Parker’s fate was sealed. In terror, he froze in those lights, mesmerized. His whole body trembled as if it were succumbing to some kind of seizure. The Lexus shot up onto the curb and crashed through the window. It pinned him against the front counter, crushing his vertebrae, instantly paralyzing him from the neck down. He didn’t feel a thing, not any more, and he couldn’t even scream when he saw his mother’s eyes, cold and dead, staring behind the wheel.
~
At the Thrifty Mart, Ina Krantz rang in the last customer at her checkout and watched Tricia Brooks head out of the store with her two bags of groceries. Ina had been on her feet for a solid two hours, packing bag after bag as people filed past. Folks had been acting like assholes, pushing and shoving. The store had run dry of staples like bread and milk over an hour ago, as if everyone figured the world was coming to an end. Maybe it was.
She turned to the tall windows across the front of the store. The rain was coming down hard. Thunder startled her, and a flash of lightning lit up the darkening sky.
“I’m going on my break,” she said to the other cashier.
“Sure,” Rikki Burney said, clearly not listening. She was seventeen, texting her boyfriend. She didn’t even look up.
“I’ll be back with a butcher knife so I can jam it in your ear,” Ina said.
“Sure,” the girl said, her thin fingers working the virtual keys on her smartphone.
Ina rolled her eyes and headed down aisle six toward the back of the store. She passed the deli and slipped inside the cramped and musty ladies’ room. There were two stalls. She sat in the far one, listening to the growing thunder. The lights flickered.
Stay on, she thought. Please God, make them stay on.
There was a small rectangular vent on the outside wall near the ceiling. It was no more than three inches high and maybe ten across, and even on the brightest days it didn’t let in much light. If the lights went out, that was it. She’d lose it. She’d curl up and cry.
She didn’t like storms, and she liked the dark even less. After Momma had fled when she was nine, Daddy had raped her instead of Momma. Always at night. Always after dark. If his pickup hadn’t blown a tire and swerved into a transport truck on her sixteenth birthday, she might have slit her wrists, just like she’d planned.
She checked her watch. Ten minutes left on her shift. School was out, so Billy was probably home by now. He was sixteen, sure, could take care of himself, but that was no great comfort. If this was the end of days, she wanted to spend it with him, not freaking out in some smelly crapper. Not in the dark.
Thunder startled her again. The lights flickered and went out. They came on seconds later, and her thudding heart slipped back in her chest.
She finished up, and as she flushed the toilet, she thought she heard the door. Thunder boomed. The lights died.
She listened. All she heard was the storm.
“Hello? Rikki?”
She opened the stall door and peered out. The faint light from the vent flickered.
“Rikki? Is that you?”
She stepped out of the stall. A dark figure stood near the door. Two dark figures.
Men.
“Juh … Johnny?” She figured it was the butcher, Johnny Harris. “I’m okay. Thanks for checkin’. But jeez. You coulda knocked first. Ladies’ room, you know?”
A flash of lightning gave her a quick look. It was Johnny—and Ted Scott, his assistant.
“You guys scared the crap outta me.”
They didn’t say a word. Then they did.
“What—?” Ina said. The word came again.
It wasn’t English. It was gibberish.
They took a step toward her. She stepped back.
“What are you doing?”
More thunder. More lightning. This time, she saw those pulsing veins; saw those bloodshot eyes.
And after they took her, she curled up … and cried.
~
Norah Wallace stood at the small kitchen window of her modest third-floor apartment on Traynor Avenue. It overlooked the Boone River with a good view of the sprawling backyard that ran along the water. Her boys had wanted to go out and play, but no way in hell that was going to happen. She wanted them inside where she could keep an eye on them. After what had happened at the community center, she had had enough. Being a single mom with three young ones to take care of, she’d be damned if she was going to let anyone hurt them.
She finished chopping the onions for the stew and stirred them into the pot. She lowered the heat and covered the pot with the lid.
