Sleepers Awake

by Patrick McNulty

  He zipped his coat and held the throat closed. He tried to imagine where he was. Everything was white. There were no landmarks. All he had was his memory. Just below the torrents of wind came the whine of a snowmobile. He couldn’t tell if it was approaching or even from what direction it was coming. He took his best guess and headed in that direction.

  He was getting very tired from the intense cold and the blood loss and the shock of the last few minutes. He concentrated on lifting one foot and then the other. Left, right, left, right, over and over through the snow he trudged. Blood dripped from his mouth onto his clenched right fist. His right leg sank thigh- deep and he pitched forward. As if on cue the wind picked up, holding him down as a thin drift spun over him. He got back to his feet.

  The creature flew out of the storm like a missile. Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle slammed into his back, cracking ribs and pounding out his breath in one wheezing gasp.

  Deep in the snow, Norman was on his back, trying desperately to beat away his attacker. Its claws dug into his biceps, crushing the fight out of him. The heavily muscled arms pinned his, like a jumble of sticks, close to his chest. Norman tried to scream, but he didn’t have the breath. It was happening too fast. He couldn’t think. His vision was failing, everything darkening. The beast thrust its head at Norman’s throat.

  His heart sounded like shotgun blasts in his ears.

  Norman opened his eyes. He could breathe again, and the air above him was clear, full of big beautiful snowflakes. Another shotgun blast brought Norman to his knees. About ten feet to his left three men dressed in full snowmobile suits and ski masks surrounded the bleeding Zijin. The creature twitched as it died. Its chest a gaping wound, its head obliterated above the eyes. One of the group stepped forward and pumped two more shells into the dying thing. The creature was dead. At least for now.

  When Norman felt another’s touch he jumped.

  “Easy, there,” the woman said. “It’s all right.”

  Norman’s eyes were wild and he had trouble focusing.

  “You’re Norman Conklin, right?” she asked.

  Norman couldn’t stop shaking. His eyes rolled up into his head and once again he slipped into the dark.

  29

  The Zijin flooded through the bay window in a gray-skinned wave. Sean could barely see in the gloom, getting only snapshots of light as he and Bishop and Jordan fired their weapons.

  Bishop yanked Sean out of the line of fire and killed the creature that had once been Martha Matthews. Next he drew a flare from a pocket of his coat and sparked it to life. Soon the room flickered in brilliant green light. Jordan couldn’t stop screaming. He fired all six shots of his borrowed .38 and then threw the empty gun at the rushing horde. Bishop grabbed him by the arm and hauled him toward the door. Sean was already backing up, firing quick and sure. He hit a charging creature three times in the chest, but the Zijin kept coming.

  “Gotta get ‘em in the head to put them down,” Bishop shouted.

  Bishop fired his last round and popped the clip. Two Zijins charged him from the right before he had time to reload. Bishop flexed his right wrist outward and a seven-inch blade slid into his waiting palm. He sidestepped the pair and slashed the first one across the throat. The other lunged for Bishop and got six inches of his blade straight through its right eye.

  Sean and Jordan stumbled out into the hallway. Bishop soon followed.

  “Stay behind me,” Bishop said.

  Sean and Jordan followed Bishop down the hall to the stairs and toward the front door.

  “No, wait!” Sean said. “This way!”

  Bishop spun, “We got no time for this,” he said. “We got to get out of here.”

  “We go out the front door we won’t get ten feet.”

  Window glass shattered all around them in the dark as Zijin fought to get inside. But Sean dragged Jordan back into the house.

  “This way!” Sean said.

  Bishop took another look at the front door less than ten feet away then followed Sean. Sean felt his way down the narrow hall past the bathroom and the laundry room on the left. His hand passed over the doorjamb and then he found it. The metal door was cold. The knob turned and Sean pushed through into the Matthews’ garage.

  Just as he thought, the Matthews’ rusted out Honda Civic and their newer Dodge Durango sat waiting. Blessedly, the keys were in the ignition.

  “You drive,” Sean said to Jordan.

