by Ilsa J. Bick
Felt so real. Maybe only her mind playing tricks? Because I’m stressed, starved, exhausted …
What to do now was the question. She could stay here, barricade the door. But the Coleman was on. Eventually the ice would melt, boil off. Forget the waste of fuel; the flame would burn a hole through that pot and then they’d have a fire.
She listened again, pressing her ear against the keyhole. Still nothing. If she decided to leave, go back out there, she would need light. Which meant retrieving her flashlight from the floor and hoping to God that it worked. Sarah dropped to her hands and knees. Grit bit through her jeans. Okay, which way? She’d been spinning for the door when she lost the flashlight. From the sound the metal tube made as it struck the floor and then rolled, she thought it might be ahead, at roughly ten o’clock. Moving carefully, she swept her trembling right hand over the cold floor. She kept expecting something to skitter across her skin. A spider, maybe, but no self-respecting spider would set up shop here, and it was too cold besides. Her fingers skimmed more dirt—a lot of it, and that was so strange because Tori was such a stickler about neatness. But Cutter had interrupted Tori this afternoon. So she might not have swept here at all.
Sarah inched forward, her hand moving back and forth like a metal detector, for what seemed like an hour but which was likely no more than a minute before her fingers nudged a curve of cool metal that tried rolling away. The flashlight. Snatching it up, she rocked back on her knees, let out a long sigh of relief, and butted her thumb against the metal switch.
A cone of yellow light leapt away, spraying itself against the darkness to reveal bare metal, cinderblock, and—
“No!” The word jumped from Sarah’s throat as huge hands shot from the dark. One battened on her jaw, clamping down on her mouth. The other jumped into her hair, fisted, and yanked as if pulling a long cord. Her head whipped back, exposing her throat, and then she was tottering, her balance gone. She crashed to the ice-cold floor, legs kinked at an excruciating angle, the impact smacking the breath from her lungs. Terrified, wild not only with fear but the need to breathe, she flailed, the flashlight she still clutched whipping around. She felt when it clubbed bone, the solid thunk shuddering into her hand. From the hulking dark above her came a strangled grunt, a deep and guttural unh. The hand in her hair jerked like a fish trying to flip from a net, then groped for her thrashing wrist, found it, ground down. An enormous bolt of pain shot up to her elbow and she relaxed her grip. The flashlight tumbled to the floor again. This time, however, the light did not wink out, which wasn’t necessarily a mercy.
“Quiet!” Cutter snarled. Dropping onto her chest, he brought his face so close his spit sprayed her cheeks. Sweeping up both her arms, he grabbed her wrists in one hand and pinned them to the floor. “Be quiet, unless you want me to snap your little neck right now!”
She wasn’t screaming; she had no breath for that. Shaking her head wildly from side to side, she strained, her tortured lungs singing, the blood booming in her temples. Breathing was like trying to butt a mountain out of the way with her chest. She managed another suck of air, her nose wrinkling against a weird perfume souring Cutter’s flesh: oily onions, greasy sweat—and peanut butter.
“Guh.” If she could’ve opened her mouth, she’d have bitten him. “Guh-get off.”
“You gonna scream?” When she shook her head, he eased his hand away. “We need to have ourselves a little talk.”
“There’s n-nothing to t-talk about,” she stammered. “You … you’re st-stealing f-food from little k-kids.”
Cutter’s eyes flattened. “I’m taking my share. I’m taking what’s mine.”
“You g-get rations.” By now, Tori must be wondering. She’d come down to check, probably with one of the dogs, too. Even if she didn’t, Tori had that shotgun. If she could keep Cutter talking … God, where was their other guard, Benton? Unless he was in on this, too. “We’re all on rations.”
“But you kids get more. They save the best for you.” Cutter sported a full, gnarled gray wire of beard so dense there might be things living very comfortably in there. “We take all the risks and we’re supposed to be grateful for a cup of watered-down tomato soup?”
“Please. Just let me go. I won’t say anything.” For some reason, her eyes zeroed in on a glop of peanut butter clinging to a tangle at the left corner of his mouth. In the bad light, the smear looked like a rat turd. “You can have my rations. You can just have them.”