She checked on her kids. Adam, her eldest at eleven, was spread out on the sofa, surfing channels on the TV. Lucas was on the floor, telling Adam to pick something. Caden, her youngest at seven, was nearly upside down in the bean bag chair in the corner.
“Sit up, Cay,” she said.
“When’s dinner, Ma?” Lucas said.
“A few more minutes. Can you set the table, Adam?”
Adam ignored her.
“Adam.”
“What?”
“Set the table, please.”
“Fine.” He set down the remote and went into the kitchen. Lucas grabbed the remote and started surfing himself.
Norah went back to the kitchen and stirred the stew. She watched Adam set the table, and he returned to the living room. In her head she counted three … two … one, and there it was, Lucas crying about the remote, Adam telling him to stick it. She had to yell above the arguing. “If you two can’t get along, no TV, got it?”
She looked out the window. She still couldn’t believe what was happening. Couldn’t believe she was stuck in this dead-end town with no way out. They didn’t even have a car.
She stroked the silver rosary around her neck, closed her eyes and said a prayer. When she opened them suddenly, pain searing through them, she thought she might die. A wave of heat rose within her. It felt like bugs were crawling beneath her skin.
The pain passed. But that word didn’t. She had learned a little Spanish in high school, but she didn’t learn this one. Still, she knew it, just the same.
She knelt down and opened the doors beneath the sink, and found exactly what she was looking for. She went to the stove, stirred the Drano into the stew, and called her children for dinner.
~
Sitting on the toilet in the last stall of the school washroom, Nelson Kurtz hung up on Parker Brooks. He had told Parks he’d meet them at Remi’s, but that had been a lie. Parks would’ve been on to him if he’d said he wasn’t going. The guy was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid.
As he washed at the sink, he couldn’t face that face in the mirror. Smudge might have been an easy target, but it was one thing to make jokes—and another to gang up on him like that. They’d gone too far, and if it had gone any farther, the kid would have lost a finger. Maybe more.
The lights flickered. He stepped out of the washroom and into the corridor. Mr. Tremblay stood outside his office, chatting with Mrs. Connehey. They talked for a minute and parted. Mr. Tremblay gave him a look, that same cold glare of suspicion that he’d handed him yesterday afternoon, when he’d asked about Christian Judge. He felt a rush of relief when the principal turned away and disappeared behind his office door.
Parks’ll kill you if you tell.
But he had to. He couldn’t live with the guilt. He was tired of Parker Brooks getting away with everything. Tired of being a part of his twisted little circle. And as soon as he picked up his books from the library, he was going straight to Mr. Tremblay and spilling his guts.
His smartphone vibrated. Parks, again. He took the call and ended it quickly. The guy could go fuck himself.
A shortcut through the gymnasium brought him to the library. He grabbed two books on the Civil War, signed them out, and slipped them into his backpack. He tried not to look at Ol’ Choppy as he headed for the exit, and almost jumped out of his skin at a crack of thunder. Something came over him—a sudden rush of pain, a burning in his
eyes—and then it was gone.
He plodded over to the black paper trimmer and set his backpack on the floor. He didn’t know Spanish, but when this word jumped into his brain, he understood. As he raised the cutter arm and set his left hand on the cutter platform, he understood perfectly.
And when the Lexus shot through the window of Remi’s Pizza, Ol’ Choppy handed him his own personal slice.
~
Sarah Coleman hurried home from school. She didn’t want to get caught in the rain, and she felt a few drops on her face as she rushed up her stoop. Looking down the street, she thought she saw a gold hatchback turn the corner in a hurry. She looked over at the Judge’s house and the empty driveway. The rear tire of Mrs. Judge’s hatchback had been flat, the car trashed, so if that was her car, something was definitely wrong.
As if there wasn’t.
She slipped inside and closed the door. Checked the lock twice just to be safe. When she turned around, Buster hobbled up to her. He gave her that adorable tilt of his pug head, and she stroked him behind the ears.
