Best not to use it.
But on a moonless night it was hard to see anything except when the skies lit up.
His eyes moved up the fence—a big flash of light—and he did see something. A dark shape at the top. Like a sack or a bag? Resting right on top of the tight coiled of razor ribbon.
Thoughts came quickly to Fergus.
Whatever it was should have shorted the outer fence. Made a connection. Shorted the fence out, triggered an alarm.
What the hell was it? He started to reach for his flashlight.
Kemp came stumbling toward Fergus, oblivious. Fucking oblivious.
Hand on the flashlight.
But there would be no time to get it out, unclip it from the belt, turn it on, aim it.
A bunch of smaller explosions echoed in the woods. No light from them.
So many things had to happen to get the flashlight on.
None of which could happen. Now. When there simply was no time.
* * *
A big ooooh! erupted from the families.
Jack saw the light of the fireworks reflected in all the faces looking upward.
A breeze blew off the water. Chilling. Gooseflesh rose on Jack’s arm. Christie leaned into him. He put his arm around her.
The kids nearby, heads tilted up.
For the next few seconds, Jack just enjoyed the show.
* * *
Hand on flashlight.
About as far as Fergus got.
Then, they leaped onto the outer fence—three, then four of them. Tattered clothes, nearly naked, clambering up to what was now clearly the body that had been thrown on top.
A bridge across the razor ribbon.
But what about the thousand volts of electricity?
Nothing, as they made their way up quickly.
Fergus yelled, “Kemp! Look!”
All Kemp did was stop, standing next to the Can Heads nearly at the top of the fence.
Fergus stopped reaching for his flashlight.
He backed up. He started to lower his gun, wondering why it took so long to get it into position, to get the damn safety off, to get his goddamn hand onto the trigger, to begin aiming—all so fucking long.
His left hand flew to the walkie-talkie clipped to left shoulder. Even hitting the send button seemed to be the most difficult task.
He pressed hard, and yelled, “Code Red!”
They’d know who sent it. They’d know what sector. Back in the service area where they had all the cameras, where they monitored the entire camp, the fences. By now, they should have picked up the shapes on their cameras.
The first Can Heads had reached the top, using the body to slide over and leap down.
One landed right on Kemp, who never saw it coming.
Fergus itched to shoot but now he’d kill Kemp. No doubt.
There were others on the fence. Another two, three, four.
Christ, he thought.
What the hell was wrong with the goddamn fence?
He started shooting.
But even as he sprayed the fence, he began pulling back.
With that one thought that drove him to come here, to live in Paterville, to do this:
I want to stay alive.
* * *
Jack turned his head.
Hearing the noise above the intermittent explosions coming from the sky.
Everyone else would have missed it.
Just another explosion.
He tightened. Gently, he pushed Christie away.
“Jack, what’s—”
He listened. Shots. Popping noises that he could hear between the firework blasts.
Maybe kids with firecrackers, he thought for a second, taking the most benign thought that his brain offered.
Fireworks. Kids. Leftover firecrackers.
But no. Gunfire had such a distinctive sound.
“C’mon,” he said, to Christie at first. Then, almost roughly, he tapped the heads of the kids. “Kids. We gotta go.”
Another brilliant flash.
“What? Why are we—”
Other people barely noticed Jack herding his family away from the lakeshore.
No one else had noticed the gunfire.
Only seconds for all this, and then suddenly everyone knew why Jack was pulling back, why he was guiding his family away, why he was ignoring the people giving him confused looks as he roughly pushed past them.
A giant horn blast sounded that dwarfed even the explosive sounds booming from the lake. Ear-splitting. One blast, then another, and another.
Then a clipped voice as no new fireworks rocketed into the sky. Saying its short sentence, alternating with horn blasts: “Everyone return to your cabins immediately.”
Jack and his family nearly off the beach.
The voice calm; the horn screaming down at people probably said enough about what was happening.
More blasts, then the voice again. Jack rushed, almost shoving his family back to their cabin as they were suddenly joined by a sea of people, all hurrying.
Some screaming; the panic there so fast.
Jack was tempted to just push people out of the way. To his left, he saw someone stumble to the ground, and get trampled.
He steered Christie and the kids close by the figure on the ground. With one hand he reached down and pulled the woman up.
Her eyes wide. Crazed. She didn’t stop to say thank you, but turned and joined everyone madly streaming away.
The lake was hemmed in the one side by the Great Lodge and the cabins, the thick woods to the rear.
No one would go in the direction of the woods.
Everyone funneled onto one of the paths that would get them off the beach, away from the lake, the crazy alarm horns only making their terror worse.
* * *
They moved so fucking fast, Fergus thought. Flying over the top.
He watched the two of them on Kemp. Ripping him apart like kids tearing into a present on Christmas morning.
The others began scattering.
Except for a few who noticed Fergus shooting.
