Colony of the Lost

by Derik Cavignano

  There really is a boy…and they saw him.

  The light of the boy’s trail was fading fast. After a minute, it vanished altogether, leaving only the afterglow imprinted on Jay’s retinas.

  Time passed without calibration. It could have been ten seconds, ten minutes, or ten hours. They ran through the shadows and half-light, navigating through a maze of trees, a forest of cobalt and gray.

  Soon a light filtered through the darkness, and they found themselves standing at the edge of Elm Street Park.

  “Is it safe now?” The little girl gazed up at him, her eyes wide and curious.

  Jay struggled to catch his breath. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re safe.”

  The girl smiled, clearly relieved. “My name is Sarah.”

  “I’m Jay.”

  “What about you?” She glanced at the older boy with dirty blond hair.

  “Tim.” His eyes wandered back to the trees. “I don’t mean to break up the party, but can we get the hell out of here?”

  Jay led them past a gazebo and a tiny frog pond. “Where do you guys live?”

  “Pennybrook Road,” Sarah said.

  It was a moment before Tim answered. “South Maple.”

  Jay raised an eyebrow. “South Maple? I live on eleven South Maple. You new in town?”

  Tim nodded. “Can’t say I’m loving it, though.” His eyes strayed back to Washaka Woods. “Did we really just see a ghost back there?”

  “I think we did,” Jay said. “Crazy as that sounds.”

  “What are we going to do?” Tim asked. “Do you think it could be right about there being some kind of creature in there?”

  Jay shrugged. “Could be. But who knows if Samuel was even telling the truth … or knew what he was talking about. Maybe he was just a scared little boy who died in the woods.”

  “Or a scared little boy murdered by a beast in the woods,” Tim said.

  “I think it’s important not to let it get into our heads. Maybe it’s best if we just forgot about what happened tonight.”

  “But what if the beast takes more kids?” Sarah asked. “What if they’re really scared? What if they’re hurt.”

  Jay didn’t answer.

  “We should tell the police,” Sarah said.

  Jay glanced at Tim, but Tim didn’t offer any help. “Sarah, the police wouldn’t believe us. They’d lock us up if we told them what we saw.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “But I’ll do everything I can to find the kids.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” he said, and felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t easy to lie to her. But hey, he was a pro, right? The guilt would fade after awhile. It always did.

  He drew a deep breath, and for the first time since spotting the boy that night, he thought about how good it would feel to knock back a cold bottle of Sam.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tim sat in a secluded corner of the Glenwood library, a pile of books spread on the table before him. It was quieter here on the second floor. Less people, less distractions. The perfect conditions to focus on his history essay.

  God knew, he needed all the help he could get. Ever since his ordeal in Washaka Woods, he found it hard to concentrate on anything. His mind kept circling back to that terrifying confrontation in the clearing and fleeing through the dark from something he knew only as “the beast”.

  It seemed crazy now, here in the daytime, surrounded by books in a suburban library, listening to the rustling of turning pages. This was normal, this was real. Not what he’d seen in the woods the night before last. A ghost? Really?

  It had to be a dream. Between Randy’s bullying, Glenwood’s missing kids, and adjusting to a new school, he was under a lot of stress. If that wasn’t a recipe for nightmares, he didn’t know what was.

  He glanced at his assignment and sighed. It was due tomorrow, and he hadn’t even started it yet.

  Compare and contrast the US government as it functions today with how it was intended to function at the time of the Constitution’s ratification. How would Hamilton and Jefferson feel about the role of today’s lobbyists and Political Action Committees (PACs)?

  Tim opened his laptop and typed: Since both of those guys are dead, I don’t think they really care about lobbyists or PACs.

  There—short, sweet, and to the point. Not to mention, rooted in scientific fact.

  Unfortunately, there were two problems with this response. First, the essay had to be six pages long. And second, it had recently come to his attention that the dead sometimes did take an interest in current affairs.

  Tim glanced up at the sound of shuffling pages and saw a cute blond in yoga pants gathering her things at the next table. He turned to watch, but got caught staring as she bent over to retrieve her purse. When their eyes met, he shrugged and made a “call me” gesture with his thumb and pinky finger. She shook her head, but smiled before tossing her hair and walking away.

  It was the best advice he’d ever gotten—if a girl catches you staring, make a joke out of it. Better to come across confident and funny than shy and creepy.

  It was just one of the many teachings from the Great Bill Dexler, a sophomore from Tim’s last school, who, ironically, seemed incapable of following his own brilliant advice. He’d have to shoot Bill an e-mail once he finished this paper.

  Crap. This paper.

  Come on, focus. No more fooling around.

  Time slipped by as it always did, one hour, two hours, like water dripping from a faucet. Sounds of life in the library grew scattered and faint until all he could hear was the low hum of the fluorescent lights above his table.

  Somehow he had managed to scrape together a rough draft of the essay. Once he added an introduction and conclusion and elaborated on a couple of points he could probably get five pages. And if he used Courier 12 point and a custom spacing of about 2.2, he would get the six pages he needed.

