Turn Down the Lights Read online

  “I don’t see anyone,” Rick said. He glanced at Stephen for a moment and then back at the empty, ruined house. “They searched to make sure the area was clear, you know.”

  Stephen didn’t reply, but he watched the house closely as they passed by. He didn’t see any other sign of movement or occupation, no indication of life at all.

  The valley rose around what had once been a thriving community of a thousand people. Nearby was the decaying nuclear power plant on the river, the focus of the media’s visit today. Summer sunlight reflected off the water and heat waves shimmered over what remained of the paved roads. Much of the forest was growing back, reclaiming everything it could, but there were still large sections of land scarred by the government’s massive carpet-bombing of the rebel army.

  The U.N. had needed four cargo helicopters to transport the reporters for today’s series of ready-made news stories, and this town was the last stop on the tour. So far they had visited an overpopulated refugee camp, a motorcycle factory converted into a military headquarters during the war, and a water treatment plant bombed back to the Stone Age by one of the many rebel factions.

  Stephen was in a competitive profession—getting an original shot was tough even when you took hundreds or thousands of digital photos every day—but he hated the way his colleagues treated these location visits like a group of tourists on vacation. Being in this terrible wasteland was pushing Stephen to his limits.

  Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the scarred bodies of children burned by the bombings; he saw grieving widows; he saw houses that would never be homes again; he saw men and boys and women and girls missing limbs.

  Other people’s lives echoed through his thoughts like ghosts. Every burned-out car in the middle of a street told a story. Every collapsed building. Every rotting skeleton on a scarred sidewalk. Every improvised burial site.

  Stephen knew he wasn’t supposed to get emotional about these things—it was his work, his business, his job—but the horrors had begun to haunt his nights. Sometimes, during the worst of the nightmares, he couldn’t even tell if he was awake or asleep.

  When Stephen was a teenager, his father had once told him that death was actually a single moment of eternity and there was nothing you could do in that moment but accept your fate. If your time was up, your time was up. Back then Stephen had thought his father was being melodramatic, but not anymore.

  Terror and death were everywhere all around him, all the time, whether his eyes were open or closed, and he just wanted to go home to be with his family, to leave this land of destruction behind forever.

  Although he could speak with Tracy and Rebecca almost every evening via the Internet video chat, it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to experience all the important moments in their lives he was missing. He wanted to hold them again. He never wanted to let them go, not ever.

  Soon Stephen would be headed home, though. A truce between the rebels and the government had been signed, so his work here was almost finished. Readers were losing interest, too. Stories about the aftermath of the war and the rebuilding effort weren’t getting nearly as many hits on the newspaper’s website.

  But until the big bosses at the paper said he was done, Stephen had a job to do and he wanted to do it the best he could.

  The herd of reporters entered the old town square overgrown with wild grasses and bushes badly in need of tending. In the center of the square was a tall statue of a soldier, but almost no one in the group paid the monument any attention. They could now see the power plant’s four concrete towers in the distance. Everyone murmured excitedly.

  Everyone except for Stephen, who was studying the ruins around the town square, searching for anyone else who might be hiding and watching them. Insects buzzed around his head and the sunlight beat against his face. He felt disconnected from the world. Everything around him seemed to be shifting one step away from reality and then taking one big step back.

  I need to get out of here, Stephen thought. I have to submit my request for reassignment before it’s too late or I might never leave this country.

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he felt a little better. He just had to make it through this one last stop on today’s tour of horrors and then theyd be headed back to the Green Zone and the hotel.

  At least their visit to this town would be quick. Several times they had been cautioned about the continuing danger from the radiation. Fear guaranteed they wouldn’t stick around too long.

  They were also frequently reminded by their guides of how the United Nations had dramatically flown into the Hot Zone after the power plant’s meltdown to evacuate the community, losing two helicopters in the process. One had exploded on the ground and the other had been shot down by a rebel’s surface-to-air missile stolen from an old military stockpile, but in the end, hundreds of townspeople had been saved.

  The anniversary of the heroic rescue was the prepackaged story for this leg of the media field trip. Most of the journalists would run with it. Using the prepared news was easier than digging for something deeper, and in the end, you got paid the same either way.

  The reporters stomped forward through the overgrown grasses of the town square to get a better look at the power plant, but this was as far as they could go. The road beyond the square was a live minefield.

  An advance team had left a row of red cones marked with international warning signs on the pavement. “Past this point awaits death” was the gist, no matter what your language. There were also rows of red flags indicating the locations of several mines right after the cones, just to make sure the point was loud and clear. The advance team would have only marked the mines closest to where the visitors might be, though. There could be (and probably were) many more long forgotten explosive devices beyond the town square.

  Twenty yards into the danger zone were the shredded remains of the U.N. helicopter that had exploded during the town’s evacuation. The burnt and twisted metal had rusted with the passage of time.

  Next to the helicopter was a wrecked pick-up truck. The tires were flat and the bed and cab were spotted with holes from the improvised explosive device that had ripped it apart. The windows of the nearby apartment building were shattered and the bricks were dotted with shrapnel.

