The city was on fire.
For the last six weeks, once the sun was down, Martin Gordon wouldn’t leave his house.
He didn’t dare.
He hadn’t seen any news reports since the television stations had gone off the air last week. It had been even longer since he’d read a current newspaper or magazine. But he didn’t need anyone to tell him that being out after dark was dangerous. From his second floor bedroom window, he could see marauding bands of young people, their dark silhouettes outlined like hot metal against the dancing flames of the burning city as they roved the desolate streets.
The millennial celebrations had started in early December. At first they had been nothing more than sporadic nightly celebrations; but for the last few weeks, they had continued from dusk until dawn as throngs of people moved from city block to city block. What had started as a spontaneous celebration quickly turned into wanton destruction as people’s frustrations and insecurities took over. It wasn’t long before the burning and looting began.
Martin had quit his job last week, on Monday morning. He thought “quit“ might be too strong a word. There was no superior left at the factory for him to give his notice to, so he just stopped showing up.
He didn’t mind being out of work all that much. He’d never liked his job at the bank in the first place, and now he had plenty of time to do the things he enjoyed doing, such as working on his model railroads. Of course, with no electricity, he couldn’t run the trains. In the gathering darkness, he could only admire the work he’d done that day and hope that—eventually—once the electricity was restored, he could run them again.
For the last several days, however, he’d spent most of the daylight hours reinforcing the barricades around his house. He’d sacrificed nearly all of the heavy oak doors from inside the house to cover the downstairs windows. He picked up some heavy-duty screws at the hardware store—literally, because there was no one there to pay—and, after cutting the doors in half, screwed them into the window frames. Someone would have to be pretty damned serious about breaking in to remove any of them.
Getting food was becoming an increasing problem. Martin had run out of ready cash a while ago. All of the city’s banks had closed their doors by the second week of December, so his paltry savings were locked up where he couldn’t get at them.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter because all of the grocery stores within walking distance of his house, like the hardware store, had been looted, anyway. Without electricity, all of the perishables had gone bad, but Martin had enough dried and canned food squirreled away to last a month or more, maybe longer if he was careful. As it was, his meals were pretty uninspired—usually nothing more than cold beans or vegetables eaten straight from the can. All he could hope was that the situation would eventually calm down, and the police would restore law and order so everything could start getting back to normal.
Whatever normal was in the year 2000.
Every day, as soon as the sun started to set, Martin would make sure the front and back doors were secure, then settle down for a cold meal from a can before going upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the front yard from his bedroom window. Then, usually sometime after midnight, he’d settle down to sleep.
He’d gotten so he could sleep through just about anything, unless a roving party of thugs and partiers came too close to the house. When things started to get out of control, he would wake up and sit on his bed with his loaded shotgun cradled like a baby in his arms. The only light he used was a single candle, which he placed behind him so it would illuminate the bedroom doorway without blinding him if anyone broke into the house.
So far, though, there hadn’t been any trouble, and for some reason, tonight was unusually quiet. The millennium rioting was still in full swing, but some distance away. When Martin looked out the upstairs window, he could see the fire-lit buildings in the distance and hear the sounds of music and riotous voices, laughing and calling out in wild abandon.
“Christ, some celebration,“ he muttered.
Having lived alone for the last eight years, ever since his mother died, he had gotten into the habit of talking out loud to himself. He had never known his father who, according to his mother, had left the family when Martin was less than a year old. Like a lot of men in tough economic times, one day he went to the store for cigarettes and never came back.
There was a sharp winter chill in the air, so after listening to the distant block party for a while, Martin decided it was safe to close the window and settle down to sleep. Because there was no heat in the house—even if there had been electricity to run the furnace, there hadn’t been any oil deliveries in weeks—his mattress was stacked high with blankets and comforters. His breath made puffy white clouds in the darkness as he lay down and watched the dull orange flicker of flames against the city skyline.
He had just drifted off to sleep when he was suddenly startled awake.
For a panicky instant, Martin wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The sounds of the celebrations were still far off in the distance. Concerned, he looked around the darkened bedroom, sure that he had heard something, but what?
Is someone in the house?
He felt a slight rush of apprehension.
It was possible, he supposed, but he didn’t see how anyone could have gotten in without making enough noise to wake him up sooner?
Moving slowly so as to make as little sound as possible, Martin sat up and reached over the side of the bed to where his shotgun leaned against the wall. He felt better once it was in hand. Tossing the bedcovers aside, he swung his feet to the floor. A numbing chill ran up the back of his legs the instant his bare feet hit the icy floorboards.
Standing in a defensive crouch, he tried to stop his teeth from chattering as he waited for the sound to come again. Shivers teased like bony fingertips playing the xylophone up and down his spine. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled with anticipation until—very faintly—the sound came again.