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because with the power out we have to raise the door by hand.”

  Jordan looked to the wide garage door and paled. “Oh, shit.”

  Bishop moved to the front grill of the SUV.

  “Soon as I start raising the door,” Sean said to Jordan, “you rev that engine. We’re gonna need a lot of speed out of the gate.”

  Jordan slid behind the wheel.

  Sean looked to Bishop, holding a gun in each hand.

  “You ready?”

  Bishop nodded.

  Sean positioned himself at the side of the garage door and with his gloved hands on the chains he nodded once and started pulling. The door raised an inch. It rattled and shook on its track as a crowd of Zijin threw themselves against it. Their claws slashed across the gap into the garage. Bishop fired and blasted fingers and hands to pieces.

  Behind them the big V8 engine of the Durango revved to life.

  Sean pulled the chains and watched helplessly as the door rose and the creatures poured through the gap. One slashed him across the hand before he could move. He reeled backward and the door dropped a good six inches. Blood from Sean’s hand splattered across the cement floor and the garage door.

  “Keep pulling!” shouted Bishop.

  Sean snapped back to the chain and pulled harder than before. The door rose and he kicked and screamed at the approaching creatures. A Zijin lunged at Sean. Bishop fired, killing the beast, but not before its razored talon cut through Sean’s jeans just above his knee. Sean fell. Bishop grabbed him before he hit the ground, leaning him against the inside of the garage. With one hand Bishop pulled on the chain, leaving his other hand to fire his weapon. When the door was nearly open all the way, Bishop dragged Sean back to the Durango and pushed him into the back seat. Bishop kept firing, keeping the creatures at bay, until his weapon was empty. Then it was a race. Bishop squeezed into the back seat behind Sean and closed the door. Instantly the window exploded inward as the Zijin rushed the truck and reached inside for its occupants.

  “Go!” Bishop shouted.

  Jordan dropped the SUV into drive. The big vehicle tore through the crowd of Zijin and exploded out of the garage. The tires squealed and smoked as the Durango lurched forward through the tide of rushing Zijin. Showing no fear, the creatures charged the big SUV, leaping onto the hood, clinging to the roof rack. Jordan smashed through, cutting a swath through the crowd until he hit snow. Moving too fast to correct the skid, the Durango slid sideways. Jordan cranked the wheel and, with the tail end fishtailing, he maneuvered down the driveway.

  Claws skittered across metal and glass. Through the blowing snow Jordan saw the glint of metal.

  “Oh, fuck,”

  There was a space on the left hand side between the Matthews’ wrought iron fence and the two vehicles at the end of the driveway, but it was going to be tight. Jordan goosed the engine picking up speed going downhill.

  “Hold on!” Jordan called, and headed for a gap that would be impossible to fit this full-sized SUV through.

  “Oh, Jesus,” was all Sean had time to say before the SUV ricocheted off Jordan’s nearly buried jeep into the wrought iron fence. With a squeal of twisted metal the Durango blasted through the gap. Jordan cut the wheel hard right and after a sickening moment of weightlessness, the Durango’s tires dropped onto solid ground, found traction and tore forward through the snow down Mulberry Road toward town.

  After a mile or so when Jordan’s breathing started heading toward normal, he reached for his radio and tried to con
tact Kelly. After a few unsuccessful attempts, Jordan tossed the radio into the passenger seat.

  “Anything yet?” Sean asked.

  Jordan shook his head.

  Sean looked to Bishop sitting beside him in the back seat. He hadn’t said a word since leaving the Matthews’ house. He silently reloaded his weapons.

  “I have to get my son,” Sean said.

  Bishop met Sean’s gaze for a moment and then went back to reloading his weapons.

  30

  Ten minutes later the Durango pulled up in front of the Violet House, the engine making a grinding sound of metal on metal. All three of them spilled into the street and the blowing snow. Sean had torn some cloth to make a makeshift tourniquet for his hand and his leg, but neither cut was deep.

  Bishop stared up at the dark building, studying.

  “We go in, we search, then we leave,” he said.

