by Michael West
Danny’s eyes found a dark spot in the green barrier; a place where the stalks lay bent and broken, pushed outward by contestants eager to win the Wide Game. He pointed to it. “I guess we go this way.”
“Are you sure?” Paul asked. Two hundred people had entered the field from various points. If they picked the wrong path to follow, they could carry Sean further from the help he needed.
“I’ll check.” Danny reached into his pocket and produced a small compass. He looked at the needle, tilted the base so it covered the “N.” The path clearly led southeast. “Yeah, this is the way.”
“Let me see that.” Skip snatched the compass from Danny’s hand, stared at the metal threads that encircled the base. “You get this outta Cracker Jacks?”
Danny grabbed it back from him. “It’s off the handle of my hunting knife.”
Nancy looked to the sky, saw the sun slip toward the horizon like a match to water. She shuddered. “Anyone bother to bring a flashlight?”
Paul motioned to her. “Let me see my pack.”
Nancy took a step forward, Cindi released the death grip on her arm and carried the black nylon knapsack to him.
With his free hand, Paul unzipped it and reached inside. He felt the laminated Trapper Keeper that held his script, felt the plastic camera battery (which he removed and slid beneath his chin), and felt a smooth metal surface that had to be his canteen. Finally, his fingers found the object of their quest; he removed a small, square spotlight from the pack, a long, black cord trailing over his hand like a tail.
He looked at Deidra. “I’m gonna need to let go for a minute.”
She nodded. “Go ’head.”
Paul released his grip and the litter dipped toward him. He zipped up his pack, used the new battery to power up the camera, then slid the spotlight into place. With its cord plugged into the proper jack, the light ignited.
Skip shielded his eyes. “Hey!”
Paul ignored him; he walked the camera around the stretcher and handed it to Danny. “This should do it.”
Danny was impressed. “You came ready.”
“Never let it be said he’s not prepared,” Deidra said with a smile.
Paul blushed, halted a grin before it captured his lips. He started to walk back to his post, but Danny held out the camera to stop him.
“Thanks.”
He shrugged. “No sweat.”
Danny smiled, then aimed the light into the darkened cornfield and found the path they’d made earlier in the day. When Paul took up his slack, they started in.
Eighteen
Fingers closed across the sky. Dark clouds, they blocked out the setting sun, forced night upon the field like a coffin lid slamming shut. Wind, so refreshing in the afternoon heat, turned frigid as a snowman’s breath. And with the darkness and the cold came a fog, thick and white. It descended upon the stalks like a weary ghost lying down for a nap. The camcorder’s spotlight bobbed and danced up the row, a glowing apparition on wisps of phantom hair. Crickets ended their conversation with the other denizens of the field, leaving only the whispering tassels and the crunch of the group’s footfalls to break the silence.
Mick’s glasses became as fogged as their surroundings. He removed them with his free hand, rubbed them across his shirt, his eyes narrow. When he replaced them, however, he still saw the world as a blur of light and shadow. “I can’t see a thing.”
Skip muttered something under his breath and Danny offered him a hostile warning with his eyes.
Mick took no notice of the exchange. “Can we stop for a minute?”
Cindi, who’d been quiet since the birds, perked up. “I could totally use a break.”
Robby nodded in agreement. “I have to check Sean’s wounds and vitals anyway.”
“Fine.” The worry was still clear on Danny’s face, which glistened in the warmth of the spotlight. “But just for a minute.”
They lowered the stretcher. When Sean was safely on the ground, Danny wiped the sweat from his forehead. Mick rubbed both sides of his eyeglass lenses with his shirt. Skip lit a Marlboro; the flame from his match turned pearly fog into hot, hellish smoke swirling around his head. Paul rubbed his shoulder and Deidra went to him, kneading his muscles with her slender fingers. He winced, but not because she hurt him. Her hands were like ice.
“Should I stop?” she asked.
“No.”
She nodded, continued to work at the tight cords beneath his skin. “How far do you think we’ve come?”