It was the soft sound of someone knocking...
…knocking on the front door.
Martin’s heart pulsed heavily in his chest as he thumbed the hammer back on the shotgun and took a few cautious steps forward. He was breathing rapidly, trailing his frosty breath like a tangled scarf over his shoulders.
Before he made it to the now door-less doorway of his bedroom, the knocking came again, louder this time. It echoed through the cold, dark house, which resonated like a huge kettledrum.
Martin was shivering terribly when he stepped out into the hallway and paused to look over the railing. His eyes seemed to be taking too long to adjust to the darkness as he stared at the front door, positive that he could see it bulging inward with each heavy blow as the knocking sounded again.
Tightening his grip on the shotgun, Martin started down the stairs. His gaze was focused on the narrow windows on either side of the door. He wanted to catch some indication of who was out there on the doorstep, but all he could see was the deep, black stain of the night, pressing against the glass like a stray cat, wanting to be let in.
Martin took a deep breath, preparing to call out a challenge or warning, but his voice failed him, caught like a fish hook in his throat.
He didn’t like this.
Not one bit.
But in spite of his rising tension, he kept moving forward. Every stair step creaked beneath his weight, setting his teeth on edge until he made it down to the foyer.
The only light in the house came from the single candle burning upstairs in his bedroom. Hardly enough light to see by. The darkness within the house pressed close, squeezing against him like soft, crushed velvet. When he realized that he was holding his breath, he let it out in a long, slow whistle. His hands were shaking as he raised the shotgun and aimed it at the front door.
Even though he was expecting it and was convinced that he was ready for it, his heart skipped a beat when the knocking came again.
One...two...three times, the heavy blows pounded against the door.
And then they stopped.
The sudden silence hummed in Martin’s ears as he stood in the foyer, too frightened to say or do anything.
His anticipation spiked as he waited for the sound to come again. He looked furtively from side to side as though expecting to see something creeping up behind him in the darkness even though he told himself there was nothing there. His gaze returned to the door when the unseen person on the other side began knocking again, even harder.
Is it a friend? Martin wondered. Has someone stopped by to check if I’m all right?
That didn’t seem likely.
Martin didn’t have any real friends. He kept pretty much to himself, having gotten used to being alone after so many years tending to his invalid mother before she died.
Thinking of his mother sent a tickling electric current racing up his back.
What if that’s her out there? He wondered, unable to repress the deep shudder that took shook his insides. He couldn’t help but remember how, during those last, horrible years, when she was ill and bed ridden, she would bang on the wall to get his attention, pulling him away from his time alone with his trains.
He tried not to think it, but the sounds were practically identical.
No, he told himself. Mother is dead!
He tried not to imagine what she would look like, her wizened form hunched on the crumbling cement stairs, wrapped against the cold in her yellowing burial shroud as she banged on the door to be let in. After eight years, her skin, gray from the embalming fluid that had replaced her blood, would be peeling off in large, flaky chunks as each knock rang through the house like a hammer on a Chinese gong.
But no!
That couldn’t be her.
It was impossible.
He had seen her coffin lowered into the ground.
She was dead.
Even if he hadn’t smothered her with her pillow, like the detective who had come by several times had suggested, she was dead and buried. And even if he had done something like that, he had only done it out off mercy, to end her suffering following the paralyzing stroke.
He told himself he shouldn’t let his imagination get fired up like this. It wasn’t healthy. There was definitely someone out there, make no mistake, but it wasn’t—it couldn’t be his mother!
But it was someone, and when whomever it was began hammering on the door again, Martin told himself that, if they didn’t stop and go away real soon, he was going to unload his shotgun on them without warning.
He didn’t care who it was.
Even if it was some little kid who’d lost a kitten and was going door to door, looking for it. Or some crazed drunk or drug addict, lost and, thinking he was home, pounding on the wrong door to be let it.
It didn’t matter.
And even if it did matter, Martin didn’t care.
Anyone with any common sense was safe inside his own home as soon as it got dark. The only people out and about at this hour were dangerous people who deserved to die if they were going to bother decent, law-abiding people like Martin, who wanted nothing but to be left alone.
He’d shoot if he had to.
He hadn’t heard the news lately, but he was sure there must have been hundreds if not thousands of deaths—both murders and accidental deaths—since the celebrations began. One more death in a city this size wouldn’t even be noticed. Not when the police had so many other important things to take care of.
Still, Martin didn’t dare to call out, much less go to the door.
Instead, he walked to the far wall and, leaning his back against the closed closet door—one of the few remaining inside the house—slid slowly down into a sitting position on the floor with his shotgun poised and aimed at the front door.
