Hector nodded. “I’m with you, compadre,” he said as they ran towards the balcony exit. “I don’t like this at all.”
* * *
The rooms in his house were the same as Stan remembered. The rugs were still red, the couches still orange, and the bathroom still smelled of potpourri. He followed the sound of Kirsten’s feet as they pounded up the stairs. One of the rugs tore, splitting apart as if it were made of tissue paper. He slid on the hardwood floor and slammed against the wall. There was something wrong. The boards were slick and covered with condensation. He wondered if a water pipe had broken in the basement.
“Come and get me,” called Kirsten. He shook the cobwebs from his brain and headed for the staircase. Again a sense of strangeness crept over him. The lighting seemed off somehow – hazy, unnatural. He stood still with his hand on the balustrade and glanced about. He felt like he was going insane.
“What are you doing?” asked Kirsten. He looked up to see her at the top of the staircase. She wore nothing but a pair of white cotton panties. Her arms were crossed in front of her bare chest and her russet skin glowed. Butterflies fluttered in Stan’s gut and he forgot about any apprehension he might have felt.
“Stay right there!” he shouted. “I’m coming up!”
He pounded the steps and ran after her. She giggled and backed away before she turned tail and sprinted for the bedroom. The door slammed shut behind her when he reached the top.
“Damn, girl, you’re quick,” he whispered with excitement. He breathed heavy, not understanding why it took so much effort to climb a simple flight of stairs. Shrugging it off, he hurried down the hall and opened the bedroom door.
* * *
Hector, Luis, and Dennis hurried after their friend. By the time they’d made it outside Stan was nowhere to be found. They followed his footprints in the melting snow, which led to a hiking trail that snaked through the wilderness at a steady incline. Luckily no one had ventured out much over the long winter with the exception of Horace and Doug, so the fresh tracks were readily noticeable.
They followed the trail at a brisk jog. Before too long they spotted him nearing the top of a rocky gradient, maybe two hundred feet ahead. The three of them stopped, cupped their hands around their mouths, and called his name. He didn’t even glance at them before disappearing over the ridge.
“Damn crazy white dude,” muttered Luis. “What the fuck is he doing?”
Dennis pointed at a placard that had been pounded into the ground at the edge of the trail. Lookout Point: Elevation 1.9 Miles, it read.
“Think he just wants a good view?” he asked.
“I hope that’s it,” said Hector, and they rushed after him once more.
* * *
Stan stood in the bedroom. The window was open and Kirsten stood with her back to him in front of the large mirror above her dresser. He crept up behind and wrapped his arms around her belly. Her skin felt like satin.
“Hey there, honey,” she said with a smile.
He stared at their reflection and the old pride he felt at seeing the two of them intertwined returned. There was a beautiful symmetry to the contrast between their complexions – his ashen, hers bronzed like polished oak. He recalled his family’s reservations about their relationship, the way they’d held firm to the concept that like should mate with like. In those early days he felt certain that they, in time, would look past color and come to see her the way he did – as a woman who loved him and nothing more. In the end he’d been right in that assumption. Mostly.
He kissed the nape of her neck. Her sweat tasted sugary. She squirmed in his arms like a rabbit in heat. His arousal emerged and he went to kiss her neck even harder than before. Kirsten spun around, pressed her breasts into him, and put a finger on his lips.
“Wait,” she murmured, and slipped from his grasp. “Follow me.” He stood there, dumbfounded, as she climbed out the open window. Her hand reappeared and beckoned him onward.
A brisk wind slapped his face when he poked his head outside. His hands rested on the roof’s tiles and for a moment he wondered why they felt so cool. They should’ve burnt his palms, considering the blistering sun that shone down on them. Then he caught sight of Kirsten, perched on the roof ten feet ahead of him, her naked body displayed like a perfect sculpture as she stood with her arms spread wide, head arched toward the sky. He shrugged his uncertainty aside.
