4

We dumped our things on the floor, set our instrument cases against walls, shed jackets upon the waiting backs of chairs, and watched for Steve's return. Matt picked up the classical guitar he took from the buildings basement and held it at eye level. "We may as well get ready before he shows."

Matt tuned. I dug around in my pockets for a pick, finally finding one stuffed in my wallet between an ancient discount card and someone's phone number. Guy paced by the window, looking out at every pass.

"It's getting bad out there." He was right; the wind was causing traffic lights in the distance to run parallel to the ground, caused mounds of leaves to hover past parked cars and silent buildings,

The stairs creaked. Sounds of plastic on wood echoed through the hall, crowding behind Steve as he exited the staircase and entered the room. He set his guitar case on a desk flush with the wall.

Steve and Matt went outside briefly to make sure they were in tune with each other. I never bothered joining them, for some reason; I always thought that if my bass was out of tune, I could probably adjust easily enough. Fast enough, I mean--they have six strings, I have four. Whatever.

Guy dragged a seat to the far corner and sat. "I'll just hang out."

Steve looked around and took a seat on the floor. "What about the chairs? I mean...."

Guy shook his head. "I think I'll just hang out." Guy was an irritable sort, for the record.

We started playing as the windowpane trembled. Matt and Steve strummed their guitars with focused precision, shucking the folky acoustic trappings for an overlapping, hypnotic swirl. I drizzled my bass part on top like a trail of chocolate syrup on a banana split, my plastic pick accenting each note in the absence of an amplifier.

But something was wrong, aside from the steady thumping of debris against glass less than 10 feet away. We'd only been playing together for half a year, as Matt told people. That wasn't the case, really--we'd been playing together for half of that. Three months, give or take a few weeks, because of a summer spent in various parts of the country. We formed in theory at the end of last school year, and cemented it as an actuality at the end of the summer.

"You guys need drums," Guy hissed from his corner cave. He was right. We also needed amplifiers; we meshed well since September, but most of our impact was based on guitar sonics alone.

This led to a number of unmentioned questions and convictions. And we kept silent.

Matt stopped playing and motioned for the rest of us to cut it. "I need to write words for that one."

Steve shook out the tension in his left hand, his fretting hand. "Do you have a name for it?"

"'Respite,' I think." Matt didn't sound to sure. He stared out the window. The sun was no where in sight.

I docked my eyes outside as well. "Yeah, this is definitely the sort of weather that causes the power to go out."

An electrical hiss and snap volleyed from somewhere downstairs. The light array hanging from the ceiling shut off, casting the room to the mercy of the faint glow issuing through the window. A low hum tapered off from the bulbs, underscoring the faint drone beyond the glass.

Matt peeked out of the door, stood up, walked out in the hall and called back, "The whole building is out." Footsteps marked his progress through the floor. "Looks like most of the campus is out too."

I could barely see the traffic lights swinging in the distance. They were no longer lit. "Same goes for the town."

Guy's voice reported from the corner: "Shit." The word hung in the dark.

"Should we get back to our dorm?"

"No," I said. "Why travel through that--" I pointed to the window "--to get a building with no power? We're already in a building with no power."

Steve looked at me like I had just asked a naive, nearly-offensive question. "Because our stuff is there?"

"Oh, stuff. Right." I stood and rested the neck of my bass against the chalkboard. "I need to get to my stuff too. Like my toothpaste. See you guys around."

Matt crossed his arms and drifted over the window. "I wonder if this is messing up their work." He rocked on his toes, looked toward the old practice gym we perched in front of this morning. I realized we hadn't mentioned the death in almost an hour.

I wasn't the only one that came to that conclusion. Steve stood and paused mid-stride, like he was ready to pounce across the room and instead chose to let the energy bleed off. "Are we alone in the building?"

We were silent. Then Guy answered, tenative--"I think I saw the secretary when I came in. I mean, she's always here. Usually."

There were noises downstairs, the gentle click and rustling of inanimate objects that you only seem to notice when no one is around. "Maybe not this time."

I joined Matt at the window. A few students ran in the distance, both headed for the nearest shelter. "I think we should stay here, in the building. If we head out into that...." I didn't need to finish. There was a sound of glass spiderwebbing in the next room, like someone had cushioned a hammer blow against the window with a pillow.

Steve reached for his guitar and placed it back into the case, the velvet lining receiving it unconditionally. He was shaking.

I continued. "But we're going to stay downstairs. Wait by the door. Wait for the wind and rain to die down."