On his way down the hallway he caught sight of a monster from the corner of his eye and stopped in his tracks. He backed up slowly, as if he could gain an advantage on the thing by moving at a crawl. When he caught sight of it again he froze. His mouth gaped.
A large mirror sat atop a slender table. The creature in the mirror stared back at him, emulating his movements. Its flesh was a dark gold, covered with tiny, translucent hairs. Large, sharp incisors obtruded from its mouth. The pupils were black slits surrounded by a pool of amber.
Billy reached out to touch the mirror. When he did, and his hand came into view, he saw the claws at the tips of his fingers, the hairs steadily thickening on his wrist. He snapped his hand back and stared at his reflection. What is happening? his mind cried. What is becoming of me?
A girl screamed, breaking the clatter of his thoughts. He veered toward the sound and bolted down the hallway. The scream came again. He dashed through an open door and entered a familiar bedroom.
He halted at the entrance and gaped at the scene before him. In the far corner of the room, propped atop a bed with pink sheets, was a little girl. She was young, maybe four or five. He could see the angular beauty that would mark this girl as an adult imprinted upon her. She cried, pulling the bedspread up to her neck.
A creature Billy recognized loomed over the frightened girl. It stood on spider-like legs and a mass of tentacles writhed on its back, moving ever nearer to their intended victim. Its teeth were huge, sprouting from an elongated horse’s head attached to a dragon’s neck. The thing snorted. A spray of black liquid slapped against the sheets.
The beast. The tormentor. Percy.
There was movement beside him. He turned ever so slightly and there was Marcy – adult Marcy – leaning against the wall, her face a wilted mask of torment. She stood bone still. Her form guttered. He reached for her but his hand passed right through. Her eyes held no recognition. She was an ethereal ghost of a ghost, as if she found herself wedged between this world and the next.
Her voice spoke to him in his brain just as Bella’s had. I can’t move! she screamed. Please help her!
The hideous beast reached for the little girl. A strand of black goop dangled from its oversized maw. Billy saw the look in young Marcy’s eyes, saw how terrified and vulnerable she was, and the fear brewing inside grew white-hot. The tingling he felt became a riotous burn. His viewpoint shifted. One moment he saw the world the way he always had, the next he found himself much lower to the ground. Every color popped as if dipped in fluorescent paint. His hairs stood on end.
Billy roared and the sound shook the room.
The beast turned to him. A thousand images of himself reflected back through its insect eyes. He was no longer the William Mathis he remembered. He’d become the lion from the bush. His amber eyes glared, his snout furrowed, he bared his incisors. A liquid sensation filled him, the urge to run, to be free, to survive. He lowered his haunches. Percy smiled its wicked, dead-horse smile.
You do not belong here, the beast said. Its voice seemed to come from every direction at once.
Billy roared again.
His claws dug into the carpet, charged, and leapt at the Percy-beast, swiping at the creature with his giant paws. He expected his talons to rip into the bulging hide, but instead they simply bounced off. He struck the thing’s body and went careening in the other direction. When he landed on all fours and turned back to the beast its tentacles danced in the air.
You caught me unaware before, the monster said. Not this time.
Billy charged again. The beast swung one of its larger tentacles and pulverized him. He fell at the side of little Marcy’s bed. His pawed feet missed the ground and he landed hard on his back, the breath knocked out of his new, more powerful lungs. It took a great amount of effort to regain his senses. He could feel his power fading. All he’d been granted, the wrath that was his only gift, had all been for naught.
Percy took giant steps toward him on its spiked legs. Billy leapt onto the bed and blocked the creature from its victim. He hunkered down, ready to strike again though he knew it would be useless.
A tentacle snatched him by his muscular throat. It constricted, cutting off his air. He struggled against it but the beast was too strong. He could feel his body lifting off the bed.
“Stop it, Percy!” a small voice yelled. “Leave the kitty alone!”