The knocking continued unabated, coming more rapidly now, a heavy thumping sound that boomed louder and louder. Martin was convinced that, before long, the blows were going to smash the door to splinters. In spite of the cold, thin trickles of sweat ran down his face. His eyes felt like they were bugging from their sockets as he watched...and waited...wishing that the knocking would stop, and the person would leave him alone.
But that didn’t happen, and Martin couldn’t stop wondering who it might be out there. He kept tossing possible scenarios over in his mind until he thought of something that made his pulse skip a beat. He felt suddenly light-headed with anxiety.
What if it was his father, come home after all these years?
Could that be possible?
Martin had lived his entire life in this house with his mother, so if, by some extraordinary circumstance, his father was still alive, he would naturally come back here first, if only to see if his family still lived here.
Martin’s forefinger brushed lightly against the trigger of the shotgun. He grit his teeth so hard he could hear low grinding noises deep inside his head. His vision pulsed and swirled in front of him, creating a vortex of darkness spinning within deeper darkness.
The pounding on the door was so loud now that it seemed to be as much inside his head as outside. Blow after blow rained down against the wood, and each blow resonated inside Martin’s skull until he was trembling like a man wracked with fever.
Go away! He thought but didn’t dare say out loud.
Go away!
Leave me alone!
And still the knocking continued, keeping time with the painful beating of his heart, which thundered in his ears so hard now it was making his neck ache.
Please... For the love of God... Just go away!
But the knocking didn’t let up. It grew louder and louder until—finally—Martin knew he would have to go to the door and confront whoever it was.
His body was rigid and throbbing with pain, numb from the cold as he rose slowly to his feet. He maintained such a tight grip on his shotgun that, for a moment or two, his fingers were paralyzed, unable to move.
Martin told himself to stay in control, that he had to deal with this now, or it would only get worse. He would be in serious danger if he opened the door, and the person—whoever was out there—saw even a hint of fear or hesitation on his part.
His feet dragged heavily on the wooden floor, making loud rasping sounds, but not loud enough to drown out the incessant hammering on the door.
Martin licked his lips and took a deep breath that made his chest feel like it was constricted by thick iron bands. The sour pressure in his stomach grew painfully intense, and he had to concentrate to make his arms move as he raised the shotgun and pointed it at the door.
Go away, now! Before you regret it, he wanted to call out, but horrible images of his dead mother and the father he had never known filled his mind.
Could it be both of them out there on the stoop?
He felt curiously weighed down as he moved toward the door. It was like being trapped in a dream. No matter how many steps he took forward, the front door seemed to withdraw from him, getting farther away rather than closer.
Martin shook his head and slapped himself on the cheek, trying to convince himself that he was awake. This was real. It was really happening. And all the while, the heavy pounding on the door continued without letting up.
Watching like a dissociated observer, Martin raised his hand and reached out for the door lock. The other hand held the shotgun at chest level, his finger on the trigger and already starting to squeeze.
A prickling wave of pain rolled up his arm to his shoulder as he slowly withdrew the metal clasp of the chain lock and let it drop. It made a rough, grating sound as it swung back and forth like a pendulum against the wood, bouncing every time the knocking from the other side vibrated the door.
Holding his breath so long it hurt, Martin grasped the dead bolt and twisted it slowly to the right. Every nerve in his body was sizzling like overloaded wires as he waited for the lock to click open.
He was swept up in a wave of vertigo and was afraid that he would pass out before he could get the door open and confronted whomever was out there on his doorstep. They must have heard him undo the lock, he thought, so they would have plenty of time to run away before he got the door open.
Martin jumped when the lock clicked, sounding as sharp as the snap of a whip. He reached quickly for the doorknob, gave it a savage twist, and pulled back to throw the door open.
But the doorknob slipped from his hand as if it were greased.
Momentarily confused, Martin stood back. He was breathing so heavily his throat made a dull roaring sound. Sweat tickled his ribs as it ran down the inside of his shirt. The sound of the knocking continued so loud now it made his vision jump in time with it.
The shotgun felt suddenly heavy in his hand, and he placed it on the flood, leaning it against the wall within easy reach. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants legs before taking hold of the doorknob again and giving it another violent turn.
The cylinder mechanism clicked, and this time when he pulled back, he kept his grip. Still, the door wouldn’t open.
Martin cursed under his breath, but he could barely hear his own voice above the constant pounding on the door. He could feel the deep vibration, like a wasp sting in the palm of his hand, but he ignored it as he twisted the doorknob back and forth several times, all the while pulling back with all his strength.
Still, the door wouldn’t open.
It wouldn’t even budge.
