by Dan Padavona
The cross no longer glowed. The reassuring hum had ceased in his hands.
As his eyes shifted between the holy symbol and Janet Barrister, he felt a sense of abandonment.
Evelyn Dickson rose from the bed to stand before him, her hateful eyes regarding him as would a mother whose child had spilled his milk on the new carpet. He looked up at her through tears.
“Please, Mrs. Dickson—”
She slapped him across the face. He fell to his knees, the cross tumbling to the floor.
Darkness descended upon him.
Four
When Greg Madsen, ashen-faced and eyes glazed over, arrived at the front door to the farmhouse, Evan Moran didn't ask the man what had shaken him to his core. He just opened the door for him and stood aside.
Greg had considered going straight to Art Stults with the truth but hadn't see the point. He knew Stults would not have given his story any more of a chance than he had given their tale. Sensing Evan had read his mind, he said—
“They'll run me right the hell out of this town. Right the hell...”
Every light shined inside the house, from the attic to the basement, while exterior flood lights shot penetrating beams into the inky black of the driveway.
The police chief found them with their duffel bags of arcane weaponry, like Dark Age avengers heading off to the gym. The sight was enough to jostle him out of his temporary funk and wrestle an incongruous laugh from him.
“I guess I won't be needing this,” he said, placing his revolver on the kitchen counter.
“Better to keep it, I think,” Rory said. “You never know when it might come in handy. It slows'em down from what I've seen.”
“But it won't kill them,” Evan said, walking inside to stand with the group. “For that, you will need one of these.”
He handed Greg two sharpened stakes.
“Christ, it’s just like a Dracula movie,” Greg said.
“We figured you ought to have your own.”
Greg touched the points and regarded the sturdy feel of the weapons, wondering if he was stuck in a nightmare that he would soon awaken from.
“What about bringing in Father Crosi? If this is anything like a late-night movie, it makes sense to have the church on our side,” Greg said.
“Trouble is, Saint Anthony's is clear on the other side of town. And I for one ain't gonna try to convince the old coot that the town is being overrun by vampires,” said Rory.
“I thought the Dicksons were on his good side.”
“Oh, we are. But he's a stubborn bastard. Even if he saw them with his own eyes, you'd still have a better chance convincing him that the sun sets in the east.”
“And the time it will take us to argue him to our side could be better spent hunting these things,” said Mary.
“Listen to yourselves,” said Renee, disbelief in his eyes. “I can't be the only one who thinks this is a terrible idea. I’m all for arming ourselves for defense. But seeking them out? You saw that thing in the barn. We have no idea how many of them there are. If we leave now, we can be in the next county inside of an hour.”
“If we abandon this town, we leave a slaughterhouse behind us. I can't live the rest of my life knowing that I had a chance to save my neighbors, and I left them all to die.”
“About that,” Greg said. “Have any of you noticed how deserted the streets are?”
“There were a lot of people at the hardware store earlier,” Renee said. “I haven’t seen anyone this evening, but I assumed it was because of the cleanup.”
“Some cleanup. All across the north side of Jensen I saw roof damage, broken windows, fallen trees, and nobody doing a damn thing to repair their own houses. No kids, no one sight-seeing. Nothing. And by the way, does anybody have any idea what the hell these things are?”
“Vampires?” Evan asked.
“If that’s what we all agree they are, God help us all.”
“I think so.”
“How do you think these...vampires become vampires?”
“If it's like the legends, then it's an epidemic. One infects a few, and those few infect more.”
“Like a plague,” Rory said in agreement.
“But unlike a plague, these things are moving about, actively trying to spread their disease. So it's likely to happen faster,” Evan said.
Greg nodded his head.
“I was on Brown today when I got attacked inside a house. The woman lured me inside with a false distress call. The thing is, I didn't see a living soul on that street. I saw vehicles in every driveway, but the lights were out and nobody was answering the door.”
“Jesus,” Renee said.
“I found two houses, including the one where I was attacked, where the basement windows were covered.”
“To keep the light out,” said Mary.
“That would be the best place for them,” Rory said. “Lots of attics have vents, and the main floors of most houses are loaded with windows. You can block the light out from the basement with a few blankets.”
“Or cardboard. Or an old quilt. That's what I observed,” said Greg. “So here’s something to think about. Let’s say these things are active at night, and they slip inside to hide from the light before sunrise. In the meantime, half the town is out and about all morning buying supplies and bullshitting about the storm. By afternoon they come home, and maybe some venture into a dark closet or a basement, and…”
“And they’re waiting for them,” Mary said, the cold hand of fear on her neck.
“So now how many do we have? At what point are there so many infections out there that we can no longer contain it?”
Renee shook her head, not wanting to believe it. “Are you saying most of the people in Storberry have changed into these things?”
“From what I know about epidemics, and even after correcting for the fact these things are mobile and actively trying to infect others, I still doubt that they could have gotten to so many people in 24 hours. But we might be looking at as many as a hundred or so, and in certain areas—”
“Like Brown Avenue.”