The tentacle around his throat retreated. A new sort of power filled him. He craned his neck. Behind him was little Marcy. No longer did she cower beneath her covers. Now she stood tall, feet firmly planted on the mattress, an accusing finger pointed at her tormentor.
“Leave,” she said. Her voice echoed, three entities in one; little Marcy, adult Marcy, Bella. “Go away, bad alligator, and don’t come back.”
The beast Percy hissed and stayed its ground. Little Marcy flattened her palm and closed her eyes. Billy felt his strength grow. A thin stream of radiance surrounded him and then snaked toward the little girl, shrouding her like a protective cloak. Light shone from her closed eyelids, her fingertips, the ends of her hair.
There is a fire inside you. It has simmered since the day you were born.
Suddenly it all made sense.
Billy leapt away from the beast. He circled behind the little girl and draped her with his body. He pressed into her, concentrating on everything important to him in life; his mother, his brothers, his students, Marisa, Christopher, the here and now. He let his shielding energy pour out of him and into her.
What are you doing? roared the beast. You cannot do this!
“Yeah, I can,” the girl said. Her voice wasn’t so little anymore. It was adult Marcy that came through, loud as a cannon blast, powerful as a tidal wave. “Bad things don’t belong here,” she hissed. “And you’re not the boss of me any more.”
The girl’s form fluctuated from young to old. She thrust her arms out wide, threw back her head, and cried out. A lifetime of pain, sorrow, and fear was released. It swirled through the air like a poisonous cloud.
Percy backed away. Behind its massive frame a spinning vortex appeared. It spiraled with brilliant whites and reds. The center of the vortex grew into a sphere of pure blackness that expanded with each passing second. Soon Billy could see the twinkle of stars and the gaseous swirl of a nearby star appear. Wind rushed against him, making his fur stand on end. The lamp on the end table flew through the air and disappeared through the swirl of black. So did the poster on the wall, the digital alarm clock, the plastic bucket of toys in the corner.
The beast Percy was dragged backwards. Its insect eyes bulged in its head, its jaws snapped open and shut. The tentacles on its back reached for something to grab hold of. Everything they touched was pulled into the vortex. One reached out for Billy and Marcy but when it passed through the wall of light surrounding them it dissolved in a shower of wet, rubbery flesh. Its reverse-jointed legs tried to gain purchase but the pull was too strong. It was towed into the hole. Its tentacles and other appendages braced against the wall, keeping it from being shoved all the way through.
Marcy brought her hands in front of her face and gradually curled them into fists. In time with her movements the vortex closed. It squeezed the beast’s hideous form, warping it even further. Its bulk condensed and then split open. Fluid leaked out in buckets, turning to vapor when it hit the floor. The entire room brightened. The beast stretched its neck in one final attempt to free itself and the vortex snapped shut. A surprised expression washed over its dead-horse’s skull and the bodiless head fell and rolled across the floor. When it came to a stop a single, smoking gasp escaped its throat before it dissolved. Like a candle it melted away until nothing remained but a black stain in the carpet.
“See ya,” said Marcy. Her appearance stopped fluctuating. She was adult Marcy now – the ethereal image of her in the corner was gone – and she stood, strong and beautiful, with her hands on her hips.
Billy rolled over and stood up. It took a moment to realize he
was himself again. He glanced at his hands – dark fingers, pale palms – and closed his eyes. A sense of buoyancy filled him, as if he’d been sleeping his entire life and just woken up.
Marcy ran up and embraced him. They stood there for a long time, holding each other not like lovers but family. Billy smiled, leaned back, and kissed her forehead.
“Thank you,” he said. “I understand now.”
She nodded. “I do, too.”
“What happens now? Is it over?”
“I’m not sure. I think we need to just wa –”
Marcy shrieked. Billy followed suit as blinding pain raced through him. They collapsed on the ground, holding their heads, and the reality surrounding them exploded in a shower of white-hot sparks.