“Yeah? Well, what if I want more?” He drew the word out, his voice in her ear again, his reeking breath hot on her neck—and yet she never had felt so cold in her life.
Her heart tried dying in her chest. “I … I don’t have anything else. Please, just … I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
“Who you going to tell? The Council? Your boyfriend, that Pru? What if I was to tell how some kid thinks he can buy me off with a measly can of beans? You think people might be interested in why those boys come to pass the time with such pretty girls? And here that Peter only seven weeks in his grave, and you already finding someone to warm you up.”
“No. I …” Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, I got a good imagination. So … you liiike Pru?” He drawled the word, his voice lazy even as she became aware of the increased grind of his hips. “You liiike what he does?”
“No. He’s just …” She strained against Cutter’s weight. “Please, let me go, let me—”
“Here’s what I want.” His mouth, the lips thick and cold and moist as worms, dragged over her throat. “I want you to be as sweet to me as you’ve been to that Pru.”
“No.” She was gasping again, trying to hold back tears. “Please. I’ll scream.”
“You scream, and I’ll tell how those boys were here, and it won’t matter what you’re up to, how nice Pru is. They’ll be watched. But you don’t want them anyway. You want a man, and I can be niiice.” His hips jerked in a sudden, hard thrust, his breath suddenly clogging as he worked his knee between her legs. “I can be sweet to a sweet thing.”
In the next moment, she felt his body lift, his free hand dropping and then fumbling at her waist. She let out a short, sharp cry. “No! N—” His mouth clamped on hers, and she gagged as he worked his thick tongue between her lips and licked her teeth. Bucking, she tried to bite, but he wrapped his free hand around her throat and rapped her head so hard that all the circuitry shorted.
“You like it rough?” His voice was ragged, his face choked with blood. “I’ll show you rough; I’ll show you what a man—”
She heard the loud bang, an explosion of wood against cinderblock. In her terror, she thought it was her mind snapping. Hadn’t they talked about that in health; how the brain could let go, be elsewhere, hide? But then she felt Cutter rear in surprise, saw his eyes go wide with shock, and thought, Tori.
“Jesus!” Cutter started up. “N—”
Something—someone—hurtled over her head. Slamming the still-shrilling Cutter to his back, whatever this was darted its head, once, like a snake striking at prey. There was a loud tearing sound, a ripping of wet cloth—and then Cutter was only thrashing, gurgling, both hands trying to staunch sudden, pulsing red jets from a throat that was no longer there. His blood hit concrete in hard, frantic splashes. The Changed—a boy—rode him, but only for a second.
What happened next nearly splintered her mind.
Planting a hand on Cutter’s forehead, the Changed plunged a clawed hand straight down into Cutter’s throat. Sarah couldn’t see Cutter’s face, but the old man’s legs stiffened, his boots jerking as if he’d been electrocuted. The boy’s back tensed and there came another of those loud, wet-cloth rips. Cutter was still juddering in his death dance as the Changed sank his teeth into a limp red tube of steaming flesh.
On the floor, Sarah began to scream.
44
Reining in his horse at the village hall, a hulking two-story brownstone capped with a clock towe
r, Greg dismounted. Tethering his mare to a wrought-iron railing, he untied a bulging navy blue pillowcase from his saddle. The contents ticked, glass against glass, as he hefted the makeshift sack over his left shoulder. It had taken them a long time to both search the rest of the house and then pack up the stash, which the stuffy-nosed, still-bleeding Verna assured them was the very last of what they’d squirreled away. Chester still hadn’t shown by the time they left. Neither had the cat.
By then, Greg didn’t care. His only concern was getting the jars out of his hands, out of his sight, then finding someplace quiet to lie down, and screw food. He passed a hand over his suddenly watering eyes, wincing at a needle of pain jabbing his temples. Another whopper of a migraine muttering in there, building itself up to a real roar, the kind of monster headache that made him queasy and fractured his sight with wavering lines and jagged shards of light. Kincaid said that was normal—called it scintillating something or other—and doled out some advice, too: Reduce your stress, son, and you might feel better.