She set her backpack in the closet and got herself a can of soda from the fridge. On the sofa, she sipped, then put her drink down. She checked the back door and all the windows. Her parents were still at work, and she called both of them to be sure they were all right—and to ask if they were coming home soon.
Back in the living room, she picked up Buster and curled up with him on the sofa. She took up her book and flipped it open. There was one chapter left, and while it was a real page-turner and she couldn’t wait to find out what was going to happen, she set it down.
Jared Cole had written another great book—not as great as Luscious—but Insanity on the page had nothing on the insanity in Torch Falls. As if to punctuate that thought, she let out a small gasp as lightning flashed at the window amid rolling thunder.
Buster looked up at her with sad eyes. “It’s okay,” she said, holding him closer. She stroked his side gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
But she wasn’t okay. Pain seared her eyes. The skin on her face felt like it was on fire, with creeping worms beneath it. Then, as quickly as the pain had come, it vanished.
She went outside to the garage, found what she was looking for, and walked back into the living room. That strange Spanish word still rang in her head. Now it came from her lips. It was insane.
She stepped up on the coffee table. Buster gave her a look with that precious tilt of his head, but she didn’t see him. She looked up slowly, and with a flick of the wrist, swung the rope around the ceiling fan.
~
Blake Camden picked up his Taylor acoustic guitar and sat down on the wooden stool in the corner of his parent’s basement. It was his pride and joy, something he’d worked his ass off mowing lawns to pay for. His dip-shit cousin Randy had wanted to borrow it last week, but fuck, no. The Taylor didn’t have a scratch, and it was going to stay that way.
He smiled at his girlfriend, Addison Brody.
“What?” she said. The seventeen-year-old stood at the microphone stand in the middle of the room. She wore hip-hugger jeans and a white tank top. Blake didn’t even notice the small cast on her wrist.
“You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole world. And you’re gonna be huge.”
Addison blushed, but her infectious smile quickly faded.
“Hey … it’s okay,” Blake said. “I’m just as freaked out as you.”
“I still can’t get that image out of my head. What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know, babe.” And he didn’t. When all hell broke loose on Jared Cole Day, they were both mowed down by the stampede. Addison sprained her wrist when she tried to brace herself, and when he got down to help her, they both saw something they couldn’t explain. Something whisked by them—something cold, he would swear—and knocked over a table. If he hadn’t seen those claw marks appear in the wood out of thin air with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. He still wasn’t sure whether he did.
“Well?” she said.
“Look. Maybe we didn’t see it at all. Everything happened so fast.”
“I know what I saw, Blake. So do you. I’m scared.”
“Everything’ll work out.” When she didn’t respond, he prodded her. “We’re gonna be okay. Okay?”
“Promise me.”
He crossed his heart. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Promise.”
“I just did.”
“I need to hear you say it.”
“I promise.”
Addison nodded. She seemed to relax, if only a little.
“Let’s make some music.” Blake punched a few buttons on his laptop beside him.
“You ready?” Addison said.
“I am.” Blake clicked Record on his laptop’s webcam software. Once they finished the song, he was uploading straight to YouTube. Addison’s last video had over ten-thousand hits. He was sure that this one was going viral.
Blake strummed his guitar, then started into the first chords of Faith Hill’s Breathe. Addison joined in with her pearly voice.
Halfway through the song, Blake winced in pain. He tried to keep playing, but he couldn’t. He leaned forward over his guitar, rubbing his eyes.
“Blake?”
Blake took his hand away from his eyes, eyes that had been burning just a moment ago. Burning, like those fucked-up words in his head. Like those boiling veins in his face, creeping under his skin.
“Blake—what’s wrong?”
He mumbled. He could barely hear his own voice. Yet, the words were all too clear.
“Blake?”