* * *
Billy shot up, his hands clutched over his ears. He screamed. The sound echoed back to him as if he’d awoken in a cavern.
The pain subsided. He slumped, rubbed his temples, and groaned. He heard folks gasp and swear around him and he opened his eyes.
It seemed he had an audience. Christopher was beside him, though he scuttled away on his butt as if he’d just seen a ghost. Forrest was there too, standing a ways away, his mouth a comical circle of shock. Dr. Terry and his wife were on the other side, he wearing a bemused look of interest, she appearing just as shocked as Forrest. Billy grinned sheepishly and then something struck his side. His eyes drifted downward. His heart skipped a beat.
Marcy was choking. Black fluid poured from her eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. She writhed on the ground beside him, naked as could be. The liquid pooled, drenching the blankets beneath them. Billy hopped to his knees – he noticed he was naked, as well, but couldn’t care less – and grabbed her shoulders.
“Wake up!” he shouted. “Come on Marcy, don’t leave us!”
Christopher popped into view. He stared at Billy as if he’d just said the strangest thing in the world. Dr. Terry also came up to him. Very calmly the old man placed a hand on his chest and urged him to back away.
Billy did as instructed and watched as the old doctor and his wife lifted the choking woman into a sitting position. They pounded on her back. Marcy vomited more of that black gunk all over herself. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of it.
Before too long, however, the stream abated. Mrs. Terry held Marcy up and rubbed her back, humming. Marcy groaned. Her head lolled. Forrest approached, carrying a pile of hotel towels. Dr. Terry and Christopher took them and wiped the slime from her naked body. Forrest gently stuck his hands beneath her armpits and lifted. He carried her to the fresh pile of blankets he’d stacked a few feet away and placed her upon it. Mrs. Terry then began sponging the girl down.
The old doctor gave Billy the once-over, checking his pulse, listening to his lungs, shining a penlight in his eyes. When finished he stepped back and grimaced.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Fine,” replied Billy.
“You were out for a while. What was it like? Were you in pain?”
Billy smiled. “No. No pain. No anything.”
The old doctor asked him another question but Billy ignored him and walked away. Christopher, his expression still one of exacerbation, handed him a towel, which he wrapped around his exposed lower half. He draped an arm around the boy, rankled his hair, and squeezed him tight. Together they walked to where Marcy lay, carefully tended to by Mrs. Terry.
The girl’s eyes were open. They stared up at him, full of tears and wonderment. The old woman caring for her blabbed on about how they’d just witnessed a miracle. Marcy ran a kind hand over the woman’s cheek and then used that same hand to give him the a-okay. She mouthed Thank You.
Billy nodded to her. His grin stretched so wide it felt like his jaw might crack. He turned around and he and Christopher headed for the balcony.
He threw open the doors. It was early morning and the crisp air was a welcomed respite. The sun poked its head over the horizon, casting rays that would soon evaporate the morning mist. A gaggle of crows had gathered on the banister. They didn’t fly off when he and the boy stepped outside. Instead they seemed to bow their heads in reverence.
Whether a purposeful sentiment or not, Billy accepted their respect and tilted an imaginary hat to them. Christopher giggled at his absurdity.
From inside he heard Marcy speak. Her voice was just as beautiful in real life as it had been on the other side. And he was at least partially responsible for restoring that beauty back to its rightful place.
He had done the right thing. The good thing. He lifted his arms to the sky, tilted back his head, and let the breeze whip against his flesh.
For the first time since the death of his beloved teacher, William Mathis cried.