  As Stephen wiped the sweat away from his eyes, he studied the group he was traveling with. They were taking pictures and making notes, joking with each other in a variety of languages while standing next to a monument dedicated to the town’s war dead from the nation’s past conflicts. The whole idea of what they were doing in this devastated place felt surreal.

  “Think you should take some more shots, Mr. Photographer?” Rick asked, scribbling a few names off the monument into his notebook.

  Stephen recognized the angle Rick had chosen for his report and he started snapping photographs to illustrate it: the tall monument from a low view, the remains of the wooden fence that once surrounded the town square, and the charred framework of the burned buildings. When possible, he included the four concrete towers looming in the distance.

  Actually, with the camera’s zoom lenses, he could see the old power plant quite well. The island’s native vegetation had already overgrown the buildings and the ivy and vines would camouflage the towers before too long.

  Stephen turned away and snapped photographs of a rusted car sitting in the middle of the street with all four doors open. The seats had been partially devoured by the weather and a flowering plant was growing out of the back window. Not a bad shot, but nothing special. He had seen it a thousand times before.

  “Okay, time to return to our rides,” the lead media liaison announced in his thick accent. “As we take off, try to imagine what it felt like for all the townspeople who were rescued from certain death in some of these same helicopters.”

  “You get the shots you wanted?” Rick asked while he packed up his notebook for the flight back to the Green Zone base where they’d spend the night.

  �
�I have enough,” Stephen replied. He stood by the monument while everyone else dutifully filed back to the street, which would take them to the field outside of town where the helicopters waited, their powerful engines still revved and ready to go.

  He was the last person standing in the overgrown town square. He took a final shot of the lonely remains of the destroyed rescue helicopter before he started back athrough the tall grasses.

  As he neared the cracked road out of town, something hidden at the edge of the grass reflected a ray of sunlight. He knelt and picked up a silver necklace and held it above his head. The chain with the crucifix was probably very old, possibly a treasured gift that had been passed from mother to daughter.

  Stephen slipped the necklace into his pocket and he glanced around, expecting Rick to be waiting for him, but the group was already nearing the top of the hill, more than two blocks away. No one had noticed that he wasn’t with them.

  A slight wave of panic rose inside of Stephen, but he found that he couldn’t move. His legs were like marble and he didn’t understand why.

  He thought he heard a voice on the breeze brushing past him. Someone calling for him from the group? No, the sound was behind him.

  He looked toward the power plant and there she was.

  The little girl.

  She was standing in the middle of the street, her wide eyes showing her terror. She remained motionless a few feet from the pick-up truck as their eyes met.

  She was as real as anyone Stephen had ever seen. He turned toward the reporters and U.N. personnel walking briskly over the hill.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” he yelled. He jumped in the air, waving his arms. “Hey, you guys!”

  No one responded. They obviously couldn’t hear him over the noise from the revving helicopters.

  “Please help me,” the little girl called.

  Stephen hurried to the edge of the town square where the red cones and warning signs awaited him. He took a good look at the street and the sidewalks lining it.

  Hundreds of mortar shells had peppered the street during the war and the holes left behind from the explosions were eventually filled with dirt. Those dirt sections—some large, some small, some nearly the width of the street—seemed to be where the mines had been planted, at least based on the location of the red flags around the town square.

  Stephen turned again to the group of people topping the hill.

  “Hey!” he screamed as he jumped and frantically waved his arms. The group kept moving like they had already forgotten the town.

  “Please,” the little girl whimpered.

  Stephen knew there wasn’t any time to waste. He took a deep breath and stepped past the cones and the warning signs, moving slowly, making sure his shoes connected with firm pavement. When he reached the little girl, he dropped to one knee so they were both about the same height. Her skin was dirty and her eyes wide.

  “I need help,” she said very quietly, as if she was afraid to raise her voice.

  “Come here,” Stephen said, taking her small hand into his own. Her bright blue eyes were filled with tears. Her gaunt skin was tight against her bones. “I’ll take you to the helicopters and they’ll fly you to safety.”

  “No!” The little girl yanked her hand free, but she didn’t attempt to run away.

  “We need to go right now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  With a trembling hand, the little girl pointed at her battered tennis shoes, which were speckled with dried blood. She was standing on a slight mound of dirt that had shifted under her weight.

  “I heard it click,” she whispered.

  “Oh shit.”

  Stephen stood and looked toward the top of the hill. He saw no one. He could hear the rotors speeding up as the helicopters prepared to leave.

  In his panic, he took a step without thinking, almost started to run, but then he remembered where he was and he stopped cold. Between him and safety were all those holes filled with dirt, the red flags near the town square, the cones with their warning signs facing away from him. He was definitely on the wrong side of the safe zone.

  “Please don’t leave me,” the little girl whispered.

  “I have to get some help. Don’t move, okay? Not one inch. I’ll be right back. I promise I won’t leave you here.”

