The Eric-thing was still doubled over, its head maybe four feet off the ground. It had gotten its fingers around the antler handle of Robertson’s knife and was succeeding in sliding it out of its entrails. There was very little time, maybe no time at all before the knife would be free and Sam would be dead. She saw Sam, God bless him, getting unsteadily to his feet, and she knew he would fight as long as he could draw breath, knew he wouldn’t abandon her.
The Eric-thing’s eyes latched on Charly’s.
Charly pumped the knife.
Then the Eric-thing was squalling, its long fingers batting at the pocketknife Charly had jammed in its left eye.
It staggered backward, black liquid dribbling over its knuckles. Charly advanced on it, got hold of the buck knife waggling in its ribs. She ripped it out, and the Eric-thing folded forward with shock and pain. Before it could attack her she grasped the antler handle with both hands and, like a volleyball digger, thrust the big buck knife at the Eric-thing’s remaining eye.
It sheared through the cornea and unleashed a torrent of viscid black syrup over her fists. The Eric-thing jerked back, and she was actually lifted off her feet before the sharp edge of the buck knife unseated from the creature’s skull. The Eric-thing stumbled and sprawled on its side. The sounds issuing from it were indescribable, the kicking of its legs oddly reminiscent of a toddler throwing a tantrum. Perhaps it was this thought that caused Charly to hurry forward and kneel beside her husband. He had always been very much like a toddler, she now realized, but not a loveable one, not like a real child. Only the unreasoning anger, only the unmitigated spoiledness of the raging child existed in Eric, none of the sweetness, none of the love. She remembered the knife in her hand, remembered the monster he had been even before the change, the pathetic creature who’d made a mockery of their marriage, who’d emotionally scarred their daughters, who’d planned on twisting their son into a hideous facsimile of himself. These thoughts in mind, Charly raised the buck knife, point down, and slammed it with every ounce of force she could summon into the Eric-thing’s heart.
A powerful whooshing sound emanated from its mouth; its cadaverous hands shot straight into the air, like a caricature of a sleepwalker. The hands hung that way a moment, the sightless head straining up from the floor. Then the Eric-thing collapsed and lay without moving.
She sensed someone beside her and turned to see Sam holding Jake against his shoulder. The Eric-thing was motionless now, but Charly heard a low thrum that chilled her blood.
She looked at Sam in the near blackness and saw the fear in his eyes.
Then they stood and hurried through the kitchen. Without stopping, Charly grabbed a carving knife and followed Sam through the side door.
Chapter Seven
After retrieving Sheriff Robertson’s rifle, which Sam loaded with bullets from the glove box, they got in Sam’s truck. Her daughters flanking her in the back seat, Charly clasped Jake to her and nodded at Emma to drive. Charly desperately wanted to give her baby a diaper change, but there wasn’t time. Afraid one of her kids would get hurt with it, she handed Jesse the carving knife. Jesse took it gratefully and placed it on the seat beside him.
Emma threw the Chevy into gear, Jesse sitting shotgun beside her. Through the back window Sam offered them a tired grin, perhaps hoping the madness was over. But as they motored through the driveway and onto the lane, Charly realized it wasn’t.
For out of the hole Sam’s men had excavated in the next lot over, a head as long as a house door and a body three stories tall was rising.
The Old One had found them.
At first Charly thought they’d outrun the monster. The Chevy blew by the Old One as it stood erect, its expressionless face tracking them as they passed. Then, with awe-inspiring swiftness, it stepped across the yard and began to stride after them, its incredible legs swallowing thirty feet or more with every step.
Still, they had a lead, and Emma was pushing the pickup ever faster, motoring toward forty now, the big dually’s frame vibrating with the acceleration. Charly glanced in the rearview mirror and sucked in breath. The Old One had somehow closed the distance, was still closing in, and then it vaulted into the air, disappeared above the roof, and reappeared ahead of them, landing with an agility Charly wouldn’t have thought possible.
The monster blocked the road.
