The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  Dusk came and the forest darkened and changed, every step a trap.

  At last the track was before her again and she followed it, the tears blurring her vision. She hoped she would reach the lake any moment, praying that she would see her parents soon, and even Frédéric. And even Camille.

  The fire ahead drew her eyes downhill. Someone to help her. Then she realized the fire was much larger than she’d first thought, lighting up the group that stood around it. She saw there were others farther back and still others… There had to be dozens of people gathered ahead of her.

  She slowed, cautious, ready to shout to the people below, ask them for help. But something stopped her, some intuition she couldn’t quite grasp.

  She hid behind the trees and watched.

  They moved slowly. Confused, strange, their clothes looking old and disheveled. She caught a smell on the breeze under the smoke from the fire—a reek of burning flesh and hair, and with it a cold scent of rank water.

  It was growing darker with every second, but she finally understood what had stopped her from shouting to them for help.

  Dozens of them, but even in the twilight she’d seen something in their eyes.

  Hunger. Insatiable. All-consuming.

  Feral.

  One by one, the heads turned and rose, looking at her.

  Léna Séguret ran for her life.

  67

  Claire woke at dawn from an uneasy sleep. Her first thoughts, as always, were for her daughters. Camille had slept—or, at least, had lain down and closed her eyes—in the bunk beside her own.

  Claire checked the phone she’d been holding in her hand while asleep. The battery was almost dead, but even then, there was no signal showing. Piece by piece, the framework of their lives was being undone, even as she’d started to hope it would all come back together. There was still nothing from Léna. The fear that something had happened to her other daughter—that it had been some kind of cruel exchange—was almost too much for Claire to contemplate. One thing at a time, she thought.

  She got up and dressed. Sandrine was already preparing breakfast with Xavier, another of the Helping Hand’s regular volunteers, but they declined any additional help, so she went to look for Pierre.

  She opened his office door. He was there at his desk, head cradled on his arms, fast asleep. She smiled and wondered if he’d been there all night.

  He stirred, then sat up suddenly, gathering himself.

  “Sorry,” said Claire. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve slept enough. How are you? Did you get any sleep?”

  “Some,” she said. “But I’m just so worried about Léna.”

  He stood beside her and took her in his arms. It was something that, not long ago, would have made her feel secure; Pierre her rock and support when Jérôme had been unable to provide either. Now, she just felt numb.

  “I’m sure she’s safe, Claire.”

  He held her and gave her that smile he often did, one that he used if he appealed to the mercy of God, one she didn’t quite trust. Pierre had more faith in the benevolence of the Lord than she’d ever had. “And I’m worried about Camille, of course,” she said. “I try to think about the future, but all I see are problems.”

  He nodded. “I want to show you something,” he said. “Something that I hope will set your mind at rest.” He led her outside and down some concrete steps into the basement storage rooms. Inside the locked doors were shelves stacked high with supplies. He smiled at her, nodding. “See? We’re well prepared.” They walked down the long corridor, Claire admiring the sheer breadth and quantity of stores.

  “That’s a lot of food,” she said.

  “In case we’re here for a long time. Enough for a few months.”

  She looked at him, astonished. “Do you think we’ll be here that long?”

  “It’s possible, yes.”

  “Jérôme thinks we might be evacuated because of the dam. He said half the town seems to have left already.”

  “We won’t need to leave, I promise you.”

  Claire wondered at his foresight. There was so much attention to detail—as though Pierre had been preparing for this sort of emergency for a very long time. The thought unnerved her.

  He unlocked another door and led her into a smaller corridor. Within was a caged section, and when Claire saw what was inside, she felt herself go cold.

  An arsenal. Weapons, ammunition. Enough for a small war, she thought. She looked at Pierre, horrified, but his smile was still there, still the same. Confident and calm despite the huge cache of weaponry displayed before them, as if this were totally normal. She wondered how he’d built up what must surely be an illegal stockpile.

  “I hope we won’t need them,” he said, “but we have to look after Camille. We have to protect her and the others. Because in turn, they will protect us.”

  The others, Claire thought. Pierre had told her and Camille of those he knew about—Simon, the little boy, and Viviane Costa. There would be more, he was certain of it, and she saw no reason to doubt him. Others would find their way to the Helping Hand soon enough.

  He led her back out to the end of the main corridor and another locked door. “Come see,” he said, unlocking it.

  Within was a medical room, well stocked with equipment. It looked as though it was sufficient to cope with even severe casualties.

  “What’s going on, Pierre?” she said. It all seemed like overkill, but she knew Pierre. He didn’t do anything without good reason.

  “You mustn’t be afraid,” he said earnestly. “It’s all happening as it was written. They are here to warn us that the end is near, Claire. That is why they’ve come. Harbingers of the End Times.”

  “The end?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And when it comes, it will be wonderful.” And his smile told her that he believed it completely.

  • • •

  She went back to the dormitory to find Camille sitting up.

  “Did you sleep?” asked Claire.