Epilogue
When Marcy Caron opened her eyes to the world a shockwave of energy erupted from her, affecting all in its path…
…in Virginia, Corky Ludlow gathered with the other residents of the Mount Clinton Resort by the edge of a cliff to celebrate the life of their recently departed friend. The plan was to watch the sunrise and repeat his name, to promise that his memory would stay with them. But when the sun rose none talked. Instead they all broke down in tears at once – happy tears, tears of hope. None noticed Tom Steinberg, who cowered behind them with his head in his hands, writhing in pain…
…in a small town off I-95 in Connecticut, furrowed away in an abandoned garage, Joshua Benoit awoke from a dream. He clutched his knees tight. He cried for his future, for Colin, for his unborn child…but not for Marcy. Somewhere inside he knew the girl from his past was fine. He rested his head on Kyra’s expanding stomach, feeling for once that everything might be all right despite the pain he still felt and the sound of the undead pounding on the garage door…
…on an island somewhere in the south Atlantic, Eduardo Pereira shivered beneath his makeshift hut as a cold rain fell. Ever since arriving at the archipelago everything had gone wrong. Lucia became distant, Eddie Jr. fell ill. He delayed repairs to the Bendicion, thinking that if the Virgin really wanted him to resume his course she would let him know. The image of another woman entered his head on that afternoon – not the Virgin, but one that filled his heart with light just the same. The messiah had returned and sent him a message. His shivering ceased and he rolled into Lucia, kissing her deeply, passionately, for the first time in weeks…
…in the dull chill of morning, Sam rested atop a spire overlooking his kingdom. He felt restless and bored. His children milled about below him, rising from their slumber. He gazed down on them in disgust.
Pain seared through his chest. He collapsed and nearly fell from his perch. In a fit of rage he pounded his fists into the wooden platform.
Someone he’d forgotten about had reentered the world.
The witch was awake.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
When I started writing The Rift back in 2002, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I had a starting point (the temple of the dead from The Fall) and the final scene. What I didn’t know was how I would get there.
With that in mind, just as with the characters in these books, the writing has been a journey. The characters from the first installment were ones that I grew to love, but as I started book two (after a prolonged absence) I felt the story needed something different. It needed new characters, fresh characters, to help guide the tale in the direction I thought it should go, to bring about the sense of balance that I always wanted this fable to impart.
Enter Billy and Corky. Their creation came as a bit of a surprise to me. I made them to be dedications – Billy to Socrates Fortlow, the main character from Walter Mosley’s Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned, and Corky to Hagrid from the Harry Potter series, the giant with a heart of gold. Their characters took off on me, went in directions I never expected. I didn’t know Billy’s past until I scribbled that first scene down on paper. Similarly, Corky’s secret was as much a secret to myself until he meets little Shelly in the kitchen of the Clinton Resort.
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To me, the greatest creations are made this way, and these two are the favorites that I’ve ever come up with. Dead of Winter is their story, even more so than Josh, Kyra, and the rest of the Dover survivors. I hope you found their contributions to the text meaningful and, in a way, righteous.
More than anything, The Rift is a tale of poise in the face of both danger and personal weakness. The first book, though one I’m proud of, is really nothing more than an introductory story. In truth, I wasn’t particularly happy with the way it ended. There was no climax, and the story just sort of peters out.
This might have something to do with the fact that originally the first two books were meant to be a single volume. However, the story took off on me, becoming much too long. So that’s what you have here, folks – my complete vision of the primary installment of the series.
Dead of Winter is, without a doubt, my favorite of the four books. It’s closer to a classic zombie tale than the others, and it has within it a depth of emotion and pain that can suck you in without becoming disturbing. The last two aren’t like that. They’ll shock and anger you and perhaps make you feel depressed by the end. In fact, the ending of Dead of Winter may be the happiest one I’ve ever written. For those of you who don’t go for that sort of thing, rest assured this is an aspect that won’t stick around for long.
The third as-to-now-unnamed third book I’m working on as I write this. Hopefully we’ll have it ready for release some time in December of 2011. It will be, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the hardest for me to write, being that it’s painful and more than a little disquieting. You think I put my characters through the ringer now? Just wait. My only fear is that folks who love the first two books won’t like where it goes.
Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) Page 31