This isn’t possible, Martin thought, sure that the person on there on the steps still banging on the door was also holding the door shut with his other hand so Martin couldn’t open it.
Panting heavily, Martin shifted to his left. Bending low, he peered out the side window. The night was dense and black except for the distant orange glow of fire on the horizon. As far as he could see, there was no one out them.
The doorstep was empty.
A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow from the edge of the porch roof. The ice crystals glittered like diamond dust in the flickering orange glow before drifting down into darkness. For just an instant, Martin imagined that the shower of snow had assumed a vague human form. He cleared his throat, preparing to call out, but his voice was locked up inside his chest.
The knocking continued without letup.
Martin jumped and let out a startled yelp when he saw an alley cat leap from the trash cans to the top of the fence that bordered his property. But even if the sound had stopped, he knew that the cat couldn’t have been the one doing it.
Shivering wildly, he moved back to the door. After making sure the dead bolt and chain lock were unlocked, he grasped the doorknob with both hands. The muscles in his wrists and forearms knotted like twisted wire as shivering vibrations from the knocking ran up his arms to his shoulders and neck.
A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he ratcheted the doorknob quickly back and forth. The door couldn’t have been shut tighter if he’d had it nailed shut. Bracing one foot against the doorjamb, he leaned back and pulled with everything he had. Still, the door wouldn’t budge.
Who’s out there? Why are you doing this? Martin wanted to call out, but his throat felt flayed and raw.
He could hardly breathe, and his heart was thudding heavily in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder, rolling like booms of thunder through the dark house and keeping time with his hammering pulse.
Every muscle in Martin’s body tensed as he pulled, leaning back as far as he could, struggling to open the door. He suck in shallow gulps of air that felt like he was sipping fire. Finally, in a high, broken voice, he forced out a whisper.
“Mother?“
The instant those words left his mouth, the knocking ceased. Leaden silence merged with the darkness and filled the air.
The silence stretched out in a horrible vacuum.
Then, from every door in the house, from the hall closet, from the basement and attic, from the kitchen pantry and bathroom closet, came knocking.
Martin screamed until his voice choked off. Blind panic swept over him. He made a fist and raised it high above his head, and then brought it down hard against the door.
“Let me out!“ he shrieked.
Tears stung his eyes like acid as he brought his fist down, time and again, against the door. He knocked so hard it wasn’t long before his fist was bruised and bloodied.
“Let...me...out!“ he cried, gasping between breaths. “Let...me...out!“
He was sobbing and mumbling incoherently as he collapsed forward and pressed his head against the cold, unyielding wood of the door while continuing to pound the door with both fists. His body convulsed, burning with exhaustion and the horrible terror of being trapped.
The only sound inside the house was the steadily weakening blows he made against the door as he slid slowly down to the floor. He couldn’t even hear himself as, as he continued to hammer on the door, “Who’s ...out...there...?
Only silence.
A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow into Martin’s face. The ice crystals glittered like blue diamond dust in the glow of the distant fires before drifting away into the darkness at his feet.
Martin cleared his throat, preparing to call out, but the cold night air froze his throat and lungs, making it impossible for him to utter a sound.
He jumped when an alley cat suddenly leaped from the trash cans to the top of the fence that bordered his property. But Martin knew that the cat couldn’t have been the one knocking.
Shivering wildly, he surveyed the front steps and walkway one last time, then, shivering, ducked back into the house and slammed the door shut. He made sure he locked both the deadbolt and the chain lock, and was just about to turn around when he heard a muffled sound close behind him.
Nearly paralyzed with fear, he turned around slowly as the soft knocking sound filled the entryway. It took him a moment or two to realize that the sound was coming from inside the closet in the hallway.
A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he stared in terror at the closed door. It looked like a block of solid , black marble in the dense darkness, but there was no mistaking.
The knocking was coming from inside the closet! Martin was too frightened to remember that he was holding the shotgun in his hands. Churning nausea filled him when he realized that, only a few moments ago, he had been sitting on the floor, leaning against that same door.
No! No! His mind screamed, but he was unable to utter a sound.
His heart was pounding heavily in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder.
More insistent.
Keeping time with his hammering pulse.
He would have screamed then, but his throat closed off as if powerful, unseen fingers were wrapped around it and squeezing...squeezing tighter...
Martin lost all sense of time as he stood there trembling with his back pressed hard against the front door and stared at the blank, black closet door.
The knocking grew steadily louder...and louder...until it thundered through the house like the echoes of distant cannon shot.
Martin sucked in a shallow breath that felt like he was sipping fire. Then, in a faint, broken voice, he softly whispered, “Who...who’s there?“
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the knocking abruptly stopped, and leaden silence filled the house.
It was then and only then in the sudden void of total silence that Martin began to scream.