I Live In A Small Town In Texas Called Sanderson, And I Can Tell Something Weird Is Going On

That was it! If I can’t take the truck, I’ll hitch a ride on the train. They still run through the old switching station on the edge of town. They don’t stop anymore, but they run slow enough through there to hop on. I don’t care how big or scary those damn screeching bastards are, they can’t derail a train. I’ll wait until sunrise, then book it over there and hop on the first train that rolls through.

I went to work getting my things in order. I packed water and a little food, a map, a few pieces of clothing, my wind-up radio, my laptop and cell phone, my sketchbook (can’t let these fuckers have my art), and what little cash I had lying around. Seeing as how my credit card was still missing, I’d have to try to get by on 27 bucks I managed to gather. I also quickly rigged up two little bombs. As I may have mentioned last time, I’ve always been the inquisitive type. It’s amazing what you can do with a couple road flares, some household chemicals, and the help of the internet. Counting the bombs and my old .38 in the pack, as well as the pocket knife I always carry on me, I had four weapons. I would’ve killed for more, but I was happy to have what I did.

I sat on my bed and faced the window. The only thing now was to wait for sunrise. I wasn’t going back out there in the dark, and the trains only slow down during the daytime. At night, they just barrel through. The adrenaline started to finally wear off, and my mind started to quiet down. I never saw that sunrise.

I woke up in a daze. I heard people laughing and talking and I smelled fried chicken. Fred’s fried chicken. I opened my eyes, wiped the crust out of the corners. I found myself on the couch. Daryl was sitting on the chair opposite me, his elbows propped up on his knees, full-on staring at me. Over his shoulder, I saw Fred doling out fried chicken to a full table over in the dining room. I saw Mr. Zarzamora and Connie from the factory, Sheriff McCullough and one of his deputies, and Mrs. Schertz (the principal of the school and the minister’s widow).

“What’s going on?” I asked Daryl.

“You tell me, bro,” Daryl shot back. “I come to wake you up, because we was gonna be late again. I find you passed out with your boots on and a ‘fuck-this-place’ bag ready to go. Then Fred comes running up, telling me the truck’s been wrecked. Care to explain yourself, Wade?” As soon as he’d mentioned the bag, I tensed up. My eyes darted around, but I didn’t see it. I sat up on the couch.

“Sorry Daryl. I just wanted to get a drink last night, and I hit a coyote on the way back. Shit happens, right?” I said, my best poker face on.

“And the bag?”

“Just making sure I have everything ready to go when I can finally get some time off from work. Speaking of which…” I stood up, trying to change the subject. “What’s Mr. Z and everyone else doing here?”

“We thought we should all sit down and have a word over dinner,” Daryl stood up too as he spoke.

He motioned me to join him with a look that said I didn’t have a choice. We walked into the dining room, and I quickly exchanged polite nods with everyone sitting down.

“Evening everybody,” I said, sitting down at the seat that was prepared for me. Everyone was already busy digging in. Fred made some damn good fried chicken — when the mood hit him. I looked around the table and watched the guests focus intently on their plates as they devoured each piece in front of them.

Mrs. Schertz was the only one to pay me more than a brief nod.

“Well hello, Wade. So good of you to join us,” she said and gave me a big smile between her wrinkled jowls. Her huge blue eyes locked on me behind her coke-bottle glasses.