The explosion.
Massive. A tremendous boom that she felt in her stomach. So loud, and the bowl shape of the lake and the mountains magnified the explosion into a giant peal of thunder.
Except it wasn’t thunder.
The car plowed through the gate.
She thought: No.
She begged: No.
Metal pieces of gate and fence went flying to either side of the car. Her kids screamed nonstop behind her.
Christie blinked repeatedly to get her damn eyes to clear, to get them to stop crying so she could see the dark road.
I have to able to see, she thought.
I’m out. I got the kids out.
Safe.
Up to me now, she told herself. That’s right. Up to me now to keep them that way.
She turned on the headlights.
The kids sobbed in the back.
It wouldn’t be long before she would answer their questions and tell them what had really happened.
For now, all she could do was drive.
epilogue
43
Scooter’s Mill
Christie hit the first checkpoint well before dawn. She slowed the car and pulled the gun onto her lap.
The kids sat up in the back.
Neither had fallen asleep, but they had stopped asking her the same question, over and over.
Where’s Dad?
She slowed the car. While most of the townspeople at the fence stayed back, one older man walked up to her, a lean man with a weathered face and eyes that squinted as he walked into her headlights.
Looks okay, she thought.
He came beside her window and signaled for her to roll it down.
Another look at the other men watching the scene.
They looked … okay as well. But then again, so did everyone at Paterville. They had all looked just fine, too.
She hit a button and the window started down. She stopped it when it was only about a quarter open.
“Evening,” the man said. She saw him look at the windshield, a spidery net of thin cracks.
She nodded.
“Kinda late to be out. With your kids and all.”
“Yes.”
“Any problem?”
She tried to think: How would Jack handle this? What would he say?
“We’re coming from Paterville.”
The man nodded. Another look at the kids in the back. Then she saw him glance at the gun in her lap.
“And?”
“There was break-in. Their fence. It failed.”
The old man looked back at his companions.
“Can Heads got into the camp?”
She nodded.
“Lots of them. We— I … didn’t feel safe. So, I got them out.”
A pause. The man thinking this over.
“All by yourself?”
No. No questions like that.
“Yes. It wasn’t—” she tilted her head as if she was explaining something so strange, so unbelievable—“safe. It wasn’t safe there.”
“Where you headin’, ma’am?”
She looked at him. The eyes that looked back, though sunken in that lined and weathered face, so human. Can he see what we’ve been through? Is it that obvious?
“New York City. Home.”
The word caught in her throat, her hands still locked on either side of the wheel.
The man nodded.
What must I look like? she thought. The kids …
“Okay. You have a couple more towns you’ll have to stop at before you get to the highway. Guess you know that. I’ll call ahead.”
She raised her head.
“And let them know you’re coming.”
“Thanks.” She looked at him again. Then:
“Listen. Has there been anyone else? From the camp. Anyone else been through here?”
The question so pitiful. The thought so crazy.
The old man took his time shaking his head no.
Then the man turned to the backseat again and smiled.
“You kids take care of your mom, eh?”
The man pulled away from the car, and signaled to the others. They lifted the fence, opening the road. The sky had begun to lighten just a bit.
Before she pulled away, she turned back to Kate first, then to Simon.
“You guys get some sleep. Okay?”
Her two children nodded.
She pulled away from the Scooter’s Mill checkpoint.
We’re going home.
That’s what she told herself.
Over and over and over.
I’m taking my family home.
Acknowledgments
This novel would not exist but for the talent and vision of Brendan Deneen and Vince Mitchell. They took my original short story and—with my blessing—created a powerful screenplay based on that story. This novel is certainly indebted to the creativity, ideas, and writing talent they put into that screenplay. Thanks too to the original publisher of the story, Richard Chizmar, publisher of Cemetery Dance Magazine, and the subsequent anthology that contained the tale. It was inside that anthology that Brendan and Vince first discovered “Vacation,” and then would just never let me forget about it. And as far as Brendan editing this book, every writer should be so lucky. Lastly, it was my wife, Ann, who told me about these guys who called one day and loved this story of mine. I think that somehow she always believed that there was more to come from the tale, and thus—so did I. When she believes, you’d be a fool not to …
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
VACATION. Copyright © 2011 by Matthew J. Costello. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Costello, Matthew J. (Matthew John), 1948–
Vacation / Matthew J. Costello.
p. cm.
e-ISBN 9781429990511
1. Police—Fiction. 2. Family vacations—Fiction. 3. Cannibalism—Fiction. 4. New York (State)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O7632V33 2011
813'.54—dc22
2011024813
First Edition: October 2011
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Six Weeks Before
76th Precinct, Union Street, Brooklyn
Red Hook
Inside the Apartments
Kings County Hospital
Christie
One Day Before
Recovery
Preparations
Home
On the Road
Leaving
Outside the Fence
In the Backseat
Rest Stop
The Decision
North
The Mountains
Welcome to Paterville Camp
Greetings
Tom and Sharon
Dinner
Dusk
Night
The Service Road
Morning
Questions
Dinner
Siege
8:46 P.M.
9:11 P.M.
10:41 P.M.
Secrets
Morning
Afternoon
4:55 P.M.
7:10 P.M.
The Last Day
12:55 A.M.
1:41 A.M.
2:28 A.M.
Escape
6:07 A.M.
4:47 P.M.
6:01 P.M.
7:50 P.M.
Cabin 12
The Plan
The Gate
Five Minutes Earlier
Epilogue
Scooter’s Mill
Acknowledgments
Author Photo
Copyright<
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Vacation Page 23