  He glanced at his watch: 7:15. Hadn’t the sign downstairs said the library closed at 7:00? Maybe this town had the only laid back librarian in the country. He shut his laptop and slipped it into his backpack. The finishing touches could wait until after dinner.

  He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. A single pair echoed against the stone tile, drew close, and faded away. The pattern repeated itself a number of times—the sound of someone walking up and down the stacks, checking to see if everyone had gone home.

  Tim zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to leave and almost crashed into the man standing behind him.

  Tim stumbled against the table and swore. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  The man offered no apology. Didn’t even change his expression.

  Crazy old janitor.

  The man glared at him. “Sit.”

  “What? I can’t, I’ve got to get home.”

  “Sit!

  “Look, I’d love to stay for a lecture—and I’m sure it would be a great one—but I lost track of time so I’m just gonna go now.”

  The man forced Tim into the chair. “Hey, come on!”

  The man loomed over him, his face sun-browned and covered in stubble. “What did he tell you?”

  “What did who tell me?”

  “The boy.”

  A ripple of fear coursed through him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The boy. Samuel. What did he say?”

  Tim stammered, his mouth so dry he couldn’t make a sound. Which was just as well, seeing as he had no idea what to say to this lunatic. The guy looked like a drug addict—dark circles beneath his eyes, salt-and-pepper hair knotted and unkempt. His pupils were so dilated, you could barely see the whites.

  And the longer Tim stared, the harder he found it to look away. In fact, if he tilted his head just right, he could see a gleam of red radiating from the center of the man’s eyes.

  That got him moving—he jumped out of the chair and dodged around the table, leaving his backpack on the floor.

  “What did
he say, Tim?”

  The man was tall—at least six foot two—and had the shuffling gait of a zombie.

  Tim retreated into the stacks, his heart hammering. Had he really just seen that guy’s eyes turn red?

  “You’re going the wrong way,” the man said, a teasing lilt to his voice.

  Tim swore, realizing that he had run the wrong way. He turned down the next aisle and cocked his head to listen. The echo of the man’s footsteps suggested that he was only an aisle or two over.

  “Be careful where you step, Tim. You might encounter something … unsavory.”

  Tim peered through a gap in the shelves, but he couldn’t see his stalker. How was he supposed to double back to the stairs without getting caught?

  A hinge creaked somewhere to Tim’s right. Something clicked, and he had time only to swing his head toward the sound before the lights went out and the library plunged into darkness.

  “I do hope you’re not afraid of the dark, Tim. That would be … unfortunate.” He spoke the word tentatively—as if English was not his first language.

  Tim held his breath and concentrated on not making a sound. He had an absurd fear that the man would hear his heart pounding. He gazed in the direction of the circuit breaker, but he couldn’t even see the books that he knew were right in front of his face.

  What was this psycho planning? He wasn’t the janitor. He certainly wasn’t the librarian. So who was he, and how did he know about Samuel? And even still, how did he know Tim’s name?

  It is both beast and man.

  Samuel’s words prickled his skin with gooseflesh. Crazy or not, this was happening. And it was serious. Life or death serious. He tiptoed further into the stacks, his elbow brushing a book that some kid had lazily propped on the shelf. It fell to the floor with a reverberating smack.

  Laughter pierced the darkness. The sound was completely mirthless, like a machine grinding gravel. “Clumsy, aren’t we?”

  Tim turned in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Either the man was lightning-fast or he could throw his voice.

  Tim suddenly wished Randy and his goons were responsible for this. He would get his beating, they would have their laughs, and then he could go home. He’d be bloodied and bruised, but at least he’d be alive.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “You know what I want. Tell me about the boy.”

  Tim held his breath. Maybe the man would leave him alone if he told him what he knew. “He warned of a beast.”

  “Oh my, how terrifying.” The man sounded closer now. “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that, Tim?”

  Tim shuffled backward. “I’m leaving now.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

  A hand seized him by the throat and slammed him against the stacks. The man’s face pressed close to Tim’s, the red of his eyes shining bright enough to reveal the outline of his features, the madness of his grin. “The hunt is finished, Tim. But the killing ... the killing is just begun.”

  A squirt of urine escaped into Tim’s pants as he flailed his arms and groped for something, anything with which to defend himself. His hand closed around the thick spine of a book—a dictionary, maybe, or a thesaurus. He brought it down like a hatchet, driving the corner into the man’s eye.

  The man roared, his grip slackening.

  Tim dropped the book and sprinted toward the stairs. After a few steps, he slipped in something wet and his feet flew out from underneath him. His tailbone smashed against the floor, sending a white-hot jolt of pain radiating up his spine. He rolled over and tried to get up, but his hand got tangled in what felt like hair.

  Wet, sticky hair.

  By now, his eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, and he could discern the jackknifed form of an older woman lying in a pool of blood, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.

  Somewhere, the man chuckled. “I see you’ve found the librarian.”

