Curfew - a short story

When the bells start ringing, you better be somewhere safe.

Photo - Unsplash - Lasse Moller

Emily is still on the highway when the first bell rings. She has the road to herself. She hasn’t seen another car for half an hour. No one would be foolish enough to still be on the highway when the bells start to ring. It’s a sentiment she’s heard her entire life, and ultimately, it comes down to this: Be somewhere safe when the bells start.

Emily curses herself for not leaving sooner. She knew the trip home would take at least eight hours. She needed to be on the road by hour three if she wanted to be safe at home before the bells started to ring. That was before the problem with her credit card at the gas station. That was before her flat tire. That was before she got lost.

So now, still thirty minutes from home, she breaks out in a cold sweat as the first bell rings. She has less than a minute left.

…

They’d been prepared for emergencies like this in school. Some days there were fire drills, some days there were tornado drills, some days there were active shooter drills, some days there were last bell drills.

“What do you do if you aren’t somewhere safe when the bells start?” The teacher would ask.

“Get somewhere safe by the last bell.” The class would parrot back.

“Where are the best places to ensure your safety?” The teacher would ask.

At this point, students would raise their hands to be called on with their answers.

“Somewhere with a safety net.” “Any house built in the last fifty years.” “A night-shelter.”

“And why can’t you just huddle up in your car, or out in the open? What happens if you don’t make it somewhere safe?” The teacher would ask, trying not to sound too ominous.

And at this point, the students would fall into one of two categories. The first one, the larger, more sensible category, was ‘the scared ones.’ Their eyes would dart back and forth, avoiding looking into the shadows around the room, scared of what might look back, even though the bells were still hours away, and the shadows held nothing any more threatening than spiders or dust mites.

The other category was ‘the brave ones.’ At least, that’s what they called themselves. Everyone else thought of them as ‘the foolish ones.’ The brave ones would start naming off what they thought really happened after the bells, all the while sporting huge grins on their faces.

“You could get lost in the darkness and wander around in the woods until you die.” “You’ll get your brain scrambled.” “Something will get you.” “The monsters come out.” “If you aren’t somewhere with a safety net, your bones get liquified and you have to be carried around in a bucket.” Or various other things that are equally gross or terrifying. But invariably, there would be someone claiming to have a firsthand account.

“One of my cousin’s friends was out for a hike and didn’t make it back home by the time the bells ended. Now they can’t close their eyes. They’re too scared of what will happen when they do. They have to wear special glasses that keep spritzing their eyes with water so they don’t dry out and fall out of their eye sockets.”

The teacher normally got the class under control about the time stories like that last one began.

“Sure, sure, sure. You’re welcome to believe whatever you wish, but the thing is, no one really knows what happens after the bells stop ringing. Anyone who says they do is lying. Everyone knows that if you’re not somewhere with a safety net or energy barrier by the time the bells stop, you’ll never be the same. Something happens when the bells stop ringing. Something that our minds can’t understand. And if you’re still out in the open when the bells stop ringing, those who survive the ordeal often wish they hadn’t, because they’ll be functionally brain-dead. If they’re lucky, they’ll live out their lives in relative comfort in an assisted living facility with others who found themselves outside a safety net when the bells stopped ringing. If they’re not lucky or their families can’t afford to put them in one of those facilities, they’ll be sent towards the coast, where they will wander for the remainder of their days.”

On the day of one particular last bell drill, Emily’s teacher kept talking, leaving the typical talking points, muttering to herself. Emily only heard what she said because she was in the front row. The rest of the class had devolved into side conversations about zombies, ghosts, and where they thought the sound of the bells really came from, but Emily ignored them and listened to her teacher.

“Some say if you go far enough, the world becomes perpetually dark, but no one really knows. No one has been able to make it farther than half a day beyond the border in half a century. I’ve wondered what would happen if you drove straight for the coast, as fast as you could… but…” But that was when the teacher seemed to come back to herself, shaking away the thoughts. But her eyes still seemed distant, questioning.