  “You can leave right now if you want,” Sean said and started toward the Violet House. “I’m not leaving without my son.”

  Like every other door on this street, they found the door to the Violet House smashed open, as was the front store window that faced the street. Sean felt sick as he stepped over broken glass and shattered wood. Together their flashlights swept over every inch of her place. They covered the downstairs quickly, finding nothing but damage.

  Bishop and Jordan followed Sean up the stairs to Violet’s apartment. They found the door lying in the hall. Deep claw marks crisscrossed the wood.

  Inside the apartment candles burned, guttering in the wind. Sean moved to rush inside, but Bishop grabbed him and held him back. Sean wrestled out of his grip but made no move to go in.

  “Kevin?” Sean cried. “Kevin?”

  The first door on the left was closed but not locked. The heavily damaged door swung. Inside the tiny bathroom, blood was splashed across the ceramic floor. There were no bodies.

  Sean felt hollowed out, gutted. His knees buckled and he dropped. He hit the ground hard at the edge of a puddle of blood and wept. After a moment, Bishop touched his shoulder, sending Sean springing to his feet.

  “Don’t touch me!” he screamed. “Get the fuck off me!” Bishop backed up.

  “Kevin! Kevin!” Sean screamed.

  Bishop kept his eyes moving, scanning the dark apartment. Sean spun and pointed at Bishop. “You did this!” Sean said. “You did this!”

  “Sean,” Bishop said.

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “Sean, there are people in this town who still need you.” Sean was reeling now. He dropped down onto a sofa and let his gun fall to the floor.

  “They took my son,” he said. “Kevin!”

  “I know.”

  “They took my son.”

  “Sean, listen to me,” Bishop said.

  “Where is he?” Sean asked. “Where is he? Tell me!”

  “Sean,” Bishop said, “Kevin is gone.”

  But Sean was already shaking his head.

  “No, no, no,” he whispered. “Where is he? Where did they take him?”

  Jordan leaned out through the shattered window and scanned the street. He stumbled backwards into the apartment in a daze, clutching his neck. A claw had raked through the air and cut three grooves across his throat continuing down his chest to rip the front of his coat to shreds. Jordan reeled as Bishop fired at the windowsill where the Zijin reared its ugly head. The bullets ripped the top of its smooth head off and the creature fell limply into the street below.

  Jordan touched the wound with freezing fingers and felt warm blood. He pressed his palm to the wound and felt his pulse pumping against his flesh.

  Bishop scanned the area around the window. The dead Zijin lay still in the falling snow.

  Jordan lay on the couch. His eyes were the only part of him moving, restlessly scanning the room. Bishop disappeared into the bathroom and returned with gauze, tape and a bottle of Tylenol. He dumped the items into Jordan’s lap, jerking him out of his stupor.

  “Wrap the wound,” Bishop said. “Let’s go.”

  Jordan pawed at the gauze.

  “Can you walk?” asked Sean.

  “Nothing wrong with my legs,” Jordan said.

  “Good. Get up,” Bishop said.

  After Jordan wrapped his wound and downed a handful of Tylenol, he got to his feet. Bishop tossed him a weapon and Jordan caught it out of the air.

  “You’re going to need that,” he said. “Don’t throw this one away.’

  Sean led the three of them out of the Violet House into the street. It was cold inside the apartment, but outside was ridiculous. The wind snatched away his breath and froze his lungs with every inhalation. The small group trudged through the snow to the borrowed Durango where a small group of wraiths had crowded around the big SUV. Oliver was in front, waiting.

  “It’s not good, Bishop,” Oliver said. “She’s at St. Patrick’s. She’s in the bloody building.”

  Sean watched Bishop. He was staring at something near the Durango. His face fell.

  “What is it?” Sean asked.

  “Petra’s at the church.”

  Jordan slid behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine whined and sputtered and finally died.

  Sean was already looking around. Then he headed north on foot toward Cross Street, followed by Jordan. He made a sharp left down an alley between an electronics store called Spark and the town’s only Laundromat. Bishop brought up the rear keeping watch.

