The Billboard
by Mickey Fisher
Delmer Caudill drove past the digital billboard on his way out of Mineral City and just about kept right on going. He’d stayed up late to watch the news with Mary the night before then got up early, hoping to make it to the farmer’s market by six-thirty. He was exhausted and figured his eyes were playing tricks on him in the half-light. Then he looked in the rearview and saw it was still there and he remembered there wasn’t a billboard in that same spot yesterday, not even a foundation for one, just an open field covered in weeds. If the billboard was there it meant there was a good chance he saw exactly what he thought he saw playing out up on the screen.
He whipped the Ranger around in a wide u-turn as fast as he could manage, toppling over the bushels of tomatoes and zucchini that he’d carefully packed in the truck bed for the market. He skidded to a stop and looked up through the windshield before scrambling out of the truck for a second look, leaving the engine running and the door standing wide open on the side of Route 151. It felt like a sinkhole was opening up underneath Delmer’s feet, threatening to swallow everything he ever cared about.
There, on the billboard, was a series of short video clips, a highlight reel of the night he left The Dew Drop Inn after one too many beers and got behind the wheel of the Ranger to drive home. There was the dark section of Poplar where the streetlight had gone out and a figure standing in the road. There was the moment of impact and the part where Delmer got out of the car to see Dolores Richardson laying in the street, body bent in half, unconscious and bleeding from a crack in her skull. All from his point-of-view, like there was a camera behind his eyes that recorded the whole thing. The video stopped and a message appeared in bright red letters saying, “Delmer Caudill. Be here at 6pm to await further instructions.” Then the clips started playing all over again like the whole thing was on a loop.
It would have been bad enough if what had happened that night was common knowledge but Delmer was the only person who knew he’d left Dolores for dead. What with the adrenaline and alcohol coursing through his system he just wasn’t thinking right. He was scared of what Mary would do. Scared he’d lose his license which meant losing his job, which meant he wouldn’t have any way to provide for her or pay for her medications. With him in jail there wouldn’t be anybody to care for her. She’d be unwell and alone in the world. Delmer couldn’t let that happen. So he took off. Two years later it was still an unsolved hit-and-run.
The memory ate at him every day since then and a thousand times worse on Sunday when he saw Dolores in her wheelchair at the front of the congregation of The First Church of Nazarene. It was the worst thing he’d ever done in all of his forty-six years and if he lived another forty-six he couldn’t imagine doing anything worse. He already suffered nightmares about it twice a week, now half the population of Mineral City was going to see it broadcast fourteen-feet high and forty-eight feet wide on their way to the farmer’s market in a couple of hours.
He didn’t even have a moment to think about what to do next on account of the car screeching to a halt behind him. There was Kimmy Henshaw, the high school art teacher who sold handmade soap on the side, jumping out of her white Mini-Cooper. Delmer’s throat knotted up as he thought about how to explain himself but Kimmy wasn’t even aware of his presence. Her eyes were fixed on the billboard, filling up with tears that spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream and Delmer realized this was every bit as terrible as he thought it was going to be. He said, “Miss Henshaw —“
Kimmy whipped around, seeing him for the first time and before Delmer could continue she said, “I didn’t do this.”
“Do what?” Delmer said.
“The video on the screen. I don’t know who that is but it’s not me.”
Delmer looked back at the billboard and saw Dolores crumpled in a heap on Poplar, the pavement slick with her blood. Kimmy said, “I swear to God.”
Delmer said, “Do you see my name up there right now?”
Kimmy said, “No.”
At that moment Delmer knew two things. One, that they were both seeing entirely different images on the billboard. Two, whatever Kimmy Henshaw saw was definitely true. Whoever did this wouldn’t go broadcasting his deepest, darkest secret then turn around and go broadcasting some made-up version of something about her. That just didn’t make sense.
Kimmy said, “What are you seeing?”
“A message. Telling me to come back at 6pm.”
Kimmy looked at the billboard again. “It’s telling me the same thing.”
Over the next forty-five minutes a couple dozen vendors from the farmer’s market pulled over to look. The drivers (and passengers, if they had them) would get out of the car and stare up at the billboard. The responses ranged from confusion to bewilderment to outright terror. More than one person threw up. They would quickly try to discern what everybody else was seeing and find relief in the fact that only they could see the very worst thing they’d ever done being broadcast over the billboard. But that relief was short-lived after concluding they had all received the same message about more being revealed at 6pm. The only people who weren’t affected were a handful of kids who’d come along to help their parents or grandparents. If seemed like if you were thirteen or under you were spared from having your secrets on display. Maybe you just didn’t have enough time to do anything too bad by that point, Delmer thought.
