but he could not influence its movement. His hand was pressed against the creature’s chest, he could feel coarse hairs pressed against his skin. They were hard, almost like spines or needles, and he thought they could easily penetrate his skin. He could feel them move, the points at their end sliding upward, as though his hand were moving slowly down the creature’s body.
He could feel the teeth in his face, they pulled at his skin. Where each tooth had buried itself, the flesh was stretched. Teague didn’t feel the teeth plunge deeper but pull wider. It was as if the creature’s body was shrinking even as its head grew.
He didn’t know how much blood he had lost, how much he could continue to lose. His legs were still, and his body had ceased fighting. He didn’t know whether that was because he no longer had any conscious control over himself or whether he had lost enough blood to no longer have the capacity.
It seemed academic. The panic of earlier had faded. There was nothing he could do. The creature had latched onto him feeding, and he was its food. He knew this should have repulsed him, revolted him, but he was growing too weak to care.
He thought of the dog and wondered how it felt when adopted. Perhaps it had been so meek because it had grown past caring. Teague knew that he was just a shadow without the truck under him, and the road ahead of him. The men at the plant humoured him, tossed him jobs as they would leftovers to a dog, and he had accepted them gratefully.
The flesh under his hand was hairless, smooth, and felt hot to his touch.
The eye staring into his own was green, and he thought of his childhood.
He could no longer feel the teeth in his cheek, instead, the creature’s lips pressed against it.
Soft lips. A tongue ran along the wound the teeth had created, and the sensation made him shudder. He remembered his youth and all the soft lips he had encountered, and he felt stinging tears mix with the blood on his face.
Memory was cruel. He remembered things he could no longer do, and he wondered if these were his last moments and if it would matter if they were. He had not made a new memory worth remembering in so long. There were no pleasures anymore, just compromise. Was his life flashing before his eyes now? If it were, only the first third of it was worth reviewing.
Teague’s body evaporated, and for a brief moment, he was not connected to the world. He saw himself lying in the arms of a woman. She was dressed in a gossamer dress of webs. Her waist was as slim as his thigh, and her curves undulated like a mountain road. As he watched her feed, he could feel her feed. He was separate but the same. He was drunk through lack of blood. It was a blessed delusion. She raised her leg against him, and he could feel her flesh through the fine uneven web of material covering it. He could see every pore of her skin. She was beautiful to him, but he knew this meant nothing. He was an old man now, at an age where every woman was beauty personified. Each was beyond him, and each was an unrequited love. The woman disengaged from her feast, and he felt the chilly air rush into where she had been. He would have drawn her close again if he were able to move.
The woman stood and Teague felt cold reality replace her dream flesh, and when he opened his eyes there was nothing to see but a starry sky.
He did not know how long he lay there, wondering.
There was no woman, no bat, and when he touched his face there was no wound.
He wondered if he had fallen, or if he had struck his head in the darkness.
If it had not been real, it had been so vivid he saw no reason to deny it. He had experienced it regardless.
Teague rolled over and climbed to his feet. He felt surprisingly good. His body hurt but it was the burning pain of exertion, not the pain of damage. He remembered the feeling from his long days on the road when he had loaded and unloaded the trailer many times before returning home.
The fuse box was broken open, its cover torn from its hinges. He looked it over and opened the small maintenance shack next to it. Teague was no electrician and should not mess with it but needs must.
He did not rush. Carefully, he replaced a few fuses, checked the cabling, and hit the trip switch back on. Above lights flickered back to life, and he saw a dot of blood just above it. He wondered if he had seen the blood in the darkness and whether that had inspired his strange dream. For a long moment he stared at it, thanking it, then he turned and made his way back to the reality of the office.
When he returned there the men were milling around. The night workers numbered twelve, three were out driving, and he was on the desk, which left eight. Teague explained that something had shorted the fuse box, but things were back to normal now, and most had returned to the warehouse. Two remained, and one of them walked outside to take in the blown sign while the other looked at Teague oddly. Gruffly Teague told him everything was fine, and before a few minutes had passed they returned to work, and Teague was alone once more sandwiched between the counter and the CB radio.
He booted up the computer, and it complained it had been improperly shut down, Teague swore at it and then allowed it to do its checks. Behind him the CB squawked to life, static blared and Teague turned to it. He adjusted the gain and the squelch before what he thought could be a voice could be heard. It was distorting, and Teague turned up the gain a little more.
There was silence, then he knew he heard a voice. It was too distorted to understand, but it was there. It continued for half a minute, running through octaves before being replaced with static. Teague grabbed the Silver Eagle microphone and hit the send button.
“Breaker, breaker. This is Silver-Mane over at GB Wholesalers. Is someone on the channel? Over.”
He waited. It didn’t occur to him that his words were the same as earlier. Static replied, and Teague resisted the urge to repeat his request. There was a pop on the channel and a second of silence before static returned.
“This is Silver-Mane over at GB Wholesalers. I’m moving over to channel twenty-nine.” He said, then – as an afterthought – he added. “At 27.88125 megahertz, over.”
He twisted the selector and watched the LED display roll through the channels until it hit twenty-nine. He adjusted the gain and squelch again, then hit the send button.
“This is Silver-Mane over at GB Wholesalers. You on-channel, over?”
“Excuse me?”
Teague almost recoiled from the radio. The words emanating from it were so clear the speaker could have been sat next to him. It was a woman’s plaintive voice.
“My call sign is Silver-Mane, and I’m calling from the Griffith’s Bros Wholesale Warehouse. Are you okay? Over.”
“I am now.”
Teague felt an odd feeling of disquiet. He looked around to assure himself the voice was not coming from somewhere in the room.
“Thank you.” The voice said. “You are a lifesaver.”
The CB radio crackled again, dropped into silence, and distorted strangely before static once again filled the channel.
Teague hit the send button. “Hello?”
He released it to static, then he tried again. “Hello?”
Again, static was his only reply.
Teague would talk to the radio for the rest of the night, receiving nothing but static. But through it, he felt no discomfort, and it would be morning before he realised the pain in his foot would not return. The following night he listened to the static and waited for the voice while he thought of the future, realising that in doing so he would no longer be reminded of the regrets of the past.