Alan Wake

by Rick Burroughs

  “How did the car get here, Alan?”

  Wake shook his head.

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  The trees rustled, louder now, the shadows in the woods lengthening.

  Alice seemed to notice the growing darkness for the first time. “We should go.”

  Wake took her hand, led her back toward the road. “Tomorrow we can drive back to town and ask around.”

  Alice walked ahead of him now, hurrying.

  Wake glanced back at the car, already swallowed up by the forest. “You know what else is weird?”

  Alice glanced back, but kept walking.

  “If it was a tornado, or something like that… what happened to the driver?”

  Alice stopped.

  “Somebody was driving the car when it landed in the woods.” Wake spread his hands. “So, what happened to the driver?”

  “Maybe… maybe he walked away from the fall.”

  “Then why didn’t he retrieve the car?”

  “I don’t know. We… we should go,” said Alice, turning away from him, practically running through the underbrush now.

  Neither of them spoke again until they were back in their car, Alice grinding the ignition in her haste to get it started.

  “We’ll go into town first thing tomorrow,” said Wake. “We’ll ask around.”

  “I should have taken more photographs,” said Alice, the car roaring into life.

  “We can come back tomorrow—” Wake’s comment was cut off as Alice peeled out from the dirt shoulder and onto the blacktop.

  Fifteen minutes later, driving into the sunset, the fright in the woods seemed long ago and far away, the abandoned car a mere anomaly, a spooky story to be shared with friends amidst laughter and drinks. Maybe turn it into a book when the writers’ block finally lifted. A short story anyway. “The Mystery of the Marooned Convertible.”

  “Maybe it was a UFO,” said Wake, straight-faced. “Aliens beamed up the convertible, kept the driver for their intergalactic zoo, and tossed back the car.”

  “Or maybe a group of medieval enthusiasts launched the car into the woods with a catapult,” said Alice. “Then reported the car stolen and used the insurance money for suits of armor and siege engines.”

  “That’s got to be it,” said Wake. “What other explanation could there be?”

  Alice smiled, kept driving, window down, her hair floating on the breeze. “Wow,” she said, pointing, as the lake came into view. “That’s what we came here for.”

  Cauldron Lake stretched out for miles, surrounded by steep cliffs and tall trees. The lake was so vast and deep, so blue that it was almost black. No fish broke the flat, opaque surface, no gulls drifted overhead.

  “It’s a caldera,” she said, “that’s where they got the name. A volcanic eruption thousands of years ago collapsed the earth’s crust into a gigantic bowl that eventually filled with water.”

  “Thanks for the tourist board version,” teased Wake. “It looks like a witch’s cauldron to me.”

  “Thanks for the melodrama,” she shot back, slowing now. She nodded at the cabin below. “Is that it?”

  Wake checked the crude map that the woman at the diner had given him. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Alice drove down a gravel road and parked, turned off the ignition. The two of them got out, stood looking at the cabin which was built on a tiny island just offshore, connected to the mainland by a staircase and a rickety wooden bridge. The cabin was unnerving somehow, not from its raw, unadorned construction, but because the foundation was made up of twisting branches and roots jutting out from the bottom like the legs of a monstrous bird. As though seeking to acknowledge any squeamishness visitors might have, a hand-carved sign over the last bridge announced: BIRD LEG CABIN.

  “Is this what you expected?” said Wake.

  “Not really. The brochure said that the cabin was near the lake,” said Alice. “Not on an island. Not that I’m complaining. It’s—”

  “Creepy.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” said Alice. “Our own private island.”

  They walked down the weathered wooden staircase, stopping on the slatted bridge that led to the island. Alice stood there, hands on her hips, the bridge swaying under them, the wind colder. She pushed her sunglasses back onto the top of her head, taking it all in. The cabin was a small, two-story structure made of raw wood shakes with a wraparound porch, and a pile of cut logs next to the door for firewood. A radio rested on the porch railing. If it wasn’t for the grotesque nest of raw branches it sat on, it would have been perfect.