“Hard to say.” Paul looked up, tried to see stars through the lacy mesh of fog and found none. He closed his eyes, his body rocking back and forth with each pull and rub of her fingers. “We’re moving pretty quick, considering. How you holding up?”
“Fine.” She paused her massage. “Just worried about Sean.”
Paul opened his eyes and found Danny, watched as the strength they’d always admired flickered within him like a flame fighting for life – anxiety threatening to extinguish it. Danny and Sean’s friendship predated “the group.” If the unthinkable happened ... if Sean died ... Danny could be inconsolable.
Danny watched as Robby found a pulse and timed it, watched him check the bleeding – which appeared to have all but stopped, then adjust the tightness of the splint. “How is he?”
Robby’s body jerked, Danny’s voice a gunshot blast in his ear. “He’s stable, for now.”
“Anyone need a drink or something?” Nancy walked around the litter, paid out backpacks.
Paul took his. “Thanks.”
Deidra placed a hand on Nancy’s shoulder, scanned her eyes. “You okay?”
Nancy shrugged, trying to grin as she handed Deidra her pack. She went to Danny’s side, gave him his bag, then ran her hand across his crew cut and down his cheek. He took her hand in his and offered a grateful smile. They exchanged no words, and yet Paul saw an understanding between them. She looked around. “This fog’s creepy, don’t you think?”
“It is spooky.” Cindi shivered. “I mean, after all those crows and everything.”
Mick put his glasses back on. “It’s perfectly natural.” He spoke with conviction, but his magnified eyes were hardly persuasive. “The ground is warm from the heat of the day, and the air has gotten colder. One plus one equals two.”
“Everybody ready to get moving?” Danny asked.
“Give us a full minute, would ya?” Robby reached into his backpack. “I need at least a sip of water.”
Danny nodded.
Paul dug into his own pack, produced a denim jacket with a NO MORAL MAJORITY button pinned just above the left breast pocket. He slid it on and the night air stopped cutting so deeply. When he looked up, Paul was aware that everyone looked at him with envious eyes. With the warm forecast, they’d packed no jackets of their own. He was about to offer his to the group in shifts when he noticed Skip was not among them. “Where’s Williamson?”
They looked to the spot where Skip had been standing, then whipped their glances into the surrounding mist. Long leaves protruded from it, fingers clawing their way through a blanket of gauze, but there was no sign of him. He’d simply vanished.
“Son of a ...” Danny’s hand clinched into a fist. He turned the spotlight of the camera on the milky wall of fog and marched toward it.
Nancy slid into his path. “Before you go all Captain Caveman on us, I feel I should remind you of something.”
“What?”
“You warned Skip what would happen if he bolted. He didn’t listen or he doesn’t care. Either way, when we get back, you show Sheriff Carter the tape. I’ll take his spot.” She pointed at Sean’s litter, then looked to Cindi. “Cin can carry my share of the bags, right?”
“Sure,” Cindi huffed. “I’m so the bag lady.”
“You really want him out there stalking us?” Danny sidestepped her. “I want him where I can see him.”
Paul took a following stride. “Count me in for the insanity.”
Deidra tugged at him.
“Danny can handle this.”
“I’ll be right back.” As Paul pried himself from her grasp, he realized Friday the 13th characters said the same thing before a stroll in the woods. He stole a backward glance as he moved into the haze, watched the chalky curtains close over Deidra and make her shadow.
Danny was on the move, the haloed spotlight at his side keeping him visible in the churning soup.
“What’s the plan?” Paul asked.
A long leaf smacked Danny across the face. He angrily pushed it aside and raised the light, tried to find broken stalks or some other sign to point them in the right direction. “We find Skip, tackle him, and drag him back.”
“And me without my shoulder pads.”
“You know, Deidra’s right. I can do this on my own.” “Never doubted it.” Paul nodded at the Sony in Danny’s hand. “I’m just here to protect my camera.”
There was a snap, followed by a crunch. Someone was moving to their left. Danny swung the camcorder’s light around. Nearby cornstalks turned white in its glare and those beyond its reach appeared dark as prison bars.
