The Servants of Twilight

by Dean Koontz

  The nook between rock formations was somewhat protected from the wind; therefore, some snow had settled and remained within the niche. Brass glinted in the snow: several expended cartridges.

  Barlowe also noticed blood on the rocks that formed the walls of that sheltered space: dark, frozen stains on the grayish granite.

  He stooped, stared at the cartridges poking out of the white-mantled floor. He brushed away the soft, dry layer of new flakes that had fallen in the past half an hour or so, pushing the expended cartridges aside as well, and he found a lot more blood on the older layer of snow underneath. Denny Rogers’ blood? Or was some of it Harrison’s? Maybe Rogers had wounded the bastard.

  He turned away from the eastern crest, stepped across the narrow ridgetop, and began searching for the place at which the deer path continued into the next valley. Because the Antichrist and his guardians had followed the trail this far, it was logical to assume they’d continue to follow it down the far side of the ridge. The new snow didn’t cling to the wind-blasted plateau, but it was piling up just over the edge of the crest, where the wind didn’t hit as hard and where brush and rocks gave it drift points against which it could build, and it obscured the entrance to the deer path. He almost missed the trail, had to kick through a drift, but then saw both deer tracks and human footprints in the more meager carpet of snow under the trees.

  He went down the slope a few yards, until he found what he had hoped for: spots of blood. There was no way this could be Denny Rogers’ blood. No doubt about it now: Harrison was hurt.

  64

  Charlie was impressed but not surprised by how quickly and surely Christine took charge. She got them out on the trail and moving down toward the valley again.

  Joey and Chewbacca followed them. The boy said nothing, shuffled along as if he felt they were wasting their time trying to escape. But he didn’t stop, didn’t fall back, stayed close. The dog took his cue from his master, padding along in silence, his head drooping, his eyes downcast.

  Charlie expected to hear shouting on the trail behind them. Minute by minute, he was increasingly sure that gunfire would break out.

  But the snow fell, the wind whooped, the trees creaked and rustled, and Spivey’s people did not appear. He must have put a damned good scare into them with that last ambush. They must have stayed where he’d left them for at least half an hour, afraid to crawl out of hiding, and when they had begun to move, they must have proceeded to the ridgetop with extreme caution.

  It was too much to hope they had given up and turned back. They would never give up. He had learned that much about them, anyway. Denton Boothe, his fat psychologist friend, had been right: Only death would stop this breed of fanatic.

  As it wound down the lower half of the valley wall, the deer trail took a more wandering route than before. They were not going to reach the bottom as fast as they had anticipated.

  During the first twenty minutes, Charlie didn’t need much help. For the most part the path was gentle and undemanding. A few times he had to grab a tree or put one hand against a pillar of rock to keep his balance, and twice, when the land sloped too steeply, he leaned on Christine, but he didn’t hang on her constantly. In fact he got along considerably better than he had thought possible when they’d started out.

  Although the Tylenol and the antibiotic powder had taken the edge off the pain in his shoulder and arm, it was still bad. In fact, even softened by the drugs, it was so intense that he would have expected to be incapacitated by it, but he discovered he had more tolerance for pain than he had thought; he was adapting to it, grinding his teeth into calcium sand and cutting permanent lines of agony in his face, but adapting.

  After twenty minutes, however, his strength began to ebb, and he needed Christine’s help more often. They reached the valley floor in twenty-five minutes, by which time he was beginning to get slightly dizzy again. Five minutes later, when they came to the edge of a broad meadow, where twin hammers of snow and wind pounded the land, he had to stop and rest while still in the shelter of the woods. He sat under a pine and leaned against the trunk.

  Joey sat beside him but said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Charlie was too weary to attempt to elicit a word or a smile from the boy.

  Chewbacca licked his paws. They were bleeding a little.

  Christine sat, too, and took out the map that Charlie had spread on the table at the cabin, yesterday, when he’d insisted on showing her how they would get out of the mountains if Spivey’s people arrived and tried to corner them. Christ, how unlikely such a situation had seemed then, and how terribly inevitable it seemed now!

  Christine had to fold and refold the map, keeping it small while she studied it, because the wind occasionally broke out of the meadow and lashed between the trees, reaching some distance into the dense forest to slap and poke and grab at everything in its path.

  Beyond the perimeter of the woods, a fierce blizzard raged across the valley floor. The wind was from the southwest, roaring like an express train from one end of the valley to the other, harrying sheets of snow in front of it. The snow was so thick that, most of the time, you could see only about a third of the way across the meadow, where the world appeared to end in a blank white wall. But occasionally the wind subsided for a few seconds or briefly changed directions, and the hundreds of opaque curtains of snow fluttered and parted at the same instant, and in the distance you could see more trees crowding the other side of the meadow, and then the far wall of the somewhat narrow valley, and beyond that another faraway ridge crest where ice and rock shone like chrome even in the sunless gloom.

