POP

Isabelle watched her fingers as she waved them through the dust molecules floating in the everlasting light of day. Each left broad waves in its wake as they cut through the sunlight. Coming together, separating. Four. Eight. Sixteen. So many fingers. She looked to her right to see who the additional unexpected fingers belonged to. Someone come to help, perhaps. But there was no one there.

Her chest heaved. Her breath stuttered and snorted in her throat. It came out in a wheezing laugh. She cackled. Her eyes were dry. Her cheeks bunched up under her expressionless eyes. She laughed until her breath was gone. She stared out the window into the day. When the sun never set, was it one big, long day? Could it be multiple days without a night?

“Y’okay, babe?”

She gasped as she jerked her head toward the door. A shame, too; she was hoping the breath she’d expelled wouldn’t return to her this time. She needed to sleep, even if she had to die to do it.

There was no one there. Just a cone of light creeping in through a pinprick in the tape that surrounded the window at the end of the hall. It was like termites. Always finding its way in. Cracks in the sealant around the doors. Cracks in the walls. A threadbare spot in the curtains.

There was no one there. There was no one anywhere. It was a ghost town.

They’d arrived in mid-June. Graham—an anthropology major—wanted to collect stories for his doctoral research. Stories from the Iñupiaq people. Always his research. He’d immersed himself in his research. Burrowed so deep into it that she couldn’t reach him, leaving her to deal with the loss of their son alone. She knew he blamed her. But it was an accident. It wasn’t her fault.

When they hustled into the airport from the small passenger plane they were stunned at the silence. The emptiness.

There were no taxis out front.

No cars on the road.

No receptionist at the inn.

They’d built a fire in the fireplace at the inn and waited. How long? Isabelle might have been dosing off when she heard it.

Pop.

Graham had pulled on his jacket. He looked back at her over his shoulder. Half his face was covered by the fur around the hood.

He said he’d be back.

He never came back.

Isabelle heard the pop again. It was closer this time. She couldn’t tell where. She huddled by the fire.

She tried counting the space in between the pops. She got to four hundred something before she lost count. When the next pop sounded, she started again. Nine hundred, sixty-six. Then she forgot what she was doing. She may have dozed.

She just wanted to sleep.

It was snowing when the little boy appeared in the doorway. Blue pants and a shirt striped in red and blue and yellow. His hair just reached his chestnut eyes. He held his hands behind his back.

Isabelle rushed to the door. She knelt in front of him. Her hands hovered over his body, just outside of contact. She wanted to press her flesh against his dimpled cheek. Feel his warmth. His existence. She pulled her hand back and balled it into a fist. She asked him what he had there.

He swung his arm wide and stopped it inches from her face. A firecracker.

Pop.

She bolted upright. Had she fallen asleep?

She walked the empty streets and into the empty shops. She walked through empty homes and sat on empty couches. Perused empty cupboards looking for food.

No stray dogs. No stray cats. Nothing.

Then the man.

The man stood in the doorway, a dark figure. Black against the light of this day she was trapped in. A silhouette. A dark hole in this brilliant world. Only the tufts of fur from his hood were visible. She wanted to wrap herself in him. She didn’t realize she’d reached him until he turned and swung his arm out in a wide arc, bringing a silver revolver to the place between her eyes.

Pop.

She was standing in the street. Her head felt like quicksand. She wasn’t seeing what she was looking at. She was seeing her seeing what she was looking at. She heard laughter, her own voice. She blinked lazily and looked around for the sound of her.

The boy walked out from the doorway of a building. He was walking too fast, too purposefully. He was going to walk right over her. He swung his arm wide and the firecracker went

Pop.

She screamed as she sprang from the carpet in front of the fire. The man was in the doorway. She muttered no, no, no, her voice shivering. She kicked away from him. She picked up a piece of firewood and flung it at him. POP. It cracked him in the head. She sprang to her feet. Her breath cracked and whined like a rusty piston. She sprinted past him and out the door. She could smell him. Body odor and seal oil.

She burst into the street and sprinted away. She came to the whale bone arch. She fell on her knees under it. Rocks and sand tore into her skin. She rolled over and looked back. Two figures moved toward her. She dug into the grating sand with the heels of her hands. She cried. Tears burned like acid on her dry eyes. Her muscles screamed with fatigue; nerve endings blazed with every movement.

She just wanted to sleep.

She turned onto her stomach. She dug and kicked toward the water. It was there. There that she would find darkness. There she would find respite. There she would find slumber and peace.

She heard the steps behind her. They were coming too quickly. Too quickly to think. To prepare.

She faced the sea. A glassy haze of grey—fog and water and sky. She couldn't remember which way was up. She was spinning. A raven glided along underwater, the glossy surface undisturbed by its rippling wings. The sky coiled around her.

The steps stopped. They were on her now.

She lifted her head. The boy extended his firecracker. The man aimed his gun.

Pop.

*First published by Blackworks at Underwood Press