The Complex Read Online Free PDF Page B

them from television, and seeing other people with them. Indeed, it seems like everybody these days owns a cell phone. She sees people with them at the grocery store every week, and at the park where she stops once a week to feed the ducks, and everywhere else. Most heartbreaking—or perhaps annoying—are the parents with cell phones, their attention focused on the tiny screens instead of their own children. More nonsense.
    Mrs. Carlucci fumbles with the receiver and manages to lift it from the cradle. She brings the phone to her ear and hears a dial tone. Silently thanking God and the Holy Mother, she dials 911. There is a pause, and then she gets a recorded message informing her that the call cannot be completed as dialed. She feels her panic start to return, and glances down at Hannibal in an effort to stay focused. It works, and she feels a sense of resolve. She tries calling again, but now there is no dial tone at all. Instead, she hears a blaring fast busy signal. Apparently, the lines are down. Either that, or they are overloaded. Mrs. Carlucci considers this. If there are naked people with weapons running around all over Red Lion, then it stands to reason that the phone lines are overloaded. Still, the experience is disconcerting, and only adds to her fright. She has only experienced an outage once since living in Pine Village—during a very long week in January 2014, when the Polar Vortex turned all of Central Pennsylvania into a disaster area, and eight feet of snow and ice, downed trees, and below zero temperatures led to a temporary loss of not just phone service, but electricity and other utilities, as well.
    She hangs up the phone as the naked people begin battering Stephanie’s door. Glass shatters, and she assumes its either Stephanie’s living room or kitchen window. Her breath catches in her throat as she wonders if they’ll come to her window next. It occurs to her that Stephanie is no longer screaming. Indeed, she’s not making any noise at all. The only sounds now are those of the crowd outside, and the weed whacker. The naked people don’t speak. They simply growl and shout.
    Mrs. Carlucci hurries out of the kitchen, moving as quietly as she can. Hannibal follows her, but he doesn’t entwine himself between her feet. She retreats to her bedroom. Usually, the bedroom smells of cranberry and rose petal potpourri. Now, however, the only thing she can smell is the bitter, ammoniac stench of the two litter boxes in the spare bedroom. With some effort, she kneels on the floor, ignoring the sudden pain that flares up in her knees and lower back, and peers beneath her bed. Queenie, Princess, and King are hiding beneath it, pressed back against the wall. Only their eyes and a tuft of Princess’s white fur are visible in the darkness.
    “You three stay under there,” she tells them.
    Hannibal nuzzles her cheek with his nose and meows. Mrs. Carlucci turns to him, purses her lips, and makes a kissing noise. Hannibal responds by pressing his nose against her mouth and purring.
    “You stay here, too. Protect the others.”
    She swears, not for the first time, that Hannibal understands what she’s saying. He doesn’t crawl underneath the bed to hide with the others, but he does leap up onto the mattress and position himself on the comforter. His eyes remain alert. One corner of his mouth is curled up in a sneer, revealing a long, pointed incisor. His tail whips back and forth in agitation.
    “Good boy.”
    He meows once, confirming that he is indeed a good boy, and that it’s about time she recognized it.
    Groaning, Mrs. Carlucci stumbles to her feet and opens the drawer on her nightstand. Inside is Mr. Carlucci’s Colt .45 revolver. He taught her to fire it many years ago, and she used to accompany him to the range twice a year to practice shooting at cans. She has not held it since he passed. She pulls the weapon from the drawer. It feels cold against her skin, and heavier than she remembered. Mrs.