“—it might be a very high percentage.”
Rory's face was ashen. “And after another night…”
Nobody wanted to answer that question.
“Which is why we need to strike now if we want to get this thing under control,” Greg said.
“Where do we start?” Mary asked.
“We could start on Brown and sweep our way northward. Greg’s observations seem to confirm that the epidemic is worst there,” Rory said.
“Or start near the middle and work our way out. Stay close to downtown, in case we run into trouble,” Greg said.
“Maple Street,” Evan said. Realization spread across his face, as if he had just solved a calculus problem. “It's the closest street to the forest. I'll be damned.”
“The forest?” Greg didn't follow where Evan was going.
“What is the one place that every kid in town believes is haunted? How many disappearances over the years?”
The group members looked unconvinced, but Mary stepped to Evan’s defense.
“It had to start somewhere, didn't it?”
“Look, I don't give a damn where we start,” Rory said. “Maple is as good a place as any. But I don't see what the forest has to do with this. It's just a town legend. Nothing more than ghost stories.”
“You mean like vampires?” Evan asked. “I never told anybody this until last night. This isn't the first time I have seen one of those things.”
A silent tension encompassed the room. Evan recounted the story he had told Renee of the lost boy, Brian Nedson, and of the chase through the forest. When Evan finished, Greg wasn’t convinced of Evan’s theory, but everyone agreed that Maple Street was a logical first strike.
“I'm begging all of you,” Renee said. “There is still time to reconsider. This is madness.”
“Nobody is forcing you to go. You know where the door is,” Rory said.
Evan said, “I don't think she meant—”
“Why won't any of you listen to reason? After what you have seen, what chance do you believe you have going up against these things? There might not be anyone left to save on Maple Street or Brown Avenue, but we can save ourselves,” Renee said.
“We can take the police truck, and Rory's.”
Greg jangled a ring of keys in his hand, ignoring her argument. Renee turned away, tears forming in her eyes.
Randy Marks stood two steps back from the group, blending into the shadows like a chameleon. He still worried about Benny on the west side of town and his inability to reach his brother. But this plan, this absolute madness that the Tennant woman had recognized, was going to work just fine. They are all going to be killed, and if I can keep himself out of the line of fire long enough, I’ll have my choice of vehicles to carry Benny and I out of town. A black smile formed on his lips.
Two trucks pulled out of the farmhouse driveway an hour past sunset, heading west on Standish. In the western sky, the deep blue remnants of twilight sank toward the horizon. The sky was black and depthless. Stars sparkled with indifference to their plight, and the moon cast its eerie beam into the town, as though it were a stagelight for the Grand Guignol. The dark outline of the hill forest loomed over Storberry like a panther stalking its prey.
Death itself crept among its shadows.
Five
Erin Lawrence awoke to the cool chill of the wind on her bare legs. Darkness had settled over the parking lot outside the Pink Flamingo. One lamppost stood lit in the lot, the two cars parked outside of its radius vague outlines in the night.
She had fallen asleep on top of the bedspread. When her eyes opened, she wasn't certain where she was. She had run for so long, unsure if she could ever stay ahead of her past. Murderer. Deserter. She could run from others but never escape herself.
She thought of Dell. Had she slept through the night and missed her chance to follow him out of the Watering Hole? The bedside digital alarm clock read 9:10 pm, its numbers aglow in white, reflecting off the nightstand surface like moonlight off a pond.
A gust of wind pushed the curtains into the room. They rippled on the breeze, as though they were arms reaching out for her and settled against the window.
She stiffened when she threw her feet over the mattress to the floor—someone was in the room with her.
The shadows were still. She listened to the low hum of central air conditioning, the howl of the wind outside the window. She could feel the intrusion in her bones. She silently chastised herself for leaving the window open. Safe was always better than comfortable, and she had endured far worse than a stuffy hotel room to stay one step ahead of the law for thirteen years.
The bathroom door stood open. She was sure the door had been closed before.
Her hands trembled. She felt the pill bottle inside her front pocket jammed against her thigh. Not wishing to dull her senses, she ignored the Siren’s cry of the medicine. Her purse was next to the clock. She reached inside of it and fished out a switchblade.
Should I turn on the light? There was no reason to believe that the intruder knew she was awake. She had the switchblade and the element of surprise. She gripped the blade handle and slowly rose to her feet, the old bed springs surprisingly silent.
The worn shag carpet was rough under her bare feet, but it provided enough cushion for her to move in silence.
Who is in the room? Perhaps the clerk. She saw the way he watched her from the lobby. If he was on to her—and he was bound to be eventually—maybe he thought he had an angle on her. Her body as payment for him not contacting law enforcement. If that was his game, maybe she would play.
Or maybe she would leave the blade in his neck and disappear again.
Her heart skipped. What if it is Dell? She had hung back in her pursuit of Dell and stayed discreet, but someone might have noticed her and described the car to him. In a town the size of Storberry, it wouldn't be long before he found out that the same car was in the Pink Flamingo lot. Did he know it was her? Is he here now?
