by Brian Hodge
“That’s the northeast ridge, isn’t it? That’s closer to town than we are now.”
“The terrain’s more rugged, though, so it’s less accessible. We don’t exactly have many choices for shelter, Russ.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, reluctantly. He glanced at the black, starless sky. “Can you drive without headlights? If those things see as well as they seem to, our lights will be a dead giveaway—especially if there aren’t any other cars on the road.”
She nodded, slowed the vehicle, and flicked off the lights. The sudden darkness appeared complete for several seconds, until the dim gray pavement gradually re-materialized ahead of them. She maintained a steady twenty miles per hour, which felt too fast, but by now his faith in her was complete. Once they passed the turnoff that led to town—the way they had originally come—the road ascended steadily, curving treacherously through dense woodland, where houses were virtually nonexistent. A few lights dotted the woods here and there, but they passed no other cars and saw no one on foot. This place was already the end of the world, he thought; civilization could disappear altogether, and nobody here would notice any difference. He liked fleeing to a totally deserted place only slightly more than one filled with people.
The road wound steadily upward, carrying them a couple of thousand feet above the town, the lights of which occasionally sparkled through the trees on the left. They came to a long, frighteningly dark passage between the towering trees, at the end of which he could see a patch of midnight blue sky, and as the Durango advanced toward it, a little alarm began to clang in his head, steadily intensifying.
“Slow down,” he said. “Something up ahead.”
She complied without question, and as the vehicle crept forward, he saw that, to the right of the road, a thick gray mist was oozing from the trees, swirling over the road like something alive. She hit the brakes and the tires screeched on the pavement.
“What the hell?”
“That’s what I saw out on 201 today.”
By an unspoken signal, they both opened their doors and slid out, as silently as possible, into the unnaturally frigid night, Copeland with his rifle in hand. As soon as they began to steal toward the opening in the foliage, he felt exposed and vulnerable, and that sensation of being trapped inside a terrible dream once again overwhelmed him. His feet moved automatically as his mind retreated to some place of perceived safety, just outside his body. He vaguely registered Debra’s hand closing on his arm, and he took some comfort in her nearness. If it weren’t for her steadying presence, he thought, he might be reduced to cowering impotence in the face of this unimaginable, unpredictable power. But a look at her face told him she felt the same way—that at this moment, only together could they hold onto their wits.
As they stepped out from beneath the trees, Copeland nearly reeled at the sight of the vista that had opened before them, for now they had an unobstructed view down either slope, and he sincerely wished that they did not. Debra’s iron grip on his triceps did nothing diminish the sense of unreality that swept over him in a nauseating wave.
The land to the right of the road dropped off into a vast ocean of swirling, roiling mist, amid which he could discern shifting but clearly malevolent faces with deep, cavernous eye sockets, too like those of the Lumeras to be figments of his imagination. At the extreme range of his vision, he thought he saw mammoth, humped, black shapes leaping above the mist and quickly disappearing, but none remained in view long enough for him to determine whether they were real or illusory products of the rolling gray sea.
If any doubts lingered that Major Martin had spoken a bitter but absolute truth, they now dissolved in the endless vapor, which had swallowed an entire world but for this one tiny, doomed corner.
To the left and below, the lights of Silver Ridge glowed like the smoldering embers of a gigantic bonfire. Above the town, thousands of glimmering fireflies traced erratic patterns against the black backdrop, some brilliant gold, some fiery red, some electric blue. Periodically, one of the fireballs would dive into the geometric patterns of light and create wildly flashing strobe effects; Copeland fancied he could hear the distant, haunting sound of screaming as the Lumeras, with apparent randomness, cruelly obliterated any gatherings of the town’s citizens that suited their whim.
Several clouds of the fireflies had come together and were slowly making their way southward—the direction from which Copeland and Debra had just come.
Far in the distance, looming above the horizon, the tall, fire-crowned spire gazed down on the town like a monolithic sovereign, its black surfaces glittering with the reflected light of countless swirling fireballs. It appeared fixed and unwavering, as solid as the mountains it overlooked.
Had it already anchored itself in this world?
Did the Barrows have any clue what was happening here? Was this what old Amos had truly intended to bring forth from the world of dreams?
Copeland’s eyes followed the winding road, which dipped below the ridge’s summit and veered to the left, where it disappeared into a vast bulwark of towering pines. “Does that road look normal to you?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“How far is the cabin from here?”
“Less than a mile. It should be, anyway.”
“Do we keep going?”
She pointed to the pulsating congeries of gold and sapphire light that appeared to be drifting in the direction of the McAllisters’ home. “We can’t go back.”
“Then let’s do it.”
They returned to the SUV, instinctively treading softly, each sensing that the faintest noise might draw unwelcome attention to them. When she turned the key and the engine rumbled smoothly to life, he flinched, half-expecting the sky to brighten suddenly and reveal murderous invaders bearing down on them at frightful speed. But as they started rolling, nothing appeared in their path, and he actually felt a small measure of relief once they reached the concealing darkness of the trees.
After a long silence, Debra glanced at him, her features barely visible. “We don’t have much hope of surviving, do we?”