He kept backing up even as he sprayed his gun left and right.
Can Heads could take a lot of hits. Like they felt no fucking pain whatsoever.
They’d be on him soon.
He thought help would have arrived, the other guards.
Where the hell were they?
One of his bullets kicked a hole in the skull of a nearby Can Head with no clothes and a beard that made it look like a deranged lion.
“Fuck it,” Fergus said.
He turned and started running.
There was an army of Can Heads entering the camp, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing Jay Fergus could do alone but find someplace to go, someplace to hide—to stay alive.
As he ran, he became aware that all the sounds he heard before—the bugs, the wind—were now joined by so many others.
The alarm, the screams, and just behind him, so close, the terrible sound of steps chasing, racing after him.
26
9:11 P.M.
Fergus looked over his shoulder, the sound of the steps as close as mosquitoes buzzing his head on a muggy night.
A quick look back, and then he didn’t see what was in front of him as he ran right into a Can Head that had somehow appeared on the trail in front of him.
His slam sent them both falling forward, rolling on the packed dirt and pine needles.
God, he felt them grabbing him, pulling at him, then bites—one, two, three—until he couldn’t tell where the pain was coming from anymore.
He prayed that someone would see.
One of the other guards. And not hold back, not flinch—but fire as quick as they could.
To stop this.
He screamed out his agony.
A howl that must have filled the woods.
Then a blessed sound as he heard the repetitive coughing of machine-gun fire.
His prayers answered as bullets hit, and one, someh
ow, somewhere, made everything instantly black.
* * *
Jack hurried his family along. The cabin not far now.
Christie guided Simon, holding his hand. Jack had a firm grip on Kate. Now families started breaking away, bolting, tripping, racing for their own cabins, the horns blaring, so loud, deafening.
At one point he felt Kate stumble on something, but his grip was tight enough to hold her up, near dangling, not even pausing in their forward movement until she regained her footing again and started running.
The horns—you almost couldn’t hear the screams with them blaring so loudly.
Or the gunfire.
Jack tried to place the gunfire as he ran.
Where were they fighting?
How the hell did the Can Heads break in?
With goddamned electric fences?
Jack raced up the path to their cabin, Christie right behind. He saw the Blairs get into theirs.
Good, he thought. They’re inside.
He got his family into their cabin.
He released Kate, and went around to the windows, then to the front and back doors, shutting and locking them.
The windows. So damn easy to toss a rock at one and gain entry.
Had Lowe and his Paterville team never expected this?
Ever planned for this fucking situation?
Everything shut tight, he ran into the bedroom. Opened a drawer and took out his gun. He grabbed a box of bullets.
Out to the living room.
At least the horns sounded more distant with everything buttoned up. The kids looked up at him, hiding the gun still in its holster.
But Christie saw it.
“Jack.”
He walked over to the three of them on the couch.
Perhaps it’s the way he held the gun. Not as if he was going to use it. Because he wasn’t.
He passed it to Christie.
“Jack, what—”
Then he passed her the box of bullets.
She knew how to shoot. He had made sure of that.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s loaded, Christie. And you got more bullets in the box. And here, on the couch”—he looked around the small living room—“is where you stay. You understand? You can see all the windows. The doors. Right from here.”
He felt the kids’ eyes moving from the gun to his face.
He forced himself to smile.
“Probably nothing. But best to be safe. Just like we’ve practiced at home.”
The drills. The government urging everyone to practice what they would do. To prepare.
Like what to do in case of fire.
Only in this case, what to do in case of cannibals crawling into your house.
Finally, Christie asked the question: “What are you going to do?”
He stood up. “Make sure things are okay out there.”
She shook her head. “Jack. You stay here. We need you here.”
He took a breath. Yes, true, he thought. If you wanted to wait until some of them came.
Waiting could be just the wrong thing to do.
“I’m going to take a look.” He paused. “Make sure it stays nice and quiet in Paterville.”
“Daddy, stay,” Simon said, picking up on his mother’s worry.
“I’ll be back real soon.”
Kate said nothing.
“But you don’t have a gun now!” Christie said, her voice sounding exasperated, as if she already knew this was an argument she would lose.
He looked right at her. “Yes, I do. Plenty of guns.” A casual shrug of the shoulders. “In the car.”
She shook her head.
“If you get there.”
He wanted to tell her that if there was something bad going on outside, then one small revolver and a box of bullets would be precious little against a bunch of Can Heads.
That he knew.
But he didn’t have to say it.
“We may need those guns.” Another smile. “Or not. But I can get them fast.”
Did she agree? He didn’t know. But he saw her eyes had grown watery. She fought her fear for the kids.
Then another telltale sign. Her right hand closing over the grip of the pistol. She also put the box of bullets down beside her and undid the holster clasp.
“Keep the doors locked. Listen for sounds. And when I come back, I’ll knock—three … two … one.”