  According to the map, a little creek cut through the middle of the meadow and ran the length of the valley. She looked up, squinted at the white maelstrom beyond the forest, but she couldn’t see the creek out there, not even when the snow parted. She figured it was frozen over and covered with snow. If they followed the creek (instead of crossing the meadow into the next arm of the woods), they would eventually come to the upper end of a narrow draw that sloped down toward the lake, for this was a high valley that funneled southwest, and they were still far above Tahoe. Yesterday, when he had first brought out the map, Charlie had said they would follow this route if they had to leave the cabin and take to the wilds, but that had been before he was shot. It was a three- or four-mile hike to civilization from here, not a discouragingly long way—if you were in good physical condition. However, now that he was wounded and weak, and with a full-scale blizzard moving in, there was absolutely no hope of getting down to the lake by that route. In their circumstances, three or four miles was a journey every bit as epic as a trek across China.

  She desperately searched the map for some other way out or for some indication of shelter, and after consulting the key several times to interpret the cartographer’s symbols, she discovered the caves. They were along this same side of the valley, half a mile northeast of here. Judging by the map, the caves were a point of interest for those hardy hikers who were curious about ancient Indian wall paintings and who had a mania for collecting arrowheads. Christine could not determine whether it was just one or two small caves or an extensive network of them, but she figured they would be at least large enough to serve as a place to hide from both Spivey’s fanatics and the murderous weather.

  She moved closer to Charlie, put her head to his in order to be heard above the cacophonous wind, and told him what she had in mind. He was in complete agreement, and his confidence in her plan gave her more faith in it. She stopped worrying about whether going to the caves was a wise decision, and she started worrying about whether they would be able to make it there through the storm.

  “We could walk northeast through the woods, following the base of the valley wall,” she told Charlie, “but that would leave a trail.”

  “Whereas, if we went out into the meadow before heading up the valley, if we traveled out there in the open, the storm would obliterate our tracks in no time.”

  “Yes.”
>
  “Spivey’s people would lose us right here,” he said.

  “Exactly. Of course, to reach the caves, we’d have to reenter the woods farther north, but there’s not a chance in a million that they’d pick up our trail again. For one thing, they’ll be expecting us to head down the valley, southwest, toward the lake, ’cause civilization is that direction.”

  “Right.” He licked his cracked lips. “There’s nothing at all northeast of us but . . . more wilderness.”

  “They won’t look for us in that neighborhood—will they?” Christine asked.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Walking out there in the open, in the wind and snow . . . isn’t going to be easy,” she said.

  “I’m all right. I can make it.”

  He didn’t look as if he could make it. He didn’t look as if he could even get up. His eyes were watery and bloodshot. His face was gaunt and shockingly pale, and his lips were bloodless.

  “But you’ve got to . . . look out for Joey,” Charlie said. “Better cut a piece of line . . . put him on a tether.”

  That was a good suggestion. Out in the open field, visibility was only a dozen yards in the best moments, declining to less than four yards when the wind whipped up and the snow squalled. It would be easy for Joey to wander a few steps off course, and once they were separated, they would find it difficult if not impossible to locate each other again. She cut a length of rope from the coil that hung on her backpack and made a tether that allowed the boy six feet of play; she linked them, waist to waist.

  Charlie repeatedly, nervously looked back the way they had come.

  Christine was more disturbed by the fact that Chewbacca, too, was watching the trail along which they’d come. He was still lying down, still relatively calm, but his ears had perked up, and he was growling softly in the back of his throat.

  She helped Charlie and Joey put on their ski masks because they would need them now, whether or not the eye holes restricted their vision. She put on her own mask, replaced her hood, pulled the drawstring tight under her chin.

  Joey rose without being told. She decided that was a good sign. He still seemed lost, detached, uninterested in what was happening around him, but at least on a subconscious level he knew it was time to go, which meant he wasn’t completely beyond reach.

  Christine helped Charlie get to his feet.

  He looked bad.

  This last half mile to the caves was going to be sheer torture for him. But there was nothing else they could do.

  Keeping one hand on Charlie’s good arm, ready to provide support if he needed it, tethered to Joey, she led them into the meadow. The wind was a raging beast. The air temperature was at least twenty below zero. The snowflakes were not really flakes anymore; they had shrunk to tiny, crystal pellets that bounced off Christine’s insulated clothing with a sharp ticking sound. If Hell was cold instead of hot, this was what it must be like.

  65

  Ashes and half-burned black branches were all that remained of the fire that had recently flourished in the middle of the deer path. Kyle Barlowe kicked at the charred detritus, scattering it.

  He stepped under the rocky overhang and looked at the abandoned backpack. There were scraps of paper in one corner of the rocky niche, wrappers from prepackaged gauze bandages.

  “You were right,” Burt Tully said. “The man’s been hurt.”

  “Bad enough so he can’t carry his pack anymore,” Barlowe said, turning away from the abandoned gear.

  “But I’m still not sure we should go after him, just the four of us,” Tully said. “We need reinforcements.”

  “There’s no time to go for them,” Kyle Barlowe said.

  “But he . . . he’s killed so many of us.”

  “Are you turning yellow on us?”

  “No, no,” Tully said, but he looked scared.

  “You’re a soldier now,” Barlowe said. “With God’s protection.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . this guy . . . Harrison . . . he’s damned good.”