  “No,” said Camille. “I’m hungry, though.” She said it with some guilt.

  “Let’s get you something,” said Claire, upbeat. They went through to the canteen where Xavier and Sandrine were starting to serve food.

  Camille loaded her plate. Claire had no appetite and took very little, just enough to stop Camille feeling too conspicuous. They sat, and after a few minutes Camille nodded toward a woman lining up for food. The woman Pierre had told them about, Viviane Costa. The others at the Helping Hand paid her little notice, seemingly unaware that she was like Camille. Pierre was clearly being careful about who should be privy to such information, Claire thought. It meant he was waiting to judge the reaction to Camille before he revealed more of those like her, and the thought worried Claire. It showed caution where she’d expected confidence.

  “Can I talk to her, Mum? Just for a minute?”

  Claire waited until the dead woman had sat down two tables away before nodding, unwilling to let her daughter speak to the woman unless they were close enough for her to listen. The woman gave an edge of sarcasm to everything she said. Claire had managed to speak to her the night before, alone, and she’d come away with a strong dislike for her.

  Camille took her tray of food with her. “Hi,” she said, sitting down. “Madam Costa? I’m Camille.”

  “Viviane, please,” said the woman. She gestured at both their trays. “Enjoy the food. Before long it’ll be rationed.”

  “What, are you psychic?”

  She shrugged. “No, I’m a realist. It’s common sense.”

  “Your husband taught me at school,” said Camille. “He was good.”

  “Really? Well, he had to be good at something.”

  “Did he kill himself because you came back?”

  Claire winced at the ques
tion. The subject of Viviane’s husband was something she’d avoided any reference to when she’d spoken to the woman.

  “Yes,” said Viviane, the sarcasm rising. “Maybe he thought I was too young for him.”

  Camille was oblivious and wasn’t dropping the subject. “But did you—”

  “What do you want to know?” she snapped. “Did I force him to commit suicide? You think we can do that, make people do things? Do you think I wanted him to die?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Camille, looking down at her plate.

  “He took his own life. He didn’t like me being back. What more can I say?”

  There was a long pause as they both ate.

  Then, eventually, Camille spoke again. “Viviane, how did you die?”

  “Will you stop interrogating me?” she said, but after a moment she sighed and spoke again. “I starved to death, if you must know. When the dam broke, we had no food for three weeks. Some people ate dead animals, they were so hungry. Animals killed in the flood, ones that were rancid, maggoty. Anything they could find.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “You have no idea,” she said. “But you’ll understand soon enough.”

  Claire had had her fill of the woman. She stood and walked over to them. “So why did you tell me you died in a fire?” she said.

  “Did I say that?” said Viviane, all innocence.

  Claire nodded. “And you told my husband you were killed by burglars. You’re just making it up, aren’t you? You get a kick out of it.”

  “Yes. I admit it.” The smile on the woman’s face was unsettling. Cruel, gleeful. “Just like Camille.”

  “What do you mean?” said Camille, visibly anxious.

  “I saw you talking to the Koretzkys.”

  “I told them what they wanted to hear,” said Camille. “It did them good.”

  Viviane leveled her gaze at Camille. “Are you sure about that?” she said. “Why don’t you look in the outhouse?”

  Camille turned to her mother, fear in her eyes, then stood and ran outside. Claire went after her, glaring at Viviane, who looked back with an indifferent shrug.

  • • •

  The outhouse was a hundred yards away from the main building, at the edge of the area of asphalt that served as the Helping Hand’s parking lot. Camille reached the door and was heaving it open just as Claire caught up with her. Both of them gasped in horror.

  Around the walls were dozens of containers of fuel for the generator and the same number of gas cylinders for the kitchen. And in the center of the outhouse, hanging from the metal beams of the roof, were two people, ropes around their necks, the chairs they had used toppled over on the floor, their dead faces red and contorted.

  The Koretzkys. Eager to be with their son.

  Claire recovered herself enough to put her hand over Camille’s eyes and drag her away from the door. She started shouting for help, yelling Pierre’s name, pulling Camille around to the side of the building. Her daughter was shrieking, terrified, and all Claire could do was hold her until she stopped.

  • • •

  Pierre was the first to reach them, with Xavier, Yan, and Sandrine close behind. The men cut the bodies down while Sandrine stood a little way from where Claire held her trembling daughter. Claire could feel the woman’s eyes trained on them.

  “We have to let the police know,” said Xavier, as they came out of the outhouse and locked the door.

  “No,” said Pierre. He said it with a finality that made them all look at him, wary.

  “What do you mean?” said Claire.

  “The police have enough to contend with,” he said, his eyes not leaving Claire’s. She thought of the arsenal he’d assembled and wondered if he’d told anyone else of his plans or of his thoughts about the approaching end. She suspected that he hadn’t. “I’ve heard of looting, disorder. If they come, they’ll evacuate us at a time when the town needs us most.”

  “But we have to,” said Xavier, adamant. Pierre looked thoughtfully around the group. He nodded.

