Free Alone by Brian Keene Page B

angry. The power is out, and this makes me even angrier. And even if the power was on, the classic rock station out of Harrisburg is playing Def Leppard and Bon Jovi these days. When did Def fucking Leppard become classic rock anyway? Classic rock is Jimi Hendrix and Led Zepplin. And Bon Jovi? That was what straight guys listened to when they wanted to get laid back in the Eighties. It certainly isn’t something I want to wake up to in the morning.
    “Hello,” he called again as he entered the living room, not really expecting a response. “Anybody home? Come out, come out wherever you are.”  
    He made his way into the kitchen, and looked for a note on the refrigerator, but found none. The appliance was covered with the same old magnets and take-out menus. Hanging from the center of the door was a crayon drawing Danielle had made of the three of them. He’d hung it up there only a few weeks ago, and the three of them had decorated it with gold stars and glitter. Sighing, Dan opened the cupboard, and noticed that the hinges on the cupboard door didn’t squeak like normal.  
    Jerry must have oiled them yesterday. Probably got sick of waiting for me to do it. But that’s not my fault. He knows how busy I’ve been with work.
    Dan pulled out a jar of instant coffee, and dropped two spoonfuls into a mug. He hated how instant coffee tasted, but with no power, he had little choice. Then he turned on the hot water tap. Nothing happened.
    “Oh, for crying out loud! There’s no water either?”
    He slammed the mug down on the counter. The noise was quiet, muted, and not at all satisfying, so he slammed it down again. It still wasn’t loud enough to express his anger. The mug didn’t rattle or crack. The impact seemed suppressed, as if both the counter and the mug were made of rubber. It occurred to him that his alarm clock had made a similar sound when he’d tossed it across the bedroom minutes before. Dan stuck the tip of his pinky finger in each ear and wiggled it around, thinking that perhaps his ears were plugged. The sensation felt good, but when he pulled his finger out and examined it, there was very little wax, and his hearing hadn’t changed.
    Shrugging, Dan decided to call time and temperature, find out how late he was, and then call the power and water companies before he left for work. Luckily, the kitchen phone wasn’t a cordless, and it didn’t need electricity to work. He lifted the phone from its cradle and brought it to his ear. All he heard was more silence. Dan toyed with it, trying to get a dial tone, but to no avail. The phone slipped from his hand, and tumbled to the floor without a sound. The first twinge of unease gnawed at him. The dead utilities and his missing family ... What the hell was going on? Had there been an accident or something? A terrorist attack? No, he was just being silly. There had to be a logical explanation. He just needed to wake up. Then things would make sense.
    He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. Still pondering the situation, he brought the carton to his lips, drank, grimaced, and then spit the juice out in the sink. It had no taste. It wasn’t rancid. It was just— tasteless . The milk and soda had the same effect when he tried them. Even the bottled water tasted strange—flat. He grabbed a cold chicken drumstick, and took a bite.
    “Ugh!”  
    Disgusted, he threw it into the garbage can. The chicken was also tasteless. Like chewing on a piece of paper. Could the stuff in the fridge have gone bad already? Just how long had the power been out? How long had he been asleep? And for that matter, where had the chicken come from? As far as Dan remembered, they’d had lasagna last night. Where were those leftovers?
    “Jerry?” He called out again, not expecting an answer. “Danielle? Are you guys here?”
    No response.
    Sighing, he tightened the belt of his robe and decided to get the newspaper. Maybe there had been a thunderstorm