  Stephen’s quick footsteps were carefully placed as he navigated his way past where he believed the mines had been buried. His eyes were locked on the ground and sweat poured off his face.

  By the time he reached the town square, the first helicopter had risen above the tree line. If Stephen was lucky, they’d fly his way and someone would spot him. Even if they flew in the other direction, he should still be okay, though. The U.N. media liaisons were supposed to do a head count on each helicopter, just to be safe. When they did that, they would realize they were one person short and they’d count again.

  Stephen knew he couldn’t depend on Rick to realize his photographer was missing since they had ridden on different helicopters at least twice today and there was no assigned seating, but one of the media liaisons would notice. They’d have to notice. Taking care of the journalists was their job, after all.

  Stephen raced across the town square while the other two helicopters rose into the sky. They headed south, away from the town.

  “Dammit,” he whispered, breaking into a sprint, pushing himself as hard as he could, his legs churning under him, his camera swinging around his neck. He had been a track and field star in high school, winning several races at the regional level and even finishing in the top three for the high jump twice, but he hadn’t stayed in that kind of shape since he married and entered the workforce.

  Stephen reached the top of the hill where the town’s main street became a winding road that passed by a creek and the U.N.’s improvised landing field before twisting into the woods and continuing to an old highway five miles away. He started down the other side of the hill as the last helicopter lifted off.

  “Hey! Hey, you idiots! You were supposed to count!” he screamed, running toward the field of overgrown grass and forgotten farm equipment. The helicopter continued up and then turned south, following the first three. Stephen jumped and waved his arms like a madman, but still, no one saw him.

  “No, dammit! Down here!”

  The last helicopter vanished over the hills, the sound of the rotors quickly fading away. Stephen was left standing alone in the field full of muddy boot prints, trampled weeds, and abandoned tractors. A candy wrapper blew past him on the summer breeze.

  Dammit, God dammit, Stephen thought, rushing back to town. He topped the hill and was relieved to see the little girl hadn’t moved. His legs were beginning to ache, but he didn’t slow until he reached the memorial in the town square.

  He stopped and lifted his camera, focused on the girl, and snapped a couple of shots. If for some reason he didn’t make it back, he wanted his photographs to survive. They would tell the story of what had happened. He placed his camera on the wooden bench near the statue.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Stephen called to the girl as he carefully navigated his way to where she stood. “Stay very, very still. I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Please don’t leave me again,” the little girl whispered, her voice trembling.

  “I won’t.” Stephen knelt in front of her, wiped her tears away. “What’s your name?”

  “Lilly.” Her voice cracked. Her legs were shaking.

  “That’s a pretty name. Listen to me, Lilly. You can’t move. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “You heard something click when you stepped on the dirt?”

  “Yes. The bad click. Like the one that killed my Mommy. The one Daddy taught me about.”

  “How did you get here? Where’s your father now?”

  “Daddy’s a soldier.”

  “Does he wear a uniform?”

  “Before Mommy died.”

  “What abou
t after your mom died?”

  “Daddy took me and my brothers to some cabins in the woods with some other soldiers.”

  Oh shit, Stephen thought. Her father joined one of the rebel groups.

  “Then they went to fight the bad men and they never came back.”

  “How long have they been gone?”

  “Since winter. I came here to find them.”

  Stephen thought about the last major offensive against the rebels before the truce, five months ago. That battle wasn’t too far from this town, maybe ten miles, just outside the capitol city. One last stand on the bloody riverbanks and small islands, a night of gunfire and explosions and bloodshed. He shot a lot of graphic photos afterwards, far too graphic to appear in the legitimate news, but there were plenty of websites that would have bought them if he had been selling. He had deleted most of the photos at the hotel that same night.

  When Stephen looked at this little girl, he saw the bodies and the blood and the destruction on the riverbanks. He didn’t even have to close his eyes. He might have photographed her brothers or her father for all he knew.

  “Mommy died over there,” Lilly said, pointing. “We were walking to the market and a bomb in the ground clicked and she told me to get away real fast.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stephen said. He put his hands on his knees to steady himself against a wave of dizziness. The street was so damn hot. The tar in the pavement’s cracks was bubbling and the heat shimmered in the air like dancing phantoms. His armpits were damp and his pulse was racing; he could hear his heart beating in his ears. His fingers shook, just a little.

  “Please help me,” Lilly whispered. Her resemblance to Rebecca was scary and Stephen had to stop himself from calling her by the wrong name. “Daddy told me not to move if I heard a click when I was walking. He said he’d help me.”

  “It’s good you didn’t move. Are you sure you heard a click?”

  “Yes. Like Mommy’s.”

  “No problem, Lilly, you’re going to be okay. Trust me.”

  She nodded, believing him in the way children are trained to believe adults, but then, before she could speak again, her body began to sway and her eyelids fluttered, her eyes bulged and rolled. Her arms swooped outward, her legs bent at the knees, and she started to collapse.