Or was it the truck driver from Richmond, come back from her past? His throat gashed, oozing lifeblood. His eyes wild with bloodlust and revenge.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a snake-like strip of bronze curled on the carpet. Keeping one eye on the bathroom door, she bent close to the shape and noticed that it was the cord beneath the wall light. The end had been torn off, and bare strands of copper wire jutted outward. Had it been that way before? She recalled using the light the previous evening. The damage was recent.
She tightened her grip on the blade. With one easy thumb flick, the blade popped out with a click. The parking lot light reflected white heat off the knife, and she lowered it to her side to keep it hidden.
She crept toward the open bathroom door. To its right was the door to the hotel’s hallway. It was still locked, with the chain in place. Light from the hallway vending machines spilled under the door in reds and blues.
She was less afraid of the intruder than she was bothered by not knowing who it was and what they wanted with her. She was always one step ahead of her past. She hadn't killed since the night in Richmond, but she was prepared to do whatever it took to keep the past at bay and somehow reclaim her daughter.
Erin swung around the open door and thrust the knife forward—
Into emptiness.
With her left hand, she swung the door away from the wall, and as it creaked open, she jabbed the blade into the shadow behind the door. But nobody was hidden in the concealing darkness.
The shower curtain was drawn across the tub. In the sheltered gloom of the bathroom, the blue cover appeared black, making it impossible to see beyond its camouflage.
Her chest pounded. Expecting the cold hand of the undead truck driver to grasp her wrist and yank her into the dark, she reached for the edge of the curtain.
She ripped the curtain aside. The tub was empty.
Erin sighed and leaned her back against the cold porcelain wall. Whoever had entered the hotel room was gone.
The only worthwhile possession in the room was her purse, and nothing had been stolen from it. Had anyone been here at all, or is my mind playing tricks on me? She released the switchblade, thinking of Dell and what she would say to him if they came face-to-face. When she turned the corner out of the bathroom, her breath caught in her chest.
The intruder was inside the room. Erin saw she was a woman, but that was all she could discern. The figure stood in front of the window, a gangly silhouette against the light.
Erin reengaged the blade and held it before her.
“Who the hell are you?”
The woman stood still, watching her, no more than ten feet away. Erin's palms were moist with sweat as she gripped the weapon. Still, the intruder made no move toward her, but she was prepared to bring the woman down if she stepped within range of the blade.
“You were in my room while I was sleeping. You cut the light cord?”
The figure stood in silence. Erin grew unsettled. The woman had broken into the room and vandalized the lighting, yet hadn't taken anything and refused to respond to her questions.
“I don't want to hurt you—”
“Hurt you...”
The short hairs on the back of Erin's neck stood on end. It was a girl's voice, full of rasp and hatred. The silhouette stepped closer, and Erin thrust the weapon forward in warning.
“Stay where you are! I don't know who you are but—”
“Know who you are...”
The girl's hair was wild and tangled against the light. It hung across her darkened face, and Erin noticed pieces of leaf and grass embedded in the muss. A sensation erupted that her past had caught up to her. But who was this person?
The girl stepped closer.
Now the girl was just beyond the reach of the switchblade. The drapes whipped in the wind, writhing around the ghostly figure like snakes. The blade felt cold in Erin's hand. She
didn't want to hurt the girl. There was something familiar about her, something that made her worry about the girl. Something…
As the figure stepped toward her and raised her eyes to meet Erin’s, the hair dropped away from the girl’s face to reveal pallid skin and a child’s face frozen in time from thirteen years earlier. Beneath the tangled locks was the true horror—a recognition that only Erin Lawrence could detect.
It can't be.
The girl’s eyes burned red with hatred and accusation.
“Motherrrrr.”
Six
In the inky shadows of a gray colonial, Jen stood hidden against the outer wall while Tom crept toward the driver-side door of a gray pickup. The truck glistened silver in the moonlight like a gemstone. As the chirring of crickets filled the night air, they heard the faint calls of spring peepers from Becks Pond.
The black outlines of trees rose up against the starry night like behemoths. Neither Tom nor Jen would have been surprised to see the stalking shapes tear free from the ground to pursue them.
They had run from driveway to driveway behind the houses, their eyes fixed on the concealing darkness of the backyards. After half an hour they had found the unlocked truck with the keys still in the ignition; a stroke of luck that they had not experienced since the wind had ripped out of the hill forest and changed the town forever. Of course, Tom could have taken his parents' car, but that would have necessitated that he retrieve the keys from the hook on the kitchen wall. He couldn't bear the thought of entering the house, let alone the kitchen, where the remnants of his father wasted away.
One downstairs light shone inside the Masterson's house, but he did not discern movement within. The woman, Leslie Masterson, was rarely seen. It was Doug that Tom worried about. Known for cuffing any kid he caught trespassing through his yard, Doug was a mean son-of-a-bitch who liked to brandish a Winchester rifle while he drank beer on the front porch, waiting for some poor kid to make the wrong move through his property. More than anything in life, he loved his truck.