…

The look on her teacher’s face has always stuck with Emily, and it is what she finds herself thinking about as she speeds along the highway, racing the bells, racing for her life.

How many bells have there been? Emily thinks it’s three, but it might be four. Her car is up to 100 miles per hour now. Everyone, even the police, agrees that the speed limit is imaginary when the bells start ringing. The car trembles as she pushes it up to 120 and squints at the sign coming into view.

‘Night Shelter - Emergency Safety Net - Next Exit.’

“Finally, some good luck!” Emily sighs as she pushes the accelerator to the floor, pushing her car ever harder into the night. The car shivers, but she doesn’t slow down.

Seven bells. She’s sure of it. The seventh bell always rings a lower pitch than the others to let you know you’re halfway to the end of the bells. Halfway to the darkness. Halfway to the unknown. She switches on her blinker out of habit and laughs. Who’s even going to see it?

The car shudders as Emily presses the brake pedal, trying to gradually slow down the car without crashing. The car sprays gravel into the air as it slides onto the soft shoulder of the exit, still going almost sixty miles per hour. Regaining control, she follows the exit as it curves into the trees.

The shelter stands on a hill ahead of her, a small brick building, about twenty feet on each side, alone. No trees or cars anywhere near it. Its walls are the grey of government programs, neglect, and sadness all at the same time, but still, it makes her smile. She is going to make it!

On the ninth bell, she zooms into a parking spot and stomps on the brake pedal. The car jerks to a sudden stop, jarring her neck as her chest slams against the belt. She is out of the car and sprinting to the door by the tenth bell.

She makes it to the door and pulls it open just as the eleventh bell starts to ring. Or at least, she tries to. She pulls hard on the handle with both hands as the sound of the eleventh bell fades away around her. She curses loudly and screams for help, still pulling hard on the handle. The door shakes on its hinges, but doesn’t open. Adrenaline pumps through her veins, but the door stands resolutely in place.

The twelfth bell rings. It’s a lower pitch than any of the others, and louder as well. She’s only ever heard this bell from the other side of a safety net, which dampens the brilliance of the bells, though she’s hardly aware of this in her current state of panic.

She feels tears at the corners of her eyes, but they’re not from terror. Not these tears. They are in reaction to the utter beauty of the bell. It rings with frequencies unlike anything she’s ever experienced before. She hears a purity that doesn’t seem possible. She hears an immense choir in that ring. She hears an orchestra in that ring playing all the symphonies ever composed. She hears love poems and eulogies in that ring. She hears a million heartbeats, the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot, the tinkling of rain on rooftops. Every cry of joy, sadness, and fear. The entire history of the world, and its entire future, is in that ring.

As she blinks the tears from her eyes, she sees a piece of crumpled paper in the grass by the door. She bends over to pick it up, her entire life passing in the time it takes to grasp the paper. The bell still rings, though it is growing fainter with every moment.

She unfolds the paper and just barely has time to read it before a sharp ‘Thock’ penetrates her brain and echoes around her. The sound of the ‘Thock’ has everything wrong with it that the final bell had right. And with the ‘Thock,’ the light of the world winks out, and with it, every single light in the universe.

In the darkness, Emily thinks of the look on her teacher’s face, and then about the crumpled piece of paper still in her hand.

“Shelter closed for maintenance. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you. - The Agency.”

Emily laughs. It’s a dull laugh. It bears no levity. It is the laughter of a dead woman losing her mind in the hollows of impenetrable darkness, and then all is silent.

The end… for now.

Read my previous story - Food Truck Fry-Day

Read my next story - To The Woods

Author’s note: Don’t worry, this isn’t the last you’ll see of this world. (Perhaps not even the last you’ll see of Emily.) This all came from a kernel of an idea I had long ago but never pursued. Though I’ll be honest, I learned a whole lot more about this particular world as I wrote these 1,500-some odd words, and let me tell you, I’m excited to visit there again! In fact, I will be returning to this world tomorrow, November 1, 2025, when I begin writing the novel to tell the story of this world. I’m excited to learn its secrets.