  “If that’s how everyone feels, then I understand,” he said, giving Xavier that professional smile of his. “But let me handle it. I know the people on the force. I’ll alert them. Our phones are out now, but I’ll drive in later.”

  Claire noticed how Sandrine was looking at Camille. A searching, suspicious glare—the accusation written clear on her face.

  “What did you tell them?” said Sandrine.

  “Leave her alone,” said Claire. She pulled Camille closer as if she could shield her daughter from the words she suspected were coming. Camille clung to her desperately.

  “Camille was talking with the Koretzkys yesterday,” said Sandrine. “I don’t know what she said, but look what happened.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Pierre. “Camille didn’t cause this.”

  Claire stared defiantly at Sandrine. “Is that what you think?” she said. “That she told them to commit suicide?”

  “Perhaps not directly,” said Sandrine. “But everything she said about the afterlife, it must have made them think. They couldn’t stop crying.”

  Camille buried her head in Claire’s side, trembling.

  “Enough,” said Pierre, with sufficient force to make Sandrine quail a little. “There’ll be no more talk like that, Sandrine—from you, or from anyone else. Everyone will be upset enough by what’s happened, and we must come together to support one another. This is a difficult enough time. We need to acknowledge this tragedy, I think. Acknowledge it by celebrating their lives. A service, to help us settle down. I hope you can help me organize it?” He said this directly to Sandrine, almost as an order. She appeared to be on the verge of tears for a moment before nodding.

  “Once you’ve been to the police,” said Claire.

  Pierre looked at her. She could see a little uncertainty on his face, as if he didn’t know whether her comment was a pointed assertion that he’d been lying or whether it was intended to remind him to maintain the charade. In all honesty, Claire didn’t know herself which she’d meant.

  “Of course,” said Pierre. “Once I’ve been to the police.”

  68

  Toni needed to rest. His lungs felt like fire. Serge had always been the fit one, Toni the hulking brute, but even Serge should have been tiring by now.

  “I need to stop,” Toni gasped and leaned against a tree. “We’ve been walking for hours. I don’t understand. We should be through the forest by now.”

  Serge was looking around, pumped up, still ready to run and run. He hardly seemed out of breath, Toni thought.

  After the police had driven off, Toni had been unable to think straight. Serge had come out of the house and proposed a plan: leave their mother inside, where she would be safe. The police had no interest in her, only in Serge, and now that Toni had shot a policeman, in Toni too.

  Let me talk to her, Toni had pleaded, but Serge just shook his head, adamant. His mother agreed, Serge said. He and Toni would leave the house and head away from the town, through the forest. It would take them the better part of a day, but there was another road out in that direction. They’d be able to find a truck driver willing to take them north.

  That had been the plan. However, dusk had fallen and the moonlight they had been counting on had been lost behind cloud. Unable to be sure of their path, they’d sheltered in a thicket and waited until dawn. The cold hadn’t affected Serge, but Toni had struggled.

  And now, in the light, Serge had lost his way and yet still denied it.

  “Is it the wrong path?” asked Toni, finding his breath at last. “We’ve been walking for so long. We should already be at the road. Maybe your sense of direction is off.” What worried Toni most of all was how unnerved Serge looked. Serge knew these woods like the back of his hand; if he didn’t know their position, then things really were s
erious.

  “We’re going too slowly, that’s all,” his brother said.

  “I’m trying,” said Toni, stung by the comment. “Go ahead and leave me if I’m slowing you down.”

  Serge shook his head. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I’m sorry,” said Toni, despairing. “All I want now is for us all to be together like before, and it can’t ever happen. Can it?”

  Serge wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  • • •

  They moved on, Toni doing his best to pick up the pace, but the terrain was difficult. Root and dip, branch and burrow all conspired. One wrong step and he would come down hard, twisting his ankle or worse, and then where would they be?

  “What’s that?” said Serge from ahead, and when Toni reached him, he saw it. The smoldering ashes of a large fire, carelessly set, and in the ashes he could see the charred remnants of small animals. None had been prepared for cooking, he could tell—thrown on the flame fur and all, guts and all—yet none were whole either, part-cooked flesh gnawed and ripped. He found himself thinking of the grouse he’d seen in the house the day Serge had come home.

  They said nothing more about the fire and continued for another hour. Serge stayed close for a time, but soon enough he was well ahead again. “I’m just scouting out the path, Toni,” he’d said. “I’ll not go too far.”

  Then Serge started to swear, shouting in frustration.

  Another fire, Toni thought when he reached him, wondering why Serge looked so desperate, but then he understood. It was the same fire they’d passed before.

  “We’re going in circles,” said Serge.

  Toni felt his breath leave him. “How is that possible?” He fell to his knees. “How is that possible?”

  Serge’s fists clenched. He swore again. “We have to keep going,” he said, determined.

  “I can’t go on,” said Toni. “Not like this.”

  “We can’t stop,” said Serge, agitated, staring at the ground. Toni followed his gaze and saw one of the charred animals he’d noticed before. The way Serge was looking at it…