Colony of the Lost

by Derik Cavignano

The sudden blare of a horn startled him as a car roared past, sending sand spiraling up into his windshield. Jay swerved back onto his side of the double yellow line and swore. In the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of an irate driver flipping him off.

  Christ, I drive better when I’m drunk.

  By the time his heart had resumed a normal rhythm, he was steering the LeBaron into his driveway. Darkness greeted him as he stepped into the foyer, a waft of musty air reaching his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose at the stench and cracked a window, then kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch.

  Even with his eyes closed, it seemed he could still see the refrigerator looming over the kitchen counter. A beer would taste great right now. A nice, cold bottle of Sam. Or maybe a Jack and Coke to take the edge off.

  With Crystal gone and no job to tie him down, he could have a drink whenever he wanted. Drunk without the guilt…now that was living!

  The first step in AA was to admit that you were powerless against alcohol, and at least a dozen times he had spoken those very words in the smoke-filled church basement on Summer Street, staring out into a crowd of strangers. But not once had he ever believed it. He wasn’t powerless against alcohol. He didn’t drink because he had to—he drank because he wanted to.

  But what if that wasn’t true? What if he’d been lying to himself all these years?

  He felt a sudden twinge of empathy for his father. It was the first time he’d felt anything but loathing since the bastard walked out of his life twenty years ago. He could always count on Dad to get wasted at every family gathering. No matter how drunk, Dad was always quick with a backhand—especially where Mom was concerned.

  But it wasn’t like that in the beginning. The hitting only began after the drinking had spiraled out of control, a spiral he felt himself drawn into now … a great sucking vortex like a black hole. First drinking leads to unemployment, then unemployment leads to more drinking, then the attainment of another job becomes impossible, and there’s nothing left to do but die.

  He didn’t want it to happen that way, didn’t want to die a drunk.

  But the call of the bottles in the kitchen mocked him.

  Just a sip, Jay. What’re you afraid of? You know you want it.

  He made a fist and punched himself in the thigh, angry at the voices, angry at himself because he was salivating. He snatched the morning paper off the coffee table and tried to drown out his inner voices.

  GLENWOOD LIBRARIAN SAVAGELY MURDERED!

  Glenwood- A startling new development in the Glenwood missing persons case occurred here last night while most citizens were returning home from work. A local youth, whose name police would not disclose, was seen fleeing from the library just after 7:00 P.M. Bystanders reported that as the boy ran into the police station across the street, a shadowy figure emerged from the library and slipped away toward Salem Street and Washaka Woods.

  A grisly scene awaited police in the library, where the body of long-time librarian Jane Maclaren was found nearly decapitated on the second floor.

  Police speculate that the suspect was involved in the recent disappearances of four other Glenwood youths: ten-year-old Ryan Brakowski, thirteen-year-old Tanya Anderson, seven-year-old Billy Deegan, and, most recently, eleven-year-old Ben Wesley. With the exception of a small shred of Ryan Brakowski’s blood-spattered shirt, which was found by joggers on a trail in Washaka Woods, police have found no traces of any of the victims. Police, in conjunction with the federal agents now working on the case, called this latest incident a tragic breakthrough.

  Police have released a sketch of the assailant. He is described as a tall white male in his early to mid forties, 185-205 pounds, with dark skin, dark eyes, and graying hair. Police are asking residents to notify them immediately of anyone resembling the man in the sketch.

  The disappearances of the four youths in this historically quiet town have seriously shaken residents. A curfew went into effect early this week and school officials are now considering a suspension of classes until the suspect is caught. Police hope that information from the public will lead to the eventual capture of the suspect and the discovery of the whereabouts of the missing children. Residents say they are optimistic, but will continue to take careful precautions while the man in the sketch remains at large.

  Jay felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He stared at the charcoal sketch of the mystery assailant. Was that really who the boy had seen in the library, or had he seen some hideous beast and then lied about it so people wouldn’t think he was crazy?