  “Not as good as he was before Denny shot him.”

  “But he shot Denny! He must still have a lot on the ball.”

  Impatiently, Kyle said, “You saw the place farther back on the trail, where he fell. There was more blood there, where she came and helped him.”

  “But reinforcements—”

  “Forget it,” Kyle said, pushing past him.

  He had his doubts, too, and he wondered if he was being sharp with Burt only to push his own second thoughts out of his mind.

  Edna Vanoff and Mother Grace were waiting on the trail.

  The old woman didn’t look well. Her eyes were bloodshot, deeply sunken, pinched half shut by the sooty flesh that ringed them. She stood round-shouldered, bent at the waist, the very image of exhaustion.

  Barlowe was amazed that she had come this far. He had wanted her to stay back at the cabin, with guards, but she had insisted on going farther into the mountains with them. He knew she was a vital woman, possessed of considerable strength and stamina for her age, but he was surprised by her unflagging progress through the woods. Occasionally they had to help her over a rough spot, and once he had even carried her for thirty yards or so, but for the most part she had made it on her own.

  “How long ago did they leave this place?” Grace asked him, her voice as cracked and bloodless as her lips.

  “Hard to say. Fire’s cold, but in this weather the embers would cool off real fast.”

  Burt Tully said, “If Harrison is as badly wounded as we think, they can’t be making good time. We must be closing on them. We can afford to go slowly, be careful, and make sure we don’t walk into another ambush.”

  Grace said, “No, if they’re close, let’s hurry, get it over with.”

  She turned, took one step, stumbled, fell.

  Barlowe lifted her to her feet. “I’m worried about you, Mother.”

  She said, “I’m fine.”

  But Edna Vanoff said, “Mother, you look . . . wrung out.”

  “Maybe we should rest here a few minutes,” Burt said.

  “No!” Mother Grace said. Her bloodshot eyes transfixed them, each in turn. “Not a few minutes. Not even one minute. We don’t dare give the boy a second more than we have to. I’ve told you . . . each second he lives, his power increases. I’ve told you a thousand times!”

  Barlowe said, “But Mother, if anything happens to you, the rest of us won’t be able to go on.”

  He flinched from the penetrating power of her eyes. And now her voice had a special quality that entered it only when she was having a vision, a piercing resonance that vibrated in his bones: “If I fail, you must go on. You will go on. It’s blasphemy to say your allegiance is to me rather than to God. You will go on until your own legs fail, until you can’t crawl another foot. And then you will still go on, or God will have no pity on you. No pity and no mercy. If you fail Him in this, He will let your souls be conscripted into the armies of Hell.”

  Some people were not swayed when Mother Grace spoke to them in this manner. Some heard nothing but the ranting of an old fool. Some fled as if she were threatening them. Some laughed. But Kyle Barlowe had always been humbled. He was still enthralled by her voice.

  But will I be enthralled and obedient when she finally tells me to kill the boy? Or will I resist the violence that I used to thrive upon? Wrong-thought.

  They left the rocky overhang, headed down the deer trail, Barlowe leading, Edna Vanoff second, Mother Grace third, and Burt Tully bringing up the rear. The howling of the wind seemed like a great demonic voice, and to Barlowe it was a constant reminder of the malignant forces that were even now conspiring to take control of the earth.

  66

  Christine was beginning to think they would never get out of the meadow alive.

  This was worse than a blizzard. It was a whiteout, with the wind so strong it would have been a hurricane in a tropical climate, and with the snow coming down so h
ard and so fast that she couldn’t see more than two or three feet ahead. The world had vanished; she was moving through a nightmare landscape without detail, a world composed solely of snow and gray light; she could not see the forest on any side. She couldn’t always see Joey when he ranged to the end of the tether. It was terrifying. And although the light was gray and diffuse, there was an all-pervading glare that made her eyes burn, and she realized that the threat of snow-blindness was very real. What would they do if they had to feel their way through the meadow, sightless, seeking the northeast end of the valley by instinct alone? She knew the answer: They would die. She paused every thirty steps to look at the compass, sheltering it in her gloved hands, and although she tried to move always in a straight line, she found, on several occasions, that they were heading in the wrong direction, and she had to correct their course.

  Even if they didn’t get disoriented and lost, they could die out here if they didn’t move fast enough, for it was colder than she had ever thought it could be, so cold that she wouldn’t have been surprised if she had suddenly frozen solid, upright, in midstride.

  She was worried sick about Joey, but he stayed on his feet and plodded along at her side long after she expected him to drop. His quasi-catatonic withdrawal was, ironically, of benefit to him in these circumstances; having tuned out the real world, he was less affected by the cold and wind than he otherwise might have been. Even so, the elements would take their toll of him in time. She would soon have to get him off the meadow, into the comparative shelter of the forest, whether or not they reached the area in which the caves were situated.

  Charlie fared worse than the boy. He stumbled frequently, went to his knees a couple of times. After five minutes, he occasionally leaned on Christine for support. After ten minutes, he needed her more than occasionally. After fifteen, he required her support constantly, and they were slowed to little more than a shuffle.