“As far as we know, they still want you alive.”
She slowly lowered one hand to the .38 on the seat beside her. “They will never have me alive. Never.”
His heart sank, but he nodded. “I understand. But we’re going to take as many of them out as we can before we ever go down. You got that?”
She smiled humorlessly. “It’s the only way.”
“I never thought I would, in this lifetime, ever intend to commit murder. But so help me…if I so much as catch a glimpse of any of the Barrows, I will kill them.”
“Self-defense isn’t murder,” Debra said. “They’re a clear and present threat.”
“I suppose from a legal standpoint, it doesn’t really matter any more. Wherever we are, the law no longer exists.”
“If you’re concerned, I don’t have a moral issue with killing them. Except…”
“What?”
“What about the boy?”
He hesitated, his already-shaken convictions taking another turn. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “He’s already willingly used you so his father could get to you. As far as we know, he’s as much a part of this as the others.”
“He’s only fifteen. Given his background, is he responsible?”
“Maybe more importantly, if they were to come after you, would he be a willing participant? Would that make a difference to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, barely above a whisper. “It might.”
She began to slow the Durango as they rounded a long curve to the left. A few moments later, on the right, he saw a break in the trees, with only dark, empty space between them. But as Debra pulled into it, he briefly glimpsed the silhouette of a mailbox beside the road. The vehicle ascended at a snail’s pace into the pitch-black abyss, bouncing violently on the rutted, uneven surface, Debra surely driving by memory and intuition. On and on they went, and several times, low-hang
ing branches rattled over the top of the SUV. How they avoided slamming into the close-pressing tree trunks, he could scarcely fathom.
Five minutes later, the darkness ahead changed subtly, becoming somehow heavier and more voluminous. A glimmer of sky appeared behind a canopy of dense, tangled tree limbs, and his eyes gradually made out the angled roof of a small structure just ahead. Debra stopped the Durango and cut the engine. As its rumble faded, Copeland listened carefully before taking hold of the door handle; outside, only a low, eerily whispering wind broke the silence. Finally, he pushed open the door and slid out, his rifle instantly in hand and probing the darkness around him. No other sounds drifted to his ears; not the melancholy songs of night birds nor the chirping of insects. He grabbed the six-volt flashlight McAllister had given him, and with a twinge of apprehension turned it on, shining its beam at their surroundings.
The two-story, chalet-style structure seemed a natural extension of the trees, having been built right into a small clearing. Pine boughs overhung the roof, and smaller maples pressed close against the wooden walls and the railing of the little front porch. The building appeared sound, all the visible windows intact, the solid oak front door tightly closed. The flashlight beam revealed a small outbuilding a short distance behind the house on the left, which he guessed was a work shed.
“So, Carolyn’s parents lived here?”
“Ever since she was a little girl. Doug thinks they should have sold it, but she doesn’t want to part with it. In a way, I don’t blame her. I can’t imagine not having Mom and Dad’s place…” She suddenly stopped, and Copeland knew her mind had returned to a place they could not afford to have it go just now.
“Candle said there was no electricity here. No generator?” he asked.
“Where do you think they got theirs?”
“I see.” He stepped up to the front porch, and he could smell the faint, sweet aroma of cedar and perhaps woodsmoke. It was a heady, exhilarating scent, which drew him completely out of the moment and returned him to carefree, innocent times from his youth, when the smell signified warmth and security as cold weather closed in. But then he shook himself, knowing that he, too, could afford only to be here and now, and on guard.
From her pocket, Debra withdrew the keys Carolyn had given her and unlocked the front door. She pushed it open and started to walk in, but Copeland stopped her to shine his light before them. He saw only an empty living room, the few remaining items of furniture covered by dusty white sheets. To the right, there was a broad, stone fireplace, clean but for a couple of years’ worth of dust; to the left, a door opened to a hallway and the other rooms. No pictures or other decorations hung on the bare wooden walls. Lots of cobwebs.
“I guess pizza delivery is right out,” he said, finally stepping inside, leading with his rifle. She followed closely, peering into the night for a long moment before closing the door. “See something?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.” She reached into her borrowed coat and withdrew a package of Saltine crackers and a handful of plastic-wrapped caramels. “We have these to eat. That’s all Carolyn had time to grab for us before we bolted out of there.”
He went through the door to the hall, shone the flashlight into each door he passed. The first one was a half bath, but he remembered McAllister telling him he’d have to turn on the water; hopefully he could find the control valve without difficulty. Also on this floor were two completely empty bedrooms, a small den, and the kitchen. Making his way upstairs, he found a full bath and two more bedrooms, the larger one obviously the master; the bed frame had been removed, but a mattress and set of box springs wrapped in clear plastic leaned against one wall. The room spanned the width of the upstairs, with windows facing both the front and the back of the cabin; beneath the rear window, he could dimly see a shingled canopy above the back kitchen door.
“I say we set ourselves up in here. Only one door, so it’s the most easily defensible. If we have to get out in a hurry, we can go through the back window and drop onto the canopy down there.”
“Okay,” she said. “Plus it’s a tad warmer up here than below.”