Word spread fast and by noon Sheriff Dalton had to shut the road down and reroute traffic off 151 and out through the neighborhood. Dozens and dozens of cars were parked haphazardly on the pavement with people ignoring the sirens and deputies who were outnumbered a hundred to four. Damn near ten per cent of Mineral City was here and Delmer suspected there would be more as the day went on.
“You think it’s Don Briggs?”
He looked to his left and saw Smitty, the service station owner, lighting up a cigarette next to him, fingertips permanently stained with motor oil. Smitty said, “It’s his property.”
“I can’t imagine he’d do something like this.”
“He couldn’t even if he wanted to.” Donna Perkins, the county clerk, joining their circle now. “He woulda had to get a permit to run power to it. Besides, I came through here yesterday evening on the way to the Freeze-It and there weren’t nothing here, not a cement truck or a backhoe, or nothing.”
Delmer said, “I was thinking the same thing. Hell, it’d take you a day to put the post up.”
“See the grass grown up around it? No upturned soil.”
Around ten a utility truck pulled up and the driver, a man named Jim Buckhannon conferred with Sheriff Dalton. Dalton said, “I need to clear out these rubberneckers and I can’t do it until you cut the power.”
Buckhannon said, “That’s just it. There ain’t no power running to it.”
Dalton said, “Then where’s it getting juice from?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I don’t have any guesses cause I don’t work for the goddamn power company, Jim. So why don’t you climb up there and figure out how to shut it down before this situation gets any more out of control.”
Buckhannon shook his head, said he’d give it a look. He grabbed a tool belt, fastened it around his waist and headed toward the base of the billboard. Every eye in the crowd was fixed on him, hoping and praying that he’d shut it down so they could breathe easier. But when he got maybe ten yards away from the foundation he combusted right in front of them. The whole thing happened in the space of three-seconds. He was a human being, then a ball of fire, then a cloud of cinder and ash dissipating in the wind, the crowd screaming in horror on a slight time delay, the way you hear the boom after the bloom of a firework. Sheriff Dalton yelled, “I want everybody on the other side of the road, now!” and after what they’d just witnessed most folks were pretty quick to comply.
Over the next six hours another hundred or so people showed up. They clustered into small groups, friends and families huddling together. Delmer called Mary and told her to stay home, that it wasn’t safe down here and he’d keep her updated. Mostly he wanted to be the one to tell her if his secret got revealed, rather than her see it for herself. Give him time to explain.
City officials and public workers hatched and abandoned new plans to cut the power, nobody volunteering to get close until they figured out what it was turned Jim Buckhannon into a Roman candle. Other groups were holding prayer vigils, convinced the billboard was the work of demons or Satan himself. They held hands and got on their knees begging God to intercede. Either he wasn’t there or he wasn’t listening, cause every time they opened their eyes and looked toward Heaven those same shameful images were staring right back down at them.
It had been a while since Delmer believed in God, or Jesus, or anything like that, so he was fairly certain it wasn’t the devil. But the longer the day wore on the more convinced he was that it wasn’t the work of human hands either. He thought about a third possibility, that it was some ancient and mysterious force the likes of which he’d never thought to contemplate. A thing we had had no language for because we’d yet to encounter it. That was a hell of a lot scarier than the devil. At least with the devil there were rules. There were good guys and bad guys. There was a way out. All you have to do is accept Jesus Christ as your lord and savior and you can escape eternal damnation. This thing, whatever it was, there was no instruction manual.
Then at 6pm the billboard went dark.
After thirty-seconds or so Delmer could feel the tension releasing, people sighing, nervous laughter. There were a few hugs and maybe a cheer or two from people who thought the worst was over. That maybe whoever was in charge decided they had been punished enough. Then a message appeared, one that everybody could see at the same time, in a plain font.
The board said, “The price of your sins is the blood of your innocent. Agree to sacrifice a child of my choosing and the town’s secrets will be kept safe. Spare them and I will reveal your sins. At 6am you’ll hold a vote by closed ballot. The vote to spare must be unanimous.”
Some people in town thought it was a joke. A cruel prank. But what kind of prankster would be willing to send Jim Buckhannon into the mystery for a laugh?
No.
This was for real.
Devil or not, the next twelve hours turned Mineral City into hell on Earth.
***
There were two suicides before the sun went down. Lonna Gentry left a note on the dashboard of her Honda Civic confessing to online bullying of one of her daughter’s classmates that was so brutal it landed the girl in the psych hospital. Ray Stinson didn’t leave a confession but he did leave a note telling his wife to call 9-1-1 instead of going in the garage to look for him. Of course her first thought upon reading it was that maybe she could save him in time so she went in anyway but it was too late.