  “Interesting architectural decision,” said Alice.

  “It looks like Frank Lloyd Wright went nuts with a box of pickup sticks,” said Wake. “Not exactly the perfect place to stay for a man with an overactive imagination.”

  “I think it’s distinctive,” said Alice, pulling out her camera.

  “That’s one word for it.” Wake’s phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, Al, how’s my favorite bestseller doing?” said Barry. As always, he sounded out of breath, talking in staccato bursts.

  “Fine, Barry.”

  Alice rolled her eyes at the mention of Barry’s name. She couldn’t stand his agent. Didn’t like his thick New York accent, his incessant namedropping and pushy bluster, his loud sport coats. Barry was an agent. She might as well have not liked a leopard because of his spots. He was also Wake’s oldest friend.

  “You there yet?” said Barry. “Plane didn’t crash?”

  Wake stared at the phone. “No Barry, the plane didn’t crash, I haven’t had a heart attack, and the world hasn’t exploded.”

  “Don’t be so touchy,” said Barry, sounding genuinely wounded, which must have taken years of practice. “I’m just worried about you, Al. Want to make sure nobody’s messing with my superstar.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m totally behind this little vacation of yours, Al. Totally. Just get away with the little woman and recharge the creative juices. What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” said Wake. “We’re just settling in, so—”

  “I get it,” said Barry. “Listen, I’ll call you back later and see how you’re doing—”

  “No need for that,” said Wake.

  “Hey,” said Barry, “I don’t look after you because I have to; I do it because I want to.”

  “I love you too,” said Wake, breaking the connection.

  “Couldn’t you block his number while we’re here?” said Alice, on one knee to get a close-up of the tangled branches the cabin seemed to rest upon, some of them no thicker than twigs.

  “He called you ‘the little woman.’”

  Alice stood up. “You can’t be serious.”

  Wake shrugged. “The man likes to live dangerously.”

  “So do you.” Alice kissed him. “No more talk about Barry. Just get the lights on, handsome. It’s getting dark.”

  Wake took the small flashlight out of his jacket and handed it to her. “There’s an electrical line running from the cabin to that shack in the back. Must be a generator in there. I’ll get it up and running before it gets dark, don’t worry.”

  “You take care of it, and I’ll check out the cabin,” said Alice.

  Wake went behind the cabin, walking toward the shack. A big stump off to one side of the path had a heart carved deeply into the bark: TZ + BJ. He’d have to show it to Alice later. She’d like that, think the cabin had a romantic history. Couldn’t hurt. He knocked on the stump for good luck, then traipsed over and opened the door to the shack.

  A generator covered with a sheen of dust filled half the space. He checked to make sure it was topped up with gasoline, primed it, and tugged on the start cord. It started immediately, and just as quickly died. He repeated the process. Again. Again. Thing must not have been started in a long time. He kept jerking on the cord, aware that the sky was rapidly darkening. On the twentieth try, the generator started up. He adjusted the throttle, made sure it was
humming along, and went back to the cabin. The front door opened smoothly. Even though it was barely dusk, Alice had every light in the place on.

  Alice wasn’t afraid of crowds or rats or the boogeyman. She once found a tarantula in their hotel room in Phoenix, and released it unhurt outside. She drove fast, flew without fear, and slept through thunderstorms… as long as the lights stayed on. Darkness was the only thing she was scared of, and it utterly terrified her. She had tried all kinds of therapy without success, accepting it as part of who she was. He had gotten used to carrying a pocket flashlight with him, just in case the one she carried with her failed for any reason. It was a small price to pay. He listened again to make sure the generator was running smoothly, and went inside the cabin.

  The kitchen had all the amenities: coffeemaker, refrigerator, gas stove, blender, and a toaster. The living room had a braided carpet over the wood floor, a rocking chair, and a sofa facing the large stone fireplace. A grandfather clock ticked away in one corner. A bookcase contained old paperbacks and a stack of board games. He walked over to check out the books. Most of them were by Thomas Zane, an author he had never heard of. Thomas Zane. The TZ from the carved heart? He made a note to ask around town, find out who BJ was and what had happened to the two of them. Everybody loved a mystery, and Wake loved them more than most.