  He chewed a fingernail. Tim. He could see the kid’s face clearly, a portrait of terror burned into his memory like a scar. They had almost run into each other in the midnight woods, both of them scared senseless, tearing through a forest shrouded in darkness, searching for an escape from the phantom child born out of some half-forgotten nightmare.

  He’d seen a police car parked outside of Tim’s house around nine o’clock last night. It had pulled up alongside the white Colonial, flashers off, siren silent, tires grinding pebbles. A pair of cops got out—a fat one and a skinny one. Both hitched their pants like TV repairmen and headed up the walkway. They disappeared inside and emerged onto the porch a few minutes later. The fat cop said something to Tim’s dad, patted him on the back, and then waddled back to the cruiser.

  The cruiser remained there throughout the night—he had woken up repeatedly and checked. He tried telling himself not to worry, that maybe the kid’s father was a witness to a crime and needed to be guarded until the trial. It was a stupid theory. But in the dead of the night, it was a more comforting thought than the alternative—that Tim had been attacked by the beast Samuel had warned them about and had barely escaped with his life.

  How much had Tim left out of the story? What kind of terror had the boy faced? He thought suddenly of the little girl—of Sarah—and felt ashamed. He’d promised to find out all he could about the warning Samuel bestowed upon them, had said in so many words that he would protect them, that he would stop any more kids from disappearing. And what had he done? Nothing. Not a damn thing.

  And what about the suitcase sitting packed on his bed? Was he really just planning to get away for the weekend, or was he trying to skip town while Tim and Sarah remained behind to face an almost certain death?

  It’s coming for you, Jay. It’s coming to kill you. And you deserve it. The pain, the suffering ... you deserve it all.

  “Shut up.”

  Yelling at the voices in your head? People might think you’re going crazy. I think maybe you already are. So why not have a drink? Throw back a cold one with your dear old dad.

  “Go to hell.”

  Been there, Jay. Too hot for my liking. But I think you’ll enjoy it.

  He wiped his mouth.

  Getting thirsty?

  Jay drew a deep breath and promised himself he wouldn’t give in to the temptation.

  Why fight it, boy? You know you can’t beat it.

  He got up from the couch and decided that he needed to walk around, to clear his head. After his third lap around the living room, he found himself standing before the refrigerator, arms folded across his chest. His throat felt constricted, his breathing too shallow. He definitely needed a drink. A glass of Coke, maybe ... or some orange juice.

  He licked his lips, opened the door, and groped inside for a bottle. When he got to the counter, he realized that he had grabbed a bottle of Sam instead of the two-liter of Coke. He shook his head and shrugged. Honest mistake.

  He slid his finger along the glass, cutting a slick track through the condensation.

  Don’t do it.

  He glanced at the refrigerator. He could put it back. It wouldn’t be too hard. Just three steps, a quick tug, and voila! It would’ve been a good plan except that the Coke looked a little flat. How long had it sat there on the shelf, the cap barely tightened? Flat Coke gave him indigestion, always had. If he drank it, he’d be up all night with that awful burning in his
chest.

  Better to have a couple swigs of beer than to make himself sick. He supposed he could have water, but the tap didn’t get very cold. Besides, there probably weren’t any ice cubes in the freezer, at least not any fresh ones.

  He cradled the bottle of Sam, stroking its shapely neck. Three sips. That’s all he wanted. He could do it, he had the willpower.

  A test, then! That was it! A way to prove if he really did have a drinking problem. He would have three sips and then dump the rest down the sink.

  He grinned fiercely at the challenge.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, the voice of his father cackled.

  He tilted the bottle to his lips. Beer poured into his mouth in an icy rush, expanding the pinhole of his throat. After the third gulp, he set the bottle down and wiped his hand across his mouth.

  There! That wasn’t so hard. Still a quarter of a bottle left, and he didn’t even want it.