There were a number of other deaths linked to a variety of causes.
When Kimmy Henshaw got home her husband Dan was waiting in the driveway. He asked if she fucked Cody Sharpe, a sixteen-year-old student and a member of the Musketeers football team Dan coached. He said, “You think I don’t hear them whispering about you in the locker room?” When Kimmy broke down in sobs and started apologizing Dan got into his Jeep Grand Cherokee and peeled out of the gravel driveway. Four minutes later he drove past the city limits sign and the vehicle burst into flames, just like Jim Buckhannon. Same thing happened to a dozen other cars, people thinking they could either outrun or escape their fate by leaving town.
Whatever forces were in control of the billboard had extended their reach to the lines of incorporation from Route 151 going west to the river, Harmon’s Ridge on the South to the trestle on the North end of town. By eight o’clock word had spread. Nobody was getting in or out. All communication to the outside world had been blocked.
There would be running from this reckoning.
Sheriff Dalton and his deputies were behind the curve all night. People confessing their affairs and trespasses against one another, trying to get ahead of the news becoming public the next morning. That led to an onslaught of domestic disturbance calls, two shootings, at least one stabbing and a number of good old fashioned front yard bare-knuckle brawls. Ed Markins and Rachel Sykes were the only two EMT’s on duty, running ragged between all the injuries and overdoses. When the city limits shut down panic set in and a lot of people turned to other means of escape, making an already deadly opioid problem even worse.
The number of churches in town was only matched by the number of bars and both saw a steady flow of congregants. Cody Sharpe’s dad Collis had started a storefront ministry in one of the vacant shops downtown where he preached in the classic fire and brimstone style, punctuated by lots of “Hehs” and “Somebody say Amens” that he’d learned from his grandpa. His emergency prayer vigil was upended by Aubrey Clark who stood up and said, “You been telling us all this time that God forgives, right?”
“And he does.”
She said, “What good is his forgiveness if he’s just gonna turn around and let the devil use it against me all over again?” There was a rising chorus of people who agreed with her, questioning why God would do this to them now. They were good people, they’d done everything he asked them to. They showed up on Sundays and Wednesday nights, they put ten per cent of their paychecks in the offering and delivered food to shut-ins. Why was he punishing them? Aubrey said, “Don’t tell me he’s got a plan because if this is it, it’s a shit plan!” As the discussion between the steadfast and the wavering devolved into shouting Collis dropped his Bible on the floor and stepped out into the night air where he bummed a cigarette off a couple who had stepped outside The Dew Drop Inn next door for a smoke. Hell if he had the answers and he was tired of pretending he did. Besides, if they found out what he’d done there wouldn’t be anybody in his church come Sunday anyway.
***
All night that 6am deadline was hanging over their heads.
Mayor Brightman had the high school principal open up the auditorium so people could meet up to discuss the issue with him and the city council. Delmer squeezed into the back row to watch. He’d gone home to check on Mary and update her on what had happened. Before he left Mary asked him what he saw that got him so shook up. She said, “Was it what happened in Afghanistan? You didn’t have a choice about that.” Delmer gave her a nod, letting her think it was about his time in the service. Now he felt like a man being led toward the gallows. The only way out was if one person voted to sacrifice. He could do it himself and make the whole thing go away, that is if the billboard was offering an honest deal. But was he comfortable sentencing a child to death just so he could avoid taking responsibility for his actions? Would other people be?
The parents were the most vocal and of course they would be. One of them said, “The billboard said a child of its choosing. These are your students, the kids in your church and your daycares.” Another said, “What kind of monster would think there’s any alternative?” And on the surface it seemed like there weren’t any monsters in the room. It’s not like anybody stood up to argue the other side in front of the crowd. Saying, “Tough shit. Kids die every day, we need to accept this as the price of doing business and move on. Sure, it will be sad for the parents but it’s just not worth disrupting the status quo.”
Arguing for the sacrifice of a random child would be admitting that you had done something unforgivable. Nobody was going to do that. They didn’t have to. Delmer could see it in some of their faces. The way they couldn’t look the parents in the eye. There were a few people who refused to even take part in it, arguing that we shouldn’t go holding a vote based on some fucking billboard that appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night. That there had to be other options. Work on getting communication back up, call in the National Guard. The governor. Mayor Brightman said, “Whatever this thing is it’s already killed eleven people.”
Peggy Beasley, the kindergarten teacher said, “So you’d risk killing one more?”