Before the truck crashed into it—and in that moment Charly wondered if they should chance it, just ram the unmerciful giant and take their chances that the truck would still drive after the impact—Emma stood on the brakes. The Chevy skidded sideways then shuddered to a halt only ten yards away. She reversed the truck, its headlights bathing the monster’s legs in a grim amber glow. Charly leaned forward until she could see the Old One’s face, that hideous, unblinking mask that had lived for hundreds, maybe thousands of years. That had claimed an untold number of victims.
Sam was hopping out of the truck bed.
“No, Sam!” she cried through the open passenger’s window.
Charly jerked forward, but Jake’s weight and her daughters’ arms kept her moored in the backseat. Sam stood beside the truck, his gaze crawling over the dark, sleek surface of the rifle.
“You can’t,” she said, though her voice broke.
Sam said under his breath and without looking up, “Take a sharp left and head out through the field. Cut across it a few hundred yards or so, then make for the road.”
“We gotta move,” Jesse said, and when Charly turned she saw them coming from behind, all of them, scores of Children eating the distance between them in loping strides.
“Jesse’s right,” Sam said. “The moment I start shooting, you take off.”
Emma searched Sam’s face, an agonized expression on her own. Then she nodded sadly.
“You can’t—” Charly began.
“No other choice,” Sam said. “Tell my kids I’m sorry for what I did to them.”
“Sam…” she said, willing him to look up.
But he didn’t.
“One more thing I want you to know,” Sam said, his voice raw. “I’ve been coming out here the last few weeks, just walking around. It sounds sad, I know. But the reason was, I wanted to see you. You’re a great girl, Charly. The best I’ve known.”
Charly reached out for him.
He levered the rifle.
Looked up at her.
His wet eyes blazed. In that moment he looked very afraid. And very determined.
“Keep these kids safe,” he said.
Then he started away.
“Sam!” she yelled.
But he was striding toward the Old One.
Any advice for me, Dad? Sam asked.
Nothing you don’t know, came the answer.
The Old One watched him as he approached.
This is suicide, isn’t it?
Of course it is.
But it’s a good death.
In his head, his dad laughed softly. I don’t know that I’d call it that.
Sam swallowed. You know what I mean.
I know what you mean, his dad said tenderly. And I’m proud of you, boy.
Though he knew it was silly, Sam felt a lump in his throat. He was halfway between the Old One and the pickup now, the beast towering over him and watching him without emotion.
Would’ve been nice to settle down with Charly, though, he thought.
You got that right.
Give those kids a real father, treat Charly the way she deserves.
You’d have done a great job this time, his dad told him. Both as a daddy and a husband.
I would have, Sam thought and raised the rifle. The Marlin 336 felt ridiculous in his hands. What could it do to such a monster?
The Old One didn’t move. Distantly, Sam heard the Chevy idling behind him.
Should’ve told Charly not to look, he thought.
Can’t worry about that now, his dad said.
Sam heard other sounds behind him, the rabid snarls of the Children.
>
Suddenly shaking, Sam put his eye to the scope, drew a bead on the Old One’s left eye. Sam blinked away sweat, the barrel lowering.
I’m scared, Dad.
I know you are, and I don’t blame you. But it’s gotta be done.
Sam swallowed hard, but it stuck in his throat.
Now scoot your feet further apart, his dad went on. A little wider than your shoulders, like I taught you.
Sam moved his feet wider.
Keep your knees a little bent so they don’t lock on you, throw off your aim.
Sam bent his knees a little, heard the Children striding closer. Heard one of Charly’s daughters scream.
Put the crosshairs on its heart, Sammy. You might hit one eye, but you won’t get the second. But if you get the heart, bring the big bastard down, who knows what’ll happen?
Sam lowered the rifle until the crosshairs lay on the skinny beast’s heart. If it had one.
Sam’s whole body trembled.
Wish me luck, Dad.
You don’t need luck, Sammy. You just need to focus. After the first shot’s off, you’ve gotta lever that rifle fast. Use the scope as much as you can. I’m sure Robertson kept the Marlin calibrated.