Christie nodded.
He looked at his kids. Scared. Quiet.
He went to the door, undid the sliding bolt lock, and walked out, not having a clue what he’d see there.
The first thing Jack noticed: nobody outside.
Gunfire came from three, maybe four different areas, so all the guards must be out there, dealing with the Can Heads that had gotten in.
If the fence had gone down, was it back up yet? Or could the Can Heads keep coming in?
Some of the cabins were dark. Maybe the people thinking that if they looked dark, empty, the Can Heads would skip them.
Might work.
Or might be exactly what a deranged Can Head would look for.
He started running full out, arms pumping, and immediately felt the pain in his leg.
Can’t run for a while, Dr. Kleiner had said. No running for you. All that running, the sudden stretching of muscles. Could set you back, way back.
Not to mention the pain.
Jack ran as fast as he could.
The Great Lodge looked empty, unprotected. Yep. All the guards dealing with the attack.
Maybe everyone was. Not just the guards. Lowe, Shana, the cooks. Anyone who could use a gun.
He peeled away down the trail that led to the parking lot. The parking lot as dark as ever, with its two spots of light.
Perfect for a trap.
But he didn’t hear any gunfire down there.
Got to do this fast, he thought. Get a gun and get the hell out of there.
His left foot hit a rock and he went flying forward. Breaking his fall with his right leg.
Months of rehab loomed when he got out of this.
When.
Always the right way to think about it. When. Not fucking “if.” “If” could lead to mistakes. “If” led to fear.
He ran between cars, scraping doors, banging into mirrors, hurrying as fast as he could to the Explorer.
It would be so damn easy for one of them to jump out from behind the shadow of a car.
Not much he could do about that.
He reached his car and used the electronic key to open the rear door.
He ripped up the mat that covered the metal plate of the storage compartment.
Now he had to use the key. In the goddamn dark. Get the key in, turn it, get the thing open.
What’s around here? Anything around here, coming closer, while you fumble with that key?
In the wrong way at first, then a little twist and the key slid home. He unlocked the compartment.
* * *
Christie released her hold on the gun.
Kate wanted a hand, and so did Simon. The gun sat on her lap, almost in a line with the two hands she held.
The horns constant. The warning message, though, had stopped. The dull, repetitive voice saying, Please return to your cabins immediately.
Everyone had done that.
Christie looked at Simon.
“You okay, Si?”
He nodded. Then to Kate, waiting her turn for the question.
“Kate?”
Another nod.
Then Kate said, in a voice that sounded as if it came from miles away, “Mom … are you okay?”
The question made Christie’s heart break. She was fighting so hard to hold back the tears, of fear, worry … she didn’t know what. The emotions all jumbled.
And Kate asks about her?
Christie gave her daughter’s hand a squeeze, then a smile. “I’m fine.”
Then, feeling that they both wanted more, “Dad will be back so
on. They stopped the message. So, things must be okay now. Maybe … maybe it was a false alarm.”
As soon as she said that, her optimism sounded hollow. “Dad will be back. We’ll do what he says. He’s a police officer. He knows what he’s doing.”
The two kids nodded at that.
Because that was one thing they all agreed on.
Then all three of them went quiet again.
* * *
Jack grabbed the M-16 automatic rifle, loaded with hollow points.
He stuffed his pockets with boxes of shells. Then he grabbed one of the Glock 22s. Double the kick and killing power of the gun Christie had.
He wished she had it.
Too much kick for her, though she had shot it, before trying the bigger handgun out at the firing range. Laughing as it threw her backward.
“Got to plant your feet, kiddo.”
“I see that.”
“Plant your feet, lock your arm into position. Tense your muscles. Get ready for that kick. Then, eye on the target—”
“Squeeze slowly.”
“Exactly.”
Jack still had other weapons in the compartment, and the timed C4 explosives built for use in the narrow corridors and hallways of city apartment buildings. Blow in a door. Kick a hole in a wall.
No need for them now.
He took an extra flashlight he had there and stuck it in his back pocket.
He slammed the case shut, pulled down the trunk door, and started running back up to the main area of the camp.
The gunfire continued.
This thing wasn’t under control.
When he got to the top of the trail, near the left side of the lodge, he saw a guard there.
“Hey, you got weapons? They’re in the fucking woods. We can use all the help we can get.”
The guy radiated fear like woodstove heat.
“Getting back to my family,” Jack said, barely pausing his agonized limping run.
The guy reached out and grabbed Jack’s arm.
“You leave the Can Heads out here, and your family and all the families could be fucked. You get that?”
Jack shrugged off the arm. Started to run.
But the words were clear enough. And worse, Jack knew they were true.
Holing up in the cabin was just the wrong thing to do. Not with them still here, using the darkness, the trees, the shadows. Waiting.
“Okay. Where the hell are they?”
Vacation Page 14
