Soulstorm

by Chet Williamson

  So he sat on the balcony all day and watched the sun pass overhead, the precious match tucked down deep in an inner pocket, scurrying about on his elbows and stomach to keep the leaves from blowing away. Dusk, he thought. At dusk he would try again, and he let dusk fill his stomach and warm his limbs.

  It was growing colder again, and by mid-afternoon dark clouds covered the sun. It's going to do something, he thought. No rain, oh please no, not rain. But then he realized that it was too cold for rain. Snow then, and he knew he could not survive a night of snow. He would simply go to sleep and never wake up. The snow would shroud him, and Renault would find him there, a frozen white mound in the sunlight. Unless he used the match.

  He waited until dusk. Just as he slipped the match out of his pocket, the snow began. They were small wet flakes, and he gasped as he heard them slowly spatter his leaves with moisture. He breathed into his fists to warm and dry the match, fluffed up the remaining bit of tissue under the leaves, and scraped the matchhead along the mortar.

  As it ignited, he cupped it in his trembling hands to keep it from the wind and snow, but suddenly the snow was gone, and he looked up in amazement. The wind had shifted so that it was coming from the south, and the snowflakes were drifting past him and his tinder, leaving a four-foot-wide space in the shelter of the house wall.

  "Oh God, oh God, thank, you God, thank you," he croaked as he slowly and carefully lowered the small flame to the fuel. The tattered Kleenex caught instantly, its white edges curling, then changing into bright orange flame. The nearby leaves smoked for a moment, then they, too, ignited, and Monckton thought he had never had as exquisite a sensation as the warmth that suddenly touched his face. He actually smiled.

  But he realized that just sitting and watching the fire could prove disastrous. He had to tend it, to feed it methodically so that it would become what he wanted it to be. He rearranged the dead leaves around the small blaze so that the fire would spread outward, catching all the fuel so that one large flame would result. "Here y'go," he muttered, patting the pile into place like a child building a snow fort. "Here now, eat it all . . . eat it and grow big and strong."

  The wind was still coming from the south, the snow falling heavily now, but neither on Monckton nor on his fire, which burned brilliantly, sending up a flame nearly six feet high, not enough to clear the tops of the trees that surrounded the house, but perhaps sufficient to make a visible glow to a distant observer in the dying light of dusk. Though the heat was intoxicating, Monckton was forced to move back from the fire along the stone wall. As he did so, he laughed to himself until he began to cough. Even if no one saw the fire, he thought it was worth it for the warmth alone. Now death would not seem so cold.

  Then the wind shifted. It was only for a moment, but long enough for a ribbon of wind, like an invisible hand, to lift a smoldering clump of leaves the size of a cabbage away from the mother pile, and to hurl it upward on a geyser of cold air until it was stopped by the roof eave some forty feet above, wedged between the wood of the roof and the stone of the wall.

  A small shower of sparks cascaded down, all dying before they reached the balcony floor, but the clump remained solidly in place, glowing redly far out of Monckton's reach. Then the wind, as if finished with what it had been sent to do, turned northward once more.

  Monckton's fire burned brightly, sending flame up to brush against the gray stones, throwing white smoke high above the treetops. The aroma was so sweetly pungent that Monckton could sense it even through his cold-clogged sinuses. But in a minute a new speck of light caught his eye, and he looked upward. There, a yellow flame danced mindlessly, up there under the roof, up there at the only place on the building where there was exposed wood, since the doors and windows had been sealed. Way up under there where no wind would reach to blow out the flames, where they could sit and dine leisurely on the old dry wood, and perhaps work their way from one piece to the next until they were inside where he had tried to go and failed.

  The flames grew as he watched, spreading along the eaves with their red, then blue, then orange-yellow palette until it seemed to Monckton that a Milky Way of fire lay in a broad band across the black sky.

  And then the meteors came. Tiny bits of burning wood detached themselves from the whole and began to rain down on Monckton and his smaller fire below, and he thought for the first time, brushing off the glowing shards that blackened his jacket, The roof's on fire. The whole roof is on fire.

