by Ilsa J. Bick
“We should both go.”
“Why? So we can all get lost and freeze to death? Tony might have gone around to the other side of the van. That would block the flashlight. He could be turned around, facing the other way. We wouldn’t see the flashlight then either.”
“But he signaled us every couple of minutes before you lost him.”
“I didn’t lose him.”
“God, would you stop? I’m not blaming you. All I’m saying is there’s been nothing for a long time. We should see him coming back at least.”
This was probably true. Maybe too much glare? Casey thumbed off his flashlight, then pressed his face against the icy slab of window glass. Nothing to see. He chewed on his lower lip. Maybe they should go. “Do you remember if Tony had a rope or extension cord or, I don’t know, something we can tie off to the car?”
“He wouldn’t have anything long enough to reach the van.”
“I know that,” Casey said, impatiently. “But if we can extend our reach, get away from the car a good fifty feet or so, then one of us can keep going with the flashlight, right? The other one hangs back and yells.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Sorry. That’s a good idea, Casey.”
He knew that. “So was there anything?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe we should check your sled?”
He should’ve thought of that. He was pretty sure he had chains and a couple bungee cords. Popping his door, he flicked on his flashlight, almost climbed out, but then remembered those stupid locks. Reaching over the front seat, he yanked the keys, pocketed them—and frowned. Ducking out of the car again, he sniffed. “You smell that?”
“Yeah.” She was looking at him across the Camry’s snow-silted roof. “That’s—”
“Gas.” He faced the direction where the van lay. “I didn’t smell it before.”
“Maybe the wind changed direction?”
“No, I—” And that’s when it hit him. “It’s stopped snowing. There’s no wind.”
Rima turned her face to the black, featureless bowl of night sky. “Can that happen? I mean, all of a sudden like that?”
How should he know? Did he look like he worked for The Weather Channel? But she’s right; this is creepy. No wind, no snow. Like someone hit a switch or turned off the spigot. If anything, the air was much colder now, and heavier somehow. “Come on,” he said, then stopped as his boot came down with a small splish. “Hey, what …”
Whatever else he would’ve said died right then and there.
Because from the darkness came a scream.
TONY
She Has to Be Here
TONY WHIRLED, THE flashlight tumbling from his hand to fly into the fog. The night came slamming down as he backpedaled, his feet slipping, his balance finally going. He went down like a rock. The impact was like wiping out on an ice rink: a solid, bone-rattling blow that drove the air from his lungs. Gasoline sheeted over his body; cold fuel slapped his face. His throat closed on a mouthful of gasoline, and then he was choking, his vision starting to speckle with black filaments. Ropy drool poured from his open mouth. His thoughts swirled in a swoon: Passing … out …
At the last possible second, the knotted muscles of his throat relaxed, and he pulled in a great, wrenching gasp. His chest throbbed; something inside there seemed to push. There was still gas in his mouth, too, and the fumes got him coughing again.
Someone out here. On the ice. With him. “Whooo?” The word rode on a breathy shriek. “Who’s … who’s th-there?”
No answer.
“C-C-Casey?”
No answer.
Oh God, oh God, I’m in so much trouble. With his flashlight gone, the night was inky and close. He couldn’t seem to pull in enough air. The fog’s webby fingers threaded up his nose and steamed into his brain, and then he was gasping as the fog squirmed into the space behind his eyes. His head went swimmy. The thinking part of his mind knew he was hyperventilating and only making things much worse, but he couldn’t help it. If he didn’t get out of this, if he couldn’t find his way back, he was going to faint, or freeze, or both.
He pushed to his feet and stood a moment, swaying, his pulse rabbiting through his veins. The fog was thick, but the flares showed through the storm, right? So, it stood to reason that if he could just get a little closer to his car, he ought to pick one out. From there, it was a cakewalk. All he had to do was get himself pointed the right way. Put the van at his back, and he was set.