Paul cupped his hands around his mouth. “Skip!”
No response.
Danny ran in the direction of the sounds, the spotlight bobbed madly across the fog in front of him.
After a moment’s deliberation, Paul followed. “Wait up!”
As big as he was, Danny Fields was quick. It was one of the talents that won him his scholarship. He could find a hole in a defensive line and sprint like the Road Runner. Now his muscular legs carried him into the murk, plowing through cornstalks the way he plowed through linemen. Then, without warning, he stopped.
Something stood in the row. It loomed from the haze like a specter; tall, and dark – its arms outstretched.
Unable to halt his own run, Paul thumped against the form. He stood there for an instant; his eyes bulged from their sockets, then his mouth let out a wail. When he pushed himself away from the shadow, Paul got caught up in his own feet and fell back into Danny. They landed in a heap, panting, nearby laughter filling their ears.
“I wish you faggots could see yourselves!” Skip howled as he walked from the corn.
Paul looked up at the shadowy form he’d collided with. It was a huge cross with a figure attached to it. He thought he was at the foot of a large crucifix, wondered why that thought scared him, then realized it must be a scarecrow.
A muffled roar came from beneath him, “Get offa me.”
Blood rushed to Paul’s face; he rose to his feet, allowed his friend up.
Danny whirled on Skip, punched him hard in the mouth to stop his laughter.
Before he could deliver a second blow, Paul grabbed Danny’s arm just below his elbow. “You tryin’ to kill him?”
“No,” Danny said. He jerked free and spun around. For a moment, Paul thought he might have a punch for him as well, but he didn’t. Danny normally left his unchecked aggression on the football field. There was nothing ordinary about these circumstances, however, and he had taken in more than his fill of Skip. “Smashing his face in should be enough for me.”
Skip rubbed his split lip. “Bastard!”
“You’d know.”
Paul asked flatly, “What were you trying to do, Skip?”
“I was takin’ a shit. Then, I see you two crash into that scarecrow like a couple of dumbfucks.”
Robby materialized from the haze like some elemental phantom. Concern glowed in his eyes and his voice wavered from its normal firmness. “You guys still among the living?”
Paul looked at him, surprise diving into fear for Deidra. “Tell me you didn’t leave the girls alone back there?”
“Mick’s with ’em. We heard screaming and laughing, so they had me follow the sounds to see what was going on. I gotta admit, I thought I’d find Skip doin’ a slice and dice on your asses!”
“Your friends at the fire station really got you spooked, Miller.” Danny flexed his fist, then dusted himself off. “Skip, retard that he is, just thought it would be funny to see us bump into a fuckin’ scarecrow.”
The imperious tint returned to Robby’s words. “That’s why I didn’t go with you guys.” He picked the camcorder up off the ground where Danny left it. “I knew it was a set up.”
Paul brushed the dirt from his own clothing, and felt something warm and sticky on his jacket. He grimaced and held out his hand, tried to see what it was that he’d touched. Fluid glistened on his fingers, nearly black in the chalky gloom. He swallowed hard. “Robby, let me see the camera.”
“Christ, Rice, can’t you go two seconds without –”
“Let me see it!”
Robby handed him the Sony and he aimed the spotlight at his fingers. They were covered in rosy syrup. Transmission fluid, his mind offered, remembering a puddle that had formed on his gravel drive, a puddle that grew until he’d saved enough money to get his Mustang fixed. But this wasn’t transmission fluid. Paul’s stomach sank and he aimed the camera at the scarecrow. When the light hit it, his lungs emptied like punctured tires, leaving him vacant and cold. “Oh, sweet mother of God ...”
Paul’s first instinct had been right, a man had been crucified. Lengths of rusted chain lashed his body to the wooden cross. Corncobs jutted from his hollowed-out eye sockets, and his mouth hung open, a scream forever choked by corn leaves. Paul thought the boy wore a tie-dyed shirt, then he saw the letters –
HARMONY HIGH TRACK AND FIELD, barely visible beneath reddish-brown splotches and streaks.