  The burning debris fell faster now, and he brushed it away frantically, thanking God that he had gloves on. But the gloves, he thought suddenly, wouldn't keep off the roof when it fell.

  A falling slate cracked on the floor beside him, throwing sharp splinters toward his face, one of which neatly sliced his cheek. Then another fell a few feet away, and another. The roof was going. He had to get off the balcony.

  The ladder was still there. He knew that he would fall, at least part of the way. But he had fallen before and he was alive.

  Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself across the snowy stones while bullets of smoldering wood and hot slate dropped all around him.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  A gun went off in McNeely's head, and his lips split in a smile as he vividly pictured Gabrielle at the other end, her face sick with pain, her fingers clenched at her stomach. I think I would like that, he thought.

  The voice within him was quiet for a moment, as if stunned by the unexpected violence of McNeely's fantasy. Then it spoke. You must not harm her.

  She was plotting against me. With Wickstrom.

  Yes, she was warning him …

  Does she love him then? Does she love him too?

  She won't love him when he's dead.

  Or when she's dead, he thought brutally, picturing Gabrielle's neck in his hands, her eyes bulging, her tongue protruding.

  No! the voice cried. Nooo . . . And it trembled as McNeely intensified the image, adding more and more detail to the mental picture until he could see the blue veins pressing against the mantle of flesh on his dream-wrists, see his hands dig so deeply into Gabrielle's neck that the fingertips disappeared completely. You love her! Do not harm her!

  Yes, McNeely answered, letting the vision fade. Yes, I suppose I do. This is all for her, isn't it? Nothing for George . . . That bitch! Warn him!

  You must relax. You must not be angry toward her. It is only he who— It paused. She is coming! Remember. The cellar.

  Stay with me!

  We will! The voice quivered and faded as though down a long hall.

  The bedroom door opened, and Gabrielle entered. "I thought you were sleeping," she said guardedly.

  "I just woke up." Want me to go back to sleep, cunt? he thought, so you can fuck Wickstrom? "I've been thinking," he said, "that I ought to talk to Kelly."

  "Why?"

  "To try and get a feel for where his head's at. I'm worried about him."

  "He's all right."

  What do you know, bitch? he thought, and the first words of it, "What do …" came out unexpectedly, toned with venom that made the woman draw back a step. Then McNeely felt something stop his tongue before the rest of the thought became audible. "I want to talk to him, Gabrielle."

  "I'll … go with you."

  The hell you will! "I want to talk to him alone.”

  “I don't think you should."

  "It's better that way. If he should lose control, he could hurt you. I don't want you hurt."

  "Kelly won't hurt me."

  Why? You suck his cock? And he saw himself slamming her aside with a forearm so that she struck the wall with a hollow thud that he could hear. "I can't take that chance. I love you."

  "I'm going along."

  "You'll stay here!" Her jaw muscles tensed; then her whole body grew rigid as she looked at him, eyes blazing. "I don't want to have to tie you down or knock you out (smash your head open, you … ), but I know how to and I will if you make me or your own good. Now, sit down on the bed."

&nbs
p; She hesitated, then sat.

  "And stay there—please—until I come back." Then he smiled. "Trust me. I love you. And I'm not going to hurt Kelly."

  Gabrielle looked away from him in disgust. He watched her unmoving form for a few seconds, then turned and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  Stay with me, he thought. I don't know what's happening to me. I'm so angry with her.

  Relax. Relax. Let us handle it.

  I keep wanting to hurt her … to kill her …

  You love her. It will be over soon. You will both be out, be free. Together.

  Yes. Free.

  McNeely stepped into the hall and stood listening to hear if Gabrielle would follow, but she did not. Then he crossed to the door of Wickstrom's suite.

  Enter. We will give you the words.

  He pushed the door open and dashed into the suite, running through the living room and into the bedroom. "Kelly," he called, but not loudly enough for Gabrielle to hear him across the hall, "wake up! I need your help!"