  He strutted into the living room and clicked on the TV. When a commercial interrupted the program five minutes later, he returned to the kitchen. He held the bottle over the sink and hesitated. Why throw it out? He proved he could resist the urge to drink it, so he obviously wasn’t an alcoholic. Any normal, sober person wouldn’t waste the last few sips of a beer if he was thirsty. So if he was, in fact, normal he should probably finish it. It only made sense, after all.

  Stop it, Jay. For God’s sake, are you listening to yourself?

  But the voice held no power over him. He brushed it aside and downed the last few swallows. For a long moment, he stared at the empty bottle, at the delicate web of foam clinging to the bottom. Then he heaved it into the sink, shattering the glass into a thousand glittering shards.

  “Why can’t I help it? Why can’t I just… stop?” And then he was sobbing. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

  Why couldn’t Crystal be here? Her presence would force him to stay sober. He lowered his face into his hands. The house was so empty without her, so utterly devoid of life. Alcohol had ruined him, had cost him his fiancée, his job, his future. So why was he reaching into the fridge for another drink?

  Because there’s nothing left for me to do.

  He hoisted the bottle of Sam to his lips.

  ***

  Fingers of light flickered across the room, muted grays and blues producing a host of lurking shadows. Jay sat slouched on the sofa, a half empty bottle of Sam cradled in his lap. The ghostly glow of the TV illuminated his face. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed softly to itself, the noise cycling in and out every ten minutes or so.

  Alcohol numbed his body, beginning with his lips and branching out to consume his head, chest, and legs. He stared at the TV in a daze. The room orbited him every time he closed his eyes. Jimmy Fallon shook hands with his guests—two actors and a leggy blond model—while the credits rolled across the screen. With the volume turned low, the words had difficulty penetrating the fog that enveloped his mind.

  For once the voices remained quiet; none seemed to have anything to say. He sat back, enjoyed the buzz, and let the alcohol carry him away. Two or three hours must have passed before he came awake with a start.

  A crash emanated from somewhere in the house. He blinked sleepily and pulled himself into a sitting position.

  The house was utterly still. He waited a moment longer, shrugged, and closed his eyes. Must have been—

  Glass tinkled to the floor in the kitchen, followed by a grunt and a heavy thud.

  “Looks like I’ve got company.” He took a swig of beer and set the bottle on the coffee table. It missed its mark and tumbled to the floor.

  The refrigerator awoke with a purring hum. The door swung shut with a click. Footfalls approached, the sound interspersed with the clinking of glass. “Sorry about the window, Jay, but you didn’t leave me a key.”

  Jay turned toward the voice and saw a tall man crossing into the den. He carried a bottle of Sam in each gloved hand. His face was a mask of shadows, and Jay had to close one eye to keep from seeing two men instead of one.

  The man placed the bottles on the table and seated himself in the recliner opposite Jay.

  Jay reached for the opener and popped off the cap.

  “That a boy,” the man said. “Drink up.” He propped his feet up and spread his arms over the back of the chair. “Nice place you got here.” His eyes swept the room. “Dark. Just the way I like it.”

  Jay tipped his head back and took a long pull of beer. He glanced at the newspaper on the table, at the charcoal sketch on the center of page one.

  The man leaned forward and grabbed the paper. He spread it open on his lap and shook his head. “The resemblance is rather striking, wouldn’t you say?” His dark eyes were humorless.

  “Have another sip, Jay. I’d like to let you finish, but I’ve got to kill you soon.” He reached for a bottle and angled it into his mouth, twisting the cap against his teeth. It tore free with a squealing pop. The man grinned, then spat the cap onto the floor.

  Jay watched the cap roll underneath the sofa before shifting his gaze back to the tall stranger. Blood stained the man’s teeth and trickled from the corners of his mouth in dark rivulets.

  There was something oddly familiar about the man, something he could see even through the screen of alcohol, a screen that was dissolving as his fear intensified.

  The man licked his lips and closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring the taste of blood. “Tell me about the boy, Jay. Tell me about Samuel.”