  The sun setting over the lake turned the surface to beaten gold. Wake walked out onto the back deck, rested his hands on the railing, and watched the day slowly die. He and Alice could be happy here. He might even get some sleep in the stillness. There wasn’t a ripple on the lake, not a fish jumping, just a perfectly flat surface stretching out to the horizon. He stayed there, enjoying the view, watching the lake turn from gold to black as the light faded. He switched on the portable radio that rested on a table, immediately hearing a familiar voice:

  “Pat Maine here, telling you it’s going to be a clear night, so you folks from the big city might want to look up once in a while and check out the stars.”

  Wake winced.

  “I just ran into a famous artist on the ferry,” said Maine. “Let’s see if any of you can guess who it was. Here’s our first caller. Hello, Rose.”

  “I know who it is,” said Rose, sounding giddy. “I just saw him at the diner. It’s Alan Wake, the famous novelist!”

  Wake switched off the radio. So much for keeping a low profile.

  “Come on up, Alan!” called Alice from upstairs. “I have a surprise for you!”

  Wake took the stairs two at a time.

  He found her in the bedroom, half-dressed, her black jeans folded over the back of an overstuffed chair. The windows to the small balcony were open, and he could hear the lake lapping at the island. He slipped his arms around her, cheek to cheek, felt her smooth, warm skin under his fingers.

  “I’m not the surprise,” whispered Alice.

  “You’re always the surprise,” said Wake, still clinging to her. “That’s why I love you.” Through the window he could see that it was dark outside, stars scattered across the sky. More stars than either of them had seen in years. More stars than anyone could ever wish upon. He held her tighter. “I’m glad we came here.”

  “The surprise is in the study,” said Alice, slowly separating from him. “I’ll show you.”

  Wake followed her, enjoying the slight bounce of her hips as she walked. She took his hand, led him into the study. A desk sat under two porthole windows overlooking the lake—he could see stars reflected in the dark surface of the lake. It made him dizzy for a moment, as though the lake was as deep as the sky was high.

  “Well, what do you think?” said Alice.

  Wake stared at the black manual typewriter on the desk. “What’s my typewriter doing here?”

  “I brought it,” said Alice.

  “I know you brought it,” said Wake. “I’m asking why you brought it.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not angry,” said Wake.

  “I… I thought you might want to write here,” said Alice. “It’s peaceful. No pressure. I thought a change of scenery might—”

  “Do you actually think the reason I can’t write is because I need a change of scenery?” said Wake.

  “You don’t need to raise your voice, Alan.”

  “I’m not raising my voice.”

  “I’m just trying to help—”

  “If you want to help, don’t help.”

  Alice didn’t back down. Anyone else would have apologized, made some excuse, afraid of the famous Alan Wake temper. Not Alice.

  “You don’t eat, you barely sleep, and you’re angry all the time because you can’t write,” said Alice, her eyes steady and concerned. “It’s not just your problem, Alan. It’s our problem.” She took his hand. “I love you. I want you back doing what you love. I want you writing again.” She should have stopped there but she didn’t. If she had kissed him, led him back to the bedroom, there was no telling what might have happened. She didn’t do that, though.

  “There’s a doctor in Bright Falls. He has a clinic where he treats people like you… creative people who can’t work. I’ve read his book and he makes so much sense, Alan. His name is Dr. Hartman—”

  “Hartman?” Wake stepped away from her, anger boiling inside him. “I met a couple of the good doctor’s patients at the diner. You think I need to be committed?”

  “No, darling, of course not,” said Alice, reaching for him. “Dr. Hartman treats artists—”

  Wake pushed her aside. “Play B2, the coconut song will change your life.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t need a typewriter, I don’t need any more pressure, and I definitely don’t need a shrink!” Wake stalked down the stairs.

  “Alan! Don’t go!”

  Wake grabbed the flashlight off the kitchen counter, started out the door, but the door was stuck. He had to throw his shoulder against it to force it open.