He shuffled forward, pushing through the fog, the gasoline slopping and gurgling around his boots. After twenty steps, he still hadn’t found the van and panic started to bleed into his chest again. Where could it—
Bam! A bomb went off in his face, right between his eyes, and he screamed with pain. Blood flooded his mouth, then spurted from his broken nose in a great spume, and he simply dropped in a sodden heap. He couldn’t get up. Everything hurt, even his hair. Blindly, he put out a gloved hand, felt an upside-down door handle. In his terror, he’d run right into the van. Which side? He slid his hand down a bit then felt his glove sink into something soft and flaccid. “Ahhh,” he said, the sound coming out as a thick half-moan, half-scream. He must be at the passenger’s side window and that dead girl. Then his brain caught up to what his hands, even through gloves, had already registered.
There was the coat, yes. But …
No. He thought back to that slithering touch, and a swell of terror flooded his chest. No, no, she has to be here; she’s dead, she’s dead, she—
Over the thunder of his heart, Tony heard something new.
A single …
lonely …
splash.
TONY
Get Up, or You’re Dead
TONY FROZE.
Behind him. Someone there. Not Casey or Rima; he knew that. They would’ve called out. Even with the fog, he ought to see a little light, but—
Splash.
God, what was that? He felt the scream boiling on his tongue. That wasn’t an animal. No animal in its right mind would be out here, in the cold and dark, just hanging around, waiting for a dumb, stupid kid to bumble—
Splash.
Get up. Every hair on his head stood on end. Get up, or you’re dead. Get up, or it will find you. Get up, run, do something, get up!
But he did not get up. He couldn’t. Instead, Tony shrank, shivering, against the van, his nose still dripping blood, which was beginning to freeze to his chin.
Splash. Pause. Slosh.
The handset. He had the walkie-talkie. He could call for help. Call someone.
Slosh.
Eric can’t help. He’s probably too far away. I’m all alone out here and— Another splish, and now the lake of gasoline rippled and broke against his legs. Getting closer, coming right for me. He had to do something, do something.
Slosh. Splish.
He eased the handset from his pocket.
Splash. Pause. Splash-splash.
He brought the handset to his mouth.
Sploosh.
“Help.” His voice was so low, so small, there was almost no sound at all. “Help, help me.”
Splash-splash …
“Help,” he said, louder now. “Help me. Somebody, help!”
SPLASH-SLOSH-SPLASH …
“No!” Tony shouted. He stared in horror as the blackness gathered and folded and formed shadows in the dark: something monstrous and denser than the night, and it was right there, it was right there, it was right—
“HELP ME!” Tony shrieked. “HELP ME, SOMEBODY HELP—”
CASEY
Full Fathom Five
“CASEY!” RIMA GASPED. “That was Tony!”
“I know.” The words felt thin in his mouth, like flat letters on white paper. “I can’t see …”
“HELLLP!” Tony’s shriek tore through the night. “PLEASE HELP ME!”
“Tony!” Rima floundered around the hood, and that was when Casey heard not the shush of snow but a splash.
&
nbsp; Water? He sniffed, and then his eyes widened. “Hey, do you smell that?”
“What are you …” She stopped moving and looked down, then shuffled her feet. Casey heard the slap and gurgle of liquid against the Camry’s metal chassis. “Gasoline?” she said. “But where did it come from? The van? How? The van couldn’t possibly hold that much.”
“I don’t know,” he said. Even if you factored in a rupture in the Camry’s tank, that wouldn’t explain this. “Look, I think we need to take a second here and …”
Another shriek from Tony, agonized and shrill, and then Rima was sloshing away from the car: “Tony! Tony, we’re—”
“No!” Casey’s arm pistoned out; his fist closed around her arm. “Don’t! Wait!” He heard her gasp and felt her go rigid. “What?” he said.
“Let me go!” And then she was shrieking, batting at him, like she’d completely lost it: “Let me go, let me go!” Flailing wildly, she tried twisting away. “Don’t touch me!”
“Rima!” Jesus, what was wrong with her? The girl was still screaming, and from across the ice, in the dark, Tony shrieked again: a drill bit of sound that cored into the meat of his brain, and God, all Casey wanted was for Tony to stop screaming and for this nutcase to stop hitting him. “Rima, stop, be quiet! You want whatever’s out there to find us, too?”