  Jay finished his beer and stared at the TV. “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Is that any way to treat a guest?”

  “Try bringing your own beer next time.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not going to be a next time.”

  Jay set his empty on the coffee table. “I know who you are.”

  The man flashed him a leering grin. “No Jay, I don’t think you do.”

  “You’re a kidnapper. And a murderer. And my mailman.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s a small town. Did you really think you wouldn’t get caught?”

  “You see, Jay, I am he … and yet I am not he. I am the One and the Many, the Hunter and the Hunted … and all things in between. I bring Death to Life and Life to Death.”

  Jay could feel himself sobering up fast. “Why don’t you bring yourself to the front door?”

  “Just as soon as I kill you.” The man’s eyes flickered. Red light winked in the depths of his pupils.

  Just an illusion. Didn’t really see that.

  The thing sitting opposite Jay laughed, but what came out sounded more like a growl.

  Something cold and unyielding pressed into Jay’s back. At first he had no idea what it could be, but then his mind retrieved the answer—his dad’s .45. He had taken it out this morning, digging it out of the shoebox at the top of his bedroom closet. He’d carried it around the house ever since, afraid something like this might happen.

  He reached behind his back and drew the gun from the waistband of his jeans.

  The thing that looked like a man brandished a hunting knife. The blade gleamed in the TV’s flickering light.

  Jay rolled off the couch and clicked off the safety.

  The thing’s grin faltered. It inched forward, rotating its wrist, cutting tiny circles into the air with the point of the knife.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Jay said.

  “You can’t kill me. You can’t even hurt me. All you can do is ruin my disguise.”

  Outside, his neighbor’s bamboo wind chime echoed its eerie tune. The sound it made was low and hollow, like the ratting of bones.

  It’s not even scared, Jay thought. I’ve got a gun pointed right at it, and the son-of-a-bitch isn’t even afraid.

  Blood pounded in his ears, a sound like soldiers at march. Sweat seeped from his pores, threatening to loosen his grip on the gun.

  The thing snarled, spittle flying from its lower lip. It dropped into a crouch, bloody mou
th curling into a grin. And then it sprang at him, knife poised to strike.

  The trigger was slippery, oiled with a sheen of sweat. Jay’s finger slipped once, twice. And then the gun fired—a deafening report like August thunder. A brief flash illuminated the room, followed by the acrid stench of gun smoke.

  The thing jerked back. The force of the bullet tore the knife from its hand, sending it clattering to the floor. Its face twisted into a mask of agony. It clutched its shoulder. Blood seeped through its fingers and dripped onto the hardwood in thick, red drops. The thing met his gaze, the red light gone from its eyes. It staggered back, looking human again—a he rather than an it.

  Jay cocked the hammer, took aim.

  The man glanced down at the knife. Confusion clouded his face. He glanced up at Jay and saw the gun as if for the first time. “Oh God. Not again. ”

  Kill him!

  But something in the man’s face gave him pause.

  It's playing you—don't you see? It's not human.

  A warble of sirens rose in the distance. Jay stole a glance out the window, at the flashing lights reflected in the trees.

  The man made a break for the door.

  Jay had a clear shot to his back. He took aim, but didn’t fire. He lowered the gun and shook his head.

  The man slipped outside into the waiting embrace of darkness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sarah sat on her bed and doodled in her notebook. Outside, the rain poured down in fat drops, drumming against the roof and fogging up her window. Mr. Whiskers lay curled by her side, his fluffy head nuzzled against her thigh. She scratched him beneath his chin and gazed out the window.

  She hated the rain. It was gray and gloomy and made everything look so ugly. At least it was Thursday. Just one more day of school before the weekend.

  She glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 3:05. Her parents wouldn’t be home from work for another two hours, so for now she was all alone with Jenny and Mr. Whiskers. Mom didn’t like leaving her home all alone, but Daddy said they needed the money, and for once Mom agreed with him.