The Turning

18

18

“You’re back,” the old man muttered from behind the door. Kyle beat a first at the frame again, his knuckles cut and bleeding.

“THEY’RE COMING! ALL THE PEOPLE THEY’RE GOT FUCKIN GUNS, LEMME IN QUICK!”

For a moment he was terribly sure for some reason that Brett was going to leave him out here. Then he heard the crack and shriek of locks unbolting and Brett’s face poked out, lined and serious.

“Whaddya say, they’re wha-“
"SHUT IT!”
Kyle threw himself inside and pushed the door closed. Brett, who had been leaning on the knob, almost toppled backward.

“Jesus Christ, wait a minute!” he bellowed. He closed the door and began to re-bolt the locks. Then he turned to Kyle. His chest was heaving, having caught the boys panic as though it were contagious.

“Now tell me what! Quick!”
Kyle was just opening his mouth to reply when the sound of gunfire breaking the stillness made them both jump. The old man felt his heart hitch uncomfortably, paining him for a second and then passing.

“f**k me,” Brett said through gritted teeth. 
The gun went off again and this time the long window above his kitchen bench blew inwards.

“You! Up the stairs. Quick! Don’t stop!”

Kyle hesitated and then lunged towards the banister. He mounted five of the steps and glanced back. The old man had taken a picture off the wall, a black and white still of the Murrumbidgee River flooding in 1950. Steadily in spite of the oncoming threats, he reached a hand inside and removed a loose board. He slid a hand back in and withdrew a hessian bag with something heavy inside.

Brett jerked his head up towards him.

“MOVE!”

Another gun-blast and another faint jangling of glass from somewhere above. A succession of gunshots rang out as the crowd closed in on Brett Stephens’s yard. The walls began to hammer and another bullet struck the fridge. A sound like steam whistling from a pipe filled the kitchen.

Brett began to put the gun together and Kyle hurried further up the steps. He tripped on the third before arriving at the top, landing hard on his knees, the carpet burning his skin raw. The old man was hurrying behind him now, the weapon from another era cradled in his arms. Kyle thought of racing down and helping him but decided he wouldn't appreciate that. Besides, he was ambling himself upwards at a pace that was not quick but surprisingly agile for a man of his age and disposition. Kyle darted into a darkened hallway and saw two doors on either wall along with one at the far end.

"Where?" he called. Another array of gunfire, the sound of wood chipping and exploding downstairs. A smell of gunpowder combined with shredded pine and dust threatened the onset of sneezing.

“The bedroom,” the old man whispered. Kyle, who had been given an unofficial tour of the place earlier that day while helping him pack, hurried towards it, his shadow gliding along the wall followed by the shambling, hunched shape of the old man. He burst into an average sized room that was dark save for a single lamp sitting on a desk, casting a yellow glow over some papers and pens that had been left scattered. A half bottle of beer stood beside an over-spilling ashtray.

From this height, he could look out and not only see the townspeople beating fists and weapons against the chain-link but an almost semi-aerial view of Wilton. His heart raced at the sight before him. People were converging on the house from almost every direction, leaving their doors open or their cars running, pans on stoves, children unsupervised. It was as though a beacon had begun to signal in their minds and they had dropped everything to conform to the task at hand, taking knives and bats and hammers or rifles at their disposal. Watching them reminded him of the spiders that had come out from underneath that car parked in the middle of the road.

“Come back! Don’t get close there or they’ll aim for yer” the old man whispered. He shrunk back into the slight shadow of the room, unable to peel his eyes from the unfolding scene below. As of yet, no one had gotten past the fence. The gate was locked and the chain-link was too dense for adult fingers to gain a grip on and climb. So they stood there, yelling and screaming, beating at it.

"They'll come around the front," the old man moaned. Kyle spun around and saw that Brett had slid down the doorway, his hand pressed against the center of his chest, the old hessian bag lying by the door, forgotten. His other hand was clenched tight, his eyes bulging, inhaling air in quick, harsh succession.

"Are y-you all-"

“Heart,” the old man wheezed. Hesitantly, Kyle knelt beside the old man and inspected him closely like the world’s youngest GP. He knew all about heart attacks; Mr Johnston, who had been the school's old groundskeeper, had suffered one the year before while mowing the cricket pitch, only his father had said that he had just collapsed and that Mr Hugh’s, the sports teacher, had found him while walking the year four students to the oval for a game of soccer. Mr Johnston had lived but in a vegetative state, having suffered problems ever since.

“What can I do?”

“Are they coming?” Brett asked, nodding to the window. Kyle turned and crawled towards the windowsill. He hesitated before sneaking a glance and then ducked back down again.

The gunfire had ceased, but people were trying to climb over the fence now. Much to his surprise, some had managed half-way up the fence but simply hung there, unable to hold themselves in place.

“I don’t think they can get in,” he told Brett.

“They can and they will, boy,” Stephens said softly, and then cried out as another excruciating wave rolled through his left arm and across his chest.

“What should I do?” the boy begged, as though suspecting that the old man was keeping the answer to himself.

“Get downstairs,” Brett breathed. “Call cops. An ambo.”
“But they’ll get in down there!” Kyle cried. Suddenly the old man’s face flushed crimson and he frowned.

“They won’t! This house is barricaded! The front door has four-inch steel on the inside of the wood, the windows on the bottom are barred!”

Kyle realized that the old man was right. Although he had never really taken much notice, both the kitchen window and the window facing Giles Street had bars covering them just as had been the necessary precaution in the old days when the building had been a bank. The entire backyard was enclosed by a fence and the only other way was by somehow getting onto the roof.

Kyle stepped over the old man and darted for the stairs, almost tripping over his sprawled frame.

“What’s your address?” Kyle said, halting abruptly. He caught the whisper of the old man’s muffled response and then hurried on. He leaped from the fourth step and landed hard enough on his feet so that pain vined upwards. A house phone sat on a bureau with china displayed behind glass cabinets. Ignoring the pain in his feet, he hurried over and plucked up the receiver. Listening to the dial-tone, he closed his eyes and for the first time in his life, prayed.