“Let go, let go!” In the light from his flashlight, he could see the cords standing in her neck and the glitter of an animal fear in her eyes. “Take your hands off!”
“Fine! Okay! There, you stupid …” As soon as he released her, she staggered, her feet tangling and slip-sliding. Without thinking, he reached for her again—to steady her, give her a hand; he was just trying to help, for God’s sake—but she aimed a kick, a goddamned kick.
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “I told you not to touch me!”
“All right! Fine! Fall on your ass; I don’t give a shit!” Another blood-curdling scream from Tony set his teeth. “Just get back in the goddamned car!”
“What?” Rima was wild-eyed, her face drained of color. “No! Are you crazy? We have to help him!”
Was he crazy? “We can’t! What’s already happened has happened! We have to get inside, get off the snow!” Casey was already splashing back to the car. The gasoline fumes were starting to get to him; he could feel the burn in his throat. Breathing was hard, and his head ached. Lurching for the back door, he felt his boot suddenly skate, and he thought, Ice? Wait, what happened to the snow?
Another scream boiled from the darkness, but the sound was now much different: formless and queerly garbled, a drowning kid’s gurgle, and as liquid as this improbable lake of gasoline.
I don’t want to know, I don’t want to see this. Desperate now: “Rima, we can’t help him. We can’t even see him!”
She still wasn’t moving, the idiot. “But we can’t just leave him.”
“Yes, we can, and I’m going,” Casey said, and then he was grabbing the handle of the back door before he remembered: locked. Damn stupid … He was shaking so bad he couldn’t sock the key into the lock, had to hold it with both hands. Come on, come on. He felt the key ram home, and then he was twisting the key, hauling back on the handle. The door opened with a shriek, the hinges crying out. He practically dove into the car. Craning round, he saw that Rima hadn’t moved.
Well, screw this shit, and screw her. He dragged the door closed with a hard thunk. The locks socked home, and only then did he allow himself a relieved sigh. Safe. Or as safe as he could be in this nightmare. Of course, if whatever was out there came for them, he wasn’t so sure about that either. Car windows broke, didn’t they? You’d have to be one strong mother to do it, but a rock, a hammer, a stout piece of pipe, and then he was screwed. Man, what he wouldn’t give for a weapon.
Outside, Rima was a murky silhouette, still as a statue. Fine, let her die out here; he wasn’t risking his ass for a guy he’d just met. What was he supposed to do, anyway? Throw snowballs? Spit? God, his head was killing him from all those fumes. The metal box of the car muted Tony’s screams, so they were only bad and not bone-chilling, as if he were listening to a horror movie leaking from a distant television—but that was still plenty horrible enough.
Shut up, Tony. Casey squeezed his eyes tight. The taste of gasoline furred his tongue. Swallowing made him gag. Saliva pooled, and he spat, trying to rid himself of the taste. Shut up, Tony. Shut up, and die already if you’re going to, but shut the f— He let out a startled yelp at a sharp bap on the window behind his head. Turning, he saw Rima at the door. “What?” he shouted. “What do you want now?”
“Open up!” Rima’s fist hammered the window again. Even in the gloom, her eyes were bright and raw with terror. “Casey, please, open the door! Something’s coming! Quick, open the door!”
Oh, so now she wanted in. Fine, fine, crazy stupid bitch … Still fuming, he reached for the lock, no real thought behind it at all, only reflex, and then Big Earl, who’d been so quiet, boomed, What the hell you doing, boy?
“What?” He hesitated, his fingers hovering in midair, twitching a little like the legs of a spider. “I’m … I’m letting her in.” Thinking, I’m talking to a dead man. I’m having an argument with a ghost.
What the hell for? You lost what little sense you had? It wasn’t just that Big Earl was huge in his head. Casey felt the big man’s phantom arms crush his ribs, drive the breath from his chest. She made her bed. She had her chance.
“Casey!” Rima slammed both palms against the window, hard enough that he felt the jolt in his legs. “Please! Don’t leave me out here!”