It’s dark, though, Sam thought. It’s mostly just shadows.
You can see just fine in this moonlight, his dad soothed. Just focus.
Okay, Sam thought. He placed his finger on the trigger.
And Dad? he thought.
Yeah, Sammy?
He imagined his dad’s whiskery face watching him, the eyes steady and kind.
“Thanks,” Sam whispered.
See you in a little while, his dad said, the same kind expression in his eyes.
Sam pulled the trigger.
The Old One jerked sideways, a cloud of black droplets spuming from its chest.
Behind Sam, the Chevy roared to life.
Good, Sam thought and levered the rifle. The spent cartridge flicked to his right and twirled on the pavement.
Sam sighted the Old One, which had stumbled back, and fired again. A black hole opened up in the middle of its chest, a foot or so below the first wound. The Old One rocked again, but then it seemed to steady. It bellowed in rage, a mind-shattering sound.
Sam levered the rifle.
He fired again, the spent cartridge clittering on the pavement. This shot wasn’t as good, the bullet grazing the beast’s skinny ribs but doing no real damage. Behind him, Sam heard the thunder of a hundred pairs of white feet, the outraged screams of the Old One’s followers. He also heard the Chevy bouncing off into the grass, and that was good.
He levered the Marlin and swung the crosshairs up to the Old One’s face. It crouched and snarled at him, the sound so loud and deep Sam could feel it in his bones. It loomed closer, only twenty yards away now.
Sam tracked its left eye, centered the scope on the black pupil inside the lambent green oval.
Fired.
The Old One bellowed, straightening, its great arms upflung in agony and outrage.
Sam raised the Marlin until the crosshairs fixed on the soft flesh of its underjaw. He squeezed the trigger.
The Old One’s throat opened up, the black fluid gushing from its wound. The horde of Children behind him shrieked and growled, their bloodlust and wrath unspeakable.
They were almost upon him.
The Old One’s bleeding face lowered until the one remaining eye fixed on him.
One more bullet, Sam thought.
Could use it on yourself, a voice somewhere in his mind whispered.
“Hell no,” Sam said and sighted the Old One’s right eye.
He squeezed the trigger, but as he did the Old One got a hand up. The bullet vaporized the tip of its middle finger, then it juddered again as the shot slammed home. But Sam could see right away the wound open up in the Old One’s cheek, the right eye still intact. It glared at him with fathomless loathing, snatched him off the ground like a toy someone had left lying around. The army of Children behind him brayed a hell’s chorus of delight, their god having defeated this brazen mortal.
Sam threw a quick glance to his left and saw what he’d hoped for, the pickup truck surging across the field, the deep mud thus far not bogging it down.
Make it across, he thought.
He turned back to the Old One.
Dying was inevitable now, but if he could do one last thing, maybe the truck could get away. Or at least his death would be quicker.
Sam rose, rose, the filthy fingers clamped around his body below the armpits. It was a miscalculation by the Old One, Sam knew, to allow Sam’s arms to hang free. He still had the rifle, and though the cartridges had all been spent, the weapon was solid steel. And reasonably sharp.
The Old One reached toward him with one taloned finger, and in that instant Sam understood what the thing had planned for him, and this was worse than death, worse than anything. It was damnation.
The ragged fingernail loomed closer to his forehead, the Old One intending to mark him, to make of him what it had of Eric Florence, and Sam would never allow that. The remaining eye was a good six feet away, but the nail had nearly reached the flesh of Sam’s face. He couldn’t delay any longer.
With an inarticulate cry, Sam reared back and thrust the rifle forward, released it like a javelin, and watched in savage triumph as it embedded in the Old One’s remaining eye.
The beast squalled, its long arms whipping Sam around like a maraca. It squeezed him, squeezed him, all its awful strength seemingly pouring into those fingers, and Sam felt his torso giving way in one colossal deathblast of pain. His ribs crunched, the lungs within gored by jagged bones. Blood jetted out of Sam’s mouth, but he felt a weary satisfaction, the pain diminishing rapidly as a comforting lethargy spread through him.