Oh yeah, right. What had happened back at the Landrys was just too damned close for comfort. No matter what Tori said—and, yes, kissing her was the best thing that had happened to him in months—he knew it was all bullshit, too. Maybe she believes in me, but I sure don’t. That fiasco back there only proved he wasn’t Chris or Peter. No good pretending he could be either anymore, no matter what the Council said or wanted. If Aidan had rebelled, or Pru had sided with Jarvis, or Jarvis had taken a shot, what then? Kill Jarvis? Shoot anyone else who disobeyed? Or make the exception and look the other way as the guys cracked open those jars and ate the evidence? Hell, he might have joined in.
Can’t even trust myself. Got to go to the Council in the morning and just quit. Tell them Pru’s a better choice. He’s older, and he thinks things through better than me.
And really, what could the Council do? Send him to the principal’s office? Ban him? His lips curled in a sour smile. Not likely. He wasn’t refusing to help. There were patrols to mount, places to guard, the occasional foraging expedition. He’d settle for chopping wood. Plenty to do. Besides, he was Spared, woo-hoo, and way too valuable to toss.
I’ll trade valuable for normal any day. He skimmed a look toward the church. His mind drifted back to the shock of Tori’s mouth, how nice that felt, and warm. For those few seconds, he’d actually felt human again. So maybe, after we’re done here, sneak back to the church? It’ll be dark soon. Lob a snowball at her window and then …
“What you grinning about?” It was Pru, two steps below.
“Nothing.” God, he couldn’t even daydream in peace. Another scintillating splinter of light skewered his left eye. He ought to see Kincaid, maybe beg some aspirin or Tylenol, if there was any left. Or maybe in all Kincaid’s reading up on plants and mushrooms, tinkering with decoctions and infusions, he’d come up with something that could deal with this monster headache that just wouldn’t quit.
“Come on,” he said, turning, his gaze sweeping past the church, “let’s—” Suddenly, he froze.
Pru let a beat slide by. “Greg?”
He didn’t reply. He could feel his eyebrows bunching together in a sudden frown. Out of the corner of his eye, he could’ve sworn there’d been a light? No, a flash. But that was probably the headache …
“Greg?”
“I don’t know,” he said to Pru. “But I thought I heard something.”
45
From what Sarah could see, Cutter wasn’t quite done dying yet. His fingers fluttered and flapped like dying starfish. The close air in this back storage room was saturated, almost fogged with the heady stink of wet pennies. Hunched over the body, both hands full of Cutter’s meat, the Changed was feeding with a single-minded ferocity that reminded Sarah of a film they’d seen in science about wolves: how a pack brought down a full-grown moose. Once the animal was on the snow, the wolves ripped open the abdomen and literally ate the moose to death.
Starving. Horrified, Sarah watched the boy’s Adam’s apple bob in a swallow as he simultaneously crammed in another mouthful. The boy had one of the worst cases of acne she’d ever seen. His face looked broken and bruised. With all that blood smeared over pitted skin and bulging sacs of yellow pus, the Changed looked diseased, something out of The Walking Dead.
She had to get out of here. Clawing to her feet, she lurched in a stumble-stagger that sent her crashing into the door. At the sound, the Changed twisted, seemed to see her for the first time, and began to surge up from the floor. Turning, she blundered down the narrow alley of the kitchen, banging like an errant pinball between counters. With no flashlight, she was blind, driving forward on memory and fear. As she crashed through the dark, she felt a sudden, slight change in temperature, a puff of even colder air from the common room. Wheeling drunkenly to the right, she groped, found the corner, and then she was half falling, half sprinting up the stairs.
Her ears caught a thump behind and below. A steady, fast clump of boots. Coming for her. Not much time. Even starving, the Changed boy was faster. Sarah tore a screaming breath from the air and then another. Above, she could see the slight gray-green glow of the vestibule. Once she made it up and then out of there and into the breezeway, if she could just make it to the doors, lock him out of the school …
My keys. A moan fell out of her mouth. Her keys were behind her, on the floor. She doubted she was fast enough to outdistance this boy anyway. Even if she could, there might be more. Cutter was dead. There was no reason for anyone to check on them until the guards switched off. And what if someone did notice that the side door was open and came in to investigate? What if that someone was Pru or Greg? This Changed would be on them in a second.