He realized she was right. During the day, the house would have absorbed the heat from the sunlight, and the cold air had yet to displace it completely. “We’d better sleep in shifts. One of us needs to be awake at all times.”
“I don’t mind taking the first watch.”
“I don’t think I could sleep if you put that gun to my head. I’ll stay up.”
“Whatever,” she said with a shrug. “Carolyn said their sleeping bags are in the back of the Durango. At least we’ll stay fairly warm. Those two are happy to camp in the bleak midwinter.”
“Okay. Let’s go get them together. I don’t want us to be separated at any time—especially going outside.”
She gave him a curt salute. “Yessir.”
“Come on then.”
They went back out to the Durango and found, in addition to the sleeping bags, a pair of Coleman lanterns, extra fuel, a couple of boxes of strike-anywhere matches, and a camping stove. Quickly, they grabbed the goods, closed up the SUV, and hurried back inside, grateful for the little warmth it offered.
“That wind’s getting colder,” she said as they climbed the stairs. “This change is definitely affecting the weather. It’s never been this cold at this time of year.”
“I expect it’s adapting to the Lumeras’ climate. It must be.”
Once they had placed their gear on the floor, Copeland went to the windows, closed the Venetian blinds that still hung upon them, and lit the lanterns, which painted the dark-stained walls warm gold. Debra began to unroll the sleeping bags, while he lowered the mattress and box springs to the floor and slid them to the rear corner of the room, just beneath the window. As they piled the sleeping bags on the mattress, a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes fell out from one of them. She picked it up.
“Want one?”
“Don’t smoke.”
“I haven’t in ten years or so. You know what? I bet having one now isn’t going to kill me.” She opened the pack, drew out a cigarette, and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. “I bitched at your sister for years to quit. She just didn’t want to. She enjoyed them too much.” Debra struck a match, lit the smoke, and inhaled deeply. Copeland smiled as she made a sick-looking face.
“Laugh all you want to. Smoke one with me.”
“That’s all right. Really.”
“Smoke.” She tossed him the pack. Because she wished it, he took one out, put it between his lips, and lit it.
The smoke tasted vile, and he just puffed on it, rather than inhaling it. But for whatever reason, the very act of smoking the thing took the edge off his fear, soothed his jangling nerves as if it were a sedative. He drew in a shallow lungful of smoke and exhaled quickly. It burned his throat a little, but he didn’t start coughing.
“Feels better now, doesn’t it?” she asked.
“Yeah. A little better.”
“You never smoked?”
“Yeah, actually I did. In high school. I didn’t enjoy it, though.”
“Peer pressure?”
“Well…Candle could be persuasive sometimes.”
There was a long silence. “You don’t think they’re going to get here alive, do you?”
He bit his lip and then shook his head. “I’d say the odds are long.” He went to the front window, pulled the blinds aside for a moment, and peered into the darkness. “Black as pitch. Can’t even see the lights from town here.”
Debra came to his side. “If anyone can make it, they can. You saw him back there. He’s fast and just about fearless. And Carolyn’s no slouch. A little high-strung, but she’s tough as hell. I expect I’d trust my life to her.”
He gazed into her deep, liquid brown eyes. So much life there, he thought, even after the day’s hellish ordeals.
“He was always a character in our younger days. Doesn’t seem to have changed much. We could be real troublemak
ers back then. He was the ringleader, of course.”
“Of course.”
He closed the blinds and tossed his butt into the empty fireplace. “You should get some sleep. I’ll see if I can find a chair so I can sit by the window.”
She nodded, and he picked up the flashlight, figuring that they were safe enough to leave her alone for just a few moments. Surely, among the sheet-covered furniture in the living room he could locate a chair of some sort. He went down the stairs, but before making his way to the front of the house, he decided to find the water valve. He went back to the kitchen, which had been stripped of all its appliances—and there it was, a metal knob next to the back door. At first, he thought it must be frozen because it sure as hell didn’t want to budge. But finally, after several determined tries, he was able to turn it, and soon he heard the gratifying hissing and clicking sounds of water passing through the pipes. He tested the kitchen faucet; after a couple of coughs, clear water began to pour freely—near freezing, but clean. He stopped in the bathroom to make sure it also worked, then he went on to the living room where, sure enough, he found a warped but sturdy Boston rocker. He awkwardly maneuvered it up the stairs, banging it noisily against the wall a couple of times, prompting him to mutter “Dammit” a few times under his breath.
“Let’s not knock the house down,” Debra said as he brought the chair in and placed it next to the front window. She had removed her coat and was just taking off her shoes; the lantern on the floor cast her shadow, long and tall, on the wall behind her. She was wearing blue jeans and a wine-colored turtleneck sweater, and the golden light flattered her lithe figure. He turned away from her, pushed aside the blinds again, and peered sightlessly through the glass; behind him, he heard her sliding into the sleeping bag on top of the mattress.
“I have an idea,” he said. Going to the camping stove, he picked it up and carried it to the door to the stairwell. He stood the stove on one end and propped it against the closed door. “We don’t have an immediate use for this. This’ll give us at least a few seconds’ alarm if someone manages to get inside without us knowing it.”