He walked along the roof, trying not to lose his balance. When he placed a hand on her shoulder he saw her face. She wore an odd, somber expression.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asked. She didn’t reply. “C’mon, Kirsty, talk to me.”
She grabbed him by the elbow. Her skin felt cold. She looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of missing you. Why can’t you just come home?” The sorrow in her voice was palpable.
“What’re you talking about?” he replied. “I’m here. I never left. At least, I don’t think I did. Did I?”
She nodded.
Confusion immersed him in its tangled web. “I don’t understand. You’re real. This is real. I can see you, I can feel you.”
“You know that’s not the case, honey. I’m dead.”
He fervently shook his head, but despite his vehemence he knew she spoke the truth. “I can’t accept that,” he said. “I’m not going to leave. I’m here to stay. No one’s going to drag me away from here, from you, again.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” said Kirsten. “You can’t control this. Sooner or later you’ll wake up, and I’ll be alone again.” Her body began to shimmer. It became transparent for a moment and flickered before regaining its solidity. “It’s already starting,” she said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Stan swallowed his fear. “What do I have to do?”
She let go of him and walked to the edge of the roof. He followed alongside her and looked down. It seemed a much longer drop than he remembered.
“You have to fly with me,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Our love is all that matters. Our love can conquer anything, even death. It will give us wings. All you have to do is trust it.” She reached out for him. “Take my hand, darling. Let our love guide us as we take flight.”
The words coming out of Kirsten’s mouth were artificial, so unlike her. Stan’s vision began to play tricks on him. He blinked and there was nothing before him but trees and snow. He blinked again and he was back on his roof, with Kirsten before him while the sun baked his thinning scalp. He covered his ears with his hands and backed away.
“No. Uh-uh. You’re not Kirsten. You can’t be. She’d never talk like a Hallmark card. This is a nightmare, isn’t it? Has to be.”
“But darling,” began his dead wife.
He threw up his hand. “Please go away. I don’t want to see you anymore.” He turned around and headed back for the window.
Once more his vision fragmented. Some of his surroundings remained like his home, but those segments were now buried in snow or split in half by pine trees. When the window also vanished he spun around, only to see he stood on a rocky, icy ledge. There were screaming voices in the distance.
He glanced over his shoulder as the rest of the dream dissolved. Yet Kirsten still stood there, smiling at him. Her face started to change. It became older, weathered, and then her flesh split. Her body became a decomposed mess. Insect arms burst from her sides, flinging black viscous fluid across the snow. Her neck craned back and a snapping sound followed. The bones in her shoulder caved in as her neck extended vertebrae by vertebrae until it was a foot longer than it should’ve been. The tongue in her mouth uncurled like a party favor.
Stan backed away from the creature. It charged him and the squirming tongue wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms, pulling him towards it. He tried to struggle but it was too strong. The monster forced him perilously close to the rocky ledge while his heart hammered into his throat and his body grew numb. He could see the jagged rocks that a
waited him down below. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Please don’t do this!” he pleaded.
“Do what, honey?” his wife’s voice asked.
He opened his eyes. He was back on the roof. Kirsten was Kirsten. She was holding him.
“What the fuck is going on?” he muttered.
* * *
Hector, pot belly and all, was the first to round the bend. He lost his footing and skidded to a stop. Luis came next, and he obviously didn’t expect Hector to be on the ground because his knee connected with the prone man’s cheek, sending him flat on his back. Hector turned in time to see Dennis follow soon after, and he was able to slide out of the way before the silver fox stepped on his chest.
“Jesus, guys!” he screamed. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Sorry, man,” said Dennis. “Didn’t expect y’all to be lying down.”
“Man, fuck you,” grumbled Luis.
Hector raised his hand and silenced them. “Enough, amigos. Just watch where you’re going next time.”
Luis and Dennis mumbled some half-hearted apologies. Hector grunted and turned away. He snuck up the trail on his elbows and peered over the next rise.