“I … Dad, no … I have to h-help …” His hand wouldn’t obey. What was wrong with him? It was as if he were a robot whose circuits had frozen. “Can’t l-leave her to d-die out there. What if there really is s-something …?”
This is your problem. You think Eric thought about anything other than getting rid of me? You think he didn’t mean it? Big Earl oozed contempt. He might have killed me, but at least he had the guts to do what needed doing.
“S-stop comparing me to him.” A lick of anger, but his skin was suddenly pebbly with gooseflesh as a dark chill rippled through his veins. What’s wrong with my hand? Then, another and much stranger thought: Is it mine? “I’m my own p-person. I can handle m-myself.”
“Casey!” Rima pounded again. “Open the door!”
Then be a man.
This was the problem with being Big Earl’s son: you hop-skipped right over being a kid. True, he didn’t particularly like Rima; he wasn’t going to put himself on the line for her. But opening the door was so simple. And it is the right thing to do. A man makes his own decisions, too. So why did his hand refuse to move? “Dad, she just n-needs to—”
You giving me lip? You saying no to me?
“N-no, sir … I m-mean …”
Spit it out, boy.
“You’re … you’re d-dead,” Casey stammered. Whatever held him in place, was wrapped around his body, tightened its grip, like the muscular arms of a gigantic octopus. His ribs felt brittle as crackle-ice. His chest didn’t want to move. “Why … h-how can I still be h-hearing you? P-please, I h-have to open the d-door, just l-let me …”
You have to listen to me, boy.
“Casey!” Rima pleaded. “Please, listen, Casey, please!”
“I …” He couldn’t make his lungs work. “Dad, n-no, I n-need …”
I’ll show you what you need. His father’s voice sizzled in his blood. Take you down a peg.
“N-no, Dad,” he gasped, thinking to his hand: Move, move! Hurry, unlock the door, unlock the door! “S-stop. Just l-let me …”
And that was when he saw his hand … glimmer.
“Ah!” he screamed as the skin rippled and wavered as if underwater. Everything around him—the sense of the car seat beneath him, Rima’s terrified shouts, even the numbing cold—suddenly dropped out, as if the soundtrack to this movie had hit a glitch. There was only his hand, which was trying to deform and shi
ft, growing larger, rougher, thicker, and cracked with calluses. Tufts of hair sprouted over the knuckles. It was as if his hand had slid into Big Earl’s skin. Or maybe Big Earl was only turning him inside out the way you shucked a messy glove and what he now saw was what lay beneath.
Or he’s in my blood, eating his way out. This couldn’t be real. Dizzy with horror, he watched as Big Earl’s hand jerked away from the lock.
“N-no.” A sudden cold sweat slimed his neck and upper lip. “Puh-please, d-don’t. Stop, s-stop!” He could hear his breath hissing from between clenched teeth, feel the shudder in his biceps as he tried fighting back, to make Big Earl’s hand obey, to stop moving, to stop …
Casey slapped himself, very hard: a stunning blow, an open-palm crack as sharp as a gunshot. A cry jumped off his tongue. There was a wink of pain as his teeth cut his cheek. Very faintly, above the thunder of his blood, he heard Rima shout: “No, Casey, stop! Don’t let him—”
“H-help,” he panted, his mouth filling with salt and rust. His voice sounded so small, almost not there at all. “E-Eric, help, someone, please …” And then his hand—his father’s hand—was a fist, and Casey couldn’t fight it. He could feel his will draining away, the numb acceptance of a beaten dog, which he knew too well because he’d been here so many times before: kneeling, watching Big Earl advance with that switch, his fist, a belt, and knowing that running only made things a hundred times worse.
He hit himself again and again and again, and all those books had it totally wrong: there was no numbing, no going away, no mental click so he could float above and let this happen to that boy-shaped punching bag. He felt this, each and every blow, right into his teeth, his bones. With every punch, he heard his breath come in a grunt—ugh, ugh, ugh—as his head whipped to the side, snapping on the stalk of his neck. He could feel the skin tear over his cheek, and there was now blood on his chin, down his throat, and then his vision was blacking as he kept beating himself, Big Earl bellowing with every blow: You want help, you want help, you want—