  Wickstrom had not been sleeping. He was on his feet in an instant.

  "It's Gabrielle," said McNeely, giving Wickstrom no time for questions. "She's gone to the cellar! Come quick! I'm afraid for her!" And he ran from the room.

  Wickstrom hesitated only a moment, then followed. McNeely paused at the top of the stairs long enough to see Wickstrom step into the hall, then started down them two at a time. "George, wait!" Wickstrom called, and McNeely hoped that Gabrielle had heard.

  Come on down too, bitch—I'll show you both … he thought, swinging around the landing and down the remaining stairs, slowing down by the impotent fail-safe system at the north end of the Great Hall until he heard Wickstrom's footsteps start to clatter down the stairs. "Hurry, Kelly!" he called, and ran on into the kitchen and down the cellar steps. He no longer noticed the sharp scent of decay.

  He stopped on the last step and listened again, listened to the kitchen door bang open and Wickstrom's heavy footfalls. On then out of the cold cellar and across the stone floor and into the fire chamber, with one more desperate "Hurry! Oh, God!" thrown in for good measure. And at last he was there where the killing would be, and he turned for the final time and waited.

  He heard Wickstrom's weight make the rough boards shiver, and counted the steps as the big man hurtled down them onetwothreefourfivesix …

  "No!"

  Gabrielle's voice. The footsteps stopped.

  "No, Kelly! Don't go down! He wants to kill you!"

  Then the sound of Wickstrom's foot on a step again, and another, and another, only now the steps were receding from McNeely, going back up to where Gabrielle had called her warning. Warning! Warned him! Shall I go after them now? Kill them … him.

  You will kill him. You love her. Don't harm her!

  Shall I go after him? Kill him in front of her …

  Yes. We will find a way to . . . The voice stopped, and McNeely staggered in response to the sudden discovery that rocked the intelligence sharing his mind. No. We will stay here. They will come to us. It laughed, low and mocking. Listen, it hissed.

  He did, and it was as if he heard with ears made huge and sensitive. There were the sounds of footsteps racing madly, and panting breaths. And then he heard voices.

  —Hurry!

  —I could stop him, tie him up …

  —You couldn't! He's insane, the house has got him, oh! … The sound of bone hitting wood.

  —We'll hide, try to hide and …

  —We can't, we'll have to face him, try to . . . what's that?

  A sound like cellophane being mangled, a crackling, crisp, dry sound. The sound of

  —Fire!

  The voice laughed again. They will come to us! And you will kill him. We will find the way to make her believe.

  Yes. I'll kill him in front of her. Kill 'im. Kill 'em. He heard the voices above as clearly as if he stood beside them.

  —Could we fight it? Put it out?

  —Gone too far. That whole wing on the third floor must be blazing.

  —We can't get out!

  McNeely heard them start to cough. It won't be long, said the voice. They will come to us soon.

  —We'll have to go back . . .

  There!

  —Back down to the fire chamber. It's our only chance.

  —No! There's got to be a way . . .

  —There isn't! The walls are stone, but the guts of this house are wood. There's not a fucking place we can escape this fire except down there!

  —But what about George?

  Oh that bitch! That traitor!

  She does not understand. We will make her understand. She will love you still—you will marry her.

  I will, I will. Yes, make her understand. By Hell, I'll make her understand!

  The cold, hard smile of a skull crossed his face as he strode purposefully out of the fire chamber and across the dimly lit cellar.

  Where are you going?

  Up.

  No. Wait. They will come down.

  I want to see him when I kill him. I want to see him die.

  But

  I want to kill him in the light.

  McNeely paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the yellow rectangle the open kitchen door made, smelling the smoke above.

  Yes. Do it there. If you like. Then bring her down. Save her. We will make her see.

  He went up the steps three at a time, fluidly and without effort, as though his legs belonged to someone else far stronger than he. At the same time he swung through the kitchen door, the door to the hall opened, and he saw framed there Wickstrom and Gabrielle, their pale, frightened faces lit starkly by the bright light in the kitchen. McNeely stepped toward them, the hate he felt for them advancing before him like a palpable force. He saw them tremble, and he smiled.