There was Stan.
“Oh shit,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Dennis. “You see him?”
“Yup. Right up ahead. Get over here and look.”
They did, and they obviously saw the same thing he did, because they both exhaled in a mixture of relief and worry. Stan was standing on the edge of a cliff. He glanced about him as if he’d temporarily lost his mind and was just now regaining his sanity. He began to back away from the ledge.
Hector let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he muttered.
Then, suddenly, Stan was heading in the other direction. He moved in an odd fashion, as if he wasn’t the one controlling his body. To Hector it looked like he’d perfected Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk. He drew perilously close to the edge once more.
“Stan!” screamed Dennis. “Stanley Clark, get over here!” Hector and Luis followed suit, and they shouted as one to their friend.
Either Stan couldn’t hear them or he didn’t care enough to respond. He simply moved himself closer and closer to certain death. Hector glanced at Luis and Dennis. He saw the same panic he felt in their eyes. With a nod he scrambled to his feet and dashed in the direction of his suicidal friend.
“Get away from me!” Stan screamed, freezing Hector in his tracks.
* * *
“Get away from me!” yelled Stan. He pounded on the thing before him as its form shifted. One moment it was Kirsten, the next it was the beast with the long neck, lolling tongue, and insect arms, and then it turned back again. The only consistent about the two forms was the invariable, ear-splitting laughter. Both seemed to take great joy in his panic.
He started to feel dizzy. His balance, and his resistance, faded. “Please,” he begged the persistent beast, “just let me go. I want to go home now. Make it stop.”
“Very well,” said the beast.
It released him. Stan closed his eyes. The distinct feeling of air rushing over his face caused him to smile. He knew the sensation well having experienced it when he and Kirsten had gone skydiving on their tenth anniversary. She’d looked so adorable in that green jumpsuit and a helmet that was much too big for her. Laugh all you want, she’d told him. But we’ll see who’s laughing later, when I’m the one who doesn’t crap myself on the way down. Then I’ll make fun of you all the way hom –
Stanley hit the rocks at the bottom of the ravine head first. His skull caved in on impact, leaving no opportunity for fear, or even pain. The rest of him followed, snapping most every bone in his body. Death came instantly.
* * *
Tom watched the man jump off the ledge from his hiding spot in the trees. He saw the three who’d chased him slide to a halt and peer over, screaming for their friend. There was such pain and sorrow in their voices it just about drove Tom insane.
What the hell did I just do? he thought.
You did well, his conscience said.
“I did well?” he whispered. “What the fuck does that mean?”
When his conscience didn’t answer Tom stood up, brushed the snow from his pants, and snuck back the way he came. His body ached as if he’d run a marathon and his heart weighed heavy on him. Though he wasn’t Stanley’s biggest fan he wasn’t keen on killing him. The only other life he’d taken had been that of Carl Pendergrass, and that fucker deserved it. Stanley, on the other hand, seemed like a nice enough fellow. Wound a little tight, perhaps, but still decent. To deal with it he told himself that killing Stanley – though he still wasn’t sure how he’d done it – wasn’t his idea. It was the other who did it, which removed all liability from his shoulders.
Do not go thinking yourself morally superior, his conscience scolded. Remember your place in this world. Remember all the millions who died because of decisions you made. You are not blameless, Thomas. In fact, you are the guiltiest man still alive. You cannot change this.
Tom buried his chin in his chest and walked on. “We’ll see about that,” was all he could say.
* * *
“FUCK!” screamed Corky. He slammed his fist into the wall, shattering plaster. All the rest in the room backed up a step but no one tried to stop him. This made him even angrier and he punched the wall again. This time blood poured from his knuckles. He collapsed on the ground and held his hand. Blood dripped between his feet onto the carpet. He could feel the tears starting to well up but he’d be damned if he let them come.