In the end, it was decided that the vote would be held. Whoever wanted to have a say in the decision was welcome to take part. If somebody wanted to opt out they could. It’s not like the sheriff and his deputies could round everybody up and force them to take part at gunpoint. Mayor Brightman said, “If you choose not to take part then you have to accept the consequences. I pray you don’t bring more suffering than we’ve already been through.”
Shortly after 5am Donna Perkins announced that ballot boxes were set up lining the halls in the high school. At the deadline grew nearer the discussion got more heated, more emotional, with parents and other members of the community begging the assembled to do what’s right. Peggy Beasley said, “I have three kids, they never did anything to you. Whatever it is that comes out, we’ll deal with it. If you’ve done something to me or mine, we’ll forgive you, no matter what. I’m begging you to do the right thing.”
Delmer looked around and saw other parents nodding in agreement, wiping away their tears. And he saw a few people looking down at their hands, or studying the light fixtures in the ceiling overhead. He could feel it in his gut. There were going to be votes to sacrifice. Then he saw Dolores Richardson and her family enter the auditorium to hear the last few minutes of debate before the vote was taken.
The blood drained from his face and his hands got so cold that when he stood up to speak he had to shove them in his pockets to keep them warm. When he had the crowd’s attention Delmer cleared his throat once and said, “As most of you know, Mary and me, we lost our boy Tommy when he was six-years-old. Died in the children’s hospital up there in Cleveland. We came back home and we weren’t sure we were gonna make it, to be honest. I would never wish that on anybody. But we got through it, thanks to this town putting their arms around us. Not that we don’t struggle with it to this day. Lot of you have probably seen me at the various establishments. Murphy’s, The Dew Drop Inn. There were some nights I felt like the only way I could get rid of that sadness was to drown it. Then, one night… I took it a little too far. Had a little too much. And I got in the car to drive home…” Delmer stopped to take a breath and steady his nerves. “I was coming down Poplar, there were a couple of streetlights out on the corner so it was pretty dark… I didn’t see her crossing the street.”
There were gasps in the crowd and people started to whisper to one another. The facts had been in the newspaper for months. Delmer looked at Dolores and her family and said, “I’m so sorry,” before breaking down into tears and collapsing to his knees. Dolores’s son Randy charged across the auditorium, screaming, “Son-of-a-bitch!” Hell-bent on getting his hands around Delmer’s neck. A couple of the deputies held him back while Sheriff Dalton got Delmer to his feet and put him in handcuffs. He looked over and saw Dolores weeping, her face in her hands. As Sheriff Dalton led him out of the auditorium Delmer yelled, “Don’t make these people go through what we did! Let it all come out! Let it all come out in the light!”
***
Donna Perkins and the other clerks did a hand count in the lunchroom while Dalton and his deputies stood guard outside. When it was over they recounted and then did it a third time to be sure. It came out the same every time.
Four-hundred and seventy-two people took part in the vote.
Four-hundred and thirty-seven people voted to spare.
Thirty-five people voted to keep their secrets safe.
After the results were shared with the rest of the town the deputy who had been posted by the billboard radioed in to say it was gone. Vanished, without disturbing so much as a handful of dirt. There were no further instructions, no mention of which child had been chosen or what would happen next. They never heard from it or saw it again.
Without a definitive answer it seemed like the town would stay trapped in a kind of purgatory, waiting for tragedy to strike. But within a few days people started talking about the need for things to get back to normal, how they couldn’t very well go living the rest of their lives in fear. Some of them believed God had answered their prayers. The national story was that the whole thing was some kind of mass delusion. That Jim Buckhannon and the others were victims of natural gas explosions. Trying to find a logical explanation for a thing that defied both logic and explanation. The headlines said, “Tragedy in Mineral City,” but they disappeared as soon as the next natural disaster commandeered the media’s attention.
A month later Bryson Burke’s four-wheeler tumbled over a rock ledge and he died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Thirteen-years-old. When folks around town heard the news many of them wondered, “Was he the one?” But they would never know for sure.
Delmer Caudill was charged with leaving the scene of an accident after causing serious personal injury. He was found guilty and sentenced to three-years in jail which got reduced to a little over thirteen months. He lost his license and his job.
Mary stayed.
And she wasn’t alone like he feared.
Every now and then Dolores Richardson and her daughter would stop by to check up on her and make sure she had everything she needed. One day Mary asked Dolores why she would help her after what Delmer did, what he took from her. Dolores thought back to that morning in the auditorium, about Delmer’s confession and the vote immediately afterward. She thought about Bryson Burke and his mother breaking down at the funeral. Staring down at her hands, unable to meet Mary’s gaze, she said, “Matthew says, “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.” Lord knows I need it for the things I’ve done.”