  Wickstrom spoke quickly. "The house is on fire, George. We've got to go down." The big man's muscles tensed as though he were ready to spring backward, but he did not move, nor did Gabrielle, who stood at his side. McNeely stopped barely a foot away from them, looked into Wickstrom's face, and shook his head. "No, Kelly," he said. "Not you. Gabrielle, but not you." He thrust out a hand and grasped Gabrielle by the wrist, wrenching her away from Wickstrom's side and flinging her toward the cellar door. She gasped in pain and surprise.

  Hurt, bitch? he thought. It'll hurt worse before I'm done.

  Then McNeely turned his back on Wickstrom and started toward the door and Gabrielle. "Wait a minute!" Wickstrom growled, closing the distance between them. McNeely felt the hand on his shoulder and whirled around. Wickstrom's arm shot up defensively, but McNeely did not strike. Wickstrom was shaking with rage. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

  "Not with me, Kelly," McNeely replied with the calmness of the killer who has the only gun. "With you. You're crazy. It's been building since the first day you came here. If I let you down there, you'd kill us both (Kill them both, McNeely thought). I'm afraid of you, afraid for Gabrielle. Try to get past me and I'll kill you, I swear it. You can take your chances."

  "Let him in!" McNeely's legs suddenly shot out from under him, and he fell heavily on top of Gabrielle, who had tackled him clumsily from behind. The air went out of her for a second, but she was able to cry out to Wickstrom. "Run! Past him!"

  By the time McNeely was on his feet, Wickstrom was in the doorway extending a hand to Gabrielle, who scuttled crablike across the floor to reach it. McNeely did not have to run. He moved toward the door, thinking how much he would like to kick her in the stomach, picturing her rising from the floor with the force of his heavy foot.

  But instead, he grasped her ankle with a steely grip, pulling her away from Wickstrom, and sliding her across the smooth kitchen floor as easily as if she were a child. When he released her, she continued to slide helplessly, like a cat with all its claws out, until she came up against the door to the hall.

  Wickstrom left the safety of the cellar doorway to help her, but McNeely whirled, grabbing the man at h
is neck and groin so that Wickstrom went white, all his strength vanished. McNeely breathed hotly into his face.

  "I've got to kill you, Kelly. I've got to kill you now."

  He hurled Wickstrom across the room. Wickstrom's arms flailed, and his fingers caught the edge of a huge wooden cupboard, pulling it over. Cans rattled and jars shattered on the smooth floor, spreading their contents like gouts of blood from a wounded beast. Wickstrom struggled among the broken shelves, shards of glass slicing him as he tried to right himself. Gabrielle knelt near him, her chest rising and falling in fury mixed with terror.

  McNeely grinned at them both, his breath hissing raggedly between his clenched teeth. He raised a fist and smashed it into the wall, shattering the plaster. He could feel the blood start to ooze from the knife edge of his hand. Blood, he thought. And now, their blood.

  "Leave him alone!" Gabrielle sobbed.

  You bitch, how I hate you, you

  Kill him. Kill Kelly Wickstrom. The voice was shaking, barely in control.

  McNeely took a step across the slippery floor, his shoes crunching the tiny daggers of glass. "I warned you, Kelly, but you wouldn't listen. Now I've got to kill you."

  The more Wickstrom tried to rise, the more he floundered, like a swimmer in a dream. He began to whimper.

  Gabrielle was on her feet now, shoulders hunched, neck stiffened. With a scream of rage that smothered her fear, she leaped at McNeely, punching his face and neck with heavy blows. He blocked them, sending sharp slaps to her face until her head rocked with the impact, but still she fought on.

  And McNeely made the hate within him rise like a red tide, made the thoughts shriek in their power—

  I hate you, you cunt, you bitch, hate you, you stupid whore, want to kill you kill you kill you—