  Tim scrambled to his feet and raced down the aisle. He rounded the corner at full speed, his sneakers squealing against the tile as he broke into the straightaway. He risked a backward glance and spotted the man in close pursuit. He grabbed a cart of books and rolled it into the man’s path.

  The man leaped over it, landed on his hands and knees, and bounded after Tim on all fours like some kind of animal. Tim turned another corner and noticed a faint light illuminating the tiles at the end of the corridor. A streetlight filtering through the blinds? But why would it have a reddish tint?

  Exit! It’s an Exit sign.

  Somehow he’d missed the stairs to the lobby and stumbled upon the emergency exit at the rear of the building. He burst through the door and raced down the stairs on the balls of his feet, his momentum threatening to send him tumbling head over heels.

  The man caught the door on its closing arc and slammed it into the wall so hard that chips of concrete rained onto the stairs.

  Tim reached the landing and dove to his left just as the man vaulted off the steps like a jungle cat pouncing on its prey. The man collided with the wall and fell onto his back, momentarily stunned.

  Tim jumped over him and lunged for the door. He pushed it open and charged out into the night where a sliver of a moon gleamed in the darkening sky. His eyes locked on the brick building opposite the library, and he darted across the street and flung himself through the doors to the Glenwood Police Department.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jay squinted against the bright sunlight and sipped a glass of lemonade. A beer would’ve been a hell of a lot better, a hell of a lot more satisfying, but Steve hadn’t offered him one and he thought it best not to ask.

  “Find a job yet?”

  Jay chomped on an ice cube and shrugged. “Haven’t really been looking.”

  “What have you been up to?”

  “Not much. Just trying to adjust. How’s work?”

  “It’s not the same without you. We all miss your jokes about Hoffman. Did I tell you someone slashed his tires?”

  “Really?” Jay couldn’t help but grin.

  “Yeah, all four.”

  “Serves him right. Any idea who did it?” He imagined himself stumbling around the parking lot with his Swiss Army knife. A daydream ... or perhaps the foggy memory of a bender? These days, who could say for sure?

  “Hoffman thinks it was someone from your geometry class.”

  Jay shrugged. “I could see Brian Mossler joking about it, but I don’t think he’d actually do it.” He set his glass on the patio table and gazed into the woods beyond Steve’s property line. “Glenwood was settled in the 1700’s, right?”

  “Yeah. 1709.”

  “Did people still dress like Puritans back then—you know, the black and white suits and all that?”

  “Well, maybe on Sundays or formal occasions. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “You know there was a settlement here in the 1640’s, one that predated Glenwood?”

  “There was?”

  “Yeah, it was an offshoot of the Puritans in Boston. I wrote an article about it last summer in the Item.”

  Jay shrugged. “I must have missed it. Sorry.”

  Steve waved him off. “It’s actually pretty fascinating.” His voice took on the same scholarly tone he normally reserved for his lectures. “In the summer of 1643, a hundred and five people abandoned Boston and headed west to start their own lives away from the strictness of Puritan society. They formed their own settlement under the leadership of a man named William Johnston—a place they called Freetown. But the settlement didn’t last long … three or four years, five at the most. No one’s really sure.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Steve adjusted his glasses. “A band of French fur trappers passed through the settlement in 1648 and found it deserted. Not a soul around. No dead bodies, no remains of any sor
t, nothing to suggest that they had died of starvation, cold, or disease. It was as if the whole town had vanished in an instant. They left behind all their supplies, all their food and earthenware. In a few cabins they even found place settings on the tables, crock pots hanging over fires that were long dead.” He shrugged. “Whatever happened, happened fast. These people left in a hurry.”

  “Sounds almost like what happened at Roanoke Island,” Jay said.

  Yes, except there were no markings found here. At Roanoke, they found the word Croatoan carved into a tree.”

  Jay nodded. He remembered reading about that years ago in history class. “What do you think happened?”

  Steve laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “It’s possible they went to live with the Washaka tribe. King Philip’s War was still thirty years away, so the Washakas might have been friendly toward them. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think that maybe the Washakas led them away from the settlement and killed them.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Think about it. Every day, the white man cut down more of their forests, pushed the Indians further and further from the coast, spread smallpox like wildfire. They had their reasons.”

  “Did you put that in your article?”

  “Are you crazy? It’s just a theory. When I was doing my research, I spoke to Chief Skatchawa, the Washaka leader who’s building that casino in Gilway. He knew something that he wasn’t telling me. I could see it in his eyes. So what else could it be?”

  Jay tilted the glass to his lips and chomped on the last ice cube. You wouldn’t believe it, Steve. Not in a million years.

  ***

  Jay watched the sun slip behind Mount Greylock, sending shadows stalking into the valley to smother the last vestiges of daylight. Centuries ago, a colony vanished from these lands, an entire settlement lost. And now all these years later, three children had disappeared without a trace. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Not after what Samuel revealed to them in Washaka Woods.