With his darkening vision, Sam watched the Old One jerk its head at him, its wounded eyes staring at him in hateful disbelief. It hadn’t meant to kill him this quickly, he knew, and though he hadn’t blinded it all the way, at least he’d hurt it badly and bought himself a better death.
Maybe Charly will get away yet, Sam thought, smiling.
He was still smiling as the Old One’s tombstone teeth closed over his throat.
Chapter Eight
“Drive faster,” Jesse whispered. His throat was burning with acid, his guts churning and queasy.
He couldn’t believe Sam was dead.
Jesse turned back to the gruesome site of Sam’s demise and beheld the Old One pivoting toward them. The Chevy was bouncing roughly over the bean field, but at least they were still moving. What with the rains and the mud, they were lucky they hadn’t gotten stuck.
If Emma keeps us going, Jesse thought, we should be all right.
The Old One started to follow them.
Nothing should move like that, Jesse thought. Though its legs knifed through the air like giant pendulums, and the arms splayed forward to grasp the earth and propel the wraithlike body forward, that face, that evil, omnipotent face hardly moved at all.
“Get to the road,” Jesse said, his voice overcome by the squeal of the shocks, the groan of the Chevy’s axles. A breath-stealing pain rumbled up his spine. Jesse winced and impulsively fingered his front teeth. Searing pain in his fingertips. He lowered them from his mouth and discovered he’d slit the pads of his fingers, his teeth unaccountably sharp.
Uh-uh, Jesse thought, swallowing. Don’t even think about that. He gripped the door to steady himself against the rocking of the truck, but even more so to combat the stretched, weightless feeling that was taking hold of him, the buzzing in his mind.
No!
“Please get to the road,” Jesse said in a failing voice.
Emma only shook her head, her lips tight.
“Listen to Jesse!” Charly demanded. “Drive toward—”
“Sam said a few hundred yards!” Emma shouted back.
Charly leaned forward. “He said that so we’d get around the monster. Now that we are, we’ve gotta get the truck
on pavement. That thing’s going to catch us.”
But Emma kept mudding through the bean field, the big dually lurching and bouncing like an airplane besieged by turbulence. Jesse looked back, saw that the Old One was coming fast, its strides swallowing the distance effortlessly. Meanwhile, the Chevy trundled along at an uneasy thirty-five, its headlights bouncing wildly.
“You want me to drive?” he asked.
“No,” Emma responded.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a better driver.”
“You’ve never even been in my—”
“I’ve seen you leaving work,” she said, a small, radiant smile permeating her face despite the mortal danger closing in on them. “You drive like a grandma.”
“I don’t—” he began.
“It’s right behind us,” Charly said, her voice tight with terror.
Jesse whirled in time to see the Old One’s galloping body storming nearer, the broomstick fingers groping for their tailgate.
“It’s going to—” Jesse started to say.
Emma whipped the wheel to the right.
Jesse slid against her, but almost immediately the Chevy got traction and surged toward the road. A white shape tumbled by, the long fingers actually thunking against the rocker panel of the dually. Jesse glanced up and watched the Old One skid, catch itself before it went over, then scramble toward them.
It was a race to the road.
The Chevy bounced insanely now, Emma giving it everything. The bean field’s ruts jounced the frame terribly, the puddled soil sucking the tires with unperishing hunger.
They didn’t have far to go, only thirty yards more, but the Old One was closing on them again, its speed appalling. Jesse wondered fleetingly if reaching the road would do any good. If the monster moved that swiftly over messy terrain, how much faster would it lope on asphalt?
“It’s gonna get us!” Charly’s younger daughter called.
The older daughter, the one right behind Jesse, gasped and recoiled from the window. Following her gaze, Jesse realized why. The Children were teeming over the bean field, now moving at a diagonal to make up for the Chevy’s head start. And though the creatures did not advance as rapidly as the Old One did, they were still making good enough time to become a concern.
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