  “Alan!”

  Wake walked out onto the bridge, using the flashlight to guide him. He walked along the shore, watching the stars until his anger cooled. It didn’t take long. He couldn’t stay mad at Alice. She had been trying to help him, and he had been an idiot, a prima donna. He started back to the cabin, rehearsing his apology.

  “Alan!” Alice’s panic cut through the night. “Alan, where are you?”

  The lights in the cabin were dark. The generator must have stopped. Wake raced back along the bridge and toward the stairs, almost fell in his haste.

  “No, get back!”

  “I’m coming,” shouted Wake, pounding across the bridge.

  “No! Get away from me!”

  Wake drove the door open, ran up the stairs. As he reached the landing there was the sound of rotting wood giving way. He heard Alice scream again, and then the splash of something hitting the water. She wasn’t in the bedroom.

  “Alice! Where are you?”

  He ran down the stairs and out onto the back deck. Part of the wooden railing had been snapped off. “Alice!” There was no sound other than his own echo. He peered down as he played the flashlight beam across the black water, thought he saw something. “Alice?” The shape was sinking now, almost out of sight, whatever it was. “Alice!”

  Wake dove in after her.

  CHAPTER 4

  WAKE SANK INTO Cauldron Lake, drifting deeper into the dark water as he searched for Alice, lost in the silence, weighted down with it. He glimpsed something… someone below, a deeper darkness, struggled to reach her, the silence broken now, interrupted by the clack of a typewriter. His typewriter. The old manual Remington with the sticking J-key. He’d recognize it anywhere… even in the darkness, especially in the darkness. He struggled, the water thickening around him as he looked for Alice. He could no longer tell up from down, as lost as she was now. But there was something up ahead. A light? No… more of a glimmer in the water. A shining. He heard a voice, Alice’s voice over the clacking typewriter.

  “Alan, wake up!”


  Wake struggled to reach the light, tearing at the dark water.

  The light was suddenly brighter, and Wake saw a man, a man in a deep-sea-diving suit standing in the middle of the road, a man caught in the headlights, blinking in the glare. The Diver lifted one hand…

  “Alan!” screamed Alice.

  Wake awoke from the nightmare gasping, out of breath, feeling like his lungs were filled with sand. He sat in the driver’s seat of their car, dazed, his forehead throbbing from where he hit his head on the steering wheel. The airbag hadn’t deployed. Call Barry and tell him to get a lawyer, sue somebody. Not funny. Snap out of it, Wake. His mouth tasted of blood. No Alice. He called her name, the sound croaking out of his dry lips.

  “Alice!” he called again as he pushed open the door, staggering out, the sound of glass from the broken window tinkling onto the blacktop like shards from his heart.

  He looked around, trying to get his bearings. An illuminated sign for Stucky’s Gas Station loomed on the roadway above, the cone of light reaching down around him. He was on a rocky ledge. The car had crashed through the guardrail of the winding mountain road and gone over the edge, stopped only by a tree on the ledge below. Lucky thing too, otherwise it would have plunged straight down the mountain.

  Even now the car hovered on the brink, the tree splintering. Steam escaped from the radiator and he didn’t feel lucky. Stars sparkled through the steam, stars stretching across the sky, and as far as they reached, they couldn’t find Alice either. He pulled out his cell phone. Nothing. He shook it. The battery was dead. He resisted the impulse to smash it to pieces on the rocks. From one nightmare to another and no end in sight.

  Wake rubbed his eyes, but it was hard to focus, like trying to see underwater, and for a moment he had to fight not to fall back into the dream of being lost in the lake, searching for Alice. He dimly remembered the cabin on the island, Bird Leg Cabin squatting in a nest of sharp branches, the image fading now, until he wasn’t sure if that had been a dream too. Wake balled his fists, rejected the idea. No. He didn’t know how he had gotten here. Had no memory of the drive, or of the crash. All he knew, all that he was utterly certain of, was that something had happened to Alice. Something terrible.