  Sean tried the door to Stan’s Auto but found it locked. He broke the glass door with the butt of his pistol. No alarm sounded.

  The sales office was dark but neat. Stan’s Auto was closed early this time of year, thus no people, thus no damage by the Zijin. Sean moved to the pegboard in Stan’s office and searched through the hanging keys.

  Bishop waited in the showroom. There were four snowmobiles, an SUV and a quad on display. A few minutes later Sean emerged from the sales office and tossed Bishop a jumble of keys. He and Jordan fired up the snowmobiles.

  “Jordan, you lead. Bishop, you go second, and I’ll bring up the rear.” Sean said. “Straight to the church.”

  Jordan nodded.

  Sean fired three rounds into the main showroom window, shattering the glass.

  Jordan tore out of the showroom into the snow, followed by Bishop.

  Sean tried to concentrate on the road but with near zero visibility he wasn’t able to travel as fast as he would have liked. Two minutes in he could barely see Bishop’s taillights. A moment later they were gone. Sean cursed under his breath and goosed the throttle. Over the wind and the drone of the snowmobile Sean heard three quick gunshots and his stomach turned over.

  Was he the only one left alive out here?

  He found Bishop’s snowmobile a minute later. It was smashed into the grill of a parked car. Bishop was gone. Sean couldn’t even hear Jordan’s snowmobile anymore. He scanned the snow-swept street and saw only white.

  “Bishop!” he cried, but the wind snatched away his call before it could get very far.

  “Bishop!”

  Sean drew his pistol and flashlight and scanned the area. He might as well have been on the moon. He was the only light for as far as he could see and that thought suddenly made him realize how very vulnerable he was right then.

  Bishop was probably already beyond help, and if the creatures could get him, what chance did he have to save him? Or himself, for that matter? The flashlight felt more like a candle in the wind, his gun like a kid’s toy. The wind and snow swirled around him, and the rapid chittering of the Zijin grew near. His pale face whipped left and right. He cranked the throttle and pulled quickly into the street.

  31

  Norman fixed himself a cup of coffee and shuffled into the main reception area of the church where on Sundays after Mass the congregation gathered, drank coffee, nibbled on baked goods and talked about the weather and Osama bin Laden. Tonight’s was an altogether different crowd. People from all over town were gathered in the tiny room,
about sixty in all. For most of them, this was their first visit to the church since settling here in Danaid; for others it was as familiar as their own home. But the reception area had never looked like this. People lay on cots and sat in chairs, collapsed. Exhausted or wounded, they were spent.

  Anyone who had any energy left was busy eating soup and sandwiches at a few tables set up near the kitchen. Others stared out into the darkness through the tiny slit windows. Nearly half were crying.

  He found an empty seat at a table where Gertie sat quietly. The old girl toyed with a bowl of soup, not really eating. When Norman sat down, she nodded politely and went back to her stirring.

  “Not hungry?” Norman asked.

  Gertie shook her head. Her shoulders shook.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Norman whispered, “it’s okay.”

  She wiped tears off her cheeks and brushed back her hair.

  “No, it’s not okay.” Gertie whispered. “Stupid old bat, leaking everywhere for all the world to see.”

  “It’s all right,” Norman replied. “It’s only me.”

  “We’re gonna die here, Norman” she said suddenly. “All of us.”

  Norman stared right back at her and didn’t argue. The church was a trap. He realized that now. It had been a trap from the very start. But what else could they do? If they stayed in their houses they were taken. They couldn’t leave Danaid, so here they were, trapped.

  Gertie left the table and headed for the restroom. Norman watched her go without a word.

  Eyes met his across the common area, the flat, cold eyes of a wraith. He looked around the room and saw more and more flooding into the common area, mixing with the living. Waiting. Watching. Something was about to happen. He sipped his coffee and kept his eyes on the table.

  “You have to leave this place.” Norman’s mother whispered. “Right now.”

  She had taken a seat across from him as silently as a shadow. Her small round face was pinched with worry and concern. Norman shook his head slowly.