Doug walked over, knelt beside him, and placed a hand on his knee. Corky glanced up. The kid looked the way he felt, with shimmering eyes and trembling jaw.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Corky shook his head and then looked around at everyone else in the room. Horace was beside the fireplace, rolling a tumbler of whiskey in his palms. Dennis and Luis sat on the couch, staring at the ground and looking somber. Hector paced back and forth, sobbing, while Larry downed shot after shot at the bar. Allison swayed in the rocking chair, Shelly in her lap. The little girl’s thumb was firmly planted in her mouth while her mother stared out the window. The whole scene was depressing.
Tom strolled in a few minutes later. His expression seemed puzzling. In one moment he appeared to be frowning, the next on the verge of cracking up. He carried with him a tray upon which crackers and cheese had been stacked and he went about handing them to everyone.
When he arrived at Corky, Doug silently slid to his feet and walked away. Corky snatched a single cracker from the tray and munched on it. It tasted salty. In a fit of self-pity he licked his wrecked knuckles with his salt-slathered tongue. Needles of pain shot through his wrist. He leaned back and winced.
“Hurting yourself isn’t going to bring him back,” said Tom.
Corky glared at him. “Fuck you, dude.”
Tom shrugged and turned away from him. “Have it your way, Charles,” he said. “Stanley couldn’t handle the loneliness. That’s not your fault.”
“You’re insane,” Doug said. Corky winced again when he heard the kid’s hateful tone. “Don’t go telling us how we should feel.”
Tom’s shoulders sagged. “You guys don’t understand,” he said. “I know you’re hurting, but please don’t take it out on me. I do know what it’s like to lose someone, you know. All I have left is my family.”
Hector stopped pacing and glowered at the thin, sickly man. “Screw you, muchacho. At least you still got them. What we got? Nothing.”
An exacerbated air washed over Tom’s pallid face. “Nothing? You’re joking, right? Come on now. You guys are family. You support each other, and you’ll lean on one another and eventually survive the loss you’ve just experienced. Yes, I have Allison and Michelle, but I want something more than that. I want to be a part of something, to have what you people have.”
“You do have it,” said Corky. He rose from his spot on the ground
and towered over the rest. “You’re part of us now. Part of the family.” He pointed at Shelly and her mother. “You guys are, too.”
Tom lowered his head and shook it. “I’d like to think so, but I’m not so certain. The state of your face is enough to tell me otherwise. I know that.”
Corky touched the bandages still covering his nose, confused by the man’s tone. The words were sincere but the tenor seemed off – conflicted, as if he didn’t believe what came out of his own mouth. He brushed it off to the guy not being comfortable and instead reached out his hand.
“Forget that, dude,” he said. “All’s forgiven. Has been for a while now.”
Everyone else in the room had stood up by then. Their expressions were sober, as if the sadness they felt weighed their cheeks down. They approached Tom and encircled him. Even Doug was caught up in the act.
One by one they patted him on the back and then dispersed to their respective rooms to mourn in private. Allison excused herself and carried away a sleeping Shelly, leaving Corky and Tom alone.
Tom stared up at him, looked away, and then stared up at him again. Tears ran down his face. “Thank you,” he blubbered. “Thank you so much.”
Corky stepped toward him. Tom cringed as if he was about to strike him, but Corky simply wrapped his massive arms around the man and held him tight. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. The tears really did come this time. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Tom patted his back. “It’s okay,” he said through his sniffles. “I’ll fix it. Everything’s going to be all right. Trust me. It will be.”
“It better be,” Corky replied. “It fucking better be.”
He never noticed when Tom’s face, wedged against his shoulder, distorted in pain.
Chapter 15
Waking the Dead
i
Christopher leaned over the railing and stared at those gathered on the street below. Their numbers were too many to count, packed together like cows at a Midwestern beef factory. They swayed and shoved into one another, their dead eyes staring at nothing in particular. Their combined groans were white noise that he could barely register anymore.
Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) Page 27