Flinging herself up the last step, she staggered into the vestibule. From below, she could hear the boy’s grunts, a stumble as he misjudged the distance between one stair and another. Can’t lead him back into the school. Darting right toward the bell tower door, she fumbled for the handle. Please don’t be locked. Mashing down on the icy iron thumb plate, she cocked her elbows, jerked back hard. The door was oak and as solid as any other in the church, but it moved, swinging open with a rusty squall. Cold air spilled and she saw a shimmery curlicue of narrow stone steps. Bell tower must open at the top. That’s why it’s colder and there’s light.
A sudden gush of air sucked at her back and stoppered her ears. Someone was pushing through from the breezeway into the vestibule, following a cone of orange light that splashed her shadow onto stone. For a crazy moment, she thought the Changed had her flashlight, but he was coming from the wrong direction. Then she heard Tori call, “Sarah? Where are you going? What’s hap—”
No. Darting a glance left, Sarah saw the boy storming up the last few steps. “Tori, run!” Sarah spun on her heel and waved the other girl back. “Run, ru—”
Surging from the dark like a demon summoned from hell, the Changed threw himself into the vestibule. Cringing, Tori raised both arms to ward him off. Her flashlight tumbled from her right hand as she unlimbered her shotgun, racked the pump, socked the butt to her shoulder—
And in that small span of time, Sarah finally remembered.
The gun. Sweating, Sarah fumbled for her pistol just as the boy ducked his shoulder, dropped below Tori’s line of fire, and sprinted across the vestibule at a dead-on run. Tori let out an explosive oomph as the boy smacked into her middle and bore them both crashing to the stone. Somehow, Tori still had the shotgun clutched in her right hand and was trying to bring it around when the boy balled his right fist, still smeary with Cutter’s blood, and smashed Tori across the jaw. A yelp jerked from her mouth, her hold on the shotgun loosened, and in one swift, practiced motion, the Changed boy swept up the weapon and jammed the muzzle under her chin.
“N-no.” Tori’s bloody lips were purple in the yellow glow of the flashlight. “Pl—”
“Stop!” Sarah poked the Sig out in both hands, but the gun wavered and she was shaking so badly her knees wobbled. The Changed went ri
gid, and she thought, Now, shoot him, shoot! Gritting her teeth, Sarah squeezed the trigger—and nothing happened. The trigger didn’t budge.
“The safety!” Tori shrieked. “Sarah, release the—”
Too late.
46
“Heard what?” asked Pru.
“I don’t know. A …” Greg groped for the word. A thump, but so muffled it was more like the sound of a heavy cardboard box on a wood floor. “Sort of a thud. I’m not sure I really heard it.” Maybe migraines made you hallucinate sounds, too? He didn’t remember Kincaid mentioning that.
“I didn’t hear anything.” Pru turned to look down at the others clustered at the bottom of the village steps. “You guys?”
In reply, Jarvis cut Pru a curt shake of his head, while Henry and Lucian only looked blank. “Man, I can barely hear you,” Aidan said from the depths of his snorkel. “Can we, like, go? I’m freezing my ass off.”
“Just a sec.” Maybe this is all the headache’s doing, but … Puzzled, Greg peered through the gathering twilight at the hunkered edifice of the church, the bony finger of its bell tower stabbing a sky beginning to turn cobalt. From this vantage point, he couldn’t see the attached school or the rectory. He stared a long second, saw nothing, then tossed a look opposite, at the far end of the square toward a brooding row of shuttered shops and a defunct Christian combination coffeehouse and bookstore. The storefronts were dark, the black windows empty as sockets. In the center of the square, the snowy mushroom of an octagonal gazebo, probably once used for summer band concerts, huddled beneath a trio of towering oaks. “Thought I saw something, too. This flash.”
“What? Where?” Pru twisted a look right and left and then behind, across the square. “I don’t see anything.”
“Me neither,” the snorkel put in.