– and he realized the shirt was covered in a slop of congealing blood.
Hey, Paul, his mind began, you bumped into that thing. How does it feel to have part of that guy stuck to your jacket?
Paul’s stomach heaved. He dropped the camera to the ground, wished he’d never asked for it, and fell on all fours. What little he’d eaten that day came back up noisily, violently spilling across his lips and onto the ground.
Danny grabbed hold of the camera, placed the spotlight back on the scarecrow man, on the ruined track uniform he wore and the golden hair that blew in the breeze. “Jesus Christ ... it’s Dale Brightman.”
“Shit,” Skip whispered, unaware he was even speaking.
Paul rose to his knees, his eyes clamped shut, his throat blazing. “Our father, who art in heaven –”
“Who could have done that?” Danny asked.
Paul’s head rode the teacups at Disney World. He thought he might faint, but fought the urge. If he lost consciousness now, the others might go on without him and he would wake up at the foot of the cross, the scarecrow man looking down at him with bloody, corncob eyes. If that happened, Paul would go stark raving mad. “– Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done –”
“Who could have done that?” Danny repeated as Paul went on with his prayer.
Robby took the camcorder from him, illuminated details of Dale’s body with the spotlight. Dark slits, maybe three inches long, covered his entire torso. They had to be knife wounds. A broken rib jutted from his chest, pulled out as the blade was withdrawn for another strike. Robby had never seen a sight remotely similar. Whoever had done this was a real-life psycho.
“He’s been stabbed,” he announced with a steady voice that belied his own nausea.
“Where’s your knife, Fields?” Skip asked unexpectedly.
Danny whirled and gave Williamson a hard push. “What’d you ask me?”
“You said that compass of yours came off a knife. Where’s your fuckin’ knife?”
“It’s in my pack.”
“Show me.”
“I don’t have to show you shit on a stick. You’re the one with a history of violence.” Danny motioned into the fog, toward where the others stood waiting. “Maybe you did Dale this morning and came out here now to check on your handiwork. What’d you use, a Samurai sword? More of your Ninja toys?”
“That’s crap and you know it.”
“What happened to your leather jacket?”
“My what?
” Something close to fear danced in Skip’s eyes, but his face remained indifferent.
“Your jacket. You never take it off, but you weren’t wearing it when you caught up with us in the field. Did you get blood on it when you were stabbing him?”
“Screw that.” Skip held up his hand, flashed fingers as he spoke. “Number one, I beat dorks ... I beat your dork. Fine, guilty as charged. Two, what happened with Sean was a total accident, okay. And fact number three is that I didn’t wear my jacket because it was fuckin’ hot out and not because I stabbed someone. My little throwing stars wouldn’t do that, and I don’t own a knife.”
“Sure.”
“I’m still waiting to see your knife, though. Did you get blood on that?”
With jerky, angry movements, Danny slid the pack from his back. His scornful eyes locked with Skip’s as he unzipped the bag with harsh, broken strokes and reached inside. His hand dug through the contents, created a muffled clatter.
Paul’s head stepped off the ride. He took a Kleenex from his pocket and blew into it, then wiped the spittle from his lips before tossing it into the murk. With a trembling hand, he beckoned the camera from Robby and aimed its light at Danny’s pack. He could hear the familiar sound of tape being moved within and saw the red record light blazing in the dark below the eyepiece monitor. How long had it been on?
Long enough to record all the disturbing details.
Confusion sprouted in Danny’s eyes and grew across his face. He tilted the pack into the light and continued to rummage, his movements becoming harried and frantic. After a moment, he turned the bag upside down, dropped the contents onto the dirt and raked his fingers through the multicolored pile. He reminded Paul of a child just home from trick-or-treating, emptying his pillowcase and searching for a favorite bit of candy.
He mumbled something to himself, then said, “It’s gone.”
Skip backed up into the fog. “That’s what I thought,”
Danny grabbed his arm to stop him and Skip shook free of the grip.
Before Danny could do or say anything, Robby broke in. “What do we tell the others?”