Blake looked up slowly, and Addison screamed. He looked possessed, looked like the living dead. Addison screamed again, and when he moved on her, she didn’t stop screaming until she was dead, when he set his battered guitar in the corner, its finely polished body splattered in blood.
~
Floyd Simmons stood at the foot of the Torch Falls water tower. As the Senior Utility Service Specialist for the town—a fancy title that used to be Mechanical Worker, a name he liked a whole lot more—he was responsible for keeping the town clock ticking, maintaining the park washrooms and other public plumbing, performing the odd electrical job here and there, and of course, keeping the water tower.
He didn’t know why he was standing here. A minute ago, he was adjusting a pump in the pumping station. But now here he was, taking the first rung up the ladder. Something told him to. A voice. A word.
He got to the top and steadied himself against the cutting winds. Lightning streaked across the sky. The thunder was so much louder than on the ground, but really, all he heard was that strange word in that strange language. It rolled around in his head, and he couldn’t shake it. He spoke it softly, over and over. He didn’t want to die, not like this, but it seemed the right thing to do. A thing he had to do.
He looked out over the town and saw a dozen homes burning out of control. Three of them were on Fir Street—his street—but his wasn’t one of them. He saw the peak of his house near the corner. His precious little angels were at home with the sitter. They were waiting for him, and that’s what scared him the most. What brought that tear to his eye.
Floyd looked down the one hundred and thirty-four foot drop.
And stepped off.
~
Elliot Flatley measured and cut the next stud in the frame for his new backyard shed. He looked up from the saw horse, still holding the circular saw. A second look at the light show to the west got him to raise his protective goggles. The winds were growing stronger, but he welcomed the cool they brought with them.
“Gonna be a bad one,” he said.
“What’s that, hon?” his wife said. She was up on the deck lighting the barbecue.
“I said it’s gonna be a bad one,” he said, raising his voice. “I’d better finish up.”
A very pregnant Tracy Flatley turned to her husband. “I’m just glad you stayed home today.”
> Elliot nodded. He was glad, too. He should have been in the office on Sixth Street trying to bag that insurance account in Bozeman instead of playing Bob Vila, but he’d called in sick. Some bad shit was going on, and it all started rolling downhill when he got the call from Rose Tillman, the day after Tom Greenwood blew himself up. At the time, he didn’t think much of it. He’d dealt with accidents like that before. Rose had always been a strange one, but he hadn’t liked her tone. She’d been a little snooty, trying to tell him she knew the exact minute of the explosion—trying too hard to squeeze more coin from her claim. Looking back, he felt bad for doubting her. It seemed so insignificant now. The Falls was going to hell in a hand basket, and sitting behind a desk and pushing a pencil wasn’t on his list of priorities at the moment. He had a wife to protect, a bun in her oven to take care of in less than six weeks, not to mention a two-year-old son. He had Rex, too, the greatest Great Dane a man could want. The cat could go fuck itself.
Rex lay on the deck beside the playpen. Little Elliot bounded about inside it. A giggle burst from him when his father set down the saw, turned about, pulled down his pants and mooned him.
“Elliot!” Tracy said, shaking her head.
Elliot turned around with a goofy grin. His pants slipped down around his ankles.
“Sexy,” she said. “Especially the carpenter’s belt with the boxers.”
Elliot drew up his pants, chuckling. He picked up the newly cut two-by-four and carried it to the emerging frame of the shed.
Little Elliot started to cry at a sharp clap of thunder.
“I better get him in,” Tracy said. “You too, Rexie.” She opened the screen door, and Rex got up and trotted inside. She picked up Little Elliot from the playpen, and when she turned to her husband, she froze.
“… Elliot?”
The two-by-four slipped from Elliot’s hand. His face contorted as he stiffened, and thick veins rippled around his bloodshot eyes. He didn’t scream from the pain—it was there for an instant, replaced by that nasty word seared into his brain—but scream he did when he knelt down, set his running shoe on the two-by-four, and drove a three-inch nail through his foot.
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