by Blake Crouch
They'd driven onto the beach eight hours ago, the kids riding in the back of the old Dodge pick-up truck as Rufus drove all the way out to the southern tip of the island—a spit of sand jutting out into the sea.
At this time of day, they had it all to themselves.
A man had been fishing a few hundred yards up the beach for the last several hours, but he was gone now.
A fishing trawler loomed like a ghost on the horizon several miles out, nearly invisible through the haze.
"If we build it big enough," Luther said as he packed the damp sand, fortifying the wall, "maybe the tide won't knock our castle down?"
Rufus grinned at his son.
"If we built this thing taller than me, the ocean would still bring it down. There's no stopping it."
Luther scowled. "But we worked so hard. I like it. I don't want it to fall."
"Just enjoy it while you have it, son. By the way, that philosophy works for more than sand castles."
Luther came to his feet just as a breaker crashed twenty feet away.
Sea water raced up the sand, stopping just shy of the moat.
He turned around, glanced back toward the dunes.
The sun was just sliding down behind the live oaks on Ocracoke Island.
Only a few hours of daylight left.
It had been such a perfect day, and Luther felt a glimmer of sadness at the thought of it coming to an end.
He could see the ocean beginning to swell again.
Another wave coming.
He looked up at his father, saw Rufus smiling down at him, sweat beading out across the man's forehead under the jet-black bangs that stopped just above his eyes. The boy would always see his father like this, even in his old age.
Young. Fit. Strong and happy.
The breaker crashed ashore.
The sea foaming and fizzing like a bottle of spilt soda.
Rufus put his hand on Luther's shoulder.
"Here comes the first attack, my boy. Man your battle station!"
Luther stepped up to the front wall and watched the water race toward them with a lump in his throat.
# # #
When the sun was gone, they got a bonfire going and roasted wieners over a bed of coals that Maxine had spread out in the sand.
Luther and Katie sat together eating hot dogs as the tide went out, the sound of the breakers now growing steadily softer.
When he was finished with supper, Luther leaned against his sister and stared into the flames, his belly full, watching the fire consume the wood of some ancient shipwreck. He could feel the accumulation of sunlight in his shoulders—a warm, subtle glow. His eyes were heavy.
"You tired?" Katie asked.
"No."
"Yeah, you are."
"No, I'm not."
"It's okay to be tired, Luther."
"I know."
She kissed the top of his head. "Sorry about your castle. You still sad it's gone?"
Luther said nothing.
"It was really cool, buddy," Katie said. She craned her neck and looked him in the eyes, must have seen the tears welling, shining in the light of the fire. "Luther," she said, "you'll get to make another one. I bet it'll even be bigger next time."
Luther glanced up through the flames at his father and mother, Maxine wrapped in a shawl and cuddled up between Rufus's legs nursing a cold beer.
The heat of the fire felt good lapping at his face. He could've fallen asleep to it.
Gazing up into the sky, he watched the sparks rising toward the stars.
Smelled the residue of suntan lotion on Katie that the sand hadn't worn away.
Coconut.
He filled with a sudden and profound warmth for his sister.
Only three years older than he was and yet she understood him better than anyone else. Better even than their mother.
He'd just started to reach for her hand when he noticed the light.
For a moment, he mistook it for a lightning bug—it had that floating, bouncy quality—but then he realized it was the bulb of a flashlight moving toward their fire.
Still thirty or forty yards away, and he couldn't have known how often he would dream of that image. How thoroughly the fear of it would come to define him. So innocuous—just a speck of brilliance coming toward him in the dark.
His mother must have noticed the diversion of his focus, because she said, "What's wrong, boy?"
Luther jutted his chin toward the light. "Somebody's coming."
"Probably just someone out for a late-night stroll," she said.
"Can we spend the night here?" Katie asked.
"I don't think so," Rufus said. "I need a shower."
Maxine chuckled. "And a soft bed, sweet-sweet."
"Absolutely."
"But it'd be fun!" Katie whined.
"Another time, princess," Rufus said. "We didn't even bring our sleeping bags."
The light had nearly reached them now, Luther watching it approach and listening to the oncoming footsteps in the sand.
"They're coming over here," he said.
Now Maxine sat up and looked back over her shoulder.
Luther held up his hand to shield his eyes from the firelight.
Saw a man's legs standing ten feet away—hairy and thick—that ended in a pair of muddy work boots.
Rufus was struggling to his feet now.
Luther heard his father say, "Hi, there."
Luther glanced up into Katie's face, didn't like what he saw—an intensity, a concentration he didn't fully comprehend. He was missing something. Events unfolding on some frequency beyond his experience.
His father spoke again, "Evening."
"What are you folks doing here?"
The man's voice sounded strange to Luther—southern but not local. Not friendly either. It contained a hard-edged, metallic rasp.
"Just having a campfire," Rufus said.
"You live around here?"
"We live on Ocracoke. How about you? You visiting?"
The man laughed as if Luther's father had made a joke. "Yeah. That's it. We're visiting." The man came forward three steps and turned off his flashlight. In the firelight, Luther studied him. He wore a heavily-stained white tee-shirt covered in a thousand tiny rips. The man's substantial body odor was evident even from ten feet away. He hadn't shaved in weeks, his jaw covered in a salt-and-pepper stubble. His eyes shone wild and glassy and they didn't stay on one object for more than several seconds at a time.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BLAKE CROUCH is the author of DESERT PLACES, LOCKED DOORS, SNOWBOUND, and ABANDON, which was an IndieBound Notable Selection, all published by St. Martin's Press. His latest thriller, RUN, was released in February 2011. His short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Thriller 2, Shivers VI, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and other anthologies. In 2009, he co-wrote "Serial" with JA Konrath, which has been downloaded over 500,000 times and topped the Kindle bestseller list for 4 weeks. That story and ABANDON have also been optioned for film. Blake lives in Colorado. His website is www.blakecrouch.com.
BLAKE CROUCH'S OTHER WORKS
The Thicker Than Blood Trilogy
Desert Places
Locked Doors
Break You
Other works
Run
Draculas with JA Konrath, Jeff Strand and F. Paul Wilson
Abandon
Snowbound
Famous
Perfect Little Town (horror novella)
Bad Girl (short story)
Serial with Jack Kilborn
Serial Uncut with JA Konrath and Jack Kilborn
Killers with Jack Kilborn
Birds of Prey with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath
Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath
Serial Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath
Shining Rock (short story)
*69 (short story)
On the Good, Red Road (short story)
Remaki
ng (short story)
The Meteorologist (short story)
The Pain of Others (novella)
Unconditional (short story)
Four Live Rounds (collected stories)
Six in the Cylinder (collected stories)
Fully Loaded (complete collected stories)
Visit Blake at www.BlakeCrouch.com
COMING SOON
Stirred by Blake Crouch and JA Konrath
Pines by Blake Crouch
Wolfmen
Draculas 2
Copyright © 2004-2011 by Blake Crouch
Cover art copyright © 2011 by Jeroen ten Berge
All rights reserved.
THICKER THAN BLOOD is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information about the author, please visit www.blakecrouch.com.
For more information about the artist, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com.
Excerpts from "Desert Places" and "The Road Not Taken" from The Poetry of Robert Frost edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright © 1916, 1969 by Henry Holt and Company, 1964 by Lesley Frost Ballantine, 1936, 1944 by Robert Frost. Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
"Locked Doors," from The Awful Rowing Toward God by Anne Sexton. Copyright © 1975 by Loring Conant, Jr., Executor of the Estate of Anne Sexton. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
